asleep in his deckchair, his belly full of roast beef, Yorkshire pud and veggies he’d grown himself.
Giving George a final kiss goodbye, he turned away in tears.
Outside, in the anteroom, the old man’s belongings were handed to him in a transparent plastic bag: the clothes he’d been wearing the last time they saw each other; his ancient watch
rendered useless as a timepiece, its numerals blurred by deep scratches on the face from handling brambles in the allotment; his rose gold wedding band, soft and smooth with wear; a few quid and
some loose change.
Not much to show for nearly eighty years of exemplary life.
It’s not much.
They were his grandfather’s very words when he held up the brown paper parcel at the garage with his money inside.
It’s not much but it’s all
I’ve got, lad, and I want you to have it.
Elliot suddenly got to his feet, panic rising in his chest. The morgue assistant looked genuinely shocked when he asked her where the rest of the money was. Taken aback by the question, she
asked him to sit down while she rechecked the property log, specifically the entry made when his grandfather’s body was transferred to the morgue from the hospital emergency room.
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Milburn. I’m afraid that’s all there was.’
‘No! That’s not right!’ Elliot tried not to display his anger after the kindness she’d shown to him earlier. ‘My granddad had over a thousand pounds in his pocket,
his life savings. I want it back.’
Taking the only avenue open to her, the assistant referred him to the police to make a formal complaint of theft. He’d been stewing over it ever since. It wasn’t the money that
worried him but the thought that his grandfather may have been murdered for it. Had he been mugged in the street? There were no obvious signs of injury on his person, no bump where he’d
fallen – or so they said. Cause of death had been determined as sudden cardiac arrest according to the medical examiner. Not suspicious in nature, just plain old natural causes.
But that didn’t quite cut it for Elliot. Cardiac arrest could’ve been brought on by shock, couldn’t it? If his grandfather had been attacked, or even threatened, it might well
have contributed to his death. In his mind, that was tantamount to murder. No different to that of a thief plunging a knife into the old man’s chest. And if foul play was even suspected,
then, much as it pained him to do it, he would insist on a second post-mortem.
Poor Gramps.
E lliot took out his handkerchief and blew hard, choking back a flood of tears he still had left to shed, wondering how he’d fill the void left by his grandfather’s
demise. The clock on the wall opposite ticked forward a notch to three-fifteen. He’d been waiting for ages to see Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels, the woman in charge of the Murder
Investigation Team. He’d asked for her by name but was told she was dealing with a major enquiry, which he presumed was the arson in Ralph Street. He’d seen her on the television many
times appealing for witnesses or talking to the press. She’d always impressed him as a compassionate human being, a person determined to seek justice for victims of crime. Not like some of
the tossers you get on the box nowadays, only interested in getting their sound bites in, their main aim to look good in front of the camera in order to attain the next rank.
A big man appeared through a security door marked
Staff Only Beyond This Point
. He crossed to the counter and talked in low whispers for a second to the desk sergeant, who pointed at
the bench where Elliot was sitting. Then the big man turned to face him, giving him a sympathetic half-smile as if somehow he knew about his grandfather and understood exactly what he must be going
through.
‘Mr Milburn?’ he said. ‘I’m DS Gormley, Murder Investigation Team. I understand you’ve been waiting to see DCI Daniels.’
Elliot nodded
Giving George a final kiss goodbye, he turned away in tears.
Outside, in the anteroom, the old man’s belongings were handed to him in a transparent plastic bag: the clothes he’d been wearing the last time they saw each other; his ancient watch
rendered useless as a timepiece, its numerals blurred by deep scratches on the face from handling brambles in the allotment; his rose gold wedding band, soft and smooth with wear; a few quid and
some loose change.
Not much to show for nearly eighty years of exemplary life.
It’s not much.
They were his grandfather’s very words when he held up the brown paper parcel at the garage with his money inside.
It’s not much but it’s all
I’ve got, lad, and I want you to have it.
Elliot suddenly got to his feet, panic rising in his chest. The morgue assistant looked genuinely shocked when he asked her where the rest of the money was. Taken aback by the question, she
asked him to sit down while she rechecked the property log, specifically the entry made when his grandfather’s body was transferred to the morgue from the hospital emergency room.
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Milburn. I’m afraid that’s all there was.’
‘No! That’s not right!’ Elliot tried not to display his anger after the kindness she’d shown to him earlier. ‘My granddad had over a thousand pounds in his pocket,
his life savings. I want it back.’
Taking the only avenue open to her, the assistant referred him to the police to make a formal complaint of theft. He’d been stewing over it ever since. It wasn’t the money that
worried him but the thought that his grandfather may have been murdered for it. Had he been mugged in the street? There were no obvious signs of injury on his person, no bump where he’d
fallen – or so they said. Cause of death had been determined as sudden cardiac arrest according to the medical examiner. Not suspicious in nature, just plain old natural causes.
But that didn’t quite cut it for Elliot. Cardiac arrest could’ve been brought on by shock, couldn’t it? If his grandfather had been attacked, or even threatened, it might well
have contributed to his death. In his mind, that was tantamount to murder. No different to that of a thief plunging a knife into the old man’s chest. And if foul play was even suspected,
then, much as it pained him to do it, he would insist on a second post-mortem.
Poor Gramps.
E lliot took out his handkerchief and blew hard, choking back a flood of tears he still had left to shed, wondering how he’d fill the void left by his grandfather’s
demise. The clock on the wall opposite ticked forward a notch to three-fifteen. He’d been waiting for ages to see Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels, the woman in charge of the Murder
Investigation Team. He’d asked for her by name but was told she was dealing with a major enquiry, which he presumed was the arson in Ralph Street. He’d seen her on the television many
times appealing for witnesses or talking to the press. She’d always impressed him as a compassionate human being, a person determined to seek justice for victims of crime. Not like some of
the tossers you get on the box nowadays, only interested in getting their sound bites in, their main aim to look good in front of the camera in order to attain the next rank.
A big man appeared through a security door marked
Staff Only Beyond This Point
. He crossed to the counter and talked in low whispers for a second to the desk sergeant, who pointed at
the bench where Elliot was sitting. Then the big man turned to face him, giving him a sympathetic half-smile as if somehow he knew about his grandfather and understood exactly what he must be going
through.
‘Mr Milburn?’ he said. ‘I’m DS Gormley, Murder Investigation Team. I understand you’ve been waiting to see DCI Daniels.’
Elliot nodded
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