The Vacant Casualty (5 page)

B
RADLEY AND
S
AM
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.’

‘I can’t drink, because then I can’t drive home,’ said the detective.

‘Come
oooooon
,’ said Sam. ‘What is it, a ten-quid taxi ride back to Fraxbridge? I’ll give you a tenner, and claim it back from tax.’ Bradley at least had the
presence of mind to frown disapprovingly for a second or so while these words sank in.

Seventy seconds later they were receiving their first pints over the bar, and less than two minutes after that they were sitting at a table on the street outside the pub. Sam lit a cigarette,
inhaled deeply, blew a smoke ring and puffed the rest out in a contented sigh. Bradley, following his lead, took a deep sip of his beer, then looked blinking up at the sky and sighed, his shoulders
falling.

On the street either side of them were ancient cottages, perhaps two or three hundred years old, many with thatched roofs. They were buckled and twisted with age, and from their gardens and
window boxes shone explosions of bright flowers, lilac, orange, white and pink. Although it was only early evening the street was completely empty, and a warm breeze blew gently down it. The light
chattering rhythm of birdsong was in the air and altogether the scene presented a picture of perfect seclusion and contentment.

‘What do you think of the place, Mr Easton?’ asked the detective, his senses clearly overcome by the setting. ‘Quaint, is it not?’

‘Yes, it’s quaint as all fuck,’ the writer said. ‘It makes me want to kill myself.’

‘Yes, yes, quite,’ said Bradley, without the smile leaving his lips. ‘Funny what he kept saying about that famous female fantasy writer who doesn’t live here,
wasn’t it?’

Sam sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said, sloshing the beer around in his glass tiredly. ‘It’s a complete mystery. Whoever can he have meant?’

‘Diana Wynne Jones?’ mused the detective. ‘No, I believe she passed away. Ursula K. Le Guin, then, perhaps? Ah well. This
is
a lovely little town though. I should dearly
like to live here – me and Mrs Constable both. Sorry, Mrs
Detective
, I should say. But it’s too pricey for us, I fear.’

Sam was three quarters of the way through his pint, feeling the first gently enjoyable shine of tipsiness. He was already trying to calculate whether he could get away with nipping inside for
‘another round’ and managing to down a secret extra pint and whisky chaser before coming back out with the next beers without arousing suspicion. But the detective’s words made
him stop for a moment, and consider the man he was talking to.

‘So you’ve only just been promoted?’ he asked.

‘That’s right,’ said Bradley.

‘But you must have been trying for it for ages? I mean, that’s a big step.’

‘Big doesn’t cover it. I was only a regular plod two weeks ago.’

‘But hang on, hang on! This must be some sort of a big deal for you. You are at least pleased?’

Bradley looked awkward. ‘If I’m honest, it was my wife’s idea that I go for promotion. I was amazed that I got it.’

‘Why? You’ve worked for years, decades even, to get to this point?’

‘That’s true,’ Bradley conceded. ‘I mean, I plodded away happily as a country bobby.’

‘And you’re a clever fellow with an eye for what’s going on,’ lied Sam.

‘That’s true as well, I hope,’ said Bradley, brightening somewhat.

‘So now you’ve got the job, what’s the problem?’

‘I’m not one hundred per cent convinced I was the right guy for it,’ conceded the other man.

Here, Sam disappeared into the pub on the pretext he had planned, but once inside decided not to keep his fellow drinker waiting while he downed an extra pint, instead returning with a tray
bearing two pints and six shots of sambuca.

‘Explain,’ he said, setting down the tray.

‘I’m not really a detective inspector at heart,’ admitted Bradley.

‘Oh come, come, you can’t get to do that job without being good at it, I’m sure.’

‘Well, you see, they were going to promote Wickfield to CID, but he died suddenly of a heart attack.’

‘Right. So what? You couldn’t have been far behind this git Wickfield in their esteem – or rather,
Wankfield
, as I call him.’

‘Easy. He was my best man.’

‘Okay, sorry, go on.’

‘And then Georgy Tallbone got himself into some bother with a complete fuss over nothing – something the papers called “human trafficking”. He had to resign. It was PC
gone mad.’

‘Quite literally, by the sound of it,’ said Sam. He gestured to the shots on the tray.

‘And Detective Constable Hanover’s resigned to have a sex change.’

‘Do you mean he’s resigned to having a sex change, or he resigned in order to— oh, never mind. Here you are, anyway. And you’re on this case. To you!’

‘That’s right,’ said Bradley, downing the first of the sambucas.

‘And I’m sure you’re going to solve it!’

‘That’s RIGHT!’ said Bradley, raising the second of the sambucas to toast it. ‘Tell me,’ he added, his speech already alarmingly slurred. ‘What was it that
you wanted from this assignment?’

Sam was at this moment reflecting that his mild-mannered companion was well on the way towards being fully plastered, while he himself was barely making the first pleasurable inroads into mild
drunkenness. As a cautionary measure, before he could answer the question he downed the remaining sambuca shots, and in order to keep up with the detective, asked for six more from a passing
waitress.

‘What did I want from a detective?’ Sam asked. ‘What did I
really
want? Well, I don’t know, maybe things like . . . Okay, here’s a shopping list. One:
sudden, brilliant and unpredictable leaps of logic.’

Bradley coughed, and something revolting slipped out of his nose. He busied himself about getting rid of it with his handkerchief.

‘Two: a chase of some sort. A high-speed car chase, preferably, and which ends with some sort of death-defying crash. Like going right through a shop’s plate-glass window.’

Bradley nodded intently, pocketed his handkerchief and in doing so knocked over his drink.

‘Oh, for pity’s sake. Miss!’ barked Sam at the waitress, who didn’t seem to have moved since he had spoken to her. ‘I distinctly asked for six more
sambucas.’

‘I think that’s actually a poster with a picture of a waitress on it,’ said Bradley, looking up from where he was mopping the beer with a copy of the
Daily Mail
.
‘And she seems to be dressed in the style of
fin-de-siècle
Paris.’

‘
What
? Is she? Oh, yes. Maybe I don’t need them after all.’

‘And third thing on your shopping list?’

‘Third, a terrifying game of cat-and-mouse with all of our lives at stake, possibly ending with the killer being blown away with a high-velocity assault rifle .’

Silence descended on the little table beneath the hanging basket of dahlias.

‘I’m not sure you’ve got a very realistic picture of police work in this part of the countryside,’ Bradley said apologetically.

‘Maybe not,’ said Sam, resting his face on an upturned palm and looking around the pretty square gloomily.

‘What is it that you write, then?’ asked the detective, with the natural weariness of one who anticipates having to feign interest.

‘Ah, well . . . You wouldn’t have heard of it. It’s just rubbish, really . . .’

‘No, go on,’ said Bradley despite himself. ‘I’m interested.’

‘Well, I’ve not written any crime novels
yet
,’ admitted Sam. ‘That’s why I’m here now, to do the research. What I’ve done up to now has been
quite different.’

‘So what sort of thing . . .’

‘You know those silly humorous books that get sold by the till in the run-up to Christmas?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Bradley. ‘I got that one about commas. Or was it apostrophes? I got four copies of that.’

‘Yes, well, things like that.’

‘But not actually that.’

‘Well, no. By the time I was getting involved it was all about parodies to do with animals. You know, silly made-up facts about nature.
Do Bears Crap in the Woods?
was one of
mine.’

‘Oh,’ said Bradley. ‘Good for you.’

‘Well, it sold a few copies.’

‘And do they?’

‘What? Oh. No, they go in fully automated bear-toilets these days. Or if they do, they have to scoop it up, you know,’ said Sam. He kept an eye on the detective to see whether this
response was taken seriously, but he couldn’t tell.

‘Right,’ said the detective. ‘So that’s what you do.’

‘And ghostwriting.
Andy McNab’s Middle Eastern Cookbook
was one of mine. And Lord Sugar’s second memoir,
One Lump or Two
. The first draft, anyway, before I got
fired. Predictably. But I’ve had enough of all that. I want to break out into fiction, so I’m going to write a police thriller.’

‘I have to admit I would have thought a sleepy countryside detective story was right out of fashion. I’m surprised you think this sort of place would be good to set a thriller
in.’

‘What, here in Snoresville-upon-Yawnington? God, no. I mean, I want the thing to sell! A hot crime novel these days is about police corruption, terrorism and serial killers. If you want to
get a six-figure, multi-book deal, it’s got to be written so any TV series adaptation would run for five seasons at least. Mine’s set on the council estates of Hackney.’

‘But that’s where you live, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Well why didn’t you do your research on your own doorstep?’

‘All the East End cops are already hired as consultants by ITV, you see, so I had to look further afield.’

‘But surely there’s someone closer . . .’

‘Elephant and Castle have signed a deal with several movie production companies, the rest of south London are Channel 4’s beat, and by the time I found a police force who
didn’t have an exclusivity contract with someone or other I was out here in the countryside.’

‘Right,’ said Bradley. ‘Well, I hope I can be some help, at least.’

‘Of course you can! Don’t want to sound ungrateful for you giving me your time – I’ve stumbled right into the heart of a mystery, so I’m happy as Larry.’

‘Right. And who’s Larry?’

‘I think we need more sambucas.’

S
AM HAD A
vague memory of making a reservation at a cheap and cheerful-sounding bed and breakfast just outside Fraxbridge, but as he woke up he realized
he had no memory at all of checking in. He felt a soft cushioning sensation beneath his head before a sharp and antagonistic pain began to fizz behind his eyes. This was a familiar feeling –
a pain that was not simply just there, throbbing away, but which danced along the nervous system as though blessed with demonic intelligence, intuitively switching all the time to wherever he
expected and most wanted it not to be.

Resigning himself to this familiar horror, he sat up, and discovered three very unwelcome things: that the sun was up, that he was in someone’s front garden and that he was wearing a car
tyre around his waist like a tutu.

‘Oh dear,’ he said, as is customary on such occasions. He inwardly considered trying to wriggle out of the tyre before standing up but, concluding that this would be more painful and
complicated, was relieved when he got to his feet and the rubber ornament slipped to the ground of its own accord. ‘Perhaps I wasn’t actually
wearing
it at all,’ he
thought, ‘Maybe I fell asleep in the middle of a hula-hoop experiment.’

At that moment, he caught sight of the early-morning procession of children towards school. He woozily leaned on a fence post and tried to remain inconspicuous as they passed, but couldn’t
help finding something curious about the sight. Perhaps it was the fact that they wore old-fashioned long cloaks over their uniforms, or that as they laughed and joked, they pointed little sticks
at each other in a curious way, as though they were wands, and chanted funny phrases, and showers of sparks or plumes of purple flame leapt out at them. Perhaps it was because one of the children,
getting into a fight with one of the others, was suddenly attended by a giant dragon wreathed in green smoke that attacked his adversary – or perhaps, Sam wondered, it was that the group of
teachers who ran to catch up with the pupils and castigate them all resembled well-known British character actors – he could have sworn he made out Dame Maggie Smith, Timothy Spall and Miriam
Margolyes, and he thought he could see a Helena Bonham Carter in there as well. But almost as soon as it came into view, the procession had passed, and Sam was left wondering whether he was simply
drunkenly hallucinating.

He had, after all, some more immediate problems to contend with. He did not particularly want to chance the potential rusty squeak of the cast-iron gate, due to the risk both of detection and
acute head pain. Instead, placing his feet with care between the beautifully spaced flowers and holding back the wild plumage of the plants in front of him, at last he clambered over the low wall
onto the street, and there, temporarily feeling rather pleased with himself (owing to the remaining alcohol that was still swimming through his system), he began a search for the detective.

It was not a very long or difficult task. Despite the apparent quaintness of the Elk & Catalepsy pub, Sam’s last memory was of plucking filled shot glasses from the between the
landlady’s voluminous breasts. He had a vague sense that there might have been a karaoke night going on at the time, and that he had seen someone riding the detective around like a donkey,
before sticking a carrot up his bum. But then perhaps that had been just a dream.