Catacombs of Terror! Page 2

  I thought again of the tale that Ambrose Blimfield had told me—that story of a bet, of a book, of publishing books on hemp paper, of fire, of drunkenness, and I thought—this book should live again.

  Once Carol, our typist, had transcribed the damaged manuscript, Scratter and myself read it through—and we were fascinated. Somehow the writer had recast the city of Bath—‘a genteel tourist trap,’ as it’s described in the book—as the setting for an infernal drama played out in the sombre, rain-soaked tones of a horror story. The text is littered with swear words, there is frequent reference to illegal drugs, several lines appear to be lifted verbatim from more famous detective novels, names are stolen from other books, and, notably, from a little-known document called the Neoist Manifestos, and a sort of cod-Esperanto is employed as an archaic language, but remarkably, none of this seems to matter.

  I looked up Stanley Donwood on the Internet and sent a letter to his agent. Soon enough, a reply arrived stating that Donwood had very little recollection of the book and even less desire to have anything to do with it—in fact, he apparently disowned it, much as he had disowned Yobs—and he wished us ‘the best of luck with that cheap trash.’

  However, as you will discover in the following pages, Catacombs of Terror! is anything but cheap trash. Is it trashy? Well, perhaps. Is it a ‘page-turner’? Undoubtedly. And thrilling? Undeniably. And even if it captures a time now passed—a world of slow modems, of smoking in pubs and cafés, of dictaphones and tape recorders, a world when surveillance was new enough to be remarked upon—the book resonates. The plucky individual, flawed, but still, at root, deeply moral, fighting against a world that shows no mercy, that confounds him at every turn, fighting against the inevitability of defeat, buoyed by the merest hint of love . . . this dark account of a terrible weekend in the beautiful city of Bath compels us to look beyond the facade. It takes us to the underground, behind the curtain, beneath the polite, respectable veil that society would draw across the horrors that lie beneath. It takes us down . . . down to the Catacombs of Terror!

  —Sterling Bland, Bath, 2015

  Chapter 1

  Death Threats

  Let’s see. Friday 10th July, 11:30 A.M. Not a good time for me, and not a good day either, so far. Not if you were me. The best thing about my situation was that I’d escaped the wind. And the rain. The cold was still with me, but I was forgetting it fast. I’d delegated. A third coffee was dealing with it. The worst thing about my situation you don’t want to know. Yeah, well. I didn’t know the worst thing about my situation either. Not yet, anyway.

  July. The coldest and wettest ever, I thought. Okay. But I thought that every year. Maybe it was getting worse, every year. The sky squatted above the city, snagging on the chimneys and aerials, sagging into the streets like a wet military blanket. I lit my fourth cigarette since escaping the downpour and tried to focus on the newspaper I had propped in front of me. The usual. Imminent terrors, tawdry killings, economic gloom. I wasn’t feeling too good.

  I put my coffee cup down and stared out at the rain. I had enough available overdraft to pay this month’s rent, but apart from that I was looking at a series of humiliating, embarrassing, and finally futile phone calls to my bank manager. Brown envelopes through the door en route to the wastepaper basket. Reminders, ditto. Final demands. Bailiffs. Then what?

  I still hadn’t been paid for my last job. Or the one before that. My first couple of years as a private investigator had gone okay. Dull, but okay. But this year had been dead. Three cases, all of them very boring. Identify, tail, photograph, deliver prints. And my last two clients had defaulted. Hadn’t returned my increasingly frequent phone calls. I’d started considering employing a debt collector. Not my favourite kind of people, having been on the receiving end of their kind more than once. It wasn’t a global crisis, I thought, looking briefly at the headlines. But it wasn’t any kind of fun. It was enough. And Barry Eliot? He was more than enough. The guy was not necessary.

  Well, okay. Maybe the Barry Eliot problem was my fault. Partly my fault. About one third my fault, I reckoned. Half my fault would be pushing it . . . maybe. All right. I’d met Karen Eliot the night before. Again. I had been on my way home after a busy day watching the telephone, fiddling with paper clips, reading a magazine. A quick drink? Sure, why not. A bite to eat? Well, I had nothing much to look forward to in my fridge back at the flat, so, hey, why not. Well, okay. Barry’s away. You’re lonely. Sure. And then I’d woken up in the morning, Friday 10th July, in her bed. Groggy, hung over, and with the horribly dawning realisation that I’d done it again. I’d spent the night with Karen. Again.

  It had been only two weeks since Barry had caught us in bed, one stupid afternoon when he was supposed to be playing golf with some of those high fliers he likes so much. He’d probably suspected something was going on. Karen and me—we really got on well. And I mean it. She hated Barry. She liked me. And maybe more than liked. I felt—well, I felt that we could have had some kind of life together. In another world. Another life. Some other dimension. Anyway. Barry had walked in. It wasn’t a good moment, not compared with the moment just before. He threatened to kill me—yawn—and then threatened to have my licence revoked. Okay. Death threats from Barry, with his squeaking voice and appalling taste in golfing slacks I could handle, but losing my licence . . . .

  The trouble was that Barry was extremely well connected. I didn’t know why, but he was. He knew people in the Council. He knew people in the police force. I mean, the guy played golf. He put on those revolting slacks, those sickening pullovers, those laughable shoes—and schmoozed in the nineteenth hole with magistrates, judges, superintendents, and commissioners. He had his gig sewn up. If Barry wanted, Barry usually got. He was, you could be forgiven for thinking, not a guy to cross. And I was screwing his wife. Maybe I was in love with her. I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell.

  You see? That was the worst thing about my situation. As I thought then, as I shouldered my way out of the café and into the weather. Yeah. As I thought then.

  Chapter 2

  Oh Fuck You

  It was nearly midday, and if I didn’t at least sit behind my desk for a few minutes I couldn’t justify lunch. I decided to look up debt collection services in the Yellow Pages. Time to hit the office. Ha. Won’t you step through to my office? Step along the alleyway past the dog shit, the puke slicks, the garbage, the never-picked-up bin liners, their contents spewed along the concrete. Come through the peeling, flaking door along the corridor that always, inexplicably, smells of human piss. I’ll just unlock the door. Notice the brass plaque on your way in? Not as shiny as maybe it could have been, but still. VALPOLICELLA INVESTIGATIONS. Yep, that’s me. The boss. Martin Valpolicella. Got a problem? Missing husband? Missing wife? Missing cat? You’ve come to the right place. Oh, for sure.

  I let myself into the office and clicked the light on and picked a piece of paper off the mat. A note, written in block biro letters on good-quality paper. Before I read it, I dropped the note on my desk. I walked over to the cupboard, opened it, grabbed a bottle, and poured myself two fingers of whiskey. I sat down behind my desk and fumbled in my pocket for my cigarettes.

  So, it’s either good news—like a job, for example. Any other kind of good news was pretty much inconceivable. A job. That would be very good. I needed a job badly, it was true. Or else it’s bad news. Which I felt was definitely more likely. Bad news could come in a number of ways, but it was pretty unlikely that really, seriously bad news could come in the form of a note. A note, at least, delayed the worst of the news. I was glad that I’d thought that through. The note was going to be okay. I reached across and picked it up.

  C I T Y B A T H S

  13 JULY AM

  Not bad. Incomprehensible, but not dangerous. It wasn’t bad news. Not yet. I turned the paper over.

  YOU’RE BEING SET UP

  valpolicellaneedtoknowthis@yahoo.com

  Still not bad news, strictly speaking. Unsettling,
yes. Unwelcome? Check. The kind of communication that made me wish I’d skipped the office and gone straight into lunch? Yeah, well. Maybe lunch didn’t look so good anymore. My headache was coming back. Wearily I stooped down and plugged in the power cable for the computer, swapped phone jacks, and started up. Again, I decided to get a faster modem. What would you have done if you had the misfortune to be me? You would have ignored it. That would have been your response, right? You’re lucky. You’re not me.

  I hit ‘compose’ and typed oh fuck you. Kicked over a chair. Shrugged. Took a couple of Rennies and went to lunch anyway.

  Chapter 3

  My Stupid Job

  It must have been the wine, but when I got back, despite my saner instincts I went through the over-familiar Internet connection rigmarole and guess what? I had mail. A reply, no less. Of course. Lunch, however long you spend on it, however much it costs, doesn’t stop anything from happening.

  OH YEAH? VALPOLICELLA YOU NEED TO KNOW THIS

  YOU ARE BEING SET UP

  YOU ARE THE FALL GUY FOR 13 JULY BY FATE ORDAINED

  I DON’T LIKE YOU BUT IF YOU’RE SCARED ENOUGH YOU MIGHT BE ABLE TO STOP IT

  VALPOLICELLA GO TO THE STAR AT 7 PM TALK TO JEANS WITH A HOLE AT EACH KNEE

  Okay. It was only three. I had time to think. Set up? Fall guy? This whole thing stunk of Barry. Some sort of stupid golfer’s bullshit with the aim of giving me the runaround and probably a good kicking as a finale. The 13th July? Couple of days’ time. The date was probably a red herring, a little bit of bait to make this sound slightly more interesting than it actually was.

  If it was Barry, he obviously wanted to see me sweat for a while. He had the time and the twisted sort of energy to do something like this. Okay. He had reason to dislike me, and he knew where I plied my trade. My name was on the plaque. I mentioned that before. But it was the I don’t like you that intrigued me. Would Barry need to actually state that he didn’t like me? I knew all too well that the fucker didn’t like me. I don’t like you but if you’re scared enough you might be able to stop it. Stop what, for fuck’s sake? Stop smoking? Stop myself from throwing the computer out the window?

  I made myself an instant coffee and leaned back, gazing at the sagging cobwebs of dust that hung from the picture rail. The coffee was horrible, as usual. I tried to think. I might have been mistaken, but it seemed to me that I knew nothing at all about any of this apart from two things. First, I was apparently being set up to take the rap for something—something unspecified—that was apparently due to happen in, what, three days’ time. Second, if I went and talked to a guy with holes in his trousers, things might turn out fine. It might be a setup. Yeah, well. Some kind of hilarious joke from a golfer who’d had his ego deflated. Or it might actually turn out to be a job. It might even be a paid job. The idea kind of interested me. Anyway. The only star I knew was the Star, a pub not too far from my office.

  I watched the phone for a while, then I played about with the stapler. The afternoon began to pall, so I decided to get to the Star early. Heavy traffic was heading east and the rain had decided to stick around, make itself at home, get comfortable. I climbed up some steps from the street where my office was and turned towards the Star, pulling up my collar, huddling my shoulders against the wind. I couldn’t help thinking about my life. My stupid job. My finances. This fucking city.

  I had a couple of drinks at the bar and, frankly, I was becoming ever so slightly bored by the time a woman came in, jeans, hole at each knee. Somehow I hadn’t been expecting a woman. That surprised me, and I don’t surprise that easily, as a rule. She was small, brown hair, denim jacket. About twenty-five. I wouldn’t have noticed her in a crowd. She seemed to notice me, though. She walked up to me.

  “Hi. Are you Mister Valpolicella?” She had quite a refined voice. Home counties.

  “Mmhmm,” I said quietly. “I’m Valpolicella. Who are you?”

  She looked at me just long enough to register disdain, then nodded towards the bar.

  “Red wine. Best they’ve got. Large glass. See you over there.” The girl gestured to a corner table and headed towards it. I got the drinks and walked over to the table with a glass of house red for her and a pint of lager for me. I looked at her. I have different ways of looking at people for different situations. This situation called for my ‘do not dare to waste my time’ look. It’s partly glare, partly stare, mostly bored, without a hint of smile. It’s usually best to follow this look with a disguised insult.

  “So, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

  “You do know that I’m just here to relay a message? That I have no interest in you, or your life, whatsoever?” she said. I sat down at the table and leant forward.

  “Uh huh. Now we’ve got the pleasantries over with, let’s suppose we can get down to business. You tell me what you’re here to tell me, and I’ll think about it. I’m not remotely happy about any of this. Is this a job? Or a magical mystery tour? And, most importantly, do I get paid?”

  She looked down at her shoes and then up at me, slowly. I stared at her. I was perplexed. More than perplexed, I was annoyed. A note? An e-mail? An unknown woman in a city pub? This was adding up towards a total I couldn’t imagine. And somewhere inside it was a time limit. Three days. No, pretty much only two days. I thought of walking away. Just getting up, walking away. Maybe that’s what you would have done. I should have done it, too. I really should. But I didn’t. Yeah, well.

  “So?”

  She looked up at the ceiling. The Star is an old-fashioned kind of place. No jukebox, no games machines. Lots of dark wood and lots of little rooms. It was the kind of place that, if it was early in the evening, you could be alone. Which is what we were, as far as I could tell. She looked up at the nicotine-stained ceiling for a slow minute before she spoke.

  “Are you recording this?” she asked, eyes narrow.

  It was my turn to inspect the ceiling, although I took a lot less time than her.

  “No, I’m not recording this. I’m here because something about this business interested me. If it stops interesting me, I’m gone. Bye-bye Valpolicella. What in hell would I be recording? And why?” I took a pull on my pint.

  “I’m just talking. Talking to a detective. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be, Mister Valpolicella? I wouldn’t like what I’m going to say to find its way into the wrong ears. Careless talk . . . can cost lives, Mister Valpolicella.”

  “Yeah.” I was getting exasperated. “You going to talk or are we going to sit here breaking ice?”

  “I’m going to talk, Mister Valpolicella, and I think you should listen. You might think you know this city, but you don’t. It doesn’t seem like the kind of city where much goes on. A genteel tourist trap. I wonder how you stay in business. Grimly, and rather desperately, I would imagine. Divorce cases. Domestic spying. Rather insalubrious. You live in this city, but you don’t really know what’s happening beneath the surface. I’m not surprised. Hardly anybody knows what’s going on here. I know. I know that you’re going to be arrested on the afternoon of Monday 13th July. For murder.”

  I was suddenly listening. I was suddenly listening hard.

  “And I assume that you would rather that didn’t happen. That you would rather carry on with your life, your busy life, in your usual way. No clients. Terrible address. Worse reputation. Ignorant. But free. So I have some information for you that might—just might—enable you to stay here, among the innocent, the ignorant, and the free. Now, on the morning of the 13th July, before the tourists arrive, something—someone—will be found in the city Baths. The Baths will have to be closed. The police will be called. The city’s biggest tourist attraction is the Baths. The reason why this city is here, some would say. What the city does not want to find in the Baths is a dismembered corpse, Mister Valpolicella. The legs will be found on the west pediment. The arms on the north and south. The torso will be weighted and sunk to the bottom of the water itself. It might take a
while for it to be found, but its location could, presumably, be deduced from the fact that the head will be found on the east pediment. Staring up at the sky.” She paused, took a sip from her glass, and looked directly at me. “This city, this city that you live and work in but know so little about, will not shrug its shoulders. This city will demand a culprit. And you, Mister Valpolicella, will be that culprit. The villain of the piece.”

  I was feeling just a little unsettled, but I wasn’t about to let this girl know that.

  “Pretty speech. You still haven’t told me who you are. And this isn’t the first time I’ve had someone bullshit me in a pub.” I lit a cigarette. Slowly. “Give me one reason why I should take this at all seriously.”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “It doesn’t sound true.”

  “I’m trying to help you, Mister Valpolicella.”

  The Mister was beginning to grate. Her voice was beginning to grate. I began thinking about leaving, or at least getting another pint. Okay. I shot her a glance and stood up.

  “You’re trying to help me,” I said, exhaling. “You’re trying to help me, and that’s very nice. You know what? My bank manager says he’s trying to help me as well, but I’m not about to take him entirely seriously. Do me a favour. Look at this from my angle. I get a note, anonymously. I get an e-mail, also anonymously, telling me to come here. Meet you. Well, that’s great. It’s been real. A diverting evening.”

  “Do you want another drink, Mister Valpolicella?”

  “If you drop the Mister.”

  She went over to the bar. I sat down and ground out my cigarette in the ashtray. I lit another and stared into space. The wood-panelled walls of the Star seemed to be closing in on me. I felt pinpricks of anxiety beginning to cluster round the back of my neck. I had the feeling that whatever this was leading up to was going to be unpleasant. I had a little time to think about different types of unpleasantness, but I tried not to get too involved. Then she came back over. She didn’t have a drink for herself.