by Heide Goody
“It trashed the supermarket.”
“Youngsters.”
There was doubt in Sarah and Rory’s eyes, and doubt was enough.
“You want to move house,” said Nerys. “That’s lovely. But you also want to sell this house.”
“We do,” the couple agreed.
“I think it would help the speedy sale of your home if you put your neighbours’ fears to rest. Show them the pictures and help quash these terrible rumours.”
Nerys held out the pictures. The doubt in their eyes revealed the inner conflict between the truth that they had accepted – and which, utterly incidentally, was the actual truth – and the need to make a quick sale.
“Of course,” said Rory.
“Lovely,” smiled Nerys. “Now, on with the photos.”
The rain drummed on the window of Café Ole, the geographically confused pan-European café on Boldmere High Street. Michael was trying to consume a breakfast basket of churros and croissants, while simultaneously holding a phone conversation with Chip.
“Finished?” said Michael. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“I should have thought it would be a fairly straightforward question, mate,” said Chip. “When will the DNA library be complete?”
“Right. Yes, that’s the question I have a problem with. Complete how?”
Chip sighed.
“Listen, Michael. When I started out in this game, building conservatories, the customer could say, ‘Chip, when will the conservatory be finished?’ and I would say, ‘ten to twelve weeks’ and they’d be happy. When the bank asks me, ‘Chip, when will the Rainbow housing estate be completed?’ I can say, ‘two to three years’ and the bank could include that in their calculations. So, I’m asking you, Michael, when will the animal DNA bank be completed?”
“Yes,” said Michael.
“Yes?”
“Yes, I’m acknowledging the question. I just don’t know the answer.”
“Why not? It’s simple really. How many DNA samples do you have?”
“Have, fifty-two thousand. Sampled and catalogued, approximately nineteen thousand.”
“Good, and how many animal species are there?”
Michael grimaced.
“Just under nine million.”
Michael could hear the tip-tip-tap of a calculator.
“So, in the time you’ve been given and with the wealth of resources I’ve put at your disposal, you’ve found less than one percent of all known species on earth.”
“Oh, no,” said Michael. “More like four percent.”
“Are you doubting my maths?”
“Not at all. Best estimates put the number of species on earth at around nine million, but humans have only discovered a fraction of those. Most remain undiscovered. Nine million is our best guess.”
“And how soon will the rest be discovered?”
“I think we – and I mean scientists generally – are discovering new species at an approximate rate of fifteen thousand a year.”
“But how long will that take …?” said Chip, and tapped at his calculator again.
“Don’t forget,” said Michael helpfully, “most of those will become extinct before we even find them.”
“Oh, dear Lord,” said Chip.
“Chip, if I may, I think it’s important to regard the work at ARC Research Company as a process, not a finite act.”
“But time is short!” said Chip passionately. “Can’t you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“The rain! The rain!”
Michael had no idea how to respond to that.
“We need to pick up the pace, Michael,” said Chip.
“I’ll try, Chip, but we are constrained by the amount of equipment we have. If we had larger premises and more machines then …”
“Fine,” said Chip. “You make the orders. I’ll write the cheques.”
“We’re talking hundreds of thousands of pounds, Chip,” said Michael.
“Let me worry about that.”
A commotion on the pavement outside drew his attention. Several dozen people, mostly women, many with young children, were walking purposefully up the high street. Maybe there was a sale on maternity clothing somewhere ….
“Until the new portakabins arrive,” said Chip, “you can take up some of the unused space in the Consecr8 building.”
“That’s very kind,” said Michael. “I’ll take a look later this morning.”
From amongst the crowd of possibly bargain-hungry mums came an angry trumpet blast.
“What’s that?” said Chip. “Are you driving?”
“No, I think someone’s blowing a vuvuzela on the high street.”
“Bloody menaces.”
Michael stood up to peer into the crowd.
“I think you’re probably right.”
The SCUM march had begun in an orderly fashion, keeping to the pavement, moving in line, and generally being as rebellious as a primary school trip to the swimming pool. However, Clovenhoof found, with a little nudging and encouragement, the mothers and their toddlers could tap into their inner revolutionary and, by the time they had reached the parade of shops on the high street, they had spilled out into the road, blocked the traffic, and were singing at the top of their lungs. It was perhaps unlikely that many protests had been accompanied by The Grand Old Duke of York or Incy Wincy Spider, but there were children present and they needed entertaining.
Shoppers stopped in their tracks to watch them go by. Men in the bookies paused in their contemplation of the laws of probability and peered out. Ben Kitchen, looking exactly like a man who had not had proper access to washing facilities or a good night’s sleep in nearly a month, stood on the doorstep of Books ‘n’ Bobs and watched with bemusement.
“Oh dear,” said one of the not-Sandras, failing perhaps to grasp the purpose of their march. “I think we’re causing a bit of a scene.”
“Damn right, we are!” shouted Clovenhoof.
“Those police officers don’t look too happy though.”
A police car was parked outside the supermarket. Two police community support officers were ambling casually towards the head of the march, hands raised for them to stop.
“They’re not real police!” said Clovenhoof, emboldening his fellow marchers. “The hobby bobbies can’t stop us! Mow ’em down!”
The PCSOs spread their arms as though to catch the thirty-odd-strong band of protesters. Clovenhoof was shocked to see this tactic appeared to be working. Those at the front slowed. Maybe they were sorcerers.
Then one of them uttered the magic incantation, “What’s going on here, then?” and the protestors stopped, and Sandra started to explain.
“Don’t reason with them!” hissed Clovenhoof. “Trample them!”
“Kick their shins in,” suggested Spartacus.
“Yes. What he said.”
There was scaffolding across the front of the supermarket, and a team of builders in hi-vis jackets had paused in their work on the frontage to watch the spectacle unfolding in the street. Clovenhoof saw PC Pearson and Ahmed the security guard, two of his favourite people, chatting in the supermarket doorway. Clovenhoof waved at them.
PC Pearson smiled and waved him over.
Since the march seemed to have ground to a temporary halt, Clovenhoof trotted over.
“It’s amazing,” said Ahmed, shaking his head at Clovenhoof.
“Speak of the devil,” said PC Pearson.
“And he shall appear,” said Clovenhoof proudly, and did a little tap dance and even threw in some jazz hands. Unfortunately, one of the jazzy hands was holding a placard and it nearly hit Ahmed.
“Get your tits out?” read PC Pearson.
“No,” said Clovenhoof. “Special requests and happy endings cost extra.”
PC Pearson turned to Ahmed.
“I never used to believe in that old nonsense about criminals returning to the scene of the crime.”
“Who’s doing what now
?” said Clovenhoof.
PC Pearson smiled, not unkindly, and said, “Jeremy Clovenhoof, I am arresting you on suspicion of breaking and entering with the intent to carry out acts of theft and vandalism …”
“Where?”
“Where?” said Ahmed. “Here! Where you broke in last night. Or were you too drunk to remember it?”
“What did I do?” asked Clovenhoof.
Ahmed glared and pointed to the smashed panelling and store sign that the builders were repairing.
“I attacked the sign?”
“As you made your escape.”
“And I stole what exactly?”
PC Pearson twitched his moustache.
“Come. Let us peruse the scene of the crime.”
He took hold of Jeremy’s elbow and steered him into the closed shop.
The aisles were in shadow, only half-lit. On each aisle, boxes, jars, and bottles were strewn, as though a drunkard with outstretched arms had ricocheted through the place. A chisel-faced woman in a trouser suit moved through the mess, taking photographs.
“Is this him?” she asked.
“Later, Ms Donnelan,” said PC Pearson.
“I will be putting together a full account of damages caused.”
“Yes, Ms Donnelan.”
“Oh,” said Clovenhoof. “Did I do this?”
PC Pearson and Ahmed both gave him a look.
“What makes you think I did this?” said Clovenhoof.
Clovenhoof was prodded along to the freezer aisle. One of the cabinets had been smashed open. Food boxes had been flung out across the aisle and ripped apart. Clovenhoof’s mood of general curiosity and amusement was turned to horror when he saw the red and white packages, the logo that was the universal symbol for tastiness.
“Crispy pancakes,” he whispered in dismay.
“Now, do we know anyone who particularly likes Findus Crispy Pancakes?” said PC Pearson.
“Yes, but …”
“Did we perhaps have the late night munchies, perhaps after a little …” He mimed someone smoking a spliff between thumb and forefinger.
“Blowing tiny cocks?” said Clovenhoof.
“You were definitely in a hurry, man,” said Ahmed and traced a line along the edge of the smashed cabinet. Dried blood glistened dully on the jagged edge.
“Now, it would be rather incriminating if you had a corresponding cut,” said PC Pearson. “Perhaps on this arm.”
PC Pearson pulled Clovenhoof’s sleeve up. He looked at the devil-red flesh, hairy but injury-free.
“Nothing up my sleeves,” said Clovenhoof, pulling up the other sleeve too.
PC Pearson humphed.
“Seems the only thing you’ve got on me is my perfectly reasonable and rational love of crispy pancakes,” said Clovenhoof.
“Oh, no,” said Ahmed. “Not just crispy pancakes.”
PC Pearson, still flummoxed by the lack of cuts on Clovenhoof’s arms, took a moment to collect himself.
“Indeed,” he said. “Shall we take a walk round to the drinks aisle?”
Nerys backed into Ben’s bookshop, her arms full of papers and folders, and momentarily let in the noise of the crowd.
“Is it still going on out there?” said Ben from behind the counter.
“What is going on?” said Nerys.
“Something to do with breasts. Jeremy’s involved somehow.”
“Course he is.”
“If they stay there much longer, I think I might arrange a bosom-based display in the window.”
Nerys blinked.
“And do you have many bosom-based books?”
Ben slapped a pile of books that he’d made on the counter.
“Knit Your Own Breasts?” said Nerys.
“Apparently, they’re used in teaching mums about breast-feeding.”
“Boobs of Britain? Is that for real?”
“It’s actually a book of rude spelling mistakes, but it seemed to fit. And I thought I could throw in some art books, like this Rubens one. I’ve got a collection of photos by that Finnish artist, Heinz Takala, who does all the nude flashmobs.”
“Not one of your worst ideas,” said Nerys, “but, speaking of which …”
She pointed at Ben’s current efforts on the counter.
Half a dozen stuffed rats were posed in a circle on a wooden board. Some were squatting, others were poised on tiptoes, others held aloft cubes of cheese. It looked like a furry folk dance-off with a spring-loaded rat-trap in the centre.
“Now, I consider myself to be an ethical taxidermist,” said Ben, “but I do also have a rat problem in the cellar.”
“Yes?”
“What I’ve done here is mount the rats I have trapped and killed, and arranged them in a sort of, well, welcoming committee. A sort of ‘come to the dance, oh ratty friends. There is nothing to fear here’ and then – Snap!”
“That’s fairly fucking creepy, Ben.”
“It’s a work in progress.”
“Quite. Anyway, I would like to borrow some more of your taxidermy efforts for my photography project.”
“You can’t debunk the Beast of Boldmere with badly staged wildlife shots.”
“It’s worked so far. The couple on Station Road were convinced, and are going to share the evidence with their neighbours. Actually, maybe there’s something else you can help me with.”
Nerys dumped her papers on the counter. One of the gaily dancing rats fell over. Ben attempted to stand it upright again.
“This is some of the paperwork for the Lilleys. They’re selling up and moving to the Rainbow housing estate.”
“The new development.”
“Right.”
“So, we’ve already had some clients either selling up to move there or fixing their mortgage through us for properties on the estate.”
Nerys unfolded a map of the large scale map of a section of Wylde Green. The map included the Rainbow development, the mostly abandoned tower blocks around the edge of the site, the ARC labs on Beechmount Drive, and the Consecr8 church nearby.
“What a weirdly shaped building,” said Ben, tapping the oval outline of the Consecr8 building.
“Now, look here,” said Nerys. “This is Dove Close and this is the property the Lilleys want to buy.”
“Number nine.”
“Well, yes, and no. You see it’s marked on here as number nine, but they’ve put a deposit down on 9b.”
Ben looked at a faint line running through the property.
“It’s been subdivided.”
“That’s what I assumed. It was built as a four-bedroom house, but is being sold as two two-bedroom houses.”
“Okay.”
“And so’s this one. And this one. And all of these.”
Ben nodded.
“So, the plans are out of date.”
“Okay,” said Nerys in agreement. “That’s what I thought. So, I looked at the financial records and there’s a mortgage on this house, on number nine. And all of these. Not 9a or 9b or anything else a, b, or c. There are existing mortgages on all these properties, for the property as it was originally built.”
“So someone has borrowed against the four-bedroom house.”
“While, simultaneously, the Lilleys and dozens of other homeowners are also borrowing against their own little homes. And it hasn’t been flagged up because they are notionally different properties. 9, 9a, 9b, and so on.”
“It’s a mistake,” said Ben.
“Or a scam.”
Ben smiled.
“What?” said Nerys.
“Is Nerys Thomas sticking her nose into the nefarious doings of other people again?”
Nerys sniffed. “Got a problem with that?”
“No. I just think you’ve still missed your true calling. You should have been a private detective.”
Nerys considered it.
“That would be fun. Well, Ben, this little detective is going to visit the local planning office and ask some questions.”
“Really? Is that part of your job?”
“No,” smiled Nerys.
Clovenhoof’s knees nearly gave out at the terrible scene in the drinks aisle.
“It’s like … It’s like a Lambrini graveyard,” he whispered.
Shards of glass lay in a wide pool of spilled perry, sharp glittering islands in a sea of deliciousness. Clovenhoof was tempted to get down on all fours and start lapping it up.
“Lambrini and crispy pancakes,” said PC Pearson.
“Don’t pretend it wasn’t you,” said Ahmed.
Clovenhoof shook his head.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re saying I broke in, scoffed all the pancakes, drank all the Lambrini, and then escaped via the roof?”
“Through the office space upstairs and out the skylight.”
“And you caught this on CCTV, no doubt.”
“You know we didn’t,” said Ahmed, “because you trashed the computers along with the office furniture upstairs, before you went on your little rampage.”
“And how did I get on the roof, in the first place, to break in? It’d have to be a twenty foot jump to the roof edge.”
“No,” said PC Pearson. “You used the roof to escape.”
“Oh. So how did I break in?”
PC Pearson and Ahmed exchange a glance.
“The service door?” suggested PC Pearson.
“The air vent?” suggested Ahmed.
“Do I look like Bruce Willis?” said Clovenhoof.
A doubtful look crossed PC Pearson’s face.
“Hang on,” he said softly. “Jeremy destroyed the surveillance computer before he got down here.”
“Yes,” said Ahmed.
“So he must have been upstairs first before coming down to the shop floor.”
“I suppose.”
“So, he must have broken in through the roof.”
“Except I couldn’t have,” said Clovenhoof.
“He must have had a ladder,” said Ahmed brightly.
“Or,” suggested Clovenhoof, “your perpetrator was someone – or something – that could leap up onto a twenty foot roof.”
“Now, let’s not entertain silly rumours,” warned PC Pearson.
“And then, after raiding the store, the beast escaped by the same route,” said Ahmed, warming to the idea.
