Footprints of the Fiend , livre ebook
108
pages
English
Ebooks
2016
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108
pages
English
Ebook
2016
Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage
Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne En savoir plus
Publié par
Date de parution
21 juin 2016
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9781782348832
Langue
English
Poids de l'ouvrage
1 Mo
Publié par
Date de parution
21 juin 2016
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9781782348832
Langue
English
Poids de l'ouvrage
1 Mo
Title Page
THE FOOTPRINTS OF THE FIEND
By
William Stafford
Publisher Information
Published in 2013 by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © William Stafford 2013
The right of William Stafford to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988
1.
“And stay out!”
The landlord of the Barge Inn gave the drunk another shove for good measure. The quicker this nuisance was away from the premises the better. Business would not suffer; this particular berk did most of his drinking before he even set foot in the bar and then would nurse half a pint of mild all night, pestering the other patrons to keep him topped up. No, Andy Adams considered, I don’t need the likes of him in my pub.
The nuisance collided with a folding sign that advertised ‘pub grub’. The sign collapsed and the drunkard along with it. Adams swore and went back indoors where the nicer people were waiting to be served.
Desmond Smith’s drunken state meant he was unable to feel injuries to anything other than his pride; he extricated himself from the sign, kicking it away and yelping as though he was being attacked by a Punch and Judy crocodile. He managed to get himself reasonably vertical. The lights from the pub windows seemed to be spinning like a Ferris wheel. Desmond Smith found the contents of his stomach swishing around in sympathy with this display. But he would never throw up; he considered that a waste of alcohol. He steadied himself against the low wall edging the bridge over the canal that separated the Barge from the B road. A wave of grief overwhelmed him, buckling his legs anew. To be barred from the Barge ! His favourite hostelry! Its picturesque canalside setting. Its buxom barmaids. Its gullible clientele.
He belched loudly. It resonated in the night air, momentarily drowning out the sounds of happy drinking bastards in the pub.
Well, fuggem, Desmond Smith grumbled. Fuggem all.
He patted himself down, hoping to find a packet of cigarettes in one of his pockets, forgetting he had given up years ago. Health reasons. Bah. Bollocks to it. It was enough to drive a man to drink.
Drink! Excellent idea!
And what a stroke of luck! There’s a pub! And not just any old pub but his favourite.
He took a step towards the Barge and wobbled on the spot, suspecting there was something about recent history he should be taking into consideration. He stared mournfully at the pub, willing it to keep still long enough for him to have a fighting chance of getting through the door.
On the low, sloped roof above the restaurant extension, flames sprang up. A pair of golden shapes, each as big as his hand. Desmond Smith watched in fascination. Another pair of fiery shapes appeared about a yard away from the first. And then a third pair, a yard away from the second... The fourth pair appeared on the higher roof of the main building, the fifth by the chimneystack. Desmond Smith staggered backwards trying to anticipate where a sixth pair of flames might materialise.
Unfortunately for him, he never saw them. He backed onto the arch of the bridge. The backs of his thighs struck the low wall. He toppled over backwards and into the greasy water of the Dedley canal. No one saw this accident just as no one saw the mysterious apparitions on the roof. The drinkers tottering home after closing time all crossed the bridge in darkness, laughing, chatting and singing as the mood struck them.
It was only the next morning in the light of day when Andy Adams came out to tidy around the smokers’ picnic tables that he became aware of the body floating face downwards under the bridge.
Shit me, he thought, recognising the clothes.
He rang the police.
***
Detective Sergeant Melanie Miller was apprised of the details by Detective Sergeant Gary Woodcock who had been called to the scene to investigate. He sounded disappointed that it was going to be considered a case of accidental death. There hadn’t been a juicy case of murder in the Black Country town of Dedley for a good six months.
“You’m terrible,” Melanie Miller laughed, enjoying the sound of his voice in her ear.
“Gotta go, love,” he said, sounding genuinely sorry. “Safe journey, chick.”
“You too,” she replied. “I mean, I’ve got to go too. This is my exit. Speak to you later.”
“Bye, chicken.”
“Bye!”
The line went dead. Miller didn’t usually approve of people taking phone calls while driving. But this was different. This was her boyfriend! She laughed, relishing the thought. A boyfriend! All of my own!
“At the next exit turn right,” the sat nav intoned, uninterested in her love life.
Miller left the M40 and plunged into deepest Warwickshire, thinking all sorts of benevolent thoughts about England’s green and pleasant land. She had volunteered to make this trip. Indeed, as she explained to Chief Inspector Wheeler, she (Miller) was not only the best person to go but probably the only one who indeed should go. She (Wheeler) had barely looked up from a folder she was pretending to read, muttered ‘Whatever’ and dismissed her with a perfunctory wave towards the door of her office. Woodcock (her boyfriend - Miller’s boyfriend that is and don’t you forget it!) had been unenthusiastic. Miller could guess why. He suspected she still held a torch or a candle or something else that burned for her unfortunate colleague. Miller thought about this carefully. It was true that there had been a time when... Bah! It had soon become apparent that Detective Inspector David Brough was not interested in her in that way, or any woman in that way...
Miller was taking this trip not just out of professional duty, but also out of friendship. Brough might be more receptive if the message came from her. They had been through a lot together and there was a bond there - although it was nothing for Woodcock to worry his handsome head about.
“Turn left. Turn left!” The sat nav was becoming more insistent. Miller glanced in panic at the hedges that lined the road. There was nowhere to turn, left or otherwise. She informed the stupid device of this fact. It went into a brooding silence. She came to a crossroads. The sat nav held its tongue. Miller took an educated guess and took the right hand turn.
The road took her through a couple of picturesque villages. She began to imagine herself and Woodcock living in every house she passed. It was a pipe dream, she realised. Even if you combined two detective salaries...
After the second village, all signs of human life disappeared. There were only the fields (and they all looked well tended so somebody must be in the vicinity) and the odd sprinkling of sheep and cattle among the longer grass. Miller began to think she had got herself lost. She consulted the sat nav screen. It was recalculating the journey and appeared to be scrolling through a map of Azerbaijan or somewhere. Miller pulled over as soon as the road became wide enough to provide a lay-by.
She plunged her hand into the glove box and pulled out a map, like a bear fishing for salmon.
“Huh!” she sneered at the sat nav. “We’ll try old school, shall we?”
She found the motorway exit and was able to plot her route so far, running her finger along the blue lines but, wouldn’t you credit it? The place you always want is always over the fold, isn’t it? She fought with the huge sheet of paper, trying to keep it a manageable size in the confines of the driving seat.
“Carry straight on,” said the sat nav.
“Piss off,” said Miller.
***
“I wish you’d stop grinning like the Cheshire Cheese,” grumbled Woodcock’s partner, the evolutionary throwback, Detective Inspector Benny Stevens. “You’ve had that face on you for weeks now and it’s making me sick.”
“Jealous?” Woodcock upped the wattage of his grin. He pulled the top off his yogurt. A spurt of fruits of the forest shot unheeded onto his tie. He licked the underside of the foil disc. Stevens watched him with a look of disgust curling his 1970s moustache.
“Bloody yogurts!” he observed. “She’ll be having you doing that whatsit, tai chi next.”
Woodcock dipped his spoon into the pale pink substance and then made a show of enjoying the taste of it.
“Any road,” Stevens pushed his own plate away. Nothing wrong with good old-fashioned sausage rolls. “It’s confirmed. Mister, um,” he consulted his notes, “Desmond Smith died accidentally. Pissed as a fart, fell in the cut. Too drunk to notice. Drowned. Dead.”
“Hmm,” Woodcock licked his spoon clean. “That’s what the landlord reckons and all. Everyone’s a detective nowadays.”
“Huh!” Stevens dismissed this. “You mean they wish they was. It takes a special sort of mind to do this job properly. You need more than six DVD box sets of CS -fucking- I .”
“What are you saying?”
“What I’m saying, Gary my lad, is it’s always worth double checking. We’ll go back to the...” he consulted a promotional flyer from his notes, “ Barge Inn and stick our noses in. Perhaps somebody knows something. Might be relevant.”
Woodcock snatched up the leaflet and glanced at both sides.
“And the fact that it’s the best place for a wide range of real ales in the county, might that be relevant too?”
“I think I like you better
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