The High Price of Perfection

The High Price of Perfection

By

Doug Hilditch

The sky was completely overcast and had been all day, the iron black clouds moving slowly overhead. There had always been the hint of rain in the air but nothing had materialised so far.

          Charles sat looking out of the window at the view across the open fields to the church spire that rose out of the small huddle of buildings which made up the tiny village of La Faouët to the south. The hauntingly beautiful strains of the third movement of Bruckner’s Symphony No. 8 drifted out of the open door and into the garden.

          Despite the impending storm it was very warm and it was necessary to open all the doors and windows to enable what little breeze there was to pass through the house in the hope of cooling the room to a more comfortable level.

          He had put the record on to help him think. It had a sobering effect on his thought processing. He had always come up with his best ideas and decisions whilst listening to Bruckner.

          He listened to it now because he had a lot of thinking to do and some big decisions to make.

          Sitting for a long time, thinking and listening, his thoughts were broken by the loud buzzing of a small group of flies which kept settling on the floor by the door.

          He had cleared up most of the blood but some must have soaked into the grouting between the floor tiles and it was this that attracted the flies.

          Charles got up and moved a small rug over the area where the blood had been. This prevented the flies from getting to the source of their excitement but caused them instead to fly around the room in an increasing mood of frustration.

He walked out to the front door step and stood there for a few moments before, returning to the lounge long enough to retrieve his whisky. He wandered into the garden and lowered himself into a deckchair on the patio.

          Alice had been a good wife on the whole, he mused, as he sipped his Famous Grouse. They had been reasonably happy together in the ten years they had been married, although he could not say that he actually loved her. It was more a companionship as far as he was concerned. Alice, however, loved him dearly.

          She was his third wife but he was her second husband. He was fifty when they married and she, far from being a blushing bride, had been forty-eight. She had two children by her first marriage, both of whom were married with children of their own. This did not stop either of them from resenting Alice’s marriage to him and both had tried hard, though unsuccessfully, to talk their mother out of it.

          Both of her offspring attended the small Registry Office affair and made all the right congratulatory noises, but Charles could tell that they were not really meant and he had always felt that Alice had too, though she made no mention of it.

          Seven years ago they had bought this small farm house in northern Brittany and three years later, after many alterations and improvements they had sold Alice’s house in Somerset and chosen early retirement in the peace and tranquillity of rural France.

          The house was in Alice’s name, it was easier that way. The fact that Charles was a declared bankrupt would only have made things more complicated.

          Charles’s first wife Ruby, was the daughter of a wealthy stockbroker. When she died of cancer after only three years of marriage, Charles inherited a substantial amount of money. Her father had tried to contest the Will but, as her husband, the law was on Charles’s side.  With his new-found freedom and bulging bank account Charles took to working the casinos. He had always gambled on the horses but never had the means to indulge in any really serious gambling.

          It was in one of these casinos that he met Madeline, the woman who was to later become his second wife. Vivacious and beautiful with a passion for fast cars, she too came from a very well-heeled family and Charles’s charm and wit soon won her over. After just two short years their marriage was on the rocks. However, she was tragically killed in a car crash before they could divorce. The brakes on the sports car she was driving, failed as she descended a very step hill. The car’s speed increased and she was unable to steer the vehicle around a bend at the bottom of the hill. The car smashed into the wall of a house and virtually disintegrated.   Poor Madeline was killed instantly. Police crash investigators concluded that the connection on one of the front brake pipes was undone allowing brake fluid to escape every time the brake pedal was depressed. The car had recently been serviced and it was assumed that the coupling had not been tightened properly. The garage concerned continued to insist that they had never had reason to touch the brake pipe.

          Three months later Charles had moved to Somerset, once again a single man and once again with his bank balance suitably enhanced. It didn’t take him long to work his way though his fortune and within two years, after a couple of particularly bad business ventures, he was declared bankrupt. It was not long after this that he met Alice.

It was the fact that the French house was in Alice’s name which complicated things now however, which was why he had to think.

          Except in circumstances where the deceased had no immediate living relatives, under French laws it is not possible to dictate, by means of a Will, to whom any property was to be left. Instead, the properties had to be divided up equally between the surviving dependents of the named property owner, who in this case was Alice.

          As she was now dead that meant that the property in France legally belonged to Alice’s two obnoxious off-spring and poor Charles would be out on his ear in no time. Alice had made a Will in England which would provide him with a small amount of money but nowhere near enough to live on. Their financial security, in France, was maintained by the monthly cheques from the MOD. Alice’s first husband had been a Major in the British Army and had died in service. This entitled her to a sizeable income from his pension and her widow’s allowance. All that, of course, would stop as soon as it became known she had died.

          By the time the fourth movement of the symphony had begun he had come to his decision. Alice’s children must not know that their mother was dead, that was for certain. In fact, no one must know. If they could not prove she was dead then no one but he had any claim to the property. He must therefore make it look as though she had taken her things and left.

          He had decided to throw her body and her belongings down the well. The well had never been used as they were on mains water and they considered it to be dangerous, especially when the grandchildren came to stay. They had talked for some time about filling it in and making a floral feature of it instead.

          He got up slowly and walked back into the house. The small knot of flies had worked out that the smell they were looking for was emanating from under the rug and were pacing up and down over the spot.

          Charles stopped in the doorway, looking at the rug. His mind wandered back to the events only an hour ago.

          He had been sawing wood for the fire. He didn’t want to, he hated it in fact, but it was their best method of heating the house and the evenings had started to get chilly. His head still pounded because of the exercise, he was not used to it. Also the best part of a bottle of Bordeaux he had consumed with his lunch had not helped. Alice kept telling him he drank too much.

          “I’ll drink what I like,” he told her, “I’ll know when I’ve had too much.”

He was angry with her. As he sawed the logs his anger increased with his pounding head.

He had taken a great armful of logs back into the house and was in the process of stacking them next to the fire when he lost his balance and stumbled into the sideboard, causing the bottles on the drinks tray to jangle together alarmingly.

“Now will you believe me you’ve had too much to drink?” Alice stood in the doorway glaring at him.

Charles had said nothing, just turned and hit her hard, four times with the piece of wood he had in his hand. He didn’t know why he had done it and he felt no guilt. He continued to stack the wood and, once finished, poured himself a large scotch.

Crossing the room again, he knelt beside his stricken wife and lifted one limp hand. After several minutes he had still not located her pulse and decided she must be dead. She had a long open wound on the side of her head and it had bled profusely, pooling on the stone tiles around her body.

He struggled to pick her up and carried her out to the small barn, next to the well, where he laid her gently on the cold concrete floor. He had to clean up the mess first and then decide what to do with Alice’s body. The effort of carrying his wife’s body had caused his head to throb even worse.

After cleaning the floor, he had lit the fire using the bloodstained log and cloth and, after choosing his favourite Bruckner symphony, sat down with his whisky to think things out.

A fly buzzing close to his face brought him suddenly out of his reverie and back to reality. Turning, he noticed Alice’s handbag hanging on a coat hook in the hallway. Lifting it off the hook he opened it and took out her purse. Helping himself to all the money he stuffed the notes and coins into his pocket and dropped the purse back into the handbag. He then wandered out into the garden again and stood looking down the well for a moment before dropping the bag into the blackness. It fell the twenty feet or so in silence and a few seconds later he heard the reassuring splash.

He would get Alice’s body next and drop her down, then pack most of her clothes and her most precious items into a couple of bags and throw them down too. Tomorrow he would start the job of filling in the well.

He walked slowly over to the barn. The door stood slightly ajar so he pushed it gently and stepped into the dim light. A gasp caught in his throat and he staggered backwards.

She had gone! Alice’s body was no longer lying on the floor where he had left it. It was impossible, she was dead. She couldn’t possibly be alive, so someone must have carried her away.

He staggered back out into the yard. The enormity of his predicament suddenly hit him. If someone had found her he was in big trouble. If she was still alive, he must find her before someone else did.

Before he could take a single step, however, he became aware of a sharp pain in his chest. In only a few seconds it increased to the point where he cried out in pain. The ache in his head had paled to insignificance as his whole being was wracked with this new agony.

He was aware that the pain had spread down his left arm. It was only possible to take small, shallow breaths but even these increased the pain ten-fold.

He felt a warm, wetness spreading rapidly down his lower limbs as his bladder voided itself. It occurred to him that this hadn’t happened to him since he was a small child. Several large, cold raindrops landed on his head and arms announcing the prelude of the day’s promised storm.

This was his last conscious thought before he collapsed to the ground.

Alice was found the following morning by a local farmer. She was lying in a field, half a mile from the house, surrounded by a very curious herd of dairy cattle.

She had a broken jaw, a fractured skull and a deep savage gash above her left temple, but was very much alive.

The police found Charles’s body later that day, where he had fallen, in front of the house.

Alice’s injuries had completely erased any recollection of the previous few days, including the attack itself. She was blissfully unaware of anything that had happened.

A prolonged investigation by the police established that Alice’s handbag was missing. This led them to the conclusion that Alice had disturbed a thief, who had inflicted those terrible injuries on her, and that Charles had suffered a massive heart attack and died whilst coming to the aid of his poor battered wife.

Alice convalesced with her daughter in Somerset and made a full recovery. She eventually sold the house in Brittany and returned to England to be nearer her family.

Charles’s ashes came home to England with her and, with the local parish priest’s permission, were buried beneath the old oak tree in the churchyard of the village in which Alice made her new home.

Alice paid for a bench to be erected in a shady spot on the village green overlooking the pond. There was a shiny brass plate screwed to the back which carried the following inscription:

In loving memory of

Charles Edward Grey

11 April 1948 to 23 September 2008

Always the Perfect Gentleman

Just Getting Out of the Rain

Just Getting Out Of The Rain

By

Doug Hilditch

"I've never been up here before," Nat looked at some of the huge houses they were passing as they walked along the tree-lined avenue.

            "I came home from the Club this way about two weeks ago," informed Malcolm, "I drove through here first a couple of days before, test drivin' a new head gasket job. I used to go all the way around but this way saves us quite a bit of time."

            "Look at the size of some of these places, wouldn't you like to own one of these?"

            "I'd like to be able to afford one of these. If I could, I wouldn't buy one though, I'd bugger off back to Trinidad and live in luxury." He cackled loudly and slapped his friend on the back.

            "Careful man, I nearly dropped the beer." Nat held the carrier bag up, to remind his friend that he was still carrying their booze.

            The two friends were returning home from the Pineapple Club, a local watering hole catering mainly for the large West Indian population in the neighbourhood, where they had been celebrating the fiftieth birthday of Granville, the club's owner. Now they were making their way home, trying out a short cut that Malcolm had discovered.

            "Oh shit, it's started to rain. That's all we need," moaned Malcolm.

            Great blobs of water fell from the sky at an ever-increasing rate and within a minute it was lashing down. The two men looked up at the pitch-black sky but there seemed no way this rain was going to ease off for a while. They trudged on in silence, getting more soaked with every step.

            Fifty yards further on Nat tugged at Malcolm's sleeve.

            "That house there," he pointed to a large double-fronted, half-timbered house set back from a short gravel drive. "It's got a carport."

            Looking around cautiously, the two men quickened their step as they walked up the drive to take refuge from the downpour.

            The carport, was about twelve yards long, open at each end and the gravel drive swept through and out the other side leading to a very large garage built in the same style as the house.

            "It looks like this is in for the duration," Nat stared out at the huge raindrops pouring out of the sky, sparkling like jewels as they reflected the orange light of the street lamps.

            "Well the weather forecast said that we was goin' to have a few light showers before it cleared up completely. I don't call this a light shower nor can I see any sign of it clearing up."

            "Huh. Weather forecasters. What do they know?"

            "You know, my ole dad used to say that weather forecasters couldn't forecast a good crap if the whole world had got a dose of the squitters."

            Nat laughed loudly at this.

            "Oh man that's great, I must remember that."

            "Shhhhh, man. You'll wake the whole neighbourhood."

            Nat brought his laughter under control and wandered up to the other end of the carport to look out over the back garden.

            There was a side door to the house, which opened out onto the carport so Malcolm sat down on the step and took out a packet of cigarettes.

            "Hey, Mal. They've got a tennis court out here," Nat spoke in a sort of stage whisper, "and a swimmin’ pool."

            "Neither of them are much use with the crap weather you got in this country. Now if we was in Trinidad . . ."

            Nat turned and looked at the silhouette of his friend as he lit his cigarette. He would miss Malcolm if ever his friend did decide to sell up and move back to the West Indies. Despite the fact the Malcolm was fourteen years his senior, they got on extremely well. He got on well with the whole family; in fact it was Malcolm's wife, Marlene who introduced Nat to her baby-sitter, Veronica.

            Nat smiled as he thought of his fiancée. Only three weeks to go before he and Veronica walked down the aisle. That’s what they called it anyway. They were, in fact, getting married in a registry office as they were saving their money and didn't like the thought of shelling out so much money for a church wedding. Nat had asked Veronica if she would like a white wedding but she made him laugh by saying that she didn't know enough white people to make it worth while.

            The owner of the hotel where Nat worked was organising the wedding reception for them and giving them a substantial discount.

            Nat really enjoyed his job; it was all he had ever wanted to do. So, on leaving school, he enrolled at catering college, much to his mother's dismay. She thought it was a dead-end job, long hours, low pay, and so it was to start off with. Now she was really proud of her son, and rightly so. He had been the only black pupil in his year at college and had graduated with the top marks. Now he was Assistant Chef at the Devonish Hotel, one of the poshest and most expensive hotels in the area.

            Pulling his jacket around him, to keep out the cold breeze that had just got up, Nat leaned against the wall and looked back out into the garden.

            "Hey, there's a bungalow or something at the other end of the garden. It looks like it's made of wood."

            Malcolm drew on his cigarette and flicked the butt out onto the drive where the rain extinguished it instantly.

            "It's probably a summerhouse," he said, and rising to his feet, walked over to join his friend.

            "I wonder if it's open," said Nat.

            "Why?"

            "Well it'd be a damn sight warmer and dryer than standing here."

            "Well run down and find out," laughed Mal.

            "Are you coming too?"

            "You think I'm getting soaked runnin' down there just to find that it's locked? You go if you want, you can come back and tell me."

            "That means I'll get soaked twice."

            Nat looked at Malcolm's face and smiled too.

            "If it's open I'll flick my lighter a couple of times," he grinned then, doing the zipper up on his jacket, he held his carrier-bag tightly to his chest with both hands and dashed out into the garden.

            About forty seconds later Malcolm saw the small yellow glow of Nat's lighter before it was blown out by the wind.

            "Jesus," he muttered and ran as fast as he could towards the summerhouse where Nat stood with the door open.

            As soon as he was in, Nat closed the door behind him and the cold breeze and the noise of the torrential rain were shut out.

            Suddenly the room lit up as Nat flicked his lighter once more. In the dim glow of the flame they could make out some wicker furniture and a low glass-top table. There was also a table-tennis table folded up against the back wall and what looked like a small refrigerator.

            Malcolm walked over to the fridge and opened the door. The light inside the fridge immediately floodlighted the room.

            "Jesus, close that up," hissed Nat, "somebody might see us from the house."

            "Maybe, but I doubt it," remarked Malcolm. "The windows don't face the house, they face the sun."

            He crouched down and peered into the fridge.

            "Hey, we should put the beer in here. This fridge is empty," he said, reaching into the bag and helping himself to two bottles. "There's a bottle opener on top, that's handy. Must have known we was comin'."

            Malcolm removed the bottle tops and place the bottles on the table while Nat moved two loungers over so they could sit and look out of the windows. Malcolm put the remaining beers in the fridge and closed the fridge door up but not fully shut, he left a gap of about an inch so that they still had a small amount of light shining into the room.

            They settled back into the loungers and picked up the beer.

            "Cheers," they said simultaneously and laughed as they sipped the ice-cold liquid.

            "That's good," Malcolm wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

            "I know something that would make it a little bit better," grinned Nat.

            He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a battered-looking cigarette packet.

            "Ganja," he said, gleefully, "Always keep them in an ordinary packet, then if you get stopped they think it's ordinary cigarettes."

            "God, man. I haven't smoked any of that for a long time."

            "Well make the most of it, I've got six left," he handed Malcolm one of the homemade cigarettes.

            Taking a long drag of the sweet-smelling smoke they held their breaths for a few seconds to help the drug get into their bloodstreams.

            Exhaling a huge cloud of smoke, Malcolm turned to his friend and grinned.

            "Man, you know that tastes so good," he took another drag. "Did I ever tell you I got busted for this stuff once?"

            "No," laughed Nat, "what happened?"

            "We was comin' home from watchin' the cricket, West Indies v England at the Oval, 1975. We was in my mate's car, four of us. We had all been drinkin' to celebrate the thrashin' we gave the Brits, and we gets stopped by the police, half a mile from the ground. A friend of mine had given me a joint as we were gettin' in the car; I'd only just got the damn thing alight. Talk about bad luck, I was too pissed to realise what was goin' on and this copper puts his head in through the open window and once he takes a sniff, man he went apeshit. Two hundred pound I was fined, for possession. Was a lot of money in them days, you know? Bloody criminal."

            Nat looked at him, surprised at this revelation, then burst out laughing.

            "Is all right for you to laugh, man, you weren't the one who had to go home and face Marlene."

            Nat laughed even harder and soon Malcolm had to join in.

            They sat silently for a few minutes, listening to the rain hammering onto the roof of the summerhouse.

            "You know," said Nat, taking another sip of his beer, "I've never been in trouble with the police."

            "Well I've only been in trouble twice. Once for the possession and once for handlin' stolen goods."

            "Stolen goods?" Nat sat up in his chair and looked at his friend.

            "Yeah, and I knew nothin' about it until the police raided my garage."

            "What happened?"

            "It was that thievin' bastard, Ricky Brillo. He comes to me one day and says he's been thrown out of his flat and asks me if I could look after some of his things, just until he gets himself fixed up, you know. Well I don't like the little crook, but you don't like kick a man when he's down, do you? So like a prize chump, I says yes and he puts two large boxes and a suitcase at the back of the workshop. Three days later the police come pourin' in through the door, slams me up against the wall and held me there until they've searched the place. 'Course they soon find it and it turns out that the boxes are full of stolen cigarettes and there were eleven car radios in the suitcase along with various other knocked off bits and pieces."

            "What did they do?"

            "They took me down the station and held me there for twelve hours. I kept tellin' them I knew nothin' about it but they wouldn't believe me. I got a six-month suspended sentence. Marlene, man, I tell you, she went ba-llistic. I tell you man, there ain't no justice in this country and that's a fact. If a man can get a suspended sentence just for trying to do someone a good turn it's a poor thing."

            "What happened to Ricky Brillo?"

            "He got eighteen months but got let out after twelve for good behaviour, then spent the next three months with both his arms in plaster," Malcolm took another big drag on his reefer.

            They looked at each other in the faint light and burst out laughing again.

            "I hope this weather brightens up for me weddin'," Nat looked at the rain-streaked windows."

            "Yeah, three weeks to go until you learn what livin' hell is like."

            "Marriage ain't that bad is it?" Nat looked at his friend, a cautious look in his eye.

            "No," laughed Malcolm, "only pullin' your leg. I got no regrets. Marlene probably has a few though."

            "What do you mean?"

            "Well, you know. Life has not exactly been a bed of roses for us. When we first got married we had to really struggle. The flat we had was a dump, the landlord was a crook and I lost my job about a month after we got married."

            "God, that was tough shit."

            "You tellin' me, man. I was on the dole for about three months with only Marlene's money she got from the nursery comin' in to the house. Then I had a lucky break. I got a job workin' for a real nice guy called Leon Rosen, Jewish guy, he owned a garage up on Wattlin' Road, not there now, they pulled it down and built a new Tesco or somethin' on it. Anyway, I worked for him for seven years." Malcolm took a gulp of his beer then, reaching behind him; he opened the fridge door and helped himself to two more.

            "Nice beer this," he said handing a bottle to Nat.

            Nat drained his first bottle and leaned forward to place it on the table.

            "Hey what's that?" he got up and walked to the window. On the windowsill lay a man's wristwatch. He brought it over to the table and sat down and, holding it down to the light of the fridge, studied it.

            "Christ, it looks like real gold. And those look like diamonds where the numbers usually are."

            "Let me see."

            He handed it to his friend.

            "It's a Rolex, man. It is real gold and those are real diamonds. Do you have any idea how much this is worth?"

            "Two or three hundred pounds at least, I should think."

            "You're jokin', man. Five or six thousand more like. Jesus, what sort of person would leave somethin' like this just lyin' around for anybody to just pick up?"

            "A rich one," Nat took the watch back and studied it once more. "Just think what you could do with that sort of money. I could buy a car or put a deposit on a house, or Veronica and me could blow it all on a round-the-world trip for our honeymoon."

            "If I had that sort of money I could pay for the extension to the workshop, that's if I ever get the damn plannin' permission."

            "You still not got that then?"

            "No," Malcolm let out a huge sigh. He had struggled to build up his small car repair business and his long-standing fight with the local authority planning department was beginning to wear him down.

            "The planners keep puttin' obstacles in the way. Apparently one of the local residents has objected 'cos they don't want more cars blockin' up the street, but the whole point of the extension is to get the cars off the street and into the workshop. I'd be doin' the prat a favour. I want to build a workshop behind the garage and turn the existin' workshop into another garage space so I don't have to park the cars in the damn road. I tell you man, I am almost at the point of sellin' up, I've just about had enough."

            "You can't do that, man. Not after all the work you've put into the business."

            "I know, but it's really demoralising, you know? All I wants to do is run my business and give my family a comfortable home and all I get is hassle and discrimination from a bunch of stuck-up old tossers on the council. I bet none of them even lives in the town."

            "Here, this will cheer you up." Nat handed him another reefer.

            "Thanks mate," he grinned.

            They sat in silence for a while, enjoying their beers and cigarettes. The only sounds they could hear were the lashing of the rain against the summerhouse and the wind rushing through the trees that surrounded the garden. The continuous noise of the elements masked from their ears the smash, as one of the small Georgian-style panes of glass in the French windows of the house was broken by an unseen hand. Nor did they hear, ten minutes later, the same person burst from the French windows and run full speed the length of the garden. They did, however, hear something as the person crashed through the shrubbery next to the summerhouse.

            "What in Christ's name was that," Nat jumped up and slammed the fridge door shut to cut out the light, nearly knocking over his beer in the process.

            Both men peered hard out of the window but could see nothing in the blackness. Any other sounds were still masked by the rain, which had eased slightly.

            "I don't know," murmured Malcolm, "probably a cat."

            "It was much to big to be a cat."

            "A fox then, or a badger."

            "A fox!" scoffed Nat.

            "I tell you man, I was readin' this article the other day and it says there are hundreds of foxes livin' around these parts. They calls them Urban Foxes 'cos they live in the towns. They set up home in peoples gardens, probably big gardens like this so they can hide easier, and they eat all the crap out of people’s dustbins and things. Why you tink all the bin bags is all torn apart when you gets up in the mornin'? It's damn foxes lookin' for somethin' to eat."

            "Well whatever it was it scared the shit out of me," Nat laughed and finished off his beer.

            They sat in the dark for another five minutes staring out into the garden.

            At last the rain abated to a fine drizzle so they decided it was time to leave their cosy bolthole and brave the elements once more.

            Malcolm picked up the Rolex and flicked on his lighter.

            "Christ, it's half past one. We been sittin' here for an hour and a half, Marlene's goin' to be like a bear with a sore arse when I gets in."

            "Keep your fingers crossed she's asleep then."

            "One thing you got to learn about women is that when you go out enjoyin' yourself they can't sleep until you get back and they've put you in a bad mood again. You’ll find out in three weeks," He laughed and putting the Rolex back on the table, opened the door and stepped out into the cold fresh night.

            "Don't forget the beer," he laughed.

            "You've got to be joking," laughed Nat as he followed his friend out of the summerhouse, "we drank it all."

            They both laughed and started to walk up the garden again.

            They had only gone a few yards when Nat kicked something hard.

            "What was that," he exclaimed and, bending down he picked up a large kitchen knife. "Who in their right mind would leave this lying around outside? Christ, it's a bloody Sabatier cook’s knife, don't they know that it's got a carbon steel blade, it'll rust like hell if it's wet? Some people shouldn't be allowed to have things if they don't know how to look after them. I'll leave it on the doorstep."

            He wiped the blade of the knife on the leg of his jeans to dry it.

            "Oh shit, it's already started to rust. Look I've got a mark all down my trousers."

            "Your own fault," laughed Malcolm as they continued up the garden, "that's what you get for tryin' to do someone a favour."

            They rounded the corner of the garage and it was then that they noticed the blue flashing lights, several of them.

            They stopped dead in their tracks as the headlights of a police car illuminated the carport and most of the garden. Standing like tailor’s dummies they watched as two armed police officers in bullet-proof vests braced themselves against the open doors of the car and another, with a large, snarling German Shepherd walked up the drive.

            "Just stand perfectly still and throw the knife over towards the steps," shouted one of the policemen. About eight more officers appeared around the side of the house.

            Nat did as instructed and looked at his friend.

            "What's goin' on?" asked Malcolm, his voice shaking.

            "Just shut up and lay down on the ground, face down and put your hands above your head. Nice and slowly, we don't like sudden movements. People get hurt that way."

            Malcolm dropped to his knees, his hands high in the air, Nat followed suit. As soon as they were facedown on the gravel the two armed officers stood up. Cautiously they approached the two prostrate figures. One stood at their heads, his gun still trained on them, the other holstered his gun and taking his handcuffs from the clip on his belt, pulled Nat's arms down, behind his back and snapped the cuffs shut. With one hand the other policeman unclipped his handcuffs and threw them to his colleague who secured Malcolm's hands in the same way.

            "You, stand up," the policeman with the gun pointed to Malcolm.

            Nat also started to rise but a large size eleven boot came down heavily on his back.

            "Not you, Sunshine. Stay where you are."

            Other policemen joined their colleagues and first Malcolm and then Nat were searched to make sure they were not longer armed.

            "Please officer, can you tell us what's goin' on?" asked Malcolm again.

            "You know very well what's going on," one of the officers with braiding around his hat stepped forward. Several of the other policemen went around the back of the house.

            "We didn't mean no harm," Nat tried to explain, "we was just getting out of the rain."

            "Take them down to the station," the senior officer ordered, "you can read them their rights and charge them down there."

            "Charge us? With what, man?" Malcolm exclaimed. "We never done nothin'."

            "Get them out of my sight. The forensic boys will be here soon, is that the murder weapon?"

            The officer looked down at the knife lying on the gravel.

            The two armed policemen were just bundling the two friends into the back of the police car when Nat turned to Malcolm, his eyes wide with terror.

            "Murder? Did he just say murder?" Then turning to the policemen, "we ain't murdered no one. We was just sitting in the summerhouse that's all. You gotta believe us!"

            "Just shut your mouth until we get to the nick, okay. I'm not interested in whatever you have to say. Just keep your mouth shut or I'll shut it for you."

            "But we didn't . . ."

            The officer's fist moved so fast that Nat didn't have time to see it coming.

            "You witnessed that did you Mike?" asked the policeman.

            "Certainly did, the prisoner received a blow to the jaw whilst resisting arrest," he grinned, climbed into the car and started to reverse the vehicle out of the drive.

            Nat hung his head, tears of rage in his eyes and a trickle of blood running down his chin where his teeth had gone into his lips. As the car pulled away from the house, an ambulance arrived followed by a white van.

            "Scene of Crime squad got here quick," remarked Mike, "must be a personal best."

            The two friends looked at each other in silence as the two policemen in front of them laughed.

Two months later . . .

The atmosphere in the Pineapple Club had been very subdued over the last two months. Granville, the owner, had not noticed a drop in trade but there was a distinct drop in the noise level as people talked in hushed tones instead of the raucous laughter he was used to. The dominoes and backgammon players played in silence as they sipped their lunchtime pints. The radio on the bar was on softly and as the news came on someone turned the sound up and every head turned to listen.

            ". . . In the case of the murder of Sir Bernard Skipton, the court has been hearing that the body of the seventy-three-year-old, former Conservative MP, was discovered, only minutes after the attack, by his grand-daughter, Miss Rachel Skipton, who was staying with her grandfather in his luxury home in Clifton Heights. Sir David Markham, for the Prosecution, said that Sir Bernard, a well-known collector of antique silver, was a member of the planning committee of the local borough council and that one of the accused, Malcolm Wendall, had had several heated arguments with the planning committee regarding an extension to his garage.

            Forty-two-year-old Wendall and twenty-eight-year-old Nathanial Revell, assistant chef at the Devonish Hotel in Ridgely, broke into the house at approximately 01.00am on the night of 22nd May, after consuming a cocktail of drugs and alcohol in Sir Bernard's summerhouse.

            They entered the premises after breaking a rear window and during the robbery Sir Bernard, who was in bed reading, heard a noise and went to investigate. He was attacked, by one of the defendants, with one of his own kitchen knives, and died from stab-wounds to the heart. Miss Skipton was awakened by the noise of the attack and reached the top of the stairs in time to see a young black man run through the hall. She was, however, unable to identify either of the defendants.

            Mrs Janice Burn, a close neighbour of Sir Bernard's, told the court that, twice in the previous two weeks, she had seen Wendall walking past Sir Bernard's house, both times at night.

            Wendall, who has a police record for drugs and robbery offences, told the court that he and Revell were sheltering from the rain in the summerhouse and knew nothing about the murder. However, both men's fingerprints were found on Sir Bernard's gold Rolex wristwatch, which was later found in the summerhouse. At the time of the arrest, Revell had the murder weapon in his possession and blood-stains on his clothing matched those of the murder victim.

            Both defendants pleaded 'not guilty' and have refused to name a third man, the police believe was with them and who subsequently escaped with approximately twenty thousand pounds worth of silver, including some of Sir Bernard's collection of Victorian snuff boxes.

                        The case continues . . ."

Two weeks later . . .

            "In the Crown Court today the jury in the Clifton Heights Murder case have found Malcolm Robert Wendall and Nathanial Winston Revell guilty on all counts.

            Before passing sentence, Mr Justice Marshall said that this was a cruel and callous murder of a fine man. He said that Wendall had planned the robbery to get even with Sir Bernard after his thwarted attempts to extend his struggling car repair business. Unfortunately, the plan went horribly wrong, resulting in Sir Bernard's death.

            He said that Revell, who had thrown away a promising career as a chef and who had planned to get married only three weeks after the night of the murder, had never been in trouble with the police and had obviously been led on by Wendall.

            Mr Justice Marshall said that the seriousness of their crime and their refusal to name the third person who took part in the robbery meant that he had no choice but to impose the maximum sentence, life imprisonment, with a recommendation that they each serve a minimum of twenty-five years . . ."

 Postscript

Cutting taken from the Ridgley Echo Wednesday 27 November 2006