Local Poet

by Paul Trembling

  “Message?” asked June. “From the alarm company?”

  I located the phone, deep in the most inaccessible pocket, unzipped several layers, and finally managed to pull it out.

  “No. Just my ‘Daily Eloquence’.”

  “Daily what?”

  “It’s a website I subscribe to. They text me an ‘Eloquent Word for the Day’ every morning. Usually something obscure. The game is that I’ve then got to use it in conversation sometime that day, and post it online. There’s a sort of points system for the best use of the word, and you get a prize if you come out top over the month – a dictionary, usually!”

  “That sounds like…” June obviously didn’t want to say what she thought, but couldn’t quite bring herself to say something polite and meaningless.

  “Sounds weird, I know! Don’t worry. Graham tells me that every day. I tell him, ‘No, it sounds eldritch!’” I gave her a hopeful look, but June just raised an eyebrow. Someday, that’s going to get a laugh. “Never mind. I’m a word-nerd, that’s all.”

  “OK. So what’s today’s word?”

  I glanced at the screen again. “Lollygagging.”

  “Lolly-gagging? Choking on a lollipop?”

  “No. It’s an American word, I think. It means ‘to spend time aimlessly, to dawdle or be idle, to procrastinate or avoid work’.”

  “As in lying around, doing nothing? I can think of a few people I could apply that to. But not this morning, I hope… that sounds like Sara arriving.”

  “November Charlie three-six, State 6 at the library.”

  A few moments later, PC Newbold appeared. With firm instructions for me to stay there until told otherwise, the two officers pulled on disposable gloves and went inside.

  The silly conversation over words had relieved some of the tension, but standing round on my own brought it back. I always had suffered from an excess of imagination, and my mind, running in neutral, quickly began to offer increasingly bizarre scenarios for what they might find. When I reached “terrorist incident” I decided that enough was enough. I had to do something before I progressed to “alien wormholes”. And I’d been wondering about that open window. I knew it was the ladies’ loo, but which part did it actually open from?

  I crept forward, ready to turn and run if anyone not the fuzz came out of the main library. The ladies and gents had both been checked by the coppers on their way in – I’d seen them do that – so at least I knew that no one was hiding in there. Therefore it was safe to proceed that far, at least – or so I told myself.

  There were three doors along the corridor, all on the right: cleaner’s store nearest the exit, then the ladies, then the gents. The store was locked, as it should be. I progressed a few more steps, and eased open the door to the ladies.

  The lights flickered on automatically as I stepped in, showing the sinks directly in front of me, a row of cubicles running off to the left. The windows over the sinks were firmly closed, which didn’t surprise me. With taps, basins, and soap dispensers in the way, they were awkward to get at and probably hadn’t been opened since they were installed.

  I went to the first cubicle and – remembering just in time that this was a crime scene – pushed it open with my elbow. I had read enough detective novels in my time to know not to leave my fingerprints on the door handles.

  Sure enough, the window above the toilet was wide open.

  These windows would be easy to reach if you stood on the toilet seat. Anyone climbing in would probably have trod there as well. I peered at the plastic lid, trying to make out any footprints, but the positioning of the strip lights put it in shadow. I stepped forward for a closer look, and the door swung shut behind me with a bang that made my heart lurch.

  “Sandra?” I heard June call. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m OK, no problems!” I reached for the handle, stopped myself, and pulled at the top of the door, hoping that the intruder hadn’t followed the same thought process.

  The door was stuck. I remembered then that we’d had trouble with this particular door before. Last winter an old lady had been in here for twenty minutes before someone heard her banging. They’d supposedly fixed the problem – but not completely, it seemed. I heaved on it, and it came free suddenly. I nearly fell back onto the toilet seat but managed to hold myself upright on the door. After regaining my balance I scampered out, nearly running into June.

  “I told you to stay by the door!” she said sharply.

  “Yes, sorry. I was just, er, checking for any damage. I didn’t touch any handles, though.”

  She shook her head. “My CSI colleagues tell me that they rarely get anything useful from handles anyway. Too small, too well used. What did you touch?”

  So much for detective novels. “Just the top of the door.”

  I pointed, and she ran a professional eye over the relevant area. “I’ll mention that to CSI. You’d better come through and have a look in the main library. We haven’t found anyone, but there’s a bit of a mess, and some locked doors we’d like you to check.”

  I followed on, abashed.

  The lights in the main room weren’t on sensors, as they were in the newer areas. The coppers had been using their torches, but with a nod from June I switched everything on, and saw what June had called “a bit of a mess”.

  The main reception desk had been trashed. Every drawer was out, contents emptied over the floor, the files pulled out of the cupboards behind and tossed around, computer screens smashed and hanging from their leads.

  June gave me a moment to take it in, and gently restrained me from stepping too close. “There might be footwear marks on the paper,” she explained. “Was there anything of value kept here?”

  I shook my head. “No, not really. Just paperwork, records, forms – junk, a lot of it. Some of those files are decades old, precomputerization; we’ve never got round to archiving everything.”

  “Do you keep any cash on the premises?”

  “A bit. Payment for events and so on… Oh! I just remembered! The art club charge their members to display in the exhibition – just a small amount, but some paid in cash. Might have been a hundred pounds in notes or coins. And the library has a petty cash tin as well. But that’s all kept in a safe in my office.”

  “We’d better check that.”

  I led the way through the aisles to the Children’s Section – the only two-storey part of the building. A door labelled “Staff Only” led up to an office and a staff room. It was securely locked and apparently undamaged. Nevertheless, June inspected it carefully before I unlocked it, and she led the way upstairs.

  “All clear,” she called back down to Mike. No damage, no one lurking in the shadows, safe untouched.

  “Just one more area to check, then.”

  We went back down the stairs and across to the other side of the library.

  At one time there had been a little alcove here, which had been kept free of books to provide space for readings, workshops, and exhibitions. Now there was a rather grand set of sliding doors where the wall had been: pale wood, nicely grained and polished, surmounted by a neat brass plaque announcing it to be “The Laney Grey Memorial Wing”. Very fitting – our famous local poet had been a regular user of the alcove before her tragic death. She would have loved the new room, though she’d have poked fun at the idea of a memorial wing.

  “Just finished last month. This art exhibition is the first major event we’ve had here,” I said.

  “I know. I was at the opening,” June reminded me.

  “Oh yes, of course you were. Sorry, it was such a hectic day.”

  June nodded, and moved closer to the door. “Was this here before, Sandra?” She pointed to a small mark just above the handle.

  I looked at it and frowned. On closer inspection, the mark was a rounded indentation in the wood. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember seeing it before. Of course, it’s all still quite new…”

  “There’s another one. Two more, in
fact.” June indicated two places, one higher up than the first one, the other further down. “Could be tool marks. But they’re only on one side. If someone had pushed a screwdriver in and tried to lever the doors open, you’d expect to see marks on both sides.”

  I shook my head. “I suppose they might have been there before and I just haven’t noticed them. Might have been something done when they were made. A local company donated them free, so we weren’t going to be overly critical.”

  “I’ll have a closer look with the doors open.” June tugged on the handle with her gloved hand. “Still seems secure, so I doubt if anyone got in. Burglars don’t usually lock up behind themselves.”

  “Actually, they wouldn’t have to,” I said. “These doors are on an automatic system. They detect movement in and out. After thirty minutes, if nobody goes through, they automatically close and lock themselves. It’s a security feature, to stop them being left open by accident. Of course, you can lock them open permanently, but you need to put in a different code.”

  June raised an eyebrow. “Very sophisticated!”

  “Yes – a bit over the top for a library, but I think the manufacturers were getting the maximum publicity out of it. They made a big thing about all the features; we’ve been in trade magazines all over the world, apparently.”

  “Who knew the codes?”

  “All the library staff, of course. The manufacturers, I suppose. I can’t think of anyone else who would have had them.”

  PC Newbold spoke up. “Have you seen this, sarge?” He was pointing his torch into the corner, where the beam highlighted a small, pale object.

  “Cigarette end? Good spot, Mike. You don’t have anyone smoking in here, do you, Sandra?”

  I shook my head firmly. “Of course not!”

  “Good! Could be our burglar, then.” She crouched down for a closer look, and sniffed. “No sign of burning on the carpet, no smell of smoke. But it hasn’t been stubbed out, either. Burnt down to the filter. Curious.”

  “Might have been walked in on someone’s shoe…” Mike suggested.

  “Doesn’t look crushed.” June stood up again. “We’ll leave it for CSI to collect and send in for DNA. I’ll try and get them to come as soon as possible, Sandra, to minimize the disruption, but they don’t start until eight, so I’m afraid you’ll probably have to stay closed for the morning at least.”

  “That’ll be a disappointment for the art club, but I’m sure they’ll understand. We can rearrange things, I suppose.”

  “Thanks. That would be helpful. We’d better check the exhibition, just to be thorough. How do we get in?”

  I flipped open a discreet panel next to the doors, revealing a keypad. “This looks OK. Shall I go ahead and open it?”

  “Let me do it.” June stepped over. “I don’t think they can get fingerprints off this surface, but no harm in being careful.” She poised a gloved finger over the numbers. “What’s the code?”

  “Five-three-nine-one.”

  June punched in the numbers as I spoke them. The lock disengaged with a distinct click and the doors slid smoothly open, the lights coming on as they did so.

  PC Newbold swore, softly but distinctly.

  In order to maximize display space, the new wing had been designed without windows. Instead, the curving roof was all toughened glass, to give the greatest possible amount of natural light – with discreet lighting to give the same effect at night.

  The lighting had been another contribution from a local company, and it worked perfectly. Every display stand, every painting and collage and sculpture, was brilliantly illuminated, with no shadows to hide anyone’s work. Even the empty display directly in front of the door was bright and distinct.

  As was the man lying sprawled face down on the floor in a pool of red.