9. THE NAKED MAN

The investigation begins

“You’ll have to put up with me tagging along, if you don’t mind,” said Angela with a broad smile as Trayda led the way across the small fairground towards the rocky edge of the beach. “I’ve often wondered what my mate Trayda was like when she was being a copper, and now I’ll find out!”

“Well, first let’s take a peek at the crime scene, or as much of it as we’ll be allowed to see,” Trayda decided, “and consider yourself lucky because you’re about to see your hearts desire … a naked man!”

“A dead naked man,” Angela corrected her, “not my idea of a wholesome first meeting with a bloke.”

“And we’re not official so we won’t be allowed any closer than any other member of the public,” Trayda told her, “although Reuben has sent a message that we’re coming and are not to be shooed off.”

A uniformed constable scowled at them as they approached, but let them pass closer to where the pathologist was making notes and examining the area around where the pathetic corpse lay on a flinty rock shelf as though being held down by Mother Nature herself.

“We’re in luck,” whispered Trayda, “I’ve worked with her back in Brumpton. Seems as if all my old colleagues have sought refuge at the coast rather than stay with the traffic and fumes of the old town.”

“Well, well, well, look who it isn’t!” beamed the pathologist, rubbing her hands together, “it’s the great Inspector Trayda Sibsey herself. I heard you were on extended leave, Tray,” she added, “after a little miss-hap with a sergeant in a cell!”

“Permanent leave more like,” replied Trayda, “how are you doing, Claire? Are you still Miss Sturgess or has some lucky guy claimed you for his own?”

“You might have guessed,” sighed the pathologist, still smiling, “guys are useless! They buy you a drink, think you’re theirs for eternity so suggest a night of passion and then can’t get it up when they discover what you do for a living. It’s as if the smell of the dead clings to a girl even after she’s had a perfumed shower.”

“Tell me about this one, then,” said Trayda, “Reuben said he’s a tad overworked and that he wouldn’t mind if I took a look at things, on the QT, of course, and without meddling in what doesn’t concern me.” She said that last bit as a warning to a DS who was standing nearby, frowning. She knew how protective bag men can be of their Inspectors.

“Nothing to it, really. The poor chap was clobbered on the head from behind, twice for good measure, but either blow would have killed him, and then the killer went to the trouble of stripping him off post mortem.”

“An odd thing to do. Might it have been a woman out for some sort of revenge?”

“I can’t tell you that one, Trayda. As I said to Reuben, either sex is capable of using that amount of force, but I’d favour it being a man. Women aren’t always tall enough, and this blow will have come from slightly above, though our victim isn’t the tallest of men himself.”

“And this being undressed post mortem? That’s what led me to ask if it could have been a woman.”

“I know. An odd thing for one man to do to another, whip his togs off, and part of his clothing, a pair of blue shorts, was found washed up down there,” she pointed in the direction of the naturist camp. “And all that got me to wonder. Was it one of the nudists who took exception to the way he looked at their women, or was it someone trying to make it look like our victim belonged to the order of the unclothed?”

“Those are two worthy theories to be starting with,” mused Trayda, “anything else, Claire?”

“Not really. There’s the faint scent of alcohol on his breath, beer probably, and I’ll know more when I get him onto the slab and open him up. Otherwise, he’s young, twenty-something at a guess, and healthy. For more you’ll have to see Reuben after he sees me at the PM.”

That was something Trayda had expected. She might have been asked to help, but she wasn’t one of the official team and wouldn’t get much in the way of privileges, like a visit to the path lab.

“Come on then, Angela,” she said briefly to her friend, and, “see you then, Claire. And best of luck.”

She and her friend made their way back to the fairground.

“Why do you think he was stripped off?” asked Angela, “even I reckon that’s a bit macabre.”

“I dunno,” sighed Trayda, “but it does seem an odd thing for one bloke to do to another when he’s just killed him. It bears thinking about, does that one. And I’m thinking about it.”

oo0oo

The old man stood at the Taproom bar of the Shell and Cockle with a pint of foaming ale in front of him and stared at the row of sparkling glasses on a shelf at the other side of the bar as if somehow they’d hypnotised him.

It was early for lunch, but he was hungry and as the pub advertised that it did pub meals he’d ordered a pie and chips. The barman had said he’d have to wait, the chef was still getting dressed, it being still only mid morning in the real world and the bar itself was only just open.

“You’re not from round here, then?” he asked, conversationally as the old man remained grumpily silent, staring at his beer.

“You’d know me if I was,” growled the other, “I’m looking for my grandson who rumour has it lives somewhere near here in this back end of nowhere.”

“There aren’t so many as live here, sir. It’s mostly folks out for sun and sea who come here,” grunted the barman politely enough for that time of the morning, “and you’ll have to excuse me for a minute, I’ve a barrel to change in the cellar before the crowd rushes in.”

He made his way off and the old man wandered to a table near a battered dart board and sat on a chair, nursing his beer.

I’ve come a long way for this, he thought to himself, never did get to know what happened to our Mary, sweet little thing that she was, and I need to get it from our kid. Mixed up family, it was, especially when the kid’s brother did something as foolish as doing himself in. Messy, that was. What was his name? Glen? Suicide is no way out, not for a kid and not for anyone… And I can’t forget that poor Glen was my grandson. Our Mary’s bairn. I should have done more for her, should have stopped her running off like she did and only a kid herself, but I had other problems, nightmares of my own, and ended up behind bars before I could do anything to stop what happened…

It had all been a long time ago, too long for anything he said or did now to change one moment of it. But he needed to know. After all, he was at the f*g end of his life but his brain still wanted to learn that not everything had been a waste of time, of life.

But Mary was dead now, he’d learned via the grapevine and even gone to the funeral, and the kid ought to know. We only have one mother and it’s best to know when she’s gone.

The barman returned.

“Chef’s got his sleeves rolled up. Won’t be long,” he called to the old man.

“You won’t have heard of my grandson I suppose?” asked the customer, “name of Stokesey. David, I think. Last I heard he was in this neck of the woods, but we’ve been out of touch for ever.”

“The ice cream man? Yes, he comes here sometimes. Not so often and he’s no big drinker, but he does come in. With a woman sometimes. Pretty as a picture, she is, but less said the better about her.”

“Ice cream, eh? I had heard...”

“There’s something else, though,” murmured the barman, not sure whether he should say it or not. After all, it was really not much more than a rumour, something the milkman had told him excitedly that morning, about there being a dead body on the beach. He’d said he thought it was the ice cream man, but wasn’t totally sure.

“Well?” asked the old man.

“Aw, nothing,” decided the barman, “it’s something someone said, something silly I expect, nothing important… you’ll find his ice cream place just down the road, near a merry-go-round. Yes, that’s where you’ll find it. Best of luck.”

The old man ate his meal when it came, then went.

The barman wiped the bar with a nice clean cloth, and hoped he was wrong but was sure that he wasn’t. That milkman didn’t very often get things wrong.

© Peter Rogerson 26.03.19