by Brian Hughes
Nesbit tried to smile amiably. He was worried about the amount of colourful metaphors the pensioner was using. The fact that, physically, she would have been better suited to a rickety bath-chair made them seem inappropriate somehow.
“You’re not seriously considerin’ goin’ onto the streets with that lot, are y’?”
Agatha stopped her final adjustments. She forced the grubby balaclava back up her head and scowled.
“Got a special licence off Councillor Ordenshaw. Bent as a five bob note that ’un. She’d sell ’er own kids to vivisection if it meant gettin’ discount.”
She thrust one hoary hand inside her combat vest, a place where even her doctor wouldn’t dare to go. Moments later it re-emerged, holding a tattered piece of paper. “Pest Control. All that bollocks.”
The certificate was thumped against Nesbit’s chest. The impact almost knocked him over. He tottered backwards towards a mound of library books.
Agatha smiled. An unpalatable grimace on an empty stomach.
“It’s all in order! C’mon Mr Officious. Let’s go an give that colon o’ yours a damn good workout!”
Surprisingly the front door was still on its hinges, though not through want of Agatha trying to remove it. As the handle rebounded against the wall Nesbit followed her down the steps. The uneasy sunlight had penetrated the tangled canopy of the poplars. It dappled his eyelids as he reached the garden path.
Agatha hoisted the blunderbuss to an angle of seventy degrees. She rammed the butt against one shoulder and circled the branches with the sights. Seconds later a shot rang out that sent blackbirds scattering into the sky. They resembled a teabag bursting.
A twisted mass of brown feathers and giblets dropped onto the pavement with a squelch.
Agatha lowered the gun and grinned across one shoulder. “As the great man always said, ‘When the little bastards learn t’ shit white, I might leave ’em alone!’”
And with that she clumped towards the gate, various incendiary devices clattering ominously against each other.
What Brabbon needed right now was time to recover. Unfortunately Malcolm wasn’t letting her get it. At that moment he was hammering excitedly on the front door, oblivious to all that had taken place in his absence.
Struggling from the bed into one tartan slipper, Brabbon negotiated the obstacle course of Nesbit’s bedroom. Unhooking a smoking jacket from the door, she readjusted her bandage and stumbled blindly towards the banging.
Malcolm’s cheeks turned the colour of his freckles as the door opened. Brabbon stood on the chilly step and pulled the dressing gown closed.
“Sorry to disturb you, Ma’am. If you and the inspector are busy right now…”
Brabbon grunted.
“Inspector Nesbit is out chasing phantoms!”
“Ah, right. Well, might I come in, Ma’am?”
Malcolm hesitated, politely. Brabbon hobbled inside with all the dignity of a one legged duck.
“Now then, Malcolm…what’s so important that I can’t be allowed to finish my crossword?”
A yawn tore her features apart. They looked even more wan than usual.
“Well, Ma’am. I think I’ve found a connection. It hasn’t all slotted into place yet, but there’s definitely something going on…”
Malcolm waited for the authorisation to continue.
“Right, well let’s have it.”
“Yes, Ma’am. The thing is, Ma’am…” He raised one finger. “First there was the bio-gel. The latest innovation in ‘Artificial Intelligence’ if I’m not much mistaken.”
No, he wasn’t. To be honest, Brabbon was sure she’d pointed that out to him at the time.
“Then there was all that stuff I down-loaded from the university.” Malcolm raised a second and third finger. “And that joke report from the Chronicle, about the murder in 1997…and then there was what ’appened at home about a quarter of an hour ago.”
Brabbon decided to interrupt his monologue (which was lucky, because Malcolm was running out of fingers.)
“And what was that, Sergeant?”
“Well, Ma’am, the university archives seemed to be trying to communicate with me.”
Not unexpectedly, there followed another lull. At length:
“Communicate with you?”
“That’s what it seemed like, Ma’am, yes. Now the way I figure it is this. The connection is those three students at Gasworks view, like the inspector reckoned in the first place. All this stuff about Kevin Dalton and the theatre pamphlet must ’ave been some sort of Rag Week stunt. Other than the police force, only students have access to the university mainframe.”
Brabbon flopped into the sagging armchair. It crinkled as her bony buttocks crushed several copies of ‘True Detective Magazine’ beneath the cushion. Pulling the smoking jacket closed she fumbled for the packet of Lambastes’ Old Hacks.
“Very good, Clewes. You’re obviously more clued up than your gormless colleague.” She stuffed a cigarette between her teeth. “But what has that got to do with our serial killer?”
“Well, Ma’am. I’ve had a think.”
Jolly good, well that’s a start. A flare of orange signified the cigarette had been kindled.
“And I’ve put two and two together. And I reckon there must be a connection because of our missing handy…persons. Both of them claimed to be experts in computer technology, Ma’am. They must have gone to the university to sort the problems with the archives out. After that it all gets a bit vague, I’m afraid.”
“So what do you intend to do now?” A halo of smoke rose above Brabbon’s head.
“Well, with your permission Ma’am, I’d like to check out that student…”
Here Malcolm stumbled, trying to remember the student’s name with obvious difficulty. Too obvious, in fact. “Janet Whatever-Her-Name was.”
“Yes…I’m sure you would…” The circle of smoke drifted apart.
“No, I mean she needs pumping, Ma’am…for information…” Malcolm turned beetroot.
“Off you go then, Malcolm. Don’t let me stop you…”
Ironically enough, as Malcolm approached the door she did stop him. “Sergeant?”
He turned and noticed that Brabbon was avoiding eye contact. She was picking absentmindedly at some fluff on her night-gown.
“Did you know that Inspector Nesbit was sick?”
“He’s a bit of bigot Ma’am, I know that. And he cheats at Cluedo. He’s got three extra cards that he stole from his nephew’s house. Tells me to put the kettle on and then swaps ’em for the ones in the envelope. That’s why it’s always Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with the lead piping.”
“Thank you Malcolm.”
Malcolm grabbed the door handle and paused.
“You could do worse, Ma’am.”
Brabbon raised her eyes and blew the smoke into patches.
“Most people think ’ee’s a pain in the neck.”
“That’s a polite way of putting it.”
“But when you get to know ’im he’s not such a bad sort really. He could well make a middle-aged widower very happy.” Another thoughtful addendum. “Or comfortable at least.”
With which words Malcolm left, closing the door behind him.
At the click of the lock Brabbon took a drag on her cigarette. With a mouth full of smoke she muttered to herself.
“Happy enough...until the end of the summer, Sergeant…”
Behind Bogg Street Station stood the shunting yard. It was a burial ground for rusted signals, mountains of coal and crumbling buildings that poked themselves up like swollen thumbs. The empty shells of diesel engines lay abandoned on the cobbles.
A bridge spanned the tracks. It had been built back in the times when the Railworker’s Union had slightly more bite. It was a simple structure of joists bolted together with weeping rivets.
Brick stairs had been tagged on at either end. When viewed from the ground the Union Bridge always seemed to be silhouetted against the sky.
Two indistinct shapes now moved across its ancient back. One was squat, resembling an ornamental biscuit tin. The other was slightly taller, its coat tails flapping in the wind.
Agatha McBride went down on one creaky knee and pawed the ground.
Seconds later she picked up a scrap of something moist. It was covered with straw.
Her nostrils quivered as she inhaled.
She pushed the tip of her tongue against it and grimaced.
“If you’re ’ungry we could always stop off at the buffet room.”
Agatha snorted. “Droppin’s, Inspector. That bastard’s hiding out round ’ere somew’ere, I can smell it!”
“And that’s an ape dropping, is it?”
Nesbit nodded at the substance in Agatha’s fingers. Now he understood why her breath stank.
“Nah…” Agatha rose unsteadily, her knees cracking.
She lost balance, fell against Nesbit with the weight of a wrecking ball, then brushed herself down with as much nonchalance as she could.
“This is just cat shit…”
“Y’ can tell the difference, can y?”
“Oh aye…distinctive texture. Much more fishy. This one’s bin livin’ rough in the old controller’s shed for a while, by the taste o’ things.”
Another sniff and the substance vanished into Agatha’s nostril. She wiped her fingertips on Nesbit’s shoulder.
“Probably whelpin’. Smells a bit lactated…”
“Mrs McBride…?” Nesbit removed his pipe and studied the bowl.
“It’s Miss, actually…never married. ’Ad a boyfriend once. Poor bugger broke ’is leg in a joggin’ accident. ’Ad to put him down…”
Nesbit winced. It was difficult to tell whether she was being ironic or not.
“Miss…McBride? What exactly are we doin’ hangin’ around this grothole?”
“Your missin’ ape’s ’ere, Inspector.”
She sniffed a passing zephyr, rolled its contents on her tastebuds, and spat it back out.
“Only it ain’t an ape. It’s somethin’ bigger and much more violent. Summet huge. Bet it’s got bollocks the size o’ coconuts.”
“Lucky devil…”
“Not when I’ve got me double barrel gun rammed up against ’em, it won’t be!”
She placed her hands on the edge of the bridge. Then she stared at the view. From up here the panorama resembled the Somme.
Tarpaulin-covered wagons made eerie noises as the wind spliced through their ropes. Huge cylinders of cable waited patiently on rusted carts for owners long since driven to bankruptcy. They resembled enormous cheeses on cutting boards. Here and there half-demolished buildings, nothing more than dentures hewn from brick, bore testimony to the decline of the industrial north.
Agatha cupped her ear.
“Over there! The signal box!” She pointed at the shed. “C’mon Inspector. We’ve got the bastard by the short and curlies!”
She clamped a crampon round the rail. Threading a cable through it from her belt, she unsteadily mounted the barrier.
With both arms outstretched she shuffled backwards. The pipe toppled from Nesbit’s mouth as the wizened anthropologist plummetted, accompanied by the cry of, ‘Geronimoooooo…’
The cord reached its full length, recoiled the pensioner back into the air like a sack of potatoes and following several whoops lost momentum. Agatha McBride came to a stuttering halt eight feet above the track.
Her nimble fingers untied the knot. Moments later the rope spiralled back up as she landed on the rails with a thud.
Nesbit peered over the edge. He expected to see a twisted heap of bazookas and wrinkled skin.
Instead he saw a rapidly moving speck, charging across the yard. It was weaving its way through the deserted carriages with the expertise of a seamstress’s needle.
“Shift your fat arse, Inspector!” Agatha shouted. “This bugger’s ’ad it now!”
Time for action.
His heart beat noisily against his ribs.
Nesbit swung himself over the railing, inched along the edge of the bridge, then gingerly reached for the rope.
About half way down he suddenly realised he should have taken the steps instead. A rumbling noise filled his ears. It had been gathering strength since his ordeal had begun. Chippings of paint began to fly from beneath the bridge. He swung around with the difficulty of a chimpanzee on a Dunlop tyre, his legs striking outwards.
The thunderous wall of a locomotive suddenly spanned the whole of his vision. A howl of air-horns overpowered his scream. The muffled thud that followed transformed the rushing wheels and screeching air-brakes into empty blackness.
Chapter Fifteen: The Devil’s Novice
Rose Beaumont was feeling particularly pleased with herself as she carried the tray of biscuits with pictures of the Saint on them into the front room.
She was now the unofficial leader of the Neighbourhood Watch. Brasswick’s Butchers had been closed all morning, a remarkable event in itself considering how much he enjoyed making money. Albert Brasswick was in his bedroom, an offal bucket by the side of his bed and his brain dehydrated from too much alcohol.
A cross-section of society now sat around Rose’s coffee table, discussing various medical problems. With a clatter the plate was put down on the smoked glass top.
“Ladies and gentleman…” An authoritarian cough and the slapping of her palms signified that Mrs Beaumont was about to call order. “I would like to welcome you all to this, our first, historic meeting of The Greyminster Anti-Crime Assembly.”
She’d been up all night working on that one. At least it didn’t condense into anything vulgar.
At the back of the room a voice was still wittering.
“’Ee had to ’ave it lanced, ’ee did…the doctor reckoned the end ’ad gone all septic.”
“Mrs Wainthrop?” With a click of her fingers Rose tried to attract the old dear’s attention. “Mrs Wainthrop…we have in fact started.”
“Of course the bloody thing burst, didn’t it?” It might have been the Cossack’s hat muffling her ears that stopped Mrs Wainthrop from hearing. “All over ’is nice clean overall. The district nurse said she were almost sick with the stink.”
“Mrs Wainthrop? We have actually started our meeting!”
“’Course the next time ’ee had to use the little-boys’ room ’ee had problems tryin’ to pull its hood back.”
Rose decided it might be best if she just ignored the prattle.
“Now then, ladies and gentlemen. The time has come to speak our minds…”
“Terrible trouble with the truss. It wouldn’t go on prop’ly.”
“The Greyminster police must be held accountable for this intruder in our…town…”
With a sinking sensation Rose realised that nobody was listening to her. Mrs Wainthrop had just moved on to a particularly graphic bit of gossip.
“Kept cutting into ’is…you know what?” Here she mouthed what appeared to be the word ‘vestibules’ and dragged a crooked finger across her throat. “Turned out ’ee’d bin wearin’ it upside down…”
Rose took a deep breath and continued at a slightly louder volume.
“It is therefore my considered opinion…”
“This big glass rod thing, it was…”
“We should move on York Street station and demand protection from this killer!”
“Opened out into an umbrella.” (At this point several male members of the gathering winced.)
“If the police are unable to catch this murderous beast…”
“Talk about sting? I ’eard it catapulted ’is underpants onto the nearest lamppost.”
“THEN WE MUST EACH BE ASSIGNED AN OFFICER WHO WILL…”
“Stood too close t’ the choppin’ board.”
“MRS WAINTHROP!!!?”
The volume with which this statement was bellowed proved so violent that several geriatrics fell off their dining chairs.
“MRS WAINTHROP, WOULD YOU KINDLY LEAVE
MY HOUSE AT ONCE?”
With narrowed eyes Mrs Wainthrop stood up, hoisted each bosom individually and glowered in Rose’s direction.
“There’s no need for that tone o’ voice, young man!”
She adjusted her bustle, sent several teacups spinning across the table cloth and stuck her nose in the air.
“This is the last coffee mornin’ I’ll ever come to in this stinkin’ whorehouse.”
According to scholars, works of literature should always include Latin.
After all, Latin is a witty language. Moby Dick, despite being the most long-winded fishing manual ever written, has gone down in history as a masterpiece simply because Herman Melville threw in the odd quote.
In order to transform this book from a catalogue of misadventures into a work of genius, I have therefore decided to add some Latin of my own. I’ve also included a translation in brackets, to share the hilarious wit with those who had a secondary school education.
Cum grano salis (Lat: Making allowance for exaggeration) let us continue with currente calamo (Lat: rapid pen). Down below us stretch the mise en scene (Fr: setting and scenery) of the shunting yard; sic transit gloria mundi. (Lat: so passes the glory of the world. This is a particularly splendid joke for those in the know.)
Pro tempore (Lat: For the time being) let us study the corpus vile (Lat: worthless matter) of this dreary landscape seriatim. (Lat: one after another. We’re obtaining new heights of literature now.) Nil admirari (Lat: There is nothing to admire here). Apart perhaps from the mirabilia (Lat: wonders) of the derailed deisel engine.
Then of course there’s always the vehicles with flashing blue lights that contrast sharply with the greyness. Cav’e can’em. (Lat: Beware of the dog. Sorry, I’m not sure how this one slipped in. Actually that’s probably enough now.)
“’Ow the ’ell did ’ee do it?” Superintendent Hodges studied the aftermath of the derailed freighter.
Giant geysers of steam billowed from fissures along the engine’s dented side. Ominous ticking noises accompanied the hiss of escaping gas. Chickens clucked. Don’t ask why, but in every serious accident chickens suddenly appear from nowhere.