Lost Lad (20 page)

           
"Thee seem ta be a lot o' Johns!  Meh."
 

Winter bridled slightly hearing his own name.  The old man, now in full flow, went on to say that he suspected most of the men were married.  The host was disposed to be chatty but his clients were reluctant to do more than exchange a few brief commonplace pleasantries.  His 'patients' were only too keen to get to the nitty-gritty, to have the little man minister to their physical needs, to delve, to seek and tweak those delicious naughty little spots during an anonymous, dimly lit, window of secret stolen time.

When questions were put about his association with Coggan and Tonks he became even more defensive and very alarmed -

           
"What 'av thee bin sayin'?"
 

Derek made it clear that the purpose of his visit was to hear what Mr Wormall had to say - and he had plenty to say.  A series of crabbed and querulous recriminations enthusiastically flowed forth to thoroughly blacken the character of his former friends.        

           
" ... an then there were that stick a rock from Skegness ... that were nasty 'cus ..."

           
"A gift from the seaside!  How can that be nasty?"

           
"It were what Dolly
said
when 'e give it me!"

           
"What did he say?"

At this point Jasper subsided, slowed down and became reluctant, clearly too embarrassed to continue.

           
"Well ... a don't like ta say ..."

           
"Come on, Mr Wormall. We haven't got all day.  Spit it out."

           
"Well.  Well it were sort o' nasty ... a didn't like it.  'E said - 'Get ya lips round this for a change'!  An 'e bought that rock - just - so - 'e could - say - that.  Meh!!"
 

In general, Detective Sergeant John Winter took a less charitable view of his interviewee.  Personal peculiarities were being noted with some small irritation, such as the repetitive and squeaky
'Meh!'
, a contemptuous motif occurring after the delivery of a smug, self-satisfied line.  The real Jasper, with his high, effeminate, 'old witch' type voice was actually very similar to the entertaining impression they had heard from Simon Tonks that morning.  Simon had also perfected the nod of the head at each syllable which occasionally emphasised an important point -
'just - so - 'e could - say - that!'
   Against his will, John was fixated by the bouncing prominent Adam's apple, up and down, the scraggy neck. 

            He did not like Mr Wormall.  He concluded that the petulant unpleasant heap of rags before him, in all probability, had something to do with the disappearance of Brian Forrester.  The quaint simplicity which charmed his boss had no effect on John, whose overall impression was of an introspective, small minded man, approaching ninety who had the mentality of a nine year old.  It was Derek who finally stemmed the peevish, seemingly endless flow of trite and childish invectives, nineteen to the dozen -

           
" ... an am
not
always in that toilet as some as a could mention not fat proper purpose an 'e 'ad no right ta push that bib underneath an saucer fa me teeth an a didn't like that plant pot an comment about 'takin' root' cus ..."

           
"Thank you, Mr Wormall that will be
quite
enough!  We have all the information we need on that subject.  Our main interest at this time is to find a young man who should be home with his parents.  Here is my last question ... for the present.  Please try to be brief.  Can you think of anybody, anybody at all, friend of foe, who you suspect may have an interest in entertaining young teenage boys?"
 

At this the hideous old crone eagerly leaned forward and leered at Derek who, instinctively, leaned back to maintain a decent safe distance.  A goblinesque face twisted into gloating triumph -

           
"'Ave ya bin ta see Dolly's friend yet, 'im at Derby?  A don't know 'is real name.  Thee call 'im 'Guzzly Granddad' - lives at end a Ebenezer Street.  'E's a dotty owd bugga we 'is slaverin', drivelin' an droolin'.  'E likes em young!  Meh!"
 

Back in the car, a conference took place.  Detective Inspector Derek Russell breathed out a sigh of relief -

           
"It's like finding yourself in one of Grimm's fairy stories."
  Pitching his voice two octaves higher and nodding on each syllable, he attempted a Jasper impersonation -
"'Come into my cottage little boy.  Meh!'  And that Simon and Dolly - what a shower!"

           
"Perverted, pea-brained peasant!"
spat out his colleague. 
"I've a good mind to waylay and interrogate one of those blokes and ... "

           
"Fighting words, John, but not so much 'pea-brain'.  Don't underestimate our little goblin.  Taking the bike to the baths - that was rather clever and might well have come off - sheer bad luck that the attendant came out at the wrong moment.  Let's address ourselves to the crucial question - is our man a child molester?  Is he a murderer to boot?  And if so - where is the body?"

           
"Well it's not here.  I've every faith in Raymond's team.  The hate between that old fossil and the other two!  God!  You could cut it with a knife.  It rules out the conspiracy theory."

           
"Does it?  You know, John, I was thinking about the classic Agatha Christie plot of the 'forced card'.  Misdirection - that sort of stuff.  Two back-biting parties apparently daggers drawn in an endless quarrel - and on the last page they turn out to be
'acting the part' and in reality, working together in murderous co-operation.  That old man went to a lot of trouble to emphasise his distaste of Coggan and Tonks ... well, you never know do you."

           
"Bit far fetched that, sir!  Our Simon doesn't seem to be overburdened by intelligence - and we've not even spoken to Coggan yet."

           
"Yes ... Coggan,"
  said Derek thoughtfully. 
"Sounds like a smooth one.  I'd still like to know how he can drive a brand new car 400 miles a week on an income of eight pounds a week."

           
"Anyway ..."
  said John starting the engine and engaging a more optimistic chirpy note. 
"Never despair, let's keep looking for Brian.  He
could
still be alive.  He
could
be having tea with Guzzly Granddad!"
  

Gingerly, avoiding the largest stones and numerous pot holes, they drove down the rough track from Shire Oakes leaving ominous crows still circling around the tall trees under a blanket grey sky.

Chapter 18

Guzzly Granddad

At the Derby Police Station Detective Inspector Derek Russell was able to study the report from Cressbrook Hall.  It appeared to be a house of few visitors.  The conscientious cleaning of Simon Tonks was not helpful to the forensic team, but, as expected, the re-occurring fingerprints available were from the principal occupants - Algernon Hardman, his late wife Marjorie, young Charles and plenty of prints from the tiny camp fingers of Tonks the servant.  No other suspicious impressions were found and no trace, not even a dab from the hand of Brian Forrester.  It came as no surprise to Derek that even Brian's bicycle had no trace of his own prints - only the fingerprints of Jasper Wormall -  

           
"That, of course, could indicate naiveté - or clever cunning.  If anything at all went wrong (which in the event it did) Mr Wormall would need to explain why he was wearing gloves in July, or why he was discovered cleaning a bike which was not his."

Attached to the report was a message from Tonks offering the police his professional services as a clairvoyant.

           
"Listen to this, John.  Simon thinks that if he could just touch the bicycle he may be able to locate its owner."

           
"We're not going through all that nonsense again are we, sir, like that spooky charade with Sarah's ring?"

           
"Might be useful,"
 said Derek slowly. 
"
If
he knows anything at all, he'll reveal it in one of his 'performances'.  He plans ahead.  He notes, saves and stores up bits of information.  He has skills of manipulation.  Psychology, my dear, John!  Let him be where he wants to be, the centre of attention. 

           
Anyway, it'll be more interesting now that he's branched out into the mysteries and secrets of Derbyshire.  I'm told he's something of an expert
on sacred groves, fairy rings, stone circles and all that sort of stuff.  Simon Tonks is one of nature's original conjurers.  In the past he would have been a druid priest or one of those cryptic Greek maidens who would interpret the spilt entrails of a freshly killed sacrificial goat at an oracle, or ... "

           
"OK, boss.  No more gore.  I get the picture."
      

It was getting into the early evening.  Detective Sergeant John Winter hoped that the boss would call it a day, but Derek felt the urgency to leave no stone unturned.  Information on 'Guzzly Granddad' was scant and mainly hearsay.  Some knowledge came from a local officer who spoke of 'a bit of bother' when a neighbour complained that a bunch of noisy youths were drinking in Granddad's front room -

           
"Does this man have a proper name?"
asked Derek.

           
"Piggs, sir, a Mr T Piggs,"
replied PC Harris. 
"I think the T stands for Toby."

           
"Toby Jug!"
laughed Sergeant Winter. 
"Put him with Jasper, Simon and Dolly and they'll think the circus has come to town!"

           
"I wouldn't exactly call him a freak,"
said Harris, choosing his words with care in an effort of remembrance.  He became amused as the recollection became clearer. 

           
"Certainly a bit on the smelly side, he was piggling his toes when I questioned him.  The neighbour said he spent a lot of time sitting in the Arboretum, would get chatting to lads and sometimes invited them back for fags and beer."

           
"Did you interview any of these boys?"
asked John.

           
"I considered it, but the old bloke didn't know any of their names or where they lived."

After making a small purchase at a rather dingy, seedy little shop on Ebenezer Street, John Winter engaged the shop-keeper in casual conversation -

           
"This part of town doesn't change much does it?  I used to pass this shop on the way to work.  Is that old man still around ... funny name, now what was it?"

           
"Oh 'im.  Dirty sod.  Kids call 'im Guzzly Granddad.  'E's still at end.  E'll never shift."

           
"Better off than me anyway, he can run a car."

           
"Nay lad, 'e's no car."

           
"Oh.  I thought that Morris 1000 was his."

           
"No, that's one of 'is visitors.  'E's often there, little dumpy chap.  Strong smell o' scent but very pleasant, nice manners an nicely spoken."

Minutes later this information was communicated to Detective Inspector Derek Russell who was just outside the shop.  Both men walked down that rather quiet drab street of terraced houses where doors opened directly on to the pavement.  They stopped in front of the last house.  About to wield the usual official knock, John was silently restrained by his senior who deliberately gave the door a more gentle, furtive knock.  From within they heard -

           
"Ya 'an come in kent ya?"