Mystery City

by Alistair Lavers

  ‘I like your train of thought… shall we see what transpires?’

  ‘I couldn’t wish for better…’grinned Marshall, tossing a coin in the air and catching it on the back of his hand.

  ‘Oh just one other thing… I found a few strands of hair, the odd thing is, it’s long and coloured. I’m going to test it for powder residue.’

  ‘So it could have been a woman!’

  ‘Well if it was, she doesn’t have a very good hairdresser; the strands I found were blonde at the roots, fading into orange and red at the tips. She must be something to see.’

  ‘Well there can’t be too many birds with hair like that in Whitborough, thank you very much Eric.’

  Hector Oliveras Morales, the owner of the Four Horsemen Mexican Cantina at Carr Wold Parkway, made the most ferociously hot chilli sauce in the county. In truth, it was probably the most dangerous substance that was legally available to the taste buds of the population of northern England. His restaurant’s own Four Horsemen branded sauce was good enough to repel ants and cockroaches from his kitchen as effectively as a watering can of caustic soda. Their mule kick dip, Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) bottled sauce and Ghost Chilli Salsa were potentially even more deadly to anyone with an above average sensitivity to spicy food.

  Fortunately, these popular but ‘challenging’ condiments were always served with their own antidote – Hector’s own recipe full fat banana milkshake, blended with cucumber and peppermint, mixed with single cream and runny honey, though his insurers had also insisted on the purchase of a portable defibrillator in order to minimise the risk that one of his famous dips might actually cause one of his future customers to expire. Yet, the Four Horsemen was still one of the favoured rest stops with Whitborough’s traffic patrolmen, paramedics and ambulance drivers and the rival AA and RAC recovery teams, who used the Parkway as their unofficial base of operations.

  The restaurant was colourful and cheerful inside, in the way of good traditional Hispanic cantinas– clean, and reasonably cheap. But it was the quality of the food that made them so popular, some of the best available anywhere on the A64. Together with his wife Maria and his sons Jesus, Cesar and Pablo and daughter Lela, Hector kept the businesses and visitors of the Parkway healthy and regular.

  Before the arrival of the press, they were anticipating another average kind of day, or at least the closest one comes to an average day, after being the front seat witnesses to a terrorist attack. Although the walls of the cantina were studded with Spencer and Winchester rifles, naval Colts, Derringers and Colt 45s, the possibility of a real gunfight occurring on the concourse outside had seemed as remote as the country which they had left. Since the attack on the police, Hector had become impossibly proud of their role in the drama and was even considering a change of name for the restaurant that better reflected its new notoriety and frontier town status.

  Maria his wife, unimpressed with the bullet hole scars and the crowds outside, was looking for an excuse to start an argument, bored with the Sunday food ingredients audit she was compelled to perform.

  ‘Heyyyctor honey – you need send Cesar, to go to wholesaler before afternoon close. For milk and bananas – and cream. We have TWO! ONLY TWO CREAM CARTON LEYFT! All the big men they dreeenk last night.’

  ‘Where is Cesar Maria?’

  ‘Oh!… I send him lavatory… I cannot send Lela in after Rugby Club men use. Is no nice… they peece on floor like donkeys.’

  ‘I will send Jesus to help when he is free.’

  ‘Last night, they steal two menu – no, threee menu and warning sleeeps last night. And all warning sleeeps in others.’

  ‘Maria, did you put new sleeps in?’

  ‘No more sleeeps in office, Heyctor. I say to Tina – yester-day, you breeng more. Now… she say she sick, she no come to work. I no put sleeeps in you know anyway Hector – for waitress to do. Anyway… she no here.

  ‘Then you collect tomorrow Maria, I tell you when we close last night I put new sleeps out, I ask you to tell Tina and Lela. You no remember!’

  ‘I go to hairdresser in mooooorning Heyyctorrrr.’

  ‘No…YOU go to PRINTSHOP FIRST!’

  ‘Okay, is okay, I make time…’

  ‘Thee last sleeps, thee ones I leave out this morning, you tell Lela put them in the menus?’

  ‘Where you put?’

  ‘Ugh… that doesn’t feel good,’grumbled Sergeant Moyne, adjusting his deportment in the mirror of the old bus station toilet. The sudden grumble in his intestines was the first warning of an approaching eruption for which there was no antidote or escape. Then a great wind of methane thundered down the track of his colon and burst forth from his sphincter, trumpeting its arrival with a forceful note in the key of G.

  ‘Where is that bloody man?’ muttered Superintendent d’Ascoyne, over the heads of his constables.

  ‘Inspector Marshall is just coming down the bank behind you sir, from the pampas.’

  ‘Not Marshall– Sergeant Moyne!’

  ‘Sorry sir. He went to the toilet block to straighten his tie.’

  ‘Well has he come out?’

  ‘I don’t know sir.’

  ‘Well find out – now! I want the press quiet and docile before I read the statement.’

  ‘Sir! I think I might have to use the loo myself actually. If you’ll excuse me sir.’

  ‘Hurry up Steadman.’

  ‘Lela? How many police you serve?’

  ‘All of theym… I theenk, Mama. They have wraps and tacos.’

  ‘They have salsa?’

  ‘Some of theym I theenk. I have to top up salad and salsa trays after they go away to pick-up truck.’

  ‘You see new sleeeps Heyctor leave?’

  ‘They were in the menus last night Mama.’

  ‘No, you no understand – rugby club player steal them. We leave for you new ones to put in menus… you no put in menus?’

  ‘No one tell meee.’

  Marshall and Broadhead now rejoined the rest of their colleagues, having completed their sweep of the crime scene and the surrounding area. Their arrival did not put Superintendent d’Ascoyne in the best of moods.

  ‘We seem to be missing a few people sir,’ said Marshall bumptiously, striding silkily into the orbit of his superior with his dry companion in crime DS Broadhead, showing off their large polystyrene cups of tea.‘Have they gone AWOL?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ replied the superintendent stiffly, uncomfortable with Marshall hovering at his elbow, cracking terrible jokes in his charity shop clothes, so close to the eyes of the press.

  ‘AWOL sir. Absent without leave sir… Missing without consent…’

  ‘Most of them seem to have been overcome by a sudden urge to inspect the toilet block,’ sighed d’Ascoyne, ignoring the provocation.‘They go in, but they don’t come back out.’

  ‘Is there something I should know sir?’

  ‘I don’t know – you tell me. I’m not privy to gossip, I’ve much more important things on my mind Marshall. Don’t you have something else you can put on for the cameras?’ scowled d’Ascoyne disapprovingly as he risked a glance at Marshall’s trousers. It’s not becoming of an inspector to look like he can’t afford a decent set of clothes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have found out half the things I have sir, if the people I met didn’t think I was beneath them. Psychology is a very useful tool in police work sir. My wardrobe enables me to move through the world unnoticed – at one with the population,’ said Marshall, enjoying himself.

  ‘I know very well what psychology means, Inspector, but it might help us all if you’d carry another coat and hat, something smart for the media – when it’s required. Is that really too much to ask? I think not.’

  ‘Golf sir?’

  ‘What?’

>   ‘Was that the other thing you had on your mind sir? Or should I say the Chief Constable’s golf course discussion group. Career death that is sir…’

  ‘Whilst we may have meetings there, what is actually on our minds is the protection, wellbeing and advancement of the service, Inspector. Where this is discussed between myself and my superiors is immaterial. Moreover, it’s out of my control. What do you mean by career death for goodness’ sake, you do talk rubbish sometimes Marshall…’

  ‘Career death – only seen at Christmas parties sir, as they say in the Federation.Where would you choose to meet the Chief Constable sir, if it was up to you? There’s plenty of nice little caffs with cracking sea views dotted about,’ added Marshall mischievously.

  ‘Why on earth are they still in that damn toilet block?’ grumbled d’Ascoyne, studiously avoiding the little digs from his rebellious inspector, in an attempt to soothe the nervous tension behind the smooth, authoritative profile he was trying to project for his imminent appointment with the press.

  ‘Elland, go and fetch our strays from the toilet block, there’s a good chap,’snapped Marshall.

  ‘Yes sir, Mr Marshall.’

  ‘Inspector Marshall, son,’ replied Marshall, speaking as a teacher chastising a rebellious child. Don’t fret lad, I’m not mortally offended, but you need to get these little details right. You might upset Mr d’Ascoyne.’

  ‘Sorry sir. Superintendent d’Ascoyne sir.’

  ‘Superintendent d’Ascoyne,’ repeated Marshall slowly and sarcastically, fixing Elland with a loaded stare.‘Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere else, Constable?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Go and get yer mates out of the bloody toilet block,’ yelled Marshall roughly, ‘hurry up!’ Elland turned around muttering, then started to run towards the cantina, until he was pulled up by the voice of his nemesis.

  ‘Just a minute Elland,’ called Marshall, toying with his awkward underling like a child trying to break an elastic band. Elland obediently returned to his tormentor, the inspector, who had a lollipop stick stuck in the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Before you rush off in search of burping bums and the Andrex puppy Elland, has anyone been to the cantina before Mr Walker and forensics got here?’

  PC Elland hesitated, then decided to confess, before the foundations of goodwill he had built up with his superiors over his short career disappeared in a cloud of methane.

  ‘We were a bit peckish sir, so we ordered some wraps and tacos to take out.’

  ‘What, all of you?’

  ‘Everyone except Sergeant Moyne sir.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He said he didn’t want anything sir, though he ate my salsa – it were a bit too spicy for me.’

  ‘He had a milkshake as well, did he Constable, like the rest of you?’ asked Marshall, speaking as a man who had tried almost everything on the menu, except the pan-fried rattlesnake steak and the crispy tarantula legs.

  ‘Milkshake sir?’

  ‘Would you mind telling me what’s going on – if you’d be so kind,’ asked the superintendent.

  ‘When you eat anything at Hector’s, son,’ snapped Marshall, speaking directly at the constable and ignoring his superior, ‘you have to sign the bit of paper in the menu, the “get out of jail free card” that absolves Hector and his little family from any harm you may do to yourself, consuming their bloody condiments. If you’ve all done that, you’ll know you need to order a milkshake with most of it. Don’t tell me you lot have had the tacos, without ordering the bloody shake?’

  ‘We just had the food as it was sir. Well some of it, anyway. Most of us never finished it. Is it too late to get one now?’ he asked, beginning to worry.

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t realise it was too bloody hot to eat as it was – you numpty!’

  ‘We all had a cold drink sir, but it didn’t seem to make a difference.’

  ‘What did you swallow on top of the food– it wasn’t fizzy was it..? Tell me it wasn’t fizzy Elland…’

  ‘Coke sir, the sergeant had two cans of Lilt. I had some Irn-Bru.’

  ‘God almighty…’

  Superintendent d’Ascoyne opened his mouth to speak, taking the air like a goldfish, then thought better of it and closed it again, fuming quietly to himself.

  ‘Go and count the walking wounded in the toilets first. If you feel like you’ve got something brewing then stay near one of the closets. Off you go – don’t worry, I won’t call you back again,’ said Marshall, reading the weary look of defeat on the face of the constable.

  ‘Yes sir…’

  ‘George?’ said Marshall, turning to his number two.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Call the hospital and get them to send us a couple of ambulances. Tell them we’re at the Four Horsemen, and we’ve got twelve cases of ghost chilli poisoning. Sorry sir,’ said Marshall, belatedly meeting the eyes of his superior, ‘you’ll have to announce yourself this time unless you want to shove young Elland and his fart flute here on the stage as your opening act.’

  ‘I trust you can handle things here?’ replied d’Ascoyne, who was only too glad to have something else to take him away from the unfolding eruptions.

  ‘A pleasure… as always sir. Say hello to the Chief for me, and apologise for the mix-up at the awards dinner last Christmas. I hope he’s seen the funny side.’

  Meanwhile, inside the Four Horsemen, Hector, Maria and Lela were holding forth over the cutlery and napkins station. Maria was still doing her best to rev up the atmosphere by fermenting a family argument.

  ‘They eat tacos– and salsa– weethout milkshayke! You stoopeed girl, eez dangerous for theym!’ They must sign a sleeep before they eat– so no comeback for us!’

  ‘I’m not stupid Mama– nobody tell me we run out.’

  ‘She’s right Maria. Take a break outside Lela,– is all right,’said Hector, trying to calm his girl.

  Meanwhile, in the toilet block, Sergeant Moyne, who had moved from the sinks into one of the two farthest toilet cubicles didn’t know where to put his hands, though he certainly didn’t want to move his feet, whilst his colon and anal trombone rushed to explore the full scope of their sound effects potential with the assistance of Hector’s ghost chilli salsa and a litre of Lilt. Inside the limited privacy of the toilet cubicle, his ordeal was producing a cacophony of gurgles, rumbles and gaseous squeals that would have been hard to replicate anywhere outside the sound effects department at Broadcasting House. Inside his closet, lava bubbled, cabbage leaves foamed and trumpets, tubas and cornets traded blasts over deflating balloons, Christmas cracker whistles and porridge firing mortars.

  In the opposite closet, Constable Steadman’s sphincter was enduring an even greater baptism of fire and was close to collapsing completely; chapped and raw as it was, after passing a blast of steam and shit that could have stripped the paint from an armoured car. His legs and ankles had turned to jelly and he was now just one more fart away from going into shock and vomiting over his shoes. Two more victims, junior support staff from Northallerton press office were similarly afflicted, biting back their fingernails as their sphincters burst over their white enamel thrones, like Yellowstone Park mud geysers.

  ‘Is there anyone else in here– that can get us some frigging toilet paper, please?’shouted Steadman angrily, noticing there was nothing in his closet to wipe clean his cheeks except the damp cardboard liner of the last toilet roll.

  ‘Is that you Steadman?’ groaned Moyne from the other side of the block.

  ‘I’m gonna kill that bitch if I ever get out of here,’snarled the young PC, wishing he could put his fingers around the throat of Lela Morales before his intestines collapsed through his anus.

  ‘There’s five good dry rolls behind me on the cistern cupboard, I’ll pass you one over,’ shouted
Moyne.

  ‘It’s not that friggin’ Izal stuff is it Sarge?’

  ‘No… it’s powder blue, but in the circumstances, I don’t really give a shit,’ he groaned.

  ‘Pink, orange or powder blue – I couldn’t care less, just throw it over.’

  ‘Here it comes lad…’ shouted Moyne, throwing the roll over the top of his door. It soared gracefully over the gangway between the opposing closets and fell to earth inside PCSteadman’s open air gas chamber. The policeman grabbed it with grateful reverence and started to uncoil a few feet of tissue paper to wipe away the evidence of his shame.

  ‘Thanks Sarge, I owe you one– can you throw me another one over? I think I’m gonna need a few more sheets,’cried the constable, dabbing his watery eyes with his knuckles.

  ‘Hi! Hello?’shouted an awkward, nervous young man in the closet beside Steadman. ‘I’m out of paper in here too. Can you push me some over?’

  ‘Can you lot hurry up in there!’called another voice, in the vicinity of the hand basins.

  ‘Piss off, you cheeky bastard, can’t you tell we’re on the friggin throne!’shouted Moyne.

  ‘Is that you Fergus?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’asked the sergeant aggressively.

  ‘It’s Callum from the workshop. Are you gonna be much longer, we got some major gripes going on in the arse department Fergus.’

  ‘Sorry Callum!’groaned Moyne apologetically, belatedly recognising the vocal signature of his favourite mechanic.‘We’re gonna be stuck in here for a while – can you get in the Little Chef?’

  Colin Crawford – a staff journalist at the York Evening Press – observed the strained expressions and body language of the police with growing interest; from his third-class seat behind the barrier of the press and television crew enclosure. Reading the discord and friction within the ranks with a reporter’s eye, his instincts told him that there was something very interesting unfolding, just out of earshot, that might become just as newsworthy as the story to which he had been sent to cover. So adopting an expression of tired impatience, he relinquished his place in the throng, backing out of the crowd of newspaper reporters and television people as slowly and patiently as he dared, rolling his eyes and smirking economically– feigning a dead leg limp, in front of his rivals to camouflage his escape. As the press of bodies thinned out towards the back of the scrum, he tucked his camera into his satchel and hid his press pass in his mac pocket. Then he made a slow circle round the side of the concourse, towards the toilets, looking for an access point to the toilet block through the fluttering bands of yellow tape.