An Accidental Murder

1

It was a moist, dewy morning that had hedgerows displaying their wares of empty, wet spiders webs. They looked like miniature tennis rackets hanging between the stems of privet, but In just a matter of a few hours, that watery sun would break through and dry out all of these fly catchers, but for now they hung there, deserted. The tiny rattling of bottles in their crates and the distant hum of their electric delivery vehicle was punctuated only by the occasional bird song and the slamming of springy letterboxes that allowed the entry of the Sunday papers in this typical middle class, urban part of town. A young lad, in baseball cap and dressed for the early morning chill but too lazy to zip up after his ride to the newsagents, pushes his well worn bike down the street with a bag of bag of papers on the saddle, that made it too heavy to ride for the first mile of his round. Pausing as he turned the corner, his gaze, too intent to concentrate on his load, which consequently fell to the floor and bought him back from his trance. Slowly he walked the few feet of distance to confirm what he thought he saw.

A frantic hammering at the door of the house nearest to him was greeted by Constance, a night dress clad woman who had woken to start an early breakfast.

Pulling her housecoat tight, tying the belt, she pulled it even closer together at the bust and neck, rummaged her hands through her hair in an attempt to make it presentable, then opened the door.

Whatever's the matter?

Miss, Miss, there's a man in the drain. Just out there, there's a man in a drain.

Blurted the newspaper boy.

Constance didn't care much to believe him and was certainly not going out anywhere in her current attire, not at six thirty in the morning, whatever would the neighbours think, so it was up the stairs to Ted and he must do the investigating. The delivery boy didn’t wait. He didn’t want to.

Ted, pop out and see what's going on. The paperboy said there was a man in the drain. I haven't got a clue what he's on about.

It's just a prank, don’t let kids fool you.

He said, as Constance slightly peeled back a curtain and looked to her left and right.

No, Ted, there's something there, I can see a pair of legs. C'mon Ted, by that silver car, it might be serious.

Ted sat up and scratched his head and his balls, in that order before turning to sit to allow his feet to fumble for his slippers.

Visiting the scene in pajama bottoms and a white vest that barely covered his Grey hairy chest and did even less to hide his midriff bulge. His calm disbelief was quickly replaced by a frantic half sprint back to the house. Belly wobbling, like a man carrying a beer barrel in a spring fair race.

We'd better call the police, I think he's dead. He's not moving.

He said to Constance as he pushed inside.

Are you sure, Dear,

She asked, not wanting to question her teacher, husbands assessment.

Well, he’s not moving dear and I’ve called to him and shook his shoulder.

Ted picked up the phone while Constance now pried through the lounge window almost hoping for some proof of life. The only proof of life was the racing away of the paperboy not stopping to collect his bike or the rest of his round. His little legs took him back around that bend like a hare on steroids.

Within thirty minutes the street was a glare of blue flashing lights and policemen busy with duties abnormal to this area. Within the same few short minutes the neighbours had roused and collected at each end of the road for a better view. The elderly that usually struggle down the stairs each morning, that they never climbed again all day, were only too happy to make an impromptu second ascent to get a look from a vantage point, moving from one end of the room, peeling back the curtains from one side of the window to the other, like a sniper picking out his best shot.

The road was now blocked off at each end with the usual blue and white tape stretched from tree to lamppost and police cars, side on, just in case. Their drivers stood guard to redirect the traffic and people that usually frequented this route to their Sunday visits to relatives, church and shops. A white tarpaulin tent was erected over the scene and SOCCO wore matching white overalls with hoods. A cameraman flashed at every angle of every area at every height. The body, or the part that could be seen, the Silver Mercedes that was parked next to it outside the tent, with the rear wheel taken off and lying next to it in the gutter.

Detective inspector Denning arrived and spent more time familiarising herself with the car adjacent to the body than she spent with the body. The body was dead. It wasn’t going anywhere, not without her say so.

Find out if this car belongs to the victim, let’s get an address and some background information. Did Frank get shots of this?

She asked, pointing at the car in it’s change of wheel mode.

Not sure Ma'am.

Came the reply.

FRANK, can we get some shots at this car, inside and out and every which way you want. Thanks.

Frank snapped away not knowing why and partly not caring. He opened the passenger door carefully and snapped a few pictures of the interior. Inspector Denning walked inside the tent to examine the body and it’s surrounds.

What are your first thoughts, Jack?

Asked Denning.

Detective Sergeant Turner's first thoughts was that he was about to end his duty until some inconsiderate bastard called this one in. His shift was ten O’clock the previous evening until six that morning but paperwork kept him in the station a bit later. Which also put him in line for this call.

Well Ma'am, It looks to me like he had a flat Tyre, got out of his car to change it and that's where I get stuck. I can't imaging why he would be drowning in a road drain. Never seen anything like this before.

While uniform bobbies took statements from Constance and Ted, they pondered the situation together carefully, not knowing what to make of a car parked at the side of the road, a cast iron road drain lid prised up and a man slumped down it for no reason. His shoes were leather soles, expensive, and his trousers matched the jacket that lay on the back seat of the car.

The victim, bent over at the waist and submerged in the collected rainwater was befitting of this area but why was he changing a car Tyre? How long had he been there? And why on earth was he stooped down that drain?

Let's just look at the obvious and work our way from there.

Said Denning.

He gets a puncture, pulls over to change the Tyre. So, why is he half way down a drain?

She added.

No signs of a robbery Ma'am, his wallet is still in his trouser pocket.

Added Turner.

OK, let's get him off to the morgue as soon as SOCCO are finished and get someone in that drain. If he's in there for a reason, I want to know what it is.

Said Denning as she prepared herself for a long day, and turner for an even longer one as they headed back to the station.

The car belongs to a Mr Reid, Ma’am. 47 Barnes Lane.

A uniform advised Denning as she entered the office.

Thanks Reece.

She said as she joined Turner for a coffee, which he needed for medicinal purposes, rather than social etiquette. They sat in a common room shared by both detectives and uniforms alike but chose a separate table to the cliques. The room was just as bright as Jack needed it.

Until the caffeine kicked in, it was advisable not to slow down or sit in any dim areas.

The pale blue walls were relaxing and matched the upholstery of the chairs and carpet, but the glare from the strip lights bedded into the ceiling tiles did their best to dispel any thoughts of rest.

A Mr Adam Reid, Ma’am, according to the driving license in his wallet."

Turner thumbed through the two or three pockets of the brown leather shabby looking thing that bulged with papers, receipts, business cards, phone numbers and address, mostly all on dog eared dirty creased scraps of paper, that revealed the years they’d been stuffed in there.

Yes, I just got the vehicle ID’d by uniform. He lives at 47 Barnes Lane.

She added, before Jack had chance to read it to her off the card he was holding. He made his best effort to stuff it all back in as neatly as possible, but there were certainly going to be no complaints about his failure to do so, well, not by the owner.

Finish this and we’ll go see the widow, eh Ma’am?

Yes Jack, lets get it over with while we wait for the contents of that drain. If your shift's finished we can wait until you're relieved.

Replied Denning.

I'm fine Ma'am, I’ve gone well past the point of tiredness now, thanks to the coffee.

He replied as he grabbed at his coat off the back of his chair and fumbled in the pocket for his keys.

There was something very strange about this death and in all her twelve years on the force, this was something that she had never come across before. A very unfortunate accident. But one that just didn't seem right. She wasn’t gifted with a sense of humour and if anything, took everything a little too seriously. Denning found it difficult to see things at their base level.

There was always a reason for everything and nothing was ever as it appeared, even when it was.

Something's bugging me here, Jack. Do we know if he’s been reported missing?

She asked, as they neared the house.

We’re about to find out Ma’am, I think this is the one.

Jack commented, squinting an eye past Denning to try catch the number of the house.

As a well rounded Turner brushed his belly past the steering wheel on his way out of the car. A slim, tall Caribbean Denning eased herself with grace from the passenger seat, straightening the long Grey coat that fastened loosely around her. The sky threatened rain but with the temptation of a shimmer of sunlight every time they looked up in expectation. They strode the pathway that ran through a line of well pruned flowers alongside a manicured lawn.

Mrs Reid?

Yes,

Came the reply from a short, slim middle aged woman in gardening gloves who had heard the creaking gate from the back yard and met them at the front of the house.

I'm Detective inspector Denning and this is Detective Sergeant Turner, can we talk?

Without a word the gate was widened to allow their entry. They made their way around the back garden, through the kitchen and to the lounge, where Turner gave it his usual once over. Spotting as much as he could in as short a time as possible. Like a contestant on a game show.

I was just about to do some gardening, can I get you anything?

she asked, removing her gloves as she sensed a serious tone.

Tea, coffee?

She asked.

Denning sat on the middle cushion of the sofa and beckoned Mrs Reid to also sit. She took the chair facing Denning and sat, their body language mirrored on the edge of their seats.

Your husband is Adam Reid, yes?

Denning went on.

"Yes officer, is everything OK?

Can you tell me where he is now, Mrs Reid?

Enquired Denning. Turner was moving around the overly floral room. Who does floral nowadays, he thought watching the sofa and chairs camouflage against the walls. He partially ignored the conversation and carried on picking up pictures of family life with children getting older in each, Mrs Reid in her Ju Jitsu suit with an impressive black belt around her waist, looking them over most curiously before putting them back exactly where they came from. Lifting up several trophies with her name on before replacing them with an impressed but indifferent look on his old face.

He didn't come home last night

Came the response. Denning looked across to Turner who immediately caught her eye.

You didn’t report him missing? Did you not find that strange, Mrs Reid?

Said Denning.

Never have anything in your life, that you cannot walk away from without a second thought.

A very nervous Mrs Reid said.

I’m sorry,

Came an extremely surprised response from Denning, not quite sure of what she had just heard.

This morning we found a body that we believe to be that of your husband, Mrs Reid. That’s a very strange reaction to such tragic news, I must say

Added Denning.

A body, so he’s dead?

A flushed faced Angela Reid fought back the tears as she listened to the words that resonated over and over in her mind. Her slender fingers, noticed by Denning to have a rust coloured soil down the short unvarnished nails, as she raised them to her mouth in disbelief.

"Can you go over his last movements for us. I know it must be difficult at this time but it would

help us if we could get as many details as possible."

Asked a cold, professional Denning.

He didn't come home last night but that's not new lately. He often stayed out late, or even all night. Now that the girls are grown up, we seemed to have grown apart, somewhat.

She replied, looking tearily across at the family photos with their fond display of happier days.

Do you know anyone that would want to harm you’re husband, Mrs Reid?

Enquired Denning.

No, I can’t think of anyone that would even think of harming him. Adam doesn’t mix with anyone like that and no one that knows him would want to harm him.

Came the reply.

And, what about your movements? Can you tell me where you were last night?

Am I being accused here?

Launched Angela defensively.

Well, I’m going to need you to identify the body, just a formality, I'll send a uniform policewoman trained to help in situations like this and here's my card, if you have any details about your husbands last movements, please call us.

Said Denning. Not wishing