by Brian Hughes
“You’d better give your problems t’ Mulder an’ Scully t’ sort out, ’adn’t y’?” His eyes narrowed to hard emeralds. “Well go on…and I’ll meet y’ in the Bull and Duck in ’alf an hour.”
Reluctantly Malcolm led Mavis to the door, his muttered oaths falling on deaf ears.
Moments later Nesbit reached a halt alongside the uninvited guest. The faint scratch of a plastic mouthpiece on enamel was the only further interruption to the stillness.
One rubber-gloved finger traced a pattern through the blood. Nesbit watched as a drawing of a rabbit appeared. At length the interloper nodded at him and smiled. Nesbit responded with an equally sublime grimace, a crack drifting up from where his pipe had dislodged a microcosm of filling. “Expecting a melt-down?”
The sombre rays of morning scattered listlessly from the radiation suit. Without acknowledgement his colleague broke a splinter from the wall and held it beneath Nesbit’s nose. “Y’ see this?” Nesbit nodded, even though the object was out of focus. “Bit o’ effin’ skull, that is! And y’ see this?” He nodded again at the additional sheen of bone. “Bit of buggerin’ brain that!”
Using his forefinger and thumb the stranger catapulted the fragment across the room. It bounced off a teapot and came to rest amongst the ashes of the half-smoked Havana. Smudging his palm across one hip he offered it to Nesbit. “Bill ’Ardbottle, Forensics.”
Nesbit brightened at this information. “You can tell an ’effin’ lot about bleedin’ events from bits of stuff like that!” Hardbottle went on, sniffing his finger.
Now this was the sort of man that Nesbit could use. Inside information, that sort of thing. He didn’t want Clewes to think he was bumbling around in the dark.
“Such as…?”
“Well…” Bill Hardbottle leaned conspiratorially towards him. “For one thing, there’s some poor bugger runnin’ round out there without a top to ’is ’ead.”
Chapter Four: The Wench is Dead
‘Serial Killer on the Loose in Greyminster: Following two apparently motiveless murders Greyminster police have issued the following warning. ‘Under no circumstances approach a wafer-thin gentleman carrying a shotgun.’
Sounds like good sense.
Councillor Ordenshaw has refused to abandon the opening of the new retirement home at Whipping Gate, stating, ‘Just because somebody is wandering round killing people, there is no excuse for slacking.’
We are unable to comment on the councillor’s alleged involvement with the Whipping Gate Council House Sell-Off Scandal, as the case is currently going through the courts.
Full story on the gripping murders with colour photographs, pages 5 to 17 inclusive.’
Extract from The Greyminster Chronicle (Midday edition) Feb. 15th 1999.
Despite being an industrial relic at a sufficiently northern point of England not to matter to those in Parliament, Greyminster was no exception when it came to changes in the Social Services. Some bright spark in government had come up with the labour-saving idea of combining job centres with unemployment benefit offices, the result of which had been a new hybrid of horror.
Gone were the old fashioned buildings with their snaking queues and glass separations. Now instead there lurked a new menace disguised as the interior of a glass house.
Every unemployment office in Britain has its chief bitch. In the case of Greyminster this unofficial title had been granted to Prudence Trounce. Whereas most of the personnel, struggling against the tropical conditions, wore shirts and Bermuda shorts, Prudence Trounce was chilled with her own animosity. Cold enough to wear a starched collar, three cardigans and a skirt. Her cadaverous fingers nimbly tapped across the keyboard. The sort of fingers that should have left frost wherever they touched.
Bruce Partington nervously tapped his sneakers against the table leg, occasionally glancing up into the face of his nemesis. He’d been here before. Eric Cantona had been given two weeks community service for drop-kicking a supporter in the mouth. Bruce had suffered that same penalty for the whole twelve months previous, for the crime of leaving college and entering an unpromising jobs market.
As her fingers worked their kiss of death across the keyboard he wondered whether Miss Trounce had ever known what it was like to fall in love. She looked the sort who spent her evenings poisoning the next-door neighbour’s cat.
“Now then, Mr Partington…” Prudence turned from her monitor with a chilling stare. “You’ve been unemployed for eighteen months.”
There was that voice. More of a noise than human articulation.
“It’s quite apparent that you’re not trying hard enough to find work.”
Bruce made to object. “Well, for twelve months of that I was on a government course…” It was hopeless and he knew it. No matter how assertive he tried to be, Prudence Trounce was going to live up to her name.
“That’s no concern of ours, Mr Partington.” She swivelled back to her hidden screen, one icicle of a finger steering the mouse. “Now, I have a list of jobs here. What sort of work were you looking for?”
“Well…” Bruce swallowed nervously. “I was hoping for something in food management. That’s what I trained for.”
“Right, well…we’ve got a job going here, Mr Partington…” Bruce brightened slightly. “In bricklaying.”
“Well, no. That’s not exactly what I had in mind.”
“We could tailor it to your needs. For example, brick laying in a restaurant?”
“It’s not got a lot to do with food has it?” Bruce was aware he was fighting a losing battle.
“Mr Partington, you’ve been unemployed for eighteen months!” This phrase was flung at him with the hostility of a puff-adder. “I hardly think you have any room for argument!”
“But I only wanted to…”
“The government doesn’t intend to pay you for sitting around on your backside all day, doing sweet Fanny Adams. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly clear.” The last dregs of rebellion gurgled down the plug-hole of his ambition. “Its just that…”
“Undertakers then? Very similar to food preparation in many respects.” Miss Trounce thundered on.
“Well, no…”
“Bricklaying?”
“No!” Just occasionally life grants us one final surge of defiance. “Look, I’ve studied for four bloody years in the food industry. I only want to…”
“Hare dare you adopt that tone with me, young man?” Prudence’s face exploded with indignation. “Quite obviously Mr Partington you are limiting the sort of work you ought to be looking for.”
The idea that ‘Helping’ somebody back to work might actually involve ‘Helping’ was a concept that had never once entered her head.
“Not at all, it’s just that…”
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to remove you from the unemployment register.”
“What?”
The mouse button was clicked with finality of an auctioneer’s gavel. The indomitable Miss Trounce cast Bruce a stern glance.
“Good day Mr Partington. Please hand in your UB40 on the way out.”
And that was that. The chair squealed backwards. Bruce shuffled off towards the grubby anoraks huddled around the notice boards.
An orange and yellow elbow brushed his own, forcing him momentarily to abandon his miserable thoughts.
Prudence Trounce felt the shadow fall across her. She looked around. That was odd. She was almost certain the reflection in her monitor had been one of a clown with a bulbous nose. Instead she found herself staring at an attractive brunette with the sort of ample bosom that would have been content to chase Benny Hill around a park.
She gathered her scattered thoughts together and froze the bewilderment out of her veins. “How can we help you…Miss…?”
The glamorous woman leaned across the desk, flashing a boomerang of white teeth.
“Coronet...Beryl Coronet.”
Prudence set her fingers to work across the keyboard. �
��Miss Coronet?”
For some reason she couldn’t find the newcomer on her ‘Restart’ files. But what the Hell? She’d enjoy destroying this dark-skinned, bone-idle bimbo.
“I’m looking for a career. In bricklaying…” The woman’s smile stabbed into the knuckle of each cheek.
“Right…well, we have an excellent opportunity here, Miss Coronet.” Prudence paused for the drama, expecting some sort of enthusiastic response. The grin remained steadfast. “In food management.”
The retaliation was not exactly what Prudence had been expecting. To be perfectly honest, nobody in the job centre that morning could have anticipated what was to follow.
A creak rumbled along the chair leg, up Prudence’s mouse lead and into one shoulder.
Miss Coronet’s features contorted. For a moment a purple nose appeared, vanishing as she adopted the shape of a child. Then almost as though somebody had inserted a car pump into her neck, she expanded into the evil-faced clown.
This time the grin was maniacal, a white expanse of banana-shaped foundation and coffee brown teeth. Stubble erupted from the broadening jaw. A miniature bowler hat, complete with daisy, sprouted from the scalp.
And finally the double-barrelled shotgun ripped from the torn fingertips. All accompanied by a laugh so filthy it lifted the corners of the files.
For the first time in her illustrious career, Prudence Trounce was at a loss for words. Her jaw hung open, accepting the muzzle of the gun.
An explosion. One that resulted in the back of Prudence’s head being removed like the top of an egg. Her body slumped, blood drenching the computer with a fizzle.
The clown leapt to its feet and sprinted towards the door, its piercing laughter disturbing the webs along the rafters.
Slowly the smoke cleared. Several gaunt faces blinked at the body. At length Bruce clenched his fist and punched the air. “YES! WAY TO GO, COCO!”
The drawing room of Henry Jacobs, lecturer in Media Studies, was on the first floor of Dovecote Hall. The curtains were closed, keeping the apartment in darkness. Henry Jacobs himself was hunched over a lap-top. A nervous tremble added momentum to his already blurred fingers.
Some of the students under Henry described him as a nervous, gentle man. Others...in particular those who had only enlisted to avoid Stewartstone’s Slateworks...would have called him a variety of titles, most of which are too obscene for this book.
An observer of how industriously he was working would have surmised his treatise was of great importance. Trails of sweat rolled down his temples.
The faint crack of light beneath the locked door momentarily vanished. The alteration, however slight, sent a shiver along his spine.
His fingers stopped. Henry slid his spectacles to end of his nose and squinted into the gloom.
“Who’s that?” The darkness edged back. “Is there anybody there?”
Cautiously easing his chair back, Henry struggled to his feet. He placed the computer on his bureau and set his face against the dark. He could have been certain that something had just…
“Henry?”
“Aaaargh!” There was a crash, followed by the pitter-patter of Henry’s features exploding from his face. They bounced across the carpet. One eyeball rolled beneath the armchair. An ear became speared on the receipt-holder, spinning gyroscopically. His lips splashed into a seventeenth century chamber pot.
“Henry?” Jarvis twisted into view. Henry sank to his knees and fumbled blindly for the lost organs. “Don’t come to pieces on me now, man.”
At length a satisfactory splash indicated that he’d found his mouth. Moments later it was twisted back into position. Upside-down, but in position nonetheless.
“Jarvis…? Is that you?” Henry screwed an eyeball back into its socket. It dribbled slightly.
“Henry…” Jarvis was curtailed by an upended forefinger.
“Just a minute, just a minute...” The missing ear was eventually located and forced against Henry’s temple with all the dignity of Mr Potato Head. “Right, that’s a trifle better…”
He hobbled back to his lap-top. “Please don’t do that to me, Jarvis. Couldn’t you just knock before entering, like any other man?”
“You look tired, Henry.” Jarvis cocked his head on one side with curiosity, as Henry sat down at his thesis again. “Are you getting enough sleep?”
“Sleep? SLEEP?” The knuckles crackled so violently that the thumb of Henry’s right hand dropped down the side of his chair. “How can I sleep? I’ve been up all night w…w...w…”
The stammer was always a good indication of the state of his mind. It was generally a forerunner to numerous limbs being blown about the room.
“W…w…working!” Henry concluded. “This is important Jarvis. I have no time for interruptions.”
That much was obvious by the pounding of the keys. The fingers slowed to a waltz. Henry looked up and stared at his companion.
“He’s killed again, hasn’t he?”
“Henry…let’s not get all hot and bothered about this…”
“N…n…not a…g…g…gain!” Henry buried his face in hands, a wise manoeuvre Jarvis considered.
“This has got to stop, Jarvis,” he continued, the words muffled. “You must find him and bring him back here at once.”
“Henry, old fellow.” A comforting hand was placed on his shoulder. “It’s rather more complicated than that.”
“Complicated?” Henry’s face re-emerged, one of the eyebrows having been brushed into an upright position. “What’s happened now?”
“Ah…” Jarvis blew his cheeks out. “Somehow the paper got hold of what’s going on. We need to throw the police off the scent for a while. Just until we’ve got him back. Then we can tell them everything.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed to lines. “Have you any idea what you’re asking me to do, Jarvis?”
“I’m well aware.”
“Supposing he kills again?”
“Don’t you think I haven’t considered the possibility?” Jarvis’ voice had lost its friendly edge. The compassionate palm was snatched from Henry’s shoulder. “But if we don’t get him back, we might as well count ourselves dead!”
The oxford stem nudged the nugget of Prudence’s brain. It squeaked, came loose from the filing cabinet and hit the carpet with a squelch.
“Ah, Clewes…” Nesbit stood up straight, accidentally trod the evidence into a ridged pancake beneath his boot and arched his shoulders beyond their normal centre of gravity. “What ’ave you managed t’ find out?”
“Well, Sir…” Malcolm looked at the mouth piece being wiped across the sleeve of his dufflecoat. “There seems t’ be some discrepancies in the description of the assailant.”
“Discrepancies?” Nesbit frowned. “Thirteen bystanders witnessed a murder at close range and we’ve got discrepancies? Out of me way, Clewes!”
He forced the sergeant to one side, his mackintosh swinging decisively forwards. “The pathologist has finished ’ere, so go and ’elp Parkins get the corpse into the body bag. I’ll deal with this meself.”
“Right you are, Sir…” Malcolm stood to one side, muttering a thinly veiled, “Good luck”. Then he ambled off towards the young constable struggling to unfasten a gauze of leg stubble from the zip fastener. Prudence’s body was sitting upright against the filing cabinet. The exploded brain behind her made her resemble some sort of dark red daisy.
Several ashen faces huddled back towards the jobs board. Nesbit approached his victims with enthusiasm. “Now then!” He slapped his podgy hands together. “You there!”
A hunch-backed berry of a man in a grubby sweater stepped forward.
“What’s your name?”
“Ah, now that’d be Tom, squire. Thomas Riley.” He tugged the forelock of his bobble hat and grinned. It was grin almost completely devoid of teeth. One or two wooden pegs had managed to hold their ground admirably in various strongholds around each gum, but collectively they amounted to little more th
an tokens. “Forty years in the service, squire. See these ’ands?”
He proffered up two shrivelled collections of leathery tassels. “As ’ard as walnut. We ’ad t’ wash our ’ands in us own effluent ya know? See these teeth?”
Nesbit concluded the memorandum in his notepad with a full-stop, and decided it would be best to ignore the repulsive grin being thrust at his face. “Now then, Mr Riley…did y’ witness the actual murder?”
“Arh. That I did, Sir.” Thomas Riley dug into his filthy sailcloth pocket, producing an object concealed by one lime-hardened palm.
“Then perhaps y’ could give me a description of the murderer?”
“Well…now. There’s a tricky one see, Sir…” A small clay pipe that looked as though it contained something other than best shag, rattled around the sailor’s mouth. “’Cos some of us ’ere reckons it was a woman. Not a bad lookin’ old bag at that.”
He tapped the side of his nose, suggestively. “And, well, some of us reckons it wasn’t.”
Nesbit leaned threateningly towards him. “’Ow can y’ get confused about a murder that took place not fifteen bloody foot from where you’re standin’ NOW?”
“Well, that’s the muddlin’ thing ’bout it, Sir. See these eyes?” Riley tapped a soiled finger against his head. It made a hollow thump. “Good strong eye’s these. Used t’ be able t’ spot land from nigh on fifty miles away with these. And what I sees was a bootiful bird, Sir. She ’ad long ’air, as black as a raven’s, and the biggest pair of…”
“What I saw was an ugly man!” From the rear of the group a young woman in a ski-coat and extremely tight pants stepped forwards.
“Was there anythin’ unusual about this gentleman, Miss?” This was what the inspector wanted. Someone more intelligent than a spider-monkey. Nesbit reopened his notepad and ignorantly licked the end of the ball-point pen.