Answers

Damn it. The station was a charging station but it wasn’t equipped for questioning proper. A right good interrogation was required and for that, Brough’s stomach dropped to his shoes, the suspect would have to be transferred to SCD down the road.

There you wouldn’t find those mirrors you could see through from the next room. That was considered passé and not good enough for the Serious boys. They had state of the art recording equipment, audio and video. Instead of observing through glass, you could now sit in the next room and watch the interview on screens via a live link-up. Making police work even more like a television programme. It was all a bit flash for Brough’s liking but this was the way things were going and, perhaps, a crime this Serious merited the use of top of the range gear. This was not merely talking tough to a couple of prepubescent shoplifters. This was the real deal. A mass murderer. A serial killer. This required the biggest of guns.

And so Dobley was collected in a van. Brough rode with him, but in the front. The van took them away from the decaying town centre and down a hill. A couple of miles later, it pulled up behind the imposing edifice of the divisional station, recently refurbished to house the high-falutin’ shiny new Serious Crimes Department. Spotlights on a patch of lawn pointed their beams at the rotating metal sign so that those arrested after dark would be impressed by where they were being taken into custody. He glanced over his shoulder to look at Dobley through the meshed window. He looked far from impressed. Brough wondered if the money squandered on all this “re-branding” couldn’t have been better spent keeping a small branch station going.

He deigned to allow Stevens, called back into work when it got around the grass had got his man, to observe the suspect via video camera, as Dobley sat patiently at the table, sans tie, sans belt and shoelaces.

“Him?” Stevens gulped coffee from a plastic beaker, “Am you shitting me?”

“I shit you not,” replied Brough.

“Let me have five minutes with him. I’ll get it out of him, the whole bloody lot.”

“He’s my collar.”

“I don’t care if he’s your fucking Cartier necklace. Let me have a go at him.”

“It’s my case. I nicked him.”

“And I say you should let us handle it from here.” Stevens crumpled the cup and dropped it onto the floor.

“It’s my case,” Brough repeated, quietly. Stevens breathed out through his nose like an angry bull.

“Tell you what,” Stevens took pains to calm himself. “Let me have first crack. You can watch from here. Observe the fucker. You’ll find that can be very useful. I’m not trying to tread on your toes, even though you am a fucking grass.”

“I beg your pardon!”

Stevens held up his hands. “Sorry, sorry, force of habit. What do you say? You can always storm in and take over if I’m not getting nowhere.”

Brough thought about it. The ‘grass’ jibe had weakened his resolve. He gave his consent.

“Lovely!” Stevens rubbed his hands together and left. Seconds later, he and a detective sergeant Brough didn’t recognise appeared in the room next door. Dobley barely looked at him as they sat down.

Stevens got through the formalities quickly and efficiently. The showy recording equipment, audio and video, was started up. Introductions were made - the D.S. was called Woodcock - and the interview began.

Stevens opened a manila folder and spread the gory crime scene photographs in front of Dobley as though he was about to perform a tarot reading. Dobley glanced down but quickly looked up again. His lips parted in a grimace of disgust.

“Not pretty pictures, are they, Trev?” Stevens winced in sympathy. “Not the sort of thing you’d want to put in frames and hang up in your nice clean reception area, are they?”

Dobley didn’t respond. He was looking at the lens behind the detectives’ shoulders. On the other side, Brough twitched and had to remind himself the creepy bastard couldn’t see him.

“Look at the fucking pictures!” Stevens exploded suddenly. Dobley flinched. The D.I.’s eyes were wide and staring - glaring at him. The unkempt moustache was quivering with barely contained rage. With considerable effort, Dobley lowered his gaze to the glossy images on the table.

A look of horror and absolute repugnance formed on his features and didn’t look as though it would ever leave them. His brow furrowed in puzzlement. His eyes sought the inspector’s.

“Why are you showing me these?” He sounded as though he might throw up at any second. His face was pale and sickly, coated in a sweaty sheen.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Stevens made an expansive shrug. “Caption competition?” He snatched up one photograph. “What about this one? Have a go. Woodcock here - the best he could come up with was ‘Never mind glasses, his eyesight’s so bad he needs fucking bottles’. I think that’s shit, don’t you? Don’t you think that’s a shit caption for this photo, Trevor?”

Dobley’s head dropped. Stevens took this as a nod. He nudged the detective sergeant.

“Here, Gary, Trevor here thinks your caption’s shit. Are you going to take that from him, Gary?”

D.S. Gary Woodcock made a sound like a mirthless laugh. He’d thought his caption was quite good, actually.

“So, go on.” Stevens slid the picture closer to Dobley. “Give us a caption for this image.”

Dobley said nothing. Stevens swapped photographs.

“What about this one, then? Bloke with a bloody big book rammed down his neck.”

“Um, ‘food for thought’?” offered Woodcock.

“Not you, Gary,” Stevens sneered. “Not your fucking turn, is it?” He turned to look at the D.S. incredulously. “’Fucking food for thought’? Fuck off.” He turned back to Dobley. “Well?”

“I don’t know why you’re showing me these horrible things.”

“Because I want to see what you had for lunch, that’s why. Jesus! I wonder how that station of yours gets anything done if they’m all as thick as you.” He cast a glance to the camera lens, just long enough for Brough to see his hairy smirk. Brough, for his part, bristled.

“And what about this one? Nice bit of home decorating, wouldn’t you say so, Woodcock?”

Dobley’s expression hardened when he saw the shots of the librarian’s living room.

“Looks familiar, does it?”

Dobley pushed the photographs away. He looked at the detectives in turn. “I’ll only talk to Brough,” he said.

Watching the monitors, it was Brough’s turn to smirk. He had to make do with hoping the wanker Stevens was imagining it.

The recordings were paused. Stevens and Woodcock left Dobley alone with the photographs. They joined Brough in the observation room.

“You heard,” Stevens grumbled.

“I did indeed,” Brough replied smugly. “I’ll borrow your Woodcock, if I may.”

D.S. Woodcock looked to Stevens for permission. Stevens grunted. Brough and Woodcock went to the interview room.

***

Brough was playing back the video recording of the interview with Dobley. The red and stubbly head was flickering in freeze frame on the flat screen.

“Ugly bugger,” was Stevens’s assessment. He was sitting the wrong way around on a chair with his forearms on the back rest. Brough surmised this odious man would wear a baseball cap in the same conventionally unconventional manner.

“But telling the truth,” Brough added. “At least, I believe him.”

“He can say what he likes,” Stevens threw a drained plastic cup at the television. It bounced off Dobley’s nose. “We’ve got him. He did that library weirdo.”

“He’s not denying that; he -“

“He’s lying about the others. Perhaps he thinks he’ll get off more lightly. Silly bastard. He’d be more famous if he owned up to the lot.”

“It’s not about being famous. You heard him -“

“I bloody did. Most piss-poor motivation for a murder ever.”

“I don’t know,” Brough considered. “Some people get killed for pulling away too slowly at traffic lights.”

Stevens mulled this over. “Crazy fuckers,” he pronounced.

“Watch again - see how his body language changes. When he’s talking about the librarian, see how open he is. But when the other victims are mentioned... look at his eyes. They’re all over the place.”

Stevens wailed. “Oh, you’re not going to give me all that psychological bollocks, am you? I hate all that shit. What happened to coppers going with their gut?”

Brough toyed with the remote control. Serious Crimes certainly had some serious hardware. The bad boys always get the best toys.

“There’s still a place for the more traditional, instinctive policing. This is just a way of formalising that. You get a feeling about someone - this is an amplification of that. It’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Bah!”

Enjoying Stevens’s annoyance, Brough pointed the handset at the television and pressed Play.

***

On the screen, Dobley’s face began to move, his mouth working as though framing his words before speaking. Off- screen, Brough’s deeper voice and southern accent asked calmly and patiently for Dobley to describe the scene.

“I followed her,” the contrite and ashamed Dobley began. He kept his voice relatively steady as he recounted the horrors of his crime. “I knew who she was, like, because, well, I used to go to the library for the large print Westerns. For me dad, like, not me. I prefer biographies, me. Any road, the library closed early of course, because of the murder. And it was my half day so it all sort of come together.

“I followed her - she walks to work, or rather she did. She won’t be walking anywhere no more. And when she put her key in the front door, I rushed up behind her and shoved her into the house. Landed on top of her in the hallway. She didn’t have a clue what was going on. So I gets off her - there was nothing kinky going on; I want to make that clear. This was - this was - this was business, I suppose you’d call it.

“I sort of shooed her into the kitchen. Didn’t give her chance to stand up. Just sort of bundled her along. She was gasping and sobbing all the while and I told her she better shut up. Well, she wasn’t going to shut up, was she? Stands to reason. So I had to clatter her with something and the first thing I found was a frying pan. Well, that shut her up.

“And then, I don’t know. I don’t know what come over me. I sort of got carried away like. Once I got started I knew I couldn’t stop until I’d finished. It was like my hands weren’t my own. My dad - he was a butcher, you see. I don’t know what that’s got to do with it. I don’t know about geneticals and all that but I don’t think you get jobs passed down the generations. Besides, when he had me, he was a postman. Any road, I could sort of see myself doing it - the chopping her up, I mean - and it wasn’t like it was me doing it. It was like I was hypnotised or something.”

“See his eyes!” Brough paused the recording. “He’s not making this up.”

“He’s round the bloody twist,” Stevens groaned. “That’s how this will go. He’ll get hospital not jail.”

“And now, I ask about the others...” Brough restarted the recording with a flourish of his wrist.

“I have already fucking seen it, you know,” Stevens complained.

“Ssh,” said Brough.

“I don’t know anything about that lot,” Dobley sat up, as though to distance himself from the crime scene photographs of the other victims.

“But you said it wasn’t like you - with the librarian, I mean. I wonder if you perhaps did the rest as well but have been more successful in blocking them from your mind.”

Dobley shook his head slowly and repeatedly. His eyes were wet and his lips trembled. “No,” he said at last. “I would have remembered. Like watching a film. I would have seen it. I would remember seeing it.”

“Look at this. Dennis Morgan. Do you like beer, Trevor? I can call you Trevor?”

“Yes. I mean yes you can call me Trevor. I don’t like beer, no.”

“And what do you think of those who do like beer, Trevor? Those who take over the town, causing trouble.”

“No!” Dobley cried out suddenly. “You’re going off on a tangent. It’s not like that. It’s not why - “ He broke off and did that mouth-moving thing before he gave voice to his next sentence. “People want to have a beer, I say go for it. Live and let live -“

A snort from Stevens.

“And the festival’s good for the town. I want what’s good for the town.”

“So you went to the festival or didn’t you?”

“I like to show my face. See some familiar faces. Folk come from miles around, you know.”

“But you don’t drink the beer?”

“There’s more to it than beer.”

“Did you know him? Dennis Morgan? Was he one of the familiar faces?”

“No, I -“

Brough paused the recording to interject, “It’s the truth. This was Morgan’s first visit to Dedley Beer Festival.”

“Whoopee cack,” said Stevens.

“Keep your eyes on his eyes,” Brough tapped the face on the screen.

“And you keep your fucking fingers off my plasma.”

“I now ask him about the homeless man - identity still unconfirmed.”

Stevens rubbed the sides of his head with both hands. He was losing what little patience he had. “I know! I watched it live! Can we just review the tape without the fucking director’s commentary?”

On screen, Dobley glanced at the photographs of the homeless man, his head all but sliced in two by the brutal introduction of the book. Dobley’s face expressed his shock and disgust more eloquently than words. He looked away.

“How did you get the book, Trevor?”

“What book?”

“The book in the photograph. That book.”

“I never. I wouldn’t. I respect books.”

“And the homeless? Do you respect them?”

“Well, I - I - don’t like them in the town if that’s what you mean but I - I would never -“

“At the time this man was killed, you weren’t at your desk, were you, Trevor? You’d nipped out, hadn’t you? On one of your little errands.”

“I - I -“ Trevor’s face became a writhing mask of panic. Then he deflated like a leaky balloon and his head sank. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Sorry for what, Trevor? The murders?”

“No!” Dobley sat up straight again so he could look Brough directly in the eye. “I mean, I’m sorry about the library lady, I shouldn’t have done that, but I never done the others.”

“Then what are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry I skipped off work, sir. I only nipped out for a packet of mints. The old D.I. he was always sending me out to fetch this and that and I sort of got into the habit, sir. You won’t dock my wages, will you? Sir? I’ve still got some of the mints, sir. As proof.”

“Why did you do it, Trevor?”

“Keeps me breath fresh for the public, sir.”

“The librarian. Miss...” Brough checked some notes, “Grayson.”

Dobley chewed his thumb while his brain strung together his statement. Tears coursed down his flabby face and when he spoke his voice was thick and cracked.

“For the good of the town, sir.”

There was a pause while Brough and Woodcock waited. Nothing further was forthcoming so Brough prompted. “You think butchering a librarian is for the good of the town? One less pay packet out of the council tax, do you mean?”

“No, sir!” Dobley was sobbing by this point. His upper body heaved and shook. “I know what’s going on, sir. I thought I’d show them. Thought I’d show them this town needs - this town needs -“

“What does this town need, Trevor?”

Fat fingers wiped away tears. The face, as red and wet as if it had been slapped with fresh fish, brightened into a little smile.

“You, sir.”

***

As well as popping out to the shops when the whim seized him, Dobley had also got into the habit, under the aegis of Detective Inspector Sharples of delivering the post directly to the addressee. If he couldn’t put it in D.I. Sharples’s hands directly, Dobley would place any and all incoming mail squarely on the D.I.’s desk so that the detective wouldn’t need a magnifying glass or bloodhound in order to locate it.

An envelope had come in, high quality and official-looking. Dobley had recognised the stamp of the Chief Constable at once. The envelope was marked URGENT and CONFIDENTIAL . And it was addressed to Detective Inspector Harry Sharples. Who, of course, had retired and was off on a deep sea fishing trip somewhere in the Pacific. And therefore, out of reach.

Dobley had dithered. Should he forward it to the D.I.’s home? Should he hand it to the new D.I., the go-getting Mr Brough who seemed to want the best, in the same way that Dobley wanted the best?

Dobley had taken the decision to prise the heavy envelope open - carefully so that the thing could be resealed if necessary - and take a peek at the contents in order to help him decide what to do about the letter.

Harry Sharples had never really got to grips with email. Faxing had passed him by and text messages were as alien to him as jungle drums. The letter began, “Further to our telephone conversation...”

Dobley had blenched when he read the letter. He had had to reread it several times in order for the awful truth to sink in.

Dedley Police Station was to fall victim to the cuts in funding.

Dedley Police Station was to close.

Dobley had become unhinged at that point. He had spent his entire working life behind that desk - when he wasn’t nipping out for mints or sausage rolls, that is. But it was more than his own selfish concerns that tipped him over the edge.

“You gave me a wake-up call, sir,” he explained to Brough. “I’d become whatsit - complacent. Taking the station for granted. I’d let things slide. But you made me take pride in the old place again. And then - to hear - to hear they were closing it down. Moving everything to a more centralised location - that’s what it said in the letter. But Division’s miles away, sir! They don’t know the town like the local coppers do. Do you think local people will be happy waiting for someone from Division to come and chase the handbag snatchers and the shoplifters? Do you think local people will be safe without a police station just up the road, sir?”

Dobley had wanted to show that a station, a charging station, was still necessary in the town centre. “All the big shops’ve gone, sir,” he continued. “The heart’s going from the town. Take the station away and it’ll become a lawless wasteland, sir. People will think nobody cares about them. It’ll be horrible, sir.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to go so far with Miss Grayson, sir. As I said, I got carried away. I don’t know what came over me. And when I’d finished, sir, there was the smell of beer everywhere. I couldn’t get it out of my nose. I don’t know where it come from. Perhaps she had some on her when I knocked her over, but it was everywhere, sir. Oh, I don’t know what happened. It got out of hand. I was only going to keep her tied up, scare her a bit, so that when word got out, everybody would shit themselves. There’d be an outcry, sir. People would want the police around the place, sir. Then the bigwigs would see the station is vital, sir. Vital to the town.”

Stevens was pacing the room by this point, noisily chewing a piece of gum. “Do you believe this shit?” From his tone, his opinion of Dobley’s account was apparent.

“It makes sense to him,” said Brough. “A twisted sort of logic, a distorted view of public service, but -“

“You’re as barmy as he is.” Stevens spat out his gum. It missed the waste bin. Brough shuddered, thinking of the carpet. Some people don’t deserve nice things. Stevens caught the look. “Don’t screw your nose up at me!” he roared. He jabbed his finger in Brough’s astonished face. “You’re the scum here. Not that silly bastard in there. At least he’s an honest criminal.”

“And you’re an honest copper?”

Stevens’s nostrils flared as if Brough had farted out a rotting dog. He lowered his voice. “You bet I am, pretty boy.”

“Come on then,” it was Brough’s turn to raise his voice. “Let’s have it now. What would you do, eh? What the fuck would you do? You find out about a bent copper - a whole fucking nest of bent coppers - what would you do about it?”

“There’s ways...” Stevens began unconvincingly.

“Yes,” said Brough. “The quiet word. The ‘I’m on to you so knock it off or cut me in’ approach. That’s how it spreads, you know.”

“You don’t go running to Internal and cry about it. Those guys are scum.”

“I was appointed by those guys,” Brough said, his teeth barely managing to contain the anger rising within him. “I was undercover all along. I would have preferred to have found nothing was going on. That the rumours of people trafficking were unfounded. The saying is true, there’s honour among thieves, but I found very little in the way of honour among bent coppers.”

“Aww,” Stevens pouted sarcastically. “Good job your daddy was able to fish you out and protect you then, wasn’t it?”

“My father,” Brough gave the word special emphasis, “advised me against it from the start. He warned me how difficult things would be, during the operation and afterwards. To think,” he laughed bitterly, “he sent me here for a quiet life.”

“Nobody likes a snitch,” Stevens observed. “People think you’re snooping around them, and don’t give me that ‘if you’ve got nothing to hide’ speech. That’s bollocks. A snitch puts people on edge -“

“Which is why I was undercover -“

“You’re out in the open now.”

“My snitching days are over.”

There was silence.

“Tell you what,” Stevens pointed at the frozen image of Trevor Dobley. “You can have him. I’m washing my hands of it. You’ll get no interference from Serious. You do what you fucking want.” He went out and came back in again as though he had been rewound. “Think yourself lucky you only got grass clippings. Woodcock was all for sending you a pigeon glued to a stool.”

He strode from the room, leaving the door wide open so that D.S. Miller, just arrived, could find her way in.

“Sir?” Miller had to repeat a couple of times to pull Brough’s attention from the telly. He turned to face her and she considered he wasn’t half-bad looking when he wasn’t scowling or complaining. Nice eyes. Like chocolates.

“I hope you’re going to follow that up with ‘Here’s some industrial strength coffee’,” he gave her a thin flicker of his lips that disappeared as quickly as it had come, “or you can do one.”

“Um...” Miller was confused. Did he mean she could do a coffee or was he using that slangy talk Southerners use on the telly?

“Well?” he snapped, giving her an impatient prompt. What was she dithering there for, the stupid woman?

“Um, did you want coffee?” Miller pointed back at the door as though to suggest she would fetch him one.

“Like the flowers need the rain,” Brough sighed. “What is it, Miller?”

Ah, Miller was relieved to find they were back on track. She took a step towards him. “We’ve heard from the Yanks, sir. About our American visitor.”

Brough’s eyebrows ascended quickly. “Oh, have we now!”

Miller held out a sheet of paper, still faintly warm from SCD’s fancy fax machine. “Makes for interesting reading, sir.” Then she added, “And no mistake,” to show they watched the same television programmes.

“Does it now!” he accepted the page and skim read it. “Always thought there was more to our Miz um... than meets the eye.”

He met the eye of Cassidy Whitlow’s photograph. She looked pale and serious in black and white.

“Come on, Miller,” he sprang to his feet. “We’ll pop into the station - our station - and then pay Miz um Whitlow a visit.”

Great, thought Miller. More overtime. And perhaps, over time, he might look at me too.

***

“Um, did you want something or are you going to stand there all night?” Cassidy had stood gazing up at Bertie box for several minutes and her neck was beginning to hurt.

Mr Box shifted his weight. It was like a monolith settling into sand. He raised a hand that looked to Cassidy like he was wearing a baseball glove under his skin. She flinched but then realised he was pointing beyond her shoulder. She turned to see. And saw the curtains flapping at the open window. Anfred was gone.

She turned back to Mr Box and gave him a nervous, toothy smile. “See? No unauthorised visitors here. No, sir.” She found herself saluting the huge man goodnight and her cheeks heating up with blushing. She moved to close the door but Mr Box had other ideas. He stepped into the room - although how he managed to get through the doorway without causing structural damage, Cassidy didn’t see; she was too busy backing away until the backs of her legs struck the edge of the bed. She sat involuntarily and clumsily on her holdall. She pulled it out from under her and hugged it in front of her as though it would shield her if this giant took it upon himself to tear her to pieces.

He loomed over the bed. With the light behind his head, his face remained in shadow. Cassidy watched as his silhouette looked from her to the window and back again. Her eyes darted around for something - anything! - within arms’ reach that she could either throw at or stick in him. Oh, for a handy bazooka!

“You’re Mister Box, right?” she stammered. Maybe if she engaged this refugee from Easter Island in idle chitchat he would forget he came in here to pulverise her. “I’ve seen your picture.” True enough, she had. She had been unable to see his face then, too. “Um, that business in the kitchen? The beer? I’ll pay for it - of course, I will.”

Her vision cleared and she was able to see the wall facing her. Mr Box had moved like a glacier towards the window. Cassidy froze, listening to him fasten the latch and draw the curtains. She closed her eyes. Now there was no possibility of being witnessed, he would surely rip her to shreds like a bread roll for duck food.

Run! Her instincts told her. Throw yourself out of the door and down the stairs and get the hell out of there.

But she found she couldn’t move. The window of opportunity, like the one behind the curtains, was closed as Mr Box’s shadow fell upon her again. She held her breath, her face bunched up like the knot of a balloon and her hands dug into the bedspread like claws.

This was it! The end had come!

Or maybe not...

She opened an eye. The room was empty and the door was closed. Mr Box had gone. She was unscathed.

She opened her other eye and let out a long breath of relief. She remained seated, somewhat stupefied by this incident. One thing was certain: she was more determined than ever to check out of the Ash Tree.

“Fucking nut hatch!” she shook her head. She returned to packing her stuff.

***

While Miller drove, Brough pored over the information she had downloaded from the fax and an accompanying email from the FBI. It made for very interesting reading.

“So, this is not the first time Miz um... has been involved in something of this nature.”

“Not just involved, sir,” Miller glanced at him. “Implicated.”

Brough pulled a face. “You say potato,” he shrugged.

“Potato, sir,” Miller humoured him.

“But...” he leafed through the pages, “she was never charged.”

“Scot free,” said Miller, with a tut of disapproval and a what-is-the-world-coming-to headshake.

“And how many died?” Brough riffled the papers again, unable to locate the data.

“Seventeen, sir. All of ‘em brutally slain. I downloaded the crime scene piccies.” She nodded towards the folder on his lap. He opened the cover and closed it again very quickly. Miller tried to conceal her amusement as he steeled himself to open the folder again. His gasps of horror grew with each photograph.

“Sir,” Miller continued, her eyes firmly on the road ahead, “there was some suspicion that our Miss Whitlow was behind it all. Egging the killer on. For research purposes, if you can believe that. She said she had nothing to do with it and the killer was merely trying to impress her. So she’d put him in her book.”

“Book?” said Brough, trying to sound casual as he swiftly hid a particularly horrific picture within the bundle of papers.

“As yet unpublished, sir. Manuscript was impounded for the trial.”

“So,” Brough turned his gaze to the passenger window, glancing at the shadowy buildings with their darkened windows and untold secrets, “she’s here ‘researching’ another one, is she? And this um - someone was nicked then?”

“Yes, sir. Pinned it all on a student from, er, Scandinavia, as it happens. He’s in a funny farm now. Criminally insane.”

“So, this student was convicted and she got off?”

“Looks like it,” Miller pulled her car into a space a little way down from the Bed and Breakfast. “Jury must have been convinced. But she was given counselling of some sort. You know how they’re mad for it over there. Spent some time in a clinic. I spoke to a Professor...um... Rosenberg. He was her Whojimmyflop. Shrink. He seemed nice.”

The car came to a stop with a jolt. Brough’s folders slip from his lap. With a groan, he tried to gather them up before realising, with a louder groan, that it would be an easier task if he unfastened his seat belt first.

“Scandinavia, eh?” he resumed, sending her a look that warned her against showing any signs of amusement at his clumsiness.

“Trondheim, sir.” Miller found it easier to keep a straight face if she didn’t look directly at him. “Does it make a difference?”

“I should say so!” Brough said in a patronising tone that suggested he was about to demonstrate why he was an inspector and she a lowly sergeant. “We have a Norwegian lad in town at the moment, don’t we? And who has he hooked up with?”

Miller thought about this and the light bulb of her mind came on - it was a low energy eco-bulb that took a while to flicker into life..

“...Ooh!”

“’Ooh!’ indeed!” Brough nodded. In unison, their necks craned to see the main entrance of the Ash Tree B & B. A porch light was still burning. Brough didn’t care. He’d wake the bloody lot up if need be.

“Coincidence, sir?” Miller nodded at the Norwegian police report in the inspector’s lap.

He pinned her with a stare before reciting, “In this job you find there is no such thing as coincidence.”

“Funny,” said Miller, offering a smile, “I was just going to say the same thing.”

Her friendliness was met with stern disapproval.

“This is a multiple murder investigation, Miller. Not the Adventures of the Laughing Policemen.”

Miller hung her head. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

They sat in silence watching the guest house while D.I. Brough wondered how to handle their next move.

***

In the reception area, Cassidy with all her bags packed, rang the bell repeatedly and furiously. It attracted no one’s attention.

“Hello?” Cassidy was also yelling, over and over, “Mrs Box? Mr Box? Hello?”

She paused and listened. There was no sign of anyone coming. She resumed the bell battery and the calling out. After only a few seconds, she gave up. “Screw this!” she spat. She pulled out a confusing wad of banknotes and, baffled, pulled out a couple of brown ones and a purple and a blue... “Goddamn Mickey Mouse money!” She showered most of the notes onto the counter and then, uncertain, added the rest. Then she snatched one back for cab fare. She rammed this into her pocket and then rolled her eyes as she pulled out her room key and its ridiculously large fob. She slapped it onto the counter top. It made the act of leaving more final. And that was good.

She gathered up her things, slinging a couple of bags over her shoulders, another under her arm and one more in each hand.

I’m outta here! She thought, happy to be on her way.

Loaded up, she turned and collided with someone she hadn’t seen join her.

“Oof! Oh, oh shit!” she gasped, stooping to retrieve her dropped baggage. “I was just leaving - I -“

She backed into the counter and dropped her bags again.

***

In the kitchen, wilfully ignoring the commotion in Reception, Mrs Box was engaged in the pouring of bottle after bottle of Ragnarök beer into the sink. She hummed tunelessly to herself and appeared perfectly happy in this task. A noise that wasn’t emanating from the angry American gave her pause. She stopped; she waited. The noise did not reoccur. She reached for another bottle and flicked off the cap.

The unmistakable sound of a knife moving swiftly through air made her jump around.

“Who’s there?” she called out, weakly. She cleared her throat and, with more vocal control this time, “Bertie? Hello?”

Anfred stepped from the shadows of her neatly ordered shelf units. Light glinted from the blade of the butcher knife he held before him.

“Put the beer down, Mrs Box,” he said, flatly.

“I am doing,” said Mrs Box, apparently unconcerned. “Down the bloody sink.”

“You meddling old boot,” Anfred sneered but came no closer. “Just put it down and I’ll take it all away from here. Far away.”

“Evil. Pure evil,” Mrs Box opined but whether she meant the foaming liquid gurgling down the plughole or the Norwegian nutter with the knife was not clear.

“That,” said Anfred wryly, “is in the eye of the beer holder.”

“And that happens to be me,” said Mrs Box, continuing to pour. “Why have you come back here?” The question was almost casually posed. Mrs Box wasn’t going to let the unwelcome visitor see how much she was rattled.

“I like it here.” The response sounded equally casual. It could have been any idle conversation in a bus stop or bar.

“Well,” Mrs Box gave the current bottle one last shake, “we don’t like you.”

“Oh, Edna!” Anfred’s expression was one of amusement rather than pain. “That’s hurtful.” He took a step closer. Mrs Box spun around to face him and he froze but this was no childish game.

“Look,” she pointed a fresh bottle at him like a finger. “What happened all those years ago, we -“

“You wanted it to happen!” he cut her short, pushing the bottle aside. “You both did!”

“We all make mistakes.” She uncapped the bottle and upended it over the sink. Anfred came closer and spoke over her shoulder.

“The years have not been kind to you.” A cruel twist played on his lips. “You’re harder. Colder.”

“I would have thought you’d be at home with the cold,” she was trying to keep her voice off-hand and calm. “You look exactly the same.”

“I have excellent genes,” he boasted.

“And you’re still an almighty prat.”

He was tickled by the insult but did not address it. “It’s not too late,” he said in hushed and breathy tones. Mrs Box’s shoulder twitched and a shudder ran through her. “Leave me the beer. It’s just a bit of fun.”

Mrs Box laughed bitterly. “Your idea of fun drives people round the bloody twist.”

“Where’s your sense of humour?”

“Back off!” She straightened her back and set her jaw. “I know you’ve got my best carving knife behind your back.”

“Who? Me?” He spluttered his innocence. She turned to see him making an extravagant display of showing her his empty hands. Mrs Box seemed unconvinced. He took another step towards her.

“Come, lighten up. It could be like the old days - better! I’ll give you and old Bertie the best seats in town and we’ll sit back and watch the mortals slice each other to bits. It will be a right giggle.”

“You said that last time.”

“I was careless,” he held up his hands to own up, “Things got out of control.”

“We don’t want your sort around here,” she stepped towards him, looking up into his eyes. “Folk am crazy enough these days without your input. Don’t you watch the news? Go on. Piss off. Loki.”

Anfred changed colour with anger. “Don’t ever say that name!” he roared. On the rows of shelves, pots and plates shook. The bottle in Mrs Box’s hand shattered, showering her with beer and glass. He rushed at her, pushing her back towards the sink. The knife was suddenly in his hand. He pressed the flat of the blade against her throat. “You don’t ever call me that.”

“What?” Mrs Box forced herself to maintain eye contact, despite the heat and sulphurous odour of his breath. “Loki?”

“I’m warning you...” His nose was a centimetre from hers. In his eyes blazed the madness of millennia.

“You won’t touch me,” Mrs Box allowed contempt to colour her voice. “You can’t. It’s me and Bertie what’s keeping you here. Without us, you’ll be beamed back to wherever you come from.”

He laughed. “’Beamed’?”

“Well, however it happens. And I know for a fact you don’t want to go back there. Trapped under that snake with the drip, drip, drip of the venom driving you off your conk.”

“Shut up!” he bellowed, treating her to another gust of stale breath. But he released her. The knife, however, he kept in plain sight.

He took a moment to calm down. “Look,” he tried to reason with the stubborn old boot, “Things are just getting started around here. This little festival is just the beginning. Sales reps will be taking samples all across the country, all across Europe.”

“We’re not interested,” said Mrs Box as though trying to deter a door-to-door salesman. “The B & B takes all of our time.”

“Pitiful,” said Anfred, disgusted. “Every single one of you.”

“So bugger off then,” Mrs Box flapped a tea towel in his direction. “Go back to Assland.”

“Asgard,” he corrected her although he knew she knew what she was saying.

“Go back to spending eternity chained to those rocks.”

Anger flashed again across that timeless face. “I’m warning you...” he said again.

Mrs Box made a scornful exclamation. “Don’t make me laugh,” she said.

***

D.I. Brought and D.S. Miller were conducting an exploration of the rear of the building. There was a small car-park with cracks in the asphalt and moss encroaching across the surface. There were a couple of large, cylindrical bins on wheels, a few empty beer crates unevenly stacked, and on a small, weed-ridden patio, a neglected garden furniture set, its white plastic greyed with mildew. The beams of their police issue torches played across all these things but care was taken to keep the light from the windows and alerting the occupants to their presence.

“Seems quiet, sir,” whispered Miller.

“I believe the customary response is ‘Too quiet’,” Brough murmured, humourlessly. “Come on. Back up will have arrived by now. They’ll be out front.”

“Shall we join them, sir?”

“No, for you and me, a little bit of back door action is called for.”

“Sir!” Miller gasped in shock and, she had to admit, delight.

Brough realised what he had said and blushed. He turned his embarrassment to annoyance. “Get that bloody light off my face!”

He had had no choice but to call for reinforcements. He wasn’t sure whose collar he’d come to feel: the American’s or the big loony’s. Perhaps both. But he couldn’t do it alone. He glanced at Miller. Well, not quite alone but as good as.

“Sir, sorry, sir!” Miller swept her torch to his feet. Oh, he was attractive when he was riled up! She kept the beam trained on his feet and lower legs as he stepped towards the rear entrance of the B & B. His fingers closed around the door handle.

His heart almost stopped when Miller’s phone suddenly started playing the theme tune from Cagney & Lacey. He swatted at her to switch the damn thing off. She showed him the illuminated screen.

“From Interpol, sir.”

Brough took the phone and read the email.

“Ohh...” he said.

***

Cassidy had barricaded herself behind the counter in Reception and was bombarding her assailant with glass dolphins and china kittens in boots. The shadow of Bertie Box hung over her. He would not be warded off with ornaments and bric-a-brac. She tried a barrage of invective and imprecations as well.

“Keep the fuck away from you, you fucking giant!”

A glass bird with a bulbous body and long neck - the kind that will dip its own beak as if taking a drink - deflected off Bertie’s shoulder.

“Just let me settle my bill and get the fuck out of here,” Cassidy held up her hands. She gaped in horror as Bertie Box stepped over the counter as if it was nothing. The rear wall was against her back. Some of the fading celebrity photographs crashed to the floor.

Bertie was unrelenting. Cassidy’s knees buckled and her back slid down the wall. She held up her arms as if they would be enough to protect her.

***

Bertie’s wife and Anfred were still at their impasse in the kitchen. They were eyeballing each other, cat and mouse at a standoff but it was difficult to determine which was which.

“Come now, Mrs Box,” Anfred smirked, breaking the silence. “Isn’t it about time for you to tell me I won’t get away with this?”

Mrs Box affected a yawn. “If you say so, chick.”

“And then I will counter that by telling you how my plan is foolproof and there is nothing you can do about it.”

Mrs Box rolled her eyes slowly. “For a god of mischief you ain’t half a boring fart, do you know that?”

Anfred laughed heartily and sincerely. “You still have the power to amuse. Come, it’s not too late for you to join me.”

Mrs Box counted on her fingers. “I’ve got floors to clean, beds to make, tiny bottles of shampoo to replenish...”

“Like all humans you lack the necessary imagination to appreciate what I’m doing.”

Mrs Box returned his look of contempt. “You’re driving people to commit gruesome murders with that pathetic moose piss you call beer.”

“Oh well, you put it like that -“

They were interrupted by the arrival of the American girl, staggering as though shoved through the door. Behind her, filling the exit came Bertie Box, a silent block of flesh and muscle.

“Well now!” Anfred exclaimed brightly. “What have we here? Come to join the party, Cass?”

“Not by choice,” Cassidy grumbled. “This place is crawling with fucking freaks.”

A shove to her back like a bulldozer pushing into a building sent her stumbling further into the room. She collided with Anfred who caught her and helped her stand up.

“Thanks,” she composed herself. Then she frowned as she caught sight of the large knife in his hand. “What’s with the blade?”

Anfred groaned. “Do we really have to go through all the exposition again?”

“I’d appreciate it,” said Cassidy, keeping a wary eye on the knife.

Anfred turned to the landlady. “Mrs Box?” he invited her.

Mrs Box took a deep breath. “He’s Loki, Norse god of mischief, the trickster and shape shifter, escaped from his otherworldly prison to wreak havoc among mortal men.”

“Right...” Cassidy was having difficulty processing this information.

“It’s true,” said Anfred, happily.

“Heh,” said Cassidy feeling awkward. She began to edge towards the back door. “I’m just going to leave, if that’s okay with everybody. Here’s my credit card, Mrs B. You can fucking keep it.”

She tossed the piece of plastic to Mrs Box’s feet where it lay, unwanted and disregarded.

“Oh no,” Anfred seized her by the upper arm, “you’re not going anywhere.” He raised the tip of the knife to her neck.

“He does that a lot, dear,” said Mrs Box, helpfully.

“Fucking freaks,” said Cassidy. Her eyes widened as she tried to see if the knife was causing any damage to her throat, despite the impossibility of this action.

“Right!” yelled Detective Inspector Brough, storming in. “Nobody move!”

“Nobody!” echoed Detective Sergeant Miller from over his shoulder.

Brough moved towards the Norwegian. “Put the knife down, son,” he said, as if he hadn’t got time for shenanigans. “Let the Yank go.”

“Hey!” Cassidy complained about the epithet.

“Stand down, Inspector Brough,” Anfred matched the policeman’s tone perfectly. “Don’t make me slice her.”

“Hey!” Cassidy didn’t like the sound of that either.

Brough pointed at the floor as a visual aid for his next instruction. “Put. The. Knife. Down.”

“Down!” yelled Miller, coming to her superior’s side. “The knife. Put it.”

“All right, Miller,” Brough urged from the side of his mouth. “Just get the other two where I can see them.”

“Sir.”

She signalled with her head to the large man in the doorway for him to join his tiny wife. The large man didn’t move. Miller improvised; she took Mrs Box by the hand and led her over to her husband.

“Don’t make things worse for yourself, son,” Brough tried to sound reasonable. “There’s no need to add to the body count.”

“Son!” Anfred exclaimed. “Believe me, Inspector, I am older than I look.”

“You’re crazy!” Cassidy was squirming in his grasp. “He’s crazy, Inspector. Can you like help me or something?”

“Steady, Miz Whitlow....” Brough put out his hands as though to calm down a wider audience.

“He remembered your name, Miss,” Miller marvelled, “That’s a good sign.”

“Christ,” muttered Cassidy.

Mrs Box raised a hand and stepped forward. “If I might make a suggestion -“

“Hold tight, Mrs Box.” Brough snapped, irritated; why did people always think they could do his job better than he could? “We have reason to believe this man is not who he claims to be. We’ve heard from Interpol. There is indeed an Anfred Anfredsen, working as a sales rep for a brewery. Or rather worked. Poor bugger died in a car crash last year. At the grand old age of sixty three.”

“Oops,” said Anfred, biting his lower lip.

“But, Inspector, if I might interpose -“

“Mrs Box, please!” Brough was in danger of losing his professional cool.

“But how we got rid of him last time -“

Brough, Miller and Cassidy all turned to the diminutive landlady and gasped in perfect unison, “Last time?”

“Yes, dears,” Mrs Box was glad to have their undivided attention. “Been through this bugger’s shenanigans before. And I’ll be buggered if I’m going to let him do it all again.”

Her audience was hanging on her every word. Eyebrows raised, mouths opened as they urged her to continue. Mrs Box smiled in satisfaction, took a deep breath and began.

“It was over twenty years ago...”