by Brian Hughes
Never mind.
With a squeak of shrivelled fingertips he removed his pipe from his mackintosh.
There was a dull thud outside the door.
Somebody, somewhere, was trying to move through unfamiliar territory whilst drawing as little attention to themselves as possible.
Nesbit glanced towards the latch. He sank a few inches. A subcontinent of suds collided with his chin.
Thud! Scuffle, scuffle. Bump, bump, bump. There it was again. This time closer. With smarting eyes he watched the door knob slowly turn. He fumbled for the towel rack to use as a weapon.
A mummified creature poked its head around the bottom of the door. Nesbit noticed Constable Parkins’ signature scrawled across it.
With a Carump the door crashed open. The crackle of a Barry White LP blurted out from the record player in the lounge.
“Hello Reg…” Frothy water filled the shovel of Nesbit’s jaw. He spat a greasy column back out. “Had a hard day?”
“Chief Inspector?”
He reached for the flannel and pulled it awkwardly across the most conspicuous part of his anatomy. Then he regretted that the cloth wasn’t larger. Not because it didn’t cover his embarrassment, but rather because it did. And it was only a short piece of cloth!
“I’m ’avin’ a bath, Sir…”
“Would you like me to join you?”
Nesbit turned crimson. Brabbon languished sensually against the doorjamb. One hand toyed with the knob, the other rubbing itself along the lintel. She was wearing a black Basque. The cups had been stuffed, Brabbon having little in the way of filling.
Even the cast on her leg had a sexy black garter stretched around it. In an attempt to hide her bruised eye she’d tucked a veil into her bandage.
“What’s all this about, Sir?” Nesbit shuffled backwards, his buttocks squealing against the tub. “I thought y’ didn’t like men to be short and stumpy with grey ’air?”
“It’s not written in stone, Reginald.”
She blew the corner of the veil from her mouth. It fluttered apathetically towards the ceiling before coming to rest over her one good eye.
“You mean, Ma’am, that you feel sorry for me?” Despite his bigoted attitude, Nesbit did have a basic understanding of human nature. “And you thought you might ease the last few weeks of me life with your feminine touch?”
“Not at all, Inspector…”
(There was obviously some truth in his statement. The informality with which Brabbon had been using his Christian name was forgotten in the rush to explain.)
“I do actually like you. It took a while, but unlike most men at least you’re honourable and decent. And your heart’s in the right place.”
“Pity me liver isn’t…”
Brabbon unhooked her suspender from one of the hinges. There was a twang as it snapped back against a fairy ring of cellulite.
“Even if Piglet does look like a gooseberry,” she added.
The telephone rang in the entrance hall.
Brabbon snorted. “Bloody marvellous. Every time I’m about to have a bath somebody calls. Who the bloody Hell can that be?”
She swung herself back through the door, wrestling the plaster cast free from a towel.
“Don’t go away. I’ll be back.”
Brabbon slammed the ear-piece against her temple.
“Who? Superintendent Hodges…no he’s not here. This is Chief Inspector Brabbon!” There was the crackle of a distant voice. “Oh, I’m sorry Superintendent. I must have misheard…no, no…that’s a terrible shame about Constable Took.”
“What about Took?”
Brabbon looked up as Nesbit entered. For somebody with a fatal illness, approaching retirement and bearing the general disposition of a sea-cucumber, he’d dressed himself remarkably fast. The fact that his shirt was covered in damp patches explained how he’d done it.
“It appears Constable Took has been the victim of an arson attack.”
Brabbon raised a hand to intersect Nesbit’s next question. On the other end of the line Hodges continued. At length Brabbon covered the mouthpiece.
“The witnesses are uncertain what happened but the general consensus is that Mrs Beaumont must have done it.”
“Bollocks!”
Nesbit stuffed his shirt into his belt, several buttons in the wrong holes.
“Rose Beaumont might be dotty, but she ain’t a blitherin’ murderer!”
“We’ll get down to the station straight away.”
Brabbon replaced the receiver and frowned. Then she turned and gave Nesbit an enquiring look.
“I’m sure y’ can sort that out yourself, Ma’am.” He adjusted his tie until it was barely visible. “I’m off to Dovecote ’All. That’s where all this trouble’s flamin’ comin’ from!”
He grabbed his trilby, shook a sock from inside it and jammed it firmly on his head. Then he lowered his eyes.
“Incidentally…thank you, Ma’am…for the consideration.” He swallowed before stumbling on. “It’s just that, even if you can put up with me being old and knackered and not ’avin’ much in the way of…well, not much t’ speak of…”
He chewed the cud for a moment.
“’Air, I mean…on me ’ead…any’ow...the truth is…I’m not altogether sure that I can put up with it meself. Y’ see, I’m quite a proud man, Chief Inspector. The only trouble is, I ’aven’t got much to be very proud of.”
With which startlingly honest words he grabbed the door handle, felt it slip in his damp fingers and eventually threw open the door. Without another word he stomped off.
The wind whistled down the alley. There were plenty of cracks in the walls here. So many, in fact, that they resembled sketches of wintry trees. Here and there cola cans rattled around in circles, occasionally bumping into abandoned prams.
Recognise this ginnel yet? This is Dead Cat Lane. And just to prove it, the flies in one corner are gathered about some long forgotten pet.
Agatha McBride was nowhere in sight. The only living objects here now were the bricks themselves.
Two eyes blinked into the gloom. Occasionally the bricks would bulge, a mouth opening that was filled with fangs of grey cement.
There was the rumble of thunder beyond the rooftops.
The demon was waiting patiently. Soon night would envelope the world. Then it could wreak havoc on the town again.
One ear cocked itself towards the heavens.
That wasn’t thunder after all. It was more gutteral. More continuous. The eyes narrowed instinctively, the ear swinging in the opposite direction. Whatever it was, it was fast approaching. And it was chugging! And wheezing! And spluttering! The noise was chorused by explosions not too dissimilar to an elephant backfiring.
An air horn bellowed loudly. The bricks snarled in response.
Then suddenly the whole wall detonated. Slabs of mortar blasted outwards in all directions. Bricks showered the buildings. Shards of glass pirouetted up. Dust billowed down the passage, a bulbous thumb of unstoppable ash.
Through the smoke a cube of yellow metal shuddered. A grubby machine with black chevrons. It spluttered to a halt and continued to tremble for several moments.
As the dust slowly cleared across its upended scoop, its occupier gave a final blast on the horn. The bulldozer stammered in exhaustion. With a holler of self-congratulation Agatha swung down from the cockpit onto the cobbles.
Resembling a snuffbox on legs, she coughed a tunnel through the choking miasma. Her boots sparked as she hobbled back towards the destruction. The hole in the wall said it all really.
Beyond the hole stretched an arc of black tyre marks, still smouldering slightly. Agatha had figured that anything with the ability to diffuse into a brick wall probably wouldn’t have been brought down by conventional weapons. Fortunately for her, she’d found the JCB abandoned on the corner of Southport Parade.
She kicked a slab of bricks with her boot. Two horns were thrust out of its centre like coat hooks. Beneath t
hem the twisted mouth had set solid. The demon had obviously been screaming as it was torn to shreds.
Agatha cocked her head on one side and muttered, “Got Y’! Y’ mother f**kin’ son of a b*tch!”
Outside, a car door slammed. The hummock of duvet suddenly transformed into Malcolm’s towsled head. That was the classic thud of a vintage Bentley. It was followed by a deafening burst of Peer Gynt.
A few moments later the embarrassed sergeant stumbled down the front steps at Gasworks View, trying to tuck his shirt into his belt with little success. One ginger tendril of hair was standing upright like some sort of windsock.
“Hold on a moment, Sir.” His voice fell dead against the defoliated trees. Nesbit turned and squinted at him. Malcolm approached on one leg, desperately knotting the boot-lace on his other foot. “Has it been rainin’, Sir?”
Nesbit ignored the reference to his sodden clothes, grinned at Malcolm through the bowl of his pipe and spoke through his clenched teeth. “Clewes, what the ’ell do you think you’re playin’ at? We’re still on duty, y’ know?”
Malcolm flattered his hair and dug into his pockets for his tie. “I was gathering information, Sir.” The tie was pulled across his head, the knot that Mrs Clewes had tied in it becoming entangled with a curl.
“That’s what y’ call it nowadays, is it? And what vital components to our mystery ’ave you picked up from your stoned companions then?”
“Just that Joshua Barclay’s gone missin’, Sir.”
There followed a couple of circumspect moments. Malcolm realised he was wearing odd socks. Extremely odd, one being the sports sock his mother had chosen, the other being a fluorescent pink affair.
Nesbit screwed up one eye and investigated the empty pipe bowl with the other.
“’Old on a moment, Clewes? Joshua Barclay’s the ’ead principle here, isn’t ’ee?”
“Was, Sir. He died in his sleep last year.”
“That’s what I thought.” His nostrils flared. “Forgive me for soundin’ a little presumptive ’ere, Malcolm, but wouldn’t that make it a bit ’ard for ’im to go missin’ ? If ’ee’s already been dead for the last twelve months?”
“That’s whole the point, Sir. His body’s been dug from its grave. Nobody knows who’s done it or why. There’s been a lot of speculation around the campus as to what’s happened to the corpse, though. Jar-nette reckons it’s been nicked by one of the art students. But I have to admit I’ve got some reservations about…”
“Right!” Nesbit span round with resolve. “Well I for one am about t’ find out.”
He stared at the sagging building. A tingle crawled along his spine.
“Come along, Clewes. It’s time we paid a long overdue visit on this bleedin’ Dovecote ’All.”
“I wouldn’t go in there if I was you, Sir?” Concern crossed Malcolm’s face. “Jar-nette reckons there’s been some weird comings and goings at that place recently. Serving women running round in their drawers and lots of explosions.”
He stuffed his hands into his pockets as though they ought to wait for back-up. The sort of back up that wore dark blue overalls, carried submachine guns and had their faces smeared with cork.
“That’s exactly why we are goin’ inside!” With the firm conviction that Clewes would follow him to the end of the Earth, Nesbit set off towards the tumble-down manor. “It’s time for some proper bloody action, before there’s no-one left in Greyminster to get murdered!”
Look down on the campus as we pull away towards the chapter’s climax. What do you see? Two foolhardy policemen, one trailing hesitantly in the other’s wake. A couple of stout, good-hearted fellows, striding obliviously towards the same fate as Obidiah Taunton.
If you’re religious then pray for their souls. If not, then cover your eyes and wait for the fireworks to begin.
Chapter Seventeen: Crooked House
Most newsworthy events around Greyminster involved dancing sheep or councillors unveiling street signs. So whenever a story of importance broke, the staff at the Chronicle would, to some extent, deliberately mislead their readers. For example, if a headline included the word, ‘Local’ then the ‘Local’ boundaries would suddenly stretch to about 200 miles.
Often the staff would invent stories to grab the readers’ attention. Exactly how accurate, therefore, the following report was is anybody's guess:
‘Missing Woman Accused Of ‘Arson’ Around: Following an attack with a home-made incendiary device on an upstanding member of the Greyminster police, Mrs Rose Beaumont...President of The Watch And Tell Squad (T.W.A.T.S.)... has mysteriously vanished.
Close friends said she had gone to stay with relatives in Lancaster. As there is little evidence to corroborate this, we must assume she has taken to her heels and fled.
Also missing in action is Constable Took (34). Took, currently awaiting a hearing on allegations of racial abuse, was last seen being mobbed by angry protesters demanding protection from Greyminster’s serial killer.
Eye witness accounts of the attack vary. Mrs Clewes (62) said, ‘A meteorite hurtled down the avenue and struck Constable Took on the back of the head.’ After some deliberation she added, ‘It served him right for being an insolent young man.’
Martha Dunwoody (97) of Albany Grove Rest Home said, ‘A Lancaster Bomber flew overhead and dropped a huge, spinning ball of gas.’ Mrs Dunwoody is currently undergoing psychiatric treatment.
Whatever the cause, Dr. Driscal (49), forensics expert and restaurant owner, said, ‘Nothing short of a nuclear blast could have reduced Constable Took to such a sad pile of melted guano. Therefore, gentlemen, we must conclude that Took has taken advantage of the situation to desert his post.’
Full story on page fourteen, plus a ‘Colour the Cartoon of Constable Took in Flames’ competition.’
Extract from The Greyminster Chronicle Feb. 17th 1999.
The latch to Dovecote Hall was unfastened. It had been like that since Mrs Baton had left the building some time earlier, disrobed of her frock. The hinges now creaked as the door swung inwards beneath Nesbit’s weight.
A slab of sunlight crossed the carpet as though somebody was pushing a block of Perspex through the door. It softly highlighted the antique furniture but added little illumination.
Moments later a couple of faces, one above the other, occupied the crack resembling a grammatical colon. Nesbit wrinkled his nose, then sneezed his oxford into the room. “’Ello?!”
No reply. His voice echoed back from the smouldering fireplace. “Is there anybody there? This is the police! We’re not from the Fair Rent Council or any charity workin’ on behalf of the sexually challenged.”
The room remained as silent as a nunnery at midnight. Only the odd creak of a ceiling beam feeling the pressure of centuries past broke the inertia.
“All right, Clewes.” With confidence creeping back, Nesbit stepped inside. “If Muhammad doesn’t want to drink, then the mountain ’ad better be led to the…the...”
“Bush, Sir?”
“Exactly Clewes. Now then, what ’ave we ’ere?” He picked up a glass ornament containing a Santa Claus on a bit of white plastic. Then he shook it and watched the snow tumble inside.
Glancing down he noticed the cracks in the parquet floor. Enormous branches all coming from one corner. It was too dark to make out what that corner contained. It seemed to be crackling.
“I’ll check upstairs then, shall I, Sir?” Malcolm hovered on the first step, his hand on the banister stump.
Nesbit looked towards the ashes in the grate. Putting the ornament down, he heard his stomach growl and watched the smoke coil listlessly up the chimney.
“Tell you what, Clewes. You go and ’ave a look upstairs while I ’ave a look for the kitchen.”
“That’s a good idea, Sir.” In three enormous bounds Malcolm reached the landing, ducking instinctively from a lintel. “And let us know, Sir, if y’ come up with any more good ideas.”
The Neighbourhood Watch had gathere
d behind the police-tape cordoning off Dead Cat Lane. Half-obscured by the fog they peered towards the massacre.
“It was a f**kin’ big b*stard demon! Had a face like a slapped arse!” Agatha frowned at the back of Angus’ curly head. “I don’t know what Obidiah Taunton’s doin’ in there now!”
Angus stroked the hydrangea of his beard, pulling it to a point as he studied the agonised features of the handyman. Distorted features, partially melded with the brickwork.
Hodges kicked the fingertips protruding from another slab of bricks.
“Well, Professor? Does ’ee fit the profile of your serial killer?”
“It’s hard to say really.” Angus stood up. “Seein’ as he’s dead. That tends to put a crimp on constructing a psychological profile.”
“You know, Miss McBride…” Hodges swung round to the armour plated pigmy. “No matter ’ow you look at it, murder is still against the law in this country. Regardless of what special permit you might ’ave.”
“It wasn’t piggin’ murder! It was a simple case of extermination! I had a cousin once who used to work in genetics, clonin’ frogs…”
“Whatever for?” Brabbon padded up, her broken ankle making her waddle.
She hadn’t bothered to dress. She’d just slung one of Nesbit’s old night-shirts about her shoulders. A jaunty sock covered the toe of the plaster cast.
“I can understand cloning sheep. But what’s the point in cloning frogs?”
“Don’t friggin’ ask me! It was all very covert stuff.” Agatha frowned. “’Ee was working on undercover recruitment for the foreign legion. Any’ow, the p*ssin’ point is, this bloody idiot ’ere has been genetically altered. Down at a sub-atomic level!”
With her boot she kicked the mangled nose. A muffled splinter drifted up.
Hodges chewed on the deflated dinghy of his bottom lip.
“And then it wore off, did it?”
Brabbon suddenly remembered something.
“Did you say his name was Obidiah Taunton?” She stared hard at Agatha. “Where’ve I heard that name before?”