The Footprints of the Fiend

by William Stafford

  He actually pulled Woodcock away by the arm. Furious, Miller strode to her car. She aimed the unlocking fob at it as though detonating an explosion. She wrenched the door open and got in, stabbing the seat belt catch into the holder.

  Brough got in but before he could speak she sent him a warning snarl.

  “Don’t even -” she said.

  They went to the pub.

  14.

  Charlie Johnson was far from happy. That bloody woman wouldn’t put through his calls and bloody Gerry Dixon wasn’t answering his mobile. Of all the stupid, bloody - Didn’t they realise the business he was bringing to their shit-pot town? Never mind the employment opportunities for the locals - in terms of bar and waiting staff, of course; from what he’d seen of the denizens of Dedley, they weren’t exactly dazzling with their pulchritude.

  And people - well, let’s face it, men - who came to the club would want to spend money elsewhere. Maybe. Well, it would do the taxi firms some good. The odd kebab shop, should a drunk and happy punter fancy a post-strip show odd kebab...

  Oh, these details would sort themselves out once the club was open for business and its client base established. All that was needed was the nod from the incompetent nincompoops on the council so he could give the builders the go-ahead...

  Why was Dixon dragging his feet? Was his palm not greasy enough?

  Shit head.

  If only Charlie had a home address! He’d stake the place out, if need be. But of course, that bloody woman who was screening Dixon’s calls wouldn’t divulge such information no matter how much and how often Charlie might stress it was a commercial emergency.

  He was on the point of giving up and turning his back on the whole affair. Let the shit pot town resume its slide into terminal decline. What did he care?

  His mobile sprang into life. Charlie snatched it from his pocket, hoping Dickhead Dixon was at last returning his call.

  It wasn’t.

  It was his employer, wanting no doubt a progress report.

  Charlie declined to answer. That dickhead Gerry Dixon was not the only one who could play that game.

  ***

  That dickhead Gerry Dixon had gone to ground. He hadn’t gone far but checking into the Railway Hotel under an assumed name would suit him very well for the time being. The pseudonym and paying with cash meant he couldn’t claim this retreat on his expenses but it was worth the financial cost for the peace it afforded him.

  If it wasn’t that Charlie Johnson badgering him about permits and licences for his sleazy business, it was nutters, those self-appointed guardians of Dedley’s morality, bending his ear, pressuring him to put the kibosh on the club.

  It’s not just me, he wanted to tell them all. I’m not the only one who has a vote. Of course, of course, he realised other councillors were coming under fire too, but he seemed to be bearing the brunt.

  He cursed the day he’d gone to the local press with the news of the exciting employment opportunity that was coming to town. He should have waited until the deal was done and dusted. Instead he’d given publicity to the project before it had been given the official thumbs-up. The concerned and the crazy had poured out of the woodwork, descending on him as the spokesman, just because he’d wanted his face on the telly. And then Johnson had started playing hardball. Or rather, he had hinted that hardball was about to be played.

  Gerry Dixon had heard of softball. He supposed hardball was probably not like that, and Johnson was using a metaphor he’d got from a film.

  Gerry dug his fist into an enormous bag of crisps. He munched a handful, heedless of where the crumbs fell. He was glad to be away from the pressure and intended to stay there until the vote was over and the decision made.

  Some might call it shirking responsibility. Gerry Dixon liked to use a metaphor of his own.

  He was playing dodge ball.

  ***

  Grace Hindle was being pro-active. She had tracked down Councillor Dixon’s wife on her cruise and had left a message for her to call Grace as soon as she could. Time zone differences meant Mrs Dilly Dixon would be asleep in her cabin at this hour, Grace reckoned. Surely the councillor’s wife would know where he was and what he was playing at.

  Grace was tempted to leave the answering machine on. She was fed up of calls from that unpleasant Johnson man. She was sure he shouldn’t be pestering - or trying to pester - a councillor like this. It must contravene some regulation or other. Grace made a half-hearted resolution to look it up; she could warn Mr Johnson off with it.

  Other councillors were becoming nuisances too. Where are you hiding him? they joked. What have you done with the body? And, I bet old Gerry’s in his other office - by which they meant the pub.

  The telephone buzzed. It was Saba in Reception.

  “Hello, love. Bloke here to see Councillor Dixon.”

  “Well, he’s not here, is he?”

  “I know; I’ve told him.”

  “Well, tell him to make an appointment.”

  “That’s why I’m ringing you.”

  “Oh, yes. What’s his name?”

  “What’s your name, chick?”

  Grace heard a low voice rumble and then Saba asked the man to repeat himself.

  “Sorry, love. Spelling? S - M - I - T - H. No, love; I meant your first name.”

  “It’s all right, Saba. I’ll come down.”

  A couple of minutes later, Grace arrived in Reception. Saba was on the phone. She pointed her pen with a fluffy pink gonk impaled on it across to a low Chesterfield sofa.

  There was no one there.

  Grace glanced around. She approached Saba’s desk but the receptionist was absorbed in her telephone call.

  “Excuse me, Mistress,” a deep voice startled her. She turned to find a dark-haired man with the most intense eyes she had ever seen, baring his teeth. It took her a while to realise he was smiling. “Are you connected with a Councillor Dixon?”

  “Um, yes. He’s not here at present.”

  “Then I shall have to address the monkey.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “In the absence of the organ grinder.” He showed her more of his teeth and ushered her towards the Chesterfield.

  Nice manners, Grace thought as she perched on the edge of the sofa, even if he did call me a monkey.

  The man - Mister Smith - sat beside her, keeping a respectful distance. Suddenly he snatched her hand and turned it palm upwards. Grace’s first impulse was to pull her hand away but she found she couldn’t take her eyes from his.

  “I see you are a compassionate woman,” the strange man intoned, barely glancing at the lines in her palm. Grace’s back stiffened. Her other hand touched the cross on her necklace.

  “You are concerned about your employer. He is not far away. He will reveal himself before long.”

  Grace squirmed. She didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Wh - where is he?”

  Mr Smith bared his teeth.

  “He is near!” he whispered. “Be not afraid.”

  At last, Grace snatched her hand back but she could not look away from his eyes.

  “You must go to the bank,” his voice was quiet but commanding and bore a hint of the local accent. “There will be a reckoning.”

  He stood up. Grace examined her palm. When she looked up, only a couple of seconds later, the curious Mr Smith was nowhere to be seen. She looked across at the desk but Saba was updating her Facebook status.

  Grace dashed to the doors. She pushed them open. The broad steps that led down to the street were empty. So was the street. It was as though Mr Smith had vanished.

  More than a little dazed, Grace went back up to the office.

  Go to the bonk. There will be a reckoning...

  What did that mean?
Grace was in the habit of doing all her banking online.

  ***

  Laocoön Smith strode along Dedley High Street with his head held high. The place had changed since he had last seen it. It was gaudier now and brighter although if you looked above street-level the buildings were as ornate and genteel as ever they were. The market was still going strong and there was the fountain, sadly neglected and fallen into disuse.

  How long had he been away? He had no way of calculating.

  The strange familiarity of things around him would confuse him if he permitted himself to dwell on it. The horseless carriages! The people’s immodest attire. Women in pantaloons. Women with tattoos. Had the town been colonised by circus folk?

  Smith kept walking lest one of these carnival types try to engage him in intercourse.

  Where once had been a foul agglomeration of slum dwellings was now an open expanse. Horseless carriages sat in rows, like beasts in a dormitory. Smith quickened his pace. He did not fear the horseless carriages, oh no! It was just that he had somewhere he had to be.

  Beyond this resting place - or ‘car park’ as its label proclaimed it to be - Smith’s destination hove into view. Bridges Bank and atop it, the tumbledown structure that had once been a hive of industrial productivity, a manufactory of ball bearings, if memory served him correctly.

  The building was encircled by a fence of metal mesh. Bright but severe signs warned of danger and advised trespassers to keep off. There was a hut, a sentry post at a wide gate. And above all was a photographic representation of a headless hussy, baring her flesh without shame or compunction, a harlot and a whore.

  “Coming soon,” Smith read the placard, trying to restrict his vision to the lettering rather than the illustration, “The Strip Mine.”

  This puzzled him.

  In his day, miners may have worked shirtless but they were invariably of the male persuasion.

  Averting his gaze, he approached the sentry box. A man in dark blue, like a general’s uniform, intercepted him.

  “Place is shut, mate. You’m too early for the strippers.”

  Laocoön Smith tapped his forehead in salute.

  “My good man,” he exposed his teeth. “It is you I have come to see.”

  ***

  Miller declared if either of them was to go undercover as a member of staff at the Grey Dog, it would have to be her. Brough with his hirsute appearance would pose a hygiene risk.

  Brough tried to assure her every inch of him was scrupulously clean, thank you very much. Miller blushed and said she didn’t want to know about any inch of him.

  The manager, keen to support the coppers and prevent damage to his roof by whatever nutter was doing it by whatever means, handed Miller a polo shirt with the pub’s name on the left breast and an apron. Miller pinned up her hair.

  “How do I look?”

  “It’s a good look for you, Miller,” Brough sneered. “Could be a new career path.”

  Miller bobbed out her tongue and forced herself to listen as the manager explained to her the electronic till system. She had to look the part - the perpetrator might be watching. Miller had to seem like any other member of staff.

  Brough was to be in role as a customer. He bought a baggy jumper and a tweed jacket from one of Dedley’s many charity shops, fancying himself as a real ale enthusiast.

  He settled into a table in the corner with the day’s Guardian.

  “Right, all set,” the manager rubbed his hands, looking around the bar. “Cleaner’s gone home. Shelley will clock on in a minute. Any probs, Shelley will sort you out. There’s a delivery due at 12 but I’ll see to that, and the window cleaner will drop in. Fill his bucket if he asks and bung him a pint when he’s finished. Ah, here’s Shelley now.”

  “Morning!” grunted a young woman, sporting an identical polo shirt. Her hair was scraped up and back into a high ponytail. Her face was like an orange mask.

  “This is Melanie,” the manager made the introductions. “She’s new.”

  Shelley looked Miller up and down and then cracked her bubblegum.

  “I’m leaving her under your capable wing.” He withdrew to a backroom. Shelley pulled a face.

  “Prick,” she muttered. “You’ll get used to him. Done pub work before, Mel?”

  “Um, no.”

  “It’s a piece of piss. And most of it tastes like it and all. Hold up, first punter’s in.”

  Brough had approached.

  “Go on then,” Shelley nudged Miller. “You need the practice.”

  “Yes, um, love?” Miller sent Brough a panicked smile.

  “Skinny frappacino,” said Brough.

  Bastard, thought Miller. She stared blankly at the coffee machine.

  “Get out of it,” said Shelley, stepping in. “I’ll do this one. We get some right pretentious wankers in here. Don’t know why they don’t just piss off to Queequeg’s.”

  “Yes,” said Miller. She sent Brough a sarcastic wave.

  “I’ll be over there,” he said. He installed himself at the table in the corner and made a show of opening his newspaper.

  Marvellous, thought Miller. He gets to sit on his arse all day while I have to do a job of work.

  Marvellous.

  Behind her the coffee machine gurgled and farted, echoing her sentiments exactly.

  ***

  Across the road, in the Starving Beggar, Stevens and Woodcock had no truck with play-acting and dressing up, as Stevens called it. They would merely spend their day in the boozer, keeping an eye out.

  Stevens stretched his long legs under the table at the window and despatched Woodcock to the bar.

  “And none of that alcohol-free shit,” he warned.

  “We can’t actually drink -“ Woodcock tried to point out.

  Stevens pushed his lower lip with his tongue to signify a disparaging view of Woodcock’s intelligence.

  “Got to look the part,” he put his hands behind his head. “Just two normal blokes having a drink.”

  Woodcock ordered two pints. The bar staff had been instructed to run up a tab for the two gentlemen-who-weren’t-cops-at-all. Nobody was fooled for a second.

  A whole day with Stevens! Woodcock wailed inwardly. He too was coming to share the popular view that the D I was a wanker. Then again, Woodcock was increasingly annoyed with anyone he had to spend time with who wasn’t Melanie Miller.

  Perhaps he could nip across the road and say hello during his break?

  Would he even get a break?

  He carried the pints back to the table.

  “Where’s the fucking crisps?” complained Stevens. Woodcock went back to the bar.

  What a wanker, he thought.

  ***

  “That’s definitely goat.” Jonno the zoo keeper was poring over the photographs D I Harry Henry was holding out. “Bloody big one, if they’m to scale.”

  “How big?” Harry Henry pushed his glasses back onto his nose. No matter how many times he looked at the pictures of the fiery footprints on the roof of the Barge Inn, he couldn’t believe it had really happened. He turned to an enlargement, a closer look at the pairs of kidney shaped prints, glowing like embers on the tiles.

  “Bloody big, that’s how big.” Jonno hauled a bale of hay from a wheelbarrow and lifted it into the feeder. At once, several llama appeared at the other side of the fence, vying with each other for purchase on their lunch.

  Harry looked at the woolly beasts before him.

  “Big as these?”

  Jonno shrugged, noncommittally.

  “Um, have you... Are you... Is the zoo short of any, ah, bloody big goats at present?”

  Jonno stopped working and looked at the detective as if confronted by an entirely new species of primate.

&nb
sp; “Only goats we’ve got am in the petting zoo. All normal goat size. And all present and correct. I’ll show you ‘em if you want.”

  “That would be...” Henry nodded.

  He followed the keeper along the path. They turned right and up into the ruined body of the castle.

  “Short cut to the petting zoo,” Jonno explained over his shoulder. The wheel of his barrow trundled noisily along the path that bisected the grassy quadrangle. “Terrible business up here last year. Were you involved with that case and all?”

  Harry looked up at the keep, remembering the violent resolution to the murder case. Brough dressed as an old woman sprang to mind.

  “Goes to show,” Jonno shook his head. Although what went to show what he didn’t specify.

  The noise of his wheelbarrow echoed as they passed through the thick stone walls of an archway. Henry shivered. Dedley Castle was as renowned for its ghosts as it was for its zoo.

  “Here we am,” Jonno nodded towards an enclosure decorated with pictures of baby chicks and bunnies. Henry fastened his raincoat. He didn’t fancy the idea of animals up close and personal.

  Jonno led him past rabbits and guinea pigs. Henry shrank from a goose that was roaming around loose. He hurried to stay as close to the keeper as he could without a marriage proposal.

  “Here we am,” Jonno repeated. On the other side of a wire fence, the strange yellow eyes of a white nanny goat regarded Henry with indifference. “You can see from here, her feet am too small. It wor her that got up on the roof.”

  The zoo keeper chuckled. Henry nodded politely.

  “But like this one only bigger?” He held out one of the enlargements again.

  “Not really, mate,” Jonno wrinkled his nose.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Judging by the pattern of them prints,” he nodded at the photograph, “either someone’s pulling your plonker or that goat’s only got two legs.”

  15.

  The security guard’s uniform was snug on Laocoön Smith. The trouser legs weren’t long enough, leaving his ankles exposed and the shoes pinched his toes. Smith didn’t care. As long as he looked the part from a distance, he would be able to do what he wanted to do; what he needed to do, rather.