4. Howling Hyena and a Drunk

BOB SKELLINGTON’S REMAINS Part 4

DC Sheila Robinson was on the phone. From the beginning of the call she sounded satisfied, as though a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

“We believe we’ve got an ID, ma’am,” she said, “there’s one name that crops up as both a missing person from twenty-nine years ago and on hospital records of a previous leg injury dated thirty five years ago, and it matches the one that our collection of old bones apparently suffered from.”

“Well done, Sheila,” smiled Rosie, thinking that perhaps her own expertise might not be called for after all.

“The thing is, Rosie,” almost whispered Sheila, “it might not be quite so straight forward as it seems. Our bones belong to the middle son of the Right Honourable Abram Montclare, a young politician who went by the name of Darius Montclare.”

“Never heard of either of them,” commented Rosie.

“Well, old man Montclare died shortly after his son vanished from the face of the Earth, of a broken heart, it was said, though it was suggested that a great deal of high proof fire water was involved. His elder son, a wastrel not unlike his father, is safely ensconced in a private hospital for the mentally disturbed and his younger son adopted the name of Howling Hyena, spent a few years making also-ran pop records before entering the priesthood.”

“Not much of a family, then,” commented Rosie. “Text me as much as you know and I’ll do a bit of digging my end. It’s turned cloudy and even looks like rain, so I might be happy for something to do. I heard from the twins up in the Lake District and they’re having the time of their lives even though the weather is appalling. I only hope there’s enough supervision. My Jack’s had his eyes on a pretty young girl since Junior school, and she’s out there and getting prettier by the day. If he takes after my late husband he might well prove to be a randy young devil before he gets much older!”

“We don’t want to duplicate our efforts ma’ er, Rosie,” suggested Sheila.

“Quite right. Give me the nutcase, the one in a private nursing home, though if the family’s gone the way you describe it’s a miracle they can afford ‘private’.”

“They both struck me as being in the nutcase category,” smiled Sheila, “I mean, Howling Hyena! That’s nuts, if you ask me!”

“There were quite a lot of eccentrics around forty years ago,” Rosie told her, “and many of them graduated to the music industry where they floundered for a while, got broke and entered the real world as plumbers or carpenters.”

“I’ll bear that in mind next time I want work done on our house,” said Sheila, “maybe they’ll treat me to a few verses of their top tens.”

“I doubt they made it that high!” laughed Rosie, “and I should take a look at the old alcoholic if I were you, If he was a right honourable there should be loads of info about him, where he lived, what he did before the demon drink got him, and anyone else in the family tree who might give you a clue as to what went wrong with the Claremont clan. It sounds to me as if they might go back quite a while, maybe to Norman ancestry. Quite a lot of people can claim that much family tree.”

“Righto, Rosie,” said Sheila with a smile so broad and genuine that Rosie was sure she could even hear it.

She’d already briefly visited the site where the old bones had been spotted, but if it was going to rain she thought she’d like to take another look before the weather took charge.

Farmer Crosby, whose farm was little more than a small holding on a couple of fields bought from Rosie’s friend Farmer Parsons, was a grumpy individual who had seen a part of his income reduced to zero by the simple act of an exclusion tape being wrapped around it.

“When will you lot be finished?” he asked when Rosie introduced herself as a police officer rather than the pretty face of a, to him, young woman caravanning in the field next to his small-holding.

“When we know that no foul play was involved in the way the skeleton was left on your property,” she replied, not liking his attitude.

“Well, I didn’t put it there!” he insisted.

“Can I ask you, have you ever had anything to do with the Right Honourable Abram Montclare?” she asked.

“Who do your think I am, mixing with the likes of right honourables?” he almost shouted, “what I want to do is, when can I let this van back out? I’ll have to get that flooring in the bathroom replaced. I didn’t know it was rotting, you know. The plumber said it must have been dripping for decades.”

“That’s hardly the responsibility of the police,” she said, “but what is our responsibility is the cause of the death of the son of the Right Honourable Abram Montclare, and how it was that he ended up dead under this mobile home.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” he stammered, “I’ve never hurt so much as a fly, never in my life.”

“I’m sure you haven’t,” Rosie told him, “but I’ve got my duty to do or I wouldn’t be worth the wages I get paid, and nobody would be safe in their beds! Now tell me, what do you know of someone called Howling Hyena?”

“Oh, him! I remember him all right! I’ve got one of his records, on cassette it was, a dreadful dirge but me and the misses liked it back in the day!”

“It was before my time,” murmured Rosie. “Well, Mr Crosby, I’ll see how quickly we can get things back to normal for you. I do sympathise, but then, it’s come as a shock to me, I’m supposed to be enjoying a week in the sun away from the kids!”

“You’ve got kids?” he asked, “I wouldn’t take you as old enough to have a tribe of kids!”

“It’s a small tribe, Mr Crosby, just one set of twins, but thanks for the compliment anyway. I suppose you’ll be getting the floor replaced before letting it again?”

“Of course I will! Probably do it myself. I’ve done everything else myself, you know, the concrete base, the electrics and water. I can turn my hand to most things, much to the pleasure of my misses.”

At that he left her to spend a few more moments looking around and telling herself that he may be a more than adequate handyman, but she did hope he understood that water and electricity have never been comfortable bed fellows.

© Peter Rogerson 03.02.21