Sam's Song

  Chapter Eleven

  I roused a neighbour and while I tried to comfort Derwena, he called the cops. A local patrol constable was the first on the scene and a duty officer, a photographer and the divisional surgeon followed him. The photographer photographed T.P. McGill’s body and the flat in general while the divisional surgeon confirmed that McGill was dead. A crime scene was established and I was politely ushered away – the person who reports a crime is not supposed to enter the crime scene.

  Later, a confused and shocked Derwena gave a statement to a female constable while I gave my statement to a detective sergeant. Then the man himself, Detective Inspector ‘Sweets’ MacArthur, entered the apartment.

  Sweets had close-cropped, salt and pepper hair, which was thinning on top, playful blue eyes, fair skin and, like me, a rash of freckles. He also had a large gap between his two front teeth and a pot belly, which tended to make him look shorter than he actually was. Not the most sartorial of men, Sweets was dressed in a shabby trench coat, a brown two-piece suit and a yellow shirt. His tie was dark brown and askew while on his head, he wore his trademark trilby. He also wore a copper bracelet around his right wrist, which apparently eased his arthritis.

  I’d known Sweets for four years, since my first murder case – I’d been hired to find a missing prostitute, and I found her, dead. I had no idea what Sweets’ first name was – he was either Sweets when he was in a good mood or Detective Inspector MacArthur when he was in a bad mood. And to be fair to him, he was often in a good mood.

  I was standing by the French windows, gazing at the boats, bobbing about on the water, when Sweets approached. I smiled and glanced at his pocket and the top of a paperback book. “What you got there, Sweets?”

  Sweets popped a sweet into his mouth. As he chewed he replied, “Riders of the Purple Sage by Zane Grey. You can’t beat a good western.” With his right index finger, he pushed his trilby up, away from his brow. “I have a fantasy, Sam. Do you have any fantasies?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I have enough trouble with reality without allowing my mind to run away with the fairies.”

  Sweets chuckled. He offered me a sweet, but I declined. “In my fantasy I quit this game. I take the family off to Wyoming and we settle down on a nice little ranch, raise a few cattle, drink a few beers, sing a few songs.”

  I gazed at his pot belly and allowed my doubt to spread across my face. “You, on a horse, riding across the prairie, it ain’t going to happen, Sweets.”

  He pushed his hat further up his brow. “It’s a fantasy, I tell you.”

  Sweets cast an eye around the spacious apartment. Derwena was still sitting on the sofa, being comforted by a female constable, while detectives milled around, detecting, looking for a fragment of cotton or a tell-tale fingerprint, something that would identify the murderer.

  Sweets popped another bonbon into his mouth and chewed. “What the hell are you doing here, Sam?”

  “Lovely to see you too, Sweets.” I offered him my finest saccharine smile.

  “A man’s been murdered,” he pointed out.

  “I know. I found him.”

  “So I ask again, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “My client, Derwena de Caro...”

  “The singer?”

  “Yeah...and T.P. McGill were lovers at one time. T.P. got injured in a fight last night and Derwena insisted on coming over to comfort him.”

  Sweets fingered the brim of his trilby. He gazed into the middle distance. He was thinking, weighing my words, filing the information. “And how did you get involved with de Caro?”

  “Her manager, Milton Vaughan-Urquhart, hired me to investigate the possibility of a stalker.”

  “And is there a stalker?”

  “He must pass as a ghost if there is one because I haven’t seen him, so far.”

  “Huh-huh.” Sweets gazed at Derwena. She was shaking her head, wringing her hands, dabbing her wet eyes with tissues; my heart went out to her. “Tell me about the fight,” Sweets continued.

  “I wasn’t there. I’m just reporting what Derwena told me.”

  “Who was McGill fighting?”

  “Derwena’s lover, Woody Larson.”

  Sweets pulled his trilby back over his brow. He sensed a clue. “So we have a suspect.”

  “Most murders are domestic, didn’t you tell me that.”

  He raised his index finger and pointed in my direction. “You’re a fast learner, kid.”

  “Have to be, to keep one step ahead of you.”

  Sweets popped another sweet into his mouth. By now, I guess you’ve worked out how he got his nickname. He offered the packet of bonbons to me. “Want one?”

  I shook my head. “They’ll rot your teeth.”

  “My teeth won’t rot,” he stated confidently.

  “How come?”

  “Because my heart is pure and my thoughts are clean.” He chuckled, then gave me a glimpse of the packet. “And because these are sugar free.” As he sucked on his sweet, he asked, “You got all your own teeth, Sam?”

  “I’m thirty-two, Sweets, of course I have.”

  “Dentures,” he replied sagely. “Did you know that as a wedding gift to their husbands, Victorian women would have all their teeth taken out?”

  An image flashed through my mind, most unwelcome. I grimaced. “Do we need to go there, Sweets?”

  He dug a playful elbow into my ribs. “Where’s your mind going? Mine’s on dental bills.”

  Sweets acknowledged his detective sergeant. Then he wandered towards the bedroom. Like a puppy, I followed.

  “So,” Sweets chewed, “we need to have a chat with Woody Larson; any idea where we can find him?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “Ask Derwena, I’m sure she can provide you with the details.” We stepped to one side to allow a forensic scientist into the bedroom. As we watched him at work, I continued, “Woody and T.P. McGill did have a set-to at Castle Gwyn recording studios yesterday. I was a witness to that.”

  “The case against Mr Larson gets stronger by the minute.”

  “McGill threatened to blacklist Derwena’s new album the moment it’s released.”

  “Good motive for murder, you reckon?” Sweets examined the bedroom door and door frame. There were no scratches, no obtrusive marks of any description. “No doors forced,” he reasoned, “so odds-on that McGill knew his murderer. Case as good as closed.”

  Again, we stepped to one side, this time as stretcher-bearers carried McGill out on a stretcher. One of the stretcher-bearers slipped and the stretcher tilted to the right. McGill’s body shifted position and his wig fell off.

  Sweets looked on, nonplussed. I shrugged, “That also happened at the fight yesterday.”

  In angry mode, the detective inspector pointed at the wig. “Give the man some dignity,” he ordered. “I know McGill had a reputation as the piles on the arse of humanity, but even people like him deserve some respect.”

  I nodded approvingly, “You’re such a poet, Sweets, and all heart.”

  “I put up with you, don’t I, so I must be soft somewhere.”

  A stretcher-bearer replaced the wig on McGill’s bald head and the victim was carried, with dignity, from the murder scene.

  “Listen to this, Freckles,” Sweets chewed as he eyed the bloodstains on the carpet. “What should a woman do if she sees her ex-husband writhing around on the floor in agony? Shoot him again!”

  Sweets laughed, uproariously. I’d heard all his jokes before, so I just rolled my eyes.

  “You think it’s in bad taste to crack jokes at a murder scene?” he chided.

  “If it keeps you sane...”

  “It does keep me sane,” he replied forcefully. “The more gruesome the scene, the more I need to joke.”

  From the carpet, Sweets moved on to the wall. Blood and pieces of brain were scattered all over the cream
wall, in a gruesome, decorative pattern. In fact, I was anticipating that at any moment an art expert would walk in and announce that the wall had won first prize in a modern art competition.

  “This is no place for a woman like you.” Sweets took hold of my elbow. He guided me towards the door. “In fact, you shouldn’t even be here.”

  “Why not,” I sighed, “you afraid I might faint?”

  He gave me a stern, fatherly look. “You know what I mean.”

  I nodded. “I know what you mean.”

  With his features softening and his voice mellowing, Sweets added, “Seriously, Sam, you should get out of this game before you get hurt.”

  “And if I do get hurt, who would care?”

  Two flashes of red appeared on his cheeks. He was in angry mode again. “I’d care, that’s who. You know that outside my family you mean more to me than anyone.”

  I dabbed an imaginary handkerchief under my eyes. “Stop it, Sweets, or you’ll make me cry.”

  “You may mock,” he chided, “but it’s the truth. Someone’s got to look out for you.” He removed his hat and scratched his balding head. “You know my great fear - my great fear is that one day I’ll be called to a murder scene and discover that you are the victim. And you know what, Freckles; I ain’t got no joke that would cover that.”

  This time I took hold of Sweets’ elbow and guided him to the living room. The scene was quieter now, though the female constable was still comforting Derwena.

  We returned to the French windows and gazed at the Bay. Then Sweets turned and stared at me, his recent remark still reverberating in his mind, to judge from his stern expression.

  “Have another sweet, Sweets,” I advised, “and a sit down.”

  “Must be the male menopause,” he shrugged. “Can’t think why else I’d put up with a wise arse like you.”

  “Wise arse?” I frowned.

  “You know what I mean.”

  My frown deepened. “I don’t think I do.”

  “Smart arse, then.” He waved a dismissive hand in my general direction, nearly catching me in the eye.

  “I’ll take that as a physical and intellectual compliment,” I replied primly.

  “Hmm,” Sweets mumbled. He popped another sweet into his mouth and gave it a thoughtful suck.

  Back at the sofa, and with the female constable’s support, Derwena stood. Clearly, she was free to leave and it was time to take her home.

  As I escorted Derwena to the front door, Sweets called out, “Hey, Freckles...before you go. A burglar is burgling a house when he hears someone say, ‘Jesus is watching you’. To his relief, he discovers that it’s just a parrot. The burglar says to the parrot, ‘What’s your name?’ The parrot says, ‘Moses.’ The burglar says, ‘What sort of person calls their parrot Moses?’ The parrot replies, ‘The sort of person who calls his Rottweiler ‘Jesus’...”

  I shook my head, sadly. “What does your wife think of your jokes?”

  “She thinks I’m certifiable.”

  I led Derwena into the corridor, then called out over my shoulder, “Ever crossed your mind that she might be right?”