Routine Enquiry

Charlie wiped the remnants of a full English from his plate and shoved the last slice of bread into his mouth. The doorbell rang. He cleaned his face with the tea towel, dropped it on the table, and strolled along the passage to the front door.

On opening the door, he saw two men in matching raincoats standing on the doorstep.

“Can I help you?” Charlie asked.

“Charlie Todd?” one of them said.

A puzzled expression crossed his face. “Who wants to know?”

As if practised, they removed their warrant cards from their inside pockets.

“Detective Inspector Thomson,” said the older one, pointing to the other. “Detective Constable Adams.”

“Don’t tell me. I failed to pay a parking fine?”

Thomson, about forty, clean‑shaven, posh accent, asked, “Is there anybody else in the house, sir?”

“No. My wife’s gone away, and I’ve no idea when she’ll be back.”

“May we come in, sir?”

“Might as well. Better than standing on the doorstep. The neighbours might think you’re Mormons.”

Charlie led them into the lounge. The air smelt of cigarettes and stale curry. Last night’s Indian takeaway cartons lay on the coffee table.

“It may be something or nothing at all, sir,” Thomson began. “We’ve received a report that late last night you were digging a trench in your garden.” He cleared his throat. “I understand your wife has been away for a while.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“What don’t you believe, sir?” Thomson asked.

Charlie laughed. “It means, ‘You try to be discreet, but the smart arse next door calls the police. Let me explain.” He took a breath. “My dog died. I thought it nicer to bury him in the garden where he loved to play. My wife left me for a man twenty years younger. Before you ask, I’ve no idea where she’s gone, and as far as I’m concerned, he can have her. I don’t care.”

Thomson looked unmoved. “Could you show me where your dog is buried, sir?”

“I’ll dig him up if you want.”

Thomson didn’t smile. “I hope it doesn’t come to that, sir, but we do have people who do exhume bodies.”

“Follow me.”

For once, the weather forecast was right. Rain fell onto already sodden ground. Charlie grabbed an umbrella and stepped into the garden. The two men trailed behind as the rain grew heavier.

“That’s where I buried him,” Charlie said, pointing at the mound.

“Thank you, sir,” said Thomson. “Can we go back inside? I want to look around. If it’s not acceptable, I can always get a search warrant.”

“I’ve nothing to hide, but it’s a tad inconvenient. I’ve a train to catch.”

“We won’t take long, sir. First impressions matter. Not coming back later to find the house neat and tidy. Your bedroom first.”

Charlie laughed. “Fill your boots.”

Thomson and Adams trudged upstairs.

“It’s first on the right,” Charlie called.

“I can tell you live alone,” Thomson said, surveying the chaos. “Bed’s not made. Clothes everywhere.” He picked up a pair of white lace knickers. “Yours, sir?”

Charlie grinned. “A lady I know. We have an arrangement, and she stays over now and then. You know how it works.”

“Yes. We’re aware you like the ladies.”

“Look, my wife’s buggered off. I’ve no intention of retiring to a monastery.”

Thomson opened the wardrobe. “Are these your wife’s clothes?”

“You must be a detective. Right in one. I’ll give her a few more weeks, then they’re off to the charity shop.”

Thomson wandered the landing, Adams trailing behind like a loyal dog.

“Sir,” Thomson called, “where were you the day your wife left?”

“At my factory. All day, as far as I remember. You can check with my secretary. You found her knickers.”

“The perfect alibi.”

“Perfect for what?” Charlie snapped. “You’re making it up as you go along. Haven’t you got better things to do?”

Thomson smiled weakly and walked to the far end of the lounge, repeating every question.

Charlie stared back. “You think I killed my wife and buried her in the garden, don’t you?”

“Why would I assume that, sir?”

“All these questions. Have you something against me?”

“We are carrying out a routine enquiry.”

“Tell you what, Inspector. Why don’t you and your pal find my wife? That’ll end this.”

“Is that likely?” Thomson asked. “How long ago did she leave, and where is she?”

“A few weeks ago. I don’t know, and I don’t care. Told you that before.”

Thomson shrugged. “What date did she leave?”

“The second of June. She left a note, but I threw it in the bin. Might still be there.”

Thomson’s expression softened. “Thank you, sir. We’ll be on our way.”

Charlie followed them to the door. “Inspector, sometimes her lift didn’t reach the top floor. Jackie took everything far too seriously.”

Thomson paused. “You were going to the station. If it helps, I can give you a lift.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll catch the later train to Birmingham.”

“Something important?”

Charlie’s heart thumped. “It’s the annual convention of pork pie makers.”

Thomson grinned. “They have conferences for everything these days.”

“It’s my secret ingredient.” Charlie gave a thin smile. “The judges awarded my company first prize. Wait here.” He disappeared, then returned with two boxes. “On the house. Todd’s prize‑winning pork pies. My wife loved them.”

Thomson accepted the boxes. “Much appreciated, sir. I’ll log these as… hospitality items.”

“They’re pork pies, Inspector, not bribes.”

“Even so, rules are rules.”

Adams nodded solemnly, as though this were a cornerstone of British policing.

Charlie folded his arms. “Well, unless you want a guided tour of the airing cupboard, I need to get ready.”

Thomson didn’t move. He sniffed a pie, then glanced inside the hallway. “Before we go, sir.”

Charlie groaned. “What now? You want to interview the Hoover?”

“Is it unusual,” Thomson said, “for a man to attend a convention alone?”

“Not really. It’s a few days away from the wife. We have a great piss up and there’s always the chance of a bit of hanky-panky. I have friends in the force who have to work overtime on a Friday night. I’ll meet them in town at Grab a Granny night.”

Adams scribbled something. Charlie craned his neck. “Want the address?”

Adams’ face turned red“ No, thank you, sir.”

“For God’s sake.”

Thomson cleared his throat. “We may check in with you later. Routine follow‑up. Missing persons procedure.”

“I understand you’re bored,” Charlie said. “Try Sudoku.”

Thomson ignored him. “If your wife contacts you, inform us at once.”

“If she contacts me, Inspector, I’ll be too busy celebrating.”

Thomson gave a thin smile. “Enjoy Birmingham.”

They walked down the path, rain bouncing off their coats. Halfway to the gate, Thomson paused.

“Mr Todd?”

Charlie raised an eyebrow.

“You said your wife loved these pies.”

“She did.”

Thomson nodded slowly. “Interesting.”

Charlie closed the door and leaned against it. The house felt suddenly quiet. He looked at the remaining pork pie in his hand, golden crust, perfect.

He took a bite.

“Interesting,” he muttered, mimicking Thomson. “Bloody man.”

He chewed thoughtfully, staring at the rain‑blurred garden.

“Should’ve buried the dog deeper,” he said, laughing.