Lost Lad

by Annable, Narvel

  "Simon may look a fool, play the fool and is often foolish but, make no mistake, Derek, do not be deceived - Simon is no fool!"

  The big surprise came from the responses to the questions about Jasper Wormall. Simon had absolutely no idea of how, or why Mr Wormall would have the bicycle of Brian Forrester in his possession. The news came as a shock.

  "A didn't think 'e were interested in little lads!"

  "Was he interested in big lads?" returned Detective Sergeant John Winter bluntly. Both detectives were now leaning several inches further forward.

  "Well ... "

  "Well what?" persisted John.

  "Well 'e does massage - dunt 'e."

  "Does he! Massage? .... "

  The next ten minutes were very revealing indeed. It came to light that the strange and reclusive Belper Goblin had, in the autumn of his life, late autumn at that, discovered latent talents of body massage. So keen was he to deliver a full service to as many as possible that he advertised his skills on hand written postcards distributed to local post offices far and wide.

  "Ashbourne."

  "Ashbourne!"

  "Dolly saw it. It said 'Satisfaction guar-an-teed'. A saw one in Bakewell ... err ... Matlock as well. Thee all over! 'E told me 'e wants ta share 'is precious gift we all a mankind."

  "You mean any kind of man will do?" said John facetiously.

  This last provoked a sharp look from Derek who was fearful that another collapse into a fit of giggles in front of a comedian like Simon Tonks would precipitate a total farce, but, Simon responded seriously -

  "No - 'e's sel-ec-tive. 'E likes rugby players an footballers - an gets 'em! 'E does well."

  "How much does he charge for his professional services?" asked Derek.

  "A don't know. Nowt a think. Dolly said Jasper pays them!"

  John Winter was astounded and horrified that any self-respecting body, at any price, could bear to be touched by those hideous little gnarled fingers. Derek Russell, affected differently, was struggling to suppress an avalanche of guffaws. He visualised a tiny, rough, candle lit bedroom, a drooling slash of toothless mouth, with gloating goggle eyes leering over a recumbent torso - about to be anointed with baby oil. A falsetto effeminate squeak -

  "Dat all right? Shall ya 'ave any extras? Does dat want a massage?"

  The next few questions sought to establish how well Wormall, Coggan and Tonks knew each other. Clearly any friendship between Wormall and Tonks ended with the letter of complaint sent to his employer -

  "No. It ended before that."

  "When ... and why?"

  "Well it were in t' Flyin' 'Orse. Dolly calls it 'Airborne Dobbin'. Ya know in Nottingham?"

  "We've been hearing about it. Did Jasper go there?"

  "Oh no. Too old. Jasper goes ta places for 'is postcards an ... some other visits ta different lavatories in different towns ya know. 'E sits in 'em fa hours an hours! 'E does Derby, Matlock, Ripley, 'Eanor, Ilkeston ... "

  "All right, Simon, just get on with it," said Winter impatiently.

  "Well ya know me, a like ta 'ave a laugh and did me 'Jasper' imitation we 'is little 'ammer an chisel ... "

  At this point Simon became hunched, one eye closed and the other wide and leering at some invisible object inches from his face. He mimed the action of a small imaginary hammer and chisel with quick little knocks, as he explained, creating a hole between one WC cubicle and another and ended with - "Meh! Gettin' bigger." an impression of the old man's cackley voice.

  "And I suppose he was outraged when your impromptu performance was reported back to Mr Wormall?" said Russell.

  "Well! 'E as so many visitors these days an 'e can't tek a joke."

  It was learned that Coggan occasionally offered Tonks a lift into Derby, Nottingham or Manchester for 'social activities', beyond that, they went their separate ways being colleagues more than friends and certainly not close friends. They were certainly disposed to be a couple of jokers sharing a sense of the ridiculous and very much enjoyed retailing comic anecdotes, most of which were at Mr Wormall's expense. Simon said that Dolly was a regular visitor to the Shire Oakes cottage until, one fateful day when, suddenly, he yielded to a great temptation. He picked up Jasper's false teeth which were reposing on his crude kitchen table -

  "Well 'e used em as castanets, chattin' em together an danced a fandango singin' 'Lady of Spain'! Well ... "

  "Well?" replied John who, at this point, could barely articulate being on the very edge of convulsed laughter.

  "Well, Jasper weren't am-oo-sed. 'E were rate mad! 'E kicked Dolly out. 'Bugga off ya ignorant little fat queen' 'e said, 'An dunna ya come back!' Ooo 'e were furious."

  A clearer picture was emerging and all very entertaining, but this petty tittle-tattle fell somewhat short of solving the mystery of the lost lad. The pressing priority was to interview Jasper Wormall, as soon as possible, before he could fabricate a plausible explanation for trying to hide Brian Forrester's bicycle.

  The search of the little rough cottage up Shire Oakes had been thorough but yielded nothing. All nooks and crannies and any likely secret repositories for pornography had been checked. There was nothing but a cupboard full of local papers, mostly the Belper News and The Derby Evening Telegraph some of them dating back to the previous century. Russell had given orders that his men should check the adjacent thicket of trees for any freshly dug earth. The garden, bonfire and out buildings which included the earth lavatory and wood shed were also carefully examined.

  The dwelling itself, without the benefit of running water, gas or electricity was pre-Victorian. This was the same small home which had housed the Wormall family when the brothers of Jasper's grandfather had been footmen, coachmen, grooms and gardeners to the then Lord of Belper, George Benson Strutt in 1825. This one time 'bucket banger', as nightsoil men were sometimes referred to, was the very last of a large family. In his present precarious situation, Jasper was feeling very much alone.

  After such a careful combing of the property there seemed to be no good reason to further detain the agitated Mr Wormall at the police station. Already riled, he scornfully refused the offer of a ride up Ashbourne Road and back home in a police motor-car. Indeed, the fit wiry Jasper Wormall, who had spent a lifetime tramping up and down the hills of Belper, was probably in better physical condition than most people half his age.

  It was an angry and resentful goblin who opened the old creaking door to Russell and Winter when they finally arrived at the crumbling cottage in the late afternoon. As expected, after eleven years the hideous effect was just the same. Again, Derek was looking directly into the unforgettable leering eyes of the old crone who offered Snow White a poisoned apple -

  "Can we have a chat Mr Wormall?" No response but, to let them enter, the old man shuffled backwards into the dingy room with its smell of oil lamps. "This has not been easy for you, and we sincerely regret the necessity to rifle through your home: not a pleasant experience for anybody, but you must admit the circumstances left us with very little choice."

  The ancient rustic fell into his armchair by the fireplace and slowly shook his head with an air of hopeless desperation. There was a strong contrast between the feelings of the junior and senior officers. The latter was prepared to entertain the theory that, for some unknown reason, someone had planted Brian Forrester's bicycle next to Jasper's woodshed. Derek felt sorry for the shabby crumpled old fellow before him and felt a little guilty that his privacy had been violated. Such an odd repulsive character must have had a difficult life: a long life suppressing and repressing unacceptable and illegal urges which would have isolated him from general society, which in turn caused him to be even more quirky in his manner.

  After petulant protests that he had already given a detailed explanation of his conduct, the suspect was politely persuaded to re-tell his story. He had found the mysterious bicycle leaning at the back of his woodshed at about 7.30 that morning. He heard nothing during the night. The sudden appearance of a boy's bike
frightened him. Kids had played tricks on him in the past. The suggestion of reporting the matter to the police horrified him, getting mixed up with 'the law' was the last thing he wanted - let the Swimming Bath Attendant report a bicycle which had been abandoned. Let him sit inside the police station and let him have his words written down by a copper and be summoned to a court of law to give evidence. Such was the attitude of Jasper Wormall, who claimed to be ignorant of the massive police search for a teenager which, to be fair, had yet to be reported in the media.

  On the subject of massage, the old man stiffened with fear. Derek took the view that diplomacy and gentle probing would release more information and put his witness at ease. Cheerfully he said -

  "We all have our little side-lines, Mr Wormall. Detective Sergeant Winter here has a few chickens and sells the eggs now and again. I'm sure the Tax Man won't fuss about the odd shilling or two you get from relieving aches and pains."

  This last, masterfully succeeded in putting the masseur in the relatively comfortable position where his activities might be considered of more interest to the Internal Revenue Service, rather than the vice department of the CID. Seizing the advantage, Derek subtly and tactfully suggested that some of Mr Wormall's 'clients' might just have a taste for teenage boys and might be in a position to know the location of Brian Forrester since, after all, his bicycle had been found on the premises.

  To John the defensive, rambling and evasive answer was annoying but, to Derek - it had the ring of truth. Jasper knew very little of his visitors, some of whom arrived in cars and all cars looked the same to Jasper. A few walked up and a few cycled up. They never stayed very long [it did not take long] and they rarely disclosed any personal information. Most gave Christian names only and he judged that most of those were false.

  "Thee seem ta be a lot o' Johns! Meh."

  Winter bridled slightly hearing his own name. The old man, now in full flow, went on to say that he suspected most of the men were married. The host was disposed to be chatty but his clients were reluctant to do more than exchange a few brief commonplace pleasantries. His 'patients' were only too keen to get to the nitty-gritty, to have the little man minister to their physical needs, to delve, to seek and tweak those delicious naughty little spots during an anonymous, dimly lit, window of secret stolen time.

  When questions were put about his association with Coggan and Tonks he became even more defensive and very alarmed -

  "What 'av thee bin sayin'?"

  Derek made it clear that the purpose of his visit was to hear what Mr Wormall had to say - and he had plenty to say. A series of crabbed and querulous recriminations enthusiastically flowed forth to thoroughly blacken the character of his former friends.

  " ... an then there were that stick a rock from Skegness ... that were nasty 'cus ..."

  "A gift from the seaside! How can that be nasty?"

  "It were what Dolly said when 'e give it me!"

  "What did he say?"

  At this point Jasper subsided, slowed down and became reluctant, clearly too embarrassed to continue.

  "Well ... a don't like ta say ..."

  "Come on, Mr Wormall. We haven't got all day. Spit it out."

  "Well. Well it were sort o' nasty ... a didn't like it. 'E said - 'Get ya lips round this for a change'! An 'e bought that rock - just - so - 'e could - say - that. Meh!!"

  In general, Detective Sergeant John Winter took a less charitable view of his interviewee. Personal peculiarities were being noted with some small irritation, such as the repetitive and squeaky 'Meh!', a contemptuous motif occurring after the delivery of a smug, self-satisfied line. The real Jasper, with his high, effeminate, 'old witch' type voice was actually very similar to the entertaining impression they had heard from Simon Tonks that morning. Simon had also perfected the nod of the head at each syllable which occasionally emphasised an important point - 'just - so - 'e could - say - that!' Against his will, John was fixated by the bouncing prominent Adam's apple, up and down, the scraggy neck.

  He did not like Mr Wormall. He concluded that the petulant unpleasant heap of rags before him, in all probability, had something to do with the disappearance of Brian Forrester. The quaint simplicity which charmed his boss had no effect on John, whose overall impression was of an introspective, small minded man, approaching ninety who had the mentality of a nine year old. It was Derek who finally stemmed the peevish, seemingly endless flow of trite and childish invectives, nineteen to the dozen -

  " ... an am not always in that toilet as some as a could mention not fat proper purpose an 'e 'ad no right ta push that bib underneath an saucer fa me teeth an a didn't like that plant pot an comment about 'takin' root' cus ..."

  "Thank you, Mr Wormall that will be quite enough! We have all the information we need on that subject. Our main interest at this time is to find a young man who should be home with his parents. Here is my last question ... for the present. Please try to be brief. Can you think of anybody, anybody at all, friend of foe, who you suspect may have an interest in entertaining young teenage boys?"

  At this the hideous old crone eagerly leaned forward and leered at Derek who, instinctively, leaned back to maintain a decent safe distance. A goblinesque face twisted into gloating triumph -

  "'Ave ya bin ta see Dolly's friend yet, 'im at Derby? A don't know 'is real name. Thee call 'im 'Guzzly Granddad' - lives at end a Ebenezer Street. 'E's a dotty owd bugga we 'is slaverin', drivelin' an droolin'. 'E likes em young! Meh!"

  Back in the car, a conference took place. Detective Inspector Derek Russell breathed out a sigh of relief -

  "It's like finding yourself in one of Grimm's fairy stories." Pitching his voice two octaves higher and nodding on each syllable, he attempted a Jasper impersonation - "'Come into my cottage little boy. Meh!' And that Simon and Dolly - what a shower!"

  "Perverted, pea-brained peasant!" spat out his colleague. "I've a good mind to waylay and interrogate one of those blokes and ... "

  "Fighting words, John, but not so much 'pea-brain'. Don't underestimate our little goblin. Taking the bike to the baths - that was rather clever and might well have come off - sheer bad luck that the attendant came out at the wrong moment. Let's address ourselves to the crucial question - is our man a child molester? Is he a murderer to boot? And if so - where is the body?"

  "Well it's not here. I've every faith in Raymond's team. The hate between that old fossil and the other two! God! You could cut it with a knife. It rules out the conspiracy theory."

  "Does it? You know, John, I was thinking about the classic Agatha Christie plot of the 'forced card'. Misdirection - that sort of stuff. Two back-biting parties apparently daggers drawn in an endless quarrel - and on the last page they turn out to be 'acting the part' and in reality, working together in murderous co-operation. That old man went to a lot of trouble to emphasise his distaste of Coggan and Tonks ... well, you never know do you."

  "Bit far fetched that, sir! Our Simon doesn't seem to be overburdened by intelligence - and we've not even spoken to Coggan yet."

  "Yes ... Coggan," said Derek thoughtfully. "Sounds like a smooth one. I'd still like to know how he can drive a brand new car 400 miles a week on an income of eight pounds a week."

  "Anyway ..." said John starting the engine and engaging a more optimistic chirpy note. "Never despair, let's keep looking for Brian. He could still be alive. He could be having tea with Guzzly Granddad!"

  Gingerly, avoiding the largest stones and numerous pot holes, they drove down the rough track from Shire Oakes leaving ominous crows still circling around the tall trees under a blanket grey sky.

  Chapter 18

  Guzzly Granddad

  At the Derby Police Station Detective Inspector Derek Russell was able to study the report from Cressbrook Hall. It appeared to be a house of few visitors. The conscientious cleaning of Simon Tonks was not helpful to the forensic team, but, as expected, the re-occurring fingerprints available were from the principal occupants - Algernon Hardman, his late
wife Marjorie, young Charles and plenty of prints from the tiny camp fingers of Tonks the servant. No other suspicious impressions were found and no trace, not even a dab from the hand of Brian Forrester. It came as no surprise to Derek that even Brian's bicycle had no trace of his own prints - only the fingerprints of Jasper Wormall -

  "That, of course, could indicate naiveté - or clever cunning. If anything at all went wrong (which in the event it did) Mr Wormall would need to explain why he was wearing gloves in July, or why he was discovered cleaning a bike which was not his."

  Attached to the report was a message from Tonks offering the police his professional services as a clairvoyant.

  "Listen to this, John. Simon thinks that if he could just touch the bicycle he may be able to locate its owner."

  "We're not going through all that nonsense again are we, sir, like that spooky charade with Sarah's ring?"

  "Might be useful," said Derek slowly. "If he knows anything at all, he'll reveal it in one of his 'performances'. He plans ahead. He notes, saves and stores up bits of information. He has skills of manipulation. Psychology, my dear, John! Let him be where he wants to be, the centre of attention.

  Anyway, it'll be more interesting now that he's branched out into the mysteries and secrets of Derbyshire. I'm told he's something of an expert on sacred groves, fairy rings, stone circles and all that sort of stuff. Simon Tonks is one of nature's original conjurers. In the past he would have been a druid priest or one of those cryptic Greek maidens who would interpret the spilt entrails of a freshly killed sacrificial goat at an oracle, or ... "

  "OK, boss. No more gore. I get the picture."