23. EXOTIC LINGERIE

A Chapter by Peter Rogerson

Leaving Wallace for a moment, there's a murder to be solved.

Wallace and Innocent spent the next day or two in their own homes, reluctant to go anywhere. Their proximity to violent death had marred their last few days of freedom before Wallace started his apprenticeship and Innocent went on to further education.

Meanwhile, the authorities had a murder to solve.

Dr Reuben Faraway shook his head as Inspector McGivven said he thought it likely that the girl had been savagely raped and in his mind her was sure there was a racial element to the attack.

“There’s absolutely no sign of any such thing, Inspector,” he growled, “the girl is virgo intacta, which is as she should be at her age,” he added.

“You mean, she’s never… not once?”

“I know my hymens, Inspector,” grunted Reuben, “and this one is intact. But she was wearing some pretty fancy underthings. I removed them during my examination. Take a look.”

He led the way to a bench on which a two-piece set of female underwear was laid out. It was lacy red with black edging and McGivven had never been so close to anything quite so suggestive in his life, not in the flesh that is, but he had noted with huge pleasure a proliferation of such garments in some of the magazines he drooled over in his shed when nobody was looking. They sparked thoughts in his imagination that his dull wife would never have guessed he was capable of giving birth to.

“She was wearing these?” he asked, his voice one of shocked surprise. “She was still at school till the other week! What’s the world coming to when girls of that age can be dressed in tart’s apparel like that?”

“That’s your job to find out,” replied Dr Faraway, “and I pity you having to do it because it’s a pound to a penny it had something to do with the chisel I had to remove from between her ribs!”

“And she was a virgin?”

“As I said. Unspoilt by man yet dressed like that. Sort that one out, Inspector, and take the knickers with you �" the body fluids have been washed away, so you won’t catch anything unpleasant from them. But they might provide a lead.”

“You washed them?” he asked, his eyes owlish, “what about any evidence that might still be on them?”

“I’ve noted everything about them,” came the reply, “and now they don't stink.”

Back in the office and surrounded by a bored team of officers , Inspector McGivven stood in front of them.

“Listen up,” he ordered, “and look at these!”

He held up the underwear. To his touch the material still felt new despite the washing it had been given, but he knew the two garments had adorned the body of a dead teenager for the last couple of weeks and he felt somewhat uncomfortable touching either of them. It was as if violent death had changed them for ever, was trapped in their delicate fibres.

“Question one. Where did these come from?” he asked.

“Not Marks, for sure,” sniggered Swinburne, “my missus would never be seen dead in things like that!”

“Let me look, sir,” asked Policewoman Derby from where she sat in front of an ancient and very noisy typewriter.

“You’d like them on your sweet little bottom then, Derby?” he grinned, handing them to her.

She shook her head, and sighed as if to say all men had only one thing on their minds, and it wasn’t monogamy.

“They don’t look like my size, sir,” she said, “but that’s not why I want to examine them. Ah, this label is in French, which is what I expected.”

“Then they’re French?” asked the Inspector, a gleam in his eyes.

“Yes, sir, and expensive,” murmured the policewoman. “There’s only one shop round here that sells stuff like this, and it’s pretty exclusive. Me, I can’t afford to breathe the air that wafts out of its door when it’s open! The country set, they go there: sturdy stuff for the daytime and exotic lingerie for after dark, if you see what I mean!”

McGivven did see what she meant. He had a collection of magazines that had educated him. “Then you and I, Derby, are going to visit the shop in question and see who bought these specimens. It might be a lead that helps us get our mitts on the sort of piece of low life that likes killing teenage girls!”

“Yes, sir,” smiled Policewoman Derby. Though she was a uniform officer she occasionally had to support the detective branch, who always wore plain clothes.

The shop in question, Marrs, was on a side street where other, what McGivven thought of as pretentious, shops could be found. It had a plain glass frontage with a display that would appeal more to the horse-riding elite than everyday men and women like police officers. At least, that was the thought that ran through his mind as he pushed the door open and, trying not to look in any way self-conscious, strode in.

The woman behind the counter was middle-aged and looked .down her considerable nose at him, disdain being the only discernible expression on her grey unweathered face.

“Police,” was McGivven’s introduction of himself and Derby.

“We don't purvey uniforms, sir,” replied the woman in a voice that spoke more of haughty indifference than anything else. To her mind she was unlikely to make a sale to either of the people in front of her so anything she said to either of them would be wasted words.

“Do you stock these?” asked policewoman Derby, and she produced the garments, freshly laundered by the pathologist.

The woman barely looked at the garments that Joan Derby was holding, but shook her head dismissively. “We might stock similar items, but ours are from France and of spectacularly high quality,” she sneered.

The policewomen exposed the label on the red knickers. “This label is French,” she said, “look at it, please.”

The time the shop-keeper did look, and her face froze when she noted the manufacturer’s name.

“Maybe I was a bit hasty,” she mumbled, trying to sound confident, and failing. “We do, as it happens, sell that range, though they are very expensive and only sought after by a select few of our customers.”

“I can imagine,” said McGivven dryly, “there can’t be much call for such flimsies, I’m sure. But tell me, and this is important. This pair of garments is part of an enquiry, a murder enquiry, and it would do you a bit of good if you could help us out here. Who bought them?”

“I couldn’t possibly...” stuttered the woman.

“It might keep it out of the papers if you helped,” suggested the Inspector.

“The papers?” There was a distinct sense of dithering as the woman repeated the two words.

“The papers,” repeated McGivven.

“Then I’d better tell you. They were stolen.”

“A thief? Here?” McGivven sounded more incredulous than he felt.

“We had a boy. Part time. Only a few hours a week. It had to be him. He was often clearing up in the stock room, unsupervised.”

“And you’re certain it was him?”

“There could have been no-one else. We are a small staff, and dedicated to serving our respectable customers. Yes, Frederick Barnard must have stolen them. That was his name: Frederick Barnard. There could have been nobody else anywhere near them, and they do say that common boys like to … touch … expensive lingerie like these. We dismissed him, of course. I suppose I can’t have them back?”

“Hardly,” smiled Joan Derby, adjusting her uniform hat, “they’re evidence in a murder enquiry and we’ll need them for some time. But when we’ve finished, afterwards...”

“Afterwards they won’t be fit to look at!” snapped the grey woman, “I know what the police are like! All bad tempers and very grubby hands!”