'I can do it, if I could just be shown where he is?'
Carol sighed with relief as the old lady let her in and led her down a dingy dark hallway, through an old-fashioned equally dark kitchen and into the small back garden. The garden was overgrown with weeds and rubbish, old bicycles and an old pram minus its wheels. Bottles and Coke cans littered the base of the wall that backed on to the street.
'Kids chuck things over the wall,' the old lady said in disgust, 'but he's buried by the tree. You can't miss it; we've only the one tree anyway.'
'Do you have a shovel?'
'No, I got a trowel; that's what our Kevin used.'
Carol smiled, waiting by the tree as the grandmother went to find it. The freshly dug mound had a small handmade wooden cross; printed on it in black felt-tipped pen was 'REX'. The grandmother returned with her trowel.
'Do you know if Rex was still wrapped in the towel?'
'I don't know, love. You'd have to ask our Kevin but he put him in a shoebox, I know that. He worshipped that little dog.'
Carol got down on her knees; she told the old lady that she should go back inside, then she started to dig.
Kevin had not dug a deep hole; it was only about six inches down and the earth came away easily. Carol eased up the shoe box; it was small and she was certain that the towel and the dog could not have fitted into the box together. As she lifted the lid she saw she was right; there was no white bloodstained towel, just Rex.
Carol stamped on the earth to flatten it back into place, then she re-fixed the cross. Kevin's grandmother was standing at the kitchen door.
'I don't suppose you know what Kevin did with the white clinic towel do you?'
'The trowel?'
'No, Rex was wrapped in a white TOWEL when I gave him to your grandson.'
'Oh, I don't know where that is; you'd have to ask our Kevin. Do you want it back?'
'No, I don't think so but do you know if he found anything else?'
'What else?'
Carol tried to smile. 'It's nothing, never mind, and thank you, I'm sorry to have bothered you.'
Almost as an afterthought she asked if she could wash her hands which were covered in dirt. She stood at the kitchen sink, the old grandmother hovering, as she washed and soaped up her hands. She looked around for something to dry them on. There was a plastic washing basket in the corner. If Carol had just moved a shirt aside she would have seen the clinic towel but instead she dried her hands on a tea towel with a large picture of Wonder Woman's face printed on it.
Carol sat in the darkness; she went over and over everything in her mind. She sighed; she was probably getting things out of proportion. Even if the charm was found, so what? It was true everyone knew it belonged to her; they'd all seen Mr Frogton give it to her for Christmas. She was sure it wouldn't mean anything; she had simply mislaid it. If anyone asked for it or found it, all she had to say was she had lost it. It was only a charm. Nevertheless it niggled at her and she was unsure what to do. If she went and spoke to Kevin it would be suspicious, never mind incriminating. Digging up his bloody dog had been bad enough, and now if Kevin went to visit his grandma she'd obviously say something about her wanting the stupid fucking towel.
'Fuck fuck fucking shit,' she muttered, as the phone rang; it had rung a few times since she'd been home but she hadn't answered. No sooner had it stopped ringing than it started up again. She snatched it.
'Yes?'
'That you, Carol?'
'Yes.'
'This is Miles Richards.'
Pause.
'Are you there?'
'Yes.'
'We're all a bit worried about Peter. He's not shown up and he's supposed to have gone on holiday. Did he mention anything to you?'
'No.'
'Was he all right this morning?'
'Yes.'
'What time did he leave the surgery?'
'Just after eight, maybe eight fifteen.'
'I see, well sorry to bother you. Goodnight.'
Miles replaced the phone. He was alone in the surgery, waiting for the owner of the German Shepherd. He checked his watch, impatient to leave but at the same time concerned about his partner. It was so out of character and he hoped there hadn't been an accident. None of the hospitals they'd called had him registered. He turned to see the dark outline of a figure in the glass door. He opened it.
'Froggie?'
It was the owner of the German Shepherd who had asked to see him one more time before he was put to sleep. He was very calm, gently holding the big dog's head in his lap, stroking him. After a while he got up. The big dog struggled to rise to his feet but couldn't stand.
'Good boy, stay, stay, Hank, there's a good chap.'
Miles waited patiently, shaking the man's hand. Still he maintained control of his emotions.
'Been a good pal to me, I'll miss him. It'll be painless?'
'Yes but I feel that it is the best, or should I say the kindest, thing to put him out of his misery.'
'Right, yes, well, thank you for seeing me, and just send me the bill for Hank. Thank you.'
Miles put in the call for the mortuary wagon to do a pick-up the following morning. It was on answer machine, so he left the usual message and details, describing the dog. He then replaced the receiver and picked up the report book to enter the details ready for the morning. The last entry was for a collection that morning: Dalmatian, Rottweiler and Great Dane. He frowned; there was something wrong. There was a fourth dog listed, in Frogton's handwriting, a Jack Russell, but only three dogs had been taken!
Miles went into Frogton's office and sat behind his desk checking his diary; he read the report of the injured Jack Russell brought in after it had been found in the road. Also listed were the dog's injuries, its markings, that it had no collar and had been brought into the surgery by the owner's sister, who was taking care of the dog.
Miles shut the book. He recalled Hilda saying the woman had collected her dog and that it was fine. He remembered joking with her, saying it must have been some kind of miracle because the dog was so severely injured that his partner had earmarked it for being put to sleep, even booking a place for it in the mortuary van. He picked up the phone and dialled.
Carol stared at the ringing phone. Her hand reached out, then withdrew; there was something ominous about the way it was ringing. She went to bed; tomorrow she would get the bus for the coach station, then she would have two weeks in the Lake District.
The mortuary attendant collected Hank the following morning. Miles had every intention of speaking to him about the previous day's collection but they had an emergency, so he was busy in surgery. By now the police had been contacted about the disappearance of Peter Frogton and enquiries about him had begun. No one had seen him since the previous morning's surgery, so Carol became a vital witness to be questioned but no one knew where she was, just that she had gone on two weeks' holiday. It was suggested that perhaps they might have gone together but this was dismissed by all the staff.
One week later and there had been no sighting or contact by Peter Frogton and no clue as to his whereabouts was forthcoming. It was a mystery because he had no money problems, no domestic problems; he was, everyone said, delighted with his new baby boy and his distraught girlfriend could shed no light on any reason why he would disappear. No bank card had been used, no cheques had been cashed, he seemed to have no enemies. His car was left at his home; it was due for an MOT so he had caught the bus to work on the last morning he was sighted. For two weeks the enquiries continued with no results; no one came forward, even after the local papers had published a request for any information.
By the time Carol returned to work, the police still had no motive, nothing that gave them so much as a clue as to why the senior partner had disappeared. Carol appeared stunned when told. She said he had been perfectly normal the last time she had seen him. He had said he was looking forward to his holiday and he had left earlier than arranged as he was not driving. She even she
d a few tears; it was dreadful to think something bad had happened to such a lovely man!
Carol was by now certain she had committed the perfect murder. She went about her duties as diligently as always, the first to arrive, the last to leave. They were expecting a new partner to join the practice, as Miles could not deal with the clinic on his own. It appeared on the surface as if Peter Frogton had never worked there but he had and in six months the memory of him had not faded. Carol had intended moving on to somewhere else but decided against it; she felt that safe.
Then the idiot woman with the fucking Jack Russell returned, and now her bloody dog was sick and running a high temperature. She was almost as hyper as she had been when she'd called round to make sure the dead dog wasn't her fucking dog.
Miles was allocated the bitch and went into his surgery with the woman talking at screech level. Carol could hear her hysterical voice going on and on about how she had almost lost him once, had even presumed he was dead but that nice girl at the desk had shown her the other dog, and it wasn't her dog because it had the wrong coloured ear. The pitch of her voice allowed everyone waiting in the surgery to hear how she had gone to Battersea Dogs Home and met this poor boy who had an almost identical Jack Russell, but his had a black ear and her Jack had a brown, and this poor boy was weeping because it wasn't his dog at Battersea but her naughty boy, and then this poor youngster had to identify his dead dog at the clinic.
Carol maintained her calm, staring fixedly at the appointments as the screaming bitch was led out, Miles assuring her that her dog was going to be fine but he just wanted to keep the little chap in for the night. The surgery continued until after six and Carol couldn't wait to leave; seeing that woman again had really unnerved her.
'Could you stay for a moment, Carol?' It was the way he said it, like he had something important to discuss.
'Sorry, Mr Richards, not tonight,' she said, avoiding his eyes. She felt as though they were boring into her head as she went out of the surgery door. She gave a furtive glance back through the glass door panel but he wasn't even looking at her; he was on the phone.
Miles thumbed through the old appointment diary, back six months, as he held on for the caller. He then jotted down the address and stared into space. He went back to checking operations, interns, the dogs to be put down, and then he paused, flicked forwards then backwards over the dates. In the past eight months they'd had only one Great Dane, brought in for surgery with cancer of the bowel. Felix had not survived the intricate operation and died under anaesthetic. He was already old for a Dane, at ten years. They had treated eight other Great Danes, but none had been in for either an operation or had, according to the records, died within the time frame. So which was the Dane taken on the morning with the Dalmatian, and the Rottweiler and what had happened to the injured Jack Russell? Had it been claimed? There was no record, and no bills had been made out for the time it had been in the surgery, no X-rays had been taken. Mrs Palin had said a boy had been at the dogs' home, worried about his Jack Russell, so maybe they could shed some light on it all.
Miles contacted the dogs' home, found out Kevin's address, called him, and he agreed to see him at his grandmother's house.
Kevin answered the door. He had food stains round his mouth and his owlish glasses looked crooked. His grandma stood behind him, saying this was ridiculous, they'd already sent one woman to dig it up; it'd be rotting by now.
'It was my dog, it was Rex,' Kevin said, agitated.
Miles tried to make light of it, saying he was sure it was his dog but he needed to ask Kevin some questions about when he had collected the corpse from the veterinary clinic.
Miles stood in the old kitchen, the rotting carcass now in a large hat box. He was very perplexed about the fact someone from his clinic had been to the house, had dug up the dog! It didn't make any sense, unless there was some hidden agenda.
'I promise you will have Rex returned. I just need him for a few days, and I am not here about any vet fees. He wasn't given to you in this box, was he?'
'No, he was wrapped in a mucky towel. I think it's still in my toolbox. Gran was going to wash it but I used it to wipe some chain lube off my bike.'
Miles waited while Kevin fetched the towel, now streaked with oil stains as well as the dark red bloodstains that had turned rust brown.
'Thank you, I really appreciate your help.'
'There was something else,' Kevin said flushing. 'It was caught in the towel.'
Miles nodded. Kevin looked even more embarrassed.
'I gave it to my girlfriend, it was like a charm, you know, off a bracelet. It was about so big.' He indicated with his fingers how small the charm was.
'Does she still have it?' Miles asked.
'I dunno, we broke up. Is that what this is all about? I think it was quite old, like antique gold but it was very small, a little man I think, like a pixie.'
Miles hesitated; he didn't understand the significance of the charm because he had been the only one not present at the Christmas gift exchange.
At the police station, the detective in charge of Frogton's disappearance looked into the hat box with distaste.
'What is it?'
'It's a dead Jack Russell dog and its body was wrapped in this towel that belongs to the clinic. The kid also found a gold charm of a goblin, you know a charm that hangs off a bracelet. I called Hilda our other receptionist and she recalls Peter Frogton giving it to Carol last Christmas. She said it was a little goblin, not a pixie, a gold goblin sitting on a mushroom.'
'Does he still have it?'
'No, he gave it to his girlfriend but they broke up and she threw it away; well, that's what she said. It was a goblin but she couldn't remember if it was sitting on anything.'
Miles remained at the station for two hours going through all the details about how dogs were collected for the incinerator by the mortuary company. The dogs were burnt and the bones and fragments crushed so there would be no remains left. It was possible that Peter Frogton was murdered, his body taken in the place of a Great Dane and incinerated. The Jack Russell was supposed to have been incinerated that same morning but Kevin had collected it for burial in his grandmother's garden.
There was a very long pause. Miles was flushed red in the face while the police officer grew paler by the minute.
'Jesus Christ, you think she put your partner in a doggy bag?'
Before they arrested Carol, they checked her background and discovered her previous prison record. This made for a lot of embarrassment, as they should have been more thorough.
'Apparently she lied to us on her letter from her previous employers. She had only worked there for two years,' Miles said to a stunned, white-faced Hilda. 'Before that she was in prison.'
'Prison?' Hilda stuttered, hardly able to take it all in.
'She murdered her mother,' Miles said quietly.
'What, Carol did? But she couldn't have done, she was going to spend Christmas with her.'
'Well she lied, Hilda, Carol lied to all of us; she apparently hit her mother over the head with a hammer.'
'No, surely not, her own mother?'
'Yes, that's what I was told.'
'Why?' Hilda asked in a shocked gasp.
'No idea, they didn't tell me,' Miles said flatly.
Carol was arrested at the surgery at nine fifteen on May 3rd 1972 and subsequently charged with the murder of Peter Frogton. She never gave an explanation, nor did she admit her guilt or deny it; she appeared totally disinterested in the whole proceedings. Without a body and with not one witness, it was doubtful they would be able to make the charge stick. At the time DNA testing was not used and although the white towel might have Peter Frogton's bloodstains on it they could also have been the Jack Russell's.
The police had removed the gold charm bracelet as part of the evidence, noting that it was minus the goblin. They subsequently interviewed Kevin's girl-friend. She was evasive and tearful but then admitted she had lied. She hadn't thrown the
goblin away; she said she had thought Kevin might ask for it back and she wasn't going to give it to him. The detective looked at the small gold charm in the palm of his hand. The little goblin sitting on a toadstool was identified as the charm given to Carol by Frogton; when shown to Hilda, she confirmed it was definitely the same one.
During Carol's final interrogation she had become increasingly abusive, often laughing at some private joke she never shared with anyone. The detective held up the charm bracelet, letting it dangle.
'Does this belong to you, Carol?'
No reply.
'This was a gift to you from Peter Frogton, wasn't it?'
No reply.
'This charm was attached to this bracelet by Peter Frogton. It was a Christmas gift to you, wasn't it?'
No reply.
'Will you look at this little charm? It was on this bracelet when you killed Peter Frogton.'
No reply.
'Carol, will you look at this charm and tell me what it is?'
At last there was a response; she looked up, her eyes like ice chips, and she let out a high pitched screech.
'It's a fucking gold Jack Russell dog, you cunt.'
Carol never admitted killing Peter Frogton. She was found mentally unfit to stand trial and sent to Broadmoor, a prison for the criminally insane. The bracelet was tagged, bagged and listed as evidence, then stored in the police station's evidence lock-up, with the goblin re-attached in case it got lost.
THE SNAKE EATER BY
THE NUMBERS
Lee Child
Numbers. Percentages, rates, averages, means, medians. Crime rate, clearance rate, clearance percentage, increase, decrease, throughput, input, output, productivity. At the end of the twentieth century, police work was about nothing but numbers.
Detective Sergeant Ken Cameron loved numbers.
I know this, because Cameron was my training officer the year he died. He told me that numbers were our salvation. They made being a copper as easy as being a financier or a salesman or a factory manager. We don't need to work the cases, he said. We need to work the numbers. If we make our numbers, we get good performance reviews. If we get good reviews, we get commendations. If we get commendations, we get promotions. And promotions mean pay and pensions. You could be comfortable your whole life, he said, because of numbers. Truly comfortable. Doubly comfortable, he said, because you're not tearing your hair out over vague bullshit subjective notions like safe streets and quality of life. You're dealing with numbers, and numbers never lie.
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