Chapter 7, A Bookshop Moves to Tadfield
Crowley and Aziraphale are sitting together on the carpet in the bookshop's back room, leaning against the two giant pillows now propped against the armchair. Crowley is wearing Aziraphale's tatty old velvet dressing gown. He is holding Aziraphale in his arms, his chin on the Aziraphale's shoulder, and is languidly running a hand up and down the angel's fuzzy belly and chest hair. Aziraphale's closed eyes, gentle smile, and relaxed body radiate happiness.
Crowley's phone makes a noise like a quacking mallard.
Fuck.
Crowley magics his phone into his hand.
Sergeant Shadwell.
Apologies for calling so early, your honor, but you did say to call promptly if I saw anything unusual.
Shadwell braces himself a bit for Crowley's reply, remembering the melted phone that had resulted when he had once called those two great southern pansies in the middle of the night.
Tell me what you saw.
Was at the Yeoman's Rest late last night. Little celebration with some friends. Usually I'm not out sae late.
Yes. Get on with it.
Two strangers came in, went into the snug. One a fat little gent. Balding. Wearing one of those posh overcoats. The other a tall bastard, looked like a tramp. Dirty rain coat. Pale blonde hair. A wig, maybe. Had his collar turned up. Wearing a scarf. Couldn't see all of his face. Bad skin. Black eyes. I only took a quick glance as they came in. Seemed best to appear to be minding my own business, just drinking my porter. Bartender was nervous the whole time they was there. I considered following 'em when they left, but . . . (Shadwell swallows hard, has a hard time admitting this) . . . I was scared, yer honor.
Right. If you see either of them again, turn aside and get out of sight. Do not let them see you. Then call me immediately.
Even if it's late night, yer honor?
Yes. Even if it's late night. Go back to the Yeoman later today. See if you can get anything more from the bartender. Thanks for your report. Excellent work.
Crowley breaks the connection. Aziraphale looks at him, alarmed.
That was Shadwell. Saw Sandalphon last night. And Hastur was with him. In a pub, if you can imagine that.
Goodness. I wonder what they had to drink?
Later that day, in the Yeoman's Rest.
Skeevy pair o' gents what came in last night, eh, Tom?
No doubt about it, Mr. Shadwell. Right shifty pair o' bastards, and no mistake. The tall one looked as if he's been sleeping rough for quite a while. Stank more than a little, I can tell you. Room still smelt a bit this morning. Gang connected, if you ask me. Foreign mafia, maybe. They asked some damn funny questions.
Funny?
Well, queer, I mean. Odd. The little fat one wanted to know where to get a car. But the way he said it . . .
How was that?
"Can you tell me where humans get their cars." I asked him if he was needing a rental?
And the tramp said, "What's a rental?"
I thought maybe they was foreigners what don't know good English. So I explained that there was no car agency in Tadfield, but if they needed a car during their visit, there was one south of town where they could likely get a car for however long they needed it. I went out and looked up the address and phone number, wrote it down, and went back in and handed the note to the bald one. He just took it and didn't say nothing. So I left. Now just what do you imagine a pair like that is doing in Tadfield?
Nothin' good, Tom. Gimme a ring if they come in again, though, will ye? Here's my number.
Sure thing, Mr. Shadwell. (Drops his voice to a whisper) D'you suppose they're here to see that Mr. Crowley? Rumor has it, he's connected with the Russian mob. You know, those . . . whaddya call 'em . . . oiligarchs.
Wouldn't surprise me. Weel, if you hear anything more, Tom, I have some old friends who might like to know it.
Tom gives Shadwell a mighty wink.
Old army intelligence buddies, eh, Mr. Shadwell?
