by Brian Hughes
“Incidentally Ma’am…” Malcolm pulled his chair out and sat down. “We’ve ’ad the results on that green jelly stuff. Spotty Dribblesthwaite reckons it’s bio-gel.”
“Spotty Dribblesthwaite?” Brabbon lifted her wine glass, searching through the speared cherries and paper parasols for the entrance to her drink.
“Roger Dribblesthwaite, Ma’am.” Nesbit swallowed. “Our local forensics lad. He’s short and bald and has his sweater permanently pulled up around ’is nose. He looks like Spotty out of the Beano, so…”
“So you call him Spotty…” For all his claims to the contrary Brabbon had just found Nesbit’s intellectual level.
“Is it important, Ma’am? The bio-gel I mean, not Spotty Dribblesthwaite.”
“Everything’s important in an investigation, Clewes,” snapped Nesbit. “Y’ must always suspect everythin’ and everyone!” He wiped his moustache with the back of his hand.
“Even when they’re dead.” The pause that followed didn’t create the tension he’d anticipated, so he stumbled on. “Now take the case of the ‘Ten Little Ni...’”
That was going to be the wrong thing to say. Especially in a pub full of drunkards who were spoiling for a fight. A hush descended over the nearest three tables.
“Or…or…the ‘Ten Little Indians’ as we would rather call it nowadays…and quite correctly.”
Nesbit might have been the sort of man who called a spade a spade. But he knew it could also be called a ‘Gardening Implement Of No Particular Definition.’ Especially when the men listening to him would probably fracture the beams when they stood up.
“Now, in that instance…” he continued, watching his words. “The first bloke who died turned out t’ be the murderer.”
“So what are you sayin’, Sir?” Malcolm stifled a yawn. It had been a long couple of days and nothing would suit him better right now than to be at home in bed. “That Mr Godswick killed all the others? Even though the back of ’is head’s missin’ and ’is body’s down at the mortuary?”
“What I’m sayin’ Clewes is that the bio-gel is obviously important. At least now we know what our murderer washes ’is clothes in.”
“Actually, Inspector, I think you’ll find that bio-gel is an experimental substance designed to replace the silicon chip.”
Brabbon removed the miniature rocket on a cocktail stick from her nostril. Nesbit frowned. “Y’ mean it’s used t’ make false breasts?”
“Oh, I also brought you this, Ma’am.” Malcolm pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket. He shook it to dislodge the Vick’s Nasal Spray glued to one corner. “It’s that information from the university archives. About Kevin Dalton.”
Brabbon accepted the mangled document. She flattened it out on the table. Nesbit prodded it with his pipe.
“There’s some sort of conspiracy goin’ on ’ere.” He leaned towards her, his tie mopping up the slops at the bottom of his tankard. “Nobody told me at the time about this lad’s death, and I’m sure it’s got somethin’ to do with those three cretinous students at Gasworks View.”
“I somehow doubt that, Inspector. This clipping is obviously as fake as Englebert Humperdink’s suntan.”
“No it isn’t…” Malcolm leapt to his own defence.
“…Ma’am,” he added. “I downloaded it myself. It comes from an exceptionally reliable source”
Brabbon breathed a surprisingly warm breath across Nesbit’s nose. It lifted the plaster slightly, causing a tickle to caress the downy hairs. Odd that really. Nesbit had suspected her breath would have frozen water pipes.
“Don’t let it bother you, Malcolm. At some point most of us can’t see the wood for the trees.”
With the paper tearing slightly beneath Nesbit’s pipe, Brabbon continued to unravel it. She shoved the clipping beneath Nesbit’s nose, at just the right distance to make sure that he’d have move backwards to see it.
“Have a good long look, Reginald. Let’s see how great your deductive faculties actually are.”
After several seconds Nesbit decided that he was being led a merry dance. Obviously the old cow had noticed something. But as far as he was concerned if it wasn’t immediately apparent then it wasn’t there.
“Now look ’ere, Chief Inspector! There’s obviously a conspiracy of silence. On this occasion you’re wrong!” The page was flicked towards his superior. “There’s nowt fake about this! The piece itself confirms it. Even his dormitory fellows won’t reveal who he is.”
“Bottom right hand corner…”
“What?” Nesbit looked at the bottom corner. “What am I lookin’ at? The remnants of one of Clewes’ ’umbugs?”
“Check the date.” Brabbon’s voice remained steadfast.
“September 31st 1997. What’s the problem with that?”
“There is no such date as September 31st.”
A heavy silence fell over the policemen. Both pairs of lips moved in syncopation to the childhood rhyme about the days in the month.
“Sorry Ma’am.” Malcolm was the first to break the lull. “I didn’t realise.” He gave the page a half-dismissive, half-accusatory stare. “Then it’s just another bit of useless rubbish?”
“Don’t look too disappointed, Sergeant.” Brabbon sat back. “There is one thing that’s important.”
Her skinny fingers removed the pamphlet from her pocket. She laid it down flat alongside Malcolm’s cutting, pointing at sections of both.
“Look…Dr. Joshua Barclay. He’s at the bottom of the theatrical list. Admittedly the spelling is odd, but it appears he was responsible for the production’s direction.”
“Ah, now…right.” In an attempt to regain a modicum of face, Nesbit butted in. “That’s very interestin’. ’Cos I know for a fact that Barclay’s dead.”
“Is that correct, Inspector?” Brabbon looked up from the leaflets. “And what did he die of? Wind?”
“Er…” Nesbit floundered again. He hadn’t bothered to ask Jannice Applebotham what Barclay had actually died from. In fact he hadn’t asked any of the students. “Just…death,” he concluded. “That is…he wasn’t murdered. He died of natural causes about a year ago.”
Brabbon raised one eyebrow. “And you saw the pathologist’s report on that, did you?”
“No…but it ’as bin confirmed, and….” Desperately Nesbit turned to Clewes to give him credence. He didn’t hold with having friends. But Malcolm was about the closest thing to not having a friend that he possessed. The sergeant was yawning into his pint. Nesbit came down on him with the full weight of a pregnant walrus. “Not borin’ you am I, Clewes? I wouldn’t like t’ think this murder investigation ’as become so dull that it’s sendin’ you t’ sleep.”
“Sorry Sir.” Malcolm shuffled upright and licked his lips.
Nesbit raised a finger but his tirade was interupted by Brabbon. “It’s been a long couple of days, Sergeant. Go home and get some sleep.”
“Thank you, Ma’am.” The chair legs raised several shavings as Malcolm rose groggily to his feet.
“If you’re going past the station, would you ask one of the constables there to draw up a list of missing people around Greyminster.” Brabbon cast him a smile that sent a shiver down Nesbit’s spine. “We’ll have an early start tomorrow.”
“Very good, Ma’am.” Malcolm almost tugged his forelock before turning to the door. “Goodnight, Sir.”
No response. Just a snarl that created a squeak inside Nesbit’s pipe.
As soon as Malcolm had gone, Brabbon scowled across her glass. “You’re a grumpy old shit, aren’t you, Inspector?”
“We’ve got to maintain discipline!” Another embarrassing squeak became trapped in the bowl. After a moment the mouthpiece burped. “Somebody’s got to pull ’im up by ’is socks if he wants to make promotion.”
“Clewes is a good man.” Brabbon thought about that. “For some unknown reason he actually respects you. And your incompetence. There’s no excuse for treating him as though he�
��s an imbecile.”
Her sinister, probing eyes narrowed. “I wonder what your problem is exactly, Inspector…”
Oddly enough the remark struck a chord. Instead of retaliating Nesbit peered dolefully into his tankard. At length: “I don’t know why y’ want a list of missin’ people. It’ll only be a load of old biddies who’ve escaped from the retirement homes in their underwear.” The clack of teeth around a mouthpiece. “We usually pick ’em up next mornin’ wanderin’ round somebody’s shed worryin’ about unexploded bombs.”
“Because, Reginald, according to my calculations our next murder victim should have been Molly Pippin.” Brabbon raised the pamphlet to Nesbit’s eyes. “And seeing as neither our mysterious red-nosed corpse or the charcoaled gentleman that Constable Parkins brought in this afternoon fit the description of…”
Here she checked the pamphlet and read aloud, “‘An eggsepshonally tallunted old laidee’”
The page went down again, sticking to the damp table. “We must assume that the latest two victims are somebody else.”
Another mutter left Nesbit’s lips.
“In the meantime…” Brabbon pushed the complicated construction that had been her drink out of reach, picked up her handbag and pushed back her chair. “Angus Evesham is preparing his psychological profile of the murderer for tomorrow.”
“Angus Evesham?” Nesbit’s screwed up his eyes, puzzled. “Oh, your steroid enhanced minder? The creature from the black latrine with the dead gibbon attached to ’is chin? I wondered where he fitted into all this.”
“At the moment he doesn’t want to be disturbed.” Brabbon cocked her head on one side. She stared into Nesbit’s eyes with a surprisingly flirtatious mien. “The Thatch was full, Inspector. And you being an old fashioned gentleman with traditional values wouldn’t want a lady to be walking the streets at night when there’s a killer on the loose, would you?”
For the briefest of moments Nesbit face grew even more puzzled. “Are you suggestin’ that…?”
“There’s a distinct lack of hotels in Greyminster, Reginald. Funny really. I’d have thought that a town with such splendid attractions as ‘Stewartstone’s Slate-works’ and ‘The Crematorium’ would be a bustling tourist resort.”
The sarcasm passed unnoticed. Nesbit was extremely patriotic towards Greyminster. Brabbon continued. “Angus was fortunate enough to have an aunt who runs a dancing school on Applegate. Which leaves me…”
“But…but…”
Perhaps she’d been wrong. Perhaps he was going to turn her down.
She nodded as though they’d brought the deal to a close and marched off towards the door. About halfway there she risked a glance across one shoulder. “I promise I don’t bite.”
Nesbit was staring thoughtfully into his tankard, hoping against the laws of physics that it had refilled itself.
“At least not without provocation.” She offered him an encouraging hand. “Come to think of it, have you had any rabies shots recently, Inspector?”
Torch lights floated round the street corners and peered from the doorways like phantom eyes. Across the town, seeking refuge from the gale, vigilantes huddled together. Inspector Nesbit and Chief Inspector Brabbon worked their way along the streets in silence. The clatter of heels and the dull thud of soles echoed sharply along the terraces.
The town was alive tonight. Not alive like bonfire night, where the feral swish of fireworks filled the air. But alive with a dull, throbbing menace.
Nesbit studied the little woman stomping along beside him. The little woman who had insisted that a pint of Old Bastard contained more than enough alcohol than the legal driving limit would allow. He’d been forced to abandon his Bentley to its fate in the Old Bull and Duck car-park. No doubt by morning some drunkard would have removed the tyres and drained his bladder against the door.
Two beams of light moved across the walls of Bramwell Crescent, illuminating the bricks like World War Two spotlights. At last the front door of Nesbit’s bachelor pad came into view. It was situated at the top of some steps and fenced off by dusty milk bottles. It stood in the shadows of the Fleapit. Tonight the cinema seemed to rise against the sky like some magnificent tampon. It almost seemed to be wearing a scowl. Nesbit fumbled with the key and somehow managed to drop it. He went down with some difficulty on all fours.
“Something bothering you, Inspector?”
A series of oathes rose from Brabbon’s knees in muffled blue mushrooms. She caught the end of what sounded like, “Bloody sofa!” before the clatter of bottles took over. Moments later the dark shape at her feet had grown back into Nesbit. A rattle indicated that this time the key had found the lock. The door slammed open.
Let’s leave them to their own devices for now. It’s going to be a long night for them both. They need to get better acquainted and sort out their sleeping arrangements. It’s only a short hop, skip and a jump across the road to the Fleapit. So let’s take a look at that instead.
Ah, now this is dark, isn’t it? Other than the moonlight from the dome above, nothing disturbs the inky swell of blackness. For a second the moonbeams highlight a patch of crimson. In the centre of it lies a sinister shape.
The body of what was once Molly Pippin.
However, the theatre isn’t empty. Something moves between the molecules of the walls.
Outside the dilapidated building, a green eyeball blinks lethargically.
Right! Inspector Nesbit and Chief Inspector Brabbon have had long enough to sort themselves out. What’s the point in being able to eavesdrop if we aren’t going to take advantage? Let’s start off with the living room, where Nesbit has just started getting undressed.
Nesbit struggled to remove his trousers. His braces were now entangled with the big toe stuck out of his sock.
Fortunately he hadn’t quite reached his boxer shorts when the living room door opened and Brabbon looked into the room.
She was wearing a once-fluffy-but-now-balding bath-towel with a further towel whipped into a pink cone on her head.
Nesbit gritted his teeth, his feet muddled up in his trousers. With the twang of braces he stumbled forwards, reaching for the cushion to cover his credentials.
Brabbon glanced at the chair behind the door.
“I assure you, Reginald. There’s no call for a barricade.” She raised one pencilled eyebrow. “I only wanted to know where the bedroom was.”
Struggling desperately to hide his Winnie the Pooh boxer shorts whilst keeping a grip on the sliding cushion, Nesbit pointed towards the back of the house.
“Thank you, Inspector. Sorry to have disturbed you.”
She grabbed the handle and started to close the door behind her.
“Y’ could ’ave knocked!”
Nesbit dragged the quilt from where he’d thrown it over the sofa. In confusion he tried to tuck one end into his shirt collar. It resembled a giant bib.
“Whatever for? You’ve not got something to hide have you Reginald?”
Nesbit’s cheeks turned the colour of a radish.
“Well, I can assure you I’ve no intention of finding out. I prefer my men to be taller, Inspector. With more artistic hands. I don’t think I could stand being molested by a man who’s got toes instead of fingers.”
That should have taught the old duffer a lesson. His scarlet cheeks turned green.
“Incidentally,” she added, petulantly. “I think Piglet’s decided to poke his head out for a look around.”
Nesbit stared down towards the cushion.
“You’d better put the frail little thing away before it catches its death!”
The door slammed shut. A crash, coupled with the flicker and then absence of light beneath the jamb, suggested that Nesbit had lost his battle to remain upright.
The bedroom was untidy.
Clothes scaled the furniture like children in an adventure playground. Granddad shirts swung from pictures. Rare species of underwear held furtive meetings beneath the bed.
An exploded library seemed to have descended on every surface. The books were all murder/mystery stories, ranging from ‘Poirot’ to ‘The Famous Five’. Not all of them, however, were so inspiring. At least, not to Brabbon. Here and there pornographic magazines thrust themselves out from beneath the mattress.
The room was the epicentre of a bachelor pad. As such it had the accompanying smell of mould, cheesy footwear and Old Spice.
The sink in one corner contained a mound of unwashed pots, dating back, one suspected, to the Napoleonic wars.
One thing the room didn’t have, however, was a bolt on the door.
Not that Brabbon felt it necessary.
She was sure that Nesbit had no intention of disturbing her beauty sleep anyhow.
As the old expression goes, ‘A policeman never goes off duty.’ Brabbon was no exception.
She wanted to know what made the demented old duffer tick. Throwing aside her ethics she delved into every nook and cranny that her slender fingers could find.
Along one wall there was a shelf. It had been banished into hibernation by a pair of Y fronts. Beneath them was a collection of old books.
Brabbon’s fingertips scratched their buckled spines.
She stopped on one particular paperback. Tugging it out, she sat on the edge of the uncomfortable mattress. The letter that Nesbit had been using for a page marker, attracted her attention. With a smile she unfolded it, checking the doorway for movement.
Moments later she put it down on the duvet, her tiny eyes swollen with guilt.
“Edith Brabbon, you stupid fool.” A tear ran down her cheek. “You wanted to know, didn’t you? You wanted to find out where the crusty old sod was coming from?”
Let’s take this opportunity to have a look at what she’s just read.
February 12th 1999.
Dear Mr Nesbit,
The results of your tests have now been confirmed.
It is with deep regret that I have to inform you that you are suffering from incurable ‘Cirrhosis of the liver.’ There is little point in me telling you to cut out the alcohol now, as the illness is already entering its final stages. Suffice it to say, you really ought to put your house in order before the start of the coming summer.