Southend U3A

Writing for Fun

March 2018

Mystery - Maureen Rampersaud

Poppy thanked Father John for the service and made her way, gingerly, along the snow-covered path. The congregation had been sparse, no doubt because the older church members had decided not to risk the icy conditions. She was glad she'd made the effort, even though the footpath from the farm was challenging. Poppy regretted the fact that her teenage sons didn't accompany her any more. Still, maybe when they had their own children they might come back. She smiled at she thought of grandchildren as she negotiated the stile and retraced her footprints through the field. The perfect snow glistened like diamonds under the bright, winter sun.

* * *

Nick Newman swaggered towards the fluorescent police tape with his gloveless hands in his pockets.

'Constable Potts, I presume. What's the story?'

'Sorry, Mr. Newman, no talking to the press – orders from the Chief. I'm still in trouble about that burglar with the bra fetish that you worked up into the crime of the century. You wheedled that out of me, it won't happen again.'

Newman looked aghast. 'Potts! How can you say that? And after I found your precious moggy for you too.'

'Well, I was grateful, I'll admit.'

'So was your missus, Potts, she cried all over my new mac when I brought him back. By the way, poor Mrs. Howarth, bludgeoned to death in Bluebell Wood.'

Potts nodded vigorously, then stopped.

'Wait a minute, who told you that? It was strictly confidential.'

Newman tapped the side of his nose.

'Thanks for confirming the rumour, Potts.'

Back in his office, Newman did what he did best. He conjured up a riveting yarn from very little. He stopped to mull it over. It didn't make sense. Who would want to hurt Poppy Howarth? She was, well, ordinary. Maybe a bit 'churchy', but that isn't a crime. He decided to go for a pint.

'The usual?' enquired Tom.

Newman responded with a nod. Tom continued, 'God awful news about Poppy, coming home from church too. It's getting like Midsomer Murders round here.'

Newman took his pint to the darkest corner of the pub, he needed to think. A low voice intruded into his thoughts, 'Another one, Dad, I got another one for you.'

Newman turned round but he couldn't see who was speaking, behind the wooden screen. He got up and moved slowly towards the bar, past a young man looking at a crumpled photograph. Newman's sixth sense kicked in, he carried on walking out of the pub and got straight on the 'phone.

* * *

Potts popped round to see him a couple of days later.

'I thought I'd come and see you in person. Thanks to you, after we picked him up from the pub, he came right out with it. It seems that he and his dad were bullied by the mother. She was a bible-thumping harridan who made their lives a misery, until the father committed suicide. After the funeral, the mother was found, stabbed through the heart . . . no sign of the son. We believe he's responsible for two other murders, besides Mrs. Howarth's. All women on their way back from church. You've earned a few brownie points for this one, Newman.'

Newman scratched his ear. 'How about an exclusive?'