The Last Laugh

by Tony Nash

  ‘You think he will die – that he has rabies?’

  ‘I hope, more than I have ever hoped for anything in my life, that he has not, and will not. If he has, we have the potentially most dangerous situation this country has ever faced from the disease. Fetch the carrying-crate, would you please, Michael?’

  Transome asked, ‘Have you designated a Control Centre, David?’

  ‘Yarmouth Council has placed one of its rooms at our disposal, letting us have every man they can spare from other duties for the search. Chief Inspector Dyce has got the Chief Constable’s permission to divert as much manpower as possible, with you, by the way, as local liaison officer for the police.’

  Dyce told him, ‘David has overall control of the search for the dog. We, of course would have control of the search for the boy, if it were just the boy we were looking for. Since DEFRA has full plans for an exigency such as this, and have done practice runs along the lines we shall be using, the Chief Constable has agreed that DEFRA should run things, as far as the search goes. I’ll be flying over the search area, helping in the air search with the police helicopter. If there are any developments you are to inform my office, and they will pass the information on to me. We shall use everyone we can from the Ministry, of course, and the Chief Environmental Health Officer is deploying all available staff from the Consumer Services Department. Briefing and issue of equipment and transport will be at Yarmouth market place at oh-three hundred hours, so if you could get off now and organise your end? It will be dark soon, and searching on foot will be of little use, but as a first move, I want every vehicle we can find a driver for out looking for that dog, and the boy, if he’s with it, and, as far as we can, have a twenty mile radius from here enclosed.’

  ‘Right!’ Transome nodded and walked quickly away.

  The DVO said, ‘I shall need a complete list of possible contacts on the Continent from you, Captain, in order to warn our colleagues there. You can provide one?’

  ‘Of course. I will be glad to.’

  As they reached the quayside, Dyce said, ‘Any serious decisions, I want you to make them, David.’

  The DVO nodded, ‘I noticed. He is a little green.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Leaving-off time had long passed and Carole Somerset was absorbed, unaware of how late it was. She sat at Transome’s desk, which was littered with files, all open. She was reading one of them and writing on a half-filled page with a ballpoint pen.

  She heard the coffee machine being operated in the outer office and thought it must be the duty sergeant from the desk.

  She was surprised when Transome entered with a cup of coffee, looking as if he had all the troubles of the world on his shoulders.

  He grunted, ‘Overtime, or are you keeping night watch on the rubber plant?’

  She eyed the damaged leaf, ‘Looks as if I might need to, but I think I’ve got something, Dick.’

  Tiredly he joked, ‘Don’t tell everyone, they’ll all want it.’

  Carole sighed with exasperation, ‘Oh, my God.’

  ‘You called?’

  ‘Can’t you ever be serious?’

  ‘I was never more – this flippant exterior is just a cover for the mortal fear you have just placed me in.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘You calling me by my Christian name. The only time you ever do that is when you want something. What are you after?’

  ‘Not your virginity, if that’s what you’re worried about. Look at this though – it’s about that report of Constable Argyle’s.’

  ‘What about it? I told you there was nothing in that. Now be a good girl and stop meddling, all right? I’ve got a storming headache, I’ve got half our officers out on the marshes till dark, and I’ve got to be on the market place at three ack-emma, to help organise the troops.’

  ‘What did they give you at police college, apart from that ego? Won’t you even listen to what I’ve got?’

  ‘It has been a hard, trying day, and it is going to be an even harder, trying night…but…if it will make you happy…’ He slid into a chair and took a slurp of coffee.

  ‘It started about fifty years ago…’

  ‘Oh, come on, Sergeant!’

  ‘Please, hear me out.’

  He shrugged resignedly and took a large swig of the liquid.

  ‘You remember we were talking about the old man of the marsh?’

  ‘Correction – you were.’

  She ignored him, moved several of the files until she found the one she was looking for. ‘There was a disappearance – a lance corporal Yalton, who was stationed on one of the small air-to-ground firing ranges out on Horsey Marshes; a local man from Acle. His wife still lives there. He was returning to camp over the marshes with two friends after a night in the village pub, laughing and joking about wives. Somehow the talk got around to Yalton’s pretty wife, and he got the impression that one of the other men had been having an affair with her. As it turned out, the man was only joking, trying to wind him up, but Yalton went beserk and attacked him viciously; the other man was a bit of a dodgy character and had a flick knife, which he pulled out to defend himself with. Yalton managed to wrest it off him and stabbed him with it. He left him lying in a pool of blood, and ran….ran blindly out into the dark. The third man heard a splash and a scream as Yalton fell into the water, then…nothing.’ She paused.

  ‘Well – go on – finish the story now you’ve started.’

  ‘The body was never found. Yalton’s unit was leaving for duty overseas a few days later and the camp was closed, but the case was left open. Since then there have been dozens of sightings of his ‘ghost’ on the marshes, and strange lights moving at night. Local people won’t go there after dark.’

  ‘Very interesting. Quite finished?’

  ‘That’s all I have so far, but…’

  ‘…That is all you will have! Full stop! You will pardon my scepticism, I’m sure, but just what the hell has all that got to do with this case? Who said the boy and dog were together – or were anywhere near Horsey?’

  ‘Argyle did.’

  ‘Argyle my ar…’

  ‘Careful!’

  ‘Army greatcoat, I was about to say. Argyle said the boy was wearing an anorak, and looked older than the Harsley boy.’

  ‘Well, we know he got rid of his jacket,’ She rose, went over to the map on the wall and pointed, ‘here, between Caister and California.’ She pointed the tip of the ballpoint pen at map reference 140515. ‘That’s four miles towards Horsey,’ She moved her pen to map reference 228460, near Horsey, ‘going in the right direction. He might have found the anorak on the way. Now, take the dog – the ship is moored by the fish-wharf, on the East bank of the river, here.’ She pointed to map reference 050528. ‘Unless he swam the river, or got on the ferry’ She pointed to the ferry at map reference 055526, ‘the dog would have to cross the bridge, here,’ Her pen came to rest on the bridge at 0755215, ‘to get to the other side. There’s a hot-dog stall and a newspaper pitch by that bridge, and I’ve talked to both traders. Neither saw an unaccompanied dog cross that way, and he didn’t use the ferry – I checked – and if he went out this way,’ She moved her pen point west along theA47 towards Acle, ‘he would almost certainly have to use the road; the marshes are criss-crossed by dykes, some of them as wide as small rivers, and our permanent patrols would have spotted him. So, unless he wanted to swim, the dog’s only exit from Yarmouth would also be in this direction.’ The pen point moved North from Yarmouth along the A49 coast road.

  Transome smirked, ‘Brilliant deduction, my dear Holmes, but how does that get them together at Horsey?’

  ‘Just suppose for a minute that they met up here,’ She pointed at an area just north of Yarmouth on the A49 between Caister and Ormesby Saint Margaret, ‘and got a lift?’

  ‘You are supposing one hell of a lot, but – all right – get a request out to the media to ask for information about anyone giving a lift to a boy and dog in that area.�
��

  ‘You mean you g…’

  Transome cut her off with, ‘I mean if, and only if, you come up with one, will I listen to any more of this fairy story. Ghosts on the marsh. My God. And now, I suppose, you’ve got the boy and the dog teamed up with your fantasy marsh man.’

  He shook his head cynically and got up to go.

  She insisted, ‘I know they’re there; I can feel it…’

  ‘…In your water, I know.’

  ‘That is not…’

  ‘We’ve set up a Control Centre to find the dog – a room in Yarmouth Council offices. I’ll be there till this is settled, day and night, once I get back from the search party meeting. So – you are in charge here, and I would like to think the station is running efficiently while I’m away.’ He turned away, then turned back to face her. ‘Oh, and Sergeant…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘While I’m there I don’t want to be troubled by ghosts.’ He went out and closed the door behind him.

  He did not hear her whispered, ‘I hate you.’ Her eyes closed, and she bit her lip, ‘I wish I hated you.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  They sat eating rabbit stew out of dirty old soup plates, Billy on the only chair, Sam sitting on the bed. Billy was trying to emulate the slurping noises coming from Sam as he shovelled the food into his mouth. Sam had given the dog a plateful of the stew, but instead of eating, Mukki was chasing round and round, growling.

  Sam stopped eating for a moment, and sighed contentedly

  ‘D’you believe in ghosts, Billy?’

  ‘Ghosts? Brrr! I s’pose I do, but I’ve never seen one, nor want to.’

  ‘Well, you’re seen one now.’

  Billy pushed another spoonful of the stew into his mouth, ‘Mm?’

  Sam enlightened him, ‘Folks hereabouts run a mile when they see me out on the marsh. They think I’m a ghost. Hee-hee. And his Lordship’s men in’t very keen, neither. Hahahaha….’

  Billy had finished his mouthful and laughed with him

  Sam had just crammed another mouthful of stew into his mouth, and couldn’t control it. It spilt out over his beard and made them both laugh hysterically. The dog began to bark, getting excited, running up to each of them in turn, barking. Suddenly, it ran to the dish of food and tipped it over.

  Sam, who had been trying to keep the remainder of the stew in his mouth, swallowed some and started coughing.

  The coughing turned into a bad fit, which lasted for several minutes, with Billy watching, wanting to do something to help but not knowing how.

  The coughing finally slowed to a stop, with Sam holding his chest until his breathing eased. He let his arms drop to his sides, and the dog bit his right hand viciously.

  Sam yelled a swearword Billy had only heard once or twice in the playground from some of the bigger boys. He had no idea what it meant. Sam leapt up, grabbed the dog, opened the door and pushed Mukki outside, then pulled the door to again.

  ‘Quick, Billy, put the kettle back on the stove. Boil the water.’

  Sam drew his knife out of the scabbard and laid it on the bed. He began squeezing the hand, to push blood out of the wound that the dog had caused, to try and cleanse it.

  ‘Is it boiling, boy?’

  Billy took the top off the kettle and looked inside. He nodded. ‘Yes, Sam’

  ‘Right! I want you to take my knife an’ pour the water both sides o’ the blade.’

  Billy was puzzled, but did as he was requested.

  ‘Now, bring it back to me and put it in my left hand.’

  Billy was frightened, ‘What are you going to do? Kill the dog?’

  ‘No, boy – try an’ stop it killin’ me. Look in the top of the cabinet. You’ll find a green tin. Bring that to me. Quick as you can, now.’

  Holding the hand over the floor, he cut deeply into it, taking care to avoid the veins. Blood ran freely, making Billy feel sick, but he found the tin and carried it over to the bed.

  ‘Take the top off, an’ you’ll find some bandages. Open one o’ the packets an’ start pullin’ the edge, then start wrappin’ it round my hand.’

  ‘Why d’you think he bit you, Sam?’

  Sam looked grim, ‘Cos I think he’re got hydrocephalus, Billy.’

  ‘Hydro-what?’

  ‘Somethin’ I din’t think we had in the UK. Rabies! An’ if I’m right, you an’ me is both in deep trouble.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The high-ceilinged room was on the first floor of a building put up in the early 1930s. The walls were distempered in the sickly shade of green beloved of the gurus of the fifties, who proclaimed en masse that it reduced stress and helped to maintain a peaceful working environment. The old-fashioned doors had long ago lost the sheen of the last coat of varnish applied over ten years before. In the left hand wall, two of the old Crittal steel-framed multi-pane windows looked out onto the first floor of the buildings opposite – flats above a variety of shops, changed now from the butcher’s, greengrocer’s and haberdasher’s of yore into two charity shops, a Chinese takeaway, and a pizza parlour. Progress! About fifteen feet by fifteen, it contained four plain, oak-veneered chipboard desks, each with a hard-seat chair behind it. Two of the desks had telephones on them, and one, where the DVO would sit, had a pile of Ordnance Survey maps next to the phone. On the facing wall was a large one-inch OS map of East Anglia, from Cromer in the North to Dunwich in the South, and from Yarmouth in the East to well beyond Norwich in the West. The map had four semi-circles drawn on it in permanent marker pen, described at five-mile intervals, their centre-point in the centre of Yarmouth. Each search sector was marked: Alpha, Bravo, and so on. The area of Norwich City was excluded by a segment formed by part of the outer arc on one side and lines running from it at map references 170217 and 030204 to a point on the next semi-circle at 087282. On the desk nearest the door stood a powerful mobile VHF radio transceiver, with a microphone attached, and a radio log pad. Two camp beds with blankets and pillows standing under the windows completed the furnishings.

  The DVO stood pensively staring at the map. Transome sat at the transceiver, depressing the ‘send’ button, ‘Foxtrot Sierra niner, over and out.’

  He wrote on the log pad, removed the earphones and placed them on the desk.

  ‘That’s the last.’

  ‘Good. Leaving Norwich out, that’s every road and track on a twenty-mile radius covered, and that is as much as we can do tonight. I wish there were more.’

  ‘What are the chances?’

  ‘Of catching the dog tonight? Just about nil; if it’s still healthy it will be asleep, but we can’t afford to take that chance.’

  ‘What are you doing about the media?’

  ‘As far as the dog is concerned, I’m going to leave it at the bald statement of fact already issued for now, and the request to keep pets secured. Will your men complete the house calls in the town tonight?’

  ‘The few still on that should manage the East side of the river by midnight, or at least as far as the North Beach area. Depends how many A2 forms they have to issue. The rest are out on the marshes. When I think of the next six months of paper mountains I could gladly strangle that idiot of a captain.’

  ‘Everyone makes mistakes, Richard.’

  ‘Quite true. Even I thought I’d made one in 1993.’ He laughed at his own joke, which the DVO had taken absolutely straight-faced.

  Transome’s grin died on his face. He turned to the map and studied it carefully.

  The phone on the DVO’s desk rang. Transome was nearest and picked it up,

  ‘Foxtrot Sierra Control. Yes, just a moment. It’s for you. Your lab.’

  The DVO took the receiver, ‘yes, Michael? I see. When? Yes, straight away. Is Mrs Steele still there? Good, have her ring them to expect you.’

  He replaced the apparatus, looked at Transome, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘The dog?’

  The vet nodded, ‘Ten minutes ago.’

  ‘And the post-m
ortem?’

  ‘Michael is taking organ samples to the Central Veterinary laboratory at Weybridge. We’ll have a positive diagnosis within thirty-six hours.’

  ‘By which time we should have the other dog.’

  The look on the DVO’s face told the whole story, ‘I wish I had your conviction.’

  While Transome worked with the veterinary officer, Carole Somerset sat at the desk in his office, with over a dozen files open in front of her, holding the phone in her left hand, waiting for a reply, and doodling on a piece of paper with her right. The doodle she drew was of a large, bug-type beetle, with huge eyes and big teeth, drooling spittle.

  She heard the connection come through, ‘Ah, good evening. Sergeant Somerset, Yarmouth Division. I’m trying to contact one of our local constables urgently. He’s on a fishing holiday in your area. Driving a Blue Ford Sierra, registration W999FFI, with a small camping trailer…Yes, in a tent, I believe…Thank you. Goodnight.’

  She cut off the call by pressing on the unit with her finger, holding on to the receiver while she tapped at it with an extended forefinger.

  Absentmindedly, she murmured to herself, ‘Corporal Yalton, I may be a prim little virgin, well, almost, let’s not split hairs, but you are one ghost that I am certainly going to lay.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Since fixed-wing aircraft were not permitted to land at the Great Yarmouth heliport on the North Denes, DCI Tony Dyce landed the Cherokee on the meadow behind Yarmouth greyhound track half an hour before dawn, switched the engine off and got out onto the ground. He had full instrument flight rules capability, but here VFR – visual flight rules, were all that was necessary. He knew from past visits that there would be plenty of ambient light from the nearby streetlights and the stadium itself. The police helicopter came in ten minutes later and set down fifty yards away from the Piper. The civilian pilot, Jamie Clarkson, left the rotors turning, got out of the aircraft and walked over to join Dyce. The other two members of the crew stayed inside.

  ‘Morning, Tony. Nice to see you flying again. When did you get your licence back?’

  ‘Three months ago.’

  ‘I’ll bet you’re glad. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I couldn’t fly.’