Wheeler’s smile faltered but only for a split second. “Orange juice then. Anything you like, okay?”
“And does it have to be a sandwich? Wife’s got me off bread at the moment. Says it bloats me right up.” He patted his round belly as illustration.
“The choice is yours,” Wheeler’s jaw was clamped tightly shut. “I’m sure Brough and Pattimore can apprise you of the full range of bar snacks available.” She switched on a smile and addressed the group. “Right. I’ll leave you to make ready. Want you in there just after opening time, okay? Good.”
“Henry, a word.” Wheeler marched out. Harry Henry sat there blinking until Brough told him the chief had implied he should follow her.
“Oh. Oh, right!” Harry bundled from the room, a mass of coats, papers and files, still managing to find a free finger to push his glasses up his nose.
“Somebody’s in trouble,” Stevens was pleased to observe.
“He is always late,” added Pattimore.
“Harry’s all right,” said Brough.
In Wheeler’s office, Harry Henry dropped his belongings like a Christmas tree shedding all its needles at once.
“Close the door,” Chief Inspector Wheeler pursed her thin lips. When she was satisfied of their privacy, her tone and expression softened. A little.
“Um, sorry I was late,” Harry Henry mumbled. “Again.”
Wheeler waved his apology away. “Never mind that - um - folderol,” she had troubled choosing a word. She steepled her fingers and looked at him intently across the top of her desk. “Now, what have you got to tell me?”
“Um,” Harry Henry riffled through a clutch of papers, many of which were scrunched-up burger wrappers. Wheeler waited with what she hoped was a patient look on her face, while her least-organised detective searched haphazardly and did a lot of humming.
“Ah! Here!” He pushed a piece of paper across the table. Wheeler snatched it up.
“A frog?”
Harry Henry’s nose wrinkled. His glasses slipped.
“Um, that’s a toad. This,” he handed her another photograph, “- is a toad.”
Wheeler glanced from one photo to the other and back again, from amphibian to amphibian. “What’s the difference?”
“Well, that one’s smooth-skinned and that one’s a bit bumpy, but that’s not the point. Chief.”
“It’s not? What is the point?”
“What they have in common. That’s the point.”
Wheeler’s eyes narrowed. “And the fish? Yesterday you brought me a picture of a funny-looking fish and now it’s Kermit and Mister Toad. Where’s all this leading, Harry? I hope you’m not chasing a wild goose up a gum tree.”
“Um, no gooses, um, geese, so far yet, Chief.”
“So how does all this add up?”
“I’m not sure. I have a hunch.”
“Well, sit up straight, man!”
“Chief?”
“I’m joking! Humour in the workplace is good for morale. I’m quoting from that course I went on.”
Harry was nonplussed.
“Is that it?”
“Um... Well, I’m still puzzling it out. It could still be a chain of unrelated thefts but then if they’re unrelated they wouldn’t really be a chain, would they?”
It was Wheeler’s turn to blink.
“No, I suppose not. I just don’t want you leading yourself down a blind alley. We need all the brains we’ve got working on our main investigation.”
“I know, but...”
“But you think there might be some connection.”
“Might be; yes.”
“Well, thank you, Harry.” Wheeler stacked the photographs and tapped them on the desk like a newsreader when the lights go down. “Keep me informed. And if you feel like you’m getting nowhere slowly, we’ll pursue another line of enquiry, okay?”
“Um, yes, Chief.”
They sat looking at each other for a while.
“You were supposed to leave,” said Wheeler.
“Ah, right.” Harry gathered his belongings and shuffled from the room, leaving Wheeler to look at the photographs again. She liked to encourage thinking outside of the box. The trouble with Harry Henry, bless him, was she wasn’t sure he even knew there was a box.
***
Meanwhile, in the briefing room, Brough got to his feet. “I’ll leave you to it,” he announced.
Pattimore looked stricken. “Aren’t you going to help me with Eliza Doolittle?”
Brough addressed his reply to Stevens. “I’ll leave you in the Detective Constable’s hands. I’m sure he’ll be gentle. With you.”
“Oi!” Stevens objected. “Where the fuck am you going?”
“To check on what’s up with Miller.” Brough left, glad to get out of there.
It was pointless trying Miller’s number and he didn’t have that Jerry’s. Brough supposed he’d have to go around to the flat they shared. Another bloody taxi!
“What’s up his arse?” Stevens nodded at the door. “No, don’t answer that.”
“Never you mind,” said Pattimore. “Now, come on; let’s get you licked into shape.”
***
“What on Earth are you two doing here?”
“We work here,” said Luigi. Edward managed a slow nod in support of this assertion.
“No!” Dickon was at the limit of his patience. “I mean, what are you doing here at this bastard time of the morning?”
“Delivery day,” said Luigi. “We’re rota’d on for this week. You said we were rota’d on, didn’t you, Edward?”
“Um...”
“Looks like somebody’s got it wrong,” said Dickon. “But I can handle it. You two go home.”
“But we’re here now,” said Luigi. “I’ve forked out bus fare.”
“I’ll reimburse your bastard bus fare. Just go home.”
“What about me?” said Edward.
“Don’t listen to him, boss; he walks it here.”
“Oh, have a packet of crisps or something; bloody hell. Now, go on, the pair of you; scoot!”
“If you’m sure?” said Luigi.
“Yes!” Dickon had trouble speaking; he was clenching his teeth so hard it felt like they were exchanging gums.
“Well, that’s hardly equitable, is it? Luigi complained. “My bus fare and his packet of crisps.”
“What’s equitable?” said Edward.
“It means the same; you know: fair,” said Luigi. Dickon muttered something unpleasant before telling them they ought to go and enjoy the morning off before he changed his mind. He held his ground, barring the cellar door like a bouncer. He waved away his two best bartenders with a fake smile fixed on his features.
Shit!
He’d forgotten about the delivery. The draymen would want access to the cellar. That was out of the question. More than that, it was out of the quiz!
His eyes darted to the clock. It was too late to cancel. They’d be on the road by now. He would have to think fast and act faster than an actor in fast-forward.
6.
“So, you’m telling me, I can wear what I’m wearing?”
“Pretty much,” said Pattimore. Even Stevens could tell the detective constable seemed a little distracted.
“Am you saying I dress like a poof?” Stevens adopted a pugilistic stance, albeit an ironic one.
“Um? No, no! All I’m saying is you don’t have to dress up. We ‘poofs’ come in all colours - some of us, all at once. There’s no uniform. Unless you want one. Then there’s a few to choose from.”
“What, like?” Stevens tried to contribute. “Fireman, builder, Red Indian...”
“Oh, dear,” said Pattimore, “I won’t insult your intelli
gence, you fucking moron, by asking you to spell YMCA. You’re fine as you are. Even that ’tache.”
Stevens shielded his facial caterpillar with a protective hand.
“I’m sure there’s still some old-school queers who go in for that kind of Freddie Mercury does Tom of Finland kind of vibe.”
“Oi, I’m not trying to get picked up by anybody.”
“I shouldn’t think you’ll have any trouble,” Pattimore laughed. Stevens couldn’t decide if this was a positive or negative remark.
“And the jacket?”
“Hmm?”
“Should it stay or should it go?”
“Oh! Does it clash, you mean? No. It’s...fine... Tan leather... It’s retro, I suppose.”
“Will you stop staring at that fucking door for one second? You’m like a dog waiting for his owner to bring his dinner.”
Pattimore pulled his gaze away. Staring at it wasn’t going to make Brough come through it.
“Funny that,” he looked D I Stevens up and down, “The dog’s dinner is already here.”
***
Things were pretty dead at the cemetery. Time of the year, Jerry knew. People may have been dropping like flies but they were also piling up like flies on a windowsill - the ground was too hard to bury them. Although why people still buried their dead, Jerry couldn’t say. It was selfish. An indulgence. Just burn the bastards and chuck them in the wind, was his privately held view. He took care not to voice it in company in case he argued himself out of his gravedigger’s job.
There would be a backlog until Spring. Back-to-back burials. Hearses tailgating each other. Mourners getting confused about who was going in which hole and crying their eyes out for a perfect stranger by mistake. Every year the same: chaos!
But, for the festive season at least, Jerry could spend some time pottering around and doing a bit of tidying up. Making the place presentable before the post-Christmas rush. Honestly, it was like the January sales sometimes.
He wheeled his barrow along the paths, picking up twigs, litter, and spunk-filled johnnies - abandoned in the last remains of the slush like the souls of so many melted snowmen.
Dirty buggers! Who fucks in a cemetery? Never mind who eats cheese and onion crisps and drinks white cider by the huge plastic bottleful!
Teenagers, Jerry reckoned. He probably did something similar at that age. He remembered fingering Marlene O’Toole on the school playing field one booze-fuelled night.
Ah, Marlene...
Where was she now?
“Oh! Fuck!”
Jerry was startled from his nostalgic reverie by the sudden appearance of Detective Inspector Brough, standing before him with his hands in his raincoat pockets.
Not flashing the warrant card, then.
“Hello, Jerry,” said Brough. “Quick word. It’s about Miller.”
“Who? Mel?”
“Yes. Mel.”
“What’s happened to her?”
“What?”
“Has something happened to her?”
“That’s what I’ve come to ask you.”
“What?”
“Has something happened to her?”
“Who? Mel?”
“Yes! For fuck’s sake!”
“Oh!” Something seemed to dawn on the gravedigger’s face. “Why she’s been off work, you mean?”
“Yes!”
“She’s ill. Proper poorly. Up and down all night she was, like a newlywed’s nightie.”
“Um, quite. And has she seen a doctor?”
“Well, she said she would.”
“And did she?”
“She said she would.”
“But did she? See one?”
“I don’t know, do I?”
“She didn’t say?”
“Bloody hell, if this is how you interrogate your victims...”
“I don’t have victims; I have suspects. Has she seen a doctor or not?”
“You’ll have to ask her, mate, not me.”
“I’ve been trying to. She’s not answering.”
“Well, she wouldn’t, would she? She’s sick. Or haven’t you been listening?”
Brough let out a cry of exasperation. “Why aren’t you looking after her?”
The question earned the detective a cold stare. “Not that it’s any of your business,” Jerry sniffed. He lifted the handles of his wheelbarrow. “But Mel’s resting. I made sure she was comfortable before I come to work. I’ve done my time, mate. Who was it was holding her hair while she’d got her head down the bog at all hours?”
“Who?”
“Me! So I think I’ve earned half a day in the fresh air. I’m taking this afternoon off so I can go back and see to her. Chicken soup and all that razzmatazz. You’ve no need to worry your pretty little head.”
Brough’s pretty little head flushed a pretty shade of red. “It - it - it was a work-related matter.”
“Was it now?”
The two men eyeballed each other in a tense silence.
“You’ll tell her I was asking about her?”
“Mel?”
“Yes.”
“If it’s work-related you can piss off. She needs her rest.”
“Then send her my regards.”
“If you think it’ll help.”
The detective and the gravedigger glared at each other. Jerry smirked and, whistling the theme from a popular television cop show, wheeled his barrow away. Detective Inspector Brough muttered a litany of swearwords in the gravedigger’s wake and then took his third taxi of the day back to Serious.
***
Dickon towelled his hair dry. He was pleased with his performance and soaking himself from head to toe had been the detail that had carried it off. Oh no, you can’t take the delivery to the cellar, Mr Draymen. It’s flooded, you see. Dangerous. Health and Safety. I fell over in it myself, you see.
He’d led them to the garages across the car park. Disused for many years, they were now filling up with things Dickon didn’t want in the cellar.
With the draymen safely diverted and the crates and barrels they’d brought with them securely stashed, Dickon supposed he had better open up for his lunchtime crew. Well, the odd solitary figure hunched over a newspaper - it was hardly a crew. The pub was a much quieter place by day. By night, it was as close to Party Central as Dedley gets.
He was surprised to find a tall man with a perfectly hideous moustache and an outfit that suggested he was a time traveller from the 1970s, or had come directly from an all-night fancy dress party. Dickon suspected the latter was more likely, although in this weird town, you’d be foolish to place a bet. Surely, no one would wear that get-up as their everyday clothes!
“All right, mate?” he greeted the customer. “Hair of the dog, is it?”
Detective Inspector Benny Stevens was aware that the slightly camp bar steward appeared to be staring at his prized moustache. “It’s all my own work,” he replied. He glanced over his shoulder in both directions - not, he told himself, because he didn’t want anyone he knew see him enter a gay pub but because he was hoping Harry Henry would heave into view.
Bloody Harry. Late as usual. Probably slacking off in a chicken shop somewhere, Stevens thought uncharitably.
He approached the counter and waited for the bar steward to get into position.
In the short distance from front door to the bar, something clicked in Dickon’s mind. He appraised the moustachioed throwback anew.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” he gaped with wondering eyes.
“Last time I checked,” Stevens felt the bar steward’s eyes all over him like a swarm of insects.
“Fabulous!” He patted the padded seat of a nearby barstool. “First off: what
are you drinking? On me, lover.”
Stevens baulked. Was this little bar steward speaking in some kind of gay code?
“I must say,” Dickon bustled about behind the bar. Stevens pointed at a beer pump labelled ‘Butch Bitter’. “You’m not quite what I was expecting but I’m sure underneath all that corduroy, you’ve got the legs for it.”
“Um...” Stevens thought about it, and thought about his thighs and calves. “Yes, there is quite a bit of legwork in this game. Although, I will admit a lot of the time, it’s just sitting in a car and watching.”
He’s rumbled me as a copper already, Stevens was dismayed! What vibes must I be giving off?
“Oh, really?” said Dickon. “I hadn’t thought. Now, usually, I like to try the new ones out, get you up there and get you to give me a few minutes, but, tempus fuck it, as they say. You’ll have to go on untested.”
“Um...”
“Not a problem, is it? Can’t afford to have you shy of performing in front of a baying mob. Bit of a specialist interest, I should say, with the -” He gestured at Stevens’s upper lip.
“Ah...”
“You can come round the back.”
“Can I?”
“To get yourself sorted. Outfit in the car, is it?”
“Outfit...”
“Fuck me, what’s your stage name? Dolly Fucking Daydream? Your cozzie, love.”
“Oh, yes.” Stevens was still unclear but it was dawning on him that he wasn’t being called upon to perform a sexual act but a cabaret one. His instincts told him to go with the flow and try not to blow his cover- or anything else for that matter.
“I have to...um, fetch it,” he pointed at the exit. “It’s at the dry cleaner’s.”
“Sweaty bitch, are you?”
“Well, it’s the bright lights and shit, you know...” Stevens edged towards the door, smiled wanly and tore out of the pub.
Fragile creatures, your performers, Dickon mused. Always uncomfortable off-stage.
He unrolled a gaudy poster and stuck it to the wall.
Limited engagement, it proclaimed. One night only! The diva of drag!
TASHA THE FLASHA!
***
Keith opened his eyes. It made no difference: everything was still pitch black. He blinked to see if that would help his eyes adjust but the movement of his eyelids only made him aware of how difficult it was to perform so simple a task. His entire body was a dull ache, a low-level throb somewhere in the dark. He tried to focus on his other senses in order to learn what he could about his surroundings.
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