was fifteen minutes’ walk away from his house; near enough not to make the journey a marathon, but far enough not to render it too easy – a pub on your doorstep is a bit too tempting. The night remained crisp and calm and the stinging cold air on his face as he walked made the warm welcome of the pub all the better. There was a real log fire crackling to greet the hostelry’s guests on a winter’s night like this despite the efforts of the health and safety people, who had sensibly tried to deprive folks of that pleasure.
Arthur arrived at just past eight-thirty to see Harry already sitting at one of the small tables away from the bar. Hart left his pint on a beer mat and got up to meet his friend.
‘The usual, Arthur?’ he asked, as he held up his index finger to communicate his order to the publican without waiting for an answer. The usual was a pint of Spitfire, although, if they also fancied treating their brain cells to a pleasant numbing while tickling their taste buds, they might get their lips around a Bishops Finger instead. He placed three and a half quid into the landlord’s hand and wondered as he always did how beer could be so expensive. ‘Anyone would think it’s a luxury item like milk or bread, not the staple of a man’s diet.’
They sat down, knocked their glasses together with a ‘cheers’ and both took a good slug of their brew. As he returned his glass to its mat, Rhodes started them off. ‘Right, Harry, let’s get the work bit of the evening over with first, shall we?’
‘What do you mean, Arthur? Work? This is a social get-together, I’ve knocked off for the day.’
‘When it’s murder, you’ve never knocked off. You’ll be dreaming about it, that’s if you can manage to get to sleep at all. Anyway, you’ve banished us out here at our table in the wilderness where we can’t be overheard, not sat us at the bar for a cosy chat.’
‘You should have been a copper, Arthur,’ smiled Hart. ‘Go on. You first.’
Rhodes started with the boring stuff, the stuff that was obvious. He was saving his exciting little snippet of news for the end of the tale.
‘Well, the lad died just how it looked. A big blow to the back of his head with something blunt. There was a bruise and some swelling on the side of the head, but that wouldn’t have killed him.’
‘So he was knocked down with the first whack and finished off with the second?’ suggested Hart.
‘Of course, there’s no way of being absolutely certain which blow was struck first,’ replied Rhodes carefully, ‘but that would be my guess. There were no other marks on the body, no sign of a struggle. He was probably unconscious before he knew he’d been hit, and dead a second or two later.’
‘Anything unusual at all? Under the fingernails, in the stomach?’
‘No one else’s skin under the nails, nothing in the stomach except what a hungry teenage lad would have eaten for his lunch.’ Rhodes drank some of his beer to spin out a little time, leaving a wavy line of froth on his gingery moustache. ‘But I have got something that you might be interested in. Will be for certain, actually.’
‘Go on, Arthur.’
‘All those handkerchiefs that he carried. I suppose you were wondering why he had three of them. It’s because he wiped his nose a lot,’ informed Arthur, exhausting a bit more time with a little joke.
‘They contained traces of cocaine, I expect.’ It was a bit mean of Hart to deprive the forensics expert of the pleasure of delivering the news, but he had his own reputation as a sleuth to preserve. His job was a big part of his life, and he knew he was too selfish to throw away the admiration he got from having a hunch proved right. He saw the disappointed look on his friend’s huge face. ‘I cheated though, Arthur. As well as the bloody hankies, loads of chocolate was found in the boy’s bedroom.’
‘Ah, yes. Cocaine users can’t utilise glucose too well. Gives them a craving for
Arthur arrived at just past eight-thirty to see Harry already sitting at one of the small tables away from the bar. Hart left his pint on a beer mat and got up to meet his friend.
‘The usual, Arthur?’ he asked, as he held up his index finger to communicate his order to the publican without waiting for an answer. The usual was a pint of Spitfire, although, if they also fancied treating their brain cells to a pleasant numbing while tickling their taste buds, they might get their lips around a Bishops Finger instead. He placed three and a half quid into the landlord’s hand and wondered as he always did how beer could be so expensive. ‘Anyone would think it’s a luxury item like milk or bread, not the staple of a man’s diet.’
They sat down, knocked their glasses together with a ‘cheers’ and both took a good slug of their brew. As he returned his glass to its mat, Rhodes started them off. ‘Right, Harry, let’s get the work bit of the evening over with first, shall we?’
‘What do you mean, Arthur? Work? This is a social get-together, I’ve knocked off for the day.’
‘When it’s murder, you’ve never knocked off. You’ll be dreaming about it, that’s if you can manage to get to sleep at all. Anyway, you’ve banished us out here at our table in the wilderness where we can’t be overheard, not sat us at the bar for a cosy chat.’
‘You should have been a copper, Arthur,’ smiled Hart. ‘Go on. You first.’
Rhodes started with the boring stuff, the stuff that was obvious. He was saving his exciting little snippet of news for the end of the tale.
‘Well, the lad died just how it looked. A big blow to the back of his head with something blunt. There was a bruise and some swelling on the side of the head, but that wouldn’t have killed him.’
‘So he was knocked down with the first whack and finished off with the second?’ suggested Hart.
‘Of course, there’s no way of being absolutely certain which blow was struck first,’ replied Rhodes carefully, ‘but that would be my guess. There were no other marks on the body, no sign of a struggle. He was probably unconscious before he knew he’d been hit, and dead a second or two later.’
‘Anything unusual at all? Under the fingernails, in the stomach?’
‘No one else’s skin under the nails, nothing in the stomach except what a hungry teenage lad would have eaten for his lunch.’ Rhodes drank some of his beer to spin out a little time, leaving a wavy line of froth on his gingery moustache. ‘But I have got something that you might be interested in. Will be for certain, actually.’
‘Go on, Arthur.’
‘All those handkerchiefs that he carried. I suppose you were wondering why he had three of them. It’s because he wiped his nose a lot,’ informed Arthur, exhausting a bit more time with a little joke.
‘They contained traces of cocaine, I expect.’ It was a bit mean of Hart to deprive the forensics expert of the pleasure of delivering the news, but he had his own reputation as a sleuth to preserve. His job was a big part of his life, and he knew he was too selfish to throw away the admiration he got from having a hunch proved right. He saw the disappointed look on his friend’s huge face. ‘I cheated though, Arthur. As well as the bloody hankies, loads of chocolate was found in the boy’s bedroom.’
‘Ah, yes. Cocaine users can’t utilise glucose too well. Gives them a craving for
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