AHMM, Jul-Aug 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I bet.

  A uniformed constable walked up to tell Frank that SOCO said the body could be moved.

  Frank said, “Right, I'm coming."

  Eggy chose that moment to pipe up.

  "So what happens now, like?"

  Frank turned on him, glad to have something definite in this mish-mash.

  "What happens now, Mr. Edgworth, is that you come down to the station. You've got quite a bit of explaining to do."

  Eggy sort of melted into himself. I took pity.

  "Frank,” I said, “you might try ringing D.S. Crabtree at Priestley Road."

  "What the hell's he got to do with this?"

  "I think you'll find that Eggy—Mr. Edgworth—was helping with inquiries, albeit abortively, all of Sunday and Sunday night."

  "Ey! That's right. That's brilliant!” Eggy's face came alive with relief and delight.

  Frank retained his gravitas.

  "We'll see about that later. After the P.M. Just go over and get in that car. Sit quiet and don't touch anything."

  We watched Eggy walk away to the police car in the lane.

  "He's got nothing to do with this, you know, Frank. I mean look at the poor little bugger."

  We watched Eggy spoon himself into the back of the car.

  Frank said, “Maybe. But I'm going to do this one by the book. I don't want any nasty surprises biting me in the leg later on. And you, you can go home, and come in tomorrow. I need a statement from you."

  "Right you are, Frank,” I said breezily. “Good luck."

  He smiled mirthlessly. “I'll need it. The press are going to have a field day with this."

  * * * *

  And they did. It was just in time for the evening editions and the six o'clock television news. Well, you can't blame them. It's not every day a local notable, a very visible town councillor to boot, turns up dead in the proverbial shallow grave in an allotment. The subhead in the Bugle read, “Town Hall to Tomato Patch.” I thought this was pushing it a bit, but these blokes have an eye on Fleet Street.

  If you analyzed what they really said, you could see that they weren't having as much of a field day as they would have liked. Nobody who mattered was saying much. Hizzoner put out a gnomic statement of regret, and there were stunned and mystified comments from his fellow councillors. There were pieces about Tommy's tireless work for the public good, his dedication to urban renewal, and a list of the many public works projects he had masterminded. There was also a rather weepy article about Tommy's deprived childhood under the Communist jackboot. Tommy would have loved it all.

  There was nothing about smoke-filled rooms, bent contracts, or large brown envelopes changing hands, but then nobody expected there to be. All in all, a satisfying crop. And a fitting epitaph to “a towering figure in local political life."

  When the Steering Committee rang, I was holding my own private wake, saluting Tommy's departure with a glass of Tallisker, which is for special occasions only.

  "So what have you been up to?” Linda asked.

  "Since I last talked to you? Oh well, today I dug up a dead body, and tomorrow I'm helping the police with their inquiries."

  "All right,” she said, very miffed, “be like that. Don't tell me if you don't want to."

  "What I also did, as it turns out,” I told her, “was I laid a ghost."

  After I'd finished talking to Linda, I took my drink out into the garden to look at the night sky. Being in a valley, and with the cloud cover we often get, a lot of the time it can be like living inside an old flat cap. Some people find it rather glum. But then, you get used to glum if you live in the outskirts of Emily Brontë. Tonight, however, was clear and bright.

  I like to look up there and think about Pluto. You can't see Pluto because it's miles and miles away. But it's there. And the bloke who discovered it deduced it was there because of the behavior of the other planets, the way they wobbled about and so on. Now that's real detective work with a lesson for us all. I've always thought I'd like to have a chat with that bloke. Him and Dashiell Hammett, if I could have got them together. But they're both deceased and anyway, I wouldn't have had much time for chatting. I needed a good night's sleep.

  I went to bed where it turned out that what I had told Linda about laying a ghost was absolutely true. I had the best night of dreamless sleep I'd had for seven months.

  * * * *

  Frank wasn't really interested in Eggy. He was more interested in why I was at the allotment.

  "Just doing a favor for a friend,” I said.

  "Yes. Well, you always were a secretive bastard. But let me tell you this, I've got every bugger and his uncle on my back for this one, the chief super, the chief constable, the mayor, and for all I know the pope's in on it. So don't mess me about."

  "But he died of a heart attack, didn't he, Frank?"

  "Yes, it's confirmed. But heart attack or not, he didn't climb into that hole and pull it in after him. I want to know who and why."

  "Well, it wasn't Eggy, was it? He was down at Priestley Road. They only let him out on Monday. Why was he there, anyway?"

  "Well,” Frank said, looking at a piece of paper, one of many on his desk, “according to D.S. Crabtree, it was a phone tip-off. Anonymous, of course. Saying he was mixed up in that post office raid on the twenty-eighth."

  "We all know that's not Eggy's style at all. And it turned out to be a load of old toffee. But not before Eggy had spent a day and a night in the cells. And what about Eggy's shed?” I asked. “You going to put it back up for him?"

  As if.

  "No, I'm bloody not. He can do it himself. We've done a hands-and-knees search, there's nothing there. Tomorrow's Saturday and I'm not going to waste police overtime guarding that place past tonight. Tell him he can do it tomorrow morning, if he likes."

  "Sure there's no more dignitaries entombed under the spring cabbages?"

  "Beat it, Harry. But stay available. There'll be an inquest."

  I was just in time to pick up Eggy, very grumpy after a night in the cells. I took him off to the local caff and bought him breakfast. As he put away three eggs, five rashers of bacon, three sausages, and fried bread, I watched the lines of grumpiness fading from his face.

  "Right,” he said, “that's better. I'm feeling better."

  "I'm glad,” I said, and told him the bad news about the shed.

  "What? They pull down my shed, and don't even have the politeness to put it back up!"

  I told him the good news.

  "We can put it up tomorrow morning. I'm going to help you."

  "Well, that's really good of you, Mr. T. It knackered me putting it up all alone the first time, and I'm still feeling a bit shaky after our grisly find."

  I watched the last overloaded forkful disappear. Yes indeed, this was a man plainly still in deep trauma.

  "So you can go home, when you've finished, and try to banish the horrible events of last night from your mind. But first, I want to get the sequence straight in my mind. Because it's not right, Eggy. It's just not right."

  "What, Tommy being dead under my shed? Yes, it is a bit of a bummer, that."

  I waved that away.

  "No, not that. There's something else about all this that's just not right. When I was still on the job, I learned that you can get into a right muddle if you don't have the sequence clear in your head, who did what and in what order."

  Eggy looked properly impressed at being admitted to the arcana of crimefighting.

  "Well, before we start,” he said, “let me get some toast."

  I stared at him.

  "Go on then,” I said, “if you're that intent on teaching your system who's boss. Bring back some paper serviettes."

  So he did, and it looked like this.

  Friday the 16th—Uncle Ernie dies. Doctor comes, signs death certificate.

  Saturday the 17th—Auntie Winnie starts organizing. She finds time to sort out the allotment. She begins to clear out Ernie's stuff, helped in this by Tomm
y Backhouse. Quote from principal witness Cyril Edgworth: “As soon as he heard, he was round to the house. Spent most of the weekend helping me auntie sort stuff out, me uncle's clothes and that. Saved her going up and down the stairs."

  Monday 19th—Witness Edgworth goes up to survey his defunct uncle's allotment. Notes that uncle's shed is “in a right old state” and decides to replace it. Orders a new shed that very day.

  Friday 23rd—Funeral takes place of Ernie Jones. Reception at the house after the service, where guests partake of a cold collation and drinks (various). Councillor Tommy Backhouse in attendance, the jollop having been furnished by him. Witness Edgworth notes that Backhouse looked “a bit peaky. Gray, like.” Witness Edgworth leaves reception early to take delivery of new shed.

  Saturday 27th—Witness Edgworth demolishes old shed. States, “All I had to do was give it a good push and it came down all by itself.” The only thing of note is that during the demolition, witness Edgworth receives a visit from Councillor T. Backhouse, apparently to add further condolences to those already expressed.

  Sunday 28th—Witness Edgworth roused at 5 A.M. by the forces of law and order following an anonymous phone call, and, quote, “hoiked down to the nick and given the third degree about some bloody post office blag.” He remains at the station all day and night.

  Monday 29th—Witness Edgworth released. Goes up to the allotment where he finds to his pleasure that the load of aggregate bedding he had ordered has been delivered and dumped in exactly the right place by the gate. To calm his shattered nerves he spends the rest of the day erecting the new shed. Spends the evening collecting and hanging up the tools left by defunct uncle. Locks up and goes home.

  Tuesday 30th—Witness works in allotment all day. Locks up at night.

  Wednesday 31st—Witness arrives at allotment to find tools in disarray. Dismayed by this savage and senseless attack, he seeks professional help. Professional helper shows scant enthusiasm.

  The rest we knew about, arson attack and digging up of municipal cadaver.

  "Right,” I said, “it's all here."

  "What is?” Eggy asked.

  "If I knew that, we wouldn't be here in the first place. I have to think,” I told him. “Now, go home, and meet me up there tomorrow morning."

  * * * *

  The shed went up far more easily than Eggy had given me to expect. We spread the aggregate in a new site, next to the erstwhile grave of the erstwhile Mr. Backhouse.

  "There you go, Eggy,” I said at the end. “Good as new.” It was early evening and we'd just finished hanging up the tools again.

  "Except it's in the wrong place,” he said. Some people are never satisfied. I picked up the bag I had brought along. Eggy watched as I emptied the contents.

  "What's all that then?” he said.

  "Vittles,” I said, “no point in not coming provisioned. Preparation is all, Eggy."

  He looked at the large torch I'd brought, then at the pork pies and ham sandwiches, and the cans of beer and the bottle of whiskey to keep out the cold.

  "I'm grateful to you and that for helping me put up the shed, only I didn't reckon on coming to live here,” he said.

  "Drag those chairs inside and close the door,” I said.

  When we were settled down, I told him what we were doing and why.

  "Eggy,” I said, “someone tried to move your shed, then set fire to it, and then we find there's a body underneath it. Do you think that all that is completely unconnected and coincidental?"

  "Well, no,” he said, “it can't be."

  "Right. Well now, think about it. If you'd buried a body under a shed, what would you do?"

  "I don't know. I haven't had much experience, like. Nothing much."

  "That's the right answer. Congratulations. If you'd buried a body, or if you knew that one was buried, and somebody came along and built a shed on it, you'd do absolutely nothing. You'd go your way thanking Providence. What you wouldn't do is draw as much attention to it as you could. Moving sheds around, setting fire to them. You might just as well put up a great big neon sign saying, Look, Everybody, There's Something Dodgy Here."

  "Right. Well, that is, unless—"

  "Unless what?"

  "Unless there was something else that you wanted to get at."

  "Give that man a toffee apple."

  Eggy said, “So you think somebody's coming after the whatever it is."

  "I'm bloody sure of it. Tonight's the first chance he's had to get a clear run at it. Frank's lads were here until this morning, we've been here all day. He's got to come tonight."

  "So why do you want me here?"

  "It's your allotment, Eggy. And I need a witness, just in case. And someone to help with the digging."

  "Why don't we do the digging now and get it over with? ‘Stead of waiting for someone who might turn nasty?"

  "Because I want to be sure. And he won't turn nasty because I'm going to persuade him to go away."

  That didn't really reassure him, I could see. I knew how he felt because it didn't really reassure me, either. But Eggy took a pork pie like the brave little soul he is, and settled back to chew. When in doubt, eat.

  It was a long night, and I learned quite a few things in the course of it. I learned why Eggy was known as Eggy, for one thing. I'm not going to tell you because it's private. Very weird, but very private. I also learned that a wooden shed is not meant to be lived in.

  At about two in the morning, Eggy woke up and said hoarsely, “You still think he's coming?"

  "I'm sure he's coming."

  And he came. At about four in the morning, the hour when souls give up the struggle and graves give up the dead, I heard a tiny scuffling outside. He was being extra careful out there, so it was only the tiniest sound.

  I put my mouth to Eggy's ear and whispered, “That's him. I'm going out. Don't make a sound and don't come out until I say so."

  I picked up the torch and one of Uncle Ernie's crowbars, the heaviest one, and pushed the door open as silently as I could. I paused for a moment. I didn't want to be rushing out to brain a foraging neighborhood cat. But then the noise from the other side took on a definite metallic quality. I walked round the hut and switched on the torch.

  "Hello, Charlie,” I said.

  I felt almost sorry for him. He dropped the spade with a yelp, then just stared into the torch while his heart rate settled down.

  "Who the bloody hell's that?"

  "It's me, Charlie,” I said. Well, it was.

  "Tattersby? I might have known. What the hell do you want?” He relaxed. It was only a washed-up ex-copper, and not the real thing. He could deal with this, no problem. He bent down and picked up the spade again. I moved the torch casually, so that it shone quite by accident on the crowbar.

  I said, “I want to save you a bit of trouble, Charlie, that's all. I hate to see a man flogging his guts out doing something that's a total waste of time."

  "It's my time. I'll waste it if I like."

  "Yes, but it's not your allotment, Charlie. And if I start shouting the odds, we'll have the neighbors out in no time. Just like last time."

  I think he knew that I knew. But he tried the old Indian trick anyway of blustering.

  "What you talking about, the last time? What last time?"

  "Come on, Charlie,” I said, doing my big, easygoing Tattersby, “it's just you and me here. I'm talking about the time you were here with Tommy. Last Sunday, wasn't it. Had a big argy-bargy, by all accounts. Had all the windows flying up round here."

  "Hey. Now listen, I had nothing to do with—what happened. It wasn't my fault he snuffed it."

  "I know that,” I said. “You had a bit of a struggle though, didn't you? And then all of a sudden he collapsed. Must have been the strain of the digging and then going two rounds with you."

  "I never touched him,” Charlie said. He had lowered the spade now so that it rested on the ground. Hopefully a sign of capitulation, but you never know. “I didn't have ti
me to hardly touch him. He just clutched his chest and keeled over."

  "And when you looked at him, he was dead."

  "He twitched a bit, but he was gone, all right."

  "And by now all the neighbors were out, so you kept your head down, and when things quietened down, you just pushed him into the hole he'd dug and covered him up. And the next night, Monday, when you came along to quietly dig up the doings, curse your horrible luck, there was a shed on top of Tommy. That must have sickened you a bit. I know it would me."

  He nodded.

  "Is that what all this chat is for, just to show me how bloody clever you are?"

  "Charlie, I don't like people who try to burn down sheds with friends of mine inside."

  "I didn't know anyone was in the bloody shed."

  "I'll believe you, thousands wouldn't. But I don't want any more of it. Now look, Charlie, you won't see this in the papers, but they found it. After the body, they just kept on digging, and they found it. I was here, I found the body, and I saw them dig it up."

  "I don't know what you're on about."

  "They found it, and they're keeping quiet about it. They've got enough of a scandal with a town councillor being found in an allotment without giving the press the rest of it. It's under wraps, and it'll stay like that."

  I think he already believed me because his shoulders slumped a little.

  "Conniving bastards."

  "I couldn't agree more, Charlie. But that's the world we live in. Now, I know some of it was yours. The JCB money, wasn't it?"

  Now this was a real leap in the dark, but I landed safely. Charlie dropped the spade and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

  "I told him it was a bloody stupid idea. But he went ahead and set it up. What could I do? I needed the cash."

  "And afterwards you agreed to let it lie for a while."

  He nodded. “Tommy didn't want a load of cash lying around, and he didn't trust me. So he gave it to Ernie Jones to take care of. Silly bugger. Didn't even ask him where he'd put it. Just trusted him."

  "But you can't trust people not to up and die on you."

  "He really went mad after that. He was always up at Ernie's house. He wouldn't tell me what was going on, but I was keeping an eye on him most of the time, anyway."