9. A Starting Handle

A constable discovers something unpleasant whilst a sergeant tries to disarm a vicar...

WORDS MEAN DEATH

The laptop computer that DI Bramble had removed from the house next door to the deceased author Dorian Hemsworth was not difficult for Constable Hazel Overton to penetrate. Following a course dealing with modern technology, Superintendent Peterson had seen no problem handing over cases like this to her rather then employ the services of the much more expensive private tech firm they used for any that were impenetrable that happened to come their way.
Hazel had a gift for what she was doing though it did take her quite a few worried minutes when it came to the password used by the Reverend Wolf to open the machine. He tried several until, after checking the man’s personal details, she found that his own birthday did the trick.
“Nothing simpler, and surprisingly studid” she told herself, and then concentrated on the contents, and her first surprise consisted of the absolute certainty that the Reverend, even without a modem, had access to the Internet.
“He must have used a heavenly connection,” she thought wryly, and then checked the signature of the Internet connection most frequently used and came to the conclusion that it belonged to the deceased author. There could be no doubt: the Reverend, almost certainly without permission, had climbed onto the back of the late Mr Hemsworth’s connection to the digital universe. It would probably be an easy thing for him to do because the two lived in close proximity to each other, being next door neighbours, and the author would never have noticed that someone else was also using his wifi.
“Cheeky, and not the sort of behaviour I’d expect from a clergyman,” she thought.
There were quite a lot of files that the man had accessed but one caught her eye straight away. It was stored under the simple name “Foxy” and was the text of Dorian Hemsworth’s novel.
With no further instructions to follow, she set about reading the opening chapters of the book, and what she discovered about a fictitious clergyman was most disturbing.
“Not a nice man,” she thought
Meanwhile, DI Dorothy Bramble and Sergeant Ian Rogers were racing down a motorway, though racing isn’t quite the right word because Dorothy was keeping strictly to speed limits even though several vehicles sped past her.
“That one must be doing at least a ton,” observed Ian when a maroon car with a black top hurtled past them. “If we went that anything like that fast,” he added, “no doubt a local plod would stop us and it would take an age to explain that we’re on an important mission,”
Dorothy nodded. “And it might be important,” she said, “if that reverend gentleman is out to eliminate a certain manuscript from the face of the Earth, as well as anyone who knows anything about it, and if he has already committed murder, he might well chance his arm and a nearby kitchen knife again.”
The drive to an address well south of the county was made easy by the fact that Brumpton and their destination were joined by a motorway, and the busiest part of the day being over, meant that not even the odd reduced speed limit past coned-off sections didn’t slow them down too much. Less than two hours After leaving Brumpton Dorothy pulled up behind what she immediately thought must be the reverend Wolf’s car because it had been described as a banger, a term that probably accurately described the age and condition of the car parked in front of them.
And it was not alone because a figure could be seen with its head nodding about under an open bonnet from which clouds of steam were issuing.
“We must have caught him up, ma’am,” whispered the DS, “that rust bucket can’t have managed more than a crawl.”
“Sit still, Ian, I want to see what he’s up to. Hastily made decisions can sometimes be the wrong ones. Hold on, I’ll back up again before he eyeballs us.”
Dorothy slipped the car into reverse and pulled back until the car they were watching was occupying the space of two house fronts away from them.
“Now let’s see if there’s going to be anything worth watching,” murmured Dorothy, “ah, now what’s he up to?”
“He’s gone to the rear of his car, leaving the front bonnet open… now he’s poking around in the boot, probably going to fix whatever might be troubling him about the engine…” commented Ian.
“Or is he looking for a weapon?” mused Dorothy, “what’s that he’s got his hands on?”
“His car’s old enough to have one.. I think it’s a starting handle…” suggested Ian.
“I know. For starting a car when the battery won’t do it,” breathed Dorothy, “and how in the name of goodness can any battery on a car be flat if he’s just done a journey from Brumpton with it charging up all the time?”
“Most would get some charge,” agreed Ian, “but looked at another way, can’t a starting handle be a weapon sufficiently effective that one swipe with it could kill a man?”
“You’re quite right there. Now what’s he doing?”
“Putting his bonnet down and, look, starting his engine, but not needing to use the handle. So why did he go to the boot to fetch it? There doesn’t seem to be much wrong with that engine of his. The steam might have indicated a leaking radiator, but you don’t need a starting handle to fix that!”
“Now what do you think he’s doing?”
“He’s going to the house! That one, there!”
“The one where Mr Copperly lives,” muttered Dorothy, checking the address on the card Mike had given her, “come on, but don’t let’s rush. We still don’t know what he’s up to.”
“We could hazard a guess, seeing that he’s still carrying that starting handle, and we know his engine works.”
“And he’s left it running,” agreed Dorothy, “Right, change of plan: come on, quick, I don’t like the look of this at all.”
The two of them covered the gap between themselves and the Reverend Wolf (minus his clerical collar) in half a dozen large strides.
“Why, trouble with your car, Reverend?” called Dorothy “won’t it start? But hey! Isn’t that the engine I can hear, sounding sweet?”
Paul Wolf spun round, and when he saw who had been following him he seemed to go limp. Meanwhile, the door to the house opened and a surprised Mike Copperly stood there.
“What do you want?” he asked, staring at Wolf.
“The book! I want the book!” almost shouted the defrocked clergyman, and with a sudden effort he seemed to regain his strength and he raised the metal handle he was holding until it was above his head.
“No you don’t!” shouted DS. Ian Rogers, and he leapt towards the Reverend Paul Wolf.
© Peter Rogerson 15.01.24