Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency by Douglas Adams Page B

headlights.
    The officer looked him up and down.
    ‘Er, I’m sorry, officer,’ said Richard, with as much calmness as he could wrench into his voice.  ‘I, er, skidded.  The roads are slippery and I, er... skidded.  I spun round.  As you see, I, I’m facing the wrong way.’  He gestured at his car to indicate the way it was facing.
    ‘Like to tell me why it was you skidded then, exactly, sir?’  The police officer was looking him straight in the eye while pulling out a notebook.
    ‘Well, as I said,’ explained Richard, ‘the roads are slippery because of the mist, and, well, to be perfectly honest,’ he suddenly found himself saying, in spite of all his attempts to stop himself, ‘I was just driving along and I suddenly imagined that I saw my employer throwing himself in front of my car.’
    The officer gazed at him levelly.
    ‘Guilt complex, officer,’ added Richard with a twitch of a smile, ‘you know how it is.  I was contemplating taking the weekend off.’
    The police officer seemed to hesitate, balanced on a knife edge between sympathy and suspicion.  His eyes narrowed a little but didn’t waver.
    ‘Been drinking, sir?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Richard, with a quick sigh, ‘but very little.  Two glasses of wine max.  Er... and a small glass of port.  Absolute max.  It was really just a lapse of concentration.  I’m fine now.’
    ‘Name?’
    Richard gave him his name and address.  The policeman wrote it all down carefully and neatly in his book, then peered at the car registration number and wrote that down too.
    ‘And who is your employer then, sir?’
    ‘His name is Way.  Gordon Way.’
    ‘Oh,’ said the policeman raising his eyebrows, ‘the computer gentleman.’
    ‘Er, yes, that’s right.  I design software for the company.  WayForward Technologies II.’
    ‘We’ve got one of your computers down the station,’ said the policeman.  ‘Buggered if I can get it to work.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Richard wearily, ‘which model do you have?’
    ‘I think it’s called a Quark II.’
    ‘Oh, well that’s simple,’ said Richard with relief.  ‘It doesn’t work.  Never has done.  The thing is a heap of shit.’
    ‘Funny thing, sir, that’s what I’ve always said,’ said the policeman.  ‘Some of the other lads don’t agree.’
    ‘Well, you’re absolutely right, officer.  The thing is hopeless.  It’s the major reason the original company went bust.  I suggest you use it as a big paperweight.’
    ‘Well, I wouldn’t like to do that, sir,’ the policeman persisted.  ‘The door would keep blowing open.’
    ‘What do you mean, officer?’ asked Richard.
    ‘I use it to keep the door closed, sir.  Nasty draughts down our station this time of year.  In the summer, of course, we beat suspects round the head with it.’
    He flipped his book closed and prodded it into his pocket.
    ‘My advice to you, sir, is to go nice and easy on the way back.  Lock up the car and spend the weekend getting completely pissed.  I find it’s the only way.  Mind how you go now.’
    He returned to his car, wound down the window, and watched Richard manoeuvre his car around and drive off into the night before heading off himself.
    Richard took a deep breath, drove calmly back to London, let himself calmly into his flat, clambered calmly over the sofa, sat down, poured himself a stiff brandy and began seriously to shake.
    There were three things he was shaking about.
    There was the simple physical shock of his near-accident, which is the sort of thing that always churns you up a lot more than you expect.  The body floods itself with adrenaline, which then hangs around your system turning sour.
    Then there was the cause of the skid -- the extraordinary apparition of Gordon throwing himself in front of his car at that moment.  Boy oh boy.  Richard took a mouthful of brandy and gargled with it.  He put the glass down.
    It was well known that Gordon was one of the world’s richest