Almost Dead In Suburbia

by Douglas Pearce

  He sat in his favourite easy chair nursing his drink while looking at a photograph on the mantelpiece of him and Fred

  ‘Just what the hell is going on, Fred Johnson, eh?’

  Duke Ellington and John Coltrane soon carried him away on the strains of ‘In a Sentimental Mood’.

  He smiled, only vaguely aware of the significance of the song as he let his mind wander back to his first encounter with Mister Fred Johnson esquire . . .

  Having arrived in Wiggleswood on the Saturday, he presented himself to DI Finch at the police station. The reaction he received was familiar. His size commanded respect. Being the first black man ever to live in Wiggleswood commanded attention.

  Once the DI got over the shock, and awkward introductions had been made, he was informed that temporary digs had been arranged at the pub.

  The removal van, with what little furniture and possessions he had, was to arrive sometime on the Sunday.

  He was not due to start work until Wednesday, which should allow him time to settle in.

  After DI Finch went off shift he took his newest recruit home for dinner, where he met his future partner, the seventeen-year-old Ben, and DI Finch’s wife, Sophie.

  After dinner, Vincent Finch drove them to the Coach and Horses. They could grab a pint before last orders.

  Finch walked through the door first. His entrance was greeted by a call from Stanley, the landlord.

  ‘Evenin’, Vincent. You’re out and about a bit late. What’ll it be: usual?’

  Before Vincent Finch could acknowledge the call, Stanley nearly dropped the beer glass he was polishing as he blurted, ‘Cor blimey. What we got ‘ere then?’

  Bill Williams was one step behind Vincent Finch and as he entered the pub all conversation ceased. It didn’t faze Bill a bit. But what caught his attention was a call from one particular patron sitting at the bar.

  ‘Someone better call his Lordship, looks like one of his slaves has escaped!’

  The man was grinning and Bill grinned back. A firm friendship was established there and then.

  They shook hands and introduced themselves. It was easier, as poor Vincent Finch had coloured somewhat with embarrassment.

  In less than five minutes, Fred had discovered every important detail about Bill Williams. He drank Boddingtons, played darts (and was immediately enrolled onto the Coach and Horses team), enjoyed watching football, his favourite player of all time being John Barnes, and, like Fred, had never met Mr Nelson Mandela.

  ‘So, you’re the new copper, then? Vincent never mentioned that you were a darkie,’ Fred teased.

  ‘I . . . well . . . that is to say,’ Finch blustered. ‘There’s no need for any of that, Fred Johnson.’

  ‘No need?’ Fred countered, desperately trying to keep a straight face. ‘I’ve heard stories that coloured policemen make little dolls of the criminals they’re after. If you white blokes can’t nick a villain then you have to call upon one of our Caribbean cousins to add a little, er . . . magic to the occasion. Not so, sergeant?’

  Fred was enjoying himself. Not least because poor Vincent Finch was trying to be so politically correct and failing dismally.

  ‘It’s okay, sir. If Fred gets any more annoying it will only take me a couple of minutes to make a doll of him and I’m sure I could think of several interesting places to stick the pins,’ said Bill, smiling amicably, fixing Fred with a hard stare and showing the whites of his eyes.

  Fred obliged by crying out ‘Ow!’ leaping off the barstool and rubbing his backside vigorously.

  Finch flashed a look at Bill; then Fred.

  ‘Good grief. Did you . . .?’

  Stanley laughed.

  ‘Vincent, please,’ Fred stopped him.

  ‘Oh, yes. Right. Little joke, ha, ha, of course,’ Finch blustered. ‘As a roses man, I am aware of several anecdotes about little pricks, not so Stanley?’

  ‘That you do, Vincent. By the way, on a similar subject, how’s that lad of yours? Still planning on joining the Force like his father?’

  ‘Dead set on it. In fact, Ben says that after his training he’s going to come back to Wiggleswood and “clean the place up”,’ Finch beamed with fatherly pride.

  ‘Oh, that’ll be nice. Albert could do with a hand sweeping the high street.’

  ‘Er… I don’t think that’s what my son meant, actually,’ Finch tried to explain.

  ‘Really? Oh right, I get it. He plans to rid Wiggleswood of all our vicious criminals. Looks like your stay with us might be less permanent than you first thought, Detective Sergeant Williams. In a coupla’ years we’ll have our very own Judge Dredd,’ said Stanley straight-faced. He looked at Bill and winked.

  ‘Bloody Judge Dreadful more like,’ someone mumbled over their beer mug.

  There were a few sniggers around the pub. Bill decided Finch had had enough of getting his leg pulled, though he patently wasn’t aware of the fact that it was happening.

  ‘My round! Whatch’all be drinking?’ The sing-song accent reminding everyone that Bill Williams wasn’t from ‘round ‘ere, and from that day forth DI Finch always wondered about small dolls and pins.

  *

  ‘You saw Michael?’ Fred asked, his eyes moistening a little at the thought of his grandson.

  ‘I think you are missing the point here, Fred. Michael saw us. Well, in truth he only noticed Hendrix, but that probably means he’ll be able to see me as well,’ Ralph added.

  ‘How is he?’ Fred asked, not acknowledging Ralph’s concern.

  ‘Pardon?’ Ralph asked.

  ‘I asked, how’s Michael?’ Fred persisted.

  Ralph and Hendrix exchanged a look. Ralph seemed as though he was about to start his goldfish impression once again. Hendrix shrugged.

  ‘He looked fine, Fred,’ said Hendrix. ‘But I only caught a brief glimpse. He had been sleeping on the couch in the lounge and must have woken up and needed the toilet.’

  ‘Okay,’ Fred acknowledged, miserably.

  ‘Perhaps it might be best if we made this trip to Chester sooner rather than later?’ Ralph suggested. For a change, he sounded sympathetic. ‘Your funeral is on Sunday, by the way.’

  ‘It is? Oh. Well then, we’d best go as you suggest. If we leave very early in the morning, we’ll avoid bumping into the neighbours. We don’t want to have to answer any awkward questions.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Ralph agreed. ‘Come on, then, let’s get you packed.’

  They wandered through to the bedroom. Ralph showed Fred where he kept his suitcases.

  ‘Best you dress casual and ordinary, no suits or anything flash. Let’s stay below the radar, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Oh, and you had better book a taxi. We’ll have to go into Corlington and take the train. My car is not fit to drive. Ask them to be here at five. It will be early enough even to avoid the milkman.’

  Fred listened to the rest of the instructions without further comment. After he had packed, he booked the taxi.

  ‘Right, we’re all done.’ Said Ralph. ‘Now, just why is it we are going to Chester?’

  ‘I want to say sorry.’ This was all that Fred was prepared to offer.

  *

  Bill Williams was startled awake by the shrill ringing of the phone on the small coffee table next to his chair.

  He struggled to get the recliner into an upright position as he realised he had spent the night in the chair.

  The empty whisky glass reminded him why his mouth tasted as if as least one of the little terriers depicted on the bottle had slept in it.

  He reached for the phone and dragged the handset to his ear.

  ‘Yes,’ he growled.

  ‘Sarge? Is that you, sarge?’ said the groaningly familiar voice on the other end of the line. Dammit, I’m off duty until this afternoon, Bill thought. The wall clock showed it was only 6:15 a.m.

  ‘Yes, this is ‘me’,’ Bill answered caustically.

  ‘Oh.’

  There was a pause,
as if the speaker was not quite sure who ‘me’ was.

  ‘What is it Constable Finch? And this better be good,’ Williams warned.

  ‘Well I dunno about good, sarge, but there’s been a break-in.’ There was note of excitement in Finch’s voice.

  ‘A what?’ said Williams drowsily.

  ‘You know, sarge, one of those things like in films where the cops go into a place and everything’s upside down and there’s knickers and bras hanging from lamp shades and the like. It’s like that, sarge, but without the knickers and bras.’

  ‘I know what a break-in is, man. Where?’ Though he had a feeling he already knew the address.

  ‘Oh. Right. Sorry, sarge. Cherry Blossom Close. It’s Fenwick’s place.’

  Bill Williams’ mind went into top gear in less than two seconds.

  ‘Have you got gloves on?’ he asked Finch.

  ‘Didn’t need ‘em, sarge. Wasn’t that nippy this morning,’ Finch replied innocently.

  ‘Rubber gloves you twit. Rubber gloves.’

  ‘Oh. Er . . . no, sarge,’ said Finch, sounding sheepish. ‘Haven’t got any with me, sarge. Sorry.’

  ‘Well, before you touch anything, get a pair.’ Bill then remembered this was PC Finch he was talking to and groaned to himself. ‘You haven’t been pawing the crime scene have you, Benjamin?’

  An awkward silence was followed by a small cough.

  ‘I eased open the back door with my foot, sarge. It was already open so I had a quick gander. Place is empty, but I haven’t touched anything. Promise, sarge.’

  Bill sighed with relief.

  ‘All right, constable, I believe you. No sign of Mister Fenwick, then?’

  ‘No, sarge. Mrs Robbins says she saw him this morning, about five. She was seeing off her husband who had to fly to Spain on business. Fenwick was climbing into a taxi about the same time apparently. Told her he was going up to Chester to visit an old friend. She was the one that phoned in the burglary, sarge.’

  ‘Fair enough, constable. You can fill me in on the rest of the details when I get there. Secure the crime scene; I’ll be there in a bit. By the way, where’s your fath . . . The DI?’

  ‘Dad . . . the DI, I mean, had to go into Corlington very early this morning. That steering committee thing of his for the local charity golf tournament, you know? Had a meeting with the club chairman at six-thirty. Sharon’s looking after the shop, sarge.’

  ‘Right, lad. Then it’s up to you an’ me. Don’t let any of the neighbours go poking around the place. I’ll be over there shortly. We might get a few prints and I don’t want yours or anybody else’s decorating the place unnecessarily, okay?’

  ‘Okay, sarge,’ Finch confirmed.

  Finch had said the house was empty so there was no murder involved, thank God. Well, there was no body at the scene, he corrected himself, but he didn’t suspect there would be anything gruesome. And then he wondered why on earth he had even been thinking along those lines.

  Bill decided that he could take the time to get showered and shaved.

  It had just past 7:25 a.m. when he arrived at Cherry Blossom Close, and the first thing he noticed was that Finch had indeed secured the scene.

  Black and Yellow police tape with the slogan ‘CRIME SCENE

  DO NOT ENTER’ had been wound around the front gate. The amount of tape PC Finch had used pretty much guaranteed that any entry through the front would now have to be forced.

  Bill Williams sighed as he climbed out of his jeep. Several of the neighbours were up and about, and someone had been busy making cups of tea and breakfast. There was a smell of bacon in the air.

  PC Finch was sitting on a green plastic chair of the garden variety outside the Fenwick house, munching a bacon sandwich. A large mug of tea was on the pavement next to him. He quickly got to his feet as Bill arrived.

  ‘Mornin’, sarge,’ Finch greeted him, around a mouthful of sandwich.

  ‘Glad to see you followed procedure, constable,’ said Bill, nodding towards Ralph Fenwick’s front gate.

  Finch beamed, not picking up on the sarcasm.

  Too early for both of us, Bill thought.

  ‘Good morning, Starsky. Looks like Hutch beat you to it,’ said someone, advancing purposefully down the path.

  The feisty comment was from Ralph’s neighbour, who was wearing a floral apron and carrying a tray with two mugs of tea and several more sandwiches.

  ‘That’s enough of your cheek, Mary Robbins,’ said Bill, in mock indignation. ‘You know very well that he’s Starsky,’ he added, nodding towards his fellow police officer. ‘I think I can help you out with some of what’s on that tray. Can’t leave potentially incriminating evidence lying around, now can we?’

  As he took a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea Mary’s smile wavered. ‘I’m so sorry about Fred,’ she said quietly.

  Bill offered a wan smile in return.

  ‘Thanks.’

  While sipping his tea and eating his sandwich, Bill took a few moments to appraise the sight in front of him. The sight of his constable, that is, not Fenwick’s house.

  ‘Finch, what are you wearing, for goodness sake?’

  ‘Rubber gloves, sarge. Remember? I hadn’t got any with me so Mrs Robbins kindly said I could borrow these,’ Finch explained.

  Bill Williams stared at the bright yellow, industrial looking items on the ends of Finch’s arms.

  ‘Then perhaps when we’ve finished here you might like to offer to clean Mrs Robbins’ oven for her?’

  ‘Sarge?’ Finch asked.

  ‘Never mind, lad,’ said Bill, shaking his head.

  He produced two pairs of surgical rubber gloves from his pocket and handed one pair to Finch. ‘Try these,’ he offered, and then took a closer look at Fenwick’s front gate.

  ‘Mary, have you got a pair of garden shears I could borrow, please?’

  After several minutes ably demonstrating why he would never consider topiary as a hobby, Bill Williams managed to cut through Constable Finch’s temporary barricade.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bill handing Mary the shears, and then he and Finch walked down the narrow flagstone pathway to the back door. Shards of glass on the floor indicated how the burglar had probably gained entry.

  ‘Mind where you step, constable,’ Bill warned.

  He cast an experienced eye around the kitchen. It was very much as he had seen it the last time, except that the tea mug had been washed and put away, and the running shoe was gone.

  In fact, contrary to the mental picture created by Constable Finch’s description, nothing appeared out of place and it all looked neat and tidy.

  ‘Might be our villain was after something in the study, sarge. I already had a peek. Couldn’t tell if anything is obviously missing, but it looks like it’s had a going-over of sorts,’ Finch informed his sergeant.

  ‘Lead the way then, lad. Let’s have a look,’ said Bill.

  Ralph Fenwick’s study also doubled as his work-from-home office.

  A bookshelf on the wall behind the desk was mostly empty, save for a couple of paperbacks and some magazines about computer games. On the desk were a computer and photo-copier/printer along with several CDs, a newspaper, and a few pens and pencils.

  Next to the computer were three racks. Two of them were full. The first contained music CDs. Bill glanced at some of the artists: The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix and Pink Floyd. Not my type, he thought. The second rack held DVDs. He scrutinised these more closely. Most were science fiction or comedies. He looked to see if Ralph had the Steve Martin film he had come across while on the internet. He didn’t. More’s the pity, he mused; though he did smile at a couple of the titles he recognised.

  The last rack, which had several spaces, contained discs of a technical nature. Probably to do with his work, Bill thought. He counted the spaces. There were eight. Looking on the desk, he counted seven discs.

  Two framed photographs hung on the wall opposite the bookshelf. One was of two long-h
aired and badly-dressed young men. They were wearing sunglasses, standing shoulder to shoulder with arms folded, trying to look cool. They had succeeded only in looking unkempt, and somewhat shady, like something a mother would warn her daughter about.

  He lifted the photo from the wall and turned it around. There was nothing on the back to indicate who these men were. Bill uncharacteristically took a flyer that they were two of the rock artists Fenwick listened to.

  The other was a smaller head-and-shoulders photograph of Fenwick’s wife. She was smiling while holding a black kitten that was nuzzling her neck. She looked younger than Bill remembered, but easily recognisable. He had met her on only two occasions. Flipping the photograph over he noticed a date printed on the back, indicating that she would have been in her teens when the picture was taken. The words, ‘Hendrix and Me’ were written in blue, ballpoint pen next to the date. Bill made the connection between the musician and the kitten. He replaced it carefully, making sure it hung straight.

  ‘What do you think, sarge?’ Finch asked.

  ‘At first glance I’d say our burglar was after something specific and, if I’m reading what I see correctly, he found it.’

  ‘Reckon our burglar’s a ‘he’ then, sarge?’

  Clever lad! thought Bill. So there is more than a loaf of bread between your ears, after all. He realised Finch was not being a Smart Alec either.

  ‘Got me there, Constable,’ Bill smiled at his own presumption. ‘No, there’s nothing to suggest our burglar was male. Teach me not to open my mouth before I engage my brain. There’s hope for you yet.’

  Ben Finch misunderstood his sergeant’s comment.

  ‘Sorry, sarge, I didn’t mean any disrespect.’

  ‘I know you didn’t, lad. All I meant was that even a copper as supposedly worldly-wise as me can learn something from a rookie like you.’

  Constable Finch’s chest swelled with pride. He forced himself not to smile and tried to look serious instead. For a change, he pulled it off.

  After a quick look around the rest of the house, Bill Williams had seen enough.

  ‘Think we’re almost done here, constable. Except for prints. I somehow doubt we’ll find any belonging to our villain, but we’ll dust just to be on the safe side. The case is on the back seat of the Jeep. When you’ve finished, I want a list of all the CDs and DVDs. Especially the names of the ones on the desk. If you have to move anything, make sure you keep your gloves on.’