Jonathan Coe - Number 11

‘Now then, Sir Peter,’ said DCI Capes. ‘I think it would be a good idea if you put that down, don’t you?’

‘What are you talking about? Who the fuck are you? Get out of my way.’

‘Put the knife down, and come along with us quietly, and then there won’t be any problems.’

The other policemen gathered around Sir Peter in an even tighter group. And then Nathan was on the scene, tapping his superior urgently on the shoulder.

‘DCI Capes? What are you doing?’

‘Not now, Pilbeam. We’re kind of busy here.’

‘But, sir, I thought we’d agreed about not jumping —’

‘Drop it, Pilbeam, all right? I’m taking this man for questioning. Arkwright, have you got the media room ready?’

‘The media room? But you can’t question him there. It’s where the prizewinners are interviewed. It’s full of photographers and TV cameras.’

‘PC Pilbeam, I shall handle this situation in my own way, thank you very much.’

The other officers had by now relieved Sir Peter of his knife and were frogmarching him forward with his hands pinned behind his back. Nathan made one last appeal.

‘With respect, sir, we have no case against Sir Peter at all.’

‘That’s enough , Pilbeam,’ said DCI Capes, and there was no mistaking the note of aggression in his voice now. ‘Why don’t you sit down, and enjoy the rest of your evening, and concentrate your energies on impressing your very attractive date?’

With that he was gone, striding swiftly to catch up with the group of officers who were already propelling Sir Peter — too befuddled to protest any further — away from the dining area and in the direction of the awaiting media representatives. A few of the diners looked around to see what was happening, but the operation had been discreet and didn’t cause much of a stir. Most people were more interested in the imminent arrival of dessert.

‘Nathan, dear,’ said Lucinda, as he rejoined her at their table, ‘is everything all right? You look flustered.’

He was very flustered indeed: otherwise, the fact that she had used the word ‘dear’ — the first verbal token of affection to have passed her lips in the whole of their friendship — would have sent him into a swoon of excitement. As it was, he barely noticed it.

‘The case has been taken out of my hands,’ he said. ‘And I fear that DCI Capes is about to make a mess of it. And after all that work …’ He sighed heavily. ‘This has been a terrible evening.’

‘Really?’ said Lucinda. She sounded hurt. ‘But it’s been so nice, with all these famous people here, and this lovely food, and … well, I thought you liked spending time with me.’

‘Oh, but I do ,’ he said, clasping her hand earnestly.

‘I mean, I know there’s been that mix-up with the bedrooms …’

‘No, it’s not that. I didn’t mean to sound gloomy. It’s just that I had a feeling tonight — an instinct — I was convinced I was going to find a clue that would crack the whole case wide open. And so far … nothing.’

‘The night isn’t over yet,’ she pointed out.

‘True,’ he said, despondent.

She squeezed his hand. ‘Come on, darling. Just relax and enjoy yourself. Have another glass of wine.’

Darling! He had graduated from ‘dear’ to ‘darling’ in the space of a few seconds. And still it made no impression on him. Abandoning the attempt to cheer him up, Lucinda turned her attention to Dorian, their talking menu, who was on the point of making another announcement.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, and — as I think I may now call you — friends, your dessert is about to be served. Our chef thought you might be feeling a little full by now, so he has prepared something light for you. You will be presented with shot glasses, each containing a delicate layer of cream cheese flavoured with blueberries, a further layer of cream cheese — as frothy as a soufflé — flavoured with Meyer lemons, topped with Alaskan blueberries garnished with a Meyer lemon zest, all served on a bed of crushed all-butter Highland shortbread.’

‘Mmm, delicious,’ said Lucinda, as her shot glass was laid before her. ‘I adore cheesecake. That’s what this is, isn’t it?’

The question was addressed to Dorian, who admitted: ‘Quintessentially, yes, madam: this is a cheesecake.’

And now, in an instant, Nathan was jerked out of his reverie. He looked straight across at Dorian and knew, with a thrilling but also terrifying certainty, that he was looking into the eyes of ChristieMalry2. He knew, as well, that Ryan Quirky was in mortal danger. The words from the blog came rushing back to him:

I hate these fucking middleclass liberal-left comedians and so should you. It seems to me quintessential that they are all wiped off the face of this planet, or we are never going to summon up the energy to overthrow our current rotten, corrupt and soul-destroying political establishment. Down with comedy!

How he had obtained employment at this dinner, and secured a place at table number 11, was not yet clear. What was clear, however, was that he had come here with no other intention than to commit murder. There was no time to lose.

Nathan dived under the table. The movement was quick, but not particularly elegant, since he banged his head loudly against it as he did so, thereby attracting everyone’s attention. Without pausing, despite the pain he was in, he lunged at Dorian’s legs and seized them in an uncompromising grip. The resulting spectacle, from the diners’ point of view, was bizarre, as the disembodied head suddenly found itself being yanked downwards through the hole in the table, a movement Dorian resisted by clinging on to the edges with his hands and screaming out for help. Two or three of the guests — including Ryan Quirky — grabbed on to his arms and tried to pull him to safety, resulting in a violent human tug-of-war and, ultimately, the overturning of the entire table amidst a cacophony of shrieks and screams.

‘Stop that man!’ shouted Nathan, as Dorian broke free and ran for the exit. Sure enough, a barrier of security guards appeared, and Dorian found his way blocked. At the same time, DCI Capes and his henchmen came back into the room to see what all this noise was about.

‘Who is this?’ said the detective.

‘This,’ said Nathan, having scrambled to his feet and made his way, panting and dishevelled, to the scene of the capture, ‘is your stand-up comedian murderer. And this is the weapon with which he intended to continue his campaign tonight.’

With that, he opened what appeared to be a spectacles case, which had fallen out of Dorian’s pocket in the course of their struggle. It contained a long syringe filled with a transparent liquid. DCI Capes took it from Nathan’s outstretched hand, his face a picture of bafflement.

‘I suggest,’ said PC Pilbeam (and he could not believe that already, so early in his career, he was using a phrase which he had always dreamed of using), ‘that you send this down to the lab.’

*

Two hours later, Nathan and Lucinda were having a final nightcap at the bar of the Hyatt Regency when DCI Capes came by.

‘We’ve extracted a full confession,’ he told them. ‘These pinkos soon crumble under pressure. No backbone, you see.’

‘Can I interest you in a brandy, sir?’

‘Well, why not. It’s been a long evening, after all. But a highly successful one, thanks to you.’

‘To both of us, I’d say, sir.’

‘All in a day’s work, Pilbeam. They don’t call me “The Caped Crusader” for nothing.’

He threw the potential nickname out hopefully, but Pilbeam had already turned his back to get the barman’s attention, and the effort once again seemed to have been wasted. What in God’s name would it take, DCI Capes thought, to persuade people to start calling him that? He gave a disgruntled sigh and took the proffered brandy glass from his junior colleague.