By Paddy Bostock
Suspense/Thriller, 478 pages
Cover art by Richard Stroud
Ravaged by sun, mosquitoes and his partner Claudia’s extended family while on a summer holiday
to seaside Italy, PI Jake
Flintlock is keen—despite having been asked to stay to solve a local murder—to
return to London
for good. But then, after a second murder, he and his PI associate Bum Park are
made an offer they can’t refuse and once in Rome, discover a whole new meaning to the
words la famiglia
But even on the open road, the ride was far from
smooth given the absence of rear springs and the smell of first searing rubber,
and then sparks flying from the stripped metal of the wheel beneath us. Bum
became very tetchy.
Excerpt:
Bum was
piqued at the lost opportunity to help a hippy nun rediscover her sexuality,
but the sight of a load of blokes striding towards us in blue-and-yellow
striped knickerbockers wielding pikestaffs changed his mind smartish. Bum had
never seen mediaeval people.
“Wh-who the
f-fuck are those guys?” he ululated.
“The Swiss,”
I said.
“Swiss?”
“Yes.”
“I thought
Swiss dressed in leather pants, milked cows, and were, like, peaceful. These guys look like clowns wid a bad
attitude. An’ also wid lances? Boy,
oh boy,” he said, donning his undertaker outfit and leaping out through the
tailgate.
“Next thing I
hear we gonna be lion food too,” he
shouted back at me from the pavement. “Whut kinda damn country is this?”
“Italy,” I said,
as I joined him and pulled the top-hat veil over my face. “Run!”
And that’s
what we did, leaving poor old Massimo all alone to fight his own battles with
the police, the Schwizzers, and the rabid crowd of tourists and Christians. It
wasn’t until we hit the Piazza Venezia that we stopped to draw breath and ask
directions to the Spanish Steps.
~ * ~
Not that our
panic was strictly necessary. It wasn’t until long after the case was over and
I was back home ensconced in my TV chair watching Liverpool unaccountably
losing 2-0 to AS Roma at half time in a European qualifier that the truth hit
home.
“Bugger,” I
was moaning as the adverts came on and I was levering myself up to go in search
of another can of hope-inspiring Carlsberg. But, in mid-lever, I was stopped in
my tracks as the screen filled with the exact scene we had so hurriedly vacated
all those months ago. Cleverly spliced, edited, digitally enhanced, reduced to
only thirty seconds, but was this a déjà
vu or was this a déjà vu?
“Bloody hell,” I said collapsing back in my
chair and gawping as two blokes dressed as undertakers are seen leaping from a
hearse and doing a runner downtown from the Colosseum as a load of Swiss
Guards, cops, tourists and sexy-looking Christians gaze in awe at their
retreating figures while licking at monster chocolate and vanilla ice creams
with cherries on the top.
I was still
gawping as the action was replaced by a close-up of the ice cream and a smarmy
voice-over saying: “The new Cornetto from
Walls. To die for!”
“Nnnngg?” I
said, the logic not stacking up. And not only the gobbledigook of the
grab-phrase. The illogic of the whole damn thing. We’d been outside the
Colosseum by accident, hadn’t we? So how come...?
I still don’t
know the answer to this conundrum. Maybe the crew had been intending to film an
advert for anti-papal condoms when we just happened along and then postmodernly
rearranged the shoot according to contingent circumstances. Who knew?
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