The Footprints of the Fiend

by William Stafford

  Wheeler waited. Brough said nothing further.

  “Right,” she clapped her hands together, “Probably best to keep that kind of story for the next time we’re all sitting around a fucking camp fire.”

  “Um,” Woodcock raised a finger, “That backs up what I found - what we found - on the map. Same pattern of pubs, pointing towards the same place. Bridges Bonk is the focal point.”

  Miller beamed at him in gratitude.

  “So...” Wheeler paced to and fro, “What do you think’s going to happen?”

  “I should think that’s quite obvious, Chief Inspector,” Brough spread his arms to take in the room and the briefing. “Someone’s going to blow up the Strip Mine.”

  ***

  “No, I don’t know where he is,” Grace Hindle told the impatient voice on the end of the line. “Yes, he is aware he was due to meet with you over an hour ago. No, I haven’t seen him this morning. Yes, it’s here in the diary. No, he’s not answering his mobile. Yes, I’ll be sure to tell him. No, you have a nice day.”

  She listened to the buzz as the line went dead. She counted to ten before she put the receiver down. It was the second of the morning’s meetings at which Councillor Dixon had failed to appear. He hadn’t shown up at the office but then that was not unusual.

  Grace clutched at her necklace, fingering the cross to soothe her anxiety.

  She tried Councillor Dixon’s mobile again. Straight to voicemail.

  She tried his home number. It rang out. Nobody home. Mr Dixon had a wife but she was off on a cruise or something. He didn’t mention her much since the daughter passed away. Cancer or something, Grace didn’t know the details. She gave the cross another twist. She remembered suggesting at the time that Gerry might attend a support group at her church. He had accepted the leaflet but she had found it later that day, torn into two pieces and binned.

  She felt as useless as she had back then. How was she to keep the silly man organised if he wasn’t answering his phones?

  Oh well.

  She neatened the growing pile of messages.

  She had run out of things to do.

  She supposed she could check the stationery cupboard to see if she needed to nip out for paperclips or something.

  A stark thought suddenly struck her: What if the councillor was dead? In a car crash, perhaps. Or a heart attack at home. He could be on the toilet like Elvis. These things happen.

  Stationery cupboard be blowed! She decided she would nip out anyway. She could pick up paperclips and so on but the real purpose of her outing was to drop by Councillor Dixon’s house.

  Just to put her mind at rest.

  She told Saba on Reception she was popping out on an early break and that she’d set the councillor’s phone to the automated answering whoozit.

  Saba nodded, barely paying attention.

  Grace hurried to the bus station. Hang the expense - or rather claim back the expense! - she would take a taxi to save time.

  ***

  Pastor Mike was dismayed to see Trevor Nock in the coffee shop again. He felt sorry for the poor man, he genuinely did, but his presence deterred others of the flock from coming in and spending money.

  “Come on, you,” he stood over Trevor, noting the milky coffee he was nursing had developed a skin.

  “I ain’t done nothing!” Trevor protested.

  Pastor Mike smiled.

  “I’m not saying you have. I want your help, Trevor. I mean, to whom else can I turn?”

  He gestured at the other tables, which were all empty apart from one at which two old ladies were knitting.

  “You want my help?” Trevor was happily surprised. He got to his feet, keen to assist. Then he remembered his coffee. He snatched up the mug and knocked it back in one thirsty gulp. Pastor Mike cringed at the satisfied exhalation Trevor made when he’d finished, and shook his head to see that the wretched creature was now sporting a broad white moustache.

  “This way.”

  He led Trevor through the door marked Private. Trevor felt highly honoured. He gazed around him as though entering a grand palace. Before he had received his calling, Pastor Mike had encountered individuals like Trevor before. The best way to deal with them, he found, was to give them a little bit of responsibility, make them feel valued. Not too much responsibility, of course. Give them a task to do and trust them to do it. It was a strategy that had worked with his lesser able students and Pastor Mike saw no reason why it shouldn’t produce positive results with the likes of Trevor Nock.

  Trevor followed Pastor Mike up a narrow staircase. He was thrilled to be getting this behind-the-scenes peek of the church above the coffee shop. There couldn’t be many members of the congregation who had seen what he was now seeing.

  “Store cupboard,” Pastor Mike announced, unlocking a door. He reached in and switched on the single light bulb that hung from the ceiling. “Car keys,” he rattled a ring in front of Trevor’s nose. “My car’s out back. There’s some supplies in the boot. If you would be so kind as to carry them up here, make a space on a shelf.”

  “Yes, Pastor Mike!” Trevor felt like saluting.

  “And come up via the back stairs, will you? Don’t bring things through the cafe.”

  “No, Pastor Mike!”

  Pastor Mike patted Trevor on the shoulder.

  “Good man,” he said. “Bring the keys to my office when you’ve finished.”

  “Will do.”

  Trevor watched Pastor Mike walk off to his office. He clutched the car keys in his fist. It seemed Pastor Mike had forgiven him for that business in the market place.

  Trevor glanced at the ceiling.

  “Thank you,” he mouthed.

  He trotted down the stairs and through the fire exit to the small car park behind the building. Pastor Mike drove an estate. Trevor could see through the rear window it was full of boxes. Whistling tunelessly, he unlocked the hatch door then rubbed his hands in eager anticipation.

  The boxes were all the same size and heavy. He would only be able to carry them up to the store cupboard one at a time. Taped to each one was a leaflet, a sample of what each box contained. Pastor Mike had been giving the local printer a lot of work.

  Trevor was pleased to see the leaflets addressed the coming storm of immorality and depravity that was coming to his home town. The leaflets decried in no uncertain terms the proposed strip club. Oh yes! This was the way to do things. Pastor Mike always knew best. Trevor blushed to think of his foolish outburst in the marketplace. You can’t go ranting and raving in public like that. People just think you’re a freak. No; he smoothed the top of the nearest box. This is the way to do it. A leafleting campaign that presented the argument clearly and simply.

  He lifted the first box from the car, hugging it to his belly, and took it inside.

  When he returned to the car and put his hands on the second box, a voice at his shoulder startled him.

  “Hello there,” said the voice.

  Trevor was relieved to see it was his friend, the new friend who had helped him when that bearded man had thumped him.

  “Hello,” said Trevor. He explained what he was doing.

  “They look heavy,” said his friend. “Let me help you.”

  “Um,” Trevor hesitated. He didn’t know how Pastor Mike would take to having a stranger around. But this man wasn’t a stranger; not really. He was in fact Trevor’s own personal Good Samaritan, wasn’t he?

  “How’s this for an idea?” the man smiled. He had strong features but the smile softened them. “I help you get the boxes from the vehicle and into the building. Then you can lock up this fine conveyance and complete the task of carrying the boxes upstairs.”

  Trevor thought about this. It did make sense. It meant Pastor Mike’s car wouldn’t be left unlock
ed and unattended. You couldn’t trust nobody these days.

  “That’s settled then,” said the man, removing his black jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves.

  The car was emptied in no time.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” the man buttoned up his jacket.

  “Um, yeah, thanks.” Trevor called him back. “Um, what’s your name? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  The man smiled, pleased the question had come up.

  “The name’s Smith,” he shook Trevor’s sweaty hand firmly. “Laocoön Smith.”

  “Lay...?” Trevor frowned.

  “Laocoön,” the man repeated, a little more slowly. Trevor was none the wiser. He opted for a “Thanks, Mr Smith. My name’s Trevor.”

  “Yes,” Laocoön Smith smiled. “I know.”

  13.

  Grace asked the taxi to wait. She hurried up the path and rang Councillor Dixon’s doorbell. She waited, stepping back to look up at the first floor. The house was in darkness. She cupped her hands to her brow to make a visor and peered through the living room window.

  She couldn’t see him. She returned to the front door and stooped towards the letterbox. She pushed open the flap and squinted through the bristles. She had a restricted view of the hallway.

  “Councillor Dixon?” she called through the gap. “Are you there, Councillor Dixon?”

  There was no answer.

  Perhaps he’d gone out. Perhaps he’d gone somewhere that wasn’t in the diary.

  Behind her, the taxi driver sounded the horn. It startled her. She straightened up and sent him a wave.

  If the councillor had gone out, it couldn’t be far because his car was on the drive. Unless someone had picked him up.... Or he might have taken a taxi, just as Grace had...

  Fiddlesticks! Grace allowed herself the curse. She would be rubbish as a detective. Best leave all that to the professionals.

  She cast one last look to the house and then walked sadly back to the taxi. She resolved that if she hadn’t heard from him by mid-afternoon, she would call the police.

  Probably overreacting, she told herself as the taxi took her back to work. There’s probably nothing wrong at all.

  ***

  Theo Dunn realised he was late back from lunch. He hurried back to the newspaper office, hoping to be back at his desk before Old Man Flax noticed. Damn, damn, damn. Where did the time go?

  And where have I been, come to think of it?

  Too lost in my thoughts, Theo supposed. So involved in reading about the Dedley Devil, I even forgot to get any food.

  It was fascinating stuff. This man, Laocoön Smith – there’s a name to conjure with! – he was a local mystic, seer and medium. An all-round shady figure. People were afraid of him. People would consult him nevertheless: what was ailing the family pig? Where did granddad hide his money? Cure my baldness! Make her love me! That kind of thing.

  And then Smith had fallen out of what little favour he had accrued. There was some reference to a missing child - Theo would have to dig deeper in the files to find out about that - and the founding of Dedley Spiritualist Church had taken most of his business, especially the talking to the departed.

  There was a baker’s a few doors along from the office. Theo glanced at his watch again. Another couple of minutes wouldn’t make any difference. He nipped in for a sausage roll to nibble on at his desk.

  He reached up to hand the shop assistant a pound coin. His forearm hurt. Why did his forearm hurt? Theo blushed. Perhaps he had been too rough with himself in bed that morning - but then again, he had no memory of that either.

  He went to the office and found he was out of luck. Terence Flax was waiting for him. He was perched on Theo’s desk, his arms folded and his face grim.

  “Sorry, I’m late,” Theo shrugged out of his jacket and hung it up.

  Old Man Flax was eyeing the brown paper bag in Theo’s hand.

  “What’s that? A peace offering?”

  “Sausage roll. Do you want it?”

  Old Man Flax shook his head. A smile was on his lips but his eyes were sad.

  “What I want, dear boy, is a workforce that sticks to appointed hours. It’s not an unreasonable request.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Flax. I’ll work behind for an hour.”

  “An hour? That won’t do!”

  “I was a bit late back from lunch. I’m sorry!”

  “Dear boy, you’re not just a bit late back from lunch.” Old Man flax stood up and put an avuncular hand on the reporter’s shoulder. “This is the first I’ve seen of you all day.”

  ***

  The mood in Serious was altogether upbeat and positive. Now that Science had ruled out any hint of the supernatural, Brough was a good deal brighter. He was even smiling underneath his rampant face fuzz. Using Woodcock’s map, he explained the steps he considered they should be taking.

  He pointed to a couple of points on the map, each of them the site of a public house.

  He suggested surveillance teams be sent to both pubs and perhaps one or two officers could pose as bar staff.

  “Bloody dressing up!” Stevens wailed. “He’s off again.”

  Someone kicked Stevens in the shin. He couldn’t be sure but it might have been Chief Inspector Wheeler who was moving around the group.

  “We can pre-empt this,” Brough told them, “We might even catch the bugger. He’s more or less set himself up by following the old pattern. All we’ll have to do is wait.”

  Only Stevens looked uninspired.

  “Seems a bit easy,” he said, rubbing his shin. “I’m willing to bet it all goes tits-up.”

  Chief inspector Wheeler snorted in derision.

  “Only tits you’ll have seen for a long while, I’m willing to bet.”

  The team laughed, keeping the boss on side. Stevens reddened and scowled, feeling hard done by as usual.

  “Right then,” Wheeler clapped her hands together. “Brough and Miller, you take the Grey Dog. Stevens, Woodcock, you can have the Starving Beggar. I don’t care what you do. Hide in the fucking barrels like the forty fucking thieves if you think it will help you catch the bastard. Just catch him and bring him here.” Her usually stern face took on a more malevolent expression, “And then you can leave him to me.”

  ***

  Trevor worked hard, carrying the boxes of leaflets upstairs to the store cupboard one by one. He had to move some things around in order to make room; he guessed Pastor Mike would want the boxes within handy reach. A campaign against that den of sin couldn’t afford to wait. Trevor decided he would be ready to offer his services whatever Pastor Mike required, whether it was handing out the leaflets around the town, or posting them through letterboxes. Nothing was too much trouble. Trevor felt he was in Pastor Mike’s good books for once and he was keen to do all he could to stay there.

  Speaking of good books, Trevor had to shift stacks of old copies of the New Testament in order to make room. The books were tatty and dusty and made him sneeze. There were also boxes of old transparencies showing the words to hymns and those happy-clappy modern songs that Trevor secretly preferred. There were folders of receipts, boxes of candles, packets of incense - Trevor paused in his labours to sniff at these and had another fit of sneezes.

  There were large containers, big plastic things, not quite opaque. The colourless liquid within them sloshed visibly when Trevor tried to shift them. They were written on in black marker pen: HOLY WATER. Trevor was surprised. Perhaps Pastor Mike was planning a big baptism event.

  Trevor had never seen holy water before. Let’s face it, on most days he didn’t see much ordinary, secular water. He was sorely tempted to unscrew the top from one of the containers and dip his finger in. Just to see how different from everyday water this holy stuff really was...

 
“You’ve done a good job there.” Pastor Mike’s unseen arrival startled a yelp from Trevor. “Good man.” He patted Trevor on the back.

  “That’s a lot of leaflets,” Trevor nodded to the boxes, all neatly in a row.

  “Yes, it is,” Pastor Mike agreed. Then he changed the subject. “Pop down to the cafe. Tell Linda to give you whatever you want. On me.”

  “Really?” Trevor was astonished by this generosity.

  “In terms of food and drink, yes. Choose something from the blackboard. I’ll settle up with her later.”

  “Oh. Right. Thanks.” Trevor had been hoping to make off with the till.

  He shuffled down the stairs but Pastor Mike called him back.

  “Car keys,” he held his hand out at the top of the stairs. Trevor went back up.

  “Car keys,” he said, dropping them into Pastor Mike’s palm.

  “Good man,” said Pastor Mike. He watched Trevor descend the stairs and push through the Private door to the cafe. He heard Linda squawk in surprise.

  Good people.

  Pastor Mike would be sure to make the best use of such good people.

  ***

  Miller pretended to receive a call on her mobile. She came to a standstill in the car park. Brough continued walking towards her car. Woodcock caught her up.

  “Hello,” he smiled.

  “Hello, you,” Miller replied.

  They stood smiling at each other. Over at the car, Brough was waiting impatiently.

  “Wish it was you and me teamed up together,” Woodcock muttered, glancing first at the sky and then at his shoes.

  “That would be good, yes,” Miller agreed, looking at the space beyond his shoulder. She looked across to her car. Brough had folded his arms. Uh-oh.

  “I mean, out of work - I don’t mean unemployed, like - I mean out of work hours. For good, like.”

  They made eye contact.

  Woodcock blushed; Miller found this delightful.

  “Oh. I see,” she said.

  “Come on, you fuckers,” Stevens appeared out of thin air. “Got work to do. And Missy Moo, you can tell Brough the Scruff our pub’s going to be better than your’n.”