“No. It’s no problem,” Grace said quietly. She put some of the leaflets into her bag and the rest in her coat pockets.
“Good.” Pastor Mike switched off the light and made sure to lock the storeroom door. “Now, if either of you see our good friend Trevor Nock, could you tell him I’d like a word?”
***
As she walked away from Flames of Revival, Grace got an idea. She fished out the leaflets from her pockets and her bag and deposited them unceremoniously in the nearest litter bin. Except one.
She folded it in half so the young hussy was hidden but the contact details were still visible, along with a rudimentary map showing where to find the club, even though no club had yet been built.
If Charlie Johnson wouldn’t deign to answer his telephone, she would go direct to the source. She would speak to someone at the site and demand to be put in contact with the elusive Mr Johnson. She would not leave until she had satisfaction - which is probably identical to the intent of the Strip Mine’s prospective clientele.
She wondered if she should put a call in to Saba and let her know she wouldn’t be back at the office.
No, stuff it, Grace decided in an uncharacteristic attitude of rebellion.
“I’ll walk it to this den of vice,” she set her jaw grimly, “by the time I arrive, I’ll be so full of righteous indignation I’ll be an irresistible force.”
Fuelled by this ire and already rehearsing what she would say to Mr Johnson or whichever of his minions stood in her way, Grace marched through the marketplace, a woman on a mission.
Woe betide anyone who crossed her path.
18.
Wheeler convened an ad hoc briefing at Dedley nick as soon as the preliminary findings of the forensic team were in.
“It’s a toss-up,” she paused to glare at that wanker Stevens in case he sniggered, “as to whether the poor bugger suffocated before the poison had a chance to finish him off.”
“Poison?”
That was Woodcock, sitting alert and upright. Still playing the keen bean, Wheeler noticed. Forever trying to impress Miller, no doubt.
“Yes. Mr, um, Turnbull was injected with a lethal dosage of window-cleaning fluid. Feel free to read some kind of irony into that, if you fucking well have to. Struggling to free himself, he toppled the chair, over he went, boshing his head on the concrete floor of his own garage. So it could have been the head injury what did for him. They’m doing more tests but the point is the man is dead and whoever’s responsible is the same silly cock nugget who’s been running around attacking the pubs, including trying to blow up the White Swan.”
Miller’s face turned pillar box red. Woodcock drew Wheeler’s attention away from his visibly embarrassed girlfriend.
“So it’s murder then, Chief Inspector?”
“Well, it’s not fucking pat-a-cake.”
“What’s our next move?” Brough chimed in.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Wheeler shrugged theatrically, “why don’t we try and catch the bastard?”
“Excuse me, if I might...”
Wheeler became aware there was a uniform in the room. There were four of them but she had developed a filter over the years, a way of blotting them out, like the toffs on the telly did with their servants.
“Piss off, Pattimore,” Stevens snarled.
“Yes, love, what is it?” Wheeler smiled sweetly at the PC. “Need the potty?”
“Um, no, no thanks. It just seems to me that everything’s converging on the site of the proposed gentleman’s club. Perhaps we should concentrate our efforts there.”
“What the fuck gave you that idea?” Stevens was astounded.
P. C. Pattimore nodded towards Woodcock’s map on the wall behind the chief inspector.
“You can see a clear line, moving from the Barge right across town to the White Swan, like an exclamation mark. But next in line is the old warehouse. They want to build a strip club there and it’s been causing quite a bit of ha-hoo around the town.”
“Has it?” Wheeler raised an eyebrow.
“Ha what?” blinked Stevens.
“Tell me more,” Wheeler stepped aside to give P.C. Pattimore the floor. Stevens rolled his eyes. Even Woodcock slumped in his seat. Brough and Miller looked amused.
P. C. Pattimore told the assembled detectives what he knew of the mood of the town. He was of the opinion that certain religious types were gaining momentum and were lobbying the council to get the club stopped. He said how he’d been having a drink with a couple of the hobby-bobbies who’d collared a lunatic ranting in the marketplace. A leaflet had been posted through Pattimore’s own letterbox only that morning from the so-called Flames of Revival church, decrying the proposed club.
Wheeler, perched on the edge of a table, swinging her little legs in the air, raised her hand for permission to speak.
“So what, O wise one, do you think should be done?”
Stevens snickered. The chief was leading this young upstart into a trap, he was sure of it.
“Well,” P. C. Pattimore rubbed his chin. “At the very least, place the site under surveillance. Round the clock. Put somebody in there, on the down low. There’s bound to be lots of people coming and going. Get somebody in, undercover, to get himself - or herself - taken on as casual labour.”
There was a brief silence.
Wheeler dropped to her feet. It was a greater distance than she’d calculated so she staggered inelegantly - but only for a second. She approached Pattimore and gave him a pat on the arm.
“Good work, sunshine,” she smiled. “Now piss off and leave the big boys to do their job.”
Stevens slow-clapped as Pattimore went back to his seat by the door. The other uniforms shook their heads sadly. One of their number had flown too near the sun.
“Hang on,” Brough stood up. “He’s right. That’s exactly what we should be doing.”
“Here we go,” Stevens crossed his arms, “First whiff of totty and he’s sticking up for him. Or he wishes he was.”
“Oh?” Wheeler pinned Stevens with a glare. “You consider our young friend to be totty, do you, Benny?”
Stevens grumbled into his moustache.
“We do need someone up there,” Brough persisted. “I could -”
“Oh no you couldn’t, sunny Jim,” Wheeler cut him off. “What are you going to go as, a fucking scarecrow? No; what I’m thinking is, they’re going to be needing a lot of admin support.” She turned to Miller. “How many can you do in a minute?”
Miller frowned.
“She means words,” said Brough.
“Right, let’s get this show on the road as soon as ASAP,” Wheeler drew the meeting to its conclusion. “Miller, get into your tightest blouse; I’ve a feeling these people will appreciate a bit of tittage. Woodcock and Wanker, you’re on stakeout. And Brough, um, well, I’m sure you’ll find something to occupy yourself. And, lad?” She caught P.C. Pattimore’s eye. “Nice to see there’s some brains under the tit hat. Good lad. Now fuck off the lot of you.”
The meeting broke up. The uniforms patted Pattimore in congratulation. Stevens sneered at him as he passed.
“Will you be okay, Mel?” Woodcock searched Miller’s eyes.
“It’ll be a doddle,” Miller shrugged. She pushed up her breasts and jiggled them. “Don’t you think I’ve got the goods?”
Woodcock wiggled his eyebrows.
“Oh, please,” said Brough. “Straight people. You coming, Miller?”
Miller dropped her tits and tutted. She smiled a goodbye to Woodcock and followed Brough out to the car park.
Stevens was rubbing his hands.
“We need pastries, cakes, crisps and chocolate,” he nudged Woodcock sharply. “Do you need to go to the cash point?”
But Woodcoc
k was watching the space where Miller had been.
“Nuh?” he said.
***
Pastor Mike was driving to the proposed site of the all-you-can-eat harlot shop, or whatever it was they wanted to build. He hadn’t actually read the plans; all he knew was the establishment would involve drinking, gambling and young women being exploited by being paid to dance around with only a couple of postage stamps to cover their modesty.
Something like that.
The Strip Mine represented a threat to morality. Pastor Mike was sure of that part. And what better way to draw people into his own establishment than this high profile campaign to protect the residents of Dedley from iniquity?
He needed bums on pews. That was the bottom line.
Pastor Mike laughed merrily at this turn of phrase but his amusement quickly soured when he spotted that numpty Trevor Nock shuffling along the pavement.
Pastor Mike pulled up in front of him with a squeal of his tyres. Trevor Nock’s arms flew up reflexively to protect his face. He cringed as Pastor Mike got out, slammed the door and threw himself at the numpty, pushing him back against a lamppost.
“H-h-h-hello, Pastor Mike,” Trevor winced out a smile. This earned him more pressure from the pastor’s forearm against his throat.
“The fucking leaflets!” Pastor Mike barked. “Who told you to fuck about with my fucking leaflets?”
Trevor Nock was sweating. His mind was racing. He didn’t like to hear Pastor Mike using bad words. He whimpered to think that Pastor Mike was using those bad words against him.
“Come on then, Einstein. What did you think you were doing?”
“H-h-h-helping. Helping you out. I’m s-sorry!”
Pastor Mike’s fist was so tightly balled his arm was shuddering. Trevor’s eyes rolled, expecting that fist to come smashing into his face at any second. He’d only just recovered from the last blow from that bearded bastard.
Instead, Pastor Mike relaxed his grip. He helped Trevor stand up straight and smoothed the crumpled front of his anorak.
“Oh, Trevor. Trevor, Trevor, Trevor. What are we going to do with you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know you are. But, my dear chump, those leaflets were to be specifically targeted. You can’t go around sticking them through just any letterbox. I’ve been drawing up a list. Houses, streets, areas where the campaign will have most impact. Furthermore, members of our flock were to be entrusted with their distribution. Spreading the word. Ingratiating themselves with the Lord. You can’t just go around -”
Pastor Mike was surprised to find himself interrupted by the numpty.
“Oh, it’s okay, Pastor Mike. That nice Mister Iqbal was very interested indeed.”
“Iqbal?”
“Yes. We had a very nice chat about the stripper ladies.”
“Did you now?”
“Oh, yes. He said he was very interested. He was going to bring it up at his whatsit.”
“His mosque?”
“That’s right,” Trevor marvelled at Pastor Mike’s knowledge. “I think he’s on our side, Pastor Mike.”
“You stupid fuckwit,” Pastor Mike’s face was a mask of disdain. “You might have spoiled everything. You do realise that, don’t you?”
“Huh?”
Pastor Mike shoved Trevor aside. He marched around to the driver’s door.
“Get out of my sight,” he snapped, even though he was the one who was driving away. “You’re no longer welcome in the fold. You stupid, irredeemable sinner!”
He got in and slammed the door. The car sped away leaving an utterly dejected and heartbroken Trevor Nock watching it go.
In prison, the chaplain had told him no one was irredeemable. There was always hope. There were things like repentance and redemption and salvation. But now here was Pastor Mike saying Trevor was unsalvageable. Just because he’d bunged some bits of paper through a few hundred letterboxes.
The phrase “washed clean by the blood of Christ” rose in Trevor’s mind, repeating and repeating on a loop.
Perhaps that was possible...
Perhaps Trevor could get himself washed clean by the blood of Christ and then Pastor Mike would forgive him and take him back. He’d sort of have to, Trevor supposed.
Now - he straightened up and his spirits lifted a little now he had a task to do - how to get myself washed clean by the blood of Christ?
***
Councillor Gerry Dixon woke up. He couldn’t feel his arms. They were still tied behind his back and his back was tied to another person. His head ached. His legs and bum were cold from the dirt floor of the old warehouse.
“You’re awake then,” a voice behind him made him jump but he couldn’t turn around to see who had spoken. He concluded it was the man to whom he was bound.
“Am I?” Gerry Dixon groaned. “I was hoping this was some kind of nightmare.”
“This whole enterprise has been a fucking nightmare from the off,” complained the other man and Gerry recognised the voice as Charlie Johnson’s.
“Got you as well, did he?” Gerry was almost amused.
“I’m not here for the benefit of my fucking health,” Charlie Johnson growled. He wriggled, trying to get free, causing the ropes to cut deeper into Gerry Dixon.
“Ow! Sit still!” Gerry Dixon wailed. “Who’s doing this to us? What does he want?”
“Haven’t a fucking clue,” Charlie Johnson spat. “Have you got any enemies? Come off it; you’re a councillor. Might be quicker to list your friends.”
Gerry Dixon gasped.
“You think this is all because of me? This is my fault?”
“Of course! All I’m trying to do is bring a bit of business to this shithole of a town. Employment opportunities. Spreading the wealth. You’d think they’d lap it up.” He thought for a few seconds then laughed. “Lap it up! Do you get it? Because there’ll be lap dancers. Heh!”
Gerry Dixon couldn’t have been less amused if he’d tried.
“Who’s behind it, then? What does he want with us?”
“Fucked if I know.”
“He had the most intense eyes I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t resist them. It was like a dream. He said come with him so I did. I just did. Without question. Was it like that with you?”
“Huh? No, mate. I just come here to have a word with the security, warn ‘em there might be a bit of bother and I got clobbered on the back of my head. I didn’t see no eyes.”
“Oh.”
“No sign of the security bloke. Fucking useless bunch of twats. When I get out of here, I’m sacking the bloody lot. I’ll find somebody who actually wants to work.”
“Plenty of strapping lads in Dedley,” Gerry Dixon chimed in.
“Workshy bunch of bastards,” Charlie Johnson countered.
Their discourse on the suitability or otherwise of the workforce of Dedley was curtailed by the shining of a light in Gerry Dixon’s face. He squinted and tried to turn his head from the full force of the beam.
“Councillor Dixon?”
Gerry blinked, trying to see past the light to the man holding the torch.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me! Theo Dunn from the Chronicle. What are you doing here, tied up to another man? Oh.” Theo suddenly felt awkward. “If I’m interrupting anything, I’m sorry. And don’t worry; I won’t say a word. It’s not like our paper covers political sex scandals as it is.”
“Hoi, you soft fucker!” Charlie Johnson’s voice drowned out Councillor Dixon’s denials. “Less prattling and more untying!”
“Oh? Oh, yes, yes, of course.”
Theo clamped the torch under his arm and stooped to tackle the complex knots holding the two men together.
“Theo,” Gerry had to
ask, “what are you doing here?”
Theo paused his knot-pulling to think about it. He shrugged.
“Um, research, I suppose you’d call it. Do you know, years back, before this warehouse, I mean, this was the site of a satanic ritual. There was this bloke, the Dedley Devil. Got up to all sorts and I don’t mean liquorice. It was on this very spot that the townsfolk ran him to ground and sent him to Hell.”
“Fasci-fucking-nating,” Charlie Johnson sneered. “Spare me the local horror stories and get me the fuck out of here.”
“Yes,” said Theo. “Sorry.” He continued to pull at the knots. He made no progress.
“This is like the wossname,” he grunted. “I’m going to have to do an Alexander the Great.”
He ran off.
“Oh, where’s he going?” Charlie Johnson wailed. “What’s he on about? Alexander the Great.”
Gerry Dixon, who had attended Dedley Grammar School before it became a comp, smiled with the smugness bestowed on him by a classical education.
“The Gordian Knot. Alexander couldn’t untie it so he cut through it. Bit of a cheat but it did the job. Young Theo’s gone to find something sharp.”
“He’d better fucking get his skates on,” Charlie Johnson mumbled in annoyance. He’d always been more of a Pets Win Prizes man than a devotee of University Challenge.
***
“There’s somebody coming out,” Woodcock sat up in his car. Stevens roused from his nap and farted.
“There’s somebody coming out of the warehouse. Look!”
Stevens peered through the windscreen. Sure enough, a figure could be seen walking away from the building but instead of coming down the hill he appeared to be doing some kind of search.
“He’s looking for something,” Stevens pointed.
“Yeah,” Woodcock agreed. “Should we nick him?”
“It’d be something to do, wouldn’t it? Nah. He’s the security man.” Stevens settled back into his seat and closed his eyes. “Let me know if anybody else shows up though.”
Woodcock shook his head. Stevens was getting on his nerves more and more these days.
Woodcock thought of Miller. Perhaps that was the reason for the increased annoyance with Stevens. Woodcock knew who he’d rather be teamed up with - he corrected himself: with whom he’d rather be teamed up. No; up with whom he’d rather be teamed. Sounded wrong.
The Footprints of the Fiend Page 17