A ‘digestive’ or ‘malted milk’, for example?

What then do we mean by the term ‘custard cream’?

I told Tomas about the poem. He was familiar with the story of Prometheus but even he was unable to decipher the poem further or determine whether it might provide some insight into the whereabouts or fate of Toby Salt. But he had a suggestion.

‘What Wittgenstein would do, in such circumstances, is conduct a thought experiment,’ he said. ‘He would concoct an imaginary situation and use that scenario as the basis for thinking through the consequences of a particular hypothesis.’

I gave it a whirl when I got home. I conjured up a scenario in which Toby Salt had been enclosed in a steel chamber, along with a phial of hydrocyanic acid and a radioactive substance. I’d intended to think through the consequences of what might then have transpired, but so pleasing was the scenario to me, I lingered on it for the rest of the day and found myself no further forward.

Monday November 26th

DI Lansbury again.

‘We’ve had a sighting of you, Mr Bilston – on 7th September, the night of Mr Salt’s book launch.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes – from a neighbour of yours, as it happens.’

I sighed.

‘She claims she saw you out in the garden. She’d seen you emerging from your shed. Late it was. About 2 a.m., she reckons. And then you decided to have a bonfire.’

‘Oh, really.’

‘Funny time to have a bonfire, sir, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’d like to take another look at your shed. Shall I get a new warran—’

‘Yes, why don’t you,’ I snapped and slammed the phone down.

Tuesday November 27th

All That Jazz

Here’s the scene:

we’re booted, real hep,

feeling the step,

laying it loose,

Big Leon’s noodling in the corner.

Man, that cat! On tubs is Jack,

giving it some

and then some again,

Pretty Boy Lester’s gone,

sharp, feeling the heat,

digging deep,

totally wigged,

Leon’s sucking his popsicle stick

all slick licks,

until Den, in search of kicks,

suggests we all go out

and find a jazz band to listen to.

I have always nursed a deep suspicion of jazz. I think this may be due to the concept of improvisation; the prospect of having to think on your feet without every move carefully researched and rehearsed disturbs me at a profound level. Or maybe it’s just the haircuts.

Regardless, Darren and I had to confront it. It had been billed as an evening of free jazz but, annoyingly, we still had to pay at the door. The main draw was a nine-piece ensemble aptly named Vertigo (ft. Dizzy Malone) as they led to complications in my inner ear. The giddiness and nausea felt like an unwelcome reminder of having to read Toby Salt’s poetry.

Wednesday November 28th