Offbeat
Like his father and grandfather before him, he'd taken pride in walking the beat. With no ambition beyond being desk sergeant one day, he knew his colleagues called him Mr Plod but he couldn't care less; he was old school and took his job seriously. Fred leaned against the wall and considered having a smoke but that might sully the crime scene so he put it out of his mind. His dad would probably have taken out his pipe and had a quiet puff back in the day but, like milk stout on a hospital ward, that was in another era which seemed now as remote as the sedan chair from the internal combustion engine.
The slamming of car doors in the main street brought someone to a bedroom window above him and a light shone into the alley, briefly illuminating the body propped against a shop doorway, then there was darkness again. Fred was reminded of that moment in the film of The Third Man when Harry Lime is revealed to Holly Martins, the cat purring at his feet. Somehow, a shop door in Llandovery didn't have quite the same drama as bombed post-war Vienna though. In any case, this man was really dead, not like Harry Lime.
Fred had been doing his rounds, as usual, and it had only been about 20 minutes since he'd last given the alley a look so it was a mystery how the body had got there. At first he'd thought it was a mannequin and no one would have blamed him for that because the man was wearing lederhosen, complete with bib, an embroidered shirt, long socks and leather ankle boots and one of those Tyrolean hats with a feather in it. Even in Vienna he would have stood out. The only thing that was missing, mused Fred, was an alpenhorn.
A car stopped at the end of the alley and two men approached with torches, ducking under the police cordon.
'Nice night for it, Fred!' Detective Sergeant Preece was a good bloke with a similar attitude to Fred towards his job.
'Not for this one, Sarge. Don't ask me where he came from - I was only here 20 minutes before I found him and it was all quiet.'
'Panda car came by after you too and didn't see anything so we've got ourselves a little mystery. Anyway, it's getting to the end of your shift so get back to the station and write it up and then go home and get some sleep.'
'Thanks, Sarge. Good luck with it.'
As Fred set off to the station, he thought about how the body had been posed. It had looked as though the man was doing that strange dance where people slapped each other, though how that had been achieved was as much a conundrum as the appearance of the body in the alley within such a short time. At home later, as he changed into his pyjamas, he couldn't get the scene out of his mind; he sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, so as not to disturb his wife, and shook his head in wonder. As he settled down under the covers, he looked fondly at his Janice, sleeping beside him, and told himself how lucky he was; he had a nice little house, a decent job, a bit of respect and above all a good woman. It wasn't an exciting life but she had her part-time job, kept the house well and they had their little lie-in on a Sunday morning for a bit of a cuddle. They were content and they still had years before them. He smiled as he went to sleep.
The following night, he set out on his usual walk around what he liked to call the mean streets of Llandovery. A few late-nighters greeted him by name, grateful for his presence, as he checked shop doors to ensure they were secure. The tape had been taken down from the end of the alley and he walked slowly along, shining his torch at doorways. All seemed to be well and he breath a sigh of relief. At the other end of the alley, the panda car passed slowly and he waved to the officers inside, giving the all clear.
The late night cafe at the end of his beat was just closing up but the owner invited him in for a cup of tea and they sat and chewed the fat, setting the world to rights over a hobnob, for a short time. Only 35 minutes or so after his first visit to the alley, Fred was back shining his torch at dark corners and there, in the same shop doorway (Gifts-u-Like) was another body. The murderer had outdone himself this time; this poor soul was dressed in a Cossack outfit and posed as a dancer, his arms folded, one leg bent and the other straight out in front of him. What was more, he had a big handle-bar moustache.
Fred gaped at the sight for a moment and then pulled himself together sufficiently to radio it in to the station. Bending down, he pressed his fingers to the man's throat. The body was cold and there seemed to be no pulse. In the time it took for help to arrive, he put up some police tape and stood watching the body nervously, as though he expected it to break into a hectic dance at any moment.
'Woo hoo!' A voice behind him made him jump.
'Got you there, Fred! Now, are you going to keep doing this every night?' Preece laughed.
'Blimey, I hope not, Sarge. I was here earlier, only half an hour or so ago, and the panda car came past right afterwards. What the hell's going on?'
'Your guess is as good as mine, Fred. We're working on the other one but it's the weirdest case I've ever come across. Anyway leave it now and get back on your beat. The DI and I will see your report in the morning.'
He turned away, partly glad to be leaving such a strange scene and partly drawn to the mystery of it. In 20 years of walking the same beat, he'd only once encountered a death and that had been a natural one, a poor vagrant. Now two murders on successive nights. He was tempted to wake his wife to tell her of the excitement when got home but she had her job at the mini-market to go in the morning and needed her sleep as much as he did. Perhaps he'd tell her over supper that evening.
The next night, as he left the station, there was a lot of teasing from his colleagues about what he would discover next in the alley. He reminded them that two people had been killed and it was a serious matter but he did rather dread the walk down that alley. Preece had allocated a couple of plain-clothes officers to watch the area carefully overnight so at least Fred wouldn't be alone, which was some comfort.
The streets were particularly quiet, news of the murders having got around, and the cafe was already closed when Fred reached the end of his beat and turned to around to walk back. A panda car passed and blinked its headlights at him. Jokingly, he gave a Dixon of Dock Green bend to his knees and a quick salute and could see the officers in the car laughing. He walked on slowly, checking doorways as usual, and finally reached the alley. Taking a deep breath, he walked through it reluctantly, shining his torch on the ground. At Gifts-u-Like, the light revealed feet in ballet shoes and Fred groaned. Raising his torch slowly, he could see a figure dressed in tights; his wife being a bit of a ballet fan, he recognised that the man was dressed as the Rose in the Rose Romance or whatever it was called. The feet were in fourth position and the arms raised over the man's head.
Fred moved back and leaned against the wall, lifting his radio to call it in. Moments after he'd done so, the two plain-clothes officers on watch arrived, stunned at this development as neither of them had seen anything since Fred had last patrolled. Preece arrived a few minutes later, berating his men for their laxity. They protested that they had seen no one pass them, never mind anyone carrying a dead ballet dancer.
Preece took Fred aside and spoke in an undertone, 'Fred - what we've discovered is that the previous two bodies hadn't been dead that long. We think that they were given some sort of drug which made them unable to move their own limbs, then they were dressed and put in position and died like that. The coroner's looking into it now.'
Fred shuddered; that seemed even more horrifying that just being killed outright. His heart went out to the three men.
'Can you carry on tonight, Fred? If not, get back to the station and write up your report and I'll see it when I get back.'
'I'll be okay, Sarge, so long as I don't have to come back here to the alley tonight.' Preece squeezed Fred's shoulder consolingly and pushed him back into the main street.
When he arrived home at dawn, Fred sat in his favourite chair and stared at the electric fire in front of him. He bent over and switched on a couple of bars to warm himself up; he felt cold to his very soul. Three murders, all so strange. Not for the first time, he was glad that he had never wanted to be in the CID. He knew that many of his colleagues considered him a bit boring with his lack of ambition, his glass animal collection and his caravan holidays in Aberystwyth, but he was reliable and good-hearted and most of them recognised that. Eventually, the fire warmed him, he head fell forward and he slept.
'I must have fallen asleep in the chair,' Fred thought much later. 'Maybe I'm dreaming .... one of those dreams where you can't move.'
It was strange though because he thought he could feel someone dressing him but he drifted off again and dreamed that he was being carried out of the house and put in the back of a large van. Then a short ride and he was being removed from the van and carried again. He could sense a chill around his legs and wondered where his pyjamas were. Then he was standing up and leaning against something. He managed to open his eyes and saw someone reflected in a shop window opposite, his mind struggling to work out where he was. In the reflection, he saw a man wearing a kilt and sporran, and one of those frilly shirts; the man looked as though he was doing a Highland sword dance, with his left foot resting on his right knee and his arms above his head. With horror, he recognised that the man was himself and that he was unable to move.
A figure came and stood in front of him. 'Awake, are you, Fred? Yes, it's me - your wife! Never suspected, did you? Well, you wouldn't. Do you have any idea what a fucking drag you've been? Your sodding glass animals and the dreary, dreary caravan holidays in bloody Aberystwyth. We could have afforded a holiday in a nice hotel at the very least, or abroad. As for those horrible Sunday mornings - they made me sick. Well, you may have been as dull as ditch water all your life but at least you'll be a bit more interesting in death; think of it that way, there's always an upside to everything. Gifts-u-Like, you see! This is one gift I do like, not the iron and the vacuum cleaner and other household stuff you've given me over the years.
Another person joined, blocking out his reflection in the window. Preece! He couldn't believe it, the man had always been a pal. The detective grinned at him, 'Woo hoo, Fred! Don't worry, won't be long now. Never knew you had such good legs, ha ha! Oh, and don't worry about that mouse sniffing round your foot, I don't suppose he'll go up to find out what's worn under a kilt! Bit of a breeze around the old crown jewels, is there?'
The pair walked off arm in arm and Fred could see his own image again. Time passed and he realised it was getting more difficult to blink; no part of his body would obey his slowing brain so he continued to watch his reflection, all the while screaming inside.
Like his father and grandfather before him, he'd taken pride in walking the beat. With no ambition beyond being desk sergeant one day, he knew his colleagues called him Mr Plod but he couldn't care less; he was old school and took his job seriously. Fred leaned against the wall and considered having a smoke but that might sully the crime scene so he put it out of his mind. His dad would probably have taken out his pipe and had a quiet puff back in the day but, like milk stout on a hospital ward, that was in another era which seemed now as remote as the sedan chair from the internal combustion engine.
The slamming of car doors in the main street brought someone to a bedroom window above him and a light shone into the alley, briefly illuminating the body propped against a shop doorway, then there was darkness again. Fred was reminded of that moment in the film of The Third Man when Harry Lime is revealed to Holly Martins, the cat purring at his feet. Somehow, a shop door in Llandovery didn't have quite the same drama as bombed post-war Vienna though. In any case, this man was really dead, not like Harry Lime.
Fred had been doing his rounds, as usual, and it had only been about 20 minutes since he'd last given the alley a look so it was a mystery how the body had got there. At first he'd thought it was a mannequin and no one would have blamed him for that because the man was wearing lederhosen, complete with bib, an embroidered shirt, long socks and leather ankle boots and one of those Tyrolean hats with a feather in it. Even in Vienna he would have stood out. The only thing that was missing, mused Fred, was an alpenhorn.
A car stopped at the end of the alley and two men approached with torches, ducking under the police cordon.
'Nice night for it, Fred!' Detective Sergeant Preece was a good bloke with a similar attitude to Fred towards his job.
'Not for this one, Sarge. Don't ask me where he came from - I was only here 20 minutes before I found him and it was all quiet.'
'Panda car came by after you too and didn't see anything so we've got ourselves a little mystery. Anyway, it's getting to the end of your shift so get back to the station and write it up and then go home and get some sleep.'
'Thanks, Sarge. Good luck with it.'
As Fred set off to the station, he thought about how the body had been posed. It had looked as though the man was doing that strange dance where people slapped each other, though how that had been achieved was as much a conundrum as the appearance of the body in the alley within such a short time. At home later, as he changed into his pyjamas, he couldn't get the scene out of his mind; he sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, so as not to disturb his wife, and shook his head in wonder. As he settled down under the covers, he looked fondly at his Janice, sleeping beside him, and told himself how lucky he was; he had a nice little house, a decent job, a bit of respect and above all a good woman. It wasn't an exciting life but she had her part-time job, kept the house well and they had their little lie-in on a Sunday morning for a bit of a cuddle. They were content and they still had years before them. He smiled as he went to sleep.
The following night, he set out on his usual walk around what he liked to call the mean streets of Llandovery. A few late-nighters greeted him by name, grateful for his presence, as he checked shop doors to ensure they were secure. The tape had been taken down from the end of the alley and he walked slowly along, shining his torch at doorways. All seemed to be well and he breath a sigh of relief. At the other end of the alley, the panda car passed slowly and he waved to the officers inside, giving the all clear.
The late night cafe at the end of his beat was just closing up but the owner invited him in for a cup of tea and they sat and chewed the fat, setting the world to rights over a hobnob, for a short time. Only 35 minutes or so after his first visit to the alley, Fred was back shining his torch at dark corners and there, in the same shop doorway (Gifts-u-Like) was another body. The murderer had outdone himself this time; this poor soul was dressed in a Cossack outfit and posed as a dancer, his arms folded, one leg bent and the other straight out in front of him. What was more, he had a big handle-bar moustache.
Fred gaped at the sight for a moment and then pulled himself together sufficiently to radio it in to the station. Bending down, he pressed his fingers to the man's throat. The body was cold and there seemed to be no pulse. In the time it took for help to arrive, he put up some police tape and stood watching the body nervously, as though he expected it to break into a hectic dance at any moment.
'Woo hoo!' A voice behind him made him jump.
'Got you there, Fred! Now, are you going to keep doing this every night?' Preece laughed.
'Blimey, I hope not, Sarge. I was here earlier, only half an hour or so ago, and the panda car came past right afterwards. What the hell's going on?'
'Your guess is as good as mine, Fred. We're working on the other one but it's the weirdest case I've ever come across. Anyway leave it now and get back on your beat. The DI and I will see your report in the morning.'
He turned away, partly glad to be leaving such a strange scene and partly drawn to the mystery of it. In 20 years of walking the same beat, he'd only once encountered a death and that had been a natural one, a poor vagrant. Now two murders on successive nights. He was tempted to wake his wife to tell her of the excitement when got home but she had her job at the mini-market to go in the morning and needed her sleep as much as he did. Perhaps he'd tell her over supper that evening.
The next night, as he left the station, there was a lot of teasing from his colleagues about what he would discover next in the alley. He reminded them that two people had been killed and it was a serious matter but he did rather dread the walk down that alley. Preece had allocated a couple of plain-clothes officers to watch the area carefully overnight so at least Fred wouldn't be alone, which was some comfort.
The streets were particularly quiet, news of the murders having got around, and the cafe was already closed when Fred reached the end of his beat and turned to around to walk back. A panda car passed and blinked its headlights at him. Jokingly, he gave a Dixon of Dock Green bend to his knees and a quick salute and could see the officers in the car laughing. He walked on slowly, checking doorways as usual, and finally reached the alley. Taking a deep breath, he walked through it reluctantly, shining his torch on the ground. At Gifts-u-Like, the light revealed feet in ballet shoes and Fred groaned. Raising his torch slowly, he could see a figure dressed in tights; his wife being a bit of a ballet fan, he recognised that the man was dressed as the Rose in the Rose Romance or whatever it was called. The feet were in fourth position and the arms raised over the man's head.
Fred moved back and leaned against the wall, lifting his radio to call it in. Moments after he'd done so, the two plain-clothes officers on watch arrived, stunned at this development as neither of them had seen anything since Fred had last patrolled. Preece arrived a few minutes later, berating his men for their laxity. They protested that they had seen no one pass them, never mind anyone carrying a dead ballet dancer.
Preece took Fred aside and spoke in an undertone, 'Fred - what we've discovered is that the previous two bodies hadn't been dead that long. We think that they were given some sort of drug which made them unable to move their own limbs, then they were dressed and put in position and died like that. The coroner's looking into it now.'
Fred shuddered; that seemed even more horrifying that just being killed outright. His heart went out to the three men.
'Can you carry on tonight, Fred? If not, get back to the station and write up your report and I'll see it when I get back.'
'I'll be okay, Sarge, so long as I don't have to come back here to the alley tonight.' Preece squeezed Fred's shoulder consolingly and pushed him back into the main street.
When he arrived home at dawn, Fred sat in his favourite chair and stared at the electric fire in front of him. He bent over and switched on a couple of bars to warm himself up; he felt cold to his very soul. Three murders, all so strange. Not for the first time, he was glad that he had never wanted to be in the CID. He knew that many of his colleagues considered him a bit boring with his lack of ambition, his glass animal collection and his caravan holidays in Aberystwyth, but he was reliable and good-hearted and most of them recognised that. Eventually, the fire warmed him, he head fell forward and he slept.
'I must have fallen asleep in the chair,' Fred thought much later. 'Maybe I'm dreaming .... one of those dreams where you can't move.'
It was strange though because he thought he could feel someone dressing him but he drifted off again and dreamed that he was being carried out of the house and put in the back of a large van. Then a short ride and he was being removed from the van and carried again. He could sense a chill around his legs and wondered where his pyjamas were. Then he was standing up and leaning against something. He managed to open his eyes and saw someone reflected in a shop window opposite, his mind struggling to work out where he was. In the reflection, he saw a man wearing a kilt and sporran, and one of those frilly shirts; the man looked as though he was doing a Highland sword dance, with his left foot resting on his right knee and his arms above his head. With horror, he recognised that the man was himself and that he was unable to move.
A figure came and stood in front of him. 'Awake, are you, Fred? Yes, it's me - your wife! Never suspected, did you? Well, you wouldn't. Do you have any idea what a fucking drag you've been? Your sodding glass animals and the dreary, dreary caravan holidays in bloody Aberystwyth. We could have afforded a holiday in a nice hotel at the very least, or abroad. As for those horrible Sunday mornings - they made me sick. Well, you may have been as dull as ditch water all your life but at least you'll be a bit more interesting in death; think of it that way, there's always an upside to everything. Gifts-u-Like, you see! This is one gift I do like, not the iron and the vacuum cleaner and other household stuff you've given me over the years.
Another person joined, blocking out his reflection in the window. Preece! He couldn't believe it, the man had always been a pal. The detective grinned at him, 'Woo hoo, Fred! Don't worry, won't be long now. Never knew you had such good legs, ha ha! Oh, and don't worry about that mouse sniffing round your foot, I don't suppose he'll go up to find out what's worn under a kilt! Bit of a breeze around the old crown jewels, is there?'
The pair walked off arm in arm and Fred could see his own image again. Time passed and he realised it was getting more difficult to blink; no part of his body would obey his slowing brain so he continued to watch his reflection, all the while screaming inside.