A grin stretched Ronnie Flavell’s lips.
I’m onto you, sunshine. You’ve got summat in that cellar that’s more important to you than a mountain of booze. I doe know if that summat’s valuable, shameful or hazardous but this is one Environmental Health inspector that’s gunna find out.
***
D I Benny Stevens looked at himself in the mirror in the Gents’. A quick visit to a couple of Dedley’s many charity shops had yielded him enough to put together an outfit: a melange of leopard print, PVC and gold lame; and the fancy dress stall on the market had spoiled him for choice in terms of wigs.
“New Year’s party, is it?” the nosy bastard of a stallholder had grinned.
“Summat of that nature,” Stevens had nodded, meaning ‘piss the fuck off’.
The wig, like a heavy metal band having an orgy on his head, was the crowning glory. Stevens pulled a few faces, pouting and grimacing. He reckoned he could do a good Tina Turner.
“Knock, knock,” said a voice at the other side of the door. Dickon’s head appeared. “Ooh, I say!” He gave Stevens the onceover. “Beautiful.”
“Um...” Stevens glanced down at his skinny, knobbly-kneed legs in their luminescent fishnet casings like radioactive loofahs. “I sort of forgot my shoes, like.”
In truth, the charity shops didn’t cater for size eleven heels. And Stevens had been too shy to ask.
“No sweat, Tasha love,” Dickon came in to appraise Stevens at closer quarters. “I’ve got some spares somewhere. I must say you’m quite a picture... If you like modern art.”
Stevens’s ego was pinched by this slight.
“Right, well, I’ll leave you to it,” Dickon circled the new artiste. “Let you sort your face out.”
“I’m prepared!” Stevens held up a razor and a can of shaving foam. Dickon was aghast.
“Don’t you bloody dare!” He snatched the can of foam. “My punters are expecting a bit of exotica and a bit of exotica is what they’m gunna get. You leave that tache where it is and don’t even think about doing them legs. All you need’s a bit of slap.”
Stevens reacted, as though expecting violence.
“Not a slap; some slap. Bloody hell. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your make-up kit and all.”
Stevens’s mouth opened.
“We should call you Dolly Fucking Daydream,” Dickon squeezed a hairy forearm. “I’ve got some bits and pieces the girls have left here over the years. You’ll have to make do. Buggers can’t be choosers.”
He patted the back of Stevens’s hand in mock admonishment and scurried out. “I’ll bring you them shoes and all,” he called over his shoulder.
Stevens returned his attention to the mirror.
If only Wheeler could see me now! He essayed another pout and recalled his most recent performance review. Every performance review he’d ever had had said the same thing: he needed to be more sensitive, more aware of diversity, more in tune with minorities and their needs.
Fuck me! If dressing like a threepenny tart and parading about in front of a pubful of poofters isn’t being sensitive to minorities, he didn’t know what was.
8.
“Are you okay, Miller?” Brough had at last got through on the phone.
“Bit under the weather but I’ll live.”
“Hmm,” said Brough, “you’re damned elusive, Miller; what have you been up to?”
“Nothing!”
“That sounds like something.”
“Oh, just you know: women’s things.”
“Ugh.”
“Had my feet up in stirrups and everything.”
“Thank you, Miller. That’s quite enough of that. See you tomorrow, perhaps?”
“We’ll see how I go.”
She disconnected. She knew the merest and vaguest mention of gynaecological matters would get Brough all squeamish and running for the figurative hills. She felt a twinge of guilt for lying to him but this was something she had to do on her own. Feeling poorly could wait. Detective Sergeant Melanie Miller was turning maverick and it was about bloody time.
Jerry came in with Chinese food. Miller’s stomach flipped. She had no appetite at all.
***
Back in his office, Ronnie Flavell consulted the database. The room was in darkness save for the glow of his monitor, painting the Environmental Health inspector’s face with a mask of greenish hue.
In the corridor, a cleaner was buffing the floor but Ronnie was so focussed on his research he was able to shut out the noise.
The Oddfellows Arms had been reported several times - with increasing frequency, it appeared. All of the complaints referred to a foul stench that hung around the building. The inspectors’ reports had all proved inconclusive. There was a statement detailing the opinion of the last official to visit the pub, proposing the idea that the smell was the result of all the animal excrement from the zoo getting into the drains under the pub.
Feasible, Ronnie Flavell supposed. Sometimes when the wind was blowing the wrong way there was a distinct whiff of Giraffe House all the way down the hill to the cinema.
He scrawled on a post-it to ring the zoo in the morning to find out how they dispose of all the shit. He stuck the note to the frame of the monitor where he couldn’t fail to see it first thing.
“Fook me!”
He gasped to find the cleaner standing behind him. “I day hear you come in.”
“What?” said the cleaner.
“I said, I didn’t hear - oh!” Ronnie gestured for the cleaner to take off his noise-reducing headphones. The cleaner eventually cottoned on. He peered over Ronnie’s shoulder.
“Roses,” he said.
“I beg your pardon.”
“Roses.” The cleaner pointed at the screen. “They sells off all the shit for roses and gardens and farms and what-not. Bit of lion cack will keep the foxes away and all.”
Ronnie blinked. “Oh, really?”
“Ar,” said the cleaner. “What did you think, they just shovel it up and flush it down the bog?”
Ronnie didn’t know how to respond. The cleaner began to whistle Daddy’s Taking Us To The Zoo Tomorrow and emptied the bin.
Ronnie snatched the post-it from the monitor.
Flush it down the bog, my arse.
***
Harry Henry became aware of an insistent buzzing in his vicinity, like a large bee was trying to get his attention. Eventually he identified the sound as his mobile vibrating somewhere about his person. He deposited his armloads of files onto the bonnet of someone’s car, from where most of them slid to the ground and into a slushy puddle. After giving himself a pat-down but stopping short of a full cavity search, he located the device and fumbled to answer the call.
“Hello, love?”
“You took your time,” said Zadie, Harry Henry’s wife. “For one,” she added bitterly. The dig on his prowess in the bathroom was lost on him. “When are you coming home?”
“Um, after work.” It seemed obvious to Harry Henry.
“What time?”
“Um... I’ve got a few things to do.”
“Well, don’t you be late. We’re having a visitor.”
“Um...”
“I’m giving you fair warning so you can smarten yourself up a bit. That nappy head of yours.” Zadie Henry didn’t exactly suck air through her teeth but Harry could picture her doing it.
“Let me guess: your mother.”
“Got it in one! She’ll be staying for a few nights. She was very vague. Perhaps she’s doing some lectures at Tipton University.”
“Um...”
“You don’t seem very surprised.”
“Well, that’s because I invited her.”
For the first time in their ten-ye
ar marriage, Zadie Henry was speechless.
***
Keith was in considerable discomfort. The plastic strips that bound his hands behind his back were bad enough and his legs were numb from the knees downward from squatting on the cold brick floor, but worst of all was the pain in his belly. Keith was not only in fear for his life he was almost scared to death that he would shit himself if he wasn’t allowed to go to a toilet before much longer.
If he kills me - if I’m found - it’ll be with a gutful of shit in my Aussie Bums. I don’t want to end up like that.
He’d had a lot of time to think. He had done little else apart from feeling sorry for himself and bewailing all that untapped potential he had never realised.
His best guess was he was in the cellar of the pub where he’d arranged to meet his internet date. Said internet date had turned out to be some kind of nutter - Oh, Keith had read all the warnings about this kind of thing. Always meet in a public place, it said. Well, meeting in a bloody public house hadn’t done him much good. He’d never thought anything like this would happen to him. It was about as likely as - as finding true love over the internet.
I’ve been a bloody fool, he realised starkly. And now I’ll never be anything else.
Harsh light stabbed his eyes. He flinched.
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” said Dickon at the other end of the torch. “I’ve brought you a bucket. Say thank you, Dickon.”
“Thank you, Dickon.”
“But you’re not getting it yet. Oh no. You and me am going to have a little bit of a chinwag first, Keith, me old mate, me old mucker.”
“Ch - chinwag?”
“A confab. A natter.”
“I know what it means. What about?”
Dickon laughed. “There’s the old defiance, the old cockiness coming to the surface at last. Thought you was getting meek in your old age, Keithy-weithy.”
Keith tried to peer beyond the beam of light. “Do we know each other? I mean, apart from the website?”
“Been getting much action from that website, have you, Keith? With your touched-up profile picture, I mean. What do they say when they meet you? How do they react? Do you ever get a second date?”
Keith dipped his head so the torchlight couldn’t play on his disfigured mouth.
“Answer me!”
“You...” Keith muttered to his chest, “You were the first to respond.”
Dickon crowed like a cockerel on nitrous oxide. “And you hit the jackpot first time out! Aren’t you the lucky one?”
“Please! I desperately need the loo!”
Dickon shone the light on the bucket. “This, do you mean?” He held it towards his captive and snatched it back again. “Uh-uh. First, you’re going to tell me a story, Keith. I love a good story. How did you get it?”
“Get what?”
“Your gob. All messed up like that. What happened?”
“It was an accident.”
Dickon waited. “Is that it? That’s not much of a story. Come on; there’s got to be more to it than that. I’ll get you started: Once upon a time...”
“I told you. It was an accident. I was in a pub. Someone threw a glass.”
Dickon swung the bucket and struck Keith across the side of the head. He turned the flashlight under his own chin.
“There! That’s the only touch of this bucket you’m going to get. Until you tell me the fucking truth.”
He clicked the light off and left, stumbling and swearing as he picked his way towards the door. As exits go, it wasn’t the slickest but its effect on Keith was dramatic. He trembled and gave way to spasms in his abdomen. The hot stench of shit filled the air.
Keith whimpered.
Why is he doing this to me?
***
Pattimore was waiting at the front door to the flat when Brough strolled up.
“Forgot your keys again,” the detective inspector said coldly.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be coming back so I kept a lookout.”
Brough let himself in. Pattimore followed.
“Oh, come on, Davey. Let’s put - let’s put that business behind us and move on, shall we, eh?”
Brough didn’t speak. He took off his raincoat and hung it on a hook. He loosened the knot of his tie and pulled it from under his shirt collar, like a magician conjuring a snake.
“Davey!” Pattimore pleaded. “Talk to me! Please!”
Brough untucked his shirt and lifted it to expose bare skin. He twisted around to display two livid bruises above his kidneys. Pattimore gasped.
“Davey, I’m sorry, I -”
“Keep away from me!” Brough snapped. “In fact, why don’t you go one better? Why don’t you get all your shit together and fuck the hell out of my flat?”
“Your flat? Oh, it’s your flat now, is it? There’s two names on that tenancy agreement.”
“Fine. If you won’t go, I will.”
Brough stormed into the bedroom. He retrieved a large holdall from the top of the wardrobe and began to fill it with his carefully ironed clothes. Pattimore watched in horror from the doorway. He wiped tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“Davey, please!” He dared to enter.
“That’s my sock drawer you’re standing in front of.”
Pattimore stepped aside. “Davey, let’s talk about this. I’m so, so sorry. Please!”
He grabbed Brough’s forearm.
“Get your hands off me,” Brough snarled, standing stock still.
“Or you’ll what?” Pattimore jeered.
“Let. Me. Go.”
“Or you’ll fucking what?”
“Jason -”
Brough’s sentence was cut off by a resounding punch to the sternum. Pattimore pushed him onto the bed and straddled him.
“You’re not fucking going anywhere,” he snarled.
He raised his fist again.
***
Jerry didn’t know what to do. Mel was tearing around as if there was nothing wrong with her when there most certainly was something wrong with her. She wouldn’t stay in one place long enough to talk to him about it and she wasn’t taking his calls. He’d given up on leaving voice messages; he’d just have to wait until she came home.
Oh, if she worked in a cake shop or at a nursery or somewhere ordinary, he’d know where she’d be and he could turn up and have it out with her. But, being a shit-hot detective about town, Mel could be anywhere and even if he could track her down, he’d run the risk of interfering with an operation or blowing her cover or whatever - he wouldn’t be welcome; that was the point.
Sometimes the most supportive thing you can do is to do nothing.
He decided to be patient. He focussed his energy on tidying the cemetery, hoping that no more burials would be cancelled after he’d made the effort to dig the holes.
***
Chief Inspector Karen Wheeler ran her tongue over her teeth and primped her cropped hair in the mirror. She sang tunelessly to herself, mainly to drown out the unnerving sounds that were coming from one of the toilet cubicles behind her.
You didn’t need to be a high-ranking police officer in charge of the borough’s Serious Crimes division to work out that the cubicle’s occupant was the team’s only other female member - It was the wrong time of day for the cleaning staff to be in.
Wheeler wondered if she should say something. It would certainly be in keeping with her recent training, being all caring and concerned and what-have-you.
Nurturing.
That was the word: nurturing.
It sounded to her that D S Miller was in dire need of some direct and hands-on nurturing.
Or...
Or I could scuttle out of here and pretend I haven’t heard a
thing.
Discretion.
That was another word that had been bandied about the flipcharts and the PowerPoint presentations.
If I sneak out now I’ll be exercising my discretion...
Wheeler’s reflection nodded back. We’re good to go, those steely eyes told her.
But at that moment, the cubicle door opened and D S Miller emerged, looking decidedly paler and greener than was usual. She ran the cold water and splashed it on her face, catching the Chief Inspector’s eye in the mirror.
“Chief,” Miller acknowledged.
“Er...” Wheeler offered a weak smile. “And how are you today, um, Millernie - I mean, Meller. Miller!”
“Okay...” Miller lied, washing her hands in a manner that made Lady Macbeth look slovenly. She was aware of the Chief Inspector’s scrutiny. She snatched paper towels from the dispenser.
“If there’s - if you - if you’d like to request some leave, Miller, my door and my diary are always open.”
Miller froze. She shook her head. “I can’t. Thanks, Chief. Got too much on.”
“The perambulating dead.”
“I just need a bit of make-up.”
“The case! Listen, Miller: I know you’m keen to work as hard as the chaps, like you’ve got to earn your place in the team on the account of your having a vagina, but there’s no need, chicken. Take a couple of days; nobody will think any the worse of you.”
“I’m okay, Chief. Honest.”
Wheeler pursed her lips. “All right. What’s going on? Brief me.”
“Well, there’s that pub...”
“Oh, not here, Miller. Let’s go and grab a couple of lattes and go back to my office.”
Wheeler breezed out. In the corridor she exhaled with relief. The caring and sharing was going well so far. Superintendent Ball, walking along the corridor, smiled uncomfortably.
“No one light a match, eh?” he quipped. He hurried past. Wheeler struggled to maintain her serene expression. The silly man just needs nurturing, she told herself.
***
Pattimore walked away from the flat. He decided against taking the car; the mood he was in, he would probably head for the nearest brick wall, there being an absence of available cliffs in Dedley. He stomped along the streets, burning off his anger before he chose a destination.
Coffin Dodgers Page 8
