GRAVE MATTER

The terrifying scream spoke right to the heart. It was still cold when the body fell, dropping silently through the Sunday morning light and landed with a dull sound. Impaled through the chest, the spikes of a wrought iron fence dangled under the streetlamps as blood spilt onto the pavement. Overhead, a fourth-floor window stood open. I was out for my morning constitutional, seeing the same faces, the man walking his reluctant dog and the beautiful, tall young woman going out for a jog. She always wears figure-hugging running gear, and her hair in a ponytail swishes back and forth beneath a white baseball cap, held on by headphones, listening to music. After forty years of marriage, I find myself a widower, and this has become my daily routine since she died so tragically in a road accident. Now, lonely and isolated, my morning and evening walk turned out to be my only respite from the drudgery of day-to-day life. Of course, I found it worse during the pandemic, but with the easing of lockdown restrictions, at least, I felt safer, albeit behind a mask, to be able to go out and meet people and rejoin the human race. A light wind stirred the trees in the avenue, and their shadows cast on the pavement. The traffic is periodic, a couple of cars, a moped and the odd cyclist. That's about it. The music teacher across the road is mowing his grass. He glanced up as I passed and waved as if all is fine in the world. The wife of a plumber two doors down is pruning a hedge, and next door, a landscaping van is parked on the side of the road, Green Thumb Lawn Care. Not far from it is a young man wearing dark glasses, oversized jeans, a Chelsea shirt, and a baseball cap. He's loud with a leaf blower, clearing the footpath, and he didn't look at me or be polite and pause as I walk past, with grass clippings and grit covering me like a swarm of angry bees. I stopped and looked at the young man. Although initially, he paid no attention, he didn't even seem to realise it. Finally, abrupt silence followed as the young man stopped what he was doing. His dark glasses stare, his mouth opens expressionless. I tried to place him. Maybe I had seen him every morning without really noticing him. That is possible. "Watch what you're doing." I asked him. "Sorry." He articulated in an indifferent tone, and his hair is long and carrot red. "Just show some care next time." A shrug, showing he wasn't that bothered. He didn't give a toss, and to add insult to injury, he even smiled a little. Before moving on, I gave him an impassive look. But, as the plastic surgeon who had worked his will on me hadn't quite succeeded in matching up the two sides of my face, my impassive expression is noticeably lacking in encouragement. Before my brain could register the sound like a terrifying scream, I froze, all but my heart remaining statue-like on the pavement. The crescendo of sound had been tremendous, and it stopped the dog walker dead in his tracks. The jogger continued on her merry way, oblivious of what happened while listening to her music. Within minutes, three police cars parked on the road, along with an ambulance with its blue turret light revolving ominously. People were bustling through the open door of the apartment block, waking the whole street. Neighbours stood on the pavement in dressing gowns and overcoats. I sat there for a moment getting the lay of the land. Two policemen had turned up. The plain-clothes one asked the questions, while the other one wrote everything down. Efficient, polite, and unsympathetic, they left a distinct impression that I had little to offer as a witness. Moreover, in many of their questions, it seemed to be a faint hovering doubt that what I had told them would not be a reliable source of information. It didn't bother me. I answered automatically, sometimes between question and answer. "Explain to me again what you were doing when you heard the scream." "I was walking past. My thoughts were elsewhere. I was thinking about my wife." The Inspector casually propped his foot on the tray of the ambulance. "Where is your wife now, sir?" "The local cemetery." There followed a beat of silence, and something invisible passed between us. "What is your name, sir?" "Justin Grave." The Inspector looked like he had been b***h-slapped. He took out his mobile and punches in a number. I overheard him talking to his superintendent. I don't know what was said to him, but I still have many friends in high places, people who respect what I did for a living. When the call finished, the Inspector is a chastened man, but before he could articulate anything, one of his team shouts from the scene of the fallen refrigerator. "I haven't finished with you yet." He told me before stomping off to find out what the other policeman wanted. I hobbled away from the ambulance. The tape tightly wrapped around big oak trees and lampposts, blue and white with police lines not cross written in black. It encircled the property, threaded through railings, barring the front entrance covered by a peaked roof. A large white SOCO van parked in the driveway. Doors yawning. Metal boxes stacked inside. Nearby, a forensic technician is crouching on the front path taking photographs. She looks like an extra in a science-fiction film dressed in blue plastic overalls, a hood and matching boot covers. Positioning a plastic evidence tag, she raises the camera to her eye. Shoots. Stands. When she turns, I recognise her. Dr Blanche Bradbury, a Home Office pathologist from Czechoslovakia, spoke without a hint of an accent. "Well, look who it isn't." "Hello, Blanche. How are you?" "Better now I've seen you. Didn't realise this would involve you?" "Nor did I until the Inspector spoke to someone on the phone." "Still got friends in high places, then?" "Looks that way, Blanche. How much longer only time will tell." Turning back to the van, she collected a tripod. On the other side of the road, the attractive jogger went past her second circuit and started to turn into Farriers Road but noticed the emergency vehicles and the news vans. She looks up at the news helicopters hovering at about a thousand feet. Heading to Miller's Street instead, she nervously glanced back and around as she picked up her pace. "I'll catch you later, Blanche." "I certainly hope so." She stated, her crystal-blue eyes sparkled. I approached the perimeter where six uniforms stand guard, blocking off the street. They're making sure no one unauthorised entered the scene but missed my innocuous presence. Four sizeable white nylon panels are fastened by Velcro straps to PVC frames and form an ominous boxy shelter room enough for the Crime Scene Investigators to work in a while shielding the body from prying eyes. But like similar screens used roadside to prevent the curious, the temporary shelters also signal c*****e, and they won't stop helicopters from filming. Despite the local constabulary's best efforts, they won't be able to keep the crime scene out of the news. I stopped just short of the privacy screens, the sun almost overhead now illuminating what's inside. Blanche saw me and nodded, but I only had eyes for the body. An old-fashioned spike-, a tipped set of railings ran the length of the apartment block, and the body was impaled on the fence, still dripping blood. "Has he a name?" "Robbie Olde." "How many stories did he fall?" I ask Blanche. "Looks like a couple. That window there." There was a noise behind me. One of the uniforms was vomiting on the road. A colleague had an arm around his shoulders, encouraging the flow. "Let's get him down," Blanche tells her team. "Get the poor bastard into a body bag." The uniformed constable who had accompanied the Inspector earlier saw me swaying in the entrance and took quick annoyed strides back to my side. "You mustn't be in here, sir. It's a crime scene!" He cried with exasperation, stating clearly that my faintness was my fault. I nodded dumbly and started to turn away when a voice called out. "Constable!" The source of the shout came from the entrance to the flats. It was the Inspector, dressed from head to toe in a white coverall with boot covers. He beckoned me over and held out some coveralls packaged in cellophane. "Put these on." He pronounced sharply. "Why?" "You're coming with me." The Inspector waited while I worked the coveralls over my clothes. He then gave me some boot covers, and I pulled them on, standing on one foot at a time. Suiting up is an art, having witnessed seasoned investigators on many occasions put things backwards or lose their balance. I finished off by pulling on a pair of gloves. "Ready?" The Inspector's voice still sounded unfriendly. "Just out of curiosity." I verbalised. "Where are we going?" "Follow me." He had no intention of being expansive. He wanted me kept in the dark for as long as possible. I had dealt with these types of police officers on many occasions. Despite supposedly being on the same side, my old job had rarely made me popular with any of the constabularies I'd had the misfortune to work alongside.