1. Cause to Scream

Introduction to the scene

1. Cause to Scream

In such a place as Bigforth Primary School and at such a time as very soon after dawn when the last thing to be expected was the sudden ear-shattering scream created in a moment of shocked horror by Elaine Scooch as she made her way into the cellar looking for her smock and bucket, and after bidding a cheery ‘good morning to Eric Foster, her immediate boss and the popular caretaker of the school, she screamed.

Because, out of the corner of one eye, she saw the bleeding figure of a well dressed man (suit, neat and where it wasn’t bloody. obviously pressed very tidily) where he lay in a drying puddle of his own blood and with the sort of blade used in craft work protruding through his blood-stained shirt.

And having screamed the once she screamed again because the sight of a dead man hurt her almost as if the blade was in her own flesh.

“Now what is it?” called down Mr Foster, better known by his forename of Eric, irritably.

“D-d-dead man….” she managed to force out, and added, “down here… on the floor.”.

“Don’t be daft woman,” he replied, “There’s nobody here yet! Pull yourself together.”

“Blood,” she replied, quietly as if her voice might cause more of the fluid to pour out, “too much blood…”

Eric scrambled down the stairs, moaning about a hangover and how he’d never drink again, and pulled up suddenly on the bottom step. “Why, bugger me, it’s him,” he allowed himself to whisper, and then he rushed to where the prone figure lay and without giving one thought for his own dread of death, felt the man’s wrist for a pulse

“He’s cold,” he jerked out, “looks like he’s been dead for ages, maybe all night.” he added.

Elaine Scooch took one nervous step away and he barked at her,

“Get upstairs woman, and don’t let anyone down here. I’m going to phone the police.”

In Brumpton Police Station Inspector Sheila McFyffe was in early. A troublesome gang of particularly conscientious thieves, the sort that barely leave a trace of their presence after nicking personal valuables from others, had been rounded up yesterday after months of causing almost unsolvable trouble and she was left with a mountain of paper-work to occupy her time, when an emergency call was routed to her in her office.

“Yes, Stowelli,” she mumbled into the phone to David Stowelli, the desk sergeant.

“We’ve got a murder,” replied the desk sergeant, “something for you to get your teeth into.

“Oh no,” she whispered, then “details?” she asked.

“body in the cellar of the primary school, Bigforth,” he told her, “with a knife, I’m told, sticking out of his gut.”

“A male body then?” she thought best to ask while she tried to think of something more intelligent to say.

“The caretaker’s got his knickers in a twist,” added the desk sergeant, “the kids are due soon, any minute I should think, and there’s blood.”

“Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I lay my hands on the DS,” she assured him, and bellowed “Wright!” at the top of her well practised voice.

“Ma’am,” came the sound of DS Dave Wright’s less overpowering voice from the gents’ toilet.

“Hurry man! And make sure you’re zipped up properly! We’re wanted at Bigforth Primary. There’s been a killing.

“Half a mo,” came the reply, then, “Bigforth, you say? My young lass goes there, our Joanne.”

The proud father of his ten year old daughter young Joanne emerged from the men’s room, still wiping his hands on a paper towel.

“You’re driving,” she told him, “because you might just know the way, what with having family there.”

They climbed into her car even though he was to drive, and set off for the primary school which was barely a mile away.

“What is it then ma’am?” he asked once he was cleqr of traffic.

“Apparently there’s a body in the cellar,” she replied, grinning at him. “A male,” she added, “and that’s all I know.”

“The cellar?” he queried, “that’s the caretaker’s domain. It wasn’t him I hope?”

She frowned. Why, she asked herself, didn’t she know if it was the caretaker?

“The caretaker is a bloke, then?” she asked.

“Sure is. Eric Foster, a really good guy, likes his pint and I’ve not heard a word about him that wouldn’t flatter a saint.”

“Say that it’s him,” she mused, “who’d want to stick a blade into him?”

“Nobody that I know of,” yawned the DS. “Sorry, guv, but it was a late one last night.”

“Doing what?” she asked, not really interested.

“The misses was making a frock for herself, pretty floral material, and she had me acting as a sort of dummy so that she could check that everything was right and make any adjustments she thought she might need, so I was standing there in the lounge after our Joanne was in bed… I bet I looked a right ‘nana! Anyway, it was getting on for midnight before she’d finished, and I always need my beauty sleep!”

“Did it suit you?” yawned the DI but DS Dave Wright didn’t have time to invent a a reply because he was pulling into the school parking area, a disused portion of a playground that had once been where games and physical education were held before a small local field had been added to the school site.

“That’s Eric Foster, that is the caretaker, by the door waiting for us,” Dave told her, pointing.

“So he’s not our corpse” muttered Sheila, “Let’s hope he knows who it is! It always helps if you know who you’re staring at when there’s a body in front of you.”

They climbed out of the car. The caretaker adopted a troubled expression as he made his way towards them.

“Mr Foster?” called the DI as he approached them, “I’m Detective Inspector Fyffe and this is Detective sergeant Wright. We believe you have a body for us?”

“In the cellar,” replied the caretaker nervously, “and I reckon it’s the father of one of our boys, a tyke called Ian Daniels.”

“Great aunt Norah! Not Mr Daniels? Joe Daniels? The wannabe politician?” stammered the DS, “and in the school cellar, dead?”

© Peter Rogerson 02.01.25