The Vampire’s Revenge. Eric Morecambe

      The fear in the men’s eyes grew because they all knew that the Inspector had never caught a criminal in his entire career with the force. He was the joke of the Gotcha police, the joke being, ‘Chief Inspector Speekup couldn’t catch his pants on a nail’. And now here he was after the worst type of criminal, a criminal who had magic on his side, who could escape from anywhere and who couldn’t die unless he was killed in a special way. They all thought the same thing: ‘Fat chance we’ve got of catching Vernon with this fancy-dressed idiot leading us …’

      ‘And I want him,’ he continued. ‘I want him here in my prison and I want him soon.’ His voice was as dry as a packet of salty crisps. He clicked his heels together.

      ‘I know what you want,’ was heard quietly from the back line of men. But the Inspector didn’t hear it. He only saw all his men smiling.

      ‘That’s it, men,’ he said. ‘That’s what I like to see – men who smile in the face of adversity.’ The men began to shuffle their feet. ‘That’s it, men,’ he said again. ‘Keen to get on with it, eh?’

      His dry voice took on the sound of a file rasping against iron. He laughed, a rather throaty laugh, like four dice shaken in a tin box. ‘Now, before we go out and get this man, nay, this fiend, are there any questions?’

      ‘Where do you think he is, Sir?’ asked Number Six.

      ‘Pardon?’ the Inspector said, putting his hand to his ear.

      ‘Where do you think Vernon is?’ Number Six asked again.

      ‘Yes, very good, very good, yes do that,’ the Inspector said, looking at Number Four.

      ‘Do what, Sir?’ Number Six asked yet again.

      ‘Well, that’s possible,’ the Inspector said, this time looking directly at policeman Number Three. ‘Are there any more questions? Come along now, you mustn’t be afraid of me just because I’m an officer.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a hand raised by Number Seven. ‘Yes, what is the question?’ he grinned.

      ‘May I ask whether you heard the first question or not … Sir?’

      The Inspector allowed his grin to widen before he spoke.

      ‘I would say between now and midnight,’ he said, taking out a large pocket watch and showing it to the men. ‘Good question that. I only hope all you other men are as quick and perceptive as that man there.’ He pointed to policeman Number Two. ‘Right, if that’s all you want to know, off you go, as I have work to do. I’m working on a plan.’

      The rest of the policemen all looked at each other in an embarrassed way and filed out of the Inspector’s office. Only Sergeant Salt remained behind. When they were completely alone and the door had been closed the Sergeant spoke.

      ‘Excuse me … Sir … Sir … Inspector, Sir … Excuse me, Sir.’

      The Inspector was busy looking at a street map and didn’t seem to hear, so the Sergeant tapped him on the right shoulder.

      The Inspector jumped three feet into the air with fright. When he came down he looked at the Sergeant with a sickly grin and said in a voice as dry as autumn leaves, ‘What can I do for you, Corporal?’

      ‘Sergeant, Sir,’ the Sergeant beamed proudly.

      ‘Pardon?’

      ‘Sergeant, Sir. I’m a Sergeant, Sir.’

      ‘Good idea, no sugar in mine.’

      The Sergeant slowly left the room and the Inspector was left alone in his office.

      The Sergeant was the last man out of the station. All the other men had gone away in a group, a very close group, all believing in that old saying, ‘safety in numbers’.

      From the police station steps, the Sergeant looked up the road, along the road and down the road. It was empty, not a soul in sight. He took a deep breath and walked down the station steps on to the street itself. Although a reasonably brave man, for the first time since he was a little boy, he felt scared of the dark. There was not a light to be seen. He walked as close to the railings as he could. He looked up at the closed curtains of the Inspector’s office.

      ‘He’ll be in there,’ the Sergeant thought, ‘wondering when his tea will be brought in.’

      The Sergeant had gone about twenty nervous feet when he suddenly dropped to the ground. He had tripped over something. He was unhurt and jumped up as quickly as he could. In the darkness he groped with his hands on the ground hoping to find what had tripped him up. He soon found it. It wasn’t very nice. With many years’ experience behind him, he knew the second he touched it, that he had tripped over a body.

      He looked round in the hope that there might be someone walking along who could give him a hand. But of course there was no-one. He even thought of shouting for the Inspector, but then thought better of it. If the Inspector couldn’t hear him when they were in the same room, what chance did he have of hearing him when he was out of the room?