The Vacant Casualty Read online

  Second: ‘Eric Barnes (Mayor)’. Also easy: the short, fat bloke who didn’t believe anyone was looking at him, and was picking his nose. Then there was name three: ‘Lord Selvington of Butterhall (Jimmy)’. Yes, despite Sam’s inherent dislike of people who owned more than a dozen (or quite possibly, several thousand) times more money than he would ever earn in his life, this guy looked the sort of posho who was sane enough to have the nickname Jimmy. As opposed to, say, Boffles, or Twiddlesticks, or something.

  Next, four and five: ‘Miss E. Quimple and Miss M. Quimple’. Easy again – the two identical ancient old bags on the right of the table, both staring into space.

  Six: this one startled him. ‘Saracene Galaxista, High Church of the Milky Way’. I didn’t notice anyone who looked like Ming the Merciless’s sister when I came in. But wait – this one was not hard to spot. There she was, clear as day: a dyed-in-the-wool hippy with wild grey hair and a severe expression, wearing a waistcoat decorated with the animals of the zodiac in gilt.

  The next few were just as straightforward.

  Seven: ‘Rt Revd. Archibald Smallcreak, Rector’. Almost certainly the bored-looking sixty-year-old thin bloke with an androgynous expression.

  ‘It was him,’ thought Sam. ‘It was him, with the lead pipe, in the milking parlour. I bet he’s an old perv.’

  Eight: ‘Miss G. Elvesdon, parish librarian’. The thin, slightly younger (i.e. under fifty) lady in the corner.

  Nine: ‘Mrs Bloodpudding’. Surely the sweet-smiling, permed octogenarian by the major’s side.

  Name number ten: ‘Walerian Exosius’. What the hell? Who would be called – oh, but wait. There he was, too. A lanky fellow, almost collapsed over his own chair in a pretence of exhaustion. Violet neckerchief wrapped thrice around his throat. High cheekbones. Hint of vulnerable disdain, as though he had just smelt a disgusting scent he was unsure was not his own. Sniffing like he has a cold, and looking around to see if anyone notices. He must be an artist.

  Although there were still a few of the full roster to identify, Sam was distracted out of his reverie as he realized the split infinitive debate was still going on. While he was paying attention to the grammatical argument, D.I. Bradley got up and handed a short note to Lord Selvington, who read it, then looked up and nodded importantly at the policeman.

  ‘Uhum,’ Sam coughed politely as he interjected. ‘There’s, er . . . nothing wrong . . .’

  One by one the councillors ceased their yelling, or earnest talking, and turned to him. He cleared his throat once more before saying, ‘I apologize for speaking uninvited, but there’s actually nothing wrong with using a split infinitive. Linguistically. Grammatically. There never was. Avoiding it is like using “serviette” as a posh replacement for “napkin”, when the Queen herself would use a napkin. A false nicety. Fowler’s Modern English Usage has said so for over eighty years; Kingsley Amis agrees. And many others. In case you were interested.’

  ‘And you are . . .’ asked one.

  ‘A writer,’ he said, and choosing not to meet their eyes, he sank back into the darkness, but secretly hoped they noticed his hoody. After consulting his iPhone in the shaded security of his lap for a few moments he looked up to find Bradley leaning over him with a leer.

  ‘You are a ponce,’ he whispered.

  ‘At least now we can proceed with the important matter at hand (thank Christ),’ said Lord Selvington, ‘which, as we all know, is that our good friend and fellow councillor Terry Fairbreath went missing last week. Here I ought to introduce Detective Inspector Bradley, who will be leading the investigation.’

  ‘Oh good Lord, has he been murdered?’ uttered one of the Miss Quimples.

  ‘No, no—’ said Bradley, putting up his hands. ‘Really . . .’

  ‘Dead, you say?’ barked the insane major from the other side of the room. ‘Damn shame! Hope it wasn’t poison.’

  ‘Oh great Scott, I hope he hasn’t been murdered,’ said the other Miss Quimple. ‘He made a smashing Tarte au Citron.’

  ‘And he owed me seventy quid,’ said Walerian Exosius. Then he laughed nervously. ‘But that’s hardly a reason to murder someone.’ And he giggled even more nervously, before turning dead serious, twisting his head on one side and adding: ‘Unlike fucking my sister.’

  ‘For God’s sake, calm down!’ shouted Sam, once more discovering he’d lost his temper shortly after it happened, but also, an instant later, pleasantly surprised by the results. All heads turned to him, and then to the inspector.

  ‘This is a missing persons case,’ said Bradley. ‘There are countless reasons for a person to be missing that are incredibly simple. Misunderstanding, bad communication, forgetfulness, sickness . . .’

  ‘Having your brains blown out . . .’ added the major.

  ‘Having your brains blown out,’ repeated the inspector, to gasps from around the table, before adding, ‘is only one of a million possible reasons. So I wish you would do me a favour and help me do my job. Which is to say, please make yourselves available to have a chat with me as soon as you can – in the next twenty-four hours, if possible. Please leave your names and addresses with my assistant.’

  ‘This total ass has got an assistant?’ wondered Sam for a moment, before realizing that the detective was talking about him. His mouth began to form the words, ‘You can go and f—’ but then he grasped that, just like being briefly beaten up and having his face smacked against the window many hours earlier, acting as a detective’s assistant during an investigation could be invaluable experience in helping him write a future police drama.

  TWENTY MINUTES later, walking to the car, they compared notes. Bradley read over the minutes and Sam held a smoking cigarette in one hand while he rolled a second cigarette in the other.

  ‘Not the hotbed of suspicion that I entirely predicted,’ said Sam regretfully.

  ‘Well, no,’ admitted Bradley.

  ‘Do you think he’s still alive?’ asked the writer.

  ‘I’ve no idea. It seems there are lots of strong characters in this place, at the very least. So lots of things to examine before we really know . . . where we are . . .’ Bradley turned away and looked frowning into the distance. Sam followed his gaze. There didn’t seem to be anything of particular interest in the distance.

  ‘Are you, er . . . Are you trying to look mysterious?’

  Bradley squinted sideways at him.

  ‘Sort of. Is it working?’

  ‘No. No, not at all. I think the rules are that you can do that towards the end of a case, when there are lots of things to ponder and all the clues are up in the air, and you’re waiting for the hairs to rise on the back of your neck.’

  ‘The back of the neck?’ asked Bradley, feeling with his hand inside his collar, and appearing to brush upwards to make them stand on end. ‘Why do they do that?’

  ‘Don’t force it, Bradders. I think it’s got to happen naturally or not at all. Here, let’s get in, it’s cold.’

  Sam climbed in and put on his seatbelt while the detective seemed to wrestle with the handle to his own car. This guy, he reflected, was not perhaps Inspector Morse material, but he was also rather sweet. Already Sam could feel himself see-sawing between feeling exasperated and wanting to wind the guy up, and feeling fond of him and wanting to give him advice. This was probably going to be a wasted research trip, he was realizing – but seeing as he was supposed to be down there for a week, he might as well enjoy himself. He thought about that for a second, considered his own nature, and knew if it was to be achieved, he was definitely going to have to wind this guy up. As far as he would go. In fact, he decided, he would try to turn him into a real detective, by which he meant, a fictional detective, as Bradley seemed to wish to be. He had time to enjoy these thoughts at leisure as the detective inspector climbed inside, got his wrist caught in his seatbelt and then elbowed the horn lengthily while trying to extract himself, which drew the attention of a dozen or so local folk.

  ‘Hey, Detective,’
said Sam. ‘By the way – what’s your first name?’

  Bradley noticeably hesitated and said tentatively, ‘. . . Reginald.’

  ‘Reginald’s fine. What’s wrong with Reginald? Lots of upstanding people have been called Reginald. But your first name isn’t Reginald to me any more, okay?’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘It’s “Detective”. How does that make you feel?’

  Detective Inspector Bradley shrugged, but failed to conceal that it did give him a small burst of satisfaction to be so addressed.

  ‘Okay then, Detective, that’s settled. And one other thing: if you let me, I’ll buy you a pint later and we can discuss the case. Who’s our first witness?’

  ‘I thought we’d start with the man in charge – Lord Whatsisname. We should have spoken to him after the meeting but he seems to have gone home. Apparently he lives three miles away.’

  ‘Okay, do you need me to navigate?’

  ‘Not really. We can see the house from here.’

  ‘Where? Behind that castle?’

  ‘No, I think that is it.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Right. God, that really is a big pile, isn’t it?’

  ‘You can’t smoke that in here, sorry.’

  Sam flicked one cigarette out of the window and tucked the other behind his ear while Bradley pulled away, and began to negotiate the twists and turns of one of the town’s half-dozen roads.

  As they passed through the square, Bradley concentrating with needless intensity on his driving, Sam caught sight of a curious situation. In the middle of the square were parked over a dozen mobility scooters, each of them with a granny sitting on it. But his first instinct, which was to think what a sweet sight it made, was quickly eradicated by a second glance. The scooters were parked in perfect formation, making an arrow shape. There were perhaps fifteen of them. And the old ladies were not primly sat on the seats, looking straight ahead as he had come to expect. Some of them were seated with one leg cocked over the side, others had got out and lolled against them, and appeared to be rolling cigarettes. As he watched, one of them made a remark, her face wearing a mean expression, and the others laughed along with her sneeringly. It only lasted a moment, but as the car swept across their vision, Sam could have sworn that three or four of them turned and tried to stare him out. One of them spat some chewing gum onto the floor and wiped the dribble from her mouth without her eyes leaving him.

  Then they were driving swiftly down a side street, and the strange sight was gone.

  IN LESS THAN ten minutes they were turning in at the gate along a mile-long drive lined with plane trees, and as they pulled up outside the vast mansion a few minutes later, an open-top sports car screeched past, spitting gravel and braking only about eighteen inches short of crashing through the enormous oak front door.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said the young man who climbed out, extending his hand. ‘I just hate a needlessly long walk, what? Still getting the hang of this thing. I’m, ah . . . You know, what?’

  ‘We’re here to see Lord Selvington,’ said Bradley, clearly awed to be in the presence of genuine aristocracy.

  ‘Oh, the old man. He’s bound to be knocking around the place somewhere.’ Having escorted the two gentlemen inside, he shook hands with them both once more. ‘The name’s Horace. Hey, come through to the old thingy whatsit room here, we’ll have a cocktail.’

  He burst energetically through a pair of tall doors and they found themselves in a modest room no wider and taller than the average aircraft hangar, across which the young aristocrat bounded with energy towards a table bearing a drinks tray on the other side. The other two looked around themselves. There were divans and sofas dotted about, and vast portraits of disapproving males on the wall.

  ‘Does he appear a bit eccentric to you?’ asked Bradley.

  ‘I think he might have been drinking,’ said Sam.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Sam cleared his throat. ‘Well,’ he reflected, ‘the first we saw of him he nearly killed himself with the most violent piece of drink-driving I’ve ever seen. Then he forgot his own name. He had an open bottle of martini in his hand when he got out of the car, and . . . he now appears to have just fallen fast asleep on the carpet.’

  ‘Good Lord, so he does.’

  Leaving him where he lay, the two men went looking around the house for someone else to speak to, and they came across Lord Selvington in his library. After some momentary surprise at finding them standing there, he invited them back into the drawing room for refreshments and they were relieved to find that in the meantime Horace had come round and sat himself down on a sofa.

  ‘Lord Selvington . . .’ Bradley began.

  ‘Jimmy, please.’

  ‘I’m not called Jimmy,’ said Bradley, his face blank. ‘Oh, I see, you’re Jimmy. Well, er, Lord Selvingtonjimmy, we wanted to ask you what you know about Terry Fairbreath.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jimmy. ‘Well, what can I say? He was liked by everyone. Friendly, approachable . . .’

  ‘You weren’t aware of any problems in his life?’

  ‘None at all. He was very successful.’

  ‘And you weren’t conscious of his having made any enemies?’

  ‘No. But you must understand – he had the deciding vote in the Parish Council, and there are lots of important issues on which his opinion would have a big effect on people’s lives.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, Mumford is a quaint old English town, and that inevitably attracts various money-making schemes but we are very careful to keep the place true to its own nature and not give in to commercialism.’

  ‘I understand. There seems to be an implied “but” at the end of that sentence . . .’

  ‘Yes. Of course not everyone in the town is exactly rolling in money, so each time we quash one of these schemes, in essence lots of them lose substantial income.’

  ‘Schemes such as what?’

  ‘A plan to build a massive hypermarket just outside town. That would have brought a lot of investment. There are film crews here constantly too, and we have to pick and choose which ones we allow.’

  ‘Film crews!’ said Bradley. ‘How interesting. What sort of thing?’

  ‘Well, just this year we’ve had Songs of Praise, Time Team and Antiques Roadshow. Had to say no to that Bill Oddie chap.’

  ‘He’s an arse,’ said Horace, coming round from another swoon and looking slightly haggard. It appeared his hangover was setting in.

  ‘And there was supposed to be a Vicar of Dibley movie shooting, but we said no to that as well.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Sam. ‘Seems a little late, doesn’t it?’

  ‘They were doing a zombie mash-up, apparently. Calling it Vampire of Dibley, or I Spit on Your Nave, or something. I forget.’

  ‘So there’s more to this place than meets the eye,’ said Bradley, rather pointlessly. Sam stared at him for a moment and decided he might as well wade in himself – and why not be bad cop?

  ‘What were you doing two weeks ago today, when Fair-breath was last seen?’ he said.

  ‘In Scotland, hunting deer with Prince Philip.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yes. I was.’

  ‘I see. Well, thanks very much.’ He couldn’t think of anything to come back to that with. He’d have to work on his routine.

  ‘Well, you’ve been very helpful,’ said Bradley. ‘And may I ask you on a personal note, why did you make that very specific point about a world-famous author of a series of supernatural-themed children’s books not living here?’

  Behind him, Sam slapped his forehead in disbelief.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ said Lord Selvington. ‘Ahahaha. Yes, indeed. Well, you see, she doesn’t live here. Definitely not. And I can add to that, as her neighbour – rather, as I would be if she did live here, which she doesn’t – I’ve never been round for dinner, and she doesn’t make an absolutely smashing beef stroganoff. You see? Eh? Hahaha!’

/>   ‘Right,’ said Bradley, looking so utterly confused that he might actually cry. ‘Well, as I say, you’ve been very helpful. Who do you recommend we talk to next?’

  ‘If you’re going to talk to everyone anyway, I suppose you could go to Major Eldred next. He’s quite insane but at least that will be more amusing than discussing literally anything with the Miss Quimples.’ He wrote down the address on a page from his diary, and tore it out. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Bradley said, as they got up.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Sam told Horace, the only person he had warmed to so far, who was following them towards the door. ‘Tell me, Horace, what’s your proper title?’

  ‘Hmm?’ the young aristocrat remarked. ‘Oh, I, er, what is it? Sir Egbert de Montfort Herringbone Lambsley.’

  ‘So Horace isn’t your real name at all?’

  ‘Oh yes, it is. Don’t let’s get into this, it’s frightfully complicated. Look, do you want to buy some bennies?’

  Although Sam had been offered drugs many times before, he had never been asked this specific question (and certainly not in such plush surroundings) so it took a moment for him to catch on. Then he saw a whole week in this sleepy place stretching ahead of him, and was decidedly tempted. But they had now emerged into the sunshine and the detective was waiting by the car door only ten paces away, so he felt he must refuse.

  ‘Shame,’ said Horace abstractly, looking up at the clouds. ‘Maybe I’ll go and play with some Lego . . .’

  Sam bade him goodbye and was driven away, wondering all the way whether he had been joking or not.

  Chapter Three

  BRADLEY AND SAM parked near the Elk & Catalepsy pub, neatly tucked away off the main street, and briefly discussed going in. A line of schoolchildren filed past, chatting and laughing. For some reason, the left arm of every single child seemed to be invisible, but no one in the busy street appeared to notice anything strange in that fact. Sam blinked and turned again to Bradley, motioning towards the pub.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘It’s gone five o’clock. Drinky drinky time.’