18 The Naughty Boy

DI Dorothy is getting close to a conclusion...

WORDS MEAN DEATH

18 The Naughty Boy

“How in the name of goodness did that happen?” demanded an angry DI Dorothy Bramble when a nervous constable confessed that the prisoner he was supposed to be taking to an interview room seemed to have escaped.

“He kicked me in the you-know-whats,” he muttered, shamefacedly, “and it made my eyes water, I can tell you, so I couldn’t see a thing.”

“Your you-know-whats or balls if you want to use a biological name for that cluster of apparently useless soft objects you seem to be so fond of shouldn’t have been anywhere near his feet!” snapped the DI. “Now where did he get to? Did you see that?”

“Not exactly, but if I were him I’d have made for the back entrance…” stammered the constable,

“You mean, the fire exit, the one that’s always got to be kept locked twenty-four seven even when the place is burning down?”

“I suppose so, ma’am.” The constable was at the end of a very short tether, and in his mind he found himself staring into a vacuum looming in front of him, a life devoid of what he had hoped would be a long and successful career in law enforcement.

“But it will be locked, surely!” snapped the DI.

“It was, ma’am, but I was sent that way by the super…” The grovelling tone sunk one degree lower. “I left it open so that I could take the prisoner back that way. It’s a lot shorter…”

The DI turned to DS Ian Rogers. “Quick!” she snapped, “it’s down to us to re-arrest the devil!” and she led the two of them onto the street. “He must have come this way!” she snapped.

It was then that young woman who gave every impression of both seeing and knowing everything, Sophia Thatcher, happened to be passing by on her way home from the shops, ran up to the two of them.

“You’re the coppers, I mean officers, who are solving the murder of the great writer Dorian Hemsworth, aren’t you?” she asked breathlessly

Dorothy nodded and grinned. “hoping to solve it,” she said,”and most certainly trying to.”

Sophia smiled at them, acknowledging the meaning behind Dorothy’s words. “I don’t know if this will help but it looked mighty odd to me a few minutes or so ago. That vicar, the one who lives next door to Dorian, came out of nowhere, probably a back door of this station,” she indicated the building they were standing outside, and continued, “just went down that jitty…” she pointed to a pedestrian pathway that squeezed between two houses on the opposite ide of ther road, “and he was being so furtive not even me with my sharp eyes might have noticed him! But I clocked him all right and do you know where that jitty leads to?”

Dorothy shook her head. “I’ve noticed it times many but I’ve never been down that way,” she said, “where might it go?”

“Then I’ll tell you. It leads to close by where the old woman the padre sometimes bunks up with, the dirty devil, lives. What’s her name, let me see, memory like a sieve, the widow Mrs Standish…”

“Does it now,” breathed Dorothy, and then she smiled. “That piece of information might have saved our reputations,” she said, “and I can’t thank you enough.”

“It’s my duty,” smiled Sophia, “it’s what Dorian told me, always do what you think is the right thing and then maybe you can put it in a book you’re writing without fear of consequences. A wise man, was Dorian. And I’m writing a book like he was, and if the subject crops up, well, I’ll probably put it in!”

“I’d do that if I were you, and meanwhile we’ll go along to see if he’s with Mrs Standish,” Dorothy told her, “and if I can give you a piece of advice, if you see that same Reverend gentleman anywhere, keep as far away from him as you can, for your own sake. He may not be as innocent and godly as he looks.”

“He’s an odd cove right enough,” nodded Sophia, “I’m always glad if I can help.”

“Come on,” Dorothy said to her DS, “to the car and round to Mrs Standish. I’ll drive because I know the way!”

Ian might have informed her that so did he, but decided not to. Maybe, he thought, silence trumps chatter any day, especially one like this.

Sylvia Standish lived at number seventy-two just round the bend in the road where the author Dorian Hemsworth had lived. The pathway, or jitty as defined by Sophia Thatcher, terminated in the street, straight opposite her home.

“Be warned. He might where a collar, but until I can prove otherwise he’s a thug,” warned Dorothy to her DS, and they both climbed out of the car.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” she whispered, “it’s like a rabbit warren is this estate and he could be round just about any corner or bend. Right then, come on!”

“Should we get back-up?” suggested Ian.

“On the word of a wannabe writer who might have been mistaken, nice as she is?” replied Dorothy, “I rather think the Super would hang us out to dry if it turned out the be a waste of manpower. Now come on!”

She opened the gate to number seventy-two as quietly as she could and made her way silently up to the front door. Then, glancing at Ian to make sure he was ready, she rapped on the door.

She waited just long enough to start thinking there might be nobody in, and then she turned towards Ian.

“Once more,” she whispered, and knocked again.

This time the door opened, and the sight that faced her proved beyond any doubt that there was trouble for them ahead. The woman, elderly yet by the look of her quite sprightly, had tears running down her face.

She rushed out, almost into Dorothy’s arms.

“He’s up the stairs and going to bed, the naughty boy…” she gasped.

Dorothy turned to the DS. “Quick,” she ordered in an almost soundless hiss, “now it’s time to call, for back-up!”

© Peter Rogerson 27.01.24

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