“I have espied an inebriated gentleman creating rather a debacle within the confines of the shopping emporium. On the balance of probabilities, it would appear he has over imbibed on a hefty ale they call the Special Brew. I will now attempt a tête-à-tête with the rascal and endeavour to procure the furnishment of his details. Roger Diddly, over and out.”
Oh no! Of all the people to be on the radio at that very moment! I quickly plugged my earpiece back in.
PC Rupert Fawcett was known to all and sundry as ‘The Actor’ or I should say ‘The ACK-TOR’ as it was pronounced in an overly exaggerated theatrical manner, as though he were a seasoned Shakespearian luvvie. Every utterance he made was over the top – why use one word when three could be delivered with a huge dollop of melodrama? Speculation was rife that he was on commission from the network providers. How else could you explain his verbosity?
I was just about to tell my inquisitor that this wasn’t the best example to judge me on, when she indicated that she was satisfied with proceedings.
“You see, HE used roger!” she declared emphatically.
In actual fact, he had used Roger Diddly, but, if it got me her seal of approval as a bona fide police officer, I wasn’t complaining. I dread to think what ‘The ACK-TOR’ actually says when he is tasked with delivering a death message. I had visions of Monty Python’s parrot sketch:
“Your relative has passed on! He has ceased to be. ‘E’s expired and gone to meet ‘is maker! ‘E’s a stiff, bereft of life, ‘e rests in peace! ‘E’s pushing up the daisies, ‘e’s kicked the bucket! ‘Is metabolic processes are now ‘istory! ‘E’s shuffled off ‘is mortal coil and joined the choir invisible! HE IS AN EX-RELATIVE!”
“I do apologise, Officer.” My host brought me back from that horrendous thought. “It’s just that we need to establish one’s credentials prior to any interaction with residents.” She then went on to explain that a number of the people at the home had some peculiar ‘issues’, as she delicately put it.
Satisfied that she was now on side, I explained my unusual quest to her. I soon established that there was only one Emily at the home, and my host agreed to facilitate a meeting with her.
“I must warn you,” she added, “Emily is one of our more challenging residents and has her own particular style of communicating.”
“That won’t be an issue,” I replied confidently.
“She will only speak to you via the banana phone.”
“Banana phone?” I repeated incredulously.
“We’ve been trying to get to the bottom of it for some time, but it must be the result of some form of psychological trauma.” She reached over and picked up one such fruit from a bowl on the reception table. “If you will,” she said, and then proceeded to demonstrate talking into the banana, holding it as one would a phone.
“Do I really have to?” I pleaded, but she was adamant.
“If you want to communicate with her, it’s the banana phone or nothing.”
Just as my instruction was coming to an end, a young woman approached us from along the corridor.
“This is her,” was whispered urgently in my ear, and I grabbed a couple of bananas from the bowl in preparation.
I must admit that she looked younger than I had expected, and not quite as I had envisaged either, with her baggy cardigan and tousled hair.
“This is Hitler,” my host announced, nodding in my direction. “Hitler, this is Emily. Emily, this is Hitler.”
I gave her a confused look, but chose to ignore her comment for the time being; instead I presented one of the bananas to Emily, the other I placed at my ear.
“Hello, Emily,” I began, speaking into the bendy yellow phone.
Emily just stood there, arms tightly folded across her chest. I proffered her the banana again, but she just looked at me as if I was stupid.
“What on earth are you doing?” she enquired.
I shook the banana at her again, but she declined to pick up the receiver; instead she unfolded her arms and slowly pulled her cardigan aside to reveal an identity badge. After squinting to read it clearly, I discovered that it read: ‘Manager’.
“You’re not Emily, are you?” I asked quietly.
“No,” came the monosyllabic response.
“And there is no such thing as the banana phone, is there?” I continued, barely above a whisper.
She shook her head.
“And this lady I’ve been talking to isn’t really in charge, is she?”
“No,” she replied.
“You’re in charge, aren’t you?”
She nodded.
I slowly replaced the bananas in the bowl and turned around in time to see the bogus host scuttling off down the corridor. I wasn’t altogether convinced that my ‘looking for the best in people’ was really working out for me.
“Come into my office,” invited the young woman, “and I’ll get you a cup of tea. I think you need it after that.”
We proceeded through to a large room with a desk at one end and a small conference table in the centre. As I sat there, waiting for my drink, I explained how stupid I felt. The young woman didn’t disagree but at least sympathised, telling me that Mrs Cunningham was very plausible, and made out to all new visitors that she was staff. I explained that I had been totally taken in; after all, she had looked the part – she even had glasses and wore her hair in a bun. I conceded that I had also inadvertently informed her why I was visiting the home.
“That’ll be all round the place by now,” I was informed. “Gossip is like currency in a place like this.”
“That’s why I was hoping that we could go and see Emily as soon as possible,” I requested, “before she hears the news from someone else.”
“You don’t need to worry about that,” she replied. “She won’t be hearing the news from anyone. I’m afraid Emily passed away yesterday.”
A distinctly sombre mood now descended.
“It was most tragic,” she continued. “We held a surprise party for her birthday. We didn’t know that she had a weak heart.”
I sat in silence, not really knowing what to say or where to look.
“I can take you to her room if you like,” she volunteered, trying to sound upbeat. “They’re clearing it out now. Maybe you might be able to find some information regarding any relatives or contacts, although we thought she didn’t have any family.”
I was led through a maze of corridors to where a couple of staff members were stripping a room back to its basic state ready for the next occupant. Aha! So the handles on the side of the mattress are there to help move it? And to think I’ve been using them incorrectly for all these years!
Outside the room sat a box of personal effects belonging to Emily. The sum total of someone’s life had been reduced to a handful of cards and pictures. We took it back to the office and I went through the contents with the manager, but it offered up no clues. At her suggestion, I went to have a chat with some of Emily’s fellow residents at the home to see if I could shed any more light on her life.
As I left the office, I noticed an extract from the poem The Roaring Days by Henry Lawson, framed on the wall. It seemed fitting somehow:
‘The night too quickly passes and we are growing old, so let us fill our glasses and toast the Days of Gold; when finds of wondrous treasure set all the south ablaze, and you and I were faithful mates all through the roaring days!’
The conversations I had with her faithful friends and confidantes about Emily’s roaring days were both funny and touching – like an over-friendly clown. They shared the high points of her life with me and we had a giggle over how amusing Emily could be. It seemed to be a cathartic experience for everyone concerned. They say that laughter is the best medicine, and it certainly seemed to be – with the exception of the woman with the weak bladder. I suggest she sticks to her usual medication.
It was revealed that Emily, like most of the home’s patrons, had led a full life. They had all seen and done so
much. As children some had been evacuated during the war and had experienced rationing. Others had served their country and fought in conflicts, witnessing history in action. In contrast, what tales of life would I have to tell when I grew old? That I used to talk on a phone that was actually attached to a wall; that I used to have to answer it when I didn’t even know who was ringing me; that I used to tell someone the number that they had rung when I picked up the receiver? By comparison, I felt as though mine was a life only half lived!
Whilst I had enjoyed my time chatting, just as her friends had enjoyed telling their tales, it hadn’t actually helped me with my task. I had failed in my duty. The only next of kin I had been able to find was Mrs Lavender – her of the killer stairs. I was saddened to think that no one would collect the personal effects of either woman and that no family would mourn them. They would soon be forgotten and their once-treasured artefacts put out with the rubbish.
By the time I had finished and thanked the manager for all her help, the residents were in the dining area having their evening meal. I had a quick look in before waving goodbye… old people certainly have a way of making eating a salad look sad. As I prepared to leave, an elderly gentleman waved me over. I approached him and crouched down by his chair; perhaps he had the missing piece of the jigsaw – that vital piece of information I was searching for?
“Excuse me, could I have some more pudding?”
I smiled and informed him that I didn’t actually work there.
“I don’t give a shit where you work,” he growled. “Can I just have some more pudding?”
I glanced over at the manager and she gave me a sympathetic look before coming to my rescue. She assured him that she would sort some out for him. I then quickly made my escape.
On the way back to the station I pulled the police car over. It had been a day of sadness, disappointments and embarrassments for me. If only there was some kind of magic liquid that could erase bad memories. I decided to ring Miss Jones to ask her if she would like to meet for a drink when I finished work. School would be over by now and she would already be at home.
“I’m just about to wine down,” she told me when she answered the call.
“Do you mean wind down?”
“Nope.”
It seems that she had had a hectic day, too.
“Drink responsibly,” I joked.
She immediately countered with, “Responsibility is why I drink!”
“Look, I may be too late, but I was just wondering if we could meet up for a drink when I get off duty?”
“Actually, after the day I’ve had with the kids at school I could really do with some decent adult conversation!”
“Charming,” I muttered as I put the phone down, “You could have just said no.”
Chapter 9
Girls Who Cry Need Cake
“Reports of a disturbance at the Sandford Manor Hotel.”
The call hung in the air, awaiting a response. I sat nervously waiting to see if any units responded. I counted down the seconds of radio silence and after a suitable amount of time had elapsed I took my chance.
Today I was on the diary car, travelling from one prearranged appointment to another. Officially, I wasn’t allowed to deviate from my duties – a superintendent’s authority was needed to countenance such an outrage – but, up to now, the high had been 25 degrees and the low had been a report of a dog fouling the footpath. I needed something to liven up my day, and what better than a trip to the haunt of the rich and famous.
The exclusive Sandford Manor Hotel was where the well-heeled gentlemen of the county held their balls, and this evening was no exception as it was hosting the social event of the year: the summer charity ball. The town’s elite would all be there, dressed to the nines in their designer evening dresses and James Bond-style tuxedos. This was as good an opportunity as any to break the monotony of my shift and in the process see how the other half lived. I would seize the day! Officially, I was supposed to be on my meal break, so surely nobody could complain.
Hopefully, I could carpe the most out of my boring diem, and, hopefully, still be able to carpe my sandwiches after I’d sorted things out at the hotel. With any luck, no one would even notice I’d been away. It was probably some minor hullabaloo over who had polished off the last vol-au-vent.
Within minutes, I had blue-lighted across town and was now making my way up the long drive to the hotel. Sports cars, limousines and top of the range 4x4s were parked in every available space: in lay-bys, passing places and on the grassy verge all along the welcoming tree-lined approach. As I drew closer, I could almost smell the opulence.
I saw the first of the revellers in their satin gown and Armani dinner jacket stumbling their way back to their car. The champagne must have been flowing. I wondered if there had actually been a heated tête-à-tête over the Moët itself: do you ask for a glass of ‘Mo-aye’ or ‘Mo-wett’? It seems that the wrong pronunciation has taken a firm grip, as whenever someone actually does say it correctly – ‘Mo-wett’ – they usually attract slightly patronising looks or embarrassed glances.
Drawing level with the couple, I was suddenly snapped from my champagne reverie back into police mode: either the woman was wearing an unusual outfit, or those were bloody smears all across the front of her saffron-coloured dress. The male who accompanied her carried his jacket over his arm, his bow tie hanging undone, which is the usual rakish way to wear such attire at the end of an evening, but he also seemed to be clutching his face. I stopped to find out what was wrong, but they just indicated towards the main building. I changed gears and accelerated the last twenty yards to the hotel. Instead of couples milling around outside as I would have expected, the place was deserted.
As I pulled up directly outside the entrance, glass crackled under my tyres. I stepped out amongst the broken champagne flutes and spilt beer and made my way towards the entrance, my hands feeling for my pepper spray and baton. Something definitely wasn’t right here.
I glanced in and was greeted by the sight of utter devastation. The usually pristine reception was littered with broken glass, the marble floor wet with drink and blood. Bloody footprints criss-crossed the atrium, interspersed with blood-splashed magazines and brochures that were strewn about the floor. The large ornamental vases that stood either side of the main desk had been toppled, and a table lamp, along with the glass table on which it once stood, had been smashed into a thousand pieces. Paintings hung at odd angles on the walls; another lay in the middle of the floor, its frame broken and canvas ripped. The reception itself was devoid of people; not a soul in sight. I had switched off my emergency lights and two-tones when I had turned into the driveway, so I returned to the vehicle and gave a squawk on the sirens to try and attract someone from the hotel.
“Thank God you’re here!” A door slammed as the duty manager rushed out from the bar entrance. “Where’s everyone else?” he queried breathlessly, glancing over my shoulder. I decided against telling him that I was the only officer available.
“What’s happening?” I asked urgently. “Is anything still on-going?” I had no idea what the ‘anything’ was, but I needed to know if I had to break up a brawl or stop some drunken maniac in his tracks.
“No, it’s over. There’s been a fight.”
“Is anyone injured?” I demanded.
“The place is a total wreck. They’ve smashed everything.”
“Injuries?” I asked again. “Has anyone got any serious injuries?” Whenever you arrive at an incident, everyone has their own agenda, their own priorities. Right now, as far as I was concerned, the damage could wait – the most important thing was saving lives.
“The fighting’s over,” he replied again, ignoring my question. “I don’t even know how it really started either. Oh my God, it’s just a wreck in there!” He waved his arm in the general direction of the hotel, looking as if he was about to burst into tears.
“Look, you need to listen to what I’m saying: I need to kn
ow NOW: does anyone have any serious injuries?” He appeared shell-shocked, but time wasn’t on my side. I needed to establish facts – and fast, starting with casualties. From the amount of blood in reception, someone was clearly badly hurt. As he was still panicking, I took control of the situation, making my instructions as straightforward as possible. “Find your staff and get them to check the place to find out if anyone is injured.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” He acknowledged my request and set off to find his co-workers who seemed to have abandoned their posts.
Just as I pressed the transmit button to update Comms, my attention was drawn to a man staggering through the reception supported by a woman who I presumed to be his wife. In one hand she held his jacket, the hem dragging on the ground and in its wake clearing a trail through the gory mix on the floor; the other she used to bolster her husband. Her dress was covered in blood, but it was his shirt that drew my attention. It was soaked crimson-red; so wet that it was sticking to his skin. The white towel which he was holding to his neck was rapidly starting to discolour.
“Can you get an ambulance?” she pleaded. “My husband’s been stabbed.”
I took hold of him and led him to one of the benches outside before telling him that I would need to see the wound in order to assess his injury. Slowly, he peeled away the towel to expose his bloodied neck. Initially, it just looked like a mass of blood but then, a second or two later, a great flap of skin about the size of a fist flopped down exposing the red-raw innards of his throat. I felt physically sick. I instructed him to replace the towel and to stay still, whilst reassuring him that I’d get him immediate medical attention. There was nothing in my first aid pouch that could help – he needed to get to a hospital fast. I’m no medical expert, but even I could tell that this could potentially be a fatal wound. Things didn’t bode well, judging from the amount of blood the victim had already lost. I was taking no chances, and got straight onto Comms informing them that we had a major incident on our hands. I needed an ambulance, all available officers, dog units, the sergeant and CID here urgently. The entire building and grounds needed to be sealed off. Nobody was to enter or leave.
Police, Arrests & Suspects Page 14