Chapter 1: Crooked Bicycle
In the minds of many of our fellow citizens, the London police force is one of the best in the world: in reality, it's made up of a few exceptional officers, a majority of people who do their job properly – but don't count on them for overtime – and a tiny, well, hopefully, small handful of incompetents.
Inspector Anthony J. Crowley – don't ask me what the J stands for, he didn't even know himself – belonged to the first category: with a double Masters in non-political political science and in internal and external security, he had accumulated a number of honour rolls at the Edinburgh Police Academy and graduated top of his class. An excellent marksman and expert in mine clearance, he had won nine awards for acts of bravery, had been congratulated by the Prime Minister himself for his involvement in the Inquisition affair and had been awarded three well-concealed scars – in the rest of this story, these scars will be revealed to your curious eyes – attesting to his incredible courage. A black belt in karate and a talented apneist, he had come third in the New York Marathon, was fluent in Scottish, French and Aramaic, as well as the dialect of the Isle of Jersey, and had a solid knowledge of Russian, Mandarin, Japanese and New Zealand Maori.
With all his gifts, on that typically rainy British spring day, our hero should have been anywhere in the capital, but probably not on that muddy road leading to the small town of Tadfield. There are only three reasons why you might be in Wales: the pursuit of your soul mate, trouble with the law or the desire to end all forms of existence. The Detective Inspector Anthony J. Crowley, youngest chess champion in the charming town of Hellven, was not the kind of man to become the hero of a romantic comedy, and he had no intention of ending his life. He had always been careful to pay his taxes before the due date and had only a few tickets for speeding and illegal parking ; the stop signs and one-way streets he had driven through had all miraculously disappeared from his criminal record. There was only one reason for this, and it was the worst for a man who had never experienced failure: he made a mistake. An error. A blunder. In this case, Anthony J. Crowley's was called The Case of the Satanist Nuns of the Chattering Order of St Beryl. Yet this affair should have allowed him to cover himself in honour, to obtain a key post or a fine promotion... but hope was gone as the Sisters' convent went up in smoke, burying forever the evidence of their illicit activities involving the Antichrist, the American Embassy and newborn babies buried in the Mother Superior's vegetable garden.
The Fall, as swift as it was unexpected, had brought him here, with his precious Bentley, a green plant and a snake called Junior, who was currently basking in a terrarium in the boot of the car, as his companions in misery. Crowley consulted his GPS, whose signal had been lost ever since he had ventured out on this road in name only; and just when things could not have got any worse, a thick fog rolled in and the rain increased in intensity, making this hellish journey impossible. The car radio fell silent, leaving him alone with the singular idea of going into crime and becoming an expert in this field, in order to take revenge on his superiors. He grabbed his phone and tried to send a text to a friend, before remembering that he didn't have any. Only colleagues who hadn't tried to help him out and who had welcomed the news of his forced exile. He had even heard that a party, to which he had not been invited, had been organised in the Metropolitan offices to celebrate his 'promotion'.
Lost in his thoughts, including the worst abuses and other delicious tortures to be inflicted on his superiors when he became the British crime baron, Crowley did not hear the click of a doorbell, nor did he see the bicycle whose right of way he had just spectacularly run out. The shock of the impact and the sight of a bicycle flying past his windscreen put the brakes on his diabolical plans. Grumbling and belching, Crowley switched off the Bentley 's engine and rushed outside to see the extent of the damage: luckily, there were no scratches on the bonnet! He turned his head towards the dying bicycle, its two dented wheels spinning in a series of squeaks. He wiped the rain from his face and caught sight of a human form wading through a puddle. He hesitated to set off again, but not wanting to add hit-and-run to his list of misdeeds, he approached the living corpse. A shoe toe twitched and an arm began to move.
"Can I give you a hand?" Crowley offered amiably as he crouched down in front of the two-wheeled driver.
" I think you hit me," replied the human being whose face was hidden under a hideous soft hat dripping with rain.
" Wrong, mate," Crowley said, tucking his mobile phone into his trouser pocket. "You've hit me."
He extended a helping hand to the bicycle-riding delinquent, who grasped it with his left hand. The man's wet, muddy fingers slipped out of his grasp and, as he tried to restrain him, he almost snatched the wedding ring from his hand. He was surprised by the softness of his skin. Crowley withdrew his fingers hastily before examining – with professional tic – the man dusting off his mud-stained coat. A chin straightened and Crowley faced a pair of clear eyes. He examined his opposite with greater interest and thought he'd been sucked through a space-time rift: the bike-driver was dressed like a detective character from an old detective series. The man bent down to pick up his hat, wrung it out and put it back on his head, where an excess of frost was barely holding back a mass of shivering, frizzy curls.
The man, once dressed with what he seemed to consider the most elementary decency, approached his bicycle and carefully raised it. He rang the bell but was met with deadly silence.
" Could you give me a lift into town?" he asked anxiously.
" Sorry, my trunk's already full," Crowley replied, leaning against the bonnet of the Bentley. "Anything broken?"
" No, I don't think so... Perhaps you could put it in the back seat? " suggested the reckless driver in a polite tone.
" Your bike..."
" Bicycle," corrected the inconvenient man.
" In my Bentley, never! No palpitations? Vomiting? Dizziness? Hallucinations? Headaches? "
" No, but my bicycle...
" It'll be fine, just a few blows with a hammer, a couple of turns of a screw, a bit of elbow grease and it'll be ready to go!"
Crowley closed the door and sped off, spraying a cloud of dirt over the cheesy driver. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw that the morning's little inconvenience was staring at him, speechless. He was tempted to turn back to help him, but remembering that he was in one of the most odious parts of the United Kingdom, and that he had no desire to fraternise with one of those cursed Welshmen – he had once fraternised with one of their kind and retained very bad memories of it – he gave up this good deed and got back on the road. Luckily, the GPS signal had been found and he was able to leave the lonely path and return to a much more practicable route.
If Hell were on Earth – eminent scholars are still pondering this thorny question – it would undoubtedly be in Tadfield, Wales. As the Bentley entered the main street of perfectly aligned houses, all with neatly trimmed gardens and colourful, flower-filled buildings, Crowley wondered if he hadn't passed out on the last few miles of the M25.
The Bentley found a space, disregarding the "deliveries only" sign, in front of the café/pub/hotel that would serve as his final stop on this terrible way of the cross. As he climbed down, Crowley was assaulted by the iconic song of The Sound of Music playing from the loudspeakers hanging from the lampposts. As he dedicated Julie Andrews' soul to the flames of hell, he looked up at the garish blue façade and deciphered the undoubtedly too long name of the establishment: Give me coffee or give me death. At that moment, Crowley hesitated between the two options on offer. He approached his trunk and was about to open it when he heard an admiring whistle through the sizzling notes.
"Nice car!"
He turned round and faced a man dressed in a grey jogging suit with no trace of perspiration.
"Welcome to Tadfield," continued the sweatless man, flashing him a toothy smile. "You must be our new police Inspector!"
"No, I'm a prisoner on the run," grumbled the annoyed new police Chief Inspector.
" Funny man, eh? That's good, we've got a great sense of humour here!" exclaimed his interlocutor, bursting into a laugh that sounded as false as the ringing of an old-fashioned mobile phone.
The man launched into a monologue about the beauties of his beloved Tadfield and the improvements it would need to attract more tourists – he mentioned the future installation of a hotel complex, a marina and a shopping centre – while Crowley, uninterested in these urban development projects, opened his trunk to remove a black sports bag, his terrarium and the lucky plant – a Monstera deliciosa – that would accompany him on his ordeal. As he rambled on about the "need for rational economic expansion", the man glanced at the black-scaled snake. He paused and approached it:
" My Gosh, is that a real snake ?! "
" No, it's a plastic toy…" mumbled Crowley as he closed the trunk with his heel.
" Is it dangerous?" inquired the man, leaning over Junior who opened one lazy eye before falling back into a blissful sleep.
" Only with the Welsh."
The man burst into a laugh as controlled as his impeccable parting. He pulled out a business card from the pocket of his jogging top and handed it to Crowley.
" I'm an estate agent, so if you're looking for something a lot better than this flat, give me a call! " he said, winking at Crowley.
"Heaven's Gates ?" read Crowley aloud.
" The name of my partner and I's agency. We do everything we can to ensure that our clients are happy with their property !"
He gave one of his fake smiles again, fiddled with his smartwatch and set off on his morning run in short strides. Crowley brought the card to his mouth, tore it up with a controlled bite, and scattered the pieces across the pavement.
With his bag slung over his shoulder, his terrarium tucked under one arm and his green plant under the other, Crowley walked through the door of the deserted establishment at this late hour of the morning. He was greeted by the tinkle of a bell and the cordial 'hello' of a blonde woman wiping down a table. He approached the counter and examined the room, whose blindingly blue walls were covered with anarchist slogans and drawings probably executed by a teenager in the throes of puberty. A television screen, which had probably seen the fall of the Berlin Wall, played a loop of clips from another era without any sound. A middle-aged woman came to meet him:
" Hello, what can I do for you?"
Crowley turned towards her and, without taking off his sunglasses, replied in a voice oscillating between nervousness and annoyance:
" I'm your new lodger."
"Oh yes," she said with a grimace, "the promotion thief... Anthony J. Crowley. What's the J stand for?"
" It's just a J."
" I'll give you a three-month package, including meals. How long are you planning to stay?"
" Just long enough for me to become a cobbler and get out of here..."
She stared at him curiously before catching sight of Junior, who was snoozing indifferently.
" Is your snake real? Animals are not allowed! " his soon-to-be ex-owner exclaimed, pointing to the poster on the counter.
" It's a snake, not a dog!"
" Nina", intervened the blonde woman, "perhaps we could make a small exception for Mr. Crowley?"
She approached the counter and gave him a friendly smile.
" Darling", reprimanded her companion with a look of love, "you're too nice!" She turned back to the sinister man :" is he poisonous? He won't get out of his cage?"
" No and no, and it's a terrarium!"
" It's OK, you can keep him, but you'll have to pay extra."
The blonde woman was about to reply when a look from her companion dissuaded her from making any comment. Crowley grunted, but having no desire to sleep on the beach or have any contact whatsoever with the estate agent whom he considered to be a supreme imbecile, he took out his bank card to pay the 'reptile' tax that Nina had just put in place. Once she had paid, she took a bunch of keys from the counter and invited her new tenant to follow her to the back of the café. They arrived in a small hallway leading to a narrow staircase. Her future landlady pointed to the other door on their right.
" If the café is closed, you'll have to go through there. My partner, Maggie, and I live on the first floor, so if you need anything... but don't go overboard either!" she added as Crowley followed her up the stairs.
Having reached the second and top floor, Nina pointed to the other doors adjoining the one she'd stopped in front of.
" I only rent three rooms, apart from yours, and they're all empty at this time of year. The season doesn't start until next month and finishes in mid-September. The rest of the time, it's very quiet, you feel like you're living ..."
" In The Sound of Music?"
"Bloody music! " exclaimed Nina as she unlocked the door to Crowley's future bedroom," the mayor is playing it earlier, this year."
Crowley discovered his suite, which consisted of a tiny bedroom and a small bathroom worthy of a broke student flat. Nina advised him to watch his head when showering to avoid any head trauma. He approached the window with its unobstructed view of the main street.
" The truth is", said Nina, folding her arms, "I wanted to give you the room overlooking the bins, but Maggie took pity on you! It's unusual, a cop from London arriving here."
He disdained to answer and turned back to his new landlady. She tossed him a bunch of keys, which he had no trouble snatching up.
" The big golden key opens the outside door, the other one is for your bedroom. I'm not going to spy on you, but please don't throw up on the stairs. If you bring guys back, it's in your room, not in the hallway."
She examined him from head to toe, lingering on his snaking tattoo near his left ear, before continuing:
" But you're going to find it hard to get a bit on the side around here... they're all in a relationship."
" Thank you for your recommendations, madam...
"Nina will suffice."
Before leaving, she turned to him one last time.
" You're going to make a funny impression on them at the station when you turn up with your too-tight trousers and your ridiculous little tie... Nobody expected a guy like you to turn up."
"A guy like me?"
"Gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide."
Nina left the room, leaving Crowley to his fate. He placed the terrarium and the green plant on the chest of drawers. He rummaged around in the cupboard and was surprised to discover a box of Scrabble. Opening the drawer of his bedside table, underneath a tourist guide dating back a few years and a blister-packed Bible, he unearthed a box containing various sizes of condom as a welcome gift. Nina knew how to pamper her tenants... He closed the drawer hastily, he had no intention of using this gift, and opened his sports bag. He rummaged through his clothes and pulled out a green plastic plant spray bottle. He opened it and headed for the bathroom. The plant folded its leaves as he passed, and when he returned with a full spray bottle and wet fingers, she knew that her torture session was about to begin. He began by whispering sweet nothings to her, but the Monstera deliciosa, not fooled by his sweet talk, began to tremble. Crowley put on a sorry face and sprayed it with a few bursts of mist. The plant curled up even more, which accentuated his lord and master's bad mood. He tightened his fingers around his lethal weapon and, in a deluge of droplets, began to abuse the poor plant in every language he knew.
His angry glare roused his snake from its nap. The reptile unfolded its scales and hissed indignantly. Crowley paused and turned towards the terrarium.
" Oh, Junior..." he murmured in a very contrite tone. "I'm so sorry."
The snake hissed again to reiterate its displeasure. His owner, whom the reptile considered above all as his personal slave, turned his head and looked a little sulky. Crowley's voice became more caressing and, like a cat begging its master's forgiveness after a nasty scratch, he began to stroke the glass cage, whispering tender words by way of repentant purrs. Junior straightened up and rubbed his head against the wall of the terrarium, showing with this gesture that all was forgiven. Reassured by this reconciliation, Crowley withdrew from his bag a small cooler on which was stuck a photo of Junior's best profile. He opened it, lifted out a bar of ice pack and grabbed a dead mouse. He waited a few minutes for it to defrost before offering it to the reptile, which was waiting impatiently for its prey. Junior crept up to the little mouse, whose fur was blond rather than immaculate white, brushed it with his tongue before swallowing it in one go.