A Right Shambles in York: Chapter One

Chapter One: Thieving Ducks

 

“Ducks,” Detective Inspector Adams said, her tone flat.

“Ducks,” the man facing her across the scarred wood of the pub table agreed, nodding sagely. He had a drooping face, everything sliding down from the sparse hair at the crown of his head to his loose jowls, the skin mottled with broken veins. His hands were heavy and big-knuckled with arthritis and hard work, and one of them rested with easy familiarity around a pint glass, despite it being barely ten in the morning.

Adams looked at her notebook, lying open on the table in front of her, and wished she’d kept it on her lap. Everything was desperately sticky, and she was trying not to lean back in her chair, because she thought it might grab her jacket just as firmly as the table had grabbed her notebook. Even her boots were sticking to the old red carpet with its scars and faded patches, and though she could smell the strident notes of cleaning products in the near-empty pub, they were underlaid by a persistent funk of old beer and the ghosts of forgotten cigarettes. Spring sunshine filtered through the chunky mullioned windows, giving everything a warm glow that couldn’t quite manage charming, and except for a couple of fruit machines humming quietly by the door to the loos, all was silent.

The only other people in attendance were the proprietor – a short, sturdy woman with pale blonde hair and a low-cut top stacking glasses behind the bar – and a tall, lean man propped against it with a mug of coffee in front of him. He was examining the coffee with as much doubt as Adams had regarded her own, and she had a feeling he was trying very hard not to meet her gaze. A large, dreadlocked grey dog sat on the bar itself, panting on the proprietor and making her look around in a puzzled way, as if feeling his breath but not sure where it was coming from, and two border collies stood close to the man’s legs, gazes shifting between the selectively invisible grey dog and Adams.

She turned her attention back to the man across the table. “I thought you said you had a trophy stolen,” she said.

“I did,” he said. “It were the ducks as took it.”

She looked back at her notepad, where she’d written very neatly the name of the pub, which was The Dabbling Dipper; the name of the man, which was Travis Fletcher; and the complaint, which was the aforementioned stolen trophy. She very carefully laid her pen on top of the pad, making sure it didn’t roll off onto the table. She’d have to disinfect it if it did.

“Can you tell me why you suspect ducks?” she asked.

“They’re up to things. Always sneaking around and acting cute. But I’m onto them.” Travis didn’t tap the side of his nose, yet he somehow gave the impression of doing so anyway.

“And that’s your only reason?” She was trying very hard to keep her voice neutral, but he narrowed his eyes, taking a swig of beer.

“You don’t believe me,” he said, and the man at the bar gave a very small snort.

Adams managed not to glare at him, keeping her attention on Travis. “It’s not that I don’t believe you,” she said. “It’s just that I think you should be calling the RSPB if you’ve got a duck problem. Birds aren’t really a police issue.”

“I did call them,” he said. “They reckon they can’t do anything. They said if someone had stolen the ducks, they could help, but not if the ducks are doing the stealing, which don’t seem right, does it? That’s prejudice.”

Adams nodded slowly, picked up her mug to have a sip of coffee, then decided against it. There was a nasty, greasy film on the surface and something caked on the handle, plus she thought she could see mysterious, drifting bodies in the depths. She set it down, removed her notebook from the table with some difficulty, and got up. “I can’t arrest a duck.”

“Can’t you get rid of them, at least?” Travis asked. He drained the last of his pint and set it on the table, then, to Adams’ horror, pulled the leg of his trousers up and showed her a very pale, very hairy calf. “They pecked me! Assault and thievery!”

“Um.” She couldn’t see anything on his leg from here, and she didn’t want to take a closer look.

“I heal quick, but it’s there. They’re bloody menaces.” He pulled his trouser leg down again, and looked at the woman behind the bar. “And there were your garden thingies as well, Belle.”

Belle huffed, stretching to put a glass back on a high shelf. “It’ll be kids,” she said. “It’s always damn kids. I really liked them, though.”

“What’s this?” Adams asked.

“I lost a little family of hedgehogs,” she said. “Not real ones. Metal. Thought they’d look cute in the beer garden. They did and all.” She thought about it. “Well, most of the time. Some divot was always moving them about, or putting them in compromising situations.”

Travis made a sympathetic sound, but no one else spoke until Adams said, “I suppose that’s always a risk.”

“Idiots,” Belle muttered.

“Could try the RSPCA,” the lean man at the bar said. “Cruelty to hedgehogs.” He was struggling not to grin, and Adams narrowed her eyes at him.

“They won’t be any help. Not if the RSPB are anything to go by,” Travis said darkly, inspecting his empty glass.

“So what happened to these hedgehogs?” Adams asked.

“I’m telling you, it’ll be kids,” Belle said. “They vanished the same time as his ridiculous trophy, so some little menaces probably took the lot. I remember we used to go about stealing those ceramic ducks and wire butterflies people had on their walls when we were that age. Nothing changes.”

“No, kids are too busy on the Tic-Tac or whatever these days,” Travis said. “They’re not interested in hedgehogs and trophies. And it wasn’t ridiculous.” He went to the wall and took a framed photo down, turning around to show it to Adams. She didn’t take it, not wanting to touch the grimy glass, but she had to admit it was a rather nice trophy. Instead of some cheap, generic cup picked up from the local sports shop it looked like an actual sculpture, thin, carefully folded metal blossoming into the form of an origami-style frog which shone even in the dull print.

“Very nice,” she said. “What was it for again?”

“Marrow growing.”

“It’s a frog.”

“I know,” he said, petting the frame.

Adams decided against trying to make sense out of that. “Whose was it?” Because the man holding it in the photo definitely wasn’t Travis, even if it did look to be a fairly old photo.

“Mine,” he said, sounding aggrieved, and Belle snorted.

“She’s a detective. She’s not buying that. Travis here’s never grown a marrow in his life,” she added to Adams.

Travis huffed. “Alright, so it wasn’t mine originally. But I came about it honestly.”

“If you call hustling a card game honest,” Belle said.

Adams pocketed her notebook and pen. “So it’s not actually yours.”

“I won it fair and square.”

“Not for growing marrows, though,” Belle pointed out. “And not from someone who was entirely sober either.”

Adams massaged the dark skin of her forehead, where a small but persistent headache was forming at her hairline that had nothing to do with her habitual tight bun. It was better than the eye twitch she had to deal with every time she went to the village of Toot Hansell, with its problematic dragons and much more concerning ladies of a certain age, but she still wasn’t a fan of it. Life in the country was proving much more stressful than London had ever been, and in entirely new ways.

She took a steadying breath. “Right. Was the trophy really stolen, then?”

“Yes,” Travis said.

“No,” Belle said, and they glared at each other. “You left it outside!” she said.

“And the ducks took it!”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“No one wants to admit the truth. Ducks are trouble.”

Adams looked at the tall man at the bar, who was watching the exchange with a faint grin on his face. The border collies looked about as impressed by the smell of the pub as she was, and the big grey dog had helped himself to a barstool, perching on it comfortably. Adams scowled at the man, and he gave her a very small shrug, took a mouthful of coffee, and immediately looked horrified.

She allowed herself one small moment of satisfaction, then looked at Belle. “Do you want to report the hedgehogs stolen?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I mean, my niece gave them to me, so I’d like them back, but how’s anyone going to find them? I even looked at my little doorbell cam, just for interest, and there’s nothing on it. It’s a waste of time.”

Adams agreed wholeheartedly, but she couldn’t exactly say that. “If you’re sure—”

“What about my trophy?” Travis demanded.

“Old Pat probably took it back,” Belle said.

“Then that’s thieving!”

“Thought you said it was the ducks,” the man at the bar said.

Adams resisted the urge to tell him to shut up.

“That’s because of the camera,” Travis said.

“The one that showed nothing?” Adams asked.

“Not nothing. It went fuzzy, like something flew across the screen. A duck.” He actually did tap his nose this time, nodding as well, and the other man snorted, then turned it into a cough. He set his mug on the bar, and the big grey dog gave it a horrified look, then jumped to the floor.

Travis crossed to the bar and set his empty pint glass down. “Set us up another one, would you, love?”

“Don’t you love me,” Belle said. “All this damn fuss, and you probably dropped the trophy in the water yourself. And my hedgehogs.”

“I would never. I loved your hedgehogs.”

Adams nodded, looking at the floor, and said, “Well, I can’t arrest a duck, and if you’re not making a complaint about missing hedgehogs, I think we’re done here.”

“Don’t you want to check the doorbell footage?” the tall man asked, and she wondered briefly if it would be considered assault if she threw the remains of her very tepid coffee at him. Instead of doing that, she took a card from her pocket and set it on the bar. She couldn’t slide it across because it immediately stuck in place, so she just tapped it and looked at Belle. “Send me the camera footage if you want.”

Belle peeled the card off the bar and examined it. She had immaculate make-up, Adams noticed, and her nails were short but very tidy. Behind her, a clutter of cards and postcards were tacked to the wall, a litany of places seen and people loved, a lot of them featuring Belle with her arm around a younger woman who looked an awful lot like her. The niece, perhaps. “Alright,” Belle said. “I might, at that. I miss those hedgehogs.”

“Great,” Adams said, without much enthusiasm. She headed for the door they’d arrived by, which opened onto a slightly ramshackle beer garden, dotted with leaning picnic tables and bordered at the bottom by a little stream. A path led around the side of the pub to the car park, but rather than follow it immediately she paused to examine the overgrown grass and shabby pots, not yet planted with fresh blooms. The sun was warm enough, but it wasn’t trustworthy. Spring in North Yorkshire was a fickle beast, and it could be sunburn today and frostbite tomorrow.

Footsteps followed her, and she looked around to see the border collies running out ahead of the tall man, who had his hands tucked into the pockets of his waxed jacket, his shoulders broad and sharp and his stance relaxed. He gave her a grin that was almost apologetic but not quite. His name was Rory, and she had no idea why he’d dragged her out here, or, more to the point, why she’d agreed to come.

“Did you enjoy that?” she asked.

“I didn’t realise it was going to be quite that bonkers,” he said. “Travis seemed really reasonable when he said he’d been reporting a theft and the local cops weren’t interested.”

“You know I have my own cases? And this isn’t even my patch?”

“Sure, but I thought it might be your area of expertise.”

“Theft by duck?” she said, just as Travis emerged from the door, wielding a mop.

“There they are!” he shouted, and charged across the beer garden, waving his makeshift weapon wildly. “Give me back my trophy, you aquatic sodding Christmas dinners!”

A trio of ducks that had been gathered on the edge of the beer garden fled back into the water, feet and wings paddling wildly as they set up a chorus of outraged quacking. The big grey dog bounded into the shallows after them, and the border collies followed.

“Midge, Pinto, heel!” Rory yelled, but they ignored him entirely, and he scowled at Adams. “Is your bloody invisible dog leading them astray again?”

“No comment,” she said, and watched Travis come to a staggering stop on the bank of the waterway, feinting with the mop as if he might still reach the birds.

“And bring back the hedgehogs!” he shouted. He spun, jabbing the mop across the garden to indicate the front of the building as he glared at Adams. “They were there! Really cute little critters, and now they’re gone as well, and my trophy, and nobody will do anything about it!”

He swung back to the ducks, and Adams shouted, “Careful!”

She was too late. Travis yelped, his footing slipping as he staggered too close to the edge. He dropped the mop and windmilled his arms wildly, giving a little wail of fright. Adams lunged forward, but she was too far away. Rory was closer, but still not close enough. His fingers closed on air as Travis crashed into the shallow stream.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Adams said, stopping at the water’s edge and snatching up the mop. “Here, grab this,” she started, reaching out to Travis with it, but Rory had already kicked his boots off and was splashing into the stream. It wasn’t deep, but Travis couldn’t seem to find his feet. He wailed, thrashing in the chattering water, lurching one way then the other and drenching himself thoroughly. The dogs had stopped their pursuit of the ducks and were standing in the middle of the waterway, watching with astonishment.

Belle emerged from the pub behind them. “What the hell is going on?” she started, then spotted Travis. “Travis, for heaven’s sake, not again,” she shouted, striding out to join Adams on the bank. “Are you chasing bloody mermaids again? Mermaids don’t live in streams!”

Adams didn’t know about mermaids, but she’d certainly encountered sprites, who seemed to come armed with swans and geese, which she wasn’t keen on meeting. She checked the river, but only saw the ducks, who were watching with great interest from the far bank. They seemed like the least troublesome creatures in evidence, really. She stepped back as Rory hefted Travis to his feet and shoved him onto dry land, where he staggered in a circle yelling, “I want my trophy back!”

“And I want my hedgehogs!” Belle shouted. “But you don’t see me jumping in the water making a spectacle of myself, do you?”

“You should arrest them,” Travis said to Adams, pointing at the ducks. “You saw what they made me do!”

“Again,” Adams said, “I can’t arrest the ducks.” She was mostly watching the large, dreadlocked dog, who might be invisible to everyone else, but was very much visible to her. He was looking up and down the river with interest, and she sighed inwardly. His invisibility didn’t seem to extend to the water he was going to drag into the car with him, and the smell was very much discernible, she’d found.

Belle and Travis were still arguing, and Adams was just about to turn away from the scene when she caught a flash of movement in the shallow water. All three dogs looked toward it, ears pricked, and a woman’s form melted out of the stream. She was sleek and scaled, the sunlight glistening on her silvery skin, and she scratched Dandy behind the ears while he wagged his tail eagerly.

“Who’s a good beastie?” she said. “Aren’t you a lovely scary monster?”

Rory turned, looked into the river, and said, “Huh.”

“You see her?” Adams asked.

“I see her,” he said. “Still can’t see your dog, though.”

That tracked. The magical Folk of the world, such as the sprite, didn’t seem to have any trouble seeing Dandy, but the only other human she’d found so far who could was one annoying journalist, which made him doubly annoying.

“What are you talking about?” Travis asked, peering at the river. He squinted, blinked his bleary eyes rapidly, then pointed at the sprite, yelling, “You! Did you take my trophy?” He didn’t seem to notice Dandy, at least. The last thing she needed was to find someone else who could see the invisible dog, only for it to be a man obsessed with thieving ducks.

“Me?” the sprite asked, pointing at her own chest, one arm still hooked around Dandy’s shoulders.

“Yes, you!” he shouted. “Stop splashing around in the river and bring back my trophy! And the hedgehogs!”

“Travis, you’re cut off,” Belle said. “You’re seeing things again. You need to go to the damn doctor.”

“I’m not seeing things. There’s a woman in the river! She’s got scales!”

“So now the invisible, scaly woman stole my hedgehogs?” Belle demanded. “I bet it was actually you!”

“Why would I steal your hedgehogs?”

“You probably bet them on something,” she said. “That’s what’s happened, isn’t it? You’ve lost your trophy in another game, then taken my bloody hedgehogs and lost them too!” She spun around, marching back to the door. “And if you walk into my pub dripping, you’re never coming back again!” She slammed the door in her wake.

“Belle!” Travis yelled, then turned back to the sprite. She was already gone. He looked at Adams, eyes wide. “Get her back!”

“Don’t know who you mean,” Adams said. “You need to get dried off.”

Travis was shivering, his already red face gone an even deeper shade. “No, I—”

“Come on, mate,” Rory said, picking up his boots. “I’ll run you home.”

“But—”

The door of the pub opened in a manner that suggested someone had tried to throw it wide, but had been defeated by its heavy hinges. Belle stalked out, a towel in each hand. She threw one at Rory and another at Travis. “You’re not getting bloody hypothermia in my beer garden,” she snapped. “Get inside.” She turned around and strode off again before anyone could respond, and Travis looked at Adams.

“I still think you should look into the ducks,” he said. “You can’t trust them.” Then he tottered up the path, wrapped in the towel.

Rory picked up the other towel and sat down at one of the tables, pulling his sodden socks off so he could dry his feet. “Never-ending excitement with you, isn’t it?”

“You’re the one calling me out to look at thieving ducks.” She whistled to Dandy, who gave a little bark, tipping his head expectantly at the water. “Heel,” Adams hissed at him, and he ignored her.

The sprite resurfaced, melting out of the water as if built from it. Maybe she was – she was a small, slight thing, but the stream still should’ve been too shallow to hide her. She smooched at Dandy, who flopped on his side so she could rub his belly, splashing water everywhere.

Adams winced, then called, “Excuse me? Have you got a minute?”

The sprite looked around at her, pale eyebrows raised. “Hi,” she said, and tipped her head at Dandy. “He yours?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“He’s cute. Not too keen on the red eyes, smells a bit of sulphur, otherwise he’s pretty sweet.”

“Yeah, I hadn’t noticed the sulphur myself,” she said. “But the eyes are a little unnerving, I agree. Haven’t noticed any ducks stealing trophies or hedgehogs, have you?”

“Hedgehogs?”

“Metal ones.”

“Oh, right.” She looked past Adams at Rory, and waved her fingers at him. “He yours too?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Harsh, Adams,” Rory said, and waved back at the sprite.

“Were they his hedgehogs?” the sprite asked. “What’ll he give me if I find them?” She winked at Rory, who grinned.

“They’re not his,” Adams said.

“Boring,” the sprite said, and melted away again.

“No, wait—” But she was gone, and Dandy sloshed cheerily back out of the water, shaking himself off wildly as soon as he was on the bank. Adams fled, swearing, and Rory yelped as he was showered with a spray of invisible dog water.

“Dammit, can’t he wear a bell or something?”

Dandy gave a short, disapproving bark.

“No, apparently,” Adams said, and watched the border collies splash across the stream to join them. “So this was a waste of time.”

“Got you out of the books, though,” Rory pointed out, grinning as he pulled his boots back on over his bare feet. He made a face. “Ugh. I need to go home and get some dry socks.”

“I need to go and do some actual work.”

“You said it was your day off.”

“I’ve got overdue reports.”

“Come on, this could’ve been something. Thieving ducks? Sprites?”

She frowned at him. Rory had proven himself singularly capable when faced with werewolves, but it didn’t mean he’d suddenly become her sidekick, or whatever he thought was happening here. She was police, and he was some sort of penniless landed gentry. A civilian. He just happened to be one of the few people she’d met who both knew about the Folk world, the realm of sprites and werewolves and magic that moved within the human one, and who also had a handy, if patchy, library of esoteric books she’d been trying to work her way through. To be honest, the books’ writing was even dustier than their pages, and she’d spent more time drinking coffee with Rory than reading them, but the intention was there.

She looked at the river again and said, “I suppose I can add to my pool of knowledge the fact that not all sprites are clinically depressed.”

“What’re you basing that on?” Rory asked. “Sample size of one?”

“Two, actually,” Adams replied.

“You may need to meet a few more to really extrapolate that data. Fancy lunch?”

“I didn’t agree to lunch. I came out on my very precious day off because you said you’d found a new book in your uncle’s stuff, and now look at us. You’ve got wet feet and I’ve had to explain I can’t arrest ducks.”

“You still have to eat,” he pointed out, and before she could say anything else her phone rang. She held a finger up to him as she took it from her pocket, and he wandered back to the pub with his towel in one hand.

There was no name on the display, and she didn’t recognise the number. She hit answer. “Detective Inspector Adams, North Yorkshire Police.”

“Detective Inspector,” a woman’s voice said. It was smooth and self-assured, with a deep warm timbre that made Adams think of bluebell glades in sunlit woods. “Heather from Ash & Yew, in York. We have a situation.”

“Oh?” Adams said. “If you need the police, I’m Skipton, not York.”

“This isn’t a police situation, Inspector. This is a you situation.”

And Adams stood there in the thin spring sunshine, watching the world grow clear, sharp edges, everything drawing into tighter, brighter focus as the familiar tingle lit in her fingertips.

It might not be a police situation, but it was a case. She could feel it.

 

 

A Right Shambles in York will be available to buy in the store next week, or get your pre-orders in at all your favourite retailers now!