It was dark; yes, well done. We’ve established that, Keith old son. What else?
It was cold. No - not cold. Cool. And not in a down-with-the-kids kind of way. It was also musty and damp. There was an odour that reminded him of walking through the park just after a shower of rain. Where the hell am I, he wondered? Why don’t I know? How did I come to be here? Why don’t I know that either?
His hands and feet were bound. In fact, his legs were taped together from ankle to crotch. He could barely shift them. Like a crippled mermaid - the thought amused some part of him but the rest of him told him to keep his thoughts focussed. You’re not here to enjoy yourself - that was clear.
The tape around his legs was doing him one favour at least. Its waterproof properties were keeping the damp of the brick floor beneath him from seeping through his trousers. Apart from his backside which was already cold and numb.
Where am I?
He tried to remember, to cast his mind back as far as he could. He’d gone to work - No, he hadn’t gone to work. He’d taken a day’s leave. Why had he taken a day’s leave? An appointment? The doc’s? The dentist’s? No... A meeting. Not a business meeting. A - a - rendezvous...
He had arranged to meet someone. Not a business client. A - a - social contact. An image flashed in Keith’s mind: drinks on a table, a table in a pub, a face across that table, a man, all smiles and simpering...
Dickon!
A torrent of memories overwhelmed him. Pictures and words flooded in. He had to force himself to slow down to make sense of this resurgence of information. He had arranged to meet this man - Dickon. They’d made contact through an online dating service. They had hit it off. Drinks and conversation had flowed in and out of his mouth respectively.
What had happened next?
Keith couldn’t fathom it. He remembered his words slurring and Dickon splitting into two blurred versions of himself. But that was just the booze, wasn’t it?
A couple of feet away an unearthly scream ripped the air, accompanied by the rumble of a motorised pump. Keith let out a yelp but it was smothered by the strip of tape across his lopsided mouth.
Panting, he waited for his heart to stop galloping. He clung to rational thought.
I’m not in a dungeon with some kind of creature, he reasoned. I’m in a cellar, a pub cellar and someone above me has just pulled a pint.
Fucking Dickon!
Keith struggled against his bonds, spurred by rising anger.
What a fucking idiot I am! I should never have dabbled with dating online.
7.
“Where am you?” Jerry coughed into his mobile through the smoke of some burning rubbish.
“I’m fine,” said Miller. “Really.”
“That’s not the answer I was asking for,” said Jerry. “You listen to me, Melanie Miller. You’d best be tucked up in bed or at the very least as snug as a bug on the sofa when I get home or - Was that a lorry?”
“What?” Miller plugged her other ear with a finger.
“Just now. Am you out on the street? What have I told you about playing in the traffic?”
“Stop mithering. I’ve just popped out. To get a bit of air.”
“Where? The local demolition derby? Christ, Mel; it sounds like you’m on the M6 and it’s all kicking off.”
“I just popped into town.”
“Which bloody town? Le Mans?”
“I’ll see you later. You can feed me that ice cream I like.”
“Well, that doesn’t narrow it down.”
Miller said “ta-ra” and disconnected. She’d almost told Jerry what she was up to. He didn’t understand police work, a copper’s instincts or the fact that a detective is never off the clock. It was best to let him carry on believing she’d nipped into the chemist’s for over-the-counter relief or tampons.
If he knew she was following up a lead, there’d be hell to pay.
Oh, I should consider myself lucky, she reminded herself. Having somebody who cares about me after wandering in the wilderness of Singlesland for all those years. After Detective Sergeant Gary Woodcock abandoned me just because I turned down his surprise proposal of marriage. Silly sod. He should have stuck around... Now, Mel, she castigated herself with an inner voice that sounded uncannily like her late mother’s, you’ve got yourself a lovely fella, big and strong, who knows his way around the bedroom. Don’t - her mother’s face surfaced in her imagination, frowning with a stern admonition - don’t piss this bugger off into leaving!
Miller checked her watch. Half an hour to do what she had to do and she could be back at home and halfway through a Bridget Jones film before Jerry turned his key in the lock.
She stepped into the reception area and checked a list made of plastic plaques for the floor she was after.
Environmental Health. Third floor.
She cast around for a lift. Out of order, of bloody course.
Steadying herself with the handrail, a pale and sweaty D S Miller began to climb six flights of stairs.
***
Jerry finished preparing the plot. It was a miserable day to have a funeral, he thought. It was cold and there was mizzle hanging in the air. The ground was always tough at this time of year, despite its deceptive coating of mud and slush. It was as though someone had put icing on a brick and even Jerry’s state-of-the-art mechanical digger had struggled. But now there was a neat oblong hole, six feet deep and lined with artificial turf, waiting to welcome its occupant. Lovely job that, Jerry admired his own handiwork.
Brimming with professional pride, Jerry trundled the digger back to its shed. It would not do to have the mourners witness the behind-the-scenes apparatus. Not only did it spoil the magic, Jerry believed, it was unprofessional and could give rise to all sorts of outbursts and screaming abdabs. Jerry just wanted a quiet life and while he couldn’t always Rest, he liked to be left to do his job In Peace.
He checked the time. Digging the grave had taken him longer than expected and the funeral party was due. But there was no sign of anyone. Some hold-up at the church, probably, he figured. It was not unheard of.
He went to the shed that served as the place where he stored his wellies and as his office and put the kettle on. He consulted both the calendar (which displayed a range of shovels and other useful hardware) and the diary. There was no mistake. There was indeed a burial due; the late whoever-it-was was late in another respect.
Jerry drowned a teabag and made it dance in boiling water. He sniffed the milk carton and decided to risk it.
Blowing on his tea, he went back outside. There was still no sign of anyone.
Perhaps they’d got the date or the time mixed up, he began to wonder.
After all, nobody cancels a funeral.
Do they?
***
“Food poisoning, was it?” Ronnie Flavell pushed the knot of his knitted tie a little closer to his Adam’s apple in a token gesture of smartening himself up in front of his lady visitor.
“Um...” D S Miller mumbled, taking the seat he’d nodded to.
“I thought you might have encountered a couple of dodgy faggots.” The Environmental Health officer perched the seat of his polyester trousers on the edge of his desk. Miller had to suppress her amusement as an image of Brough and Pattimore flashed across her mind. Dodgy faggots indeed! She couldn’t wait to tell Jason; Pattimore was always up for a laugh. Not Brough, though. The moody git. His sense of humour ebbed and flowed like an unpredictable tide.
“They shouldn’t try it, but they do.”
“Who do?”
“The local pubs.”
“Try what?”
“Their hand at the local cuisine. They cor get it right. It’s a lost art. Do you know, your proper faggot, done proper, like, is a seasoned ball of minced offal wrapped in a
mesh of caul? Done you know what caul is, me wench?”
Miller bristled at his familiarity. His Dedley accent was stronger than her own. Channelling her inner Brough, she adopted an icy demeanour to nip this friendliness in the bud.
“It’s Detective Sergeant,” she reminded him. “Why are you asking me about faggots?”
“I thought - because - you know...” Ronnie Flavell gestured at her pale, damp face, which was collecting moisture like a cold window in a warm room. “Pardon me, bab; you dow look well.”
“I’m fine!” Miller snapped, biting back a swell of nausea. “Although a drink of water...”
“Say no more, chick; say no more.” Ronnie Flavell sprang up and crossed the office he shared with three others, although none of his co-workers were present at that time. He filled a flimsy plastic cup from the cooler and handed it to the sweating detective. “There you am, chick.” He watched her sip it. “Only I thought you was after a favour, like. Had a dodgy dinner at some poncy overpriced bistro or other and you want me to investigate them and put the fear of shit into them. Police privilege: jump to the front of the queue, like. Because, let me tell you, my caseload...”
His gesture took in the entire office, which appeared to be a place where files, folders and document wallets came to die.
“And you do that, do you?” Miller perked up a little. “Special favours for the police?”
“Ask me nice.”
“Well, I was wondering if you could show me the basics. Just enough to get me through the door.”
“Hold up, chicken! What am you on about?”
“I want to go undercover. I want you to kit me out as an Environmental Health officer.”
The upwards leap of Ronnie’s eyebrows indicated he hadn’t been expecting that.
“It’s tough,” he set his jaw. “I’ll tell you that for starters. You cor just waltz in off the street and expect to pick it up in the shake of a gnat’s whatsit.”
“I didn’t waltz,” said Miller. “Now, are you going to sort me out an i.d. badge or not?”
Ronnie nodded. “I’ll even thread it onto the lanyard for you myself.”
“Thanks.”
She waited while he left the room. In the supplies cupboard, Ronnie Flavell rifled through drawers to find what he needed. She wor bad looking - not for a copper any road. Ronnie would give her all the help and assistance she needed. Even though help and assistance are often the same thing.
And, he decided as he checked the batteries in the digital camera, I might even pop along and inspect the place myself...
Miller dragged a brush through her hair. I look dreadful, she observed in her handbag mirror. Too sickly to represent Health, Environmental or otherwise.
The helpful man returned with his camera. He instructed Miller to stand in front of a bare whiteboard. Great, she thought. Make me look even more washed out.
Ronnie fumbled with the camera, wittering something about it wasn’t usually his thing but in her case he’d make an exception. “By which I mean I’m more than happy to help the police,” he hastened to add, lest she think he was giving her the glad eye. Which he was - the one that wasn’t squinted shut so he could see through the viewfinder. “That’s lovely,” he kept repeating, “but you’m not looking your best, if I might be so bold. Looking a bit green around the gizzard but that’s okay. I can touch you up a bit afterwards - I mean, fiddle with the filters. Make you look a bit more human.”
“Um, thanks,” muttered Miller.
“No offence, chick, but you do look terrible. You - ”
But Miller didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. She was too busy vomiting before fainting clean away at Ronnie Flavell’s feet.
“Blimey,” he blinked, snapping another couple of shots of the unconscious detective. “First time that’s happened.”
***
Pattimore tried Brough’s number again and again his call was diverted. This time, instead of ignoring the invitation to record a message, he waited for the signal.
“David? Davey! It’s me. Listen. I know you’ve still got the hump but if you can just listen. You’ll never guess. Not in a million centuries. Our friend Benjamin has only gone and got himself a gig. As a stripper or a drag queen or something, I don’t know - he was babbling incoherently when he rang me. Even more incoherent than usual, I mean. But isn’t it brilliant? The bloke at the Oddfellows has mistaken him for some kind of specialty act and Stevens - you know what he’s like - wasn’t quick-witted enough to get out of it. And now he’s got a case of the screaming abdabs because he doesn’t know what he’s going to do. Isn’t it hilarious? I think we should go down there. To give moral support, of course. And/or piss ourselves laughing at his expense. What do you say? It’ll be fun. And... and... I can try to make things up to you. If you’ll let me. Davey?”
A robotic voice interrupted him to tell him he had exceed the time allotted. “Press one to playback your message. Press two to re-record. Or hang up.”
“Fuck sake!” Pattimore scrambled to redial. Seconds later, he was back on the line.
“It’s me again.. Unless you’m playing these back in the wrong order. In which case, it’s me for the first time. Any road, I hope you’ll call me back or text me or something. I am sorry and we can get through this. We’m stronger than this. Any road - I can’t stop saying ‘any road’ - see you soon. Ta-ra.”
He hung up. He toyed with the idea of calling again and leaving a third message but he didn’t want to run the risk of swamping Brough and pissing him off even more.
And what would I say, any road? Apart from I love him?
Pattimore pocketed his phone. He suspected that would be the last thing Brough would want to hear from him.
***
D I Brough was having a moment of quiet introspection. He tried to pinpoint what he’d done to send Jason over the edge. For surely, there must have been something.
He replayed the scene in his mind until it became a kaleidoscopic blur, images and words colliding with dizzying effect.
I shouldn’t have nagged him, Brough repeated to himself. I shouldn’t have kept on and on at him. After all, what had he done? Called me by my first name in the workplace. Big fucking deal. I shouldn’t have made a fuss. I should have let it go. What harm was he doing? None! Well, minimal: undermining my position in front of his superiors - but I handled it all wrong. I shouldn’t have nagged him then he wouldn’t have had to lash out.
I deserved it.
Every punch, every kick.
I was in the wrong.
And I deserved it.
He heard someone go into the adjoining cubicle, unzip his trousers and sit on the toilet. Brough panicked and tried to get out of there but he was too late.
Without so much as a courtesy flush to cover it, a reverberating, toxic fart echoed beyond the partition.
“Praise the lord!” said Harry Henry.
There was a splash. Holding his breath, D I Brough got the hell out of there, squeezing dollops of sanitising gel all over his hands as he ran.
***
Dickon too was having a moment of reflection albeit in his bathroom mirror rather than on a porcelain throne. He spoke to the image of his own face as though addressing a staff briefing.
First order of business: the watchword is - or rather, are - Keep a lid on it. You’re so close now but it could still all go tits-up if you’m not careful. Keep. A. Lid. On it!
I know you’ve got a lot of plates to spin and balls in the air but you need to keep focussed and deal with things calmly. Besides everything else, you’ve still got a bloody pub to run. And when all this is over you’ll still have a bloody pub to run.
Provided you - he paused.
“Keep a lid on,” said his reflection.
Dickon grinned.
***
Ronnie Flavell approached the Oddfellows Arms on foot, having parked the van a couple of streets away. This wasn’t a kosher inspection; he wouldn’t be putting this one through the books. It always pays to do the coppers a favour and if it made that lady copper look upon him with favour then woo hoo! Ronnie Flavell clapped his hands and rubbed his palms together.
Anything would be an improvement on her chucking up on him again.
He sidled around the back of the pub where there were gates at ground level, leading down to the cellar. There was also an outbuilding, a garage or summat - Ronnie was spoilt for choice. Which should he stick his nose in first?
He plumped for the outbuilding. The door was chained and padlocked but there was enough slack for Ronnie to reach his hand in and take photographs with his smart phone. He cringed every time the flash went off, illuminating the interior of the shed like caged lightning.
He withdrew his phone and scuttled around to the side of the lock-up where he was less likely to be spotted from the main building. He scrolled through the snapshots with his thumb but it was not the poorly framed, harshly lit nature of his photography that caused the space between Ronnie Flavell’s eyebrows to crease.
The pictures showed in stark relief stacks of crates of beer bottles in regimented phalanxes, waiting to be called to action. There were barrels of beer and cases of wines and spirits - everything you’d expect a well-stocked public house to have.
But, thought Ronnie - and he just about stopped himself from wondering out loud - what the fook is it doing out here when there’s a perfectly good and many times more secure cellar just a few yards away?
The Environmental Health officer’s instincts were prickling like heat rash. There’s summat up with that cellar, I bet... He crossed the yard and stood at the sloping double gates, which were also guarded by a hefty padlock and chain.
Coffin Dodgers Page 7
