by Ian Jarvis
Oliver Hardy smiled at him, his bulky body filling the doorway. There was no bowler hat and the grey suit was modern, but the small tuft of moustache, the greased-down hairstyle and chubby face were unmistakable.
‘Oliver...’ began Rex.
Adler appeared from behind the fat man, taking advantage of Rex’s shock to swiftly press a small stun gun to the side of his neck. The electrical prongs crackled brightly and he crumpled to the carpet as 150,000 volts sizzled through his nervous system.
‘Blackbeard?’ said Adler. ‘I assume that was some sort of pirate joke mocking my eye patch? How comical.’
‘Hardy,’ croaked Rex, blacking out.
Chapter 8
It’s easy to understand why over seven million international tourists descend upon York each year with eyes wide and cameras flashing. Two thousand years ago, the Romans constructed their huge northern outpost of Eboracum on the River Ouse there. Later it was held for over a century by the Norse invaders, who rechristened the city Jorvik, and the winding thoroughfares still bear the same Viking names suffixed by gate, their word for street. Both civilisations left a wealth of archaeological remains which were added to by the Norman conquerors and following inhabitants, most notably the Elizabethans, Georgians and Victorians. York has the enormous Gothic Minster, the celebrated street known as the Shambles, many Roman ruins and masses of stunning Tudor architecture, all enclosed by miles of picturesque medieval wall, fortified gateways and ramparts. All of these wonders had one thing in common - they didn’t interest Watson in the slightest.
The teenager’s boss Bernie Quist was continuously waffling about the historic delights of York and how the small city rivalled Prague, Siena and other European gems for scenic splendour. Watson lived in a less splendid area: the rundown Grimpen council estate in the suburb of Acomb, but there were many aspects of York he did like: the countless lively pubs and the two breweries that stood just down the road in Tadcaster, both producing excellent ales. He liked the comedy clubs, the nightlife and the hordes of foreign females, both the tourists and the students at the university. He also liked the way gullible American girls had a thing for good-looking black guys with quaint Yorkshire accents. The dimmer ones were fascinated by the stories of his father being in both the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin, despite neither band ever having a black member.
Watson also liked his job at the private investigation agency where he’d been Bernard Quist’s assistant for six months. Most of the consultant detective work involved run-of-the-mill surveillance and divorces, but there were exciting interludes and he enjoyed how no two days were ever the same. It was also pretty damn cool having a real-life werewolf for a boss, even though he could never mention this to anyone. The majority of people were now more tolerant of ethnics, gays and folk who were somehow different, but they’d soon revert to the old ways and begin forming lynch mobs if they ever became aware of supernatural creatures living amongst them. Especially big furry supernatural creatures who could eat them in four or five bites. Manufacturers of burning torches and silver bullets would have a field day.
The corner building that housed their small agency stood just outside the city wall on the junction of Fishergate and Baker Avenue, with a kitchen showroom below and a debt collection firm next door. Returning with the Wednesday lunchtime sandwiches, Watson climbed the stairs and closed the office door behind him. He smirked to see Quist sitting at the desk, scratching his large nose and staring at his computer monitor with a puzzled frown. As usual, there would be some technical challenge here for Watson to solve; something perplexing, like switching the machine on or getting the cursor to move. The private detective had never been a fan of technology, but at Watson’s insistence, he’d recently and reluctantly invested in his first computer and mobile phone. The teenager had set them both up and taught Quist the operational basics, but he still had to help with problems on a daily basis.
‘Salad with margarine instead of butter for the weird vegan,’ said Watson, handing over a bag. ‘I’ve got myself bacon and egg with extra brown sauce.’
‘Delightful,’ murmured Quist, deep in thought and still scratching absent-mindedly at his nose. ‘Please don’t splatter the desk when you bite into it.’
Watson smirked again, picturing his boss sunbathing on a beach with that nose sticking up in the air. What a laugh it would be to draw numerals in the sand around his head and turn him into a living sundial. ‘Doesn’t it ever bother you, not being able to eat meat?’ he asked.
Quist gave a lopsided smile, a movement of his mouth corner that Watson had always found a little odd. ‘It’s been so long, I’ve forgotten the taste of flesh. I can’t eat any animal products, as you know. It’s difficult, as many food items are produced using eggs, milk, or whatever.’ He held up his sandwich. ‘Even margarine can contain traces of whey. I avoid these things as best I can, but miniscule quantities aren’t too worrying. If I were to consume a substantial amount, the beast within would begin to stir.’
‘The beast within,’ laughed Watson, through a mouthful of sandwich. ‘A bit dramatic, aren’t we?’
‘I give in,’ said Quist, with a frustrated sigh. He sat back in the chair and gestured to the monitor. ‘How do I attach this report to my email?’
‘Yeah, I knew you were stuck.’ The youth stooped over the desk and tapped at the keyboard. ‘I reckon this is the main reason you employ me. Well, this and my gusset-moistening good looks.’
‘This and your resourcefulness, resilience, and the fact that you’re far more intelligent than you know. You have a tremendous IQ, but you’re too unsophisticated to realise.’
‘Thanks for the compliment. Er, was it a compliment?’
‘You also instantly adapt to any crisis and hazardous situation, which is an exceptional character trait. Just look how you accepted my lycanthropy.’
‘The way things happened that night, I didn’t have much choice.’ Watson nodded to the screen. ‘I take it this Charlie Milverton’s report for the Social?’
‘As Milverton is currently our only case, I can hardly compliment you on your powers of deduction. We do, however, have an email from the Social Services about a similar gentleman: someone who claims full disability, but plays football every weekend. They want us to investigate and supply video footage. It looks as if this could be regular work.’
‘Same old crap, eh? Divorces, dickheads and benefit scroungers. After the last real adventure, I thought things might pick up around here and get more exciting.’
‘You mean the real adventure where you spent the entire time on the verge of soiling yourself?’
‘A brave black guy like me?’ The teenager chomped his sandwich. ‘You’re confusing me with someone else, Guv.’
‘Anyway, it might be boring...’ Quist gave a lopsided smile. ‘But it keeps the wolf from the door.’
‘Oh, very good. Maybe you should pack in private investigations and try stand-up comedy.’
The stark contrast in personalities and accents often bemused people on meeting Watson and his cultured employer, but Quist had chosen his assistant because of their dissimilarities. The consultant detective lived alone on the outskirts of Askham Richard village, some five miles to the west of York. Constantly changing identities and striving to remain unnoticed, he’d lived alone for many years, relationships and lasting friendships being tricky for someone with his bizarre supernatural secret. Feeling isolated and despondent, he’d decided he needed someone to help reconnect him to humanity and the real world; someone with a lively modern outlook, and this streetwise nineteen-year old was ideal.
‘Amazing,’ said Watson, reading Milverton’s report on the screen. ‘I can’t believe it took you so long to buy a computer and a phone. I don’t understand how you got through life without them.’
‘I managed admirably,’ said Quist. ‘Believe it or not, the human race managed
for several years before computers appeared.’
‘That’s what I can’t work out. You must have been around when the first one was invented by Charles Cabbage, or whatever he was called. I thought you’d have had dozens of different models as they progressed over the decades.’
‘Babbage invented the Difference Engine, as he christened it, a sort of early mechanical calculator. I blame Alan Turing for today’s computers.’
‘Blame?’
‘Sorry.’ Quist lit a cigarette. ‘Yes, I know that’s the wrong word, but from their first appearance, I could envisage the technological nightmare that was heading my way; a nightmare for all creatures such as myself. Changing identities was relatively easy before the second world war, but that all changed as information began to be collected and collated in databases. As computing advanced and the Internet took over the world, it became virtually impossible to vanish and reappear as someone else in a new town.’
‘But you still manage it.’
‘With great difficulty, and I haven’t attempted the process for over thirty years, so who knows how the next identity change will go.’ Quist drew on his cigarette and grimaced. ‘My initial aversion to the technology became an intense dislike.’
‘I see what you mean.’ Watson took another mouthful of sandwich, spraying brown sauce onto the monitor. ‘Do you have to send Milverton’s report right now? You’re sure you can’t wait until he gets me a pirate copy of the Kes film?’
‘You have the finesse of an Albanian pimp,’ said Quist, wiping the screen. He tapped enter and submitted the email. ‘You’ll have to watch it the conventional way, by visiting the cinema or waiting for the official DVD release. Anyway, it sounds terrible. Just like those television programmes you love.’
‘All old folk say that.’
‘Old?’
‘You’re over two-hundred, Guv. That is knocking on a bit.’
‘Point taken, but what’s that rubbish you watch? Love Thy Neighbour, the Next Generation? It’s horrendous. And those awful reality shows...’ Quist shuddered. ‘What kind of warped mind came up with the idea of getting three nuns from a convent to change places for a month with Manchester prostitutes?’
‘God Swap is brilliant. Did you see the last episode when Sister Brigitte had to learn the reverse cowgirl position and tromboning? It was hilarious.’
‘Tromboning?’ The detective stared blankly. ‘No. I can’t imagine how, but I must have missed that particular episode.’
‘It’s repeated this Saturday.’
‘I’ve attempted to instruct you in elementary deduction, but I really must teach you how to spot sarcasm.’ Quist picked up the office phone. ‘Rex’s birthday is tomorrow. I’d better ring his hotel and find out what time he wants us to arrive in London.’
‘Unbelievable.’ Watson watched him consult a scrap of paper and key in the number. ‘You’ve finally bought a mobile phone, but you haven’t grasped the technology. You don’t ring hotels anymore and ask to be put through; that ended about a hundred years ago. You ring Rex himself, mobile to mobile.’
‘As we’ve established, I’m quite old and...’ The Hotel picked up. ‘Ah, hello. I understand you have a Mister Rex Grant staying there. I wonder if you could put me through to him, please?’
‘Er...’ The receptionist hesitated, her voice unsure. ‘Mister Grant, you say? Just a moment, please.’
A Bach concerto took over as Quist was placed on hold. ‘I’m sorry...’ He turned to Watson as he waited. ‘I’ve attempted to fight the urge, but it’s no use and I have to ask. I’m aware of the sexual position known as reverse cowgirl, but what the hell is tromboning?’
‘Hello.’ The music ended and an authoritative male voice spoke. ‘Who is this, please?’
‘Bernard Quist. Unless you’ve recently developed a Scottish accent, I’d say you’re not Rex Grant.’
‘How astute of you, Sir. You’re speaking to Detective Inspector MacKinnon. May I ask what you want with Mister Grant?’
‘A private matter. Er, is everything alright? Is he there?’
‘What’s wrong?’ mouthed Watson.
‘No,’ said the policeman. ‘As a matter of fact he isn’t here. We don’t know where he is and we’d like to speak to him urgently. Do you have any idea of his whereabouts?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, Inspector,’ said Quist. ‘I haven’t seen him for a while. What does this concern?’
‘I can’t divulge that information.’
‘Well I’m afraid I don’t know where he might be. Sorry.’ Quist thumbed off the phone and turned quickly to his desk computer. He brought up the BBC News website and clicked on Scotland. ‘Oh God!’
‘Oh God?’ Watson raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh God doesn’t sound good.’
Quist turned the monitor to show his assistant the headline: Gruesome Murder in Edinburgh Hotel.
‘Shit!’ whispered Watson. He shook his head. ‘Hey, wait a minute, Guv. You don’t know that this is connected to Rex.’
‘According to the police, he’s vanished.’ Quist bowed his head, slowly rubbing his eyes. ‘The moon is full, someone has been murdered in his hotel, and the police are looking for Rex. You realise what this could mean?’
Watson laughed uneasily. ‘It probably means the birthday party’s off.’
Quist walked to the office filing cabinet and took a bottle of single malt from the bottom drawer. He half-filled a glass and stared silently through the window.
‘Come on, Guv,’ said Watson. ‘Okay, someone’s been killed, but it doesn’t mean Rex is to blame.’
Quist knocked back the whisky and turned to gaze at him.
‘Shit, Guv.’ The teenager gulped. ‘What the fuck are we going to do?’
Chapter 9
Quist and Watson climbed the steps from Edinburgh’s Waverley Station to emerge on the crowded central thoroughfare of Princes Street. The Wednesday afternoon train had taken less than three hours from York, but twilight had already descended on the city; the gloaming, as the more romantic Scots still referred to this time of day. The teenager wore a denim jacket against the cool April air and turned to look across the parkland that separated the old and new towns. The Scottish capital shimmered in a golden glow, the castle, soaring towers, Gothic spires and countless monuments basking in the radiance of a thousand floodlights. He lowered his sunglasses and peered up at the Scott Monument rising above him like some Gothic spaceship designed by Jules Verne.
‘Wow!’ said Watson. ‘I’ve never been to Scotland before. Where are all the kilts?’
‘They’re mostly in the tourist shops,’ said Quist, buttoning his long leather overcoat. ‘Keep your eyes peeled and I dare say you’ll spot one, along with one or two tartan shortbread tins.’
The detective carried the small overnight case that he always kept ready in the office, with binoculars, cameras, toothbrushes and other bits and bats, including clean underwear and socks that would fit them both. The indispensable grab bag was taken if they ever needed to leave hurriedly on a case like this with no time to call home. He still couldn’t believe how quickly the day had changed. A tedious Wednesday morning compiling benefit fraud reports had suddenly turned into an investigation into murder; a murder that seemingly involved their friend. Quist had been ringing Rex’s mobile every ten minutes and, knowing it would be a waste of time, he tried the number again.
‘His phone is still switched off,’ he said, glancing up at the full moon and grimacing before setting off towards the Balmoral Hotel. ‘Come on. We really need to find out what happened here.’
‘Hey, look at this, Guv.’ Watson pointed to a huge poster taking up the entire side of a bus shelter. ‘Ligeia.’
‘Who?’
‘Watson looked aghast. ‘Who?’
‘I just said that.’
&nbs
p; ‘Ligeia. Only the biggest thing in the music world right now. This is the advert for her concert here a couple of nights ago.’
‘Forget about stupid pop concerts.’ Quist increased his pace. ‘Right now we have far more important things to concern us. If Rex has anything to do with this death, I hold myself fully accountable.’
‘This guilt trip is screwing with those amazing powers of deduction you’re supposed to have. I keep telling you, the murder and Rex’s disappearance could be a coincidence. Why not find out first before you start with all the...’
‘Coincidence? Guilt trip? Do you realise how serious this is?’ The detective sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right, but it’s the full moon and I have a very bad feeling.’
‘Let’s just see what happened first.’ Watson knew there was a good chance that Rex was responsible, but he was trying his best to ease the tension and worry. He peered over his sunglasses at the sumptuous neo-Gothic hotel on the corner of Princes Street and North Bridge. Soaring two-hundred feet above them, the ornate bulk of the clock tower dominated the twilight skyline. ‘Wow! Is that the Balmoral? Big fancy place, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is.’ Quist ran his eyes over the building architecture, calculating the distance between the upper windows and the rooftops. The multitude of baroque ledges and decorative balconies could prove useful later. ‘Take off your sunglasses before we go inside. It’s evening and you’re starting to look ridiculous as usual.’
‘Modern fashion says you can wear shades anywhere at any time.’ He slipped the glasses into his jacket pocket. ‘You are aware that these are Jo Milan? Like I told you before, these cost Rex over nine-hundred quid.’
‘They must cost around ten pounds to produce. How on earth do they justify charging nine-hundred pounds for two pieces of coloured plastic and a little bent wire?’
‘They have the name Jo Milan etched on one of the lenses.’