Dead and buried. Maybe...

Continuing onwards with 'Clive and Min.' the plot thickens, thanks to a persistent Sergeant Phelps and a pantomime themed funeral...

Sergeant Phelps was staring at his notebook. He'd written barely a thing when he'd interviewed Miss Minerva Thing. He released a little chuckle. Thing. What a name. Never met a 'Thing' before now. Maybe it was the rarity of the name that drew him to this case. After all, on the surface the circumstances surrounding the death of Clive Thing were very simple. RTC involving a single vehicle. Driver of the vehicle: young and inexperienced but seemingly sensible and safe – a clean licence, observing the speed limit and road conditions with due care and attention, certainly no boy racer type. Weather: clear and clement. Traffic: light and free flowing. Nothing untoward to report here, officer.

  On the surface, then, nothing more than an unfortunate accident. But what about the revelation from the pathologist that Clive Thing had old brain lesions. His GP records had shed no light on the matter but then Clive Thing’s only visits to the surgery were connected with his anxiety and depression, and to seek occasional treatment when his liver flared up, and even then the visits were more spasmodic than frequent. Phelps stared at the post-mortem report and read it aloud for what seemed like the hundredth time. 'In summary, it is difficult to assess the extent to which the evidence of previous brain trauma(s) may have aggravated or contributed towards the effect of the subsequent impact....blah, blah, blah...the damage caused by the vehicle is too great for conclusive evidence to be substantiated that other factors may have been contributary....blah, blah...cause of death - significant internal haemorrhage...significant impact to head…'

            'Penny for 'em?' A mug of coffee appeared by Phelps' right hand and Eddie Drew, American cop wannabee, plonked himself into the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

            'Oh, it's nothing,' said Phelps, kicking back in his own seat. 'Just this RTC...something is bugging me about it, that's all.'

            Drew picked up the report. 'What does the PM say?'

            'As far as I am concerned, it is annoyingly inconclusive,' said Phelps. 'Narrative verdict. Just one of those things.'

            'Best leave it at that, then,' said Drew. He tossed the report back onto the desk without a second glance and took a slurp at his coffee. 'Why make more work for yourself? Why put the family through the stress of a further investigation?'

            'That's just it,' said Phelps. 'The family. When I went to see his next-of-kin, his sister, well, she just didn't seem that bothered by what had happened. She was a first-hand witness, too.'

            Drew shrugged. 'Could be shock. Affects people like that sometimes. Makes 'em flip onto autopilot...'

            'That's what I've been trying to convince myself,' said Phelps. 'But something’s not right. It was like she didn't care he was dead.'

            Drew shrugged and slurped again. 'Perhaps she didn’t,’ he said. ‘It’s not the law to like your family, you know. No good getting bogged down with hunches, mate. The bloke's dead. Those brain lesions could have any number of causes – inherent weakness, childhood infection, innocent bang on the noddle from a kitchen cupboard. What good would it do trying to pick at some old scab that may or may not be hiding something sinister? Let the man rest, eh?’

            Phelps sighed. 'I suppose,' he said. ‘But even so…’

            ‘Even so, my arse,’ snorted Drew. ‘You think you’re onto something that will give you a leg up to the detective sergeant programme, that’s all. Get over it. You’re a career uniformed copper and no more. And now,’ he continued, clapping his hands together, ‘are you on the rugby team for Saturday, or not? Because if not I need to go and hassle Widger or Knox...'

            Phelps nodded. ‘Yeah, count me in.’

Drew wittered on about the up and coming rugby match and even more about the post-match party. Phelps thought, but I can't let this one go. There is more to this case. I know there is. This was a hunch too big to be buried under the soap opera patio and forgotten.

                                                       *                            *                          *

            Halliwell accompanied Min to the front door of Satis House. Since his arrival, he had stuck by her side making Min feel like he'd been there forever and not a mere twenty four hours. Outside, a hearse sat on the driveway, and behind that a limousine, waiting to take her to the church. The previous evening, after their knitting group had packed away their needles and double knit and said goodbye until next week, Florence had offered to stay over with Min.

            'You might want a bit of company before tomorrow,' she said, kindly. 'We could pick up a takeaway. Listen to the radio.'

            But Min had brushed off the concerns of her friend. 'I'll be all right,' she said. 'Halliwell will keep me company. Besides, I have something important to do.' And because Florence was the kind of friend she was – a thoughtful and non-interfering one – she patted Min on the arm in farewell, and walked off in the direction of her own home. 'See you tomorrow!' she shouted over her shoulder.

            The funeral director was about to knock on the front door when Min opened it.

            'Oh!' he said, as though he had been expecting to receive no reply. 'Er, good morning, Miss Thing.'

            'Good morning,' said Min. 'Let's crack on, shall we?' She took her shoulder bag from the hall table, gave Halliwell a quick rub behind the ears and shut the front door with a firm tug, turning the key in the lock and depositing the key in her coat pocket.

            The funeral director escorted her to the waiting limousine. At least, he tried to escort her, but Min was in no mood for a slow waltz progress, preferring instead a quickstep. She waited by the car until her escort caught up and opened the door, then she climbed into the back seat and made herself comfortable. After all, it wasn’t every day one had the opportunity to ride in a limousine.

            'Mind your...' the funeral director began, then stopped with a blush when he realised what he was about to say.

            'Head?' Min finished for him. 'It's all right, Mr Frobisher. 'I am not one to take weepy offence over every tenuous reference to my brother's death. And please, can we dispense with the traditional slow walk up the road? The traffic around here is very impatient and it’s bin day. We don't want to cause any hold ups, do we?'

            Mr Frobisher nodded. 'Of course, Miss Thing,' he said. 'Whatever you think best.'

            The journey to the church passed by the Chelwood Town Assembly Halls where the C.O.P.S performed a majority of their shows. Min was unsurprised, then, by the turn out of people lining the pavement in front of the hall's entrance to pay their respects. She leant forward and tapped on the glass partition that separated her from Mr Frobisher.

            'Stop here a moment, would you please?' she said. She wound down the window and surveyed the company, who were dressed in full Mikado costume and perhaps a little too much make-up for broad daylight. Audley Runcorn stepped forward, lifted his little silk cap and pressed it to his chest.

            'Morning, Min,' he said, inclining his head. 'And a right sad one at that.'

            'Indeed,' said Min. 'Is this your funeral attire?'

            Audley nodded. 'It's what Clive would have wanted,' he said, tilting his head towards the coffin in the hearse.

            'Mmmm,' said Min.

            'The Mikado,' said Audley. 'It were 'is favourite. It were 'im suggested we put it on as our next show. ‘E was keen to make ‘is acting debut in it.’

            Well, who knew, Min sighed. 'Hop in then,' she said, opening the door. ‘There’s plenty of room in here for a few more.’

'If you're sure,' said Audley, replacing the silk cap and not waiting for a second invitation.

He scrambled in along with the Three Little Maids – Yum-Yum, Pitti-Sing and Peep-Bo, and a coolie in a ridiculously large hat.

            ‘Who are you supposed to be?’ Min enquired of Audley as the limousine pulled away.

            ‘Ko-Ko,’ said Audley. ‘Lord High Executioner.’

            ‘How pertinent,’ murmured Min.

            And so it was that Minerva Thing travelled to the funeral of her brother, Clive, in a limousine full of mourners decked out in Japanese fancy costume and feeling very sartorially insignificant.

            Two days after the funeral, Sergeant Phelps decided to pay Minerva Thing another visit. He wasn't sleeping at night, such was the power of the apparition of Clive Thing. He was sure there was more to the death of this man than a mere RTC. On the day of the funeral – a day he was thankfully off duty - he had crept into the back of the church, bugging his eyes only slightly at the literal costume drama that was playing within. Clive Thing was more beloved by his peers than by his sister, that was for sure, as her eyes seemed the only dry ones in the house. She sang lustily through two hymns – 'When a Knight Won His Spurs' and 'He Who Would Valiant Be' -  and appeared at one point to be counting the gargoyles that were tucked in amongst the vaulted roof of the church. He was certain, too, that she winked at the vicar as he finished the eulogy. The C.O.P.S sang a medley of Gilbert and Sullivan songs and, at the graveyard internment, each cast a fresh flower onto the coffin. The only thing Minerva Thing cast was a look that suggested utter boredom.

            Taking a deep breath and glancing around because he really wasn’t supposed to be here, Phelps rapped on the door of Satis House. It swung open immediately as if expecting his visit. The tinny sound of a distant radio playing greeted him, and someone singing along. Her. Minerva Thing. Phelps stepped across the threshold and was immediately halted in his tracks by the biggest cat he had ever seen outside of a zoo. It fixed him with a disdainful stare, daring him to take a further step.

             Phelps cleared his throat. 'Miss Thing!' he shouted. 'Miss Thing!'

            The cat emitted a low but perceptible growl. Phelps decided to give its backside an experimental nudge with his foot in an attempt to gain access to the stairs. It was a bad decision.

            'Owww!' he yelled, as the cat sank its claws into his shin. 'Ow, bloody, ow!'

            The cat retracted its claws immediately so by the time Min arrived, drawn downstairs by the sounds of a feisty hullabaloo, Halliwell was sitting calmly on the bottom stair, licking his paw carefully as if to remove the unsavoury tang of police officer from its claws. The aforesaid police officer who was hopping around the hallway in agony, clutching his leg.

            'Sergeant Phelps!' said Min. 'What is the meaning of this? What have you done to Halliwell?' She looked down at the cat who returned her a baleful look. Bending, she scooped Halliwell into her arms. The cat draped his front legs over her shoulder and rested his head against her neck. 'Poor Halliwell,' cooed Min. 'Did the bad policeman frighten you?'

 Phelps had collapsed on the hall chair, and was gingerly rolling up his trouser leg to inspect the damage. 'There's blood,' he said. 'Look! Your cat savaged me. It drew blood.'

            Min sniffed. 'Well what do you expect, coming into the house uninvited?' she said. 'Besides, he isn't my cat.'

             Phelps glared at the cat who remained snuggled tightly against Minerva Thing's shoulder, a smug look on its face. 'Oh really?' he said. 'He looks like he knows you very well.'

            'I'm positive,' said Min. 'He arrived last week and decided to stay. If he's got any bad habits, he certainly didn't learn them from me.' She deposited Halliwell on the bottom stair where he resumed his grooming regime. 'Now, to what do I owe this unexpected visit, Sergeant Phelps?'

            'Could I trouble you for some hot water, kitchen roll and a bottle of antiseptic?' said Phelps. ‘To deal with…with this…’ And he flapped his hand at the four long and bloody lines of cat scratches that now tattooed his shin.

            Min rolled her eyes. 'Very well,' she said. 'Follow me.' She marched ahead to the kitchen where she fulfilled the request, and watched impatiently whilst Sergeant Phelps tended to his leg.

            'Nasty things, cat scratches,' she remarked. 'Filthy things, full of germs. I'd advise you go to  A  and E and get antibiotics and a tetanus booster.'

            'Thank you, Miss Thing,' said Phelps, coldly. 'As soon as I am done here, I shall.' He winced as he applied a good dose of TCP to his tenderised skin. Min tapped her foot.

            Having mopped himself up as best he could, Phelps rolled down his trouser leg and attempted to regain a modicum of dignity. 'I was dropping by,' he said, 'to see how you were coping now the funeral is over.'

            Min regarded this fellow before her. He was...what? Mid-thirties? Boyish looking anyway. Did he look the 'caring' type? She was sceptical and besides, she didn’t have time for this unnecessary intrusion.

            'Now Sergeant Phelps,' she said, briskly. 'You and I both know that is a lie. You have more pressing matters to attend to than dropping by to see if a middle aged spinster has recovered from the accidental death of her brother. And I certainly have more pressing things to do than listen to your insincere platitudes. So, let's not waste any more of our valuable time. Why don't you just tell me why you're really here?'

             Phelps regarded Min. Should he come clean, as it were, and tell her that he suspected there was something more to her brother's death than was officially recorded? She was a shrewd woman. She was also within his radar of suspicion. He decided to change tack, disarm the woman with unrelated chit chat.

            'What are you going to do with this place?' he said, waving an arm around the expansive kitchen. 'It's a big house for one person.'

            'I don't think that is any of your business, do you, sergeant?' said Min, who had no intention of being distracted from the business of her day. 'Plenty of people live on their own. And it is my house. It's not a crime, is it? To live alone in one's own house? Regardless of its size?'

            Phelps realised that Minerva Thing was not to be persuaded anywhere. 'No,' he said, but at least the segue had given him a few more seconds of thinking time. 'All right, Miss Thing,' he said. 'I'll confess I didn't really come around to check on your well-being.'

            Min raised an eyebrow. 'You do surprise me,' she said.

             Phelps continued. 'I came to ask if Mr Thing…Clive… had been involved in any other accidents prior to the one that killed him.'

            Min deliberated. 'Odd question,' she said. ' And one, if you remember, I was asked by one of your colleagues before the post mortem was published. And I'll repeat now what I said then. No, I am not aware that he'd been involved any other accidents prior to the one that killed him.'

            'Did he ever complain of feeling unwell, then?' said Phelps.

            Min sighed. 'Clive was always complaining of feeling unwell. He was always tired, he was always suffering aches and pains. He went through painkillers...'

            'Painkillers?' said Phelps.

            '...paracetamol, ibuprofen,' said Min. 'Over-the-counter stuff. Nothing prescription. Ate them like sweets. I'm surprised the post mortem didn't throw up evidence of a liver hideously diseased beyond its mild inflammations.'

            'Did he ever see his GP about these aches and pains?' said Phelps.

            There was a pause. 'Do you know,' said Min, 'if I was a paranoid type, I would be feeling like I was being accused of something. It feels like we are going over old ground here. Very old ground.’

             Phelps had the decency to look embarrassed. 'I apologise if my line of questioning has made you feel...unsettled,' he said, choosing his words carefully.

            ‘I think ‘persecuted’ is more the word you are looking for,’ said Min.

            ‘Now really, Miss Thing,’ Phelps began, starting to feel a little out of depth.

            Min decided enough was enough. 'Sergeant Phelps,' she said. 'I am sure you are pursuing what you regard as a most interesting, yet completely pointless, line of enquiry, especially given the case is closed. However, I am bored. I have many things to do and listening to you is not one of them. My brother is, sadly, dead and buried. The Coroner has filed his report. The police, apart from you it seems, are happy with the verdict and the case is closed. It was an accident. Accidents happen and they often have no rhyme or reason to them, which is why they are called accidents. Move on, Sergeant Phelps. There is, as they say, nothing more here to see.'

            And she marched pointedly through the kitchen door and into the hallway where she stood holding the front door open.

            Following her, Phelps sucked in his breath. If he pressed her any more he was pretty certain she'd be down the station filing a complaint against harassment. At the door he forced a smile through his disappointment and the throbbing pain in his leg.

            'I'm sorry, Miss Thing, for the intrusion. It was kindly meant.'

            'I'm sure,' said Min. 'Good day, sergeant. And good bye.’