by Brian Hughes
Probable Cause Of Death: Having a bloody great sawn-off shotgun rammed into his mouth that blew off the back of his head. The amount of cerebellum creating the pattern of a Christmas tree up the office wall...coupled with the two spent cartridges on the rug...support this hypothesis. This is exactly the same method of murder that I myself hope to use on Petula, my two-timing bitch of a wife. I have something altogether more inventive in mind for Peter Boggs, our over-friendly milkman, involving a sharp knife, one of his egg cartons, a candle and the neck of a milk bottle.
Television programmes such as Casualty portray the medical profession as compassionate individuals. However, the truth is, such people have very dark senses of humour. This is only natural. In order to tolerate such morbid work environments, one needs a certain amount of bad taste. Scrawled beneath this savage outburst, Reginald Nesbit had added a few words of his own.
Chief Investigator’s Comments: What sort of comments would you like? How about something concerning the declining standards of the British economy? In particular the under-funding of the CID? Perhaps if John Prescot ate less pies he might be able to squeeze a bit more money where it’s desperately needed. Is it just me or has anyone else noticed how overweight he’s become? The last time I saw him on Question Time he looked as though somebody had removed all the bones from his body. I thought that Jabba the Hutt had joined the government!
Obscuring most of this accusation was Superintendent Hodges’ handwriting. He had taken the file out of his drawer to give it to the visiting dignitary from Scotland Yard. His comments were crammed into one corner, alongside the diagram of a space-hopper that was meant to be the deputy prime-minister. This is what they read:
Thank you so much for your speculations, Inspector. They have been duly noted and shall be raised at our next meeting! However, I’m sure Chief Inspector Brabbon would be more concerned with relevant information. Perhaps in future you could stick to any actions you might have taken with regard to FINDING ANY BLOODY CLUES!!!
“You called, Sir?” Malcolm emerged through the sluicing rain, peered down on the head of his superior and opened his soggy notepad. This wasn’t the sort of day to be conducting field work. This was the sort of day to be at home, watching the rain in the garden, a mug of cocoa in one hand and Mantovani on the CD. His ginger curls were sticking to his forehead.
“What d’ you reckon to this, Clewes?” Nesbit prodded the clown’s corpse. It was surrounded by a smeared chalk line.
To be honest, Malcolm didn’t reckon much. Right now he wanted to be home in bed. A rumble of thunder broke across the fells.
“Hmmph! Well, I reckon…” Nesbit stood up, clutching his back. “That this is your killer. He certainly fits the bill.” The pipe stem made its usual retreat between his teeth. “Most of the bill, any’ow. Give or take the odd witness discrepancy.” The rain filled the bowl, overflowed its rim and created a waterfall. “Wonder ’oo ’ee is?”
“Kevin Dalton, Sir.”
“’Oo?”
“Kevin Dalton…that student who was murdered in 1997.” Nesbit frowned questioningly. Malcolm continued. “You remember, Sir? It was in the Greyminster Chronicle?”
The look of intrigue changed into anger. “’Ow would you know, Clewes? You were still in Newcastle in ’97. Y’ can’t tell me that y’ used t’ read the Greyminster Chronicle before y’ got posted ’ere?”
“It’s in the university archives, Sir. I’ve been studyin’ all the old newspaper reports for my exam.”
Nesbit stared at the bedraggled goat pawing the ground before him. Behind the goat several dank, steaming kids were huddled together, trying to shelter using their mother’s behind. ‘Farmer Barley’s Animal Kingdom,’ the colourful advert on the 19b read. Five moth-eaten billy-goats, two chickens, four woodlice and a threadbare cockerel called Cyril. And the unforgiving bastard was charging five quid a head to slop out the shit. At least the discovery of the body had closed it down for the rest of the week.
“Well, all I can say Clewes, is that y’ must ’ave bin dreamin’ about this student. I’ve spent almost thirty years in Greyminster CID and I don’t remember nothin’ about Kevin Dalton. T’ be ’onest, this is the first murder case I’ve ever bloody ’ad.”
Nesbit thought about that as the rain attempted to lift the plaster from his nose. “They say it never rains but pours, Clewes. I s’pose murders are a bit like the Lancashire bus service, really. Y’ wait around for ages for one t’ turn up, then loads of ’em come along at once.”
“’Old on a moment, Sir. What do y’ reckon this is?” Despite the sodden ground Malcolm went down on one knee. He rummaged through the pockets of the chequered blazer. Seconds later he was back on his feet, his hands cupping a cube of lime-green jelly.
“I’ve no idea Clewes…” Nebit leaned backwards. “P’raps he liked to use ’is pocket as an ’andkerchief. Wrap it up Clewes and keep it safe.”
“Have y’ noticed anything else strange, Sir?” Clewes carefully placed the green preserve in a forensic bag and stowed it in his dufflecoat pocket. “Where’s his nose?”
Nesbit blinked, removed his pipe, and blinked again. “Are you completely bloody stupid, Clewes?” He jabbed at the clown’s face. “The bloody thing’s there, in the middle of ’is ’ead.”
“No…not his real nose, Sir. His clown’s nose? All clowns have a big red bunion for a nose!” From the corner of his eye Malcolm caught a flash of Nesbit’s own purple beetroot and brought the sentence to a halt.
“Right, well, we’ll just check out this lead of yours at the university and then go ’ome.” Nesbit pulled a handful of grass from the earth and offered it cautiously to the goat. Several miserable faces peered warily from beneath its tail. “However, as far as I’m concerned Chief Inspector Bread-bin can catch the next train back t’ London. And he can take ’is cronies with ’im. We’ve got the killer ’ere, Clewes, and by the looks of things he won’t be causin’ any more trouble round my town!”
Here’s the nose that’s causing Malcolm so much worry. It’s rattling around in Mrs Clewes’ handbag. According to Mrs Clewes, a good mother should always be prepared for the unexpected. That was why plasters, Aspirins, eyedroppers, throat lozenges and lollipops now surrounded the red sphere.
She clumped determinedly through the rain-washed streets, her fur-lined boots splashing through the puddles. Holding tightly to one hand, Timothy struggled to keep up. Every so often his feet would leave the ground as she marched determindly to the police station. Puddles are very distracting to an eight year old. On the one hand they are miniature lagoons of reflected shop lights, just waiting to be jumped in. On the other hand, they’re harbingers of soggy socks and white puffy feet. Due to their haste, Timothy had no choice but to wade through them.
“Mornin’ Mrs Clewes.” Mrs Clewes peered out from beneath her umbrella into the stubbled face of Obidiah Taunton. He nudged his cap with one finger. “Grand weather for ducks.”
Every northern town has its own personal handyman. They keep the local industry ticking over. Amongst Obidiah’s abilities were weaning whippets, tempering tappets, breeding pigeons, giving crash courses on ‘Law’ in the Old Bull and Duck and generally tampering with electrical devices. In accordance with tradition he sported the uniform of ‘The-Jack-Of-All-Trades,’ i.e. the trusted flat cap and boiler suit with a grubby red screwdriver sprouting from the top pocket.
“Off somewhere in ’urry?” It was almost as though every article, whether ‘definite’ or otherwise, was absent from Obidiah’s vocabulary. “Looks like y’ mean business. Someone better watch out.”
He smiled, the drizzle forming a rapid along his chin. A muddy stain suddenly appeared on his leg from Timothy’s galosh.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Obidiah.” Timothy was dragged unceremoniously onwards. “I must deliver this t’ Malcolm.” Mrs Clewes patted her bag. “Police business. Can’t ’ang around gossiping, I’m afraid.”
“Very good.” Obidiah doffed his cap
again and readjusted the screwdriver. “Be round Saturday to look at washin’ machine for y’…”
Let’s climb the drainpipe of number thirty-four. From the roof we’ll have a gargoyle’s eye view. The players in our scenario now resemble puppets. There goes Mrs Clewes, look, Timothy unable to slow her down despite a valiant effort. In time she’ll reach the police station. Let’s leave her for now and turn our attention instead on the odd-job man. Perhaps we should crawl along the crooked terrace for a better view. Down Old Bridge Lane Obidiah winds his cheerful path, a whistled tune drifting up through the rain. The next turning takes him down the remains of Patternoster Row. From this height the street is nothing more than a patchwork of rubble.
This is no good. We need to go higher, until the whole of Greyminster becomes a simple relief map. Let’s watch the comings and goings from the teets of the clouds. Study how the occupants work, all milling around as though without purpose, resembling microbes infecting a kidney. Every street is a capillary, every cul-de-sac a valve. The railway lines are the pounding artery drawing the humans into the town’s great organ.
All it would take would be for one tiny speck to be an alien organism and the town would collapse with a terrible virus. What’s become of our own germ? There’s Obidiah! He’s just strolled past the gasworks and now he’s crossing the university campus. That matchbox he’s approaching is Dovecote Hall.
The micro-organism trudges up to the doorstep. The door is opened by another unmagnified dot. Then the two bacilli disappear inside together.
Look around.What do you see? A red square alongside Gasworks View? Time to descend once more.
Malcolm slammed the car door on Madam Butterfly, thrust his hands into his pockets and stared up at Gasworks View. Half asleep he watched the pigeons in the eaves, clumsily constructing their useless nests. Moments later the flash of cream about shoulder height suggested that Nesbit was heading for the front door.
“Come along, Sergeant. No time for dallying!” Nesbit reached the porch. “Are y’ sure this is where Mavis Baum worked before she got employment at Godswick’s?”
“Absolutely certain, Sir…” A yawn forced Malcolm’s lips apart, poked its head out of his mouth, surveyed the drizzle and decided it might be better off retiring until later on. “It was in ’er statement, Sir.”
“And she was the cleanin’ lady here when Kevin Dalton was apparently murdered?”
A flake of paint took flight from the ceiling and spiralled to the ground. Nesbit hammered on the door, several more streamers of plaster trailing down from the porch roof.
“That’s what the report said, Sir…if you’d bothered to read it.” The yawn made an energetic reprisal. Malcolm caught Nesbit’s frown from the corner of one eye and chopped it in half.
“You’re attitude, Clewes, is getting worse! We’re gonna ’ave to ’ave words when we get back to the…”
Malcolm never found out where. At that moment the door opened. A face that looked as though it had been pickled in vinegar was forced against the crack by loud heavy rock music. “Yes?” Two sanguine eyes distrustfully looked the policemen over.
“Jannice Applebotham?” Malcolm studied the scribble in his pad, before looking back up.
“No…I’m Janette actually. Jannice is just…” Her voice trailed off into a whisper, what was visible of her appearing to narrow slightly as the door was pulled closed. “You haven’t called about the rent, have you?”
Malcolm blushed for no apparent reason.
“No Ma’am. We’re pol…”
“Right. Come inside…”
Jannice Applebotham’s behind resembled two bin liners full of off-cuts. Jannice herself was leaning over the desk, reading a book where the label ‘Feminist Publications’ was far larger than its title. Daniel Jones rolled himself a spliff, his knees playing host to Jannice’s child, Thomas.
“All I’m saying is that women should be given free panty liners on the National Health.” Jannice thought for a moment. “After all, men are given free condoms.”
“Not quite the same thing, is it?” Daniel brought the roll-up to his lips and moistened its edge. “What with the threat of AIDS and all that…” Thomas cracked an invisible rein, clenching his buttocks around one knee. “I know that women change into werewolves every full moon, but that hardly constitutes a matter of life and death.”
“Oh I see.” The book went down. “And blowing up rubber Johnies at parties and making Mickey Mouse ears out of them does, does it?” She kicked her fat toes against the rug impatiently. “I don’t know why I let you in here, Daniel. I’m just too large hearted, that’s my trouble.”
“Couldn’t agree more. Some sort of low cholesterol diet should sort that out.”
The lounge door opened. Not that anybody heard it above Ozzy Osbourne. Janet entered, wearing her customary doltish expression.
“Everyone…” She brought her hands together with a delighted slap, flicking her hair back from her nose. “This is Malcolm.”
Malcolm followed her into the room, a smile joining the freckles across his face and his cheeks turning scarlet.
“And this is his friend…” Janet continued. “Mr Nesbit. I think they’re collecting for the gay charity bash at the Student’s Union.” She spoke in a conspiratorial stage whisper. “It’s pleasant to see two middle-aged people so much in love.”
Sudden silence.
Nesbit twiddled the volume control on the record player and turned condescendingly. “Actually, Miss, I’m Inspector Nesbit. And this is Sergeant Malcolm…I mean Clewes.”
“Well I think you’re terribly brave, anyhow.” Janet was unflustered by this announcement. It was as though visits from the police were a normal occurrence in scholarly life. “I know that homosexuals aren’t popular in the police force and to blatantly flaunt…”
“We’d like to talk with Jannice Applebotham.” Nesbit interrupted. “…if it’s not too much trouble.”
Jannice raised her head. “If it’s about that bonfire of bras, we’ve already attended court for that. We had no intention of setting fire to the paper shed. It’s just that one of Jarnette’s cups turned out to be considerably more stuffed with tissue paper than we’d anticipated and…”
“How dare you!” Janet stomped across the room, her fists rammed firmly against her hips. “It was that bloody size 44d of yours that got blown off the fire by a gust of wind. Like a hot air balloon it was…”
Whereupon the discourse fell apart. Nesbit stuffed his pipe in his mouth and tried to seperate the two girls. Needless to say, he couldn’t. “Ladies, ladies…”
“Don’t patronise me, you…fascist male bastard!” Jannice swung to face him, prodding his chest with one sturdy finger. “I have got rights as a woman you know? It might be a difficult concept to accept in such a male-dominated organisation as the Brave Boys in Blue, but…”
“I ’aven’t come about the bloody bra blaze!” The argument suddenly stopped. Nesbit breathed in before adding with reserve, “I’m makin’ enquiries about the murders that ’ave bin takin’ place around town!”
Both girls moved away from each other, wrapping their arms around themselves so tightly their circulation was almost cut off. With a smug expression Nesbit removed his pipe and nodded to himself. He knew how to deal with these so-called feminists. Just show ’em ’oo’s boss.
“Right…Malcolm…”
“Now then…ladies…” The word ‘ladies’ didn’t seem to generate any ill-feelings, so Malcolm struggled on. “We were wondering if Mavis Baum still worked in the halls?”
“Not as far as I’m aware.” Janet pouted. “She left the university about eight years ago, under mysterious circumstances.”
“There was nowt suspicious about ’er departure,” Daniel added. Thomas whooped with delight as another jolt lifted him acrobatically. “Everyone knows Old Barclay got ’er up the duff.”
“Old Barclay?” Nesbit frowned.
“The university principle, Sir.” Malc
olm turned back to the petulant Jannice. “Exactly how long have you been attending the university, Miss?
“Thirteen years. I’m what’s known as a mature student.”
“That’s stretching the term ‘Mature’ to the very edges of its elasticity,” piped the increasingly aggravating voice from behind the bucking child.
“So you would have known Kevin Dalton then?”
“Who?”
“Kevin Dalton? The student who was murdered here in 1997?”
The question brought a lull to the conversation. It wasn’t a lengthy lull, but substantial enough for a growl to emerge from Nesbit’s pipe.
“Nobody was murdered here in 1997, constable.”
Constable? CONSTABLE? Nesbit’s cheekbones were growing purple. He’d never enjoyed the company of students, having gained his own education from the university of life. Pretentious, self-important things they were.
“As far as I know there’s never been a murder in Greyminster.”
Nesbit took over the interrogation. “Where are the ‘Boys Quarters’ then?”
“The what?” Jannice frowned.
“The ‘Boys Quarters’? Y’ know, where the useless male members of our society live?”
“These are the boys quarters, Inspector.” Daniel finally turfed the toddler from his knees, stuffing the fat cigarette between his teeth and steering the conversation round the cardboard tube in one end. “Believe it or not, men and women sometimes get together under the same roof nowadays.”
“Is that a reefer, boy?” Nesbit had reached the end of his tether.
“Nope…it’s a joint.”
“Smoking marijuana in the same room as a child? Would y’ like t’ accompany me down t’ the station, Sir?”
“Why, are you scared of the rain?” The student sat back, removing a lighter from his waistcoat pocket. He lit the knotted end of the Rizla and drew in a breath until his cheeks turned blue. “And its not marijuana. It’s magic mushrooms, a perfectly legal grade ‘A’ hallucinogenic.”