by Brian Hughes
There was a crunch as he landed.
Bellowing like a bull confronted by two blocks of wood, the demon stomped across the room. Seconds later it crashed through the doors and was swallowed up by the night.
Chapter Thirteen: The Dying Detective
Greyminster town hall was an imposing building. It had sooty carvings round the door. On the top was a buckled green dome where the pigeons lived. The mortuary was around the back annexed to a wooden shed. The ‘Forensics Dept.’
Inside this mildew-infested shack, sinks bubbled with chemicals and tea-bags. Page three models exposed their wares on notice-boards, having been surgically removed using scalpels. Bunsen burners and rubber bands formed rocket launch pads where Spotty Dibblesthwaite propelled pencils into the ceiling.
Shortly after lunch Spotty was disturbed from his game of Black Jack with Stinky Hardbottle by a hammering on the door.
He opened it to reveal Angus Evesham, who’d gone a peculiar shade of green. Angus gave him an ‘L’ shaped object wrapped in brown paper.
The door was slammed shut. Spotty hobbled back to his colleague, tearing the wrapping from Henry’s leg as though it was a Christmas present.
What followed next was typical of forensic department procedure.
Stinky Hardbottle performed his Jake the Peg routine. The finale of this had been altered from Rolf Harris’ original to incorporate a hammer throwing exercise using the leg as the hammer.
Then Spotty used it as an oar, propelling his swivel chair between the desks.
Stinky then turned it into a periscope. It waltzed up and down along the window ledge in the hopes that passers by would wonder what was going on. Spotty responded, using the leg as a cricket bat and one of the toes as the ball. Following these attempts to pass the day, one toe was dropped secretly into Dr. Driscal’s brew, so that when he returned from the small boy’s room he’d be in for a surprise.
The juvenile pranks continued throughout the autopsy. Spotty used the toenails for Frisbees, a piece of skin making the slingshot. Stinky used an ink pad and some of the toes to create the sort of pictures that Tony Hart used to make. When it came to the DNA sampling, however, their japes left them doubting their own eyes. And when it came to writing up the report afterwards the going was even more difficult. This is what the final report read, as written by Spotty himself.
Conclusion of DNA Results
Something odd occurred during our investigations. It has long been the policy of Greyminster Forensics to approach our examinations with hitherto untried methods.
(Here both Spotty and Stinky nodded at each other. That sounded scientific enough to throw any malpractice enquiries off-track.)
One particular procedure used in this instance was to run a shopping gun, as would normally be found scanning the bar codes at Sainsburys, across the DNA results. To our surprise, we were confronted with a readout.
Signed Spotty
(Crossed out, stained by coffee and smudged with blood)
Roger Dribblesthwaite.
“What was on the readout?” Brabbon sat up in Nesbit’s bed. Hodges helpfully repositioned the cushions behind her. She picked up the pathology report. A landslide of magazines tumbled into the chamber pot. Her eyes narrowed as she read Doctor Driscal’s addendum. “Property of Dovecote Hall?”
Hodges removed the roses from beside her elbow and searched for somewhere moist to plant them.
“Are you trying to tell me, Superintendent, that the DNA sample read as a bar code and what it said was ‘Property of Dovecote Hall’?” She knew she was restating the point. But under the circumstances, she felt it needed repeating.
Hodges adjusted his tie and stumbled over his words. “I wouldn’t know about that, Chief Inspector. My business is to maintain the running of the station and the well being of my men…and er, women, of course.” His rubbery goitres swung as he nodded. “I leave the ins and outs of individual cases to the understaff.”
Pausing for breath, his piggy eyes flicked towards the bedroom door.
“Reg…I mean, Inspector Nesbit, ’as just got back from the ’ospital. I’ll send ’im in if you like.”
“Thank you, Superintendent. Yes…” Brabbon made herself comfortable, studied the document and cocked an ear towards the shuffling that had entered the bedroom.
A noise similar to a woodpecker rose from her shin. Brabbon lowered the report, watching the oxford rattle against her cast. Then she looked at the plasters covering Nesbit’s face.
“I’m sorry to see you’ve got so many injuries, Reginald…”
“Hmm…?” Nesbit looked up, put his pipe in his mouth and grimaced. Plaster-of-Paris had a horrible taste. “What? Oh, these? They’re nothin’…”
“You saved my life.” For some reason she couldn’t look at him. “I’d hardly call that nothing, Inspector.”
“No really, Ma’am…they genuinely are nothin’. I stopped off on the way over for a shave and the batteries were dead. And, well, I’m not used to usin’ normal razors, so…”
He pointed out those sections where the blade had failed to follow the contours of his chin.
“Nonetheless Reginald, you still saved my life from that…that…thing.” Brabbon risked a glance, caught the smooth tip of his nose and turned crimson. “You were very brave and gallant.”
“All in the line of duty, Ma’am…”
It had to be said that Nesbit was an infuriating old git at times.
Well, most of the time actually.
He couldn’t even take a compliment on the chin.
“No, Reginald! You were very brave! Especially considering your…condition.”
Nesbit chewed his pipe and coughed.
“Well…other than the possibility of ’em bursting in the scuffle, and the fact that they itch like buggery of course, there was little chance of ’em ever impingin’ on me activities…”
“Reg…I’ve no idea what you’re talking about! I was referring to the fact that you’ve got…you know…?”
“What?”
“You know…? Trouble with your…”
She nodded at something. Nesbit’s eyes shot open.
“I assure y’ Ma’am. There’s nothin’ wrong with that! It may not see as much action as it once did, but…”
“Your cirrhosis, Inspector!”
The conversation reached a sudden halt.
For a moment Nesbit’s lips appeared to be operating without any sound.
“’Ow did you find out about that?”
“I’m a detective, Reginald. It’s my job to find things out. And in this instance, I’m very sorry…” Suddenly Brabbon’s eyes flicked from side to side. “What’s that noise?”
A muffled scratching came from the window.
Nesbit gave it a tug. After several attempts he managed to open it sufficiently for a draught to enter. Brabbon watched as the most battle-scarred cat she’d ever seen slunk into the room.
It was as black as a panther apart from the pattern of pink scars across it coat.
With a thud it hit the floor, then manoeuvred itself beneath the wardrobe. Nesbit prodded a bowl of liver after it.
“There y’ go, Malcolm…” Seconds later the sounds of smacking lips and purring drifted up from the hole.
“What about retiring, Reg?”
Nesbit blushed.
Brabbon suddenly remembered that he tended to see the world from an old fashioned point of view.
“From the force I mean?”
“Whatever for…? With all due respect, Ma’am, me illness doesn’t affect me duties as an officer.”
He thought about that before adding, “It doesn’t take much out of you playin’ dominoes as a rule. Admittedly things ’ave bin a bit more excitin’ over the past few days, but nonetheless…”
“What happens when you can’t cope any more?”
“If I retired, Ma’am, I’d ’ave nowhere else to go.” There was almost a pleading to his voice. “Policin’s been me business for God
knows ’ow long. I might not be very good at it, but it’s all I’ve got.”
Brabbon snorted. A gentle snort that pushed down on her lips and created a smile.
“Don’t worry, Reg. Your secret’s safe with me. What do you reckon that thing was in the Fleapit?”
“I ’aven’t a clue, Ma’am. Probably some ape that’s escaped from the zoo.”
“I wouldn’t be too hasty to dismiss it if I were you, Inspector.”
Thumping the pillow behind her, she hoisted herself up into a more comfortable position. Having tweaked out a stubborn pain, she readjusted the bloodstained bandage round her head.
“From what I could see it looked like a twelve foot demon with a bad attitude. Something capable of burning a person to death, at a rough guess.”
The remark apparently required some sort of answer.
“Y’ can’t be serious?”
“I’m always serious about police matters, Reg. I’ve investigated some very strange cases in my time. There was that incident some years ago. The one involving an elephant’s spirit that appeared out of thin air and crushed a car.”
“Are y’ sure it wasn’t just an over-imaginative insurance claim?”
“Not to mention the owl man of Torquay,” Brabbon continued, studying the architecture of Memory Lane. “Admittedly he was on his way home from a fancy dress party. But the Goat-sucking Guinea-pig of Bodmin Moor was real enough. And the Dancing Black Puddings of Penzance, whose sacrificial rituals brought terror to a Cornish village.”
“Would y’ like me to adjust that bandage round your ’ead, Ma’am?”
“Have you never come across anything unusual, Reginald?” She shook the memories away and stared at him.
“Well, we ’ad a chicken once that got wedged down the chimney of an old biddies ’ome. Kept knocking soot into the hearth.”
“Take a look at this and tell me what you reckon.”
She handed him Dr. Driscal’s report.
Nesbit read it, scratched one temple and read it again, more carefully this time.
“I reckon we’re back to Dovecote Hall.” The report was lowered. “There’s somethin’ goin’ on there that’s not above board. Reckon I ought to pay ’em a visit an’ find out what.”
“Reg…” Brabbon took the paper from his hand. “There’s the matter of our demonic serial killer first.”
Her hand disappeared down the side of the mattress. It reappeared holding a book.
“I’ve been studying the Tommy Local. And I’ve found somebody who might be able to help.”
“Not those Paranormal Investigators on Applegate? Last time we involved them they set fire to the graveyard tryin’ to exorcise an arsonist.”
“No, Inspector.” Her bony finger tapped the yellow page. “This is our woman.”
Nesbit squinted. The print was so small that he was forced to read out loud.
“Agatha McBride, Conservationist and Ornithologist! Rats taken care of discreetly.”
Malcolm locked his knuckles together and stretched his arms above his head.
Every joint cracked in unison.
Across his table were mountains of paper. Some had photographs of local dignitaries on them. Others had headlines such as, “Greyminster United Receive Donation of New Goal Posts.”
It had been a long day and Malcolm hadn’t come across the review of the amateur dramatics production. In all honesty the theatre leaflet was looking increasingly suspect.
As he collapsed into his chair he noticed one mound in the shape of Coniston Old Man. At the bottom of the pile an advertisement caught his eye.
It sported one of those bright red scribbles. The sort that newspapers use to make people think they’ve ringed something important. (Although why anybody would want to ring 574 unremarkable items, I can’t imagine.)
He gave it a tug. A number of ‘Letters to the Editor’ asking why the council hadn’t removed the generator from Wattling Street, were dislodged in the process. This is what the cutting read:
Romeo and Juliet
The Albert Finney Memorial Hall Amateur Dramatics Company require volunteers for our production of Shakespeare’s Master Sprout.
The roles are as follows:
Benvolio: A villain with a surprisingly prominent Sprout.
The Nurse: A large and jolly sprout.
Mercutio: A Sprout with a cut-throat sense of Sprout.
All applications must be sent in writing to Mrs Sprout, c/o 14 Sprout Drive, Lower Sprout, Sproutminster.
Malcolm studied the advert with tired eyes. Either the typesetter at the Chronicle was senile or the computer was playing up again. In the time-honoured tradition of engineers everywhere he thumped the monitor.
The printer sprang back into life, spewing out paper.
There’s little point in me writing down what was on the pages. There was an awful lot of it. However, every name on the theatre pamphlet also happened to be in the edition of the Chronicle being downloaded.
It might also be important to mention that the word ‘Sprout’ appeared every three lines.
Malcolm’s understanding of computers was somewhat limited. Whenever a problem arose he never knew what to do.
He’d heard of disassemblers but had no idea what they were. Buses were just things that turned up every four hours filled with Glaswegians. And megabytes were what beef-burgers didn’t deliver despite the insistence of their packages.
He scanned the screen, his eyes narrowing at each passing Sprout.
When he sat back he noticed they formed a set of features. An ugly, emotionless face that chilled his bones.
At the bottom of the screen were the words:
“Do not interfere with that which the likes of you cannot possibly understand! On pain of death! Sprout!”
There was a rumble from the keyboard. It purred along the mouse cable and shook the top from the printer. Seconds later it reached a painful volume. Malcolm covered his ears. The computer started to vibrate violently.
With a grind the floppy drive spat out its disc as though it had sneezed. The square of black plastic arced across the bedroom. It hit the photograph of Timothy on the bookshelf and then vanished into the sock drawer.
“Malcolm?” Mrs Clewes called up the stairs, still stirring her teacup. “What’s that noise? ’Ave you got friends up there?”
There was a fizzle and the monitor display shrank to a speck. A series of cracks ripped across the screen.
Accompanying this was a demented, mocking laugh.
Chapter Fourteen: Elephants Can Remember
Number Eighteen, Pumpernickel Close was much like all the other middle-class houses in Greyminster. Its wooden eaves were painted green. The chimney pots had frills. Ivy bordered the windows like spectacle rims.
There were, however, several differences between this house and the one next door. For one thing the front lawn was the sort of place that Rider Haggard would have set his novels in. Far from being the eerie haunt of pixies, this garden might well have housed wild boars and tigers. A military tank, covered in bindweed, took up central residence in this urban jungle. It rusted quietly beneath the camouflage of dead brambles.
This was Agatha McBride’s home. Agatha was fifty-five going on one-hundred-and-ninety. She was one of those people who were born old and continued in that manner for the rest of her life.
The lounge was the only room that she actually lived in. It would have overlooked the garden had the latticed windows been given the opportunity to do so. Unfortunately it was so cluttered with stuffed animal heads that Agatha now lived in a state of near darkness.
Bookish mould and slightly-off kippers permeated both her and her anachronistic home.
She hitched a sub-machine gun around her shoulders and adjusted the Bowie knives around her cartridge belt.
Now that we’ve been introduced let’s join the conversation she’s having with Nesbit. Such as it is...
“What bothers me is why anybody ’avin’ just been bitten
by a snake, would want to say ‘the speckled band…’”
Nesbit checked the bowl of his pipe for no other reason than it gave him something to do. The sight of the old woman struggling with her arsenal was worrying.
“I mean, ‘Elp, I’ve just been got at by a bloody big snake’ might ’ave been more appropriate!”
“Y’ talk a lot, don’t y’?” Agatha pulled up alongside him, weighed down by all her weaponry. “You got a problem with your colon?”
Nesbit winced. “’Ow did y’ know that?”
“’Cos y’ keep talkin’ shit.”
She lifted a blunderbuss to one eye.
“So, we’re after an ape, are we?”
“Apparently…the boss reckons it’s a demon, but y’ know Scotland Yard?”
“No I don’t!” Something was bothering Agatha. She struggled with the gun’s safety catch. “Cryptozoology, eh? ’Ad an elephant land on me car once!”
Nesbit raised both eyebrows in surprise.
“It wasn’t a wraith, was it?”
“Nah…was it f**k! Bloody bugger ’ad fallen off the back of a circus train on the viaduct.” She lowered the gun and pressed her nose towards his. The smell of curry escaped from her yellowing pegs. “Fortunately I ’ad me tranquilliser gun on me. Shot the bastard where it ’urt. Odd though…”
She straightened up and forced the blunderbuss beneath her combat jacket.
“Shot an elephant in India. Cunnin’ little f**ker he was! Got away with a bruise on ’is knee. The one that fell on me car ’ad a limp an’ all. Makes y’ wonder…” She adjusted the belt of home-made grenades around one rheumatic hip. “Mind you, ’ee ’ad a bloody limp after I’d finished shooting ’is bollocks, I can tell y’.”
This prompted a self-indulgent laugh. It sounded similar to a garage full of truck tyres all being punctured at once.