by Brian Hughes
At precisely that moment the foyer door burst open.
A ruddy-faced Betty Treacle hurtled through it, propelled into the lobby by her bouncing trolley. She collided violently with the counter, her chin rebounding into her neck and the contents of her carrier spiralling up towards the rafters.
As items of flotsam settled around her, Betty slumped to the floor, an old sock that appeared to have been washed in peanut butter coming to rest on her neck.
“On the other ’and...” Jack blew a snort down his nose and leant over his incident book to stare at her. “Per’aps I’d better call an ambulance first.”
Oddly enough, that might not have been such a good idea. Any ambulance trying to park outside the Accident Department right at that moment would have had some difficulty. This was partly due to the emergency ward’s inconsequential size (three beds, a pair of crutches and barely enough room to wheel the cardiograph machine) and also because the lamp illuminating the reception desk had just blown.
Staff Nurse Langille, the frumpy receptionist, had spent the last fifteen minutes hunting through boxes before calling down to the x-ray department for a spare bulb.
Outside on the gravel the two detectives continued their search.
“’Ow the ’ell do y’ get into this bloody building? Every blasted door appears t’ be locked!” Nesbit waved his stumpy fingers in front of the electronic sensor to no effect. “It’s worse than the Big Brother ’ouse!”
“It’s not to stop the patients getting out,” Malcolm absentmindedly replied, looking around for an alternative entrance. “It’s t’ stop people from getting in.”
“They’re doin’ a good job then!” Nesbit flicked a couple of ‘V’s at the flashing red light. “W’at do they expect people to break in for, any’ow? Is there a black market in ’ormone pills around Greyminster?”
“Standard practice, Sir.”
Malcolm considered himself to be an authority on such matters. A few years before his transfer he’d been rushed into hospital with a burst appendix and had spent several post-operative nights aimlessly wandering the corridors of Newcastle Central. Occasionally he’d locked himself out.
“We need t’ find the A & E, Sir. That’s always open.”
“Might I remind you sergea...inspector...” Nesbit stumbled over Malcolm’s title in the same manner that a Freudian slip would stumble over a stool bucket.
“Might I remind you...” he tried again. “That we’re trying t’ track down a dangerous criminal. Not go shopping!”
“Accident and Emergency, Sir.” Malcolm explained, too tired to argue that Hodges was hardly dangerous. That is to say, Hodges wasn’t dangerous unless you happened to be a hamster that had stupidly found its way onto his chair. “There’s always staff at the Accident desk.”
“Where is this Accident and Emergency place then, Clewes?!” To say that Nesbit was growing purple would be an understatement. At this rate he’d be getting a free lift to the Emergency ward on a stretcher. “You’d think if someone was dyin’ of an ’eart attack it’d be easy t’ find, wouldn’t y?”
Behind her cluttered desk Staff Nurse Langille screwed the new bulb into its socket and the window halfway up the door flickered back into life.
“Ah ha! That must be it, Sir.” Malcolm slapped his palms together. “Time to make a cardiac arrest, I reckon.”
Shadows fluttered across the plaster walls, cloaks of menace darkening the cobwebs where the brush couldn’t reach. The smeared aura of candlelight amplified Sergeant Partridge’s already portly shape as he inched his way down the stairs.
Staff Nurse Langille might have relit her office, but the cellar at York Street had been plunged into darkness by contrast.
With his usual efficiency Jack had routed out the traditional candle. Then he’d left Constable Robins to attend to Betty Treacle’s nose and ventured forth with the candleholder screwed tightly onto one thumb.
“Mrs Duvall?” His shiny boots took another cautious step down. “We appear to ’ave ’ad a power cut or somethin’. Are you alright?”
There was no response. Just the darkness breathing heavily.
“Mrs Duvall?” he tried again, cocking one cauliflower ear towards what he suspected was her cell. “Are you alive or w’at?”
The breathing quickened. It sounded nasal and slightly moist.
Fearing the worst, although exactly what that might be given Jack’s unusual experiences of Greyminster, he waddled a bit more quickly. Shortly he was fumbling his key into the huge lock.
The cell door grumbled open with a yawn.
“Are you in ’ere Winifred?”
CLUNK!
The dull ring of a chamber pot round the back of Jack’s head filled the darkness.
Shadows scattered like bats from a witch’s cauldron as the hefty policeman tumbled, the stump of his candle performing acrobatics across the floor.
A brief scuffle.
One liver-spotted hand reached down for the guttering light source.
Three seconds later Miss Duvall’s hammock of a neck was being lit from underneath, a concerned expression toying with her slack mouth.
“Oh dear...I’m dreadfully sorry, Sergeant.” She studied the po in the flickering fronds of light. Or, at least, she studied what remained of the po, its other half now broken across the bed. “It had to be done. We’re in an awful pickle and Inspector Nesbit hasn’t got a clue, I’m afraid.”
Flustered and confused she patted the sergeant on his bald patch. Then she laid the handle beside him, as though it might give him some comfort when he came round again, picked up her brolly and bolted as fast as her rickety legs could carry her towards the stairs.
Millicent’s corpse, or rather the bit of it from the bridge of her nose upwards that was still protruding from the refuse heap, watched with disinterest as one of the stars above the chimney pots detached itself from the heavens and descended.
The tiny speck of brilliance reached the gas lamp on the corner. It started to grow in size. Soon it was clearly recognisable as the flying saucer responsible for sinking the Saucy Fru. Whether Millicent Broadhurst was aware of this, or of any other fact come to that matter, it was difficult to tell.
With a whine that sinewaved itself into a purr, the craft extended three wobbly legs, touched down on the cobbles and slid open a hatch.
Ethyl squeezed herself through the narrow opening.
Once outside she shook herself back into shape. A number of feathers filled the night, one twisting upwards in front of Millicent’s eyes.
In the time honoured tradition of Lancashire women everywhere Ethyl thrust her wings onto her wide hips and cocked one brow towards her undead minion.
“Well?” she demanded at length. “Did you get any response?”
The top of Millicent’s head shook itself from side to side. Not in the usual manner that somebody would shake their head, but with great deliberation. Her sunken eyes continued to gaze intently at the flustered chicken.
“Did you at least get Nessie back?”
Three burger cartons parted into a crack. Millie’s rotting hand emerged from the rift, clutching the handle of the bucket.
“Good,” Ethyl continued as the Martian scrambled up the mound and dragged the pail from the stranglehold of rubbish. “If they’re not going to take us seriously then perhaps a demonstration is in order.”
“It’ll do you some good, Mrs Treacle!”
Constable Robins tried to prize Betty’s sore-encrusted lips apart using a Hob-Nob as the lever. He’d discovered it tucked away in the First Aid Kit and decided it would be a good source of sustenance. Which, of course, it would be! And full of chocolately, oaty, crumbly taste as well. (Notice to McVities: I’m still waiting to hear from your representatives, despite protestations from my gallbladder!)
“Now let’s not be stupid about this!”
Ironically perhaps, it was Robins himself who was being stupid. Betty Treacle wouldn’t have been able to part her brown gums
if she’d have wanted to. The constable had put his many years of “First Aid Practice” to exceptional use by tying his patient’s jaw tightly shut with a swathe of bandages coated in Plaster-of-Paris.
His motherly administrations, however, were cut short.
Winifred Duvall charged through the self-locking door just as Robins was battering the edge of the biscuit against Betty’s few remaining teeth. She threw back the hinged flap on the counter, sending documents and pencils arcing across the foyer.
In her haste to escape she almost tumbled over the couple.
“’Ere!” Robins leapt to his feet, bravely. “Where d’ y’ think you’re goin, Missus?’
His reward for this enthusiastic stance was a creak from above. It was followed closely by a small triangle of stuccowork bouncing off his head. The chunk shattered by his boots.
All three players in this little act looked up in surprise.
A root system of cracks appeared in the ceiling, and a low rumble murmured threateningly through the foundations of the building.
“’Ow are you doing that?” Robins demanded, dropping his eyes to Winifred’s defiant chin.
“That isn’t me, Constable!” Miss Duvall bent her shoulders back with a gigantic snuffle. Then she peered down her nose towards her accuser in as authoritative a manner as she could. “I might be getting on in years, and I might have developed the occasional bout of flatulence, but nothing, I can assure you, on quite so grand a scale as that.”
Another chunk of ceiling gave way in a helix of dust, as though to prove her point. This time it landed in the kettle.
Everyone turned their attention on the doors where a drawn out squeal was echoing along York Street.
“I think we’d better find out exactly who is responsible though,” Miss Duvall added, pointing outside with her brolly.
As it turned out, it had been flatulence causing the noise. Although, of course, Miss Duvall hadn’t been responsible. Another disconcerting rumble sucked at the window panes opposite, creating a Mexican wave that rounded the corner and continued into the distance.
Miss Duvall and Constable Robins stumbled onto the steps as the blue lamp above the porch came loose from the wall and swung round on its one remaining screw.
A sweet, grassy-smelling fart prickled through the air. A spicy, tang-riddled guff emerging from the largest sheep that either of them had ever clapped eyes on. A sheep with trembling legs, currently nibbling at the chimney pot.
It broke wind again and the cedars surrounding the station bowed at each other as though in preface to some hideous dance.
“That is a big one!” said Miss Duvall with the sort of unintentional innuendo that would have warranted a ‘Wah-wah’ in a Carry On film. “Now perhaps you’ll believe me, Constable, that I’m not the one responsible for the strange goings on around Greyminster!”
She swallowed, a clucking sound filling her throat. And she mulled the situation over carefully.
“Anyhow,” she continued, having obviously reached a conclusion. “I haven’t got all day to hang around gossiping.”
Whilst Constable Robins was still trying to gather his wits together, she hitched up her petticoats, chose a direction at random and clumped off into the night, leaving nothing behind but the words, “There’s an atom bomb to be found, if I’m not much mistaken! No time to lose!”
“You can’t go in there!”
Staff Nurse Langille stomped along behind the two detectives. It was obviously hard work being only five feet tall and almost twice as wide, as the boiled hue of her features testified.
“You ’ave t’ see the Triage Nurse first!”
“We’re police inspectors, Madam!” There was the quick flash of what looked like a library card from Nesbit’s pocket.
Staff Nurse Langille stopped to catch her breath. Her cheeks were piqued and topped by taught shiny patches. The interlopers might have been stupid, but they certainly weren’t easily persuaded.
They were quick on their feet however.
“This is an ’ospital, Constable!” The statement was blown at full sprint from Staff Nurse Langille’s puckered lips. Despite its ferocity it failed to make any impact. “We don’t give preferential treatment to no-one! Officers of the law or not, you still ’ave to see the Triage Nurse!”
The following sentence fluttered back over Nesbit’s shoulder as he turned the corner into Ward Sixteen.
“We’re investigatin’ a murder, Madam. We can do w’at we bloody well want!”
Inside the ward Clewes and Nesbit stopped. Behind them they could hear the flapping of Nurse Langille’s fat feet, now in motion again as she hurried to catch them.
They exchanged glances.
“Alright, Sir,” Malcolm began as the fierce, round face of the staff nurse once more appeared. “I was impressed with you finding Hodges’ car, but what makes y’ think he’ll be in this ward specifically?”
“Because, Clewes...” The authority with which Nesbit held his finger up to Nurse Langille’s mouth damned her complaint. “This is the ward where that Broadhurst woman was choked t’ death with a pickle!”
“Gherkin, Sir.”
“Precisely, Clewes.” He lowered the finger again and, contrary to Malcolm’s expectations, Staff Nurse Langille kept her silence. “And by my reckonin’ we’ll find ’Odges...in ’ere!”
With a dramatic flourish, the vehemence of which brought his coat tails up and gave Nurse Langille a clout round the ear, Nesbit grabbed the handle to the stock cupboard.
A twist! A yank! And the cupboard door flew open onto the dimly lit room beyond. It was an airing-cupboard-sized room, pungent with cleaning fluid and sterilised bedpans.
Malcolm and Nesbit craned forwards slightly, allowing their eyesight to adjust to the dark. Nurse Langille would no doubt have joined them but she was too busy rubbing her ear.
“Clewes? Nesbit?!” Hodges’ unmistakable voice rose from behind the mountain of toilet rolls. “What in blue blazes are you doin’ ’ere?”
“Sir? What the...?” Malcolm reeled backwards in disgust, small beads of sweat appearing across his freckled forehead. “Oh my God, Sir! Excuse me a moment. I’m going t’ be sick!”
Chapter Fourteen: Of Confessions and Constables
‘Greyminster Pensioners on Crack Cocaine:
It has come to the attention of “The Greyminster Chronicle” (™ 1846. Still only twenty pence!) that as much as eighty-five per cent of Greyminster’s retired population (which, by our calculations, is the equivalent of seventy-nine per cent of the town’s population as a whole) are addicted to the all-singing, all-dancing American street-drug Crack Cocaine!
In scenes reminiscent of “Reservoir Dogs”, “Boys in the Hood” and “Look Who’s Talking 2” (Editor’s note: There might be some confusion here...please amend before publication) local old folk have been ‘shooting up’ their evil substances beneath the railway bridge of an evening, before violently hallucinating and frothing at the gums.
Emma Parkins (wife of Constable Parkins, thirty-two and three-quarters) said, “My husband reckons most of Greyminster’s on it! They’re acting like deranged loonies, calling the station at all hours to report dancing vol-au-vents and boggart cats! Even the council members are snorting the stuff!”
Emma’s mother-in-situ added, “The crime rate will soon be out of the roof as more and more insane biddies start breaking into houses and selling their bodies to pimps, unable to feed their addictions with their feeble pensions, which, by the way are a joke, I mean, an extra tenner for the heating allowance? That’s about three hours of gas fire time, that is!”’
Extract from an unprinted edition of the Greyminster Chronicle
“Under no circumstances must this ever go to print.”
There was a creak from the carefully chosen wooden chair. The sort of creak that threatened litigation if it should develop into a crack.
Councillor Ordenshaw folded the proposed newspaper article neatly, then sharpened the cre
ase with her blue fingernails.
“A report such as this could stir up all sorts of panic.” She tilted her head on one side with the curiosity of a sparrow eyeing up some cornered worm. “That wouldn’t look good for outside investors, Mr Mungford.”
The ‘Mr Mungford’ to whom she alluded shrugged his shoulders in a manner that suggested, “Tell it to somebody who gives a damn!” As ‘Senior Editor’ of the Greyminster Chronicle he had important decisions to make about cover stories and circulation. Outside civic investment didn’t enter the equation.
To be perfectly honest, Mungford was the Chronicle’s only editor, the entire staff amounting to little more than leftover Mungford offspring. There was Jayne, the Chronicle’s solitary journalist. If it wasn’t for the fact that she was Mungford’s niece she’d have probably been cleaning out the ovens down at Greyminster High School right about now. Then there was Rodney, the freelance photographer and Ribby Mungford’s eldest. Fresh out of art college and still saving up for his own Hassleblad. Next came Danny the tea boy. He wasn’t related to the others but the Youth Opportunities people had offered the newspaper a large subsidy if it took the dolt off their books. A subsidy now keeping the Chronicle afloat. Lastly, of course, there was Perky the gerbil. These days he was confined to his cage since the tragic demise of Pinky beneath a thoughtlessly placed stack of old papers. He was handy for the occasional filler when an advertiser pulled out at the last minute.
Mungford took the front page from Councillor Ordenshaw’s frosty grip, leant back in his chair and pushed his spectacles up his wrinkled forehead. They reached his widow’s peak and straddled it.
“Not good for outside investors, eh? Especially not those interested in converting ex-council property into nuclear reprocessing facilities.” He sneered facetiously. “You have to understand my point of view, Councillor. Our alternative headline was, “Terrorist Seagull Attacks Mrs Dunstable’s Teapot!””