'Clive and Min' - chapter 3

I'm feeling a little 'Charles Dickensesque' with this weekly story telling. Thank you for all the positive feedback so far. You don't realise how important it is to me! Anyway, here we go with Part 3 - a couple of new characters and a hint of something not quite right...

            Police Sergeant Keiran Phelps glanced briefly at the body on the slab. He opened his notebook and wrote, ‘5/6/19’ at the top of a fresh page

            'What do you reckon?' he said, pointing his biro at the body.

            'Definitely dead,' said the pathologist.

            Sergeant Phelps forced a tight-lipped smile. ‘Ha ha. Cause?’

            ‘Internal bleeding mostly.’

            ‘Mostly?’

            The pathologist nodded. ‘Interesting brain lesions, too. Big one from the impact with the car, of course…’

Sergeant Phelps spoke out loud as he noted in his book – 'Cause of death: brain lesions.'

            The pathologist, on his way to dump bloodied instruments into a stainless steel sink, looked over the sergeant’s shoulder. 'That's not what I said,' he said. 'I said, 'interesting brain lesions.' I didn't say anything about them being the cause of death.'

            'But he was hit head on by a motor vehicle,’ said Phelps.

            'No buts,' said the pathologist. 'People can have evidence of brain lesions for all sorts of reasons: vascular, abscess, previous knocks and bumps, even genetic. Of course,' he said, peeling off his latex gloves and flicking them with practised ease into a flip top bin, 'the impact from the accident was significant. Might have been the thing that killed him outright. But these previous lesions could make the evidence err on the inconclusive side for the coroner. Was our man a boxer, maybe? Footballer with a penchant for heading goals?’

            'You mean, this case isn't as straightforward as an RTC?' said Phelps, his inner detective flickering with interest. This could be it. This could be his big break into the world of the plain-clothes detective. This could be the moment when he could show his bosses that he had that ability to think outside the box.

            'I mean,' said the pathologist, 'that this man had evidence of brain injury prior to the RTC. Whether he would have survived the impact with the car if he hadn't received these previous injuries is guesswork, I'm afraid. But internal bleeding is certainly the significant contributary factor to the death of Mr Thing. What you personally want to read into this is up to you. I shall make my report based on my findings. I am not at home to Mr Speculate.'

                                                    *          *          *          *          *

            'Oh!' said Min, opening the front door. She had glimpsed through the drawing room window the arrival of a transit van with 'WD Reginald' painted on the side and had gone to greet it.

            'Hello!' said WD Reginald. 'Mrs Thing?'

            'Miss Thing,' corrected Min. And then, 'You're a girl.'

            WD Reginald laughed. 'I am,' she said. 'A lady decorator. Who'd have thought it?'

Some might have construed the introduction as somewhat sarcastic, but Min laughed.   'Quite,' she said. 'Come in.'

            WD Reginald left her shoes in the porch and stepped into the hallway. She held out her hand, which Min shook, immediately appreciating the cool, firm grip. You could tell  a lot about a person from their handshake. She hated it when someone’s handshake was so limp it slid from your own hand like slimy lettuce. Limp handshake, limp character.

            'Willow Reginald,' said the lady decorator. 'Odd smell. Sorry...did I say that out loud?'

            'You did,' said Min. She glanced upstairs. 'My brother's study, I'm afraid. The door has been  open. It hasn't had a good airing for years. I closed it though. Because of the smell…’

            'Aah,' said Willow. 'And that's the room you want redecorating, yes?'

            'I want the whole house redecorating,' said Min. She glanced again at the cool, firm hands of Willow Reginald. They seemed far too smooth of skin and neat of nail to have dealt with the manual labour associated with painting and decorating.

            Willow raised an eyebrow. 'The whole house?'

            'Is that a problem?' said Min.

            Willow shook her head. 'No...it's just that my diary is pretty busy at the moment.'

            'I thought we were in a recession,' said Min.

            'We are,' said Willow. 'People are preferring to renovate and redecorate their houses rather than sell and move. Cheaper, you see.'

            'Ah,' said Min. 'I can see how that makes sense.'

            'Anyway,' said Willow. 'Shall I take a look around? Do you have any ideas about what you'd like done?' She unfolded what Min thought was a notebook but turned out to be a small tablet computer.

            'Modern technology, eh?' she said, nodding at the tablet.

            'Wouldn't be without it,' said Willow. 'It's got paint samples, paper samples, a room design app, spreadsheets, everything. I can access websites, get prices for customers straight away, place immediate orders on sale goods...'

            'Will it get rid of the stench of cigarette smoke?' said Min. 'Painting and papering, I mean.'

            'Mostly,' said Willow. 'I'd recommend a deep steam clean of the worst surfaces before we start. That'll help.'

            Min nodded. 'Only it's the smell of cigarettes,' she said. 'I need to get rid of it. I'm going to turn this place into a business...' She stopped short. A business? Where did that come from? The house smiled and nodded.

            'Oh yes?' said Willow. 'What kind of business?'

            What kind of business indeed, thought Min. 'Not sure yet,' she admitted. 'Does it make a difference?'

            Willow smiled. 'Might do,' she said. 'I mean, if you're going to set up an alternative health centre, for instance, you don't want to be papering everything black and red like a cheap bordello, do you? You want something fresh and restful – blues and greens...'

            'Ah,' said Min. 'I see. Well, how about you do a basic estimate for the middle range of paint and paper, for each room. It'd be a starting point.'

            And so Min followed Willow from room to room. Willow did most of the talking. She tippetty tapped on her tablet, showed Min a variety of colours and designs, door furniture and soft furnishings. Min would like to have said it was all fascinating stuff, but it wasn't. Her mind was  locked on other matters. A business? Where had that notion sprung from?

            'And what about this room?' said Willow. They had reached Clive's hobby room and Willow's hand was resting on the door knob.

            'NO!' said Min, rather too loudly. She collected herself. 'I mean, sorry, no. Not for now...you see, that's my brother's room...my brother, Clive... he died in a traffic accident.'

            'Oh,' said Willow. 'I'm sorry.'

            'Yesterday morning, in fact,' said Min, thinking she might as well play the sympathy card whilst she could. 'It's just that the lady at the hospital said I should come home and do something, instead of come home and wait. So I did. I mean, I came home and the first thing I thought of doing was to get rid of this horrible tobacco smell, and the next thing I know I'm calling you, and now you are here.'

            Willow removed her hand from the brass door knob and placed it instead on Min's arm. 'Could you still be in shock?' she said, softly. 'Why don't I make you a cup of tea, and then arrange to come back another day. You know, when things aren’t so…raw.'

            By 'things', Min supposed, Willow meant 'the funeral' and 'the grieving' and 'the disposal of the possessions of the life of the deceased.' It would be the normal 'thing', the expected 'thing' to do she supposed.

            'Yes,' she said. 'You're right. But don't worry about making tea. You go. You're busy, you said so yourself.'

            ‘I have time for a cup of tea,’ said Willow. ‘Wouldn’t be a very good painter and decorator if I didn’t, would I?’

            And so Min led Willow to the kitchen and sat at the table whilst Willow took over tea making duties, and they ate cake and didn’t say much to each other, but the silence was companionable and not embarrassing because all the while Min could hear the house chuntering to her in the back ground, about new beginnings, and business opportunities, and being given the freedom to at last  live her life how she wanted to live it.

            'How about I come back this time next month?' said Willow. Her hand hovered over the keyboard of her tablet where she had open a page of an appointment calendar.

            'Right,' said Min, shaken from her reverie by the sound of Willow’s voice. 'Yes. Good idea.'

            'I'll pencil you in for 8^th July,' said Willow. 'And I'll call a couple of days beforehand, just to see how things are. Sometimes you never know where you are going to be from one day to the next, do you?'

            How true, thought Min, as she led the way from the kitchen to the front door. Just one day  ago, she and Clive had shared a breakfast - a rare occurrence - and she had complained about his habit of leaving the cereal box open on the counter again, when really it was a very simple task to replace it in the cupboard. And then they had left the house to walk the short distance into town, and then he'd dropped his tobacco tin and...

            Min shook her head. She smiled as Willow said goodbye and that she hoped all would go well with, you know, things. And then, of course, thought Min, you also never know what you are going to find when you break down the door of your brother's hobby room.

                                                  *          *          *          *           *

            'Just a quick statement, Miss Thing,' said Sergeant Phelps. He sat at the kitchen table and placed his notebook and pen before him. No fancy technology here, thought Min.

            'I gave all the information to the hospital,' she said.

            'Yes, we'll get a copy of that,' said Phelps. 'But you may have remembered something important since yesterday. I know it's painful, but can you describe to me exactly what you remember happening?'

            Min looked at the officer who had arrived on her doorstep just as she was about to prepare an omelette for lunch. The female uniformed constable who accompanied him was sitting beside her, staring with a look of concern that was almost genuine. The official tear-mopper, thought Min.

            'Well,' she said. 'There isn't much to tell really. Clive and I were heading into town and...

            'Where exactly were you going?' interrupted Phelps.

            'Sorry?'

            'What was the purpose of your journey into town?' he rephrased.

            'Clive was going to collect a costume from ‘Dance and Disguise’ and I wanted to go to the library. I have a week of holiday from work. I want to catch up with some reading,' said Min. 'As the weather was dry we decided to walk in and share a taxi back.'

            ‘And Mr Thing? Was he on holiday from work, too?’ said Phelps.

            ‘He was on permanent holiday,’ said Min. ‘He lived on benefits and selling occasional bits of original artwork on Ebay…’

            'Benefits?' Phillips interrupted. ‘Why?’

            ‘Anxiety and depression mostly,’ said Min. ‘He had bouts of liver inflammation, too, which caused him mild pain and tiredness. He wasn’t often keen to leave the house. He preferred to be…at home.’

            ‘I see,’ said Phelps. ‘And you say he was collecting a costume?’

            Min sighed. 'Yes, a costume,' she said. 'Clive belonged to the local amateur dramatic society. He was collecting his costume for his next role. Nanki Poo.'

             Phelps smiled.

            'Something funny, sergeant?' said Min. What patience she had remaining was fast running thin. Yesterday had been a long and wearisome day and whilst she, as his sister, was allowed to be amused by Clive's pastimes, an interfering stranger certainly was not.

            'Nothing, Miss Thing,' said Phelps. 'Nothing at all. So Mr Thing suffered anxiety, depression and recurring pain because of his liver yet was able to perform on stage in a production?’

            Min’s patience was stretching thinner by the question. ‘Yes. It was his counsellor’s suggestion. To join a club to get him out of the house and mixing with people. This was to be his first on-stage role. Previously he’d stuck to backstage roles, like making and painting scenery…’

            ‘I see,’ said Phelps again. What was he seeing exactly, wondered Min. ‘And the name of this amateur dramatic society, please?'

            'The Chelwood Operatic Performance Society. C.O.P.S,' said Min, without a hint of irony.

            'Thank you,' said Phelps. 'And you say you were making the most of a week of holiday to visit the library?' His pen hovered over his note book.

             'Yes,’ said Min. 'I wanted to take out some books.'

            'That is why one usually visits a library,' said Phelps, smiling.

            ‘Then why are you asking?’ said Min.

             Phelps coughed. 'Any books in particular?' he said.

            'No,' said Min. 'A novel or two. Something to fill the evenings.’

            'And what is your line of work, Miss Thing,' said Phelps.

            Really, thought Min, this is quite enough. ‘Am I under arrest, officer?’ she said. ‘Only I do not see what my choice of reading material nor my occupation has to do with my brother’s death in an accident.’ And she emphasised the word ‘accident’ just to make a point.

             Phelps coughed. He was getting carried away with himself, with the thought he could be on to something more sinister than a simple accident. He needed to guard himself. ‘I apologise, Miss Thing. You are quite right. And I won't disturb your day much longer. Just one more question. Could you just tell me how your brother seemed yesterday morning? Before you set off on your journey into town?'

            'Seemed?' said Min.

            'His mood, Miss Thing...especially given his mental health status. His anxiety and depression?’

            Min considered the question. 'Ebullient,' she said. 'His mood was ebullient.'

            'Ebullient?' said Phelps.

            Min sighed. 'Yes, Sergeant,' she said. 'It means cheerful and enthusiastic. Would you like me to spell it for you?' She nodded at the sergeant's pen, which seemed stuck to the paper.

            'No thank you,' said Phelps. He snapped shut the notebook and tucked it in his pocket. 'I think that will do for now. I'm sorry for your loss.'

            It took Min a few moments to realise that the loss to which Phelps was referring was Clive. A sudden thought caused her eyes to narrow. ‘Sergeant, I hope you’re not suggesting my brother’s death was an act of suicide,’ she said.

            ‘I’m not suggesting anything, Miss Thing,’ said Phelps, rising to his feet and nodding at his colleague that they were about to depart. ‘I am merely considering all possibilities for my report.’