Dirk jumped into the car, tugging his overcoat around his knees as he settled into the front seat, 'So where's Mata Hari then? With Maximus back at camp, getting probed with his trident to see if he can slip unobserved past the tentacles her wary cephalopod?'

'I fear you're becoming befuddled with your figurative periods, Dirk.' Pawser impatiently gunned the engine. 'Have you got the address?'

'I have. It's 6, Camden Studios, just back from the canal behind the Odeon cinema. 'OK, was ze General preparing heez instruments to carry out ze rigorous examination of ze informant?'

'Mata Hari, was French, so still off the mark. Are you sure that's the right address? After last time I don't think I can take any more encounters with Lycra clad poodle parlour owners and their colourful pets.'

'I'm sure,' said Dirk. 'I knew she was French, but jokes about Frenchman with big profiteroles are so passé. I've checked the freehold details, it's Anomalous Rex's alright. It looks like a little bohemian bolt hole no one's picked up on yet. So where is she or am I going to have to squeeze it out of Killerman?'

'Please don't squeeze him, something nasty could ooze out of either end. I left her with Berty. When he saw her he decided that a more rigorous approach was required to his interview technique. He's booked them both in for tea at the Ritz when they can discuss Barry's little intrigues in more comfortable surroundings.'

'The saucy little minx, already got her tentacles around Number One, eh? While she's feeding him jelly with one hand, she'll be grappling for his cupcakes under the table with the other. He needs to watch out or there'll be cake on the carpet before the days out.'

'I fear your metaphors have become muddled yet again Dirk , let me update you on what we found out on our trip to the labs at Porton Down before you stray into deeper water and we all need to slip into our metaphorical waders.

'As you wish, Doctor Watson, but please do not omit any detail, however small.'

'For sure,' Pawser shot a look at Killerman though the rear view mirror, 'not one dribble.'

The late Anomalous Rex's clandestine abode lay beyond a rusted wire fence. A row of flaking roller shutter doors, piled with drifts of snow, filled the brick archways. Pawser picked out number 6, wound his window down and killed the engine. A thin light from a motor repair workshop next door, cast itself across the patchy ground and the still air shivered with a loud banging followed by a string of curses. With a shrug, he wound the window up and turned to Dirk. 'And that about sums it up, Dirk. Pandora's with Berty now and we'll see what Ron comes up with when he gets round to him. '

'Hot dogs!' Dirk craned his neck to look at Killerman siting in the back, 'that's got to outdo your story with the Reverend, Killerman. Talk about something nastier than his tongue slipping down your neck.'

'It was just a misunderstanding old man. Nothing to concern yourself with.'

'I'd leave nothing to chance Killerman, when we're done here I'd get yourself off to the vet and have a quick check-up. When he grabs your nacho's and says cough just watch out where he puts the thermometer.'

Across the yard a door slammed. Pawser watched the light in the workshop go out and an old codger walk his bicycle through the half open metal gates. 'Righty ho then, bring your lock picking kit, Dirk. You might be able to dance your way around Fermat's last theorem but let see how you get on with a Chubb standard lock.'

They picked their way across the brick strew courtyard, through a battered door and up a long flight of stairs lit by Pawser's pencil flashlight. At the top Dirk knelt, laid out his lock picking set and squinted through the lock. 'Leatherbottom checked the knife and note, no fingerprints. I looked at the handwriting, not Mr Bentleys but a pretty good copy of it. Berty's had both Jocko and Mr Bentley in and they've both denied vehemently being involved.'

'Well they would wouldn't they, did all this take place down at the Ritz then, over a cream tea?'

'I couldn't say, Pawser but we don't need to pick this lock.'

'Why's that.'

'Cos it's open.' Dirk turned the knob until it gave out a soft click and gently pushed the door open. Pawser swept the room with his torch. Inside lay a large studio, a series of leatherette bean bags scattered across the floor, stacks of paintings, a large unmade bed and a small kitchenette. 'Ah, the deceased artists secret shag pad. We'll nip in, plant his last Will and Testament, then Dirk you can let his Estate know they missed this place and they'll come by and hey presto! They'll discover the Will.'

Pawser led the way, flicking the beam around the room as he stealthily eased his bulky frame around an artist's easel. 'Shut the door. Killerman, stick the Will under that pile of magazines. This place looks like such a dump no one will be surprised to find it there.' He clamped the flashlight between his teeth and ran his fingers over a set of canvases leaning against the wall. 'Crikey, look at this place, it's full of his gear. I wouldn't mind a few of these gracing the walls of my boudoir.'

'Right no one move! You little bastards!' the room flooded with brilliant white light.

Pawser jumped, almost swallowing his flashlight in shock. His eyes tore round the room. Frozen in the light Killerman blinked vacantly, caught in the act of placing the Will in a toppling pile of magazines. Toward the back of the studio a surprised looking Dirk was slipping a small still life of a reclining nude down the front of his jacket. In the entranceway to the kitchen, Pawser was perplexed to see what appeared to be Ned Kelly in a flouncy dress, twirling a menacing looking baseball bat round her hands.

'Christ, it looks like a big bird with a bucket on her head.' whispered Killerman hoarsely.

'I heard that,' said a voice under the bucket. 'What the hell are you lot doing here?'

On closer inspection, Pawser saw Killerman was right. The imposing figure in a maids outfit, did in fact have an upturned bucket on their head. But the baseball bat meant that they needed to extract themselves fairly quickly. 'Look we made a mistake, the door was open. So we were just interested what was in here. We'll be off.' Pawser waved at Killerman and Dirk to execute a swift rear guard action toward the door.

'Wait! Nobody move! The bucket advanced threating toward Pawser. 'That sounds like a load of bollocks to me. While I think about whether I'm going to give you all a good beating, what do you think?' The bucket mounted dress flounced a few steps in one direction, did a slow turn, wobbled dangerously in its high heels, flounced back and then waved the bat expectantly in their general direction.

'I'm not sure what you mean,' offered Pawser cautiously.

'Bloody hell, it's not haute couture at Cannes! How does it look off my shoulders and hips?'

'Beefy.' muttered Killerman under his breath.

Pawser pursed his lips. 'It's not really my area. Dirk this is more your sort of thing, fashion. He comes from Essex.'

'Oh my God!' the metallic voice cried indignantly. 'Well, he'll have to do. What do you think Essex boy. Does it make my arms look wingey?'

'Hmm,' Dirk casually stood up, allowing the print to slide into his jacket. 'I wouldn't worry about your arms. Chicken wings I'd say.....'

'I'd go with buffalo,' interjected Killerman. He took a stealthy step toward bucket head.

Dirk stared pointedly at Killerman. 'Well more perhaps athletic. In a good way.'

'I'm thinking shot putt,' Killerman took one step closer to his prey.

''Don't let this bucket fool you.' said the bucket hearing Killermans voice moving off to one side. 'I can see you all perfectly clearly.'

'Hmmm.' Dirk waved Killerman on. 'It certainly does your arms a favour but I'm not sure about the shoulder pads. And a decent pair of Jimmy Choo's wouldn't go amiss.'

'Oh, do you think?'

'For Gods sake, Dirk, leave it.' Pawser snapped. 'He looks like a princess's horse in a Disney parade. Look at his hind quarters.'

'Are you saying my bum looks big in this?' Bucket-head waved the bat threateningly at Pawser's voice. 'I thought as much, too tight round the rear end. I knew it when I tried it on but those bloody shop assistants. Too flouncy off the back I said, I need something tapering, something with elegance and panache. But no, the girl in the shop said it looked fine. I'm going to take it back and shove it up her arse.'

'Bit harsh.' whispered Dirk.

Killerman had finally completed his stealthy advance, with one swift move he leapt forward and relieved the bucket of the baseball bat.

'You little sod!' the bucket blindly flapped its arms round in a desperate attempt to locate Killerman.

'Right, that's it,' Pawser sighed. 'Off with the bucket if you don't mind, Killerman.'

Killerman stepped forward and lifted off the bucket to reveal a grizzled face lurking under a blond wig with two bouncing pigtails. 'Blimey, East German shot putter alert.'

'Right Goldilocks, you can take the wig off as well.'

Goldilocks submissively held her hands up and pulled off the wig.

'You're Anomalous Rex,' gasped Pawser. 'Has anyone told you you're supposed to be dead?'

Rex ran his fingers through his grey spiked hair, his voice raised in irritation. 'I knew it, wherever I go people recognise me, all my hopes rested on getting away without being recognised - you can't believe the pressure of being one of the world's most famous people. Is there no sanctuary from this persecution?'

'I couldn't tell you from Adam, fella - it's just your picture's on the poster on the wall behind you.'

'Oh.' said Rex. 'Anyway what are you lot doing here in my studio. Come to it, how did you find this place? No one else has.'

'You're a bit leery for a dead man,' Pawser hoped to deflect Rex from the fact that they'd been caught red handed breaking and entering. 'We need you to tell us what's been going on.'

'I don't think so,' said Rex glaring at Dirk flicking through a pile of canvases. 'And you will you stop rummaging through my stuff! I have rights you know.'

'No you don't,' said Dirk, 'you're officially dead.'

Rex clapped his hands together. 'Lovely ceremony didn't you think. Did you hear what the PM said about me? One of the greatest artists of our time. The nation will miss me. Would you like me to sign my autograph for you and then you can all just piss off!'

Killerman slapped the bat into his hand 'He's a gobby little git, isn't he? Shall I give him a going over?'

'No, I have a better idea,' Pawser relived Killerman of the bat. 'Let's take him down the local nick and he can be Lazarus resurrected. That's likely to go down well with all those Russian gangsters who have traded his works for millions over the last week or two. You're going to make a lot of new friends Rex, many of whom might think you better off dead again.'

Rex bit his lip, 'Alright, alright, I think I know who you really are. Filth, smartarse and ex-navy, you can only be British Intelligence, a bit of a misnomer looking at you three of course. If I tell you something you may find useful will you leave me to die in peace?'

'I think we could possibly come to an arrangement. Do you want to put the kettle on?'

Rex nodded, strutted into the kitchen clanged about for a few moments, returned and placed the tray on the table in the centre of the room. 'Shall I be mother?'

'You can be whatever you want in that dress,' Pawser wriggled into a beanbag and tried to get comfortable. 'So tell us, Rex how is it that the Nation is currently mourning your sad demise and here you are all pink as dandy, pouring the tea attired in a little French maids outfit?'

'The maids outfit is a lifestyle choice, my death however was not. Sugar anyone?'

'Cake?' Suggested Killerman

Rex's eyebrows narrowed at the proposition. 'Not with my figure, love.' Balancing a cup on one stocking'd knee, he pulled up a stool. 'My life has been one of misfortune followed by fame and recognition dogged by my misspent earlier years.' He thoughtfully flatted down his petty coats with his paint stained fingers. 'In fact my early demise represented my past catching up with me.'

'How so?'

'Did you ever come across the O'Reilly brothers, an Irish gang operating round South London?'

'Ad nausea,' nodded Pawser.

'So you have then and so unfortunately, have I.' Rex picked up the wig and smoothed down the pigtails. 'When I attended art college there was a mature student there. He seemed a bit rough around the edges but he was engrossed in my final exam pieces. He said he had a friend that might be interested in commissioning some work.'

'What was your work?'

'Prints, detailed high quality prints. I was interested in the old techniques. Working with presses, acid etching, specialist inks. All that.'

'This student, he wouldn't have been called Freddy would he?'

'The Fingers, I see you know him.'

'Yes...and.'

'I qualified and nothing. No work. Who was interested in that sort of thing, stuff that was being done hundreds of years ago? I did a bit of this and that but after six months I'd spent all my money on artists materials producing work no-one wanted. My rent was due and I had nothing and could see no way out. I pressed Freddy to see if he could get his friend to see me.'

'And he could?'

'He sure could, introduced me to the O'Reillys'. I knew instantly they were no good but hell they were a laugh, and with Fast Harry Houdini we had a ball. But then they presented the bill.'

'You had to do some artwork for them?'

'Yes. You know what sort. Cheque's mostly, then we did some vouchers. I did some currency runs, nothing special mostly second rate foreign staff that they could launder overseas. We did well, my cut was so good after three years I managed to bankroll my own show in an upmarket Thames side gallery.'

'And you were discovered.'

'Yep, it all came good. Then fame fortune and more trouble. The O'Reilly brothers weren't going to let me go, they had too much on me. I was the goose that laid the golden currency. I tried to pay them off but they were having none of it. With my fame I could buy whatever I wanted, better inks, decent copier machines, printers plates, etching material. They moved me into big time sterling forgeries, £20's, £50's and all that.'

'So you got tangled up with the O'Reillys.' Pawser spun his cup thoughtfully in its saucer.' Ever heard of a chap called Springer?'

'I'll say,' Rex spat. 'Then along came that spectral nerk, Springer and spoiled it all. All I wanted was out. But Springer put paid to that.'

'How come?'

'I made a set of plates, just perfect they were, for pressing fifty pound notes and I passed them onto Freddy -for the Irish boys. It was the price of my buy out. Spring Heeled Jack got wind of them and it all started to become rather unpleasant. My retirement from the world of forgery seemed to diminish once Jack turned up, he had all sorts of plans for me. I'm too old for this sort of thing, I could tell it was about to go tits up big time. It was time to disappear. I've got money squirreled away, I was getting ready to zip off the South America and leave them to it.'

'So you burned your place down and made out like you were caught in the fire?'

'No, no.' Rex dropped the wig in surprise. 'Springer burnt it down as a threat. I should have given him the plates, that was the price of my disobedience, losing my studio. I had a cadaver in there, it was intended to be part of a new show. When the police found the burnt skeleton they put two and two together and that was me, dead. It was such a great opportunity to do my final exit. Anyway now you know. So why are you lot here then?'

'Criminal connections, that sort of thing,' Pawser leaned back, casually placed his hands behind his head and almost tipped backward out of the beanbag. 'We found out about this place and thought we'd give it the once over.'

'Well here it is and there's nothing to find. It was all at Freddie's place and you've turned that over already I heard.'

'Just checking' said Pawser hauling himself up. 'We'll be off then.'

'You'll not tell anyone?'

'No, you get on with it. Just don't go out dressed like that, you might get spotted. Goodbye Rex.'

'Well, that was something.' Dirk pulled the car door to as Pawser started the engine.

'Christ, it's all slowly unravelling. The O'Reillys, Freddy, Rex and Springer.'

'And Jocko, Bentley, Ron, Barry and Pandora.' Pawser mused. 'But the missing cash and the notes to Jocko? I wonder where that fits in? Have you got that Will, Killerman?'

'No, I put it in there in the magazines, like you said.'

'Go and get it back then.'

'Bollocks to that, it hardly matters now, does it? When Rex finds it, he'll just dump it in the bin.'

'What will I tell Mayheme?' Pawser drummed the steering wheel with his thumbs.

'You did the job didn't you? It's there. Rex's still dead as far as anyone's concerned. I'd just leave it at that. With any luck he won't see it and will disappear and then, job done.'

'Yes, I guess.' Pawser rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'Unfortunately we've still not identified the mole and still have another job to do. Let's go home and get tooled up. Tomorrow night we're going to the library to borrow a book for Ferker-Rose.'