To read the story so far, please go to my St Marmaduke’s page.
Monday 4th November 1985: 18.28 – 18.30
Frank Rawlings was a couple of minutes behind Joseph. He’d had to stay in the car to sort out a problem that seemed to be affecting the clutch every time he tried to depress it.
He eventually traced the problem to a tin of baked beans that had lodged itself under the pedal.
Now, how on earth had that got there?
He threw the offending can into the back, and heard an ‘oof’ noise.
Oh dear – he’d quite forgotten about the police inspector.
As he exited the car, he began composing a talk he felt he must have with Joseph. The young man had started displaying tendencies it really did not behove a Christian to exhibit.
He turned to lock the car, then hesitated. The inspector might wish to get out, he thought. Perhaps I should leave it unlocked.
Hmm. But what about the possibility of the car being stolen? As this morning had shown, even ecclesiastical property did not appear to be sacred nowadays.
He locked the door. The inspector seemed quite comfortable, and would probably not appreciate being abducted should any tea-leaves happen by.
As he wandered up Miss Foster’s garden path, he made a note to ask Clarissa why the The Bill’s writers used such odd language in their scripts.
And why there was so much clutter in the back of the car. Really – the Saturday morning shopping should be loaded into carrier bags, surely?
At the end of the path, he stepped over the wreckage of the front door.
Now, had Joseph done that too?
He slotted it into his talk. It would go nicely after ‘leaving the church at the mercy of ne’er-do-wells’. Really – the young man seemed to have a thing about doors.
The hallway was gloomy inside. And surprisingly empty. He glanced around.
And a scream came from behind a doorway on his right.
He frowned. That sounded just like Mrs Anderson had after that unfortunate incident where she’d eaten one of Miss Foster’s sandwiches on the church outing to Brighton.
It could only mean that Joseph was up to no good again. He added another item to his talk. It fitted in rather well after the point titled ‘kicking an officer of the law in the gonads’.
End of Chapter 14
MONDAY 4TH NOVEMBER 1985: 18.28 – 18.30
Jack Hampshire was ready to rip bloody Makumbo apart.
His balls were still on fire where the bastard had kicked him, and he’d just had to clamber his way through a pile of tinned fish and what-have-you that had been thrown on top of him half-way through the journey. Add to that, a can of beans had smacked him squarely in the eye as he was trying to extricate himself; and now, to cap it all, the bastard had locked the bloody car on him!
He braced himself against one of the doors and drew his legs back. Right!
One. Two. Three.
He kicked out. There was a ‘crack’ as the door flew open.
Not the door he’d kicked. The one he was leaning against.
He somersaulted backwards and landed in a heap on the road.
That bloody did it. Not only was he going to bloody rip bloody Makumbo apart, he was going to stamp all over the bloody pieces, then bloody stick them back together again so he could bloody do it some bloody more.
He sorted himself out, cursing his overcoat for wrapping itself round his neck when it didn’t belong there, then stomped round to the pavement. Right – where the Full Unadulterated Carnal Knowledge had bloody Makumbo gone?
He stared at the bungalow in front of him. And at the wreckage of the front door.
There could only be one place.
He stomped up the path and into the hallway.
‘Makumbo!’ he yelled, to the air in general and whichever part of it held the bloody bastard in particular. ‘You’re under bloody arrest! For murder, and robbery, and assault, and pissing about with time, and damage to property, and… and…
He ran out of ‘ands’. Never mind – he’d invent a few more crimes to charge the bastard with when he had him under lock and key.
He heard a scream, from somewhere on his right.
Good! That was something else he could add.
‘And another assault, or murder, or assault and murder, and…’