Death of an Ordinary Guy

by Jo A. Hiestand

  A foot taller than I, he towered above me, which added to my anguish, for I was forever looking up at him. His muscles were obvious and contributed to part of his cockiness. The other ingredient was his premature gray hair, which he wore down to his collar. It was thick and curled becomingly, I had to admit. Complimented his gray eyes.

  “Not as busy as some,” he said, noticing that I had been intent on his face. He flashed his white, even teeth at me. “Even got your walk in this morning before dashing about with The Vic.”

  I colored, upset he had been watching me, despising his use of Graham’s nickname. The way Mark said it gave the name an indecent, offensive quality.

  “That all you could find, one lone pansy?” He reached out and I clutched it closer. His laughter held a mocking that reminded me of class. “Still learning about the birds and the bees? Is that why you’re still single, Darling? Don’t know about the finer points of marriage—or life? Any time you want to learn under my tutelage instead of Graham’s—”

  “You’re certainly working hard,” I said, wanting to change the subject.

  “I like to work up a good sweat—I feel like I’ve earned my pay. But you, Babe; you’re up earlier than I was. Find any two-toed toads?”

  I kept silent and smiled, hoping it would give me some courage. I didn’t even try to whistle.

  “No. Not toads. Lily-livered grahamisum dunghillium is more your style, eh, Cop?”

  “Haven’t you got anything better to do, Mark? We’re investigating a murder, or don’t you remember?”

  “Some of us have time for pansies, I see. Does The Vic know about your passion?”

  “What’s it got to do with Graham?” I felt my heart rate increasing and my jaw muscle tensing. “I’m not taking time off. I’m going to the incident room, if you have to know. To make my report—”

  “Ooh. Talk cop-talk some more! Impress me, now that you’re up with the rest of the boys in rank.”

  “If you’d apply the same energy to your work—”

  “Hey, you don’t have to explain anything to me, Brenna Darling. I’m a sergeant, just like you. Equals. Just don’t work so hard in the woods that you can’t get your beauty sleep tonight—not that you have to worry about that. And if you don’t feel like sleeping— Well, Darling, you know where to find me.”

  He smiled, touched the crocus and walked down the lane, but not before calling out his room number.

  I stood there for some time, trying to control my temper. Mark Salt was a good cop—had been near the top of our class—but he was at the bottom in emotional development.

  After he’d had a five-minute head start, I tucked the crocus into my jacket and walked back to the pub.

  * * * *

  “He was just being his usual jerk self,” Margo said when I had found her at the pub. I was looking for Graham, but he was out somewhere. Margo was at a computer, typing faster than I thought human fingers were able. She seemed to be drowning in a sea of papers and sticky notes. I refrained from looking at the table Graham and I usually occupied, afraid I’d find messages from Simcock or notes from Graham telling me to take another statement from Talbot. Or work with Mark on something. I shuddered, thinking I’d rather endure a root canal procedure without novocaine. “You’re letting him get to you, which is what he wants,” Margo said when I finished telling her about my encounter with Mark. Luckily, he wasn’t in the room. She looked up from the monitor. “Doesn’t mean a thing, Bren. He’s flexing his muscles.”

  “He didn’t lay a hand on me, Margo.”

  “His badgering muscles. Follow the conversation, Girl.”

  “Wish I could believe you. I saw him talking to Evan this afternoon.”

  “So? I talked to Evan. Does that condemn me to having hung the Guy in your room?”

  “No, but he could have gotten the key to my room from Evan, said he needed it for the investigation.”

  Margo shook her head. “Evan would’ve sent him to Graham for a key. He’s not dumb, Bren.”

  “You don’t know how much the average person fears the police, Margo. They’re even afraid to talk to us. If we say something, they believe us. They obey us. We have an incredible amount of power.”

  “It’s the uniform.”

  “What uniform? We’re plain clothes cops.”

  “See? We need sweats. They evoke friendliness.”

  I groaned, rolling my eyes heavenward. “Big help. I still think it’s Mark. He’s devious. He can wheedle.”

  “He never tries to wheedle me. Wish he would. Don’t you think he’s handsome?”

  “He thinks he’s handsome.”

  “You’re afraid to admit it, Bren. You know, men don’t joke with women they don’t like.”

  “You know the difference between joking and harassment, Margo?”

  “Why don’t you turn the tables and instigate something? You might get a date.”

  “I might get sick. Oh. Gotta run. There’s Graham.”

  I could hear Margo’s whispered ‘Give The Vic my love’ as I headed for the incident room.

  SIXTEEN

  Graham and I had no trouble finding a table that Monday evening at The Broken Loaf. And evidently Evan had no trouble in the kitchen, for he returned with our dinner orders just as Graham was draining the last of his beer.

  “You’ll be wanting the other half of that drink?” Evan nodded at Graham’s empty pint.

  I gave my glass to the publican, but Graham said he’d wait a bit.

  “I know you’re not much of a drinker, Sir,” I said when Evan had left, “but you usually have another with your meal. Feeling all right?”

  “Not suffering from a chippy tummy, if that’s what you’re hinting at. Glad to see we’re not the only happy diners tonight. Murder hasn’t put them off.” He leaned back, chewing a forkful of ham, and looked around the room.

  The public bar area was in keeping with the décor of the private bar, where we had set up the incident room. Photos of village events, framed articles from the local newspaper, and children’s drawings covered the emerald green flocked wallpaper. Mahogany tables and chairs sat on a well-washed flagstone floor. An open fireplace large enough to roast an ox consumed a good portion of the wall opposite the bar, while someone’s collection of royal and political commemorative china plates commandeered the wall before us. Staring at the names and pictures was a great time killer while waiting for your meal.

  Derek sat at a nearby table, his voice low as he talked to Ramona. This time there was no door to hide behind or constable who could sit unobtrusively by to take shorthand notes. We chalked it up to the failure that occurs periodically. Besides, I thought, they wouldn’t be talking about their part in the murder with us so close. But I glanced at them periodically, as though that would heighten my auditory senses. They both looked as though they had come directly from their jobs, for they were dressed in dark suits. Derek occasionally stroked his tie, a brightly colored conglomeration of fish, and glanced around the room. Was he afraid to be seen with Ramona, or just anxious to get home to Kris?

  We finished our meal in silence before Graham gestured toward Tom Oldendorf, who was walking around the room, stopping periodically to examine something. “Must want a lot of memories of Upper Kingsleigh, the way he’s using film in here.” Another flash from his camera illuminated the room.

  “Probably has shares in Kodak,” I noted.

  “What a suspicious person you are. What’s he saying? Did you catch it? Don’t be obvious about it, Taylor.”

  Graham, angling his thin frame in his chair so he could stretch out his long legs without entangling them in the maze of table and chair legs, appeared not only to be disinterested in his surroundings but also having a bit of a kip. If he’d had a hat, it would’ve been pulled over his eyes. But even without it, he looked completely off duty and relaxed, his arms folded across his chest, his chin nestled in the collar of his shirt. It was an attitude he employed often, and it usually helped glean startling bi
ts of information. This time, the noise of too many conversations and the distance between tables prevented him from hearing anything.

  Derek, meanwhile, got up, threw several pound coins on the table, and finished the last of his beer. Ramona grabbed the tail of his tie and pulled him down so their faces nearly touched, leaning in our direction as she tried to make herself heard above the din.

  “Dear, you want to get home, put your feet up and have a beer. I’ve never seen you like this.”

  Derek shook off her grasp and straightened up, running his hand through his hair. The graying brunet strands stood away from his pale skin, giving him the air of a hedgehog. He said something in reply but I couldn’t catch it.

  Obviously Ramona could, for she said, “Think nothing of it. You trot along home like the good husband you are. And I’ll guard my tongue, so that worry’s ended. After all, if I haven’t said anything in all these years, your secrets are safe, darling. You and Byron have a good evening.”

  I watched Ramona’s smile broaden as he left the pub.

  “Hear that?” Graham asked, watching Ramona join the Oldendorfs at another table.

  “Yes, sir. What’s the little secret Derek’s afraid of, do you suppose?”

  “It’s a secret, Taylor.”

  I nodded and wondered how many secrets Upper Kingsleigh’s residents harbored. Minutes later, Graham pulled in his legs, threw his napkin on the table, and stood up. He glanced down at me. “I think we’ll do the Public Servant bit and help Tom with his holiday budget.”

  I murmured it seemed the friendly thing to do.

  Tom had just finished preserving This Moment on photographic film when Graham walked up to him. Tom was seated with several tourists from the B-&-B, none of whom was his wife. I looked for a vacant chair that indicated she was momentarily away from the table. There was one, pushed slightly away from the group to give the others more elbowroom. I hadn’t remembered seeing her when we came in. Graham nodded to everyone, then asked Tom how the holiday was going.

  “Great,” the man said, depressing the spool-release button on his camera. “Carla’s had it, though. What with Steve’s— Well, we’ve done a bit too much today, so we’re calling it an early night. Going back now, in fact, and crash. She left a while ago. You just missed her.” Then, perhaps thinking he had been too personal with police officers, said, “You anywhere closer to solving the murder, or don’t you let on?”

  “I don’t think you’d be happy with anything other than the name of the murderer, would you?” Graham smiled pleasantly. “Things are developing, let’s just say.”

  Tom sat down abruptly, cradling the camera on his lap. The back of the camera gave a satisfying ‘pop’ as Tom released the catch. He opened the body and pulled out the film cassette. Graham, unusually interested in Tom’s procedure, said, “You take other photos than this group tonight? I remember you had your camera when we met at the bonfire.”

  Tom dropped the cassette into the plastic film case and snapped on the lid. “Sure. It’s one of my hobbies. I’m partial to architecture and landscape—church, gravestones, Haddon Hall. Though I take shots of people, too. Why? Have I done something wrong? If I’ve been a nuisance to someone…”

  “So you’ve been about the village and photographed parts of it, then?” Graham’s voice remained calm, but I could see the faintest tensing of his jaw muscle.

  Tom nodded, his attention torn between his film cassette, a polite Graham, and me.

  “I know I’m a hell of a nuisance,” Graham went on, “but would you mind telling me what you snapped of the village? It’s an odd request, but I wouldn’t be so insistent if it weren’t important.” He stood in front of Tom, non-threatening, his dark gray suit and cranberry-hued shirt as foreign to Tom’s impression of a policeman as Graham’s manner was.

  Tom swallowed repeatedly. “Just been taking shots like any other tourist, I guess. A dozen or so during the bonfire, some during the dole ceremony, parts of the village, including a close-up of the church tower. Got it with my telephoto.”

  “Excuse me for asking what must appear to be an odd question, but did you take any of the effigy before Bonfire Night?”

  “Yeah. Carla and I were down at the fire area that afternoon, and the pastor—”

  “Would you mind terribly if I had the film developed, looked at your photos, and then returned them to you? Developing and printing on us, of course.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Strange request, I know. But I have to keep my reason to myself.”

  Tom shrugged, probably figured he was getting a better bargain than most two-for-one deals, and dropped the film canister into Graham’s outstretched hand. I already had the receipt written out and into Tom’s hand before he said ‘yes.’ “You want the other roll, too?” He dug into his camera bag. Moments later the second exposed roll lay alongside the first. “Just these two. I had another roll, but I’ve sent that off already. It was finished before Carla and I got here.” Nothing followed Tom’s declaration but a sincere ‘thank you’ and the transferring of the film to Graham’s pocket.

  “Seems to have recovered from his brother-in-law’s death quite rapidly,” I observed as we paused in the vestibule connecting the two bar rooms. “Must have an iron constitution.”

  “He certainly displayed more anger than grief at the fire circle,” Graham agreed.

  “Maybe that’s why he came on holiday with Pedersen. Wasn’t particularly friendly or unfriendly with him, so he’s not all that broken up over his death. Anyway, women show their emotions more easily.”

  Graham pulled the film from his pocket, threw me a canister, and wrapped his long fingers about the remaining roll. “This just might have something on it. I’m not going to let this slip past us. Even at my age I learn from past mistakes.”

  Your age. You’re all of 41, I wanted to say. Trim, healthy, good looking, mentally and physically able to beat most of us in B Division. Don’t talk utter rot!

  Graham pushed open the door to the incident room, noted the startled looks of the constables who were clustered around a single computer, and walked briskly over to a table, where I joined in. There were two new messages from Simcock, received this evening 18 minutes apart, stuck to the front of the case folder. Both were marked ‘Urgent.’ Both asked the same question: had we learned anything more about MacKinnon’s 1973 road accident? Ignoring the notes, Graham idly rolled the canister along the table top, as though it were some bizarre rugby game. The canister crashed into the case folder—thick with typed notes, statements and photographs—and I picked up the film. I knew Graham had seen Simcock’s messages, yet chose to ignore them for the moment. Which was fine with me; Graham was easier to work with when he wasn’t reeling from the Super’s impatience. I placed the canister gently by Graham’s hand. Granted there’s very little leeway for mistakes in murder cases, but he’s too hard on himself. He’s got to be perfect, solve it as fast as he can. Like he’s trying to prove himself all over again, make up for those five years of demotion. I let the film roll back and forth a few times before my hand slapped onto it, quieting it.

  “Fordyce!” Graham’s head jerked up from his concentration, and he looked around for the constable. An energetic ‘Here, sir!’ echoed off the walls. Chair legs scraped across flagstone, and the steady tempo of hard soles tapped out the path to his superior officer. There was a sharper tap as Fordyce came to a stop at Graham’s side and snapped to attention. Then the room returned to that quiet that settles on a space when people are comfortable with each other and their duties. Graham scooped up the two rolls of film and handed them to the P.C. “I want you to take these to the station. Get them developed and printed, and have them back here tomorrow—early.”

  Fordyce’s “Yes, sir” cracked into the stillness as he accepted the film.

  “Two sizes of prints—our standard working size, and 4x5 for the film’s owner. Got that? Oh, and if the pathology report’s ready, bring that, too, please. And the knife
. Don’t forget the knife, Fordyce. That should do it.”

  “Very good, sir.” The door opened and closed quickly, and the constable was on his way to Buxton.

  “That knife’ll be dusted by now. I want to dangle it in front of a few people’s eyes, see if anyone recognizes it. Not that anyone will,” Graham sighed. We knew that most everyone—guilty or not—guarded himself during a police investigation. “Is there a universal motto I’m not aware of, TC?”

  “Besides ‘Mum’s the word’?”

  “Unless it’s ‘Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit’.” Graham smiled, glanced at his watch, then echoed ‘Perhaps this too will be a pleasure to look back on one day.’ “You feel like putting in an hour or so before we catch a final pint?”

  “A perfect evening, sir.”

  “Right.”

  We sat down, shoving the case folder and Simcock’s messages farther down the table, pretending we didn’t see them. Graham grabbed the notes still lying in the printer tray, a pen, and laid a blank sheet of paper in front of us. He seemed happier now that he had dealt with Simcock.

  “The more we get into this thing,” I said, tapping my notebook, “the more these people get all intermingled and show up in each other’s stories.”

  “Like a massive Celtic knot. You thinking of our favorite year, then?”

  “Not just 1973. The entire village. Byron nobly gave up Kris Halford—Alton, as she was then—but still loves her. Kris was engaged to be married to Pedersen. Talbot was adopted, if you care to believe it, by Derek’s father, only he can’t prove it. And Arthur’s great-granddaddy runs over Derek’s granddaddy and starts this whole miserable dole and its consequences.” I threw my pen at the computer. “We need more than a computer to sort all this out. We need a ruddy crystal ball.”

  “Could come in handy, but let’s spare the Derbyshire taxpayers the additional expense and try our brains first.”

  I mumbled something about it being a definite disadvantage, but jotted down ideas readily enough when Graham started talking through things.