by M W Foolster
Sifting through the piles of DVD’s, the DS soon has over a dozen put to one side. DI Jordan, having greedily finished off the biscuits, is now foraging through the kitchen cupboards. But both turn to stare at the stranger who’s beginning to stir. A nod of the DI’s head and the pair of them sneak towards the doorway, DS Fuller clutching hold of a carrier bag crammed full of his newly acquired DVDs. And, having found them at the back of a fridge, the DI with a pair of chorizo sausages poking out from his clenched fist. One last glance back over his shoulder, and the DI pulls the door closed behind him.
“Where now, Gov?”
“Try flat two, shall we?”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Hands on her hips, Susie stands at the doorway to Jason’s flat, glaring at the two suited strangers rifling through his belongings. The shaven headed male, looking nearly as wide as he is tall, completely ignores her and proceeds to lift Jason’s sofa bed. Shaking it violently, he kicks out at the bed linen as it falls free and then crashes the sofa down on its side. Gritting her teeth in anger, she feigns a cough and the sharp suited skeleton does at least now acknowledge her. Removing something from his jacket pocket, possibly a wallet, he flaps it open and thrusts it towards her. But she can’t make out what it’s meant to be, and has no intention of getting any closer. He attempts to smile at her, Susie finding it anything but reassuring, his gaunt face accentuating his buck teeth and sunken dark eyes. She crosses her arms in an act of defiance.” I asked you a bloody question.”
Gulping loudly, she can feel her legs trembling as the giant of a male, his shoulders threatening to explode out of the tight grey jacket he’s squeezed into, turns and slowly approaches her. The hallway is suddenly plunged into darkness, his enormous frame filling the doorway but Susie refuses to concede any ground. Craning her neck upwards, she gawks at the gigantic stranger, her eyes drawn towards his glistening head, shining brightly above the biggest moustache she's ever seen.
“Well, who the hell are you?”
The fierce eyed male reaches for something inside his jacket. Heart pounding loudly in her chest, and legs feeling like jelly, Susie’s trembling hand takes a hold of the door frame to support herself.
"I'm DI Jordan madam, and this is my colleague, DS Fuller."
Sighing with relief on inspecting his warrant card,
“You nearly scared me to death.” Now frowning. “So what are you doing in here?”
"Sorry tae o’ startled you madam, but we've reason tae suspect that a serial burglar is targeting this area."
His finger points into the messy living room.
"But it would appear that we're taee late."
She giggles nervously. "No, it always looks like that."
DI Jordan raises an eyebrow, Susie elaborates.
"Seriously. Jason is a messy devil. Usually me who ends up tidying the room."
"I see. And yah are?"
"Susan French."
"And would I be correct in assuming that yah are his partner?"
Giggling again, she shakes her head.
"God no, you must be joking. Not my kind and besides, he's nearly old enough to be my father."
"But yah clean his room?"
She glimpses across at DI Fuller, busy scribbling away in a note book.
"Look, we just help each other out is all. Can I offer you both a cup of tea? Or coffee?"
An appreciative nod from DI Jordan.
"Tea would be great. Any biscuits tae go wi' it?"
She smiles. "Sure. Am in the flat above, just give me five minutes."
They both watch as she skips up the stairs, DS Fuller with a demented grin plastered across his face.
"Put yur tongue back in yur mouth Romeo, doubt yah are her type either."
"But she is gorgeous. And that has got to be the sexiest laugh I think I've ever heard."
The DI gives a disinterested shrug.
"The tea and biscuits are more appealing tae me, John. But I think we are wasting our feicking time in here though. Nae sign o' a sodding ghost, is there?"
The DS shaking his head. "Unless he took it with him."
"Did yah see a feicking great ghost under his arm when he walked oot the door?"
"Well, no, but..."
Having received a hefty smack around the back of his head, the DS stands rubbing furiously at his stinging bonce.
"Bloody Hell, that really hurt. Do you have to keep doing that?"
"When I've activated a few more brains cells, I'll stop. Deal? And wis only a tap, whit is wrong wi’ yah? And yah best hide that carrier bag in the car, dinae want the pink heid seeing it, dae yah?"
The DI snorts with laughter as he stomps slowly up the narrow flight of steps.
DS Fuller loosens his tie, can feel the sweat penetrating his shirt, unbuttons his jacket and sniffs at his armpits. Decides to button the jacket back up. Is still niggled by the DI's comment, after all, why wouldn't he be her type? He throws the carrier bag into the boot of the car and wanders back into the property, a quick glimpse into the ground floor flat confirming that the small guy is still out cold. So much for him stirring, but decides against resuming his search through the pirated DVDs. Jogs up several flights of stairs and joins the DI in Susie's flat.
DS Fuller finds himself wondering if he’s walked into a ladies boutique. It’s as though every available nook and cranny in the room is jam-packed with coat hangers, suitcases and boxes, all overflowing with clothing; feels his face reddening as he passes by a suitcase crammed full of flimsy underwear. Catching sight of his surprised reaction to the state of the room, Susie’s beaming smile leaves DS Fuller feeling weak at the knees.
Pink hair aside, he thinks she is stunning. Hipster jeans emphasising her slim yet curvaceous figure, soft blue eyes, a pale yet perfect complexion. His eyes are drawn to the jewelled stud in her belly, only made visible because of the flimsy crop top she's wearing. Just hopes she didn’t notice him staring.
“Please excuse the mess. Have just been sorting out some old clothes for the charity shop.”
The DI’s grateful hand reaches out for the mug of steaming tea.
“Nothing tae apologise for Miss French. But did yah say something about some biscuits earlier?”
Susie disappears back into the kitchen, leaving DI Jordan looking around the tiny flat for something to sit on. He spots a pair of barely visible dining chairs, their wooden backs poking out from behind some brightly coloured party dresses hanging from a curtain pole. Relieved to find that he has a clear path through to them, he thumps across the floor, reaching for the pile of business cards that catch his eye on route. Smirking as he slips one into his pocket, he drops the rest into a cardboard box full of shoes.
“Digestives okay?”
“Perfect. Dae ya mind if I…?” He points at the chairs.
Despite her misgivings as to whether the chair will support his weight.
“NO! I mean, no of course not, please do.”
She watches despairingly as he fumbles with the dresses, his chunky fingers struggling to grip hold of the slippery fabric. She grimaces on seeing him dislodge several of the clothes hangers in his attempt to slide them along the curtain pole, leading to a silky red cocktail dress falling on top of him, the wire hanger bouncing off his head before dropping noisily at her feet. Struggling not to laugh, she can but stare on helplessly as the dress sticks to his shaven head like cling film, his facial features clearly definable beneath the flimsy fabric, notably his flared nostrils, thick lips and the monstrous moustache. No longer able to contain herself, she starts giggling when the DI starts snorting loudly, sucking the flimsy fabric in and out of his nostrils and mouth as he struggles to free himself; spilling his tea and banging into the chairs in the process. After several failed attempts and a lot of huffing and puffing, he finally succeeds in peeling it way from his skin. Crimson faced and with a dead pan expression, he drops the dress unceremoniously to the floor before yanking one of the chairs towards hi
mself.
“Now, where were we Miss French? Aye that’s right, yah wis getting some biscuits.”
Cringing as she watches him slump down on to the wooden chair, Susie passes him the plate full of digestives.
Slurping noisily from the mug, and with the plate of biscuits strategically placed on the chair next to him, and well out of reach of DS Fuller, the DI grins up at her.
"That is whit I call a lovely cuppa, Miss French. Now would yah mind if we asked yah a few questions, in relation tae the recent burglaries?"
"Not sure I can tell you much but yer sure, go ahead."
"Have yah witnessed any strange activities in the locality, heard any unexplainable noises, as in last night, perhaps?"
Looking a little perplexed, she shakes her head.
"No, sorry. Nothing that I can think of anyway."
"Really? We have reason tae believe our prime suspect entered this property last night. At approximately 11:30pm."
"Seriously?"
"Aye, seriously Miss French. Can yah account for the whereabouts o’ yur hoose mates last night? Allow us tae eliminate them from our enquiries."
"Guess so. Kouch was definitely upstairs at about midnight. He always plays his music really loud and I heard him jumping around.”
“Did yah say Kouch?”
“Yes, Aleksey.”
“Aye, that would be Mr Kouchevski.”
She nods. “And Jay was, well, like out but he was at some pub doing a quiz, know that for deffo And like I said earlier, is no way his flat has been burgled. And as for Carlo, he was definitely with his girlfriend. They can be, well, really noisy, can hear them up here, even though his flat is on the ground floor."
“Jay being Jason Sinclair?”
“Well, yer.”
“Dae yah happen tae know whit pub, Miss French?”
Susie shakes her head. “No, Sorry.”
DI Jordan gives her a long, hard stare. It’s obvious that she knows Jason was in the Jolly Roger. But why would she lie over something so trivial? Is there more to her relationship with Jason Sinclair than she’s admitting to? Unless!
“Dinae ride a bike, dae yah Miss French?” Ignoring the questioning look from the DS, DI Jordan leans forward on the creaking chair at seeing the anxious look in Susie’s eyes. “Only I noticed an orange bike ootside the hoose, wi’ a woman’s helmet left hanging from the handlebar. Widnae be yur bike, would it? ”
“A bike?” Giggling nervously, Susie shakes her head. “Can’t even ride a pushbike, let alone a motorbike.”
"Did nae mention a motorbike, now did I, Miss French?”
“I.. Well I just assumed.”
“Did yah now...” Twiddling with his moustache. “And Mr Bostanov?"
“Sorry, who? Ohh… You mean Ivan. He lives in the shed."
"In the shed?"
The DI raises an eyebrow, looks at her quizzically.
"Yes. As in the garden and no, I dunno if he was in there, or not. Look, none of this is making any sense. Are you sure it was like, well, this property?"
"Nae doubt aboot it Miss French. Did yah hear Mr Sinclair return from the pub?"
"Think so. I was like chatting online to some Uni friends until gone midnight. It was really late but am sure I heard his voice, think he was talking to Kouch."
DI Jordan grins up at her.
"I think we have taken up enough o’ yur time Miss French."
And attempts to stand. Using the cardboard box next to him for leverage, pushes down, but it collapses and leaves his arm submerged in a sea of underwear. His other hand grabs hold of the second chair to steady himself, immediately followed by the sound of breaking crockery. Finally back up on his feet, the DI passes several pairs of French knickers, and the broken plate to a stunned Susie.
Having watched DS Fuller exit the room, DI Jordan leans into Susie and whispers "Thank yah for the tea Miss French. Or should I say Lucretia?"
"I.... I…"
"Dinae yah worry, Lucretia, yur sordid wee secret is safe wi' me. But a black ceiling, really? Now should anybody ever ask, we were never here. Sound fair tae yah?"
A blushing Susie can't bring herself to raise her eyes to his, and just stares at the floor nodding her head.
"Good lass. And one other thing."
A whispered, "What?"
"Invest in some furniture, starting wi’ a bed. And perhaps a wardrobe. Or two."
8 The Journey
Jason checks his watch, best get a move on or he'll be late. Through several roads full of terraced Edwardian town houses, indistinguishable apart from their door colours and the amount of black refuse sacks sitting in their front gardens. And judging by the number of door bells surrounding each entrance, most have been converted into flats. He darts between some concrete bollards and into the alleyway that leads down to an industrial estate. Having carefully manoeuvred his way along the crumbling path, he's suddenly brought to an abrupt stop, swearing loudly at the sight he's met with.
"For fuck sake,"
A quick check of his watch, too late to turn back, no choice other than to negotiate the huge mound of building waste that has been deposited at the end of the alley. And he's soon cursing the fly-tippers as his foot sinks into a dark, mushy and fetid sludge.
Shaking his foot vigorously, he looks across the deserted industrial estate, and spots some pages from a discarded newspaper blowing close by. A quick wipe of his shoe, dumps the paper into one of the big and overflowing industrial bins; several brown rats clearly lurking in the shadows. Checks his watch, is still making good time, damn, a tram coming, right, make a run for it. Probably not the best idea after God only knows how much alcohol, and that damned microwaved curry. The huge blue tram thunders to a stop. With his hands now flailing wildly, Jason catches sight of the tram driver laughing hysterically, but undeterred, he continues to sprint towards it. Well maybe not exactly sprint, but he makes it anyway. He staggers towards the nearest seat and collapses into it, gasping in air noisily as he struggles to get his breath back. The man in the pin stripped suit sat next to him starts tutting loudly and giving him filthy looks, presumably because he'd accidently kicked his briefcase across the aisle. Still, sod him, was a stupid place to leave it. And then he becomes aware of a foul stench. Glances across at suit man as he thinks to himself.
'What is that smell, bloody disgusting... Ohh, me probably, my sodding shoe,’
Suit man stands abruptly, snatches up his briefcase and glares down at him as he shakes his head in disgust, a look of total loathing etched on his face.
'Crikey, he has bushy eyebrows'
Jason just flashes him a huge smile and shrugs his shoulders. Cheeks flushed and through gritted teeth, suit man spits out, "Neanderthal," before stomping towards the other end of the tram.
Jason slides across to the window seat, stares out at the litter defacing the grass verge, his mind drifting back to the previous evening. Desperately wracking his brain as he attempts to remember just what had happened in the Jolly Roger. Not that there’s anything particularly jolly about the Jolly Roger. What with its heavily stained and dark wooden bar, it’s old and tatty furniture and the scuffed wooden panelling, well, it’s anything but welcoming. As for the sickly yellow and white flock wallpaper, the red plaid carpet and brass light fittings, they must all date back to its last refurbishment in the early 80’s, back to when the current landlord Mick first took over the running of the pub. The black and white prints of boxers adorning the walls are most definitely from that decade. Mick had once spent an entire evening reminiscing over each and every one of the dozen or so framed photos, explained that all of them were championship winning boxers, and that most were family friends, apparently. He remembers a very emotional Mick showing him the print of his father who had been a British champion back in the early 70’s, displaying a huge and majestic championship belt to the camera. And how a blubbering Mick had then grabbed hold of him in a bear hug, nearly throttling him and fracturing several of his ribs in the p
rocess. Rushed up to A&E, several weeks off work to recover and a very apologetic Mick giving him drinks on the house for the next few months. Still, these things happen.
He never quite understood the reason for the stag’s head, the stuffed badger, or the bronze statuette of the coal miner on the bar, but in that pub, nothing really makes very much sense. Had considered asking Mick but decided against it, might be of sentimental value and he couldn’t risk it leading to another emotional outburst.
But as bad as the decor is, it's the smell of the place that he's never got accustomed to. Despite smoking having been banned many years previous, the pub still reeks of cigarettes, well that and the smell of stale sweat and cheap aftershave. That said, it’s still preferable to the stench that drifts in from the distant sewage works. And as for the strange assortment of regulars, they're nearly all ruddy faced, middle-aged men who sit by themselves, most likely looking for the meaning of life at the bottom of an empty glass. Perhaps not wanting to feel totally alone, but not feeling particularly sociable either, and even if it’s somewhat begrudgingly, they'll pay the extortionate pub prices just for the privilege of having some company, albeit it several feet away. Or is he being too judgemental? Is that what the future holds for him? Has asked himself that question on numerous occasions. And as for his own reasons for drinking in the Jolly Roger, well anywhere is preferable to the damned bedsit. At least it offers him a temporary escape from the constant sound of heavy metal, from the crashing doors, and most recently, from the ridiculously noisy love-making escapades of his neighbour. In fact, the sooner Carlo moves on from his present partner the better. And so the not so Jolly Roger at least offers him some peace and quiet, some respite from the barrage of noise at home. Just unfortunate that it’s the only pub within easy walking distance.
But back to last night. He remembers that Ryan and Toby had been their usual disinterested selves, going to extraordinary lengths to ignore their clientele, as per usual. Not that there are normally too many customers for them to ignore. But the quiz nights have proved to be a success and do bring in more customers. Remembers the quiz team having an in depth discussion regarding the pair of them earlier in the evening, convinced that they were, in fact, creatures of the night, vampires, that would certainly explain they're complete loathing of people. Only ever worked the evening shifts, never to be seen during daylight hours and their appearance certainly fitted the bill. Both ghastly white in complexion, gaunt faced, black rimmed circles beneath their eyes, seemingly unable to show any emotion and forever dressed in black. Incapable of smiling, let alone laughter, consequentially their teeth were never displayed for public inspection. And there's no denying that the dimly lit pub with its filthy frosted windows, in fact even darker now, what with the broken window having been boarded up for near on three months following the arrival of a temporary bus stop through it one evening, provided the perfect environment for a pair of night walkers. After hours of debate they'd finally concluded that they’re probably doing vampires a disservice, after all, any vampire foolish enough to have turned that pair would most likely have staked them itself.
