11. Police Enquiries

THE SANDS OF TIME Part 11

“Well bum to that!” muttered Desmond, and then he smiled at The Detective Sergeant. “I rather expected one of you would end up saying something like that, but I hardly expected it at the beginning conversation,” he said.

“If you’ll follow me,” she said to him, not really looking him squarely in the face. “The D.I has asked me to take care of this case, and anyway, the fact that she’s your daughter makes it inappropriate for her to be dealing with you.”

“Of course,” he said, “but I hope she’s filled you in with all of the background.”

She led him into an interview room and sat him down opposite her. He noticed she didn’t yet switch the recording machine on.

“The D.I, that is your daughter, has mentioned a few things,” confirmed the Detective Sergeant, “were you really such a naughty boy at school?”

He shook his head. “I know why you ask that, but let me answer with a question of my own. Let us imagine a purely fictitious police constable, a lover of Midsomer Murders and with a promising career in front of him, but who lived next door to a man with equipment that regularly interferes with his television picture and that neighbour, knowing he’s doing it somehow manages to deliberately do it more often when a particular programme is on because annoying people is what amuses him.

“The police constable complains to the man on his way to the shops, where he buys some rat poison as he’s infested with the blighters, only to find when he arrives back home that his neighbour is being led away to an ambulance because he’s had a severe and potentially lethal electrical shock from his mysterious system that causes so much annoyance to the telly next door, and, seeing the constable, points at him and loudly declares that it’s his fault.

“Upon examination, the police find the rat poison and assume that, having failed in his attempt at somehow electrocuting the fellow he had made plans to dispose of his neighbour more permanently with the rat poison even though he’s a respected young copper. But is the poor fellow guilty?”

“Without evidence? Of course not.” replied D.S Rosie Wrizzle.

“But you’ve got me sitting here, and I didn’t even have any rat poison,” sighed Desmond.

“Mr Pottle has explained that you accosted him in the public house, the Plaice and Chips, and he had to tell you to find another table because he didn’t want to talk to you,” said the D.S. wearily, “is that not true?”

“Not completely. He was in conversation with a man of the cloth and, apparently, enquiring about various routes to Heaven when his time comes,” sighed Desmond. “I think he didn’t want to spend an eternity in purgatory.”

“Because he was heavy-handed when punishing disobedient schoolboys?” asked Rosie.

“It’s nothing to do with his sadistic behaviour if the 60s, and remembering that corporal punishment wasn’t illegal back then,” Desmond told her, “and it was handed out quite liberally, depending on the mood of the teachers. No, I was more concerned about his wife, which you’d know if you’d listened to Lucy.”

“You suspect he might have been responsible for her disappearance?”

“Look, dear, I passed through your rank years ago and would never have ended up in the Super’s chair if I wasn’t sure what I was on about, and you can call it a hunch if you like, but I believe he killed his wife as well as an allegedly attractive young clergyman, both a long time ago, and ought to be held to account for his crimes before he dies,” stated Desmond almost fiercely.

“But we’re an evidence based service, you know that, and hunch or intelligent deduction are not evidence, and never will be without something physical to back them up.”

“Did Lucy mention that you’ve had what he was drinking last night looked at by forensics?” asked Desmond, “and did she let on that the contents of that glass was a little more likely to give him a headache than beer?”

“She shouldn’t have…” stammered the D.S.

“Of course she shouldn’t, but I’m her father and probably earned a little respect in the past forty two years,” he told her, “I mean, if your father was sitting here and not me, would you give him a helping hand if you can’t see how it would in any way spoil your case?”

“I’d love to, but it would mean bringing him back from the grave, and I’d love to see him again,” sighed the sergeant.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know or wouldn’t have mentioned him. But as for Mr Pottle’s beer, let me guess. It was mixed with a date rape drug or something like that, nasty and lucky not to kill a man of his age,” said Desmond, “But I noticed when he left that he hadn’t emptied his glass and maybe that’s why he merely passed out for a short while rather than take a long trip to Heaven there and then. And, incidentally, I also know that he spent some time talking to a man in a clerical collar, so that when I joined them I had to sit opposite him, much too far from him to have done anything like doctoring his drink.”

“Ah, so he thought you did that, did he?”

“I don’t care what he thought, just what his sort would say if he found himself in a corner. But I didn’t do one darned thing to his beer, and I wouldn’t dream of doing it anyway.”

“So if he didn’t inadvertently try to poison himself, or if not poison himself, give himself one big headache, who did?”

Desmond pretended to look thoughtful, then he smiled at her as if a spark of light had illuminated a long forgotten truth.

“He was deep in conversation with a reverend gentleman, as you know. And that reverend gentleman, when he’d stopped giving a verbal atlas of the Heavenly possibilities for a sinner like himself, left him and came to talk to me.”

“And did he have any reason to do that?”

“Not that I could see. Maybe he thought I was an irritant to an old man who should be left in peace and wanted to discourage me. Who knows? Or maybe it was to let me know what they’d been discussing.”

“And what was that?”

“Well, and this, sergeant, is where you need a special kind of second sight, he said that old Pottle knew he was dying soon, which is why he was checking up on absolving his many sins on Earth before mounting the stairway to Heaven.”

“And what would that second sight show me?”

“Put together, and don’t forget it was the clergyman who told me this and not Pottle himself, it predicted his imminent death. Take out the talk about the hereafter and you’ve got the simple fact that I was being told that Pottle was going to die.”

“And how would he know that, sir? He was just a clergyman being drawn into a conversation with a very old man who really must be on his last legs.”

“A clergyman in a pub without a drink in front of him? He needs looking at.”

“We would if we knew which dog collar it was.”

“And you don’t?”

“We’ve checked on the local churches, but he’s not from any of them, I’m afraid. So we reckon he must be a holiday maker at the seaside, and there are so many boarding houses round Oceaneye and district it would take a month of Sundays to investigate them all.”

“Or,” smiled Desmond, “it might be the Reverend Rollo Bandweasel who I thought I recognised at the back of my mind last night and whose name has just come to me while we’re talking. But he’s not from round here. No. I met him ten or fifteen years ago when I was starting my private and personal investigation after retirement and in my own time, into the sadistic Mr Pottle who gave me too many bad dreams over too many years to be easily forgiven. The Reverend Rollo’s name is sort of memorable and he holds his position at the very same church where I think Mr Pottle bashed his own boyfriend over the head with a large metal statue!

“What are you like with coincidences, sergeant?”

© Peter Rogerson 17.03.22