Chapter 25

The Duck and Diogenes stood on The Green, the large triangle of parkland and trees in the York suburb of Acomb. One of Watson’s favourite pubs, it was walking distance from his mum’s house on the Grimpen housing estate and within staggering distance at the end of the evening. The quirkily named inn had great beers, live music twice weekly, comedy nights, and decent bar meals at reasonable prices.

Watson sat with Sara in the busy lounge where illuminated plastic pumpkins, giant spiders and other Halloween decorations hung from the ceiling. He’d decided that it might be a bright idea to take the young firefighter out for lunch. He was a friend, not a boyfriend, but treating someone to lunch was definite boyfriend and girlfriend shit. A cheap plate of chicken and chips could hopefully nudge her romantic feelings in the right direction - basically, in the direction of a bedroom.

The gruesome visit to Stephen Taylor’s house had occupied his thoughts all morning. There was a time when such things would have terrified the teenager, but since uncovering Quist’s dark secret and participating in his bizarre investigations, he was almost used to it these days - almost. Used to it or not, he couldn’t get the shocking murder out of his head.

Probably just as well, he contemplated, with a wry smile. If he WERE able to dismiss such horrors - dead people, with their spines snapped by nude killers − it would point towards a fairly weird psychological makeup.

Watson thought back to his brief sighting at the garden fence. Was the police suspect Tonga a paranormal creature? Apart from Tonga’s curious and rather antisocial pastime of murdering folk whilst stark naked, he’d appeared normal last night. Quist, however, had insisted he wasn’t human and the boss was usually right about such things. As if crushing skulls with his hands didn’t make this killer scary enough, he was some sort of supernatural monster, a very strong and lethal supernatural monster that Cyrano had crazily decided they should go looking for.

“Are you okay?” asked Sara, seeing his perturbed frown.

“Yeah, I was just thinking,” said Watson, shaking himself and taking a drink from his lager. “Hey, I thought schoolteachers had it cushy with all their holidays and days off, but firefighting is obviously the way to go. You only started back at work yesterday and you already have another day off.”

“It’s one of my spare days,” explained Sara. “They let me book it in at short notice so I could be with Gramps after the break-in and help tidy up the mess. It turns out I’ve wasted it though, because he says he’d rather do it himself.”

“Wasted?” Watson grinned. “How can it be wasted if you’re out with a good-looking guy like me?”

“Yeah, well when you put it that way.” Smiling, Sara looked around the crowded lounge and sipped her white wine. “Anyway, how much time off do you private investigators get? Here we are − another day and another pub.”

“We’re low on work at the moment, which is one of the reasons Cyrano agreed to investigate White Rose for you.” Watson raised his glass and winked. “Things are progressing too. He’s already managed to get one of the party deputies pissed and he found out about their Task Force, a bunch of scumbag thugs who Churchill pays to do all the nasty stuff like hurting people.”

“McMurdo and Millican, those two bastards who were sent to my house are obviously part of this group?”

“That’s right. The next step is to get himself inside their organisation and find proof for the cops that this Task Force work for White Rose. Cyrano also had our friend Rex persuade Rupert Grant to cancel his party funding.” He glanced at his watch. “He’s at their headquarters right now posing as some racist nutter with plenty of cash.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Absolutely. Knowing Cyrano, it’s going to be dangerous for them.” Watson thought again about the murders, Schneider’s corpse and the naked fleeing figure. If it was supernatural, as Quist believed, then things would doubtless be getting very dangerous indeed. “Listen, it’s great you’re here...” He clinked his glass against Sara’s. “But after the burglary yesterday, are you sure you don’t want to be at home with your grandad?”

“No, it’s okay.” She shook her head. “He’s fine and a guy replaced the broken lock in the kitchen this morning. The police said the break-in appeared professional; it looked a mess, but they didn’t do any real damage.”

“They didn’t use the lounge carpet as a toilet?” The youth raised his eyebrows. “They certainly don’t sound like York burglars.”

“No, thank God.” Sara laughed. “The weird thing is, nothing was taken. Drawers were open and bits of money, items of jewellery, and things like cameras were left there in them. The police are certain the robbers just searched the place looking for something specific.”

“If that’s right, what do you suppose it could be?” Watson grabbed two menus from the next table and passed one to the girl. “Something to eat would probably help us think. Here you go - lunch is on me.”

“Hey, that’s really nice.” Sara smiled sweetly and looked through the list of meals. “Speaking of the police, the detectives questioned Gramps and I about Lee Millican’s murder. I guess we’re suspects.”

“Suspects?” The teenager’s mouth fell open. “Keep this to yourself and don’t ask me how I’ve seen the forensic report, but Millican’s head was crushed flat against a wall using brute force.”

“His head was crushed?”

“Yeah, and you’re telling me they questioned you and your grandad about it?”

“Well, I suppose we could have paid someone to do it.” Sara shrugged. “Millican assaulted me so they’re bound to have us somewhere on their suspect list.”

“Was Millican the twat who nearly broke your cheekbone?”

“No, that was the other one, Harvey McMurdo.” Sara grimaced. “Millican punched me twice in the stomach.”

“He certainly won’t be punching any more girls.” Watson nodded grimly. “Not without his head. Hey, what can you tell me about your granddad’s mate, Daniel Geller?”

“Not much. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I don’t know...” He decided against mentioning the Beverley murder and Geller’s letters in Taylor’s drawer. “It could be important.”

“I can’t see how,” said Sara. “He’s German and pretty wealthy, but apart from that, I don’t know anything about him. Being Jewish, he hates White Rose too and saw the letters Gramps wrote to the papers. He contacted him a couple of weeks ago.” She closed the menu. “This is a nice idea, but to be honest, I’m not too hungry.”

“That’s no problem; neither am I.” Watson finished his lager. “Listen, are you sure your granddad is okay?”

“Yeah, Gramps is a resilient old guy. Why?”

“Well, the thing is, Mum’s away for two days at her sister’s place in Sheffield.” He gave the girl one of his special erotic smiles, something similar to a constipated fox. “Apart from Hucknall, our ginger cat, I have the house to myself. If you don’t want lunch and you don’t have to get straight home to your grandad, I was wondering if you fancied coming back to the house for a coffee or something?”

Sara smiled. “Or something?”

“Don’t get the wrong idea, but I have more questions about Geller and White Rose and...” Watson caught his breath as Sara leant over and kissed him.

“Why not,” she said, knocking back her drink. “Yeah, come on. Let’s go.”

Watson didn’t argue and, taking her offered hand, he followed Sara out into the rear car park. They arrived at the girl’s car parked by the shrubbery hedge and she gestured to the road. A dark saloon drove slowly past the pub with two men inside, both glaring their way.

“Shit, will you look at that?” she hissed, angrily.

“We’re being watched,” said Watson, as the car rolled to a halt. “Do you know them?”

“One of them.” Sara nodded. “I recognise him from yesterday at the White Rose headquarters. He was filming Churchill when he brought out those drinks I told you about.”

“When you accidentally knocked them all over him?” Watson laughed. “So now they’re trying to intimidate you?”

“Well, I did ruin his suit. They’ll love me even more now they’ve seen me with a black guy. Okay, let’s give them something to really watch.” Dragging the teenager to her and running her fingers through his curly hair, she kissed him again long and hard, searching for his tonsils with her tongue. Sara broke away breathless as the disgusted spectators drove off. “Yeah, thinking about it, I’d really like to go to your house for a bit of no strings attached something.”

“A wise decision,” mumbled Watson, his head in a whirl.

He turned towards her car, then fell backwards into the shrubbery as a man’s fist landed hard on his chin. Hearing a vehicle screech to a stop and struggling to his knees, he saw Sara being bundled into the rear of a van by two large figures in tan leather jackets and ski masks. The one who had punched him turned before closing the door.

“Don’t ring the cops,” snarled the man. “If anyone rings them, no one will see her again. Tell her grandfather we want it back.”

The van sped out of the pub car park and Watson climbed to his feet, massaging his aching jaw.

“Brilliant,” he muttered dryly, realising how close he’d been to getting Sara into bed. “Well, talk about perfect timing. Isn’t that just fuckin’ brilliant?”