The Footprints of the Fiend

by William Stafford

  Miller looked at the keyhole. She bent towards it.

  “David?” she ventured. “It’s me.”

  ***

  Andy Adams didn’t like having coppers in his pub even if they said they were off duty and just after a quiet drink. Real coppers were never off duty, Adams reckoned, but as long as he kept their glasses full and their questions answered, perhaps they would go away happy. He felt a little bit guilty - of course he did. He hadn’t wanted the old sot to pop his clogs. Of course he hadn’t. At first, Adams had feared his rough handling of the old bugger might have caused the old bugger’s demise. What was that? Manslaughter? But from what he could gather, the coppers were treating it as accidental death. Which is what it was. Of course it was. The silly old fool had fallen into the cut and drowned himself. That was all there was to it.

  Ah, but, if I hadn’t chucked him out of the pub when I did...

  Adams scolded himself for thinking like that. He turned on his smile and took the moustachioed one’s empty glass from the counter.

  “Another Old Trout, Detective Inspector?”

  Stevens shook his head. He scanned the row of beer pumps along the bar.

  “What haven’t I had yet? Woodcock! What haven’t I had yet?”

  “Um...” Woodcock was struggling with his Old Trout. He was barely halfway through it. Beer wasn’t supposed to be chewy, was it?

  “I’ll have some of that,” Stevens tapped a pump. “What’s that?”

  “Golden Thistle,” said Adams. “Lovely stuff.”

  “Go on then.”

  Stevens watched Adams pull the pint, marvelling at his technique.

  “See that, Woodcock? See how he does that? I bet his right arm’s nearly as big as your’n.”

  Woodcock answered this slight with a scowl.

  “Course I’m forgetting. You’m all right. You’ve got a lady friend to do all that for you. And more besides, eh? Eh?”

  “Leave it out,” Woodcock muttered. He picked up his pint and took it outside.

  “Touchy bugger,” Stevens explained to Adams.

  “Four pound twenty,” said Adams.

  Stevens slapped some coins onto the counter, picked up his pint and headed out to find his subordinate. He found Woodcock sulking on the bridge.

  “Give over,” Stevens objected. “Only having a laugh.”

  Woodcock glanced up from the canal water. To think only hours ago, a man had lost his life on that very spot.

  “It’s not that, Chief. Well, it is that, but not at the moment.”

  “What am you going on about, Woodcock?”

  “Come and stand here, Chief.”

  Stevens hesitated.

  “You’m not going to push me in.”

  “I’m not. Just stand here and see what I’m seeing.”

  “Fucksake...” But Stevens joined his partner. “What am I looking at?”

  “What do you see?”

  “Lovely view of the car park...”

  “Go on.”

  “The bins. Beautiful... The pub. Am I getting warm?”

  “Look up, Chief.”

  “When the fuck did you start calling me Chief? Fucking stop it.”

  “Just look!”

  Stevens followed the line of Woodcock’s pointing finger. His moustache quivered and his mouth formed a wide ‘O’. It was like a caterpillar on a doughnut.

  “What the f-“

  “What the fuck indeed, Chief.”

  The roof of the Barge inn bore scorch marks on its tiles. Black against grey, the marks clearly described the path of a large animal. A large animal with cloven hooves. It appeared to have moved in strides across the restaurant extension, leapt to the roof of the main building and then disappeared at the chimneystack.

  “What on Earth...” Stevens marvelled.

  “Perhaps Mr Adams keeps a goat, sir?”

  “On the fucking roof?”

  “Let’s ask him.”

  “Too right we’re going to fucking ask him. Come on.” Stevens poured his Golden Thistle over the wall, augmenting the canal water. “Not only does it look like piss,” he explained.

  They went back indoors.

  ***

  “The thing is, um, David... The thing is...,” Miller found she had to clear her throat. “The thing is...Well, it’s been six months since, well, you know, and well, let me put it this way, nobody’s had a peep out of you in all that time. If it wasn’t for your dad giving us updates, well, we... I’ve just met him. Well, obviously I just met him. Duh. He was the one who let me in. Well, if it wasn’t for him, we would have been forgiven for thinking you’d vanished off of the face of the Earth. For all we knew, you might have done.

  “But the thing is, and I know it can’t have been easy for you, but what I’ve been sent here to tell you, is that, well, it’s been six months and you have to let them know what your plans are. If you have them. Plans. Are you coming back to work? I’d like to know that too, please. Know where I stand. Am I going to find myself in the market for a new partner? Or...?

  “I spoke to Wheeler. Or rather I was present in the same room while she spoke to me. She says it’s crunch time. Six months. Either you come back or you get off the piss-pot. Or however she put it. You could come back part time. To begin with. Sort of ease yourself back in. How does that sound? David? David?”

  “But answer came there none, eh?”

  Miller was startled to find Brough senior standing behind her. He was carrying a tea tray piled high with china. Cups, saucers, a teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl... Well, I should have expected nothing less, Miller reproached herself. No teabag on a string in a mug in this house!

  “Take this, would you?” He nodded towards the tray. Miller straightened and took it from him, surprised by the heaviness of it. It would not do to drop it. The tea service looked like it had been impounded from the pilot edition of the Antiques Roadshow.

  She stepped aside so that Peter Brough could put his cheek to the door and his hand on the doorknob.

  “David, David son?” he spoke to the wood. “There’s a visitor for you. That charming D S of yours. David? We’re coming in.”

  He turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  A draught of cold air rushed out to greet them. Peter Brough went in. Miller stood in the doorway, teacups rattling. The room was how it must have been when D I Brough was a boy. There were posters of the solar system and aeroplanes. There was a bookcase brimming with battered storybooks. There were Classical music CDs and some by Barbra Streisand. The single bed was made and the floor was devoid of the typical debris - Miller blushed to think of her own ‘floordrobe’.

  But of the Detective Inspector there was no sign.

  Peter Brough crossed to the open window and closed it, killing the draught at once.

  “He must have popped out,” he said, gazing through the window at the expansive garden. “Stretch his legs.”

  He turned and gave Miller an apologetic smile.

  “You must stay for dinner,” he announced, suddenly perking up. “That is, if you...”

  “I don’t mind waiting,” Miller handed him back the tea tray, glad to be free of its weight. “I mean, that would be lovely, thank you.”

  “He’ll have to come in by a door,” Peter Brough nodded towards the window, which he had now locked. “We’ll catch a glimpse of him then, what?”

  Miller smiled and nodded. She followed the old man back downstairs to the living room.

  Brough’s mother had returned. She was in an armchair and appeared concerned about something.

  “Hello, my dear,” said Peter Brough, lowering the tea tray onto the coffee table. “Successful sortie to the shops?”

  “Not quite, dear,” said Eleanor Brou
gh, tight-lipped.

  It was then that her husband and Detective Sergeant Miller noticed there was a masked man standing behind the armchair. He was training a shotgun in their direction. He waved the barrel at them and then at the sofa.

  They got the message and sat down.

  “Steady on,” muttered Peter Brough. He sent Miller that apologetic look again.

  “Hands where I can see ‘em!” the masked man barked in a London accent. His captives slowly put their hands on their thighs.

  “I say, old boy,” Brough addressed the nozzle of the shotgun. “What’s all this about?”

  2.

  I’d been frequenting the White Lion for about six months before I asked for credit. I’d been buying weed from a cheerful guy who told me his name was Cleon - I have no reason to think he was lying about that. Our eyes would meet in the bar and then he would leave. After a couple of minutes I would follow and meet him in the alley behind the pub. All very cloak and dagger. But I was a good customer, buying a few ounces every week, sometimes twice. I was also getting myself seen around the place. There couldn’t be a CCTV camera in Brixton that hadn’t recorded my shuffling gait and downcast expression countless times. The bloke on the corner handing out free copies of the Standard would even nod in greeting although I never accepted a paper. London is a city of strangers - I’m not the first to make that observation. People come and go on a daily basis. I suppose the newspaper vendor was pleased to see familiar faces. Gave him a sense of stability or something. Whatever.

  Having established myself as a local presence around the pubs and the market and what-have-you - the jobcentre was an especial haunt of mine; as well as my fortnightly signing on time I would pop in to have a play on their machines. “Job-seeking” they call it. You push a few buttons and nothing comes out. It’s the world’s worst casino, gambling with people’s lives.

  But I’m not here to make political points, however woolly.

  Like I said, I got myself settled in. Not exactly the life and soul of the community but I was a recognisable figure. A case of playing the long game.

  At last I decided it was time to take things to the next level. I ducked into the alley and met Cleon’s toothy grin (guess how those gold caps were paid for!) with an expression of concern and regret.

  “I can’t afford it,” I told him, watching his smile falter. “Too many bills this week, man. Fuckin’ gas, fuckin’ electric. They was gonna cut me off.”

  “Sucks, man,” Cleon was a picture of sympathy. I noticed he kept his hands in the pockets of his Puffa jacket. He wasn’t likely to take out a little polythene parcel. I became more pleading and more insistent.

  “Come on, man; you know I’m good for it, man. Didn’t you say I was like one of your best customers?”

  “Because you always pay up front and you don’t piss me off asking for credit.”

  The smile was completely gone by this point. I turned on the waterworks.

  “I gotta have it. I’m stressin’ out. Bailiffs been round, doin’ my head in.”

  Cleon advised me through clenched gold caps to keep my voice down. He didn’t want the whole of Brixton to know his business. Who was he kidding? Everyone knew Cleon and the exact nature of his business. He could have stood on a box in the marketplace and sold his wares via the medium of loudhailer and nobody would have been surprised.

  “Just this once. I get money through tomorrow. Day after at the latest. Go on; you know I’m good for it.”

  Cleon gave me a cold appraisal. I sniffed noisily and wetly for good measure.

  And then his entire attitude seemed to soften and he gave me a look like a father relenting. Yes, Petunia, you shall have a pony.

  He pulled out his fist and put it in the palm of my hand. But he didn’t let go. He pulled me towards him so we were nose-to-nose.

  “On the house,” he said. “Free and gratis and for nothing. You get me?”

  I looked into his big brown eyes. I got him. There was no such thing as free, gratis and for nothing. I would have to pay for my hit some other way.

  “Meet me here in the morning. Eight thirty and you better not fuckin’ be late.”

  He shoved me away. I clasped my hands around the tiny bag of ‘wacky baccy’ and bowed my head in gratitude. I backed out of the alley, all obsequious and relieved. Until I was out of his sight. I pocketed the bag and scurried back to my basement bedsit.

  I had lied, of course, about the power company cutting me off and the bailiffs dropping by for tea and scones. But it all helped to engender the right image.

  I let myself in and flicked on the bare bulb that hung in the centre of the room. I edged around the unmade bed and ransacked the cupboard for a couple of slices of bread. I found a couple that were dry and hard like asbestos mats but perhaps a couple of minutes in the toaster would render them edible. While they were charring, I emptied my pockets.

  The brown. The hash. The skunk. The - It can be difficult to keep up with the correct terminology. I know the criminal underworld likes to keep Plod guessing. It’s also a good way to flush out the imposters, the plants, the narks, the grasses - and again we’re into specialist terminology.

  I crouched at the cupboard under the sink and pulled out a metal cashbox. I unlocked the box and withdrew an Evidence envelope. I scrawled the time, date and location of my ‘purchase’ on the envelope, put the cannabis inside and locked the thing up again. At the end of the month, I would deliver the contents to a cop shop across the river, where it would all be signed and accounted for.

  It was while making these monthly excursions that I felt most exposed and most vulnerable. If any of the faces from Brixton saw me playing postman like this, I would be rumbled.

  But so far, so good. I was settled in. No one, apart from my contact over the river, knew who I really was and what I was up to.

  And now the time had come to take things up a notch. I’d made a good start, getting myself indebted to Cleon. Rather than giving me credit, he seemed to have something else in mind.

  I hoped he didn’t want to bum me.

  Not that I’m not into that. I just didn’t fancy him. Perhaps in another life, in other circumstances... No; it was pointless to think like that. While I was undercover there was to be nothing of that nature. I barely touched myself, truth be told.

  I wanted the false me to be as unlike the real me as possible. I wanted nothing in common with the false me. And if that meant masquerading as straight, so be it. It would never come to anything - Who would want to fuck a spotty, smelly scruff-bag like me?

  I was operating under the name of Kevin Tonkinson. Those who spoke to me called me ‘Tonk’. I didn’t foster friendships and they’d be lucky to get more than a civil grunt from me as I hurried past, my head bowed, my shoulders hunched.

  The toaster began to emit black smoke, deciding to cremate the bread rather than eject it into space. I pinched the charred remains and removed them from the gaping maws of the machine, swearing and repeating ‘Ow, ow’ as I transferred the burnt offerings from worktop to sink.

  So much for supper.

  I got into bed, which involved little more than pulling an unzipped sleeping bag over me. I was too wired up to sleep. The morning meeting with Cleon was playing on my mind.

  After six months of settling in, something different was about to happen at last!

  ***

  The White Lion and more pertinently the alley behind it were only five minutes’ walk from my meagre accommodation. But I made sure I was ten minutes late. It wouldn’t do to appear too keen or well-organised. Cleon was there, running a short fuse.

  “I told you not to fuck me about,” he snapped in a stage whisper.

  Did he? I had no memory of that.

  “Well, I’m here now,” I pointed out. He couldn’t argue with the facts.


  “Tell you the truth, I didn’t think you’d be here until gone nine,” he flashed his gilded smile. “If at all.”

  “I said I would so I - here I am.”

  “Right. Come on, then.”

  He ambled off along the alley. A dirty van was parked on the kerb.

  “Get in.”

  I headed for the back doors.

  “In the front! You muppet.” He sucked his pirate teeth and shook his head. I could tell he was beginning to regret our arrangement even before he’d revealed what that arrangement actually was.

  I climbed onto the long vinyl-covered seat, opting to sit by the window rather than cosying up to him as he drove.

  “Well, belt up then,” he snarled, exasperated.

  I fumbled the hasp of the seatbelt into the catch and then arranged the belt across the front of my denim jacket.

  Cleon pulled away. The van rattled and rumbled, farting toxic fumes into the South London morning.

  “We don’t want the filth flagging us down just ‘cause you can’t be bothered to put your fuckin’ seat belt on.”

  I nodded. Yes, of course. Silly of me.

  We drove out of Brixton proper and towards an industrial estate you wouldn’t know was there. Judging by the general air of desertion, it was clear that nobody did know about it. Cleon brought the van to a shuddering halt in front of a low-rise unit. He hopped out and unfastened the padlock that secured the metal shutters across the entrance.

  “Come on then,” he yelled back at me. “Sitting in there like the fuckin’ Prince of Wales or summink.”

  I guessed from this he wanted my assistance with the shutters. I undid the seatbelt and climbed down from the cab.

  “We haven’t got all fuckin’ day,” he pointed out. “I’ve got to sign on at twelve.”

  With the shutters raised, the unit yawned like a rather angular cave. Cleon fetched a torch from the van. A proper motorist’s torch with a handle. He led me into the darkness.

  The air was dry and vaguely metallic. As the beam of light played in front of us, I got an idea why. The space was lined with metal shelves, row upon row, bolted together like a giant’s Meccano set and laden with cardboard boxes all uniform in size and shape. Not the ideal spot for a bit of compensatory bumming, I realised. Perhaps then his intention was to murder me here.