The Florist And The Spider

(A small but baffling crime has the local police applying the latest investigative technology to detect the culprit, from a long list of suspects. A humorous short story, with a twist.)

Florist’s Window Smashed For A Bunch of Flowers. This was the headline in the local newspaper that evening. The story went on to report: The Florist’s shop in the High Street had its front window smashed earlier today and apparently an expensive bouquet of flowers was stolen. Police were on the scene immediately as, by chance, a CID officer was in the vicinity at the time. "I just happened to be passing moments after the incident," said Detective Constable Neil Bell. "We are taking this matter very seriously as we are operating a policy of zero tolerance to petty crime and vandalism. We are following up a number of lines of enquiry."

"Why smash a florist’s shop window just for a bunch of flowers?" said Detective Inspector Keating, Neil Bell’s superior, just as Neil sat down and put his feet up on his desk.

"Because you wouldn’t get any flowers if it was a bakery or an ironmonger’s," said Bell, without looking up from his notepad.

Keating bent over Bell’s shoulder and said, "If you’re so clever, show me what you’ve come up with so far. And get your feet off your desk. You make the place look untidy. Number one conference room in five minutes."

"Are you sure?" said Bell, without moving. "I mean, it’s only a bunch of flowers."

"Five minutes. Zero tolerance, remember? And that means the feet too. Put ‘em down – you’re not on holiday."

Five minutes later, Bell was standing before the whiteboard in the conference room with Sergeant Cross, Inspector Keating and Bell’s oppo, Scott McKay. Quite a team. Though Bell knew Cross was only there out of courtesy and that both he and Keating would leave him to it once he’d done his little briefing. Even McKay would probably busy himself with something else – there was talk of a theft of a large quantity of sausages across town.

"Everybody here? Right – " Bell answered his own question, pulling the top off his marker pen. "This is what we’ve got so far."

"Nothing at all, I would imagine," said McKay, who looked like he wanted to be elsewhere.

"You’d be surprised."

"Witnesses?" said Keating, sounding authoritative.

"Not to the smash and grab itself, but quite a number of interesting suspects in the area.

"Do tell," said McKay.

"OK," said Bell, who turned to the whiteboard and drew a big oval in the centre of the whiteboard, and wrote the word Florist in the middle.

"Is this going to take long?" said McKay.

"Shut up and find out," said Sergeant Cross, who was probably wondering the same thing.

"I spoke to the proprietor, Mr Kent. He said that he saw no-one at all in the street at the time. He also said that he’s had a number of breakages in recent months that he can’t account for and he is beginning to the think that the shop may be – well – haunted." Bell drew another circle on the whiteboard, wrote the word Ghosts in it, and drew a line between it and the word Florist.

"Oh, great," said McKay. "So now we have to investigate suspects in the afterlife."

"Shut up," said Sergeant Cross.

"He did have one other theory," said Bell, "but as he had never seen anyone he thought it unlikely to be the explanation."

"And a ghost is?" said McKay.

"What was the theory?" said Inspector Keating.

"Kent said he was in dispute with a chap called Gallagher." Bell drew a third circle and labelled it. "Gallagher owns the confectioner’s around the corner. Kent said he once had to get some spare change from Gallagher one day a few weeks back because the cash float in the till was low. Gallagher later accused him of not paying up the full amount, and got quite heated about it, but Kent says it was just a mistake."

"So Gallagher smashes his window and grabs a bunch of forget-me-nots in revenge?" said McKay.

"Shut up," said Sergeant Cross.

"I went round to see Gallagher, and he said he’d forgotten all about it – we’re only talking ten quid. But Gallagher had another theory."

"Oh, great," said McKay. Sergeant Cross glared at him. "What was it?

"Gallagher says that there are some property developers interested in the whole block. He’s heard that they can get pretty imaginative when it comes to persuading reluctant tenants to sell up. They are called Astra Holdings." Bell drew another circle on the board and linked it to the centre.

"Intimidation," said Sergeant Cross, pursing his lips with his first show of enthusiasm. "Could be a motive."

"My brother-in-law works for Astra Holdings," said Inspector Keating, with a withering tone. "They’re as straight as a die. Some other property company started that rumour about them."

"Oh," said Sergeant Cross, slumping back in his chair.

"Just a minute, said Inspector Keating, "isn’t there a CCTV camera on that corner of the High Street?"

"I was coming to that," said Bell. "It turns out that the camera is angled on the pub, The Drunken Duck, across the street and doesn’t show the front of the florist shop. But we do know several people who were in the area." Bell left the whiteboard and switched on the trolley-mounted TV and VCR in the corner. Picking up the remote control, he set the tape running. The picture was a mix of black and grey. Faintly discernible was The Drunken Duck. "Here," he pointed to the pavement in front of the pub, "a few minutes earlier was some sort of argument between two men who had just come out of the pub. At one point, one of them – here, you see? – seems to throw something at the other, but misses." Bell paused the tape.

"Blimey, they started early in the day, didn’t they?" said McKay.

"Any idea who they were?" said Sergeant Cross, glaring at McKay again.

"No – I’ll need to go back to the landlord and show him this tape to see if he recognises them." Bell drew yet another circle on the whiteboard and wrote Disturbance –something thrown? in it. Only the lettering didn’t quite fit the circle. The diagram was getting rather crowed. "But there’s a couple of other faces I’ve identified in the street."

"Amaze us," said McKay.

"Shut up," said Cross.

Bell ran the tape on a few seconds before pausing it again. "This is Thomas Fairchild," he pointed to a grey figure. "He’s a known schizophrenic out on Care In The Community – he’s regarded as harmless, according to his psychiatrist, a Doctor Fisher, as long as he remembers his meds. We’ve pulled him in a couple of times for trying to direct traffic on the motorway – presumably he doesn’t always take ‘em. Dr Fisher said Fairchild has a thing about Stargazer Lilies – thinks they are the most beautiful flowers in the world."

"So he took ‘em," said McKay.

"The missing flowers were not lilies."

"Perhaps he’s branching out."

"Dr Fisher said he attended an out-patients clinic twenty minutes later at the General. He didn’t have any flowers on him then. Still," Bell drew on the whiteboard once more, "we can’t rule him out. Then there’s this chap," Bell pointed to the screen. "This is Reggie Blower. He’s an environmental campaigner. He was arrested last year up at Crofter’s Farm for destroying genetically modified maize."

"Does Mr Kent sell genetically modified roses or anything?" said Cross, wearily.

"Kent says of course not. There’s no such thing, apparently."

"You’d still better draw him on the board," said Cross with a hint of irony. "You wouldn’t want to miss him out while you’ve a bit of space left."

"There’s room for just one more," said Bell, as he scribbled with his back to his little audience. "While I was talking about this to Mr Kent, he told me he’d had a customer, a Mr Ledbetter, who had complained that some flowers he’d bought a week ago gave him hay-fever when he’d never had it before." Bell filled one last circle with this name, and added one last line to Florist.

"Was he in the Mafia, this Ledbetter? Did he threaten to have Kent sleeping with the compost before the day was out?"

"No," said Bell. "It was just that, when I asked Mr Kent whether he’d had any dissatisfied customers, Ledbetter was the only one he could think of."

"I never knew it could be so exciting being a florist," said McKay.

Pointing to the mass of circles, lines and scribbles now sprawling out in all directions on the whiteboard, Inspector Keating said, levelly, "Is that it?"

"Yes," said Bell.

"And what do you call that?"

"It’s a spider diagram. It shows all possible lines of enquiry in the case."

"I don’t think you’ve much chance of solving it," said Inspector Keating, rising stiffly to his feet.

"It’s a complete mess," said McKay, as the officers filed out, "that’s what I call it. You won’t catch me getting involved – " he pointed to the diagram – "with that."

"Shut up," said Sergeant Cross, closing the door behind them.

"No," said Bell to himself, shaking his head. "I don’t think I’m going to solve it either."



"Darling, I’m home," said Neil Bell. "Happy anniversary!"

"You remembered!" said his wife, seeing him standing in the doorway. "I didn’t think you’d be able to get me anything – I found your wallet after you left for work this morning."

He handed her a huge and impressive bouquet of flowers. "Well – it has been a busy day… but you know me – I’d always grab you something, no matter what."

THE END

On The Beat

(Short humorous story when a cop meets his favourite rock star)

"Claudia Raine?"

"You got me."

"I’m…"

"Call me Claudie. Come in," she said casually and walked away from the door.

The most immediately noticeable feature of the room – apart from the complete and utter mess, piles of clothing draped over half-hidden furniture, every surface covered with empty beer bottles, dirty glasses, crushed cans, overflowing ash trays, unidentifiable bric-a-brac and general rubbish – was a speaker cabinet with four – four! – huge drivers, standing on cheap set of open and overflowing drawers. That and the guitars. The guitars were all hanging neatly as if to attention along the wall from the kind of fixtures gardeners use for spades and the like in tool sheds. There was an Ovation Classic, two Fenders, both a Telecaster and a Stratocaster, a Gretsch Tennessean, a Yamaha 12-string and some others.

"You from Mojo?"

He stepped cautiously into the room. "No, I’m from…" but at that moment he stumbled over some cabling snaking across the floor. For a moment, he thought he was going to have to choose between falling on to a small television on the floor, or an expensive-looking record deck complete with vinyl LP perched precariously on a chair. He grabbed a littered table, causing a plant pot to fall off the back.

"Never mind," Claudie said. "I got a loose schedule today. You can interview me anyway. Wanna beer?"

"No… Thank you." Before he could say more she had gone into an adjoining room that looked like a kitchen except for the fact that a bomb seemed to have gone off in it. There was a crash, a tearing noise, and the sound of a bottle being popped with an opener.

He took in the rest of the room. Over to his right was an ugly set of Ikea CD racks, packed to the top. At least all the CDs were put away. Looking closer, he saw the CDs were stacked in alphabetical order. Under what might have been a bed were piles of sheet music, some in folders, stapled or paper-clipped together. On the nightstand, an ash-tray was grimly trying to contain a mountain of roll-up stubs, next to a Walkman with tiny earphones.

"What magazine are you with, then?" She was stood in the doorway with a bottle of Stella in her hand.

"I’m not with a magazine, Ms Raine."

"Oh?"

"I’m Detective Constable Burton, Greater Manchester CID."

"Wow," she said, not seeming overly impressed. How do I know you’re a po-lice man? Where’s your uniform?"

"I’m in plain clothes."

She took in jeans and jacket at a glance. "You’re telling me, honey. You’re a walking style famine. Don’t they teach you how to dress? To blend in?"

"What’s wrong with my clothes?"

"Let’s just say you’d look better in your uniform. I could have tried your helmet on."

Burton turned away and, stepping carefully to avoid standing on anything, pulled a pair of headphones from where they were hanging from a drawer.

"You got a warrant to search these premises?"

"I’m not here to conduct a search," he said, stiffly.

"Betcha glad about that," she said with a grin, and punched his shoulder with her bottle hand. "So what can I do for you, Detective Constable Burton? You come to stitch me up?" She laughed at her own joke. "Burton – stitch-up. Geddit?" She propped the beer bottle against a cushion on the sofa and began rolling a cigarette.

"I’m here about an alleged incident at the Band On The Wall pub last night."

"You call that an incident? That was an event."

Burton had interviewed lots of people, over the years of his career, about alleged incidents. Usually, there weren’t too happy to be speaking to him. They had a tendency to latch on to word alleged, because that could mean that the incident hadn’t actually happened. He liked people to think they were in trouble because it tended to make them more co-operative, as they gave their version of the facts. He especially wanted Claudia Raine to take the situation more seriously. After all, he had an objective to achieve in being here. He studied a poster Blu-tacked to the wall. On it was the word Apocalypse.

"Have you been with Apocalypse long?"

She was licking the edge of her Rizla and paused a moment before answering. "A while," she said, and started hunting for a lighter.

"Before that you were with The Gin Crew, weren’t you?"

She looked mildly impressed. "Hey, that’s right." She held up her tobacco pouch. "D’you want one."

"No, thank you."

"I split from them months ago," she said tossing the pouch and the lighter on to the table. "Personal differences."

He bent down and retrieved the plant he’d knocked over and put it on the table, noting its familiar-shaped leaves, and looked at her, impassively.

"Got that from an admirer," she said. "Guess he couldn’t afford flowers. Such a little plant, too. Under eight inches tall."

"Quite," he said, and began to pick up other items from the top of the drawers. There was a small, round-topped box about the size of a packet of cigarettes, with the word Farter printed on it, and a can of Right Guard.

"I thought you said you didn’t have a search warrant," she said.

"I’m not searching. Just looking. Men’s deodorant?"

"It gets hot on stage. Girlie stuff can’t hack it." She still sounded relaxed, conversational. "What was this alleged incident?"

"It is alleged that you assaulted a member of the public during your act."

"I did?" She looked genuinely puzzled.

"You hit him with the neck of your guitar."

"It was a headless bass," she corrected him.

"You nearly turned him into a headless fan," he said, with an edge to his voice.

"The twat jumped up on stage. I was just fending him off."

"You fended him right off the edge of the stage into the audience. He needed stitches afterwards."

"He stumbled. It’s a long way down. Needed stitches, did he?"

"So did the member of the audience he landed on."

"Haven’t you heard? It’s lonely at the top. Or it’s supposed to be. If I hadn’t done it, security would have. And they wouldn’t have been so polite about it."

Burton could see he still wasn’t getting her rattled. He continued to inspect objects on the drawers, picking up the round-topped box. "What is this, exactly?"

"The Farter? It’s an effects pedal. Like a fuzz box. For lead guitar."

"Oh." He nudged a crushed beer can off the drawers and spotted a lump of something dark and crumbly wrapped in Cling-film. "And this?"

It was the first time she had looked uncomfortable. "If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. And I’d have to kill you."

"Looks like a full ounce. Claudia Raine, I am arresting you on suspicion of possessing a controlled substance. You do not have to say anything, but you may harm you defence if you fail to mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say…"

"It’s Oxo."

"What!?"

"It’s Oxo. I carry it around with me at gigs. You get dehydrated and lose a lot of salt with sweating. I like to have a drink made of that when I come off stage."

"What’s wrong with keeping it in the foil wrapping?"

"The foil tears. You see, I wear leather pants and they’re very tight. It’s safer wrapped up like that. See how crushed it is. Plus I don’t want to be known as some freak who carries Oxo around in her pocket."

"You must think I’m daft!"

"You arrest me for possession of a stock cube and everybody’ll think you’re daft."

"And what about the assault?"

"Get real. The twat fell off the stage. Five hundred people saw him. It’s not as if I swung my guitar like an axe and brained him. You’d never get that to stick. And you know it."

Burton sniffed the Cling-film-wrapped package. There was an unmistakable savoury aroma. He was wrong-footed. He played his last card. "Who’s to say I might find something else in my pocket on the way to the station?"

"My lawyers. Klein, Mullin and Mansfield. You’ve heard of them, no doubt."

He put the little package back down on the table. They seemed to be at an impasse.

"There might be a way out of all this," he said.

"I thought there might be." From her tone, Burton finally realised that Claudia Raine had been around a little and was way ahead of him from the moment she opened the door. She knew people every bit as well as he did. Everybody wanted something.

"I thought it a shame," he said, somewhat at a tangent to their foregoing conversation, "when The Gin Crew split up."

"Why was that?" She was prepared to be patient.

"I… I used to enjoy your gigs."

"Why, thank you kindly, sir."

"I went to a lot of your gigs."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"Someone who dresses the way you do?" she snorted, and stubbed out her cigarette.

"Have you any idea how boring it can get being in the Police?"

"Well, it got to Sting in the end. Someone should write a song about it."

Burton coughed and studied his shoes. " I have written a song."

"Oh, God. I was scared you might have."

"Would you like to hear it."

"Arrest me now. I’ll even plead guilty."

"I was hoping I might be able to get it to you when you were in The Gin Crew. But they split up. Then I caught your act last night. And that idiot tried to get at you on stage and… well, that was the end of him. But it gave me an idea."

"To commit police harassment?" She swigged her beer.

"Something like that." He looked longingly at the beer. His throat was very dry. "I could make a real nuisance of myself. If I wanted."

"I wouldn’t argue with that."

"My colleagues and I could always make a visit to you backstage. What would you say the odds were against us finding something.

Claudia tapped the rim of the beer bottle against her lips. She seemed to decide. "What’s this song, then?"

"You really want to hear it?"

"Oh my," she said, with mock melodrama, "do I really have a choice?"

He shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. Something fell off the drawers behind him and knocked over a double angle spot lamp.

"That’s criminal damage," she said.

"It’s arranged for piano," he said, pulling a sheaf of paper from his jacket pocket. "Do you play piano?"

She shoved a heap of clothing off what Burton had presumed to be a desk, and revealed a Roland keyboard. "A little. I’ve got Grade Eight. What’s it called?"

"Love Patrol."

"Oh, Jesus," she sighed, and took the papers from him. She studied them for a moment, then pulled up a practice amplifier as a piano stool. "Perhaps we could do it in an ironic post-modern sense. Go and put the kettle on."

Burton navigated his way to the kitchen. As he got to the door, she threw the Cling-film package to him. "Make us both a cup."

He was gone a few minutes, time spent partly hunting for two mugs, and washing them. She played snatches of the chords he had written, and la-la-ed fragments of melody. He came back in and sat beside her, handing her a mug.

"Well," she said, taking a long swig from her mug, "the lyrics are crap but no-one ever hears them. And we’ve got to change the title. But it’s got a good hook." She took another drink. "A very good hook. I just might be able to do something with it."

He took a long drink from his mug and pulled a face. "This," he said, "is the strangest Oxo I’ve ever tasted."

"I didn’t say it was pure Oxo. Great, isn’t it?"

The End