Chapter Twelve

“This is disgraceful.” Enoch Marshall folded his arms - just about - over his barrel chest. His face was even redder than before. “I’ve lost a day’s trade, sat sitting here. And will I be compensated? Will I fuck!”

“Um...” Across the table, Harry Henry adjusted his spectacles. He pushed a sheet of paper toward the butcher. “You’ve seen this before, I take it.”

Marshall barely glanced at the paper. “I wrote it. What about it?”

“It’s your bid for lottery funding,” said Harry Henry.

“I know it is; I wrote the bastard.”

Chief Inspector Wheeler sent Harry a glare. Harry coughed.

“Tell us more about your idea. Why you wanted lottery support in the first place.”

“No point,” said Marshall. “I didn’t get it, did I?”

“I’m interested,” said Harry. “Go on.”

“Why, are you going to put your hand in your pocket? No; thought not. My idea - and I still hold it’s a good one - was to set up a home delivery service. Mainly to the big houses, folk who can afford it. You see, what used to be poor man’s grub is now seen as a delicacy. Tripe and all that. I was going to undercut the big supermarkets - bastards! - and go that extra mile. Thought if I could get me a little van, all spruced up, like, with a logo on it, and set up a website and an app or something. Got to do something, haven’t I? Forcing us out, those big supermarkets are. Do you know how many independent traders have gone to the wall?”

“Um... What wall?”

Chief Inspector Wheeler cringed. Come on, Harry, she urged silently. Prove you’re the man for this job.

“They undercut our prices, and they don’t know what they’m doing. I’m a qualified professional, I am. I’ve got certificates. I’m not some poor sod on benefits they’m exploiting for slave labour. Although I will be soon, if things keep going the way they’m going.”

Harry made a few notes then, with the tip of his tongue poking out, carefully highlighted them with his bright yellow pen.

“Inspector, a word,” said Wheeler. She jerked her head toward the exit.

“Um...” Harry gathered up his pens, lest the butcher try to nick them, and followed her out into the corridor.

“What the actual fuck?”

“Um, I think he’s thawing, Chief. He’s warming to his theme. All this antagonism towards the supermarkets. Could be a motive.”

“Harry, the victims aren’t the supermarkets, the victims are lottery funded.”

“Yes, but...”

“Right. Get back in there and nail him. Ask him about the victims. Did he know them? Did they come in his shop for sausages? And put those fucking felt tips away. It’s a statement you’m writing not a fucking colouring book.”

“Um.”

She opened the door and ushered the bumbling D I back inside, hoping she would not have to reconsider her decision.

***

Brough and Miller had arrived at the block of flats wherein the last lottery bid winner was believed to reside. There was a row of buttons near the entrance, numbered and with nameplates, most of which bore faded labels.

“Emmetts,” Brough checked his notes. “First name, Noel.”

Miller scanned the buttons up and down and up again. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, there’s no Noel Emmetts. Hah! Do you remember that song?”

“What?”

“Never mind. I don’t suppose you were much of a disco bunny. There’s a couple of nameplates with no names on them. We could try them.”

“Go on then.”

Miller pressed the first button. A bulb lit weakly, and an elderly woman’s voice crackled from a speaker. “Who is it?”

“Police,” said Miller. “Is there a Noel Emmetts there?”

“Who, dear?”

“Noel Emmetts.”

“No, dear. Just me, dear. Why don’t you come up for a cup of tea? I think there’s some biscuits in the cupboard. Been a while since I had visitors.”

“Thank you!” said Brough, curtly. He pulled Miller’s finger off the button. He pressed the next one. There was no reply.

“I’ll bet that’s the one,” said Miller. Brough was already bounding up the stairs. Sod that, thought Miller, and headed for the lift, holding her breath against the stench of urine.

She didn’t exhale until she reached the top floor. Her breathing was back to normal by the time Brough emerged from the stairs, looking rather winded. He used to go running, Miller recalled, used to take more care of himself. I suppose now that he’s off the market... On the other hand, you’d think he’d want to be in the best possible shape for his famous fella... And why, oh why, am I thinking so much about it?

“Have you knocked?” Brough spoke through sharp breaths.

“Was waiting for you, sir. What took you so long?”

Brough ignored her. He rattled the knocker over the letterbox. They waited. There was no answer.

“He’s not in,” said Miller.

“Someone’s on her way to promotion,” sneered Brough. “What time is it?”

“Half past.”

“Half past what?”

“Seven.”

“Come on then,” Brough sighed. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

He headed back to the stairs, with his raincoat flapping dramatically behind him. A little stunned, Miller tottered after him.

On the way to the ground floor, Brough made a call to get some uniforms or even (God help them) PCSOs stationed outside the flat. Noel Emmetts had to be taken in for his own safety, regardless of the pretentious bollocks he was trying to inflict on the world.

***

Darren Bennett paced the room he had been allocated. Student accommodation was hardly palatial and so he was achieving little more than turning around on the spot. It wasn’t right keeping him cooped up like this. He was a strong guy; he could take care of himself, against any attacker, assailant or assassin that might try it on with him. He looked at the card the bloke detective had given him. Perhaps he should give this, ah, Brough, a call. Plead his case.

Got to do something, Darren Bennett grunted in frustration. There’s no room to swing a dumbbell in this shithole, never mind a cat.

There was a knock at the door.

“Um, Mister Bennett?” said a man.

“Um...” Darren’s mind raced. What had the detectives told him about answering the door or even his phone to strangers? No one must know of his whereabouts if his safety was to be guaranteed.

“PCSO Taylor,” the man continued. “I signed you in, remember?”

“Um, oh yeah.” Darren reached for the door handle and turned it. At once, the door was shoved against him, taking him by surprise. A paw, covered in black fur, with three sharp claws slashed at the air. Darren Bennett leaned against the wood with all his might, his mind careering in panic. He let the door open just a sliver and then slammed it on the paw. He heard a whimper and the paw withdrew.

“What the actual fuck...” Darren slumped against the door. He tried to reach for his phone but was reluctant to leave the door, lest the creature try again.

He sat back and strained to listen.

There was nothing.

He let ten minutes pass then sprang into action. He pushed the desk against the door, and the chair and also the bedside table. Then he sat on this pile of furniture and dialled Detective Inspector Brough, suddenly feeling not such a strong guy after all.