Stuart Pawson - Last Reminder

I was late, so I indulged myself with a leisurely breakfast. I have a theory about these things. Breezing into the office an hour after everybody else, bristling with energy like a hedgehog on the live rail, creates a better impression amongst the troops than skulking in at ten past, ill shaven and suffering from caffeine deficiency.

The personal radio propped against the window was asking all available cars to go to the by-pass, where a lorry had shed thirty tons of self-raising flour. A lot of other people were going to be late for work this Monday morning. Could be interesting if it rained. I looked out of the window but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, worse luck. I snipped the end off the boil-in-the-bag kippers, guaranteed not to stink out the kitchen, and poured myself another cup of strong, sweet tea.

I was on my way in, personal radio hissing and crackling on the passenger seat, when the message came for Lima Tango to go to the park.

‘We’ve our hands full at the by-pass, skip,’ I heard the observer protest. ‘Can it wait?’

I reached across and pressed the transmit button.

‘Charlie Priest to Heckley control. What’s the problem in the park?’ I asked.

‘Hello, Mr Priest,’ came the reply. ‘Have you slept in?’ Another theory crashed and burnt.

‘Only exercising my knack for being the right man in the right place. Am just passing park gates. What’s the problem?’

‘Not sure. Message garbled, caller sounded hysterical. We’d be grateful if you could take it.’

‘OK, will be at the keeper’s cottage in under two minutes. Out.’ I spun the car round and made a left turn through the gates of Heckley municipal park.

I grew up in this park. When I was a toddler my parents would bring me for walks on Sunday afternoons. We’d feed the ducks and I would ride the paddle-boats on the little lake. Later, it was birds’ nesting and cowboys and Indians in the woods. As teenagers we would moodily follow the girls around, rarely integrating with them, or maybe use the tennis courts or the putting green to show off our skills with racket and club. Later still, much later, it was moonlit strolls under the chestnut trees, the air heavy with the scents of magnolia, honeysuckle and unrequited lust.

A newspaper headline described the assassination of President Kennedy as the day innocence died. I’d put it about fifteen years later than that. No one in their right mind came into this park at night since that time, unless they were looking to be mugged, stabbed or raped. Teenagers of both sexes roared round on motorbikes or in stolen cars, leaving their jetsam of lager cans, used condoms and burnt-out wrecks in their wakes. Addicts and dealers plied their trade, while others sought comfort and privacy in the cloying darkness.

The leaves across the road told me that I was the first vehicle down the avenue that morning. The rhododendrons had long lost their blooms, but the roses were confused by the late summer and managed a respectable show. The tennis courts were still there, but Tarmac now, and their wire cages hung broken, like wind-blown spiders’ webs.

The curtains moved when I drew up outside the keeper’s cottage, and he came to the door as I opened his front gate. He was a little man, his face lined and cracked by the drought, or perhaps by the ceaseless battle against impossible odds to keep the park a thing of beauty. He wore a grey jacket over a collarless shirt. Gardeners always wear jackets. Roses grew round the door and his little garden glowed with colourful plants that I couldn’t begin to recognise. Clearly, no weed ever made it past infancy there.

I flashed my ID. ‘Detective Inspector Priest, Heckley CID,’ I told him.

He gestured with a wave of his hand, as if he had difficulty speaking. ‘They’re ower ’ere,’ he managed to say and, moving past me, he began striding towards the lake. I hadn’t expected him to congratulate me for being quick, and he didn’t. Two minutes is a long time when you are waiting for the police. I turned, carefully closed the gate, and followed.

There was a muddy patch leading down to the water’s edge, puddled by webbed feet and several generations of guano. The mud was criss-crossed with the tracks of mountain bikes.

I stood next to the keeper, surveying the carnage.

‘They allus come to t’door to be fed, every mornin’.’ I realised he was weeping. ‘They din’t come this mornin’.’

Well, they wouldn’t, would they? After a moment I put my hand on his arm. ‘Go put the kettle on,’ I suggested. ‘I’ll see what I can find here.’ He sniffed and nodded and shuffled away.

They were floating in the shallows, four of them, their necks abruptly terminated, so the carcasses resembled weird retorts from a Dali-esque chemistry set. There had been nothing graceful about these deaths. No prima ballerina, nudging her sell-by date, had given the performance of her career in this park last night. Deprived of life, of balance, the swans had slumped over, bobbing about with all the elegance of bags of sausages. Their waterlogged wings were extended and black feet reached upwards, like bats taking flight. When I looked into the water, staring through the reflections, I could see blood oozing into the mud. And everywhere, blowing across the grass, into the flower beds and the azalea bushes, was a blizzard of white feathers. Winter had come early, and I could taste kippers.

I hooked a finger into a discarded beer can and studied it. Once it had contained Newcastle Brown, and now it was smeared with gore. I used to be a Newky Brown man myself, a long time ago. We drank it in the back rooms of pubs with flagstone floors, listening to songs about moving on, and the people you saw on the streets of London. Never was a generation so deluded. Now we have people like that in every market town in the country. Back at the car I popped the can into a plastic Sainsbury’s bag.

The front room of the keeper’s cottage was tiny and cluttered. He and his wife collected toby jugs. And little dolls with crocheted clothes. And plates celebrating various events and places. A coal fire blazed in the hearth and condensation streamed down the windows. The keeper’s wife, still in her dressing gown, gave me tea in a china mug with teddy bears on it.

‘Don’t see many like that, these days,’ I said, nodding towards the fire. They mumbled agreement. The morning sun was lancing through the window, and between the runnels of water you could see the mist rising from the dew-sodden grass. ‘You’d live in a beautiful place,’ I told them, ‘if it wasn’t for the people.’ This time the agreement was more enthusiastic.

They’d seen and heard nothing. On the previous evening they had driven into the estate, to a harvest festival supper, and returned about ten thirty. It was impossible to say if the deed had been done by then. They gave me descriptions of the kids they regarded as the most likely offenders, but they meant nothing to me.

‘Do you know who to ring at the council,’ I asked, ‘to get them to remove the bodies?’

He was a council employee, so he did.

‘OK. Well, I suggest you arrange for them to be collected, as soon as possible. Do you have any objections if I ask the Gazette to do an article, with photographs? It’s very doubtful that we’ll catch anybody, but if we create enough fuss we might just tweak their consciences.’

They had no objections, but disagreed with me about the consciences. ‘Right. I’ll ask them to have a photographer here as soon as possible, and I’ll tell our town parks officer to call on you. Thanks for the tea. I’ll have another look around, and let you know if we turn anything up.’