It is 1964 and in our little house in England we are saying goodbye to my mother’s lifelong friend and her husband. See you in 1984 the adults were saying. I did not get the joke about the year, but 1984 seemed far, far into the future. We were about to emigrate to Australia and the friends planned to visit us in 1984 when the husband retired.
Today is 1984 Day. George Orwell’s novel was published on 8th June 1949 and you can listen to it being read all day ( with breaks and different readers ) on BBC Radio 4. As you will have missed some by the time you read this, it is available on BBC Sounds. If you are elsewhere in the world I am not sure if you might come across it floating in the ether.
I first read 1984 in high school and by that time realised the year 1984 represented ‘the future’ or a future we hoped would not be realised. 1984 still seemed a long way off.
1984 came and went in a flurry of toddlers, nappies and ordinary life, though we paused to contemplate that the future had been and gone and we were having a better time than Winston Smith, well some of us. The next unimaginable future date was 2001, a new century and would it be like the Space Odyssey?
The new millennium started and we hurtled towards a quarter century without yet living on the moon. There is no longer a year number that represents the future. Has Orwell’s novel come true?
Big Brother, or at least someone is always watching. Not only are the final movements of missing people recorded on CCTV, but householders place cameras over their front door as easily as fitting a door bell. Police expect householders to hand over evidence and if you ring someone’s doorbell a disembodied voice will say ‘ Hi Joe you’re early, just walking the dog’ or ‘I’m in Scotland on holiday, can you leave the parcel with the neighbours.’
Thought police? We’ve created them ourselves, calling people out if they appear to be anti-something just because they expressed being in favour of someone or something else, or were overheard making a witty joke. In many countries of course, Thought Police are patrolling social media and journalism.
The 1984 holiday never happened. Mum’s friend’s husband had a degenerative condition that cancelled their holiday plans. You never know what’s going to happen in the future, except it inevitably becomes the past.
Isn’t it always the way, you don’t remember you were reincarnated until you die again. Each time I have been caught out. Assuring myself and others that there is NOTHING beyond, once you’re dead you’re dead. Telling everyone that ghosts do not exist, whatever Danny Robins seeks out in ‘Uncanny’. Exclaiming confidently that there is no such thing as reincarnation, thank goodness; what are the chances of landing a worse life than you had? If you look at the world you will guess that ninety nine per cent of humans are not having a good life.
Now it all came back to me, every life I’ve lived before. Once again I was in the debriefing room, waiting for the uncomfortable probing into how I had handled my latest life. All around me were strangers, busier than usual, all the people who had been killed alongside me. That was the only memory that was hazy.
No familiar faces this time. When I say faces I mean we were still wearing our earthly appearance, to be replaced soon with just our inner selves. Well, it had been a good life, shorter than I expected, but I had fitted a lot in. Most of the others were new souls, stands to reason when you think of the population explosion. I had to chuckle, that chap in total denial calling for the doctor, probably thinks he’s hallucinating in intensive care.
In terms of human history I’m quite new myself. My first life came to an abrupt end fighting for Henry V. But I haven’t always been English, turned up in all parts of the world. Pity I never remembered all the languages I have spoken.
‘Hey mate, the sooner you come to terms with what’s happened the easier it will be. You have been killed. Not actually dead, just waiting to be reincarnated.’
‘What rubbish, I’m just waiting for my wife to visit, they must have phoned her by now.’
‘Yes, they would have phoned to tell her about the plane crash, if she hadn’t already heard it on the news.’
It was all coming back to me now, no wonder it was so busy here…
‘Mathew Frobisher, Frobisher?’
That’s me, they always use your most recent name.
‘So did you enjoy your latest life?’
‘Yes thanks, wonderful. It didn’t sound promising, but my physical body inherited brains and good looks. Makes you wonder how much DNA has to do with it. Do souls have an equivalent?’
‘You are a long way from learning about that, a very long way from understanding the higher realms.’
‘But I’m doing well, I’ve lived lots of good lives.’
‘I’m afraid it appears you learned nothing from your previous good lives. In this latest one you have contributed nothing to society, treated your loved ones abominably…’
‘You should have let me be a woman again. Last time you promised I would be reunited with my beloved husband.’
‘You were, that was the wonderful wife you so casually dumped.’
‘I can explain… ‘
No I couldn’t really, but I hadn’t been that bad had I?
‘What about all the happy passengers I flew round the world, reuniting them with their families, making their holiday dreams come true. I was an excellent airline pilot.’
‘You were to start with, but your dissolute life style caught up with you, hiding your drug habit resulted in you killing 387 passengers on your last flight. You must start again in the lower realms, you are going to be born in the Gaza Strip. We’re ready for you now, no point in you hanging around here.’
Sorry missed your message earlier, what a day, has Poppy recovered?
Book Worms
Yup, done the library survey, haven’t read the book yet, might be late Friday, blood test.
Anne last seen today 15.33
That’s a relief, no stitches then? What sort was the other dog?
Cousin Chat
Oh what a wonderful place, pity you only had three hours ashore. Not surprised you got lost with 3,500 on board. So did you find out how he died? Sounds like a scene from one of your novels.
Cousin Chat
Natural causes, never mind, probably be another SD before your seven weeks are up. Bit of a waste getting the helicopter out to the Antarctic.
Family Forum
If I suddenly drop dead I promised Linda the plant in the dining room. The individual lemon cheesecakes in the fridge were on special offer, in case you look in the fridge and think I’m greedy.
Family Forum
No, I’m feeling fine, just testing to see if I get any response. Going to live to a hundred to annoy you all. But just in case there’s a new felt pen under the fridge and brand new secateurs in the garden, really annoyed to lose those. List of lost items getting quite long, treasure hunt for you all when I’m gone.
Anne last seen today 16.43
It cost that much? Good thing you had insurance. Would never have imagined a Pomeranian could cause so much damage. Which reminds me, I was round next door and she had spotted a big mouse in the back garden, worried Tilly would catch it… at that very moment Tilly emerged from the flower bed triumphantly shaking her head with the dead mouse clamped in her delicate jaws! Now she’s upset her miniature dachshund is a murderer!
Polly last seen today 16.53
Don’t worry too much, perhaps it would be better if you didn’t look at your fitwatchthingy.
Polly last seen today 17.05
What should your resting heart rate be?
Lizzie last seen today 17.23
Oh no, did you call 111? Where’s Tom?
Lizzie last seen today 17.25
I forgot he was away, I’m sure you’ll manage fine. I had to cope with four of you when Dad was away.
Jack last seen today 17.27
Okay, Facetime on Sunday.
Polly last seen today 17.53
What a catastrophe, Pyrex does shatter in a thousand pieces. Have you got any spare dinners in the freezer?
Polly on line 17.59
Not surprised your heart rate has gone up. Bare feet? Oh dear, my mother used to tell this story about getting a sliver of glass in her foot, then years later her finger swelled up and the splinter popped out! Or was it the other way round, anyway, it didn’t do her any harm.
Jack last seen today 18.53
Don’t forget we’re six hours ahead now its BST.
Magic Pen 19.00
What was the homework?
Magic Pen 19.01
You don’t remember either Jill
Magic Pen 19.03
Won’t you, that’s a pity. Don’t worry, everybody has stents put in these days.
Sally last seen today 19.10
Well done, can’t wait to see the pictures, great way to celebrate your seventieth and you really made it to the top, with Ron’s ashes!
Family Forum 19.30
Big news, your uncle has booked his holiday.
Family Forum 19.46
No he’s staying in a hotel than goodness. Yes we are ALL going to meet up with him. Yes I do remember he never bought you as much as an ice cream, his mind was on higher things.
Family Forum 19.50
Must be thirty years, no I’m sure he hasn’t been thrown out of the monastery, perhaps it’s his health, don’t suppose health care is good on his remote Tibetan mountain.
Magic Pen 20.08
Thanks Dave ‘Imagine a What’sAp conversation’ … How on earth am I going to write that?
Sean sat staring at the blank screen. This week’s challenge for the Poison Pen Writers was to write a story without meaning. Now he was regretting being the one to suggest it. There had been much philosophical discussion at last week’s meeting, could there ever be a story with no meaning at all?
He could write a story about himself; as far as he could tell, his life had no meaning, but that would be a very dull story.
Poison Pen Writers was a cutting edge group that met in a crumbling old hall the council were trying to demolish. They had been expelled from the library before Sean’s time when Jago had forgotten to take his medication. Sean could well imagine that some members could be easily misunderstood, most of them were rather odd, but they were all very interesting and amusing. Sean was the only boring one and he took a vicarious pleasure from their chaotic and adventurous lives, past and present.
The screen was still empty as his mind wandered over the past year with the group. He forced himself to type.
John woke up to another day, at least he assumed it was another day as he was in his bed and sunlight streamed through the curtains.
As he dipped his toast into the soft fried egg, it reminded him of nothing at all.
On the bus to work he looked at the other passengers, they did not look at him.
As he walked into the large office building he heard a voice call ‘Hey John’ but it was a woman hailing someone else called John.
At his desk he logged on to the computer.
As he logged off the computer he wondered where the day had gone.
‘What are you doing this evening?’ asked a colleague.
‘Nothing’ he replied.
‘Nor me.’
On the way home he looked out of the bus window, but it was raining hard so he couldn’t see anything. He looked at his phone, it was Tuesday, so he would stop off at the fish and chip shop.
As he walked into Harry’s Plaice Harry greeted him. ‘Evening, usual?’
‘Yup.’
‘Good day at work?’
‘Same as usual.’
That night John got into bed, another day over.
Sean glanced through what he had written, then added the title Meaningless. Hopefully it was, he pressed Print.
Sam was looking forward to a peaceful Friday evening after a busy week at the lab. The house was quiet, Jill was bound to be in the garden as it was her day off and the weather fine.
The back door was open and Jill jumped up from a flower bed and rushed up to the patio to greet him.
‘What’s the excitement, have you found a rare butterfly?’
‘Mother’s been!’
Sam was taken aback. His mother-in-law had died three weeks ago, peacefully, in her 98th year. He thought Jill was coping well.
‘Jill, what do you mean?’
‘I found a white feather.’
‘You surely didn’t believe all that stuff your mother used to talk about?’
‘You didn’t believe, I kept an open mind. Mum said she would send a sign if she could.’
‘A feather left by some moth eaten pigeon…’
‘A perfect pure white feather floated down just as I was tidying round that shrub Mother gave us. At least let me show you.’
Jill moved across to the kitchen door, reached in for the lop sided jug her mother had made at U3A pottery class and pulled out a very large snowy white feather.
‘Okay, not a pigeon but a handsome swan. Did you see any flying overhead?’
‘No, we’re miles from any river.’
‘Well, all sorts of things get blown in the wind. If she wanted to send a message why not something useful or tangible.’
‘I imagine its not easy being dead, especially if you’re new at it. Besides, there must be rules, otherwise we would all be inundated with messages from the other side.’
‘Jill, we don’t get messages from the dead because they are no more. It’s the Twenty First Century, we’ve grown out of all that stuff.’
‘You scientists don’t know everything, I felt so peaceful out there in the garden, knowing Mother was happy.’
‘That’s your serotonin kicking in. A sunny day in the garden always makes you happy and you were also thinking about your mother. I’m a physicalist what you see is what there is, that’s it. Your mother is still with you, but in your memories.’
‘We can both see this feather, how do you explain that?’
‘Your guardian angel flew over, ha, ha, dropped in to help with the weeding.’
‘Why don’t you test its DNA in your lab?’
‘I will, might even contribute to our current bird studies. Right, I’m going up to check my emails before dinner.’
Sam looked out of his office window at the patchwork of little back gardens below. He told himself he was appreciating the colourful display Jill had created in their back garden, not looking for swans or angels. He noticed something new in next door’s garden, a large colourful playhouse. The new young couple had only just moved in and already Jill had discovered they were expecting their first baby, a bit early to be buying expensive Wendy houses… then he noticed movement on the overgrown lawn. Chickens, so that must be a modern state of the art hen house, hopefully fox proof. Shouldn’t be any trouble unless there was a cockerel to wake them up. At that moment there was a fluttering amongst the drab brown and speckled hens as a proud rooster strutted out. A dashing snow white rooster with a scarlet cockscomb. Sam dashed downstairs to tell Jill the mystery was solved.
Jill was excited to see the new livestock, but held the long straight flat feather aloft triumphantly.
‘This did not come from a rooster, magnificent as his curling tail feathers are.’
Sam arrived at the lab early on Monday morning; frivolous use of the facilities was frowned upon and he did not fancy telling the others he was checking for angel DNA. But the quicker he could identify the feather as belonging to a swan or an albino peacock the better.
The results made no sense, the feather was apparently freshly shed, clean and undamaged so the results could not be corrupted. The DNA looked like none he had ever seen before, certainly not belonging to any bird. If anything it was closer to homo sapiens, yet different, not to mention the fact that there were forty six pairs of chromosomes. He had already started from scratch again and achieved exactly the same results. Far more study would be needed to venture any theory as to what sort of creature this feather came from. He could be holding unique scientific information, but how could he tell his colleagues, what should he tell Jill?
Charlotte stared at the computer screen, her novel was not going well. Having ventured back to the Hambourne Happy Creatives writing group she had succeeded in confusing them with Lottie Lincoln’s latest mishaps in Puddleminster-on-Sea. There had been comments such as ‘So what happened to the head?’
She had made life too complicated for Lottie and hadn’t really settled on which event should set her hapless heroine on the path of reluctant crime investigator. Perhaps she could round off the body parts story on a lighter note, introduce a dog…
A week later Lottie decided she must get back to her morning beach walks. Puddleminster was returning to normal, the police had finished searching everywhere and locals were unlikely to learn what really happened until the trial started, which could be many months away.
As she took in the fresh sea air and observed the near empty beach, she was caught off guard by a large dog bounding up with a huge stick in its mouth. For a moment she did not recognise the owner as he stumbled over the sand to apologise.
‘So sorry, oh it’s you Lottie, er Mrs Lincoln.’
‘Sorry I didn’t recognise you with a dog.’
Once again she was face to face with Doctor Geoff Good, the pathologist now famous for losing a body from the hospital mortuary. What should she say?
‘Is he your dog?’
‘No, friends gone on holiday to Australia. I volunteered to look after him while I’m suspended, at least I’ll look less suspicious out with a dog next time I’m caught on CCTV.’
‘Oh dear, will you get your job back?’
‘Yes, otherwise the bodies will be mounting up! Just required procedure, our department under special measures… Hey, clever you, right about there being no murder and my technician taking a body to create a forensic drama. Obviously completely insane, he had the head at his flat, kept as a souvenir!’
‘Goodness, they kept that out of the news.’
‘I only knew because I overheard them talking when I was on one of my many visits to the police station. Hmm, forget I told you that.’
Lottie felt a thrill at being entrusted with secret information and besides she didn’t know anyone to gossip with yet.
‘But the point is he passed all the usual checks, no criminal record, no record of anything untoward. He knew the entry codes because he worked there and had security clearance. No CCTV in the mortuary as we don’t expect bodies to try and escape. He must have slipped in during the night. Oh by the way, it turns out my wife loves your novels, read all of them, in fact she’s rereading them for gentle escapism after all this business. She wants to know if you are writing a new one.’
‘I have writers’ block, I thought a quiet life at the seaside would inspire a new story after my husband died suddenly.’
‘Oh sorry, I didn’t realise.’
‘No of course you couldn’t know. I was just reading in the newspaper an article on being widowed and it said don’t make hasty decisions such as moving house or getting a dog; I had just been wondering if I should get a puppy or a rescue dog…’
Charlotte wondered what could have caused Lottie’s husband’s sudden demise, something dramatic for a darkly humorous novel, a piece of space station crashing on him, had she read in the paper about a chunk of space debris plunging through someone’s roof? Or something closer to home, Lottie and Callum probably lived in London, he was trampled by bolting cavalry horses, that would be tragically unexpected.…
Children or other family? No, that’s why Lottie and Callum were so close and now poor Lottie was truly on her own, except of course for all her writer and arty friends in London; she was after all a very successful author, well popular and best selling, not in the upper echelons of the literati, but certainly far more successful than Charlotte.
Now she just had to think what Lottie was going to do next…
Today’s story is the final part of strange events in Puddleminster-on-Sea and follows on from Mortuary Mystery. Lottie Lincoln has returned to the police station.
‘It was the day before yesterday, or was it the day before that? I know it wasn’t raining. Anyway, the point is, I did not know the man in the CCTV photos at all, only to say hello to, nodding acquaintances, no idea what his name was. I always walk down to the sea past the Queen Victoria Memorial Park, early and he always walks past me on his way home with his newspaper, at least I assume that is what he is doing. Well we did before all those body parts were found.’
Lottie looked across the table at the young CID chap sent to interview her. She obviously wasn’t interesting enough to warrant two officers, good cop, bad cop and far from interrogating her, he had not asked her a single question yet.
DC Dan Berk looked across at the woman who had turned up at the police station and wondered how to get a word in edgeways.
‘Sorry, what did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t, Lottie Lincoln, the author? You probably don’t read my novels, I expect you prefer dark crime.’
‘Okay Lottie, can we start again at the beginning. What is your real name?’
‘That is my real name.’
‘’Okay, so Lottie, Mrs Lincoln, you go for a walk every morning and say hello to complete strangers.’
‘Yes, I thought that’s what people did at the seaside, relaxed way of life, everything jolly, well perhaps not if you’re always finding body parts. Anyway the point is, I am innocent and so is the man.’
‘If he is a complete stranger, how would you know if he was a murderer or not?’
‘I am a writer, I observe people, I have an instinct.’
‘Well thank you for coming forward to help us with our enquiries. I just need to ask you a few questions about yourself. How long have you lived in Puddleminster?’
‘A few weeks.’
‘Do you live alone?’
‘I was widowed.’
‘I see.’
‘Very recently.’
‘Oh sorry.’
‘Very suddenly.’
‘I am sorry for your loss, did you and your late husband have a connection with this area?’
‘None at all, I wanted to go somewhere quiet where I wasn’t known, a little place rather like the villages in my cosy novels.’
‘So if you could give me your current and previous address and a few other details. We will do a few checks, but it is unlikely we will need to see you again. Thank you for coming and I hope we haven’t put you to too much trouble, goodbye.’
‘Wait, wait, there’s something I have to confess, just in case I have been caught on CCTV again. I bumped into him just now, the man, when he was leaving the police station. So you think the body was kept in a fridge and he works at the mortuary, but that doesn’t make him guilty. Others work there, in fact it might not even be a murder, a theft of a corpse, he’s got that assistant that’s obsessed with forensics…’
Lottie did not like the frown on his face, perhaps she was talking too much. How long since she had had a good natter in her new life? She was beginning to realise what it must have been like during Covid for people living by themselves. Lottie and Callum had been self contained, they missed going out, but they were not lonely. Now she not only missed him, but her busy life and her friends; perhaps peaceful and quiet was not such a good idea… she realised the chap was talking to her.
‘Mrs Lincoln, this is out of order. We have not released any more information yet or talked to anybody else. I trust you won’t go on social media or start speculating in the local community.’
Late that night Doctor Geoff Good was back inside the police station for questioning and a detective inspector from head office had arrived, he frowned at the small team gathered in the tiny office.
‘To summarise so far, the body of John James Smith is missing from his drawer at the hospital mortuary. Doctor Geoff Good the pathologist claims to be astonished and cannot offer any explanation as to how a body could escape his well run mortuary. His new assistant has just gone on annual leave and we have no idea where, but he doesn’t appear to be at his flat in Puddleminster. John Smith died of natural causes, a post mortem was not planned and no DNA samples had been taken, as his large loving family knew who he was. He was awaiting collection by the undertaker tomorrow who would be preparing for a family viewing. A situation that could not be worse. We have no proof that the remains in the park are his, if they are what do we tell the family. If they are not his, where the hell is his body? Oh yes it could be worse, your team has failed to find a head.’
The mortuary is locked and off limits to all hospital staff. We have no option, but to have the whole hospital searched in case the body has been hidden there. I will be going to speak to management. Sergeant, you will visit the undertaker first thing in the morning and explain why they will not be collecting the body yet. Constable Berk, it is your unenviable task to visit the family of Mr Smith and inform them with the briefest details what has happened. I suggest you imply he is still within the hospital, but you have to also persuade them to provide DNA samples. At first light a team of officers and the forensic team will carry out a methodical search of the whole of Puddleminster. I’m sure you appreciate the need to keep all details out of the press and off social media, but that won’t be easy.
A week later Lottie sat glued to the local news as she did several times a day. She had not been near the sea, Puddleminster was overrun with police search teams. At the shops she tried to glean local gossip and there was plenty of that; satanic rites, multiple bodies unearthed everywhere and a serial killer on the loose. She wondered about poor Doctor Good. Every news bulletin a police officer of increasingly high rank would be urging the public not to speculate and assuring them there was no danger to the public. Then at last that evening there was news. A serious looking policewoman with lots of badges on her epaulettes, was standing outside the hospital.
‘We have today arrested a mortuary technician from this hospital and charged him with preventing the lawful and decent burial of a body. I can confirm no other individuals were involved and our enquiries are now complete. The family of the deceased have asked for privacy at this time.’
Of course that was not the end. On breakfast television the next day Lottie watched as the son and daughters of John Smith were interviewed.
‘We want to know how this happened to our Dad.’
They had obviously waived the right to privacy and Lottie guessed poor Doctor Good would be in for more vigorous investigation by the media. Would Puddleminster-on-Sea ever be the quiet place she had hoped for? But she couldn’t help smugly thinking she had been the first to guess what had happened.
It is also Saint George’s Day, but a saint that doesn’t mean much to us. Whereas William, even with his imagination, could not have predicted how many millions of people would be seeing his plays, saying his sayings and coming to visit his home town. He would probably not have liked what we did to his wonderful language, but living languages change all the time. He was also not responsible for the ways in which English has been spread around the world, but with the negatives come the positives. Around the world bilingual and multilingual folk can communicate with a common language and if we only speak English we must applaud them for learning and talking to us. No doubt Shakespeare would have his own blog and smart phone if they had been around then.
This evening’s tiny tale follows on from last week when Geoff was arrested as a murder suspect.
Geoff Good was alone in the interview room at Puddleminster Police Station. It had been on the local news about body parts being found in Queen Victoria Memorial Park, that’s why he had joked that as a pathologist at the hospital he did post mortems on deceased patients and did not chop up bodies. He did not expect them to use that as evidence of guilt.
The two CID officers came back in with a cup of tea, he assumed they were going to apologise for wrongful arrest and give him a lift home.
‘Doctor Good, we have some important questions to ask you with regard to your work, now new evidence has come to light.’
What on earth could they mean, had they found mortuary instruments lying in the park, no they were all present and correct when he left work yesterday. Was the victim someone he knew? Unlikely they would have identified the body so soon, you couldn’t even tell by tattoos these days, everyone had them.
‘You must have spoken to the woman in the CCTV picture, I saw her coming into the police station.’
‘No one has come forward to help with our enquiries.’
‘We know the victim was already dead when he was dismembered,’ chipped in the smug DC chap ‘very dead.’
‘That’s a relief, I mean for the victim.’
‘Dead for a while, but not decomposed, our forensic team have established the corpse had been kept somewhere cold.’
Geoff remained silent, he did not like where this was leading, but surely they did not think he regularly murdered people and kept them at the mortuary? Every body arrived or left the mortuary properly identified and recorded.
They stared at him, he tried to look them in the eye and not appear nervous or guilty. A thought came to him which he tried to dismiss. His new assistant did not disguise his ambition to get involved in proper forensics, not the boring bodies they dealt with at the hospital. He watched all the CSI programmes Geoff’s wife loved, but being fascinated with murder did not make him a murderer. Besides, he could not have hidden a spare body, all the drawers were occupied at present.
‘Did you wish to call your solicitor Doctor Good?’
How did things get to this stage already. He did not have a solicitor, only the school boy who had dealt with his great uncle’s will, or the local chap who had done the conveyancing for their house twenty years ago, probably retired by now.
‘No, I do not need a solicitor.’
Suddenly the DS brightened up. ‘We will be getting a warrant to search the mortuary, accompanied by your good self. In the meantime you are free to leave now as a person of interest. You may go home, but do not go to work and make sure we can contact you at any time.’
Geoff walked down the road in a daze, years of clinical and logical thinking did not help him process what was happening. He almost bumped into her, the woman from the picture. She recoiled and he automatically put his hands in the air. They both started to speak at once.
‘Sorry, sorry, I’m not a murderer.’
‘Sorry, nor am I didn’t mean to react like that.’
‘I don’t even know your name.’
‘I’m on my way to the police station to explain, I chickened out the first time. This is a nightmare.’
‘I’m so sorry you got involved.’
‘No I’m sorry, Lottie, Lottie Lincoln the novelist.’
‘Erm, I don’t read novels, Geoff Good, pathologist.’
‘Goodness, how interesting, life is stranger than fiction for sure.’
They both automatically looked around for hidden CCTV cameras.
‘Are we allowed to talk to each other?’
‘We both have a reason for walking down this road, I’ll be quick and tell you my situation. They seem to think I could have murdered and hidden the body in the mortuary, because it had been kept somewhere very cold, ridiculous of course, but at least they can’t possibly think you were involved.’
‘Do you have assistants?’
‘They are not murderers either, though the new one’s totally obsessed with forensics and CSI dramas. Oh, do you write dark crime novels, they’re all women writers.’
‘Indeed not, life affirming stories, family dramas, but I can see a story in this situation.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘Perhaps no murder was committed, your assistant wanted to see a bit of drama so borrowed a body, chopped it up and created a fake crime scene. He would not be suspected, no blood soaked clothing and all that. Anyway, I had better get to the police station, good luck.’
The mortuary was empty of live persons when Geoff was escorted in by a team of plain clothed and uniformed officers. The person they had to show the warrant to was Geoff himself. It seemed the rest of the hospital was unaware of the mortuary drama. Had anyone even noticed Geoff’s absence? There obviously had been no deaths at the hospital in the past twenty four hours and he recalled the new assistant was starting some annual leave.
No bodies on the slabs, pity, Geoff would have enjoyed making them feel queasy. He showed them all the computer and written records, then opened each labelled drawer one by one, assuring them it was a full house this week.
‘Everyone sleeping peacefully’ he joked nervously as they reached the last drawer.
The last drawer was empty, the name still on the front of the drawer, John James Smith.
He didn’t even know her name, but there they were on the local news as the couple sought after by police to help with their enquiries. Geoff wondered if his wife had seen an earlier bulletin before she went to work. Who said the camera never lies. As the presenter moved on to the topic of pot holes the picture faded from the screen, but not from his mind’s eye. The body language suggested they knew each other well. When was the picture taken? He always wore the same coat, but it must have been one of the few mornings when it wasn’t raining.
With his job, Geoff was not a familiar figure locally, but friends and a few dog walkers would recognise him. Perhaps their brains would not register it was him linked to a totally different woman.
The woman was new in Puddleminster, he was sure of that. Only newcomers strode enthusiastically down to the beach every morning whatever the weather. Geoff would be on his way back from what his daughter would call a power walk, stopping at the little beach shop to get his newspaper. They would merely smile or say good morning.
He needed that fresh air and exercise before setting off to commute to work in the county hospital. Now nobody would be walking that way for a while with Queen Victoria Memorial Park cordoned off. It had been a shock to hear body parts were found in the park, quiet little Puddleminster-on-Sea. He had certainly not seen any body parts when he went for his lap round the park yesterday morning. Maybe if he had a dog it would have come bounding out of the undergrowth with a hand in its mouth, probably how the grim discovery was made. He chuckled to himself, his career had given him a dark sense of humour, but the police weren’t giving any details.
Then reality resurfaced in his mind. Was there CCTV in the park as well as on the road next to it? Did they also have pictures of him walking early in the park, looking suspicious without a dog? Here was a right dilemma. Should he call the police to explain, no he had missed the special phone number. He could drop in at the little Puddleminster police station, if it was actually open. What would one say. He had no idea who the woman was or where she lived. If she was new in the area it was unlikely anyone else would have recognised her.
There was no time to do anything, he had to leave for work. He could phone his wife from the car, better than keeping quiet and her maybe thinking he was hiding an affair with another woman.
But as he opened the front door he was confronted by two police officers on the front path.
He couldn’t believe this had happened, handcuffed and sitting in the back of a police car. What did they actually say to him? Geoff was so bewildered he sat quietly, to struggle would have suggested guilt. This could be sorted out at the police station, hopefully no one he knew would be strolling by.
It was amazing how much harder it was to get out of a vehicle when you were handcuffed. He just wanted to get inside the building, by the back door if there was one, but they led him straight up the front steps, just in time to see the woman from the photo dash inside. All would be well, she would explain.
Geoff did not get a chance to even exchange a glance with her, he was ushered through a side door and into the interview room, soon joined by a man and woman in plain clothes who introduced themselves as a constable and sergeant. They did not look as if they had ever dealt with a murder, their tactics owed more to television drama than proper procedure. Photos were laid on the table, Geoff striding through the park.
‘This is ridiculous and how did you know where I lived?’
The cocky young DC answered with a smirk.
‘Your wife called the hot line, anxious to explain she was not the woman in the photo, but keen to assure us you always walked that way and were totally innocent.’
The tight lipped woman sergeant leaned in closer.
‘The wives are always the last to have any inkling.’
‘Can you confirm your job and where you work?’
This was not going to look good. When people found out what his work was they would get excited and remark ’Like on that television series.’
‘I’m a pathologist at the hospital and no I don’t chop bodies up, I just find out what disease your great uncle died of.’
The two officers looked at each other and Geoff realised they didn’t appreciate his sense of humour.
‘We have not released any details of the crime scene.’
