by Ian Martyn
‘As I told the nurse, fine and I want to go home.’
‘Well, I understand, but we…’
‘She wants to go home,’ Marianne interrupted.
The doctor glanced at the nurse, his mouth open for a second while playing with the end of the stethoscope around his neck. ‘Well, I…’
‘Home,’ Marianne repeated.
The doctor smiled at Sarah. ‘In that case, I’ll just sign you off.’
‘Thank you, Mother,’ Sarah said when the doctor and nurse had left the room and she was getting dressed.
‘That’s alright, dear. What are mothers for?’
Outside the room, Marianne looked down at the WPC. ‘You can go now.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Will she get into trouble? I mean it’s not her fault,’ Sarah said as they watched her walk down the corridor.
Marianne put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Perhaps, dear.’ She frowned. ‘Although, I rather suspect that Inspector Kirby might realise something is not right even if he’s not sure what.’
‘And what will we do about him?’
Marianne tutted. ‘For now, nothing. He’s just bumbling around with that old fool Harold. And their bumbling might even be a help.’ The arm around Sarah’s shoulders gave her a gentle squeeze. ‘Anyway, don’t worry about that. You go to your dad’s and put his mind at rest.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
twenty-one
Kirby was beginning to regret letting Hugh select the venue for their little chat. But then he didn’t have much choice. He also knew that Hugh knew that, and that Hugh was therefore going to milk this for everything he could.
Hugh was a bit of a real ale nut; the sort who made drinking sound like a hobby in that they attended festivals, were members of a club, CAMRA, and could never just go to a pub for a drink. He had bored Kirby before about the merits of real ale, Kentish hops, roasted barley and all that. Not that Kirby didn’t like the odd beer himself, and he wasn’t averse to drinking what Hugh regarded as a decent pint. It was more that he wanted to drink them, not study them. Also, he didn’t regard an evening talking about them as being an evening well spent.
The pathologist had dragged him half way across the city to a pub that was trying hard to look like a pub rather than gastro-pub or a bar. The beers were all written up on a chalkboard with their specific gravity, whatever that is, and their alcohol content, along with a few tasting notes; deep chocolaty aromas and light spice, citrus lingering on the palate, hint of ginger, that sort of thing. The clientele were doing their best to live up to the image as well. There were far more beards on show than the statistical average for the male population would suggest there should be. Paunches, the aficionado’s equivalent of a gym junky’s biceps, were displayed with pride; sometimes, but not always fully, covered by T-shirts that proclaimed their love of one brand of real ale or another. And, as if to allay any worries that they might be there just for a drink, there was much tasting of thimblefuls of ale accompanied by swilling in the mouth, nodding and appreciative words before a pint was ordered and drawn with due reverence. The glasses were held up to the light for inspection, sniffed for those floral notes, before disappearing down throats so that the whole process could start again.
Kirby had let Hugh choose the ales while he paid. It seemed Hugh was intent on getting full value for the favour he knew he was going to be asked for. The beer kept coming and Kirby lost count of how many or what they were called. He remembered one called something like Cow Dunger which had been alright, and one called Sweet Maids Tipple, or at least he thought that’s what Hugh had said. In his opinion, that one could have been dispatched to the toilet without having had to take a detour via his stomach and kidneys. The only other sustenance had been a packet of crisps and something described as a “meat pie”.
‘A proper pie that,’ Hugh said, wiping the gravy from his chin.
It seemed the type of “meat” wasn’t known, and after the first bite, Kirby was quite glad. Not that it stopped his fellow aficionados for the evening scoffing them with the same enthusiasm they displayed for the beer.
By nine fifteen, Kirby’s eyes were struggling to focus on his watch, and even the large clock over the bar seemed intent on swaying. He decided he’d had enough and made the excuse that if he didn’t catch a bus back to his mum’s place in Fawdon by twenty to ten, it would involve a change, not something he felt he could guarantee accomplishing. Even in his current befuddlement, he hated to think what state he might be in if he stayed much longer.
When he picked up the tab, Kirby decided he was in the wrong business. Or at least he did after the barmaid had repeated the amount three times, accompanied twice by his cry of ‘How much?’
It seemed that calling it “real ale” allowed you to charge a hefty premium for it. When he moaned to Hugh, the pathologist told him the brewers were artists and the publicans who stocked the beer were the gallery owners where those who appreciated “art” could find it. And that if you wanted “little boy with tear running down face” you could drink the mass-produced rubbish in a trendy bar with all the character of a shopping centre.
Kirby had voiced the opinion that he’d always wondered how a dead cow in a perspex box could be worth millions, which at the time he’d thought was a good point well made, although neither of them could quite understand why. But at least Hugh had agreed not to let his contact at the university see the body and to sit on the report until everyone got bored with asking for it.
At the bus station, Kirby kept repeating forty-eight to himself, like some sort of “get me home” mantra. If he stopped saying it he thought the number would leave his brain for good and he’d still be here in the morning. When a forty-eight arrived, he gave a little whoop of joy, feeling very pleased with himself. He got on the bus and, after three attempts, took out his warrant card. ‘Pol… pooli, poleesh,’ he managed, waving it in the air; an action that almost caused him to miss the step. ‘Oopsh.’
‘That’s wonderful, mate, but you still need cash to travel on my bus.’
Kirby thought about this for a moment, then raised a finger as the memory of going home to his mum’s filtered through the fug of his thoughts. ‘Ah, yesh. Well ded… dedush… spotted.’ He then fumbled in his pocket and took out a handful of cash, allowing the driver to pick out the appropriate amount.
‘Where you going?’ the driver asked.
‘Me mum’s.’
‘OK, try again. Where does your mum live?’
‘Why?’
‘Because one fare does not fit all on this bus service. Also, I want to make sure you get off. I don’t like the idea of driving around all night with you snoring in the back.’
Kirby smiled and waved a jolly finger in the air. ‘Good points. F… Fawdon.’
‘Excellent and I’m even going that way. Now you sit down and try not to be sick in my bus.’
Kirby frowned, affronted by the suggestion. He waved what before had been a jolly finger in a more forthright, side-to-side motion. ‘No, I can hold glass… hold my… beer, me, yes, hold, never, sick no.’ He smiled to himself as he slumped in a seat, pleased that he’d made that point.
‘Oi, mate!’
Kirby opened his eyes and raised his head which had become heavier than he could ever remember it being. Not that he was remembering much. He glanced around, then grabbed the back of the seat in front to stop himself toppling into the aisle.
‘Yes you, the copper.’
Kirby planted a finger on his chest. ‘Me? Waz ser matter?’
‘It’s your stop.’
Kirby narrowed his eyes as he tried to force his memory to work. ‘My stop?’ he asked, trying to buy a little time.
‘You’re going to your mum’s.’
‘I am? How… how did... Oh, yesh! Kirby jumped to his feet, which for some reason didn’t want to support him, and he sat down again. Bracing himself, he tried again and nodded in satisfaction as he persuaded one leg to move and the
other to follow. Finally off the bus, he leant against a garden wall. ‘Sank you, ev… eve… so much.’ He said as he turned towards the bus that now wasn’t there.
‘Focus, Jonah,’ he said to himself. Taking a deep breath he set off, one hand out in the direction of the hedges, gates and walls, just in case.
At the front door, Kirby poked at the lock with his key, which refused to do what it was supposed to do. After a minute or so, the door opened anyway. He stood back and looked at the key. ‘Well, tha’s good,’ he said, as he wobbled and then steadied himself on the porch wall.
Alice Kirby stood, holding the door. ‘You coming in Jonah or are you just going to stand there? I’m watching QI.’
Kirby frowned as he focused. ‘Mum? Waz you doin’ here?’
‘I live here, Jonah. This is my house remember?’
Kirby grinned, giggled, then burped before putting a hand over his mouth. ‘Beg pardon.’ He giggled again.
Alice raised her eyes to the ceiling, tutting. ‘Come on, Jonah, hurry up and get in.’
Kirby focused on the open door, trying to stop it dodging from side to side as he aimed for it. ‘QI?’ he said. ‘Oh, yes. S’on Fridays, isn’t it?’ he said, trying to sound both interested and aware.
‘It’s the extended one.’
He screwed up his face as he thought about this. ‘What, like the dining table sort of pulled out?’ He giggled again, then hiccupped. He placed a hand on either side of the doorframe as he stepped through to stop it moving.
‘My god, Jonah, you reek of beer. How many have you had?’
‘Hey, I’m… hic, I’m the copper.’ He wagged a finger. He narrowed his eyes, then opened them again in attempt to stop his head spinning. ‘So I ask zee questions…’
‘In that case, I’ll answer for you, too many.’
Kirby put a hand on his mum’s shoulder, then leant against the wall to stop himself giving her an involuntary hug, which even in his befuddled state he thought she might not appreciate. ‘For your information…’ He hesitated, then burped again. ‘Beg pardon.’ He pulled himself upright, doing his best to look dignified. He failed on account of his hair sticking up and not being aware that he was dribbling. He started again. ‘For you… your, information,’ he said, pausing for emphasis and raising the finger that had finished wagging. ‘I’ve only had one or two.’
‘I take it that’s gallons?’
‘N’ anyway, ish not beer. I’ll have you know…’ He stopped, having forgotten where his thoughts were going. In fact his thoughts seemed to have stopped altogether, like a train running into the buffers. He tried again. ‘Ah, yes. I’ll have you know, I’ve been… I’ve been, appreesia… appreeshi… trying real ale. S’ not just beer, you know.’ His head started to wobble and it took a second or two for him to get it back under control. ‘S’ mush like wine y’know, all citrus notes and taste of liquor… lisc… lish… liquorice, that’s it, liquorice.’ He smiled, feeling proud that the awkward word hadn’t defeated him.
‘If you say so.’
He did say so, but decided at that moment not say it out loud as that required too much effort. Instead, he concentrated on not letting his head fall off his shoulders. He then became aware that his bladder now seemed to occupy most of his lower body. ‘Mush go… mush go.’ He pointed down the hall as another word alluded him. His mum tutted and pushed him towards the downstairs cloakroom.
‘Just don’t make a mess in there,’ she said, as Kirby fiddled with his belt and zip.
‘Ish fine, Mum. Don’t fuz…fuss. I’m perf… I’m perfecer... I’m OK.’
‘Well, I’m going to watch the rest of QI in bed. See you in the morning.’
‘Ahhhhh,’ Kirby said, then, ‘oops,’ as he waved a hand in the air. ‘Night, Mum.’
Kirby woke up three hours later, slumped on the sofa. At first he wondered where he was, then groaned as the events of the night before filtered slowly back into his brain. All the lights were on, as was the telly in the corner. Some bald geezer was sucking a lollipop. After another few seconds of working out it was an old episode of Kojak, he mumbled, ‘I know who did it,’ and stumbled off upstairs.
twenty-two
The morning air was cool and welcome as Kirby wandered down the neat suburban road with its redbrick houses and well-tended gardens. A cat sat on a wall and eyed him as walked past. Given everything that had happened in the past few days, he wondered if it was just a cat. He pushed the thought to one side, on the grounds he already had a headache. On the corner was a petrol station which now boasted a Marks and Spencer and its very own Wild Bean Cafe. He picked up a bunch of flowers and queued for a coffee, along with several smartly-dressed men and woman no doubt getting breakfast on the run. There was something about petrol stations doing breakfast that made him wonder about the sanity of the world. When asked which coffee he wanted, he resisted the urge to ask for a really wild one or to use his newly-acquired coffee shop skills by asking for a flat white. ‘Just a black coffee please.’
On his way back, when the mix of fresh air, car fumes, exercise and caffeine were having some beneficial effect, he pulled out his phone and noticed two missed calls from Shirley and about six from his answer phone. He decided to avoid the message and called her.
‘Tried to call you last night, sir. Guessed you might be in intense negotiation with Hugh.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Sarah left the hospital last night.’
‘I thought they were keeping her in?’
‘Well a nurse went in the room about 10pm and she’d gone.’
‘Gone? What about the WPC?’
‘Er, sorry, sir, Maggie saw nothing.’
‘What?’
‘That’s not all, sir. To be fair to Maggie, none of the nurses or the doctor who signed her out can remember anything either. I talked to the doctor and he confirms it’s his signature, but he doesn’t even remember seeing her.’
‘So where is she?’
‘At her dad’s as it turns out.’
‘Hmm. Pick me up in about half an hour will you, Constable?’
‘Sir.’
Back at his mum’s, the kitchen door was open and she was already in the garden digging out plants that Kirby presumed were weeds. Someone had once told him that a weed was any plant in the wrong place, so he’d always had a fairly liberal interpretation of what was and wasn’t a weed; something that hadn’t always met with the approval of Jeanie. His mum looked up as he sat in the garden chair.
‘You back in this world then?’
Kirby held up the flowers. ‘Er yes, sorry, Mum.’
Alice Kirby wiped her hands on the front of her old trousers as she walked up the path. She took the flowers from him. ‘You shouldn’t have. To be honest I’m glad to see you getting out and enjoying yourself.’
‘I’m not sure I’d call it enjoying myself.’
Mrs Kirby laughed. ‘And I have coffee here, you know.’
Kirby looked up and smiled. ‘I think another might be a good idea before Constable Barker picks me up.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Alice said as she headed into the kitchen. A few minutes later she emerged into the morning sunshine with a tray on which were two mugs of coffee along with several pieces of toast, butter and her homemade raspberry jam.
‘Not sure I want anything to eat,’ Kirby said with a puff of his cheeks.
‘Nonsense,’ his mum said. ‘You can’t go out on an empty stomach.’
He reached for a plate.
‘So what’s this all about? You were a bit mysterious over the phone.’
Kirby nodded, buttering some toast. ‘Do you believe in magic, Mum?’
‘What, like that Paul Davids guy who used to be on the telly.’
‘Daniels, Mum.’
‘What?’
‘Daniels, Mum, that was his name, not Davids. Anyway, I don’t mean all that trickery, sleight-of-hand stuff.’
‘Oh,’ his mum said. Kirby could see
her expression change. Sometimes she liked to play the little old lady routine. But Kirby knew that was a front, a way of easing herself through life without upsetting too many people. She reminded him of Edna. He shivered.
‘Well I know there’s more things between heaven and earth than the police can find.’ She smiled at him. ‘Your dad always liked to laugh at my seventh child of a seventh child thing. However, after he passed away I went up the coast for a bit of therapy, I’d guess you’d call it. Met a woman there who convinced me that it wasn’t all just silly nonsense.’
‘You never told me.’
‘Yes, well. You’d have said the same as your dad. So what you getting into, Jonah?’
‘Not sure, Mum. Let’s just say I’m coming round to your point of view.’
Mrs Kirby patted his arm. ‘You should meet this lady, go and stay. It’d do you good to talk about your feelings and the like. Nice woman, about your age, a widower as well. You’d like her. I could introduce you, she comes…’
‘Mum!’
His mum crossed her arms and scowled at him. ‘Well, it’s about time.’
Kirby didn’t say anything. He sipped his coffee. He knew what was coming next.
‘It’s been a few years now, Jonah. I bet you aren’t seeing anyone, are you?’
‘I see people all the time mother. Being a copper it’s difficult to avoid.’
Alice huffed. ‘You know what I mean.’
Jonah gave his usual lame excuse. ‘I haven’t got time, Mum.’
‘Then make time. You’re not meant to be alone, Jonah, doesn’t suit you. Plays to that morose side of you.’
Kirby smiled and bit into his toast. ‘Morose?’
‘Yes. And you know Jeanie would agree.’
He nodded. He did know that. They’d even talked about how she didn’t want him to be alone in the world.
‘How am I supposed to meet someone?’
‘What about the internet?’
‘That’s what Anna says. Keeps threatening to sign me up on Match.com.’