Ch. 1 Mess
The evening of 17 July was hot. When the call came through for the Oxford police at 9:11 pm, it got even hotter. Loud voices and gunshots were reported at the home of a well-known local writer of popular science books.
Responding constables forced open the door indicated by an elderly neighbor and found: a sitting room spattered with blood, a dead man, no murder weapon and no immediate suspects. The crime scene was sealed, the medical examiner and more police dispatched.
Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent reminded herself that Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis and Detective Sergeant James Hathaway were the best investigative team she had. If anyone could get to the bottom of the mess, they could.
The two detectives, sweating in their protective blue SOCO suits, entered the second floor flat, carefully avoiding the bloody corpse –for now. "Nice," Sgt. Hathaway remarked approvingly, looking around.
The apartment's rooms were comfortably stuffed with shabby furniture and flea-market kitsch. On the wall over a cluttered desk, a rusted barometer hung next to a framed yellowed 1930's-era periodic table.
A miniature billiards set occupied one corner. A bookshelf held a colorful collection of toy robots; another displayed an assortment of vintage clocks and watches.
"Interesting place. Like a museum for overgrown children," the young sergeant said.
"Lovely," Inspector Lewis replied, frowning, "Long as you aren't put off by the odd dead guy lying on the carpet."
Haphazard piles of books and papers formed hourglass shapes on nearly every flat surface. Some had apparently been toppled by the event that had led to the onslaught of plastic suits and gloves.
On the floor of the otherwise pleasant sitting room lay the tenant whose carefully decorated home would never again comfort, inspire or entertain him. Dr. Laura Hobson, her petite form lost in voluminous white folds, squatted by the mess that had once been science writer Michael Blethyn.
Nobody would recognize him now, if they only knew his handsome face from the back cover of one of his best-selling books.
"Shot in the head at rather close range, resulting in pretty obvious massive facial trauma," the blonde medical examiner said. "Have to wait till we can dig around for the bullet. Judging by the degree of what we in the field call 'bursting' I would say it was a high-velocity firearm. Hard to say exactly where the entry wound was. As you can see there's not much—"
"—left of the face. Yeah, we can see that, doctor. Poor bastard." Lewis shook his head. While violent death didn't physically sicken him, as it had his mentor Morse, it still dismayed Lewis that people could do such things to one another.
His partner was, incongruously, bending over the DVD player. "What did you find?" Lewis asked. He knew his sergeant had a feel for small details that others missed.
Hathaway straightened up, looking like a six-foot-tall blue mummy, a plastic DVD case between gloved thumb and forefinger.
"Secrets and Lies", he read. "Looks to be the last thing somebody watched. Did you like that film, sir?"
"Naw. Where were they supposed to be from, anyway, East End? Sounded more like Americans to me." Lewis, ignoring his sergeant's bemused expression, examined the contents of an antique roll-top desk. He noted that the papers and books, like much of the décor, had a scientific flavor. "Couldn't fathom their accents."
Dr. Hobson hid her smile, sobering as she returned to the ruined faceless corpse.
Murder. Nasty. What a mess. What a headache. Lewis let his hand drift towards his temple, then remembered the plastic gloves. "James. What about the neighbors? Who was paying attention?"
Hathaway indicated the flat facing with a nod. "A Mrs. Banbury heard raised voices and then several loud bangs. She's the one who called 999."
Lewis raised his eyebrows. "A Mrs. Banbury? Sounds like someone out of Monty Python."
"We should talk to her, sir. Nosy, about 80 and spends all day puttering about the house."
"Lead on, then, MacHathaway."
"I need to warn you, though, sir. She may be a bit difficult for you to understand. Her accent."
Hathaway's idea of a joke, thought Lewis. Mrs. Edward Banbury—Gracie- spoke perfect English- classic Newcastle Geordie. A tiny figure in a red running suit and white trainers, with curly white hair and bright blue eyes, she looked like one of Father Christmas' retired elves.
"Aye, bonny lad. As I was jist tellin' this underfed baby beanpole here. We heard arguin' and then we heard bang, bang, bang, just like on the telly. Only louder."
The two detectives sat in a homey kitchen, sipping tea and eating packaged biscuits as if it was noon instead of half 10 at night. Lewis found it amusing to be referred to as a "lad" let alone a "bonny" one.
"Sorry not to hev summat nicer, like. Wasna expectin' company, me. And two sich canny gennelemen."
"Not a problem, ma'am," Lewis said. "We're grateful to have such an observant witness." He resisted slipping into full Geordie mode, despite the relaxed feeling he got from hearing the pleasantly familiar inflection and expressions.
"Who was it you heard arguing, Mrs. Banbury?" Hathaway asked.
"Oh, must've been thon professor and the young black lad, wasn't it?"
The two men shared a glance.
"A black man?" Lewis prodded. "Black like an African or Jamaican?"
"Nah. The other black. Pakis we called 'em. People that came from India, like. That kind of black. More tea, Inspector?" Hathaway noticed that Mrs. Banbury was not nearly as solicitous to him, just an underfed baby beanpole, like.
Lewis shook his head. "No thanks, ma'am. I'm fine, me. Did this, ah, black man visit Mr. Blethyn often?"
"I should say he did, saw him a few times, me. They'd had rows before, y'know."
She patted her white curls and gave Lewis a speculative once over, her bright eyes fixing on his belt buckle. Or so Lewis hoped.
"You married, Inspector?" Lewis cleared his throat, but before he could reply, Mrs. Banbury winked and said, "Thon's a reet bonny bait-box y'have there, lad. I'd like to get my gob aroond yer tackle, me."
Lewis reddened and coughed. Hathaway raised an eyebrow and smoothly intervened. "Did you see the black man enter the flat tonight, ma'am?"
Mrs. Banbury turned to the sergeant with slight annoyance. "Nah, I sure didn't, young man. But we were out in the garden and saw him gan oot. Reet afore we heard them bangs."She nudged the biscuit plate closer to Lewis.
Hathaway continued before she could start flirting with his partner again. "Did the black man seem angry, upset or frightened when he left?"
"Hmmm. Nivver frightened, exactly. Kinda upset. Fretful, like. Spoke to us real rude, he did. Said, 'Mnd yer aan business' er some sich and then stomped awa'."
Lewis asked, "You are sure that you heard the gunshots after the black man left?"
Delighted, Mrs. Banbury turned back to the senior partner. "Oh, aye. I was back in me house by then. Was comin' on dark and tisn't safe for lasses t'be oot alone. Maybe the black lad came back and shot the professor when we weren't lookin'."
"Were there other frequent visitors?" Hathaway asked.
"Oh aye, of course there was his fee-ance. Lovely Irish lass.A doctor or some sich. So sad, now that he's gotten himself murdered, isn't it?"
It was all Lewis could do to keep Mrs. Banbury from jumping up to bake them some fresh scones, reminding her gently of the lateness of the hour. They left their cards with the little woman, asking her to call if she remembered anything else. She assured them that she certainly would call, seeing as it would be "hard to forget a couple of lads as well-fard" as they. The two men stepped outside, watching as the SOCO packed their equipment away.
"Hmm. Sir. What was Mrs. Banbury talking about back there, when she said something about gobbing around your tackle?" The sergeant was innocence embodied, his face as bland as Yorkshire pudding.
"Tell you when you're older," Lewis muttered, face reddening again.
"Guess we'll have to wait and ask our Mum, then, me," Hathaway said, smiling.
"You do the worst excuse for a northern accent I have ever heard."
"I was trying for American. I'm surprised you even understood me."
As they walked towards the car, they saw the coroner's van pulling away from the curb. "Invasion of the body snatchers, sir."
"Hmmph. I'm not looking forward to telling that fee-ance, I can tell you."
-Not at all what I expected. When Brett first told me about this "short-term overseas opportunity", being hunkered down with eleven foul-mouthed, rough-edged, unwashed soldiers and lorry drivers in a godforsaken desert for three months was the farthest thing from my mind. But silly me, I said yes, because the money was too good to pass up. What other chance would I ever get to make $15,000, US currency, tax free and legal? Beat another boring summer shelving books and running a cash register for little more than pocket money, barely meeting my living expenses. I would get to use my math and computer skills, Brett said. Plus airfare and living allowance provided. And talk about adventure! No, I could not have turned it down, even knowing what I know now. We get a $2000 bonus if we complete the contract. To be honest, it's only the money that keeps me here. That, and not being a nancy-boy quitter, as Brett would say. If I stay the full contract, nobody could say I wasn't a real man.
