Click Fiction page for more of this novel
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Crime had a habit of going off in different directions. Unlike on the TV, or in film, or even in the crime novel, crime is very much a result of chaotic human action. So it follows that a crime must be chaotic in itself. Fictional crime and its inevitable conclusion is rot. The detective who solves a crime logically is an absurdity. How can you place logic upon the illogical? No, solving crime is a problem of blundering on, asking the ridiculous questions in the hope of getting a ridiculous answer that fits, and stirring up the pot so it bubbles over.
DI Summers understood this. But as he stood in the street the following morning, he realized this crime was going to be problematic indeed. What had initially been an investigation into a missing body had turned into what? Assault? Kidnap? Murder? At this point, he had no idea.
He looked down at the pool of blood on the pavement; the scuff marks as if someone had been dragged; the discarded wallet, credit cards and money still inside.
Wayne Hollis had disappeared, and foul play seemed inevitable. But not for robbery or anything simple like that. No. This was going to be a stinker. And DI Summers loved stinkers.
Bobby Crawford was stalling again. It had begun soon after getting up; after he had stuck his head out of the bedroom window; after he had heard the people say someone had been assaulted; after they’d looked in the wallet and shouted, happily: ‘It’s Wayne Hollis! Fantastic!’
‘Dad! Dad!’ he had shouted as he excitedly ran downstairs. ‘Wayne Hollis has been murdered!’
‘Don’t be silly, Bobby.’
‘But it’s true.’
‘Have your breakfast and go to school.’
‘Or maybe the ghost took him.’
‘What ghost?’
‘The ghost of Jack Thomas.’
Dale realized he’d have to have words later.
And out in the street. ‘It’s the ghost,’ shouted Bobby to anyone who’d listen. ‘Wayne Hollis has been murdered by the ghost.’
‘Yes, Bobby,’ they’d all say, ‘now get yourself off to school.’
‘And he’ll be in Thadias Grimes’s pies by now.’
Dale came to the door. ‘To school!’
They didn’t understand.
DI Summers knew it would not be a good interview, and as he rang the bell he had a feeling of foreboding.
It was Old Man Hollis who answered the door. ‘May I come in?’ asked Summers.
The Old Man stood back from the door, let the detective in. They walked into the study.
‘I have some bad news,’ said Summers.
The Old Man smirked. ‘Don’t tell me. My son has disappeared.’
‘How did you know?’
‘They’re celebrating in the street. You’re a detective. Surely you realized that.’
Summers sat down. ‘People can often be cruel. They don’t mean anything.’
‘But they do.’
The detective adjusted his position. Felt uncomfortable. He knew one of those stupid logical questions was coming. ‘Can you think of anyone who would want to harm him?’
The Old Man didn’t even bother answering. Eventually, he said: ‘So have you any leads?’
‘There are always leads. That’s the problem – deciding which is the right one and which takes you down a blind alley.’
‘Well find out which is the right one soon, detective.’
Summers was certain he could see a tear forming in the Old Man’s eye.
Bobby Crawford’s excitement was waning as he approached the school. Maybe he had tired himself with all the excitement. Or maybe foreboding held a more narcotic drug to the thrill.
The daily repetition was beginning to wear him down. Maybe that was their game? But he doubted they’d be intelligent enough to plan a strategy. No, the bully was a creature of impulse. He sees a possibility and he takes it. He may lie in wait for the opportunity to pass close by, and then strike. But it was an unintelligent thing. Yet that hardly helped to ease Bobby as he edged ever closer.
The psychologist would no doubt identify the problem watching Bobby Crawford as he traversed life between his front door and the school gate. At the beginning of his journey, he would be nervous, but he raised a persona of fun to conquer this. In doing so, he convinces people he is a fun loving boy, and for a time he can even do this to himself. But the closer he gets to the school, the slower his pace, the more laboured his attitude, the more sagged his shoulders. Until the point of no return arrives, and he shuts off, becomes a zombie …
But it is academic today. For today, Bobby Crawford does not reach the school gates. For Moz and Jimmy are waiting, and their mood is grim.
Chances are they didn’t mean to do it that much, but what do little boys know of control when they’re having such fun. But in no time at all, Wayne Hollis is not the only one who has left blood on the street. Although little Bobby Crawford didn’t disappear like Wayne. He simply lay there on the pavement, his eyes closed and his body still.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Yes. Inspector, I know how it looks, but isn’t it fantastic?’
Peter Picasso was in his element. He held out for DI Summers the picture he had painted. He had a big, cheesy grin on his face as the policeman observed a shadowy attacker come up behind the man, a cosh ready to strike him from the back.
Summers sighed. ‘And you painted this picture BEFORE the attack?’
‘I did indeed. It’s uncanny.’
‘It’s certainly something, alright,’ said Summers.
Veronica Dean had been silent until this point. ‘I smell scepticism,’ she said.
‘And you can add wasting police time, perverting the course of justice, being in possession of a weird sense of humour …’
DI Summers had had enough. He departed from the bedsit. He lived in a real world, and had no time for fantasists. Peter, on the other hand, was staring at Veronica Dean. ‘So you like it?’ he asked.
‘Truly uncanny,’ she said, ‘I may even get a book out of this.’
Peter smiled. ‘I did paint another picture last night,’ he said. ‘Would you like to look?’
‘Is it predictive?’
‘Most definitely.’
He showed her the picture, of two naked lovers in bed. At first, Veronica blushed. Then she checked her watch. ‘Go on, then,’ she said, ‘I’ve just got time for a quick one.’
Old Man Hollis was both confused and sad; sad because his son, Wayne, had disappeared; confused because he was unaware he could still have such emotions. He sat behind his desk, almost comatose. In front of him, pictures of Wayne were spread out. He observed him from different times in his life, and it suddenly struck him that he didn’t have a single picture of him with his son. Had he been such a terrible father? Had he never been there for him? Had his business taken up so much of his life?
He stood up, walked to the door, shouted for Duane for Rachel. When they walked in, he pushed a camera into Rachel’s hand, then he went and stood by Duane, attempted to smile, but the effect was all wrong. He had forgotten how to do it.
Undeterred, he said: ‘Take a picture of me and Duane.’
Rachel stood, open mouthed. ‘Can I have my uncle back,’ she said, ‘the real one has been abducted by aliens.’
Dale Crawford knew that, as a mini-cab driver, he was not allowed to make pick-ups. But as he saw the woman standing by the road he broke the rule. Anyway, he reasoned, it will be payment of a different kind.
Julia kissed him as she sat beside him. ‘I feel dangerous,’ she said.
‘In what way?’
‘I haven’t had it in a car for years.’
With the Knowledge, Dale knew all the places to go, and it took just a couple of minutes to find the secluded spot.
Their love making was feverish, if a little clumsy, interspersed with the odd moment of laughter as they hit this handle or that. But Dale had not felt so alive in years. Hence, afterwards, they sat in the back of the cab, entwined in each other’s arms, determined to forget the world.
‘I think I love you,’ Julia eventually said.
Dale was taken aback by the words. Love? What was that? He had felt it once, but it was soon dashed when his wife was killed. Could he trust the world to find love again? Was he brave enough to accept it?
The questions went round and round in his head, but every time he looked at Julia, the answer seemed so much easier. Eventually, he turned to her and said, ‘I love you too.’
The picture taken, Old Man Hollis pulled himself together. Turning to Rachel, he retrieved the camera and said: ‘Get out. I want to talk to Duane.’
Rachel looked up to where the aliens lived. Said: ‘You didn’t have to bring him back that quick.’ But regardless, she left the room.
Duane suddenly felt vulnerable. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been alone with his father; and he could never recall being so important that the Old Man actually wanted to talk to him.
The Old Man sat behind his desk once more. ‘We don’t know what’s happened to Wayne,’ he said, ‘but life must go on.’ Which, of course, meant the business. ‘So from now on, I’m relying on you.’ His tired, increasingly sightless eyes, fell upon him. ‘Don’t let me down.’
Duane left the study proud and afraid; proud because his father relied on him; afraid because he had undermined him so much that he cocked everything up. For the first time in years, Duane Hollis wanted his mommy.
Time seemed to have ceased as Dale and Julia cuddled in the back of the cab. For vanity’s sake they had dressed, but otherwise, petting continued between the conversation.
‘I can’t remember the last time I felt like this,’ said Julia, her voice almost dreamy.
‘Me neither,’ said Dale.
‘If only it could go on forever.’
‘I’m afraid life gets in the way.’
A thought came to Julia at that moment. Immediately, she dismissed it, but no sooner had she done so, it popped into her mind again. ‘It’s ridiculous,’ she said.
‘What is?’ said Dale.
‘Oh, nothing. I was just thinking.’
‘Thinking about what?’
‘You’ll think me stupid; possibly cruel.’
‘No I won’t.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
She looked into his eyes, brought up courage from deep within her. ‘We could be together.’
‘How?’
‘If you killed Vernie.’
(c) Anthony North, November 2007
Click Fiction page for more of this novel
HAPPY NEW YEAR
One area of the paranormal that has risen to prominence since the 1970s is the out-of-body experience, or OBE. This, and the related near death experience, or NDE, has regularly caused bafflement.
During my service in the Royal Air Force I took part in scores of military exercises, pretending to be at war. It was a vital task, and could often be real. It was a serious business, and even dangerous at times.
THE PAKISTAN PROBLEM
A SHRINKING ISLAND
We’ve all heard of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. The media has portrayed it in both funny and serious forms. How many baddies in movies nowadays are such obsessives. Gee, you know he’s going to strike when all the tin labels are facing you.
Following the Napoleonic Wars, with the exception of Germany the geography of Europe was redrawn to the modern political states of today. Nationalism rose with new middleclass parliaments beginning to adopt democracy and displacing popular religion, with monarchial rule taking second place.
Okay, people, Christmas is upon us. In the UK we always get a Christmas message from the Queen. This is the first time I’ve done such a message, so I feel quite Royal – another delight to add to the spirit of Christmas I love so much.
WHAT’S IT ALL ABOUT?
How do you explain the buzz of standing on a stage, the beat reverberating through your body, hair cascading above you as you strutted, your guitar in hands, like a weapon, firing shrill notes into the audience as your instrumental went on and on?