“I’m sorry,” Cassidy murmured. She stepped forward and flattened herself against the books. Her nose nudged against a biography of Leopold and Loeb. The librarian wheeled the trolley past Cassidy and around a corner. Cassidy stepped back.
A loud, ululating scream shattered the peace of the library.
Cassidy, along with other library users, dashed to the source of the scream. There was the trolley. There was the librarian lady, screaming and pointing a shaking finger. There on the floor was the homeless man who had winked at Cassidy. He was dead.
A large, leather bound volume had been rammed so far into his mouth his lower jaw was completely dislocated. His eyes bulged, staring vacantly at the ceiling.
“Oh, my fucking god!” Cassidy exclaimed with no regard for library etiquette.
The lady librarian leaned against her trolley lest she fall over. “That’s a priceless first edition,” she gasped, inconsolable.
“What?” Cassidy gave the trolley a little shove to get the woman’s attention. “Just call the fucking cops!”
The librarian stared at the brusque American as though encountering a new species. Then she nodded and hurried away, skirt rustling and hair breaking free of its bonds. The gathering crowd of onlookers parted to let her through.
Cassidy had not been devoting all her brainpower all this time for nothing. She knew exactly what to do. She addressed the gawpers and the starers. “Back off, people,” she raised her hands as though to push them away. “Let’s leave it to the cops.”
No one moved but at least they didn’t come any closer.
Cassidy glanced down at the dead man. He had been a creep and a smelly bastard but he hadn’t deserved this. The poor, smelly and drunk bastard! She noticed a bottle poking from his coat pocket. Beer was pouring out, spreading a puddle across the carpet. Cassidy leaned over to get a closer look at the label adorning the neck of the bottle like a collar. She could just about make out the brand.
Ragnarök.
Well.
***
Not far away, in his Incident Room, D.I. Brough was finally about to launch into his briefing-cum-pep-talk. Detectives and uniformed officers of varying ranks were gathered and looking at him with expressions ranging from expectant to already bored.
He opened his mouth to bid them good morning and welcome but he didn’t have time enough to form the first syllable before Trevor Dobley burst in, having abandoned his post at the front desk. He muttered something urgently into Brough’s ear whose mouth, having been open, gaped wider.
“Fuck me,” Brough gasped.
Not quite the opening address he’d wanted to give.
Suspect
The police sealed off the library’s main entrance with tape. Constables and Specials kept the public at bay. A large van beeped in slow, insistent rhythm as it backed up to a side exit, ready to receive the deceased when Forensics had done their thing indoors.
Brough was supervising the reversing of the van, making beckoning gestures to the driver’s side mirror. At his elbow, the librarian in home-made clothes, twitched and dithered nervously, as annoying and persistent as a wasp disguised as a bag of laundry.
“But you don’t understand, Detective Inspector,” she insisted. “That book is priceless.”
Brough decided to acknowledge her presence at last. In the absence of a rolled-up newspaper to swat her away, he opted to speak to her. “And you don’t seem to understand, Miss - I assume it’s Miss - this is a crime scene.”
She appeared at his other elbow. “It’s irreplaceable!” she wailed.
Brough checked his notes. “The Bumper Book of Norse Mythology” he recited. “Sounds riveting.”
“Its proper title is The Prose Edda,” the librarian amended, primly. “This was hand-copied by monks at the local priory. It’s one of a kind.”
“Miss, this is a murder investigation not the Antiques Roadshow. What I need from you is any and all CCTV recordings you may have. I want to know who came in, who went out.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” the librarian nodded fervently, setting all her bangles and necklaces jangling. “But the book -“
Brough was losing his patience. “What about the bloody book?” The infuriating woman recoiled from his raised voice and aggressive expression. She would, had she the nerve, have prescribed de-caff.
“It - it wasn’t out on General Loan. A book like that -“
“I thought you said it was one of a kind.”
“What I mean is books like that, books of great value, are kept in the archive and are not accessible to the public.”
Brough actually paused to consider this information.
“So I’ll provide the security footage for the vault as well,” the woman smiled and Brough felt instantly regretful of his offhanded and abrupt treatment of her. She raised a finger adorned with a ring of twisted gold and silver. “But,” she warned, “I am afraid there are blind spots between the stacks.”
Brough blinked. “Stacks?” What had chimneys to do with anything?
“The bookshelves,” the librarian explained patiently. After all, it was her calling to provide information.
“So, you’ll have no images of the actual, um -“
“I think it’s unlikely.”
“Hmm.” Brough thought for a moment. “Well, we’ll take what you’ve got and a statement as well. Watch it.”
He steered her away from the side entrance. The body was being wheeled out on a trolley, covered by a sheet. It was especially bulky at the head end. The librarian whimpered.
Brough agreed. “It’s a terrible thing.”
“The book, Inspector!” the librarian wheedled plaintively as the trolley yielded up its cargo to the van. “It is for use in the library only.”
***
Cassidy stormed into the reception of The Ash Tree. Those ugly glass knickknacks better watch out. She was in a destructive mood.
Mrs Box, behind the counter, appeared not to notice the American’s noisy entrance. She sat sucking the end of her red biro, gazing thoughtfully at nothing.
“Un-be-fucking-lievable!” Cassidy roared. Still, the stupid woman didn’t stir. Cassidy stood fuming, breathing heavily, waiting for a response. “I said, Un-be-”
“Oh, I heard you, dear,” Mrs Box said softly. Her eyes swerved to look at her loud and swearing guest. “I’m searching for words.”
“Oh,” the wind was somewhat taken from Cassidy’s sails. “So you’ve heard?”
“In my puzzle mag.” Mrs Box produced said publication from below the counter.
“So you haven’t heard?”
“Heard?”
Cassidy approached the counter and leaned towards the landlady. She lowered her voice. “There’s been another murder.”
“Oh.” Mrs Box blinked. She glanced over her shoulder at the frosted glass of the door marked ‘Private’ then pulled her attention back towards the American who was the keener of the two to chat about it.
“In the library!” Cassidy continued. “I was right there!”
Mrs Box’s response was not what was expected. “That was lucky,” she said.
“Lucky?” Cassidy repeated. Why did this insufferable woman keep saying someone getting offed was lucky?
“It’s your hobby, isn’t it?” Mrs Box explained. “Murdering?”
“You make me sound like Hannibal Lecter,” Cassidy was appalled. “I wouldn’t say ‘hobby’ exactly.”
Mrs Box looked her directly in the eye and began to recite in a passable imitation of Cassidy’s accent. “...the symbolic power of the anonymous murder within the collective psyche satisfies primal needs to fear the other, the qua bogeyman...”
Cassidy gaped. “What did you say? That’s from my thesis!”
“Is it?”
Mrs Box affected surprise. “Must have glanced at it when I was dusting.”
“I bet you did.” Cassidy’s anger was beginning to simmer again. The nerve of the woman!
“I don’t know much about it,” Mrs Box said with a casual sniff, “but I don’t think you use ‘qua’ like that.”
Cassidy was dumbstruck. Eventually she managed to formulate, “And I’ll thank you to keep out of my business,” along with a threat to check out and move to a rival establishment.
“Suit yourself, dear,” Mrs Box sniffed again. “But shouldn’t you be out there conducting primary research?”
“Helping the cops with their enquiries, do you mean? I’ve given them a statement - another statement.” How did she do it, this peculiar little woman? Incite you to anger and then distract you from it?
“You want to get in there, dear,” Mrs Box patted Cassidy’s hand. “Roll your sleeves up and crack the case.”
“And now you think I’m Angela fucking Lansbury.”
“You don’t want to be loop the loop, do you?”
Cassidy snatched her hand away. “I believe the expression is ‘out of the loop’.”
“Well...” Mrs Box pulled a face.
Shuffling noises and thuds came from beyond the Private door. A large dark shape loomed behind the opaque glass and then withdrew.
“Oh, good,” Mrs Box was visibly relieved. “Bertie’s home.” She hopped from her seat and left without as much as a look to the American girl. Cassidy shook her head.
“Un-be-”
Her attention was caught by the puzzle magazine, abandoned on the counter. She turned it around to look at it the right way up.
All the letters in a puzzle had been savagely obliterated by scrawls of red ink. Apart from a few. Cassidy frowned as she spelled them out.
NOT. AGAIN.
Cassidy found this solution puzzling to say the least. She tried to return the magazine to the exact position Mrs Box had left it but was distracted by the sound of the landlady’s voice coming in muffled but urgent tones from beyond the frosted glass. Cassidy glanced over her shoulder to check no one was coming in then she nipped around the counter and tiptoed towards the private door.
***
D.I. Brough and D.S. Miller perused the pin board in the Incident Room. The photographs, diagrams and notes spilled beyond the confines of the board and across the wall, linked by thin strips of coloured tape. Brough uncapped his special marker and added a couple of names to the wall.
Cassidy Whitlow.
Albert Box.
He stepped back, humming his approval as though pleased with his penmanship.
“Our American friend,” he tapped the name with the butt of his marker. At his side, Miller peered at the name, nodding slowly. “Just happened to be present at both crime scenes.”
“Coincidence, sir?” Miller offered. “Could be.”
Brough shot her a dirty look as though she had trampled dog shit into his nice clean Incident Room. “In this job you soon find there is no such thing as coincidence.”
“We’re running a background check, sir. Or rather, they are. Down the road. In Serious. Faxes to America and all that kind of thing.”
This cut Brough to the quick. It irked him that all the resources were centralised. Oh, they could access the mainframe from this tiny station but he couldn’t afford the manpower.
How was he expected to head up an investigation when he - Ah, but of course, he wasn’t expected to head up investigations, was he? He was meant to relinquish all cases of this nature to Serious Crimes. With this second murder hot on the heels of the first, Division was putting pressure on him, unwilling to tolerate his go-it-alone, Maverick attitude.
Maverick! Why am I thinking like the blurb on the back of a cheap paperback?
“Keep on top of that, will you, Miller?”
“Sir?”
“Chase up the fax from the States. I want to know as soon as it comes in.”
“Right you am, sir.”
Of course, what Brough really wanted was to prevent it being snatched up by the likes of Stevens. He didn’t want Serious Crimes swooping down on the American and complicating things.
He described a large, red circle around a brochure advertising the Ash Tree Bed and Breakfast Hotel. “And the place where Miz um... is staying just happens to be the residence of the one and only Bertie Box.”
“Sir?” Miller knew her part was to prompt the boss so he would continue to think out loud.
“Terrible business, years ago,” he nodded towards a stack of folders on a nearby chair. “Kind of thing that makes you want to be a copper.”
“Golly, sir.”
“Here’s his antecedents,” he handed her a bulging folder that looked fit to burst. “About as thick as his head.” Miller staggered as the heavy paperwork dropped into her hands.
“Golly,” she repeated. Brough narrowed his eyes. Was she tempering her language after his embarrassing outburst? She returned his stare. He didn’t know what to make of her.
He broke first.
“You can have a squint at that lot on the drive over.”
“Sir?”
“I think we need to have further chitchats with Miz um... and Mister Box.”
He swept across the room, snatching his overcoat from the hook in one fluid moment, but ruining the moment by pushing the door instead of pulling. Miller managed to stop herself laughing after the first snicker escaped her. Brough kept his head held high and strode out into the corridor where he had to wait, ungallantly, while Miller, struggling beneath the bulk of the folder, tried to retrieve her handbag from the back of a chair and negotiate the door handle.
***
Cassidy swept her hair over one shoulder and pressed the ear she had revealed against the glass pane in the door marked Private. The stifled voice of Mrs Box could still be heard. She was ranting at someone but who that person was or what was the topic of her lecture, Cassidy could not make out.
“What are we listening to?” A voice and hot breath were suddenly at her ear. Cassidy’s heart stopped then tried to leap from her throat. She turned her head to find Anfred inclined towards her as though he’d been using her head as an ear trumpet.
“Ssh!” she elbowed his chest. “Get away from me!”
Anfred stood up and backed away but not by much. “I apologise.” He was smiling the look that said he found everything amusing. “What’s going on?”
“Ssh!” Cassidy hissed again but with more urgency this time. “Besides I’m not talking to you.”
“Well, you could have fooled me.”
“After last night.”
“Uh?”
“I didn’t know you were -” She looked him up and down, searching for an appropriate term, “you know.”
“Oh,” Anfred’s smile did the impossible; it became broader. “You fancied your chances, did you?”
“Hah!” Cassidy laughed bitterly. “Sure I did. Jerk.”
He put his hands together and adopted an imploring expression but there was still the twinkle of mockery in his eyes. “Let me make it up to you. Buy you a drink?”
This was met with a snort of derision. “Give me more of your freebies, you mean? No, thanks.”
But Anfred was not to be put off so easily. “Coffee then?”
“Just piss off; I’m busy.”
“Doing what exactly?” He folded his arms, enjoying her flustering and blustering embarrassment. Damn him and that smirk.
“I’m just...” Cassidy glanced back at the door, “I’m trying...” Then her eyes flashed. “It’s none of your business.”
“Mrs Box wouldn’t be pleased to see you there.”
“Remember when I told you to piss off?”
Anfred thr
ew up his hands in surrender. “I’m gone.”
“So go!”
“On my way.”
“Well, good.”
“Suits me fine.”
“Suits me better.” She tapped her foot, agitated and annoyed. He hadn’t moved an inch.
Over her shoulder, the frosted glass darkened as a huge figure approached the door. Anfred pulled a face and pointed. It took Cassidy a few seconds to realise. She turned.
The frosted glass was free of shadows. There was no one there. Cassidy swore. How could he trick her - no, worse: how could she let him trick her? She turned back to give him a piece of her mind.
Anfred was not there either.
***
Outside the B & B, a car pulled up. It was unmarked but Anfred, watching from behind a tree, could tell a police car when he saw one. That the driver was in uniform was a bit of a giveaway.
In the backseat, Brough peered out at the building as though contemplating a haunted house.
“Bit grim, sir,” Miller crinkled her nose.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Brough considered. “Lick of paint...”
“The file, sir,” Miller clarified. “Shocking.”
“Yes,” Brough agreed. “Lucky bastard got away with it, in my view. Insanity! Spent twenty years in the booby hatch and now he’s at large.”
“He was deemed not responsible,” Miller nodded, pointing to an entry in the folder.
“I should say ‘at very large’,” Brough nudged her. “Have you seen the size of him?”
“You don’t think he’s responsible?” she nudged him back. He stared at her, alarmed by this display of familiarity. “I mean now, sir.”
“Do I think he’s behind these current murders, do you mean? I wouldn’t be surprised.” He looked up at the hotel’s upper windows. “Not surprised at all. Come on.”
He unfastened his seat belt and climbed out. Miller found she was pinned to the seat by the weight of the file. She shook when Brough slammed the door. Then he tapped at the window with his knuckle and mouthed, “Come on!”
Blood & Breakfast, West Midlands Noir Page 8
