1. A DEATH IN CUSTODY

A DI is disgraced and unemployed.

Trayda Sibsey, ex Detective Inspector, had reached, she thought, the pits. She was an ex Detective Inspector for a variety of reasons that had culminated in her having a choice: be fired or resign, and as one of those reasons had included a death in custody when she was the only officer anywhere near and at a time she should have been as far away from the custody suite as possible, she opted for resignation.

Not that she had anything to do with the death in custody. Yes, she’d been in the cell block, two cell doors away, and yes she’d heard him weeping and threatening to end it all, see if he didn’t.

Her big fear was what she was doing in the cell two doors away and she just couldn’t face up to confessing that she hadn’t been alone but had been in the dubious company of Sergeant Crimpson who was famed throughout Brumpton nick for being a randy old toad.

And it was while she was gasping and trying not to and Sergeant Crimpson was confiding in her the state of his quivering flesh in groan after groan that Benedict Thrower used a hidden razor to drain his own blood via an obliging artery.

Neither perverse athletes knew anything about it as they shrieked their way to glory. As quietly as they could, of course, but not quietly enough.

There was no covering it up because half a dozen other scumbags in half a dozen other cells had been witness to the entire event, albeit via sound only. But they knew the sergeant’s voice, knew it and hated it and just couldn’t keep his identity to themselves when questions were asked, and it was then the randy sergeant who named Trada as his love machine that fateful night. Fateful for Benedict Thrower, that is.

So she resigned and locked herself away in her lonely tiny terraced Edwardian home to sort her mind out.

It really hadn’t been her fault, she told herself, then revised the theory to admit that underwear rarely if ever descends to the floor of its own accord and she may have had something to do with it. But Sergeant Crimpson could be very persuasive and a rumour was going round the nick that he was so well hung that no woman could experience him without finding herself being transported to whatever heaven it is where angels flirt with saints, and so that one night she’d decided to put him to the test.

No. That wasn’t a reasonable excuse either.

On top of everything, of course, her husband, Don Sibsey, found out all about it and left her with the warning that she could expect nothing from him but contempt and he’d rather go to jail than pay her one penny in maintenance. It was fortunate that her own private bank account held sufficient funds for her to be independent for a short time due to the unfortunate decease of her one remaining parent and a reasonable inheritance.

So she had some funds and a humble home, and she licked her metaphoric wounds.

Her best friend had always been Angela Comely. They had shared the same maternity ward forty-three years earlier, gone to the same schools and even on to the same University where they’d earned very different degrees. Angela was the arty sort who studied sciences and she, Trayda, was the scientific sort who studied the arts. But they provided mutual support for each other, enjoyed the social life together, got married within weeks of each other and lived, even then, within two streets of each other. And when divorce was very much in the air for Trayda it also reared its ugly head for Angela.

“We’ll have to cheer ourselves up,” Angela told her over a glass or several of good red wine one early summer’s evening. They were in Trayda’s terraced cottage and giggling over an episode of Midsomer Murders that incorporated all sorts of goings on in a village of delightful thatched cottages where you’d expect very little to be going on.

“That’s easier said than done,” Trayda replied, “I need a job. My inheritance won’t last for ever and anyway I get bored with having nothing to do.”

“But a job won’t cheer you up,” said Angela, “work only cheers up those who haven’t got a life, and you’ve never been one of those.”

“What about you?” asked Trayda, “how are you going to manage?”

“Well, it was Phil’s fault,” murmured Angela, “he hit his forties and started ogling everything with a pulse before ending up being found in bed with that redhead from Tesco’s fruit and veg section and beaten up by her rightly angry hubby when he was caught at it. But I wasn’t going to let him off that lightly and I’m after every penny he’ll ever have!”

“You’ll still need a job. For your sanity,” Trayda told her.

“No I won’t. What I’ll need is a holiday, a really good holiday with sun and the sea and maybe the odd bloke on a wet day. And you need the same.”

“I’m done with blokes,” mumbled Trayda, “they’re nothing but trouble, in or out of bed.”

“As permanent fixtures maybe, but perhaps the odd fling would do us both good,” grinned Angela, “you know, us girls have needs and those needs become virtual agonies if they’re not satisfied.”

“So what are we going to do?” asked Trayda doubtfully.

“Have you still got your dad’s caravan?” asked Angela, “you know, the one he took to Skeggy with him every year?”

“Of course. I was going to sell it, but thought I might bull it up a bit first because it’s a few years old and needs polishing.”

“Then we must go around the country in it together!” enthused Angela. “Look, it’ll be summer soon, and summer’s are always best if there’s sea and sand not so far away! And who knows, we might meet two like-minded lads who are ready for a good time, no strings attached, hello and goodbye on the same day!”

“You make it sound rather tempting,” sighed Trayda, “and maybe you’re eight. Maybe it is exactly what I need.”

“Take it from me, it is,” laughed Angela, “you hitch the caravan onto your four by four and I’ll nip out for the condoms!”

oo0oo

When two ladies decide to do something together it might amaze the average man how swiftly and efficiently they can do it. But only one week later, with Trayda behind the steering wheel, they pulled slowly away from the caravan park where her van was stored for the winter and towards the open road.

It might not have been a new caravan, but it was, to Angela’s eyes, the height of luxury, especially when she discovered the shower with hot running water almost as efficient as hers at home.

“There’s many a bloke who might want to rinse his tackle off in here,” she called to Trayda when she was looking the van over, “especially after a bit of exercise on a hot and sunny day!”

There had been plans to make, routes to be decided, destinations to agree on. In the end they chose Sandy Shores, a camping and caravan site not too close to anywhere that was likely to be busy, as their first stop and Trayda booked in for a week by phone. Then thye planned to move on, decisions to be made as and when necessary.

“We’re lucky they still had a pitch for us,” she said to Angela as they moved off, “and the bloke on the phone warned me that we might bump into nudists who’ve got lost, because there’s a nudist beach not so far away, maybe a couple of miles he said.”

“I’m not so sure about nudist men,” grinned Angela, “there’s something spooky about blokes who want to put their prize possessions on display without giving a moment’s consideration to the hearts of nearby ladies!”

“No man’s ever got even close to giving me a heart attack!” smiled Trayda.

“But one might, one day. Now be careful to take the right road. That Sandy Shores sounds like just the place for two still young ladies to accidentally fall foul of a whole host of naked Romeos!” giggled Angela.

Trayda groaned. “Let’s wait and see,” she said, warningly, I know caravanners and you might discover the truth, that most are elderly even if they’re still in their twenties. I think we’ll find that most of your sort of fella has gone on his holidays to Spain, not Skeggy!”

“Then it’s just as well we’re not going to Skeggy either,” grinned Angela, “we’re off to Sandy Shores where we’ll have one hell of a good time, come hell or high water!”

© Peter Rogerson 18.03.19