Inspector Kirby and Harold Longcoat

by Ian Martyn

  ‘Nah. Others had passed on that one, but Kirby got to the bottom of it. He sees through the crap somehow.’

  Colin nodded. ‘And this one? An inspector comes all the way out of town to drive a girl back who’s only been missing a day?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘No really, I mean it. You-do-not-want-to-know!’

  ‘So multinational drug smugglers? Diamond heist? Plot to take over the world?’

  ‘In Alnwick?’

  Colin rounded a corner and braked hard. In front was a group of cows that were being herded across the road. He wagged a finger in front of him. ‘Come on, give me a break. This is what constitutes excitement around here.’

  Shirley watched the docile creatures which were in no hurry as they plodded and chewed their way towards the farm buildings. ‘You know I said the inspector gets all the weird cases, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well he has this scale. There’s weird, then there’s very weird and extremely weird.’

  Colin raised his eyebrows. ‘So don’t tell me this is extremely weird?’

  Shirley flapped a hand above her head. ‘Off the scale.’

  He whistled through his teeth. ‘Funny you should say that. My Auntie Pauline, who found the girl, has been saying there’s been some weird things going on.’

  Shirley sat a little straighter and looked at Colin. ‘Just weird?’

  Colin shrugged. ‘Dunno. I mean one of the fishermen with new waders has the curtains twitching in Craster. But then this is my Auntie Pauline. Plays on the dotty-lady-living-alone-in-a-little-village bit. But then she’s all there, if you get what I mean? Not much gets past her.’

  Shirley met the gaze of one of the cows as they cleared the road. ‘I look forward to meeting her.’

  ‘D’you want me to take you right up to the castle?’ Colin asked when they were a few miles from Dunstanburgh.

  ‘No, why don’t we park at your Auntie Pauline’s and walk along. It’s a nice day and Sarah must have come that way, so you never know.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Colin pulled up outside a terraced cottage. A woman was in the garden on her hands and knees, weeding between the neat rose bushes. Shirley presumed this was Auntie Pauline. The woman stood as they got out of the car, and wiped her hands on her flowery apron. ‘Hello, pet,’ she said as she came to the gate.

  Colin greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. ‘Hi, Auntie Pauline, how you doin’?’

  ‘Oh, you know me, pet, mustn’t grumble.’ She glanced across at Shirley. ‘This’ll be about that young lass then?’

  ‘Aye, Auntie. This is Constable Barker from Newcastle. We’re going to have a look round up at the castle and then we thought we might have chat with you, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Of course, pet. I’ll have the kettle on.’

  ‘So what are we looking for?’ Colin asked as they set off.

  Shirley shook her head. ‘Dunno. Anything. Anything that looks out of place or doesn’t look like it should be there.’

  ‘Or weird,’ Colin added, waggling his hands in the air.

  ‘You’re getting the idea.’

  It struck Shirley that the last time she had walked the mile or so from Craster to Dunstanburgh had been on a school trip over ten years ago. When you had all this on your doorstep you took it for granted it would always be there. The sound of the sea breaking over the rocks and the smell of seaweed brought it all back. That day all those years ago had been much like this, warm with just a slight breeze off the sea to take the edge off the temperature. One of those days when you could never imagine it ever being cold or rainy again. She smiled at the memory of all the friends who had been so much a part of her life at that time. She, Ellie and Janet regularly met on the last Friday of the month for a few drinks and she kept in touch with some of the others, but that was about it. She’d held hands with Peter Brown. They’d snogged up at the castle when they were out of sight of the teachers. Her smile faded. Three years ago she’d arrested him in the Bigg Market for drug-dealing. She’d hardly recognised him; he was thin and unkempt with lank greasy hair, an addict himself. Being a copper had a habit of doing that, spoiling things.

  ‘You alright?’

  ‘Yeah sorry, just thinking. Anything?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing unusual.’ Colin shook his boot. ‘Unless a high number of sheep droppings count?’

  Shirley laughed. ‘Let’s put it this way, I’m not bagging them up.’

  They were met at the castle by one of the wardens. The hunched shoulders, frown and hands rammed into the pockets of his green gilet announced his feelings on being made to keep the place closed in mid-summer. ‘How long’s this going to last, huh?’ He asked, ramming his hands even harder into his pockets, just in case they hadn’t picked up on his annoyance. ‘People aren’t happy, you know. I keeps having to turn them away and they don’t like it.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Shirley said, pausing, hands on hips and making a dramatic scan of the area around them. ‘It’s a possible crime scene.’

  The man’s expression lightened, he stood straighter and took his hands out of his pockets. ‘Oh well in that case,’ he said, hurrying off down the path to where another warden was talking to a group of, Shirley presumed, disappointed tourists. He made shooing motions with his hands. ‘Come on please, keep away. This is a crime scene... what? No, sorry, all I know is it’s a crime scene.’

  ‘Is it?’ Colin asked.

  Shirley shrugged. ‘I don’t know, it might be. Anyway,’ she said, pointing to the warden who was now flapping his arms at three more people ambling down the track. ‘It’s keeping him happy and off our backs. Always a good one that.’

  Colin laughed. ‘I’ll make a note.’

  Shirley walked around the building, or what was left of it, trying to imagine what it must have been like seven or eight hundred years ago. Horses, men in armour perhaps? Then, thinking of Sarah, she amended that to men with beards in armour. But that’s what you always thought of in places like this, not the miserable ordinary people doing all the crappy, ordinary jobs that kept somewhere like this running. A shiver broke her thoughts. She’d wandered into the shade of one of the great stone walls. High above her head was a small opening in which a seagull was sitting looking down at her. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she said. The gull took off, squawking, and she shivered again. It wasn’t cold, more a feeling of being cold than actual cold. She leant against the stone. ‘Constable?’ she called.

  Colin appeared around the corner. ‘You called, mi’lady?’

  ‘Yeah, very funny. What d’you make of this?’

  What?’

  ‘This stone. Touch it. Does it feel warm to you?’

  Colin leant across. ‘Maybe. Perhaps the sun’s just moved off it.’

  ‘No, it’s going the other way, and feel the one next to it. I’d swear that’s colder.’

  Colin shrugged. ‘So?’

  ‘Oh, I dunno. Perhaps I’ve been around Kirby too much. Keep looking.’

  Shirley touched the stone again and the others around it before walking back around the front of the castle and through the main entrance. Inside, the left-hand tower was cool and damp, moss covering much of the walls that loomed above her. Other plants were growing out of gaps between the stones and pigeons, and crows flitted from roust to roust. All just as you would expect from an ancient, ruined castle. She crossed to the other tower, which was much the same with its precarious-looking point of stonework jutting above the rest. By now her eyesight had adjusted to the relative darkness of the interior and she could admire the handiwork of the masons in the walls that were still standing, despite all those hundreds of years, the castle’s exposed position and everything the North Sea could throw at it. In the far corner, something caught her eye. ‘Colin,’ she shouted.

  ‘Where are you?’

  She turned to the tower’s entrance. ‘In here.’

  ‘Where’s here?’<
br />
  Shirley tutted. ‘The right-hand tower as you look at it from the entrance.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ Colin said as he appeared.

  ‘There,’ Shirley said, pointing to the wall. ‘Tell me I’m not imagining that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That,’ she said, slapping him on the arm and then holding both her own arms in front of her to take in a section of wall about three feet wide. She moved them up and down. ‘See, the stones, no moss or plants or anything. Like it’s been cleaned.’

  ‘Oh yes. I can see it now. My eyes have adjusted. But so what?’

  ‘What do you mean, so what? It’s not right, is it?’

  Colin shrugged.

  ‘Some help you are. This is proper detectoring, this is.’ Shirley took out her phone and snapped a couple of pictures. Putting the phone back in her pocket she reached out and touched one of the stones, then grabbed Colin’s left hand and held it there.

  ‘Ooh, he said.

  ‘Yes, ooh indeed. Well?’

  ‘I can feel something, like a vibration.’ He put his ear against the stone. ‘Or more like a rhythmical beating, like… like horses?’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘It’s faint, going away.’ He leant back and turned to Shirley. ‘Hey, you haven’t got an iPod on or something, have you? You know, playing let’s have some fun with the country plod?’

  Shirley slapped his arm in response.

  ‘Stop doing that, will you.’ He smiled. ‘That could constitute bullying, you know.’

  Shirley slapped him again and pointed to the stone. ‘No, it can’t, we’re the same rank. Anyway, don’t try and tell me that’s normal or perhaps the vibration from the waves.’

  ‘Could be the waves, I suppose…’

  That earned him yet another slap. ‘I said, don’t tell me that.’

  Colin rubbed his arm. ‘It’s not the waves.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She pushed him towards the entrance. ‘Come on now, let’s go and have that cup of tea with your Auntie Pauline.’

  Colin grinned. ‘And cake.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘She always has cake.’

  ‘Unusual, pet?’

  ‘Yes, Auntie. Anything out of the ordinary.’

  Pauline pushed the plate of cake towards Shirley, frowning as she thought. ‘Go on, pet, it needs to be eaten.’

  Shirley helped herself again to the irresistible Victoria sponge. ‘Thanks. You know, anything that just doesn’t feel right.’

  Pauline scratched her head and then straightened her apron in her lap. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Honestly, anything.’

  Pauline glanced at the floor. ‘Well, you’re going to think me a strange old bizzum. No, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Please, Pauline.’

  Pauline glanced at Colin and then held Shirley’s gaze. ‘It’s that castle,’ she said. ‘It’s always been like an old friend, you know. There all me life. You’re going to think I’m daft, but I even talk to it sometimes, tells it things. Recently though, in the evenings when I’m tending me garden, it’s… it’s… like it’s looking at me funny. Not the same. Sends a shiver down me spine, it does.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Colin said when they were back in the car.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Auntie Pauline and that stuff about the castle. I think she spends a bit too much time on her own. Mam’s tried to get her to move nearer to her but she won’t leave the village.’

  Shirley shook her head and raised a hand. Colin flinched. ‘Talk like that and I’ll slap you again.’

  ‘You don’t believe all that, do you?’

  Shirley laughed. ‘A few days ago, maybe not. Listen, the inspector wouldn’t dismiss it. He never ignores people’s feelings on things. Reckons there’s things that can’t be put into words and when we try, it comes out all funny. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take it seriously. Your Auntie Pauline’s lived there all her life. If anyone’s going to have a feel for the place, it’s her. Maybe it’s her subconscious knows something’s not quite the same.’ She shrugged. ‘Something like that anyway.’

  ‘I stand corrected, ma’am.’

  ‘Good.’ She smiled. ‘And the cake was great.’

  ‘Always is.’

  seventeen

  Kirby parked his car and wandered around the corner into Clayton Road. He’d decided he needed a little fortifying before he could go through another few rounds with Harold. As he walked along, he studied the trendy shops either side of the road. In the news recently there had been a number of pieces about “gentrification” of places like Jesmond, and he guessed this is what they meant. Young city types moving in and doing up the old housing. What they wanted from their local high street was different to those who had lived here all their lives. These new young people had money. They didn’t want your basic carrots-and-King-Edwards green grocer and mince-and-pork-chops butcher. They wanted an Italian deli, a specialist grocer which had all those fancy ingredients you saw on those Saturday morning cookery programmes and a butcher who could supply them with pheasant, quail and Barbary duck. Kirby crossed the road between a large Mercedes and a white soft-top BMW and headed towards the coffee shop opposite. Gold lettering on the window announced it was “Relax”.

  Inside, at the window end, were leather sofas and chairs that were so low they looked a bugger to get out of for anyone over the age of forty. Towards the back were what appeared to be a random, eclectic mix of old tables and chairs that he knew would have been carefully chosen. On the walls were the quaint pictures of “old Jesmond” just to remind those who remembered them that they too were old. On one wall was a bookshelf with a notice, “Bookswap Corner - feel free to take and then why not bring one of yours?” Behind the counter was a large chalkboard, ‘Jan and Jon welcome you. Why not try this week’s special blend? Ask about our delicious gluten-free range.’

  On one side, sitting in the sofas, were two groups of thirty-something mums with babies and toddlers. Parked beside them was a range of aspirational buggies that looked more like child-sized, four-wheel-drive vehicles. On the other side, keeping what to Kirby appeared a respectful distance, were three younger women, girls with young children. He guessed by the foreign accents that they were au pairs. At the back were three sets of older Jesmondians, one or two giving their large bowls of latte and cappuccino suspicious looks. He knew how they felt; finish all that and at their age you’d be going to the toilet all morning.

  ‘So what’ll it be?’

  Kirby looked up at the array of coffees on offer. ‘Er, regular latte, please.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘No wait, can you make that a flat white?’ he said as if he wasn’t sure such a thing existed. His mother, who seemed to have studied these things, had told him that he would prefer a flat white as there tended to be less of it. She knew that all the hot milk in a latte tended to leave him feeling slightly nauseous. ‘Maybe you’re becoming lactose-intolerant,’ she’d said as if she’d been studying that as well. As far as Kirby was concerned, people only became intolerant to something after they’d read somewhere that you could become intolerant to it.

  ‘Cool, coming up. Regular or special?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  The young woman, he presumed Jan, smiled. ‘Our regular blend or this week’s special?’

  ‘Er regular.’

  ‘Milk?’

  He’d presumed a flat white came with milk. ‘Er, yes.’

  Her smile suggested that for Jan, who looked in her twenties, this wasn’t the first time she’d had such a conversation with an older person. ‘Whole, semi-skimmed or soya?’

  ‘Whole, no semi, please.’ His mum had also told him he should switch to buying “semi” some time ago, telling him it would be better for him.

  As Jan disappeared behind a cloud of steam, Kirby wondered just when ordering a cup of coffee had become so complicated.

  ‘Anything to eat with that?’

  ‘No thank you.’ H
e did quite fancy something to eat, but he didn’t want to waste the rest of the morning going through what he suspected might be another protracted question-and-answer session around gluten and other potential dietary oddities.

  Kirby took the carefully selected non-matching cup and saucer and headed towards the older folk on the grounds that if you wanted to hear the ins and outs of what was going on in the area, they were the ones who would know. Some of the women would have had sixty or more years practice in minding other people’s business, all just neighbourly concern, of course. Judging by the fine array of grey cardigans, Edna would have fitted right in. He chose a table near one couple, who were either sitting in companionable silence or had just run out of things to say after many years together. The woman was staring with some concern at the considerable amount of froth in the bottom of her cup. She had been brought up in a generation who cleared their plates, who abhorred waste. But no matter how much she tipped the cup, the foam refused to leave it. In the end, she gave up, putting a napkin over it just in case anyone thought she was being less than thrifty.

  Kirby sipped at his flat white. Mum was right, it was stronger and with less milk than a latte, although like most trendy coffee shops, it could have been served a little hotter in his opinion. He smiled to himself, feeling he could now do the whole trendy-coffee-shop thing with added confidence. ‘Flat white, please,’ he practised. ‘Sorry, oh yes semi, thank you. What? Gluten-free? Thank you, I’ll take two in that case.’

  ‘Did you say something, pet?’ the lady in grey next to him asked. He hadn’t realised he’d been practising out loud.

  ‘Sorry, not really.’

  ‘Oh,’ the lady said, sounding a little disappointed.

  Kirby had made contact. ‘Tell me, if you don’t mind me asking, have you lived around here long?’

  The woman smiled. ‘No I don’t mind, pet, and the answer’s all me life. I remember when there was proper shops on this road. When peas was peas and not petit pois. This used to be a proper cobblers, you know.’

  Kirby nodded in sympathy. ‘What about the corner shop on Sanderson’s Road, d’you know it?’