by Ken Blowers
‘Doing? Doing?’ He said turning towards me. ‘This is my car. My car, Sir and I can do as I bloody well like to it, right?’
‘Your car?’ I smiled. ‘Sorry. What’s happened? Lost your keys, have you? Left them inside, perhaps?’
He dropped his hands and looked at me, completely exasperated. As he did so, there appeared to be some kind of movement in the car. What I had taken to be nothing more than goods covered by blankets, began to be
disturbed, sort of like, wriggling. The car was obviously inhabited by something or someone or other. Then the engine started up and the car slowly ambled off for a few feet down the car park, then it stopped and all was strangely silent again.
‘What on earth?’ I gasped in disbelief. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked of the poor distressed man.
‘Won’t you tell me about it, please? I asked. ‘It might help make you feel just a little bit better?’
‘It was six weeks ago,’ the man began calmly enough. ‘I loaded my car with a few groceries I had bought from the shops over there and then I suddenly realised I had left a bag on the shop counter, so I went back for it,’ he said with his voice raising. ‘When I returned,’ he said growing angry again, ‘a family of six people, all bloody six of them; two men, two women and two children had commandeered my car!’
‘What? But, why, why is it still here?’
‘It’s here because they stole it, not to joy ride, but to bloody live in!’
‘Live in? No.’
‘Yes! Yes! What’s more, look, they’ve even removed my number plates!’
‘Steady. Steady on, old fella.’ I said trying to soothe him. ‘Did, er, did you report this to the Police, then?’
‘Did you ever,’ he said, his voice rising again, ‘try and report a car stolen, with no bloody number plates? How do you think they are going to find it, eh?’
‘I … I, I really don’t know.’
‘No! I don’t suppose you do!’
He began to move closer to the car, but the engine fired again and the car ambled off once more. He shook his hands angrily. He growled and he moaned in frustration. Then he walked back to me. ‘What can I do?’ he asked. ‘Do you know?’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘I… I, I guess those poor people are not really thieves, in, in the normal sense.’
‘You don’t think my car is stolen!’
‘They must be desperate, don’t you see? They are just ordinary people, like you and me, simply trying to put a roof over their heads.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘That’s alright for you to say that. Tell me. Where are you going?’
‘Manchester.’
‘What kind of car have you got then?’
‘Mine’s just a hire car, from Heathrow Airport.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘A nice big four-door, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘A Ford perhaps?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘A big, white, Ford?’
‘Yes.’
‘The very latest model too, I suppose?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so. It’s a station wagon, or estate car, as they call them here.’
‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘A big, white, Ford estate car, like that one over there, moving towards the car-park exit near the shops. See?’
‘What?’ I said with fear in my throat.
‘You did lock it, I suppose - didn’t you?’
‘Well, ah…Nnn... no’
‘Then we are both in the same boat. I saw a family of four get in that car. A man, a woman and two children.’
‘They’ve stolen my car!’
‘Well, not really. In your own words: “They must be desperate. They are just ordinary people, like you and me, simply trying to put a roof over their heads.’” He patted me on the shoulder. ‘Welcome to England, Sir. Land of the free and Manchester is not far away. You should be able to walk it in, oh, a day or so.’
CHAPTER 6
EMERGENCY WARD MURDER
Inspector Grant was not a happy man. Not that anyone knowing him would expect it to be otherwise, since Detectives by nature, have a sharp mind that needs a constant input of problems they can chew on. Without such mind-food, their days are long and boring. Boring to the point where they come to hate weekends, holidays and above all, time wasted in a hospital. Nothing, nothing else could be as bad as that, except perhaps being accommodated somewhere at Her Majesty’s pleasure!
The Emergency Ward of the hospital in question, forbade him from leaving his bed. One can imagine how he viewed the idea of being bedridden and forced to use bottles and pans, while they ran tests on him for the possibility that he may have suffered an angina attack or a clot.
Grant pondered for a delightful moment, somewhat buoyed if you like, by the thought that lots of people die every year in hospitals under suspicious circumstances. Mostly people over fifty something, simply because people of that age are more likely to have assets exceeding any debts.
Emergency Wards in general are pretty much the same anywhere. Mixed-sex wards usually, with the primary aim being to apply first aid, as they work to determine what ails the patients, before shuffling them off to more appropriate hospital departments or send them home.
Grant soon found himself looking around at nearby patients within his view, trying his best to assess which, if any of them, could possibly be at risk of being murdered.
In the next bed to him, he had Gary Smith, a young man injured in a motorcycle accident. Directly opposite there was a dear old man, by the name of Fred Peebles. He knew that Fred was aged 93 and proud of it from his daily mobile phone calls. From various general conversations, it was clear the old boy lived alone on a rural property. On the old boy’s right, there was a rather pushy woman by the name of Mrs Vera Humphrey. A woman who by nature, never volunteered to stop talking; on her mobile phone, or to other patients and/or staff that came by!
After some thought, Grant concluded that Mrs Vera Humphrey was the most likely murder victim, if only for the sake of peace and quiet in the ward! Gary Smith was second, because he couldn’t talk about anything else but motorbikes and their riders, from morning until night. What about Mr. Fred Peebles? Well he talked as if he owned his property and he lived alone since his wife died, about 9 or 10 years ago now. He freely admitted he had little-or-no will to live much longer. In fact, he pushed this point home in telephone conversations with his daughter Phoebe, apparently his only surviving descendant. This would normally put him top of the list on the murder scale; except for the fact, she appeared to have no interest in his property and no intention of visiting him.
When Mrs Grant came at visiting time, she kissed her husband lightly on the cheek and then asked, ‘How are you dear? Did they find anything? Do you have to stay overnight?’ (Pulling an unhappy face); or ‘Are you coming home? I’ve still got your clothes and things in the car, just in case.’
‘Ah, well.’ Grant began. ‘Luckily, they haven’t found any damage to the old ticker.’
‘Oh, good! That’s wonderful, isn’t it! So you are coming home, then?’
‘Er, no.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘Well, from the ECG tests they did, they can tell the pains were real enough. Though there’s no evidence of damage to the heart, they do say it’s a clear a warning sign that all is not well.’
‘So?’
‘Though I did plead with them to come home, they recommend I stay here another night, until my blood pressure comes down a bit. It would also give them time to do some scans to see if I’ve had a clot. I’ve agreed to that. I simply had to.’
‘But I thought you hated it here?’
‘I do. I do and I long to come home with you, darling. But, as you’ve told me many times, health come first, right?’
‘Er well, yes, I suppose so. If only to keep your mind off murder and all that other Police stuff that over the years has undermine
d every single attempt of mine to help you to relax, for a week, or even a few days!’
‘I wouldn’t think of it, dear. My mind is relaxed, fully relaxed, in a way I haven’t experienced for years!’
‘Good! Good! What about if they did find you had a clot? What then, retirement?’ she beamed.
‘No, no. They will put me on something to thin the blood a bit. Warfarin, I think they said.’
‘Warfarin? That’s a rat poison, isn’t it!’
‘No. No. No. Warfarin is not a poison. It just thins the blood. In low doses it’s perfectly safe.’
‘But.’
‘No. No. It also breaks down Vitamin K, which is the thing that sticks together and forms the clots and I’ll have to watch my diet too.’
‘Oh! I’ve been trying to get you to do that for years. You eat too much meat, too much sugar, salt and you drink too much alcohol too! When what you really need, is more fruit veggies and green tea!’
‘Strangely enough, they say I may have to avoid certain vegetables, mostly the dark green ones. Green tea is absolutely taboo!’
‘Oh, it’s nothing to joke about!'
‘I’m not joking, love. Honest! But if you’d rather I came home?’
‘No. No. Maybe it’s for the best.'
‘Oh, yes. I’m sure it is.’
‘Hmmm. You haven’t started detecting anything in here, for goodness sake! Have you?’
‘Oh no. Nooo. Of course not. I don’t see any crims in here, do you?’
‘Don’t be silly. They all seem such nice people. But I’d better be off. I’ve got things to do.’
‘You always have, dear. In fact, I think maybe you should ease up a bit.’
‘Absolute stuff and nonsense!’
‘You know, I’m just loving all this ‘do nothing’ bit. It’s like, er, like being retired without being retired. Know what I mean?’
‘We’ll talk about that later.’ She bent over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Bye, bye, dear. See you tomorrow. Anything you want?’
‘Er, something to read would be nice. Anything. Anything at all.’
‘Yes. Alright. I’ll see if I can find my old bible for you. See you tomorrow.’
‘Goodbye, dear. I do miss you a lot.’
The general hubbub dropped off as the visitors diminished and the ward became unusually quiet. Inpsector Grant managed to drop off to sleep somewhat quicker and earlier that he expected.
A few hours later, he was awakened by the creaking sound of Mrs Vera Humphrey raising the headboard of her electric bed. Without moving and with his eyes mere slits, he saw her sit upright and then slowly swing her legs off the bed. She sat still, listening and watching old Fred Peebles as he slept soundly. Grant glanced at the ward clock and noted the time 12:23 am. ‘My word,’ he thought. ‘Whatever is that woman up too?’ Then he fell fast asleep again.
In the early morning, Grant was awakened by the sound of the staff wheeling Fred Peebles out on his bed.
‘Hmm. Isn’t that a bit unusual?’ he thought. ‘Still, I guess they could be wheeling the old boy off for some early morning X-Rays, or cat scans or something like that.’ After breakfast, a young Nurse came to make his bed and Grant asked her if Mr Peebles was alright. He said he wondered because the old man’s bed space was still vacant.
‘Mr Peebles? Oh, he was discharged early this morning, probably while you were asleep.’
‘Isn’t that a bit unusual, Nurse? Removing an elderly patient from the ward, bed and all and discharging him at such an early hour?’
‘Ah! You must be the Police chappie am I right?'
‘Right.’
‘I’m afraid, Sir and I’m just doing my job, I must tell you that patient discharges are private. In simple words, Mr Grant, it’s none of your business!’
‘Oh, right! Absolutely right! But, what you probably don’t know is: that with just one phone call, I can easily make it my business! There could be a large number of Coppers all over the place! But first, before I do that, I’m afraid I must ask you for your full name and title.’
‘Stuff that,’ she said, leaning over him. ‘I’m not looking for trouble,’ she whispered. ‘Mr Peebles was found to be dead last night, by a staff member doing a routine check.’
‘Time?’
‘About 2 am.’
‘Can’t you do better than ‘about 2 am?’’
‘No. But it should be detailed in his file, for sure. He was taken straight to the mortuary.’
‘Do you know what he died of?’
‘You mean besides being 93, with High Blood Pressure, Angina, Deep Vein Thrombosis, Prostate Cancer, hardly any lungs left and no will to live? And enough pills to kill an elephant? No!’
‘Thank you, Nurse. Sorry to put you on the spot.’
‘Good morning to you, Mr Grant’ she said, as she walked away.
Grant pulled out his mobile phone and rang the desk Sergeant, Brad Watson.
‘Brad. This is Inspector Grant.’
‘Yes, Sir. How are you? Getting a bit bored, I expect?’
‘No. No. Not at all. I’m supposed to be doing nothing but relaxing, of course, but I think I may have stumbled on something. Quite accidentally, you understand.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. An old man named Fred Peebles, in a bed opposite me, died during the night in what I consider to be suspicious circumstances.’
‘Go on! By the hand of a patient, or staff?’
‘Almost certainly by the hand of another patient.’
‘Wow! You do find fun in odd places. Off the record, I bet somebody here a fiver yesterday that you’d turn something up!’
‘Oh, did you now!’
‘So, what can I do for you, Sir?’
‘You haven’t heard anything, then?’
‘No. Nothing has come in as yet.’
‘I’m not surprised. We will have to keep this a bit low key until I find out more. Ask our forensic people if they can talk off the record, with the hospital morgue people. Get them to ask about any recent deaths, say in the last 24 hours. Call it a training exercise, or something like that and get my Sergeant over here. Just as a visitor of course, as soon as you’ve got something for me. No later than Midday, would be nice.’
‘Yes, Sir. I’m on it right now! Cheers!’
By midday, Sergeant Roger Williams was by Grant’s bedside, discussing a preliminary report of an X-ray, which suggested Mr Peebles stomach was absolutely stuffed inside with an excessive amount of pills of some sort. But only an autopsy could determine whether they were the likely cause of death.
Grant shared with his Sergeant his suspicion that Mrs Vera Humphries could be a prime suspect, because of her strange behaviour late last night. How he’d seen Mrs Humphries apparently preparing to approach Mr Peebles at the odd hour of 12:23 am; which was oddly close to Mr Peebles estimated time of death, apparently recorded in his file as being “close to 2:00 am.”
Sergeant Williams was able to confirm that a few background enquiries had quickly revealed that Mrs Humphries’ son was into a strong relationship with old Fred Peebles’ daughter!
‘Well fancy that,’ said Grant. ‘It looks like a good enough motive for murder.’
‘Yes Sir and on top of that, there’s also a suspicion, just a suspicion, that the daughter may be pregnant.’
‘Is he known to us?’
‘Yes, Sir. Only small stuff. Apparently he likes fast cars and the odd snort, but he doesn’t have the money to pay for it.’
‘Ok. Good as it is, we need something more solid than that. Keep digging. See if you can confirm the pregnancy and see if you can find any legal debts. Don’t forget the local bookie, that kind of thing. Take this pillowcase with you, it’s all I could lay my hands on, but it contains Mr Peebles pill boxes, plus his water jug and cup. I want it all checked for fingerprints. Today! Right?’
The next d
ay, having completed all the necessary scans, Grant was cleared and sent home.
His wife was pleased. ‘Welcome home, darling,’ she purred. ‘It being a Saturday, tomorrow, you can rest up for two whole days. Isn’t that great?’
‘Sorry, love, but I hear I’ve got a mountain of stuff on my desk.’
‘But...’
‘No buts dear, please. The most sensible thing I can do is to go in tomorrow and catch up and clear up everything on my desk in no time. Being the weekend, it will be dead quiet, totally without interruptions and far less stressful. Then, when I go in on Monday morning, I will face a desk with a completely empty “In” tray. With a bit of luck, I’ll even come home early, right?’
