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Short Stories from Wing's Authors.
100 Not Out by A. W. Lambert It was Sunday morning and Detective Inspector Reginald Hardacre was feeling very sorry for himself. He firmly believed he had the flu. Not man flu that men were ridiculed for, but real flu. Had to be, because he hadn’t felt so bad for a very long time and weren’t they saying there was a lot of it about? His wife, however, had shown very little sympathy. “At your age, if you really feel that bad, you should stay at home; stay in bed,” she had said firmly. “It’s the weekend, for goodness sake.” She knew as well as he did that he wouldn’t, of course. He never did. In good health or bad, the Force had been his life since his raw recruit days all those years before. Even now, with only a couple of years to retirement, it was just the same. Weekend or not, staying at home was impossible when there was so much to be done. He had a full case load as it was and the Superintendent’s call earlier hadn’t helped. A missing person and not just any missing person. The local Labour Party candidate had mysteriously disappeared while out on the campaign trail. How the hell could that happen? Hardacre remembered how pleased he had been, with the local elections in full swing, that he was no longer part of the uniform branch; hadn’t been for a very long time. All that patrolling, policing meetings and looking after individuals so full of their own self-importance. No thanks pal, he was finished with all of that. Yeah, right. “Top of the list,” the Super had snapped down the telephone, probably making the call as he left for his Sunday round of golf. Thanks a lot mate. Hardacre had managed to organise a large mug of hot, very strong and very sweet tea when he’d arrived at the station and with its help he had just swallowed two ‘extra strong’ paracetamols. Cupping the still half-full mug between his stubby fingers, he relaxed with a sigh back into the old chair. He stared into space, thinking, taking advantage of the few quiet moments. Soon life would erupt. It always did. The familiar knock, when inevitably it came, was less a knock, more a club hammer being applied to the other side of his office door. It was followed, with only the slightest of pauses, with the door being kicked open. “Morning, guv’, lovely morning.” The greeting was the same every morning, rain or shine. The huge, almost brutish looking young man standing in the doorway looked completely out of place, as he did every morning, holding the two dainty cups and saucers in his banana sized mitts. “Oh, you’ve already got one,” he boomed, stopping uncertainly and looking down at the mug clasped in his boss’s hands. Chester McCullock was without doubt the best detective Constable Hardacre had ever had assigned to him. He was also the biggest, the loudest and the most overpowering. Feeling as he did today, Hardacre would have welcomed young Chester turning the volume down just a tad. He said nothing, though, just nodded to the chair opposite while at the same time holding out his free hand. Taking the offered cup, he poured its contents into the mug he was still holding. “Could empty a bloody horse trough today,” he rasped. “Right, what’ve you got for me?” McCullock reached for his notebook. “Six thirty pm yesterday afternoon. The Labour band wagon was on a roll canvassing the Barnsdale estate area. There was a whole bunch of ’em but they divided their forces, each being allotted a particular area. They agreed to meet sometime later at the Bull, a pub just off the high street. The Labour candidate, name of Trench, went off down Marsden Street.” “And they haven’t seen him since, right?” Hardacre cut in. “Her,” McCullock said without looking up from his notebook. “What?” “Her,” the Constable repeated. “The Labour candidate is a her. Ms Julia Trench.” Two hours later the car drew to a halt at the end of Marsden Street. Located almost in the centre of the Barnsdale estate, it was one of the more run down areas. The two men climbed from the car which subsequently rocked violently as the driver’s door was slammed. Hardacre glared across the roof of the car at his Constable as, completely unaware of his boss’s displeasure at his violent treatment of police property, he stomped round the car to join him on the pavement, his mountainous six foot four frame towering over the other’s short, stubby figure. Shaking his head, the Inspector heaved a resigned sigh. “Okay, take me through what happened yesterday,” he growled. Again the young detective referred to his notebook. “It seems that Ms Trench and four of her helpers arrived here at about six. They split the area into segments, each being allocated several streets to cover. They agreed to meet at seven thirty at the Bull. According to the others, Ms Trench headed off down Marsden Street.” He pointed toward the narrow, shabby looking street. “That was the last any of them saw of her.” “She didn’t turn up at the Bull?” “No. Her team waited for almost an hour; they said until about eight thirty. At first they weren’t worried because Ms Trench was apparently notorious for taking her time over this sort of thing. She preached it regularly apparently, demanding that they all donate as much time as was necessary to the voters.” “So okay, they waited. Then what?” “Then they began to get concerned and decided to go and see if they could find her. Again they split up and searched the streets. There was no sign of Ms Trench, but a couple of streets away they found this lying on top of a dust bin.” He handed the Inspector a clipboard. “What’s this?” The Inspector scanned the board and the sheets of paper attached to it. “It’s what they use when they’re canvassing.” McCullock pointed to the sheets secured to the board. “They all use the same proforma and make notes of the responses on the doorstep. They record who they talk to, their views, what they think are the important issues of the day and most important; who they say they’re going to vote for. By collating all the returns they can get a rough idea how they stand in the polls.” Hardacre nodded. “Yeah, I would guess rough would be an apt description for this area, too.” He flicked through the wodge of proformas clipped to the board, studying each sheet for several moments. “So what are you telling me here?” “Well y’see, they all have their own board, guv, and they assure me that this one belongs to Ms Trench. It’s the one she was using.” “They’re sure about this?” “Yup, they’re certain. No doubt about it, apparently. Y’see, she always insisted on doing her own thing, taking her own notes, the lot.” Hardacre handed the clipboard back to McCullock, turning and looking at the houses around them. It was obvious that some of the tenants were still trying hard to maintain a semblance of respectability, others were completely run down, their tenants, probably unemployed, having long since given up the struggle. A few were not even occupied. “Our inner city wonderland,” he sighed. Despite it being a chilly, overcast day, Hardacre felt hot and clammy. A headache was beginning to form behind his eyes. “Bloody flu,” he groaned as they turned back toward the car. “So what’s the next move, guv?” They were heading back to the station; McCullock at the wheel, Hardacre huddled miserably beside him. “Uniform and a complete search of the area,” the Inspector growled. “And you to the council offices. Get me an up to date listing of tenants on the Barnsdale estate, particularly Marsden Street. Drop me off and get to it right away.” “Er, it’s Sunday, guv.” Hardacre glowered sideways. “So?” “The council offices, they won’t be open.” “You’re working, aren’t you?” “Well yeah, but...” “No buts, Constable. Get the council clerk; or whoever does the business down there, out of bed or out of the pub, wherever he is. I want that list and I want it like yesterday, understand?” “I’m on it.” McCullock grinned, relishing the short, clipped instructions from his idol. He had come to recognise the signs. It meant the boss’s brain had already clicked into gear, the cogs were already turning. It was why he had applied for CID in the first place. And then to be put with Reggie Hardacre, one of the most experienced and revered officers in the force, he couldn’t have asked for more. There were none better than his boss in full swing and McCullock thanked his lucky stars for that. He pushed his foot firmly on the throttle, unaware, as the car shot forward, of the apprehensive sidelong glance from his suffering boss. The search of the Barnsdale estate had hardly begun when the officer in charge was given Hardacre’s message. He acted swiftly and the house in question was soon surrounded. The pounding on the front door had the desired effect and the two young men exiting the back door at speed were quickly apprehended. The petrified, but totally unharmed Ms Trench was found securely bound, gagged and dumped unceremoniously beneath a very grubby sink unit in the kitchen. Later, back at his office, Hardacre sat cradling yet another large mug of steaming tea. More paracetamol had followed those before and though he was not prepared to admit it just yet, he had a distinct feeling that he was beginning to feel better. “So it wasn’t planned then?” Hardacre looked across at McCullock’s eager hulk sitting opposite, his whole demeanour hungry for explanation. “Nope. It was just coincidence.” The detective Constable leaned forward, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “Coincidence?” “Uh-Huh. The two young tearaways were using the house as a doss. When Ms Trench knocked on the door they were high on drugs and their stupefied brains came up with the idea of kidnap. It was a spur of the moment thing. They were potless and needed cash.” “But that’s stupid. How on earth did they think they could get away with that?” “Nothing is impossible when cocaine rules. You can even fly if you want to. Plenty have tried.” Hardacre shook his head sadly. “Anyway, other than battering her pride a little, they didn’t harm Ms Trench. In fact when the drugs began to wear off and they realised what they’d done, they were just as terrified as she was.” “But I still don’t understand how you worked it out, guv. McCullock scratched the back of his head. “How did you know she would be in that house?” Hardacre pushed the Labour candidate’s clipboard across the desk toward his young detective. “We were lucky to find this,” he said. “But it wasn’t until you got the list from the council that it dawned on me.” Pausing, he drank some of the now cooling tea. “You see, the council list indicated that a number of the properties were unoccupied, right?” McCullock nodded, but the deep frown remained. “Look at the sheet, man,” Hardacre growled, but with a broad grin. “They said she was a stickler for detail, didn’t they? She made a note of all the houses she called at and whether the occupants were at home or not; whether they were in or out. Trouble was, with some houses unoccupied, there were more out than there were in. Ms Trench had recorded so many ‘outs’ that when she got to one where somebody actually answered the door she didn’t record ‘in’ she wrote ‘100 not out’. Look at the last entry on her sheet; she even underlined it.” He sat back contentedly and drained the mug. McCullock scanned the sheet attached to the clipboard. “100 not out,” he said thoughtfully then, a slow smile of realisation spreading, he reached for the council tenant’s list, quickly turning the pages. He read out loud the appropriate entry: Number 100 Marsden Street – Unoccupied. Open mouthed he looked across at his boss. “Bloody brilliant.” “It has been said before,” Detective Inspector Reginald Hardacre said smugly. Yes, now he was sure; he certainly was feeling very much better.
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