by Brian Hughes
A pall of blue smoke covered his eyes. He removed the reefer and offered it amiably to Nesbit. “Care for a toke?”
“Clewes, arrest that man!”
Malcolm whispered in Nesbit’s ear. He was almost as educated on the legalities of narcotics as the students were themselves. He’d only recently brushed up on the subject for his exam. Dumbfounded, Nesbit searched about the room. He alighted on the dusty television rammed into one corner.
“’Ave y’ got a licence for that?” He pointed threateningly at the cowering machine.
“Nope. As far as I’m aware it doesn’t know how to drive.”
“If I find out you ’aven’t got one I’ll…”
“Bowt time they got rid of TV licences, don’t you think, Inspector?” Daniel’s voice punched several small halos from the blue narcotic cloud. “All those old women with no communication with the outside world having to decide between the television and a tin of cat food for Tiddles. It isn’t fair…it isn’t right…but it is bloody legal!”
Nesbit fumed and stuffed his pipe back in his mouth. It produced a chalky squeal. Angrily he opened the door to leave. Daniel’s voice reached his ears with the slap of a wet dish-towel. “Need a light for that?”
The oxford was immediately removed. “I’ll be back for you lot.” He made a sweep of the musty quarters. “Y’ can’t fool me! There’s some sort of cover up goin’ on ’ere and I’m going t’ get t’ the bottom of it, if it’s the last thing I do.”
He fixed his eyes on the most offensive student of all.
“Now that would be tragic.” Daniel disappeared again behind a curtain of smoke.
“In the meantime…” Nesbit stumbled on, his fingers slipping on the door knob. “I’m going to ’ave a word with Joshua Barclay about this murder!”
“That might be difficult. He’s dead.”
Nesbit swung round.
“What?”
“Barclay’s dead.” The overweight suffragette shook her head. “He died in his sleep about twelve months ago. We’ve got a new principle now…”
“Yeah,” added the voice through the smoke. “Not to invite any more policemen into the building.”
The puddle exploded as Nesbit stomped towards his steaming car. “There’s some’et not right ’ere, Clewes! Those bloody smart-arses know somethin’ they’re not lettin’ on about!”
He reached the Bentley and stopped, gnawing his whiskers.
“One thing’s for certain though, Sir.” Malcolm reached the other side of the car and waited for Nesbit to climb inside. “We’ve got our killer. Whoever ’ee was, that bloke in the field fits the description. So we can go back to the station and send this Chief Inspector Brabbon bloke packing.”
Nesbit narrowed his eyes. “Yes…you’re right, Malcolm. Nobody can accuse us of not ’aving solved that part on our own.”
After several moments of reflection Nesbit frowned towards the trees. “What’s that place over there?”
“Don’t know, Sir. Probably one of the lecturer’s quarters.”
Both of them stared at Dovecote Hall. A threadbare net of ivy clung to the roof. One corner of the building had subsided over the centuries, so now the hall resembled a crumpled shoe-box. From the chimney a pendant of smoke corkscrewed up into the clouds. It looked as though the sky was being swallowed by a red pot plug hole.
“P’raps we ought to go across and ’ave a word with them about this Kevin Dalton chap.” Nesbit started towards the building.
“Er, Sir.” Malcolm’s voice forced him to glance back across his shoulder. Malcolm was anxiously nodding at his wrist where under normal circumstances he’d have a watch. “We have an appointment at 3 o’clock, Sir.”
“Ah yes, you’re absolutely correct, Clewes.”
Nesbit marched solemnly back. Which was a shame. Had he continued, he would have seen the sudden flash that erupted from the first floor window. A bolt that anchored itself in an oak tree.
“Let’s go and tell that interefin’ busy body from London where t’ shove his great detective skills!”
Chapter Eight: Cat amongst the Pigeons
Thomas Riley sat beneath the arch of his upside-down trawler. It was a ramshackle home, constructed from rotten joists. But he had lived here for a great many years. Carefully he probed for recent additions to the holes in his teeth. With a bit of luck a new set might be washed ashore from the Isle Of Man Ferry any day now.
The seaweed Thomas kept slung across the trawler’s bow was now being used for tobacco. It sent plumes of smoke from the bowl of his clay pipe into the rafters. Through it Thomas watched the heavy raindrops creating miniature vol-au-vents in the sand.
Thomas Riley had witnessed many unusual events in his lifetime. Giant squids attacking steamers bound for the orient. Singing fish that lived in gum trees in distant lands. Skies off the eastern coast of Japan filled with orange soot, the spume of volcanoes with indigestion. Not once in all those years, however, had he witnessed anything as bizarre as the unemployment office the morning before. ‘Clowns as turned into ’tractive women, then changed back into ugly clowns!’ Now there was an image that wouldn’t budge from his head until the day he died.
He took his pipe out of the puckered barnacle of his mouth. Then he removed a strip of grime from his unwashed forehead with its stem. Whilst he was occupied, he stared at the dripping timbers. He’d have to see what could be done about turning the old lass ship-shape again. It had been a long time since a tin of Dulux had reached as far as the tide line.
A loud groan reached his ears. It seemed to come from the wharf. It echoed round the jetty and then shattered against the pebbles. The clay bowl inched around the door, closely followed by the shrivelled brown head of its owner. What looked remarkably like Obidiah Taunton was staggering about on the quay. What’s more he appeared to be in pain, clutching his stomach in torment. Thomas gingerly edged back. Soon nothing more than his smouldering pipe could be seen. If Thomas had thought that the dole office was the most unusual thing he’d ever come across, he was about to be proved wrong.
“Obidiah? Fight it man! Don’t let it take control!” Jarvis pulled him wiry body into the three dimensions. Obidiah steadied himself on a bollard. A seagull that had been smashing whelks against the jetty cocked its head on one side and studied the episode with curiosity. “You have to fight it or else it’ll claim your soul!”
Obidiah grimmaced, clutched his stomach and stared at the two-dimensional lecturer.
“What’s ’appenin’?”
“Jarvis! G…g...g…grab him!” Henry Jacobs emerged from the drizzle. Somewhere en route he’d lost one of his legs. Now he was hopping, using upright structures for support. “If we l…l…lose him, we’ll never solve our p…p…problem.”
From the upturned trawler a number of puffs rose in rapid succession. They resembled a red Indian smoke signal.
“AAAArgh! What the ’Ell is ’appenin’ t’ me!?”
Henry Jacobs’ warning had been too late. With his backbone buckling violently, Obidiah Taunton altered shape. It was like watching two sumo wrestlers in action. Moments later his mouth tore apart revealing a monstrous set of teeth. A blood red nose appeared, a demonic green eye on either side of its bridge. From his scarlet forehead horns sprouted like Walnut Whips.
“Jarvis! D…d…do something!” Henry’s chin literally hit the floor in panic. It burst in a pastry cutter of teeth.
“What would you suggest? A rousing chorus of ‘Roll Out The Barrel’ played on two dimensional spoons?”
Five massive talons burst through Obidiah’s fingers. They clawed at the ground. His swollen arm became a girder of sinews tattooed with veins. The twelve foot demon rose to its feet, steam gushing from its nostrils, tendons tautening in the fashion of piano wires.
“Actually, Henry old chap…I’ve had a better idea…” Jarvis swallowed nervously. “Run like fu…”
The sentence was never completed. Benjamin Jarvis had a suddenly become a scribble. Unf
ortunately Professor Jacobs couldn’t follow Jarvis’ lead, not having the required number of limbs to bugger off sharpish. The demon climbed unsteadily to its cloven hooves. Henry gripped the railing, various parts of his body showering the flagstones. The creature raised a finger towards him. And that was where Professor Jacobs met his end.
Two flames shot out of the demon’s mouth with the noise of exploding marsupials. They transformed Henry into a smouldering skeleton. One crisp arm hung pathetically before his cremated remains. Then it crumbled, the cinders being blown away on the wind.
Five more puffs of seaweed span anxiously upwards, creating a set of full-stops above the rudder.
The demon looked round. Thomas’ eye vanished into the shadows along with the pipe bowl. After several minutes only a few tendrils of smoke curled helplessly upwards.
The demon turned and lolled off. Several yards later it crashed into the walls of the ferry boat house. It melted into the planks as though it was no more substantial than a gigantic ball of steam.
Some considerable time passed. A time best spent absorbing the impact of this scene. At length, the bubbles of smoke started again, drifting nervously up towards the clouds.
“Mum…you’re not supposed to be in the annex.” Malcolm’s mother picked at the bobbles of mud on his shoulders. Several pairs of feet clattered down the hall at the rear of the station. Disparate voices came from the superintendent’s office. “Go and hand the damn thing over to Sergeant Foster at the front desk.”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with givin’ it t’ you, Malcolm.” Mrs Clewes set about rearranging her son’s scarf. “After all it was found on your front drive…”
“Members of the public aren’t allowed in CID, Mum.”
Her hands disappeared from Malcolm’s hood. They reappeared on the old woman’s hips. “Malcolm Lesley Clewes! I’m your mother, not a member of the public.” She leant towards him, wagging a finger beneath his nose. “You’re not too old t’ be put across me knee and ’ave your bottom paddled, young man!”
“’Scuse us, Mrs Clewes. Lesley’s got some work to attend to.” Nesbit surfaced from the rain, shaking the drops from his mackintosh onto Timothy’s head. “Now then, Sergeant…’ave you got your apple for Superintendent ’Odges?”
A sarcastic grin lifted the edge of his moustache. He condescendingly patted Timothy on his head. “Mrs Clewes, would y’ mind ’anding that over to the desk sergeant, via the front door?”
“As a matter of fact I would! I brung it ’ere for Malcolm to ’ave a look at an’…”
“Well, now that he’s seen it, it might be best if…”
“Don’t talk t’ me like that, Inspector Rarebit! I’ve ’ad MORE…”
“REG!” The booming voice of the superintendent brought the argument to a halt. A nervous silence flooded the corridor forcing the heated words to seek refuge.
Nesbit straightened his tie. “Coming, Sir…” He raised an eyebrow accusingly in Malcolm’s direction.
Timothy was drawing robots in the dust when his grandmother dragged him into the room. As always, by the time the four of them entered, Hodges was planted firmly back in his padded throne, signing papers. Following one or two coughs designed to alert him to their presence, he raised his head. Much to his horror he was confronted by a huddled crowd. He readjusted his shirt collar and coughed his embarrassment across his paperwork.
“Now then Reg.” The fountain pen was laid to rest on its giant blotter. “’Ow’s the suicide investigations comin’ along?”
“Mustn’t grumble, Sir.”
“Really? That’d be a first for you.” Despite the acerbic tone Nesbit’s confident face hardly moved a muscle. “Any closer to findin’ our serial killer then?” The words ‘Serial’ and ‘Killer’ had a peculiar goading about them.
“If you consider ’aving ’is corpse in the mortuary with the back of its skull blown off ‘gettin’ closer,’ Cuthbert, then yes, I s’pose we are.” Nesbit, satisfied with this revelation, chewed defiantly into the stem of his oxford in spite of all previous warnings. “In fact, I reckon when he turns up, y’ can tell Chief Inspector Bromide to bugger off back to whatever foetid nest of cockney sparrows he ’appened t’ crawl out of. It looks like we won’t be needing ’is expertise after all.” There followed a short pause whilst Nesbit studied his mud-spattered boots. “Pity really. I was lookin’ forward to some of ’is jellied eel pie and southern bullshit!”
Hodges cleared his throat, pointlessly rearranging the register for the trip to Blackpool. “For the record, Inspector, when we’re on duty I’d rather be referred to as ‘Sir’ and not ‘Cuthbert.’ And p’rhaps you’d like t’ tell the chief inspector where t’ go, yourself.”
Everyone suddenly became aware of two figures behind the door. Silence filled the room like a dinghy expanding. The larger of the figures rocked back and forth in ponderous reticence, his officious pipe emitting smudges of smoke. His imposing physique barely fitted into his tartan mackintosh, the sleeves of which were only half the length of his arms. The other figure was a very short woman with an angular face. Nesbit faltered. “Ah yes…right.” He offered a hand to the highland giant. “Chief Inspector Broadbent...? Superintendent Hodges has told us all about you.”
“Reg.”
Regardless of Hodges’ interruption, Nesbit stumbled on with the resistance of a walrus on an out-of-control sledge. “’Ope y’ didn’t mind our little joke there. An old Lancashire custom designed t’ welcome strangers. Put ’em at their ease…”
“REG!”
“It was Clewes’ idea.”
The Scotsman removed the pipe from the gash in his beard and grimaced. Such impressive whiskers. Similar to one of those shaggy mats that surround a toilet pedestal. They gave him the appearance of having partially swallowed a grizzly bear. Without passing comment he blinked at the crimson bald patch spanning Nesbit’s crown.
“’Owever, I can see that it p’raps wasn’t such a clever thing to say, after all.”
At which point the female stepped forward. Reluctantly she offered a tiny hand in Nesbit’s direction.
“Excuse me, Inspector…Titbit?” The ‘Tit’ of ‘titbit’ was emphasised with just that little too much resentment for Nesbit’s comfort.
“Hahah, right…it’s Nesbit actually. Reginald Nesbit…” He took the wiry hand in his own and tried to kiss the knuckles. “…And you must be the chief inspector’s secretary. I must say they’re makin’ these personal assistants attractive these days, eh, Chief Inspector?” He nudged the Scottish policeman in his ribs.
“Actually Titbit,” the woman continued, becoming less fragile with every word. “I am Chief Inspector Brabbon.”
The blood in Nesbit’s veins froze. The ridiculously added gasp from Malcolm’s mother did nothing to ease the situation. Women working amounted in Mrs Clewes’ books to much the same thing as sexual perversion. Nesbit cast a nervous glance towards Hodges, defying him to admit it was an April Fool joke. Being still only February he realised he’d have to dig himself out of this particular hole.
At length Hodges spoke, his patience by now wearing thinner than Casanova’s pig’s bladder. “P’raps you’d like to take the Chief Inspector down to the mortuary, Reg. You can show ’er this dead body you’ve captured. Always assumin’ it ’asn’t escaped from custody yet.”
“But…” Nesbit leant towards his superior, talking from the corner of his mouth. “She’s a woman, Sir.”
“Excellent, Reg. It’s good t’ see that your finely honed detective skills ’aven’t been blunted by the onset of senility.” Hodges slammed his full weight across his desk. “Now GET OUT OF MY BLOODY OFFICE!!”
February 16th 1999. Professor Oliver Post was well aware of this date. The calendar with caricatures of the college staff on it (designed by some bright-spark from the art department) was currently flapping before his nose like some sort of demented bat. For the past half an hour it had hung in that position, threatening at any moment to l
ose its balance.
It would be fair to say that Professor Post had experienced better days. Right now the occasional rumble in his stomach suggested indigestion on a most phenomenal scale. An abdominal upset that made the brasses along the fireplace rattle and brought plaster tumbling from the ceiling.
Since his previous meal Post’s skin had turned various hues, the latest being a sickening green. The professor himself put this uneasiness down to the last sheep he’d eaten. The skeins of wool were still flossing his teeth. The space in front of him shuddered, turning what had at first appeared to be a join in the wallpaper into Jarvis.
“Post, old fellow. I have terrible news…” Jarvis suddenly found himself being drawn towards the corner of the room. Post lifted a hand to stop him. A beach-ball of gas left his lips with such strength that a painting fell down from the wall.
“I’m not feeling well, Jarvis.” Jarvis didn’t hear him. He was trying to pull his arm back from Post’s force-field. “You wouldn’t happen to have a bucket of Aspirin handy, would you?”
“Oliver…” Jarvis wrestled free and continued with wild bulging eyes. “Our killer is loose once more.” His tone suddenly changed. “To make matters worse, Henry Jacobs has been killed.”
Professor Post wasn’t paying attention now. His skin had turned scarlet. Each of his fingers resembled a frond of ‘Love-lies-bleeding’ and his head a tomato with a slice removed from it. “You’ll have to excuse me Jarvis. I’m afraid I’m going to vomit!”
Perhaps vomit was an understatement. What happened next brought new meaning to the phrase, “Feeling a bit off-colour.” With a gurgle that sounded as though somebody had removed the plug from the ocean bed, Oliver Post expanded in every direction at once. Moments later the sort of creak that a mountain falling over might have made, was closely followed by the inward collapse of his body. There followed a gory display of flailing intestines.