“Help,” said Miller weakly.
Fortunately, the driver was more of a gentleman.
Vacancy
“Look; I’ve told you,” Cassidy exhaled a sigh of frustration. “I was at the library doing research for my thesis.”
“Your murder thesis,” Brough added.
He and Miller had commandeered the dining room upon their arrival at the Ash Tree hours ago. Albert Box had been unavailable but he could wait. Brough was content to grill the American. Char-grill her if need be. There was something about her that didn’t ring true. Her presence at both murder scenes had to be more than coincidental. He would break her. She would spill the beans. Or, was that, her guts? Which was it? Guts or beans? Brough shook his head to focus his thoughts. It had been a long afternoon.
“And I was at the beer festival with a friend - well, kind of.”
Brough glanced at his notes. “This Icelandic bloke.”
“Norwegian!” Cassidy corrected this error for the dozenth time. Was this cop being obtuse on purpose?
“And where might we get hold of this supposed Norwegian?”
“I don’t know,” Cassidy shrugged sarcastically. “Have you tried his room?”
Miller leaned towards Brough but spoke loud enough for Cassidy to hear. “I’ve checked the register, sir, and questioned the landlady. There is no one of that name, description or nationality booked in at this establishment.”
“What?” This was news to Cassidy. Brough noted her reaction with interest.
“Where is he, Miz um...?”
“What?”
“If he exists...” Brough toyed with his ballpoint, leaving the insinuation hanging over the table.
“Of course he fucking exists!” Cassidy groaned. “You spoke to him last night. He dissed your overcoat.”
“Dissed?”
“Made a disparaging remark, sir.”
“Thank you, Miller. Yes, Miz um..., I am willing to allow that a gentleman fitting the description you have given us, made an unkind remark about my overcoat -“
“For fuck’s sake!” Cassidy hit the tabletop with her forehead.
“But where is he now?”
Cassidy looked up. Her mind was racing. Anfred had never said he was staying at the Ash Tree, had he? “You don’t have to be a guest here to use the bar!” It was an epiphany for her. “That’s right, isn’t it, Mrs Box?” She glanced around the room.
With a rather guilty look, Mrs Box emerged from behind the sideboard with a can of furniture polish and a duster.
“Hmm?” she asked, pleasantly, as if she hadn’t been eavesdropping all along. She approached the table with the keen expression of a genie, willing to grant any wish.
“You don’t have to live here to drink in the bar?” Cassidy repeated.
“That’s right, dear,” Mrs Box nodded, as though encouraging a baby to speak. She turned a hard look to the detectives. “We’ve even got a licence.”
“There you go,” said Cassidy. She sat back and crossed her arms. Brough made a show of consulting his notes again.
“And this friend of yours, Mr Anfredsen, is connected to the beer industry?”
“I don’t know,” Cassidy twitched one shoulder. “I guess. Sure. Some kind of marketing. Promotions and what-not.”
“And you are lovers?”
Cassidy tossed back her head. “Excuse me! Fuck no! We just met and besides, he’s a-”
“Norwegian,” Brough supplied.
“He’s gay,” Cassidy emphasised. “Well,” she added, “I think so.”
Brough nodded somewhat pityingly. “Turn you down, did he?”
“No! No, it’s not like that. I saw him. Going into one of the rooms with some guy.”
“A room?”
“Yes! This place is full of them.”
“Leave the sarcasm to the professionals, Miz um.... Do you remember which room?”
Cassidy sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe. Third floor. Second on the right.”
“Miller,” said Brough, without taking his eyes from his witness.
“On my way, sir.” Miller pushed her chair away and left the room. Mrs Box, still lingering, came a little closer.
“Excuse me, um, Colonel,” she began, bobbing in a small curtsey, “but is this going to take much longer? Only I’m having one of my functions in here tonight. Book club. It’s Judith Krantz this week so things could be rather heated.”
Brough pinned the simpering woman with a stare. “I am sorry if these grisly murders are inconveniencing you, Mrs Box. Your Bertie about?”
That got shot of her. Mrs Box scurried away like a squirrel on amphetamines.
Cassidy decided to ask some questions of her own.
“I thought Anfred was in the clear. He is in the clear, isn’t he? He was playing the fiddle when the first-”
“When the first body was discovered,” Brough put emphasis on the last word. “Victim could have been dead for some time before your mate did his violin concerto.”
Cassidy shook her head. “He was with me the whole time. He-”
“Was he?” Brough interrupted.
“Well,” Cassidy conceded, “apart from when he went to get drinks -“
“I see.” Brough sat back. He waited for her to say more. He didn’t have to wait long. Either the girl was keen to put her boyfriend in the clear or they were in it together.
“He was only ever gone for a few minutes.”
“So he left you on more than one occasion.” He leaned forwards.
“Yes, but-”
“I see.” He sat back again. He was pleased with how well this technique was working.
Miller returned, a little out of breath from all the stairs.
“Sir-” she gasped.
“Miller?”
He had to wait while she gulped in mouthfuls of air.
“The room, sir,” she managed to sputter.
“Yes?”
“It’s a broom cupboard, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
Miller nodded emphatically.
“What?” Cassidy stood up. Brough pointed until she sat down again.
“Positive, sir.” Miller was her natural colour again. “And the rooms either side are occupied by women, sir.”
“Thank you, Miller, Most enlightening. Now, um, Miz,” he turned to Cassidy. “Isn’t it about time you started telling me the truth?”
“What?” Cassidy gaped. “She’s got the wrong room is all.”
It was Miller’s turn to gape, genuinely affronted by the allegation. “I have not! I can count to three, you know.”
Cassidy blinked. “What?”
“Third floor, you said.” Miller pointed to the ceiling. “One,” she extended her arm fully to count the floors beyond, “two, three.”
“No, no!” Cassidy got to her feet again. “It’s like this.” She pointed at the carpet. “One,” then at the ceiling, “two, three!”
Miller looked at the American as if she had gone insane.
“I think you’ll find, Miller,” Brough smiled, patiently, “that you have fallen foul of the Americans’ bizarre system of numbering the storeys of a building. They do away with the ground floor altogether.”
Miller frowned at this. “Then how do they...” She stopped herself from asking a silly question. “Oh, I see, sir.”
“Off you go again, then, Miller,” Brough swept his arm towards the door. “But before you go: you are certain, Miz, it was the second door on the right? You don’t have some peculiar notion of calling left right and right left?”
“No. I mean, yes. Second on the right.”
Miller was hovering at the door. “Perhaps she should just come with, sir? Just to point o
ut the door.”
Brough threw up his hands in a “what-the-hell” gesture. “Let’s all go, shall we? I could do with the exercise.”
He got to his feet and invited Miz um... to do the same.
“Un-be-fuckin-” Cassidy stood. What a fucking waste of time.
***
Led by Miller, Brough and Cassidy trudged up the staircase and along the corridor. Brough counted the floors in a heavily sarcastic tone and then the doors before them so there could be no error.
“Here we are!” he announced, brightly. “This is the one, isn’t it, Miz um...?”
“Yes,” said Cassidy, flatly. She began to wonder about the penalties for bashing a copper in this town.
“And what did you see exactly?”
“Like I said,” Cassidy could barely contain her impatience, “I noticed Anfred follow some guy in there.”
“Had you seen this ‘guy’ before?”
“Or since?” Miller piped up, with a raised finger like a child trying to attract Teacher’s attention.
Brough shot Miller a look of commendation. “Indeed, Miller. Or since?”
“No, I-”
But Brough didn’t seem interested in her answer. He nodded to that lady detective who, Cassidy decided, was what is known in England as a silly cow.
Brough stepped back. Miller approached the door and rapped it soundly.
They waited.
“Shall I knock again, sir?”
“Let’s not go mad,” Brough shook his head. “Fetch Mrs Box. She’ll have a master key.”
“Right you are, sir.” Miller gave him a sharp nod and headed back downstairs, leaving Brough and Cassidy facing the door in uncomfortable silence.
“Nice afternoon,” Brough commented after a while. “Breezy but not too much.”
“Oh my god,” Cassidy stared at him. The Brits and their obsession with the goddamn weather.
***
D.S. Miller found Mrs Box in the kitchen. The landlady was engaged in a somewhat one-sided conversation with someone Miller presumed was the infamous Mr Box. Miller hung back in the doorway, earwigging.
“What I’m saying is,” was what Mrs Box was saying, in a harsh and urgent whisper, “you need to go. Sling your hook. It’s for your own good. Oh, Bertie, don’t look at me like that. I’m telling you this because I love you. Make yourself scarce until all this blows over. Take yourself out of the whatsit. Picture. This place is filthy with, well, the Filth.”
Miller chose this as the moment to announce her arrival with a loud hello. This sort of thing was probably why she was still only a sergeant.
“Quick!” Mrs Box barked. She dashed to intercept the Filth at the doorway. She turned on her broadest smile of welcome and the posh voice she usually reserved for the telephone. “How might I assist you, Officer?”
Miller tried to look beyond the diminutive landlady and catch a glimpse of Bertie Box but Mrs Box swayed from side to side, blocking her view as best as she could manage.
“Um - your master key, if you please,” Miller continued to look past the little woman. Where would a big bastard like Bertie Box hide himself? “Boss wants to get into a room upstairs.”
“Oh?” Mrs Box frowned. “Then he should make a booking.”
The back door slammed. Edna Box smirked to herself. Bertie had succeeded in crawling across the floor and out of the kitchen and the Filth was none the wiser.
“What was that?” It was Miller’s turn to frown.
Mrs Box performed her best impression of an angel from a Christmas card. “Mice,” she said then thought better of it. “Er - I don’t mean mice; I keep a clean kitchen. You could eat your dinner off of my plates. It was the wind. We get terrible wind.”
“Police business, Mrs Box. If we could have the key.” She even held out her hand.
“Residents won’t like it,” Mrs Box muttered, “Coppers poking noses in their private places.” She bustled out of the kitchen and towards the stairs. Miller followed.
“I’m sure they’d take a dim view of being murdered and all.”
***
The conversation had dried up between Cassidy and Brough before it had even got started. They both stirred at the arrival of the landlady with the key as if the lift they’d been sharing had just opened onto their floor.
“This one, chick?” Mrs Box pointed toward the door with her head. Brough bristled at the moniker but nodded in confirmation. “I’ll do the honours, shall I?” Mrs Box held up the key like a conjuror about to make it disappear. “This one can stick a bit. You have to fiddle.”
“Fiddle away,” Brough smiled thinly but his patience was thinner. Mrs Box inserted the key, grabbed the handle and then, after a considerable amount of jiggling and grunting, she pushed the door open.
Brough and Miller peered in. The room looked unoccupied and very tidy. All was in readiness for the next guest. They both tried to step inside at the same time, squeezing against each other in the doorway until Miller gave way and let her boss go in first.
Mrs Box ushered Cassidy in but she herself remained in the corridor, with the key at the ready to lock up again.
Brough called over his shoulder. “Mrs Box? The most recent occupant of this room was - do you know?”
Mrs Box thought about it. “Some young fella,” she shook her head. “Don’t recall his name. I could check in the book.”
“I’d be obliged.” Brough awarded her a smile.
“I do know he checked out last night. I can tell you that much.”
“Oh?” Brough rejoined her in the corridor. “Is that unusual?”
Mrs Box made a scandalised face as if she couldn’t fathom the contrariness of some people. “Well, folks usually like to have their breakfast first. As in ‘bed and breakfast’.”
“And did this young man appear unusual to you in his manner?”
“I didn’t see him, love,” Mrs Box sounded apologetic. “My Bertie was on the desk.”
“Ah,” Brough raised his eyebrows. “Interesting.”
Mrs Box was already shuffling towards the stairs. “I’ll go and check that name for you, shall I?”
“Thank you,” Brough called after her. Funny how the mention of her husband could get her moving! Brough returned his attention to the American who was standing in the middle of the carpet as though she’d grown bored waiting for a bus. “Now, Miz um..., is this the room into which you saw the Norwegian follow the young man?”
“I guess,” Cassidy almost yawned. “I didn’t get much chance to study the decor.”
Miller had been nosing around all this time, mindful not to touch anything. “Sir,” she called to Brough.
“Miller?”
“Look at this.” She indicated the space underneath the bed. Brough stooped and then got onto his hands and shins. Using his pen, he fished out an empty beer bottle and read the name of the brand.
“Ragnarök...” he mispronounced. He looked to Miller. “What does this tell us?”
“Cleaning’s not up to standard, sir.”
Brough closed his eyes. He turned to the American. Perhaps she’d be more helpful. “Miz um...?”
The American’s eyes grew wide when she saw the label. “That’s his beer!” she gasped. “Norwegian beer!”
Brough shook his head. “Lot of beer in town this weekend. From all over the world. No; this gives us nothing.”
Cassidy was surprised. “Can’t you do all forensics and shit?”
“This isn’t a crime scene.”
“But -“
“I know they do things differently on satellite television, Miz um...” Brough began to walk around her in a move designed to both unnerve and patronise.
“But-” Cassidy repeated, unable to form her objection.
“If all else fails,” Brough mused, slipping his pen back into his pocket, “it can go for recycling.”
“But -“ Cassidy’s forehead creased in confusion. The cops’ actions seemed to contradict their words. Suddenly, Brough’s face filled her vision.
“Just don’t check out or leave town or anything without telling us, Miz um....”
He strode from the room in one of his dramatic exits. Miller scurried after him, leaving Cassidy alone, gaping on the carpet.
What the actual -?
It struck her for the first time that they considered her a suspect. My god! They think I took this guy out because I was jealous he’d hooked up with Anfred! They do! That’s what they think!
She was mortified. She didn’t want to go through all that again...
“Coo-ee!” Mrs Box called from the doorway. She waggled her master key as though summoning a pet. “Finished in here, have you, dear? Stay any longer and I’ll have to charge you for the night.”
***
Miller followed Brough out to the car, holding the evidence bag with the bottle ahead of her like a soiled nappy.
“Progress, sir?” she asked brightly.
Brough looked at her in a way that suggested he could smell that soiled nappy.
“I want this place watched,” he turned away. “That Yank could prove useful and it won’t hurt to keep an eye on our friend Bertie.” He was waiting for the uniform to get out of the driving seat and open the rear door for him. The clot was paying no attention. Oh, Brough could have got a civil driver - there were enough of them on the books - but he preferred to have an extra body with the power of arrest, especially if Bertie Box was involved. He tapped the driver’s window with the back of his hand. The constable started and dropped his crisps. He fumbled for the button that unlocked the back doors. Brough got in.
“Didn’t you want to question him, sir? Mr Box?” Miller climbed inelegantly into the back of the car beside him, her movements impeded by holding the evidence bag at arm’s length.
Blood & Breakfast, West Midlands Noir Page 9