“For the good of the town, sir.”
There was a pause while Brough and Woodcock waited. Nothing further was forthcoming so Brough prompted. “You think butchering a librarian is for the good of the town? One less pay packet out of the council tax, do you mean?”
“No, sir!” Dobley was sobbing by this point. His upper body heaved and shook. “I know what’s going on, sir. I thought I’d show them. Thought I’d show them this town needs - this town needs -“
“What does this town need, Trevor?”
Fat fingers wiped away tears. The face, as red and wet as if it had been slapped with fresh fish, brightened into a little smile.
“You, sir.”
***
As well as popping out to the shops when the whim seized him, Dobley had also got into the habit, under the aegis of Detective Inspector Sharples of delivering the post directly to the addressee. If he couldn’t put it in D.I. Sharples’s hands directly, Dobley would place any and all incoming mail squarely on the D.I.’s desk so that the detective wouldn’t need a magnifying glass or bloodhound in order to locate it.
An envelope had come in, high quality and official-looking. Dobley had recognised the stamp of the Chief Constable at once. The envelope was marked URGENT and CONFIDENTIAL . And it was addressed to Detective Inspector Harry Sharples. Who, of course, had retired and was off on a deep sea fishing trip somewhere in the Pacific. And therefore, out of reach.
Dobley had dithered. Should he forward it to the D.I.’s home? Should he hand it to the new D.I., the go-getting Mr Brough who seemed to want the best, in the same way that Dobley wanted the best?
Dobley had taken the decision to prise the heavy envelope open - carefully so that the thing could be resealed if necessary - and take a peek at the contents in order to help him decide what to do about the letter.
Harry Sharples had never really got to grips with email. Faxing had passed him by and text messages were as alien to him as jungle drums. The letter began, “Further to our telephone conversation...”
Dobley had blenched when he read the letter. He had had to reread it several times in order for the awful truth to sink in.
Dedley Police Station was to fall victim to the cuts in funding.
Dedley Police Station was to close.
Dobley had become unhinged at that point. He had spent his entire working life behind that desk - when he wasn’t nipping out for mints or sausage rolls, that is. But it was more than his own selfish concerns that tipped him over the edge.
“You gave me a wake-up call, sir,” he explained to Brough. “I’d become whatsit - complacent. Taking the station for granted. I’d let things slide. But you made me take pride in the old place again. And then - to hear - to hear they were closing it down. Moving everything to a more centralised location - that’s what it said in the letter. But Division’s miles away, sir! They don’t know the town like the local coppers do. Do you think local people will be happy waiting for someone from Division to come and chase the handbag snatchers and the shoplifters? Do you think local people will be safe without a police station just up the road, sir?”
Dobley had wanted to show that a station, a charging station, was still necessary in the town centre. “All the big shops’ve gone, sir,” he continued. “The heart’s going from the town. Take the station away and it’ll become a lawless wasteland, sir. People will think nobody cares about them. It’ll be horrible, sir.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to go so far with Miss Grayson, sir. As I said, I got carried away. I don’t know what came over me. And when I’d finished, sir, there was the smell of beer everywhere. I couldn’t get it out of my nose. I don’t know where it come from. Perhaps she had some on her when I knocked her over, but it was everywhere, sir. Oh, I don’t know what happened. It got out of hand. I was only going to keep her tied up, scare her a bit, so that when word got out, everybody would shit themselves. There’d be an outcry, sir. People would want the police around the place, sir. Then the bigwigs would see the station is vital, sir. Vital to the town.”
Stevens was pacing the room by this point, noisily chewing a piece of gum. “Do you believe this shit?” From his tone, his opinion of Dobley’s account was apparent.
“It makes sense to him,” said Brough. “A twisted sort of logic, a distorted view of public service, but -“
“You’re as barmy as he is.” Stevens spat out his gum. It missed the waste bin. Brough shuddered, thinking of the carpet. Some people don’t deserve nice things. Stevens caught the look. “Don’t screw your nose up at me!” he roared. He jabbed his finger in Brough’s astonished face. “You’re the scum here. Not that silly bastard in there. At least he’s an honest criminal.”
“And you’re an honest copper?”
Stevens’s nostrils flared as if Brough had farted out a rotting dog. He lowered his voice. “You bet I am, pretty boy.”
“Come on then,” it was Brough’s turn to raise his voice. “Let’s have it now. What would you do, eh? What the fuck would you do? You find out about a bent copper - a whole fucking nest of bent coppers - what would you do about it?”
“There’s ways...” Stevens began unconvincingly.
“Yes,” said Brough. “The quiet word. The ‘I’m on to you so knock it off or cut me in’ approach. That’s how it spreads, you know.”
“You don’t go running to Internal and cry about it. Those guys are scum.”
“I was appointed by those guys,” Brough said, his teeth barely managing to contain the anger rising within him. “I was undercover all along. I would have preferred to have found nothing was going on. That the rumours of people trafficking were unfounded. The saying is true, there’s honour among thieves, but I found very little in the way of honour among bent coppers.”
“Aww,” Stevens pouted sarcastically. “Good job your daddy was able to fish you out and protect you then, wasn’t it?”
“My father,” Brough gave the word special emphasis, “advised me against it from the start. He warned me how difficult things would be, during the operation and afterwards. To think,” he laughed bitterly, “he sent me here for a quiet life.”
“Nobody likes a snitch,” Stevens observed. “People think you’re snooping around them, and don’t give me that ‘if you’ve got nothing to hide’ speech. That’s bollocks. A snitch puts people on edge -“
“Which is why I was undercover -“
“You’re out in the open now.”
“My snitching days are over.”
There was silence.
“Tell you what,” Stevens pointed at the frozen image of Trevor Dobley. “You can have him. I’m washing my hands of it. You’ll get no interference from Serious. You do what you fucking want.” He went out and came back in again as though he had been rewound. “Think yourself lucky you only got grass clippings. Woodcock was all for sending you a pigeon glued to a stool.”
He strode from the room, leaving the door wide open so that D.S. Miller, just arrived, could find her way in.
“Sir?” Miller had to repeat a couple of times to pull Brough’s attention from the telly. He turned to face her and she considered he wasn’t half-bad looking when he wasn’t scowling or complaining. Nice eyes. Like chocolates.
“I hope you’re going to follow that up with ‘Here’s some industrial strength coffee’,” he gave her a thin flicker of his lips that disappeared as quickly as it had come, “or you can do one.”
“Um...” Miller was confused. Did he mean she could do a coffee or was he using that slangy talk Southerners use on the telly?
“Well?” he snapped, giving her an impatient prompt. What was she dithering there for, the stupid woman?
“Um, did you want coffee?” Miller pointed back at the door as though to suggest she would fetch him one.
“Like the flowers need the rain,” B
rough sighed. “What is it, Miller?”
Ah, Miller was relieved to find they were back on track. She took a step towards him. “We’ve heard from the Yanks, sir. About our American visitor.”
Brough’s eyebrows ascended quickly. “Oh, have we now!”
Miller held out a sheet of paper, still faintly warm from SCD’s fancy fax machine. “Makes for interesting reading, sir.” Then she added, “And no mistake,” to show they watched the same television programmes.
“Does it now!” he accepted the page and skim read it. “Always thought there was more to our Miz um... than meets the eye.”
He met the eye of Cassidy Whitlow’s photograph. She looked pale and serious in black and white.
“Come on, Miller,” he sprang to his feet. “We’ll pop into the station - our station - and then pay Miz um Whitlow a visit.”
Great, thought Miller. More overtime. And perhaps, over time, he might look at me too.
***
“Um, did you want something or are you going to stand there all night?” Cassidy had stood gazing up at Bertie box for several minutes and her neck was beginning to hurt.
Mr Box shifted his weight. It was like a monolith settling into sand. He raised a hand that looked to Cassidy like he was wearing a baseball glove under his skin. She flinched but then realised he was pointing beyond her shoulder. She turned to see. And saw the curtains flapping at the open window. Anfred was gone.
She turned back to Mr Box and gave him a nervous, toothy smile. “See? No unauthorised visitors here. No, sir.” She found herself saluting the huge man goodnight and her cheeks heating up with blushing. She moved to close the door but Mr Box had other ideas. He stepped into the room - although how he managed to get through the doorway without causing structural damage, Cassidy didn’t see; she was too busy backing away until the backs of her legs struck the edge of the bed. She sat involuntarily and clumsily on her holdall. She pulled it out from under her and hugged it in front of her as though it would shield her if this giant took it upon himself to tear her to pieces.
He loomed over the bed. With the light behind his head, his face remained in shadow. Cassidy watched as his silhouette looked from her to the window and back again. Her eyes darted around for something - anything! - within arms’ reach that she could either throw at or stick in him. Oh, for a handy bazooka!
“You’re Mister Box, right?” she stammered. Maybe if she engaged this refugee from Easter Island in idle chitchat he would forget he came in here to pulverise her. “I’ve seen your picture.” True enough, she had. She had been unable to see his face then, too. “Um, that business in the kitchen? The beer? I’ll pay for it - of course, I will.”
Her vision cleared and she was able to see the wall facing her. Mr Box had moved like a glacier towards the window. Cassidy froze, listening to him fasten the latch and draw the curtains. She closed her eyes. Now there was no possibility of being witnessed, he would surely rip her to shreds like a bread roll for duck food.
Run! Her instincts told her. Throw yourself out of the door and down the stairs and get the hell out of there.
But she found she couldn’t move. The window of opportunity, like the one behind the curtains, was closed as Mr Box’s shadow fell upon her again. She held her breath, her face bunched up like the knot of a balloon and her hands dug into the bedspread like claws.
This was it! The end had come!
Or maybe not...
She opened an eye. The room was empty and the door was closed. Mr Box had gone. She was unscathed.
She opened her other eye and let out a long breath of relief. She remained seated, somewhat stupefied by this incident. One thing was certain: she was more determined than ever to check out of the Ash Tree.
“Fucking nut hatch!” she shook her head. She returned to packing her stuff.
***
While Miller drove, Brough pored over the information she had downloaded from the fax and an accompanying email from the FBI. It made for very interesting reading.
“So, this is not the first time Miz um... has been involved in something of this nature.”
“Not just involved, sir,” Miller glanced at him. “Implicated.”
Brough pulled a face. “You say potato,” he shrugged.
“Potato, sir,” Miller humoured him.
“But...” he leafed through the pages, “she was never charged.”
“Scot free,” said Miller, with a tut of disapproval and a what-is-the-world-coming-to headshake.
“And how many died?” Brough riffled the papers again, unable to locate the data.
“Seventeen, sir. All of ‘em brutally slain. I downloaded the crime scene piccies.” She nodded towards the folder on his lap. He opened the cover and closed it again very quickly. Miller tried to conceal her amusement as he steeled himself to open the folder again. His gasps of horror grew with each photograph.
“Sir,” Miller continued, her eyes firmly on the road ahead, “there was some suspicion that our Miss Whitlow was behind it all. Egging the killer on. For research purposes, if you can believe that. She said she had nothing to do with it and the killer was merely trying to impress her. So she’d put him in her book.”
“Book?” said Brough, trying to sound casual as he swiftly hid a particularly horrific picture within the bundle of papers.
“As yet unpublished, sir. Manuscript was impounded for the trial.”
“So,” Brough turned his gaze to the passenger window, glancing at the shadowy buildings with their darkened windows and untold secrets, “she’s here ‘researching’ another one, is she? And this um - someone was nicked then?”
“Yes, sir. Pinned it all on a student from, er, Scandinavia, as it happens. He’s in a funny farm now. Criminally insane.”
“So, this student was convicted and she got off?”
“Looks like it,” Miller pulled her car into a space a little way down from the Bed and Breakfast. “Jury must have been convinced. But she was given counselling of some sort. You know how they’re mad for it over there. Spent some time in a clinic. I spoke to a Professor...um... Rosenberg. He was her Whojimmyflop. Shrink. He seemed nice.”
The car came to a stop with a jolt. Brough’s folders slip from his lap. With a groan, he tried to gather them up before realising, with a louder groan, that it would be an easier task if he unfastened his seat belt first.
“Scandinavia, eh?” he resumed, sending her a look that warned her against showing any signs of amusement at his clumsiness.
“Trondheim, sir.” Miller found it easier to keep a straight face if she didn’t look directly at him. “Does it make a difference?”
“I should say so!” Brough said in a patronising tone that suggested he was about to demonstrate why he was an inspector and she a lowly sergeant. “We have a Norwegian lad in town at the moment, don’t we? And who has he hooked up with?”
Miller thought about this and the light bulb of her mind came on - it was a low energy eco-bulb that took a while to flicker into life..
“...Ooh!”
“’Ooh!’ indeed!” Brough nodded. In unison, their necks craned to see the main entrance of the Ash Tree B & B. A porch light was still burning. Brough didn’t care. He’d wake the bloody lot up if need be.
“Coincidence, sir?” Miller nodded at the Norwegian police report in the inspector’s lap.
He pinned her with a stare before reciting, “In this job you find there is no such thing as coincidence.”
“Funny,” said Miller, offering a smile, “I was just going to say the same thing.”
Her friendliness was met with stern disapproval.
“This is a multiple murder investigation, Miller. Not the Adventures of the Laughing Policemen.”
Miller hung her head. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
They sat in silence watching the guest house while D.I. Brough wondered how to handle their next move.
***
In the reception area, Cassidy with all her bags packed, rang the bell repeatedly and furiously. It attracted no one’s attention.
“Hello?” Cassidy was also yelling, over and over, “Mrs Box? Mr Box? Hello?”
She paused and listened. There was no sign of anyone coming. She resumed the bell battery and the calling out. After only a few seconds, she gave up. “Screw this!” she spat. She pulled out a confusing wad of banknotes and, baffled, pulled out a couple of brown ones and a purple and a blue... “Goddamn Mickey Mouse money!” She showered most of the notes onto the counter and then, uncertain, added the rest. Then she snatched one back for cab fare. She rammed this into her pocket and then rolled her eyes as she pulled out her room key and its ridiculously large fob. She slapped it onto the counter top. It made the act of leaving more final. And that was good.
She gathered up her things, slinging a couple of bags over her shoulders, another under her arm and one more in each hand.
I’m outta here! She thought, happy to be on her way.
Loaded up, she turned and collided with someone she hadn’t seen join her.
“Oof! Oh, oh shit!” she gasped, stooping to retrieve her dropped baggage. “I was just leaving - I -“
She backed into the counter and dropped her bags again.
***
In the kitchen, wilfully ignoring the commotion in Reception, Mrs Box was engaged in the pouring of bottle after bottle of Ragnarök beer into the sink. She hummed tunelessly to herself and appeared perfectly happy in this task. A noise that wasn’t emanating from the angry American gave her pause. She stopped; she waited. The noise did not reoccur. She reached for another bottle and flicked off the cap.
The unmistakable sound of a knife moving swiftly through air made her jump around.
“Who’s there?” she called out, weakly. She cleared her throat and, with more vocal control this time, “Bertie? Hello?”
Anfred stepped from the shadows of her neatly ordered shelf units. Light glinted from the blade of the butcher knife he held before him.
Blood & Breakfast, West Midlands Noir Page 14