Hedgie pulled a tattered Instamatic photograph out of his pocket. “No shit, Foodge.  Do you know this guy ?”

“No, but yes, but no” said Foodge. “I have some vague recollection, Mr Hedge”

“The top to toe tattoos on this chap jog no memory cells?” said Hedgie.

“But this is a photograph of a kid, Mr Hedge”. “Sorry, it’s not recent but it’s the only one I have” said Hedgie.

The word “tattoo” has a special significance in the Foodge lexicon and Foodge involuntarily put a hand in the hip pocket of his Anthony Squares bag of fruit (a Salvos find if ever there was one).  The half Gemini tattoo that Foodge woke up and discovered on his right bum cheek (in Episode 1 since you’re probably wondering) was an unsolved mystery – apparently returning to Foodge’s in-tray.

“Why are you showing me this, Mr Hedge? ” asked Foodge.

“Word has it that this was the dude who parked that ink on O’Hoo and your bums”.  Foodge reddened, hoping that the word hadn’t spread to FM or Mrs M.

“Because this punter is cooling his sorry arse in a lay-down chiller at her Majesty’s pleasure” said Hedge. “Dead ?”  “I strongly suspect so.  Of course he’s fuckin’ dead.  And O’Hoo’s people are using descriptions of you two like ‘persons of interest’.  Time to start watching your arse again, Foodgie boy” said Hedgie.

On the one hand, Foodge was chuffed at being thought of as ‘interesting’, but something told him that this time it wasn’t the kind of interest that might cover his tab at the Pig’s Arms.

“Word has it that the coppers are going to pin this one on the Hell’s Angles and then rope in the Lambrettistas” said Hedgie.  “And how does that worry you, Mr Hedge ?” said Foodge.

“I would say” said Hedgie, pausing for a plunge into his Trotter’s Ale, “That could, ah, disrupt a major component of my distribution channel, Foodge.  And that could impact my donations to charity – my FBT – you know, Free Benefit Tokes”.  Foodge nodded sagely, or something like sage – possibly basil or oregano –  herbally knew it was a spicy situation, but not why it was.

“Who was he ?  asked Merv. “Who was who ?” replied Hedgie. “The deceased tattooist” said Merv.

“He was one of Trotsky’s illegitimate Mexican children – Pancho Headin.  Rumour has it that he was a hard man for the Lambrettistas, but you didn’t hear it from me” said Hedgie.

“Complicated” said Foodge.  “Isn’t Trotsky a chapter commander for the Hell’s Angles ?”  Foodge could sense some deep involvement of O’Hoo and retired to the Men’s to take a long overdue look at his tattoo.  He ran a finger along the outline of the Gemini twin, but his tail had gone cold.

Foodge returned to the bar with a mere trace of shirt tail protruding from his fly.  The regulars could work out what he’d been up to for themselves.  They awaited, smirking only slightly, for his rejoinder.  “Do the police have a donkey to pin this on ?” said Foodge.

“Do YOU have an alibi ?” said Hedgie.  “ Yes,” said Foodge “ I have a suit on lay-by at Reuben F Shawl’s”.  Merv produced a Trotter’s Ale fountain from his nostrils.

“I think I’ll swing by Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain and make a few inquiries” said Foodge, although the questions he was planning to ask had not crystallised just yet.  He patted his pocket for the Zephyr keys.  Merv, mopping up his beer fountain, reached for the Effhook near the kitchen speaking tube and handed Foodge the keys – prejudging him to be no worse at piloting the Zephyr than usual.

As Foodge’s silhouette shrunk its way through the passage and out into the carpark, Hedgie’s fat finger rolled a number into the Bakelite wall phone. “On his way” he said and hung up before the reply that didn’t come didn’t come.