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environment jealousy has to be a fairly likely motive.’
    ‘Who do you think fancies Woggle, then?’ Hooper asked, laughing at the figure who had just appeared on the screen.
Woggle . Real job: anarchist. Star sign: claims to be all twelve.
    ‘I mean, let’s face it,’ Hooper continued.
    ‘If you were looking for a potential murder victim out of this lot, it would have to be Woggle, wouldn’t it? I mean, that bloke is just asking for it.’
    ‘Any white bloke with dreadlocks is asking for it in my opinion,’ Trisha remarked, adding, ‘Woggle was Geraldine the Gaoler’s private little project, sir.’
    ‘What do you mean by that, constable?’ Trisha was referring to one of the confidential internal policy briefings that she had secured from the Peeping Tom offices on the day of the murder.
    ‘He was the only inmate of the house that Peeping Tom actually approached, rather than the other way round. In Geraldine Hennessy’s opinion he was, and I quote, ‘guaranteed good telly. A natural irritant, like the grain of sand in the oyster shell around which a pearl will grow’.’
    ‘Very poetic,’ Coleridge remarked.
    ‘I must say, it’s a stretch of the imagination to think of Mr Woggle as a pearl, but it takes all sorts, I suppose.’
    ‘She saw him on the lunchtime news on the day of the annual May Day riots, sir.’
    ‘Ah. So he was arrested? Now that is interesting.’
    ‘He wasn’t arrested, sir, he was being interviewed by the BBC. It was Woggle’s claim to fame.’
    ‘I saw that interview you did ‘bout anarchy and all that malarkey,’ Moon was saying to Woggle, sensing a kindred alternative spirit.
    ‘You were fookin’ magic, babe. Double wicked.’
    ‘Thank you, sweet lady,’ Woggle replied.
    ‘But what was the story with the medieval jester’s hat? Was it, like, making a point or what?’
    ‘It was indeed making a point, 0 bald woman. When the so-called wise men have run out of answers it is time to talk to the fools.’
    ‘So they talked to you, then,’ said Jazz drily.
    ‘Correctomundo, soul brother.’ Woggle flashed what he believed was a smile of devilish subtlety but which, owing to his beard and the state of his teeth, looked like a few broken Polo mints buried in a hair-filled bathroom plug-hole.
    ‘I couldn’t get to work that day,’ Kelly complained.
    ‘They closed Oxford Street. How’s stopping people doing their shopping going to help anybody?’ Woggle did his best to explain, but his politics were not overburdened with detail or analysis. He seemed to recognize something he called ‘the system’, and he disapproved of this system in its entirety.
    ‘That’s it, really,’ he said.
    ‘So what is the system, then?’ Kelly asked.
    ‘Well, it’s all that capitalist, global, police, money, hamburger, American, foxhunting, animal-testing, fascist-groove-thing, isn’t it?’ Woggle explained in his dull, nasal monotone.
    ‘Oh, right. I see.’ Kelly sounded unconvinced.
    ‘What we need is macrobiotic organic communities interacting with their environments in an atmosphere of mutual respect,’ Woggle added.
    ‘What the fahk are you talking about?’ Garry enquired.
    ‘Basically it would be nice if things were nicer.’ Once more Inspector Coleridge pressed pause.
    ‘I presume Woggle’s antagonism to ‘the system’ does not prevent him from living off it?’
    ‘No, sir, that’s right,’ Trish replied.
    ‘The one system he truly does understand is the social security system.’
    ‘So the state can keep him fed and watered while he seeks to overthrow it? Very convenient, I must say.’
    ‘Yes, sir, he thinks so too,’ said Hooper.
    ‘Later on he has a huge row with the rest of them about it because they refuse to celebrate the irony of the fact that the state is funding him, its most bitter enemy.’
    ‘Presumably because they, like the rest of us, have to fund the state.’
    ‘That’s basically their point, yes.’
    ‘Well, I’m delighted to