Authors: Nicholas Rhea
Montague, on the other hand, considered his transfer had been a recognition of his criminal investigative skills, but for his superiors it signified intense relief from jokes about the be-spatted constable, while no one could say there was anything plain about that particular plain-clothes constable. But for Montague, being a detective meant he could personalise his attire while working for the good of society.
Side-shuffling Montague into the CID had been a wonderful piece of personnel management, although his subsequent progress had not been spectacular.
But he had been lucky. Due to amalgamations of Force boundaries, there had been a vacancy for a detective sergeant and he had been the sitting tenant. He was the only available detective constable who had passed his exams, so he had won promotion. Likewise, his promotion to detective inspector arose because none of the detective sergeants had passed their promotion exams at the time of that particular vacancy. His somewhat rapid and spectacular rise through the ranks led Montague to believe that he was a very successful detective. After all, one of his triumphs had been the arrest of a gang of teenage tearaways who were stealing cricket balls from unattended pavilions. It was a feat which had won him an invitation to Crickledale Cricket Club’s annual dinner as the guest of honour, when he had delivered a memorable talk about horse troughs in cricket fields.
It was the prevailing air of tranquillity and lack of serious crime in Crickledale that had allowed Montague Pluke to indulge in his off-duty passion of researching the history of stone horse troughs. That he was the acknowledged expert was not in doubt — he had catalogued and photographed every one which had come to his notice. To facilitate his research, he always carried a pocket camera and a notebook; many horse troughs would have vanished for ever had Montague not rediscovered them and recorded them for posterity. That had become his life’s work. Even during his morning walk to work he had identified a lost trough. He’d discovered it built into a wall of the Town Hall, having been placed there many years ago. It had been almost invisible among the surrounding stonework, but it had not escaped the trained eye of Montague Pluke — it was now catalogued.
It was amazing how few people knew that the wall of the Town Hall contained an entire horse trough laid on its side and used as a giant building stone. At his instigation, a replica had been built outside and it was now a feature of the town centre. As he passed it each morning, he experienced a glow of Pluke pride.
Upon arrival at the police station that Wednesday, he entered with his right foot first (one always entered buildings with the right foot first) but instead of going to his own office, he diverted into the Control Room.
‘Good-morning, Detective Inspector Pluke,’ beamed Sergeant Cockfield (pronounced Cofield), the officer in charge of the tiny Control Room.
‘Good-morning, Sergeant. A quick answer if you please, as I am heading for my office. Have we had a report of any sudden, unexplained or suspicious deaths since I left the office last night?’
‘No, sir,’ responded Cockfield pronounced Cofield.
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Montague, departing without further comment. As he made his way upstairs to his own office, he wondered when the death would occur. That it would happen was never in doubt, so would it be tomorrow? And when it did occur, would it be murder?
*
Millicent, having dusted and then set off the washing machine containing Montague’s socks and some other woollies, rang Amelia Fender. ‘Amelia, will you be at the Coffee Club tomorrow?’
‘Oooh, yes, I will, Millicent, yes, most definitely. See you there perhaps?’
‘Yes, I just wondered if you’d heard any more about the happenings at the Crowthers’ bungalow? They are away, you know, on holiday.’
‘Oooh, yes ... I’ll tell you tomorrow, keep you in suspense till then, eh? Naughty of me ...’
The following morning, a mild, damp Thursday, Montague observed there was no crow upon the roof of the Crowthers’ bungalow.
Unfortunately, that did not undo the omen of yesterday and even though he had since learned from Millicent that the Crowthers were on holiday, Montague continued to worry about the crow’s message. Had they, or one of them, been involved in an accident? There had been no plane crashes, coaches overturning on mountain roads, express trains colliding or ocean liners sinking at sea, but one of the Crowthers could, he supposed, have had a less spectacular mishap. Fallen off the Alps perhaps? Drowned in Lake Ontario?
Chattering last night, as she always did after her day’s activities, Millicent had said she thought relations were using the bungalow during the Crowthers’ absence, so had something nasty happened to one of them? His curiosity aroused and his detective acumen at its sharpest, Montague decided to make a short diversion during this morning’s walk to work. He would make a swift visit to the bungalow. In the event of an occupant responding to his knock, he would pretend he wanted to discuss the Church Flower Rota on behalf of Millicent. But there was no reply. From the garden he could peer into the lounge and there were signs of human presence — a clutch of coffee mugs on the hearth although the fire was dead, a tea towel draped over the mirror above the hearth, some shoes near a chair, perhaps cast off by someone curling up his or her legs ... and; peering through the kitchen window, there were some unwashed pots in the sink and more on the table.
Without a doubt, people were living here and they did not keep it as clean or as tidy as the Crowthers. Thus it seemed that Millicent’s information was correct. No doubt the place would be tidied up before the Crowthers returned, but whoever was staying here must have gone out early. The place seemed deserted and there was no vehicle on the drive. He tried to look into the bedroom, but the lace curtains obscured his view, although the main curtains were open, a further sign of absence.
As he walked away, curtains fluttered in several neighbouring properties and for a fleeting moment he wondered if he should bring some constables to break into the bungalow, just to determine whether or not a corpse was reclining there. But he had no evidence to justify that kind of drastic action, so he decided against it.
Montague walked away, taking in deep breaths of the balmy morning air, and arrived at his office five minutes after his usual time. He had missed bidding his ‘good-mornings’ to his regulars — but there had been a few additional greetings, plus with a good deal of speculation that something important must have happened because Mr Pluke was late. Only a matter of some magnitude would cause him to be delayed on his morning walk.
Upon arrival at the police station he was perspiring slightly due to the mildness of the morning and noted that yesterday’s threatened thunderstorm had not materialised, although there had been a slight shower overnight. It had freshened the atmosphere, but the threat of thunder remained. The swallows and house martins were flying low too, a sure sign of further rain. The sky was dark and moody — something nasty was brewing.
Upon reaching the office door and in keeping with his practice, he stepped over the threshold by leading with his right foot. Next, he hung his panama on the hat-stand inside the door, performed a rapid obeisance to the sun as it shone through his office window and settled at his desk. The office cleaner had dusted earlier this morning, as she did every morning, but she never replaced things quite as he liked them. He spent a moment or two rearranging his desk, edging the blotter a fraction to the right, the coaster for his coffee mug even a little further to the right, the plastic model of a stone horse trough (which contained his paper clips) a vestige further to the left and the pen rack six inches closer. The front edges of his in-tray and out-tray, on the extreme left and right corners of his desk, needed alignment because they lacked the necessary balance — the in-tray was at least quarter of an inch further forward than the out-tray. He corrected that deficiency and smiled at the neatness of the work surface before him. When he had completed all these adjustments, he was ready.
On his blotter lay the morning’s correspondence, much of it comprising internal circulars and memoranda, although the letters which had come by post had been opened by his secretary, Mrs Plumpton, and arranged for his arrival. The papers were held in place by a paperweight which was in fact a witchstone. This was a circular stone with a hole through the centre, one he’d found on the moors during one of his trough-hunting expeditions. He’d kept it because it would bring good fortune to him during his working days.
Known to some as a hagstone, this one, in its earlier life, would have been suspended in a house or cattle shed to keep evil spirits at bay and to ensure the good health of man and beast alike. Now, at Montague’s insistence, Mrs Plumpton always made sure she placed it upon each day’s correspondence to prevent the papers blowing away when the place was draughty, which sometimes happened when Mr Pluke opened the windows. Aware of his slightly delayed arrival, Mrs Plumpton came into his office bearing a mug of steaming coffee and placed it on the coaster.
‘Good-morning, Mr Pluke.’ Her chubby face crinkled with a smile as she welcomed him.
Rounded and jolly as a freshly made jelly, she loved her work in Crickledale CID. It was undemanding but interesting.
‘Ah, good-morning, Mrs Plumpton. I fear storms are on the way. I sense a bout of thunder and rain before too long, the martins are flying low.’ And he returned her smile, taking care never to appear to be too familiar with her. One’s high reputation could soon be scuppered by too-friendly overtures and he was aware that Mrs Plumpton had once had a crush on a superintendent. ‘Thanks for the coffee. Anything of import in the post?’
Montague liked the word ‘import’. It was almost as good as contravallation or pedagogic, although his favourite was rumpus. It was such an expressive word, was rumpus.
‘Nothing urgent, Mr Pluke.’ Her spacious and flowing mauve dress of gossamer-like fabric quivered and floated with her movements, performing a wonderful job of hiding the more protuberant of her ample fleshy bits. He’d often wondered what was concealed within her bounteous garments, but always tried to dismiss any erotic thoughts. As a detective inspector in a very responsible post, he had to remain aloof from that sort of thing.
‘I’ve taken some of the routine stuff away. I’ll deal with the replies and bring them in for signature as usual.’
‘Well done. Now, is Detective Sergeant Wain in yet?’
‘Yes, he’s in his office. Shall I call him?’
‘Ask him to see me in about ten minutes’ time with the crime reports.’ Montague beamed. ‘We will then discuss the day’s routine.’
‘Yes, all right, Mr Pluke.’ And she left.
When she had gone, Montague rang the station’s small Control Room and spoke to Sergeant Cockfield (pronounced Cofield). ‘Detective Inspector Pluke speaking, Sergeant. Is everything quiet this morning?’
‘Yes, sir,’ responded the voice. ‘All quiet this morning. Nothing of major importance for your lads, sir, nothing since Sergeant Wain called in.’
‘No murders? Unexplained or sudden deaths? Suicides? Fatal accidents?’
‘No, sir. Just like yesterday. Not a whisper.’
‘Fine. Well, keep me informed if anything does occur, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, of course, sir,’ replied Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield., wondering if Pluke had received some kind of foreknowledge.
He’d asked those questions yesterday as if he’d been anticipating something and had done the same thing months ago. On that earlier occasion, he’d worried about an impending death, thinking he might have a murder to deal with, because an apple had stayed suspended on a tree right through the winter and had remained well into the spring. The peculiar thing was that the owner of tree had collapsed and died in the street a few days before the apple fell off. It had not been a murder, but it had been a sudden death which had shocked the town. And Pluke’s anticipation had been uncanny. Now he appeared to be repeating that exercise.
‘You haven’t been seeing apples hanging on trees in the spring again, have you?’ the sergeant added with good humour.
‘No, Sergeant, but on the way to the office yesterday morning I did see a crow perched on the roof of a bungalow. That heralds a death very soon, I should say.’ And Pluke replaced the phone.
A knock on the door announced the arrival of Detective Sergeant Wain who was Montague’s able deputy. Well over six feet tall (two metres or so), he was a thirty-two-year-old career police officer, ambitious, smart and efficient. A head of curly black hair and more than a hint of unshaven whiskers upon a tanned facial skin, appeared around the open door as Wain asked, ‘All right to come in now, sir?’
‘Yes, sit down, Wayne.’
Montague felt he could call Wayne by his first name because it sounded exactly the same as his surname. Montague Pluke was very particular in the way he addressed others, especially his colleagues whether of superior or subordinate rank. He seldom used forenames — he disliked Dave for David or Steve for Stephen. The Force was full of Daves, Steves, Kevs and the like. There were times he wondered whether there was a policeman anywhere in the United Kingdom who was called David — the newspapers always featured constables called Dave. There were lots of Daves in the Fire Brigade too.
But so far as Sergeant Wain was concerned, his father had worshipped the antics and films of cowboy actor John Wayne, and had given his son a double-barrelled name which had been a source of embarrassment throughout his life. At school, it was said of Wayne Wain that it ‘never wains but it pours,’ while little girls would chant, ‘Wayne Wain go away, come again another day.’ Now, of course, the little waindrop had blossomed into a handsome, lovable hunk of a man with film star looks and an attraction which was magnetic to women of all shapes, ages and sizes. Nobody really cared about his silly name. And Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain was determined not to let it hinder his progress — his ambition was not restricted to the laying of willing women; he wanted to become a senior detective. If he was honest, he intended to become
the
most senior detective in his police force: detective superintendent no less, or even deputy chief constable with special responsibility for criminal investigation.
Always smartly dressed and never afraid of long and hard work, he recognised his first step would arise from the promotion, sideways shuffle, or retirement of Detective Inspector Pluke. If or when he went, Wayne would surely fill the vacancy. Keen to show his mettle, so that his quarterly appraisals were always of the finest standard, Wayne settled opposite his boss and waited for him to speak.
‘How are things, Wayne?’
‘Quiet just now, sir.’ Wayne wore a beautifully cut dark-grey suit, a pink shirt and a red tie.
‘Any overnight crime?’ asked Pluke.
‘A few thefts from motor vehicles, a burglary at the Co-op with a few fags and spirits stolen. I have despatched teams to investigate them. Chummy smashed the windows of several parked cars — same team, I reckon. Radios nicked and a couple of overcoats gone. Little chance of tracing the villains unless we catch them with the stuff. Travelling criminals I think, from Teesside or the north-east. SOCO went to the Co-op but there were no prints. A quick and professional job, sir, probably outsiders as well. Otherwise it’s deadly quiet.’
‘Not enough to cause concern over our crime figures, then? But it could be the calm before the storm.’
‘Storm, sir? Are we expecting trouble?’
‘There is thunder on the way, Wayne, but I refer to our duties. I have a feeling we shall shortly be told of a death.’ He spoke solemnly and Wayne realised that Montague had experienced another omen. So far as his boss’ superstitious beliefs were concerned, though, Wayne, knowing upon which side his promotional bread was buttered, did not openly ridicule them. Sometimes in private, however, he thought they were rather out-of-date. None the less, he had to acknowledge that there were times when Montague had unknowingly provided a clue to the winner of more than one horse race.
Montague had sometimes uttered, albeit unwittingly, the names of lucky colours and lucky numbers. On one occasion, when seeing six magpies together just before Thunderclap ran at Beverley with odds of 50-1, Montague had chanted ‘Six is for gold’. Upon hearing these words, Wayne had put £
5
on Thunderclap which was No. 6; the horse had romped past the winning post several lengths ahead of the field and Wayne had walked home with a handsome profit. Because he had had several good wins based on Pluke’s prognostications, Wayne did not mock his boss’ quirks; after that first win, he had repeated his success during meetings at Ayr, Uttoxeter, Newmarket and Pontefract. Although Montague had not produced anything remotely likely to win the National Lottery, Wayne did take care always to listen to the words of wisdom which occasionally dripped from Montague’s mouth.
‘There are times your intuition is remarkable, sir.’ Wayne smiled. ‘I’ll await the day with interest.’
And Pluke was right once more.
Even though the thunder never materialised, there was a death.
Shortly before 11.30 a.m. that Thursday, Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield rang Montague’s office. ‘Sir,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t know how you anticipate these things, but there’s a report of a body.’