Saturday, 23 December 2017

Epside 31 - Wrapping it up

Tuesday cont.


Cleo and Gary were eager to get the Frint-on-Sea cases closed. They were homesick for Charlie and PeggySue and for the life tgether that they had had hardly any time to enjoy.
“Our biggest conundrum is that we have two killers for the killing of Mrs Grant, Cleo.”

Episode 30 - The nitty-gritty of crime detection

Tuesday cont.


Before the next interview could take place, Cleo and Gary needed to confer about what had already transpired and discuss future strategies.

Episode 29 - Candidates

Tuesday 


Breakfast at the hotel was mercifully minus the crowd of senior citizens who had either not stayed the night there, got up at the crack of dawn to watch the tide coming in or going out, or were off on some other early morning adventure.
Cleo and Gary set off in good time to walk from the hotel to the police station. They stopped to look at the incoming tide for a few minutes and were not surprised to see a line of senior citizens watching the water.
“I never thought I’d prefer this beach to a lido in Italy, but I do,” said Gary. “I just hope none of those people will be trapped on the sandbank.”
A safety officer on horseback drove the people back who had not noticed that the water was starting to cut off their escape route.
“I expect he does that twice a day when the weather’s good,” said Gary. “Why don’t people read the danger notices?”
“It all looks so harmless,” said Cleo.
“The sea is merciless, my love.”
A few minutes elapsed while Cleo and Gary watched the safety guard galloping from one end of the beach to the other, checking that no one had been left stranded.
“I’m glad Dorothy found that corpse,” said Cleo. “Who knows how long it would have otherwise taken for us to find one another.”
“Correction: for you to find me, Cleo. I found you the day I set eyes on you.”
“I found you then, Gary. I just could not admit it.”
“You didn’t get near admitting it. You denied it.”
“I suppose I did.”
“I don’t think I could go through all that again, so I’m glad you finally made up your mind.”
“It’s all a bit like virtual reality.”
“I’ll pretend to know what you mean,” said Gary.
“Us.”
“Je t’aime.”
“Moi aussi.”
“That’s concrete enough for me. We’d better move on now,” said Gary. “Much as I enjoy our sojourns on the beach, there’s work to do.”
***
The drive to Headquarters was accompanied by a discussion of how they were going to get Llewellyn to admit to anything, assuming he was not just one of those guys who made a devious impression. Cleo thought he was a puffed-up swaggerer and unlikely to buckle under pressure, though she tried not to judge people by appearances.
“I wonder if it’s a good idea for me to be present, Gary. I’m not sure I could stomach that guy trying to make a ‘manly’ impression on me. I’ll watch for a while from behind the morrir.”
“You will come in eventually, won’t you?”
“Sure. I’ll pick a critical moment. I love the perplexed look on that guy’s face every time he sees me. He had sorted me into the black lawyer category of the U.S. shark variety, then he thought I was a hooker until he realized that you and I are a item and I’m a sociologist. Since he’s a vain little strutter, It’s on the cards that he thinks his self-styled attractiveness will win the day with me and get me to influence your judgement.”
“He’s barking up the wrong tree if he thinks all females succumb to his ‘charms’,” said Gary. “He’s a single guy who goes to brothels rather than shacking up with some domestic female or other. Most hetero men do that if only to get their shirts ironed.”
“And later some guys decide that the hookers have more to offer. The sergeant may even be gay and wants to prove that he isn’t,” said Cleo.
“I should think he’s even less attractive to gays. What about this: I insinuate that he’s gay and we watch the reaction.”
“Men often have grudges against hookers due to hang-ups in their childhood,” said Cleo.
“Oedipus complex and so on, I expect you mean, but it doesn’t seem to stop them picking up girls or visiting brothels.”
“I can’t see anyone, male or female, fancying that guy, but his mother presumably did and in that case she is on a mysteriously virginal pedestal, so that all less innocent women have to be done away with,” said Cleo.
“Nice,” said Gary, wondering what Cleo’s analysis of him had revealed.
“Did you know that the word virgin referred to unmarried girls in the old days? The bible translators and the whole of the R.C. church got it wrong. It makes nonsense of the so-called ‘immaculate conception’ founded on the guaranteed virginity of girls,” Cleo continued. She was now on one of her hobbyhorse themes, to which Gary was in no mood to listen.
“I don’t think I have the nerve for a history lesson with In-depth psychology and theology thrown in for good measure,” he said.
“I found all the theoretical stuff  fascinating, but it can make you misinterpret behaviour, too,” said Cleo, noting that she was getting on Gary’s nerves.
“Some women appear innocent and aren’t. Is that what you mean?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Cleo, stearing the conversation into more familiar waters. “ Susie Sweet could easily fool a guy like Llewellyn by putting on a non-tampered-with act.”
“Miss Sweet won’t have rejected him because the sex act was her job,” said Gary. “Whoever killed her had a vicious dislike of prostitutes and somehow I can’t fit Llewellyn into that scheme.”
“Can you iron shirts, Gary?”
***
The designated interview room at Headquarters was on the lower floor, near the arrest cells. It was lit mainly by neon strips and the cold light gave the room a chilling atmosphere. There was a one way mirror on the side opposite where suspects sat. Voices could be heard through loudspeakers and it looked like word had got around and lleellyn would have an audience of interested parties observing the proceedings. But they would also be curious about Gar, an unknown quantity. Llewellyn was notorious so any show he put on would be appreciated. a notoriously dislikeable cop. A large old tape recorder with a huge roll of tape buzzed away in the background. Digital recording was available and used, but the tapes were a reliable backup. A security camera filmed the proceedings.
***
Llewellyn was brought in handcuffed. The bracelets were removed, but the security guards stayed in the room. Llewellyn was sulking. He had been behind bars for some time, had refused a lawyer because he said he didn’t need one, and had not been charged with any offence. Gary thought the sergeant must be very confident if he was just sitting around and waiting for suspicions to be wiped out.
“What the hell is this all about?” said Llewellyn, breaking a rather uncomfortable silence created deliberately by Gary to force the man to react.
“Don’t you know, Llewellyn?”
“I know you’re trying to pin Susie Sweet’s murder on me.”
“We’ll only pin it on the murderer, Sergeant.”
“Then you’ll have to look elsewhere, isn’t it?”
Gary could see that Llewellyn’s blood pressure was rising. Relapsing into quaint English grammar was a sign he’d observed in other Welshmen under pressure.
“We are doing, but we need some more information from you on what you did that Wednesday evening. You haven’t been very forthcoming, Llewellyn.”
“You damn well know what I did, Hurley. I took Susie to the chip-shop and then we went to one of Ivy’s beachhuts to eat our supper. Susie had a healthy appetite. I wanted to buy her out of that brothel, but she had not decided.”
Maybe the guy was not gay, after all.
“You have never actually said quite all that before, Sergeant.”
“Well I’m saying it now. When I left that beachhut, Susie was alive and waiting for her coke.”
“And when you got back?”
“I had to walk all until I found somewhere selling coke open, so I was away at least twenty minutes. When I got back I found her dead.”
“Why didn’t you raise the alarm or call an ambulance, Sergeant? A doctor might have saved her life.”
“I was shocked and…scared out of my mind, boy.”
“Scared of what? A boyfriend? Jake?”
The sergeant paled.
“Has that damn black woman been putting ideas into your head, Hurley?” he spat.
“Do you mean Miss Hartley?”
“If the name fits.”
“Firstly, she is not black. She has enviable olive skin. She has a British father and an Afro-American mother. For the record, her skin is like silk to the touch and it is the colour for a hint of which many women spend hours spread out like herrings on sun banks.”
“Some sun bank bimbo!” jeered Llewellyn.
“Don’t make an enemy of me, Llewellyn!” said Gary. “I’m more likely to help you than anyone else in this joint if you can convince me that you are as innocent as you say you are.”
Llewellyn leaned back on his chair, smirking .
“Good in bed, is she?” he said.
“I’ll ignore that,” said Gary.
“I’ve told you everything. I did not murder Susie. You and your crony will have to look elsewhere.”
Gary would have liked to go round the table and crack the sergeant’s jaw. The guy was in a hole and still could not resist being impertinent.
“Don’t,” said Cleo through the speaker. “I’m coming in.”
Gary sat down again. The sergeant sniggered as Cleo entered.
“You may have pink skin, but you have an evil mind, Mr Llewellyn,” she said before sitting on the vacant chair next to Gary’s. “I’m not the only person witnessing this interview,” she added. “As far as I can see, even if you are innocent, you can be sure that your job is up for grabs.”
“I have other plans anyway,” said Llewellyn, staring at Cleo. Later she was to tell Gary that he had stripped her with his eyes.
“Pole-dancing perhaps?” said Cleo. “I’m not sure you have quite the figure for that. Paunches are not raunchy.”
Gary laughed out loud and the audience on the other side of the observation window applauded with the speaker on so that the ergeant could not help hearing it
Llewellyn was thoroughly disliked by anyone who had dealings with him. To their satisfaction, it was obvious that the sergeant was overawed by this female coming in and treating him like vermin rather than playing up to his advances.
Llewellyn turned to the guard and informed him that he wished to go back to his cell. “You can talk to me when you have some kind of evidence that I have committed some kind of crime, Hurley. Sleeping with prostitutes is not illegal.”
“That depends on what you do to them before, after or instead, Sergeant.”
The sergeant spat.
“I expect there’s a spittoon in your cell, Sergeant, so that you really feel at home,” Cleo commented.
“And we do have another suspect with a paunch, Sergeant,” said Gary, taking on Cleo’s apt description of the prisoner’s figure. "You may be on a winner yet."
Cleo enjoyed taking revenge for the insulting remarks about her by telling him his pink skin could be improved.
“I’m sure Headquarters can provide you with a sun lamp if you would like to add a little colour apart from apoplectic red,” she said.
“Go to hell,” the sergeant replied as he was escorted out.
“Same to you, lover-boy,” called Cleo, before turning and telling the audience behind the mirror that she did not usually feel the need to taunt a detainee – but there were exceptions.”
***
“I’m not sure that the interview was a complete success,” said Gary.
“On the contrary. We can now assume that he is too busy trying to sort out his sexuality to kill women.”
“The one does not exclude the other, Cleo.”
“I think it does in his case. The guy was sure he’d made a conquest in Susie. That made him believe he was attractive to women, and to my astonishment, I think he was actually making a pass at me in a furtive way.”
“Now? Is he that confident of his charms?”
“Some men think they can provoke a woman to surrender, and some gays think women are attracted to them,“ said Cleo. ”That’s because women don’t like being raped, Gary, and a gay man is less likely to do that.”
“So that’s why gays have lots of girlfriends, I suppose. They make women feel safe and treasured and don’t make demands.”
“Yes. Women are perfectly capable of seducing men they want, but gays have a ‘keep off the grass’ allure and that is appreciated by many women.”
“Go on. What’s the point of this, Cleo?”
“Most gays are normal guys or gals with a preference for their own gender,” said Cleo. “Llewellyn is fixed on women, which makes him heterosexual by nature. That’s one reason I think he sees himself as a playboy and is more likely to conserve the female sex than obliterate it. Remember, he even thought he could marry Susie Sweet,” said Cleo.
“That does not mean anything.”
“Let's talk to Dr Smith. The more I think about it, the more I think he could have killed Susie Sweet. We just don't know yet why he would do that on the spur of the moment."
“Or whether he had the opportunity. Apart from that, he’s a medical doctor, Cleo. He has sworn to protect life, not destroy it. I’ll ring Brass. They may have Dr Smith in custody by now.”
“Maybe we should think back to Dr Crippin, Gary…”
The police had indeed caught up with the doctor. He had been traced to Harrogate thanks to his mobil phone. He would be transferred to North Wales by a police helicopter. That would take an hour or two. The helicopter would land on the marked square at the hospital and Dr Smith would be held for questioning.
***
“We are free until later, Cleo. Brass will notify me when Smith has arrived for questioning.”
“We could brave the pensioners and have lunch at the hotel,” Cleo proposed.
“And I’ll go along with that if you tag a siesta on after the repast.”
“As cooperative as ever, Sweetheart.”
“I’m glad you don’t call me lover-boy.”
“I will, if you prefer it; which reminds me…”
“Let’s talk to O’Reilly about that case later. No chance of driving home tonight.”
“I’ll phone Edith about the girls staying a day longer,” said Cleo and did.
“Before we leave the office, let’s just run through the list of suspects,” said Gary. “I’d hate to leave anyone out.”
“Sure. We still don’t know what happened to Mrs Grant.”
“There’s a short report from Forensics saying she definitely died from the stab wound, not from dog bites.”
“So who followed her?”
“Good question. Macpherson is also a member of that dog society.”
“Is he now? Have they already investigated all those members?”
“All? There are only a dozen or so of them, and they are all big buddies,” said Gary.
“I’d like to ask Macpherson how he feels about someone trying to bomb him to kingdom come,” said Cleo.
“That’s not a bad idea Cleo. I’ll get him here to share his theories on who could have wanted Mrs Grant dead. I note that there was only half a column about her murder in the local rag.”
“Hookers make better copy than women walking dogs.”
“Even women whose husbands are up for murder?”
“That is old hat for the press.”
“Maybe talking to Macpherson would help to make it all more public,” said Gary. “We need witnesses. Someone might come forward. We could cocntact local radio.”
“You cops are optimists! You can’t expect Macpherson to talk if he thinks he’s going to read what he said in the paper next morning or hear it on the news.”
“I’ll talk to O’Reilly about what has been done about the bomb, but we’ll get Macpherson in after office hours today.”
“That sounds like common sense. We’d better get to the hotel now, before the oldies eat all the best food.”
Gary picked up his phone and dialled O’Reilly. Macpherson was come to Headquarters that evening.
***
Gary found it easy to invite Macpherson to talk because the official hoped that talking to someone really superior, even someone from outside, would help to solve the bomb mystery without causing fallout. That was the usual way things were sorted out in Frint-on-Sea. Why spoil a perfectly good mechanism? The police knew their place and who had to be protected. Hurley still had to be brought into line, but who better than Macpherson to make sure the cop did what was required of him?
***
Nothing had happened except for an incoherent warning notice nailed to a tree near the Town Hall entrance. O’Reilly had said it was only a prank and should be ignored.  Macpherson had no alternative but to believe O’Reilly, but he was disgusted that the deaths of prostitutes seemed to be eating up all the resources of the local police, a phenomenon he had not come across before Hurley and his shrewd assistant turned up. The Town Clerk hated O’Reilly, who had taken to treating him as a culprit rather than a near-victim. Macpherson was sure that O’Reilly was up to something that went against the codex established inside and outside Frint-on-Sea government offices.
***
“Did you know Mr and Mrs Grant?” Cleo asked. She had been introduced as Gary’s assistant. Nothing wrong in that, of course, but Macpherson was surprised that a Chief Inspector would allow a lowly assistant to ask questions.
Gary felt the need to introduce Cleo in a form he did not usually resort to.
“This is Dr Hartley,” he said. “Dr Hartley is a brilliant sociologist and extremely adept at finding loopoles in arguments.”
“Oh,” said Macpherson.
“Well, did you know them?” said Cleo, smiling benignly.
“Vaguely,” was Macpherson’s reply.
“How vaguely?” Gary wanted to know.
“I knew Grant’s dog from Woof,” said the Town Clerk, “and I knew Mrs Grant slightly.”
“But aren’t you related to Mrs Grant?” Cleo asked.
It was a shot in the dark, but it got a strong reaction from Macpherson, who looked gobsmacked,, which made Gary suspect that Cleo had hit on something important. However, Gary had the impression that Macpherson thought Cleo was talking out of place, despite his glowing introduction..
“I don’t think I introduced you properly, Mr Macpherson. Sorry about that.” Gary said. “Dr Hartley is the driving force of the Hartley Investigation Agency.”
Macpherson was now less impressed by Cleo’s status than he was alarmed that anyone could know anything about him other than what he had published in the Town Hall Who’s Who. He had kept his family out of things up to now. How could this woman possibly know anything more about him?
“A cousin, if you must know,” said Macpherson deciding that if this coloured woman knew that much she might know more. “I can’t see how that is relevant.”
“Has anyone died recently in your family?” Cleo persisted. Macpherson was now on the defensive.
“What’s that to you?” he said
“Murder is a strange beast,” said Cleo.
“I thought we were here to discuss the bomb, Inspector,” said Macpherson angrily.
“We are, Mr Macpherson,” said Gary, “but Dr Hartley thinks that the two incidents might be connected.”
“What two incidents?”
“The bomb and your cousin’s death, Macpherson,” said Gary.
“We need a motive, you see,” said Cleo, and Macpherson was forced to admit to himself that Cleo’s true calling must be detection. He looked at Cleo with new eyes. What sort of assistant was that who could plant such ideas into an inspector’s head. Being used to having secretaries who were, on average, dumb with good legs, Macpherson could not envisage anyone being on his intellectual level.
“How could they be related?” said Macpherson.
Cleo answered and Gary listened. Her theory was new to him. There had not been time to explain it, always assuming that she was not improvising.
“Supposing the relative who died in your family was going to leave a lot of money and you looked like getting part of the legacy. It might be a motive for someone to want to get rid of you.”
Macpherson paled.
“Have you just thought of something, Macpherson?” Gary asked.
“No.”
“You’re lying, Mr Macpherson,” said Cleo.
“I’m not. That is…”
“Mrs Grant could have had a motive, but planting bombs is not a woman’s job, is it?” said Cleo. “Is that what you would like to tell us, Mr Macpherson? Or does your cousin Betty Grant have a child by a previous marriage who is a whiz at igniting incendiary devices?”
Gary was impressed by the way Cleo was dealing with this man and amazed that she had thought of a way to connect Macpherson with the murder of Mrs Grant.
Macpherson hastened to reveal some family details about which he had long been in denial.
“You’re right, Miss erm Doctor… Betty had a son by her first husband. The son had high criminal energy almost before he could walk, Grant once told me. As a young adult he was up to no good and his fiddles cost them a lot of money. They wanted him to move out, but in the end they moved to Frint-on-Sea to force him out of their house. Betty was upset and got him lodgings as near as possible without telling her husband.”
“So you had more than just a passing contact with the Grants, Mr Macpherson, otherwise you would not have known all that,” said Cleo.
“I didn’t think that was relevant since they are both dead.”
“Come on, Macpherson. Mrs Grant is barely cold,” said Gary,” and Grant is alive and well.”
“Grant is not the father,” said Macpherson. My cousin had an affair with his best friend.”
“Wow. Maybe Grant also had a motive. That would let you off the hook, wouldn’t it?” said Cleo.
“Where does your nephew live – he would be your nephew, wouldn’t he?” Cleo continued.
“Only by marriage and as I said, he lodged with an old woman in a house near Betty.”
“Or is he, your son, Macpherson? The result of a little hanky-panky with your cousin?” said Cleo.
Macpherson paled.
“We could check the DNA, Macpherson, but it may not be necessary,” said Gary, who was anxious to show that he knew all about Cleo’s theory.
“Either was, it would explain how he had a key to the dog compound,” said Cleo. “His mother trusted him. Grant may not even have known about the key.”
“I suppose Betty Grant did not want the bother of walking the dog,” Gary commented.
“I wonder if there was a key to his mother’s house on the ring with the key to the compound,” Cleo said.
“I wouldn’t know that, would I?” said Macpherson.
“The nephew’s name is Paul Murphy, isn’t it?” said Gary.
“Yes. Murphy was Betty’s first husband. He left her with the infant and was never seen again.”
“Another mystery,” said Gary. “Were you suspicious at the time?”
“It’s funny you should say that. I always thought Grant had killed Murphy, but there was no proof.”
“I wonder how much trouble the police took over their investigation,” commented Gary.
“Inspector, that’s all so long ago.”
“Murder does not have a sell-by date,” said Gary.
“And then Grant stepped in and married Betty Murphy,” said Cleo.
“Shortly after. But later, they started to have rows about Paul and Grant told me that Paul took after his father and was a rotter.”
“So you must have kept up the contact, Macpherson.”
“Only for a while. Eventually it became a nuisance, so I kept away from them. Then I came here to take up the post of Town Clerk and they were breathing down my neck within weeks.”
“That must have been very unpleasant,” said Cleo.
“Yes, especially as Mrs Grant bonded well with her good-for-nothing son. He came to me looking for a job and recently he tried to cadge money.”
“Had he said you were his father so you should look after him?”
“In so many words,” said Macpherson.
“Did you give him some money?” Gary asked.
“Of course not.”
“So that would be a good reason forwanting to blow you up, wouldn’t it,” Cleo said.
Macpherson was thinking hard.
“Since Paul Murphy was Betty Grant’s son, I expect he would have done anything for her,” said Gary. “And that would include killing you, especially if you were going to share a bequest.”
“Who left you his fortune, Macpherson?” Cleo asked.
“A great uncle. Old as the hills. A brother to Betty’s and my grandfather.”
“He must have been about 100 years old,” said Cleo.
“He was.”
“Who else could have reason to want you dead, apart from Murphy on behalf of his mother and with a view to sharing the spoils?” Cleo asked.
Macpherson took time to think about the implication of the question. Eventually he started talking.
“Now it’s all clearer to me, I think it must have been my nephew wanting me dead if I was not going to support his lifestyle.”
“You are probably right,” said Cleo. “We’ll settle for him being your nephew, Mr Macpherson, shall we?”
Macpherson nodded, and Cleo knew tht her suspicion had been right. What a lot of hatred they must have had for one another, Macpherson because he had a criminal son, and the son because his father wanted nothing to do with him.
***
Gary phoned through to O’Reilly and ordered him to bring in Paul Murphy for questioning. No, not tomorrow. Now.
“I don’t want to see my nephew,” said Macpherson.
“You have no choice,” said Gary.
The phone rang to inform Gary that Murphy had  been found and was being brought in.
“Murphy’’ will be here any minute.” Gary said.
“I do not want to see him,”  said Macpherson.
“But we do, Macpherson. We might want you to ask him why tried to kill you and why he killed his mother,” said Cleo.
So that was the way the cookie crumbled, Gary decided. Cleo suspected that Macpherson might have hired Murphy to get rid of his mother. There was no time to ask her about it. He’d have to wait and see.
Macpherson tried to protest, but his protests were ignored.
“Exactly, Macpherson, but we’ll have something to eat first.”
Gary ordered a round of coffee and sandwiches. They arrived surprisingly fast.
“Before we move on, let’s sum up,” said Cleo. “You think Paul Murphy planted the bomb, don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” said Macpherson.
“That’s what we think, Mr Macpherson.”
***
After they had finished their snack, Macpherson was escorted temporarily to an arrest cell.
***
Paul Murphy was brought in once Macpherson was safely out of the way. Murphy was handcuffed, held on each side by a security officer and accompanied by O’Reilly.
“I told you to bring him in without any fuss, O’Reilly,” said Gary.
“I would have done, but I got to his lodgings just in time to stop him doing a bunk.”
“OK. Take him to the cells, please!” Gary ordered. “We’ll call for him in a few minutes.”
The guards took Murphy to an arrest cell.
***
“I expect Murphy smelt a rat,” said Gary.
“What rat?” asked O’Reilly. “He was questioned earlier, but his statement was innocuous. There was no need to detain him.”
“When exactly did you question him, O’Reilly.”
“When we questioned all the neighbours.”
“Including the deaf old lady he lodges with?”
“Yes!”
“Deaf, O’Reilly. Deaf! She might not have heard him go out.”
“But she might have heard the dog barking.”
“Not necessarily, O’Reilly. The dog knew Murphy and might just have wagged its tail in anticipation of an outing. Unless the dog was not in the compound, of course.”
“But it was there when Joan checked next day, Gary, and that was your idea, after all.”
“OK. But thinking has since set in, Pat. Mrs Grant could have taken it for walkies and Murphy brought it home.”
“I never thought of that, Gary.”
“You should have a female assistant like mine. She has a very suspicious mind and logic like Sherlock Holmes. I’ll order Murphy back in so that we  can find out exactly what makes the guy tick. Dr Hartley is very good at putting two and two together. She wants to know if the bomb and Mrs Grant’s killing are connected.”
“Doctor?”
“You heard, O’Reilly.”
“But those killing can’t be connected.”
“They can be, Pat. Just keep your eyes and ears open and indicate to me when you want to ask a question. I dare say that Cleo will do most of the talking.”
***
Paul Murphy was tall and thin. He was in his late twenties but looked much younger than his age. He had tattoos on his forearms and was jobless.
“What is your profession, Paul?” Cleo asked. “I hope you don’t mind me calling you Paul,” she added, “it’s normal in the USA.”
“I don’t care what you call me, Miss, as long as I get out of here fast.”
“Why were you running away, Paul.”
“I wasn’t. I was taking stuff to the charity shop in Morlin Bay.”
“Let’s have a look what’s in that sports bag then, shall we?” said Cleo, signalling to O’Reilly, who had been carrying Murphy’s sports bag. He now tipped the contents onto the floor.
“Wow, Paul! You are generous, donating a nice new shaver and bath cosmetics to charity. It sure looks like luggage to me.”
Murphy did not comment.
“It can go back in the bag now, Mr O’Reilly,” said Cleo. “Paul will need it if he stays the night here.”
“I’m not staying the night,” Murphy protested.
“We’ll decide on that,” said Gary, giving Cleo a wink. Murphy was anxious.
“You said you were on bomb disposal in the army, I think, didn’t you, Paul?” sai Cleo.
“I did not say anything of the sort.”
“But I’m right in thinking you were in the army, aren’t I?”.
Gary winced.
“Those tattoos are from your army days, aren’t they?” Cleo continued.
“What if they are?” said Murphy.
“You’d better tell the truth, Murphy. We can ask elsewhere if we need to,” said Gary.
“I signed on for four years,” said Murphy. “I volunteered for bomb disposal. It was either that or the kitchen.”
“Very brave of you. Dismantling bombs entails intimate knowledge of how they are constructed, doesn’t it?” said Cleo.
“Praps it does.”
“So it would be no trouble for you to build a bomb, Paul.”
“No, but I didn’t.”
“Didn’t what, Murphy?” Gary asked.
“Put a bomb under Macpherson’s car.”
“No one said you did, Paul, but now you mention it, I rather think you did plant that bomb,” said Cleo. “You saved me asking. Thanks for that.”
“I want a lawyer. I’m not saying any more without one.”
“But I haven’t quite finished yet,” said Cleo. After a dramatic pause she asked Murphy the most vital question of all in a subtle voice:
“Paul, why did you kill your mother?”
O’Reilly thought Cleo was going too far too fast, but Gary had experienced her shock questioning before. It got results.
“Who told you that?” said Murphy, forgetting that he had wanted to remain silent.
“A little bird,” said Cleo quietly.
“Fuck yourself!” said Murphy.
“Mind your tongue, Murphy,” shouted Gary. “Did I hear you confess to the murder of Mrs Grant.”
“Did you commit matricide, Paul?” Cleo asked.
“What’s that?” asked Murphy and started to cry.
There was no doubt that he was guilty. Cleo thought his mind might have been disturbed at the time, but whatever drove him to his deed did not lessen its awfulness.


Sunday, 5 March 2017

Episode 28 - Mata Hari

Monday cont.



Sheila, who had found the assignment distasteful and disliked Cleo’s authority, thought the questioning was over when she left the brothel with Cleo. The villa was open for business, but it was early afternoon, and the half dozen prostitutes who had not left for other haunts had already been assembled in the plush reception area for what looked like a meeting when Cleo and her reluctant escort had arrived.

Saturday, 17 October 2015

Episode 27 - Starting the week

Monday 


Cleo spent most of the night thinking about what they knew about the murder of Mrs Grant and was anxious to discuss with Gary what she thought could have happened except that he was fast asleep.

Episode 26 - Weekending

Sunday 

On Sunday morning Gary got up hungry. He had not done justice to the barbeque, he decided. He sat on Cleo’s side of the bed, held her hand  and whispered
“We need to react to Wetherby’s news.”

Sunday, 4 October 2015

Episode 25 - The BBQ


Saturday cont.

“I hope we’re in time for the feast,” said Dorothy, as Cleo drove out of Frint-on-Sea.
“We should be,“ said Gary. “Robert and I need a heart to heart and where better than on neutral ground?”

Saturday, 3 October 2015

Chapter 24 - The fat guys

Saturday

It took willpower for Cleo and Gary to call the night a day and exchange their warm duvet for a hot shower followed by a ‘Continental’ breakfast. Then they raced to collect Dorothy for the trip to HQ.
***

Episode 23 - The missed BBQ

Friday cont.

Grant had not been gone for more than a minute when Cleo and Dorothy came back into the office.

Tuesday, 22 September 2015

Episode 22 - Grant


Friday

At breakfast, eaten almost at the crack of dawn; Cleo told Gary quite out of the blue considering how they had spent night, that on reflection she would be glad to also have him as a friend.

Saturday, 19 September 2015

Episoder 21 - Macpherson


Thursday cont.

Gary and Cleo arrived at Frint-on-Sea police station late on Thursday afternoon. Brass was about to leave. O’Reilly was going to be at the station for a couple more hours. He said it was so that Brass could stop working round the clock.

Wednesday, 16 September 2015

Episode 20 - Snow

Thursday cont.


While Cleo and Gary were driving to Frint-on-Sea, Dorothy was getting ready to sort out the case of Miss Snow’s dog. The email contained a phone number. She would call and make an appointment to see the anxious dog owner.
***

Tuesday, 15 September 2015

Episode 19 - Garnets

Thursday cont


Edith was overjoyed that she would have the two little girls to care for even if her husband Frederick, a vicar who disliked the human race unless he was called on to save their souls, wasn’t. As vicar he was sincere but incompetent; as a husband and father he was was a dead loss.
***

Saturday, 12 September 2015

Episode 18 - Comings and Goings

Thursday

Gary had been reluctant to go to North Wales again so soon, but he had no choice despite various crises at Middlethumpton HQ. The matter of girls disappearing from the school in Huddlecourt Minor that had started off with Susie Sweet’s misadventure at the beachhut in Frint-on-Sea had been passed on to Colin Peck, who was now looking for references to other girls who had absconded from the school for wayward girls in Huddcourt Minor.

Thursday, 10 September 2015

Chapter 17 - Jane

Tuesday September 16


Gary did not get back to Upper Grumpsfield until the early hours of Tuesday morning, so discussions about what he been able to achieve in North Wales were left till after breakfast.

Wednesday, 2 September 2015

Episode 16 - Hens


Tuesday cont.

Cleo realized that it was true that business had been slow all summer, but she had managed to cover her overheads. Now school had started again, people were taking time to decide if they wanted to change their lives and were eager to pay a fee for good advice they would never want from a psychiatrist, doctor or clergyman. They felt they could trust Cleo – and they could, of course. Her training as a social worker had helped her to help many,and word had got around.
***

Monday, 31 August 2015

Episode 15 - Happy family

Monday cont. then Tuesday

Being in love is like being drunk, Cleo decided, though she had never been drunk in her life; a social worker surrounded by alcoholics and drug addicts thinks twice about joining the fray.

Friday, 28 August 2015

Episode 14 - Decisions

Monday

Before they could drive back to Upper Grumpsfield,  Jake would have to be questioned again, even if he refused to cooperate. Despite Gary’s fear that Jake would be rude to Cleo, she insisted on being there. She would also talk to Pat O’Reilly and try to help him work through his grief and shock since no one else seemed to have taken much notice.

Episode 13 - Pat O'Reilly

Sunday then Monday September 14



The search for Llewellyn was left to providence.

Sunday, 26 July 2015

Episode 12 - Ivy's joint

Saturday cont.


Gary parked his car round the corner from Ivy’s establishment and Cleo stepped out on her own to walk the to the house.

Episode 11 - The razzia

Saturday September 13


After a night most remarkable for lack of sleep, there was no doubt in Cleo's or Gary's minds that they were going to be together on a permanent level very soon.

Friday, 24 July 2015

Episode 10 - Business as usual?

Friday September 12


Charlie had spent the night at Cleo’s again because Gary had to work late and the girl was exhausted after an afternoon with her daddy followed by the chore of putting a school uniform together.

Episode 9 - The reunion

Thursday September 11



After bai g reakfast with Charlie helping PeggySue with her cereal and wishing she was her sister, Cleo drove the exited little girl to meet up with her father, who had no idea that she was on the way.

Episode 8 - Charlie

Wednesday September 10



Colin Peck, a trained lawyer and one-time lucky member of a scheme offering internships with the Metropolitan Police in London, was combing through the data bank, but so far without any tangible results. Anything unusual would be passed on to Gary.

Sunday, 19 July 2015

Episode 7 - Confessional

Tuesday September 9


Cleo and Dorothy drove back to Upper Grumpsfield as planned. Cleo thought she should do something to change the frosty atmosphere between her and Dorothy, so she proposed making a morning of it, if not a whole day. 

Saturday, 18 July 2015

Episode 6 - The Postmortem

Monday September 8

The night spent as a ‘grown-up’ twosome in a single bunk bed was declared to be marginally more comfortable than the hearth-rug from the previous night, but it had not been indusive to sleep, so Cleo and Gary were correspondingly rather tired as they walked briskly to the hospital, a red-brick Victorian building on the sea-front, where Susie Sweet’s earthly remains were to be examined.
***

Tuesday, 19 May 2015

Episode 5 - Love is in the air

Sunday cont.


Cleo and Gary walked briskly to the beach. The air was bracing and stimulated Gary into saying something he had promised himself not to say as long as Cleo was upholding her marriage. He stood facing her with his hands in hers.

Episode 4 - Ivy

Sunday September 7

At breakfast nexr morning, Lucy amused everyone with a riotous account of Daddy chasing the sheep on the bridge. Bill said the truck driver was not sure that they had rounded up all of them because they kept moving as he counted them.

Saturday, 16 May 2015

Episode 3 - Susie Sweet

Saturday September 6


Although Dorothy thought it highly unlikely that Sergeant Loo would want to spend his Saturday afternoon trying to think of leading questions to ask her and Vera, she left Upper Grumpsfield early with Cleo, their main mission being to rescue Vera. They were relieved to find Vera unscathed and in control. She was anxious to get her second interview over as soon as possible.

Episode 2 - Facing the music

Friday September 5


Dorothy decided to return to Upper Grumpsfield the following day as planned, despite Sergeant Loo’s expectation. Leaving her walking shoes at Vera’s, she made sure she was at the station in good time for the early train to Crewe; she had things to do at home and was even less enamoured of the idea that she should flock to the police station.

Episode 1 - The rose tattoo

Thursday September 4


It was a blustery day. The rain had come down sideways for most of it and it was after six when Dorothy Price and her sister Vera went for their daily constitutional along the prom.
“We don’t have weather like this in Upper Grumpsfield,” Dorothy remarked.
”You don’t have the ocean on your doorstep, either,” said Vera.
“I’m glad I left my hats at home,” said Dorothy, who was a great fan and collector of hats. “I don’t possess a bonnet with ties.”
“Aren’t you warm enough, Dorothy?”
“Just about, thanks to your nice warm scarf. It was a good idea to wear gloves, too. My knuckles always get cold when it’s windy. “
“I’m quite cold, too,” said Vera.
“Let’s walk a bit faster then, said Dorothy.
“Against a gale? Impossible. We can walk faster on the way back. At least we’ll have the wind behind us then.”
“Unless it turns,” said Dorothy.
“Where are we going, anyway? You seem to be aiming for somewhere.”
“Are  you tired?”
”No, but hungry, Dorothy.”
“Have a cough-sweet,” said Dorothy, offering her sister one that happened to be in her coat pocket. “Do you remember those beachhuts near the skating rink?”
“The old chalets? How could I forget them, Dorothy? We used to laugh at all the people sitting outside fully dressed and in coats and scarves on days like this.”
“Those were great holidays though, weren’t they?”
“I remember it raining, but not windy like this,” said Vera. “We used to come the Frint-on-Sea for a week just after school broke up. That’s when Dad said it would be the sunniest time of the year. But it was always sunnier after we’d gone home.”
“Upper Grumpsfield was warm and dry. We even slept outside, didn’t we? We could not have done that in this kind of weather.”
“They called them chalets in in old days, Dorothy. It upmarketed them, but I remember them being terribly scruffy.”
While they were chatting, they had reached the row of beachhuts, now adorned with a sign ‘Beachhuts and Chalets to let’. Someone had been studying holiday brochures from faraway shores. The locals called them beachhuts now they had been smartened up, so the town authorities responsible for them gave the buildings both names so that everyone would get what they wanted. The upgrading that was supposed to have been applied to the Frint-on-Sea variety did little to improve their looks or comfort.
Dorothy thought they should be called shelters because that’s what people mainly used them as. The parts of the huts that were paintable had been painted inside and out in bright shades of latex for easy washing down, no two alike. In the old days they had been grey concrete slabs, but despite their imaginative coats of colour, the huts were still boring blocks looking like a row of overgrown garages, except that most of the wall facing the sea was a glass door you had to negotiate to get in and out. If you needed to use the loo, you had to walk to the end of the beachhuts and use one of the communal ones. Not every male respected this rule, so the prevailing odor was not oceanic.
The beachhuts had running water in a low sink, so you could get water to boil on a single electric ring for your tea. You could also wash the sand off your feet before you put your socks and shoes back on, but there were no beds in the huts since no one was allowed to sleep there. A sort of traffic warden came round to check that everyone had left before it got dark. She (it was usually a female) was to make sure that all curtains were drawn back so that she could see at a glance if there was still anyone inside. On bad-weather days like today no one had any desire to sit outside and inside was too cramped for comfort and far too chilly without any means of heating, so by early evening all the beachhuts had been shut up for the night by the people who had leased them and thus had keys to lock them and leave their beach equipment there overnight in safety.
The curtains had probably only been supplied so that people could get changed in private. Dorothy wondered if the warden checked inside the beachhuts left overnight with the curtains drawn. Today you could only see inside one or two of the shelters. Perhaps the others were not in use. The warden would have a list, no doubt.
The beachhuts could only be locked from the outside, presumably a further deterrent to sleeping in one, though some people sneaked back after dark, thus saving the price of a B and B. No one had thought of that ruse except those who slept there. One enterprising woman of advancing years had leased a couple of huts on a yearly basis to pursue a trade you could only describe as horizontal. Presumably someone in the town hall had blessed that occupancy.
***
“Of course, you don’t know the weather is going to be bad when you plan a holiday,” said Dorothy, wishing she had not waited until September for hers, though the idea had been to avoid the summer school holidays, when everyone with children and no money or desire for a continental beach made for the seaside in Britain.
Helping out in the Cleo Hartley’s Investigation Agency was another important reason to miss the summer stampede. Cleo was finding it quite stressful combining detecting with parenthood, so Dorothy’s support was most welcome.
Everything was quiet in Frint-on-Sea. Walking on the beach was not an option in a strong wind. Few holiday-makers could be seen anywhere. Most of them preferred their cramped  lodgings, often a room equipped with several two tier bunks, a mock fireplace and if you were lucky an aged TV, to a draughty beach, even if they had come for the sea air from industrial towns where there was not much air to speak of.
The weather was so bad today that even the donkeys had been rained off. Only one or two stoics walked barefoot with rolled up trouser legs over the wet sand and collected shells in buckets. And rumour had it that heir days as beach entertainment were numbered. Vera even speculated whether they would end up as salami. Maybe that’s partly why they looked so sad.
The tide was as far out as it could get, so one or two holiday-makers were hoping to dig up shells or even valuables. The wind was high because there was probably a huge storm going on in the Atlantic. The rain was coming down sideways. Dorothy and Vera were braving the elements, but not enjoying the experience and getter wetter by the minute.
“Let’s just walk along the beachhuts, Vera, then we’ll hurry home.”
“Reluctantly, Dorothy. I really don’t like being out in this weather.”
The beachhuts were numbered in bold lettering painted over the sliding glass doors. The numbering jumped from 11 to 12 and then to 12a before 14.
“Maybe they just wanted to avoid having a Number 13,” Dorothy speculated. “If you left 13 out, it would confuse visitors. If you left 13 in, they would say it brought bad luck. 12a is not 13 but it isn’t 12, either.”
“I never thought of it that way,” said Vera.
There were 20 beachhuts and the sisters had reached  number 16, so they only had a few more to go. Music was emanating from hut 17.
“Can you hear what I can hear?” Dorothy said. “Someone must be inside.”
“Let’s have a look,” suggested Vera. “There shouldn’t be anyone in there now. I believe all the visitors have to be out by six.”
“That’s early, isn’t it?” said Dorothy.
“Remember that lodgings do suppers around seven at the latest. The guests will have been out all day. At B & B places they are evicted from after breakfast until suppertime. It must be awful having to stay away all day, no matter what the weather’s like. No wonder they rent somewhere like this to go to. ”
“This weather is also good for the fruit machine halls, Vera. The holiday-makers eat what the landladies have on offer at breakfast. They ignore the sea and traipse instead to the slot machine heavens and imagine they are in Las Vegas. If they manage to get to the beach during the day, they go back for the landlady’s tea and then go out again to catch up on the entertainment on offer, be it armed bandits, the scating rink or the funfair. When they are almost skint they lash out on a second supper of hotdogs and fried onions or fish and chips. Then they flock into the bingo halls and slot machine heavens tospenf the next day’s spending money until it’s time for final supper of more of the same unhealthy food. I expect they all go to bed with indigestion.”
***
At Frint-on-Sea, which was basicly interchangeable with any other seadside resort, fruit machine emporiums line the coast road on the inland side. Many people leave most if not all  of their holiday money at the machines and bingo tables. Visitors are also keen bingo players at their local church hall or pub, so it is almost home from home except that you get the sea air thrown in. Sea air is not to be sneezed at when you have spent the other 51 weeks of the year inhaling industrial smog. And that has been a fact ever since the industrial revolution.
***
“Of course, there is no industrial smog anymore,” said Vera, “though a lot of council house dwellers have to heat with coal, so that makes bad air. I know they town councils want to stop that, but it all costs money.”
“And there’s tradition to consider, Vera. If your parents and grandparents spent their week’s holiday at the seaside, that’s a reason for doing the same. It’s a trip down memory lane.”
***
The sisters crossed the flagged patio to peer into the window of No.17. The curtains were only partly drawn. Dorothy pressed her nose against the glass of the sliding door.
“What’s that lying on the floor?” she said.
“It looks like one of those dolls you can blow up,” said Vera, nose now also pressed against the glass. “Somebody is playing a joke.”
“I’m sure it’s a corpse, Vera.”
“Don’t be silly, Dorothy. You’ve been watching too many movies. Don’t go looking for a crime! Remember that curiosity killed the cat!”
Dorothy was indignant. Vera was very critical of her love of action movies and recent involvement in crime detection.
“It isn’t my curiosity that drives me on, Vera. It’s my partiality to justice. Too many criminals get away with their nasty deeds.”
“So what are you going to do about this corpse, if it is one, Dorothy?” said Vera, pushing the glass door to no avail. “Anyway, we can’t get in.”
“We should call the police, Vera.”
“The papers have already reported several cases of inflated dolls left like corpses in a B & B or hotel and scaring the lives out of people. I doubt whether the police will take you seriously.”
“Then let’s get into this hut and check first,” said Dorothy.
Vera tried the handle of the door and had to give up.
Dorothy dragged half the window sideways, letting it slide to behind the second half while Vera looked on.
“Of course, the doors slide open here,” said Vera. “Silly me!”
 “Only if they aren’t locked, Vera. This one wasn’t. I wonder why?”
“Please don’t make a mystery just for the sake of it, Dorothy,” scolded Vera. “You’re on holiday, remember?”
***
Leaving Vera standing outside shaking her head in disapproval, Dorothy took her father’s old pistol out of her handbag and held it in front of her as she softshoed into the beachhut. The pistol was aimed at a prostrate figure covered carelessly with an old army blanket. There was no movement at all. A small radio was grinding out the pop music they had heard from outside. On the table were the remains of one portion and one unopened portion of fish and chips. Dorothy stretched out a foot tentatively and nudged it against the figure. When she took her foot away, the figure rolled back into its former position. Dorothy moved to the head of the figure, which was furthest from the window and therefore got the least light. She lifted the scarf covering the neck and head and saw to her horror that it was a young woman. The woman was dead and there was a nasty gash on her head.
“Come here, Vera,” Dorothy called, putting her pistol back into her bag so as not to alarm her sister even more. “It isn’t a doll, the young woman is dead and I’m glad we are wearing gloves. At least we haven’t left any prints on the door.”
“She might have just died a natural death,” said Vera.
“With that gash in her head?”
Vera looked at the corpse and tears welled up in her eyes. Dorothy was of sterner stuff. She pulled the blanket over the girl’s head. There were no tears in Dorothy’s eyes. Of course, she was sorry, but she’d seen this sort of thing before and was more used to it.
“The girl was probably also strangled with that scarf around her neck,” said Dorothy. “The ends are to the back. No one wears a scarf that way round.”
“That would mean she was killed twice,” said Vera. “Let’s get out of here. It’s a horrible scene. We need to call the police immediately.”
“That’s what I said a minute ago,” said Dorothy, lifting the army blanket that was covering the body end of the corpse. She needed to check the clothes. As she thought, they were cheap and provocative.
Vera was a year or so older than her, but Dorothy always felt she had to be in charge. She took her mobile phone out of her coat pocket and dialled 999.
“Police Station here. P’nawn da! Can I help you?” said a voice in the singsong tones of a Welshman.
“We’ve found a corpse,” said Dorothy.
“Tee hee hee,” said the voice.
“Who am I talking to?” said Dorothy.
“Llewellyn. Sergeant Dafydd Llewellyn. Taffy to my friends.”
“Well, Sergeant, stop laughing! I’m not joking.”
The sergeant laughed even more before assuming an even more officious voice.
“Listen Miss. I’ve had three inflatable dolls today and my round of duty ends in half an hour. I don’t need a fourth inflatable doll.”
“You sound as if you don’t need a corpse either, Sergeant,” said Dorothy, anxious to avoid a name she could not pronounce, let alone spell. “I assure you that this is a genuine dead body. I am a private detective. I know a deceased person when I see one.”
“You’re not in league with Frank Wetherby, are you?”
“Who is that?”
“A disreputable private eye, Miss….What was your name again?”
“I didn’t say. Never mind my name. Get here as fast as you can, Mr Loo. It’s Beachhut Number 17 – S E V E N T E E N. That’s quite near the skating rink.”
“It’s Llewellyn with double ELELs. EL EL is done with a curled tongue and ell like blancmange. You are serious, aren’t you, Miss?”
“Of course I’m serious. I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Not so fast! I’ll be along when I’ve closed up the office here. Me and my assistant are going off duty.”
Did that mean there was no one at the police station during the evening and at night? A pretty poor show, thought Dorothy.
***
It took quite a while for Sergeant Llewellyn to turn up. He was driven in a police patrol car by a thin, worn-out looking cop who rushed round the vehicle to open the door for the fat little Sergeant to alight. He sported a row of medals on his stately chest. Vera thought he  looked like something out of an operetta and could not be far off bursting out of his uniform. The driver of the car was subservient, as though he was in the police force solely to chauffeur the fat sergeant around.
„My goodness! Top brass!“ whispered Vera. “Or jumble sale,” she added, looking at the somewhat rusty medals before fading into the shadows, leaving Dorothy to deal with the situation.
“Where is it then, this corpse?” Sergeant Llewellyn shouted above the wind, which seemed to be howling louder than ever.
Vera decided that the patrol car must have crossed the bowling greens to get to the beachhuts. It would have left deep tyre treads in the beautifully shaved grass on such a wet day. Bowling amateurs would not have wanted to tramp to and fro across squelching wet grass so they would not have played. In all probability, the proprietors of the bowling greens would also be at home, so there was no one there to make a fuss. If any witnesses complained about the devastation, they would be dismissed summarily. Police business had priority, they would be told.
“Come and look, Sergeant,” invited Dorothy, amused at the sight of this pompous fairground figure.
“It’d better be a corpse, otherwise I’ll charge you with breaking and entering,” said Sergeant Llewellyn, puffing himself up. “That is Constable Bradley,” he said, tossing his head in the direction of the thin policeman who was currently running to the patrol car to fetch the digital camera that was stored in the glove compartment.
“I’ve told you a thousand times to stay with me in times of danger, Brass,” the sergeant shouted.
“There is no danger, Sergeant,” said Dorothy. “And anyway, I’m here and armed,” she added, drawing her pistol.
Sergeant Llewellyn’s reactions were in good shape. He backed away rapidly
“Have you got a licence for that?” he asked,  glad that he could show his authority to this busybody of a woman.
“Of course I have, Sergeant. I do shooting practice at least once a week with my friend, Detective Sergeant Greg Winter of Middlethumpton police.”
“Oh do you?” said the sergeant, and Brass, who had returned in time to hear that last piece of dialogue, winked at Dorothy and made a mental note of the scene so that he could describe it to his colleagues at headquarters.
Dorothy had had the foresight to photograph the corpse with her mobile camera after ringing the police, mainly so that she would be able to describe the scene accurately to Cleo later.
Bradley alias Brass was not Welsh. He had none of the dubious Celtic magnetism of the sergeant. Being deferent was his way of dealing with this comic figure. On stage, he would have made a fine butler. As it was, he seemed destined to play driver and odd-job man for his superior.
“Lead the way then,” Sergeant Llewellyn said to Dorothy. “Show us this corpse, tee hee hee!”
The dead girl had bare feet that were no longer covered by the blanket after Dorothy had pulled it up over the woman’s head. Now she went straight to the head end of the girl and got ready to expose the whole corpse.
“Don’t touch!” commanded the sergeant. “I must admit that inflated dolls don’t usually have feet like that,” he said, taking care to keep as much distance as possible between himself and the feet.
A masterpiece of detection, thought Dorothy wryly. She defied the sergeant’s command not to touch anything by dragging the blanket  off most of the body.
“You may have noticed that I am wearing gloves, Sergeant,” said Dorothy.
“Murderers often wear gloves,” the sergeant deduced.
“I know her,” said Brass, coming up behind them and taking a photo of the corpse.
“No, you don’t, Constable,” said Sergeant Llewellyn.
“Yes I do and so do you. She came into the station a few days ago and asked for you. She thought she was being followed. Don’t you remember?”
“Rubbish. It wasn’t her,” said the sergeant, who had pretended not to know her and sent her away saying that she must be imagining things.
“I remember that she had that little rose tattoo on the back of her right hand,” said Brass as he kneeled down to pick up the limp hand that was sprawled on the concrete floor. “Her middle name’s Rose, and judging from the feel of her hand, she’s been here all day,” said Brass. “Rigor mortis been and gone, Sir. She’s clammy cold and floppy.”
“How do you know her name is Rose?” the Sergeant asked.
“Because I make a note of all visitors to the station, Sir,” replied Brass.
“You do, do you?”
“She said her name was Rose Smith, Sir, but she might have given a false name, of course.”
“Didn’t you check?” Dorothy asked.
“I’ve been too busy,” retorted Brass stiffly.
***
Dorothy wasn’t really sure why, but she had a hunch that this sergeant was not necessarily an upholder of the law and yet he seemed shocked at the scene in the beachhut. If Dorothy had been asked to describe the look on Llewellyn’s face, she would have said it was revulsion with embarrassment not far behind and a touch of anxiety, or was it guilt?
“I know where she worked, too,” said Brass. Without waiting for Sergeant Llewellyn to say anything, he continued. “At that brothel in King’s street.”
Dorothy wondered if Sergeant Loo had been a client of the girl.
“Shut up and take some more photos,” he commanded.
“I am doing, aren’t I?” said Brass.
“Well, make it quick and call the services,” the sergeant shouted.
***
It looked very much as if Sergeant Loo only issued instructions. His relationship with the corpse was a matter for speculation. As if to prove that he was not afraid of death, he approached the body and doubled down from the waist to look at her head. Dorothy thought he might not be physically able to kneel with such a paunch in the way. He was breathing asthmatically.
“Knocked down by a blow,” he announced, straightening himself with difficulty, brushing his trousers, and re-aligning his row of medals. His face was flushed from the blood rushing to it as he lowered it. He looked even more like a clown.
“Sand,” said Dorothy.
“What sand?” Llewellyn asked.
“There’s bound to be sand,” said Dorothy. “It’s windy and the beach is three yards away. There could be footprints, Sergeant, if we haven’t trampled them all away.”
“Sand,” the sergeant repeated. “Here on the floor, Brass,” he gesticulated. “Take photos of it.”
The sand was not very conspicuous. It was likely that everyone who came anywhere near the beach would have sandy shoes, so sand would be of no use as evidence. Dorothy was about to say as much when Brass said  that he couldn’t see any sand.
“There might even be a footprint, Sergeant,” Dorothy suggested jokingly.
“Have a look, Brass!” snorted the sergeant.
“But we’ve all walked everywhere,” Brass protested. “If there were footprints, they’ll have gone by now.”
“You’ll have to get the women’s soles checked,” said Llewellyn. “Do it tomorrow!”
“Why?” said Brass. “There’s sand everywhere and nowhere.”
“Don’t ask questions, just do as I say.”
Dorothy decided that the sergeant was not only bumptious, but also clueless.
Turning to Vera and Dorothy, Brass said with a broad wink “Bring the shoes you are wearing now to the police station, Ladies!”
“When?” Dorothy asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” said the sergeant.
“We are not under suspicion, are we?” said Vera anxiously.
The sergeant’s belligerent shouting had brought her out of the shadows.
“Who says you’re not under suspicion, Ladies?” said Llewellyn. “I decide who’s under suspicion.”
Dorothy explained to Vera that they were not under suspicion, but that their shoeprints would have to be eliminated.
“Stop gabbling on, you two,” shouted the sergeant. “Comparing alibis is forbidden.”
The two sisters looked at one another in amazement.
Brass went up to the sergeant and whispered something, at which the sergeant shouted ‘stuff and rubbish’.
“Where were you 24 hours ago, Ladies?” the Sergeant asked, pursuing his line of investigation.
“Why?” asked Dorothy.
“Because the body has probably been here since yesterday evening,” he retorted. It was safe to assume the Brass had told him that.
“Are you accusing us after all, Sergeant?” said Vera.
“If you just say where you were, that will save a lot of bother” said Brass.
“At home with the family,” said Vera. “All of us! And if I remember rightly it was a sunny day, so the inspector of beachhuts will have been around here checking. Maybe he or she committed the murder.”
“Check that out, Brass!” said Llewellyn. “We don’t know if it was a murder, Ladies!” he added.
“I think you’ll find it is,” said Dorothy.
“Don’t think, woman,” retorted the sergeant.
I’ll check everything, Sir!” replied Brass, giving the two sisters another broad wink. “Do you want me to arrest the ladies, Sir?”
“Not for the moment, Brass.”
“Would you like to have our names and addresses in case you change your mind during the night, Sergeant Loo?” Dorothy asked.
 “Llewellyn,” the sergeant corrected, but Brass had noted with glee the abbreviated name. He would think of the fat sergeant as Loo in future.
“Take down their names and addresses, Brass,” commanded Loo. “Then you can drive me home.”
Shotly after, Sergeant Loo waved perfunctorily to Dorothy and Vera that they could go, so they left the scene as fast as they could, fighting the wind that had turned to oppose them, and the sideways falling, whipping rain.