A BURIED BODY 4.

Primrose Hill Retirement Home wasn’t set on a hill and was nowhere near anything that looked like a primrose, it being situated on the main road leading out of Brumpton and going North. The Home was close enough to the town for its inhabitants to manage a walk to the shops if the weather was fit because it wasn’t a gaol and in no way confined its inmates’ freedom, though most of them were happy to stay where they were for most of the time..

Mr Greenwich was the man in charge and he was caring about the reputation of the place. It had been established by his own brother decades earlier because he had successfully predicted football results several years, and managed to win enough to buy the Victorian house and grounds before bulldozers did their best to flatten the area. Then, his win being of a magnificent sum, he went about equipping it as a home for retired gentlefolk who paid handsomely for somewhere to live, where they would be cared for and fed and watered without having to put in more than the fees he charged.

Mr Greenwich’s brother (also Mr Greenwich) had passed away several years before Arnold’s adoptive father was admitted to the place, and the surviving Mr Greenwich ran Primrose Hill as he knew his brother would have liked, comfortably but at a profit.

And it was to Primrose Hill Retirement Home that DI Corden called the next morning in order to see if and how Arnold’s father could assist him with his enquiries into a buried body found decomposing in his own back garden. Arnold had wanted to accompany him because he was worried that his father would appear not altogether sensible under even the most gentle questioning, but the DI had wanted to conduct his enquiries without a suspect breathing over his shoulder as he did so.

Mr Greenwich wasn’t entirely happy having any kind of policeman wandering around, though he sniffed and stammered that of course he could if the law required it, and directed him to Mr Bingley’s private room where, he said, the old gentleman would be delighted to receive him.

So he found his way there and knocked at the door.

“Come in!” came a stern and possibly angry reply, so he breathed in and opened the door to find Mr Bingley his chief suspect’s father (abeit adoptive) standing stark naked by a sink, with taps turned on and steam rising from the hot side.

“Er, Mr Bingley, would you not feel more comfortable dressed?” he asked, “I’m Detective Inspector Corden and need to ask you a few questions regarding your private town house.”

“Oh, I don’t mind! I’ve not got anything to be ashamed of,” replied the older man, “I look at it like this: if a man can’t stand cleaning himself in the altogether in front of the milkman, what can he do?”

“I’m no milkman,” replied the DI, “I’m a detective Inspector in Brumpton police force and I’ve got a serious case on my books,”

“Books, eh? I like a good book! Agatha what was her name, Christopher I think, was my favourite! Two pints of gold top, please, and some nice single cream, if you don’t mind, and you can leave it in the fridge for me if you don’t mind, seeing that I’m otherwise occupied with decnt soap and water.”

“Sir, your sink… it’s about to run over and spill water all over your carpet,” the DI, ever observant, said, and when there was no sign that the older man knew what he had told him he leaned over and turned both taps off before any real damage was done.

“So what do you think it is, doc? I mean, I had a rotten night last night with my lumbago playing me up and a crick in my neck, and so I hardly got a wink of sleep. Do you sleep well, Doctor? I should think you know every drop of tincture that helps a surgeon get forty winks, no trouble, don’t you? And where’s that single cream!”

“I just wanted your opinion of the man buried in your back garden,” almost gabbled Detective Inspector Corden, “in a single shallow grave where I believe you used to grow potatoes? But if you feel you can’t give me an opinion I will understand.”

“You’re another one of them, thinking that because I’m getting on a bit I’m not with it!” snapped old Mr Bingley, “but I’m as bright as I ever was and it’s sliced bread, sir, and not the sort I have to cut myself.”

The DI decided to give up. He’d had enough of failing to communicate with someone who seemed to want to use as many words as is humanly possible and end up not making any kind of sense. “Well, sir, if that’s all…” he said wearily.

“If only you’d say what you want I might be able to help you!” responded a seemingly momentarily alert Mr Bingley, “I mean you go rattling on about bodies buried in gardens and not having any single cream…”

“Goodbye, sir, and get a good night’s sleep,” sighed the DI, and he made his way out of the old man’s room.

Outside Primrose Hill Retirement Home he was unlocking his car when he heard a voice trying to attract his attention.

“Inspector!” it called, “did you get to speak to the old man?”

It was Arnold Bingley and he had walked from town in the hope he might see his father himself before the police arrived.

“I understand what you meant when you said he might not be much help to me,” he said, trying to smile, “but as I’m not the milkman carrying his single cream or the doctor suffering from insomnia he idn’t seem to know why I was there. And he wasn’t dressed.”

“That’s my dad!” laughed Arnold, “Often starkers even in company, though he used to be more decent! So he was no help at all?”

“Not as such,” sighed Inspector Corden, “I’m off to see whether SOCO has found anything in the shed or even in the house.”

“I hope there are clues in the shed. They might make you look at me through kinder eyes because I didn’t know that I had a twin brother until yesterday, and certainly wouldn’t have done anything to hard my own flesh and blood it I had.”

“We’ll see,” grunted the DI, and he climbed into his car.

TO BE CONTINUED

© Peter Rogerson 30.09.24