He ceased his pacing and made that 'picture this' gesture that people sometimes make. 'In order that the world might watch, the world must be given something that it wants to watch. Something really well worth watching.'

Tuppe nodded enthusiastically. 'What?' he asked.

'A crime,' said Rune. 'A great crime. Committed live before the watching world. A crime of such magnitude and audaciousness, that it will be con-sidered The Crime of the Century. This crime will arouse the pa.s.sions of the world. This crime is part one of my stratagem.'

'Golly,' said Tuppe.

'Picture this,' said Rune, referring back to a gesture he'd prepared earlier. 'The great crime is committed. The world looks on. The authorities are baffled. The police are baffled. Everyone is baffled.

And then one man steps forward. "I can solve this crime," he says. "I can lead you to the door, to the many doors in fact, where the criminals lurk."'

'The entrances to the Forbidden Zones,' said Tuppe.

'The very same. To all of them in London. Every one. At the same time. Imagine it. All those armed policemen. All those Special Forces blokes in the body armour. All those fine young soldiers. All that weaponry.

Cornelius thought he could imagine it only too well. And he did not like this imagining one little bit.

'This one man who steps forward to solve the crime. That would be you, I suppose.'

'None other,' said Rune.'And the crime itself That would be committed by...?'

'Yourself and your companion. Under my instruc-tion, naturally.'

'Naturally. But about this crime. This Crime of the Century that will have the world sitting on the edge of its collective seat. What will this crime be, exactly?'

'The kidnapping of Her Majesty the Queen,' said Hugo Rune. 'On prime-time TV.'

Colin Collins was sitting all alone in his little gla.s.s booth at the Job Centre when Polly Gotting walked in. He was dreaming about trains.

His full name was Colin does-anybody-want-to-fish-this-b.u.g.g.e.r-out-then? Collins. Which was all to do with the vicar dropping him into the font during the christening.

Now, this would have been nothing more than a tired old gag, if it hadn't been for the fact that the vicar did it on purpose.

At the time, the cleric's extraordinary behaviour bewildered the little congregation of family and friends. But as the years dragged by and Cohn dragged himself towards the estate of manhood, all those who had attended the christening considered that, perhaps, it might have been better if 'the b.u.g.g.e.r' had not been fished out at all.

It wasn't that Colin was evil. That would have been considered acceptable in a family that proudly numbered amongst its ancestry three iconoclasts, two serial killers and a horse mutilator.

It was that Colin was dull. Dull! That's what he was. Soul-destroyingly, mind-numbingly dull. His father, Cohn Collins Senior, was dull. But his was an everyday, easygoing sort of dullness. And all those who knew the Coffins family considered Coffins Senior the very acme of wit and personality, when placed against his son.

Now it is a well-known fact amongst those who know it well, that the world is full of Collins. They are everywhere, though, as a rule, you don't notice them. There's one in every cla.s.s. Study any old school photograph, you'll see him. Middle row, easy to miss and no-one can remember his name. It's Colin.

And when they leave school, these Colins, they go to work for the DHSS.

Here they sit, wearing those gla.s.ses, those shirts, those ties, those cardigans, those open-toed sandals and those grey socks.

And they dream about trains.

Other than for Polly, the Job Shop, as it had been humorously renamed, by a man called Colin, was a veritable Mother Hubbard's cupboard, when it came to seekers after employment. This was probably because there weren't any jobs for sale.

Polly surveyed the uncompromising row of little gla.s.s-fronted booths. All appeared unmanned. She strode up to the first and rapped on the gla.s.s. 'Shop,' she called.

Cohn stopped dreaming about trains. 'How can I help you?' he asked.

Polly glanced in the direction of the voice. It came from the next booth. 'Sorry,' she said, 'I didn't see you there.'

'Do you want a green form?' Cohn asked.

'What shade of green is it?'

'This shade.' Colin held up the green form.

'Not really,' said Polly.

Cohn's eyes began to glaze over.

'I want a job.'

'You'll have to fill in a green form then.'

'But I already filled one in.'

'Well, give it to me and I'll get it stamped.'

'You already have it.'

'Do I?' Colin scratched his head. He had dandruff. 'I don't think I do.'

'Well, somebody does. I filled it in the last time I was here.'

'When was that?''About four weeks ago.

'I wasn't here then.' Cohn straightened the row of Biros in the top pocket of his cardigan. 'I was doing in-house training.'

'Learning makes a man fit company for himself As Young once wrote.'

'I'm sorry?'

'Never mind. Would you like to go and get my green form from your files?'

'Oh, all right.' Cohn rose from his chair. 'Wouldn't you like to know my name first? It might help.'

'I know your name. It's Polly Gotting.'

'How do you know that?'

'You used to be in my cla.s.s at school.'

'Did I?'

'Yes. I sat next to you.

'Oh yes, of course.' Polly tried to make it sound convincing. 'It's Dermot, isn't it?'

'It's Cohn,' said Cohn.

'Oh yes. Cohn. That's it.'

'I'll get your green form then.'

'Thank you, Cohn.'

'Oh, it's not Cohn any more,' said Cohn, drawing Polly's attention to the smart name badge he wore. 'It's Mister Coffins now.'

It was a very big filing cabinet. And G can take a bit of finding. Especially if you're dreaming about trains.

'I'll have to hurry you now,' said Mr Coffins, when he finally returned. 'It's half-day closing.'

'Is that my green form?'

'Yes. It all seems to be in order. What did you say your query was?'

'I don't have a query. I want a job.'

'But you have a job. And a good one too. With a pension.

'I just got made redundant.' 'Redundant is a red form,' said Mr Coffins. 'I just want another job.

What do you have?' Mr Coffins studied Polly's green form. 'Polyhymnia Gotting. Polyhymnia?'

'The muse of singing and sacred dance. It's Greek.'

'It is to me.' Colin had a go at a smile. But he just couldn't pull it off. 'You pa.s.sed all your exams,'

he said. 'All of them.'

'That's what they were there for. To be pa.s.sed.'

'I didn't pa.s.s any of mine.

'Perhaps you weren't clever enough. No offence meant.'

'None taken. But it can't be anything to do with being clever.'

'It can't?'

'No. Because I'm clever enough to be in full-time employment, and you're not.'

Polly was clever enough to keep her temper. 'Do you have any jobs on offer?'

'Not for you.

'Why not for me?'

'Because you are over-qualified.

'What does that do?' Polly pointed to a gleaming new computer terminal that stood on Mr Collins's desktop.

'That', said Cohn proudly, 'is an on-line computer. It gives an hour-to-hour update of all new job opportunities. You punch in the qualifications of the applicant and the computer matches them to any available employment and prints out the reply. It's brand new. It only arrived half an hour ago.'

'Why not punch in my qualifications and see what happens?'

'I'd love to. But I can't.'

'Why not?'

'Because it's half-day closing. And we just closed.' Polly would dearly have loved to drag Mr Coffins from his little gla.s.s-fronted booth and punish him severely. But instead she smiled.'It looks incredibly complicated,' she said.

'It is. Very.'

'I can understand you being wary about operating it.

'Who said I was wary?'

'Careful then. It must be a bit of a responsibility. I know, if I were in your, er, sandals, I wouldn't fancy trying it out without my supervisor present.'

'I am fully capable of using it. I did it at in-house training.'

'Of course you did. But I can understand you being nervous.

'I'm not nervous.

'It probably doesn't work anyway.'

'Of course it works.'

'Sure it does. I bet.'

'It does work and I'm not nervous about using it.'

'I'll come back tomorrow and speak to your supervisor,' said Polly. 'I expect she's a woman.

She'll have the bottle to try it out. Always best to go straight to the top. Cut out the unambitious technophobes who don't want the glory of being the first to make a placement with such hi-tech equipment. Men have sight; women insight - to quote Victor Hugo. So long, Cohn.' Polly turned upon her heel.

Mr Coffins dithered. He hadn't understood half she'd said. But he got the general gist. 'Just you come back here,' he said.

Polly watched him as he worried at the computer keyboard. Her mother had told her, as she had told her sister Anna, that all men were basically stupid. And she, like her sister, would pa.s.s this information on to daughters of her own one day.

'Eureka!' said Colin. suddenly.