Edward did not reply but raised his leg to kick the side of the fat man’s thigh, his foot curling round in an attempt to reach the ample backside.
‘Here, stop that!’ The man backed away nervously.
Edward manoeuvred himself into a more favourable position for reaching the man’s rear.
‘Stop it!’ But the blow had already landed. The hotel proprietor rubbed his reddening bottom with both hands, using friction to dull the smarting. ‘I’ll have the law on you! Who do you . . .?’ He half-turned to trundle away, frightened by the gleam in the advancing Edward’s eye. ‘Get away!’ he spluttered, his fat legs increasing their pace, finally breaking into a lumbering run. Edward followed, his longer legs easily enabling him to keep up and deal out more kicks to the large wobbling target before him.
They left a trail of bewildered onlookers behind them, who stared and then chuckled at one another in delight. It made a fine comedy, the contrasting figures of the two men – one tall and thin, the other, short and roly – adding to the ridiculousness of it.
The hotel proprietor was becoming winded, his bottom sore and bruised. His pleas for help from the people he passed met only with incredulity turning to amusement. Finally he saw what he had been praying for. A policeman was just emerging from a shop and striding across the pavement to his panda patrol car.
‘Help!’ the fat man panted. ‘Help me!’
Fortunately for Edward, he’d seen the policeman too and had slowed down to a casual stroll. The fat man grabbed the policeman by the arm and was stabbing an agitated finger towards the now-passing assistant bank manager.
‘That man! That man has been chasing me!’ The policeman calmly turned and looked down at the fat man tugging at his shirt sleeve, then at the passer-by he was gesticulating towards. ‘Stop him!’ the fat man went on excitedly, fuming at the policeman’s apparent casualness. ‘He’s been attacking me! Arrest him!’
The policeman had learned long ago never to accept anybody’s word unless there were at least one or two unbiased witnesses to back up their story. There were plenty of nutcases around who loved to create a scene and involve perfectly innocent bystanders and this little fat man didn’t seem at all right in the head. However, these matters had to be investigated and feelings soothed. ‘Just a moment, sir,’ he called to Edward.
‘That’s it, constable,’ the proprietor said with some feeling of satisfaction. ‘He’s a madman. You lock him up.’
‘Yes, officer?’ Edward walked calmly to the two men, a faint look of surprise on his face.
The policeman immediately became suspicious of the fat man still tugging at his elbow. It seemed pretty obvious who the madman was.
‘Er, this man says you assaulted him, sir,’ he said, almost apologetically.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Edward replied, slightly indignant, not ruffled, but as though curious about the insinuation.
‘He says you attacked him, sir.’
‘He did. He’s been chasing me all the way down the street, kicking me.’ The fat man stood immediately behind the policeman, as though expecting another kick at any moment.
‘But officer, there must be some mistake,’ said Edward. ‘I’ve never seen this man before.’
The policeman tried to calm the fat man who was hopping up and down behind him. ‘He’s kicked my bottom black and blue. Do something, constable!’
‘Kicked his – ? Oh, really, officer.’ Edward smiled benignly. ‘I do have to be on my way or l’ll be late for work, but if I can assist you in any way . . .?’
‘Er, just a moment, sir.’ The policeman turned to face the dismayed hotel proprietor. ‘Have you any witnesses?’
‘Well, of course, yes!’ The fat man pointed at the onlookers. Unfortunately, they only chuckled and shook their heads at the policeman.
‘I see,’ the policeman said, putting away his notebook, a weary look on his face.
‘But he did kick me!’ wailed the fat man.
‘I did not,’ said Edward calmly.
‘Well, I’m afraid, sir, there’s nothing I can do unless you have witnesses,’ said the policeman. ‘Now why don’t you go on about your business and let this gentleman go on about his.’ He ignored the outraged spluttering of the proprietor and turned back to Edward, speaking in a confidential tone. ‘I’m sorry about this, sir. It often happens with these people. They see a uniform and immediately use it to make themselves feel important. He’s harmless enough.’
‘I understand, officer,’ said Edward, with concern. It’s quite all right. Really.’
‘They want to be noticed, that’s all.’ The policeman smiled. ‘It’s certainly original, though, saying you kicked his bottom all the way down the street.’
Edward smiled back. ‘Yes, it certainly is.’ Both men shook their heads in wonder.
‘Well, good day to you, sir,’ the policeman half-saluted. ‘He won’t bother you again.’
‘Thank you, officer. Good day.’
As the policeman turned and walked towards his car Edward took two brisk steps after him, swung his foot back, and gave him a hefty kick in the seat of his pants.
Symes looked up at the clock on the wall for the fourth time that morning. Half-past ten and still Smallwood had not shown! The scowling bank manager expected the telephone to ring at any moment and Smallwood’s distraught mother to pour out excuses about the condition of her son’s ill-health as soon as he picked up the receiver. Well, he was coming to the end of his tether with that boy. Boy! He was a grown man, but he acted as though he were sixteen! True, he was conscientious enough, rarely made a mistake in his figures, but he was so godawful slow! And at the slightest sign of illness his mother kept him at home. He knew the previous manager had coddled the big, overgrown schoolboy because he knew the boy’s father, but he certainly was not going to tolerate much more of his constant absenteeism, even though it was a treat not to have him snuffling around him all day. It was his irritating mannerisms more than his lack of initiative that annoyed Symes: the way he chewed on his fingers, the way he apologized for everything, the way he bowed and scaped to the customers. And the rest of the staff had no respect for him; they regarded him as a joke.
Anyway, his being away so often was a good excuse to get rid of him. Balmer could take his place, he was a good lad, always quick with an answer, always ready to take on more work. And with Symes getting out and about more, meeting the people as it were, he needed a good back-up man to handle the steady influx of routine work. It was a good policy to go out and contact the local businessmen and developers personally, rather than wait for them to come to him. See them in their offices, visit the sites, talk business over a good three-hour lunch – that was the way to treat good clients and drum up new ones. Now that the word had been whispered down from Head Office that the world of banking no longer sat on its backside and waited for the corporations to come to them, but went out and searched for promising enterprises themselves, they expected the managers of their local branches to do the same. He was sure that his own activities would soon come to their notice, and, unlike many of his counterparts in other branches, he relished the thought of being called to Head Office to build his reputation in the very fountain-head of the bank. Today he had some extremely important appointments to keep and the thought of Small-wood letting him down again filled him with annoyance.
There was a light tap on the door and his secretary poked her head through the smallest gap possible and said, ‘Mr Smallwood’s in, Mr Symes. I thought you might like to know.’ She smiled smugly.
Symes looked up in surprise. It was usual for his assistant to be away, but very unusual for him to be late. ‘Is he indeed? Well, would you inform him I’d like to see him right away, Mrs Platt.’
His secretary’s head disappeared from view and seconds later, the door opened again to reveal Smallwood standing outside.
‘Come in, come in. Don’t just stand there,’ said Symes, irritably. ‘Why are you so late?’
Edward c
losed the door behind him and walked up to the manager’s desk, not answering.
‘Well, I asked you a question and I expect an answer.’
Edward rubbed his forehead with his hand and looked at Symes as though he’d never seen him before. ‘I – I ran into a little trouble, sir.’
The little trouble had in fact amounted to being charged with causing a breach of the peace and assaulting an officer of the law, a charge he would have to answer to in court the following morning. A kindly police sergeant who knew his parents had advised him to return home and rest, knowing there was nothing malicious about him, and putting the morning’s event down as ‘nervous exhaustion or something like that’. But Edward hadn’t gone home. He had something to do.
Symes studied his assistant’s face and sighed resignedly. He supposed he was lucky that Smallwood had turned up at all – he certainly looked rather pale.
‘All right, you know I’ve got a busy day on, tell me later. I’ve got an appointment at 11.00 and want to go down to the vault before I leave.’ He gathered up some papers and put them away in his drawer. ‘Reverend Peters made rather a large deposit today for his Restoration Fund. The man’s an idiot – keeps his collections at the vicarage until he has a sizeable amount, then deposits it. Doesn’t like to trouble me too often he says.’ He walked around his desk to the wall-safe. ‘I’ve told him so many times he’ll get robbed one day. Three hundred pounds he brought in today!’ He dialled the combination and swung the safe door open reaching inside for a brown envelope and the keys to the vault room. ‘I don’t want this lying around while I’m out all day, even though it’s safe enough in here. You can never be too careful, Smallwood. Besides, as I told Mrs Platt, if all goes well, I may not even be back at all today.’ He had arranged to meet his last client of the day on the golf course.
He closed the safe door again and twirled the dial. Walking towards the door of his office he glanced back over his shoulder at Edward who was watching him silently.
‘Come along, man, I haven’t got all day!’
They descended the steps to the basement room that contained the vault. Symes unlocked the heavy metal door and they entered the room full of small lockers, each containing confidential papers belonging to the bank’s clients. The vault itself stood at one end, fairly small but large enough for a bank of this size. The bank manager hummed as he walked towards it, anticipating the pleasant day he had before him. Edward followed.
‘Now, Smallwood,’ said Symes, handing him the brown envelope containing the vicar’s money, ‘you’ve got a busy day ahead of you and I don’t want to find any work left over till tomorrow. Get Balmer to give you a hand if you need it.’ He was silent as he dialled the combination to the vault, concentrating on the figures, enjoying the position of trust he had. The last numeral clicked into place and he stood straight, a smile of satisfaction on his face. He swung the heavy, metal door open and turned to retrieve the envelope from his assistant. He frowned at the blank look on Edward’s face.
‘I want to have a word with you tomorrow, Smallwood. It concerns your future with the bank, so don’t be away.’
He turned back and placed one foot inside the vault, crouching slightly because of its smallness, and reaching for a black box marked ‘St Andrew’s Vicarge, Rev Anthony Stephen Peters’.
‘Did you hear me, Smallwood?’ came his muffled voice. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you today.’
Edward stepped forward and pushed at his employer’s back violently. Symes fell forward striking his head on the back wall of the vault, his legs buckling beneath him. He was just in time to turn over and through the daze in his head see the heavy door swing shut, leaving him in a frightening black void.
Edward twisted the dial several times then leaned his aching forehead against the cold metal. The air inside the vault would not last long. Certainly for not more than a night.
He walked from the room, locking the door behind him, and climbed the stairs to the ground floor. When he passed Mrs Platt’s desk, she looked up enquiringly.
‘Where’s Mr Symes?’ she asked.
‘Oh, he’s gone for the day,’ answered Edward. ‘He went out the back way to his car, said he was late.’
‘But what about his briefcase?’
‘Said he didn’t need it.’
Mrs Platt clucked in annoyance. ‘He kept me late yesterday typing those papers. He said they were important for today.’ She banged her keyboard, huffily.
‘Mrs Platt,’ said Edward.
She looked up at him.
‘I’m going home now. I don’t feel well.’ He walked away from her. ‘I doubt if I’ll be back.’
9
‘It seems we may owe you an apology, Mr Holman.’ Wreford looked across his desk at Holman, indicating that he should take the seat opposite.
‘You mean you’ve had more news from the school?’
Chief Superintendent Wreford paused before he spoke, a worried frown on his face. ‘Indeed, we have,’ he said.
Holman let a weary sigh escape from his lips. It was 4.00 a.m. and he had spent a restless night in a small detention room, furnished only with a chair and a hard bed. He’d been woken from his fitful doze by Barrow who had brought him up to Wreford’s office without saying a word. Both CID men looked tired for they had spent much of the night talking with various police stations around the Salisbury area in an effort to find out if any unusual incidents had occurred in their areas recently. And if anyone had reported fog.
The report from Andover concerning Redbrook House had spurred them into this activity.
‘Tell me what’s happened,’ said Holman.
‘From a class of thirty-seven, one boy managed to escape without any serious injury from the fire. He was in a state of shock – it was assumed that the fire was responsible – but later, he began to say some strange things.’ Wreford swivelled his chair so he faced away from Holman. ‘At first, the doctors thought he was hysterical, but certain peculiarities about the bodies brought out caused them to listen more closely to what the boy was saying.’
Barrow broke in. ‘Some of the bodies were naked; although the fire would have burnt the clothes there would have still been bits of material charred into the skin.’
Wreford continued: ‘It looks as though the fire had been deliberately started; a can of petrol was found near one of the bodies – the body of a man. The man had one arm. They’re sure it was the deputy headmaster, a man named Summers.’
Holman felt sick; could he have prevented it?
‘It also seems that many of the bodies had been mutilated,’ said Barrow, grimly.
Wreford turned his back to Holman. ‘From what they can gather from the boy, it started out as a normal PE lesson. Then the boys turned on their sports master and beat him unconscious. Then the other teacher – Summers – came in, and they attacked him. The boy gets hysterical at this point and it’s not very clear what happened next, but apparently the other boys seemed to have gone completely berserk, beating and – ’ he paused. ‘And mutilating each other.’
‘Oh, Jesus. If only I’d got to you sooner.’
‘You’re not to blame, Mr Holman. It happened fairly early in the day. You couldn’t have known.’
Holman shook his head. ‘No, but it was in the back of my head. Something disturbed me when we were actually in the fog. But what about this boy – is he insane?’
The doctors think not. Hysterical, yes, and who knows what effect this experience will have on him? But they’re sure he’s not mad. And so are we.’
‘Why? What makes you think so?’
‘Something that helps to confirm your story about the fog.’
Barrow, sitting on the edge of his Chief Superintendent’s desk, spoke: ‘He was ill on the day of the outing. The matron wouldn’t let him go because he was just getting over a chill. He was in the gym yesterday, but wasn’t taking part in the exercises because he wasn’t considered well enough. He was sitting at the back, watch
ing his friends. Luckily, they took no notice of him, but he witnessed the whole bizarre episode! Poor little sod.’
The room was quiet for a few moments before Holman asked, ‘What happens now?’
‘We’ve spent most of the night talking to police stations in the area, trying to trace the whereabouts of the fog now, enquiring about any unusual events occurring recently on their patches.’ Wreford held up several sheets of paper containing scribbled notes. ‘There are plenty of strange things that have been happening, but then there always are. Our problem is which of them we can attribute to the fog.’
‘Then you do believe me?’
‘Let’s say we don’t disbelieve you. We needed more evidence—’
‘More evidence?’ Holman exploded, but Wreford held up his hand.
‘We think we have that evidence. A hatchet murder a few days ago: a man named Abbot chopped up a wealthy landowner, his wife and his two women staff, then he cut his own wrists. He had a slight grievance against the landowner, we understand, but hardly enough to account for this butchery. In the same area, a farmer was trampled to death by his cattle, a vicar ran amok in his church. A few other incidents, relatively minor, but nevertheless, they could all add up to the same thing. We’ve asked for any further reports to be sent directly to us and we’re now trying to locate the fog.’
‘But it could be anywhere.’
‘We’ll soon find it.’
‘All right, so what’s your next move?’
‘We compile all the facts, then I contact the Commissioner with a view to presenting the evidence to the Home Secretary.’
‘But in the meantime, half the countryside will have been affected!’
‘No, Mr Holman. I intend to move fast.’ He leaned towards Holman and said sternly, ‘But I must have the evidence to show it.’
‘You’ve got it!’
‘I have a few scribbled notes and reports on their way to me.’
‘Then make a verbal report!’
‘I intend to. But I have to have a clear case to get to the Home Secretary!’
The Fog Page 11