Icabalde's club smelled of mouldy suits and servility. The suits sat in red leather clad chairs, reading the sports section of The Times and swilling back watered whiskeys, while the downtrodden staff tried to compete with each other integrating themselves into the flock wallpaper, so as to appear indistinguishable from the walls and thus avoid causing offence to their masters.

Pawser steadfastly followed Mr Blake, a geriatric velociraptor in a morning suit, with beady eyes, a beaked snout and scaly skin worn smooth by countless years of abject serfdom. He led Pawser through the maze of ground floor rooms, to a paper suspended in front of a wing backed chair.

'A gentleman to see you, sir.'

Icabalde's eyes appeared over the top of the paper and cautiously scanned the dim room before alighting on Pawser. 'Ah, Bingham, good of you to meet me here. Percy would you be so kind as to get Mr Bingham a whisky.'

'Yes, sir.' The velociraptor flapped his tiny arms and edged off sideways into a nook in the wall.

'Sit down won't you Bingham and bring me up to speed, will you, on your visit to Dartmoor.' Icabalde carefully folded his paper into four and placed it on his lap. 'Did it go as expected?'

'The diaries were not there.' Pawser sat and sensing Icabalde's displeasure added quickly, 'but I have secured this, a letter to her agent in America. It appears the document in question is over there.'

'I see.' Icabalde quickly scanned the letter and slipped it into his upper pocket. 'I'll see if I can pull a few strings with our American friends and put some pressure on the agent to give up the draft. You go back to Sir Berty and ask him what he wants you to do next.'

'Yes, of course.'

'While you're here, I just want a word with Pawser if I may. Pawser, seeing I've done something for you perhaps you can do a little something for me?'

Pawser couldn't quite recollect what favour he'd received but felt it would be impolite to point this out. Mayheme was the Deputy PM after all.

'You'll have seen the PM attended Anomolous Rexs' funeral this week. You're familiar with the artist?'

'Yes.' said Pawser warily sipping the glass of liquor that had magically appeared in his hand.

'Good. You may also be familiar with a piece of work he currently has showing in the Tate Gallery, two gold and diamond studded bicycles.'

'I seem to remember something in the press. Yes.'

'Excellent. Well the unfortunate death of Rex has reminded the PM that Rex did in fact offer them to him and his lady wife Thelma as gifts in view of their long standing friendship, once they had finished their show at the Tate.'

'I understand.' said Pawser. It sounded like bollocks to him but he was along for the ride and the whisky was remarkable. He slid back into his seat and took another slug from his glass.

'Well, it appears that Rex was rather remiss in mentioning this to anyone else. So as it stands the PM will not receive what he feels is rightfully his -purely as a demonstration of their friendship of course.' Icabalde cast a wary eye over over Pawser. 'The value means nothing to him.'

'That's reassuring to hear,' said Pawser. He stopped and thought for a moment. 'And are they valuable?'

'Worth hundreds of thousands when he was alive, millions now he's dead.'

'Of course that means nothing to the PM.'

'Friendship transcends monetary considerations.'

'Of course it does.' Pawser stared into his glass. 'Could the PM have been mistaken perhaps?' He enquired carefully, worried about where this might be going. 'About the gift?'

'Pawser, this is the PM we are talking about. You should know that he is never mistaken. He may have appeared that in the past but this is merely because he has been misinformed of a situation by a more junior member of her Majesty's Government, or an associate has attributed an opinion of his to the public in an incorrect manner. The PM does not make mistakes, nor, as it turns our does his wife, or any of his issue come to that. The making of mistakes is left to the mere mortals around him who live in awe at his absolute infallibility.'

'Ah, I understand.' said Pawser knowingly.

'Yes, I knew you would.'

'I'm not sure what I can do about it though.'

'About his omniscience, I fear you can do nothing. Only his Maker can do that and I believe Thelma will correct him on that point. What I was thinking about, was this.' Mayheme's forehead furrowed. 'Rex, it appears, died intestate. If there had been a Will, none of this silly misunderstanding would ever have happened. A Will would have left everything to the deserving parties as it should. If a Will were found...... a Will a bit like the one I happen to have here,' Mayheme unclicked his briefcase and passed Pawser a large brown envelope. 'Then all misunderstandings will be resolved.'

'And where might this Will be found?' Pawser weighed the package in his hand.

'At his home perhaps. His cleaner might just find it tucked away under some magazines where nobody had thought to look. Wouldn't that be lucky for everyone?'

'It depends who the beneficiaries were, I suppose.'

'Well as it happens, the major beneficiary of his whole Estate turns out to be a charitable trust which looks at global warming and its impact on tropical islands, allowing its trustees to travel to luxurious overseas locations to take in the aforesaid azure blue seas and study the complex issues the locals are facing.'

'Of which?' said Pawser sensing there may be more.

'The PM and his spouse are the sole trustees, yes. How fortunate that it should work out like that. I suppose it's just the way the dice fall, eh? People can be so generous in death.'

'Or even after,' added Pawser.

'Yes, well death is a funny thing. Cigar?'

'Doubtless Rex would be tickled pink, even now.' observed Pawser taking the proffered Cuban.

'Well, that's it then. I'll leave it in your capable hands. Oh, and not a word to Berty or Haggard eh? Little tongues and tittle tattle and all that.'

'Not a word.' cursed Pawser. With a faintest glimmer of a forced smile he slipped the envelope into his case.

'Oh Pawser. Cock this up and....'

'I know sir. Everyone's already told me.'

****

'You what?' Objected Dirk almost spiting Ari's coffee back into the cup.

'What was I supposed to do?'

'So in summary Pawser, Killerman, are you listening to this? We've got a dodgy Will to plant, a book to recover from MI5's secret library, a spy to out, that ink buttocked lunatic Springer wants us to get back a set of forgers plates we've never even set our eyes on, otherwise he's going to relieve us of our love nuts. And to top all of that, we've got two Irish lunatics warming up their blow torches to turn our skins into fifty packets of pork scratchings.

'What was I supposed to do?' puffed Pawser.

'Say no!'

'That easy for you to say Dirk. You've forgotten that triumvirate, Mayheme, Haggard and Sir Berty are lining up half the Royal Navy down there in Portsmouth to take my pleasures should I refuse to dance to the pipers tune.'

'Well it can't get much worse can it?'

'Did I tell you Penny's left me for Nobby?'