1. Last Rounds
Police Constable Bert Loxley made his way slowly past the locked gates of St Thomas's Church, down Church Street, past Mydworth Motors, taking his time as he did his nightly rounds. This walk through the village was a regular-as-clockwork duty, to make sure that everything was as peaceful and quiet as could be, checking all the businesses properly shut up, windows closed, shutters down.
Behind him now, he heard the church clock strike the half hour: he paused for a second, and checked his pocket watch out of habit. Spot on.
Right now, the streets were empty - his shadow the only movement under the gas lamps.
Truth was, he'd hardly seen a soul tonight, though that wasn't surprising: a cold mist lingered in the damp November streets, and he could feel the chill even through his heavy uniform and mackintosh.
As he turned back and went down the High Street, his footsteps echoed on the pavement.
Yes, peaceful and quiet.
Though this night had not started that way. A call to the station about a few patrons down at the Station Inn, fuelled by one too many, who might be heading into a proper fist fight.
Which would have been the most activity that he had faced so far in the two weeks of his new posting to Mydworth - save for a lone domestic problem that had ended with the couple, blubbering in each other's arms, all suddenly forgiven. That is, Loxley knew, until the next row.
Tonight however, when he'd pitched up at the pub, the men involved had genuinely seemed to be on the edge of spilling out into the streets for a bare-knuckle battle.
But, as it turned out, simply by his walking in the door, the men seemed to freeze, neither of them clearly fancying the idea of a night cooling off in jail.
All Loxley had to do was ask: "Everything all right, gentlemen?" and the flushed faces had softened, glaring eyes lowered - and suddenly trouble had been averted.
Loxley had considered taking their names, mostly as an added bit of encouragement to finish their beers and head home quietly.
But with the grievances apparently fading - and the last round looming anyway - he didn't think it warranted taking matters further. He'd jotted a couple of names in his notebook, wished the publican a good night, and headed back up Station Road into town.
Now, as Loxley turned to go down the High Street, he looked in through the windows of the Green Man, which he'd been told was the most civilised of the town's watering holes.
The landlord wiping down the pumps, just a couple of regulars finishing up at the bar, and a handful of others, coats on, last farewells before dispersing to their homes.
For a moment he stood there, just taking in the evening: the warm camaraderie of the townsfolk leaving the warm, yellow light of the pub and heading to their cosy homes.
Mydworth. Such a tidy little town, Loxley thought. More like a village. And he wondered, being honest with himself, how long he would be satisfied with the sleepy ebb and flow of life here.
Life in the Metropolitan Police in London would be much more to his taste. Plenty of crimes to deal with, and Loxley knew that the Met had to be exploring the very latest methods of solving all sorts of cases.
But here, Sergeant Timms had been quick to inform the new constable on his first day at the station: "We do things the old-fashioned way, Loxley. Methods that stand the test of time."
Except, Loxley guessed, Timms' "methods" probably didn't get tested on a regular basis.
But the world was changing, growing more complex every day. People wanting different things, peacetime life not bringing everyone the peace or prosperity they had expected. Or been promised by the politicians.
And tonight - brisk, a chilly November night as if winter was in rehearsal, Mydworth remained sleepy and safe.
*
Finally - crossing the square, past the Town Hall and the bank, all secure, to Hill Lane - Loxley scanned the quiet side streets, the nearby small shops shuttered, most homes now dark. Early to bed being very much an adage held close by many in this little town, even on a Saturday night.
He'd soon be done. Time to return to the station where that, too, would quickly go dark.
Any rare late-night summons would be directed to Timms at home, who would - for any significant matter - come and roust Loxley from the single room that he rented above the gentlemen's outfitters.
Halfway down Hill Lane, past the shops now, and just at the point where the street lights came to an end, he took his usual left turn into Slip-Knot Alley. This oft-used shortcut led up to the football pitch and a line of tumbledown cottages at the edge of the town which marked the end of his rounds.
What was it, the locals called these alleyways?
Ah yes, "twittens", that was it.
He unclipped his torch from his belt, turned it on: the pale beam of light catching swirls of mist on the pathway ahead.
His own steps echoed as he walked down the serpentine lane, a wall of brick on both sides.
This twitten must, he imagined, be a favoured spot for the young couples of the town, seeking a few minutes hidden away from prying eyes.
Wouldn't be surprised if I stumble upon something like that, even on a chilly night like this.
Then, as if in answer, the narrow lane curved for its final time, revealing a grassy opening, neatly surrounded on the side by thick bushes.
And Constable Loxley saw something in the cone of light from his torch.
*
For a moment he froze, thinking that what was ahead, curled up on the grass, might be the romantic pair he'd been imagining previously.
But no. Loxley immediately knew what the shape must be.
Of course. Some fellow heading home from the pub, using this as a shortcut, must have stumbled and decided a few minutes of a chilly snooze was exactly what the doctor ordered.
Before he got to the person, Loxley cleared his throat, to give the chap some warning.
"All right then. Having a spot of trouble, are we? Best you try to-"
Loxley expected the man to stir at the loud voice, giving it the heft that a request from the authorities should bring.
But this person - nothing.
Loxley moved closer, now - with the air growing chillier by the moment - even a bit concerned for the fellow.
"Now c'mon then, my lad. Time you were off home, time to get up."
At that, Loxley gave the back of the man's shoes a little kick. Just a small "tap, tap", a last manoeuvre before dragging the drunk to a standing position.
But that did nothing.
So, Constable Loxley bent down, to see...
...something wet near the body glistening, catching the light from the torch.
Loxley's stomach tightened. He reached down to hook the man's arm, to turn him around, so he could see up close what glistened all around him, like a thick muddy pool.
Something that Loxley had never seen in such quantity, and perhaps never expected to see in the town of Mydworth.
Blood.
So much of it.
For a second, Loxley wasn't sure what to do. Then he turned the body over so he could see the face and - more importantly - the wound.
There was no chance that the man would still be alive.
With so much blood lost, that would be clearly impossible.
But now, in the dim light from his torch, he saw two things.
The wound. Or actually, wounds, centred in the man's mid section.
Whoever had done this had acted quickly, brutally. The sight of those wounds, intimidating, even - the Constable had to admit - frightening.
And then he noticed the other thing.
The man's face.
He recognised it.
It was the face of one of the men from the pub quarrel.
From the fight that Loxley had interrupted, and - he had thought - extinguished.
One of those men now dead.
He stood up, and stepped back from the body, as he ran through what needed to be done now.
His training - so recently completed - coming instinctively into play. Discovery of suspicious death, constable's priorities, list in order...
The body to be cordoned off, Sergeant Timms to be alerted. The alleyway to be sealed at both ends, examined minutely for evidence.
Loxley ticked off all the steps that would have to be taken.
The locals would soon become aware of the activity, torches, car lights. More police would need to be summoned from Chichester to assist.
Did the man have family? They would need to be awakened in the middle of the night, once the constabulary could answer the basic question of - who was he?
With the larger question pushed aside for now: who wanted to kill this man... and why?
Loxley gave himself a moment, a deep breath, the air chasing away the metallic smell that had filled his nostrils when he first bent down.
And before he started to do all that must be...
