Authors: Nicholas Rhea
‘Don’t distress yourself, our Sharon,’ said Mrs Pellow. ‘Think yourself lucky you didn’t take that job on, else it might have been you lying there.’
‘I’ll have to take a short written statement from you,’ said Wayne Wain. ‘But we can do that in the police station, it’s not far away.’
‘I could do with some fish and chips,’ said Mrs Pellow.
‘I think they’ll all be shut now,’ said Wayne. ‘But I reckon we can produce a cup of tea or coffee down at the nick. Come along, and thanks, Sharon. You were great ...’
‘I once had to act a scene like that.’ She was wiping her eyes. ‘Dead awful it was, dead moving an’ all, right weepy. But this is real ...’ And she burst into tears again.
‘While you are taking a statement from Sharon, I shall go into the Incident Room, Wayne, to note the actions we need to set in motion tomorrow morning. We have lots of enquiries to make, Wayne, lots, and don’t forget we need to eliminate the Dunwoodys, Mr Holliday and the Crowthers. I feel we have made a very good start to this investigation.’
‘Shall I drive Sharon and Mrs Pellow home, sir?’ asked Wayne.
‘Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. I don’t think I shall join you on this occasion. I shall walk home to ponder the night’s events.’ Wayne was exceedingly pleased to learn of that decision by Pluke. It meant he would have time to acquaint himself with the luscious Sharon, perhaps to comfort and console her.
After completing his tasks, it was around 1.15 on Friday morning as Detective Inspector Pluke walked alone from the police station, returning via his familiar route, albeit without the presence of the people he normally encountered. Although some traffic was moving, including Dunwoody’s taxi, the town was pleasantly quiet; people were in their homes and most were in their beds, even though a few lounge lights were blazing. He knew that whatever time of night an event occurred, someone, somewhere would be out of bed to witness it, and that his progress through the streets would not go unobserved. Vigilant Crickledonians would be aware that something of major importance had occurred because Mr Pluke was returning from work at such a late hour.
Montague Pluke realised that the ill fortune which would result from starting a venture on a Friday had been overcome because the investigation had started yesterday, a Thursday. And as he walked, he noticed that the full moon was rising above the roofs of the town; it had been full for a few days, he realised.
He began to count. Full moon had been on Monday — he felt sure that the girl had died on Wednesday, i.e. the third day of the full moon. There was an old superstition which said that criminals should beware of committing their crimes on the third day of a full moon, because if they did, their actions on that day almost guaranteed discovery and capture.
As he turned into his garden with the lights still blazing at his home, he was satisfied that the omens were all very good indeed. He felt very confident that he would succeed in solving the case and trusted that Millicent would have his cocoa ready.
*
‘Had a busy day, dear?’ called Millicent from the kitchen as she boiled his milk.
‘Exceedingly.’ He dropped into an easy chair to remove his shoes and replace them with his slippers.
‘I saw you on the television,’ she shouted. ‘You were very good, Montague.’
‘Did they broadcast my appeal for witnesses?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes, and that poor girl. Someone said they had seen you at May’s and Cyril’s bungalow, Montague.’
‘You know I never discuss police business at home, Millicent.’ She came through with his cocoa. ‘And thank you for waiting up.’
‘I was rather worried, you know, but knew you were very busy.’
‘I may be busy other nights too,’ he said, sipping from the mug. ‘I am confident I shall bring the enquiry to a satisfactory conclusion.’
‘I am sure you will,’ she said, heading for the stairs.
‘That girl was not May’s niece, you know,’ he called after her. ‘The Crowthers really should be more careful about their choice of house-sitter.’
‘I am sure you are right, Montague.’ And now she wondered if Montague knew about the nude man at No. 15 Padgett Grove.
Detective Inspector Montague Pluke had looked under the bed before settling down to sleep. It was a nightly ritual. He did it because his mother and grandmother had always looked under the bed before going to sleep, and they had encouraged him to do likewise. As a child, he never questioned the procedure, but come to assume it was something to do with monsters lurking in the dust. It was perfectly true that he had never discovered one there, but as his wisdom matured, he realised that sensible monsters would not hide there anyway, not when the place was inspected on a daily basis. Now, looking under the bed before settling down to sleep had become a habit, a superstitious habit. After all, one never knew what might be lurking there and if there was nothing, then one could sleep more soundly.
Having performed that modest ceremonial Montague Pluke had slept very well indeed. He had rested safe in the knowledge that the enquiry had been blessed with an excellent start and, in spite of his late finish, he awoke next morning at seven, his usual time. He checked his watch, took several deep breaths and climbed from his bed, making sure he left it, as always, on the correct side.
One should never climb out of bed on the left — that was the famous ‘wrong side of the bed’. If people got out of bed on the wrong side, they were agitated, antagonistic, bad-tempered or simply plain awkward for the rest of the day. The reason for this, Montague knew, was that the devil had been seated at the left-hand side of God before being banished from heaven. Since that time, the left had been associated with bad things and ill fortune; for that reason, Montague never voted for Labour. He climbed out of the right-hand side of the bed, therefore, put on his right sock first and then his right slipper. That was essential if a good day was to follow. Then he followed with his left sock and left slipper. Millicent was still snoozing in her own bed as he went about his routine ablutions, but once he was out of the bathroom and dressed, she would climb out of the right side of her bed. Montague insisted that she never got out of the wrong side.
In the bathroom, he followed the same routine as he did each morning — toilet, shave, teeth and shower, with hair washes every other day. He was blessed with a good head of hair, thick but now greying, and was very aware of the ancient belief that hairy people were lucky — and men without hair on their chests were destined to be thieves. Montague had a considerable amount of hair on his chest, he was pleased to note.
It was amazing how many thieves had hairless chests, he had often contemplated, while thinking that that logic might be applied to female shoplifters. Not that he would ever be allowed to inspect the chest regions of a female shoplifter, or any other female criminal. That morning, thinking of women’s chests (probably due, in part, to the experiences of last night) he recalled one of his first arrests. It was a woman he caught late one night, stealing lead from one of the church windows. She had explained she had sore breasts and that she was seeking a cure, something that not every police officer would have believed. She had then gone on to say that one old remedy was to steal lead from a church window and shape it into a heart which had to be worn on a chain around her neck. She had told the court it was a very good cure for sore breasts and was given two years’ probation.
Making a huge effort to turn his mind away from the female anatomy, especially at this time of the morning, he dressed in a clean shirt, put out last night for him by Millicent, donned his famous blue bow-tie, drew his belt tight about his waist and went down to collect the mail and have his breakfast. Montague ate sensible breakfasts with fruit and black coffee, after which, clad as always in his panama, old coat and spats, he left the house precisely on time, having bidden farewell to Millicent.
And so it was that, in the midst of a town rife with rumours and worries about murders and rapists, Detective Inspector Pluke was
en
route
to the police station to begin another day. And today was a Friday. Hangman’s Day. In bygone times, criminals were always hanged on Fridays and since then, criminals have believed that burglaries committed on Fridays are rarely successful. Montague had to admit that the burglary figures for Crickledale were generally lower on a Friday, although that could have something to do with the fact the pubs were open all day, this being market day. Petty criminals spent the day getting too drunk to burgle, he thought, although by tomorrow they would be penniless and breaking into shops and houses to get cash for more drinking, preferably away from Crickledale.
It was during his morning walk through the market square that Montague slipped into Samuel Purslane’s, newsagents. He wished to acquire a copy of all the morning papers to examine them for renditions of events at the Druids’ Circle. As he waited to pay and to request a receipt so that he could recover the cost in his expenses claim, he noticed the array of colourful girlie magazines on the top shelf of the news rack and was tempted to buy copies of those too, to see whether he recognised any of the artistes or interiors of houses. But he felt his actions might be misconstrued. He settled for a copy of each of the national dailies and the local weeklies. But as he was paying Samuel he noticed a black beetle crawling across Samuel’s shoe. ‘You have a visitor, Mr Purslane.’ He pointed to the shoe as the shopkeeper was totting up the amount on the till.
‘They come from the storeroom, Mr Pluke,’ said Purslane, using Montague’s copy of the
Guardian
to flick away the beetle. It fell to the floor and made for the open doorway, Purslane allowing it to have its freedom because the totting up of Mr Pluke’s large order was of more immediate interest. But the incident worried Pluke — it presented such a riddle.
He managed to reconcile matters as he continued towards the police station with a look of determination beneath his panama. Montague Pluke knew that, in observing him that morning, the residents would realise they had a champion in their midst. Mr Pluke would catch the killer, they knew; Mr Pluke could not let them down.
‘Nasty business up at the Circle, Mr Pluke,’ was the oft-repeated phrase as he progressed through the town.
‘Indeed, yes, a very nasty business,’ was his unsmiling response.
‘You’ll soon be announcing an arrest, I expect,’ was the second most oft-repeated comment.
‘We are making very positive progress,’ was his solemn response, the sort of reply he would give to the newspapers at this morning’s press conference. After much panama-lifting, smiling and wishing of good-mornings to everyone from Moses Nettlewren to Whistling Jasper, plus a few asides about the thundery feeling which persisted in the air, Montague arrived at the police station. He was a few minutes later than normal and perspiring slightly, partly due to his diversion into the paper shop and partly because he’d been hailed so many times by so many people. He had been spoken to by more than the usual number of Crickledonians and he regarded that as a sign of his increased stature within the community. Now he was beginning to understand how members of the royal family felt while attempting to do ordinary things like buy clothes or park their cars.
‘You’re a bit late this morning, Mr Pluke,’ noticed Mrs Gossip, the cleaner who was finishing off her polishing of the public enquiry and reception area. He stepped over her mop, leading with his right foot, throwing caution to the wind. There was probably some ancient advice about not stepping over mops, because if that had been a broom which had fallen, you should never step over it. That is a sure way of bringing bad fortune, just as unmarried girls should never step over a brush. It means they will become pregnant before marriage.
‘I have been putting at rest the minds of the citizens about recent events,’ he told the inquisitive woman. ‘I have been giving reassurance to the townspeople, putting the corporate mind of Crickledale at ease. My conversations this morning show that Crickledonians are very concerned about what goes on in their home town and, more important, it shows they have great faith in me and my officers. Such a rapport between police and public is most reassuring.’
‘I do hope you catch the bloke what did it, Mr Pluke; there again, I’m sure you will.’ Mrs Gossip stood erect, clutching the mop to her shoulder like a guardsman on parade; she seemed to be preparing for a long conversation. ‘I said to my best friend, Alice, I said ...’
‘I must get on, Mrs Gossip. As you rightly said, I am rather late and have a lot to do this morning.’ He managed to create a useful distance between himself and the aptly named earwigging lady.
Before Mrs Gossip had an opportunity to respond, he poked his head around the Control Room door to ask, ‘Anything dramatic to report, Sergeant?’
‘All quiet overnight, sir. I think news of our intense activity has kept the criminals at bay. You can’t beat a session of house-to-house enquiries for putting the wind up the villains,’ responded Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield.
‘Good. Is Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain in?’
‘Yes, sir, he said to tell you he’s in the Incident Room if you want him; he was in very early, sir.’
‘A good man, is Detective Sergeant Wain, very dedicated.’ Pluke smiled.
‘I don’t think he’s been to bed, sir, he was with a woman all night,’ retorted the sergeant.
‘I hope his endeavours were fruitful and he was conducting meaningful enquiries, Sergeant,’ replied Pluke, closing the door and heading for his own CID office. He would check his in-tray before heading into the Incident Room, knowing that once he got involved with the drama of this investigation he would have no time for routine duties. Placing the newspapers on his desk for Mrs Plumpton to scan and take the necessary cuttings, it took a mere half-hour to straighten his desk after Mrs Gossip’s dusting and cleaning, to deal with his mail and to dictate replies to Mrs Plumpton in yet another of her flowing, chest-concealing dresses.
Only then did he enter the Incident Room, exhorting Mrs Plumpton to follow as soon as possible. He advised her to bring her routine work to the Incident Room, she could complete it there. When he entered shortly after 9.30 a.m., it was full of detectives. The morning CID conference was due to start at 10 a.m., followed by a news conference for journalists at 10.45 a.m. Detective Inspector Horsley would have prepared the Action Book and divided the detectives into teams of two, some comprising a detective sergeant and a detective constable, others being made up of two detective constables.
In any murder enquiry, there was a lot of administration, lists of detectives to compile particularly so that overtime payments could be made, duty rotas to be completed and tea money collected. There would also be a sweepstake to see how many guessed the name of the arrested suspect — the frame, a mock-up of a bookie’s frame at a race meeting, was already hanging from a hook on the wall.
The finder of the body, Stephen Winton, was being quoted at evens — most felt he’d be arrested eventually as the culprit. In fact, no other name was in the frame — but Montague felt there would be one or two additions before the day was over. What would be the odds, he wondered, on Dunwoody, Holliday or the Crowthers? Even before Detective Inspector Pluke was able to settle in his chair, Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain appeared in the doorway. He looked unshaven, haggard and tired, his skin having faded to a dull shade of grey and his eyes looking like tea holes in the snow.
‘Have been working all night?’ commented Pluke, indicating a chair.
‘Yes, sir, you could say that.’ Wayne sank on to the chair with a loud sigh. ‘I thought I should speak to you before you addressed the assembled detectives.’
‘A productive night’s work, then?’ Inspector Pluke smiled.
‘Beyond all doubt, sir.’ Wayne sounded exhausted.
‘Perhaps, after our conference, you should go home for a few hours’ rest?’ Pluke was concerned about the welfare of his officers and it was folly to expect a man to work all day and all night without refreshments and relaxation. Wayne looked awful; he was in dire need of sleep.
‘I’ll see how I get on, sir,’ he said, not wishing to admit that Sharon had greeted the morning as fresh as the proverbial daisy. Insatiable, she’d been. ‘I might survive the day ...’
‘So, Wayne, what did you learn last night?’
It was a loaded question which could produce lots of fascinating answers but Wayne realised that his boss was referring to the investigation.
‘On the way to West Hartlepool last night, sir, Sharon Pellow took me to the studio, Ron’s place. And Ron was there. We did not admit that I was a police officer, sir. Filming was going on, on a set that looked like a Greek temple. Many of the cast have full-time jobs, so they work on the films late in the evenings. I was able to speak to several of the cast.’
‘Well done. A wonderful piece of luck. Highly commendable. So what did you learn, Wayne?’
Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain had discovered that Ron was really called Marcel Boussicourt, but for his work in England he had adopted the pseudonym of Ron Brown. He produced what he described as artistic cinematograph films and videos which were for sale to clubs and societies, chiefly by mail order. Members could opt to receive them through the post in plain brown envelopes. He also arranged still photographs of naked women for a range of magazines both in the UK and overseas.
‘Pornographic material, you mean, Wayne?’
‘They describe it as having artistic merit, sir, films with finesse, aesthetic artwork, lots of stagecraft with virtuoso performances.’