3. First Impressions

BOB SKELLINGTON’S REMAINS - Part 3

“You make me feel way overdressed,” smiled Detective Constable Sheila Robinson after she climbed out of her car, having parked it next to Rosie’s X-trail.

“Well you’re on duty and I’m not, and if you’d arrived ten minutes ago you’d have found me resplendent in my favourite bikini,” Rosie told her, “but I slipped this dress on out of respect for your sensibilities and in case the super decided to come along with you. Come on in and have a cuppa while you bring me up to speed. The boss did explain that I’m only here to help if you get stuck, which, knowing you, is unlikely.”

“I may be stuck already,” sighed the young constable, “There’s nothing from dental records and I’m waiting on DNA results, which according to Doctor Greaves may be uncertain. I mean, our bloke may have no DNA on record.”

“What about missing persons?” asked Rosie.

“We’re going back thirty years to when the caravan was parked on a concrete base near the cottage,” explained Sheila, “and because of the wet conditions Doc Greaves can’t by more precise that saying the old bones had arrived there within the ten years after that, and probably less.”

“What about when the plastic skirt was erected?” asked Rosie.

“That was twenty years or so ago, the farmer is unclear and doesn’t appear to have kept records. He did the job himself, so there’s no third party who may have it on his books.”

“And you’ve checked for unexplained disappearances?” asked Rosie.

“Ma’am, you must know how many people go missing over a period of ten years,” exclaimed Sheila, “the list is endless, and that’s just in Brumpton and environs!”

“What about fragments of clothing?”

“Again, there’s nothing particularly helpful there, though he did wear Marks and Spencer’s boxer shorts. We know that because although they were made of cotton which has long since rotted away in the constant damp from a dripping pipe, the nylon label remains! There are bits of thread here and there and a leather belt which is in remarkably good condition bearing in mind that the trousers have decayed almost out of existence. The doc. Reckons our body must have been there closer to thirty years than twenty.”

“Does the beard help?

Sheila grinned. “Nylon, I’m afraid. He must have worn a disguise!”

“That’s a start, then. It’s just about possible that you might be able to trace the manufacturer or shop that sold it, and there’s an infinitesimally small chance there may be a record of who it was made for or who purchased it.”

“I’ll try,” muttered Sheila doubtfully.

“No. Leave it to me. If there’s a break in the weather I’ll be only too pleased to have something to do.”

“A break from this glorious sun? That doesn’t seem likely,” groaned Sheila.

“Then I’ll make time, darling,” laughed Rosie, “now, the glasses he was wearing?”

“Cheap readers available from every other low cost shop,” Sheila told her, “my dad used to buy the same sort from the pound shop, and probably still does, and our body isn’t my dad!”

“Has Doc Greaves suggested how he might have died?”

Sheila shook her head. “There’s no obvious trauma or bullet hole to help,” she said, “though he did have a broken leg once upon a time, probably in his teens so well healed by the time of death, of course, and not treated at Brumpton General Hospital, or if it was they’ve lost the record. On top of that there’s not enough soft tissue left to provide any kind of evidence for anything.”

“Well, we’ve got snippets to start on,” pointed out Rosie encouragingly.

“Very tiny snippets!”

“From tiny snippets did a mighty result grow! Now how about that cuppa!”

“A quick one, then,” sighed Sheila, “I’d better have something to show for my time or the super will think I’ve been doing nothing.”

“You leave him to me!”

“There was one thing I was wondering,” said Sheila once Rosie had provided the two of them with mugs of fragrant coffee, “and bearing in mind that we know where he was found but not how on Earth he got there, nor how come he settled somewhere that must have been wet and possibly even slightly flooded back then. The plumber said the leak had probably been there since the van was plumbed into the main water supply.”

“A good question,” mused Rosie.

“I can only think that he crept in there to die,” suggested Shelia, “or he would have shifted his bones, excuse the pun, to somewhere drier and more hospitable.”

“That makes perfect sense to me, lass,” grinned Rosie, “you’re thinking like a proper detective!”

“So was he forced in there?” continued Sheila, thinking aloud, “did he find himself pushed into the dark space under a caravan at night, or was it broad daylight and was he hiding from someone? The pathologist says that from his teeth it looks as though he was around forty years of age and with perfect gnashers! How come a bloke of that age is actually under a caravan long enough to die there?”

“And if he had perfect teeth the chances are he must have been a healthy bloke,” said Rosie, “most people have some dental work by the time they’re forty, surely.”

“And having found himself there, why didn’t he shift to a dry spot?” continued Sheila, “maybe he was barely alive and it was all could do to lie still and keep quiet, especially if he was being pursued by tribes of Visigoths after his blood!”

“I do like your imagination, Sheila!”

“Anyway, I suppose I’d better report back to the super. He asked me to keep him in the loop, so to speak.”

“And when I’ve got a spare moment I’ll see what I can find out about false beards. You wouldn’t have a sample of it, I suppose?”

Sheila shook her head. “But I can bring you a strand or two,” she said brightly, “next time I feel like a fresh cup of coffee.”

“Good thinking, Sheila. And make sure you keep a record of your mileage. We don’t want the super to get all mean over your expenses. After all, it’s his idea to bully me into working during my holidays!”

“Will do, Rosie,” smiled Sheila.

The DI watched her go. “She’ll make a good one,” she murmured to herself thoughtfully, “between us we’ll show the male sex who’s best when it comes to solving serious problems!”

© Peter Rogerson 02.02.21