Dear Chief Inspector
If you are reading this then you must have outlived me. I can see you now in your comfy slippers, corduroys, cardie and a tie, sitting in your nursing home dribbling. I feel so sorry for you. It must have been simply awful. Reaching retirement with the greatest case of your career unsolved. How old are you now? Seventy? Eighty? Ninety? Has some nice young WPC come to visit you? Did she bring my diary? Can you still see? Or is she having to read it to you? Turn up the hearing aid. "How are you, dear?" "Do you need a bottle?" "Have you been?" Are you hoping at last to discover all of my little secrets? So you can die in peace? Or pain? From the first I thought I might be too clever for you. I don’t think so now! I know now! You never had a chance! After I’d solved the girl/freezer conundrum, I knew exactly what I was. You never had a Bob or a Maurice!
How to get rid of the body?
K.I.S.S. (In case you don’t know. Keep it simple, stupid!)
There I was, on the fourth floor, dead body, nosey neighbours. What to do? And then it hit me. A Nice big freezer! I couldn’t just stick her in and waltz down the stairs could I? I had to have a cover. So, local paper - “Freezers for sale”. There are loads of them. Quick call to a few. “What make? How old? How much?” Usual stuff. None of which really mattered. “What are the dimensions?”. A bit Goldilocks I’ll think you’ll agree, some too big, some too small but, after six or seven calls, hey presto! Just right!
They were about twenty minutes away. “Would you be good enough to hold it for me? It’ll take about an hour to get to you.”
Of course they would. Lovely people. Salt of the earth.
Quick call to B&Q for a tin of araldite, heavy duty gloves, wide brown sticky tape and a new toilet brush; then off to Curry’s, white goods superstore. Great shop Curry’s! And round the back lives Sid and a lad, surrounded by cardboard. Warehousemen, they call themselves. Very friendly; especially if you’ve got a favour to ask and a fiver in your hand. “I wonder if you gentlemen can help? I’m moving house and I don’t want to damage my appliances in the move. Do you have any boxes I could buy?” So helpful! They went to enormous trouble to find me boxes to fit my freezer, washing machine, tumble dryer and dishwasher. Shame I don’t own the last three but the boxes might come in handy some day. They even lent me a sack truck as long as I promised to let them have it back the next day.
Easy peasy! Work gloves on. Pick up freezer. The lovely couple helped me put it in the box and tape it up. Then home. “Oh, look! He’s bought a new freezer.”
Off with the packaging. Tidy up my lady friend. Toilet brush for those difficult to get at places. In the freezer. Bit of glue. Next day. “Oh, look! He’s getting rid of his old freezer.” Well, they might have said that if anyone had seen me on the stairs.
So. Now you know. Local paper and Curry’s! An unlimited supply of ready made coffins whenever required.
*************************
Bloody themes! I’m going about this all the wrong way.
Eeny meeny miney mo! So, off to St Pauls in Bristol, ( I was in Bristol on business), and visits to all to the local newsagents, the Pentecostal church notice board, and the soul food restaurants. Anywhere that would let me put my posters up.
“Just moved into area. NHS Chiropodist/Podiatrist. 15 years in London.
Nigel Townsend D.Pod.M.,M.Ch.S. State Registered Chiropodist.
I insist on a free interview/consultation before agreeing to take new clients into my list.
Please telephone XXXXXXXXXX to arrange initial consultation in the privacy of your own home.”
The ‘phone didn’t stop. Chiropody on the NHS? I booked my diary solid for two full days before I turned the'phone off and threw it in the river. Had some lovely business cards printed by the machine in the station. Took along a notepad. Dressed the part and off to meet a little black lamb for the slaughter.
Oh, God! It was awful.
They were all so old. Huge great fat black women looking like the maid from Tom and Jerry or wizened knobbly old crones. And why did they all insist on taking their bloody popsocks off the moment I sat down. After the first three I couldn’t take one more “nice cup o’ tea and a chocolate biscuit!”. They’ll write “persistent” on my tombstone. For two whole days the only highlight was when the door was opened by a pretty young thing who led me into the living room, and went off to make me a cup of tea. But the antimacassars told me everything. It was her Gran, not her, who needed my services.
What a complete waste of time!
So, I’ve decided not to be so literal. Find one who takes my fancy. Take her back to the stables. Hang her up by her toes for a bit. That’ll work.
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