Between them the detectives had been on the force for more than 30 years. In that time they had seen enough of life to sour them – stabbings, beatings, shootings and a whole lot of the nasty leftovers of ‘communication with force’. Jim had been around the longest, and had put in for a transfer from serious crime when he and his wife Freda moved from the city centre to settle and enjoy village family life the other side of Bolton. Vinny was still single, not having had much luck with the faithless and downright deceptive. They had been paired up several times before and enjoyed a rapport that went beyond late-night kebabs and mixed farting.
The scene was unusual, that was for sure, and they had to take care that homicide or homicidal intention must be ruled out. But from the outset, it seemed there were few indicators that the dead man had been subjected to any trauma, other than that of his own making. It looked like he’d gone crazy, or at least vented his spleen on the dolls, ornaments, offerings and statues smashed before them. But then there was the anonymous phone call… Someone knew something.
Although there was nothing obviously unbroken, they decided to get everything photographed in situ, bagged as best as could be done, and the fragments taken back to the station. Quite apart from the truly awful smell, that seeped through their facemasks and permeated their clothing, there was little else to see in the strange bedroom. A careful wander through the rest of the house revealed only that the man had been sleeping messily in one room, where he appeared to live out of an old style suitcase. They bagged the contents, but were not hopeful of much: there was nothing out of the ordinary about the few modest shirts, underpants and other personal detritus clumsily stored within. But next to it was an old set of drawers – each of them empty. What was going on?
Apart from the sofa and flat screen television in the corner of the living room, the remainder of the house was practically bare: no pictures on the walls, no recently acquired possessions, and only the few possessions he appeared to have brought with him. From the small box of Daz beside the kitchen sink, it seemed he was washing his clothing by hand, despite there being a washing machine beside the sink.
It had been a particularly warm June, but only one window was opened, that of the small downstairs toilet. On close inspection, it displayed a single scuffmark left by the shoes of someone either clambering in – or out, not an easy task for the average man. In fact, it appeared far too small for the average human to use in this way. They deduced it had been used as a point of ingress, by whoever, or even whatever, had come in – the front door being easily used for departure.
They looked at each other. How did all of these scraps fit together? There didn’t appear to be any foul play, and yet someone knew of a body. And there didn’t appear to be anything of value stolen – quite apart from the only item of real value, the TV – which had been left untouched; thus, it was easy to deduce that the dead man was poor. And yet there was a break-in.
They went outside for some much needed early evening air and stood puffing beside a clump of delicious pink roses. A decomposing body had been discovered amidst a bizarre scene of violence against objects presumably in his own possession. The whole thing didn’t make sense. And then there was that problem anonymous phone call. They had a silent smoke together before tackling interviews with the neighbours.
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