The Vacant Casualty (10 page)

‘It must be quite close to some solstice or other,’ said Sam. ‘And notice how I gave you a helpful wrist-tugging hint . . .’

‘Gold star to you there, young man,’ said Bradley, who was pleased to see that his approbation gave Sam pleasure. ‘Well done for saving our lives,’ he reiterated.
‘But still it leaves a lot unexplained. And still more motives!’

‘Hmm,’ said Sam, sipping his Coke. ‘We’ve still got to talk to the mayor, and many others, but I think we should get hold of the man with the Ye Olde Shoppe.’

‘Yes, he certainly sounds like he has a grudge against the council, that could be a motive.’

‘Right,’ said Sam, caught off-guard. ‘He has a motive, all right. But he’s also missing out on some
major
other Dickens puns for his shop.’

‘Right, I see—’

‘Nicholas Nippleby, A Tale of Two Titties, David Cop-a-feel. That’s off the top of my head, if he wants to have a porn shop. If he wants to get into any other linem of business
(except being an actual Old Curiosity Shop), I could come up with a dozen puns on the spot.’

As Bradley was in the course of nodding and smiling, and agreeing in order to stop Sam speaking, their food arrived and they quickly settled into companionable silence. Sam’s wordplay was
happily confined to the
Guardian
easy crossword, while Bradley was rereading the
Daily Mail
that he had got all the way through at breakfast. By the time their food had been taken
away and they were finishing their drinks, DI Bradley was looking at his watch.

‘It’s nearly time for the Parish Council meeting,’ he said sadly.

‘Right,’ said Sam, leaping to his feet. ‘I’m just going to very quickly nip to the bar. . .’

B
RADLEY AND
S
AM
were admitted early to the meeting this time, although admittedly both were slightly nodding their heads owing
to the ‘restorative’ double shots of whisky Sam had bought them both. However, it took the other members so long to assemble, and the room was so cool and shady and (with its many tall
windows covered in dusty drapes) so deadening to sound, that the two men had the helpful best part of a half-hour’s rest at the back of the room before the meeting commenced.

‘We’re here today to discuss another member joining us,’ said Lord Selvington, snapping the room to attention. The detective and his companion instinctively looked at Major
Eldred, who eyed them both meaningfully in turn before switching his gaze to the chairman. ‘And this is a very important decision. I suppose, beforehand – Miss Stissinghurst, is there
anything we really need to get off the minutes from yesterday?’

‘I’m afraid,’ came a rather prim and schoolmarmish voice, ‘that we still have the issue of Cedric’s shop.’

‘Oh, bugger it,’ whispered Lord Selvington audibly, and a big grin spread over Major Eldred’s face.

‘This is the issue that we have tried to prevent Cedric Gray . . .’ said Selvington.

‘. . . Cedric the Bastard,’ said Saracene Galaxista.

‘I’m
aware
what he changed his name to,’ said Selvington in a warning tone.

‘It’s deed poll, you can’t not call him it.’

‘Fine,’ said Selvington, running a hand over his forehead. ‘The man who used to be called Cedric Gray, and who—’

‘And who is now called Cedric the Bastard . . .’ said Major Eldred.

‘Fine,’ said Selvington. ‘Fine! Call him what you want. Does someone else want to take over the relentless brain-fuck of handling this meeting?’

Major Eldred and Saracene Galaxista were enjoying themselves hugely but not enough to want to actually take over, so they lowered their eyes.

‘Oh! No? No one else? Listen, Cedric can change his name on deed poll to “Fuck the Parish Council Meeting in the Quivering Arsehole” if he likes, I still have to get through
the agenda. So, item one, here’s a huge bloody surprise, Cedric the Tedious Flippin’ Bastard’s shop has changed its name. Yes?’

‘Yes,’ said the quiet voice of the Parish secretary from the corner.

‘I know we in this meeting, and in this village, have long had a problem with Cedric’s shop being called Ye The Olde Curiositye Shoppe. We’ve had a vote on every one of those
extra letters. Except perhaps for that extra “p”, which we didn’t object to after allowing the “e” that went with it.’

There was a brief pause while everyone took this in, not just the two visitors to the chamber.

‘Please tell me,’ said Lord Selvington, ‘that he has decided, as we have long demanded of him, to remove either the “Ye” or the “The”.’

‘No, he wants to change the “Ye” into a “Yeay” – Y, E, A, Y. To make it more phonetic.’

‘It doesn’t have to be more
phonetic
, it’s a fucking sign!’

‘But for Americans. That’s what he’s saying.’

‘It’s even worse than before,’ chipped in one of the Quimples. ‘That’s like text speak.’

‘Exactly,’ said the major, his one visible eye goggling. ‘Why are we troubled by this runt, week after week? Is he English at all?’

‘He
is
called Cedric.’

‘Are Cedrics really English? Sounds a bit Danish. I mean, is it illegal to kill the bleeders?’

There was a considerable amount of gasping at this, which only encouraged the major to rise to his theme. ‘I mean to say, and I have been hoping to get the phrase “I mean to
say” in for quite a while, so God damn it, I mean to say it!’ he said. ‘We have to talk about this crapulous little buffoon’s signposting habits for almost half the meeting
every week and I Mean To Say I resent that it delays me getting my cup of bloody tea and Rich Tea (or WHATEVER) biscuit. So there.’ And so saying he stood back down from the table and removed
the scimitar he had thrust passionately through the ornaments in the top of Miss E. Quimple’s hat, which might once have resembled fruit or birds, but were now snowflakes of paper.

‘Thank you, Major,’ said Lord Selvington quietly, ‘for moving the conversation on so far as to discuss Cedric’s name.’

‘May I for my part say,’ said the mayor, already looking quite pleased with himself, ‘if he wants it to be in text speak, why doesn’t he go the whole hog and call it
Yeay, The Olde Curiosity Shoppe Lol!’

‘Well, exactly,’ said Emily Quimple.

‘No, that was a joke,’ said the mayor, with a falling face.

‘OMG ROFLMAO!’ said Sam suddenly from the corner, at the top of his voice, smiling.

They all turned slowly to look at him in confusion, including the mayor (looking more scornful than the others, clearly grateful to have the attention distracted from himself) and once again he
found how unexpectedly out of place he was among these rich old folks. He was surprised at how abashed he felt.

‘WTF,’ Sam muttered to himself, leaning back into the shadows.

‘Well, apparently it’s “Yeay” or “Thee” with two “e”s, and that’s that.’

‘For crap’s sake, it doesn’t make any sense,’ said Lord Selvington. ‘What is he, on commission from the Unconvincing Old-Fashioned Font Association? No. Our answer
is no. What’s next on the agenda?’

‘It’s the least curious shop I’ve ever seen, anyway,’ said the Reverend Smallcreak. ‘It’s just full of
tat
.’

‘Point two, a question from two meetings ago, when I wasn’t taking the minutes,’ came the voice of Lord Selvington’s secretary. ‘Re: the opening of the £7
million abbey renovation. Are we
really
to invite Abi Titmuss to cut the cord?’

Selvington gave the mayor a suspicious glance.

‘I don’t
think
so,’ protested that dignitary, evidently very excited and shifting in his seat. ‘Did we
really
say that?’

‘Apparently she came top of the list,’ said the one-eyed major sadly, reading from his minutes. ‘I suppose it’s because she’s called Abi,’ he said, looking
up. ‘And has huge knockers.’

‘Well, I must say Abi Titmuss is a charming name,’ said one of the Quimples. ‘Sounds like a type of bird.’

‘She certainly
is
a type of bird, but not one of which you would approve, possibly,’ said the major, leaning back in his chair, looking pleased with himself.

‘Oh dear,’ said the other Miss Quimple, looking distressed. ‘Not a
chaffinch
?’

‘I fear we’re straying from the point somewhat,’ said Lord Selvington slightly huffily. ‘Let us return to this next time, Miss Stissinghurst. Now, ladies and gentlemen,
of course we all hope Terry is going to turn up alive and well as soon as possible but he is not here, and as we all know, with our vote coming up at the end of this week, and the votes standing
the way they are, we need to fill up this vacancy (which is, in the circumstances, not so much of a “casual vacancy” as we would hope it might be). So it is now time for us to meet our
candidates . . .’

‘Time for refreshments, then,’ said the major, in such an excitement that he switched his eyepatch from one socket to the other without anyone but Sam noticing. Tea was indeed
brought, poured and handed round, with Custard Cream biscuits on each saucer.

‘Please bring the first one in, Mrs Trench,’ said the mayor, and the frightening and apparently female creature who had welcomed Sam and Bradley in the previous day limped
theatrically to the door, pulled it open and then nodded to whoever was outside.

Sam found this woman chillingly fascinating, in just the same way that he would sometimes catch a glimpse of a particularly unwell and miserable-looking homeless person, or someone in the
furthest stages of a degenerative disease, and be suddenly convinced that by some cruel and relatively sudden twist of fate he might find himself in their shoes. These occasional shocks were one of
the relatively few things that genuinely gave his existence zest and meaning. She seemed to have not much more mental faculty than the average home computer, and accomplished her simple tasks with
a great deal of visible effort. She presently subsided onto a chair at the back of the room and instantly fell asleep, farting loudly as she did so.

This was quite possibly a common enough occurrence not to warrant any notice or comment from anyone else in the council, but either way their attention was now firmly fixed on their first
interviewee. He was a tall man, fat and completely bald, perhaps fifty years old, and wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt with a picture of the Union Jack on it.

‘Now,’ said Lord Selvington, clearing his throat and looking at the papers in front of him, ‘I understand that you were until recently Professor of Middle Eastern Politics at
Trinity College Dublin, is that right?’

‘Nah, nah,’ said the man, waving his hand. ‘I run a burger van.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Selvington, putting the paper down. ‘I was getting you mixed up with Angharad Trefusis.’

‘Who, in turn, must be a woman,’ said the mayor quietly.

‘Er, indeed. Please do go on,’ said Selvington.

‘Well, I run my burger van just up on the A-road over the hill, and what I’m saying is . . .’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Selvington. ‘You actually
live
here in Mumford?’

‘That’s right,’

He nodded three times.

‘
Really
?’

The man nodded again.

‘Good
Lord
,’ said Selvington.

‘I’m not a racist . . .’ began their guest.

‘Now, wait a minute. Call me old mister psychology-pants,’ said the mayor, ‘but that probably means that you
are
, doesn’t it? Just a bit.’

‘No! No, what I’m saying is – and hear me out – is that I think we should keep this town the way it is, and – excuse my French – but not let in any bloody
foreigners.’

‘There we go,’ muttered the mayor. ‘I owe myself a fiver. Clever old psychologypants.’

‘But my dear man, there
aren’t
any foreigners,’ said Selvington. ‘That’s why the property prices are so high, and we’re one of the country’s most
famous and desirable towns.’

‘I’m not a racist,’ insisted the man again. ‘I like Bolognese, and curry and that.’

‘Yes, yes, that’s fine. Thank you – we’ve got lots more people to see today, so would you mind making way for our next candidate . . .’

The man lumbered disappointedly out of the room and the mayor and Selvington both shouted together to wake Mrs Trench to invite the next guest in.

The next man strode in confidently, a wide fellow with an enormous bushy beard, bright eyes and the ruddy complexion of someone who shouted a great deal.

‘Looks like Brian Blessed,’ muttered Sam to himself.

‘I am indeed the famous actor Brian Blessed!’ yelled the man. ‘I would like to join your Parish Council.’

‘Brian, we’ve had this discussion a dozen times. You’re not getting in.’

‘Why not?’ bellowed the enormous actor.

‘Because you’re a lovely fellow, but the one time we had you in here, we got nothing done.’

‘Remind me?’ enquired Blessed at the top of his voice, suspiciously.

‘You mutter under your breath and it’s very off-putting.’

‘Plain nonsense!’ foghorned Blessed. The actor looked round at Sam and Bradley, raising his eyebrows and then jerked his thumb at Selvington as if to say, ‘Look at this
fellow!’

‘
What
do I mutter?’ he demanded.

Selvington took off his glasses and rubbed the top of his nose. ‘Must we do this? We all know where it’s going.’

‘I will not be oppressed, you vermin! Tell me! What is the phrase?’ And he cocked a hand against his ear and turned the ear towards the chairman, with an expression of majestic
fascination, like a king listening for the trumpet-call of victory from a far beacon-post.

‘It’s extraordinary,’ whispered Bradley. ‘He really does shout
all the time
!’

‘“Gordon’s alive,”’ said Lord Selvington wearily.

‘Yes!’ said Blessed, crashing his fist onto the table. ‘That’s it! Gordon IS alive! I must find him at once. Stand back! Make way! Together we shall rid the universe of
the tyrant, Ming! THUS IT MUST AND SHALL BE!’ And so yelling, he charged right through the middle of the circle of tables, luckily only knocking over the two behind, where no one was sitting.
As the actor passed her, yodelling in fury, Mrs Trench mumbled in her sleep and turned over, farting again.