The Footprints of the Fiend

by William Stafford

  A collective gasp went through the crowd. The intake of air was enough to ruffle the hair of the three men at the front.

  Down on her car roof, Wheeler swore. But she kept her officers at bay. There was a scene to be played out, it seemed. Perhaps this Pastor Mike would be able to defuse the hostage situation. Perhaps he wouldn’t. Either way, she’d wait and see before she nicked the fucker.

  “Yes, it was I. A judicious application of a chemical compound of my own invention was all it took to fool the credulous. I had to make it appear the town was facing moral decay. I had to drum up support in my campaign against this man and his sinfulness.”

  He’s proud of it, Wheeler realised. He’s bragging, boasting.

  She waited in keen anticipation. Would Pastor Mike also confess to the murder of the window cleaner? Did he even know about the poor homeless bugger who went up with the Duke of Windsor?

  Laocoön Smith was confused.

  “You lie! As all you ranters lie! The footprints are from the feet of the Fiend. I have seen them. I have -“

  He broke off. He shook his head. The baffled face of Theo Dunn appeared, appealing to Pastor Mike for help. Then Laocoön Smith re-emerged and let out an angry shout. In a swift motion he sliced Charlie Johnson’s throat open and cast him face down into the dirt.

  The crowd shrieked and began to panic.

  Pastor Mike appealed for calm. The crowd seemed to settle. This was another boost to Pastor Mike’s ego but then he realised they were not looking at him. He became aware there was someone standing behind him. From the corner of his eye, he could see the new arrival was dressed in white robes. He turned his head and gasped in amazement at the long-haired, bearded figure.

  Pastor Mike dropped to his knees.

  The crowd followed his lead. They knelt before this new arrival.

  The figure turned to Laocoön Smith.

  “Drop it, sunshine,” he said quietly.

  Laocoön Smith dropped both his jaw and the shard of glass.

  Silence reigned.

  D I Brough addressed the crowd.

  “Show’s over, people,” he said. “You’ve got what you want. The strip club will not be built. A man has been injured so I’d appreciate it if you’d let the paramedics through to give him the attention he needs. Go back to your homes and your jobs and think about what has happened. And please, don’t be twats about it.”

  The crowd, hanging on every word, nodded. They began to feel a little silly but the words of this normal, mortal man had the desired effect. They began to shuffle away. An ambulance crew rushed up to see to Charlie Johnson. Stevens and Woodcock and a couple of uniforms rushed up to see to Laocoön Smith. He was cuffed in seconds and offered no resistance. He looked thoroughly downcast to have failed again.

  But before Smith could be led away, another figure emerged from the crowd, calling out to everyone to stay where they were.

  Pastor Mike pulled a face when he saw who it was.

  “Stop! Stop!” cried Trevor Nock, fighting his way to the front. “This isn’t - This isn’t - This is the bloke who hit me! Don’t listen to him!”

  No one seemed to be paying him much attention so he lunged at the bearded bloke in white and punched him in the face.

  “Ow! Fuck!” D I Brough reeled in pain. Blood spurted into his hands. “You’b broken by dose, you stupid cunt!”

  He signalled to a couple of uniforms to come and arrest the cunt in the anorak but Trevor Nock had other ideas. He grabbed hold of Pastor Mike’s sleeve.

  “Pastor Mike!” Trevor Nock was beaming, “We did it! We stopped the strippers! Looks like my leaflet deliveries did the trick, eh?”

  “Go home, Trevor,” Pastor Mike tried to move away, but Trevor Nock held on doggedly.

  “Oh, please, Pastor Mike. Please say you forgive me. I’m sorry I thought for myself. I’m sorry I took the initiative. Please forgive me.”

  “Oh, all right, all right,” Pastor Mike snapped. This fool was ruining his moment of triumph. “I forgive you, fuck’s sake.”

  Trevor Nock wasn’t satisfied. He flung his arms wide open and pulled Pastor Mike into an embrace.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, Pastor Mike. Such a relief to be forgiven. I tried washing myself in the blood of Christ but that didn’t work, and red wine is such a bugger to get out of a shirt. So I washed myself in holy water - I hope you don’t mind about that. I know I should have asked first but...”

  Pastor Mike, wriggling in Trevor’s embrace, gaped in horror.

  “You did what?”

  “I washed myself in holy water,” Trevor grinned. “I didn’t feel no different so I came here to get your forgiveness. And that does make me feel better. Sort of a warm glow is coming all over me.”

  “Get off me!” Pastor Mike struggled but Trevor was like a boa constrictor from Dedley Zoo. “Where did you get this holy water?”

  But Pastor Mike already knew the answer to that.

  He could see smoke rising from Trevor’s clothes and from Trevor’s hair. The idiot was grinning insanely, happy and oblivious to the impending conflagration. Pastor Mike was all too aware. He cried out for help - would no one free him of this stupid fuckwit? - but it was too late.

  A second later, Trevor Nock was engulfed in flames and Pastor Mike went up with him.

  20.

  “Good work, team.” Karen Wheeler actually smiled as her detectives gathered around her.

  “What did I miss?” Harry Henry blinked through his spectacles. He took in the scene before him. The last stragglers of the crowd were just leaving. Councillor Gerry Dixon was in the back of an ambulance. Rope burns around his wrists were being tended by paramedics while his secretary dabbed at his forehead with an antiseptic wipe.

  “The whole shebang,” Wheeler scowled. “Where the fuck have you been, Harry?”

  “Oh,” Harry held out a folder. “Gathering information. Did you know Pastor Mike used to lecture in Chemistry up at the university?”

  “No shit, Miss Marple,” Wheeler nodded, impatiently. “Oh, leave it out, you two.” This last was addressed to Woodcock and Miller who were in a clinch that fell short of professional. Woodcock turned Miller’s hands over. He kissed her wrists where the plastic washing line had marked them.

  “They’ll be at it like rabbits on shore leave tonight,” opined Stevens, looking thoroughly disgruntled.

  “I don’t fucking blame them,” said Wheeler. “Good work today, Benjamin.”

  Stevens gaped and blushed. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had praised his efforts. He cleared his throat and turned to Brough who was still clad in restaurant tablecloths.

  “You and your dressing up,” he nudged him. “What gave you the idea?”

  Brough rolled his eyes skywards, a gesture that was for the most part hidden by the ice pack he was holding to his busted nose.

  “Divine inspiration,” he winced. “Nah, I just saw the van from the Simoom. They’d just abandoned it. Struck me it might be funny to...”

  He trailed off, aware of Wheeler’s disapproving stare.

  “I don’t know whether to congratulate you or kick your arse from here to breakfast time. But it’s thanks to you, the nutter with the piece of glass was apprehended, so it’ll be carpet slippers not hobnail boots up your backside this time, you arrogant cockwomble.”

  She clapped her hands together.

  “Right. Nutter’s been carted off. Johnson’s in A & E. The councillor will be fine and everybody’s calmed down and pissed off and no harm done. Yes, love?”

  A member of the public had approached and had raised his hand like a kid in class asking for permission to go to the toilet.

  “Excuse me, chicken,” Mister Iqbal smiled, “I don’t know if it is the right time to ask but that site up there,” he
nodded towards the derelict warehouse on the hill, “to whom should I be applying for planning permission? It would be a bosting setting for a new mosque.”

  Karen Wheeler’s mouth hung open. From the corner of her eye she could see her team sidling away. She could detect their smirks of amusement.

  She closed her eyes.

  Why me? She questioned the universe.

  ***

  The next morning down at Serious, the team assembled for a final briefing. Woodcock and Miller were starry-eyed but had the sense to untwine their fingers when Wheeler walked in.

  Stevens was in a good mood, bringing everyone coffees from the machine and doughnuts from the canteen. This earned him a few quizzical looks from his colleagues but it seemed like nothing would faze him.

  Brough watched the others from a slight distance. Apart from the dull pain in his hooter, he wasn’t sure how he felt. He was back; he knew that much, but did it feel good to be back?

  Harry Henry arrived, burdened with papers and folders as usual. He asked Brough to ‘hodge up’ so Brough shifted aside to let Harry sit down.

  At length, Wheeler stood before the white board.

  “Morning, fuckers,” she began. “First off, progress report on Charlie Johnson. I’ve spoken to the medical team at Dedley General and they’m happy with his condition. He’s stable and should make a good recovery. Scarred for life, I shouldn’t be surprised, and his voice will probably be a lot different. Poor bastard. We’ll leave it a bit before we ask for his statement. Other chap wasn’t so lucky - the security guard. The real one, I mean. He was found in his pants with his throat slashed wider than a letterbox.

  “The other dead, although they have yet to be formally identified, appear to be one Trevor Alan Nock, former petty thief and pickpocket, and local pillock of the community - I mean pillar, of course - one Michael Francis Meadows, self-styled pastor of the Flames of Revival church. Prior to that - no, I don’t mean he was a prior, I mean before that he was a lecturer in Chemistry up at the university. Got made redundant, lost the plot and his wife and kids with it. Saw the light and set about god-bothering. Looks like he never forgot his chemistry and is not only responsible for the footprints on the pubs but also the death of window-cleaner Thomas Turnbull, whose ladder and van he appropriated for the placing of said footprints. God knows why; some kind of half-baked campaign against the now-abandoned strip club. Perhaps he was trying to scare folk into joining his church by putting the fear of the devil up them. I dunno; I’m only sorry the bugger’s gone up in smoke before I could have a word in his lughole.

  “Councillor Gerry Dixon has handed in his resignation. Whether this has anything to do with our friends and neighbours proposing to build a mosque on the site, well, that’s not for me to fucking say. What I say is, if you cor stand the heat, stay out of the Simoom.

  “And as for our nutjob, Harry?”

  Wheeler offered Harry Henry the floor. He stood up, shedding files and folders on the carpet.

  Wheeler held her breath and held her tongue while the buffoon composed himself and went around the team bidding them each a good morning. She was just about to kick him in the shin and tell him to get a fucking move on when he began.

  “Theo Dunn” Harry clicked the clicker and a picture of the reporter appeared on the screen behind him. “Laocoön Smith, also known as the Dedley Devil of a bygone age.” He clicked again and a picture taken from the Dedley Chronicle appeared alongside Theo’s image. “Two separate individuals, divided by over a hundred and fifty years. Look.”

  He clicked a third time. One photograph slid in front of the other. Two pairs of eyes became one. The cheekbones lined up exactly. The jaw line. The hairline. The ears.

  Miller gasped.

  “Young Theo,” Harry smiled with the smugness of someone with secret knowledge, “is a descendant of the infamous Mr Smith. Hence the likeness. It is uncanny, I will admit. But there is nothing supernatural or spooky going on here.”

  “Well, spit it fucking out then,” Wheeler interjected. “Some of us have bladders to attend to.”

  “Mister Dunn suffers from what I believe is known as D. I. D. Or Dissociative Identity Disorder to give it its full name.”

  “And what does that mean? He’s fucking doolally or what?”

  Harry smiled through Wheeler’s interruption.

  “The doctors who examined him when he was arrested pointed me in this direction. He’ll have to undergo proper and rigorous psychiatric evaluation, of course. I’ve been up half the night reading about it. It really is fascinating.”

  “Fuck me,” Wheeler wailed. “Paging Dr Freud. Kindly fuck off. Just give us the bottom line.”

  “The appearance of the fiendish footprints seems to have triggered a dissociative response from Theo. His research into the phenomenon gave shape and identity to his new personality. He became this Smith. During episodes when Smith was dominant, Dunn would disappear.”

  “He struck me as a bit, you know,” Miller offered, “Absent-minded.”

  Brough nodded in support of his partner. Woodcock saw this and nodded too.

  “Well, we caught him, he’s behind lock and key. Who gives a toss if that lock’s on a prison cell or a rubber room on the funny farm? Job’s a good un. Thank you, Harry.” Wheeler invited Harry to sit back down. Harry blinked and pushed at his spectacles. He had reams of research he would have liked to lead them through.

  Wheeler blew out her lips in a rather equine gesture.

  “Right, well, I think we’ve earned a bit of a blow-out. Last one down the pub’s a silly wanker. First round’s on me.”

  She walked out. The detectives of the Serious Crimes Department looked at each other. Suddenly they burst into a flurry of activity and dashed for the exit. After all, no one, not even Benny Stevens, wants to be a silly wanker.

  In the corridor, Woodcock caught Miller’s elbow. Brough and Stevens and even Henry were giggling as they headed downstairs to the main exit.

  “Mel,” Woodcock began, looking into her eyes, “I want to ask you something. While we’ve got a bit of quiet away from the others.”

  Miller stopped resisting him.

  “What?”she asked but she had a good idea. Her eyes widened as he lowered himself onto one knee. He took her hand in his and looked up, a goofy grin on his face.

  At that moment, Wheeler trotted past having quickly replaced her uniform for civvies.

  “Just fucking say yes, love,” she said to Miller as she passed. “Don’t leave the wanker hanging.”

  Miller laughed, finding herself suddenly breathless.

  “Well?” Woodcock prompted. His knee was killing him. “What do you say?”

  Melanie Miller looked into the eyes of this kind-hearted and funny man who obviously adored her. She stroked the side of his face and gave her answer.

  ***

  Stevens with his longer legs beat Brough to the front door of the Ragged Rascal. He laughed at this proof of his superior masculinity, roaring hoarsely like a crowd in a stadium, celebrating his victory.

  Brough rolled his eyes. He was about to go into the pub when someone stepped in front of him.

  “Excuse me, sir,” a young man was smiling nervously at him. He looked familiar.

  “Hello?” Brough frowned.

  “It’s me, sir,” the young man grinned. “Pattimore. P. C. Pattimore. Jason.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, of course. I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on. I mean, your civilian clothes.” Brough blushed.

  “Only I was wondering, sir, if you’d like to have a drink. With me, sir.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t -“

  Brough broke off. He looked at the fresh face of the young constable. There was a twinkle in his blue eyes and he was certainly very attractive.

  “I don’t think
that’s a good idea,” he said. P.C. Pattimore was visibly downcast. “What I mean is,” Brough added hastily, “I don’t think it’s a good idea until I’ve smartened myself up a bit. Tell you what, I’ll call at the barber’s on my way home and I’ll give you a call.”

  “Yes, sir!” P.C. Pattimore gasped.

  “David, please,” Brough smiled. “In the meanwhile, why don’t you join the team for a drink? We’re having a bit of a celebration. And make sure you give me your number.”

  “Yes, sir. David.”

  Brough held the door open and ushered the young man inside. Before he went in, he glanced across the road to the shiny, impressive architecture of the Serious Crimes Building, the place where he’d first met Alastair.

  He touched the dressing that criss-crossed his nose.

  Pain fades, he realised.

  If you let it.

  Yes, I’m back, he told himself. And what’s more, he thought of the young copper waiting in the pub, I’m ready.

  THE END

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