All Mixed Up

by Gary Weston

All Mixed Up

  The Complete Series

  ok

  Copyright Gary Weston 2012

  AUDIO VERSION RIGHT HERE

  Stories 1 to 4

  https://www.distribly.com/product/1258?aid=8786

  All Mixed Up

  Chapter 1

  Detective Senior Sergeant Stanley Morris sipped coffee from a plastic beaker as two uniformed officers cordoned off more of the area with tape, yellow with black print stating this was a crime scene – keep out. He stared down at the head.

  'Okay. Right. So, while we are waiting, care to explain?'

  Under the circumstances, Martin Bishop, whose head it was, thought it was a fair and reasonable request for the detective to make. With the rest of his body encased in concrete, it was a good use of time telling the cop what had happened.

  'I already told you who did it.'

  'And we'll find him. In the meantime, I want you to tell me everything.'

  'I guess it all started in the park.'

  'I'm listening. Go on.'

  'Well, it was like this....'

  Love affairs have to start somewhere. Martin Bishop's affair would have started in Bloomsberry Park. He was walking Dobbin, his mongrel dog, and it was all her fault. Not a big dog, but strong, and when she saw the white poodle, behaving impeccably on his leash, Dobbin decided to say hello. She darted at the poodle, and yanked the leash out of Bishop's hand. There was an anxious moment, when it looked as if the poodle, a well groomed standard, was about to take issue with the intrusion.

  'Dobbin. Behave,' said Bishop, catching up.

  Bishop got hold of the leash and pulled Dobbin away. 'Sorry about that.'

  The woman smiled. 'She seems friendly.'

  Bishop was unable to reply for a moment, transfixed by her face. Not a classic beauty, and her face shouldn't have worked, with lips, nose and mouth that looked as if they came from three completely different women. Her skin was swarthy. Perhaps she was from one of the Mediterranean countries, or her parents were. The dark blue eyes were wide apart and her arched eyebrows gave her a quizzical expression. Her nose was quite long and aquiline, and her mouth was almost comically wide with full lips turned up at the corners, with a suggestion of wickedness to them. Tall, about five nine, almost as tall as he was, and slim. Her hair was almost black, to her shoulders, and slightly wavy. She was, he guessed, about his own age, thirty four, maybe a year or so younger.

  'Are you okay?' she asked.

  'What?,' said Bishop, remembering to breathe. 'Oh. Sorry. Yes.' He tried desperately to think of some small talk to spend even another minute in her company. 'I haven't seen you here before.'

  'I'm new to the area. It's so convenient having this park to walk Chalky. I have a very large garden but it's nice to come here for a change of scene.'

  'Nice dog. Pedigree?'

  'Yes. His mother won best of breed at Crufts, four years ago.'

  'He's a good looking boy. Dobbin's just a bitsa from the pound.'

  'She's cute. Well. I have to get going. Nice meeting you.'

  'Nice to meet you, too.'

  She smiled with that wicked mouth, and he watched her walk away, Chalky high stepping by her side.

  With a sigh he said, 'Come on Dobbin, you old rat-bag.'

  Back home, he fed Dobbin and made himself a sandwich, taking it to his painting room. He stared at the work in progress as he ate, trying to decide if he was in the mood to continue with it or not. It was a picture of his late mother, who had died the year before, and it was his homage to her memory. Not a natural portrait painter, with landscapes being his more usual subject, he thought he would at least make an attempt at it. It was at the stage where he needed to decide if it was worth continuing, or to abandon it all together.

  The face, he thought, wasn't too bad. Her expression was there, almost as if she was telling him off, like when she had when he was a boy. It was her hair that was all wrong. Her hair had been honey blonde, like his own. It was the light reflecting off it that didn't seem quite right.

  Finishing the sandwich, he put on his painting smock, itself a work of modern art with the various colours and stains. Picking up the easel, he tried to find the best light to work in. The room was actually a conservatory at the back of the house, and a good source of natural light. With the easel placed in the best spot, he picked up the photograph he'd been working from, before he got his hands covered in paint.

  'You always said I was a messy devil, Mum. You were right about that. I just wish you'd have let me paint you when you were alive.'

  Putting the photo back on the table, safely out of the way, he turned on the radio of the light classical station and picked up the pallet and a brush. Dobbin waddled in, just to keep him company, and jumped up on the cane armchair, yawned at him, and promptly dosed off.

  'Dreaming of Chalky, no doubt,' he said. 'Out of your league, sunshine.'

  The woman's face filled his mind, and he closed his eyes and tried to recall every detail. What was it about her that appealed to him so much? He had met better looking women, that was certain. But none had had the effect on him that this mysterious lady had.

  'And she's out of my league, I reckon.'

  With that established, he continued painting, losing himself in the work.

  Chapter 2

  Monday morning and Bishop was in front of the class again. Bishop loved his job, counting himself to be lucky to have so much variety. Head of creative studies, his position was called. He was head, because he was the only one. So, he covered such diverse subjects as painting, pottery, literature and drama. The children ranged in ages from eleven up to sixteen, which made teaching challenging, but interesting. That lesson was for the eleven year old kids.

  'Right. A volunteer to read this poem. Samantha. Okay. Come to the front, please.'

  Samantha Hedgecombe was never shy on volunteering. She took the book from Bishop.

  'Daffodils, by William Wordsworth. I wondered lonely as a cloud...'

  She was interrupted by the door opening, and Mrs Shipton, the headmistress entering, with a girl.

  'Sorry about this, Mr Bishop. We have a new girl joining our school today. Everyone. Meet Seraphina Moretti.'

  'Hello, Seraphina. What a lovely name,' said Bishop. 'Everybody say hello to Seraphina.'

  'Hello, Seraphina.'

  'Right. I see a spare seat over there, Seraphina.' The girl made her way to the desk and sat down. '

  'I'll leave you to get on, Mr Bishop.'

  'Thank you, Mrs Shipton. Please continue, Samantha.'

  'Hmm. Daffodils, by William Wordsworth. I wondered lonely as a cloud....'

  As Samantha gave a spirited rendition of the famous poem, Bishop discretely looked at Seraphina. There was something strangely familiar about her. Unsure what it was, he went over to her when Samantha had finished.

  'Very good, Samantha. You put a lot of feeling into it. Seraphina. Here's a copy of the book we're using. Do you like poetry?'

  'No. Not really.'

  'Oh. Perhaps we will be able to find something to your liking. What about drama and art?'

  'I paint and draw a little, and I like acting.' Her name was Italian, but her accent was local.

  'Excellent. I look forward to seeing what you can do.'

  The bell for the end of the first period rang.

  'Off you go. David. No running. Samantha. Will you take Seraphina to the next class, please?'

  'Yes, Mr Bishop.'

  Bishop also had to get going. It was art next, and a bunch of unenthusiastic fifteen year old kids. It was all in a days work.

  Chapter 3

  Detective Morris took comfort in small things. Like the fact that the crime scene was under cover. Black clouds had threatened a deluge all morni
ng, and it was going to be a long time before he would be leaving the scene. The uniforms were doing a good job of keeping the media at bay and moving the civilians on.

  'So. This girl, Seraphin...'

  'Seraphina.'

  'Seraphina. Is that Italian?'

  'Yes. Her family are from Italy.'

  'But you didn't make the connection with the woman in the park until later?'

  'No. It was when I was walking Dobbin again, on Saturday morning. Like before, Maddena, Seraphina's mother, was out walking her dog, like before. But this time, the girl was with her.'

  'Gotya.' An entrepreneurial snack vendor was doing a good trade with the media, and the smell of the onions was making Morris hungry. 'Hey. Have you eaten? Sorry. A stupid question. Hot dog with or without?'

  'With. Thanks. And I wouldn't mind a cup of tea, if it isn't any trouble. No sugar.'

  'Coming right up. Don't go away.'

  Morris walked over to the barrier tape and ducked underneath it. The small crowd by the snack van parted. There was a wall of sound from the media circus, all asking their questions at the same time. Morris ignored them and ordered two hot dogs with onions and tea. With those being prepared, he turned to the reporters. 'I've nothing for you people at the moment, but when I can, I'll spend some time with you, okay?'

  'So. Nothing concrete, then?'

  Even Morris cracked a smile. 'I bet you've been waiting ages to get that one out, Paddy.'

  Patrick O'Leary was old school, hard bitten and likeable. Paddy should have retired years before, but he loved the buzz too much to let it go.

  'How's the poor bugger doing, Stan?'

  'The paramedics are on standby, and the doctor said he's okay under the circumstances. The bloke's hungry, so I'll get this to him.'

  A few tried questions again.

  'I said later, people.'

  Getting down on his knees, Morris put the hot dog within reach. Bishop took a bite and chewed. Morris let the man finish the dog and have a few sips of his tea.

  'Where the hell's that concrete breaker?' Bishop asked as Morris wiped his chin for him.

  'It could be another hour or so. The foreman said the small jack hammers would take all day. The big one will have you out in a couple of hours, once it gets here. My colleague is coming over. Maybe he knows something.'

  Detective Sergeant Vincent Crowe had no news about the concrete breaker.

  'Farrow, the foreman, wants to know if he can send his men home. He said he would stay behind with a couple of men to work with the breaker driver.'

  'Got all the details?'

  'Yes. None of them knew anything about it until they arrived here at seven this morning. I've taken statements of their whereabouts over the last twenty four hours. I've their contact details for further questioning later.'

  'Yeah. They can go. I can't see them getting any work done today.'

  Crowe looked down at Bishop. 'Farrow's pissed off about it. They were behind with the job even before this happened.'

  'Huh! Sorry to inconvenience him,' said Bishop.

  'I'll be sure to mention that,' said Crowe, walking away.

  Morris took off his coat and rolled it up into a ball and sat with his legs crossed, to get down to Bishop's level. 'Right. Now, where were we? Oh, yeah. You met the woman and the kid in the park again.'

  'That's right. Of course this time, we had something to talk about, because of Seraphina..

  Morris had his notebook ready. 'I'm all ears.'

  Chapter 4

  'Hi, Seraphina.'

  'Hi, Mr Bishop. He's my art teacher, Mommy.'

  'Nice to meet you, Mr Bishop.'

  'You must be Mrs Moretti?'

  'I am.'

  'You know, when Seraphina came in the classroom, I thought she looked familiar.'

  'We get that a lot. My looks, her father's brains, unfortunately.'

  'She's a bright kid, Mrs Moretti. Dobbin. Get your nose out of there.'

  'She's quite taken with Chalky.'

  'Out of her league, I told her.'

  'You did?'

  'Yes. Last Saturday, when we got home. She was watching me paint, and I figured she was thinking about Chalky.'

  'He has been with one or two lady poodles. All champions.'

  'Nice work if you can get it.'

  'He has a good life. So you paint at home as well as at school, Mr Bishop?'

  'Call me Martin, if you like. Yes. I only do my serious stuff at home. I'm working on a portrait of my mother. She died a year ago. She wouldn't let me paint her when she was alive, so I'm working from a photograph.'

  'That's a nice thing to do. Well, we should be getting along.'

  Bishop couldn't take his eyes off her exotic face. He wanted to bathe in the blue of her eyes and be devoured by that oh so wicked mouth. She's a married woman, for God's sake. Get real.

  'So do we. It's been so nice to meet you again.'

  He watched them walk away, and then set off in the opposite direction.

  To Morris, it was all sounding too familiar. 'You fell in love with her.'

  Bishop would have shrugged if he could have. 'She was easy to fall in love with. Just everything about her. Except...'

  'She was married.'

  Bishop nodded, which in itself looked peculiar. 'And that would have been the end of it, as far as I was concerned. I know what it's like to be dumped on. My ex wife had an affair and did the dirty on me, before they took off together. It isn't nice.'

  Morris said, 'Yeah. Been there, got the T shirt.'

  'You too?'

  'Water under the bridge.' There was an awkward silence and Morris said, 'Never mind about me. What happened next?'

  'I started painting her.'

  'Ah! I had a feeling you were going to say something like that. She modelled for you, one thing led to another...'

  'Way off the mark. When I got home, I was going to work on the picture of my mother, but I couldn't get into it. All the time I was thinking of Maddena. Maddena Moretti. Even her name is like poetry.'

  'Boy, have you got it bad. Keep talking.'

  'Well, all I could think about was Maddena. Her face was burnt into my mind. I thought if I painted her, it might help me get her out of my system.'

  'But instead, it made it worse.'

  'Oh, yeah. You know, I was never a portrait painter, but that painting was bloody good. Her face...so unique.'

  'So, Mrs Moretti had no idea how you felt about her at this point?'

  'No. Not unless she could read my mind or see it in my eyes. As far as I was concerned, she would never know.'

  'She could have been divorced, or separated, or even a widow, for all you knew.'

  'No such luck. I knew they were still together, because Seraphina painted a picture of them as a family group. Not much of a painter, but I got the picture. Quite literally. It was the sort of things kids of her age paint. They were a family, and that was it. All I had was my own modest effort to look at and dream about.'

  Detective Crowe returned. 'The concrete cutter should be here within the hour. And I had a call from HQ. They have Mrs Moretti.'

  'Any sign of her husband?'

  'He didn't go home last night according to his wife. There's a photograph of him in the database now, distributed all round and to the ports and airports. Just a matter of time.'

  'Hey,' said Bishop. 'Take it easy on Maddena, will you? She's as much of a victim in all this as I am.'

  'I'll talk to her later. I still want your version of events. Vince. Would you go to HQ and get Mrs Moretti to make a statement, please?'

  'On my way.'

  'Now then, Mr Bishop. So, there you were, unrequited love and all that...is that the right word, by the way? Unrequited?'

  'Spot on.'

  'Shakespeare?'

  'Wordsworth. The female that loves unrequited sleeps. And the male that loves unrequited sleeps. The head of the money makers that plotted all day sleeps. And the enraged and treacherous dispositions,
all, all sleep.'

  'Nice. What happened next?'

  Chapter 5

  Bishop looked out of the window as he wiped the thinners off the brushes he'd used to clean them with. Left to the kids, they would be caked with paint, fit only for trash. Some of the kids were collected by a family member, the ones who lived nearby walked home, a few living out of town caught the school bus. Usually, Seraphina was in the latter group. But the bus had gone, and all he could see was a handful of children waiting by the gates, Seraphina being one of them. Had she missed the bus, he wondered? He considered going down there, to make sure she was okay. Vehicles pulled up and the children still waiting became steadily fewer, until Seraphina was the last one. Not a good idea for an eleven year old to be standing alone by the school gates. Not this day and age.

  He put the brushes down and was about to go over, when the red, brand new four seat Ferrari F F, pulled up on the other side of the road. Maddena got out of the passenger side and crossed the road to collect her daughter. Bishop tried to see the driver, but with the afternoon sun reflecting on the car windows, he couldn't make him out, other than it was indeed a man. Through the drivers window, the man put out his hand to high five his daughter, then Maddena opened the passenger door for the girl to climb into the rear seat and helped her with her seatbelt. A minute later, Maddena was in the front passenger seat and they were driving away.

  'Yeah. Happy families,' Bishop said to himself.

  'So,' said Morris. 'You tried to put Mrs Moretti out of your head.'

  'I swear I tried, honest I did. But every time I looked at the painting of her, I couldn't think of anything else. I almost destroyed it. The trouble was, it was the best thing I ever painted in my life. That isn't a boast. Just a fact. I'd poured all I had into it. So I had a crazy thought. Give Maddena the painting.'

  'Was that such a good idea? There's a smell of stalker about it, if you ask me. You could have freaked her out.'

  'Obviously, that wasn't my intention. It was just a little gift from me to her. I wrapped it up and the next Saturday, I took it with me when I went to the park with my dog. It was my normal time, and I hoped to see her. I didn't. I found a bench to sit on by the side of the path. I waited an hour for her but she didn't show up.'

  'Sounds like that unrequited love thing again.'

  Bishop nodded. 'But I wasn't going to do anything about it.'

  'No shit! You take a painting of her to the park and sit on a bench for an hour in case she showed up? You call that not doing anything about it?'