Local Poet

by Paul Trembling

  “Escaping already?” she asked.

  “Apparently I’m taking up bed space.”

  “Looks like I got here just in time then.”

  “You’re good at that.”

  She smiled. “So can I come in?”

  “Might as well, since you’ve already violated my privacy.”

  “Oh. Sorry about that. The nurse said you should be finished by now.”

  “I’m taking things slow. Have a seat.” I indicated the visitor’s chair, while I remained sitting on the bed, buttoning my shirt. She wasn’t in uniform. “So this isn’t an official visit, then?” I asked as she sat down.

  “Semi-official. I’m allowed to come and say thanks for saving my life when you kicked Canoso off balance.”

  “I think we’re even on that score. Your timing was perfect. Though a few minutes earlier would have saved me a bit of stress!”

  “Sorry about that. It was several miles of heavy traffic from the station, and I didn’t have authorization for ‘blues and twos’. If I’d known there were guns involved…”

  “They hadn’t started shooting when I called you. I didn’t even know they had guns, though I suppose I should have guessed. I wouldn’t have got you shot at if I’d known…”

  “He missed. So forget it.”

  “But how close did he come?”

  “The first bullet went through the near-side windscreen and punched a hole in the passenger seat headrest.”

  “Good thing you didn’t have a passenger!”

  “Nobody at the station will travel with me now. I think they’re joking…” She grinned and shook her head. “The second one hit about a foot further left, near the centre of the windscreen, and it went straight through the car and out of the back.” She reached up to touch a small red line on her cheek, just below her left eye. “It flung some glass around as well. But that was as close as he got.”

  “Bad shooting, or just good luck, do you think?”

  “Well, there is a theory going round the station that Canoso, being Spanish, instinctively aimed at the wrong side of the car. Thank God for right-hand drive, eh? Actually, I think he was just trying to scare me off, at least with the first shot. He would have seen me clearly enough through the windscreen.”

  A thought came to me: a memory of sunshine glinting on a gun barrel, and I felt a cold chill. “He couldn’t see you,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “He couldn’t see you,” I repeated. “The sun had just come out. It was shining on his gun. And it would have been on your windscreen, June. He wouldn’t have been able to see through the glare. He was firing blind and trying to kill you.”

  “Oh.” She looked thoughtful. “Thanks for clarifying that. But perhaps best not to mention it. The whole thing’s complicated enough as it is. You wouldn’t believe the paperwork generated by a little bump in a police car!”

  “Are you in any trouble over that? I mean – it was a fatal RTC, wasn’t it?”

  “Well, yes. But I didn’t see him fall in front of the car – my vision was obscured by the bullet holes in the windscreen, of course.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me.” I reached out my hand. “Thanks, June.”

  “Thank you, Rob. And you’re welcome.”

  We shook hands, very formally, but neither of us let go.

  “June – I was wondering…” I paused. I’d practised this numerous times over the past few days but still couldn’t find the words. “When I’m feeling up to it, could we perhaps get together sometime?”

  “You mean, for a date?”

  I felt a surge of hope, so strong that it was painful. Especially round my ribs. “Or even a non-date?”

  The hope crashed and died as she shook her head and let go of my hand. “Rob, we’ve talked about this, remember? Unprofessional conduct. I can’t date you, end of.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “Of course, if we happened to see each other by coincidence, that would be different.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What sort of coincidence?”

  “Well, for example, I’m going to see my nephew in a school play in a couple of weeks. If you were there as well, and we happened to bump into each other – well, these things happen.” She met my gaze and matched my raised eyebrow. “Of course, it might not be your sort of thing.”

  “Perhaps not. But then again, I’ve been taking an interest in poetry lately. Perhaps I should look at drama as well. What’s the play?”

  “It’s a musical, actually. It’s called ‘Where’s Sally?’. I hear it’s quite good.”

  “Sounds like just my sort of thing.”

  “Alderman Baird School, Thursday evening performance. Don’t be late.”

  I nodded, grinning. “I’ll be there. And what about just now? Are you busy?”

  She gave me a stern look. “Don’t push it.”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that. It’s just that I’ve been discharged… and I could use a lift home, if that’s allowed?”

  “Hmm. I suppose I can get away with it. Under the circumstances. Is this your bag? You probably shouldn’t be carrying anything heavy until those ribs are healed.”

  “Thank you, officer. Much appreciated.”

  We left the room together.

  Last night I thought I saw Laney again, stepping out in front of me, looking so calm and peaceful. But this time, she spoke.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “It’s all right, Laney,” I told her. “It’s all right.”

  CHAPTER 1

  A phone call at four in the morning is rarely a good thing. Especially when it’s from the police.

  I fumbled through the clutter on my bedside table, found my mobile, and jabbed my finger at the screen, more or less at random, until the noise stopped.

  “What?” I muttered.

  “Hello? Is that Sandra? Sandra Deeson?”

  “Um.”

  “Sandra, this is June Henshaw. Sergeant Henshaw. From Central Police Station?”

  “Um. Yes. June.” I knew her slightly.

  “Sorry to bother you at this time, but we’ve got your name and number as keyholder for the library on Bromwell Street?”

  My brain fog started to clear. “Yes. Yes, that’s right. Has something happened?”

  “We’re not sure, but an officer has discovered an insecurity at the library. We need to gain access to find out what’s happened. Would you be able to come down and meet us there?”

  “Yes. Of course. I’ll be…” I paused, trying to focus my thoughts. It could take an hour to get to work in rush hour traffic, but at this time the roads would be quiet. “Half an hour.”

  “That’s great. Thank you, Sandra. I’ll meet you there.”

  Graham had rolled over in bed and was peering in my direction. “Who was that?” he muttered.

  “June Henshaw.”

  “Rob’s girlfriend?”

  “Yes, but she had her police hat on. Helmet on. Whatever. Something’s up at the library. I need to go and open up for them.”

  “Want me to come with you?” He was already half out of bed.

  “No, love; no need for that. I just need to drive down there and open the doors. And you’re supposed to be avoiding stress, remember?”

  “Nothing stressful about a phone call from the police at this time of the morning.”

  “My call, my stress. Really, love, you don’t need to bother yourself. Go back to sleep. I’ll be back for breakfast.”

  He gave me a long, if still bleary, look. “OK. If you’re sure. Call me if you need an emergency flask of coffee rushing to the scene, or anything like that.”

  I nodded. “It’ll be fine.”

  I fumbled for some clothes, made my way downstairs. The dog raised his head and wagged a hopeful tail.

  “You go back to sleep as well, Brodie.”

  Nevertheless, he got out of his basket and followed me to the shoe cupboard, to make sure I wasn’t sneaking out in walking boots. I slipped on my train
ers, and he wandered grumpily back.

  Clear skies, cold night. I wished I’d had time to make a coffee, but I’d just have to manage without. I pulled a woolly hat over my head, making a mental note not to take it off under any circumstances, as my hair was a mess, then found my keys and went out.

  Even without the coffee, the sharpness of the night air began to wake me up, and the empty roads gave me opportunity to think. And the first coherent thought that came to me was: “Why didn’t the alarm go off?” If there had been an intruder in the library, I should have been woken up by the company that monitored the alarm, not the police.

  I’d locked up myself last night. Hadn’t I? I was sure I was the last one to leave. I’d been helping the art club set up for their exhibition. It was supposed to open this morning… they’d been fussing over their displays, arguing over who got the best positions. Closing time was six, but it had been nearly eight before I managed to usher the last of them out.

  The ring road was a fifty-mile-an-hour limit, but I felt no guilt at doing sixty. Maybe sixty-five. But I was responding to a police emergency, wasn’t I? And in any case, there was no one else on it. One set of headlights passed on the other side of the dual carriageway, some huge artic lumbering through the night, but I had the rest of the road to myself.

  I was sure I’d set the alarm. It made a horrendous high-pitched warbling sound when you did, to let you know you had ten seconds to get out of the building. Since the panel was right next to the exit, that wasn’t a problem, but it still made me panic slightly. And it was impossible to forget to do it.

  Or was it? If I hadn’t set the alarm and there had been a break in…

  Worrying about that, I nearly failed to stop at the red lights as I came off the ring road. Not a residential area, fortunately, or the screech of rubber on road might have woken someone. Why were the lights red at that time? There was nothing else moving.

  Having enjoyed their little joke with me, the lights reluctantly allowed me to go on my way. Down through the industrial estate and out onto Lock Road.

  No, I must have set the alarm. So that meant nobody had actually got in, then. Perhaps just some drunk causing damage to the door or a window. Years ago, when we were more lax about security, someone had left a fire escape door open. We’d come in next morning and found an inebriated gentleman sleeping it off in the reference section. He was very apologetic when he woke up and realized where he was. Didn’t remember how he’d got there.

  That must be it, I thought. No actual burglary. Panic over.

  All the same, it still made my stomach churn when I finally turned onto Bromwell Street and saw two police cars pulled up in front of the library.

  As I parked behind them, a police officer got out and walked towards me. I wouldn’t have recognized June if I hadn’t been expecting her: in fleece and stab vest she looked stocky, and the blonde hair that normally framed her face was pulled back into a ponytail.

  “No blue lights?” I asked.

  “On the off chance that someone was still inside, we didn’t want to alert them. Of course, they’re probably long gone, if anyone was there at all. Still, we need to be sure, so thanks for coming out, Sandra.”

  “Well, I didn’t want you kicking the door in!” I meant it as a joke, but tiredness made it come out sharper than I intended. I forced a smile. “Not that you would, of course.”

  “We try to avoid it wherever possible.” June showed no sign of offence, but of course she was used to dealing with much worse than grumpy middle-aged librarians. “In this case, we’re not even sure that there has been any illegal entry, so we weren’t about to cause any unnecessary damage.”

  The word “damage” drew my eyes to the library itself, wondering just what harm might have been done.

  About a hundred and fifty years ago, a local businessman had been inspired to build a great edifice of learning and enlightenment. And self-importance (it was to be named the Arthur Diogenes Bromwell Institute of Culture). However, his lofty vision came into conflict with his natural inclination to save a bob or two wherever he could. The result was a single-storey red-brick building, high windows facing the street, blank walls along the back, and a massively oversized front entrance, all columns, brass plaques, and Latin inscriptions. The double doors were ten feet high, oak and stained glass. In short it was a fine example of Victorian Monstrosity. Various mismatched additions accumulated over the years as needs dictated and funds enabled, improving functionality but doing nothing for appearance.

  It was hard to see details in the dim street lighting, but everything looked as solid, secure, and ugly as normal. I raised an eyebrow in June’s direction.

  “It’s round the back,” she explained, and led the way. “We got a call from a member of the public about an hour ago, telling us something was happening here. PC Newbold (she indicated the young copper who had joined her) came to have a look round, and he found an open window.”

  We came to the narrow alley between the library on one side and a block of flats on the other. June shone a torch down it. “Mike, you stay and watch the front, just in case someone tries to do a runner. Are you OK with this, Sandra?”

  “Of course. I doubt if anyone’s actually got in, or the alarm would have been activated.”

  “You’re probably right, and if anyone was here I expect they made off when Mike showed up. But there might be somebody lurking around at the back, so stay behind me and if anything kicks off, don’t get involved, OK?”

  We walked down the alley, the only illumination coming from June’s torch. I told myself to stop feeling so nervous. I’d come this way every working day for twenty years, after all. Just not at night with the police.

  The red Victorian brickwork gave way to the grey blocks of the Children’s Section, a 1950s addition. “Was it someone from the flats who reported it?” I asked.

  “We don’t know. Anonymous call from the TK down the road. Telephone kiosk, that is. Long gone by the time we got here. But I’m not sure how much of the library you can see from the flats; there are no windows directly overlooking it.”

  We came to the end of the Children’s Section, followed the path round the back, and came out on a scrappy bit of lawn. Ahead of us was the toilet block, built in the late eighties to replace the original facilities.

  “Just there.” June shone her torch, indicating a transom window sticking out rebelliously when it should have been flush with the wall.

  “Ladies’ loo. Is that big enough for someone to get in?”

  June shrugged. “You don’t get many fat burglars. You’d be surprised at the holes they can wiggle through. Could it have been left open by accident?”

  I thought back. “I locked up, but it was quite late, and I didn’t check everywhere. One of my staff had done that earlier, but I suppose it’s possible that someone came in and opened a window afterwards. The art club were here all evening – though I don’t know why they’d open a window.”

  “The windows aren’t alarmed?”

  “Not here. There are sensors in all the rooms, though, and the corridor.”

  She looked more closely at the window. “No sign of any forced entry. Screwdrivers or crowbars leave marks, especially in UPVC like this. OK, let’s go inside. Which door do we use?”

  “Round here.” I led the way to the bottom end of the toilet block. “The main entrance is bolted from the inside; the back door is easier.”

  I fumbled with my keys. The door had both a Yale and a solid mortise lock. I opened them both, and paused with my fingers on the handle.

  “The alarm panel’s on the wall just next to the door. The delay is quite short, so I’ll go straight in and turn it off. Then you can go ahead and look round – OK?”

  June nodded. I pushed the handle down and the door in. Strip lights automatically began flickering into life as I stepped through, turned sharp right, and put my hand out to the keypad.

  It wasn’t there.

  For a moment I stood and wav
ed my hands in empty space, glancing round in bemusement. Was I in the wrong place? Was this even the right door? Then I registered the holes in the wall where the screws had been, plaster dust leaking out and a bent Rawlplug showing. I glanced down, and saw the shattered plastic box with broken wires trailing from it.

  “June…” I began, but she was already through the door behind me. “Wait outside please, Sandra.” She keyed her radio. “November Delta one-five to HQ. Confirmed break at Bromwell Library.”

  “Ten-four. Do you need back-up?”

  “No sign of anyone still here at present, but if November Charlie three-six has finished booking her prisoner in, you can send her over.”

  “Three-six. Got that, sarge. On my way.”

  “Thanks. November Charlie four-two, receiving?”

  “Four-two. Do you want me to join you, sarge?” Mike’s voice.

  “Not yet. Cover the front till Sara arrives, then come round the back. I’m going to stay here till then.”

  “Roger that.”

  June stepped back out through the door. “Do you want to go and wait at the car?”

  I thought of finding my way back through the alley, which would be pitch black without June’s torch. Of course, I could ask her to escort me, but then if there was anyone still in the building, that would have given them an opportunity to escape.

  I shook my head. “No, I’m fine. I expect you’ll want me to see if anything’s missing when you go in?”

  “Once we’ve checked it’s clear. This shouldn’t take long. Sara – PC Middleton – is only about ten minutes away.”

  It was a very long ten minutes. We waited in silence, June carefully scanning all the other visible windows and listening intently. But the silence was unbroken except by the buzz from one of the fluorescent tubes and the occasional message coming over June’s radio. I had to restrain myself from jumping every time I heard it crackle.

  It was a good thing Graham hadn’t come, I decided. This was definitely tense, and I could imagine how he’d fret if he was sitting in the car waiting for me. Not doctor’s orders at all.

  My phone pinged, another pluck on my overstretched nerves. I fumbled for it, my chain of thought leading me to expect Graham, checking up on me.