by Ian Martyn
‘Yes, only nearly though.’ She flicked her finger and Mephisto’s head bounced off the wooden slat. She heard his teeth clack together and took satisfaction from the pain in his eyes. ‘A moment’s sentimentality got in the way.’
Mephisto hissed and flexed his jaw. ‘So why now, Marianne?’
‘I have a use for you.’
‘Oh, what is it this time, power? Lands?’
‘Both of course.’ She cocked an eyebrow. ‘What else is there?’
‘But as usual you need others to do your fighting for you.’
‘Naturally.’
‘So who is it this time?’
‘Sisillius.’
‘Again?’ Mephisto laughed, at least he did until he couldn’t breathe again. ‘Sisillius,’ he repeated in a hoarse whisper. ‘Come on, Marianne, we’ve been there twice before. Anyway, what do you need me for?’
Marianne scratched Mephisto’s head, which produced an involuntary purr. ‘Oh, they’re hardly enlightened times and you know Sisillius and his men. All muscles and macho. Taking orders from a woman, or at least directly from a woman, is a stretch too far for their meagre intellects to cope with.’
Mephisto shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Marianne, but it didn’t work last time. He’s got too many enemies and not enough friends and that proved too much even for you. Which is why, if you remember, that first time, we had to do a runner and ended up here, with me peddling my skills alongside tricksters and frauds. While you, for a while at least, tried your hand at the twentieth-century version of domesticity.’
Marianne waved a hand in the air. ‘Yes, that was a mistake, I admit, even if it was fun to start with. It’s amazing how soon they lose their sense of adventure in this world. How narrow their ambition becomes.’
‘I think that’s because they have laws, Marianne.’
‘Yes, well last time we almost succeeded.’
Mephisto nodded. ‘Except, and I hate to bring this up, Marianne, you weren’t strong enough to hold on to all that power.’
Marianne resisted the urge to grab Mephisto by the scruff and shake him. ‘It wasn’t all a waste of time and I admit it taught me a lesson.’ She smiled. ‘It’s different this time. There’s my daughter.’
Mephisto started to laugh again, then checked himself. ‘I’m sorry, Marianne. You left when she was what, two?’ Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly found a mothering instinct?’
Marianne snarled her annoyance but left it at that. ‘Small children are of so little interest and so needy. However, she’s a grown woman now.’
‘I know, I see her around. Looks like her father.’
Marianne pursed her lips. ‘Perhaps, but she’s still my daughter. And I see her too.’
Mephisto’s eyes widened. ‘Oh Marianne, that’s ambitious even for you. You do know Harold’s still around, and Edna?’
‘Of course I know.’ She sniffed her contempt. ‘The old meddler, I look forward to dealing with him. As for Edna…’ she shrugged. ‘Anyway, I’ve planned for them to be a little distracted.’
Mephisto was nodding. ‘Two of you?’
She had him. ‘Think of it.’
‘Your daughter though, Marianne. That really is playing with fire.’
She grinned. ‘You know me, darling, I don’t burn that easily.’
This time Mephisto grinned back. ‘OK, give me a little time to tidy my affairs.’
Marianne looked around the neat suburban garden. ‘What affairs? Oh, I get it, you want to say goodbye in your own special way, don’t you? Ever the showman.’
‘A day or two, that’s all.’
‘Tomorrow.’
Nine
Kirby woke. The birds outside were annoyingly cheerful and as usual the pigeons were clomping up and down the gutter with their clogs on. His mind was churning. While asleep, his subconscious had failed to come up with anything, or at least anything sensible. Not surprising, his conscious mind reasoned, since he was being asked to accept that there was another world accessible from this one and vice versa. Stranger still was that yesterday, when he’d been with Harold Longcoat and looked into the man’s eyes, he had believed it. He sat on the edge of his bed and looked across at the dresser and a photo of Jeanie taken seven or eight years ago, just before… well just before. It was in Cornwall and it was raining. She was smiling at him with that ‘who cares’ smile she had. He smiled back. ‘Well, Jeanie, what do you reckon?’
‘Just go with it, Jonah, just go with it. Trust your instincts.’
He nodded, she was always right. He smiled again, even when she was wrong.
As he dressed, he turned the facts, if you could call them that, over in his head, trying to give his conscious mind a go this time. He was fastening his shirt when he realised his phone was ringing. It was in the kitchen where he’d left it on charge. He ran down the stairs wondering quite why he did that when he could always call them back. He took a breath. ‘Kirby.’
‘You been running, Sir?’ It was the duty desk sergeant.
‘You know me, Sergeant, five miles every morning. Healthy body, healthy mind and all that.’
The Sergeant hesitated. ‘Er yes, Sir. Sorry, I…’ Kirby could hear the cogs turning, wondering if he was being serious or not.
‘Never mind, what is it?’
‘Ah, then, you’re not on your way in yet then, Sir.’
‘Well deduced, Sergeant. We’ll make a detective of you yet. So?’
‘Well you know you wanted me to let you know of anything that came to our attention in Jesmond?’
Kirby’s heart sank to somewhere near groin level. ‘Yes…’
‘Well, Sir.’ The hesitation that followed spoke volumes.
‘Go on, Sergeant. You’ve got this far.’
‘Er, there’s a cat that’s disappeared.’
Kirby’s heart bobbed part way back up. ‘And you phoned me about a missing cat?’
‘Ah ha, no. No, Sir. Not missing. I mean, I had the same thought until I saw the evidence.’
‘Evidence?’
‘Video, Sir. It literally disappeared in front of the owner’s eyes. There’s a couple of constables there now.’
Kirby glanced at the calendar just to make sure his life hadn’t fast-forwarded to April Fools’ Day. It wouldn’t have been the first time he failed to notice. No, it was still August.
‘You still there, Sir?’
‘Text me the address.’ Despite the so-called “evidence” it was probably some dotty old lady. He hoped it was some dotty old lady, but given everything else that was going on… ‘Oh and Sergeant.’
‘Sir?’
‘If this is just a missing cat, you’ll be pounding the streets for the next week looking for it.’
‘Sir.’
Kirby parked outside the typical suburban semi; 1960s he guessed by the large floor-to-ceiling windows, not that he was any architectural expert. Two constables were there talking to the elderly owner. As he got out of the car, one of the officers who he recognised as Constable Bains ambled over to him.
Bains touched a finger to his helmet. ‘Mornin’, Sir. Sarge thought this was right up your street.’
‘I’ll bet he did,’ mumbled Kirby.
‘Sorry, Sir?’
‘Nothing, Constable,’ Kirby said. ‘So what’ve we got?’
The constable flipped open his notebook in the manner that constables of a certain level of experience felt was required to impress a senior officer. He then lapsed into constable-on-duty speak, a peculiar form of the English language unique to the lower ranks of the police force. ‘Well, Sir, the elderly lady,’ he pointed with his pencil, she smiled back. ‘One Mrs Tanner, eighty-seven, widow of one Arthur Tanner, deceased now these fifteen years on account of him being in the army and never getting over it, was out minding her own business, taking advantage of this here warm spell by tending her plot when her cat, one ginger Tom called Napoleon…’
‘Napoleon?’
Bains frowned at having his monolo
gue interrupted. ‘Yes, Sir. The cat’s name is Napoleon. Is that important?’
Kirby shrugged. ‘Unusual, that’s all. Bit dramatic. What’s wrong with Tiddles?’
‘Quite, Tiddles. If I may continue, Sir?’
‘Go on.’
‘Where was I?’ He glanced at Kirby but didn’t say, “before I was rudely interrupted”. ‘Ah, yes. One ginger Tom called Napoleon and her favourite gnome, garden variety, one Mr Pickles, upped and disappeared.’ Constable Bains licked a finger and with a flourish continued his performance by turning the page. ‘Apparently, Sir, said ginger Tom is easy to identify on account of him having one blue and one green eye. At the time I am given to understand that Napoleon was lying, no sorry, basking, on the plate that said gnome, Mr Pickles, holds in front of him. The lady said, let me get this right, Sir. “I was looking straight at them and they just went, poof, right before my very eyes. And I’ve not been at the sherry if that’s what you’re thinking, young man.”’
‘And did they, Constable?’
‘Did they what, Sir?’
‘Go poof before her very eyes?’
‘Ah, I see what you’re getting at, Sir. My first thought as well, Sir. That she’s turned her back and some little ne’re-do-well has half-inched said gnome, which according to Mrs Tanner is a bit of a collector’s item and worth a bob or two, startling Napoleon who has then simply scarpered. And being an elderly lady, no disrespect intended, and perhaps not quite the full shilling, she’s got a bit muddled, Sir.’
‘Something like that, Constable. However, I believe there’s a “but” though. Which is why I’m here?’
‘Yes, Sir. Although,’ Constable Bains paused, which made Kirby suspicious of what might be coming next, ‘Wayne here wondered if we shouldn’t be calling the gnome office first.’
Kirby gave the constable nine out of ten for delivery on account that the constable’s lips didn’t even quiver as he said it. He only lost a point due to a single twitch in the left eye. The constable continued. ‘Although I thought it might be more one for gnomicide, Sir.’ This time he failed to hide a satisfied smirk.
‘Yes, thank you, Constable, I get the picture. Now if we can carry on without the puns.’
‘Sir.’ Bains half turned. ‘Wayne, lad, get over here with Mrs Tanner’s iPhone.’
Wayne, who appeared to Kirby to be about fourteen, except that the waistband of his trousers was thankfully at an acceptable height and not showing the make of his underwear, ambled over holding out said iPhone.
‘Show the inspector, lad,’ Constable Bains ordered.
Wayne flicked at the screen and up popped the face of a rather scary-looking gnome. It had rosy cheeks and the paint was peeling from its nose, which gave it more than a passing resemblance to Alex Ferguson about to explode at some half-witted footballer. As the picture panned out, said gnome, Mr Pickles, was holding what Kirby assumed at times acted as a birdbath, but which given the hot weather had dried out and was now an impromptu resting place for said cat, Napoleon. At this point the voice of Mrs Tanner could be heard. ‘Come on, Napoleon, say hello to all the lovely ladies and gentlemen.’ The cat opened its eyes, one green and one blue, and uttered a single meow when, literally “poof”, they both disappeared complete with the “poof” sound affect. And just in case there was any doubt, a small puff of smoke rose from where they’d been.
‘See what I mean, Sir?’ said Bains. ‘Poof!’
‘Poof indeed, Constable,’ Kirby said as he stared at the picture of where the cat and gnome had been only moments before. ‘Poof indeed. Hmm… clever editing?’
Bains shook his head. ‘Don’t think so, Sir. And Wayne reckons he could tell.’
‘I takes the videos, Pet, to put on Facebook and YouTube,’ came a loud voice just behind Kirby’s left ear. He managed to keep his surprise to a twitch, while Wayne ended up juggling with the phone as he tried not to drop it. It seemed that Mrs Tanner had glided undetected around and behind them in a way that only the elderly can. Kirby suspected it was a secret that was shared only by the elderly and was one small way of getting their own back on the rest of society.
The three of them turned.
‘Really?’ said Kirby.
‘Social media, Sir,’ Bains whispered, leaning towards Kirby.
‘Yes, thank you, Constable, I do know what social media is. It’s what you constables use too much and sometimes gets you into bother.’
Bains straightened and reddened before glaring at Wayne who was now grinning. ‘Won’t happen again, Sir.’
‘Never mind,’ Kirby said. ‘Well that’s a help for us, Mrs Tanner. Thank you.’
‘Yes, Napoleon has quite a following.’
‘I’m sure he does,’ Kirby said. ‘Napoleon? An unusual name for a cat.’
Mrs Tanner beamed. ‘I know. Inspiration, I calls it. I think that’s why people likes to see him, sounds grand. That an’ his eyes. He just wandered into my kitchen one day and made himself right at home. And when I was stroking him there was something about him that said Napoleon.’
‘Nasty little bugger then?’ Bains suggested.
‘Sergeant!’
‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘Really, Mrs Tanner?’
‘Yes, you can see him most days, Inspector. People consider a cat with one green and one blue eye to be lucky, you see.’
‘Not perhaps for Napoleon though,’ Bains muttered.
Kirby ignored the comment and looked at Wayne, noticing various holes in his ears and nose that no doubt sprouted rings and studs when he was off duty. ‘Er, can you fax, er, send, er e-mail…’
Wayne smiled at having succeeded in letting a senior officer dig a small hole for himself. ‘Got your mobile, Sir?’
Inspector Kirby handed over his phone.
Wayne sniffed, whether in contempt or disappointment that it was not some archaic brick, was hard to tell. ‘A four, Sir. Ooh nice case,’ he smiled. ‘Is it real leather?’
‘Just do it, Constable.’
‘Sir, I’ll bluetooth it now,’ Wayne said, and a few seconds later handed the phone back to Kirby.
‘Well, I think I’m done here,’ said Kirby, already knowing where he was going after he’d checked in at the station. ‘I’ll leave you two to placate Mrs Tanner,’ he added, smiling at Constable Bains. ‘Perhaps you can get Wayne to make her a cup of tea?’
‘And what shall I tell her we’re doing about Napoleon, Sir?’
‘Tell her, he and Mr Pickles are now part of an ongoing investigation.’
Ten
Kirby wandered towards his desk eating a croissant he’d bought at the service station on the way in, dropping flakes of it across the floor. As he placed what they insisted was a small latte – they didn’t do just a white coffee – on his desk, across the floor Sergeant Jones popped his head over the screen. ‘Morning, Inspector.’
‘Sergeant. Anything from your bus stop vigil?’
‘You mean, Sir, apart from a possible cold on account of that so-called summer shower that turned into a thunderstorm?’
Kirby wiped the last of the croissant from his lips with the brown paper napkin he’d been holding it in, succeeding in scattering more flakes, this time on his piles of papers. He took a sip of coffee as the sergeant blew his nose for dramatic affect. ‘As you know, Sergeant, the health of junior officers is one of my top priorities. Which is why I’m always advising you, when out and about, to wear sensible clothes and shoes appropriate to the prevailing and predicted weather conditions. So just because you choose to ignore that advice, don’t think you can skive a day off with a sniffle. So, yes, apart from that?’
‘Nothing, Sir. Or at least nothing helpful. One girl, a Sophie Wilson, did remember seeing the young lady standing there as the bus pulled up. Apparently, they don’t speak, they’re just on nodding terms, seeing as they’ve only been taking the same bus as each other for about a year.’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Well, it seems Miss Cooper just stood
there, didn’t get on.’
‘And that was it? She didn’t look like she was in trouble, being held, threatened?’
‘No. Miss…’ Sergeant Jones blew his nose again, then consulted the piece of paper in his hand. ‘Miss Wilson did say she saw a group of three or four teenagers in grey hoodies “hanging around”, as she put it, close by.’ The Sergeant handed Kirby the piece of paper on which his report was printed.
‘Well, we can’t go around picking up kids for hanging around.’
‘Hoodies?’
‘Nice idea, Sergeant, but we’d have half the teenagers in Newcastle in here if we started doing that. However, they might have seen something. Follow it up, will you, see if you can find them?’
The sergeant looked out of the window at the grey clouds that were gathering over the city.
‘The forecast says it’s going to be warm and sunny,’ Kirby said as Sergeant Jones disappeared behind his screen again. ‘Tomorrow,’ he added in a whisper.
The shop bell tinkled. Kirby looked down the aisle and Harold was there in full grey-cardigan disguise. Harold looked up and smiled. ‘Ah, Inspector, can’t keep away from all my bargains then?’
‘Not quite, Harold. I’ve got something to show you.’
‘Oh?’
Kirby dug the phone out of his pocket, entered the pin number, then entered it again while Harold tutted. ‘I thought given our conversation yesterday that you might be the person to help me with this,’ he said, pushing the phone in Harold’s direction.
Harold took it. ‘Delphiniums. Sorry, couldn’t tell you what variety. Not my specialist subject. Now if it was old English roses I…’
‘What?’ Kirby snatched back the phone. ‘Bloody things,’ he said, as the latest share prices appeared from nowhere. ‘Got a mind of its own.’
‘Give it here,’ Harold said, taking it back. ‘What am I supposed to be looking for?’
‘A video of a cat and a gnome.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘Fine,’ Harold said as he squinted at the phone and flicked through the screens. ‘You should upgrade to the 6, bigger screen.’
