(I wrote this short bit of fun as a murder mystery exercise in our writing group recently.)
The Inspector and I attended the funeral. Old world policing he called it. Inspector Pollock was the last of his kind. Show a bit of respect for the dead, he said, whether she was an old bat or not. And besides, we hadn’t managed to crack the case yet — accidental death or murder? Maybe we’d get lucky and spot the perpetrator lurking in the back pew. But this wasn’t TV. The best I could hope for was a bite to eat and a pint at the Bowlo afterwards to drown our sorrows.
Her body had been found caught amongst the reeds behind the Valentine Bowling Club at the mouth of Sheppard’s Creek. The trees behind the electricity sub-station meant that she’d been in the water for days, and any physical evidence at the scene had been obliterated by the East Coast Low that had uprooted half the trees in the park. I pitied the council workers who’d spotted her on the opposite bank when they were in the middle of their clean up. By all accounts she’d not been much to look at when she was alive, and death hadn’t helped matters. The casket was closed.
I’d expected that it’d be the two of us and the funeral celebrant, but the chapel was packed. From the details in the coroner’s preliminary report, the body matched the description of the bag lady who haunted Croudace Bay Dog Park, shuffling along, head bent in the search for litter, her face shielded by an old straw hat, the brim falling down either side. She’d scoop up discarded bags of dog shit as readily as empty cans and used condoms around the skate park. Witness statements described her as ‘outspoken’ or ‘direct’. If she’d still been alive, I’d bet my drinking money that they’d call her ‘rude’ or worse.
Looking around, I saw the mourners were a mixed bag. It looked like everyone who frequented the park had come along. A lot of grey heads, but families too, with the mothers trying to shush their unruly children, while manoeuvring their strollers out of the way. A few wore lycra, making a clatter parking their bikes at the back of the chapel where they could keep an eye on them. Some were skinny, muscles and tendons rippling even as they picked up the flimsy order of service. Others had to squeeze their bulk between the pews, and struggled to their feet when it came time to sing.
As the last off-key notes died away, the conveyor belt cranked into gear and the coffin retreated behind faded curtains. Amongst the chatter and bustle of people headed back out into the sunlight, and my attention was caught by throaty smoker’s chuckle.
‘You think you copped a serve from her? You ought to have heard what she said to the yummy mummies, not to mention the MAMILs. And it’s not as if I asked her to pick up my butts, now is it? She won’t be telling me off no more for having a quick ciggie behind the Club. Fire hazard, my arse. Got what was coming to her, I reckon. Ashes to ashes.’
Coughing broke the woman’s rant. She scrabbled for her cigarettes from her chef’s jacket.
I caught Inspector Pollock’s eye and, nodding, he joined me by the woman’s side, and offered her a light.
It was looking like it might be a while before I got that pint.