by Brian Hughes
A pop signified that Post had reached singularity. All that remained was a smudge of blackness. He had gone to meet his maker, who had no doubt promptly used him to make several cherubim.
Benjamin Jarvis sagged. A peculiar sight, his gaunt frame folding up like a concertina. He tried to steady himself on the mantle piece. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much time for mourning. At that moment the door burst open and Mrs Baton stomped into the room. She was holding a silver platter. On the top was a pig’s head so large that the customary apple had been replaced by a melon.
“Mrs Baton! Don’t go too close…”
She swung around in surprise at Jarvis’ voice. The platter wrenched itself free from her grip and was pulled towards the black hole. Several sparks erupted from its polished surface before it tumbled soundlessly into the darkness. “Ooh Moi Gawd…” Digging her heels into the floor Mrs Baton leant backwards as the hem of her pinafore was caught up by some unnatural force. With determination she struggled to wrench herself free. “Lord give us strength.”
With a rip the apron tore, dragging along with it several layers of lace. Free at last, she looked down at her exposed knickers. She cast an accusatory glance at Jarvis, turned the same colour as the rings around her kneecaps and then fled from the building, leaving the front door open behind her.
Jarvis leaned on the mantelpiece and brought his two dimensional head to rest on his arms. “And then there were none…” He continued to mutter to himself dejectedly. “Now the fellowship is destroyed…just you and I…but mark my words old friend…”
He raised an accusatory finger towards the ceiling. “My patience has ended. I will seek you out! And nothing, but nothing, shall dare stand in my path!”
Chapter Nine: The Case of Identity
Video evidence is not always accepted in the courts. This is because the material the cassettes contain can be easily doctored. However, sometimes they can be useful during the investigation. For example: In the 1994 investigation, ‘Mrs Barley versus the Housekeeping Thief,’ the Greyminster police were forced to sit through several hours of the Barley clan dropping their drawers in the outside privy. (This was where the camera was hidden.)
Mrs Barley was concerned about her allowance that she'd hidden behind the cistern. So she’d set the camera up with the entire lavatory in view. After numerous unsightly cleavages the culprit had finally entered dressed in black. His face was covered by a balaclava. Sergeant Foster had his suspicions though. The thief bore an uncanny resemblance to Giles Barley, right down to the trousers tied with string and Cyril the chicken tucked beneath his arm. However, as nothing could be proved, the charges were dropped.
A video camera was also mounted in the Corn Doll café. Unfortunately Dorothy Preston was murdered out of sight. As a consequence little more than thirty-five minutes of Charlie counting his float was actually recorded. However, one of the members of the police dart’s team had a bright idea. He took the microphones from the interrogation room and put them to a new use. Because of the serious nature of the offence the young constable shall remain nameless, although simple deduction should lead the amateur sleuth to his identity.
Let’s take a look at the cassette. The first image is that of Charles distorted by the lens like a fish in its bowl. He was standing on one of the chairs, having just swapped video cassette for the latest recording of Emmerdale. At this point our vandal had dubbed in the words, “Ooh Bloody ’ell. Me ’emmerhoids are fit t’ burst.”
That’s about the highest standard of wit the phantom dubber managed. Over the following thirty-five minutes every time that Charlie Preston entered the shot a loud raspberry would be followed by immature chortling. During the less dramatic periods voices from the background of the station could be heard asking questions such as, “Jaye? ’Ave you any idea where Parkins as got to? ’Is missus is on the phone,” and, “If y’ see that pea-brained pillock on your travels, will y’ tell ’im to turn ’is radio on!?”
Needless to say the footage fell short of useful in solving Dorothy Preston’s murder.
In the centre of Greyminster, annexed to the town hall, there stood a dismal prefab building. It was known only as the mortuary. The door clattered open disturbing the ghosts amongst the empty rooms and the sickly smell of antiseptic. Footsteps echoed around the chloroformed walls. It sounded as though the morgue was constructed from biscuit tins.
“As it ’appens, Sir…” Nesbit paused, rattled his pipe around his teeth and wondered how he ought to address to his new superior.
“Ma’am…” he ventured. “Er...Mrs…” No, that wasn’t right. He sounded like Frankie Howard now. “As it ’appens, we’re not quite so backwards up north as you’d like to believe.”
Clack, clack, clack went Brabbon’s heels across the floor.
“We ’ave actually ’eard of mobile phones up ’ere. And we ’ave got indoor plumbin’!”
“Actually, Sir…” Malcolm interrupted. “The majority of ’ouses on Crookley’s Estate still have to use outside lavatories.” He leaned forward, whispering this scrap of information into Nesbit’s ear. Unfortunately the brick walls amplified his words. “And about seventy per cent of Greyminster still haven’t been plumbed into the gas mains yet, and…”
“Yes, right…thank you, Sergeant.” Casting a glance at Brabbon, Nesbit noticed she staring straight ahead. He decided he didn’t much care for his new associate. It wasn’t the fact that she was a woman. It wasn’t the usual problems that the Watford Gap generated. It was the fact that Hodges’ had made him look like a pillock in front of her. Most relationships suffer that way, the first seeds of romance growing into unhealthy weeds as the male ego suffers from the manure of its own imperfections. “Nonetheless…” Nesbit sucked his paunch in. “We ’ave caught your killer, Ma…Chief Inspector.”
“How do you know this is your killer?” Brabbon stopped in front of the cabinet. Having been the first words she’d spoken since leaving the CID they came as a shock to Nesbit.
“How do we…er…? Right, yes of course…well we ’ave evidence Ma...Mi…Madam.”
He span sharply on his heels. The hem of his mackintosh clipped Brabbon’s chin.
“Mrs Clewes, if you’d like to hand over your precious burden…”
“No.”
“What?”
Malcolm’s mother stood her ground, cocking her head on one side in the fashion of a sparrow. She scowled at Nesbit and raised her finger. “I thought I was supposed to ’and it in to Sergeant Foster.”
“Well, yes, Mrs Clewes, but…” Nesbit loosened his collar. The damn thing must have shrunk in the wash. “But seein’ as we’re here now, we might as well…”
“Inspector Nesbit!” She brought her boot down so hard it echoed. “You told me I ’ad to leave the CID premises. Now…” She folded her arms and leant backwards. “Unless you were lying, I really don’t think I ought to hand this ruddy thing over.”
“Mum!” Malcolm’s voice rose in panic.
“Don’t you ‘Mum’ me, Malcolm. I brought you up t’ be a good boy and always tell the truth. If Inspector Nesbit’s goin’ t’ set a bad example then…”
“MUM! Hand the bloody thing over!”
Behind his grandmother’s legs, Timothy’s bottom lip started to tremble.
“Or the inspector’ll have you arrested for obstruction.”
“Ey…” Nesbit muttered. “And probably shot!”
The tiniest alteration of pressure on Mrs Clewes’ fingers suggested that Timothy had heard enough. As always the emotional health of her grandchild took precedence. Reluctantly she opened the bag and took out the nose.
“I’ll agree on this occasion…” she muttered loudly. “But mark my words, Inspector…if you ever keep my Malcolm out all night again, then I’ll…”
“Have to keep ’is cocoa on the boil…thank you, Mrs Clewes!” Nesbit plucked the object from her fingers and blew himself back round with a dismissive snort. “Now then…er…Chief Inspector. If you’d
like to open the drawer, I think you’ll find this is proof enough.”
“And what exactly is it?” With a click of her fingers she signalled her Scottish associate to open the drawer.
“This, Chief Inspector Barton, is your killer’s nose.” A conceited smile upturned the corners of Nesbit’s mouth. “It was dropped when our murderer paid a visit on Malcolm’s ’ouse.”
He offered the nose to her. She took it from him and looked at it dubiously. With a creak the metal casket was wheeled from its steel cocoon. Twelve eyes stared down at the corpse.
“Wow!” Timothy was the first to break the silence. “Is that a real stiff Dad?”
“Mother?” Malcolm dragged Timothy from the cadaver and threw him into his grandmother’s arms. “Will you take Timothy t’ school, for God’s sake!”
Then he returned to the corpse. The corpse of an attractive woman, her auburn locks falling across the sort of breasts that would have made ideal jelly moulds. Brabbon carefully positioned the nose on the dead body’s own rather pointed affair.
Nesbit exploded. “It…the blasted…bloody well…Malcolm, what ’ave y’ done?” Eventually he sorted his words out. “P’raps the attendant cleaned off all the make up…”
“And added a pair of breasts?” Brabbon patiently removed the nose and gave it him back. Nesbit took it, his fingers trembling so much that a humorous squeal was forced from the swazzle.
“Nonetheless…” He stiffened. “This is your killer I assure you, Mistress. There’ll be no further murders takin’ place around this town!”
“Do you have a name, Inspector?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Nesbit heard the ping of his shirt button as his neck muscle expanded. “Reginald.”
“No…” Brabbon looked down at the floor. “I meant for the deceased.”
“Ah, yes, right.” Not wanting to prove himself an idiot, although he was already doing a good job of that, Nesbit glanced at the tag on one of the toes. “John, Ma’am.” He squinted to make sure. “John Doe.”
“Sergeant?”
Malcolm was rudely awakened from his own personal reveries.
“Did you check for any personal items before the victim was disrobed?”
“As a matter of fact…” He dug into his dufflecoat pockets. Moments later he pulled out a handkerchief covered with ‘Humpty Dumpty’ pictures. Gingerly he unfolded it.
“What is it?” Brabbon stared at the green slime. In the centre there was now a hard boiled sweet.
“Well, originally it was cube shaped, Sir.” Malcolm coughed to hide his embarrassment. “I must have crushed it without thinking.”
“Take it down to forensics, Sergeant. We’ll have the boys analyse it.”
The boys? Whose bloody boys would these be? Nesbit stepped forward, his pipe clenched tightly in his teeth.
“This IS your killer, Sir!”
“What do you reckon to this, Reginald?” Brabbon uncurled the fingers on the dead woman’s hand. Each one snapped like a twig. With a grunt she tore a crumpled sheet of paper from the corpse’s grip and held it up to the light. “Tell me Reginald, would the names of your other murder victims be…” She forced her nose against the page. “Prudence Trounce, Dorothy Preston and Donald Godswick?”
Nesbit almost swallowed his pipe in shock. This is what the leaflet read:
The albart finneee memmoriul Hawlplaiyars
prowdleepreezent wiliamshaikspeers
roammmeeo anjulliet.
Staring Proodunz trouwnz az Julliet kapulot.
Dorofee Presston az The Nurz
Donnuldgodzwic az Roameeo Montagoo.
IngRid Ordenshar az Benvoleeo.
Mortimer Beeverbruk az Merkooteeo.
Et al.
“Cast any light on matters?” Brabbon smiled, her mouth resembling a tick.
Nesbit rubbed his oxford through his hair. He tried to recall his Latin classes at school. Then it dawned on him that he was actually reading English spelt phonetically.
“There’s only one person in Greyminster who uses English as though it was some sort of bulldozer.” He straightened arrogantly. “Toby Patterson!”
“Excellent, Reginald.” Brabbon folded the pamphlet, running a fingernail along the crease. “Looks like I’m going to be staying a while longer after all. Now I can savour some of your Lancashire ’Ot Pot. Not to mention your old fashioned Northern bollocks I’ve heard so much about!”
Sometimes it’s necessary in a detective novel to add ambiguity. The author doesn’t want to reveal too much, otherwise it might upset the plot. However, with due reverence for the reader, I now issue a warning. The rest of this chapter might seem at odds with the rest of the book. But please bear with me. All will become as plain as the nose on your face before we’re through.
Question One: Where are we now? This is a realm of darkness in which there beats an obsessive heart. There is a mind here too, neurotic and undeviating. It broods in silence. A silence so sheer that rock climbers would have difficulty scaling it.
Question Two: What sort of inhospitable landscape is this? What are these cables intricately knotted about this fluorescent building? This leaning house. With its misshapen windows and its scarlet door. A coil of smoke is rising from the chimney like a novelty straw.
Question Three: What are these terrible children, silently playing hopscotch, scribbled in clashing colours with empty faces? A paper-chain dancing across the ridge of an impossible hill.
For now, such questions will have to remain unanswered. Somebody’s coming. A figure that wheezes asthmatically.
Jarvis leaned into his walking stick. He reached the front door and knocked.
“Mornin’ Dr. Jarvis. Long time no see…” The onion-shaped head of Dorothy Preston appeared in the doorway, a cheese-wire smile skewering her cheeks together. Jarvis nudged her aside and stormed into the hallway.
“Welcome back to tha lodge, ald man.” Donald Godswick bowed. “We’ve bin expecting yoo.”
“Where is he?” Jarvis had little time for social etiquette. He marched across the wax-crayon floorboards.
“P’raps you’d like t’ step this wee..” With a sweep of his hand, the dead solicitor showed him the way. It led between two scribbled vases and through a Norman arch.
Cables hung from the rafters, sagging with dust. They reached the top of an old man’s head. A head so large that its tiny features were all grouped together just above the chin. Beneath this head an insignificant body burdened its incredible weight. The legs were so small they couldn’t reach the ground.
“So…Benjamin Jarvis. You’ve finally come home.” The old man’s mouth puckered, a creak from the rafters indicating his head had swung fractionally.
“This was never my home.” Jarvis stepped into the room. “But I have come, old friend, to put a stop to your deadly games. This time once and for all.”
“Games, Jarvis? MY GAMES?” The bulb-headed freak screamed. “This is none of my doing, you fool. This is your fault, Doctor!”
“You’re wrong, old man. The blame cannot be placed on either of our shoulders. This is the doing of an outsider.” Doctor Jarvis tapped the end of his hooked nose. “A fellow of obvious genius, at that. Mark my words, I shall deal with him in time! But first, your own foolish games must be brought to swift justice.”
“Oh no.” The midget shuffled back across his seat. The cables from his head pulled on the rafters to such a degree that the ceiling flexed. “I’m sorry, old man. But not today!”
Suddenly wires wrapped themselves round Jarvis’ legs. Before he could scream, his body was bound with unbreakable cord. Fibres forced their way way into his mouth, providing a more than sufficient gag.
“Relax, you fool.” The hydrocephalic craned his neck towards the human parcel. “You’re just in time to join me. Just in time for the second act of our little stage show.”
Chapter Ten: A Murder is Announced
Fear stalked the Greyminster streets. It trudged down the ginnels with the m
enace of a bogeyman as the residents sought refuge in their homes. Gossip travels quickly. Rumours had already started. Rumours about convicts that had risen from the dead.
“Now, that’s your average Yorkshire man. Totally different mentality from your Lancashire folks.” Nesbit tapped one temple in a knowledgeable way. The gesture went unnoticed. Brabbon had mentally switched off. “Then of course, there’s your Americans. We ’ad one workin’ for us ’bout fourteen years ago.”
Brabbon’s heels clacked up the steps. Nesbit’s boots clumped behind them, drawing rain from the pavement through a hole and into his sock.
“Big mouths, Yanks.” A gust of wind buffeted his trilby from his head. “Big mouths, big egos, big buildings, big appetites, big moon.”
“What?” Brabbon snapped back to reality. “Big moon, Inspector?”
“That’s right, Ma’am.” The two of them stopped, both dripping in the porch. “Much larger moon than we ’ave in Britain.”
“And what brings you to this conclusion?”
“Just watch their films, Ma’am. Massive moon. Must be a lot closer to America or somethin. That’s probably ’ow they managed to reach it so easily.”
Brabbon frowned. “What exactly are you implying? That there was some sort of lunar conspiracy?”
“All I’m sayin’ is the American’s are too full of their own importance.” Nesbit snorted. “You can’t believe what y’ watch on television. Look at Star Trek…”
Brabbon studied her pointed boots with growing disinterest.
“Bloody social workers in space. Always reckons that the ’uman race ’as grown up and left bigotry behind.” He closed the gap between them. “It’s got an ’idden agenda has Star Trek!”
“And that is?”
“Anti-Semitism. You can’t tell me the Ferengi aren’t supposed to be Jewish. Undersized, large-eared traders whose lives revolve around business and are regarded as the vermin of the universe.” The pipe stem rattled. “For a none-racist program it’s certainly got some funny ideas.”