Mystery City

by Alistair Lavers

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s just crumbled into dust!’

  ‘What?’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Morning After the Night Before

  Barnett had summoned the new brewery rep to assess his enthusiasm for fraud and mutual enrichment. But the man was as blind to his hints as a corpse to an alarm clock. He was starting to consider cold-blooded murder as the only possibility for relief; and was close to losing his self-control.

  ‘Budweiser, Mr Crosbie?’

  ‘Ahm no havin’ tha shite enn heer – focken nun’s pess.’

  ‘Oh… it is one of the best sellers– at Victoria’s and the Orange Tree. I can do it on sale or return?’

  The icy glare Barnett returned, by way of an answer, made it clear any further appeals would be very unwise.

  ‘Well, let me know if you change your mind,’ mumbled the nervous rep rather uncertainly. ‘Pils?’

  ‘Fefty percent orn top o’ ma reglaar order – the Becks the same. Don’t thenk yee cun change ma mind sonny…y’ken?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I…er… I… Would you like to take some Stella?’

  Aye, keg an’ bottled. Shame numburrs.’

  ‘Grolsch?’

  ‘Flash c***s drenk.’

  ‘No Grolsch,’ noted the rep, trying to keep a neutral tone, as he scribbled the last details in his order book.

  ‘Bloodless preck…’ muttered Barnett, striding off without a backwards glance.

  ‘Mr Crosbie… I need a signature…’

  ‘See Paula orn yer way oot. Ahm bezzy.’

  Boldwood had now begun to retain some flashbacks from his nights as a supernatural being; and was beginning to record the hours lost to him. The torn clothing that was always left behind after his absences made him anxious and unsettled. It worried him that it might be found by some other person who might use it against him, in some way he couldn’t yet comprehend.

  He knew that he was losing control of his mind and body at certain times of the month, two or three days before and during the period around the full moon. But he had no real appreciation of the extreme nature of his affliction. In his own mind, he was simply the unlucky victim of some kind of extended blackouts or fits; not a man who transformed into a gigantic, twenty-five stone immortal eating machine, with bad breath and toothache.

  After a period of contemplation and soul-searching on Tuesday afternoon, Lindsay had decided to remove himself temporarily from the hotel, on the next occasion when he felt the first symptoms of the change, the peculiar surge of energy, accompanied by a heightened sense of smell and hearing. He was already predisposed to migraines, and increasingly susceptible to episodes of constipation, in the days after his bloodthirsty forays and found it difficult to think and function in a busy environment like the Shirestones, whilst suffering the cumulative effects of his various conditions, though his blood pressure at least was no longer a problem.

  His main priority was to avoid putting himself in a position where someone else might witness one of his maniacal rages or catch him semi-naked in the afterglow of his unconscious fits. He wished to avoid being an object of ridicule, but what really preyed on his mind was the risk of being taken away from his beloved hotel and locked up in an institution – it was this he wanted to avoid at all costs.

  To this end, he had decided to use the lease he’d been offered on a static caravan, on a small site above Runswick Bay, as a bolthole during his next cluster of seizures. The owner of the land, one of his business partners, lived in a small bungalow at the extreme edge of an adjacent plot and rarely ventured out, having lost both his legs as a child due to complications arising from a polio infection. His sister, a nurse at Whitby Hospital was his only regular visitor. It was an ideal situation for Lindsay, which almost guaranteed his privacy. There were only two more caravans on hard standings, separated by trees nearby, and the field itself was surrounded by a thick hedge. It offered him a perfect place to hide out and was far enough away from Cloughton to protect his anonymity.

  Back in Whitborough’s old town, Barnett was treating a whisky-induced headache with great gulps of dark brown tea and hiding behind his Torremolinos gangster shades, on a stool by the downstairs bar of Mystery City, punching the keys of his desk calculator with an old commando dagger. James Stone emerged from behind the stage with a plastic coffee cup full of coins.

  ‘Collecten’ Jamesy?’

  ‘Aye Barn, sexteen quedd frum the floors… yersell?’

  ‘C**t frum the brewery… we have nae seen eye tae eye yet.’

  ‘Thenk yull tunn th’ wee squitt?’

  ‘Oh aye. Either that or the c**t’s gann swemmen off th’ bay enn concrete socks. Hoo’s warr Brandon’s heed, by the way? Dedd we really have a focken donkey enn the utility?’

  ‘Sheemsho… great pile o’ horseshite orn the flooer. Focken students probably. Brandon’s sound – a few wee stetches.’

  ‘Rag week prank eh? Funny theng tho’ thuzz a wee smeyll o’ gas enn the annexe Barn.’

  ‘Gas ya say? The inlet pipe’s enn there no?’

  ‘Aye. Looks okay tae mee. Ah cannae see a crack. No chance of a belddup, wi’all the grille vents anyways.’

  ‘Know hoo they check gas pipe seals enn the trawlers Jamesy? Dilute Fairy lequedd. Whart they dae, ezz wet the wee pipe yee want tae check see, eff the pipe seals blaze bubbles – yuv gort a leak?’ Ma nephews learnt me that…’

  ‘That’s focken clever… I’ll go check masell wee shome enn a mennett.’

  ‘Leave yerr smokes enside the now. Ah dinnae want another mess tae clean up, yer soft c**t. Hoo many bogs blocked?’

  ‘Two enn’ the men’s, three in the hens’. Don the Rod’s cummen tae vac ‘em oot.’

  At Beautimann Buerk and Trippe’s offices, Derek was starting to flag, and was having to hold himself together after lunch until their doors finally shut at 4.30. He was the only partner in the firm to vote against their yearly ‘open door day’, arguing it demeaned their profession and was ultimately counter-productive. But he had been outvoted and was forced to engage in a tradition which he disdained. Fortunately, it was agreed that each partner was allowed to drop a day every second year, though this privilege was not extended to their legal secretaries. Derek had just finished advising a young man, on his intention to recover costs for works carried out on behalf of the prospective buyer for his house, who had pulled out of the sale, just before the exchange of contracts, when he heard the voice of Isla Binnie in reception.

  ‘Hiya Maureen, ah want tae speak tae Derek.’

  ‘Oh! He’s with a client at the moment Isla,’ explained Maureen, stiffly.

  ‘That’s alreet, I’ll jusht park masell orn the wee bench here hen,’she said, going to the waiting area by the front window.

  ‘I’m not sure how long he’ll be Isla. We do close at 4.30 today.’

  ‘Aye hen. Ah know tha’. Ten mennetts ez all ah need.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Curry Night

  Inspector Marshall and Detective Sergeant Broadhead met at the front doors of the popular Eastern Spice Indian restaurant at the corner of Market Square and Pastry Lane for their weekly curry binge. Arriving from opposite directions, they nodded discreetly to each other then walked inside into the lounge and reception area, making their way to the front desk to exchange a few words with their host, Anil ‘Paddy’ Khurmi – nicknamed ‘Paddy’ after his love of Guinness and whisky– and to speak to his brothers, Prince, Aadi and Aarif.

  ‘Evening Anil. We’ll have a couple of pints of Kingfisher to start us off.’

  ‘Good evening Raymond, George, how are you – nice night?’

  ‘We’d be much less well if we had to miss your grub, Anil. Always a pleasure.’

  ‘Pleasure is ours also, always. We have new b
eer, very tasty. Is old in India, but new for us – Kalyani, nice flavour, but bottles only.’

  ‘Thanks Paddy, but we’ll stick with the usual for now.’

  ‘You like to try? No charge? With Kingfisher…’

  ‘What d’you say George. Shall we try some?’

  ‘Very kind. Aye. I’m game.’

  ‘I chill two bottles– send you cold?’

  ‘Well, it’s not every day we get an offer like that.’

  ‘Ahh good. All well. I bring menus…’

  ‘Give us twenty minutes will you Anil. Don’t keep anyone else waiting on our account. We’re just going to have a chat between ourselves.’

  ‘Ahh is work. I hope is not us you put in cell!’

  ‘I make a point never to upset the people who cook my food Anil. Can we have a pickle tray and six poppadoms– before the menus – I’m not sure about George, but I’m famished. I might even have enough space left for a dessert tonight.’

  ‘I’m a tad that way meself– I could eat the bloody arm on your sofa Anny,’ added George jokingly, eyeballing the enormous leather suite in front of the windows.

  ‘Ahh excellent, but no coffee ice-cream. Smaller freezer is leak. We have table for you as always by window, follow me please.’

  ‘New member of staff?’ asked Marshall, catching sight of one of the waiters dashing past.

  ‘Only part-time – start tonight.’

  ‘He looks vaguely familiar… What’s his name?’

  ‘Cubitt. He is cousin Ray.’

  ‘Cubitt– the palmist?’

  ‘He is not in kitchen. Front of house only,’ added Anil’s brother, hurriedly.’

  ‘He’s serving food?’

  ‘He needs work, we need help.’

  ‘He’s serving food? Not reading palms?’

  ‘No. No palms. Drinks and food. He had no work, since big ship stink. Boom! Boom! He say Anil, I no see catastrophe, cannot look customer in eye, people ask me. He say – I put away – spirit things. Art of fortune calling.’

  ‘Well…’

  Once the two policemen were alone, they began to relax and talk about the less attractive aspects of life in the police service and the many shortcomings of their colleagues.

  ‘Despite what some of those twerps at the station may think, I’m not enjoying my suspension, or whatever d’Ascoyne wants to call it George, but I am making the most of it,’ emphasised Inspector Marshall thoughtfully, though a playful smirk settled into the lines of his face.

  ‘Our d’Ascoyne is having second thoughts – about kicking you out on sick leave I think. He doesn’t like being on the spot, having his door rapped on every few minutes. I get the feeling he’s a little intimidated by this crew from MI5 and the Home Office. Are you going to see someone from the Union?’

  ‘Certainly not. I want some leverage when the time’s right, so I’m keeping a low profile. If I make a complaint I’ll never get back in where I want to be, that lot will just close ranks and everything will turn to shit. I want a nice, quiet, low-profile return. Slowly, slowly catchee monkey – isn’t that what Fu keeps saying?’

  ‘You’re not as daft as you look, are you guv?’

  ‘I hope the chief’s respecting my office is he? I don’t want to come back to someone else’s mess. I know my desk isn’t the best kept workspace in the building, but I do know where everything is and where I like it.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s still locked. Did you need anything from the f-cabs?’

  ‘There’s a book I’d quite like George, one of those that I borrowed from the reference library. It’s in the second drawer under my desk.’

  ‘I’ll try my best guv.’

  ‘It’s a big hardback, The History of the Luftwaffe 1933-45; it’s under my ashtray. If there’s no one looking, could you empty it in the bin in the corridor outside? I left a bit of me sandwich in it, and it’s probably past its best by now. I need the old Hooper files copying too – do you think you can manage it?’

  ‘In the grey f-cab?’

  ‘Aye, the taller one. The historical crimes section. It’ll be near the back, everything from 1940-65.’

  ‘That’s gonna keep the copier busy for a while. I’ll have to stand next to it while it’s spewing them out to keep the nosy parkers away.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll cope. Just give ‘em your best look.’

  ‘What if the Super pokes his head round the door?’

  ‘Tell the nosy sod you’re running off some copies of the Federation newsletter, that’ll make him scarper. After we’re finished scoffing here I need you to see something I’ve been working on at home, so we’ll order a taxi before we settle up. I’m sure you’ll find it interesting George.’

  ‘Deighton’s applied for CID – in the Met.’

  ‘Has he by jove?’

  ‘You don’t seem surprised.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Our little service is but a stepping stone,’ said Marshall, mockingly, taking up a stiff-backed, Quasimodo-like posture in jest.

  ‘Mmm, that’s nice,’ added Marshall, savouring a mouthful of beer. ‘D’you think he’ll hack it?’

  ‘Well, they’ve got as many bent ‘uns and lazy bastards as the West Yorkshire force. Who knows? If he finds a father figure like our Sergeant Dodds to hide behind he might be all right. If he’s unlucky, I’d say six months – tops,’ said Broadhead, taking a long draught of Kalyani.‘That is nice. Strong stuff… I think I’ll stick with the Kingfisher with the food though.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly. You need something clean and neutral with Indian or Thai food, I find. Helps to get to grips with the spices without overwhelming the taste buds. You couldn’t have a craft beer with this kind of food.’

  ‘Too right. Old Peculier, or– God forbid – Pebbletrees Old Bob, we’d be on the Alka-Seltzer all night.’

  ‘I wonder if that business at the Keys wasn’t down to too much drink, and our Mr Austin’s famous temperament,’ said Marshall, thinking aloud.

  ‘If you’d put that lot in any pub in town I doubt it would have been very different. Just think what could have happened if they’d gone into the Fleur de Lys, or the Drummer Boy; it would have been a massacre,’ added Broadhead, dropping the names of two popular Irish pubs, whose clientele were known for their strong Republican sympathies.

  ‘Well, that was the verdict anyway, wasn’t it? According to the esteemed editor of the Whitborough Gazette. The Milk Race Massacre– the tabloid copywriters are missing a kindred spirit aren’t they.’ Do you know anyone in those pubs – personally I mean?’

  ‘The Fleur de Lys and the Boy? You must be joking guv. Did you ask for a pickle tray?’

  ‘Yeah. But they’re making us some fresh dips. Perks of the job. No eastern Europeans?’

  ‘No. Never been in. Bad luck those cyclists turning up when they did. But it’s their fault as much as the Navy, they were going way too fast round that bend. They could have bloody killed somebody.’

  ‘Well they got their comeuppance. The tape is quite a hit, I’ve heard?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it, I asked Elland to make a few extra copies,’ continued Broadhead, ‘on top of the statutories for evidence – with Mr Candy’s permission, of course,’ he said, winking.‘I took one down to Des Brownlee at the Rugby Club. They’re playing it as a pre-match treat for the first team.’

  ‘A pre-match treat? God almighty! That’ll get their blood up.’

  ‘So George, what’ll you have? I’m going to go for lamb skewers and Afghani chicken again, lemon rice with an okra bhaji and chickpea paneer.’

  ‘Are we sharing a taxi to your house?’

  ‘Are you casting aspersions on my digestive system?’

  ‘For the record boss, your arse stinks, but so does mine – ooof,’
said Broadhead, gurning, shifting his cheek.

  ‘Can’t you do that somewhere else?’ hissed Marshall. ‘Wave your bloody napkin!’

  ‘I can’t do that, they’ll know what I’ve done…’

  ‘Oh – so it’s all right to do it in my company is it George – thank you very much.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t think you’d mind…’

  ‘Bloody charming…’

  After their meal, and another round of drinks, the two men decided to order their taxi for the short drive to Inspector Marshall’s house on Leather Lane. Marshall made them both a mug of tea, then led the way upstairs to the main bedroom in his 1940’s semi which now functioned as an office and study, since his wife’s illness had forced her to live with her sister, closer to the hospital.

  ‘Take a seat George, just move the files off whichever chair takes you fancy. D’you want a Castella?’

  ‘That’d be nice. Where’s this thing you wanted to show me?’

  ‘It’s in a leather cover. In that box file… in the middle of the desk. I’ll be back in a second,’ said Marshall, descending the stairs to retrieve his box of cigars. Broadhead lifted the lid on the box file, and began to read…

  Below, is the full text of a covering letter, sewn to the front of an aged nappa document jacket, protecting a sheaf of old papers. The letter was written in copperplate script, in loose hand, by Doctor Bartholomew Broadhead –a Whitborough man, in the early years of the last century. It was deposited, with the aforementioned documents late one evening at the reception counter within the foyer of Whitborough police station, at around midnight on the 31st of March 1983, by persons unknown. No letters of introduction, or accompanying notes, pertaining to its anonymous keeper(s) were found with the contents.

  The following record is the outcome of many days and nights of careful study, into papers wych came into my possession by chance, through the administration of an inheritance. The elderly document file we have recovered, in wych the papers were found, consists of many transcripts, declarations and statements, together with a comprehensive collection of dockets, receipts and invoices – all of wych are in a goodly state–butt furnish a riddle.