The Boardman Files

by Gus Ross

  Finally, Buckfast broke the silence (I had it in mind to find as many interesting permutations of his surname as possible and once I started I found I just couldn’t shift the thought).

  “Ok Mr Richards, let’s start at the beginning. Where were you at 6.30 am on the 20th of November?” Buckfield had that smug kind of - I know the answer already - type look on his face, so I gave him the answer it deserved.

  “You know where I was. I already told you all that. What is this about for god’s sake? I demand my phone call. And a solicitor. I’m pleading the fifth…” I had watched my fair share of cop shows and knew my rights, and I was not about to let these two berks get the better of me.

  “Mr Richards, I think you will find you are not in America.”

  “Nor are you under caution,” added Buckfuck.

  “Now if you would just answer the question Mr Richards.”

  “Fine, I was on the B4696.”

  Pug and DC Buckfield gave each other the kind of look that said you or me first, and the DC took the baton.

  “Ok, let’s cut to the quick shall we. That body you claimed you saw, well it has turned up. A few miles downstream from where you reported it, and from the length of time it has been in the water we are pretty sure it is the same one you told us about.”

  No shit Sherlock I thought to myself, wondering just how many bodies they pulled out of the river on a daily basis. Before I had a chance to say anything, Buckfield continued.

  “The only problem, Mr Richards, is that we have no sightings of the van you told us about, and then there is one other thing…..”

  I could have sworn old Bucknuts thought he was the lead in some local amateur dramatics society… the long pause… the added suspense… and then deliver the killer line…

  “… We have a report of a vehicle very much like yours in the area, and it was apparently stopped by the side of the Churn, but not only that, it appears that there was one man seen dumping something over the side of the bridge….”

  The long pause again, only this time there was no need for dramatic effect, he had my attention. And suddenly I had a pretty bad feeling about where this was all going.

  But before I could stop it, my tongue had taken over the proceedings.

  “Yeah, you’re right. It was me. Bang to rights. All my own doing. Bumped the wife, shot the dog, stuck her in a bag and the mutt in the micro. Figured the body over the bridge thing always works and no one is that interested in my dog flavoured spaghetti bolognaise. Where do I sign the confession?” I trusted that my over the top sarcasm would be taken for what it was, but by the looks on Tweedle-dee and dums faces I was not so sure. Never really could help myself from running off at the mouth.

  “Now Mr Richards, I suggest you start taking this a little more seriously. Where is your wife by the way, we would like to speak with her?” Pug looked as if he had suddenly worked out how to join all the dots together and could now see the picture in front of his ugly mug.

  “What, you think I might have topped her! Seriously! Are you guys having a laugh or something?” My voice was going that, too high for a man’s body kind of way, and I pinched myself under the table.

  “Quite the opposite,” came back Buckfield sharply.

  “Why not try phoning her if you like?” I gave them her number before I had realised that it was more than likely that her mobile would still be as dead as the proverbial dodo. Engage brain before mouth should really be tattooed somewhere prominent on my body. But too late, before long my two new best friends would be putting two and two together and coming up with thirty nine, or whatever. No answer, phone dead, body in river, suspect identified at scene, suspicious burglary presumably to cover my tracks. Goodness, I was beginning to think I would send myself down for life.

  “Yes we shall Mr Richards. All in good time.”

  What happened next was all a bit of a blur. Probably panic induced, definitely all my own fault (albeit with little resistance from Starsky and Hutch).

  Still my first night in a cell could have been worse, at least I had the place to myself and could actually sleep without worrying about becoming a sex toy to some drug crazed, muscle bound head case (that obviously frequented the area and were regularly locked up in this rural cop shop!).

  Thankfully my captors had taken the time to ensure I removed my belt and shoelaces; presumably to ensure I did not apply my first class honours degree in knot tying, binding them all together into a neat little noose just perfect for hanging the guilty.

  And I used to wonder where all my hard earned tax pounds went to. I would love to see the stats on fully grown men who have successfully hung themselves with the humble shoelace. Mind you, these stats will now no doubt be skewed due to such excellent crime prevention activities.

  I think, in retrospect, that if I had not tried so hard to get up and leave the interview room, resulting in a little light restraint from Her Majesty’s finest, then I may have avoided my unplanned overnight vacation. But then again who knows.

  I awoke to the unmistakeable clunk of metal and the delightful face of Sergeant Watt poking into my cell. He barked something that my head did not compute and then, when I failed to respond, decided to bark a little louder.

  I suppose I should not have been expecting complimentary room service and a full English breakfast to accompany my room for the night, but I hardly had time for a morning pee before I was back in my favourite interview room again. There had been some reference to tea and toast, but I decided to let that run its course as I could only imagine how the toast might taste given the apparent ability to mess up a simple cup of brew. Anyway I was used to functioning on an empty stomach.

  “Ok now Mr Richards, let’s start again shall we?”

  I hated those rhetorical type questions, but I couldn’t exactly say no to the Sarge, especially after last night’s debacle. I decided to be on my best behaviour and cooperate to the full.

  “It seems we have been unable to contact Mrs Richards on the number you gave us,” said Buckfield, with the obligatory, I wonder why that is look.

  “Maybe because she forgot her charger,” I replied, but to be honest even I was beginning to get a bit worried that I had not heard from her yet and she was due home tonight.

  Home, oh shit, I had conveniently forgotten about that one and could only imagine the joys of explaining all this to the good lady when I had finally talked my way out of captivity.

  “Perhaps Mr Richards, but it fails to explain why the number you gave us is not in service,” added Pug.

  I know I shouldn’t have, but they had teed it up so nicely that I just had to bat it right out of the park. I just had to. “Perhaps you are as good with numbers as you are at finding dead bodies,” I replied.

  The head of the old Pugster was turning all kinds of reds and purples again and I thought this might be the bit where he lost it completely and really did bite my head off, or at least give me a smack across the chops, or a dig in the ribs. But no violence was forthcoming.

  Buckfield rhymed off the number as I checked it back to my mobile contacts list (I would be lost without that as I couldn’t even rhyme off my own number without checking it first), but I had to admit it was the right one. Perhaps their eye to hand co-ordination was off and they dialled it wrong. But I knew I was clutching at straws.

  “Try it again,” I said, “go on, use my phone, you’ll get through this time.”

  Buckfield tried the number again, probably more to shut me up than to prove I was right. Of course it was dead, well apart for the tinny robotic voice repeating “the number you have dialled is not in service.” By the time it was on its third loop Buckfield cut it off and placed the phone down on the table.

  “Satisfied?”

  I had to admit I was something far from satisfied, but what could I do. I decided a change of tact was in order.

  “Look guys, I apologise for last night. I am not sure what got into me but I know I was out of order. But you have to believe me.
I did see two men throwing a body into the river the other day, and that is my wife’s mobile number, and I have no idea why she is not answering, and I was burgled, and ….” I ran out of ‘ands’ and nothing else came out of my mouth.

  If I could have seen my own face I would have been appalled by the desperate pleading type expression it was wearing.

  Sarge decided it was time for the charm offensive, (albeit he was about as charming as I imagine he would be graceful at ballroom dancing). I had long since assumed he was simply one step up the evolutionary ladder from your common or garden thug, and only then because he had a uniform to hide behind. I’ve found that once my prejudices and opinions set in it is hard to shift them, and I was not in the mood for trying.

  “Look at the facts Mr Richards: we have a dead body, we have a witness placing a car matching yours at, or near, the scene, we have a burglary at your home and now we are having more than a little difficulty contacting your wife, assuming that is you have a wife. How do you think it looks?”

  I let the last bit go, partly because I was not sure whether he was questioning whether I ever had a wife (why anyone would make up a wife and all that comes with that institution God only knows), or whether I had just bumped her off, stuffed her in a bag and sent her floating down the swanny. But it looked bad, no two ways about it, but then I had a brain wave.

  “Have you identified the body?” I asked.

  Neither Sarge nor Buckfield replied.

  “You haven’t, have you?”

  “We are still in the process Mr Richards. It seems the body is rather ....…. mutilated. We also believe it may have been dead for quite a few days before it was dumped.”

  “Ah ha,” I said, trying desperately not to sound like Inspector Clueso or Poirot, but in my head I had already failed. “So that rules out my wife, as she was with me all weekend.” I stated it like I had just reached some kind of wonderful conclusion, like someone who had finally figured out what the hell quantum mechanics was actually all about, but I could see my two buddies were not impressed.

  “Mr Richards, I do not believe we have ever actually accused you of killing your wife.” Pug was all matter of fact and my brain wave was beginning to seem like the very short kind; the kind where only the most basic of electrical impulses manages to jump from one part of your brain to another but without stopping at quality control. “Now do you want to tell us what really happened the other morning?”

  I gave them the same story as before and it was soon becoming apparent that we could do this dance all day long, and I wasn’t going to be the one to miss the beat and trip myself up. By the end of what must have been at least two hours of questioning, I was escorted back to my cell (my cell! when did it become my cell? I was beginning to frighten myself!), and despite further (albeit peaceful), protestations, I was soon alone with three blank walls and a big steel door to stare at.

  I sat with my head in my hands for at least another thirty minutes, but it seemed like a lifetime. The bed was uncomfortable and springy, the place smelled of damp coldness, like a public toilet without the piss, the walls were whitewash white and mind numbingly boring to the eye and the more I tried not to think about how frustrated I was, the more frustrated I became. When the door finally clanked open I reckon I might just have confessed to the whole JFK thing.

  I assumed it must have been Buckfield who made the decision (although I had no idea who called the shots between the two of them). My assumption was made on the basis that Pug looked far more likely to be the one who would take pleasure from keeping me interned, for a least a year if he could, while he tried to pin something on me.

  In the end, that would prove to be yet another of my poor assumptions.

  But I was a free man once more.

  Well, free-ish.

  Chapter 4: White Van Man.

  Apparently there was not enough to hold me on: all circumstantial, no real evidence, no link to the body, blah, de blah, de blah…however, I was told not to book any holidays and to report to the station every morning, so I was clearly still under some form of suspicion. (I did not even think to stop and check whether they had any right to do this. I was simply delighted at being able to go home and if I was quick I might still get there before the wife got back; it had just gone 4 pm).

  I got into a taxi, which plod had reluctantly agreed to organise, and had just finished calling my boss to explain that I had had to take the day off at short notice due to the terminal illness of a relative that I am pretty sure was already dead…(what would he know), when I phoned my wife again. No dulcet tones on the other end, just that annoying tinny robot voice telling me that the number was not in service.

  Goodness I would have words with her when she got back. I put my mobile back into my pocket angrily.

  “Terrible news that,” said the taxi driver without moving his head.

  I hated the way taxi drivers deliberately started half a sentence that invariably meant you had to engage in conversation (unless of course you were prepared to be a rude bastard, which I wasn’t).

  “What news was that?” I asked feigning interest.

  “That stuff about the body. Pulled it out of the Churn apparently. Not far from where I go fishing. Terrible business.” He spoke in short telegraph bursts but still his head still did not move, which I suppose I had to be grateful of; at least he had his eye on the road.

  I was desperately keen for this conversation not to go down the fishing route; I can’t think of anything half as boring as fishing. I was ready for it though, if he started I swear this time I literally would have jumped from a moving vehicle. As it was, ‘Mr Cab Driver’ was much more keen on the dead body story (no real surprise, but you can never tell with those fishy blokes).

  “Yeah, I said, what did you hear?” I was delighted it had finally made the news, but a tad concerned that my name might appear in lights somewhere.

  “Nothin’ much, just that they pulled a body from the river the other night, not able to identify it yet, following definite lines of enquiry though. Bloody shame that. Lovely stretch of water.”

  Perhaps a little compassion for the cadaver might have been in order, but I gave a sigh of relief, no mention of me, no ‘members of the public helping with our enquiry’ type words, and no discussion about the merits of catching fish with a stick.

  I would buy the local rag when I got back and get all the info, as ‘Mr Cab Driver’ was a little short on detail. Not that it stopped him babbling on about it for the remainder of the journey. I am pretty sure I turned on the “yes”, “mmmh”, “uhhuh”, form of auto-pilot some way through, and judging by his reaction did a pretty good job of it. Smile and nod enough and you can get away with most things and anyway, trying to discern what a taxi driver is actually saying above the monotonous drone of diesel engine is another of my pet hates in life. Still I was home again, well almost and that was good.

  To anyone who cared to notice, there would be nothing much to notice. A white transit van, pretty much like any other white transit van, sat idling in one of the many parking bays at the airport ‘park and ride’; a wide open expanse of desolate grey concrete that had been created for all those poor folks that could not afford a proper undercover space nearer their terminal of choice. A thousand plus parking bays, all the same, the vast majority of which were occupied by the usual array of dull as dishwater little vehicles in the usual predictable base colours, interspersed with the obligatory low level exec’ model saloons with their overpriced wheel or body trim upgrades.

  The white van had no markings and looked pretty much like it would fail its MOT if it so much as drove past a garage; even the rust, that was accumulating around the wheel arches and sporadically appearing throughout the bodywork like a congenital skin disorder, seemed embarrassed.

  Inside sat what looked like a fairly ordinary looking man in his forties, smoking a cigarette. He had one of those faces that had been hardened by the life it had led, and in the same way that you can spot a l
abourer just by looking at his hands, you could make a pretty uncomfortable guess at the sort of things this man got up to in his spare time just by looking into his eyes. He had been there for approximately thirty minutes and was beginning to get more than a little frustrated. The passenger door opened and he did not even bother turning in acknowledgement as he spoke.

  “What kept you? I said ten.”

  The other man spoke, “I know, I couldn’t get away any sooner.” His voice was agitated and it was clear he did not wish to be sitting where he now was.

  “Well?” the driver blew smoke out of the crack in the window.

  The man in the passenger seat knew he was taking a chance even being there, but he also knew that if he hadn’t then things could start to get messy; it was not every day that a body was found floating down the river with a bullet hole in its head. He kept the exchange short and to the point. No sense in raising needless concern and anyway he could handle it, he always did. When he had finished the other man spoke.

  “And you have it under control? I have your word on it?” It was not really a question; it was a statement, the ramifications of which did not need to be spelled out.

  The driver had still not bothered to turn his head as he spoke and his reluctant passenger found this disconcerting, as if he was of little or no significance, which in truth was correct.

  “Of course, but I thought I should run it by you. In case....you know....just to be sure.” The man did not wish to say out loud what he really wished to, which was wise.

  “Yes, you were right to inform me.” The driver lifted the fingers of his left hand in a dismissive fashion and his passenger knew it was time to leave.

  The passenger door opened again and he stepped out. He hated these encounters but he had made his bed some time ago and there was no way out now. He walked briskly back across the car park to his own car without looking back. Had he done so, he might have noticed that this particular little encounter had been watched, with interest.