Neil sat in quiet deliberation upon his return. His desk was up on the third floor, at the end of a row reserved for beat detectives. Aligned in opposite pairs, the one in front him was empty, and had been for years. However, when he first moved to the floor, a senior detective called Frank Worthington occupied it.
Frank was a good thirty years his senior, with a bulbous gut and thick-rimmed glasses that made him look like an aging computer programmer. He wore tan slacks, and creased shirts that occasionally allowed his hairy gut to poke out between the straining buttons.
Try as he might, Neil could not concentrate with the man around. His desk was a disaster zone, looking more like a sifting table for flotsam than anything someone could work on, and his eating habits were gruesome at best. Crumbs, dribbles, spills; in fact, anything that missed his mouth and many items would, trailed down the front of his shirt, and fell from his lap when he stood.
After a week, Neil took to bringing a cordless vacuum in, and after a fortnight, a duster and polish. Each morning, he would arrive a good half-hour before Frank and tidy his desk for him. However, it would not stay that way long; Frank’s aversion to orderliness was absolute. Within ten minutes of arrival, the detritus of his existence would be flowing out in an arc toward Neil. He could see it coming, smell its approach, and his skin would crawl with the imagined horror of its arrival.
At his first monthly review, he complained. At his second, he asked to leave. It was then his superiors knew about his mental compulsions.
Over the next few years, many members of the team tried and failed to maintain the desk in a fashion that kept him happy. In the end, the desk was left empty so that neither Neil, nor indeed the poor officer sitting opposite, had to go through the pain being located there brought.
As Neil finished his second round of polishing his desk photos, he continued to muse about what he had seen that morning.
The situation was ridiculous. How could people be dead and alive at the same time? More to the point, was there even a crime committed if your victims were still alive?
Neil folded his duster carefully, stowing next to his polish in the baggie in his top drawer. Taking his alcohol-free sanitizer, he proceeded to ensure his hands were clear of grime before aligning the items correctly and leaning back.
It was a senseless activity to suspect that the people in the cellar were the people from the living room. To follow that reasoning would almost certainly lead to insanity. The only way any of this could make even the remotest sense was if the two sets of people just looked the same. That thought held its own array of difficult to answer questions, but it was at least a position that allowed an investigation to begin.
An hour of considered thoughts later, DCI Blackwater leant out of his office and motioned for Neil to come over.
Neil had a lot of time for his superior officer. Although Henry, as he liked to be called, came from a military background that made him strictly formal in his official dealings, he projected a thoughtful and calming manner. Henry was a big believer in trust, giving his subordinates a lot of scope in their working lives to try things that were ‘never in the damn box’, as he put it. He stood for what was right, applying rules where needed and bending them as appropriate. He took a keen interest in the cases of the department, providing his own ‘consideration points’ at the morning briefings held by the lead detective inspectors of the four branches under his command. Neil wondered, as he sauntered across to his office if his undoubted interest in new cases was not the reason for this unscheduled meeting.
“Come in, close the door.” said Henry, as Neil poked his head inside.
Henry’s room was unlike many of the other senior officer’s. It was bland, save for a few pictures of family members in simple wooden frames on the edge of the desk; a grey filing cabinet the only other item of furniture present.
Henry moved behind his desk, nodding as he paced, the ends of his fingers tapping together contemplatively. “I’ve just seen the statements from the triple murder you attended this morning.” His words were slow, and his usual straight-laced tone stilled. “Any thoughts?”
Straight to the point as ever, thought Neil, as his forehead creased slightly at trying to explain what he saw. “The SOCOs know to take swabs from the Grayson family for comparative genetic testing with the bodies we found. That has to be my starting point. I’m also going to do a trace on who owned the house before Mister Grayson’s company bought it. One of the previous owners, or Mister Grayson’s work, has to have some knowledge of what was there before the Grayson family moved in. I need to corroborate Mister Grayson’s assertion the wall was present when they arrived as well. I’m going to contact the estate agent and see if they have the original surveyor’s notes or even other photos from the sale.”
“And if the tests come back as a match?” said Henry, stopping his movements and rubbing his chin.
“They can’t sir.” said Neil. “It can’t be them. It has to be some kind of stitch up. I just need to know who is trying to stitch up whom. Is it someone outside of the family trying to get at Mister or Missus Grayson? Alternatively, is it one of the Graysons themselves? There could be something in their history that comes to light. Close friends and family will know. Mister Grayson works for a genetics company and Missus Grayson has links to an MP. There are plenty of avenues for investigation, and more than a few potential motives.”
“I see.” said Henry, pouting slightly. He scratched his head, scrunching his eyes tight as he often did when information he was looking for was not forthcoming. “The MP angle is a real problem for me on this one, Neil.” he said, reaching into his drawer and pulling out what looked like a business card. “Miss Roberston is on the budgetary committee for Scotland Yard’s financial sustainability program for the next five years. She’s actually going to have final say on how many people make the switch to the new offices and what sort of pay and pensions they’ll receive when they get there.”
Neil did not like where this was going. Henry rarely discussed budgets with anyone on a lower pay grade than himself, much less him. For Henry to mention money, the squeeze must already be on.
“I hate to invoke my last resort get-out clauses this early into an investigation,” said Henry, sighing, “but in this case I need answers as quickly as possible.”
Henry held out the business card and Neil accepted it, turning it over to reveal a name and phone number scrawled in black biro.
“I’m going to have to ask you to work closely with this man on this one.” said Henry. It was clear he was caught between his duty and his professional pride. “He’s a civilian, and a little on the strange side, but he’s saved my ass more times than I can count. I have a feeling we need him involved on this one.”
Neil looked from the card to Henry, worried at the sudden inclusion of someone outside the department in a case so potentially delicate. “You want me to work with a private contractor?”
“Oh, good lord no!” said Henry, with a hearty snort. “That man is no contractor! Everything he does is done for free. He’s a…” Henry paused, attempting to find the right words. “He’s an eccentric.” He shrugged, it was clearly all he could think of to say. “An exceptionally gifted eccentric.”
Neil sat in stunned silence for a second. Was Henry suggesting he would be unable to close the case without help? “You know I’ll get to the bottom of this sir. I really don’t think outside help is going…”
Henry cut Neil off with a wave of the hand. “I trust you and your methods completely detective. That’s why you’re still on this case.” Henry stood and buttoned his jacket, a clear sign no further discussion would be allowed. “I’ve spoken with DI Barclay and DI Stimpson. They’ve both given me assurances this will be the only case you’ll be working for the time being. I’ve assigned Dawn and John to you as office support. Use them as you see fit.”
“John Bardsley?” asked Neil, blinking hard at the thought. “The intern?”
“The very same. I think you
r approach will be good for his development.” said Henry, moving round his desk. The conversation was clearly over, the decision made. “I want results as fast as you can.” Henry extended a hand, and as Neil grasped it, he gripped tightly, pulling him close. “No mistakes. A lot of heads are on the line here. I want to know if any leads you have find their way to the MP before anyone else gets a whiff of it. Do you understand me?”
Neil nodded, extracting his hand and rubbing it. “Completely sir. You have my word.”
“Good.” said Henry, light-heartedly. “Then I’ll leave you to your business detective.”
Neil left the office and made his way back to his desk, turning the card in his hand. What possible benefit could this man provide? If a case was urgent, why not just assign more people to it? The questions kept coming, but answers would not follow.
He slumped into his seat and put the card down neatly, turning it square with the edge of his phone. Just as he went to dial, a whimsical voice made him turn.
“Alreet Neil!”
Neil looked up to see John Bardsley stood over him, his youthful smile and bleached skin catching the light from the low winter sun streaming in through the windows and giving him the air of an albino.
John was a good-looking, affable kid, whose six-foot frame was almost perfectly designed to hang clothes from. However, that was the limit of his gifts. For all his expensive education, he was almost excruciatingly simple-minded. Lacking any gumption or guile, his mother eventually pulled in a raft of favours to get him the internship. It was almost impossible to believe sometimes, but his common sense was practically non-existent. Some of the things that came from his mouth were unintelligible, while others were just plain idiotic. It was as if the filters of stupidity inside his brain had been switched off, replaced by a random word generator. Having listened to some of the comments he made, the other detectives started calling him ‘Wordsworth’, which later shortened to just ‘Wordy’; an irony John had singularly failed to catch.
“Good morning Wordy.” said Neil, trying not to engage John in any kind of conversation. “Looks like we’ll be working together for a while.”
“I know!” said John, beaming expectantly. “I’m really looking forward to it.”
I however, am not, thought Neil, returning his attention to the phone. “I need to ring someone. Can you get particulars on all the sales of this house?” he said, handing John the details from his file. Hopefully, the mundane task would keep John busy long enough to allow him to concentrate for a while. “Plus, I’ll need the last estate agent’s details and the contact number for any recent surveyor.”
“Sure thing, boss.” said John, giddy with anticipation.
Neil went to dial again, but realised John had not left. “Is there anything else?” he asked, realising his mistake as he caught the slightly confused look on John’s face.
“I just wanted to let you know I tried that dish you and the guys were talking about last week. Made it myself.” His pride in his achievement soon faded as he continued. “It tasted kind of funny. Not sure why you said it was so good.”
Neil did not want to have this conversation, but it was too late to pull out now. “Which one was it?”
“You know. The foreign one.” said John, the grinding of the cogs in his head almost audible as he struggled to recall the memory. “That New Zealand lamb chowder thing. It was really weird!”
Neil tried to stifle a groan, but failed badly. “It’s New England, not New Zealand Wordy.” Trying to think down to this level was making his head hurt. “We were discussing New England clam chowder.”
“Oh,” said John, nodding as he started to walk away. “That’ll probably explain it then.”
Neil put his head in his hands, not sure whether to scream or laugh. It was like talking to a nursery school child sometimes. Surely, there had to laws about allowing people like that outside unsupervised?
Finding his calm, Neil dialled the number, surprised at the response.
“The Cittie of Yorke. How can I help you?” said a deep, gruff voice.
Neil glanced at the card, and then to the display on his phone. The number was correct. “I’m sorry; I think I may have been given the wrong details. I was looking for a gentleman called Artimus Crane.”
“One minute.” said the man, the rattle of the receiver being put down coming through the speaker. “Hey Artimus! It’s the office, I think.”
The office? thought Neil, as he wondered why the man’s contact details were given as the number for a pub. This really had better be worth it.
“Artimuth Cra-ane.” a voice slurred.
Great, his civilian assistant was drunk. “My name is Detective Townsend, Mister Crane. I’ve been asked to contact you in regard to a case I…”
“I know all aboowt your case, Mishter Townsh-send.” said Artimus, cutting him off. His accent was a friendly kind of southern counties, probably Hampshire, but it was lost in swirling vowels and extended consonants. “Mishter Blackshwater has already briefed me on the conspleshety of what we will be dealings wish.”
Neil rubbed his eyes. He knew that Boxing Day for civilians was a time of merriment, and did not want to come across at frustrated with the man. It was not his fault this had happened today. “So, can I assume you’ll be attending Scotland Yard in the morning to assist me?” he asked, unsure if he really wanted the involvement.
“I mosht certainly will not!” said Artimus, catching Neil by surprise. “Time waits for no man. If I have been engaged, then I musht assume urgency is required. You shall pick me up presently from this fine eshtablishment, and we shall begin at wonce.”
“I really don’t think that’s a…”
“Leaving the thinking to me dear fellow.” said Artimus, curtailing Neil’s response once more. “I have been given assurashes by the good Mishter Blawkwaiter…” A belch echoed out down the phone, followed by a bout of coughing. “Damn potatoes. Too much salt I said, but Gary wants us to drink… needs the influx of funds I think… where was I?”
“You were telling me how you were going home to sleep off today’s excesses and meet me bright and early in the morning to begin our collaboration.” said Neil, attempting to either get agreement this was the best course of action or end the conversation, whichever came first.
Artimus laughed, another belch following. “Mishter Blackwaster told me you were a quick one, detective. I find I am pleasantly eager toward our future partnership.” There was a grumbling on the line, blurry words drifting together. “I will expect you here, to pick me up, in thirty minutes. That gives you just enough time to receive a telling off by your boss, and then drive over here. Plus, it gives me time for another.”
Neil heard the phone click and the call end. There was no way that man would be assisting with anything.
Standing and straightening his suit, he marched over to Henry’s office and knocked on the door.
“Go away Neil.” said Henry, his voice muffled through the glass. “Do what I asked.”
Henry obviously did not appreciate what he had to deal with. There was no way he was going to put the reputation of the department on the line like this. He knocked again.
“Clean your ears out and listen to my voice Neil.” said Henry, his irritation clear. “Go away and do what I’ve asked you!”
Neil did not want to anger his superior, but he had no choice. He opened the door and stepped into the office. “Sir, I’ve just spoken with Artimus Crane as you requested, but I…”
“I told you to go away detective. Twice!” said Henry, looking up from his work and glaring at Neil. “Whatever you’re here to tell me about Artimus, I already know.”
“Sir, I…”
“That’s enough!” shouted Henry, stopping Neil in his tracks. “Do not make me ask you again! I know Artimus is not office material, but I never asked you to bring him here. He has his own. I expect you to use it. Now get out of mine!”
“Sir, I…”
“NOW detecti
ve!” said Henry, pointing toward the door.
Neil stepped outside and closed the door. That was not the response he expected. As if trying to dampen his mood further, he caught laughter coming from the far side of the office where a group of detectives gathered round a water cooler. Wordy stood in the middle of them, as they clapped in unison. The kid was dancing, smiling like a village idiot as he twirled for their delight.
This was turning out to be the worst Boxing Day ever.
Chapter 6
Artimus Crane