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Unexpected
He hadn’t expected today to go like this.
He wasn’t sure when a routine day had gone so badly wrong that it was coming to an end with his hands covered in the scarlet blood pouring out of the head cradled in his lap at an alarming rate.
It was Thursday. A damnably ordinary Thursday. Things like this shouldn’t happen on Thursdays.
Geordie Keating been woken, at his usual time, by his wife rising to tend to their young son, burbling away hungrily from his cot in the corner of their room. He’d drunk his preferred tea (brewed strong, splash of milk, one sugar) in his preferred chair while the tornado of three daughters getting ready for school whirled around him. He’d kissed Cathy’s cheek in a perfunctory goodbye, his mind already half at the station he was heading towards and grumbled when his regular commute was lengthened by the tractor idling down the lane from the farmyard to the crop fields.
Nevertheless, he’d only been a few minutes late when he stepped through the front door of Granchester Police Station. Surely that couldn’t have been the first sign that today was going to so badly wrong?
His morning went as Thursdays often did. He had signed off on the pile of reports waiting for review amidst the clutter on his desk and sent them to be filed, somewhere within the bowels of the Police Station, likely to never see the light of day again. He’d shared his mid-morning brew, from his customary chipped blue mug with the Custody Sergeant and discussed the mediocre performance of the English football team in the weekend game.
Once he could put it off no longer, he reviewed the report of an interview conducted by one of his new constables who had been sent to interview a gentleman who lived close to a spate of armed robberies he was currently investigating, in order to exclude him from their enquiries. He was just finishing digesting the fact that the officer had used an excessive number of words to write what amounted to ‘Mr Smith has an alibi’, when there was an unexpected tap at the door and a familiar mop of red hair poked around the doorjamb.
It wasn’t usual for Sidney Chambers to unexpectedly drop by when they weren’t working on a case together, still, when the vicar came bearing what appeared to be a bag containing iced buns from the local bakery, who was he to complain?
He gestured to the chair that, in the privacy of his own head, he had come to regard as Sidney’s, smiling slightly at the taller man’s comfortably slumped sprawl. Nodding his thanks, he tucked into the unexpected treat.
“Working on anything interesting?” the clergyman asked, casting a curious glance at the reports and papers littering the desk in front of him.
“Not really,” he admitted, gesturing at the report he’d just completed. “PC Roberts interviewed one of the neighbours in the armed robbery for me.’
With familiar curiosity, Sidney picked up the report and flicked absently through the multiple sheets of paper, filled with the officer’s scrawling hand.
“He had a lot to say?” he asked.
“You would have thought,” the policeman commented, “unfortunately, I think we are going to have to teach Constable Roberts the value of conciseness.”
“And verifying details,” Sidney commented, his attention now fixed on a specific paragraph within the report.
Geordie moved round the desk to stand behind the vicar, resting one hand on his shoulder in order to get a better look at what had caught his attention.
“Here,” Sidney’s long finger, highlighted the phrase that caught his attention, “he said he was at the Operatic Society performance on Tuesday.”
“And?”
“Well, the performance on Tuesday was cancelled last minute, one of the pipes in the hall burst. I know, because Mrs C was meant to be there, and was pleased that she didn’t have to go. Why she couldn’t just say no, I wasn’t entirely clear.”
“And he doesn’t mention that he got there and found it wasn’t on?”
“Quite the opposite. In fact, he found the whole performance apparently very moving,” Sidney paused for a moment. “Not the word I would have chosen. Although, I suppose it would have persuaded me to move out of my seat fairly quickly.”
“There is nothing wrong,” Geordie argued with excessive patience, “with a little light opera.”
“Not when its cancelled,” Sidney agreed immediately, with a bright grin.
“Ah, away with you,” the swat Geordie aimed at the seated man was almost gentle, “Still, if you’re right, and I can’t imagine Mrs M being mistaken about such a thing, then I think we need to have another word with our Mr Smith here, likelihood is he’s just mixed up his dates but we’d best check.”
He snagged his coat from the rack and paused in the doorway, before turning back.
“Are you coming?”
Maybe it was that casual, off the cuff question that had sent his day skittering into chaos. If he’d said nothing, just walked out of the door then nothing would have happened.
Sidney glanced at his watch and for a moment appeared to be deep in thought, before he brightened and made to stand.
“The Parish Council meeting has been cancelled,” he explained after a moment, “which is, I admit, something of a relief as I’m not sure I can take a third week of discussing how we should decorate the church if it’s a ‘poor holly year’ and Leonard is taking this evening’s confirmation class, so I am at your disposal.”
Maybe it was the unanticipated, late change to the vicar’s hectic schedule that had tipped his day off course.
Geordie led the way out of the station, thinking through his own workload as he did so. There really wasn’t much left on his to-do list.
“Tell you what,” he suggested, as he took his place in the driver’s seat. “we’ll get this out of the way, then we should have time for a quick round of backgammon before Cathy’s expecting me back home.”
They didn’t usually get a quiet afternoon on a Thursday, and Geordie wasn’t one to look an unexpected gift horse in the mouth.
“What’s Mr Smith supposed to have done?” Sidney asked curiously, as they drove, “or not done, I suppose.”
“He lives over at Trumpington” the detective explained, “there’s been four, no five now, burglaries over the past month. The first four, no-one was in the property at the time, but came home and found the usual things missing – silver and the like. The last one, though, the wife was at home and he came in masked up, and held her at gunpoint.”
“Was she hurt?” Sidney asked, concern evident in his voice.
“No,” Geordie shook his head, pausing for a moment as he navigated a narrow bend in the road, “shaken up of course, but he didn’t lay a hand on her.”
“Was there a reason Mr Smith was of interest?”
The detective shook his head again.
“Not really,” he confirmed, “he lived within walking distance of all the victims.”
“That’s not hard in Trumpington,” Sidney interjected.
“Well, exactly,” Geordie acknowledged, “So really we just wanted to rule him out. There was some rumours of some financial difficulty from his neighbour, but we haven’t been able to confirm that yet. In fairness, things might be a bit less financially difficult if he’s been making off with the neighbours’ valuables. Ah, here we are.”
Sidney fell silent as Geordie manoeuvred the car to a stop, outside an unremarkable house at the centre of the village. He stared at the property, trying to recall if he’d ever had cause to visit but couldn’t bring a face to mind. During his scrutiny, he noticed the net curtains on the upper floor move and couldn’t help but smile, clearly “curtain twitching” was as popular in Trumpington as it was in his own Parish.
Keating’s knock on the door was sharp and authoritative, and the two men were quickly able to discern movement behind the textured glass panels of the door, which was quickly opened to reveal a plump, middle aged woman with tight, greying curls wearing a cleaner’s smock and holding a feather duster.
“Yes?” she asked, a note of uncertainty in her voice as she took in the unlikely duo on the doorstep.
“I’m Inspector Keating ma’am,” Geordie introduced himself, “Cambridgeshire Police. I’m looking for Mr Smith, is he in?”
Her gaze lingered for a moment on the white collar at Sidney’s throat, a not unusual reaction when people found themselves confronted with a detective and a vicar on the doorstep.
“He’s not I’m afraid,” she answered, cautiously, “I just come and do for him on a Thursday, like. Can I help?”
“Maybe,” Geordie’s voice was thoughtful, as he rummaged in his pocket for a pencil and his notebook. “Miss…”
“Mrs. Mrs Churchill,” she corrected punctiliously, “I live down the lane.”
“Ah of course,” Geordie acknowledged, his tone of voice indicating that he did indeed know that, though whether that was the case or he was just putting the woman at ease Sidney found it impossible to tell. “Have you worked for Mr Smith long Mrs Churchill?”
“About six months,” she answered, a touch defensively, “Why, what’s ‘e done?”
“Oh nothing, I’m sure,” Geordie commented as Sidney smiled reassuringly, “I’m just looking into the burglaries. Ruling out people.”
“There was another copper her yesterday doing that,” she pointed out, sharply, “’Ere, you don’t think ‘e did it do you?”
“Well, we’re still making our enquiries,” Geordie answered, “I’ve just got a couple of questions I’d like Mr Smith to clarify.”
“Well, like I said,” she pointed out, “’e’s not ‘ere.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back, Mrs Churchill?” asked Sidney, his voice polite and friendly.
“No,” the woman’s voice seemed more hostile than the simple question deserved and Sidney couldn’t determine if that was dislike of the police, the clergy, being questioned or a combination of all three.
“Can we wait inside for him?” asked Geordie.
An almost worried look crossed her face, as though she wanted to deny the police officer and his companion entry but wasn’t sure how to do so, without getting herself into any trouble with the law.
“We can just sit in the front room?” Sidney suggested, remembering the curtains he’d seen twitching upstairs. He was beginning to suspect that the house was not as empty as Mrs Churchill was keen to imply. It simply wasn’t possible for have got down the stairs and answered the door in the time she had.
“Just the front room?” she clarified, at Geordie’s affirmatory nod she continued, “I don’t know when he’ll be and I’ve get on, mind. I’ve got my own errands to attend to this afternoon so I need to be finished up here and if he’s not back you’ll ‘ave to go.”
“We quite understand,” Sidney interjected before Geordie could bristle a response, and they were unceremoniously ushered into a small, shabbily furnished living room and left alone, Mrs Churchill firmly pulling the door closed behind her.
“She was friendly,” Geordie commented, taking a comfortable seat on the sofa. His eyes roamed the room looking over the assorted knick-knacks that littered the available shelves and mantelpiece.
Sidney drifted over to the window, and looked out at the quiet street that ran in front of the house.
“Where do you think she was,” he asked curiously, “when we rang the bell?”
Geordie thought for a moment, thinking back to the movements he had seen behind the door.
“Out back in the kitchen I reckon,” he answered after a moment, “why’d you ask?”
“That’s what I thought,” Sidney commented, turning his attention to a metallic object on a side table next to the armchair, “When we arrived, I’m sure I saw someone upstairs behind the curtains.”
“You think our Mr Smith, isn’t so absent as Mrs Churchill would have us believe?” Geordie queried, moving from the sofa, to pick up the item that had caught Sidney’s attention. “That wouldn’t be a huge surprise,” he carried on, “given that this matches the description of some of our missing silver.”
“Do you think he’s still here, waiting for us to leave?”
When he reflected back on the day, in the quiet of evening, with a glass of Irish whiskey in hand, Geordie would realise that this was the final moment that he could have stopped the day playing out as it did.
“I probably shouldn’t check,” he considered, “given I don’t have a warrant with me.”
Sidney nodded, thinking for a moment.
“I could probably use the bathroom,” he considered, thoughtfully.
“Place like this, it’ll still be out the back,” Geordie pointed out.
“Will it?” Sidney asked with a twinkle in his eye, “how silly of me not to think of that.”
Geordie barked a laugh, shaking his head ruefully at the departing clergyman, who cautiously slipped from the room to climb the stairs, checking the hallway as he did so.
The third step of the wooden stairway creaked ominously under his tread, and he paused for a moment, certain he’d heard some further movement from the upper rooms. Slowly he proceeded up, watched from below by Geordie, who hovered in the doorway to the living room, although far back enough to be out of sight of Mrs Churchill, should she emerge from where she was humming at the back of the house.
The higher steps in the flight all creaked and groaned loudly beneath his feet, and Sidney was sure that his passage could not have gone unnoticed. Sure enough, there was the unmistakable patter of rushing feet and the sound of a door being flung open on the upper floor.
For Geordie, the next moments passed in a blur.
“Sid-“ was all he managed to get out at the sound of movement, before a slight, weaselly man wearing a check shirt and vest, bolted out of the front bedroom, intent on making a bee-line for the stairs.
Despite the noise of footsteps, Mr Smith had clearly failed to account for the presence of another person in the stairway and was unable to prevent himself from barrelling into to vicar, who in turn threw himself off balance to stop the man tumbling down the stairs.
And although he was successful in that endeavour, he was completely unable to prevent his own backwards tumble down to the ground floor.
There was no way Geordie could move fast enough. Even if he could there nothing he could do to prevent the sickening crack of his friend’s skull making contact with the tiled hallway floor.
For a moment there was horrified stillness, for Geordie it seemed like hours passed before he could choke out, “my God, Sidney,” and crash to his knees beside his friend.
“I didn’t mean it,” the reedy voice of Smith floated down the stairs as Mrs Churchill barrelled into the hall with a small shriek at what she found, “I didn’t know he was there.”
“Shut up,” Geordie’s hands were full as he wrestled the weight of Sidney’s upper body into his lap, “just shut up and phone an ambulance.” Gently, he stroked strands hair away from his friend’s closed eyes and tried to ignore the damp warmth of blood soaking through his trousers and coating his hands.
Mrs Churchill immediately left, and Geordie could only hope that she was making for the phone box on the corner rather than distancing herself from the scenes inside the house.
Smith descended the stairs slowly, trying to keep as much distance between him and the kneeling policeman, as he continued his apologetic confession. “I never meant to hurt anyone. Mr Rivers weren’t mean to be there, and this vicar he weren’t meant to be here neither and I didn’t mean for it to happen. I told Mrs Churchill to say I weren’t here, I told her. She shouldn’t have let you in, then this never would have happened.”
“I don’t,” Geordie paused for a moment, to get his panicked breathing under control. “I don’t care, about that right now. We can sort that out in a minute, just,” there was a small movement under his hands that immediately diverted his attention, “just SIT THERE,” he gestured at the stairs with his head and was relieved when the man immediately complied, “And be QUIET.” He softened his voice immediately as he returned his attention to the man sprawled across the floor. “Sidney? Can you hear me?”
Sidney was aware of raised voices around him, but he couldn’t focus enough to determine what was being said. His head throbbed abysmally, and he was distantly aware of the metallic tang of blood and a soft touch across his head. He struggled to open his eyes dimly cognisant of his name being called by a familiar voice.
“Sidney? Come on lad, open your eyes for me, that’s it. Help’ll be here in a minute, but they’ll be a lot happier if you’re awake.”
His eyelids fluttered as he finally gathered sufficient strength to open his eyes and look into the craggy, worried face of his friend.
“There you are,” Geordie commented, trying to sound reassuring despite the concern furrowing his brow, “almost had me worried there.”
“Sorry,” Sidney whispered, his voice paper thin.
“So you should be,” Geordie tried hard to lift the worry from his voice, “Cathy just washed these trousers – she’s going to have your head.”
“She’s welcome to it,” Sidney commented, his eyelids once again sliding closed.
“Aye well,” Geordie squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, “that’s as may be but let’s just leave it where it is for now eh?”
The faint sound of an ambulance bell reached his ears, and he sighed in relief as he found himself unthinkingly offering up a small prayer that this week at least, Friday would be better.