by Ian Martyn
The lady shuffled her seat around as if warming to the idea of a bit of conversation. The man who Kirby presumed was her husband didn’t move and kept his gaze on one of the pictures as if finding things in it others couldn’t see. ‘Harold’s?’ Oh yes, I know Harold’s. Been there for as long as I can remember. Me mam used to take me in there when I was bairn. It was just the same. I guess it was Harold’s dad back then, but from what I can remember, Harold looks just like him. The shop hasn’t changed much either.
‘Been there a long time then?’
The lady glanced at the man next to her and tutted before carrying on. ‘I’ll say so. Me mam said it was there when she was a nipper. That’s staying power, that is. These days they’re here and gone before you know it. One minute it’s a deli and the next it’s a fancy hairdressers where they want forty quid for a set. I ask you, forty quid! They must think we’re made of money. An’ us on our pensions an’ all. Well…’
‘Harold’s?’ Kirby said, trying to take hold of the conversation again while she drew breath.
‘Sorry, pet. Oh aye, Harold’s. They should do one of those whatsit programmes on them. You know, where they dig into your past and find your great, great grandad was a murderer and the like.’
‘Who Do You Think You Are?’
‘Pardon.’
‘The TV programme.’
The woman gave a little laugh. ‘Aye, that’s it. Been there for generations, they have.’
That’s how it worked Kirby thought to himself. People looked but saw what they expected to see, not what was actually there. You came across it all the time as a copper. ‘Yes, thank you.’
The old lady focused on his jacket. Kirby glanced down and brushed off a stubborn croissant flake.
‘You from the university as well, pet? Interested in local history?’
Kirby felt his detecting antennae twitch. ‘No, why?’
‘Oh it’s just that there was a young fella in here the other day asking about Harold’s. I was a bit suspicious at first, wondered if he was trying to buy it. Y’know, one of them there property developers you see on the telly. But he said he was from the university, part of his studies. Tall he was, with long hair, which made sense. Too old for it though, I guess it’s being with all them students.’
‘And what about Mystique?’ Kirby said, pointing with his spoon across the road.
The lady expressed her thoughts on Mystique with a shudder and a scowl. ‘Been there a while, I’ll give them that. But I never goes in. A load of old tat, if you asks me. I’ve thrown out better stuff than they’ve got, and you should see the prices they’re charging for it. The young ‘uns seem to like it mind.’
Kirby drained his cup. ‘Well, nice to meet you and thanks, I was just interested.’
‘No trouble, pet,’ she frowned at her husband. ‘Nice to have someone to talk to.’
Leaving Relax, Kirby glanced across at Mystique. Jane, or was it Titania, was arranging something in the window. She looked across and, on seeing him, stood upright, half raising a hand before stopping as if wondering whether it was wise to wave to a policeman. Kirby nodded in her direction before heading off to Harold’s.
eighteen
The shop bell tinkled its welcome as Kirby entered the 1960s’ world that was Harold’s shop. Perhaps that was its secret. For those who had lived in the sixties, it was a place of nostalgia, and for those born later, it was like some pilgrimage to a mythical time.
‘Hello, Jonah,’ came a disembodied voice from somewhere deep in the bowels of the shop.
‘Harold.’
‘Well?’
Kirby jumped, the voice was now behind him. ‘Don’t do that. Not to a copper anyway.’
Harold stepped around and grinned. ‘Good, eh?’
‘Impressive,’ Kirby said, now feeling sorry for the local youth, a group he rarely felt sorry for, who no doubt visited Harold’s shop with deep trepidation. He could imagine the conversation. ‘Just go round to Harold’s, pet, we’ve run out of soap’. ‘Er sorry, Mum, but I really must tidy my room.’ Score one to the mums of this world.
‘Jonah?’
‘Sorry, Harold. Miles away. Anyway, we’ve found Sarah.’
‘Is she OK?’
‘Seems to be. No physical harm anyway. I’ve left her at the Freeman and her dad’s with her now.’
Harold nodded. ‘Where d’you find her?’
‘Dunstanburgh.’
‘Dunstanburgh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dunstanburgh.’
‘Please, Harold, not you as well.’
‘Sorry?’
Kirby shook his head. ‘Never mind. I take it that has some significance for you.’
‘Might do.’
Kirby picked up the out-of-date tin of peas again and held it, bottom pointing towards Harold. ‘Harold! I haven’t got time for this.’
Tutting at the threat, Harold scratched the back of his head. ‘Come through the back.’
Kirby followed Harold down a dimly-lit aisle, stepping over a box full of tins of “Cats First Choice”. ‘Someone could fall over that.’
‘You health and safety now?’
Kirby grunted, thankful he wasn’t, as he thought of how their no doubt long list of infringements might go down with Harold.
Kirby sat at the old pine table. Harold reached for a bottle of Camp, peeling it off the shelf where dribbles had stuck it down, and waved at the inspector. ‘Coffee?’
‘Just had one thanks,’ he said, grateful that he had.
‘You alright? You’re looking a bit peeky.’
‘Right as rain,’ Kirby said, resting an elbow on the table and his head in his hand. ‘Just didn’t sleep well.’
Harold huffed. ‘I always sleep like a log.’
‘Never would have guessed.’
Harold sat opposite the inspector, stirring in five spoons of sugar and watching the bubbles swirl. ‘Did Sarah say anything?’
‘Not much that made sense. She talked about some men, big men, she said, with big beards and beer. But she didn’t say they’d taken her or anything. Oh, she also mentioned smoke hurting her eyes.’
Harold nodded. ‘You know what I told you about old magic in the world and that in some places the divide between this world and the old world is thin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, Northumberland is sort of on a fault line for these things.’
‘And let me guess, Dunstanburgh Castle is bang on that fault line?’
‘Yes,’ Harold said, levering the top off a battered old biscuit tin with a picture of Blackpool tower on it. ‘But there’s more to it than that.’
Kirby waved the tin away. He wasn’t sure about accepting anything from Harold where he couldn’t check its sell-by date. ‘Why am I not surprised? Go on.’
Harold dunked a digestive. ‘Well you know the current castle?’ he said, pointing his spoon at Kirby.
‘Norman, fourteenth-century. Built by the Earl of Lancaster, then extended by John of Gaunt.’
Harold raised his eyebrows in appreciation. ‘Yes, well done.’
Kirby had a sudden vision of being back at school.
Harold tutted.
Kirby frowned. ‘What? I wasn’t supposed to get that right? Coppers are allowed to have had an education, you know.’
‘No, my digestives broken off in my coffee,’ Harold said, fishing around in his mug with a spoon, dredging up soggy biscuit. ‘I hate it when that happens. You get all the sludgy bits in the bottom.’
‘Make a fresh cup.’
Harold gave Kirby the sort of look he reserved for junior officers when they moaned about hand-writing statements. He then scowled into the bottom of his mug.
‘Can we get back to the castle? Some of us have work to do.’
Harold put down his mug with a sigh. ‘Well, what people forget is that there was a much earlier Iron Age settlement there. In fact, it had been an important place from the time the first men came to this land.’
Kirby resisted the urge to put up his hand. ‘Because of its defensive qualities?’
‘No, because of its magical qualities.’
‘Why do I wish I hadn’t asked? So let me guess. Sarah wasn’t here, was she, as in the twenty-first century Dunstanburgh?’
‘No.’
‘So why did they send her back?’
Harold shrugged. ‘Good question. My guess would be that Marianne wanted to waken something within her. She’s Marianne’s daughter but I doubt she knew much about her. From what you say, her father wouldn’t have been too forthcoming and he may also not have known quite who or what Marianne was.’
Kirby half reached for a biscuit, then remembered where he was. ‘So what, this was all for some little mother-daughter chat? A chance to get reacquainted and all that?’
‘That as well,’ Harold said. ‘It may have been some sort of test to see if Sarah has what it takes.’
‘To act as the magical conduit you mentioned? So how do we know if she has?’
Harold tapped his teaspoon in a little puddle of spilt coffee on the table as he thought. ‘We won’t until they try to use her. She didn’t say anything?’
Kirby shook his head. ‘She didn’t even mention Marianne.’
‘No, she might not even remember. Or of course she could be just keeping it from you.’
Kirby frowned. ‘I’m pretty good at knowing if people are lying to me.’
Harold smiled. ‘With all respect, Jonah, these are not just any people. Think of it not so much as lying, more keeping it from you by keeping it from themselves.’
Kirby tapped a finger on the table. ‘Listen, one thing’s still bugging me. You reckon Marianne had Sarah taken, right, to wherever it was?
Harold nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘So what is it with the shoes? I mean why leave them there at the side of the road all neat and tidy?’
Harold scratched at his ear and sucked in a breath. ‘Well, I think the shoes were what would identify Sarah to the gang of goblins. Maybe there was something on them so that they could sniff them out, literally. Good sense of smell, your goblin.’
‘Fine, but as I said, why leave them?’
Harold slurped the last of his coffee then frowned as he got to the bottom. He pointed the mug at Kirby with a surprised, “eureka moment” look on his face. ‘Calling card.’
‘What?’
‘That’s it.’ Harold smiled. ‘I reckon Marianne made sure Susie would find them and then report Sarah had gone missing. One way or another that would lead to Edna and me finding out.’
‘So?’
‘Remember what I said about balance?’
‘Yes?’
Harold swept a hand dramatically over the table, almost knocking over the biscuit tin. ‘Well that’s one reason Edna and I like to keep a low profile. The more we start poking around in magic, the more it starts upsetting that balance.’
‘Great.’
‘Also, she wants us to know she’s back and up to something.’
Kirby shook his head. ‘Why? No… don’t tell me, balance?’
Harold smiled like a teacher who’s just seen the penny drop in a dim pupil.
‘Hmm,’ Kirby said, frowning at Harold and getting up. ‘Where’s your toilet, Harold? Too much coffee.’
‘Er, through there and on the left,’ Harold said, pointing to a door at the back of the room.
The other side of the door, Kirby noticed a long leather coat hanging up. Well that explained the “Harold Longcoat” bit. On closer inspection, he noticed a tear on one side that had been crudely stitched. The sleeves looked like later additions; the leather didn’t match and there were other repairs and patches. It had a sheen that suggested regular oiling. It also had a unique smell and not just of oil. It was like a medieval cathedral, a smell that spoke of being ancient, but not in the sense of decay, more of permanence. It was a coat that demanded some attention from his coppering brain, but then he remembered why he was here and headed off to the toilet.
On the way back, with his mind now able to concentrate better, the bulk of the coat struck him as odd. It didn’t hang right. He took hold of one shoulder and tested the weight, heavy. A mystery. So he did what police inspectors do and inspected it. Inside, there were a number of pockets of varying sizes. Poking out of one was the top of a small crossbow and in another pocket were four bolts in their own neat little pouch. Pulling open the other side, he discovered three knives. Taking one out, he surmised that they were throwing knives. He knew he should be shocked by the thought of a man walking around Jesmond with enough weaponry on him to start a small war. Like some vigilante pensioner. The weird thing was he’d only been around Harold for day or so and already this didn’t surprise him or worry him as much as he thought it should. Perhaps it was what he’d seen and the revelations of the past few days together with all the talk of goblins and magic. They’d numbed his brain, played with his judgement of what should be deemed normal to the point where medieval weaponry was just part of the picture.
His phone rang, almost causing him to drop the knife. In the two-second juggle to regain control of it, he wondered which would be worse, missing fingers or missing toes.
‘That you, Inspector?’
‘You were expecting someone else, Sergeant?’ he said with bite, replacing the knife and letting his heartbeat settle down.
The desk sergeant had known Kirby for years so wasn’t fazed by having his question answered by another, terse, question. ‘You still in Jesmond, sir?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘Well, sir, a burnt body has been found in the Dene.’
Kirby forgot about the knife. His heart rate was up again. ‘A body?’
‘Ah, sorry, should have said. Not a human body, sir. The constable reckons more like a monkey.’
The inspector let out the breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. ‘And he would know?’
‘Well, sir, at least he reckons it’s not human. He’s saying monkey on account of it having long arms and short legs. However, forensics are on their way just to make sure.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Oh, and see if Constable Barker can join us there, will you?’
‘Sir.’
Kirby opened the door into Harold’s back room with the words ‘at least reckons it’s not human’ still in his head. His face fell into an ironic smile. This was too much of a coincidence and he didn’t believe in those anyway. The smile was replaced by a frown. After his previous conversations with Harold he suspected this might provide a bit of challenge for forensics.
Kirby entered the back room where Harold was putting his coffee mug in the sink. ‘Come on, Harold, you can come with me.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘The Dene. They’ve found a burnt body. The constable on the scene says it’s a monkey.’
‘Who burns a monkey? And in the Dene at that?’
‘Quite.’
Harold’s eyes opened a little wider. ‘Oh I see. I’ll get me coat.’
‘And Harold.’
‘Yes?’
‘Leave the crossbow behind please. Remember I’m supposed to be the law.’
Harold stared at Kirby for a second then harrumphed as he opened the door to get his coat.
‘And the throwing knives,’ Kirby called after him.
‘Bloody coppers, poking their noses into things,’ was muttered from behind the old door. Harold emerged shrugging an arm into the stiff leather coat and with a leather hat on his head.
nineteen
Approaching the Dene, Kirby’s phone rang again.
‘Sir, it’s Shirley. I’m on my way.’
‘We’ll wait at the top, near the steps.’
As Kirby stood on the footpath near the steps he had a long look at Harold and that coat of his. It just shrieked old. And then there was the hat that didn’t. It was newer, more Australian bush hat. Kirby imagined it with the corks hanging from it an
d smiled.
‘What?’
‘So, Harold, the coat?’
‘The coat was my father’s,’ Harold said as if that was the only explanation needed.
Kirby pointed to Harold’s head. ‘And the hat?’
‘The hat was from the John Lewis sale last summer.’
Kirby was trying to suppress a laugh when, to his relief, Shirley appeared. ‘How was Dunstanburgh?’
‘Nice, sir,’ Shirley said, glancing towards Harold.
‘Go on, Constable.’
‘Sir.’ Shirley described the castle and the stones inside the tower.
At the mention of the vibration, Harold sucked in a breath. ‘Should have guessed,’ he said.
‘A gateway by any chance?’ Kirby asked.
Harold nodded.
‘Anything else, Constable?’
Shirley told them of the conversation with Auntie Pauline. ‘Sounds kind of daft, sir. But after everything I’ve heard recently…’
‘Yes, understandable,’ Kirby said. He looked at Harold. ‘Well?’
Harold’s only answer was, ‘Hmm…’
Kirby looked towards Shirley and shrugged.
‘So what’s going on here, sir?’ she said. ‘Someone mentioned a burnt body?’ She glanced at Harold with a “should he be here?” look.
‘A body yes, Constable. But apparently not human.’
Shirley hesitated with another glance at Harold. ‘Not human?’
‘No, the constable who’s on scene is saying he thinks perhaps monkey.’
This time her look towards Harold ended in a frown that said. ‘Ah, I see.’
‘Exactly, Constable,’ Kirby said. ‘So I thought if there were two of us we could each vouch for the other’s sanity.’
Shirley nodded. ‘Nice coat,’ she said to Harold as they set off.
‘Thanks,’ Harold said.
‘Not sure about the hat though.’
Kirby grinned.
Talk of other worlds, Kirby thought, as they descended the steps and path down into the wooded valley that divided Jesmond from Heaton. With its steep sides that blocked out the noise of the city that was all around them, it had always seemed other-worldly to him. Even if it was a sanitised Victorian view of what that might be. Down here you could hear birdsong rather than the revving of engines, and the tranquil trickle of the Ouse burn as it made its way down to meet the Tyne on the Quayside. They passed the petting zoo, which seemed to be doing a good trade, it being the summer holidays. Although personally he’d never seen the attraction. For one thing he didn’t trust goats; shifty-looking things. Sheep were alright, but if goats were people he was sure they’d be cocky and up to no good. As they walked along the burn and under the Armstrong bridge, Kirby could see a police officer standing in front of an area cordoned off with yellow tape. It was next to what was left of St Mary’s Chapel.
