A Right Old Fiasco in Borrington

by M W Foolster

  "But the press never printed any of the details did they? So how could they of been copycat killings?"

  "Told yah, it wis a load o' crap. Should o been me working that sodding case anyway. But feicking Scoff wis always an arse licker, sae far up the Chief Inspectors backside could o' licked his tonsils. And I really deserved that bloody promotion. Fifteen years and not a sniff, never fitted the bill, did I? Still, wisnae long after that Butner made me an attractive enough offer tae compensate for the disappointment and, after all, I had my pension fund tae consider."

  With the incessant drumming of the DI's fingers grating on his nerves, DS Fuller leans across to the glove compartment. A quick rummage around and his hand finally emerges with an electronic cigarette.

  "Yah serious, John?"

  "You damaged the other one and look, am gasping ok."

  Covering the glowing tip with his hand, DS Fuller lets out a contented sigh.

  "Looks like our laddo is on the move."

  "About sodding time, Gov."

  3 A Graveyard Shift

  Having discreetly parked up at the bottom of a Cul de Sac, DI Jordan sits shaking his head as he watches Ryan clambering over the wrought iron railings surrounding the cemetery. Gabriel had scaled it relatively easily, but Ryan is struggling.

  "Sod that, John, has got tae be another way in."

  Ryan, now breathing heavily with the exertion, releases constant puffs of steam into the bitter cold air. Both the DI and DS wince simultaneously on seeing him loose his grip on the slippery metal, his hand barely missing one of the vicious iron spikes topping the railings. Now climbing down the other side, Ryan appears to be staring towards the car forcing both of them duck. The effort of bending over so fast leads to DI Jordan breaking wind and, despite the windows being open, the car is soon reeking of rotten eggs. DS Fuller failing miserably in his attempt to hold his breath, starts panting.

  "You disgusting perverts. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Get a room or something. You... You... You dirty doggers."

  DI Jordan looks up into the horrified eyes of the elderly woman now peering through the car window at them, curlers clearly visible beneath a hair net, a snarling Jack Russell held under her arm. The DI's mouth drops open in shock as it dawns on him as to what she's implying. Following on from a newspaper article in the Borrington Informer, there had been a police crackdown on sexually promiscuous couples and groups engaging in sexual practices in public in and around Addlington. But surely she doesn’t think he…

  "I beg yur pardon, madam?"

  "You filthy beasts. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Have a good mind to call the police. Be away with you."

  The DI delves into his jacket pocket for his warrant card.

  "But we are the police, madam."

  "You horrid man. Do I look stupid? You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself. Both of you. Liars, and dirty perverts."

  Having finally found it, DI Jordan thrusts his ID card under her nose,

  "Madam, yah are interfering wi' a police enquiry. We are on a surveillance mission and yah are committing a criminal offence by obstructing us in our line o’ duty."

  Squinting at the warrant card, the dog now yapping incessantly, the elderly woman's tone of voice softens.

  "I haven't got my reading glasses. But it doesn't look like a police car."

  "Aye, that is because we are a plain clothed surveillance team madam. Whit are yah doing oot at this time o’ night anyway? Dinae yah realise the streets are nae safe after dark?"

  "I am ever so sorry, dear,"

  She's now sounding breathless, and looks to be failing miserably in her attempt to pacify the growling dog which, if anything, is struggling even harder in a seemingly determined effort to get at DI Jordan.

  "But Satan always needs his night time walk. He won't go to sleep if he doesn't get his walkies. And it's Mabel, dear."

  DS Fuller having finally stopped gulping down fresh air, frowns, "Satan? What sort of a name is that for a dog?"

  "Well, you see dear, my granddaughter Millie chose it. Now my daughter Claire, her aunt, is rather a large girl. When little Satan here was just a puppy, Claire accidently sat on him. And he bit her bottom several times before she managed to get off of the poor, little mite. Millie was beside herself, yelling SatAunt over and over. And that is when Claire suggested abbreviating it to Satan. Said it was an appropriate name for the little terror."

  An exasperated DI Jordan checks the cemetery, groans loudly at seeing that Ryan is now out of sight, and the dog's constant yapping is really starting to irritate him.

  "But yah are nae walking him, are yah madam? Besides which, shouldnae he be on a lead?"

  "Oh no, dear. The pavement is far too cold for his little feet and he really doesn't like the little booties I knitted for him."

  The growling dog suddenly manages to struggle free of Mabel's grip. His sharp little fangs bared as he launches himself in through the car window at DI Jordan. All gnashing teeth and claws, Satan lands on the DI's lap before viciously leaping up at his face. The DI's piercing scream fills the car as the dog seizes his nose in its jaws. Growling fiercely, the animal shakes his head wildly from side to side, in what looks to be a determined effort to detach it from the panic stricken DI's face.

  "Will yah get this feicking thing aff o' me?"

  Mabel attempts to get hold of Satan, feebly grabbing at his collar but sounding anything but authoritative as she attempts to get the dog back under control. "Bad Satan, naughty, naughty doggie. You come back here now. Stop that. You naughty dog. Satan. Come to mummy now."

  The dog momentarily releases its grip on the DI’s nose, giving him just enough time to push it back against the windscreen. Growling ferociously, teeth bared, Satan starts biting mercilessly at the DI's hands. The small but muscular hound manages to wriggle himself free of the panicked DI's grip, yet again leaping towards his face. DI Jordan barely has time to lean across towards DS Fuller before the dog passes by his head, nipping viciously at his ear as it does so. Having shredded DS Fuller's hat within seconds, Satan then jumps around insanely in the back of the car, barking and clawing ferociously at the back of the shocked DI's seat; Mabel still shrieking at him to come back. Both DS Fuller and DI Jordan frantically fumble with their seat belts, but are too slow. Satan, having now leapt on to a holdall, launches himself at the back of DS Fuller's head. He ducks just in time. The dog springs upwards from DS Fuller’s back and towards the hapless DI. DI Jordan quickly covers his face, Satan smacking into his hands before landing on and bouncing off the DI's stomach, which is now acting like a trampoline. The hound hits the roof of the car hard and is sent hurtling back down. The dog's claws dig deep into the screaming DI’s stomach on landing but that still doesn't prevent Satan from yet again being catapulted back up towards the car’s roof. However, this time it’s with far less force, so allowing him to turn mid-air and land on the dashboard. Savage yellow teeth bared, saliva dripping from his jaw, claws scraping ferociously at the plastic, he manages to get enough of a foothold to yet again launch himself towards the DI’s face. More through luck than judgement, DI Jordan manages to swing a huge meaty hand and swat the dog hard across its backside. Satan, yelping loudly as the hand makes contact, goes hurtling past the startled face of DS Fuller and straight out the car window. The DI cursing loudly as he rubs at his nose, DS Fuller biting his lip so as not to laugh and Mabel running after the dog screaming,

  "Satan... Satan... Come back."

  During the mayhem, both detectives had failed to notice Toby clambering over the railings, closely followed by a tall stranger wearing a black hoodie. A now spooked Satan, having squeezed through the railings, hot on their heels.

  "My poor baby Satan. Such a sweet and loving little mite. What am I to do?" Mabel continues to sob inconsolably, despite DS Fuller's attempts to reassure her that Satan will return. A less than sympathetic DI Jordan bends down to stare at himself in the car wing mirror, still cursing loudly as he inspects the pu
ncture wounds to his nose. Sighing heavily, he raises himself upright and lights a cigarette, offers one to the DS as he pats him on the back,

  "Nae need tae panic madam, my trusty sergeant will retrieve the little b... duggie for yah. In't that right, DS Fuller?"

  The DS nearly chokes on his cigarette,

  "For fuck sake, Gov, you must be joking. This is a five hundred pound suit. No way can I go scrambling around in a cemetery in the dark, not wearing this."

  "Come, come, DS Fuller. Poor Mabel here is beside herself wi' worry. Yah have a duty my lad, and one of us needs tae get inside the cemetery,"

  DI Jordan pats his stomach.

  "And nae as though I have the right hmmm… shall we say stature tae climb the railings, is it?"

  Tears rolling down her cheeks, Mabel looks at him pleadingly,

  "I would be ever so grateful, dear."

  A resigned DS Fuller passes his jacket to the DI before attempting to scale the icy cold and incredibly slippery railings. After a lot of huffing and puffing, a few near misses and gasps of panic, the shivering DS retrieves his jacket through the railings.

  DI Jordan whispers. "Sod the feicking dug, gae find Gabriel and see whit the hell he is up tae."

  "Guessed that was the plan, Gov, but do you know just how big this bloody place is? Several sodding acres is all. And the poxy council haven't bothered maintaining the grounds for years."

  DS Fuller inspects the chunky chain wound through the heavy metal gates, taking hold of the rusted padlock securing it,

  “It’s a shame we can't smash this off, get the sodding gates open."

  An indifferent shrug from the DI. "Ya are in now, sae stop wi' the whinging. Isnae like I've got a pair of bolt cutters in the car, is it?" A sudden pang of guilt as he remembers having seen some bolt cutters in the boot of the car, still, what’s done is done.

  "I don't believe it. Where the bloody hell did that come from?"

  An alarmed DS watches as the freezing fog rolls across the cemetery, submerging all but the tips of the distant gravestones

  "Pull yourself taegether John. Only some fog and yah dinae believe in feicking ghosts, dae yah?"

  Muttering obscenities under his breath, the DS trudges off past a yew tree into the darkness, a smirking DI Jordan watching him go.

  Overwhelmed by the smell of damp vegetation, DS Fuller takes shelter behind a large tree, his hand across his nose as he desperately tries to stifle the sound of his sneezing. Nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of flapping wings in the branches above him, relieved when he hears an owl hooting. He tries to control his breathing, growing angry at himself, he needs to get a grip. He takes a peek around the trunk and sighs at the sight of an endless procession of gravestones as far as the eye can see, fog now swirling between them and looking like a scene out of sodding horror film. It was supposed to be an easy night’s work, scare the crap out of the two brothers and walk off with the valuable booty. Whatever the hell that might be. And he needs it far more than the DI. Now suspended from duty pending an internal investigation as to his conduct in the Knarlswood shopping centre fiasco, the best case scenario is that he'll end up back in uniform. And even if he is fortunate enough to escape any disciplinary action, the DI will be retiring in six months and there's no way he wants to be left behind. He can't even contemplate what the job would be like without the old sod. And it's not as though either of them are popular amongst their colleagues, detested even. Not that it's an issue for the DI, he couldn't care less. Sure he might of piled on a few pounds over the years but most of their colleagues are still petrified of the tough Glaswegian. But not of him though, anything but, he's a laughing stock as far as most back at the station are concerned. And so failure is not an option, he needs this, no matter what it takes. Has already decided that he'll leave the force at the same time as the Gov, start a new life elsewhere, maybe in Spain, anywhere but sodding Borrington. Perhaps even settle down, have some kids. In his mid twenties and never even had a serious girlfriend, married to the job as the DI put it. Well not for much longer. His trembling hand reaches for a cigarette, decides against it, is only delaying the inevitable. And he needs to get this done.

  Chest wheezing from the cold air, he creeps towards a crumbling mausoleum, foliage and vicious gnarly branches now threatening to swallow it up. His shaky fingers tentatively pushing at a wrought iron gate, relieved to find it's locked as he peers into the black void beyond, the prospect of looking around inside the Victorian tomb anything but appealing. He gulps loudly on catching sight of the gargoyles decorating the corners of the mausoleum, their cold and stony eyes seemingly studying him. He tries to dismiss the thought but can almost sense them watching as he continues along the decaying concrete path. He suddenly ducks behind a lopsided memorial stone, peaking through the vine leaves that have entwined themselves around it, convinced that he can hear whispering. But no, it must be his imagination playing tricks.

  A beam of light fifteen or so feet ahead catches his attention and inches his way towards it.

  In Loving Memory

  Of

  Charles Butner

  Born 21st June 1947

  Died 31st December 1997

  Much Loved and Missed Father

  Of Raymond Butner

  Gabriel shudders as he shines the torch at the headstone. He reads it several times before dropping to his knees at the side of the grave. Hesitates momentarily before using hand to clear away a thin layer of soil. It soon makes contact with a solid surface, he reaches for the torch, relieved to see the ply board as expected. Gabriel works his way around the edge of the piece of boarding, carefully clearing away the earth until all four corners and sides are visible. Walking to the opposite end of the headstone, he thrusts his fingers beneath the wood until he has a firm grip and starts to heave. Feeling it start to give, Gabriel pulls with all of his strength, however, the board slides towards him faster than he'd expected it to, and he suddenly finds himself flying backwards.

  Gasping for air as he's left winded by the marble headstone he'd collided with, Gabriel tosses the boarding to one side and sits pulling out splinters from his hand, cursing himself for not having worn gloves. But then the damp starts to penetrate his jeans. He leaps to his feet and brushes frantically at the moss clinging to his buttocks, but too late, even his boxer shorts are now feeling clammy. Wiping his hands clean on the marble headstone, he takes several minutes to compose himself, grits his teeth and approaches the edge of the grave. Gabriel’s shaky hand shines the torch into the gaping hole, sighing with relief on finding it empty apart from a small bundle in the corner. At least Ray had been truthful as to the contents of the grave. Having faked his own death, Charles Butner had escaped to Spain and the grave used to store something that Gabriel really does have great need of. Holding the torch between his teeth, he carefully lowers himself into the hole.

  Ryan checks his mobile, the text from Toby confirming what he already suspected, his idiot of a brother is lost in the cemetery. Considers calling him but decides against it, he must be close to Gabriel and he can't risk being overheard. Ryan pulls the blade from his pocket, now resigned to having to deal with the problem by himself. Probably better this way, there'd be no margin for error, and Toby might be more of a liability than a help. He sends his brother a text telling him to make his way back towards the cemetery gates, that he will come looking for him once Gabriel is dealt with.

  A quick peek over the gravestone he’s kneeling behind leaves him feeling agitated, the torch light he'd been following no longer visible. Silently cursing himself for having been distracted by Toby's text, he shines the light from his mobile down at the frosted over mud path leading between the headstones. With the visibility being so poor he chooses his steps carefully, and regrets not having worn boots, his feet now frozen by the bitter cold penetrating his trainers. He makes slow progress as he continues to sneak in the direction that he'd last seen Gabriel's flashing beam, and is totally unaware of the tall, dark shado
w lurking close behind him.

  With the beam from his mobile too weak to penetrate the now dense fog, Ryan has to constantly stop and listen, desperate to hear something, anything, but it’s as though Gabriel has literally vanished into thin air. A sudden loud shriek has him frozen to the spot, can feel the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, is so tempted to turn back. Taking long slow breaths in an attempt to control his nerves, Ryan wills himself to continue through the ever thickening fog; he needs to do this. Having slowly worked his way past another large marble headstone, he stops abruptly, there it is again, the distinctive sound of somebody groaning, as if in pain. But it seems to be in the distance. He crouches down, now confused, surely Gabriel can’t be that far from him. Starts to doubt himself. But there it is again. No, it’s a different sound. Ryan listens attentively. Short, rasping noises and they’re getting closer. He takes a few tentative steps closer to their source. And is suddenly screaming out in fear. His feet have been pulled from beneath him and he’s falling. He lands heavily on his back, the sound of a dull thud as his head impacts the frozen ground, bites his tongue, the air forced from his lungs, lays there stunned, unable to move, staring up at the thickening, dark clouds above. A warm liquid trickling down his throat, the taste of blood in his mouth. Slowly comes back to his senses, and in doing so, becomes aware that a vice like grip has a hold of his foot. And that he is being dragged along the frozen grass. Craning his neck, he’s gripped by an overwhelming panic. “What the fuck?” Attempts to dig his fingers into the ground but it’s too hard. “Shit, no.” Ryan struggling frantically to free himself from the icy tentacle pulling him towards a grave.