Almost Dead In Suburbia

by Douglas Pearce

  ‘Will do, sarge,’ Finch acknowledged.

  ‘Good. I’m popping next door to have a chat with Mrs Robbins and take her statement.’

  Bill left but was called back before he reached the kitchen.

  ‘Sarge!’

  For a split second, Bill thought ‘body’ and his heart skipped. It had happened before that an officer had discovered a victim after they had initially thought there was nothing.

  But this was not the Big City, he reminded himself.

  Bill re-entered Fenwick’s office to find Finch pointing to a mobile phone that had been under the newspaper on the desk.

  ‘Bit odd, him going away and leaving it behind, don’t you think, sarge?’ said Finch.

  ‘Could be. Then again he might own more than one phone, or it might be his wife’s.’

  Finch handed the phone to him. Bill absently pressed a button and to his surprise, the screen lit up.

  ‘Oh, well there’s a bit of luck, it’s not locked,’ said Bill. ‘And it’s almost fully charged by the look of it.’ He handed it back to Finch. ‘Go through the directory, call all the names he’s got listed and see if you can find this friend he’s got in Chester. If you do, ask them to get Fenwick to give us a call when he gets there.’

  He left Finch to do his job and went next door to talk with Mary Robbins.

  Bill arrived at the back door and knocked.

  ‘It’s open. Come in,’ she called.

  Bill entered, being mindful to wipe his feet on the mat.

  ‘What a dreadful start to the week, Bill. First Fred, and now this,’ Mary opened the conversation.

  ‘Yes it is,’ Bill agreed. ‘So what can you tell us about next door?’

  ‘As I told Ben, I saw Ralph leave this morning about the same time as I was seeing David off. It was still dark, and once David had left I thought I’d go back to bed for an hour or so. But I couldn’t sleep, so after about fifteen minutes I got up again, made myself a cup of tea, and sat in the kitchen with a book.’

  Bill noticed the hardcover on the table. It was something by Harold Robbins. He wondered fleetingly if there was a connection.

  ‘I heard the sound of breaking glass and I got up to have a look. I didn’t think much of it at first. In fact, a burglary was the farthest thing from my mind. My first thought was that a cat had knocked over a milk bottle; that’s why I went to look outside the front door. Tea?’ Mary asked as she busied herself around the kitchen.

  Bill nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  Mary poured. ‘Then I came back inside and continued to read.’

  ‘So what made you think it was a burglary?’ Bill asked.

  ‘Someone went over the back fence,’ she said, with certainty.

  ‘You saw them?’ Bill replied, a note of urgency creeping into his tone.

  ‘Not saw, heard,’ she told him.

  ‘How could you be sure it wasn’t a cat?’ Bill queried.

  ‘Because, sergeant, cats don’t say, “Ow!” That’s why.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Man or woman?’ Bill asked, remembering what Finch had remarked on in Fenwick’s office.

  ‘Couldn’t tell; the voice was muffled,’ said Mary.

  ‘Best I go and have a look then,’ said Bill.

  He walked through to Ralph’s back garden, chaperoned by Mary Robbins.

  When he reached the part of the fence in question, he noticed that the gate was padlocked so, as Mary had surmised, the burglar must have clambered over. The fence was at least seven feet high; probably closer to eight.

  The fence was creosoted and his keen eye spotted an exposed piece of bare wood on the top edge of the fence. He reached up and tapped the area with a ballpoint pen.

  ‘Looks like our burglar picked up a nice big splinter for their trouble, I’d say. That’s probably when the villain cried out.’

  Mary Robbins looked impressed enough with Bill Williams’ powers of deduction to smile.

  He looked carefully around on the ground to see if anything had been dropped during the flight over the fence. Nothing. And no signs of footprints either. Bill examined the fence more closely, looking for scuffmarks. He couldn’t see any.

  He noticed three large rusty nails, spaced equidistantly one above the other, sticking out of the fence post next to the gate.

  The bottom nail had a remnant of garden twine tied to it.

  ‘There used to be an old trellis along the fence,’ Mary volunteered.

  Bill nodded.

  ‘Well, I reckon this is probably where our burglar climbed over. Wonder if he got in this way, too?’

  By placing his left boot on the lowest nail he was able to haul himself up. He peered over the fence.

  All he saw was two metres of neatly trimmed municipal verge separating the fence from the main road to Corlington. No favours there either. He noted there were no obvious signs of blood on the fence and nothing he could see on the other side that would have helped a burglar gain access. But then, a crate or something similar would probably have sufficed, and this could have been taken away or disposed of easily enough.

  He clambered down, grunted with the exertion then dusted his trousers.

  ‘The burglar either legged it or had transport waiting. I’ll drive round before I head back to the station and see if there is anything by the side of the road.’

  Mary nodded in response.

  ‘Okay, Mary. Thanks. You’ve been very helpful. We’ll just have to take it step-by-step from here.’

  They went back inside, had another cup of tea, and chatted casually for a few minutes while Constable Finch finished up next door.

  Casual chats sometimes revealed more than the formal ones. But this time they did not.

  A knock at the back door forestalled any more ‘casual conversation’ for the moment.

  ‘Come in,’ Mary called.

  Ben Finch walked in. He did not wipe his feet. Policeman or not, he was now in danger of getting a clip around the ear from Mary. Finch’s muddy footprints being all the reasonable motivation she would need to assault a police officer.

  Sergeant Williams flashed him a look and cleared his throat. . . Mary had her back to the two officers.

  Finch looked anxiously for a floor cloth. Too late. Mary turned. Her eyes narrowed.

  ‘Does your mother allow you to wander into her kitchen with muddy shoes on, Ben Finch?’ Mary asked. Her question was all the more threatening because she asked it in such a pleasant tone of voice.

  Finch almost gulped.

  ‘Er . . . er, no, Missus Robbins. Sorry, Missus Robbins. I’ll wipe the floor before we go.’

  ‘Tea?’ she asked, smiling sweetly. This didn’t fool Finch one iota. He back-pedalled to the mat and wiped his feet.

  10: Trains, Lorries,and Free-Range Chickens

  Fred, Ralph, and Hendrix arrived at Corlington Station just before 5:30 a.m.

  The station was empty of people save for a few railway staff, an elderly couple sitting in the small waiting room, and a large, extremely fluffy ginger tom that was fast asleep on a wooden crate next to the ticket office.

  As the three travellers reached the office window, the sleeping cat began to wake up. It stretched sinuously, yawned, and suddenly froze. All its fur stood on end, its ears flattened against its head and it hissed. Then it yowled, while glaring at a point close to the floor between Ralph’s feet, right where Hendrix stood.

  Ralph, Fred and the ticket clerk looked at the cat, and followed its glare.

  ‘Nice kitty,’ said Fred in an unconvincing voice.

  This appeared to be the trigger for the riled up ginger tom to leap off the box towards Ralph’s feet. On instinct, Ralph hopped to one side.

  ‘Whoa!’ he exclaimed

  Hendrix remained motionless, and seemed very calm.

  The cat’s dive ended with it almost knocking itself out on the floor as it passed straight through Hendrix.

  As the dazed feline struggled to regain its feet, or rather paws, it took a couple of h
alf-hearted swats at Hendrix, who appeared to smirk, then it turned tail and skulked off behind the ticket office from where it could be heard mewling loudly.

  ‘What the ‘ell was all that about?’ the ticket clerk wondered aloud. He was leaning through the window of the office to see where the cat had disappeared to. ‘I never seen it be’ave like that in all the years we’ve ‘ad it, daft thing.’

  ‘Perhaps it awoke from a nightmare, or something?’ Fred suggested.

  ‘Hmmm, you might be right,’ the ticket clerk agreed. ‘Well sir, what can I do for you this morning?’ he said brightly.

  ‘Morning, Wilfred,’ said Fred in belated greeting

  The elderly clerk, who was bald except for a thin band of grey hair at the temples, and had a grey, bushy moustache and rimless spectacles that perched halfway down his nose, frowned.

  Fred knew the old man quite well. They had both grown up in Wiggleswood, and had attended the same school.

  ‘Do we know each other, sir?’ he asked politely. ‘The old memory’s not what it was y’see, an’ I meet quite a lot of people.’

  ‘Oh bloody marvellous,’ Ralph interrupted sarcastically. ‘Yes actually, we do know each other, or did. You see, I’m dead, as it happens.’

  Hendrix took a swipe at Ralph’s leg.

  Fred grimaced slightly and began to go red. But he recovered from his gaffe quickly and controlled himself enough not to glance at Ralph.

  ‘The badge,’ Fred tapped his chest indicating the oblong object pinned to Wilfred’s breast pocket.

  ‘Ah! Of course. The badge. Keen eyesight there. More’n I can say for myself these days. So, where are we going today, sir?’

  ‘Two— one first-class return to Chester, please,’ Fred asked, almost slipping up again.

  ‘Return to Chester. Right you are. You’ll be changing at Kings Cross and again at Crewe.’

  He entered the details on a keyboard and issued the ticket, handing it across the counter to Fred.

  ‘That’ll be one hundred and forty seven pounds ninety pence, please.’

  Fred placed two one-hundred pound notes on the counter. Wilfred took them and handed back Fred his change.

  ‘Much obliged, sir. Visiting family are we?’

  ‘Old friend, actually,’ Fred replied, trying his best to sound casual. Ralph didn’t help matters by leaning on the counter and chipping in.

  ‘How about discussing the perishing weather while you’re at it, why don’t you?’

  ‘Looks like we are in for a couple of days of fine weather. If you can believe the weatherman, that is.’ said Wilfred.

  ‘Oh look, a mind-reader!’

  ‘Let’s hope so. The train leaves at seven, is that right?’ Fred asked, desperate to get away from this aging chatterbox.

  ‘Not today, sir, I’m afraid. Bit of an accident there was.’

  ‘Accident?’ Fred asked. Oh no, he thought.

  ‘Yes, sir. Fowl, so I ‘eard,’ said Wilfred.

  ‘Foul? Foul what? Foul play, foul weather or foul language?’

  Wilfred tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow. He was not sure if this fella was making fun of him. He decided the man was joking so he smiled and wagged a finger.

  ‘Ah, I get you sir! No, when I said fowl I meant fowl, as in a chicken sir.’

  ‘You’re having me on, right? The train’s delayed because of a chicken?’ This could only be a new slant on the joke ‘why did the chicken cross the road?’ Fred decided, and any second now Wilfred was going to deliver the punch-line.

  ‘No, sir. Farmer bringing his load in for market day it was. Lorry full o’ chickens. One of ‘em got loose in the back of the lorry and all that flappin’ and squawkin’ distracted the driver. He lost control and drove down the embankment. Ended up on the line, ‘e did. Lorry’s doors burst open and all them chickens took flight, if you get my meanin’? They’s definitely free-range now, that’s for sure!’ He chuckled.

  ‘So when, do you think, is the train due to leave?’ Fred asked.

  ‘Couldn’t say for sure, sir. Depends on the tractors, you see,’ Wilfred explained.

  ‘I hate to ask but . . .’ Fred began.

  ‘Oh, no problem, sir. I reckon I’ll be tellin’ this story more’n once this mornin’.’

  He looked positively pleased at the prospect.

  ‘The embankment’s not steep, you see. So they’ve sent two Massey Fergusons up there and they’re going to hitch ‘em up to the lorry and drag it off the track.’

  Fred sighed. There was nothing he could do but wait.

  ‘How’s the driver?’ he asked. ‘Not hurt, I hope?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir, he’s all right. Had his feathers ruffled a bit I ‘spect?’ and laughed once more at his own wit.

  A flustered-looking official was approaching the ticket office almost at a run.

  ‘Oh, look. ‘Ere we are, then. Stationmaster’s arrived. Some news no doubt. ’ He nodded in the direction of the official.

  ‘Mornin’, Mister Pertwee,’ said Wilfred. ‘I was just this moment telling this nice gentleman about the accident.’

  Mister Pertwee threw a fleeting smile at Fred, then disappeared around the back of the office. A door opened and Mister Pertwee reappeared at Wilfred’s side. There was a hurried, whispered conversation that included phrases such as ‘Hmm, I see,’ and ‘Well I never!’, and then Mister Pertwee left the office in the same manner as he had arrived.

  Wilfred shook his head and addressed Fred.

  ‘Oh dear, sir, looks like more delays, I’m afraid,’ Wilfred apologised, his face a study in concern.

  ‘What now: cows, pigs, sheep?’ Fred asked.

  Wilfred chuckled. ‘Now, now, sir. You’ll be suggesting the farmers are thinking they’ve found a new parking spot on the line next. No sir, it’s the badgers.’

  ‘The badgers?’ Fred looked incredulous.

  ‘Yes, sir, badgers. The sett, to be more precise,’ Wilfred explained.

  ‘A set of badgers?’ You mean, as in a collection?’ said Fred, unable to resist the sarcasm.

  Wilfred had wised up and wasn’t having any of Fred’s nonsense. He smiled.

  ‘There you go again, sir. Must remember that one. No sir, not a set of badgers. A badger’s sett. Its ‘ome.’

  Ralph gave up. He sat on the floor, his back up against the ticket office. Hendrix jumped lightly onto his lap, circled twice then curled up, closed his eyes and began to purr.

  ‘Seems that as they was reversing one of the tractors down the embankment they disturbed the badger’s set. Proper annoyed she was.’

  ‘Who, the driver?’

  ‘No, sir, the badger,’ Wilfred explained. He was beginning to believe this passenger really was as daft as he sounded.

  ‘Had little ‘uns too. Well, we’re not ‘ome wreckers are we? They had to drive the tractors a mile and a half down to Cowey Bridge and come back on the other side of the track.’

  ‘So . . .’ Fred began cautiously.

  ‘Well, sir, the thing of it is, they don’t reckon they’ll be ready to get the train out ‘afore ten at the earliest. Mister Pertwee has decided to set departure at eleven, just t’be on the safe side.’

  ‘Eleven,’ Fred repeated.

  ‘Yes, sir; eleven,’ Wilfred confirmed.

  Five hours, or thereabouts, Fred realised.

  Ralph got to his feet, dislodging the cat from his lap.

  ‘Hey!’ Hendrix protested.

  ‘Let’s leave it,’ Ralph suggested.

  Fred was careful not to answer. Checking that the ticket was safely in his pocket, he thanked Wilfred and told him he would be back later.

  ‘Right you are, sir,’ Wilfred acknowledged.

  The three of them moved out of earshot to the newsagent stand before Fred spoke again.

  ‘We can’t leave it. This train only runs three times a week, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. If I don’t go today I won’t be back in time for my own funeral. It’s ironic that a corny old phrase m
ight turn out to be literal.’

  Ralph shrugged. ‘Well, we’ve got five hours. What do you want to do?’

  ‘Might as well take a walk into town. I could do with some breakfast. Oh, and I’ll pop into Pickering’s, while we’re there.’

  ‘Pickering’s?’ Ralph asked.

  ‘It’s a small bookstore just off Hastings Street. I was in the shop a few weeks ago. There’s a book I want to buy. I’m sure she’ll like it,’ said Fred.

  ‘She? Oooh, a lady friend, is it? Now I think I’m getting the picture. Nod’s as good as a wink and all that,’ Ralph teased.

  ‘It’s not what you think at all!’ Fred snapped.

  ‘Touchy, touchy. Well excuse me. It’s just that if you’re planning something I might like to know what’s in store for my body.’

  ‘I suggest you zip it, Ralph,’ Hendrix cautioned as he circled Fred’s legs stroking them with his tail in a calming gesture.

  ‘All I was saying was . . .’ he persisted.

  Hendrix hissed.

  ‘Okay, okay. You win. My mistake. I apologise.’

  ‘Apology accepted. Now let’s go, shall we?’ Fred suggested.

  They headed for the exit, Fred giving a brief wave to Wilfred indicating, ‘See you a bit later.’

  Wilfred acknowledged the wave with one of his own and a smile.

  As they left the station, Wilfred, who had noticed Fred apparently talking to himself, addressed the station cat, which had calmed down and resumed its place on the crate.

  ‘You see, Ginge, not only us oldies who go a bit soft in the ‘ead talking to ourselves an’ what ‘ave you. At least I talk to a cat most of the time, eh?’

  ‘Meow,’ replied Ginger.

  ‘Couldn’t agree with you more,’ said Wilfred.

  Picking up his morning paper he turned to the sports page. Almost as an afterthought, he squinted down at the badge pinned to his breast pocket. Printed onto the dark blue background in gold letters was the word Corlington.