‘I don’t know why you bother buying the Echo, there’s never any news in it.’
‘I thought I would find out what happened round the corner yesterday, headline on the front page.’
‘Nothing happened yesterday.’
‘Why were there three police cars then? Here it is…
Man Arrested in Dunholme Avenue. Charlie Sharp who lives in Dunholme Avenue said “We don’t usually get police cars around here, I don’t know what was going on.”
Masie Mason said “I was just returning from walking Alfie my poodle and I was astonished to see the commotion, it’s usually very quiet around here. I saw a man being put in the back of the police car.”
Another neighbour who wished to remain anonymous said “Someone just moved into that house. It’s very worrying, this used to be a nice neighbourhood.”
Jack, who did not want to give his surname, said “I was just coming out of my front door to take Bubbles my cockerpoo for a walk, we always go the same time each day, when he started barking and I said What’s up Bubbles? Then I saw three police cars driving off. The people that lived there before had a dog, Bubbles’ best friend, he was a caverpoo. I don’t think the new people have a dog.”
The Echo contacted Hambourne police station, but a spokesperson said they could not comment.
The Echo should have interviewed me, I could have told them about all those screams I heard the night before.’
Clarissa was having a wonderful evening. At last, as a volunteer with Seven Valley Community Support, she was getting to do something exciting and useful. With power lines down, the community centre was lit with candles and battery torches. Computers were down and all they had were clipboards and pen and paper. Clarissa was in charge of the list, or registering unhoused arrivals as she put it. Her excitement grew when a young policeman pushed his way through the throng.
‘Has anybody been reported missing yet?’
‘No, all accounted for.’
‘Not so apparently, the station got a frantic call from a mother who said she had not heard from her daughter and she is not answering her mobile. She just moved into that cottage by the river, umm Little Nile?’
‘Oh goodness, surely no one is living there after what happened last year? The name?’
‘Whose name?’
‘The daughter.’
‘Oh yes, of course. Flora Dora.’
‘Are you sure? Obviously not from around here then. Anyone else living there?’
‘Her boyfriend, Jim James.’
Clarissa clapped her hands to gain attention, unsuccessfully. The police officer moved in front of her, glad of the chance to assert his authority and put on his crowd control voice.
‘Urgent, we need to know if we have a Flora Dora and a Jim James here.’
There was no response.
‘They just moved into Little Nile cottage.’
There was a collective gasp and urgent mutterings.
‘They’ll be gonners by now.’
‘Yup, cottage submerged completely.’
‘Even if they got out the river will have taken them.’
The policeman moved among them trying to get any useful information.
‘They would have heard the alerts and the red warnings.’
‘Not unless they have registered for Seven Flood Alert or got the app.’
‘Slim chance they might have made it up to the road, but that’s blocked off.’
‘The army,’ called Clarissa ‘my nephew’s out there on a training exercise with the Ukrainians.’
‘Training them?’
‘No, the Ukrainians are training our lot, they can drive tanks in the most awful conditions.’
Flora and Jim had started walking along the road, best case scenario they would meet a vehicle. Worst case scenario they would have to keep walking till they came to a house or the town. Neither of them mentioned the actual Worst Case Scenario, not that they could hear a word they said to each other, nor could they read each other’s expressions. All they could hear or see was the relentless rain. Perhaps it was fortunate they had to keep their thoughts to themselves, cosy memories of their parents’ boring little suburban houses…
It was so dark now, no street lights, not even any distant lights. There was no distance so they did not see the solid darkness looming out of the general darkness and barely heard the shouts. When they were blinded by a bright beam they had no chance of seeing anything.
‘Are you lost?’
‘Of course they’re lost corporal, not out for an evening stroll and get that torch out of their eyes.’
‘Soldiers’ stammered Flora through chartering teeth ‘are we on the firing range?’
‘No, but you must have a death wish, didn’t you heed the warnings? Names?’
They tried to say their names, but their frozen mouths did not seem to work. The soldiers got close and yelled ‘Are you Flora Dora and Jim James?’
They nodded vigorously.
‘The whole of the British army is out looking for you and half the Ukrainian army to boot.’
At the community centre Clarissa took charge of the new arrivals, she was not going to be upstaged.
‘Priority registration, have they got any rooms left at Premiere Inn, how’s the hot food coming along, we need two survivor kits over here right now, one men’s one ladie’s.’
She felt just like the United Nations or Medecine Sans Frontieres, though the survivor packs merely contained donated second hand clothes.
Flora and Jim soon became celebrities.
‘A good way to get to know the locals’ laughed Flora, almost restored to her normal self with hot chocolate.
‘And a free night at Premiere Inn hopefully’ added Jim.
‘Well your cottage will still be there, it’s withstood centuries of floods, though they are getting worse.’
‘Yup, it should be dried out by next August‘ added another local.
‘Are you sure you’ll be alright on your own Mum with Dad in the Antarctic?’
‘Everest base camp.’
‘Wherever, I know it’s somewhere cold and far away.’
I was of course looking forward to the peace and quiet. Naturally I had the normal worries about Amy going off to Australia for her gap year, but I was sure she had inherited her father’s adventurous but capable spirit. She was going with Lizzy her sensible best friend, inseparable since nursery.
The first week it was strange, but friends at work suggested a few outings, glad to have a break from their own husbands who showed no inclination to leave Ealing, let alone go on adventures broad.
I had always had Amy and Ben keeping me busy when Kit was away. Now Ben was grown up, in theory at least and teaching English as a foreign language somewhere nearer to Everest than Ealing.
The new girl at work was very quiet, but apparently she was highly regarded down in packing, where I used to work as a part timer when the children were in primary school. She was dexterous and quick and could pack anything. The company specialised in delivering high quality food in designer biodegradable boxes. We would source and deliver any request from romantic ready dinners to Tower Bridge birthday cakes.
I had progressed to tasting and testing and then upwards to the busy office, where we would source unlikely ingredients and make sure no delivery was ever late. I don’t think Kit or the children ever appreciated what a high powered and stressful job I did, especially in the last half a dozen years with all the world’s troubles affecting supplies.
Our boss likes to look after his staff, it’s why I have stayed so long. I was the first to agree we should hang on to Flinty, the new girl. What I didn’t expect was to become a foster mother.
When the boss said ‘You have a spare room now you’re an empty nester?’
I replied ‘…sort of.’
Flinty had never revealed much about her life and everyone in packing seemed to have heard a different version. Her family lived up north, her mother had gone off to Spain to find herself, her father had just gone off. She was house sharing with uni students, she was house sharing with drug addicts, she was living with her boyfriend’s parents, an aunt had taken her in.
Whatever the truth, it now seemed she was not living anywhere and there was no longer a boyfriend. All she needed was somewhere to sleep for a few nights and HR were going to look into finding her somewhere. She came home with me that evening.
I wasn’t sure how to be a landlady, was I in loco parentis or was she just a lodger? I made us both dinner, thinking of the cosy TV meal I had planned for myself. While it was in the oven I rushed up to Amy’s room and grabbed her personal things and some of the clothes in her wardrobe and stashed everything in Kit’s office that had one been Ben’s bedroom.
Flinty was happy with the room and approved of Amy’s décor. I was thankful I had persuaded Kit last year we should absorb the box room into our bedroom and create an en-suite shower room. Flint was very happy to have exclusive use of the family bathroom.
The next morning we established she would help herself to breakfast, especially as she started work earlier than me. She also assured me that she did not expect me to cook for her and she would ‘sort herself out’.
Over the next few days I realised this meant endless ready meals, mainly eaten in her/Amy’s room. She really wasn’t too much trouble, except for the bin filling up with the ready meal packaging and the washing machine being on when I was in bed. It wasn’t for long, I consoled myself and I only had to call the police once.
I don’t know how the angry ex boyfriend found out where she lived, but she was not pleased to see him, hysterical in fact. The poor neighbours wondered what all the shouting and breaking glass was about and also called the police. We were quite impressed how quickly they turned up. I think old Audrey next door had mentioned guns. The main thing was they took him away and I made coffee for the three of us as the nice woman police officer stayed for a good while. Strangely she had apparently met Flinty before and was surprised I did not know ‘what was going on.’
Flinty retreated to bed as soon as the officer had left. The next morning she sat eating her cereal as if nothing had happened and was soon out the door and off to work.
I checked my phone, not expecting any messages yet from Kit. It was long agreed that I would only hear if there was an emergency when communication was so difficult, so I got a fright when I saw a text message home tonight, broken ankle, don’t worry.
Kit had a charmed life, no harm ever seemed to come to him. At least he wasn’t in hospital and an ankle was hardly the end of the world, but what a time for it to happen. I messaged back to get some idea what time he might arrive, then I had to get myself off to work.
No mention was made of last night’s adventure, if Flinty had told them down in packing, the gossip had not made it upstairs. I got one text from Kit and decided I could just get home before he arrived back.
As I walked up my garden path the front door was flung open, it was not Kit, but Amy.
‘Mum, we’ve had burglars, my room!’
Before I could explain I saw a police car come round the corner followed by a taxi. It was the police woman from last night.
‘Nothing to worry about, this is just a welfare visit.’
Kit was hobbling up the garden path behind her.
Flinty disappeared, she did not return to our house and was never seen at work again. Somehow that made it harder to explain to Kit and Amy what had been going on, when it was as if she had never existed.
The police officer questioned me as if I was hiding her and questioned Amy and Kit as to whether they were involved in ‘all this business.’
Kit questioned Amy as to why on earth she was back so soon. It transpired that she had realised she didn’t like travelling, especially when Lizzie met a chap in the first week and decided to cross the Nullabor Plain with him in his camper van.
‘I don’t care where or how, as long as he is never ever found. You will do it as soon as possible and never contact me. When he does not return home I will assume it is done and after a few days I will report him missing and the second instalment will appear in your bank account. If a year passes with me receiving only sympathy from the police, you will receive the final substantial payment.’
They nodded in agreement and my aides entered the room to blindfold the three men again and escort them out to a waiting vehicle. It was a one hundred mile drive back to the outskirts of the city. I had every faith that the hefty first payment they were given a week ago would ensure they carried out their task.
I had never trusted Phillip’s partner, but for this plan I did. We had the same aim with neither of us getting blood on our hands. His contacts in the underworld had provided contract killers who could not be traced back to Phil or us. It was costing me very little as I had been syphoning money from Phil’s various bank accounts for years. His patronising assumption that I could just about manage the little personal and housekeeping accounts he had set up for me worked to my advantage. Phil also assumed I was only capable of using the old computer in my sewing room for dipping into social media.
It was on an ordinary shopping trip that an unexpected problem arose. I was just putting my shopping for one in the boot when a rough looking girl ran over to me crying that her bag had been stolen. She begged to borrow my phone to call the police. I wasn’t going to fall for that one and have my phone stolen, but she looked genuinely upset and reassured me I could keep my phone safely in my own hands and call the police, then put it on speaker so she could speak to them.
I weakened and let the false cosy image I projected 99% of the time take over. Ordinary anxious menopausal housewife meekly dialled 999.
‘Emergency, which service do you require. Fire, police or ambulance?’
‘Police, hurry’ cried the girl.
‘Police, how can I help you?’
To my astonishment the bag was not mentioned. The girl stammered in panic…
‘In the office in the old Jackson shoe factory you’ll find Phil Hardy’s body in a broken cupboard.’
‘Can I have your name please’ the calm voice spoke from my phone.
The girl looked directly at me, pointed at me, then whispered ‘Your phone, your name – goodbye…’
She was gone in a flash.
‘Caller’s name please’ the remote voice repeated.
The police are never around when you want them. I terminated the call, but already I could hear sirens. I didn’t know local big businessmen warranted such an urgent response, I had been pleased they hadn’t seemed interested in his disappearance. Now he was dead, or perhaps still a live body all three emergency services were turning up. Fair enough, the building was on the verge of collapse and I would not want anyone risking their lives for Phillip.
I was slipping into the driver’s seat to go home, play the shocked widow if they brought terrible news, but in seconds a uniformed chap was banging on the window.
‘So glad you’re here officer, I was just tricked into handing over my phone. This girl made a hoax call about my poor missing husband.’
‘Hopefully it is a hoax Madam, we will soon know, but prepare yourself, they are checking the building right this moment.’
I don’t think they were sure whether to arrest me or offer support with the Police Liasson officer. After a cup of tea at the police station it was decided to let me go home as a person of interest, with police protection in case whoever murdered my husband also wanted to kill me and presumably so I could not leave. They didn’t use the word murder or tell me any details, but it was soon all over local social media. My every day phone was kept at the police station, nothing incriminating on that one. I slipped into my ensuite bathroom with my iPad and read on the local Facebook page comments that would probably be rapidly deleted in the interests of good taste.
Decomposing body still recognisable as missing businessman Phil Hardy.
Urban explorers find more than they bargained for.
Teenage couple left traumatised as body topples out of cupboard.
His flesh was falling off his face.
His eyeballs rolled out.
Whatever possessed the killers to stick him in a cupboard in a building near our local shops and our house? Well, I certainly wouldn’t be using their services again, nor would they get the final payment next year. Maybe I should not have told them our address, but how could they have tracked Phillip down without knowing where he lived?
Florella was bored, very bored. Shopping was not the way to spend a sunny summer day. She was nine, too old to be stuck with her mother in the freezer aisle. Her mother was not even shopping, just gossiping with her friend. They could never go round the supermarket without meeting someone they knew, but suddenly an escape idea presented itself. Her mother would not even notice if she walked out of the shop.
Outside the sun was warm on her face and Florella’s arms began to thaw out after the cold of the freezer aisle. Her feet took on a direction of their own and propelled her down the road, down the lane and towards the park by the river. But as she approached, Florella thought she must have gone the wrong way. This was not the park. Caravans were parked beneath shady trees, there were patches of wonderful bright green grass where the sun reached. It was magical, where was she? The strange place, the adventure of really running away, made her brave enough to explore.
The grass was still wet after yesterday’s rain, but she did not care if she got her feet wet. Florella sauntered amongst the caravans. All the doors were closed except one. She wasn’t quite brave enough to look inside, but didn’t need to as a girl suddenly popped out.
‘Hello, what are you doing here girl, you don’t belong to the circus.’
‘Circus, what circus?’
‘You can’t have missed our big top!’
‘I was looking for the park and I found myself here.’
The girl put her finger to her lip and beckoned Florella to follow. Sure enough, beyond the trees and caravans was an enormous tent. The girl led Florella to a small flap.
‘We’re not allowed in, they’re practising, one tiny peep.’
Florella looked at the jumble of people inside doing acrobatics, rolling over barrels and swinging on ropes. She was entranced, but felt a tight grip on her arm and found herself being dragged away. Her disappointment was brief as she found herself propelled into the girl’s caravan.
‘What’s your name girl and what were you up to sneaking round?’
‘Ella and I’ve run away.’
‘Oh so have me and my Dad, maybe you could join the circus, we’re leaving in three days, on the road again. Will you be my friend, I never have a chance to make friends as we have to keep moving, but it’s a good way to make sure no one finds us.’
‘What is your name and how old are you?’
‘I’m Magdalena, nine years old.’
Magdalena’s life sounded far more exciting than Florella’s, even the other girl’s name was exotic.
‘Same age as me. Actually my full name is Florella because I was adopted after they found me in a flower meadow,’
Florella did not usually tell lies, but then she didn’t usually run away to join a circus. The caravan was full of colourful costumes and all sorts of strange objects, hoops, skittles, trumpets…
‘Do you perform in the circus?’
‘Not yet, I have to learn, Dad’s going to teach me.’
Magdalena started showing Florella all the things that were called props and told her about clowns and girls standing three people high in a pyramid. Florella felt in a dream until voices shouting broke the spell.
‘Ella, Ella are you here, Florella are you here, your mother’s looking for you.’
Florella felt sick, who was looking for her, how had they found her? She stood up in panic, but Magdalena pushed her back down on a pile of costumes and pulled the door shut.
‘Shsh…they must not find us.’
No sooner had she spoken than the door was wrenched open and a man burst in. He had the angriest expression she had ever seen on a grown up’s face as he turned from Florella to Magdalena.
‘What the hell is going on Mags?’
‘Dad, it’s okay, she’s my friend.’
‘What have I told you about strangers, now she’s got the police onto us.’
Florella was really scared now, she hadn’t called the police and why was he so worried. The last she saw of her new friend was her being hauled out of the caravan by a pair of big tattooed arms. Trembling she peered out the door, but Magdalena and her father seemed to have vanished into thin air.
The voices were getting louder, men’s and women’s voices.
‘Florella Fenton are you okay, Ella call out if you’re here. No one’s cross with you. Over here Sarge, caravan.’
Ella tried to shut herself behind the caravan door, but a large hand grabbed it.
‘It’s okay, what’s your name?’
Florella thought she probably should not lie to a policeman, nor did she want to get her new friend in trouble, she must think quickly.
‘Oh that’s a nice dog.’
‘He’s a clever dog, he found you quickly.’
‘I was not lost, I just came to have a look at the circus.’
‘That’s okay then, but you must tell me your name.’
‘Ella… Florella Fenton.’
‘Good girl, now did you meet anyone from the circus?’
‘No, NO.. I’m sorry I looked in someone’s caravan, will they be cross?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll explain. Your mother will be here in a moment.’
Florella dared to look up and saw a group of annoyed looking people in strange costumes, they obviously were cross. A woman with bright red lipstick and a strange hairstyle stepped forward.
‘We don’t want trouble, we never seen her before, what’s she saying?’
‘Ella, have you met any of these people?’
Florella felt she had a brief chance before her mother arrived and no doubt she would be cross and spoil everything.
‘No, I’m sorry I trespassed, but can I join your circus?’
‘Do you think you might be a bit young to leave home, it’s not an easy life and you would have to help put up the tent.’
Ella got the impression the other circus people were laughing at her and so were the police officers now gathered. Red lipstick woman came closer and stood in front of the policeman.
‘Free tickets for the girl and her family and your officers and you leave us in peace; every year we come and never had trouble.’
Florella thought it might be a good idea to see a circus in action before joining it and as she saw her mother approaching and tried to interpret the expression on her mother’s face, she hoped the free tickets would placate her.
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.
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.
She didn’t even know his name, but there they were on the local news as the couple sought after by police to help with their enquiries. Lottie Lincoln, new in Puddleminster-on-Sea, hadn’t imagined the little town even had CCTV. The recently widowed writer had moved here for peace and quiet and anonymity.
Lottie walked past Queen Victoria Memorial Park every morning on her way to the beach. The locals were friendly and the man was one of several regulars who passed her and smiled or said good morning. She had no idea when the picture might have been taken, most mornings she had the same coat on. Though the picture had now faded from the television screen it was imprinted on her mind, two strangers exchanging a smile on a sunny morning looked like a couple exchanging intimate words.
No one was walking past Queen Victoria Memorial Park now, the whole area cordoned off by police tape, including the adjoining sea front. Lottie had been shocked to hear on the local news that a murder had been committed in the lovely park full of daffodils. Or at least body parts had been found, presumably the murder could have been committed anywhere. Police were not revealing how many or what sort of body parts. Surely they did not think she had been carrying a foot or hand in her back pack? The man never carried anything except a newspaper. Men were lucky with all their pockets and these days the chaps probably only carried a phone and door keys. If this man was married he might not even need his keys. Married… if his wife saw that picture she might assume the worst, an affair… an affair with a younger woman. Lottie guessed he was older than her and was rather insulted to have it assumed they were a couple.
None of this was like one of her novels; crime and forensics were avoided, though she did fancy writing a psychological drama. How would the lives of innocent people be affected by a terrible crime? But this was real life and what should she do now? Would the man go to the police station, did they mention a number to ring?
Time for her walk, she needed to get out in the fresh air to think, walking was her therapy for any stressful situation. Lottie set off to the little parade of shops and cafes that passed for a town centre; she could at least see if the weekly local paper had caught the news in time. Somehow her feet led her to the quaint old police station. She wasn’t even sure if it would be open to the public with all those cut backs, but now she was here she must try. The feisty heroines in her novels would not hesitate, though they usually only had romantic problems to deal with.
As she mounted the stone steps to the door she heard a car and turned to see a police vehicle draw up at the roadside. Two officers emerged and extracted a person from the back seat; it was the man from the picture and he was handcuffed. Any idea that prisoners were taken in the back door was quashed when he was led towards her. She could not retreat and in panic pushed open the door and rushed inside to get out of their way.
Inside, the front desk was unattended. Lottie edged into the corner and pretended to be totally absorbed in the posters about safety at cash machines and zipping up your shopping bags. When she risked turning to look they were already disappearing through a door. Lottie fled back outside, feeling as guilty as if she had committed a crime.
She was soon back in her little cottage, the door firmly closed behind her. Had someone dobbed that man in or had he confessed? He could be innocent, dobbed in by an enemy, or perhaps his wife recalled him coming home in blood stained clothes… No one knew her and even fans of her books were unlikely to recognise the windswept CCTV picture; the Lottie Lincoln author photo on the back of her novels was very different.
The lunchtime news merely showed lots of forensic suits trampling over the daffodils in the park. But the evening news headlined with the arrest of a man who was being kept in custody for further questioning.
‘Police believe a woman caught on CCTV at Puddleminster Police Station is the woman caught on camera with the arrested man. Chief Inspector MacDonald has urged her to come forward to help with their enquiries and stressed that there is no suggestion she was involved in any way with the crime.’
‘Phillip, come in here quick, your mother’s on the television.’
‘A police spokesman said if it were not for the quick thinking of grandmother Abigail Morgan the incident could have become a tragedy.’
‘I just happened to glance out of my kitchen window last night before I went to watch the news and I noticed an altercation across the road. When I saw a man take a pair of ballet shoes and then a huge hammer from the boot of his car, I knew I must call the police.’
‘Were you worried they would arrive too late?’
‘I wasn’t sure if they would arrive at all, so I rushed outside.’
‘I don’t believe it, I knew we shouldn’t have let Mother live there.’
‘Phillip, it wasn’t up to you, she’s quite capable of making her own decisions, though she must be regretting her choice now.’
‘She had better stay with us until we can get that place sold. I’ll ring Oakdene and see if that flat is still available.’
‘I’m sure she won’t want to stay with us… oh shoosh , they’re talking to some of her weird neighbours.’
‘There’s always trouble around here since they opened that half way house.’
‘We’ve never had anything like this before, it’s a lovely quiet road, lots of families.’
‘There is a lot of confusion as to what actually happened here last night and why the arrested man was bizarrely waving a pair of ballet shoes in one hand and a sledge hammer in the other. Neighbours have spoken of seeing the white car parked regularly in this road, but nobody could name him. Police reassured locals that this was an isolated incident with no danger to the public. A local dog walker did not see what happened, but knows the Supergran well.’
‘I always walk this way to the park and have a chat with Abigail. I can’t believe she tackled a mad axeman alone.’
‘Ah, a police inspector is about to address the crowd of concerned neighbours.’
‘Police response was prompt last night and officers bravely disarmed a man in his early forties.’
‘They only caught him because that old lady had already squirted pepper spray in his eyes.’
‘Yeah and it’s the first time in twenty years I’ve seen police down this road.’
‘The arrested man is in hospital under police guard with eye injuries believed to be caused by a domestic cleaning product. He is not known to police and does not appear to have any mental health issues. I would ask that members of the public do not speculate on social media about what happened.’
Abigail made yet another cup of tea. After a second formal police interview she was looking forward to a more relaxed chat with a young woman reporter and a cameraman. She had tried to keep her answers to the police confined to the stark facts, but would have loved to be outside with the other neighbours speculating further. Abigail had been awake most of the night, sitting up in bed with her iPad and phone, following and contributing to the local Facebook page and WhatsApp group.
‘I believe you refused medical treatment last night Mrs Morgan?’
‘Of course, nothing wrong with me. Though I feel I’m under arrest, a police woman stayed here all night, don’t know what they thought was going to happen.’
‘You don’t have any family nearby?’
‘Oh yes, my son and daughter-in-law on the other side of town. I moved here to be nearer them.’
‘They must have been concerned about what happened.’
‘I didn’t bother to tell them and everyone here has been very nice.’
‘Would it be too upsetting for you to tell us what happened?’
‘No not at all. I don’t know the couple across the road or the man with the white car. I do know most of the neighbours well. I can’t imagine why he threw a pair of ballet shoes at her, but then it got scary when he approached the husband with that huge hammer.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I just grabbed a bottle from under the sink, not sure what it was, forensics have taken it away. I saw that on a TV drama once.’
Abigail watched with satisfaction as the camera kept rolling.
‘I must apologise for the awful wallpaper, I haven’t been here long, I want to redecorate this room. I always notice the wallpaper when they interview people in their homes…’
She heard a familiar voice at the front door and hoped the police officer on guard would keep everyone out till her interview was finished.
‘…I’m Phillip Morgan her son, why wasn’t I informed, I found out from the television.’
‘Sorry sir, I believe Mrs Morgan said there were no relatives she needed to contact.’
Phillip walked into the tiny lounge as soon as the cameraman walked out and gave him the all clear.
‘Don’t think you’ll get a word in edgeways.’
‘Oh Phillip, there was no need to come over. This is Felicity Wordsmith, have you seen her on the local news? We’re just having a debriefing, off the record. I’m giving her a few tips so she can do one of those investigative reports. One of the neighbours said on Facebook last night that the wife used to be a ballet dancer, so looks like the boyfriend also was a dancer, a famous couple perhaps until she went off to dance with someone else. You and Sandra go to the ballet, do you think you might have seen them?’
‘Mother, the police have told neighbours not to spec…’
‘Felicity thinks White Car Man is the real husband and came to claim her back from the chap she ran away with.’
‘No, no I was just posing that as a possibility to show we have no grounds to make any suppositions…’
‘All the more reason for us to seek out the truth.’
The day got off to a bad start when I put the remote control in my bag instead of my phone.
As John was away on his business trip to Taiwan I was taking the car to work. Oliver rushed out the door saying ‘Bye Mum, don’t forget we’re all going round Roache’s tonight and I’m staying over ready for the match tomorrow.’
I had forgotten and had no idea who Roach was or where he lived. Since we moved to the new house Oliver spent even less time at home and frequently reminded us he had not wanted to move. But as John said, Oliver would be off to uni. next year and we couldn’t miss the opportunity to move to a place that was perfect for us, with room for John to work from home. The new estate was a good few stations further out from our old house and the town, but Oliver could get to school and me to work on the train.
I looked forward to a peaceful Friday evening. I could get a big shop on the way home as I had the car, a bottle of wine perhaps and Piza delivered.
I didn’t notice my mistake till I was in the office and went to check if John had left a message. The others thought it hilarious when I brandished the remote control.
‘Well it’s either the menopause or the stress of moving that’s done my brain in.’ I joined in their laughter.
I was always complaining Oliver never put his phone down for five minutes, so I was sure I could cope without my phone for one day.
At lunchtime I started to realise the implications of my mistake. How would I pay for lunch in the canteen? In my phone case was my bank card, but half the time I didn’t use that, I paid for things with my phone. ‘No one carries a purse around these days Mother’ Oliver had said frequently. Annie offered to pay. If I had known what lay ahead I would have had a good hot meal instead of a sandwich. Shopping was off my agenda, but I didn’t need anything urgently and why waste my precious evening going round the busy supermarket.
I drove home in a good mood, no waiting on a chilly platform for a train that might not come because of strikes or yet another landslide with all this rain we had been having. The sat nav came in handy because now it was dark I was not so sure I knew the way to our new house. Finally I was on the dark road by the common, home was not far and I would be glad to spot the street lights of the estate. But what I spotted were blue flashing lights, red flashing lights, yellow lights… what was going on? A yellow jacket flagged me down and I noticed barriers across the road. I was not sure who or what the yellow jacket was. A woman’s voice spoke.
‘Good evening Madam, police, I’m afraid we have set road blocks up, there has been an incident, or rather there is an ongoing incident, or I should say we are preparing for a major incident.’
‘What do you mean, it’s so quiet here. Which way shall I go, I have to get home.’
‘I’m afraid several roads are in lockdown, are you a local?’
‘Oakdene Avenue.’
‘I am sorry, but Oakdene Avenue is at the centre of the incident.’
‘What sort of incident?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t disclose that.’
‘But what am I supposed to do, my husband’s in Taiwan.’
‘The other residents popped to friends’ or to the Harvester I think. Are you in the Oakdene Neighbourhood Whatsap group?’
‘No, we just moved in, I don’t know anybody.’
‘Give me your phone number and I will add your name, then you will get update messages and we can let you know if we have to arrange overnight accommodation for residents.’
‘I left my phone at home…’
Before I could say any more another car pulled up behind me and she left to give them the bad news.
On the pavement I saw a poor old lady standing alone. More to comfort myself than her I got out and went over.
‘I just got off the bus, oh dear, do you know what’s going on?’
‘No idea, we just moved into Oakdene Avenue and my husband’s in Taiwan and my son’s gone round to Roache’s house and I left my phone at home…’
‘Never mind, you can borrow my phone and call your son, or a friend.’
That’s when I realised I knew no one’s numbers, family or friends. Numbers stored in my phone, just tap the name you wanted to call…
‘I suppose you don’t remember the numbers, modern technology’ she chuckled ‘never mind dear, why don’t I call our local taxi company for you, they are very good.’
Where would I go, even if I had any means to pay the driver I had no idea where Roach lived. I heard a car draw up.
‘Oh here’s my lift, lucky I had my phone, I called my brother. My sister-in-law will have a good hot dinner waiting.’
And there she was gone. More emergency vehicles kept arriving, but I couldn’t see my police officer. I got back in the car to warm up and scrabbled around in the glove box for the car park purse. There should be enough change to buy a cup of coffee, perhaps even some chips in the café at that Tesco superstore a few miles back up the road. I could sit in the warm, restore my equilibrium then drive back to see if it was all clear. There should be plenty of change, we always paid for car parks with our phone these days… I couldn’t find the purse. I recalled John tidying up the car ‘Don’t know why we still keep this old purse in here.’
Plan, plan, think of a plan. The logical thing would be to drive back to where we used to live, though it was a good distance and not an easy drive in the dark. Who would I call on? Cassandra and Dan were in Australia. Other friends, a bit embarrassing as I had failed to send any Christmas cards in the madness of moving and hadn’t even sent any text messages. Nobody wants to be disturbed on a dark winter’s night when they are all cosy at home. What on earth would I say, the whole situation sounded ridiculous. On this dark cold lonely night I wondered how many real friends I had back in the old neighbourhood. Probably only Cassandra. There was only one way to find out who was in and who might offer a welcome.
I started the engine and various warning lights started flashing. I recalled John’s parting words ‘I’ll miss you Darling, oh by the way, the tank’s nearly on empty so make sure you fill her up when you leave in the morning.’
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 