Chapter 2: Law & Disorder
At a few minutes past ten, after having considered all the solutions to avoid facing reality – from the most explosive to the most radical – Crowley had to resolve to leave his room and go to the police station. He was already dreading the confrontation with his future colleagues, all pre-retirement cops more adept at prawn fishing than gunfighting, suffering from baldness and incontinence, who would not appreciate being led by a 'guy like him', whether on nitrous oxide or not.
Junior raised his head and gave him a little sign of encouragement before returning to the ineffable languor of siesta. Crowley emerged from his den, descended the stairs to the café and found Nina there, her ear glued to her mobile phone.
" An "incident"?!" she shouted at her poor interlocutor, who must have lost some of his hearing, "what kind of "incident"?"
She looked up at her new tenant as he made his way down the street.
"All right, all right…" she muttered as the "strange man" stomped off. "I'll come and get you. Old Uz's farm, isn't it? I promise I won't tell him anything! You know what, old chap, it might be time to invest in a mobile phone!"
She hung up and sent a quick message to her companion to let her know she was away, before leaving the café.
Once through the door, Crowley found himself overwhelmed by the iodised fragrances of this small coastal town. The music had died down, giving way to a few honks and the gentle chirping of seagulls. He approached the Bentley and was somewhat surprised not to have received a parking ticket. In London, he would already have had to negotiate the cancellation of a dozen fine ! He hesitated, then decided to walk the few streets separating him from the police station to explore his new surroundings and, above all, to waste as much time as possible. As he made his way to the opposite pavement, he could only see one advantage to his situation: he could find himself a little cove to enjoy long siestas in the sun... well, when the sun would do him that favour, he thought as he looked up at the sky.
Crowley turned towards the record shop and was surprised to find Maggie there, unpacking a parcel. She looked up and waved at him, to which he nodded. He switched on the GPS on his mobile and walked down the sloping main street to a small fishing port where the sailors were returning from their morning catch. He passed a closed bookshop – A.Z. Fell And Co –, quickened his pace in front of the mini-market – The Little Giant – guarded by an imposingly muscular cashier, and consulted the menu of a charming little French restaurant. He was surprised to discover that the wines on the menu would be just what he was looking for. As he passed a shop with a ridiculous name – Carpet Paradise – an immaculate canine tornado burst out of the shop with a burst of furious barking and sank its fangs into the bottom of his trousers. Unprepared for this unexpected attack, Crowley stumbled and landed with his backside and pride on the floor. His glasses fell to the ground. He turned towards the monster, which stopped dead in its tracks when its gaze met that of the policeman.
" Stupid mutt", hissed Crowley, pushing the dog away with the toe of his shoe.
" Oh, Bartholonew!" shouted a man coming out of the shop.
Crowley turned his head, hurriedly picked up his glasses, put them back on his face and straightened up. The man, shorter than him, was dressed in a tacky striped jumper – it looked like fashion had stopped in 1955 in this bloody town! – was sporting an elegant moustache and was cradling his dog while reprimanding him in a tone devoid of authority.
" You'll have to excuse Bartholonew, he's not usually like this, he loves tourists and it's mutual!"
He raised his pet in front of him and waved it tenderly. The brilliance of his wedding ring dazzled Crowley, who had to look away.
" My Bartholonew is the best of my ambassadors! Where did you come from?"
" London", muttered Crowley.
"On holiday?"
" Rather in Hell ..." replied the policeman, who took a step to the side to escape his assailant's owner.
The merchant apologised profusely and invited him into his shop. Crowley declined, the man insisted and Tadfield's new police Chief Inspector finally gave in. He followed the man, who had introduced himself as the utterly unimaginative 'Charles Brown', into a cramped shop with a strong smell of mothballs. Brown proudly told Crowley that the shop had been in his family for generations and that he hoped his children, who were still in the planning stages, he added mischievously, would one day take over the business. The carpet merchant offered Crowley a tour of his little 'heaven' while he found something to fix poor 'Bartholonew's error.
" It must be the stress of the next dog show!" Brown tried to justify himself, "Bartholonew suffers from atelophobia."
With his dog under his arm, Brown went into the storeroom. Crowley approached the counter and saw pinned up on the wall photographs of a group of hikers and an old woman who was the spitting image of the shopkeeper. The man returned, without his dog locked in the small room, with a first-aid kit.
Surprising Crowley's curiosity, he gave him his best smile:
" I see you're interested in our Happy Pedestrian Club. We go for walks every weekend and organise major excursions every month."
" Charming..." muttered Crowley, who, as he turned away from the counter, did not see the frame next to the till, closing the portrait of the person sharing the life of one of the most important members of the community.
" Come on, let's have a look at that nasty wound!" said Brown, inviting him to sit down on one of the rolled-up rugs." We really need to treat this nasty bump to avoid infection."
" It should be fine, he's not a Hellhound, your mutt!"
" Bartholonew comes from a line that has won numerous awards", said the proud owner, pointing to the trophies and other medals on display in the small glass case by the front door.
" Magnificent," said Crowley as the merchant handed him the first-aid kit.
Crowley, realising that he could never leave this cave devoid of wonders without showing Brown that he would not die of rabies, took off his boot, removed his sock and examined his ankle where there was no visible damage to the skin. Brown insisted and Crowley finally resolved to use the antiseptic spray and a bandage. He hesitated for a few seconds at the sight of the plaster decorated with plump cherubs – Brown chuckled when he told him that it wasn't him who had bought the bandages – and stuck it on his ankle. Once the treatment was over, he put his shoe back on and left the shop, with a 20% discount on a future purchase.
Tadfield Police Station was more like a retirement home than a den of justice: the charming little red brick building was surrounded by a well-tended flower garden and the windows were bare of bars and decorated with window boxes. Had Crowley not triple-checked the address, he would have expected to see a pink-clad nurse emerging from the building, pushing Mrs. Paddington and her urine bag on their morning walk.
Crowley readjusted his sunglasses and pushed open the gate, crossing the lovely little alley made of seashells and white stones – he wasn't even surprised to discover that there was no security blocking his access to the police station. He turned the doorknob and found himself in a white-walled entrance hall reeking of lavender air freshener and nail varnish remover. A green plant curled up its leaves as he approached, as if it had sensed his demonic aura. He smiled at it and pretended to aim a spray bottle at it. The Ficus knew that its peaceful existence had come to an end.
Crowley approached the reception desk and saw a bare foot belonging to a woman of respectable age who was painting her nails.
" What do you want ?" she asked, smearing fuchsia all over her big toe.
" Excuse me", said Crowley, making a supernatural effort to appear more or less cordial, "I'm..."
" For theft reports," said the woman, moving on to another toe, "you'll have to wait for Furfur. If it's about a parking ticket, it's Muriel or Eric... well, if he's coming to work today..."
" I am ..."
"And Mr. Tyler, I've already told you : apples theft is not a life-threatening emergency."
" I just..."
" For all other offences, contact the Heavell police instead, it'll be much quicker", finished the receptionist, blowing on her nicely painted nails. "And no, Mr .Tyler, selling you fish that isn't fresh enough isn't a crime: it's just an evil business practice."
Crowley pushed aside the pencil cup and leaned towards her:
" I'am the Chief Inspector Anthony J. Crowley."
The woman tucked her legs under the desk and finally deigned to look at him. A curious hiss came from her scarlet lips and Crowley didn't know whether it was admiration or contempt. She pulled a thick file from a drawer and threw it in his face.
" To be completed and signed, and don't forget to initial each page."
Crowley grabbed a pencil and started going through the various sections asking for information about his age, address, weight, height, blood type...
" Single, eh?" asked the secretary as she read the box he'd just ticked. "Bad luck, the two guys 'like you' are stuck together."
"Guys like me?"
" You know... the tree, the monkeys, the nitrogen oxide..."
" If you say so," he replied, angrily circling the 'no' asking him about any allergies. He turned the page and discovered a series of handwritten questions about his eating habits and other more intimate indiscretions. He wanted to avoid them, but a long hand with long fingernails came down on the file.
" Everything, absolutely everything, has to be filled."
" I'm not going to respond to this load of rubbish!"
" That's the procedure! "
" I'm here to work, not fill in stupid questionnaires!"
" And steal promotion from others?"
" I didn't steal anything! I never asked to be stuck in this arsehole of Wales!"
" Welcome to Tadfield, Inspector Crowley", said a voice behind him.
At that moment, the secretary witnessed a live physical disintegration. The newcomer, whose trousers she had noticed were a little too tight, turned slowly and froze in place, losing his beautiful arrogance. Crowley was facing the two-wheeled driver, his coat smeared with dried mud and his damp curls fighting under his softened hat.
" Have you had an accident, Sergeant ?" asked the receptionist, pushing the file towards Crowley.
" Just a fender bender, Shax, nothing serious. I think we can leave the paperwork for now", said the cherub, keeping his gaze on Crowley's face. "I think the Chief Inspector is looking forward to his new workplace."
Crowley, whose strong point had never been making friends with colleagues, knew he would have to keep a low profile to avoid another confrontation. The curly-haired Sergeant offered him a coffee, which he declined, and showed him to the small room used as a break room, before opening the Archives room to him. The Chief Inspector almost winked at the sight of the files piled up on the metal shelves, the envelopes that were supposed to be sealed open and the sheets of paper scattered all over the room. The Sergeant closed the door and, with a wave of his hand, invited him to continue their exploration.
" By the way," Crowley asked, trotting along beside him, "where are the other officers?"
" The rest of the team doesn't arrive until eleven."
" What ?! What the hell are they doing?"
" I suppose they're asleep," replied his colleague, consulting his pocket watch.
They arrived in the large room shared by the three officers who made up the entire staff of the Tadfield police force. Crowley, on seeing a charming little desk decorated with cute little characters, was on the verge of fleeing in great strides, going back to the café to pack his things, driving all the way to London to throw himself at Samael's – charming – feet and beg him to offer him any job: even scrubbing the toilets at the Metropolitan would be enough for his ambitions! He took another horrified look at the three desks and saw, under one of them, a dog basket overflowing with toys.
" Do I get my own office?" Crowley asked, abandoning his humiliating plan.
The Sergeant pointed to an office, without a door, which would serve as his workplace. Crowley entered his office and discovered that it communicated with the one occupied by the Sergeant. He examined his team-mate's room, decorated with furniture from the last century, before turning his attention back to his own. A computer a few decades old hummed on a desk with crooked legs; an armchair with worn armrests and an old yellowed poster of Tadfield completed the grim picture. He even came to envy his team-mate's comfortable armchair covered in an ugly tartan fabric. The cupboard, which had seen better days, was bursting at the seams with files, revealing bundles and bundles of unfiled reports.
" We're a bit short of space", admitted the Sergeant, "I suppose it must be a change from London..."
" For this morning," began Crowley, determined to show himself in a slightly more agreeable light," I was in a hurry and ..."
" Your login and password for access to the computer are written in the folder next to the PC."
Crowley then spotted a small folder with a tartan cover which seemed to have been prepared for him. The Sergeant, confirming his thought, told him that he had prepared a few things to help him integrate into the team.
" I'm not a promotion thief", Crowley continued, "I never wanted..."
" To find you in the depths of Wales", finished his new partner, finally looking at him. "Let's leave this incident aside, shall we?"
" Well... What's your name?"
" Aziraphale Fell."
" Aziraphale Fell?! " repeated Crowley with a burst of mocking laughter. "That's not a name, that's a pseudonym! What's your name, Sergeant?"
" That's my name, Chief Inspector Crowley."
The noisy arrival of the rest of the brigade put an end to this unpleasant conversation. Crowley, on his way to meet them, knew that he had just sunk a little further into the infernal circle of demotion. Of the three officers in his team, Eric was already missing: the young policeman had broken his arm getting out of the shower the previous night and was still in Heavell Emergency. This injury, Constable Muriel informed him, was in addition to his recently sprained right toe and sprained left hand. When they had finished counting the numerous injuries to their colleague and friend, the young recruit took a deep breath and launched into an exhaustive account of the previous day. They was about to begin a full summary of the past month when Crowley, who couldn't bear to hear any more about Mr. Tyler's regularly plundered orchards, interrupted them. The officer, wearing a green scarf and leather gloves, was staring at him with undisguised interest: did he too think he was a 'promotion thief'?
" Don't I know you?" asked the man called Furfur as he gave his dog a treat.
" I don't think so", muttered his new superior.
" Where do you come from?" he said inquisitively, moving closer to him.
" London, the Met."
" That's not what I mean!" Furfur attacked him again. "Where do you really come from?"
" Scotland."
" Scotland... did you participate to the games opposing the Edinburgh and Cardiff police academies ?"
" I've never been to Wales!" Crowley refuted, trying hard to hide his confusion.
Lilith, Furfur's German shepherd, greeted his reply with a suspicious bark, before lying back down in her basket. Crowley caught the strange glance his Sergeant gave him – Aziraphale Fell, what a ridiculous name! – He looked away and thanked Muriel for their report, which was enough to bring a smile back to the young recruit's face.
" Miguel", said the Chief Inspector, trying to make up for his discourtesy.
" Muriel", they corrected him.
" When was the last real crime in this city?"
" Well... I'd say 1946, when farmer Abel shot his brother Cain over a vegetable plot... or the fire in ..."
" It was an accident! "interrupted Sergeant Fell.
" My grandmother always said", the constable insisted, "that it wasn't an accident and that... oh, sorry, Sergeant !" they cried, putting their hand against their mouth. "I should never have said that!"
" What fire?" asked Crowley, whose instincts had just awakened.
" An old story", replied the Sergeant hastily, giving the young constable an authoritative look. "It goes back more than thirty years. I'm afraid life in Tadfield isn't very exciting, Inspector Crowley."
" It's a nice little town to live in", quipped the Inspector remembering the sign indicating the entrance to the town.
" Exactly, and we'd like to keep it that way", said the Sergeant, walking away with his head held high.
Once the policeman was out of sight, Muriel jumped up and down.
" Oh ! I should have kept my mouth shut ! I've upset him !"
" What happened ?" Crowley continued, determined not to give up." Can I offer you a coffee, Muriel? " he offered sweetly.
The young recruit agreed wholeheartedly, specifying that they would prefer a nice cup of hot chocolate. The two of them headed for the small rest room, followed by Furfur, who was determined to thwart the new Inspector's diabolical plan. Shax was already there, seated at the table, tapping away on her phone.
" Well," she said, raising her head, "you've made friends with the promotion thief?"
" Mr. Crowley," the Inspector, corrected the young recruit, squirming on the spot, "is not..."
" By the horns of Satan! I'm not a promotion thief!" rebelled the accused, opening the cupboard in search of something to coax his young officer.
He unearthed a chipped mug and an opened packet of chocolate powder. He turned around and took a milk bottle out of the fridge, opened it, sniffed it and thinking that the smell was just about acceptable, poured the contents into the mug and warmed it up in the microwave. He turned and leaned back against the worktop, gazing at the team gathered around a box overflowing with pastries.
"The snake will arrive in his chariot of fire to tempt the guardian angel", murmured Shax, biting into a doughnut.
" Are you an evangelist in your spare time, Shax?" Crowley asked, taking the cup out of the microwave.
" A simple prediction from Madame Tracy", explained Furfur, "she's a medium... I'm sure we know each other", he continued, wiping the sugar from the corner of his lips.
" If you say so", Crowley sighed, handing the mug to a grateful Muriel. "So, this fire ?"
The young recruit took a sip of the beverage, declared it excellent and, ignoring the threatening looks of the other team members, readily agreed to satisfy the curiosity of their new Inspector who had already won their heart.
" It happened years ago, I wasn't born yet. My grandmother Muriel, my mother is also called Muriel and so is my aunt, and that's why we have nicknames to distinguish us. My mother is Hairdresser Muriel, and I'm Constable Muriel. I always wanted to be an officer and..."
" The facts, Muriel, the facts", Crowley urged them, exhausted by such a verbal whirlwind.
" My grandmother, my other grandmother, the one not called Muriel, who was friends with Miss Ceridwen, thinks the same thing. They say ..."
" Muriel", said Shax, rising to her feet, "stop it, it's never a good idea to dig up old corpses and as for you, Inspector", she continued in a whistling tone, "you'd better stick to your role. Snooping is not appreciated here."
She validated her order and, while once again inviting the young recruit to keep a better grip on her wagging tongue, left the break room. Muriel finished their cup of chocolate and pretended to have an urgent report to finish before scurrying off like a rabbit caught in the trap of a formidable hunter.
" Tell me," said Furfur, devouring a second pastry, "did we by any chance sleep together?"
" Certainly not!"
" That's great! You're not my type at all! Not even at the party organised before the Inter-Police School Games?"
" I've never taken part in this bloody Games!" cried Crowley, giving up a double cup of coffee.
" It's strange... because if I remember correctly, before the competition started, our chiefs kept warning us about the best student at Edinburgh School. A certain Crawley, Crowley or Crewley ..."
" A very common name in Scotland ! "replied Crowley as he hurried out of the room.
Before taking refuge in his office to begin a day as exciting as a game of belote between bedridden old men, the happy Inspector made a diversion to the toilets. He took off his watch and was about to splash some cold water on his face when he spotted a pair of shiny shoes under the door of the only toilet cubicle.
" Aziraphale Fell, that's not a name", muttered the Sergeant, thinking he was alone, "I should have told this... this... fop-doodle that his trousers aren't real trousers!"
Crowley turned on the tap and the water burst against the marble, splashing against the top of his trousers, which had been denigrated by his partner.
" Well", he replied, raising his voice, "your new Inspector has better taste in clothes than you, Fell."
The door to the study opened with a bang, revealing Aziraphale Fell no longer masking his hostility behind a mask of courtesy. He raised his head and left without a word or a glance. Crowley looked back at his reflection: Samael was undoubtedly no stranger to his forced exile here, in this accursed Wales. If he had to choose, Crowley would have preferred to be buried in Scotland or Northern Ireland – even Jersey would have been preferable! Anything but the leek-eating Shire. So close to Cardiff. He removed his sunglasses and lowered his head, his hands clutching the edge of the washbasin where the water was still dripping. So close to his most beautiful and painful memory. He raised his left hand, brought it to his mouth and brushed his lower lip with it, rediscovering a gesture that had become familiar to him over twenty years ago, when he let himself be invaded by the memories of that very special night.