A Civic Duty by Newton Webb
A Contemporary Psychological Horror Short Story: In a picturesque English village, Lenny, a portly semi-retired private detective, must face his past.
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A Civic Duty
By Newton Webb
3rd May 2011, Wigginton, England
Len sat at his usual table by the window, where he could watch the high street. His faded blazer hung over the back of the seat, his shirt stretched tight over his paunch.
“Double espresso and a detox fruit cup.”
He lifted his copy of New Scientist to allow the waiter to put his breakfast on the polished wood. “Ah, thank you, Jeremy. That’s most kind.”
Poking at his fruit cup, he returned to reading the latest article on climate change.
The bell above the café door dinged as a flustered young man came in. His hair was damp at the temples, his jacket had a grease mark on the lapel. He looked around once, twice, then fixed on Len. “Leonard Williams?”
Len took a deep breath, closed his copy of New Scientist, and put it down next to the local property pages. “Yus. And you are?”
“Marcus Johnson. Hey, erm, I’m sorry, I saw a post on Facebook about you and hoped you could help me.”
Len grimaced, smoothing down his shirt as it rose around his ample stomach. “Fecking Facebook? Well, can’t be helped, I suppose. Everyone has a bloody digital footprint these days, even me. And what seems to be the problem?”
“It’s a bit of a sensitive matter, I’m afraid.” Marcus’s finger tapped his thigh as he spoke.
“Ah, well, they do tend to be. Perhaps you’d like a coffee while you tell me about it.” Len motioned to Jeremy, who obediently left the counter and sauntered over. “They are very good here, much better than the previous owners. Lazy feckers never opened up until well after nine am. To be honest, I’m glad Mr and Mrs Harris disappeared.”
“You drink here every morning, don’t you?” Marcus said.
Len looked up from his fruit cup. “Do I?”
Marcus held his gaze for a moment before smiling and turning to order a latte, then took a seat opposite Len. “I can pay you.”
“I should hope so.” Len stabbed a cube of apple. “I’m a private detective, not a charity. Go on then. What’ve you done?”
“Well, it isn’t really me.”
“Isn’t it?”
Marcus narrowed his eyes. “I was burgled!”
“Oh dear, that sounds to me like a matter for the police.” Len clucked as he waited patiently while Marcus nervously shifted. “Now’s the part where you tell me why you can’t go to the police.”
“They took my laptop.”
Len tapped one finger against the table and waited.
Marcus looked around, then leaned forward. “It’s a work laptop. I wasn’t supposed to take it home, but I had a lot to do and wanted to leave on time. I thought I’d finish off my proposal over the weekend.”
Len raised his eyebrows. “Ah well, I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“I’m an accountant. It has our client data. Full records. If anyone gets into it, that’s a reportable breach. I’ll lose my job.”
“It isn’t password protected?”
Marcus froze. “Well, no. No, it isn’t. If anyone gets into it, that’s a reportable breach. I’ll lose my job.”
“Ah well, that changes matters. I can see how that might be career limiting. You can’t feck about with confidentiality.” Len polished off the last chunk in his fruit cup. “They really should have a better security policy.”
The café door dinged again.
“Len, thank God.” Another man in his mid-twenties rushed over to Len’s table. “Roger needs you right away.”
“Götterdämmerung! What now?” Len shook his head and finished his espresso.
“I can’t say. It’s best that he tells you.”
“Ah, well Ben, let me guess. Our esteemed local MP, Roger McNair’s son didn’t come home last night?” Len ventured. “Usual fee, as always, cash.”
“Amazing, how do you do it?”
Len raised his eyebrows. “Marcus, I suggest we take my car. We can pick up dear Thomas and drop him back to his father. Polling day is rapidly approaching, and he won’t want his son’s indiscretions to hit the news.” He pushed back his chair. “Then you can guide me to your house, and we’ll see about your laptop.”
Marcus stood at once. “We don’t have time for this.”
“Nonsense, I am afraid, I insist, I have a civic duty.” Len dropped a tenner on the table and waved at Jeremy.
“No, we... Dammit.” Marcus nervously bit his lip, then, taking a deep breath, followed as the three of them left the café. Len gave a perfunctory wave to Ben, who scuttled off to inform Roger.
“Ah, the day I’ve had.” Len strode towards his car, a dusty Skoda Fabia 1.2. “It’s the TSI,” he said proudly.
“It’s very nice.” Marcus looked at it dubiously, letting himself into the passenger seat.
Len parked up on the road. The council house sat behind a dishevelled lawn, its grass grown ankle-high around a child’s scooter and three black bin bags. The upstairs curtains were still drawn. “You stay here if you like, Marcus. I’ll deal with the errant heir.” He levered his large frame out of the car. “Good lord.” He cracked his back and brushed his shirt straight.
“No, no. I’ll come with you if you don’t mind.”
“Ha, you are my muscle, are you?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but...”
“Of course you aren’t. My muscle? Come on.” Len led them up the driveway and knocked on the door. “Look at you, you are all string and bones.”
A large woman in a dressing gown opened the door, a cigarette drooping from her mouth. “What are you doing ‘ere?”
“Out of the way, Chrissie. I’m having a rather busy day.” He walked past her. “I think we’d both like to keep this unofficial.”
“Well, I never.” Chrissie pursed her lips, backing away.
“Best call him down, don’t you think?”
She looked at him nervously, then bellowed upstairs. “Alice!” She looked back at Len. “I knew he was trouble, he said his father would see me evicted if I didn’t let him in.” She turned again. “Alice!”
“What?” Alice appeared at the top of the stairs. Beside her, Thomas McNair wore an olive Sunspel tracksuit that probably cost more than Chrissie’s washing machine.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Thomas scowled at Len.
“Hello, Thomas. Your father is looking for you. I figured I’d come and find you before the press.” Len planted one hand on his hip and waved the other vaguely at the stairs.
“You can tell him to sod off. I’ve had enough. I told him, I’m not coming back.”
“Ah well, see, there is a problem there. Alice here isn’t quite sixteen, are you, love?”
Alice shrank back. Thomas raised his fist. “You dare—”
Len ignored the posturing young man. “You are twenty-one, Thomas. Alice here is fifteen. Which means I won’t be phoning your father to explain that you are having a spot of rebellion. I will be phoning the police to say that the son of our local MP is, in fact, a paedophile.”
Thomas lurched down the stairs. His eyes were bloodshot with hangover. “I’m not a fucking paedo!”
“Well, that is a relief. Then the police will let you go after a little chat, won’t they?”
“Don’t you fucking dare.” Thomas raised his fist. “Don’t you know who my father is?”
Marcus nervously stepped forwards but was waved back by Len.
“Good lord. Here we go. I suppose you could add assault to the list of charges if you want. Imagine what your dear father would think of that. It’s really up to you. The other option is you go home and everyone pretends this never happened.”
Thomas glared at Len, then barged past, knocking him to one side.
“Oh.” Len rubbed his shoulder. “Well, that was unpleasant.”
Chrissie was still there, lurking in the hallway.
“Perhaps it would be best if you kept a better eye on your daughter, Chrissie. I don’t think your beau would appreciate the law paying closer attention to this particular house.”
Chrissie sniffed. “All right. Look, I’ll make sure he doesn’t come back.”
“Mum!”
“Alice, you get back upstairs. I’ll have words with you later!”
“Quite right. Thank you for being understanding, Chrissie.” Len led Marcus back to the car.
Marcus looked at him. “How did you know?”
Len smiled faintly and pointed at the expensive BMW parked outside. “People are very careless when they think nobody important is watching. Bad apple, that one.”
The Skoda drove slowly through the woodland road. Oak, ash and birch arched over the road, their new leaves turning the light green. Bluebells carpeted the woods on either side.
“I can’t believe you don’t have a phone or a TomTom.” Marcus had Google Maps loaded on his phone and was handling navigation. “And next turning, off Upper Icknield Way, down St Leonard’s.”
“What a wonderful name. Dedicated to St Leonard of Noblac, not me, not yet. My good deeds have yet to be formally recognised.” Len turned on the indicators. “I’ve an A to Z in the back if needed. Can’t be fecking around with all these gadgets and their subscription costs.”
“Here. On the left. Oxbury Farm.” A stone gateway sat back from the road, half-swallowed by cow parsley. Beyond it, the gravel drive curved towards a handsome brick farmhouse with fresh paint on the window frames.
Len dutifully drove in. “A very nice place, and this is yours?”
“A recent acquisition.” Marcus smiled.
“Ah, wonderful. What a lovely environment. Peaceful and secluded.”
“I play a lot of music, so it’s nice not to have to worry about upsetting the neighbours.”
“Quite right.” The Skoda crunched across the gravel. “Accountancy pays quite well, I see.”
Marcus undid the seat belt. “If only. No, I inherited. My father was a property developer in his day.”
“Was he now?” Len approached the farmhouse, looking at the broken glass pane on the front door. “Ah, and this was how the burglars gained access?”
Marcus gingerly opened the door. “Yes, I assume so anyway.”
“Why else would they smash a glass pane?”
“Er, yes, sure. Sorry.” He led Len into the living room. “The laptop was on that table. I was working from the sofa.”
Len harrumphed as he walked around the crime scene. His eyes scanned the surfaces. He peered at the mantelpiece, looking at the sun-faded family photographs. A pizza box was in the corner, the receipt taped to its lid. A basket of folded throws with dust on the top.
“If you will follow me, I found a trail of footsteps leading into the woods.” Marcus gestured to the front door.
“I don’t think so.” Len glowered at him. “I’ve just arrived, and you haven’t even offered me a fecking cup of coffee.”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed before he smiled. “Of course.”
“Black, please.”
As Marcus left to find coffee, Len ambled around. He looked at the faded family photos on the wall. In the corner of the room, he found a stack of double glazing adverts, food menus and other junk mail. He flicked through them, sucking on his teeth.
“Ah, yes.” He found a half-drunk bottle of whisky. It was Bell’s, but needs must.
Marcus emerged with two mugs of coffee.
“Ah, very good. Very good. If you would be so kind, I could use a glass too. I just found your lovely whisky.” Len waved the bottle.
Putting down the coffee cups, Marcus disappeared into the kitchen once more.
Len pulled out a battered tin of mints, humming to himself.
Marcus returned with two glasses.
Len poured a finger’s worth of whisky into each one and raised his glass. “To solving your case.”
They clinked and slugged their whiskies.
“Oh, gosh.” Len blinked rapidly before smiling. “Ah, all better now. Right. I’ve had a little look around the crime scene. A few questions, then we’ll both finish our coffees and then you can show me the exit route.”
“They didn’t leave much evidence.” Marcus sat down on the sofa.
“That in itself is evidence.” Len peered over his coffee cup. “Nescafé?”
“Gold Blend. I don’t have a coffee maker.”
“You don’t need machines to do everything for you, Marcus. A simple cafetière, or French press if you want to go all American, will do.” Len blew over the coffee. “So, your parents. You mentioned your father was a property developer. Perhaps you could sate an old man’s curiosity and tell me more.”
“Well, my mother was a philanthropist. She did a lot of fundraisers for Africa.”
“Oh, very good. But, no other siblings?”
“None. Just me.”
“Well, siblings are overrated. I had a ghastly brother. He joined the police and spent his entire life poking his nose into where it wasn’t wanted, until he died in a car crash.” Len looked around the room. “I’m much more discreet.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. You didn’t kill him.” Len laughed putting down his empty mug.
“Aren’t you going to ask me questions about the case?”
Len narrowed his eyes. “Who says I wasn’t? But fair enough, when did you notice the theft and were you in the house at the time?”
“No, it was while I nipped out at seven to get a McMuffin. I returned half an hour later.”
“Hmm, poor performance. Ruining a man’s breakfast.” Len pursed his lips. “They must have been waiting for you to leave, if they committed the crime in thirty minutes. Yet they left the charger cable?” He pointed to the corner of the room, where a cable was plugged in.
“That’s a spare.”
“Oh, good to be prepared, that’s what I always say. They should have taken a better look around.” Len nodded at the TV. “I wonder why they didn’t take the TV. It’s not particularly valuable, but it’s still easy money.”
Marcus waved a hand. “Who can say?”
“Now, finish your coffee and let’s go for a walk.”
“I’m okay. I’ve had enough coffee, really.”
“Okay? Nonsense. Don’t waste your coffee. My parents were in the war. The problem with your generation is you don’t know how good you’ve got it.” Len pointed at the mug. “Go on, down it. We aren’t going out until you do.”
Marcus sighed, downed his coffee and put the mug down. “As you insist. Now, let’s go.” He stood up and wobbled slightly.
“Orthostatic hypotension. Gravity is denying blood to your noggin’.” Len stood more slowly. “Unusual in a man of your age. Perhaps you had a little too much whisky last night?”
“I’m just a bit stressed. This way.” Marcus led Len out.
Len stepped over the shattered glass, then walked down a beautiful, sun-dappled woodland path. “This is lovely. You mentioned footsteps?”
“Further on down.” Marcus stopped and motioned with his hand. “After you.”
He tutted as the path narrowed, brambles tugging at his trousers. “Most kind, but you know the way. I’m just following.”
“I said, after you.” Marcus pulled out a large chef’s knife from inside his jacket.
Len rolled his eyes but took a cautious step back. “Oh, Jimmy. The inevitable betrayal.”
“What?” He stepped forward, before angrily waving the knife at Len. “My name is Marcus.”
“Oh, I think we’ve moved past that little lie.” Len started walking along the path, the knife at his back. “Gig’s up, mate.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ah well, you did a pretty good job, but the devil is in the details. If you are going to lie, then you really want to mix as much truth into the lie as possible.” Len strode forwards.
“How did you guess my name?” Jimmy’s voice lashed out from behind Len.
“Well, this house isn’t yours for a start. It’s a private rental. I saw the listing in the property pages. But even if I hadn’t, the fact that you aren’t in any of the family photos on the wall is a bit of a giveaway.” Len paused to admire a particularly sturdy oak before continuing to walk. “How long is it until we reach your kill site?”
“I asked how you knew my name?”
“Fine.” Len scoffed. “The pizza box had a receipt on it for J. Warner. I remember your father, Henry Warner. I also remember that the odious toad had a son he called Jimmy.”
“He was a good man!”
“He was planning to build a hotel on the greenbelt in Tring Park. Couldn’t have that.”
“That was why you forced him to flee the country?” Jimmy’s voice rose an octave.
“No, no. I didn’t do that.” Len sped up his pace. “I just put a few naughty files on his computer and informed the police.”
“You framed him? That is why he fled? That is why I grew up without a father?” Jimmy was mumbling now.
“Götterdämmerung. Please tell me we are close?” Len risked a look back. Jimmy was stumbling, the knife wavering. “Not fecking close enough, apparently. That’s inconvenient.”
“My father didn’t flee, did he?”
“No.” Len stopped walking. “He didn’t. See, a neighbourhood must have standards, and someone has to enforce that. Mr Harris’s replacement opens his café on time, a vast improvement.” Len sucked at his teeth. “And our greenbelt has no hotel built on it.”
“You killed my dad? My mother told everyone he abandoned us. She died believing it.”
“That’s a shame.” Len jumped back, stumbling before regaining his balance as Jimmy lurched forward to slash at him awkwardly. “Oh. Stop that.”
“What have you done to me?” The knife slipped from his numb fingers.
Pulling out the mint box, Len rattled them. “Quaaludes. Never leave the house without them. Terribly unfashionable now, but all the rage in the seventies. You almost ruined things by leaving half the mug.” Len grinned. “Then you definitely fecked it up by setting up your kill site so far away from your rental.”
Jimmy collapsed onto the ground. “I’ll kill yer,” he mumbled, his numb tongue mangling his words.
“Oh, the day I’ve had.” Len knelt above his erstwhile murderer, his knees popping, then pulled on a pair of gloves and took out Jimmy’s phone. “A quick text to your landlord cancelling the rental, a message to your boss saying you’re moving to Thailand, and I think we’re sorted.” He pulled out a set of zip ties from the unconscious man’s jacket pocket. “Oh, better prepared than I thought. Good for you. Safety first.” He quickly cable-tied Jimmy’s hands and feet.
He walked further down the path. A good two minutes later, he saw the dug grave. It waited in a small clearing where the bluebells had been trampled flat. The soil lay heaped beside it, black and wet underneath the dry crust. A shovel had been thrust into the mound. “Six foot deep. Mmm, very well done, Jimmy. Room for two, I’d say.” Walking back, he looked at Jimmy’s slumbering form. “Though I thought we’d at least make it to the fecking kill site before you passed out. I’m not thirty any more.” He dragged the unconscious form of Jimmy along the path, grunting as he did so. Halfway through, he cracked his back, shook his head and continued. Pulling Jimmy so his head dangled over the edge, he pulled a clasp knife from his pocket and, clicking the blade open, slashed his throat, then dumped his body into the grave.
Len looked at the shovel.
“Hmm, not just yet. Room for a nonce in there too. But, for safety’s sake, I’d best leave it a week or so, wouldn’t you say?”
Tales of the Macabre
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