D.S. Williams removed his helmet. It was a subtle action, suggesting he wanted an invitation to step inside. He elbowed Constable Finch.
His junior partner then also removed his own headgear, reinforcing the suggestion.
‘Oh, yes, right. Well won’t you come in, gentlemen?’ Fred offered, and stood aside.
‘Thanks very much, sir,’ Bill replied, stepping over the threshold. ‘Shan’t take up much of your time. Lead the way, sir. Constable, get the door for Mr Fenwick.’
‘Right, sarge.’
Fred led the two men to the kitchen. If he’d had his wits about him, he might have led them to the lounge. But the kitchen was the only room in the house that he had been in, so it seemed the obvious choice.
The kitchen table had four chairs around it. Two of them were pulled back, Bill noticed. As he placed his helmet on the working surface he also noticed two light-brown rings next to the kettle, possibly suggesting two mugs; and yet, when he turned around he saw only a single mug. Moments before the police officers had entered, Ralph had quickly put his mug in the sink out of direct view.
Bill merely acknowledged what he saw and mentally filed it.
All three sat at the table. Fred did not offer any tea.
Constable Finch noticed the solitary running shoe. He drew Bill’s attention to it by way of an elaborate form of semaphore using his right eyebrow and four twitches of his head.
‘What d’yer reckon, sarge?’ He asked, cupping his hand and whispering in Bill’s ear.
‘Probably went for a quick hop before breakfast I reckon,’ Bill answered and immediately felt a twinge of guilt. Finch did not understand sarcasm, so he added, ‘Well spotted there, lad. But best I handle the interrogation from hereon, okay?’ (According to Finch, the police never merely talked to people. Neither, apparently, did Finch’s mentor, Dirty Harry.)
‘Right-oh, sarge,’ Finch mumbled out the side of his mouth, trying to affect a serious expression. But as usual, he came across looking gormless.
Fred knew all about Constable Finch, so kept a straight face.
Bill removed a small notebook and pen from his breast pocket.
‘Right, sir,’ he prompted, ‘in your own time.’
Fred had a feeling that Bill Williams would think something was amiss and come calling. He just hadn’t reckoned it would be so soon. But he knew Bill, and forced himself to remain calm under the onslaught of seemingly innocuous questions.
As the cat had outlined the details concerning the accident, he was able to relate them without too much trouble.
After ten more minutes of seemingly irrelevant banter, the two officers rose to leave.
‘Thanks for your time, Mr Fenwick. Just wanted to make sure you were all right,’ said Bill in parting.
‘I appreciate you stopping by, sergeant. If I can help with anything else I’ll be on the phone to the station, just like that.’ He clicked his fingers to emphasize the point. ‘And I am truly sorry about Fred.’
Bill forced a smile. ‘Good day, sir.’ Then he and Constable Finch left.
Once they were in the car, Finch turned the key in the ignition but he didn’t drive away immediately.
Bill Williams was staring straight ahead with a sort of vacant look on his face. Finch could relate to this look. He often wore a similar expression.
‘What’s up, sarge?’ he asked. ‘Something not right with our friend, Mr Fenwick y’reckon? Want me to go back and invite him to come downtown with us?’
How three rooms, a front desk, four phones and a dubious-looking contraption, which had the audacity to consider itself a coffee machine, constituted ‘downtown’ was quite beyond Bill Williams.
Wiggleswood police station squatted or squeezed between the pub and the post office.
In the days of horse-drawn carriages, all three buildings had formed part of a coaching inn where teams of horses would be changed for the turnaround run back to London. The post office had originally been the stables, and the police station the smithy. The pub had always been the pub, and was appropriately named the Coach and Horses.
Finch was still rambling.
‘You’re onto something, aren’t you, sarge? Reckon he did old Fred in? Yeah, I thought so.’
Finch did detective work the same way he did the ten-minute crossword puzzle in the newspaper. If the word he thought up had the same number of letters as there were blank spaces, then it had to be correct. Perhaps this was why he usually finished the crossword in less than ten minutes. The uncanny thing being, he always managed to get the answers to fit. It is said there is a fine line between genius and insanity. Sometimes you never know.
‘It was his eyes, wasn’t it, sarge? They looked shifty. He’s hiding something, that’s for sure,’ Finch concluded. In Constable Finch’s mind, he was nine tenths of the way towards arresting a devious murderer.
‘Well spotted there, lad,’ Bill agreed.
Finch beamed.
‘Knew it!’ he said, rubbing his hands together.
‘But I don’t think they looked shifty,’ said Bill. ‘They looked old.’
Fred went back into the kitchen and sat down heavily on his chair.
He felt mentally exhausted.
‘Poor old Fred,’ said a voice that wasn’t in the least bit as sympathetic as the words suggested. ‘He knew, didn’t he? Clever copper that,’ said Ralph with a note of admiration as he sauntered in from the adjoining room.
The cat followed and resumed its former spot on the table.
‘Yes, he knew,’ Fred agreed, his voice sounding weary with the strain of the past half an hour or so. ‘But he doesn’t realise what he knows. And being Bill Williams, he won’t give up on this until he finds out exactly what is going on. That’s the type of policeman he is.’
‘Then why don’t you just give it up, Fred? My body that is. You can’t get away with it. This whole thing will probably start to drive you round the bend, and who’s going to believe you if you decide to come clean? The best you can look forward to is a life on Prozac. The worst is a life on Prozac in a padded cell. My associate here will take care of the details. That’s what he’s here for. So just say the word.’
Hendrix looked at Fred and blinked once. At that moment he had the air of an undertaker.
Fred took a deep breath and sighed. Calmly he uttered his decision.
‘No.’
‘No?’ The expression on Ralph’s face was a mixture of anger and panic. ‘Did he say “no”?’
‘Yes,’ Hendrix confirmed.
‘So what does that mean?’
‘I think it means “no”,’ the cat explained.
‘Are you sure?’ Ralph insisted.
‘No,’ the cat replied.
‘I will give it back, but just not right away,’ Fred interjected.
‘He say’s he’ll give it back.’
‘Yes,’ Hendrix acknowledged.
‘But not right away?’
‘That’s what he said,’ the cat sighed, already fed up with this conversation.
‘May I explain?’ Fred interrupted.
As Ralph was now busy doing an impersonation of a goldfish, and for the moment didn’t seem capable of uttering a coherent word, it was left to the cat to suggest he continue. ‘Please do, Fred.’
‘The way I see it is like this. I have been blessed with a second chance, and you say I’ve got two weeks, right?’ He was directing his speech at the cat.
‘Actually, it’s Ralph that has two weeks. You have all the time in the world, Fred. Or rather, all the time in Ralph’s body. Of course this won’t help him much.’
‘I realise as much, and for that reason I fully intend to give up the ghost - or rather the body, as it were - within a fortnight.’
The cat was thinking ahead of Ralph, who still busy getting the hang of his goldfish impression, and asked judiciously. ‘Something on your mind, Fred?’
‘Actually, there is,’ said Fred.
Ralph decided this was as goo
d a time as any to stop piscine imitations and add his tuppence worth.
‘And just what are you planning to do, Fred Johnson, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘No, I don’t mind you asking, though I do mind telling,’ Fred replied cryptically.
‘Now just a damn minute there-- ’
‘Let him finish, Ralph,’ Hendrix quickly interjected, preventing another tirade.
‘Thank you, Mister Hendrix. You know, I quite like this cat,’ said Fred smiling.
‘Good. Wonderful. You like the cat. He’s yours. Now will you please tell me what you are planning to do?’
‘I thought that was what he was trying to do?’ Hendrix offered.
‘Well, firstly, I want to visit someone,’ Fred explained in a calm, yet somewhat calculating tone. Not devious; merely suggestive of a surprise in store.
Ralph looked across the table at him and frowned. He had picked up on the part that suggested surprise, and he didn’t like the sound of it. He especially didn’t like the word firstly. It implied a secondly and a thirdly. In fact, it implied any number of ‘-lys’, none of which could possibly be any good. Not for him, Ralph.
As Ralph’s brain, which wasn’t really there, tried to wrap itself around the large number of ‘-lys’ that could be embarked upon in the space of two weeks, he began to experience butterflies in his stomach, metaphorically speaking; then he shook his head.
‘Oh, no. I think it would be much better if you got up off that chair, locked the doors, closed the curtains, and stayed here for two weeks. Now that would be an excellent idea.’
Fred wasn’t really listening to Ralph. His mind was already planning the ‘firstly’ and as the idea expanded so did the smile on his face.
‘I’ll take the train. If I leave early in the morning, I should be there sometime just after lunch. We could go to dinner and, afterwards, catch a show at the theatre, or maybe the cinema. I’ll find somewhere to stay the night, and then if I could catch the train the following morning I’d be back before nightfall. Perhaps I could even stay over for a couple of days.’ Fred paused, and then nodded, as if ticking off a mental inventory. ‘Oh, yes. I’ll need some money.’ He frowned for a moment then brightened. ‘No problem, I’ll just pop up to the house.’
That was when the other two jumped in with all feet and paws.
‘What! Are you totally nuts?’ Ralph exclaimed.
‘Er . . . Fred, I think you may want to reconsider,’ Hendrix suggested in a cautionary tone.
‘Mmm?’ Fred was lost in his daydream. ‘What for? It’s my house.’
‘Ah,’ said Hendrix, holding up a paw as Ralph’s mouth began to form itself into the shape of a well-known expletive colloquially associated with procreation. ‘Let me handle this. Here, I tend to agree with Ralph. Wandering about all over the place might not be such a wise idea. However, I am sure you will exercise caution, and as you have agreed to return his body I hardly think Ralph is going to deny you the opportunity to enjoy yourself this one last time, are you Ralph?’
The cat glared at Ralph in a manner that implied, Remember, pal, he has you by the ‘you-no-whats’ as opposed to the ‘you-know-whats’ which the living have (males anyway), and if he changes his mind you are in big trouble.
‘But visiting your old house, even briefly, is a definite no-no,’ said the cat, shaking its head.
Fred only needed a moment to realise the wisdom in what Hendrix was saying.
‘I’ll need some money though. I don’t want to sponge off you, Ralph. Any out-of-the-ordinary expenditure might be awkward for you to explain to Stephanie,’ he reasoned.
‘What type of “out of the ordinary” expenditure?’ Ralph asked warily, as an image of Fred embarking on a fourteen-day bonking rampage through the bordellos of southern England seemed to materialise in his mind.
Then he reasoned that Fred probably wouldn’t be aware of any bordellos or similar establishments. To be honest, neither was he. Of course, there was always Yellow Pages.
‘You’re not planning on renting a yacht and sailing to Monte Carlo or something, are you?’
He wasn’t being serious but it seemed preferable to enquiring about the alternative thought.
Fred chuckled. ‘No, nothing so extravagant. Just enough for train tickets and car hire. One or two nights in a hotel or a B & B and maybe a few gifts as well. That sort of thing.
‘Oh. I’ll also need some cash for meals on my travels and other odds and ends. I should reckon a couple of hundred pounds should be adequate. Certainly no more than a thousand, that’s for sure.’
The one word that stuck out was ‘travels’. In the colloquial sense, it could mean one trip or many.
‘How many travels are we talking about, here?’ Ralph asked.
‘I’m not sure yet. Just one for now. I’m going up to Chester,’ Fred informed them.
8: Wiglob
Bill Williams and Ben Finch arrived at the police station ten minutes later. Bill was visibly upset as he and Ben entered.
The duty officer, PC Sharon Griffith, looked as if she had been crying, judging from a red nose and smudged eye makeup. Several screwed-up wads of tissue paper lying next to the waste-paper-bin supported the evidence.
‘I’m so sorry, sarge,’ she sniffed.
Bill grimaced and went over to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup, which demonstrated just how upset he was.
The door to DI Finch’s office opened and the Inspector came out to greet his two officers.
‘Dreadful business, Bill. I’m terribly sorry,’ he offered in consolation.
‘Yes it is, sir. Thank you for your concern. Not the best way to go, under any circumstances. But that’s life. You never know when your number is up.’
‘Has Fred’s family been contacted yet?’ DI Finch asked.
‘Yes, sir, I believe so. The hospital made the call. I’ll pop over to see them after I go off shift.’
DI Finch looked uncomfortable with the situation. He was not very good with people at the best of times.
After some ‘Well . . . ums’, and one, ‘If you need anything...’ he quickly retreated to the anonymity of his office.
Bill Williams sighed, shook his head in resignation, and went into his own office.
Hot on his heels was Ben Finch who was fidgeting so much he looked for all the world as if he was about to break out in Saint Vitus’ dance.
Bill Williams would have dearly loved ten minutes of P and Q but he knew that until Finch had been sorted out, that was about as likely to happen as a rain-free Wimbledon. In an exasperated tone he asked, ‘Yes, constable, what’s on your mind? Spit it out lad.’
‘Well, sarge I was wondering, like. I know you’re upset and all that, but with what we have on Fenwick, are we going to bust him any time soon?’
‘You are obviously referring to the more appropriate term, “arrest”, are you not?’
Finch nodded. ‘Er . . . yes, sarge.’
‘Well let’s go over the facts, shall we?’
Finch eagerly pulled up a chair and sat opposite his sergeant.
‘A one Mr Fred Johnson, who was taking his morning constitutional, has a fatal heart attack outside the front gate of the house of a one Mr Ralph Fenwick.’
Finch nodded in agreement.
‘An ambulance is called and it is dispatched from Corlington General Hospital. On arrival, it is involved in an accident with the car of the said Mr Ralph Fenwick who was reversing out of his driveway. The subsequent collision results in Mr Fenwick being seriously injured, apparently. Soon afterwards, along with Mr Johnson, he is carted off to hospital in a second ambulance. The second ambulance had been called because of the fact that the first ambulance hit Mr Fenwick’s car side on, smashed its front end in, and was consequently rendered undrivable. Are you with me so far, Constable Finch?’
‘Yes, sarge. Right with you. I wrote the report.’
‘So, a short while later Mr Fenwick recovers while Mr Johnson does not.’
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‘Gotcha. So are we going to bust him then, sarge?’
It was a lost cause.
‘Constable Finch, what transpired might seem a bit odd, but there is no crime and certainly no murder, for God’s sake. Unless you seriously want to consider reckless reversing out of a driveway, because of Mr Fenwick’s foot having slipped off the clutch pedal of his BMW. And I’m fairly sure that Fenwick’s solicitor would argue the point that it was the fault of the shoe manufacturer for not including a warning label on the soles of his rather expensive leather shoes,’ Williams added. Even though sarcasm was wasted on Finch, sometimes Bill couldn’t stop himself.
The look on Finch’s face showed that he was still not getting it. He seemed only interested in arresting a murderer. The obvious absence of a murder had apparently not figured in his reckoning.
Bill Williams gave up. He now knew, beyond a reasonable doubt, that there was at least one member of the constabulary that a certain Mr Rowan Atkinson had modelled his ‘Thin Blue Line’ on.
‘Lad, if you are so interested in a bust, as you put it, go and try to console PC Griffith, and while you’re at it, see if you can find me a couple of aspirin and a glass of water.’
After Finch left his office, Bill leant forward on his desk and rested his head in his hands.
The past few hours were rapidly catching up on him and the realisation that he had just lost a friend was beginning to sink in. He was not an emotional man in the crying sense so he hadn’t felt the urge to shed any tears. It was not a macho thing with Bill either. It just didn’t happen with him so it didn’t bother him in the least. Just because he did not show outward signs of grief did not mean he did not feel it inside.
Aside from his personal feelings, his professional feelings towards the whole incident did not sit well with him either. Something, and he didn’t know what, did not seem right. He had a good copper’s instinct for these things. There was no foul play involved, of that he was sure. But there was something. Blast! He just couldn’t put his finger on it.
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