Slugs Page 4

  It was a slime trail.

  The front door swung back on its hinges and slammed with an almighty crash which made the Health Inspector jump. He leapt to his feet, his heart pounding.

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered, angry with himself for being so jumpy. Then he turned his attention back to the slime trail. It was dry, crumbling away when he rubbed the toe of his shoe in it. Brady followed its shiny course into the living room (or at least what would be the living room eventually), noting that there were more of the trails in the other room, one or two of them actually stretching a couple of feet up the wall. He scanned the remainder of the room then passed into the kitchen.

  There were more of the trails in there.

  Brady hurried out and into the last house, twisting the key almost frenziedly, pushing his way into the hall.

  The slime trails were more numerous in the last house. He counted a dozen at least. For long seconds, the Health Inspector stood in the doorway, his eyes darting furtively around the humid room then he crossed to one of the trails and peered closely at it. Like the one in the house before, it was dry. Several hours, or, for all he knew, days old. All the trails were dry but Brady suddenly remembered Ron Bell and the silvery fluid which had covered his remains and he felt uneasy, suddenly anxious to be out of the house. Not really knowing why. The air seemed to be unexpectedly fetid and he hurried out into the oppressive heat once more, locking the door behind him. He crossed to his car and sat for long moments behind the wheel before leaning forward and starting the engine. He let it idle for a moment, looking at the house which he’d just left, then, with a sigh, he stuck it into first and pulled off.

  Six

  Bert Crossley, finished his second pint of Guinness and pushed the empty pint pot back across the bar.

  ‘Fill that up again, Tom,’ he said to the barman, fumbling in his pockets for some money. ‘And whatever these two silly bastards want.’ He indicated the men with him both of whom shook their heads, the first of them checking his watch.

  ‘No thanks,’ Danny said. ‘I’d better be getting home, the wife will wonder where I am.’ He picked up a couple of full shopping bags and left to a chorus of cheers and whistles from the few remaining occupants of the public bar. As he reached the door someone shouted, ‘A woman’s work is never done,’ and the other men laughed loudly.

  ‘You in a hurry too, Tony?’ asked Bert Crossley, watching as the second man downed what was left in his glass.

  The man nodded. ‘Yeah, I’d better get back to the site. I’ll see you tonight though,’ he assured Bert as he left.

  The big man picked up his pint and swallowed two or three enormous mouthfuls, patting his swaying belly appreciatively. He belched loudly and excused himself. Bert Crossley tipped the scales at somewhere around eighteen stone and that, combined with his height, made him a formidable sight to be propping up the bar of The Swan. Bert ran a small butcher’s shop in the tiny precinct of shops situated on the new estate. The precinct also comprised a newsagent’s, a small supermarket and a fish and chip shop. Bert prided himself on being the only one of the shop keepers who actually owned his own business. He stood at the bar every lunchtime between one and two p.m. nattering away about football, politics and anything else anyone would care to talk about. Putting people off their ploughman’s lunches by his insistence on wearing his working apron which was perpetually stained with the rusty marks of dried blood. Considering he’d been a butcher for forty-two years, Bert still didn’t seem to have mastered the use of his knives and his fingers were usually swathed in blood soaked bandages, or plasters which refused to stay on and fell off to expose a jagged gash just as someone in the bar was about to tuck into their lunch. About six years back, he’d sliced off the top of his thumb while carving up a bullock carcass but, instead of calling the ambulance, Bert had calmly closed the shop and, carrying the severed end of the digit, strolled down to the doctor’s surgery. That had been when he had a shop in the town centre. He’d moved into the new premises on the estate about ten months ago and had built up a good name amongst the residents. His father had always told him that there was no substitute for the family butcher’s shop and Bert had been happy to find that his old man had been right. Bert had learned all he knew about the trade from his father who used to run his own shop in the days when butchers still did their own slaughtering too. Bert remembered the first time, as a child of ten, he saw his father kill a bullock. The memory was as vivid all these years later as it was at the time. In his mind’s eye he could still see his father leading the animal to the centre of the yard, tethering it to an iron post there. He remembered that the animal was drooling, saliva hanging in long white streamers from its mouth. It had stood perfectly still, almost as if it realized that there was no point in running, as Bert’s father had approached it with the sledgehammer. He had steadied himself, raising the heavy hammer above his head. Then, with a blow combining demonic force and years of practice, he’d brought the sledge down on the bullock’s head. There was a strident snapping of bone as the skull was shattered, the beast pitching forward as its front legs buckled. It had been dead before it hit the floor. Bert had then watched as his father had hung it up, sliced open the throat to drain it and then set about cutting the animal up. He had watched it all in fascination, remembering the smells too. The overpowering smell of the blood and the pungent odour of excrement which flowed out in a trail behind the twitching beast as his father had dragged it away with a meat hook.

  Bert downed the rest of his pint and sighed wistfully. There’d been an art to butchering in those days. It still needed a lot of skill, granted, but the art was gone. Now the livestock were slaughtered hundreds in a day by the pneumatic gun which shot a retractable bolt into their heads. The carcasses arrived at the butcher’s in storage lorries, already prepared. The only skill that remained was in cutting the damn things up.

  ‘Another one, Bert?’ asked the barman, reaching for the empty pint pot.

  The butcher shook his head. ‘No thanks, Tom, I’d better get back and open up.’ He glanced at the clock above the bar. It was almost two o’clock. He got to his feet and lumbered out into the sunshine, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Bert perspired a lot, even in relatively cool weather, but today he thought he must have lost a couple of pounds already. He glanced up at the blazing sun and began the short walk from the pub to the shop. It took him past some old people’s flats and one or two of the old dears waved gaily to Bert as he passed. He was a popular man with all the residents and many found it a surprise that he had never married but, throughout his life, Bert had always found that his business was more important than the ties of a home life. After his father died, he’d looked after his mother, nursing her through her last few painful years until she had a stroke which proved to be fatal. By that time Bert was forty-one. He had his business and, what was more, he just thought he was too old to start chasing women around.

  A fly buzzed past him, attracted by the dried blood on his apron but Bert shooed it away. He reached the back door of the shop and let himself in. It was much cooler in there and he stood beneath one of the powerful fans for a moment before walking through into the shop itself. The blinds were down so the shop was in a kind of semi-darkness. Bert was about to pull them up when something made him turn to face the display cabinets.

  His mouth dropped open and, for once, he was speechless.

  When he had left the shop at one o’clock, less than an hour ago, the cabinets had been full. Their trays heaped with fine cuts of beef, pork, lamb, kidneys, liver. Everything. Now, Bert ran disbelieving eyes over the remnants of his stock. The meat and offal had been devoured, only tiny scraps of it remained in the stainless steel trays. Even the blood which had run from the meat was gone, every last drop removed as if by some invisible hand. There were pieces of meat on the floor too, here and there were some dark patches of blood.

  Bert put a hand to his forehead, drawing in a long, slow breath.

  ‘My God,’
he murmured softly. Then, immediately, his bewilderment turned to anger. Who the hell would do such a thing? He quickly inspected the locks on the doors and windows. If some bastard had broken in Bert promised himself he’d gut the sod personally. But a swift inspection told him that the doors and windows were still secure.

  He stood silently, gazing at the empty trays before him, wondering if maybe he’d had too much to drink that lunch time and he was really imagining this.

  ‘My God,’ he muttered once more.

  The shop was silent but for the bluebottle which buzzed indolently around him. Bert decided to check the back door and windows and he hurried through to the rear of the building.

  In his haste he failed to notice the slime trails which led from the display cabinets to the ventilator grille on the wall. Still fresh, they glittered with a vile sparkle of their own.

  Seven

  Brady wiped his face with a handkerchief as he walked across the car park towards the council offices. The café where he usually had his lunch was only 200 yards from the large building and could be seen from his own office window. He looked in that direction as he crossed the car park. Christ, it was hot. The tarmac beneath his feet looked as though it was on the verge of bubbling. Brady hadn’t eaten much, the experience in the two new houses had quelled his appetite but he pushed the incident to the back of his mind. The Health Inspector loosened his tie as he wearily climbed the flight of stone steps to the main doors, the sun burning fiercely on his back as he turned to enter the building.

  It was cool in there and he managed to ignore the frightful rattle emitted by one defective fan. The sound reminded him of a football rattle. As he crossed reception on the way to the staircase, Julie Jenkins called him across to the desk. Brady turned, running an appraising eye over the youngest staff member in the building. She was in her early twenties and had only been working there for three months but, already, most people seemed to have taken to her. The male members of the work-force in particular. She smiled sweetly at Brady who returned the gesture, managing a quick glance at her shapely figure as he did so. Because of the hot weather she wore only a light, cheese-cloth top through which he glimpsed the dark outline of her nipples straining against the flimsy material. The blouse was undone to the third button to reveal a tiny silver crucifix hanging between her ample breasts. Brady smiled to himself, administering a swift mental rebuke for taking so much interest in a girl young enough to be his daughter. Anyway, he told himself, you’re a married man. Nevertheless, just because you’ve bought the goods doesn’t stop you window shopping, he mused.

  Julie held up a piece of paper, smiling as Brady leant on the reception desk.

  ‘A message for you·, Mr Brady,’ she told him. ‘A lady rang up to complain about her drains and toilet.’

  ‘Blockage?’ asked the Health Inspector.

  Julie nodded.

  ‘Then it’s a job for the sewage department, not me.’

  ‘She says that there’s a terrible smell coming from the drains. She wants it checked.’ Julie looked at him, the deep blue of her eyes reminding Brady of the sky outside.

  He sighed. ‘OK. What’s the name and address?’

  She handed him the piece of paper and the Health Inspector pushed it into his pocket.

  ‘It’s on the new estate,’ said Julie, as if she was telling him something he didn’t know.

  Brady exhaled deeply. ‘Well, I can think of better ways of spending an afternoon than bending over drains and toilets, especially in this sort of weather.’ He smiled. ‘Give the sewage people a buzz anyway. I might need one of their blokes along, just in case it’s anything below the surface.’ He turned and headed towards the staircase.

  Julie flicked a switch on the console before her, picking up the phone when a green light flickered on.

  Brady reached his office and walked in to find the heat almost unbearable. He crossed to the window and heaved it up, allowing a blast of cool air to blow in. The perspiration beneath his arms and on his back suddenly felt very cold but he remained at the window, looking down on the people in the car park, as they scuttled around in the heat with their bags of shopping. All of them were probably complaining about the heat. Brady smiled to himself. When it was the depth of winter everyone longed for the summer but when that finally arrived they spent their time cursing the heat. He was the same. A knock on the office door broke his chain of thought.

  ‘Come in,’ he called, turning to face his visitor.

  The door opened and a short stocky man in white overalls walked in. He smiled at Brady and introduced himself as Don Palmer. The Health Inspector caught the slightest hint of a cockney accent in the man’s voice.

  ‘You’re from the sewage department?’ he asked, although it came out more as a statement than a question.

  Palmer nodded. ‘That’s right, guv. They call us “Effluent Operatives”.’ He smiled, broadly. A warm, infectious grin which caused Brady to smile too. ‘Well,’ he said, holding up a bag of tools. ‘I’ve got my plunger. Shall we go?’

  Brady followed the little man down to the car park where a

  white van with MERTON URBAN DISTRICT COUNCIL emblazoned on the sides was parked. Palmer hopped behind the steering wheel, Brady told him where to go and they set off.

  Brady wound down the window of the van and allowed some cool air to blow in, and also to drive away the smoke from Palmer’s cigarette which filled the van. The little man retrieved a packet of Marlboro from the parcel shelf and pointed it in the Health Inspector’s direction.

  ‘I don’t smoke,’ said Brady. ‘Thanks all the same.’

  ‘Wish I could give up,’ said Palmer. ‘It costs me about ten quid a week for fags.’ He took a last drag and tossed the butt out of the open window. ‘I’ve been smoking ever since I was eleven, doubt if I’ll ever manage to kick it now. My old lady keeps on at me to stop but, well, you know how it is.’

  ‘Which part of London are you from?’ Brady asked, studying his companion’s profile.

  The little man laughed. ‘Christ, is my accent that strong?’

  The Health Inspector smiled. ‘Well, let’s say it’s noticeable.’

  ‘Islington,’ Palmer told him.

  ‘What did you do there?’

  ‘Same as I do here. Effluent operative.’ He laughed once more. ‘Bloody stupid name isn’t it? I don’t know why they can’t just call us shit-shovellers. They called us flushers when I worked in the London sewers.’ A wistful grin passed across his face. ‘I used to do a bit of boxing before that, only amateur like. When I was a kid.’

  ‘Why did you give up?’ Brady wanted to know.

  ‘The old lady again. She was scared I might get brain damage or something,’ Palmer explained.

  ‘Did you get very far?’ the Health Inspector asked, his interest genuinely aroused by this personable little man in the white overalls.

  Palmer shrugged. ‘I got to the final of the ABA light weight competition one year. Albert Hall. Thousands of people there, millions watching on TV.’

  ‘How did you get on?’ Brady wanted to know.

  ‘Well, I had the geezer worried in the third round.’

  Brady was impressed. ‘Yeah?’

  Palmer nodded. ‘Yeah.’ He paused. ‘He thought he’d killed me.’ The little man cracked out laughing, the raucous sound filling the van and Brady chuckled too.

  ‘What made you move to Merton?’ the Health Inspector wanted to know.

  ‘London’s all right for grown-ups but I didn’t want my kids living in all that smog,’ Palmer explained. ‘I wanted them to get up every morning and breathe fresh air instead of bloody diesel fumes.’ He glanced at Brady. ‘You got any kids?’

  ‘No,’ said the Health Inspector, just a little too sharply.

  Palmer looked at him for a second then turned his attention back to the road ahead.

  Brady changed the subject quickly. ‘I used to work in London too.’

  Palmer smiled. ‘Yeah? Same job?’r />
  Brady nodded.

  ‘Why did you move?’

  ‘That’s something even I’ve never been able to work out,’ he confessed. ‘I think things just got on top of me. Besides, I was doing all the work in the department. I thought that if I left the other lazy bastards would have to start pulling their weight.’

  The sewage man nodded.

  ‘What the hell makes a bloke start in a business like yours?’ Brady asked. ‘I mean, crawling about in…’ He hesitated.

  ‘Crawling about in other people’s shit. Was that what you were going to say?’ asked Palmer.

  Brady laughed, nodding.

  Palmer shrugged. ‘Well, look at it this way. It’s a secure job. I mean, unless there’s a mass outbreak of constipation, I’ve always got plenty to do.’ He laughed his cackling laugh once more. ‘There’s a lot of difference between working these shite-pipes and working the ones in London,’ he explained. ‘I mean, the ones here are small, you have to crawl along the bloody things on all fours. At least in London you could walk through them.’

  Brady frowned at the prospect.

  Palmer suddenly slowed up. ‘What was that address again?’

  The Health Inspector found the piece of paper and scanned it.

  ‘Twenty-two Acacia Avenue,’ he said, looking out of the window to see that they had, in fact, arrived. Both men got out of the van, Brady leading the way to the front door. He saw one of the curtains parted slightly, a face peering out inquisitively from behind dirty net. He rang the doorbell and a two-tone Woolworth’s chime tinkled. The two men waited, listening as several bolts were drawn back and Palmer suppressed a smile. The door opened a fraction and a woman squinted out at them, staying in the shadows, almost as if she were reluctant to feel the sun on her face.

  ‘Mrs Fortune?’ asked Brady, smiling.