A Right Old Fiasco in Borrington

by M W Foolster

  7 House Call

  A stubby finger pointing towards a large Victorian town house, DI Jordan glancing across at DS Fuller.

  "Yah really think that could be him, John?"

  Now leaning forward on to the steering wheel, the DS studies the tall male carefully.

  "Yer, definitely a possibility Gov, look.”

  Thrusts a computer printout beneath the DI’s nose.

  “It’s a close enough likeness to the photo, especially if you scribble on a beard. Besides which, we know that's the house our perpetrator ran into last night. Too much of a coincidence, right?"

  Grunting in agreement, DI Jordan gulps down black coffee as he thinks back to the previous evening.

  Had spent at least thirty minutes chain smoking as he'd listened to Mabel's life history. Of how she'd been deserted by her disapproving family following her relationship with a young African student, not that it had lasted for very long, he'd abandoned her and ran off on receiving his citizenship. Well that and her neighbour's twenty-one year old daughter. She couldn't blame him though, well not really, after all he was forty years her junior. But the DI really hadn't wanted to listen to her revelation that she hadn't been able to cope with the physical demands the relationship had placed upon her, that the mind is always willing even if the body isn't. And then came the pitiful wailing, as she'd explained that her darling dog is now the only family she has left in the world. With his sympathy wearing thin, and having grown concerned at just how long John had been gone, he'd gone to look for his mobile in the car. Found his in the glove compartment but unfortunately, discovered that DS Fuller had dropped his on the front driver’s seat. Most probably as a result of escaping that sodding dog.

  Worried, and feeling helpless, he'd gone rummaging around in the car boot for the bolt cutters, leaving Mabel sat on the front seat, still bawling over the damned dog. And then came all the pandemonium.

  He'd looked up to see Ryan and Toby scrambling over the railings, dropped to his knees as they'd sprinted past him, both of them looking as though they'd seen a ghost. And they were barely out of sight when Gabriel had leapt at the railings, that damned dog jumping around in a frenzied state beneath him. Mabel yelling out to him, the dog bounding through the railings and leaping up into her arms. A relieved looking Gabriel glancing across at Satan and Mabel as he'd ran past, the DI noting that he'd had a large carrier bag under his arm. Fortunately, he'd still been out of sight, rolling around behind the car, struggling to heave himself back up onto his feet. Having finally found the bolt cutters, and with there still being no sign of the DS, he'd rushed over to the wrought iron gates and snapped through the chain holding them together. Bolt cutters back in the boot and having said his goodbyes to Mabel, the cursed dog still yapping at him, he had been about to get into the car when the orange bike had roared past. Had watched in astonishment as it had torn straight through the gates and into the cemetery.

  "Yah positive that's whit yah heard, John? Dinae want tae go making twats o’ ourselves, dae we?"

  Eyes heavy, rubbing his hand across his stubble, DS Fuller nods, "Definitely. Caught up with the freaks at the mausoleum, was lucky I didn't run straight into them. The Mohican limping badly and his twat of a brother rattling on about the bloody ghost."

  "Just run through it all one more time for me, would yah."

  DI Jordan turns to the tutting DS.

  "Look, jist tae humour me, ok? A lot at stake here and canae afford any feick ups. Right?"

  Looking miserable, and feeling thoroughly exhausted, DS Fuller gives a weary nod. Having had just two hours sleep, and that had been on the DI's lumpy sofa, is feeling like death warmed up. But he runs through the nights events again. He doesn't dwell on his own experience with the ghoul, now feeling somewhat embarrassed by the whole episode.

  "Hmmm. Makes yah wonder why the cowardly twats did nae go back. After all, it’s their auld man's neck that's on the line. Could almost feel sorry for the poor bugger." He snorts with laughter. "But nae that sorry. Anyway, correct me if I am wrong, but Toby wis in nae doubt that it wis the same sodding ghost that Ryan had hidden Butner's diamonds in? The same ghost that wis then stolen from the pub? I mean, why would yah dae that? Hide them in a Halloween prop in public view. Just could nae make it up, could yah?"

  "Toby was convinced, Gov, and to be fair to him, he did want to go back. Said the ghost stolen from the pub had a pre-recorded message that when activated, said something about devouring your soul. And I am telling you, Gov, that's what I heard the thing say. Anyway, was Ryan who lost his bottle. Said it was impossible, no way could it be the same ghost and then the pair of them started arguing."

  Much to DS Fuller's annoyance, the DI starts drumming his fingers on the plastic cup he's holding.

  "Right, sae we can definitely rule them oot o' our enquiries. Gabriel taee for now. Sae whit dae we know about the creep who jist left the hoose?"

  Pulling a small notebook from his jacket, the irritated DS starts thumbing through the pages.

  "Assuming it’s him, Jason Sinclair. Thirty years old. Is separated from his wife, has two kids. He has lived here for nine months. Council employee, worked for them since leaving school. Definitely fits the physical profile. Would put money on it being him."

  "Hmmm. Maybe. But got nae way o' knowing if he found the diamonds inside the sodding thing."

  "Think it’s unlikely, Gov?"

  "Am nae sae sure. Now, if Sinclair is our man and I dae mean if, we then need tae ask ourselves, wis he definitely in the pub by chance? Wis it just pure luck that he happened tae take the very same ghost that our friend wi' the Mohican hid the diamonds in? Or, did he see him buggering about wi' the thing? Nae, I dinae like it, all very suspicious. Besides which, why else would he o' taken the feicking thing?"

  "Maybe just a prank. Besides, if he knew the diamonds were in it, why the hell was he running around the graveyard?"

  "Did nae say any o' it makes sense."

  The DS sips on his coffee, deep in thought, still tapping his fingers. No logic to any of it, that's for sure. Unless the tall creep hadn't discovered the diamonds until he was in the cemetery. Doesn't explain what he was doing there in the first place but still, it might well explain the sudden arrival of the red leathered bike rider. Maybe an accomplice. And although he'd briefly seen the diamond thief, the ghost hoisted up on his back, his face had been hidden beneath a black hoodie. A minor miracle they'd managed to keep up with the bike as it had zoomed off, and has got to hand it to the DS, he's a pretty good driver, if nothing else. Kept a safe enough distance so as not to spook them, were quite fortunate in that they’d turned into this road just as the bike sped off, but had caught a fleeting glimpse of the ghost disappearing through the front door they’ve been monitoring. With hindsight, it would have made more sense to go banging on the door there and then, but he'd decided to sleep on it, is now regretting that decision. Both watch as the tall male disappear from view.

  "Remind me, John, how many flats in there?"

  "Four, Gov, and all occupied. Jason Sinclair lives in flat two."

  The DS yawns loudly. He is still peeved about the DI having dragged him off the sofa at 5am, reason being that there was work to be done, and that time was of the essence. Had both been sat at a desk in the station and logged into a PC by 5:30am. Not that he’s officially allowed anywhere near the station having been suspended from duty, but the DI had conveniently overlooked that fact. And there’s no denying it had been productive. They’d discovered that the property had been converted into four flats back in 1990. All of them occupied, even if there is some confusion as to why there are five residents, all single occupants, registered at the property. But both had agreed that Jason Sinclair is the most likely suspect, over six foot tall and of slim build, even if he isn't shown as wearing a beard on his passport photo. What's more, there's no denying that the guy is very similar in appearance to the twat they'd seen in the pub, with the piss soaked jeans. Couldn't believe their luck
. Problem being, if they’re correct, the arsehole was completely wasted, they’d both witnessed that much, which could really complicate matters.

  "Sae, who else we got living in there? The other flats likely tae be empty?"

  "Doubt it. Got two students, a Susan French and Carlo Fernandes. The mysterious illegal, Ivan Bostanov, and an unemployed drummer, Aleksey Kouchevski. And he’s well over six foot an’ all."

  Scrunching up the now empty cup, the DI drops it from the car window, drawing the attention of an elderly male with a walking stick. Glaring at them through his thick rimmed glasses, he wallops his stick against the car door. Voice raised, he snaps,

  "What do you think you're doing mister? Look like a landfill site, does it?"

  The Di glares back.

  "Excuse me?"

  "You dropping your litter on the ground. Got a good mind to report you."

  A less than diplomatic DI Jordan growls. "Look, piss aff will yah pal, I'm busy."

  The DI suddenly shouts out in pain as the walking stick catches him hard across his elbow.

  "You foul mouthed buffoon. Get your lard arse out of the car and pick up your own refuse."

  Window closing automatically, the DI rubbing at his elbow, presents his middle finger as a response to the elderly male.

  His face now crimson, the walking stick becomes a blur as the elderly man repeatedly whacks it against the car door.

  "Got your licence plate mister. See if you're so cocky when you get a letter from the council."

  Curtains twitching, several front windows being opened, inquisitive faces appearing. And then a large female appears from a door opposite, dressed in yellow pyjamas and a pink dressing gown with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face, as she approaches the car.

  "Get us the feick oot o' here before the whole sodding neighbourhood appears on the street."

  After one last nervous glance across at the woman now strutting towards them, the DS turns the ignition and pulls out slowly. DI Jordan checks the rear view mirror, and starts groaning loudly on seeing the elderly male stood shaking his stick at them.

  "Shite… I dinae believe this."

  The DI watches in horror as the elderly male drops the stick and clutches at his chest, before collapsing into the arms of the now shrieking female.

  "Think the auld sod is having a heart attack, John."

  "Bloody hell. You want me to reverse?"

  "Ehh."

  "Want to go help him?"

  The DI shakes his head in frustration,

  "Nae… Jist pull over will yah."

  Mobile pulled from his jacket, DI Jordan calls for an ambulance.

  Five frustrating minutes pass before the ambulance eventually arrives. A thoroughly despondent DS Fuller is then sent to speak to the paramedics. Having received their reassurances that the elderly male had not in fact suffered a heart attack, but was most likely suffering from acute indigestion, he returns to find the DI snoring his head off. Mutters under his breath at seeing 'pratt mobile' written into the dirt on the car boot, most likely the work of the idiots back at the station. Wipes at it with his hand before opening the driver’s door quietly and eases his way in.

  The DI wakes with a start as DS Fuller slams the car door closed, and having broken into a chesty coughing spasm, a less than sympathetic DS starts thumping him hard on the back.

  “For feick, John, yah trying tae kill me or whit?”

  Anything but convincing in his attempt to look concerned, DS Fuller shrugs.

  “Sorry, Gov, but it sounded as though you were choking again. Thought I was doing you a favour.”

  A still wheezing DI watches as the ambulance passes them by.

  “Right, drive aroon’ the block and stop ootside the sodding hoose. Had enough wi’ all the buggering aboot for one morning. Get this done, shall we?”

  “Which doorbell then, Gov?”

  DI Jordan looks around the front garden, his expression one of disgust at the seeing the toppled over dustbins and split refuse sacks pouring their contents out over the damaged paving slabs.

  “See. This is whit happens when yah get the penny pinching twats in the council switching tae fortnightly bin collections. Am telling yah, probably costs more tae clear up the damned mess than it would tae o' stuck wi’ doing it weekly. Feick me.”

  He backs away from the bins on seeing the snout of a brown rat appear from one of the split sacks, it’s head covered in baked beans.

  “Like living in a third world country nowadays.”

  “Doorbell, Gov?”

  “Ehh?”

  DS Fuller points at the doorbells.

  “Press the lot. Goone eight sae let’s get the lazy buggers out o' their beds, shall we?”

  Several attempts later and there’s still no response, both detectives growing impatient as they check their watches. With his hand now rolled into in a fist, and swearing under his breath, DI Jordan goes to pound on the shabby green door,

  “Sod this. Nae got all day, have we lad?”

  At that point, the door suddenly swings opens. But it’s far too late to prevent the DI from smashing his enormous fist down on to the forehead of the black haired male who appears in the doorway. The detectives exchange a surprised look between them before staring down at the olive skinned male, now stretched out on the floor in front of them. DS Fuller kneels down next to him and checks for a pulse.

  “For pity’s sake, Gov, you determined to kill somebody before the days out?”

  “Breathing in’t he?”

  “Yer, but he’s out cold.”

  DI Jordan notices the open door directly ahead of them.

  “There yah go, John, that’s probably his flat. Yah had best drag him inside, canae have him cluttering up the hallway, now can we?”

  “Me?”

  “Aye. Would nae want me putting my back oot, would yah?”

  Having watched DS Fuller struggle to drag the unconscious male into the empty flat, DI Jordan turns his attention to the threadbare green carpet covering the hallway, fingers tapping away on the wall.

  “Hurry it up will yah, what’s the hold up?”

  Sweating heavily and short of breath, DS Fuller emerges from the stranger’s flat.

  “It’s not easy pulling a dead weight, you know?”

  “Stop wi’ the whinging. Is only a wee man, what’s wrong wi' yah?”

  DI Jordan’s stubby finger points at the carpet.

  “Right, whit dae yah see?”

  DS Fullers stares down at the muddy footprints.

  “Hmmm. That the dirty buggers don’t bother wiping the mud off their shoes. No wonder the place is a shithole, right Gov?”

  “Nae, yah numpty. It has nae rained in weeks and the ground is as hard as rock oot there. Sae think. Why a clue?”

  DF Fuller stares at him with a blank expression.

  “For crying oot loud. Please, feel free to correct me if yah think I’m wrong, but dinae that soil look an identical colour tae the dirt yah had all over yur shoes last night. Which, I might point oot, yah wis fully prepared tae trample in tae my hallway.”

  “Ohhh.”

  DI Jordan clips the DS around the back of the head with his hand, and stomps towards the flat.

  “That sodding well hurt.”

  “Aye, it wis meant tae.”

  Having squeezed his way into the tiny flat, the DI stands grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  “Well… Well… Well.”

  He prods at the prone body of the stranger with his shoe, but there's still no sign of life.

  “Notice anything when yah dragged him in here?”

  ”Yer, that it’s bloody dark, Gov.”

  Sighing with frustration, the DI shakes his head.

  “Well, that’s because the sodding curtains are pulled yah pillock. Nothing else catch yur eye in here?”

  DS Fuller looks around the tiny and sparsely furnished flat, a couple of worn leather armchairs with a magazine rack sandwiched between them, wooden shelving
either side of the chimney breast stacked full of books, bed linen strewn across the small camp bed beneath the window, a large flat screen TV dominating the whole of one wall, the tatty table beneath it overflowing with DVD cases. And then it dawns on him.

  “Lot of electrical equipment. You don’t think it’s stolen, do you Gov?”

  “Gie me strength. Look. There are ten sodding DVD players and they’re all recording. Whit daes that tell yah?”

  Eyes now focused on the large metal storage unit housing the DVD players, the DS scratches his head, and then his eyes light up.

  “The dirty little git is making porno films?”

  “Nae. I mean, maybe. Shite, yah dae my heid in.”

  Wandering in to the small kitchen leading off from the living room, the DI emerges with a pack of chocolate biscuits. Tearing the packet open with his teeth, stuffs one into his mouth as he starts sifting through the stack of DVD’s piled high on the wooden table. Beckons the DS across to him, and then proceeds to shower him in biscuit crumbs as he explains.

  “Our sleeping laddo down there is knocking oot pirates. Some operation taee, judging by that lot.”

  The DI then catches sight of a brown envelope tucked away between several text books. Whistles to himself as he pulls a wad of notes free of it.

  “And must be making a pretty good living oot o' it.”

  He counts out a hundred in £20 notes, passes them to the DS, pocketing the rest of the cash before scrunching up the envelope and throwing it at the head of the sleeping stranger.

  “Am confiscating yur illegal earnings laddie. Yah have the right tae remain silent,” Starts chuckling. “Preferably for the next hour.”

  Both of them now explode with laughter, the DI smacking his thigh hard before breaking into a chesty cough. DS Fuller counting the cash with a smug grin on his face, looks across at the DI.

  “Think it would be okay to grab a few films, Gov? Wonder what he charges?”

  “Charges? Yah pulling my chain? Yah just helped yourself tae his cash yah eejit, sae nae going tae start buying feicking pirates aff him wit it are yah? Take whitever yah want.”