A Pocket Full Of Haddock

By Keven Shevels

A laugh-out-loud comedy in the vein of Spike Milligan and Tom Sharpe. Irreverent and a little bit surreal this book is a damn good laugh.
It’s 1932 and four men have been brutally murdered in the village pub of St Mary Mediocre just outside the town of Slagbottom. The local police are baffled and the local busybody, Miss Marble, is unavailable, she’s been knocked off her bike by a passing Belgian tourist. So the local force calls for the help of the most famous police detective of the age, Detective Inspector Aloysius Corner of Scotland Yard. Corner of the Yard, as he is known far and wide, has an unusual method of solving crime … he leaves it all up to his assistant Detective Sergeant Impetigo Dogsbreath. But Sergeant Dogsbreath has his own problems; he was born in Slagbottom and left as soon as he was able. Now he bitterly resents being forced back to the town to confront his own personal history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trailguides Limited
• Release date: Apr 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781839786891

Book preview

1.

Alice.

"I’m Alice and I’m a minger. No, a real minger. Unfortunately that’s my name, Alice Minger, or at least it was. It’s doubly unfortunate because, even if I say so myself, I’m a rather attractive woman. In my younger days I could have had any man in the village so it rather shocked everybody when I married Albert Clackbottom. But as they say, the heart wants what the heart wants.

It wasn’t that long into the marriage when Albert turned to drink. Many people reckon that it’s an occupational hazard for an innkeeper. But that’s beside the point; the main thing is that Albert was a mean drunk. For five years he gave me hell while myself, my family and our friends tried to persuade him to stop drinking … or to at least to slow down a bit. I was at the end of my tether when I finally managed to stop him pouring ale down his throat … but there again having a meat cleaver sticking out of the chest tends to have that effect on a man.

Now the name Alice Clackbottom nee Minger sits proudly above the door of my village inn, ‘The Dirty Old Heifer’. The pub was named after Albert’s father … sadly he’d always had a problem with his sexual identity.

Now the day that you’re talking about, I was looking across the bar at my regulars and thinking that life couldn’t get any worse than this when the door opened and then shut. There was nobody there. Hello, I said to thin air. Just out of curiosity you understand.

Hello, answered a deep voice, can I have a jug of ale please.

There wasn’t a handy crate to stand on so standing on my toes I peered over the bar. There was a dwarf standing there. A jug of ale, I repeated.

Please, he answered, and some pork scratchings would be nice.

I thought for a second not really sure what pork scratchings actually were … but I thought quickly. There’s a pig out the back, I finally said, you can scratch it yourself.

Just the jug of ale then, was the response, and the others will be here soon.

He’d no sooner got the words out of his mouth when the door opened again and through it entered an elf, a giant barbarian warrior and … now since that day I’ve tried to think how I would describe him, but the best I can do is a small, weedy man with his arse hanging out of his trousers.

Ale all round wench, boomed the barbarian warrior.

Who the flip are you calling wench, I hissed back which stopped half a dozen of the regulars who were getting to their feet in the hope that ‘all round’ also included them.

I … err … sorry, stuttered the warrior.

You’ll have to excuse him, said the elf suddenly and very apologetically. We’re part of an amateur dramatic society and we’re working as extras on a movie up at the manor house. It’s a sword and sandals epic about dwarves and elves and that … as you can see by our costumes. If you ask me it’s a load of old rubbish really but … anyway I think my friend just got into character too soon. And before you ask … no, Charlie Chaplin’s not in the movie … I don’t know why but everybody asks that, and he shook his head. I wasn’t going to ask anyway; personally I couldn’t give a monkey’s about Charlie Chaplin. But to get back to the events of that night, the elf seemed very keen to make the apologies for the warrior. It was almost as if he was used to it.

Yeah, added the dwarf, Sid’s a bank manager in real life. He’s not really a giant barbarian; he’s just very tall.

I’m glad to hear it and I don’t care if he’s a giant barbarian warrior or a bank manager but if he speaks to me like that again then he’ll really have his interest rate slashed, I snapped back. It seemed to have the desired effect. Ow, cried the dwarf, elf, warrior and weedy man in unison and they all rushed to cross their legs. Not easy to do as they were still standing at the bar. The little, weedy man fell over and I think he bent his panatella.

Do you still want the beer? I muttered to the three men stood in front of the bar. They were still struggling to stand upright. I ignored the one laid on the floor.

Err … please, four pints please, replied the warrior very sheepishly as he grabbed hold of the bar stool to help straighten himself up and the half dozen regulars all flopped back in their seats disappointed that they now definitely weren’t getting their free beer. At the same time the dwarf and the elf helped the weedy man to his feet. He just stood there with his bent panatella hanging from his lips. I did say that he was smoking a small cigar didn’t I?

Everything went swimmingly after that, the only quibble they had was over who was paying for the fifth round. I think the elf lost that one as he ended up putting his hand in his pocket. The muppet tried to pass off some worthless tin as elvish silver. I mean as if I’d fall for that one … anyway I insisted on good, old coins of the realm and that’s what I got … and only then did I let go of the elf’s arm and put the bottle down.

About half past nine the dwarf stood up and announced that he was going to relief himself only he didn’t use such polite language if you know what I mean. He must have been in the privy about fifteen minutes when there was this god-almighty crash and wallop. Well I dashed to the door of the privy; I didn’t go in as … well you know … he might have been in a state of undress. That’s when the water started to flow under the privy door … well I say flow, it was gushing really. I mean really gushing. I thought to myself, this is my pub and no-one’s going to come in and make a flood of my privy so bracing myself against seeing a dwarf’s nadger I went in.

Well the sight that met me was utter devastation. I mean it’s going to cost me literally pounds to get a builder in to repair it. By now some of the regulars had joined me in the privy. They’re a bunch of nosey old buggers round here and they had come in just to see what the whole commotion was about. Well the dwarf was laid there in the centre of the water with the cistern on his head and his hand grasping the chain. All I’m going to say is that there wasn’t much left of his head, it had been squashed flat by the weight of the cistern. I shouldn’t really say this as it’s quite sizeist of me but if he’d still been alive he’d now have been a good bit shorter … and with a flat head.

Well there was water everywhere due to the broken pipes. Seldom Regular, he’s one of my regulars, he pipes up to shut the stopcock off so I yelled where the stopcock was and the next thing I know the water was stopping. I assume Seldom turned it off.

Then the vicar yells that we should call PC Big-Girl’s-Blouse, him being the village constable and that, and the dwarf being dead. No-one raised any objections although Clem Notbright was too busy throwing up in the corner to object. I think he’d eaten a bad pickled onion. So we all filed out of the privy back into the public bar."

And that’s when you found the second body? said Detective Sergeant Impetigo Dogsbreath as he scribbled in his notebook.

Yes, bent over the bar skittles table. It was obvious he was dead.

And how did you determine that Mrs Clackbottom. I mean you’re not a medical professional … are you? asked the detective sergeant.

Because most of his brains were laid on the floor sergeant. And by the way, no I’m not a medical professional … but some things are just easy to assume.

Quite. And who was the second body Mrs Clackbottom?

Didn’t the constable tell you then?

He did Mrs Clackbottom, but I’d like it in your own words.

Well it was the elf wasn’t it.

I don’t know … I wasn’t there Mrs Clackbottom.

Yes it was. I remember he was playing bar skittles with Old Tom when we heard the noises from the privy and dashed in. All the regulars followed me into the privy including Old Tom. I remember seeing him in there. And I just assumed the elf had followed as well although I don’t remember seeing him in the privy. Just looking at him I thought he’d be as nosy as Old Tom … but I guess I was wrong.

But he hadn’t followed Old Tom had he Mrs Clackbottom.

Obviously not.

Did you murder him Mrs Clackbottom? asked the detective sergeant changing his tactics all of a sudden. In his experience he sometimes found that this worked and the suspect slipped up and said something incriminating … like yes or I did it, it’s a fair cop guv. Dogsbreath read a lot of detective fiction.

No sergeant.

Dogsbreath cursed to himself, it hadn’t worked. Do you know anything else that you should tell me Mrs Clackbottom? he then asked.

I’ve no doubt I know plenty of things sergeant, but whether I should tell you or not is a different question. However, if I were you I’d have a word with Old Tom. He’s not as daft as he looks.

He couldn’t be, Sergeant Dogsbreath muttered under his breath. He then looked Alice Clackbottom in the eyes. She was in her early forties Dogsbreath guessed and with her auburn hair she was quite attractive. When she was younger she must have been a real stunner, he thought but underneath her veneer of respectability he detected an element of anger and rage. I think that concludes my questioning for now Mrs Clackbottom. But I may have further questions to ask you so don’t go far, he said.

I’m angry and full of rage, the landlady snapped indignantly. This is my pub; I own it, so how dare you take it over and order me not to go far. Do you think I’m going to go outside this pub and leave my stock of beer and spirits in the custody of the police? I should cocoa; there’d be nothing left by the time I got back. With that she rose to her feet and casting an accusing look at the constable stood next to the detective sergeant she then started to walk back to the bar. She suddenly stopped as if she’d just thought of something and turned back round to face the sergeant. And who’s going to compensate me for closing my pub while you hold these silly interviews? she yelled at him.

The detective sergeant looked grimly at her. The local force will sort that out, he replied back before she sniffed and stormed back to the bar.

Do you think she’s the prime suspect sarge? asked the constable looking down at the detective sergeant who was sat at a table in the bar of The Dirty Old Heifer.

Detective Sergeant Dogsbreath was somewhat impressed that the constable even knew what a prime suspect was. I don’t know PC … PC … what did you say your name was again? replied the man in plain clothes sat at the table as he looked up at the constable. The uniformed officer was tall and thin, what many people would call lanky. And he had a certain look on his face that these same unkind people would call gormless.

PC Anton Big-Girl’s-Blouse sarge, replied the uniformed constable. I’m the village constable here in St Mary Mediocre.

So you should know all about the villagers that live here then constable, answered Dogsbreath.

Yes sarge.

So why didn’t you tell me that Mrs Clackbottom had form, said the sergeant looking into the constable’s face. There was nothing there but a blank look. By form I mean that she’s already killed her late husband … with a meat cleaver to the chest. Not a particularly nice way to go, and the sergeant shivered.

Sorry sarge, I didn’t know.

I thought you said you knew all about the villagers.

No sarge. I agreed with you; I said I should know all about the villagers, I didn’t say that I did know all about them.

Detective Sergeant Impetigo Dogsbreath looked again into the face of PC Anton Big-Girl’s-Blouse and tried to decide if the constable was being clever or whether he was just really, really thick. He decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt and determined he was just really thick and not really, really thick.

I’ve only been here two years sarge, was the response from the constable. It must have happened before I arrived. What’s it like in London sarge? he then added completely changing the subject and seemingly without a care in the world.

It’s okay I suppose, shrugged the sergeant pleased to accept the change in subject. It’s not too different to living up here really … only more people.

Are you from Slagbottom then sarge?

Born and bred Big-Girl’s-Blouse. Do you not recognise my accent?

I never noticed any accent sarge.

You should have. You’ll need to notice these things if you want to be a good policeman.

PC Big-Girl’s-Blouse made a mental note to always notice accents. Is it true that you work with one of the great detectives of the Metropolitan Police sarge? he then asked.

I wouldn’t say he was great, replied Sergeant Dogsbreath although the thought, I wouldn’t even say he was adequate, also passed through his head. Detective Sergeant Dogsbreath was a little bit disillusioned with his detective inspector.

That’s what I want to do, said the constable all of a sudden, transfer to the Met and move down to London as a detective. Why did you move to London sarge?

Dogsbreath looked up into the constable’s face. He couldn’t detect any malice there, but it was still none of his business. That’s a private matter Big-Girl’s-Blouse, he said instead. Now before we see him, what can you tell me about this Old Tom?

2.

Old Tom.

Have you met Old Tom yet sarge? asked PC Big-Girl’s-Blouse looking down at Sergeant Dogsbreath.

I don’t like to meet the suspects before the interview constable, was the response. It may colour my judgement of the suspect.

Of course sarge, the constable answered apologetically and made another mental note this time about colouring books and suspects. But a word of warning if I may.

Yes constable, and Dogsbreath looked up at the uniformed officer.

Well … erm … don’t be shocked by Old Tom’s appearance sarge. He’s … well … he’s really ugly sarge. And I mean really ugly.

Sergeant Dogsbreath looked up at Big-Girl’s-Blouse and laughed. You’re wrong if you think I’ve not met ugly people before constable, he smiled at PC Big-Girl’s-Blouse. You forget I work in London, half the population there is as ugly as sin and the other half … well shall we say that they’re no oil paintings.

Not like this sarge. The locals tell two tales about Old Tom. The first is that when he was born the midwife slapped him across the face instead of the backside because she couldn’t tell which end was which.

And the second?

Apparently his mother screamed like a banshee when he was born. Not at the actual birth … it was later when she was presented with her new-born baby.

Very amusing constable.

But both very believable sarge … that is when you meet him face to face.

Do you have anything that is more relevant to the case?

He does have … what did you call it … ford.

Form constable, a previous history of an offence.

Sorry sarge … form. He once shot two men in cold blood … it was in this very pub in fact.

Now that is interesting Big-Girl’s-Blouse. Please tell me more.

Well it was four years ago sarge, before I came to the village. Apparently he walked into the pub, cocked his shotgun and blew away two strangers to the village.

And he was charged and convicted?

He was charged sarge, but before his trial Miss Marble convinced the Chief Constable that it was somebody else who had committed the murders and so they were arrested, found guilty and hung.

And who is this Miss Marble constable?

She lives in the village chief … can I call you chief sarge?

No … now continue.

She lives in the village sarge. She’s a little old lady, a real busybody if you know what I mean, she fancies herself as a bit of an amateur detective. Every time there’s a murder in one of the villages round here she’s there like a shot doing her thing and investigating.

And are there many murders round here constable?

No more than the average sarge … but come to think of it there is quite a few … well a hell of a lot actually. The constable thought for a second, the strain was obvious on his face. To tell you the truth sarge, they drop like flies round here, he then said.

And does this Miss Marble solve all of them?

Yes guv … can I call you guv then sarge … like in the proper detective stories.

No.

Okay sarge. Yes this Miss Marble solves all the local murders even when all the evidence is pointing the other way. Why only last year she proved that Clem Itchybot killed the two Haggard sisters even though his passport showed that he was in France at the time of their deaths and that the village doctor had also certified that they had both died of natural causes due to the fact that the two sisters were one hundred and five and one hundred and four years old.

Interesting but I wouldn’t worry about it constable, and the detective sergeant shrugged. Every small village in England has a busybody like Miss Marble or a bicycling village priest who goes around solving crime. One or two even have a crime solving nun on a motor bike. It just makes life more … shall we say … more interesting for us professional detectives.

You mean they’re a right pain in the arse sarge.

Exactly … speaking of which where is the good lady? From what you’ve said I would have expected her on the scene hours ago.

She couldn’t make it sarge. And Sergeant Dogsbreath cocked an eyebrow in the direction of the constable. She’s unavailable sarge, Big-Girl’s-Blouse continued, on account of her being in hospital sarge. It seems she was knocked off her bike by a passing Belgian tourist. PC Big-Girl’s-Blouse flicked open his notebook. A certain Hubert Parrot, the constable said. She’s currently in hospital with both her legs in traction.

Are they broken?

No sarge … it just stops her wandering off and telling the doctors how they should be doing their jobs.

Good, answered Sergeant Dogsbreath, that’ll make things easier … for both the doctors and us. Now tell me about this Old Tom.

PC Big-Girl’s-Blouse flicked over a couple of pages in his notebook before he started reading. Old Tom Scrote, he said. "Age seventy-two. Ugly as sin. Lives on his own in a small cottage