ERASED!

Extract from ‘Erased!’ by Chris Payne The Funeral of Scregg. Leading the congregation and resplendent in scarlet mayoral robes was His Worship Councillor Charles Fanshawe, who, as owner of the town’s largest shop, was considered part of the aristocracy of this small borough. The Education Committee were all there, together with the local MP, for whom this funeral was a welcome diversion from a police investigation into his expenses claims. There was a delegation from the County Council and music was provided by the town band, the Faldwell Upton Silver Prize Band, who greeted the mourners with their soft rendition of ‘Wake me up before you go go,’ one of the late Principal’s particular favourites. Naturally, all the college bigwigs were in place - Vice, Assistant and Deputy Principals, Deans, various people who held titles with ‘Director of’ in them. The teaching body, those working lecturers whose fate and guidance had been in the hands of the late Mr Scregg, had also been invited, as had all the college administration. All had declined, except those women, teachers and clerical staff, including Cheryl Grassmann, whose favours they had once generously lavished upon the deceased. Inspector Fordham was there with his boss, the Superintendent, chief drinking mate and golfing buddy of the departed. “So, Fordham, you think there might have been some funny business over Scregg?” “I’m sure of it, sir. That Grassmann’s a nasty little sod. He’s up to something. I know it.” “You’ll need more than that. I see you brought him in and had to let him go?” “That greasy little lawyer’s fault. Threatened to go to the PCC.” “I’m sorry to have to tell you, Fordham, that that is the law as it stands and we have to follow it.” “Of course, sir, of course. It’s just that we are fighting the war against crime with one hand tied behind our backs.” “What would you like to see instead? Bang up every ‘nasty little sod’ you take a dislike to?” “Well. sir, you’ve got admit that’s not such a bad idea. It would clear up the crime rate pretty damn quick.” “Maybe, Fordham. But rules is rules and you shouldn’t risk your career over this case. It’s not worth it.” “I know, sir, but I know he’s guilty. Guilty as hell.“ “Well, you can’t prove it, so there it is. Let it go. Drop it. You need to get out more. There’s a home match tomorrow. Go to that. Bound to be a bit of action. Make you feel better. Beat up a few young tearaways. It’ll take your mind off things.” “If you say so, sir.” “I do, Fordham, I do. Case closed. Accidental verdict. Consider that an order.” “Yes, sir.” Fordham sulked through the rest of the funeral service, at the same time scrutinising the congregation for some clue as to whoever else might be in on the plot. He could see no one who could possibly have been a likely suspect amid the tearful women and the aspirants for the succession. “But,” he vowed silently, “I’ll get the little bastard. Yes, I’ll get the little bastard. Whatever the Super might say.” His first big murder case and it had been snatched away from him! He seethed at the injustice of life. Meanwhile, as Fordham was wallowing in self-pity, the funeral rituals were being enacted in that relaxed demotic way by which the Church of England stage-manages life’s signal events. Vice Principal Cloughe read a lesson – Psalm 23, of course. Then Vice Principal Morgan-Pugh gave a well over-the-top eulogy which praised the late Principal as a mighty figure of history – like a Schweitzer or a Kennedy, with an intellect so incisive and a vision so far-reaching, that his automatic apotheosis to an immediate seat at God’s right hand would be the very least of his richly deserved afterlife honours. Even the Superintendent could not completely stifle a laugh. The undoubted star of the show was the grieving widow herself, beautifully kitted out in a figure-hugging black Givenchy dress with hurriedly bought high-end accessories and top-notch perfume to match. (She had watched the first ten minutes of ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ at least a hundred times.) Her hair and manicure, every accoutrement, even down to her underwear, were perfect for her big day. No expense - Scregg would not need it any more, would he? – had been spared on her buying spree in Bond Street. “After all,” she consoled herself. “I’m a widow now. I need to take care of myself.” The coffin was finally laid in the ground to the plangent sounds of the Silver Band’s rendition of ‘Don’t cry for me, Argentina’ which was the cue for Mandy Scregg to do her well-rehearsed act of falling and sobbing at the graveside, during which display the mourners looked on with typical British embarrassment. Then back to the County Arms for a buffet lunch and, much to the delight of Scregg’s old cronies, a free bar. The Widow Scregg, now miraculously recovered from the distraught grief she had flaunted at the cemetery, was shaking hands and accepting condolences. “Thank you for coming.” “Very sad. He was a good man.” “Thank you. You’re very kind.” The Superintendent, never a man to pass up free drinks, drank his fill, said his goodbyes and got into the waiting police car with Fordham. He slumped back into the seat and uttered Scregg’s true authentic epitaph. “You know, Fordham? I always hated the bastard. Never paid his round at the club. Thought he was God’s gift to women. Fancied himself as a clever bugger.“ “Then why did you play golf with him? I thought he was a friend of yours.” “Yes, he was a friend. But I always hated him. But, in this town, he was important. And that’s where you get your friends from.”