by Ian Martyn
Harold shuddered.
Shirley glanced at him. ‘Something wrong?’
Harold studied the old ruin. ‘They reckon this was the first church in Newcastle, you know.’
‘Really?’ Shirley said.
‘Yes, well they built it on top of something much older, thinking their god would keep it subdued and they could deny it was there.’
Kirby, who was a step ahead at this point, dropped back. ‘And?’
‘I’ve told you, old magic persists.’
‘So you say,’ Kirby said, as Shirley lifted the tape and let herself and Kirby through and into the crime scene. They left Harold scowling at a pile of stones.
Kirby mused that on another day it might have been described as a beautiful spot, a small glade next to an ancient chapel, surrounded by tall trees, shaded by their leafy canopy. For those Victorians, somewhere to base romantic poetry on perhaps.
‘Nice place,’ he said.
‘Apart from that,’ Shirley said, pointing to a burnt corpse.
‘Finished, Hugh?’ Kirby asked the man in a white paper suit who was standing, rubber glove in one hand and scratching his head, while another man in a similar suit finished taking pictures.
‘Yes,’ he said, removing the other soot-blackened rubber glove. He then pulled both gloves inside out and put one inside the other before stuffing them in a bag.
‘And?’
‘Last night.’
‘And?’ Kirby wondered what it was about forensics that they needed constant prompting for information, as if they had a finite allocation of words and therefore were reluctant to waste them.
‘Ashes are cold.’
Kirby waited
Hugh stared at the body. ‘Monkey?’
‘Are you asking or telling?’
Hugh focused on the crime scene again. ‘Must be.’ The pathologist checked the cleanliness of his hand and then scratched his head again. ‘Couldn’t tell you what sort though. You could get someone out from the Hancock Museum or the university, they might know.’
‘Mind if we have look before you bag it up?’
‘Be my guest,’ Hugh said, as he wandered off to join his colleague, who started showing him the photographs he’d taken.
Kirby and Shirley squatted on their haunches, inspecting the burnt circle of grass in the middle of which were the remains, which were equally charred. A small body, human-ish.
‘What d’you reckon, Constable?’
Shirley took a breath. ‘Well, thankfully not human.’
Kirby nodded.
‘Could be a monkey, sir,’ Shirley added, trying to sound hopeful.
Behind them was the rustling of tape. ‘Sorry, sir, you can’t go in there.’
‘It’s all right, Constable, he’s with me’ Kirby said, without getting up. As he heard the tread of approaching feet he turned to Harold. ‘Well?’
‘Hmm, Jonah.’ Harold said.
‘That’ll be enough, Constable.’ Kirby said without looking back as he caught the snigger after Harold used his first name. He glanced at Shirley who had her eyes fixed on the remains.
‘Sir,’ the Constable replied.
Harold took out what looked like a large hunting knife and began poking the bones with it.
‘I thought I said to leave those behind.’
‘You said the throwing knives.’
Shirley interrupted her study of the body to give Kirby a wide-eyed look.
‘Don’t ask, Constable.’ He shook his head and glanced across at Harold. ‘We’ll have words later about that.’ He pointed at the grizzly scene in front of them. ‘However, for now what do you reckon to this?’
‘I reckon goblin,’ Harold said, just loud enough for Kirby and Shirley to hear. He had another poke with the knife.
‘Put it away, Harold,’ Kirby whispered. ‘This is Jesmond, not the Serengeti. Coppers around here tend to have a natural aversion to something that looks like it could do serious damage to someone else.’
Harold grunted, but complied. The knife disappeared into a pocket in the voluminous coat that Kirby had failed to find back in the shop. ‘I still reckon goblin.’
‘Goblin,’ Kirby said, as if by saying it out loud it wouldn’t sound quite as bad as thinking it. But it did.
‘Goblin,’ Shirley said, biting her lip, the look on her face echoing his thoughts. ‘I’m now vouching for your sanity, sir.’
Kirby nodded. ‘Thank you, Constable, much appreciated. And likewise by the way. Go on, Harold.’
‘It happens.’
‘What happens?’
‘Well your average goblin is not the brightest thing on two short, stumpy legs. So they tend to keep to their own little gang. They feel safer that way, can’t handle too much information alone, at one time, as it were. Or too many other goblins for that matter.’
‘So?’
‘So each gang has its own patch and its own specialisation.’
Kirby puffed out his cheeks. ‘What, like kidnapping?’
Harold ignored the question. ‘It’s all territorial. A bit like those ice-cream wars, you know.’
‘What, the goblins sell ice cream?’ Shirley burst out before slapping a hand over her mouth.
Harold gave her a stern look.
‘OK, so they kill each other?’ Kirby said.
‘As I said, it happens. And burning them like this is a very visible warning to other gangs.’
‘Wonderful,’ Kirby said as he stood up followed by Shirley. ‘Well this is our patch and I’m not having it, even if they are goblins.’
Harold pushed himself off his knees with a grunt. ‘They’ll want the body.’
‘Who will?’
‘The family.’
Kirby glanced at Shirley, who shrugged, then back over his shoulder at the PC who was now half hidden by a tree from which a thread of cigarette smoke was drifting. Somehow he’d never thought about goblins having families, but then he’d never really thought about goblins much. Then again, why wouldn’t they have families and of course that family would want to take care of its own. He sighed and shook his head as the possible ramifications spread out like a google street map on your phone. ‘Forensics’ll have to bag it up and take it away.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ Shirley said. ‘D’you think that’s such a good idea?’
‘I don’t have a choice,’ Kirby said. He thumbed back over his shoulder. ‘It’s been reported.’
‘I could have a word, sir,’ Shirley said. ‘Me and Duncs go all the way back to college.’
Kirby nodded. ‘But there’s still the pathologist.’
Harold tutted.
‘Just a minute, how do you know whose family it belongs to?’
‘Don’t have to. There are…’ Harold paused, ‘places.’
Kirby tried his silent technique, but it seemed Harold was learning and this time didn’t elaborate. He decided not to push it.
Harold kicked at some burnt pieces of wood. ‘You can’t persuade them to forget it?’
Kirby laughed, then coughed to cover it. ‘What do you think? Everything these days is in triplicate.’
‘Triplicate,’ Harold repeated. ‘So how are they going to explain it?’
‘He’s got a point, sir,’ Shirley said.
‘Ah… yes.’ Kirby blew out a long breath and wandered out of the crime scene with Harold and Shirley following. ‘Hugh,’ he called to the pathologist, who had now removed the paper suit and was packing up his kit. Kirby did his best to adopt a casual-sounding tone. ‘A word please.’
The pathologist picked up his bag and joined them. ‘You alright, Jonah? You sound a bit strained.’
‘You don’t say,’ Shirley muttered.
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m fine,’ Kirby said, scowling at Shirley, who had taken a sudden interest in her shoes. ‘Hugh this is Harold and the sometimes competent Constable Barker.’ Harold nodded. Hugh gave Harold the sort of look that Kirby normally saw when the pathologist was holding a sca
lpel.
‘So what next?’ Kirby said.
‘Well, I’ve got a contact in the zoology department at the university; thought I’d let him have a look.’
‘Oh that’s…that’s…’
‘Interesting?’ Shirley finished for him.
‘Yes, quite. Interesting, that’s the word. Thank you, Constable.’
‘Oh, we wouldn’t want you to waste your valuable time,’ Shirley said, nudging Kirby with her elbow, adding, ‘would we, sir?’
‘No, of course not. No, no, not at all.’
Hugh’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘No, it’s no bother.’
Kirby glanced at Shirley, who was staring back at him. He could almost sense her desperate attempts at telepathy, “do something”. ‘Erm, do you think perhaps you could hold back on that for now. After all, it’s not that important. I mean it’s only a monkey. It’ll just make paperwork.’
One of Hugh’s eyes now opened wide ‘Why?’
Kirby read the look on the pathologist’s face. It was the one he used himself when he knew someone was hiding something.’
‘Can’t say right now,’ Kirby said, which at least wasn’t a lie. He tapped the side of his nose with a finger to emphasise the point.
The pathologist took Kirby by the arm. He leaned in close. ‘Can we have a word,’ he said, glancing at Harold, ‘in private?’ He then led Kirby a few yards away from Harold and Shirley who were now taking a great deal of interest in one of the trees.
Still holding on to Kirby’s arm, he whispered, ‘What’s going on here, Jonah? And just who is the guy dressed like he’s in a Clint Eastwood movie?’
Kirby tried a smile. ‘Oh you mean Harold?’
Hugh didn’t smile back. ‘Yes, him.’
Kirby pursed his lips and nodded slowly several times while trying to come up with a plausible answer.
‘Er, he’s a consultant. Er… yes an expert.’
‘An expert in what?’ Hugh asked, looking at Harold, his eyes running down the patched and crudely-mended leather coat before settling on the grey cardigan underneath with its mismatched buttons.
‘It’s, er, very delicate.’ Then seeing the pathologist’s arched and raised eyebrow, Kirby tapped a finger on the side of his nose again and added, ‘very, hush, hush.’
‘Hush, hush?’ the pathologist repeated. Kirby nodded. ‘Not a phrase you tend to hear a lot in real life, Jonah. Or have we stepped back into a 1960s’ spy thriller?’
Kirby took a deep breath; this wasn’t going well. He switched to a look of innocent pleading. ‘Just trust me,’ he tried.
‘And, Harold?’ Hugh said.
‘Yes, and Harold. I’ll vouch for him.’
Hugh studied Kirby for a second or two. ‘Alright, Jonah, you win,’ he paused before adding, ‘for now.’ The man had been around policemen for far too long.
‘But they’re still taking the body away?’ Harold said when Kirby returned to him and Shirley after the pathologist had left.
‘Obviously.’
‘Do I think that’s a good idea?’
Kirby stared back at Harold. He was beginning to think that bringing a shopkeeper, guardian or whatever he was along had not been one of his better moves. ‘No, of course I don’t. But we’ve no choice.’ He glanced at Shirley for support. She nodded. ‘What do you want me to do? Wait till they bag the body then sling it over my shoulder and say “that’s alright guys, I’m sure we don’t need to trouble you with this one”?’
Harold tutted. ‘No, I suppose not.’ He sucked his teeth as he thought. ‘Perhaps I could, I dunno, bring in someone else since I’m your expert? Like from another agency?’
Kirby shook his head as he watched the body, now in a black bag, being carried away. ‘You’ve been watching too much Sky Atlantic. And who did you have in mind, Edna?’ They both looked at Shirley, who was trying not to laugh. ‘I struggled convincing him of you. I think Edna might be stretching it a bit. What d’you think?’
‘Hmm, perhaps not.’ Harold leaned closer to Kirby. ‘Edna likes to keep a low profile,’ he added, as if that was the only possible reason not involve Edna.
‘Ah, yes, silly me.’
‘Alright, alright,’ Harold said, watching the PC gather up the crime scene tape. ‘It was just an idea.’
Kirby rubbed his temples and sighed. ‘Come on,’ he said, and followed the stretcher team and the pathologist back to the road.
‘He’s right though, sir,’ Shirley said as they climbed the steps back out of the Dene. ‘If the university boys poke around at that body they’ll be heralding some great scientific breakthrough. You know like, “missing link found in Jesmond”. Mind you, that wouldn’t surprise many…’
‘Yes thank you, Constable. I get the picture.’
‘Sorry, sir. But we have to do something.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘So what? Harold asked.
Kirby paused and looked from one to the other. ‘I’m not sure. But I think I’m going to have to have a long talk with Hugh and it’s going to cost me a few beers.’
Shirley sucked in a breath through her teeth in appreciation of what that might mean.
‘Care to join us, Constable?’
‘Er, thanks for the invitation, sir. I think I’m washing my hair this evening.’
‘Very wise, Constable. Very wise.’
twenty
Marianne had watched her daughter climb into the police car outside the little cottage in Craster. No one had spotted Marianne of course. She’d then seen her daughter leave the station in Alnwick with that too-clever-by-half police inspector; the one who was taking the ramblings of the interfering Harold Longcoat seriously. She frowned. That wasn’t supposed to happen. She’d wanted Harold and that interfering old bag Edna to know she was around, but working with a policeman who was actually taking them seriously? There was something about him, she felt. it. He’d need to be watched. She sniffed, so what? There wasn’t much they could do.
They’d brought Sarah to the Freeman Hospital as she’d expected. She smiled. Modern medicine was clever, new magic. However, she practised old magic and no amount of scanning, probing and analysing was going to help understand that. The inspector had left and finally so had John.
As a youngster, John had been a rebel, wild and unpredictable, and she’d loved that in him. She had fed it, nurtured it. Then when Sarah came along, the world, this world rather than her world had taken over. The need for a house, a mortgage, a steady income, and he’d become just like the rest of them. For a while she’d tried to adjust, thinking that perhaps success and money could replace the anarchic adventure that had been their lives beforehand. She had helped him climb the greasy pole. However, all the new cars, fancy kitchens and latest white goods were no replacement for the life they’d had and she still craved. That was the trouble with magic, it was all or nothing and there was little place for it in this world. So if they didn’t need it, she’d take it and find a use for it in her world.
Marianne walked through the sliding doors and smiled at the receptionist, who smiled back.
‘Can I help you?’ the woman asked.
‘I’m looking for Sarah Cooper; she was brought in a few hours ago.’
‘And you are?’
Marianne focused on the woman and smiled again.
‘Of course, let me see.’ The woman consulted the screen in front of her. ‘Ah, yes, ward 10. Along the corridor, take the first stairs on the right and then just follow the signs.’
‘Thank you.’
The woman looked up again. ‘Can I help you?’
‘No, I know where I’m going.’
Marianne walked along the corridor and up the stairs. She followed the signs for ward 10, passing patients, nurses and doctors who stepped out of her way. At the ward reception, a nurse looked up, raised her hand as if about to say something before turning back to the nurse next to her and continuing their conversation. Sarah was in a private room, and outside was a woman pol
ice officer. Marianne smiled at her. The WPC stood and opened the door before sitting back down and flicking over the page of the magazine she was reading.
Sarah turned as she walked in. ‘Hello, Mother.’
‘Hello, dear, they treating you well?’
‘This is boring, Mother. They’re keeping me in, they say, for checks.’ She smiled. ‘So if I’m a good girl I might get to leave in the morning.’
‘Oh, I think we can do better than that, don’t you?’ Marianne opened the door to the room. The WPC didn’t look up. One of the nurses at the desk glanced at her watch, then jumped from her seat and hurried along the corridor. Marianne held the door for her.
The nurse smiled at Sarah. ‘How are you feeling?’ she said taking her pulse.
‘Fine, I’d like to go home.’
The nurse frowned. ‘Well, they want to keep you in a little while just to be on the safe side.’
‘She wants to go home,’ Marianne repeated.
The nurse paused and put the thermometer she’d had in her hand back in its pouch next to the bed. ‘I’ll get a doctor,’ she said.
‘Where will you go?’ Marianne said as the nurse left the room.
‘Dad wants me to go home to him, but I want to go back to the flat.’
‘I tell you what, why don’t you go back to your dad’s for tonight, keep him happy. You know, reassure him everything is fine. Then you can go to the flat tomorrow some time.’
‘He’ll still fuss.’
Marianne patted Sarah on the arm. ‘Leave that to me.’
A doctor entered the room with the nurse and Marianne stood back. ‘So how are we then?’ he said.