So who is Inspector Morose?

For your reading pleasure, here, in it’s entirety, is the first story from Being Morose

THE SINS OF THE FEATHERS

 

‘Would it always be like this on quiet evenings?’ he wondered, feeling like he was playing cards while waiting for the apocalypse.

Robbie had that self-satisfied, smug smile of the not-hung-over.

“Aha! I’ll see you Sir!

Morose looked up from his cards, “Wrong game, Harris!”

‘Wait a second,’ thought Morose, ‘that tin’s not empty!’

Sure enough, there was half a can of Newcastle Brown left undrunk on the table, he lifted it from under Robbie’s hand, took a healthy swig and spat out.

“Harris, you filthy bastard, how many times have I told you not to put your cigarette stubs in your empties, you know I’ll want to neck that!”

Harris looked up, “That’s been there for days man! Diven’t neck that, it’ll have dead flies an’ shite an’ that!”

Robbie Harris had transferred from somewhere horrible up north a few years ago, probably glad to get away – but he’d never lost that revolting accent, surely he could take elocution classes, mused Morose.

“You know my motto Harris, ‘Donec id induretis’,” Morose grumbled.

“Sir?”

“’Get it necked’, I’ve lived my life by that motto”

“Sorry sir. In Newcastle we never got much practice at bridge, man”

“’Never got?’ Harris, for God’s sake, speak English you hopeless shit, ‘didn’t get’ if you must show your ignorance.”

“Aye, aye, didn’t get,” It was easier for Robbie to just go along with the abuse, this was his superior after all. “Anyway, I’ll raise you or whatever”

“Anyway, Sergeant Bollockbrain, I thought we were playing snap, or is that too crap for whatever university it was you went to?” Morose took another slug of the beer and spat out a cigarette filter.

“Crap? Do you mean craps?”

“Don’t push your luck or I’ll have you back up to your Geordie slums, before you can say ‘why aye man’, or whatever” Morose belched, “And have another beer, you! I can’t stand sober people.”

Robbie reached under the table and returned, much to Morose’s disgust, with a small bottle of Panda Pops Cherryade. Sometimes sitting alone with Inspector Morose felt a little like babysitting, and it always seemed like he wasn’t up to the job. He looked around the walls of the small room, resigned.

“Not the same without the rest of the station, is it Robbie?” muttered Morose.

Harris paused before replying “No. Did they all have to go?”

Morose sipped at the now empty can with a wistful look on his face. “No, but after half have gone off being filmed for that speed cops show, another third for that fly on the wall drugs bust documentary… Do you know, at the last recruitment drive, they actually asked if any candidates had Equity cards?”

“Hmmm,” muttered Harris, non-committedly, “But, that’s not all the station…”

“Well, Superintendent Weird is off to his ancient manuscript collectors and stargazers club, and I think they’re filming The Bill or Casualty or something. So, there’s only us two left.”

Robbie looked unimpressed at his Cherryade, “Hope nothing happens then, sir.”

“Nothing?”

“Well, y’kna, no traffic accidents, collisions and shite like that, with just the two of us, like, or murder.”

Morose looked musingly at the ceiling, “I like a good murder Robbie, you know where you are.”

“Still haven’t solved the Moyes case sir, I could dig out the paperwork…?”

“Oh fuck that, much too hard…”

Silence

Morose cleared his throat, “What’s the collective noun for accident investigators?”

Harris looked up, momentarily interested, “Ah, you’ve already done a body of morticians, haven’t you?”

Morose smiled proudly, “A good one that.” He frowned, just as proudly, “Come on, man, think.”

Harris shrugged, “A crash of accident investigators?”

Morose gave Harris a very cold look, like he had just downed his last bottle of Jack Daniels, and the off licence wasn’t open for another hour. “A crash? Since when is that a collective noun?”

Luckily, Harris was interrupted before he could reply, by the phone ringing. Morose reluctantly accepted that the phone was nearer to him, and picked it up.

“Hello, mortuary – stiff receiving department…. No, I was having a joke you moron… No, I’m his supervisor, and yours, fuckwit!” He threw the handset at Harris, catching him a glancing blow across his temples, causing Harris to fall to the floor. “It’s for you Harris, get off the floor man, you’re wanted on the phone!”

Harris stood up, shaking his head to clear the fog away. “Hello…Speaking… Aye…What, a proper murder?.. Aye, he’s a bit caned, like… Well you know what he’s like man…Aye, give us the address, then… No, I’ll drive…it’ll be safer”…

*****

As they drove along, Harris furnished Morose with the details, while Morose appeared asleep. Whether he was asleep or not – and talking was no indication he was conscious – Harris carried on. He somehow managed to watch the road, read the report and steer the Heinkel Kabine that Morose had bought by mistake last year.

“One Mrs Jayward is the wife…”, reported Harris, dodging around a pensioner.

“Mrs?” said Morose, “That implies there’s a Mr?”

“Was Sir, that’s the corpse we’ll be investigating.”

“Hmmm, has anyone investigated if he had a wine cellar, or a bar, or a drinks cabinet or even a lively shelf in his fridge?”

Harris ignored the question, “…local community patrol…”

Morose coughed, “Harris, I must stop you there. You’ve used that god-awful phrase again. They are not the local community patrol, what are they?”

Harris sighed, “The plastic pigs sir.”

Morose smiled “That’s better, now do carry on with your amusing tale, you were just about to describe how much alcohol was on the premises…”

“Sir, the plastic pigs called it in, local hounds put it all out of bounds”

“CSI tape around the fridge? Could just go a good JD about now…”

“…roped off the room… chalked around the body, which is now in the freezer…”

“Oh no Harris, nowhere near the…”

“The freezer in the morgue, sir”

“Oh yes, much better idea! Yes, those big mansions are usually stuffed to the gills with alcohol.”

“Not by the time you’ve finished,” muttered Harris.

“What did the stiff do anyway?” asked Morose, checking the glove box, forlornly.

“He was our local MP, Sir.”

Morose grinned, “Stuffed to the gills Robbie, I think we’ve won the lottery here!”

*****

The car coughed and spluttered its way up the long gravel drive, past the duck pond, to pull up outside the main doors of Beagle House.

Harris turned to Morose, “Now sir, remember you’re interviewing the widow, she’ll be very upset, she doesn’t need your whiskey breath all over her, I’ve taken the trouble to bring a packet of Polos.”

“It’ll take more than Polos to cheer the silly moose up Harris, should have brought flowers, her husband’s just carked it, you moron! Where’s the romance in Polos? No wonder your wife hates you!”

Harris applied the handbrake, and the car reluctantly slewed to a stop on a bed of roses, narrowly hitting the gardener.

Harris opened the front of the car and walked slowly to the door of the big house. THIS was certainly some place, gargoyles adorned the ramparts, the grass was cut to bowling green standards, the rose bushes – save that one with a car in it – were immaculate.

“Aye, mon, looks like they’re worth a few quid. The local fuzz are led by one Sergeant White, been with the force a few years, we’re in good hands – “

He broke off abruptly.

He retraced his steps to the smoking Bubble car, and re – opened the door.

“Sorr, we’re here”

He shook Morose gently by the throat.

“What? Eh? Damn it, man, I was just about –“

“It’ll have to wait, you sozzled old tramp, we’ve got work to appear to do.”

“Fuck.”

Unsteadily, Harris led his boss to the front door, and leaned him carefully against the doorframe, while he rang the bell.

Morose started to slump forward as the bell rang. Expertly, Harris pinned him back up. The door started to open, stuck, was wrenched an inch or so back and forth, and eventually was slammed shut again.

“Kick it in” suggested Morose, subtly.

There was a renewed tug – of – war with the door; suddenly it gave, and the door flew open, pinning a constable behind it to the coat rack. Harris stepped into the entrance hall, and shut the door quietly behind him.

Here was money, he thought. He thought again. He pulled the door back open, reached out, and dragged Morose in with him, and shut the door quietly again.

“Robbie” muttered Morose. “Those polo mints…. I think after all I’ll have the lot. You!” He said pointing at the constable, “You might want to get a jay cloth and some air freshener! Some dirty bastards just vomited on the door step outside. I don’t know, some people eh? Anyway, where’s the old slapper?” He finished, lurching towards the interior, and stuffing all the mints in his mouth without unwrapping them.

“Okay, where’s the scene of the fun?” asked Harris to the copper, who was still hanging on the coat hanger.

“Okay, where’s the bogs” asked Morose. “These polo mints are off”, he grumbled, spraying the area with tin foil and paper.

“This way” smiled a youthful constable, wiping some Polo wrappings off his face.

They followed him past a door marked “WC” and Harris, for once, managed to steer Morose past. He also steered him past some weird, wailing woman who was snivelling at the bottom of the stairs. “That’ll be the maid or something” he thought to himself, “May need to interview her at some point”. He made a mental note of her, and proceeded, with the boss man dragging behind, to the main study.

*****

A group of concerned looking policemen stood around a short, fat, sweaty individual, who kept kneeling down and muttering “Aha!” Maybe he liked 80s Pop music?

Morose, though, recognised a fellow soak.

Max raised his head to Morose, who raised a quizzical eyebrow, to which Max responded with a casual glance to something behind them in the room. Morose’s eyes lit up as he recognised a decanter, and several sherry glasses.

“Help yourself” quipped Max, “The old fool won’t be nipping at that anymore”

“Ahhhh” hissed Morose, like a well-oiled snake, and turned toward the occasional table, and his own Holy Grail.

“When you’re refreshed, we’ll get stuck into some details” smiled Max.

Ever the seasoned campaigner, Morose uncorked the decanter, and drank straight from the bottle. Everything suddenly became remarkably clear. He was on the scene of the crime!

“By Jesus’ cack drawers, that’s heaven sent stuff, definitely not that Asda shite that the chief keeps for cleaning the drains with. Max! How are you, you fat camel muncher? Still working on the Dick Turpin case?”

“Yes, Morose, are you still working on that Moet case?!”

“Nah, finished that off driving home last night. By God these roads are unsafe, saw a load of collisions.”

“Well, at least you’re here.”

“That’s never a good start, really, is it?”

The two old chums laughed, and started coughing.

“Well” went on Max, “The stiff’s been removed, and there a chalk line where it – the deceased, that is – was found. Any questions?”

“Ah….yes” Harris cautioned. “Where was the deceased found? I canna see any chalk outlines or shit anywhere?”

“Erm…..” Max seemed a bit edgy.

“Spit it out, man, we’ve not got all day, and I still need the shitter” said Morose.

“Er….. Constable?” Max sighed, “Perhaps you could show the officers where the body was found?”

The fresh faced constable went a bit pale. “This way” he said eventually.

*****

Outside the French windows, Harris looked long and hard at the attempts made to outline the prostrate body of the deceased.

“We tried, we really tried, to match it up” explained Max, joining them at the edge of the duck pond.

It worked quite well, really, thought Harris, that blackboard flat on the rowing boat in the middle of the pond. Morose, for once, was dumb–struck.

There was a painful silence.

Finally, Morose muttered, “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Harris”

“Ye’d better get that slash, Sorr, we might be out here for a while” Harris said, blandly. Morose wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn that there was a hint of a smile on his lips as he said it.

*****

Following a long day appearing to work, Morose and Harris returned to the station. After a third failed attempt to climb the steps on his own, Harris realised he would be required yet again to help Morose. Fireman’s lift at the ready, Robbie bodily lifted over the steps the man who would next week be conducting his annual appraisal.

At the front desk, Sgt Jampton, was rifling through some recently handed in wallets, “Ah sir, these have just been handed in, fifty quid in this one. Do you want the usual raffle ticket?”

“Thanks Hugh,” replied Robbie. “Put it on me tab, fingers crossed the owner doesn’t come back.”

“Just been in sir, told him we’d never heard of wallets. By the way, the Governor wants to see you both, will Inspector Morose be requiring the drinks trolley?”

“No, I’ll have him back on his feet in a minute”

“But how…” wondered Robbie. A quick snort of Vicks? A pack of Victory Vs? A prolonged smack in the face? No, not after last time, he may think he’s with some moose, again. Quickly settling on a direct course of action, Harris grabbed a tin of coke from the vending machine, and opened it directly under Morose’s face. The effect was startling.

“Ah, Special Brew!” muttered the old campaigner, and reached out in a pathetic grasp for the can. Skilfully, Harris moved one step back. Morose, still blinded by the act of opening his eyes, followed one step after him. Slowly, but with a notable increase in pace, like a reluctant goods train, Harris backed his way toward the boss man’s office while Morose followed. With a well-practised side step, Harris knocked on the door, paused just too long, and as Morose clattered into him, they both fell into the office of Superintendent Colin Weird.

Inside, they picked themselves off the floor and Harris, ever the professional, repeatedly hit Morose over the head with the rapidly – emptying coke can, to get him riled enough to stand up.

“Fuck off, you stupid, clumsy, Geordie shite!!”  bellowed Morose.

He was awake, then.

Robbie suddenly came to the realisation that for only the second time in his career, he was in the lair of the mythological creature, known as Weird. Weird never left his office, not by doors or windows anyway, or at least not by doors and windows added by the mortal builders, who had constructed the building, and indeed this room. But very often, perversely, Weird wasn’t there. No-one ever saw him leave, nor had they any idea where he went, or how he got there; but sometimes the room would empty, and all in the Station would feel the vague headache that they always had, lift, until he returned.

His office was a gathering place for strange artefacts: books on demonology, strange puzzle boxes lined his desk in glass presentation cases, pentagrams always freshly drawn on the floor, the feel of unexplained cold emanating from somewhere, and the disturbing low chanting of dark verse, coming from the corners of the room. The room was devoid of any presence briefly, before the corners of the walls glimmered a hint of light, and opened up, admitting his dark satanic majesty, Colin Weird.

“Ah… you came,” He growled.

Colin Weird had certainly got presence, the sort of presence that makes heathens pray, and most people feel a distinct urge to walk quickly away, whilst praying. Actually, it was all an act, Colin wasn’t a nice guy at all. Admittedly, he had started off as just another career copper, but this career had taken a violent –and unexpected – lurch for the better, one 1^st of April a few years back. It had started innocently enough, he sent his then superior, a text message from a pay – as – go mobile phone reading, simply, “I know what you did last night”. The effect had been rather quick. Within two days Chief Inspector Ghoul had left for a whaling station in Peru, and he had installed Colin Weird as his replacement, “No questions asked”.

From then on his rise had been meteoric.

Known to all at the station as “I’ve got to see the bastard now”, his word was law, his rule unquestioned, and his devotion to the left hand path, absolute. It achieved results. No one made a mess of procedure. No one stepped out of line. No one cleaned his office. Especially after the disciplinary of Sergeant Slade, who had never quite been traced after accidentally taking an extra five minutes going for a dump. True, his whistle, complete with broken chain, had been found near the Roman Catholic church,, in a mysterious hole in the gravel driveway. Otherwise, no trace of the man.

“I said, ‘Ah, you came’, I was expecting a response”, the voice so low, the table trembled and Sheba, the police dog, suffered a nose bleed.

“Sir…y- yes sir,” stammered Robbie, as Weird appeared to grow in size behind the table, which suddenly reminded Robbie of an altar.

“Hmmm, I feel that a progress report is in order, Master Harris?”

“Sir, well we’ve only just started the case, our local MP has been mur…”

“Harris, you mistake my opening enquiry as an act of charity, possibly? You are, as you mortals say, barking up the wrong tree, matey. I am enquiring as to how you are progressing with our drunken friend here”. He pointed at the unconscious-again body of Morose.

“Ah” paused Harris. “Er…”

He elbowed Morose in the mouth, and poured the rest of the coke in his face, in a last ditch attempt to revive him.

“Your devotion to your Inspector is commendable, but misplaced”

“’ang on”

Robbie unscrambled the fog in his brain. Idea!

“Sorr! It’s my round!”

The effect was instant, “Ahhhh, now you’re talking, Harris, I’ll have a pint, please”

“A pint??”

“Of rum”

“Ah……” Harris smiled apologetically at the dark presence. “He’s back with us, now, erm, Sir”

“Robert” the voice dropped further. “You seem to be under the illusion that l have that most detestable of human qualities, ‘patience’. I do not need this alcohol soaked pile of rags to be conscious to talk to you. I asked you how you are acquainting yourself, with your immediate superior here.”

In a mocking camp voice, Morose muttered, “Have we done our appraisal yet, Robbie? I think Robbie likes me Sir”, he added, now waving his wrist loosely.

Robbie swallowed hard.

“Excellent, if a little devoid of detail,” said Weird. “You humans always do like to keep things to yourselves. Open up a little more Robert, I have such things to enlighten you with!”

“Humans?” stuttered Robbie.

Weird chuckled darkly, “Sorry Robert, a little Faustian slip. I meant something much more acceptable than that, of course.”

The fog in the room lifted a little.

“Before you go….”

Robbie had turned and propelled Morose back towards the door. Now, a little disturbed, he turned back.

“Er…..” he swallowed hard, as if, he had just eaten a hard swallow. “Yes, Surr?”

The light lowered. The mists returned.

A pause.

Weird looked deeply into Robbie, as if into his soul. Weird’s eyes blinked, sideways. He drew a deep, impossibly long breath, and the words seemed to materialize slowly, like a tram emerging from a tunnel. He spoke.

“How’s the wife?”

“Aye, fine Surr” Robbie shot back “– Er, thanks for asking, Surr, I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t.”

With a rising panic, Robbie shoved his superior out of the door, taking a last look back at the scene. Weird, it seemed, had vanished!

*****

The next day started early.

However, back at Morose’s flat, the time was 11.20am, and there was no answer from the old scrote. Robbie pressed the doorbell with his elbow, while repeatedly pressing the “call” button on his mobile phone. 11.20am, and all of Oxford was in uproar about the murder of Sir Edward Jayward, their MP, and – and – the man leading the investigation wasn’t even answering the door! Stupid old git! Drunken buffoon! Hopeless addled turkey!

*****

Inside the flat, Morose was also flat. On his back. He was listening to ‘I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles,’ by the Cockney Rejects, on repeat, while he hid under a duvet on the couch. Oooh, the light! The light! 11.20am and there was this awful, blinding light!!!

And that confounded banging inside his head. And outside his head. And some ringing in his ears, and ringing outside his ears too! Unless…..

Carefully, Morose peeled off the duvet, and cautiously looked around the room. Yes, it was still there. Planet Earth, that is. Cursing his luck, he became vaguely aware that the banging and ringing outside his head, was due to the front door being battered in, and the phone ringing next to him. Taking things one at a time, he wrenched the phone off the wire, and then walked – well, staggered – to shoot the little git hammering on the door. He paused to load his revolver. That prankster out there stood no chance against “Dead – eye Morose”, shooting champion of 1988 in the firearms division.

*****

Robbie was now using a rock to knock through the panelling on the door. It was 11.22am, and he was getting desperate, the pub would be open soon and Morose would have his mental SATNAV geared for it.

*****

11.23am, and Morose took a deep breath, released the safety catch on the door, and on his revolver.

Things were not looking good for either of them.

*****

The door swung open. To Robbie’s sudden shock there was Morose, and there was a gun pointed at him.

“Sir, four things: number one, please put your gun away, think of the paperwork.” Reluctantly Morose complied.

“Number two – you’re late for our first interview of the day…”

“Ahhhh,” Morose scratched his balls.

“…Number three, never answer the door without your trousers on, Sir.”

“Good point Robbie,” Morose walked back inside and shouted from the living room, “You said four things?”

“Yes sir, number four – a pair of underpants is also advisable!”

*****

As Morose climbed into the car, Harris threw him that morning’s local rag.

“It’s all over the papers sir!”

“Is it really, I’m awfully sorry Robbie, I tried to get most of it on the carpet”

“No sir, the murder, it’s all over the Oxford Gazette.”

“Did they have a picture of me?”

“The last published picture of you was on Crime Watch after you held up an off – licence, for not having Mount Gaye Rum,” said Harris, moving into the traffic.

“Ah, yes, excellent cover–up work by that politician chappie, what was his name?”

“Jayward”

“No no no, not the stiff, the chap who got me off the hook.”

Robbie skilfully ran over a hedgehog with the single back wheel of the bubble car.

“Aye, mon, that’s the guy.”

Morose leaned over Robbie and pulled on the handbrake. The  60 year old antique car ground to a halt on a sixpence, causing the following wake of traffic no end of problems, as at least one car drove under the trailer of the artic following them.

There was an embarrassing silence. The engine pinked quietly, as several of the valves blew.

“Mmmfff whhhaagggg, gruffwahhm grrrraaw” said Morose, with his lips jammed against the windscreen.

Extracting himself from the glass, Robbie took his superior gently by the throat, and through clenched – though, remarkably, undamaged – teeth, dryly observed:-

“Look, ya soft shite, if I’m driving, the handbrake is MY domain! Got it! You stupid fucking old tramp!”

Pause. He remembered his upcoming assessment.

“Sorry, Sorr. You stupid fucking old tramp, SORR!”

Morose straightened his nose.

“Sorry Robbie, I just wanted to get that last bit clear. The chap whose murder we’re taking a peek at, is the one who got me off the Brain Street off licence charge?”

“Yes.”

“Well, at least my secret’s safe now that he’s croaked.  I suppose we owe it to him to try to find out who done him in. “

“Shall we carry on?”

“I think we’d better, there’s been a bloody awful accident behind us and I don’t want the rozzers getting on our case.”

Too late, there was a tap on the glass.

“Morning Sir… may I see your licence?”

Robbie looked up to the face of a young officer, new to the station, PC Gonemad.

“It’s alright constable,” said Robbie, waving his warrant card, “my passenger here, mistakenly applied the handbrake, it won’t happen again…”

“I see sir.” This new constable wasn’t taking the hint, the large warrant card shaped hint. “And can I take your name please, sir?” the constable turned to Morose.

“Morose,” he muttered

“Full name, sir”

“Inspector!” bellowed Morose

As the car extracted itself from the tetris of crashed vehicles, Harris turned to Morose:-

“Sir, y’kna all this shite about yer first name?”

“Careful Harris.”

“Aye, but y’kna, y’never tell anyone yer first name, y’never use yer first name, everyone just calls you Morose, an’ that?”

“I don’t have a first name Harris, not as far as Oxford Police or Interpol are concerned.”

“Aye, but that’s the point man, y’do! And we’re all police officers man, so we all know your name.”

There was a long silence.

“It just seems a bit pretentious man!”

Silence.

“But why that name?”

Silence: then:-

“My father Harris…”

“Was he into PC games, man? I mean Endofleveldemon, that’s awful.”

“No Harris, I think he was just a bit of a sadistic twat!”

Robbie Harris thought, carefully. He didn’t want Morose to overhear his thinking.

“Sadistic twat, eh, must be genetic.”

“Fuck off” thought Morose.

And that was as far as that conversation went.

*****

12.15pm.

Carefully parking up on the gravel driveway, and applying the handbrake himself, Harris gingerly opened the front of the bubble car and stepped out into the fresh air again. Aye, here was money, he thought. Again.

Morose managed to heave himself off the seat and after some thought, trip over the front ledge of the car door, and land on top of the gardener from their previous visit. That man was a menace, thought Morose, he’s always under your feet. Bloody yokel.  He needed nicking for something. Being a gardener, for one – why couldn’t he get an education and do something useful, like open an off licence? Stepping on him, Morose made his way forwards, while Harris was acting the fool with the front door, again.

Finally, they unhooked the duty constable from the back of the door again, and made their way past that irritating old bat to the back of the house.

Unusually, for Morose, he made to go through the French window. As usual, though, he forgot to open it, and for the second time that day, had to have a sit down because of the effects of glass.

He called Harris over.

“Robbie” he whispered.

“What now? “

“This house….. I’ve got the awful feeling we’ve been here before.”

Harris stared hard at the boss man.

“We have. It was yesterday. It’s the scene of the crime. Remember?”

Morose scratched his head. It was all coming back to him.

“Sorry, Robbie. Scene of the crime, eh? We’ll need some police here.”

“We ARE the police.”

Morose clapped his hands. “Excellent! Where’s the drinks?”

“I was thinking we may do a spot of interviewing first….. ya know, get a bit of the old suspect chasing done? They talk, we see which one looks a shifty toad, and we charge him regardless?”

“With a quiet drink to hand?”

“I’ll get the maid to rig that up”

THIS was getting more like it.

“Call that police officer through, he’s always hanging around here looking shifty.”

“No sir, we put him here after the murder.”

“Aha! So we can’t account for his whereabouts at the time of the carking, eh?”

“Sir, he was on traffic duty at Woodstock until we transferred him to here.”

“You see? The guilty ones have always got a cast iron alibi ready! Makes him more guilty, in my books!”

“Yes sir, but we’re not supposed to use Noddy in Toy Town books to solve crimes anymore. How about we interview the maid instead?”

“You’re not thinking Harris, how can she organise my drink if we’re interrogating her?”

“Softly softly, sir, we’ll get her to bring the drinks through – “

“-and then we pounce! I’m liking this, Harris, we’ll make a copper out of you yet!”

“Aye, Sorr, whatever – White?”

The young constable appeared.

“Yes, Sarge?”

“Call the maid”

“Aye, sir. What shall l call her?”

Harris gritted his teeth.

“Call her NOW!”

The maid did indeed bring a very large brandy with her. To Morose’s horror, she sat down with it and necked it before she had a chance to offer it to him. Morose whimpered like a well whipped gimp as she crossed her legs nervously, and as Morose made a note to himself of “Guilty”, Robbie Harris also found himself wanting to whimper, as she began her cringe – worthy version of events.

“Well sorrrr, it was like this, sure, so it was.”

“Welsh eh?” Said Morose “otch aye mon!”

“Shall we start with your name?” asked Harris with his best reassuring voice.

“Jesus, Joseph, Mary and all the saints and Bob Geldof too.”

Harris looked up, “Loyalists eh?”

She spat.

Morose casually hawked up the remains of last night’s claret, onto the floor. “Pick the bones out of that, bitch! Two can play at that game”.

“Shall we start again,” tried Harris, “Your name please?”

“Morose, Harris, you know this!”

“Not you sir, her!”

“I don’t know, she’s not told us yet, pay attention Harris! We’ll never make a pig out of you at this rate. Mind you if we did, she’d probably want to stick you under her arm, wouldn’t you Coleen?”

“By Gorr sir, I should swear you’re the devil himself.”

“Cut the shit, you’re a rotten actress, but even l know you are none other than Coleen Hammond, the former blackmailer of Thrush Square.”

There was a stunned silence.

“Confound it, and vexation upon you, Mr Morose. You’ve seen through my disguise but fucking Christ knows how.”

Morose sat back and lit up a fag.

“Now we’re talking, Miss Hammond, See what l did there, Harris?”

Harris sat back. He had to admit, the boss man could be very impressive when he chose to be. Smug shithouse.

“Pray continue your no doubt interesting discourse” said Morose, smiling smugly, and leaning back into his seat. And missing, and falling right off to land in his own pool of yack.

“Well see, Sarge” she continued, addressing Harris, “I brought in Sir Edward’s claret at about 8pm, I remember he was on the landline to someone.”

“Can you be a little more precise about the time?” asked Morose as he slithered back onto the seat.

“Well now, let me see, I’d just finished watching ‘Britain’s Got Leprosy’, I know that went over at 8 o’clock and I set the timer for that thing about that Oxford detective with the stupid fucking name, Endeavour is it? And then I got his decanter, glass and his cheese and biscuits ready.”

“So, what? Maybe ten past eight?”

She thought about it, “Yes, it could have been that late, yes.”

Harris interjected, impressed that Morose seemed to finally be taking this seriously, “The phone call, can you remember anything about it?”

“Well… I tried not to listen in, but yes, it was about shares, I think. He was talking about investing in Glenfidich’s.”

Harris pondered, “Are you sure it was shares, it could have been…”

“No, shut up Harris, this is important!” interrupted Morose. Harris let it go as it was great to see Morose engaged. “You brought in the drink and his cacking cheese or whatever… and you saw him at his desk… and he was talking on the phone, yes?”

“Yes.”

“At about ten past eight, yes?”

“About that, yes.”

“Now this is important, can you retrace your EXACT steps, please?”

Colleen stepped it out from the door, walking in a straight line to the desk.

“And where did you put the… no, it’s no use, can you get the decanter…. In fact, do the job properly, get the tray and bring it through with everything on it.”

Colleen followed her instructions and quickly walked it through.

“And where exactly did you leave it?”

“Just here,” she said placing it down on the desk.

“Excellent work, Colleen,” clapped Morose. “Right, we don’t want to keep you from your duties, you might as well leave the tray as err… evidence”.

As she walked, well, staggered out of the panelled room, Morose reached for a glass. “I’d offer you a glass Harris but this is rather good stuff, reckon I could get away with taking his cellar in as evidence? Don’t reckon the old boy’s moose would miss it, do you? She’s done nothing but whinge since we got here, with a boy’s room as good as this lot, as well!

“Aye mon, that’s canny good” muttered Harris. “What did she say her name was?”

Morose sat there stupefied.

“Is that as far as you’ve got?!” he spluttered, spraying the sergeant with Port.

“Na, ya daft shite, just to round me report off, like.”

Morose settled back in the chair again. He closed his eyes. At last, a few drops of the lunatic soup, and by God, only just in time. He looked at his wristwatch. It wasn’t there. He looked at his other wrist, the watch wasn’t there either.

“Harris” he cautioned “Did that daft bat speak with a Scouse accent?”

“Uh…. No….” muttered Harris, too busy scribbling away at his notepad, to care.

A knock on the door. The hysterical moose put her head round the door. Red eyes. Running mascara. Lipstick all over the place. Dried out skin. Croaking voice.  Maybe she had found the cellar?

“Er…. Excuse me, gentlemen” said a surprisingly well educated voice.

“kin’ what?” said Morose into his glass.

“Is…. Is there anything l can get you?”

“Aye lass, a glass” replied Harris, without looking up.

The double–crossing rat, thought Morose, he’s going to deprive me of some of my spoils!!!

The woman’s head vanished, then returned seconds later with a port glass.. Without looking where he was going, Harris walked over to the door, took it off her, and, shutting the door on her face, walked slowly back. He walked back to the door. He walked to the desk. He timed three separate runs. He noted each time. He stood, lost in thought.

“Are you getting a swift top up before lunch, or not?” queried Morose, now genuinely concerned for his protégé’s sanity.

“Haddaway man, I’m workin’.”

“Then have a glass.”

“Ta” replied Harris, took a bite out of the glass, and carried on writing.

“Surr” he asked.

“WHAT” grumped Morose.

“She’s lying.”

“Who?”

“That maid thing, y’kna, the blackmailing girl!”

“And what,” sneered Morose, “Suggests to you, Sergeant Harris, that she’s being economical with the truth?”

“The desk you’re sitting at, Sorr, There is NO PHONE on the desk.”

Morose looked at the desk top. He looked under the desk. He looked at the sides, the legs, and finally checked all the drawers. The bloody northern sniveller was right!

Unsteadily, Morose poured another glass.

“No Surr,” smiled Harris, “Ye canna make it appear with some more Port, y’kna, and you’ve already had enough to drink.”

“Just for once, you’re right” said Morose. He handed the slopping glass to his sergeant. “It’s for you. Just neck it. We’ll both need it when we see Weird later.”

*****

“So how long have you been the gardener here?” Began Morose.

“No Sir, I’m PC White. Do you want me to fetch the gardener?”

“Please,” gurgled Morose in bubbles through a glass of port.

*****

“Ahhhh, so you’re Fetch the gardener?”

“Ahhhh no sir, I’m…”

“Damn that fool of a policeman, well, now you’re here, take a seat.”

“No thank you, Sir, I’m paid adequately in cash. But I’ll sit down if I may?”

“Do it,” said Morose.

Harris stood, looking down at the gardener, “You look like you’ve been in the wars, Mr…?”

“Arr, that oi be Surr. Some damned fool of a copper keeps parking a bubble car on me.”

“Disgraceful, we’ll have that looked into,” exclaimed Harris, “We can’t have anyone besmirching the good name of The Force.”

“Thank ‘ee, Surr, God bless ee!” The gardener got up to leave.

“And where do you think you’re going, Mr Fetch?” snarled Morose.

“Oi was just off to get his registration number.”

“Good idea, see his car is impounded too, Harris.”

“I’ll see to that, zur,” said Fetch.

He was gone a short time, and returned with a hint of a smile.

“Got the plate zur.”

He produced a black and white car registration number plate from under his green cardigan.

“Excellent work, have you ever considered a job in the police?” asked Morose.

“No.”

“We’ll get down to business. Sir Milton Jayward, how long have you worked for him?”

“All the time since l started here, sur.”

“Splendid, we’re getting somewhere, Harris!” smiled Morose. “Was he a good employer? While he was alive, I mean?”

“No Surr, he was a Tory and a cunt.”

“Apart from that?”

“Apart from that he was brilliant, never harmed a fly.”

“What were you doing the night he died?”

Fetch suddenly lost his composure, and looked shiftily round at both officers.

“I’d, err, rather not say, Sir,” He fiddled nervously with a fiddle he’d picked off the floor.

As the lilting strains of The Magic Flute filled the room, Harris saw his chance.

“Mr Fetch, we need to know exactly where you were.”

“I was in the upstairs lavatory,” He squirmed.

“There’s nothing embarrassing about that Mr Fetch, we all have to go y’kna?”

“You don’t understand, Sergeant Harris, It was very odd. I needed to do number two’s, and I did, successfully…”

“Successfully?”

“I keep a log, a record of my stools, just a hobby, you know.”

Harris felt an urge to retch, “So what was so odd about this particular occasion?”

“I always check the pan afterwards, for size, number, consistency, you know.”

“Aye ok… and?”
“And there was nothing there, the pan was empty… so, at the time of the murder I had my hand round the U bend searching for my missing turds.”

“Let me get this straight Mr Fetch, are you saying you can’t account for your movements on the night in question?”

Fetch‘s lip quivered. After a pause, he whispered, almost inaudibly, “That’s correct, zur.”

Morose sat back. Harris sat back. Fetch, feeling left out, also sat back.

Morose spoke slowly. “You do realise, this means we’re going to have to take you in.”

With panic, Fetch gripped his cardigan tightly, “No zur, it fits me just fine.”

“I’m sorry Mr Fetch, but you leave us no choice. White?”

The duty constable put his head through the door, knocking out one of the panels in the process.

“Yes, Inspector Morose?”

“Could you accompany Mr Fetch here, to our car? We’ll join you in a minute.”

Fetch, realising the game was up, jumped to his feet.

Aw, sir, no. Think of my wife and kids?”

“Must I?”

In despair Fetch lowered his violin, and addressed the constable. “Its ok…its ok, sir. You can put that double bass down. I’ll come out unaccompanied.”

A smile crossed Morose’s lips, as they watched the constable walk Fetch out.

“You see, Harris? All so simple.”

“Aye mon, that’s canny great, but –“

“The old bloodhound is back on the scent, eh?”

“Sir, you…”

“The warhorse hears the sound of the cannon and advances!”

At that point he ran out of lame comparisons and fell back exhausted.

“Sir, out of interest…”

“I can see the laurels around my shoulders already. Weird will have to keep me on the books now!”

“Out of interest, sir, what’s…”

“Ah, just like old times, the adulation, the adoring WPCs, the…”

“What are we arresting the smelly git for????”

“What?” exploded Morose “Damn you and your northern nancy boy policing! I’ll think of something later.”

“Guilty of having a good fart in the shitter, on the night of the murder?”

“No, Harris, guilty of damaging my car,” said Morose, waving the missing registration plate at Harris.

“I suppose you want White to fit up a motion detector in the bogs, to check on his story?”

“Very good, very good!” said the boss. “Almost as good as that ‘Body of morticians joke’ that wasn’t funny in the TV series.”

“Aye, whatever” muttered Harris, as he gathered together his notes. “White,” he shouted, Fetch the butler through will you.”

“Family business eh,” mused Morose.

*****

“Right, I might as well tell you I’ve already arrested your brother, so you might as well come clean, what do you know about the murder?”

The butler cleared his throat as a large ball of phlegm hit what was left of the French windows.

“I’m sorry sir, you’ve arrested my brother on what charge?”

“Never mind what charge, what do you know about…”

“With respect sir, I’m sure he can’t get up to too much mischief at the cemetery sir, that’s where my brother is?”

“See Harris, the guilty ones have always got an alibi.”

“Yes Sir,” muttered Harris, “I think he’s saying his brother’s dead.”

“Isn’t that a bit convenient, Harris?”

“Not for him sir.”

“Or his widow,” offered the butler.

“Can we just clarify,” asked Harris, “That gardener, is he your brother?”

“No Sir, we are entirely unrelated.”

“Just co – incidence that you have the same surname? Bit odd, isn’t it?”

“With respect, sir, my name is Thomas, and the gardener’s name is Cairns.”

“Damn your snivelling bollocks, what are you on about?”

“They are our respective names, sir.”

“But… that blithering idiot White said you’re both called “Fetch”, can’t he get anything right?”

“Ahhhh, sir, all me notes will have to be re – written!”

“See what trouble he’s caused? Shifty looking Japanese bastard, if you ask me?”

“Sir, he’s Welsh!”

“Must be the port, Harris. Go out now and arrest that Welsh bastard for wasting police time, paper, ink, and an afternoon’s boozing!”

“Later, sir, we’ve got to get through Thomas the butler first.”

The man’s right, thought Morose, we need a suspect by the balls before the day is out. He slunk back into his leather bound stool, and looked hard at the new interviewee.

“So, Thomas. Let’s cut to the quick. Did you do it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Cos Sir Milton Jayward was a good employer, sir, I’d have no more harmed him than my own brother.”

“But your brother is dead, you say?”

“That’s why I’d not harm him.”

“Who killed your brother?”

“He wasn’t killed, sir, he died in mysterious circumstances after falling into Sir Milton’s electric eel tank.”

“I bet that was a shock.”

“Not as much as it was to him, sir.”

“Did he leave you anything?”

“Yes sir, a bill from the funeral director for five grand.”

“Couldn’t he have paid it himself first?”

“He didn’t consider others like that.”

“Anything else?”

“Only two other things, a sexy young nymphomaniac widow and a clapped out Ford Zephyr.”

“Must take a lot of servicing?”

“Yes, and I sold the car for scrap, sir.”

“Is there anyone else who works in the house?”

“No, sir, just me, the gardener, the maid, and then there’s Mrs Jayward, sir.”

Morose exploded. “There’s a MRS Jayward?”

Harris cleared his throat. “Er, sir, that’s the “Snivelling moose” you keep passing and demanding drinks from.”

“Oh, that mare? God, I thought she was collecting for Leprosy Mission or something! Fancy old Milton marrying a piece like that, the dirty old git! Christ on a bike, I bet she goes like the clappers all night, and had to wring his cock out on the mangle after!”

Harris cleared his throat again. The room seemed unusually cold all of a sudden.

“Tell you what, sir, why don’t you ask her yourself, she’s next to you with a fresh coffee and a plate of biscuits.”

Morose barely batted an eyelid, but spun the chair carefully round to see that she was, indeed, standing there with coffee and biscuits.

“Thank you, Mrs Jayward, but I’ll stick with my port. I never take coffee when I’m about to go on a massive bender.”

“You’re not on a bender here, sir?”

“I’m going to start right now” said Morose, “as soon as I’ve dug a fresh grave for myself, and asked Mrs Jayward here to fill it in again.”

*****

“Well sir, we didn’t learn a lot there, did we?” muttered Harris into his notebook as the Heinkel bounced off another corner, badly. He looked up, out of the windscreen, and wondered when they’d actually kill someone.

“You know sir, the aim of the game is to try to keep the car on the tarmac as much as possible. Try to avoid pillar boxes, that sort of thing. Treat the lampposts as a slalom if it helps, y’kna, try to stay between them?”

“Bollocks to that, Harris,” offered Morose, peering over the steering column, through the drunken haze that most evenings gave him, “Those council Johnnies knew the risks when they put those lampposts out, it was only ever a matter of time before I hit them!”

“Well don’t start just yet, wait until I get out y’ paralytic twat!”

“Oh stop whinging, you’re as bad as that nun!”

“What nun?…Oh, that nun!”

“What is it with these nuns and horticulture Harris, there’s another one diving into a hedge!”

“Must be the order sir, Little Sisters of the hedge botherers.”

“Sister Tiggiewinkle has just gone headfirst!”

“Too much sherry at mass will do that to the hardest nun.”

“So this murder, Harris, who can we blame tomorrow?”

“Well,” sighed Harris, starting to loosen his iron grip on the door strap for the first time, “We need to establish a definite subject and motive, y’kna, that sort of thing, something that Weird will like the sound of. I kind of like the idea of someone from outside the household, as having done it.”

“Shall we pull in that nun? She had a face like a battered trout, mind you, that may have been after we glanced her one.”

“I think that might be stretching credibility a bit, Surr.”

Morose eased off, as he sailed through a red light, and narrowly missed an articulated truck and trailer. “Maybe, but, dammit, we can’t get very far with the staff or Mrs Horn, there. We need a lead. Something new. Fuck you, too!” he added as they cut up a bus.

“Something new, like? We could pretend we haven’t got a clue, and that we’ve let the trail go cold,” muttered Harris.

“Sounds too much like reality, Harris. We’ve already achieved that.”

“Aye, mon, but we can be keeping it under surveillance the whole time! Let things cool off, the moorderer gets the impression we’re off the scent, and gets careless. THEN he makes his mistake, and then we pounce!”

“H’mmmm.” Morose pulled over.

“You okay Surr? You got an idea?”

“H’mmmm” repeated Morose.

“Aw, like it, you got your nose on the scent and I’ve just been blind to the truth!” Wow, THIS was what working with the old bloodhound was like! Just like in his younger days! The game, is, as they said, afoot!!!

“H’mmmm…..” repeated Morose, and got out of the car.

Harris wriggled free and followed him.

“C’mon, sir, what have l missed? Aw, mon, I know I’m just a soft Geordie rookie, and you’re the great detective, but c’mon, tell me!”

Morose paused at a hedge. Had he found another nun?

“Sir?”

There followed a heaving and a retching, as Morose brought talking to God through the hedge, to a new dimension.

There followed a long silence.

“I forgot to tell you, Harris,” Morose murmured against his sleeve, as he wiped the excess froth away. “I get travel sick”

“How, mon, that fookin’ honks and stinks to hell!”

“I’m sorry,” said the great man. “I’ll put some Brut on the next one, shall I? About half a mile up the road, I’d guess. Come on you traffic botherer, you can drive now, I’m bored!”

After they had gone through the complicated process of squashing back in to the Heinkel, and Harris had gone through the process of moving Morose over to one side, and taking Morose’s hands off the wheel, and the gearstick, then discovering the keys were in Morose’s pocket, and Morose had fallen asleep, then finding all sorts of ungodly objects in Morose’s pocket…and a car key.

“Excuse me sir, is this your vehicle?”

“Oh Jesus fucking wept….”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Hello, Saul, it’s me, Robbie, Sergeant Harris. You can put the notepad away – “

“Yes, of course you are, they all come up with that name. Can you tell me, sir, is this your car?”

“For – Saul, it’s me, Robbie Harris, it’s the Chiefs car…”

“Would you mind stepping out of the vehicle while I’m in touch with the Traffic Office, err, “Sergeant”? If you don’t mind, ho ho, Sergeant.”

“Saul – Constable Gonemad…” – Robbie went to stand up and lecture this air head, and overbalanced the car, which fell over, spilling Morose back where he belonged, in the gutter. Morose didn’t seem to notice and appeared to be trying to reposition a pillow – actually a kerb stone – while blood streamed from his nose.

“Saul, why are you harassing me?”

“Sir, are you aware that this vehicle is not in a roadworthy condition?”

“It’s in a more roadworthy condition now I’ve removed that dodgy nut from behind the wheel.”

“Dodgy mechanics, sir?”

“No, I mean that carked Oxford tosser lying flaked out over there, man!”

“Sir, can I bring you around to the rear of the vehicle, please?”

Harris obliged, while Constable Gonemad pointed significantly at nothing.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“See?”

“No!”

“No, that’s because it’s not there!”

“What? Fer fu…”
“The registration plate, sir”

Harris sighed, thinking to himself he was going to do a lot more than just park on the gardener tomorrow.

“Saul, let me ask you a question. Who do you have to hand the report sheet in to for this alleged offence?”

“Nothing alleged about it, Sir… the duty sergeant.”

“Now I’m sure you’ve studied the roster, who is duty sergeant tonight?”

“Err you are sir.” Gonemad pondered, he knew there must be a procedure for this. Obviously if he handed in the paperwork to Sergeant Harris, Sergeant Harris would drop the charges…, “So… should I hand it in to your superior, sir?”

“Your quite welcome to Saul, he’s lying in the gutter over there.”

“Ahhhh,” Gonemad decided this might need a little more pondering…

“Saul, let me help you with your dilemma,” offered Harris, “As Inspector Morose is implicated, as this is his car, you would have to take this charge to his superior, who is?”

Gonemad gulped, “Superintendent Weird sir?”

“Superintendent Weird, sir”, confirmed Harris, “Are you aware of what happened to the last officer to walk in to Weird’s office with a complaint, Gonemad?”

Gonemad took a second to think, “Would you like me to help you right your vehicle, Sir?”

*****

The evening at the station progressed slowly, but, as Morose was in the drying out cell, uneventfully. Robbie finished writing up the days interviews, and tried to avoid the implication that their total progress to date was nothing. He’d worry about any comeback from Weird in due course.

At 9pm, he handed over to Sergeant Thomas, and leaving Morose at the cleaners, as it were, made his way towards the exit doors. Putting his coat on, the front desk and all the paraphernalia of the police station became a darkened silhouette as he realised a sudden icy chill was blasting through the station. Then the grandfather clock that the station didn’t have, struck thirteen o’clock. Harris sensed, rather than felt, a freezing breath of air on the back of his neck that caused his soul to go into arrest, and his amygdala to run screaming to the hills…

“Ahhhh Harris, glad to have caught you, another day at the furnace, eh?”

“Y-yes Superintendent, me and Inspector Morose have been busy like, y’kna”

“I’m sure you have. I meant I have had another busy day at the furnace, but it’s not time for you to understand that yet”.

“Aye man, Sir, err, is everything okay, like?”

The atmosphere eased a little.

“Where can l find the good Inspector?”

“Er, he’s just, err, attending to some body in the cells, sir”

“His own, no doubt?”

This man…err….. person…. knew too much.

“Never mind, eh, now look, human, we need to discuss your operation”

“Well like l say, sir, things aren’t going too great, but we have a few leads – “

“I meant, your transformation…sorry, promotion…..”

“MY promotion?”

“Why, yes, you have that rare thing in one of my officers, potential. I have been impressed by your grasp of the job, and your career, matey, appears to be bright.”

Harris swallowed hard. Career as what, he wondered, as a police officer? As a Freemason? As a disciple of the Left hand path?

“Pop into my office soon, will you? You can make an appointment with my clerk.”

“Ah, yes, sir, I’ll make sure l do”

“Yes. You will. Enjoy the spaghetti bolognaise, that your wife has so lovingly prepared. You will sleep well, tonight”

“I will? I mean, err, yes, I will……” How did he know that?

“Goodnight, sergeant”

“Goodnight sir” Harris’s puzzled look asked a thousand questions, but no answers were forthcoming.

There was a draught as the presence seemed to lift. Then it returned, colder, as a disembodied voice followed Harris’s footsteps, “Oh, and by the way, you’ll find that the answer is Pyongyang”

*****

Harris’s greeting, on walking through the front door, was being head-butted in the balls by his six year old daughter, Emily.

“Oooffff! Yes I’m glad to see you too, love” Squeaked Harris.

“Oh, you finally home pet?” Asked Claudia from the kitchen.

“Aye love, I’ll just pop up for a slash”

“Aye, well don’t be long, your Spaghetti Bolognese is ready, man”

“Howay, that’s canny great –“

He paused….. Spaghetti Bolognese? How in the name of all that’s possible…..

They sat down to dinner with Jessica and Emily playing on the sofa nearby, watching the latest edition of ‘I Want a Truckload of Dosh’, on the telly.

Harris ate healthily – a day with Morose had that effect – and he was paying scant attention to the television, when suddenly Claudia nudged him

“Ooh, look, this contestant has made it through to the Million Poond Question! He’ll be being asked some real tough shite, after the break!”

Robbie mopped up his sauce with the remains of the bread roll, and the two of them sat fascinated through a series of adverts for toilet roll, paint, and the latest album from some ghoul off “Cack Factor”.

Then that fanfare, and the grinning halfwit that was Chris Trauma, glittered on the screen.

Above the sounds of the girls on the settee sticking needles in their dolls, Robbie and Claudia strained to hear the all – important question. If the contestant got it wrong, the phone lines were thrown open, and the first member of the great viewing public to get through with the right answer, won that elusive million.

“So, Bill, here we are, are you ready for the million poond question?”

The contestant looked a little pale “Can I be excused for a moment?”

“Ha-ha, no, sorry, you’ll have to…”

“Please???”

“No I can’t allow…”

“Oh gawd, me seats going damp.”

Chris Trauma grinned in the way a snake does, when eyeing up a gerbil.

“Just answer the question as best you can, oh, we do like a squirmer, don’t we audience?”

There was a sort of baying of hounds shout of “YES!!” from the audience.

“So, here we go!”

Drumroll. What sounded like a nasty fart. Chris holding a handkerchief to his nose.

Suddenly, Weird’s final comment made sense, “Pick up the phone pet, the answer’s going to be Pyongyang.”

Claudia looked at him, “How could you know…” but she grabbed the phone and started dialling anyway.

“For a million poonds, who played the trainer to Sylvester Stallone’s Rocky, in the first of the Rocky films?”

There was a desperate pause. The contestant looked like he was having a full – on prolapse. Claudia looked like she was having a full – on tantrum.

“Howay, pet, even I know Stallone’s trainer wasn’t Pongy Yank?”

That bloody Demon – worshipper got it wrong, fumed Harris to himself. What a stupid clot!

The contestant on the telly was having none of it, however.

“Chris?”

“Is that your final answer?”

“No, l mean, l want to ask you something….”

“At a time like this?”

The audience booed, someone threw a toilet roll onstage.

“Can I play my wild card?”

Some of the audience booed more, others cheered and began to applaud.

“Well, err, at this stage? “

This was new.

“This is new” said Robbie to Claudia.

“Aye” She replied, now fully engrossed in proceedings. “He must have almost shat his pants now!”

“This is new” said Chris Trauma. “On the million poond question, and you’re throwing in your last lifeline, and playing your wild card? You want…. Another, final question?”

The audience were definitely split over this. The cameras cut to some standing up and clapping, others pointing accusingly and shouting “Shithouse!”

“Yes” said the trembling contestant, “I never watched that Rocky stuff!”

Cries of “Shame!” and “Wanker” from the increasingly fraught crowd.

“Get dialling” hissed Robbie to Claudia, She did.

“Right, well…..” Chris Trauma struggled with this unique and unscripted development, “….. Okay, a new question, please!”

In the audience there was chaos. Some people sat and gawped, some stamped their approval and some hurled abuse. To the left a fight broke out between two nuns and a student.

The lights went down. A drum roll.

“Well, I can tell you, the answer to the question you refused, is, “Rocky’s trainer was played by Burgess Meredith.” However, your last question, with no lifelines remaining – “he paused to dodge a cabbage someone had thrown – “is this. WHAT……” sudden silence…..”What is the capital city, of North Korea?”

A shocked hush from the audience.

At home, Claudia and Robbie Harris looked at each other, and the phone line went “click” and a ringtone was heard.

“Er……”

“Is Err your final answer?”

“I’m bastard thinking!!!” shouted the sweating, cack–trousered contestant.

A collective drawn breath from the audience.

A collective drawn breath at the Harris’.

A very, very long pause.

Shattered, soaked both ends, the poor contestant’s face crumpled.

“I’m going to take a guess. I think I might be right. Is it…… is it, Red Leicester?”

“Is that your final answer?”

“Yes”

Turmoil. The audience broke out again in baying and a Muslim cleric started trying to put a cameraman in a headlock.

“Well I can’t give you all the points for that” said Chris Trauma, “as your answer is actually a brand of cheese. So! You know the rules, Bill, you go away with a coffee grinder and a heap of derision, plus your original bet of 50 pence. So it’s over to you at home! Think you know the answer? Who threw that brick? I’ll knack you in a minute, you little bollocks! Phone us on…”

I already have, thought Robbie Harris.

To his astonishment, there was a voice on the end of the phone.

“Hello? “I want a truckload of Dosh”? Do you have an answer for us?”

There was a slight echo in the room. Odd, none of them had noticed that before.

“Hello?” Chris Trauma’s lips moved with the words down the phone.

They were on air!!!

“Hello, yes, is that you, Chris?” stammered Claudia.

“Yes, I know who I am, but who are you?”

“It’s Claudia Harris from Oxford”

“Hello Claudia Harris, do you have an answer for us?”

“Yes!! Yes I do!!! It’s…”

The phone battery charger began bleeping.

“Christ, the recharger” said Robbie.

Jessica Harris, 11 year old Goth, reached out and casually threw the recharger at her dad, knocking him out. Desperately, Claudia grabbed it and struggled with the connection.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite get that” said Chris Trauma, “could you try again?”

“Yes!” Claudia Harris stretched out further than she’d ever done in her life and found the socket, and pulled her hamstring “Aaaaaahhh, Christ on a bike!”

“Ah what?” asked Chris, struggling to hear over the cries of several large scale disturbances, and a good kicking going on nearby.

“Tell him it’s Pyongyang!!!” wailed Claudia.

Little 6 year old Emily picked up the phone. “Pyongyang” she said.

“Pyongyang?” asked Chris.

“YESSS!! Screamed the whole family.

“We have a winner!” You could almost hear the relief over the television, as the studio security broke up a pitch battle between rival groups of Quakers.

“Stay on the line, and…”

The line went dead.

“Have we won?” asked Robbie.

“They don’t know who we are!!” wailed Claudia.

“Yes they do!” said Emily. “We’re from Oxford, that’s enough, isn’t it?”

Robbie went to say something and raised his head, straight into the underside of the dining table. Everything went very dark. And very peaceful.

*****

There was an annoying smell of chloroform and starch, like in hospitals. Robbie slowly turned from his side to his back, and tried to open his eyes, but the sleep was just too good to come out of, for now. All was peaceful, and had been for some time, and he wanted more.

“Mr Harris? How are we feeling?”

Harris strained hard not to open his eyes, but it was no good, the voice was that bit too hypnotic.

“Mmmfff, grrrum, uuurrgh” he managed to reply.

“Oh, are we now?” said the impossible soothing voice.

This was too much. Like a rusted–up shop front shutter, one eye opened, jammed, shut again, and then with a super–human effort, opened enough to see out.

He just managed to avoid saying “Cracking pair of tits, love”, just as well as it was a bloke.

“You had a bit of a bump, sergeant, and you’ve been here all night. “

“Shite. Sorry.”

“Oh, not to worry, that’s why we’re here. My, you’ve caused us a few problems, though.”

“Er……” his brain was un – fogging fast, “How, how have l caused problems, what have l done?”

“You yourself, nothing, but there have been a few visitors, tried to force their way in to the side ward here.”

“Visitors? Were they from this planet?”

“We think so, but we need your help. One of them is your wife, she’s not given us any trouble though. The main problem has been some frazzled old tramp who keeps insisting you’ve nicked his fucking bottle opener, and Tesco’s have barred him from buying any more.”

“Ah, shite….”

“Also some grinning chap who claims he’s off the telly and owes you a million poonds, a gardener who says you owe him a number plate, and some rather chilly character who just shows up, as if from out of nowhere, and keeps calling my staff ‘slaves’”

“Aye, I know them all, unfortunately. Sorry, like.”

“We threatened to call the police over the drunk, he kept shouting that he ‘is the bloody filth’, and throwing sanitary pads at us from a nearby vending machine he’d head – butted.”

“Is the idiot still around?”

“No, he headed off to the intensive care unit claiming they have some methadone for him, and we can all go to hell.”

“That’s mild, for him.”

“AFTER he’d shat on the plant in the hall.”

“Diven’t worry, man, I’ll probably catch him on me way home. How’s the wife taken it all?”

“She’s been fine, made a donation of £20,000 to the hospital trust appeal for a new Ebola suit, says you’ll probably need it working with that drunken old tramp. “

Now it all made sense.

The money was owed. The Super had tried to materialise in the hospital, and probably got lost in the air conditioning duct. And that hopeless turd Morose was off his face somewhere nearby.

There was a knocking noise coming from somewhere. It took Harris and the doctor a moment to isolate it, it was coming from the window.

“Can opener, please Robbie, very quickly!” shouted Morose, from outside.

“We’re four floors up, Mr Harris!” Squawked the doctor.

“Aye, no surprise there,” said Robbie, “He’s gone further than that for a drink before now.”

“Very, very quickly,” added Morose, losing his grip on the window sill.

*****

As Claudia had called a taxi, the leaving of the hospital was quite straightforward, and once they had negotiated their way past the fire engine, called out to rescue some lunatic, hanging off an upper floor window-sill, the journey passed uneventfully.

The scene at home was something different, however.

*****

“What’s gan on here, pet?” enquired Robbie, getting out of the taxi.

“Fucked if I know!” Offered Claudia.

Outside 97 Trilby Avenue was a TV van, and across the road, at 98 the same. And standing outside their house, 97, was a famous face, Chris Trauma.

“Quick turn on!” Screamed a young lady, leaning on the van, outside their house, “Go Chris!”

Chris go’d.

“Welcome back viewers, what an interesting 24 hours it’s been, last night, in the studio, Bill Shufflebottom from Colchester failed to find the right answer to a million poond question, so we threw the phone lines open and this lady…” he gestured to Claudia, “Come here my darling. This lady, Claudia Harris from Oxford, knew that the capital of North Korea was Pyongyang. Claudia, do you have any idea how much you’ve won? It’s going to take you away from this poxy little shithole you call home. Claudia you’ve won….”

From somewhere a drum roll commenced, Robbie looked around, but couldn’t see from where.

“It’s alright guv,” muttered the van driver, “They’ll add that on in post-production.”

Harris nodded.

“… you’ve won, my darling, our top prize of…one million poonds… and here to present the prize, is Lemmy Kilmister from rock giants Motorhead!

Flash bulbs popped, neighbours applauded, Lemmy handed over the huge cheque, and, well, it was all a bit breath–taking.

Robbie Harris was photographed with the lovely Claudia, the morning seemed to be going a bit out of control.

Suddenly, Robbie realised there was a man tugging at his sleeve.

“When you’ve quite finished poncing about, can l remind you we’re still on a case, and Weird has had me in for a roasting. “

Harris hadn’t seen Morose like this ever before.

He was sober, and looked awful.

“Howay, Surr, I’ll be with ye in a minute.”

Claudia looked bemused, “Are ye not going to tell him to shove his job, we can afford to be honest now?”

Robbie looked at Chris Trauma.

“Not just yet, luv, let’s wait til that cheque is in, and clears. I’ve got to get to the bottom of this case, like.”

“Okay luv” She seemed a little crestfallen. “Dinner at six as usual then?”

“Aye, pet, aye…” he gave her a massive squeeze.

Morose spat “For Chrissakes, let’s go before I hurl”

“Aye, whatever” muttered Robbie, and walked briskly to the awaiting, and freshly dented, Heinkel, past a couple of Harris’ neighbours setting on Chris Trauma for calling their neighbourhood a poxy shithole, as he was dragged into the television van by his producer.

*****

“Now Sir,” offered Harris, “Remember we said when you’re driving, as well as watching the road, there are other things you have to watch out for, can you remember what?”

“A puzzle eh, Harris? Well let me think… I’ve got reasonable vision of the road ahead, if I look around those pizza boxes. My speedometer doesn’t work, so it’s pointless watching that. No oil warning lights, my empty bottles are all in your foot well, so they won’t get trapped behind any pedals… again. My glove box is closed, so nothing nasty sticking out there, even the smell is down to a minimum, I really should pop that corpse back to Max, but otherwise…. No, you’ve lost me Robbie?”

“Look at your fuel gauge, sir.”

“Pointing west, no, I tell a lie, that’s E for east isn’t it, never could get the hang of these foreign cars.”

“E for empty, sir, we need fuel.”

“Well, I certainly do, spitting feathers mate. Get the round in at the next pub we pass, your shout I think!”

“The car’s fuel tank is empty sir.”

“Ahhhh yes, like last time!”

“So, I was just thinking, like, we need to pull into this garage coming up.”

“Ah.”

The little car spluttered its way onto the forecourt, Morose skilfully driving into the petrol pump nearest, before revving the bollocks off it and reversing over a cat, and sort of parking up a la Parisienne.

“Aye, that’ll do” muttered Harris, clambering out. Morose slithered out after him. “You put the fuel in – THE CAR – I’m off for a dump, that hospital bugs got me guts, I think.”

“If there’s any left in the nozzle after I finished…?” asked Morose.

“Yes, but only the nozzle sir, I’m not having your unleaded breath in that car again.”

*****

“You got any thunder boxes in this place, man?” Harris asked the attendant, by way of a conversation starter.

“Aye man, but it’s staff only.”

“Why aye! A fellow Geordie! Help me out mate, I’ve got the turtles head!”

“I cannat do it, man. It’s staff only!”

“I’m police, surely…?”

“I’m sorry man!”

“Alright man, here’s what we’ll do, see that old thing out there? That’s my boss, I know he’s well over the limit, and see the way he keeps taking the nozzle out and having a mouthful himself? Aye, he’s in no state to take petrol and you’re letting him. So I’ll use the thunder box and you won’t get nicked, deal?”

“Deal,” muttered the attendant.

“Aye, and I’m taking these mags with me, I might be some time!”

*****

God, can this day get any more difficult? He wondered. Having to get off the hospital bed, get home to find that grinning fool off the TV, Lemmy from Motorhead, the neighbours starting a riot…… the money might come in useful, mind… now locked in a garage thunder box, with almost nay paper, and…… and …… oh no, not this as well…..

Yes, the room was becoming supernaturally gossamer thin as the petrol station grandfather clock (that they also didn’t have) chimed thirteen. The breath… the cold…

“I’d leave it five minutes if I was you, Mr Harris” said the whispering, dark tones of Weird.

“Sorry sir, I didn’t know it was occupied”

“It wasn’t… well, not in the sense you mean”

“Have you run out of papper too?”

“No, I have no need of bog paper…I have put such things behind me”

“Can’t this wait, sir?”

“Only your bowels can answer that question, Harris. If I may continue? I see your dear wife, she of the Bolognese, won the money. You were supposed to win it yourself.”

“I’m sorry sir, I was a bit…”

“Never mind, as long as she gives it to you”

“Well sir, she won it, it’s a cheque in her name, and it’s kind of up to her what she does”

“No problems Harris, it would be left to you in a will, I assume, if there is a problem?”

Harris swallowed hard, and despite the aroma caused by Weird, instinctively lit up a cigarette. Whether it was the toilet fumes, the nicotine or Weird, he felt sick, and left the bloody thing on the tank behind him. “There’ll be no problem sir.”

“Good, now let me tell you what we’re going to do with that money…”

*****

Robbie Harris nodded to the attendant as he made his way back to more earthly matters, viz, the sight of Morose sitting cross legged by the petrol pump and swaying slightly, beside a pool of petrol and vomit. Picking him up, he dumped the newly trollied inspector on the passenger side of the seat, and ripped the keys out of his hand.

“Ah, Harris….. “

“Yes?”

“That’s me sorted for now, what a mess, having to make do with unleaded…..have you paid the nice man?”

“No” sighed Robbie, getting back out again.

Damn Morose, damn Weird and damn the car. Maybe Claudia was right, maybe he should just leave, before his sanity walked off too?

“How about a pack of Tic–Tacs?” called Morose after him.

He walked back into the kiosk. The attendant glared at him.

“No, have it for free mate. On the house. Just get that bloody awful smell of decayed flesh out of there.”

“That wasn’t me, it was – “

“They all say that, just go, for Christ’s sake, and get your wife to cook something a little more for human consumption, eh? Smells like it’s from out of this World!!”

“It is” muttered Harris, as he sulked back.

Stupid case. Stupid murder. Stupid Morose. Stupid bloody car.

He jumped in, fired up the engine, and they drove off, into the stupid traffic, and off to the stupid, bloody, accursed mansion house and the stupid, bloody, accursed murder case.

So much to do. So many idiots. Where was his firearms licence when he needed it?

Meanwhile back at the garage, his cigarette was burning the place down, having rolled off the tank and caught light on the mags he’d forgotten.

*****

“Tell us about the home life of Sir Milton” droned Morose.

There was a heavy pause.

Harris turned Morose’s chair round from the plant pot, to face the new witness, and last member of the household staff, Abramovich, the cook.

“Ah, cook, there you are. Tell us about the home life of Sir Milton.”

The cook was going to be a difficult nut to crack. An absentee Chechen freedom fighter, he’d found his way into service in the household by being cheap to employ, even though his culinary skills were a little lacking.

“Ah, so, you think I keeled him?”

“Did you?”

“Niet”

“That’s eastern bloc for “No”” whispered Harris.

“I know, I know” snapped Morose. “I read Valiant as a kid”

“He was a, how you say, good man. He give me job. He give me knives. He give me things to kill. I happy”

“What things did you kill? People? Relatives?”

“Ach, no!” snapped the Chechen. “I kill ducks.”

“Ducks, you say?”

“Ya. Ducks. Lots of ducks. Meester Milton have many ducks. He eat many ducks. He make lotta money, buy more ducks. Ducks his life.”

“Were you paid well?”

“Ya. In ducks.”

“Ducks featured heavily in your transactions?”

“Ya. He say it better than money.”

“How many ducks did he eat?”

“Many, many ducks. They his enemy. He go out in feelthy temper with shotgun and blow a load of ducks, to sheet. “

“How often did he do this?”

“Oh, two, three times a month. Things go bad in his business, he shoot a sheet load of ducks. He call them people’s names.”

“What names?”

“Margaret Thatcher, mostly.”

“And then he got you to prepare them and then ate them?”

“Ya.”

“I’ll check on his firearms licence,” muttered Harris from behind his notepad.

“Did he……” Morose shut his eyes, and put the tips of his fingers together. “Did he……” Morose also uncrossed his legs. “Did he” ….he leaned forward.

“Did he….. Did he what?” asked Abramovich.

“’ang on” said Morose, and with supreme effort, let rip a screamer of an air biscuit. He settled back in his chair. A stench of petrol filled the room. PC White yelped, and ran out.

“Sort that quacking duck out…. Did he have any enemies?”

“Just the ducks,” replied the cook, turning a little green. Harris tried, again, not to retch.

“H’mmmm.”

“Right Surr, if that’s what’s next, we need to take a walk” said Harris, sensing a vomiting session coming next. Dragging the protesting inspector behind him, they made for the French Windows and got out. Harris dismissed the cook with a wave of his hand, and they made for the nearby lake.

While Morose chucked up over the gardener, who was hiding from the Heinkel behind a rosebush, Harris took stock of the situation.

Five, in fact, all the household, interviewed. No progress. Weird breathing down their necks, no progress. The car unroadworthy, nothing new. A mad Russian cook, a mass of dead and cooked ducks, and a whole heap more out here on the lake, a mansion with loads of money but no suspects, the Harris family rich, but no money….. The whole case was making his head spin.

“Ah, sod this” spluttered Morose, wiping his mouth on a tuft of grass. “We need to clear our heads, where’s the nearest hostelry?”

For once, going for a liquid lunch seemed a good idea. Get away from this whole area and annoy some locals.

Together, they made their way back to the car, and, feeling battered, bruised, and not very well, they headed out onto the open road to escape the whole thing for a bit.

*****

The Heinkel sort of slewed to a halt, half on, and half off, the canal bank outside the pub, “The Worm and Hammer”. Harris opened the door part way and knocked over a footpath jogger, who called him a “Dozy prick”, and Morose almost scorched the grass as he made his way straight up to the front door of the pub in record time. Harris then watched incredulous as the inspector came to a grinding halt. “Well of all the lousy…..”

Harris joined him at the door, as Morose stood like a baffled owl on the very threshold of the place dearest to his heart.

“What’s up, mon – Surr?”

“It’s bastard well shut!!! Look, the little slidy card thing, it reads “Closed”, it’s not open! Not even open a bit! Is this legal?” His bottom lip quivered, as his white tufts of hair blew forlornly over his forehead, a major achievement as these were his pubes.

“Howay, Surr, if ye’d…”

“I mean, Christ, why am I voting UKIP if l can’t get utterly shot off my face whenever l need to? He stood rattling the handle, pushing at the door, head-butting it, kicking shit out of the cat flap, and generally causing criminal damage all over the portal to paradise.

“Sorr….”

“Harris, don’t lecture me, you northern clown, go and look for another way in, he must have a cellar entrance for deliveries, maybe you can shimmy down and using your warrant card, batter through the…”

Harris carefully dragged his boss to one side, and, standing on his foot to keep him still, reached for the door latch, and pulled it open.

“It was open all the time, you arsehole!”

“Good man, Harris, we’ll make a Freemason out of you yet!” garbled Morose, before disappearing inside.

Not that he got very far, this time, either.

“Oi! You! Git out my pub, you sozzled old tramp!!”

“But I haven’t – “

“Out, or I’m getting the filth”

Morose took an uneasy step back, straightened up, and smugly played his trump card:-

“I AM the filth!”

There were slightly nervous looks around the inn. The gentle folk of Oxford didn’t expect scenes like this when they entered a peaceful country pub. The décor was wooden beams and horseshoe brasses, mounted hunting scenes, and framed Constable pictures. The pub was now half full of curious, unsettled diners and drinkers.

“Then you can fuck off, we don’t serve no squealers here, not since my brother got banged up by your lot for his dealings with the IRA.”

There was a hum of consent as everyone got on with their drinking and dining.

Impasse.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble, I just want…”

Harris chose this moment to enter.

The landlord cocked his rifle, “Can you vouch for this trolleyed old trouble causing bastard?”

Harris smiled, “Yes, I can vouch for the fact that he is a trolleyed old trouble causing bastard.”

Morose looked pained, “I’m not sure you’re helping, Robbie…”

Robbie turned back to the landlord, “Look, I’ll pay for the drinks and I’ll leave this damages claim form on the bar…just in case.”

“Alright then,” said the landlord, “but only if I can insult the police every time you come to the bar.”

“Have we ever stopped you before, Geoff?” pleaded Morose.

“Geoff?” queried Harris, “We on first name terms with this man now, Surr?”

“Oh, sorry Harris, Geoff, this is my sergeant, Robbie Harris. Robbie, this is Geoff, my brother. And Geoff, will you stop going on about our Clive, he was dealing with the IRA, he deserved to go down.”

Geoff Morose started to pour two pints of Weasel Vomit, this week’s real ale, into two dirty and slightly rusting tin mugs, “I told you at the time, he typed in the text message, I love everything about the IPA, it was that bastard spell checker.”

The second pint of nasty looking, cloudy warm ‘beer’ was being poured when, from the middle distance outside somewhere, there was a vast explosion, and all the glasses in the pub, its windows and the horse brasses, were sent clattering and jangling. In the confusion a rare painting of a police constable by Constable, was damaged so badly, as it fell down the back stairs to the cellar, that no record of it exists anywhere today. There was a quick pause, and everybody rushed outside, even Morose.

Sure enough, not very far off, a huge column of brown smoke was rising from the general direction of the town.

“Is this your bloody terrorists again!” fumed Morose at his baffled looking brother.

“Nothing to do with me, you grass.”

Harris took a long look at the scene.

“Ah, it’s okay everybody, it’s alright, nothing to worry about.”

Half reassured the assembled throng drifted their way back in again, but Morose and the landlord looked puzzled at Harris’ calmness.

Harris took both men to one side, out of earshot, and said quietly, “Surr, it’s just the last stage of that cigarette I left at the petrol station going up, and taking most of the area with it. The fire brigade will have it under control by tomorrow.”

Thus satisfied that they were helpless to do anything here, the three left outside, also ran back in. Every pint glass on every table had been miraculously filled by the time they re-entered. No one looked up.

“Bunch of dodgy bastards” snarled the landlord.

That curse of modern drinkers, the jukebox, was busily providing a grating background noise of the latest variation on a theme, and it began to play on the already – frayed nerves of the Chief, already on his third pint of Weasel Vomit and Jack chaser.

“Harris” said Morose, into his glass, clouding up the sides as he spoke, “This racket I’m listening to……..”

“Aye Surr, it’s na conducive to clear thought. Or even cloudy thought”, he added, as the Chief slurped more of his liver to Hell. “It’s the latest shite off Britain’s Got Leprosy, sir. A boy band called Lanced Boy’ls. All from Belfast.”

“You seem depressingly well informed about them, Harris?”

“It’s me youngest sir, she loves them”

Morose stared at his empty glass, “Well Robbie, you must of course administer whatever beatings you see fit in your own house, but spare the rod and spoil your speakers, Robbie! This sort of filth should be wiped out!”

“Aww sir, live and let live man!”

“Woolly communist thinking Robbie, just as I wouldn’t filter a pint of Weasel Vomit through a pair of sweaty socks – I trust Geoff to make his own arrangements on that score – I wouldn’t blast Ace of Spades through speakers that had been subjected to that dirge. Do you think, if I had a gentle word with Geoff, he’d let me smash his jukebox?”

“Do you want to explain to Weird why he’s got ‘smashed jukebox’ on a damages form?”

“Suppose not, might need a gentler touch then,” he whispered, rising unsteadily to his feet.

A few inquisitive drinkers watched as the inspector made his way, via several walls and a little help from the floor, minesweeping as he went, in the general direction of the jukebox, muttering dark things about “This weak techno shit”. Pulling himself up to the jukebox, he stood before it as if it were a pinball machine, swayed back and forth a few times as he tried to read the track display, then with a swipe lashed out at the machine so hard that Lanced Boy’ls latest chart smash became just a smash.

“Whoops!” he said, rather loudly, and rather without apology. He fumbled about like a tool with a five pound note, trying to feed it into the coin slot, muttering about “cheap foreign shite!” and “It’s got the Queens head on, for fucks sake!”

Geoff dropped a hint.

“Try a pound coin, you tosser!”

Morose reeled back a bit, struggled momentarily with the concept of “pound coin”, then, seizing the impetus, reached past his pocket and into his flies, tried again, found the target, grabbed suspect number one, and rammed a £2 coin into the pound slot.

“Now fucking work” he muttered, pressing a few buttons on the console.

Well, it had been a while since Kenny Ball had made an appearance in the top 40, but here they were with “Midnight in Moscow”. The pub clientele began to rapidly drift out to watch the fire brigade.

“You hopeless Cockney turd, you’ve emptied my pub” snarled Geoff.

“Ah, swallow me knob” retorted Morose, jiving his way back toward Harris, who had taken refuge behind a copy of Country Life.  Ever the culturist, Morose swiped it off him, and stood throwing the oldest moves to the groovy sounds of 50s trad jazz, grinned at the sergeant, threw several thumbs up signs, and downed a few half-drunk glasses from the student table nearby. He spat one straight back up. “That’s just coke, not a hint of anything manful in it!!! And by the way, mobile phones hadn’t been invented when the IRA were active, you lying twat!”

“Howay, Surr, mon, we knew it was him, we just needed to pin it on him!”

“Unprincipled! Outrageous! Gives us filth a bad name! I like it,” sniggered Morose.

Harris tried to hide even further into his suit, but it was no use, he was stuck with the situation. Grimly, he ventured, “What else is on the boom box, just so l can make me will out now?”

Too late, the next track was already starting. Spike Milligan & Peter Sellers’ version of Unchained Melody.

“Harris, what is this shit that some brain dead moose has put on?”

“You, sir!”

“Harris, you know full well I’m banned from singing, since the incident in the Four Knives, when I…”

“No Sir, you put it on!”

“Tell that to my solicitors, you bastard, what is it anyway?”

“Sounds like Unchained Malardy, Surr, but it’s not Robson and Jerome”

“I think you mean Melody, you incompetent fuckwit! A malardy is a…. Christ on a bike!”

“Where?” asked Harris “Is the main man back?”

“Stow it, you Monkey Hanger, you’ve just told me what I…. by God…..yes….”

It suddenly seemed that the chief had either gone into a paralytic trance, or had just gone into a trance, it was difficult to tell which. He was still upright, and seemed to be breathing, though, so Robbie wasn’t getting off the case that easily.

“Ah……but that means…..Good God, Harris, it’s incredible!!”

“Ah…. Is this another of your farts coming up sir? If so, I’m out,” warned Robbie, gathering his papers and a napkin.

But Morose had suddenly adopted that look of strange, warm, almost human clarity that he had whenever he was near to cracking a case, rather than cracking his cheeks.

“But don’t you see it, Robbie…… by Jove, its beautifully clear now……”

“What is it Surr? Have ye got the vital clue, Surr? Or is it just an acid flashback?”

“Geoff!!!” suddenly he was out of the trance, and a man of action. The question now, though, was whether he was going to make it to the end of the case, or fall over and forget everything in a massive blackout.

“What now, Grass?” snarled Geoff.

“Bring me a quart of your finest, I’m going to need it”

“Solved your stupid monkey puzzle, have you?” hissed Geoff, opening a cardboard take – out for the worst beer he had, not forgetting to add “Snitch” as he filled it up.

Morose, however, was already starting to move in that stupid, club footed way that only a long term injury could cause him.

He headed for the door, Harris trailing after him, like a tug trying to follow an ocean liner out to sea. There was a sickening crunch and the sound of more broken glass as, ignoring the door, he made his way out, and toward the shiny Jaguar in the carpark.

“Hoy!!” shouted Harris, “That’s not our car Surr, ours is the rust bucket by the canal, perched over the edge of the…”

“I can’t be arsed with all that shit,” snarled Morose. “I’m requisitioning this.”

He crowbarred the door open and, using a skeleton key and a hotwire, got the jag running in no time.

“Hoy!!” shouted the enraged owner, running up.

“Fuck off” snarled Morose, waving a bus pass at him, “We’re the filth, we’re ‘aving this, stand back!!”

As he gunned the engine up and Robbie threw himself into the passenger seat, there was a further:-

“Hoy!!!”

“What the fuck now!!” hollered Morose back, breaking the electric window as he forced it down with his hand.

“Here’s your fucking beer!!” shouted Geoff, hurling the 4 pint carton of Kestrel through the gap and hitting his brother on the nose, before shouting “Fucking weasel” and sticking two fingers up at him.

There was a screech of tyres, the smell of burning rubber and brake cable, and a further shattering of glass, as Morose, fogged out of his head but now on a mission, somehow avoided the canal and wrenched the XRK8 out of the sleepy car park, and onto the main road back to the mansion.

“Harris get on the radio and…”

“Call for back up, Surr?” suggested Harris.

A vaguely pained expression hit Morose’s face, “No Harris, if you let me finish, get on the radio, Rock FM has a request show about now, ask for some Dead Kennedys, might as well have a bit of culture while we drive!”

Harris did get on the radio, but not to Rock FM, he put Operation Donkey into place. In short, Operation Donkey was put into place whenever Morose took control of anything lethal whilst trolleyed. It would usually start off:-

“Harris to control, Harris to control, Operation Donkey, Operation Donkey, currently leaving The Worm and Hammer heading easterly in a brown XK8, will keep informed of progress, roadblocks required.”

“Some bastard in a car like ours, eh Harris?” said Morose grinning manically, “Don’t worry, we’ll get them after we’ve sorted out this lot.”

With the way Morose waved his hand, Harris couldn’t be sure if ‘sorted out this lot’ referred to the death at the mansion or the Kestrel lager nesting on the back seat or even finishing their joint lives, together.

The roads did indeed seem remarkably quiet as they sped through several outskirting villages, a field or two, and at one point a bunch of archaeology students, working at a Roman site under a canvas. The roadblocks worked, then.

Morose skilfully slid the car round the main gatepost to Beagle House, creating a new hole in the dry stone wall as he did. In a cloud of dust, unburned engine oil, Kestrel and glass, they pulled up just in front of the bushes where the gardener had hidden from them, all the dry stone walling they’d picked up on the bonnet of the jag, falling off with the momentum, and decapitating him.

Quickly they re–arranged the bushes around him, and then strode, purposefully – although as yet only Morose knew the purpose – to the front door.

While Harris hammered on the door with his hammer, Morose took a massive spineful of the beer, realised what he’d been served, and spat the lot back out over a palm plant near the entrance, which wilted rapidly and expired.

Constable White got the door half open and was then flattened by the two senior coppers, Morose charging into the far wall, Harris helping him out of the panelling, and into the study where two WPCs still sat with Mrs Jayward.

Flouncing through the room shouting “Shop!” to anyone who’d listen, the rest of the household rapidly assembled with the 4 coppers on duty there. It was finally Harris, of course, who got the out of control robotics of Morose to stop, by hitting him with a medieval axe handle, stunning him temporarily. Not enough to make him forget! Just enough to pull him up.

They gathered around, other axe handles and a shotgun at the ready, while the Chief came round again.

“Gaaah!!!” he shouted as he opened his eyes, “It’s the pigs!”

“Sorr, we ARE the pigs, we were solving a crime?”

“Ah, yes, glad you’re paying attention, Harris!” He was up and trotting to the huge French window, built in 1850, by a huge Frenchman, as the rest of the police and civvies followed him

“Milton Jayward’s murderer was a cunning bastard, Harris!” he proclaimed, looking out of the glass and steaming it up (again) as he spoke, “But you gave me that vital clue in the pub, I said I’d make a snotty piglet out of you one day!”

“But Inspector Morose” wailed Mrs Jayward, “Tell us do, whoever is the rogue who committed this foul act against my late husband?”

He looked hard at her. “In English?”

“Who knacked me main man?”

Morose turned to the pack of coppers, “The murderer has been in our midst all the time! Come on, you flatfoot fools, follow me!!”

There was a further wrenching and tearing and smashing of glass as the whole lot fumbled their way out of the one opening door onto the veranda, and Morose threw himself into the lake, flailing wildly at the air as he did so. A huge quacking of ducks, a kafuffle of feathers, and no small amount of bird shit, flew all over the place.

“Here is your tell-tale heart, Harris,” shrieked Morose grabbing a duck.

“What?”

“It’s a quote, you illiterate man-droxy!”

“I know that, Sir… I meant…you think that duck did it?”

“Well, either him or one of his mallard mates, he’ll quack under interrogation, you watch!”

The assembled crowd seemed to take a collective gasp and step back.

“Don’t look at me as if I’m mad, you bunch of amateurs!”

They took a further step back. Mrs Jayward turned to PC White, “Is there a number we should call?”

PC white mentally wrote out a transfer request, it would turn out to be a big mistake.

“Excuse me?” said a voice, in the middle of the gathered crowd.

A small man pushed his way to the front of the group.

“Is the house open for tourists today?”

Morose looked across at the young bespectacled man as all eyes (including the ducks) looked at him.

Morose considered his next response carefully. This was a member of the public, a simple soul enjoying a day trip, and wanting to explore the beauty, and majesty, of one of Britain’s finest stately homes.

“Fuck off, four eyes, before I do you for wasting police time.”

“Quack!” The duck seemed to agree.

“Where were we, Harris?”

“Er, about to get you sectioned, Surr, what’s all this duck stuff?”

“”Oh, that’ll brush off later. Now, I suppose you want to know what all this is about?”

*****

There was a genteel chink of teacups on saucers, and a waft of cigarette smoke, as Morose stirred himself a sugar into his tea and looked at the eager, expectant faces gathered in a semi-circle around him.

“Gosh, Inspector, tell us do, whatever is this all about?” asked Mrs Jayward.

“Oh yes, please do!” clapped Millie the maid.

“Or else you’re in irons” snarled Harris.

“Well, you tools, let me take you back to the night of the 13^th….”

“Surr, the moorder was committed on the night of the 14^th!”

“Yes, but l did have a particularly decent bottle of Siberian vodka on the 13^th that had been liberated from the station….. My life seemed much happier then….” Morose began to mentally drift back to pleasant memories of a simpler time, when the drink was ludicrously strong, and the toilets didn’t play games with you…

“Sir? The 14^th?” steered Harris.

“You know, it doesn’t feel right telling this story without a bit of happy juice. Mrs Jayward, I like Indian tea and I like Chinese tea, but my favourite of all is Irish tea. Do the honours, love!”

Mrs Jayward nodded to Thomas the butler, who opened a bottle of single malt, and poured a healthy measure into Morose’s cup.

“Keep it coming, keep it coming… still a bit weak… easiest thing, get me another cup, and don’t bother with the milk or sugar… or tea, just make it an Irish cup!”

“Just whiskey, sir?”

“Nothing ‘just’ about whiskey laddie, fine drop.” He took a sip, “I always say Harris, there’s a definite art to making a good cup of tea that not everyone’s got. This Thomas chappie’s got it right though!”

Harris stared fixedly at a point on the ceiling, “The 14^th, sir?”

“No, it’s my first, keep an eye on things Harris, for Christ’s sake! Now then, I was going to tell you about the case, wasn’t I?”

“Hopefully Sir.”

“Wow, this is a very fine malt, it really plays with your mind, I’ve just solved the Moyes case from five years ago. Harris, requisition that whole bottle for me, and I’ll solve the Lindbergh baby case next!”

There was a stony silence.

“Too soon?” he asked innocently.

“The fucking bastard case, Inspector” snarled the maid.

“What? Oh, I almost forgot, yes. Well, it’s all perfectly simple, but as there’s a few women present, I’ll say it a number of times to make sure. Harris, l hope you’re making notes?”

“For the loony bin, Surr”

“Hahaha, yes, you spineless Geordie turd. The case revolved around the fact that Sir Milton Jayward is – sorry, was…” as Mrs Jayward burst into tears, “a member of the British parliament. Well as you know, there was a string of scandals involving the Right Honourable member’s expenses claims….right?”

“Right” came back the unconvinced reply.

“These ducks” he continued, indicating a line of Mallards, all chained together by the ankles – “were hoping to be the beneficiaries of a huge expenses scam, that the late Sir Milton was going to engineer for them.” Morose sat back into the backrest of the chair, forgetting it was still a footstool, and fell off.

There was a pause while, cursing the manufacturers of “This cheap French shite,” he slithered back into place. Again.

“More tea, I think…. Thank you Thomas… ahhhhhh!”

“The ducks, inspector?” asked WPC Franks, through gritted teeth.

“Oh, you can see them too? Ah yes, anyway, they hotched a plat, to have the old boy removed, and a new MP installed in his place, who would be much more sympathetic to their cause.”

Mrs Jayward cleared her throat and spoke between sniffles,

“Are you implying that my beloved husband was stoved in by a duck?”

“It would appear so, madam. My condolences”

“Thank you inspector. It is of enormous comfort to me, that my wonderful Milton kept to his true and decent principles, of the British aristocracy, and of the Conservative Party, and didn’t let threats make him claim unfair expenses, taken from the British tax payers.”

“No…” consoled Morose, swilling the last of his ‘tea’ and waving the cup at Thomas. “No, madam, he didn’t claim anything for those who threatened him, even unto the point of losing his life.”

“How noble, how British.”

“Indeed.”

“Lady Thatcher would have been proud of him.”

“Yes.”

“He would probably have got a bar to his knighthood.”

“Very likely.”

“The Party will be proud of him.”

“So will his three 24 year old Polish secretaries, for whom he claimed two houses each, and half a million in child benefit claims.”

There was a pause.

“Well, Harris, our job is done, time to leave and get the new kids here to bring the suspects in.”

“Aye Surr, we’ll give them a roasting down the station.”

“We can dine out on this for weeks!!”

*****

Harris was unsure how he felt about the arrests, but was left in no doubt how they were judged back at the station, by the powers that be.

Robbie was visited at home that night. The rest of the family were asleep, but Robbie was finding it hard to switch off. He entered the kitchen finding the fridge light ample for his needs. Chomping away on the fridge light, he took out a bottle of the usual fizzy crap the girls loved, and took a swig. It felt marvellously cold, then slightly chillingly so. He screwed the cap back on, finding as he did so, that the air seemed to get colder.

Turning the temperature up on the fridge, he closed the door, to find the kitchen had achieved an almost arctic chill.

“Central heating knacked again”, he mumbled to himself, and went to switch the light on to look at the thermostat.

“Ahhhh”, whispered a voice that seemed to chill Harris’s soul. “Panda pops, my very favourite!”

Weird was occupying a position at the kitchen table, not quite sitting, gently hovering above the chair.

“I came to congratulate you, on a very good days work”

“Sir?” puzzled Harris, “You are aware he’s just arrested some bastard ducks?”

“Not that, Robert”, smiled Weird. “You managed to keep your sanity while working with him, I appreciate the impossible. I always have done, and always will.”

“You know he’s got the ducks in the cells, don’t you?”

“Don’t worry, they’ll be gone in the morning. Tomorrow will bring a bigger case. Tomorrow morning, Morose will wake to a very important piece of news… you Robbie will have to wait a little longer for your news, remember I’m always looking out for my protégé’s.”

He didn’t fade away, he vanished.

As did all hope of Robbie getting any sleep that night.