Death in the Back Row
The August afternoon
had been hot and sultry, making patrolling Crammingdon marketplace a bit too
warm for comfort. The sky was cloudless blue and at midday the sun made the
open space near unbearable in full uniform. Eventually I took the highly
unacceptable step of loosening my tie and undoing the top button of my shirt,
not that it made a huge difference, and I found myself still seeking what
little shade was available.
The shouts and laughter of a group
of kids filled the air. Supervised by mams and big sisters, they were having a
high old time leaping in and out of the pool alongside Alderman Watson’s
drinking fountain. I had been called in from north division to cover a shortage
of officers, mainly due to holiday entitlement and a summer flu epidemic
depleting central division staff.
I looked at my pocket
watch as I passed, for the umpteenth time, the little merry-go-round and
swing-boats that had been set up for the school summer holidays.
Four-thirty-five, I glanced over at the Town Hall clock, it was still three
minutes ahead of time, as I knew it would be. I noticed the people exiting the
little cinema next to Lloyds Bank. Not surprisingly, the afternoon matinee had
only attracted a small audience. I remember thinking that
even the latest Laurel & Hardy “talkie” double bill, wouldn’t make me go
into a stuffy cinema this afternoon and the “Magnificent Cinema” was stuffy
even in the winter. It had the reputation of being a “fleapit” since it was
common knowledge that the usherettes went around between houses with spray
disinfectant, which did nothing to reduce the stuffiness of the atmosphere. My
orders were, patrol until the place was clear enough to no longer present a
target for pickpockets and villains, I decided to do just one more lap of the
marketplace before signing off at Crammingdon Constabulary HQ Whitecross Yard.
Mothers and toddlers were already
drifting away, heading home to get dad’s evening meal ready I supposed, and
that seemed an excellent time to call it a day. Nothing exciting had happened,
the most memorable parts of the afternoon was helping a lost little girl find
her mam, who presented me with an ice-cream cornet a few minutes later, by way
of thanks. An hour or so later I was swinging a skipping rope, tied to one of
the lampposts, for six youngsters amid yells and shouts of several skipping
songs; songs I remembered from my own childhood. A dad appeared after ten minutes or so and
took over the rope swinging and I continued my wanderings. On afternoons like
this, I often found myself thinking, as I was now, that Gilbert & Sullivan
had made a mistake; a policeman’s lot, can be a very happy one at times!
Something caught the corner of my
eye, the blue light was flashing on the police-box outside the town hall.
Smartening my step, I hurried to answer the call. I was amazed that the
emergency was at the cinema I had just seen emptying. Turning I saw a man in a
blue suit whom I recognised as the cinema manager, trotting towards me waving
his arms.
‘Hurry up! He’s in the back row,’ he
shouted, and I followed him into the tiny cinema.
The building had once been a small music hall. Known
back then as the Trans-Atlantic Vaudeville, it had managed to attract a number
of first-rate artistes. Unfortunately, the small size of the auditorium meant
that it often failed to make a profit. The stage had been removed and a screen
installed allowing for another three rows of seats. What set the Magnificent
Cinema apart from its rivals was the back row. The seating there was always in
big demand in the evening because instead of single seats, it comprised of
twelve double seats, small sofas; locals called them courting couches. The show
had been a matinee for the kids, and the man causing the manager concern sat in
the middle of one of the sofas. He was massively overweight. The confines of a
standard cinema seat would have been of little use to him.
There was no need to have hurried,
the man was dead and I guessed for at least an hour. I’m no expert of course,
but a part of my job is dealing with people who have died. Sadly, this is often
elderly people who have no relatives or friends and it can sometimes be several
days before they are found. A quick examination of the seats around him
suggested that this was just a death by natural causes. I guessed that his
weight alone must have put a great strain on his heart.
‘Do you know who he is?’ I asked the
manager getting my notebook out.
‘He’s a regular matinee customer,
that’s all I know. Phyllis might know. She runs the box office,’ he said.
‘Could I have a word with her?’
‘Not at the moment she’s gone to the
bank with this afternoon and last night’s takings. She should be back any
time,’ the manager said looking at his wristwatch.
‘Have you sent for a doctor, Mr…?’
‘Worthy. Edward Worthy. Yes, he’s on
his way.’
‘Thank you Mr Worthy, I’m going to
search his pockets in the meantime, to try to establish who he is,’ I said and
the manager nodded.
I emptied his pockets, and laid
their contents on the seat beside him, though there was nothing to give a clue
to his identity. A bunch of assorted keys contained what seemed to be a car
ignition key, together with a handkerchief, a wallet containing a pound note
and a ten-shilling note and a business card for a local garage. Four shillings
and sixpence in loose change was in another pocket. An ashtray fixed to the
back of the seat in front of him, contained two chocolate bar wrappers, screwed
up and stuffed into it, I pulled them out and straightened them, and placed
them on the seat alongside the contents of the man’s pockets. I had to smile
the two bars were from a locally made range. “Mrs Longdon’s Homemade Confections”, they were both favourites of
Alice my wife. On the back of the wrapper of every product was a sort of
pedigree.
“In
1884 Mrs Millicent Longdon began making sweets and chocolate to help the family
finances. Originally sold from her cottage door, they quickly gained a
reputation for quality and taste. When it became clear that demand was becoming
greater than she could cope with, we, Barrington
Bros, offered to produce them for her to her own recipes. That was in 1891.
We now produce and supply her delicious range to the four corners of the
world.” One was a half-pound fudge bar, the other a
large size “Turkish Delight” bar, both of them chocolate coated. Barrington
Bros products were always a little more expensive than other products
but they were really good.
The doctor arrived as I looked under
the seat and generally around the floor for anything that might be helpful.
‘Is there no more light than this?’
the doctor snapped. The auditorium lighting was subdued to say the least.
‘I can turn it up a bit,’ the
manager said.
‘Then kindly do so, can’t see a
bloody thing in here!’ the doctor snapped and the manager hurried off.
‘Are those his?’ the doctor asked
nodding at the chocolate wrappers.
‘They were in this ashtray, so I
imagine so, unless they are from last night,’ I suggested.
‘The older I get the more I think
people really are their own worst enemy. Look at the size of this chap, the
last thing he needs is a mountain of pure sugar!’ he snapped.
A
few seconds later the light increased, but even so, it was nowhere near as bright
as the foyer.
‘Is that it?’ the doctor asked, as
the manager returned.
‘That’s it but I’ve brought you a
flashlight.’
‘Like working in a bloody coalmine!’
the doctor said, grabbing the light.
Phyllis, the box office girl had
returned from her trip to the bank and, seeking the manager came through into
the auditorium. As her eyes fell upon the man I had to smile. She let out a
gasp and clutched her mouth in a very “silver-screen” sort of way and slumped
into a double seat the other side of the central aisle. I went to the aisle and
crouched beside her.
‘I’m sorry to have to ask you
questions, miss. I can see that this has upset you but I need to find the
identity of the gentleman,’ I said, nodding in the deceased’s direction.
‘I don’t know his name, but he comes
here once a week, always in the afternoon, for the matinee,’ she sniffed.
‘Never in the evening?’ I asked.
‘No. Never, he needs a big seat you
see, and the back row is always filled with young couples in the evening!’
‘I see, what else can you tell me
about him?’
‘He always arrives good and early,
polite he is, always puffing and panting, seems to have difficulty walking, as
though his feet hurt him, all that weight I suppose,’ Phyllis said, with a
sniffle.
‘Does he have a car do you know?’ I
asked.
‘I wouldn’t know; I doubt he walks
very far though, sir. Even climbing the three steps at the front door has him
struggling for breath!’
‘I found two chocolate bar wrappers
in the ashtray in front of him. Would they be his?’
‘Yes I served him, myself. He has a
half-pound bar of fudge and a large “Turkish Delight”. It’s always the same,
every time he comes in. Very keen on his fudge and “Turkish Delight” the
gentleman is… Was!’ she said and a tear rolled down
her cheek.
‘You always serve him?’ I asked.
‘There’s only me in the box office
for the matinees, it’s not so busy in the afternoon so I have to serve the
snacks as well.’
‘Well, well, well, look what I’ve
found!’ the doctor said holding a hip flask at arms-length and waving it
around. ‘Rum, from the smell of it.’
‘I missed that,’ I admitted.
‘In his back pocket, found it when
we rolled him over. You’d better have this as well,’ he said holding up a tiny
leather bound diary.
The manager’s call to Whitecross
Yard, had set things in motion. The duty sergeant had switched on the police
box light that had alerted me, and informed the CID department. On the arrival
of DC George Harrington I made him aware of the
situation, and handed over to him, carrying out his request to search the immediate
area. Within the hour, much to the
manager’s relief, the body of the unknown man had been removed via a fire exit
at the side of the cinema, and taken to the pathology
department at Crammingdon Hospital. I then, returned to Police HQ at Whitecross
Yard to make a written report and then back to my own station in north
division.
It wasn’t until three or four days
later that I learned the man’s death was being treated as suspicious. DI
Brierly, the head of Crammingdon CID had called me in to Whitecross Yard late
one afternoon.
‘You found the body, is that right
Dexter?’ he asked.
‘The Cinema manager found him. I was
first officer on the scene, yes sir.’
‘Tell me your first impressions of
the scene.’
‘Well sir, the place was hot and
stuffy, but then it normally is. As I followed the manager into the auditorium,
I saw a big man; I estimated his weight at twenty to twenty-five stone, sir. He
had slithered forward until his knees were pushed against the seat in front,
and he was lolling back in the seat with his head to one side, sir.’
‘The pathologist made him,
twenty-six stone, and initially put his demise down to that fact alone. Today
he informed me that the chap had actually been very cleverly poisoned or had
committed suicide,’ the DI grinned.
‘Poisoned chocolate bars, sir?’ I
smiled.
‘Maybe! The pathologist is still
looking into that.’
‘If he bought the bars at the box
office, then it’s purely chance that it was our chap that was poisoned. It could
have been any customer,’ I pointed out.
‘We will possibly know more once we
find out who he is and where he lives. The only real clue we have, is a
business card for a local garage, but they reckon they don’t know him. A
twenty-six stone man is hard to miss so I guess it’s just by chance that he
happens to have their card in his wallet. That’s why I’ve brought you in, you
were first on the scene and you’re an observant sort of chap; is there anything
that you think we’ve overlooked?’ the DI asked.
‘I’m sure there was nothing else at
the scene, I had a good look round, sir. I did miss the fact that the chap had
a hip flask; the doctor found it in his back pocket when he moved him,’ I
admitted.
‘Not up to you to move the man, so
don’t let that worry you. Did you search all of his pockets?’
‘Yes, sir, there was nothing other
than what you’re already aware of sir,’ I said but added, ‘I wonder where he
picked up the garage card, sir?’
‘We’ll never know that.’
‘Often businesses put their cards in
places where lots of people go, libraries, barbers’ shops, post offices that
sort of thing. Is it worth asking the garage where they display their cards,
sir?’ I asked.
‘Can’t do any harm, I’ll get my lads
on it first thing in the morning. Thank you PC Dexter, if you think of anything
else, let me know!’ the DI grinned.
‘Of course, sir,’ I agreed, and set
off home, anxious to see my two-year- old twin boys and Alice my wife, the
light of my life.
My route home takes me directly past
the shop of Cyril Turner, my own barber, and I decided to drop in to see if he
displayed the cards of E M Jenkins, Motor Engineer, the name on the card in the
dead man’s wallet. I didn’t think he did, I couldn’t remember seeing them, and
such was in fact the case. I made a small detour to call in on Benjamin Wooley
a barber a couple of streets away, again without success. The post office is
only a few hundred yards from my home, but I didn’t even bother to call in, I
was sure the murder victim, if that was what he really was, would have been
known to me if he lived local enough to use that post office. He was after all
a very memorable man!
The boys are growing fast, becoming
quite a handful and Alice was glad to pass them over to me when I arrived home
at about six o’clock. George, the younger by about half an hour, looks like
being the natural leader, with Will happy to play second fiddle. I commented on
this after a few minutes of playing wooden bricks with them.
‘Do you think so? I’ve been watching
them for days, and they seem to take it in turns to be ringleader. It seems to
alternate as they get tired. They had their first little fight this afternoon,
about “Wonky Bear”,’ she laughed.
‘They’ve each got a bear, what was
the problem?’ I smiled.
‘Somehow they both love “Wonky”.
Let’s face it, he has more character!’ she laughed.
It was true that although both bears
had started out as near identical as we could get them, one of them had been
through the wars. “Wonky” had a lop-sided ear and an arm that hung a bit
awkwardly no matter how Alice tried to stitch it on straight making him, or
her, a bear of distinction!
The boys had eaten and I washed them
and put them to bed with a story. We sat in the kitchen by the range, and
passed a pleasant evening in our own company.