13 The Politics of Sin

BOB SKELLINGTON’S REMAINS Part 13

Detective Inspector Rosie Baur stood somewhat apprehensively in the Superintendent’s office where he wave her into a chair and looked up from whatever he was doing.

“We have some evidence as to who the skeleton bones belonged to and are beginning to get a finger on how they got to be where they were found, sir,” she said.

“Shoot, then?” grunted her boss.

“Well there can be no doubt that the body was that of Bobby Montclare, middle son of the Montclare family headed by the late Abram Montclare,” she said slowly. “It seems that the old man reined his sons in when he was alive and when he died they flew in every direction. The Montclare family had really ancient roots. It seems that it arrived on these shores in the Norman colonisation of 1066.”

“Yes, yes, I know that!” he snapped, then he smiled slightly less grimly. “Abram was a friend of my own family,” he added, “though he became somewhat strange as he grew older.”

“Strange, sir?”

“He rather suspected that his line was going to end,” replied the Superintendent, “you see, he had three sons and there wasn’t a sensible one among them. Selwyn was bonkers from birth and Robert was always going to be one sandwich short of a picnic. He ran off to become a minor pop star and then he vanished off the face of the Earth. There were rumours that he joined a commune. There were several of those around when I was a younger officer. Some of them gave us cause for concern, you know, naked cavorting under the full moon, too much chemical substituting for reality, and he was just the sort to get hooked on that. Then there was the middle one, what was his name? I forget. Anyway, he was a wannabe politician with some damned good ideas about saving our country from disaster, as well as some not so good ones.”

“You mean he was a racist bigot with too many chips on his shoulders to do much good?” asked Rosie pointedly. “You see, sir, he was the skeleton under the caravan. There could be no doubt about it. His Christian name was Bobby, not to be confused with his brother Robert, or so I believe, though it could have been anything!”

“Abram was a bit goofy when it came to names,” nodded the Superintendent. “He wouldn’t think it all odd have sons named Robert and Bobby. In fact he’d think it one fine joke to play on the keepers of records. He didn’t approve of too much family information ending up in Government crypts!”

“I see,” frowned Rosie, then, “we were forced to interview the Prime Minister,” she said as though it was something they did every day.

The Superintendent sat bolt upright when she said that.

“You what?” he barked, suddenly loud enough to be heard on the street outside the police station.

“I said we interviewed the Prime Minister, sir,” she said, rather enjoying herself.

“You didn’t ask me first!” he bellowed.

“We were following a line of enquiry which took us to his office in London,” she said, “like we would if we were interested in questioning a teacher or a tramp. As far as I’m concerned, everyone in this country should be subject to the same laws, and those laws involve helping the police with their enquiries.”

“But the Prime Minister!”

“He was very helpful. It transpires that the deceased, in life, had a fear of crows, and we didn’t know that until the Prime Minister hinted at it. We also didn’t know that he renamed himself Bob Skellington when he joined an extreme right wing group and espoused some rather Hitlerian political ideas, like selecting parts of the population, say coloured people like myself, and deporting us en masse. No doubt, if that didn’t work, he’d arrive at a final solution.”

“Don’t say that, Inspector,” shivered her boss.

“It’s the kind of injustice brought about by extreme views,” she replied. “So our visit to London helped us towards a conclusion regarding Mr Skellington and his ribs.”

“And that conclusion is?”

“That he was somehow murdered, maybe pursued to his death, by person or persons unknown because he got the crazy idea that if he denounced his genuine beliefs by publishing a pamphlet preaching the diametric opposite, then people would hate those very liberal policies and blindly turn to what he really thought. You see, his mind was so trapped in a Victorian belief that Empire and a mighty military presence in every corner of the world is the right way go that he couldn’t see the real cost, to the happiness, comfort and lives of the masses, all of whom would be impoverished if he came to any kind of power. He thought those same masses would lap it up as a return to what he called the good old days, would vote for him in some dreamworld where the rich are encouraged to get even richer so that crumbs from their table might somehow trickle down for those same masses to fight over.”

“That’s dangerous talk, Inspector,” growled the Superintendent, “and I want the Prime Minister’s name keeping out of this! I’m sure he wouldn’t want to be associated with such things.”

“Of course, sir.”

“So you have come to an end of your enquiry and can get back to your holiday in the sun. Nothing useful can come from taking it further and further suggestions by you might offend people too important to be offended.”

“You mean, sir, that privilege should be protected?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but yes.”

“She suggested that you’d say that, sir.”

“Who?”

“An old woman I know. That’s all.”

Rosie walked proudly out of his office and tapped Sheila Robinson on one shoulder.

“A word,” she whispered, and they both went to the ladies convenience together.

“We’re to bury it,” she told her constable, “but I’m not going to let it rest at this. I believe he was killed, that is our Bob Skellington, to stop his book from ever seeing the light of day. Maybe if a few influential people read it and acted this country of ours might become a better place.”

“You think so, ma’am.”

“Rosie. I’m Rosie. And yes, I do think so. I’ve read it and it would make the basis for a brilliant socialist manifesto. You see, Sheila, turn what those who rule things believe upside down and you get something that just might be a great deal better.”

“And Mr Skellington died for that?”

“I’ve always maintained that it’s a waste of life to die for a set of beliefs, but yes, he did. Come on before he puts us on points duty. And the sod of it is my holiday’s just about over. Oh well, I hope they remember this when I put in my next request for a week of sunshine.”

THE END

© Peter Rogerson, 12.02.21

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