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The Bramford Wolf, part 1This story may contain adult content. |
| Written by richard bromley | |
| Monday, 07 April 2008 | |
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Share it:      The sun rose slowly over Badon hill, the first golden ray's illuminating Bramford a sleepy rural village in the heart of England. This morning in late summer it looked at it's best, flowers bloomed in profusion in gardens around the village green and in the magnificent hanging baskets bracketed around the wall's of the village pub the Bramford arm's The overall effect was that of the cover of Country life magazine, and yet thankfully the village remained ‘undiscovered' due at least in part to the winding dusty lane that was the villages only link with the outside world. As the sun rose higher it began to beat down on the sweaty balding pate of Constable John Turnbull a policeman of the old school rapidly approaching retirement. He carefully unrolled the blue and white crime scene tape which he tied to bushes, trees and a derelict shopping trolley cordoning off a small lay-by which was currently the focus of his attention, he smoked a cigarette while he waited for Tidton C.I.D. to arrive. In the lay-by stood an elderly rover motor car, the bright sun which shone from a cloudless sky glinted off the pitted chrome. The rover had been jacked up and a flat Lay in the open boot, the spare wheel and wheel brace lay in the long grass of the verge, along with a lot of blood and a disembodied foot still in its shoe. The foot had been discovered some time earlier and reported to the small police station which served the area. A rapid search had been made by Turnbull and a few concerned locals, but as yet the foots owner had not been found. The cars number plate had been run through the database at Swansea and the cars owner had already been reported missing by his wife, So if the foot was in fact a part of the cars owner it was part of Reginald Green a semi retired piano tuner from Penge. An appointment book lay open on the passenger seat giving an address in Tidton, a phone number and yesterdays date. Turnbull carefully wrote everything in his notebook and knowing what great store was put in forensics these days he was careful not to touch anything. In the distance the sound of converging police sirens heralded the approach of Tidton C.I.D from both directions down the narrow dusty lane that served Bramford as its main thoroughfare. Suddenly around the corner by the village shop a large patrol car skidded wildly narrowly missing a parked tractor, dropping his cigarette constable Turnbull leapt for his life behind the cover afforded by the elderly rover just as an identical patrol car screeched to a halt from the opposite direction right into the front of the rover knocking the rover off its jack and onto Turnbulls foot. From the first car jumped Sergeant Andrew Mc Kintyre who rushed forward to help Turnbull who was sitting in the dust bellowing with the pain from his crushed foot. Mc Kintyre managed to get the jack back under the car and lift it up freeing the constable. The driver of the other car, one detective inspector Cromford stepped over the struggling constable snapping on a pair of ray bans like a character from his favourite T.V. show Miami vice, he took in the scene. ‘Mc Kintyre.' ‘Yes inspector.' ‘Is he alright,' said Cromford indicating Turnbull who was now venting his pain and anger by directing a tirade of abuse at Inspector Cromford. ‘I think his foot may be broken Inspector.' ‘Better call an ambulance then eh.' ‘Yes inspector.' At this point a battered land rover rattled and coughed to a stop and a head under a tweed cap was thrust through the open window. It also took in the scene and barked a question at Turnbull who had managed to get a grip. ‘What the hells going on here constable? I've got a combine on its way through, clear the bloody road.' ‘And your name would be?' asked Cromford stepping forward into the road ‘What business is it of yours?' ‘I happen to be detective inspector Cromford of Tidton C.I.D., this is a crime scene, possibly even the scene of a murder, I'm afraid your combine will have to find an alternative route.' ‘Don't be ridiculous we've never had a murder here in Bramford, whatever makes you think that?' ‘We have a severed foot and a missing motorist.' ‘Well Jenkins lost an arm in the muck spreader last autumn; it does not mean we've had a murder.' ‘So what you're saying is that our missing motorist lost his foot and hopped away to do some shopping.' ‘Don't be sarcastic with me Cromford; I play golf with your chief inspector.' ‘Sorry sir, I'm just trying to do my job, now could you tell me your name?' ‘I am Sir Richard Cunningham and this has been my family's seat since the Norman Conquest.' ‘Do you recognise this car Sir?' said Cromford indicating the now dented rover. ‘No should I?' ‘Not necessarily sir, I'm just making preliminary enquiries.' ‘Do you have any further questions Inspector, because I have two thousand acres of wheat to attend to?' ‘No Sir.' ‘I'll be off then, good day inspector.' The land rover roared into life and sputtered off leaving a puddle of leaked oil and a cloud of blue smoke, choking Cromford who coughed into a handkerchief, moments later an he too had to leap for his life behind the cover of the rover as an enormous combine rounded the corner by the shop and lumbered past the crime scene, scratching Cromfords patrol car all down one side. The faces of three men, all smiling, two children and a sheepdog could all be briefly made out through the cracked and dusty glass of the cab as it sped past. ‘Mc Kintyre.' ‘Yes inspector.' ‘You wait here for forensics, I've got to get back to the station, there's to many red necks round here for my liking.' ‘Yes inspector.' Cromford climbed into his patrol car, started the engine, selected first gear instead of reverse and knocked the rover off its jack a second time. This time however the jack penetrated the rusted fuel tank, which ruptured spilling its contents onto the dusty lane. As Cromfords car sped off toward Tidton the petrol spread through the dust on the side of the road until it found the glowing dog end dropped by Turnbull. It ignited with a sound like ‘whoomph.' By the time forensics arrived the rover was a blackened shell attended by two fire appliances. Mc Kintyre had managed to rescue the foot and constable Turnbull who was now being loaded into an ambulance with a broken foot and no eyebrows. Mc Kintyre handed the foot, now in plastic bag from the Spar shop to Bainbridge from forensics with a shrug. Bainbridge in his pristine white overalls took in the carnage and enquired. ‘What the **** happened here?' ‘Inspector Cromford.' ‘Oh that twat.' Bainbridge from forensics left not long after the ambulance containing Turnbull and the two fire engines, announcing that the scene was so compromised by the two road accidents and ensuing fire not to mention the over zealous attentions of the Tidton volunteer fire brigade that nothing could be learned from the scene.
Copyright 2008 richard bromley |
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