The Footprints of the Fiend

by William Stafford

  “Is that Miller?” Brough pointed at the legs sticking up.

  “Give us a hand, Dave,” Woodcock glanced at Brough. “Let’s get her out.”

  “Um.” Brough took the other leg.

  “On my count,” Woodcock announced. “One, two, th-“

  “How high are you going to count?” Brough interrupted.

  “Up to three, you pillock. One, two, three!”

  Woodcock pulled Miller’s leg.

  “Sorry; wasn’t ready.” Brough pulled Miller’s leg.

  “Together or not at all,” Woodcock complained. Miller put her legs together. “Not you, Mel. Got Dave here trying to help. One, two, three.”

  “Hello, Miller. Going frigid on him?”

  “One, two, three!” said Woodcock.

  “Sorry,” said Brough. “Again.”

  “One, two, three!” said Woodcock. The two men pulled Miller’s legs, lifting her from the freezer. When she was high enough, Miller’s hands grabbed the edge of the freezer. They were purple from the cold and there was frost in her hair.

  “Gerroff!” she wriggled. Brough and Woodcock released her legs from fear of a kick in the teeth. Miller righted herself, brushed herself off and stamped her feet to get warm.

  “What happened?”

  “Pub sink go boom,” said Brough, spreading his hands as illustration.

  “Are you all right, love?” Woodcock was concerned about Miller. She patted his shoulder but her attention was with Brough.

  “Is anyone...?” she asked.

  “Minor injuries, far as I know,” said Brough. “Your mate’s had a bit of a free face peel.”

  “And it was in the sink?”

  “Looks like it. Let the fire bods do their investigation.”

  “I’ll be shagged,” said Miller, working something out. “I think it was my fault.”

  “Mel?” Woodcock touched her arm.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” she looked from one to the other. “The window cleaner. He’s been painting chemicals on the roof of the pubs. I went and emptied the chemicals down the sink! I blew up the pub!”

  “The window cleaner!” Brough gaped.

  “Oh, I’d worked that out a while ago,” Woodcock smirked.

  “No,” said Brough. “I don’t mean that. I mean, what the fuck’s happened to the window cleaner? He was on the roof, wasn’t he?”

  All three turned their faces to the ceiling as though they could see through another two storeys to the roof beyond. Rain from the sprinklers fell on their skin.

  “Hello?” said a fireman, picking his way through fallen crisp packets. The nozzle of his hose was pointing directly at them. “Somebody report a fire?”

  ***

  Outside the street was filling with people. The walking wounded were being tended to at the open doors of the ambulances. Fire fighters were assessing the damage and seemed disappointed it wasn’t worse. Shoppers were stopping by to gawp and gaze in the hope of beholding some horrors.

  D I Benny Stevens was gawping and gazing at the roof. It had occurred to him that the window cleaner was still up there. Unless the explosion had knocked him off. It would serve the bugger right. He could see no sign of anyone up there. He wondered if he should reposition the ladder and go and have a look-see. But then, why phone the fire brigade and bark yourself?

  He was about to approach the bloke who appeared to be in charge of the fire crew when a fair-haired man in a blue polo neck stepped in his way. They did that little sideways shuffling.

  “Shall we fucking dance?” Stevens growled. He tried to push the man aside.

  “What’s happened, Inspector?” said Pastor Mike, standing his ground.

  “That remains to be established, um?”

  “Michael Meadows. Pastor Mike to my flock.”

  “Ah, well, um,” Stevens was thrown by this. “Basically, some bozo on the boozer. Tried to blow it up or somert. Might still be up there.” He pointed to the roof.

  “Oh, dear,” said Pastor Mike. “As if there’s not enough tribulation in the world.”

  “Ah-fucking-men,” said Stevens. Then he blushed. “I don’t mean that as in ‘fucking men’ - I’m not into that. You should talk to my colleague about that. Not that I’m saying you’re into that. Oh Christ. I mean, oh shit. I mean, flippin’ ‘eck.” He gave up. His shoulders slumped. “I’m going to Hell, aren’t I?”

  Pastor Mike smiled. He shook Stevens’s hand and patted him on the upper arm with his free one. He walked away, still smiling.

  Stevens felt worse.

  I’ve just put dog shit in a holy man’s hand, he realised. I really am fucking doomed.

  “Who was that?”

  Woodcock was beside him. Those two no-hopers Brough and Miller weren’t far behind, both looking like they’d been in the wars.

  “Some holy Joe,” Stevens shrugged. “Pastor Somebody.”

  “Oh?” said Woodcock. “Wonder why he didn’t stop to help.”

  ***

  Brough and Miller were deemed fit at the scene by the paramedic team and so they attended the emergency briefing convened by Chief Inspector Wheeler. The upstairs staff room at Dedley nick was brought out of mothballs to spare everyone the three-mile trip down the hill to Serious.

  Brough was pleased to see the old place again. It should never have been closed, in his opinion.

  “What the cock-knocking fuckeration is going on in this fucking town?” Wheeler’s opening address was also the extent of her speech. She looked at her detectives in turn. There was Brough, scruffier than ever, looking like a Guy Fawkes whose bonfire had been rained off; Miller, who couldn’t keep her eyes off Woodcock; Woodcock who was at least sitting up straight and making a show of paying attention; and then that wanker Stevens who was preoccupied with sniffing his hand.

  She kept her eyebrows in the raised position inviting - no, daring - any and all of them to supply an answer.

  The uneasy silence was broken by the sudden arrival of Harry Henry.

  “Chief, chief!” he spluttered, breathless from taking the stairs too quickly. “Forensics confirm it, chief. Fire was of chemical origin and started in the bar sink.”

  Miller nodded and looked abashed. Woodcock gave her knee a surreptitious squeeze but Wheeler spotted it.

  “And?” she prompted Henry without taking her eye from Miller’s knee.

  “And what?” Henry blinked. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

  “Anything else?”

  “Oh, um, there was nobody found on the roof. Either he was blown off or he made his escape by some other means.”

  “What? Like in a fucking spaceship?”

  Henry opened his mouth but decided against answering out of a sense of self-preservation. Then he remembered something else.

  “Ah,” he began, his face brightening, “couple of uniforms did happen to happen across a pile of clobber at the foot of the fire escape of the discount carpet shop next door.”

  “What kind of clobber?” This was Woodcock. My, my, thought Wheeler. He’s certainly bright-eyed and bushy-fucking-tailed since he took a shine to Miller.

  “Um,” Henry consulted his notebook. “Overalls, boiler suit type kind of thing.”

  “The kind a window-cleaner might wear...” Woodcock nodded sagely.

  Wheeler had had enough.

  “Christ up a stick,” she smacked the desk. “We’re one Border Collie short of the Famous Fucking Five. The van - did we get anything from the van?”

  “Van’s clean,” Henry shrugged. “Running the registration plates now to find out who owns it.”

  Wheeler clamped a hand to her forehead and then ran her palm down her face.

  “Woodcock,” she groaned, “are you going to te
ll him or shall I?”

  Woodcock beamed like the class swot.

  “Contact details am on the side of the van, mate.” He sent Henry an apologetic smile.

  Henry jotted this information into his notebook.

  “Right, Woodcock, Stevens, you go and find the owner. Brough, Miller, you two go and get cleaned up. Henry, you can go boil your head.”

  The detectives muttered an irregular chorus of “Yes, ma’m”s.

  “Go on then,” Wheeler rolled her eyes. “Fuck off.”

  ***

  The more Theo Dunn read about Laocoön Smith, the so-called Dedley Devil, the less he liked him. The self-proclaimed mystic and seer was a nasty piece of work, if one took a charitable view of his character. He would fleece the hard-working working folk of old Dedley out of their cash by claiming to have contact with their departed loved ones. He would sell readings of their futures – the more you paid, the rosier the reading, although your actual future, when it arrived, turned out to be an impecunious present, the rent money having been squandered on predictions and prognostications.

  You had to invite Smith to your wedding party or the marriage was doomed. You had to invite him to the wake of a loved one, or said loved one would be unable to rest in peace. The Chronicle archives had many old photographs of these gatherings, faded, mottled images of long-dead Dedleyans, and there at the end of the back row, or tucked into a corner, was the lugubrious countenance of Laocoön Smith, his eyes in shadow, his high cheekbones in stark relief.

  Theo found he couldn’t look at the photographs. He didn’t want those eyes looking out at him across the years. He had seen them in his bathroom mirror, had felt them boring into him. He didn’t want to see them again.

  It wasn’t just that Smith was an inveterate swindler and con artist. He was an unsavoury character for other reasons. There were allegations of devil worship made against him by townsfolk who subsequently disappeared.

  Was the Dedley Devil at large again? Had he somehow risen from his grave? Never mind how. What about why? What was he up to?

  Or, Theo considered and hoped this was the case, was something else going on in Dedley, something less than supernatural and other-worldly?

  One thing was certain: Theo couldn’t go to the cops with talk of a long-dead weirdo and charlatan. They’d probably nick him for wasting time and/or ship him off to the loony bin. He was willing to bet even that attractive lady copper wouldn’t believe him.

  No; Theo was alone in this. Whatever he was going to do about this, he would have to do alone.

  He still needed to figure out what that something had to be.

  ***

  In his room at the Railway Hotel, Councillor Gerry Dixon could feel the onset of cabin fever. There wasn’t enough floor space for pacing so he couldn’t displace any of his pent-up energy that way. The tiny flat-screen television was on the blink. He could only get a very hazy BBC 2 and none of the pay-to-view special interest channels. Mind you, that would be a bad idea: running up a bill for porn films. He wouldn’t be able to claim that on expenses - he wouldn’t get it past Grace for that matter. The last thing he needed was another sermon from his sanctimonious secretary.

  And then he remembered his anonymity meant this little visit was coming out of his own pocket. He had developed quite a reflex over the years: the first thought was always of his expenses claim.

  Damn it. He should have prepared for this little sojourn a little better. Should have brought a book or two. Should have brought his Kindle. Should have bought a Sudoku magazine.

  He rubbed his chin. He could do with a shave. That would kill a few minutes.

  He ambled through to the en suite. What was usually a chore was about to offer him a respite from boredom.

  Whistling, he ran the hot water tap and filled the wash basin. He squirted a dollop of foam onto his palm - he invariably squeezed too much from the can - and smeared it over his cheeks, chin and neck. The whistling turned to Frank Sinatra-style doo-be-dooing as he applied the five-bladed head of the safety razor to his Adam’s apple. The mirror over the basin was clouded over. He wiped it with the heel of his hand and was startled to see a dark shape appear in the glass. A bright bead of scarlet appeared at the lump in his throat.

  “Be not afeared,” a deep voice rumbled behind him.

  Gerry Dixon turned slowly, holding the MacroGlide 5000 in his quivering fist. The intense, brooding stare of Laocoön Smith made the councillor recoil. His hand slipped into the soapy water.

  “I didn’t order room service,” Gerry Dixon stammered.

  The dark-eyed man shook his head slowly.

  “Complete your ablutions,” he intoned. “You will accompany me.”

  The man left the en suite and stood beside the bed. Trembling like a leaf on its first date, Gerry Dixon dipped the head of his razor into the water and stretching the skin of his throat tight with his left hand, slowly and carefully began to shave.

  He would have to complain to the management. Allowing all sorts access to people’s rooms. Barging in without a by-your-leave. Making demands.

  Gerry Dixon’s righteous indignation fired him up enough to overcome the shock of the man’s sudden appearance. He padded his face with a towel and put his shirt back on.

  Damn it. The weirdo was still there.

  Feeling more businesslike with his smooth face, Gerry went to see what this fellow wanted and then he’d send him packing with several fleas in his ear.

  ***

  Grace and Linda were sharing a pot of free trade tea in the Flames of Revival cafe. Linda munched her way through a packet of biscuits while she listened to her friend’s litany of woe. Linda considered herself lucky to have Pastor Mike as her boss. He was, by definition, a good man. You knew where you stood with Pastor Mike. Technically, she supposed it was the Church Council, the elders, who were her employers, but she answered to Pastor Mike above anyone else, Our Lord and Saviour excluded.

  “Sounds like he’s having one of them wossnames,” she concluded, vaguely.

  “An affair?”

  “Mid-life thingummybob.”

  “Crisis?”

  “Could be. I mean, you don’t just disappear off the face of the Earth unless there’s something going on now, do you?”

  “No,” Grace topped up their teacups from the pot. “It’s not like him.”

  “Who’s it like then?”

  “I don’t know, do I?”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

  “No.”

  “But what if he’s already in trouble. I’d never forgive myself.”

  “No.”

  “There is someone I could ask, I suppose.”

  “Pastor Mike?”

  “No... There’s this man who’s been seeing a lot of Gerry lately. Always ringing up or popping in unannounced. I could ask him, I suppose.”

  “Worth a try.” Linda offered Grace the last biscuit and was relieved when it was declined. “Who’s Gerry?”

  ***

  Trevor Nock was taking a gamble. He hoped Pastor Mike would applaud his initiative and thank him for his industry.

  He poked another leaflet through another letterbox.

  He’d done half the estate already and was beginning to flag. The strap of his bag was digging into his shoulder even though the burden was lightening with every delivery he made. His feet were sore - perhaps Pastor Mike would let him have his pick of the shoes donated to the next jumble sale as reward for this hard work.

  I’m not in this for the reward, Trevor reminded himself. Not the short-term reward at any rate.

  He pushed open yet another garden gate and trudged up the path to the front door. He was about to post the leaflet when the doo
r opened almost causing him to topple forwards onto the welcome mat.

  “What is this?” the householder, a Mr Iqbal who ran a stall on Dedley market, snatched the leaflet from Trevor’s hand.

  “It’s a leaflet,” said Trevor. “Good day to you.”

  “Hold on a minute, sunny Jim,” Mr Iqbal called him back.

  “It’s Trevor,” Trevor corrected him.

  “Hold your horses, Clever Trevor,” Mr Iqbal held up a finger. He perused the leaflet. “What is the meaning of this? Why are you posting pictures of undressed young women through my letterbox?”

  “Oh, no, no, no,” Trevor rushed to explain. “She’s crossed out, see?”

  “You can still see her side-boob. There.”

  “Yeah, but she’s crossed out. We don’t want this kind of thing.”

  “You’re right there, mate. We don’t want this kind of thing. We don’t want this kind of thing coming through my door. What if my wife saw this, Clever Jim? What if my mother-in-law saw this?”

  “I can give you more. They can have one each. I’ve got plenty.” Trevor reached into his bag.

  “Oh no, my friend. This one here is one too many.” He thrust the offending leaflet at Trevor’s chest. “Please go away.”

  “I can’t help thinking you’ve got the wrong end of my stick,” Trevor stood his ground. It was what Pastor Mike would do. Mr Iqbal looked aghast. Trevor pressed on. “We are against this kind of thing. Please, read the words not the side-boobs.” He handed the leaflet back to Mr Iqbal.

  Mr Iqbal turned it over and read the information about the proposed Strip Mine club for gentlemen.

  “Oh,” he said.

  ***

  Detective Inspector Brough walked through the town centre from the police station to the Railway Hotel. People gave him a wide berth. His bedraggled, burnt outfit and his unruly hair and face fuzz were worse than ever. Even the homeless person trying to sell magazines looked the other way. Brough didn’t mind. He welcomed this treatment, in fact. Had he more time, he would have actively sought the attention of a charity mugger just to watch them run away.

  He reached the main entrance of the hotel and had to step back to allow two men to come out. There was something familiar about each of them. He watched their backs as they walked - or rather, marched - along the pavement. They disappeared around a corner. Brough frowned. One of them was a councillor, he was sure of it. And the other - Brough had seen his face recently...somewhere...