Young, Gifted and Deadly

by William Stafford

  “You must be Donald Phillips,” said Miller.

  “I think we’d all better go inside,” said Brough.

  14.

  “Ican hear you muttering,” Charlie West admonished his brother. “It won’t do you no good, muttering. And put that tabard on, like I told you.”

  Bonk’s lip curled, a dog ready to snarl, but even he knew better than to yip and snap at the hand that fed him. He shrugged on the luminescent yellow waistcoat, catching his hood at the back. Charlie rolled his eyes.

  “Come here.” He extricated the hood from its confines. “Although I don’t know why you have to wear the bloody thing. Gives people the wrong idea. You’re not a bad lad, Nat. Deep down. You’ve just got in with a bad crowd, that’s all.”

  Bonk squirmed out of Charlie’s clutches. “Nothing wrong with my friends,” he scowled. “Least I’ve got some.”

  This remark earned him a flick to the ear but it was Charlie who was stung the deeper.

  “Well, maybe if I wasn’t working every bloody shift I can to keep you in Monster Munch and hooded jackets, I’d be able to get out there and live a little. You selfish prick. Now, come on.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “We’ve been through this. Yes, you have to. You’re going to stack shelves until you’ve paid off the damage you and your nothing-wrong-with-them friends caused the other day.”

  “Not fair,” Bonk muttered.

  But he followed his brother out to the shop floor, prepared to do as he was told.

  ***

  Chief Inspector Karen Wheeler slammed the car door. She locked it with a click of her key ring while her other hand tried to call Dennis bastard Lord yet again. She saw there was no signal and swore.

  Probably because I’m in the car park, she reasoned, holding her phone at arm’s length - which wasn’t very far at all. Overhead loomed the underbelly of the supermarket. It’s like the world’s most fucking boring cave, she sneered in disdain. She strode through the plate glass doors, which had sense (or sensors) enough to part company and get out of her way. The mood I’m in, they wouldn’t have stopped me, she huffed.

  She swerved past the traditional staircase and rode the stairless elevator to the shop floor, all the while waving her phone around, like a child with a sparkler on Bonfire Night. Three little bars appeared at the top of the screen. Signal at last but still no bastard answer.

  And, of course, Chimp One and Chimp Two were not at their post. The trestle table was deserted, its sign hanging askew. Neither were they in the Queequeg’s - No, of course not, Karen, you dozy twat - they’ll be wherever that wankstain is.

  Or they’d better bloody bastard bloody be.

  Fuming, she revolved on the spot, tapping her foot. Lord would have an office or something, a fucking rock to crawl under, somewhere behind the scenes. Where might that be?

  She cast around, looking for inspiration. Her gaze fell on that pleasant young man, the security guard she had encountered on her previous visit. He would know.

  “Hello, Fuck-knuckle!” she greeted him with a smile as she approached.

  “Er...” Charlie West was a little thrown. “Um, hello, Chief Inspector. How lovely to see-”

  “Don’t you fucking lie to my fucking face,” she cut him off. “I’m a pain in the scrotum. But if you tell me what I want to know, I’ll evaporate like the fucking morning dew.”

  “Right,” grinned Charlie West. “How the fuck may I be of assistance?”

  Wheeler grinned back. “I like you, Charlie. Take me to your leader.”

  ***

  Brough and Miller waited while the news sank in. Donald Phillips’s face worked as he processed the knowledge that his wife was dead - murdered in their own home - and their son was - what was he? Missing? A suspect?

  Miller pushed a box of tissues across the table. Donald Phillips stared at it, not understanding.

  “We appreciate,” said Brough, “that this is hitting you hard but, Mr Phillips, anything you can tell us - anything at all - could prove vital to our investigation.”

  Donald Phillips shook his head and frowned. “I don’t know anything - I can’t think - I...”

  Miller sent Brough a hard look but he persisted.

  “Perhaps you can tell us about this.” He pushed something across the table. Donald Phillips glanced up - it wasn’t a box of tissues. It was a book.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “You’ve seen this before.”

  “Not for years. Why? Where did you get it?”

  “We found it in your house, Mr Phillips. In your son’s room.”

  Donald Phillips looked like he had been kicked in the face. “Damn. Damn it! I thought I’d got rid of that.”

  “You didn’t want your son to read it?”

  “I don’t want anyone to read it. Load of codswallop. Some might say dangerous codswallop.”

  “You regret it, then?”

  “Regret what?” A penny dropped. Donald Phillips snatched up A History of the Occult in the Black Country and pointed at the name on the cover. “That’s not me! I didn’t write it.”

  “You didn’t write this book?” said Brough.

  “I’m a salesman. I sell ball bearings. I can barely write a text message.”

  “You’re not Donald Phillips?” said Miller.

  “I am! But not that Donald Phillips. That Donald Phillips is my father.”

  ***

  Bonk lost himself in his work. This was something he could cope with, something he could do. He reached another jar of peanut butter from the trolley and placed it on the shelf, turning it so that its label faced front, taking his time to get it exactly right. He stepped back to evaluate his work and stepped on Dogger’s foot.

  “Ow!” Dogger gave Bonk a punch and shoved him away. “Watch where you’m going.”

  “Hello, Dog,” said Bonk. “Can’t talk now. Got shelves to load.”

  “Fuck me,” said Dogger. “What’s happened to you?”

  “Not now,” said Bonk. “Leave me alone.”

  He picked up another jar.

  “Logger says to meet him. We’ve got two to do tonight.”

  “I’m not coming,” said Bonk, unable to meet Dogger’s eye. “Got work to do.”

  “Bonk!” Dogger stepped closer, his voice more urgent. “Have they done something to you?”

  “Gerroff!” Bonk backed away. “Don’t make me call security.”

  “Your brother? You’re going to set your big brother on me? Bonk, it’s me, Dogger!” He waved his hand in front of Bonk’s eyes. “Snap out of it!”

  “I’m serious, Dog,” Bonk stuck his nose in the air. “Go; play your childish pranks. I’m a grown-up now.”

  Dogger laughed. “Logger’s not going to believe this.”

  “I don’t give a monkey’s,” sniffed Bonk. He turned his back and resumed his task.

  Dogger stared at him, incredulous. He looked at the time. Logger would be waiting. He gave the trolley a kick and stormed off, leaving Bonk to concentrate on aligning his jars with his tongue jutting from the corner of his mouth.

  ***

  All the offices were empty - the staff who worked in them tended to go home at five, Charlie West explained. Wheeler didn’t seem interested. “Just find me the bastard,” she grunted.

  “There is one place we haven’t tried,” Charlie was suddenly inspired. “This way.”

  They strode through the staff canteen - an ostrich being followed by a penguin - and to a corridor labelled with pictures of a man and a woman.

  “Ta-dah!” said Charlie, extending his arm to show the two PCSOs slumped against the wall, connected by earbuds and, apparently, asleep.

  Wheeler kicked the sole of Hobley’s shoe. The PCSO stirred.
His eyelids flickered and then sprang apart.

  “Wakey, wakey, sweetheart,” Wheeler cooed. Somehow this was more terrifying than a barrage of expletives. Galvanised, Hobley jumped up. The other earbud was yanked from Wren’s ear with a resounding pop - Wren sank to the floor. The impact woke him up.

  When both PCSOs were standing to something like attention, Wheeler looked them each in the eye and then showed them her teeth. She forced words out between them.

  “Where - the - fuck - is - he?”

  Wren and Hobley seemed to relax a little, relieved it was an easy question.

  “In there,” Wren jerked his thumb at the door to the Gents.

  “Having a shit,” Hobley added, pleased to be helpful.

  “And how long,” Wheeler’s chest rose, “has he been in there?”

  Hobley and Wren looked at each other and pulled faces. Wren checked his watch; his jaw dropped.

  “Quite a bit, actually,” he squeaked. Wheeler’s stare bore into him. “Three hours!” he cringed.

  “Three fucking hours!” Wheeler exploded. “Well, I know that fucker is full of fucking shit but three fucking hours is taking the fucking piss, don’t you think?”

  She nodded to Charlie, who nodded back and pushed open the door. He went in; Wheeler followed but the hobby-bobbies hung back in the doorway, fearful for their lives.

  Even the most cursory inspection revealed that the bogs were empty, ‘completely devoid of bastards’ as Wheeler put it.

  “Perhaps the fucking fucker flushed himself,” she mused, peering into a toilet bowl. “No, he’s too big of a shit to get around the S bend.”

  She turned her attention to the ceiling. People were always escaping through the ceiling on the telly. They made it look so easy. You just climb up, dislodge a tile and crawl away to freedom.

  “Over here,” said Charlie West. He was standing by the window - the open window that gave out on to a fire escape.

  Wheeler peered over the windowsill. Dennis Lord was long gone.

  “Fucking shit,” she snarled.

  Behind her, the PCSOs whimpered.

  ***

  D I Stevens rapped a tattoo on the bonnet of D I Henry’s car, startling the poor man in the driving seat out of his catnap.

  “Harry!” Stevens grinned. “Asleep on the job, are we? You’ll cop it when Wheeler finds out.”

  “Ignore him,” said Pattimore, opening the door. Harry climbed out.

  “I generally do,” he said, pushing his spectacles back up his nose.

  “We’ve come to help,” said Pattimore, looking at Beatrice Mooney’s house. “Behaving herself, is she?”

  “Good as gold,” said Harry. “Haven’t heard a peep.”

  “You have been checking on her, Haz?” Stevens brows dipped in a frown. “Every half hour.”

  “Well - um - Don’t call me ‘Haz’!” Harry Henry looked both hurt and defensive.

  “Jesus Christ,” Stevens wailed. He jogged up the path to the front door. Pattimore and Henry followed.

  The house was in darkness. No lights, not even the television.

  “Um, perhaps she’s gone to bed,” Harry Henry offered.

  “At six o’fucking clock?” Stevens was scornful. “To quote one of my favourite film stars, I’m going in the back door.”

  He moved around the side of the house. Pattimore gave Harry Henry a baleful look.

  “Oh, Harry,” he said.

  “Oh, crumbs,” said Harry Henry.

  15.

  How romantic! Beatrice Mooney giggled to herself. All this sneaking around in the dark! A secret rendezvous!

  All right, so climbing over the fence in her own back garden hadn’t been her most elegant moment, and stumbling through the undergrowth to make her way to the road had almost caused her to twist an ankle. But it would be worth it.

  It better be worth it.

  What am I going to do, give him lines, put him in detention? She laughed at herself. It was a bit of fun, that’s all. A bit of slap and tickle in the stables.

  All the same, now that I’ve eluded the police, he’d better bloody show up.

  She stole across the stable yard, barely able to contain her excited laughter. She kept a horse there but didn’t get to ride him as often as she liked. Poor Dazzler!

  I’m here for a ride of a different kind! She laughed and tiptoed into the stable to get herself ready.

  ***

  “And you’ve no idea where we might contact your father,” Brough rubbed his eyes.

  “Like I said, he’s homeless,” said Donald Phillips Junior. “We haven’t heard from him in a long time.”

  “Your own father!” said Miller. Phillips caught the accusation in her tone.

  “Listen,” he looked the female detective in the eye. “It’s not what you think. He’s ill. Very ill. He was in a home - for people with mental problems. But he got away. Lived rough for a while and then when they took him back, the home had closed down. Fucking austerity, they call it. Oh, we can’t have him with us - he’s too much of a liability - I mean, we can’t give him the care he needs. I say ‘we’ but...”

  His voice trailed off. He had just reminded himself that his wife was dead.

  “Mr Phillips,” said Brough, not ungently, “What kind of illness are we talking about here?”

  “I told you,” Donald Phillips sniffed. “Mental illness. I don’t know the technical term. Paranoid schizophrenia - something like that. Perhaps it was messing about with all that devil bullshit that screwed him up. Research for his book. It sort of took him over - and no, I don’t mean demonic possession. I don’t believe in it. But then there was the accident. Got himself kicked in the head. By a goat, of all things. Had to have a metal plate fitted. He hasn’t been right since.”

  Brough and Miller shared a glance. Donald Phillips caught that too.

  “You think he’s doing this?” He gestured at the book on the table, as though it was his father’s representative.

  “It’s a possibility we’re considering,” said Brough.

  Donald Phillips shook his head. “I can’t believe it. He wouldn’t-” He stopped himself. “My God! Callum! Do you think he’s got Callum?”

  “We don’t know,” said Miller.

  “Your son’s whereabouts are still unknown,” said Brough.

  Donald Phillips put his face in his hands. “Find him!” he urged the detectives.

  “Who?” said Miller. “Your dad? Or your son?”

  “Both,” said Donald Phillips. “Please!”

  ***

  Callum watched the Goat Man build a small fire and skewer a piece of southern fried chicken on a twig and hold it over the flames. To the boy’s inexpert eye, it looked less like a sacrificial offering and more like a spot of campfire cuisine.

  “Still here, boy?” the Goat Man looked up from his cooking. “You’re a good lad-” he paused, cocking his head to one side. He appeared to be listening to something, something Callum couldn’t hear.

  The Goat Man nodded his hooded head, as though agreeing with something.

  “Tell me, my boy,” his eyes twinkled beneath their shadowy covering, “Is there a stable around here?”

  “Um,” Callum thought about it. “I think so. Couple of miles. Why? Do you need a horse?”

  The thought amused him. A goat riding a horse!

  “Not the horse, no...” the Goat Man chuckled enigmatically. He dropped the chicken into the fire and then kicked dirt over it, extinguishing the flames and burying the portion. Callum expected him to say something, an incantation in Latin or something, but all the Goat Man did was wipe his fingers on his already greasy coat and head off.

  “Come on, boy!” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t dawdle!”

&nb
sp; Callum stumbled after him. The Goat Man was more surefooted in his strides along the path. Well, he would be, thought Callum. He’s probably got cloven hooves inside those boots.

  The Goat Man stood proudly on the stile, turning his head in all directions. The curls of his horns glinted in the street light. “Which way, boy? To the stable?”

  “Down the hill and up toward Gornal,” said Callum. “Follow me!”

  Now, there’s a spot of role reversal, he thought!

  ***

  Detectives Pattimore, Stevens and Henry gathered in Beatrice Mooney’s kitchen. They turned on the spot, at a loss.

  “She ain’t here,” said Stevens, in case the others hadn’t worked that out for themselves.

  “She’s vanished!” said Harry Henry. “It’s all my fault!”

  “No, it’s not,” said Pattimore. “You can’t be expected to watch both sides of a house at the same time on your own. We should have got here sooner.”

  Harry Henry gasped, “It’s all your fault!”

  “Fuck off,” said Stevens.

  “We’re not here to apportion blame,” said Pattimore. “Let’s try and work out where she might have gone.”

  “She could have buggered off anywhere,” said Stevens.

  Harry Henry pointed. “There’s a calendar on the wall.”

  Beneath a glossy photograph of a horse, a grid laid out the days of the month. The detectives peered at it. Various appointments were scrawled on it. Meetings were circled. But there was nothing to indicate where Beatrice Mooney might have buggered off to that evening.

  “This is bollocks,” Stevens groaned, “Like looking for a clitoris in a haystack.”

  “I think I’ve put my finger on it,” said Pattimore.

  “First time for everything,” said Stevens.

  Pattimore took a leaflet from the fridge door. It had been held in place by a horseshoe-shaped magnet. “Bit horsey, our headmistress.”

  “I don’t know,” said Stevens. “She was all right.”

  “Not looks,” said Pattimore. “Interests.” He riffled through the other papers displayed on the fridge. “Invoices, vets’ bills...”