“I don’t know...” Cassidy came to a halt before he could lead her who knew where. Not because she was afraid of him. His smile was too nice and that jumper hardly posed a threat - unless he tried to force her to wear it. But she really wanted to get back to work. The wonder thesis wouldn’t write itself.
The guy in the sweater became aware she was no longer following. He stopped and went back to face her.
“Oh, come on,” he insisted, raising his eyebrows in an appealing way, “I don’t think we got off to the best start. Let me make it up to you. And you can see me for the charming fellow I really am.”
“Well, I-” Cassidy broke off; she was already getting an idea of how charming he could be.
“I’m Anfred,” he dipped his head in a bow. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“I’m Cassidy,” Cassidy found herself replying. “Cass will be fine.”
“Hello, Cass.”
“Hello, um...”
“Anfred,” he supplied. “Like Manfred without the M.”
“Anfred,” she repeated.
He gave her an encouraging look as if to say, By Jove, I think she’s got it. He offered her his arm, crooked for her to link.
She looked at it, the thick, cable stitching of the sleeve.
“Let’s not get carried away,” she said. But they walked off together.
A side street curved away from the pedestrianized market place, leading Cassidy and Anfred towards a cobbled area known as the Square. Not that there were many cobbles on display, because the entire space had been given over to a large marquee of dirty white canvas - an iceberg run aground. Around it, smaller kiosks and carts offered supplementary snacks like candy floss, hot dogs and jacket potatoes, but the main attraction was the marquee. Nearby pubs had put out chairs and tables in a rather continental move, hoping to catch the overspill from the beer tent. A banner flapped noisily above the entrance, proclaiming this to be the twenty-sixth annual beer festival and that all were welcome (all that is apart from those without the means of identifying themselves as over the age the eighteen.) Noisier than the banner was the oompah music being piped through a poor quality public address system.
The festival was never short of supporters and this year was no exception. People, most of them of the male designation, flocked drunkenly to and from the tent, like wonky bees around a hive.
“Oh my god,” Cassidy said, not quite under her breath. She had heard of the enthusiasm of the English for booze and binge drinking but, for fuck’s sake, it couldn’t be ten a.m. and half the town appeared to be inebriated.
Anfred caught her disapproving look and gave her a nudge as though to dislodge the expression from her face.
“What’s not to like?” he laughed.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She stepped aside as a grizzled man in a dirty track suit lurched in their direction before throwing up in the gutter.
“It’s beer!” Anfred enthused. “You know: beer! The nectar of the gods.”
He took a few steps towards the tent but Cassidy remained where she was, moving only to edge away from the freshly deposited vomit.
“This is just - this is ...” She searched for words.
“It’s what?” Anfred came back. He seemed bemused that anyone could find anything negative in the vista before him.
“This is just crass,” Cassidy finally managed to utter. “Over commercialised, ugly, gaudy,” the adjectives were coming thick and fast now. “And did I mention disgusting?”
Anfred managed not to flinch as she hurled each descriptor in his direction. “You are keeping an open mind,” he smirked. “This is good.”
Cassidy showed him the tip of her tongue for a split second. Then she sighed. “I was expecting something - I don’t know - quaint. Men with curly beards in heavy duty knitwear. Real ales with names like Smelly Finger and Naughty Cardinal. That would have been bad enough but this -.”
Anfred was clearly amused by everything she said. He tugged at the sleeve of her jacket. “Just one!” he urged. “One little beer!”
“Okay, okay!” She relented and let him lead her towards the entrance. “One little beer. But let go of my arm. I’m not kidding.”
He released her and held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Really. Come on.”
He went in. Cassidy looked at her wristwatch. Valuable thesis-writing time was slipping away. She gave a sigh of resignation and followed.
There was more revelry going on inside than out. The marquee was heaving with boozers and ale-heads. Anfred beckoned Cassidy to follow him by jerking his head. She had to hurry to keep up and almost lost him among the drinkers. She caught up with him at an empty table like a clearing in a forest.
“A-ha!” Anfred cried in triumph and unconscious invocation of Norway’s most famous pop group.
“This is a bit of luck,” Cassidy eased herself onto a stool, which wobbled on the uneven cobbles beneath. “But just the one beer. I have work to do this afternoon.”
“Yes, yes,” Anfred waved dismissively. “Wait there.” He disappeared into the throng as though stepping through a curtain.
Cassidy glanced around. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. Conversations were loud, competing with the recorded music. Cheers, jeers and laughter from all around. How very ‘jolly’ Cassidy reflected. Maybe these Brits were on to something after all.
She looked at her watch. Time was marching on, but then when did it not? She tapped the tabletop in time with the music. She looked at her watch again.
A few minutes later, Anfred returned, bearing a round tin tray laden with glasses of different beers.
“Hopla!” he announced, placing the tray on the table and sliding onto his stool in one fluid movement.
“What’s this?” Cassidy frowned, looking at the tray as if it might attack her. “I said just one.”
Anfred gave a European shrug. “I didn’t know what you would like but I am sure among all these we can find something you will enjoy.”
He selected a glass and handed it to her. The yeasty smell emanating from it made Cassidy recoil.
“It’s a little strong,” she coughed and she had yet to taste it.
“It’s called Thorhammer!” Anfred said dramatically, encouraging her to lift the glass to her lips.
“Ah, I see,” Cassidy was stalling, “To make you feel at home.”
“It’s brewed in Nottingham.”
“Ah.”
She took a sip and pulled a face as the beer reached her taste buds. A gnat with cystitis could have done better.
“Ugh,” was the verdict. Anfred took the glass from her and gave her another. The liquid within was lighter and less opaque.
“Perhaps this will be more to your liking.” He watched with apprehension as she sampled it.
“That’s better,” she conceded. “But not much.”
“It’s called The Cat’s Bladder.”
Cassidy quickly returned the glass to the tray. She asked what else he had got. He selected a third beer, lighter still and perfectly clear. After the first tentative sip, Cassidy took a proper swig.
“That’s more like it!” She took a respectable gulp. “What’s this called - No, don’t tell me! I don’t want to spoil it.”
“An excellent choice!” Anfred grinned. “I shall have the same.” He picked up a glass of the
same stuff and saluted her with it. “Skål!”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Cheers!”
“Down the hatch!”
They clinked glasses and Cassidy decided the thesis could wait a few minutes more.
***
D.I. Brough walked to work. He was on the afternoon/evening shift - perhaps they were trying to break him in gently. He scoffed at the
idea. He didn’t need mollycoddling. He had worked in tougher towns. He had handled some horrific cases. He could work around the clock and not so much as yawn and stretch. Or reach for the caffeine like so many of his colleagues.
He strode along the high street, as smoothly as his injured knee would allow, following much of the path taken by Cassidy Whitlow a couple of hours earlier. The place was past its best, he reflected, like many town centres. But with a wash and brush-up and a bit of investment, it could be restored.
A pair of beat bobbies was ambling towards him. They saw him and nudged each other before passing him with a nod of greeting. He watched them disappear around the corner from which some dreadful Germanic music was blaring. He hoped they were heading to the infamous beer festival to keep a watchful eye rather than turn a blind one.
He enjoyed the occasional beer himself. Especially with a curry. He planned to have a lot of both now he was stationed in the West Midlands. There was an upside after all.
As long as I can stick to the running with no further collisions with the natives... He stopped to pull his trouser leg away from the sticking plaster on his knee. He swore. That young woman had clearly been up to no good with a case of whiskey in her pushchair and he had let it go.
There would be no more slips of that nature.
He passed the marketplace, wondering briefly how many of the goods on offer were legit. Perhaps he would liaise with the Trading Standards mob to help him get the lie of the land. But that could wait. Today was all about meeting the team and getting settled in.
As he approached the station, D.I. Brough was of the opinion that this posting wouldn’t present any serious challenges. It could turn out to be as boring as bloody hell. He wondered for the umpteenth time what on Earth he had done to deserve this, but quashed the thought as quickly as it had come.
He knew.
He reached the front door with its carved Victorian coppers, the condom and the graffiti. First order of business would be to get the place smartened up.
And then the petty crime-solving and the serious thumb-twiddling could begin.
Bottles
The Station Reception Officer, a civilian, sat up straight when he saw the new Detective Inspector come in. He slid his celebrity gossip magazine under some more official looking papers and bobbed his shaved and balding head in greeting. Brough nodded in passing but then stopped and back-tracked a couple of paces.
“I say there, um -“
“Dobley, sir. Trevor, sir.”
“Dobley,” Brough repeated, pointedly. He preferred to keep things formal. Especially with underlings. Well, with everyone, come to think of it. “Can’t you do something about the - um- out there - the statues?”
Trevor Dobley exhaled expressively. “Would love to, sir. But they’m, wossname, aren’t they? Listed.”
“I rather meant the condition they’re in. The condom and - so forth.”
Dobley hummed as he scribbled notes on his pad. “Oh, the weather sorts them out sooner or later. Rain washes them off, more often than not.”
“I want it off there now, Dobley. I want that condom taken down.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man. Buzz me through.”
“Eh? What?”
Brough looked pointedly at the secure door with a keypad.
“Haven’t they give you the code, yet?”
“What do you think?”
Dobley clicked his tongue, rolled his eyes and pressed a button. The door buzzed and the red light on the keypad changed to green. Brough pulled the door open.
“Condom, Dobley,” he called out a reminder before the door closed behind him.
“Condom, sir,” Dobley echoed, although he couldn’t help wondering, as he reached for his magazine, whether the D.I. wouldn’t be better off with an unused one.
***
Brough went directly to his office. He hung up his overcoat and stashed his briefcase in the well of the desk. He sat in the chair and swivelled idly for a while. Then he pulled open the desk drawers, pulled a face at what he saw inside them and pushed them closed again.
The drawer was brimming with grass cuttings. The sharp, sweet smell hung in the air. Brough wailed inwardly. He had hoped he’d left all that behind.
He pushed himself away from the desk and crossed the room to peruse the pin board closer up. There were evidence photographs of a crime scene. A man had killed his wife with a hand whisk and had caused quite some damage. Then he had forced it down his own throat and out of the back of his neck. Brough grimaced. Not the most attractive pin-ups one might hope for. The investigation was being led over in Wolverhampton - it had happened on their ‘manor’ after all. Do coppers still say ‘manor’? Did they ever say it or had he picked it up from the telly?
Brough scanned the notes scrawled in wipe-offable marker pen.
People, eh? The things they do to each other.
No, it wasn’t like the telly at all.
A tap at the door heralded the arrival of D.S. Miller’s head, poking in. “All right, sir?”
“Um, yes, thank you. Did I say come in?”
“I’m not in, sir.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Do you need anything, sir? Got all your stationery and that?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Good. Only I’m opening the cupboard now if you’re short of post-its.”
“I’m fine, but there is something you can do, um...”
“Miller, sir. Melanie, sir.”
“Miller, yes. Rally the troops, would you? For a briefing.”
“Will do. A briefing, eh? Exciting!”
“Go on, then.”
“Sir.”
The pleasant but rather empty head withdrew. Brough got to his feet and walked to the window, which afforded a view of the car park.
Lovely.
***
A little while later, Brough went to the staff room, which he decided from here on in would now be called the Briefing Room, where he found D.S. Miller, two WPCs, and a man in a suit. Another detective? But no, as Miller explained when she introduced everyone, this was just Bob who hadn’t got into his hi-visibility tabard yet.
“Ah.” It was hardly the turn-out he was expecting, but Miller told him, what manpower they had was at the beer festival - Did he know it was the beer festival? He did? Good. They weren’t anticipating any trouble. There was always a few drunk and disorderlies, it stood to reason.
“Yes,” Brough was sorry he had asked. “Well, the festival seems to be the main order of the day. You people know better than I how this thing goes. Let’s just keep an eye, shall we? Let’s be visible but not intrusive.”
The assembled officers waggled their heads, but their general demeanour was noncommittal. One of the WPCs was texting. She showed what she had typed to her associate who giggled.
“I like a tight ship,” Brough declared. This was met with blank or confused looks. “I expect we all like a tight ship. Then we know where we are.”
Miller was moving her head slowly - or she may have been dozing off, it was hard to tell.
“I’ve already spoken to Dibley -“
“Dobley!”
“Dobley about the state of the main entrance. What kind of impression does that give, eh? People come to us for help and there’s a - pardon me, ladies - a prophylactic on the statuary and, what’s more, the most despicable graffito imaginable.”
One of the WPCs nudged the other. “What’s it say, sir?”
“What?”
“The graffiti?”
“Graffito. Singular.”
“The graffito,” the policewoman repeated carefully. “What’s it say?”
“It is profane in the extreme.”
“It say
s all that?”
“No, no, it’s - forgive me, a swearword.”
“Oh!” the WPCs gasped. One chuckled, “What like, fuck?”
“Or bugger?” laughed the other.
“Shitters!” suggested Bob, eager to help.
“Wank stain,” said the second WPC, thoughtfully.
“Arsewipes!”
Brough exploded. “Cunt! It says cunt, all right? Cunt, cunt, cunt!”
There was a moment of silence. Brough closed his eyes but that failed to transport him elsewhere. Anywhere would have done but no, he was still there, being gawped at by his new staff.
“Time I wasn’t here,” said Bob suddenly. This got everyone moving. The WPCs gathered their things and left. Bob was not far behind. Only Miller lingered.
“What?” Brough groaned. He couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye. He recoiled as a block of bright, acidic yellow paper squares hove into his line of vision.
“I got you the post-its anyway,” said Miller, softly.
“Thank you,” said Brough, wishing he could fall through the floor.
***
In the beer tent, quite a collection of empty glasses had accrued on the table between Cassidy and Anfred. He was smiling, content to listen to her monologue about the thesis. The atmosphere between them was convivial but he seemed unaffected by the beer he had poured down his throat.
“And so I thought,” the American girl continued, “there’s got to be more to it, you know? And that’s what I’m here to find out. A couple of weeks here, then spend some time at Oxford with my tutor... I mean, have you ever thought what makes a killer a killer?”
Anfred realised the pause and the pointed look were not the chance for her to take a breath. An answer was required. “Killing someone?” It seemed logical to him.
“Well, obviously,” Cassidy shook her head. “But I mean, what goes on in the brain? I don’t mean the thought processes, the decision, or the motive to do it. I mean the chemical changes. Are things changed after the deed is dood - I mean, done? Is there a synapse that works as a conscience? Is that synapse missing in pathological killers? Or do they skip over it, around it or whatever?”
Blood & Breakfast, West Midlands Noir Page 4