We said we’d bring you something new during the lockdown, and here it is.

Howard has been hard at work getting this short story ready. A cleaned up version is available for those who like their abuse a little milder.

Enjoy! Tell your friends! Tell them to enjoy!

And don’t forget, if you enjoy, full books of this stuff are available either by contacting Howard or myself or through Amazon

 

 

MOROSE SELF ISOLATES

 

April 2020.

With the whole of Great Britain shutting down and running only essential services: with many shops and businesses closed and facing an uncertain future; and with key workers carrying on in essential services or going into a furlough on reduced pay, Inspector Morose was faced with a difficult choice. He had recently developed all the well-publicised and dreaded symptoms, of Coronavirus. Well, actually, none of them; but 80% pay for staying put in a place of residence, sounded like a great idea. He wondered which branch of Oddbins to call his residence and self-isolate in.

Meanwhile back at Oxford City Police Station, the much vaunted ‘essential workers’ carried on as normal. Sergeant Hugh Jampton had managed to self-isolate on the front desk, AND call it his main residence, which solved several problems in one go, not least of which was, “what do we do with that idiot Jampton”. Sergeant Harris had set up an incident room, and went into it regularly to cause an incident. WPC Julie Soames had been kept on as a token female officer. Joe, the colourful feathered, curved yellow beaked bird, had been kept on as a token toucan.

In the Harris household on Fariycake Lane, Claudia Harris, Robbie Harris’ much sought after wife, had taken the brave decision to home school their two daughters, and even now was on the phone to several mental health organisations, the Samaritans, and was also looking up “child killers”, using her internet search engine. In desperation she rang the police.

“Well it may not be an emergency to you, Sergeant bloody Jampton, but it’s lunchtime on day three, and I’m already out of gin!” she wailed. Jampton put her on hold, listening to a loop tape of ‘The Pan Pipes of the South American Bush Baby Nose Flute Head-hunter Tribe”; after two hours of which, home schooling seemed a cinch.

Oxford’s criminal fraternity, however, had not called a truce. As if on cue, a mysterious corpse had shown up in the canal by St Covid’s College. Robbie awaited news after returning from the incident room.

“Aye Robbie,” noted Jampton as he handed him the details, “The mystery is, why the unfortunate woman chose to self-isolate in a canal!”

“Aye man, aye,” replied Robbie. “I’ll have to go and inform that useless spanner Morose, that his furlough is suspended, as of now.”

“He will be suspended himself, if he protests,” hissed Superintendent Weird, showering them all with egg and cress sandwich pieces, as he spoke through his lunch.

Harris decided to spurn the car pool, and requisitioned a furniture lorry to collect Morose. This had the double advantages of keeping the vile smelling inspector away from him, and keeping a healthy 2 metre distance from him. Finding which branch of Oddbins was occupied by Morose wasn’t difficult; Harris just had to find the one with all the windows missing, and emptied stock on the pavement. He pulled up at the Oddbins on Newt Lane, got out of the lorry, and was hit in the face by a four pack of Arse Lager.

“Fuck off!” came a greeting. Yes, this was the place.

Between dodging a hail of bottles, cans and, at one point, a tampon dispenser, Harris managed to grab Morose and, handcuffing his balls to a wheelbarrow, got him outside. Morose surveyed the lorry.

“I’m not going in there, you rat dick,” Morose advised.

“Suits me,” muttered Harris, and; with a major effort, used the handles of the wheelbarrow to catapult Morose onto the roof of the lorry, shouting up “And don’t come down til we get there!”

“I’ll need to get some stuff from my pillbox!” Morose shouted back down.

So, Robbie got into the cab, and drove the furniture lorry along the main drag out of Oxford, and along the country lanes toward Morose’s pillbox. Morose spent most of the journey stood up, hurling insults and empties at the few pedestrians, motorists and nuns who were out; but when Harris pulled up at the pillbox, Morose was lying flat on his back, the result of the low railway bridge just before his home.

“Aye, sorry about that, like,” laughed Harris as he persuaded Morose off the roof with a ladder and a shotgun.

“Not to worry, young Rodney,” sighed Morose, “No teeth will help my diet.”

Collecting his change of sock, Morose spent the journey to the canal bank in a crate full of gin traps, lovingly prepared by his colleagues at the station. He emerged from the darkness of the back of the lorry with a few major scratches and one severed limb, and beheld the sight of the police pathologist.

“Ah, Morose, you withered old tool, how you look awful!” barked Max.

“I do?” asked Morose, a bit surprised by Max’s concern.

“No, hang on…..” Max thought hard, “Sorry, I meant, ‘how awful to see you,’ anyway, social distancing will aid us by keeping you at bay.”

“Hmmmm” said Morose, and threw up on Max’s coat, which was lying on the canal side bench, and which now began to disintegrate with the stench.

“Anyway, about this mordor, like?” Harris tried desperately to move things along.

“Ah yes, now Morose,” growled Max, “ I’m confused as to whether or not the unfortunate woman has died of consuming a load of alcohol, and drowning; or whether she drank a load of canal water, and died of alcohol poisoning.”

“Which works better for you?” asked Morose.

Max thought carefully as he scratched his arse hard, “I’m personally inclined to stay off the canal water, unless it’s after closing time.”

“And after you’ve run out of booze at home, and after you’ve already made several attempts at getting to my secure strong room,” added Morose

“Exactly,” finished Max. “So what are we going to do with the body?”

“Shall we try examining it?” suggested Morose, with a liberal supply of sarcasm.

Max jumped as if he’d stepped in a fresh dog turd, which in fact, he had, “Are you out of your minds? That would mean going within two metres of her. She might be riddled with coronavirus!”

“She’s dead,” observed Harris.

“Maybe, but the radioactive spores from this virus thing, will last longer than Chernobyl! The Daily Fascist said so!!”

“Horse shit,” muttered Morose, “we need a proper forensic opinion.”

“Well, I think that she’s a sailor from the nearby port, and its alcohol and drowning, most unfortunate, but there we go.”

Max made to leave in his Mini van, but Harris suggested he wait a minute by waving his shotgun at Max, and waving a question soon after,

“Out of interest, Max, what nearby port?”

Max scratched his Dire Straits LP, “Well, Plymouth isn’t THAT far.”

“Just examine the body, you hopeless stool,” and with that, Morose and Harris sat down with a few spliffs. With the shotgun nearby, Max, under protest, got out his chainsaw and began the post mortem.

*****

 

WPC Soames was just finishing the thankless and grim task, of informing the deceased’s husband.

Mr Jake Vaughan had stood rooted to the spot at first, as news of his wife’s death sank in.

“She had made up her mind” he said slowly, “To give up life in the fast lane, and return to her student days, in the third world, doing some back packing and teaching.”

“What was she teaching?” asked Soames, desperately trying to stay awake.

“Well, she’d returned to Afghanistan and had been on a goodwill tour of some of the more remote areas, teaching the Mujahidin to play the bagpipes. And vegan cooking, she was very keen on that.”

“Was it going well?”

“It seems to have gone so well, that she was deported at a day’s notice. She didn’t even get a chance to phone me, the authorities there took her phone, her laptop, her tablet, her semaphore flags, her entire networks really.”

“So she just turned up?” Soames raised an eyebrow.

Mr Vaughan paused, then spoke, “Yes, just, you know, appeared.”

“I’ll bet that was a shock?”

Jake seemed to struggle to express himself. “It was for us both, yes. Yes. A shock. Good word.”

Soames lowered her eyebrow again. Mr Vaughan seemed distracted.

“Er, excuse me officer, but there appears to be a pair of undesirables, outside my door.”

Soames looked out of the window. Morose and Harris were playing football with a hedgehog. Heartless bastards, she thought. She thought about ringing the RSPCA, but just then, the hedgehog went one – nil up.

“It’s alright sir, they’re with me.”

“Can’t you lose them?”

“They’ll both get lost quick enough.”

Julie Soames stepped outside and, pausing only to give both Morose and Harris a swift kick in the arse, dragged them both into the Ford Pilot, and, taking advantage of the near deserted streets, got them back to the station in five minutes.

They got out to see Max with a Roman catapult. He waved violently at them all, cut the restraining rope, and the body of Mrs Vaughan flew over the road and landed on them.

“Idiot!” yelled Harris, waving his fist.

“Halfwit!” yelled Morose, waving his knob.

“Lunatic!” yelled Soames, but the other two stopped her from waving anything.

“Sorry, it’s the only way I could return the body, and stay away from you fools,” Max shouted across the road. He then jumped onto his Vespa scooter and, pulling a wheelie, fell off.

In Harris’ office, Morose sat on the filing cabinet, Soames stood on the desk, and Harris leaned on the door, in order to keep an antisocial distance.

“So,” noted Soames, “She returned quicker than expected.”

“And now is dead,” noted Harris, “Also quicker than expected.”

“Max suspects foul play,” noted Morose, looking at the notes Max had stapled to the corpse.

“Why foul play, surr?” asked Harris.

“Strangled,” snarled Morose, “Look at the rope marks.”

Harris looked at the tell-tale marks, gouged into Mrs Vaughan’s neck. “Thin rope, sir?”

“Thin neck, Harris.”

Harris thought about that. Something about this case, even allowing for the obvious fact that the unfortunate woman had been murdered, wasn’t right.

*****

 

Inspector Morose clamped his pipe between his teeth, and then further clamped his teeth to the garden fence. The pub ‘outdoors area’ of The Worm and Hammer, deserted due to the lockdown, saw him and Harris with a can of Special Brew, and a bottle of Panda Pops, respectively.

“Weird wants results, Harris.”

“Well we gave him the finishers in the Virtual Grand National, sir.”

“H’mm, it hasn’t placated the old fool.”

“Maybe his piles have returned?”

“If they have, I’ll buy him a piledriver for his birthday.”

D’you think he’s got a screw loose?”

“Then we can get him a screwdriver.”

There was a long pause while Harris digested the joke.

“Aye man, well, maybe we should just chuck him under a bus.”

“Then we need a bus driver!” triumphed Morose.

“Aye man, but there’s none running on our route, like, as it’s just a Sunday service, y’see, aye. ‘Cos of staff shortages, an’ the lockdoon, an’ that. ”

Morose, appalled by Harris’ lack of any sense of fun, cracked open another can, just making enough effort to mutter “Wanker” into the last drop. This was turning out to be a miserable assignment.

A moment or so late, and another two cans down, he stumped off to interview the husband. Not because he thought he’d get any clues, just anything was better than Harris.

On arrival, just to be certain, he made sure that he’d emptied his bladder first. Then he knocked.

Mr Vaughan opened the door, with a young woman holding onto his arm.

“Yes?”

“I’m Inspector Morose, from Oxford Police. I’m here about this murder.”

“Did you do it?”

“No, sir, I’m Inspector Morose. I’m here to ask a few questions.”

“Ah,” Jake Vaughan’s face fell. The woman picked it up for him, and he carried on,

“Er, I would invite you in, inspector, but some filthy bastard seems to have pissed through my letterbox.”

The young woman was now running away very fast, screaming something about a ruined carpet.

“Maybe you’d like to step out, Mr Vaughan?”

“Will it take long?”

“If you move slowly enough, yes.”

Morose looked over Vaughan’s shoulder, back into the house.

“Your sister?”

Vaughan winced again, “No, er, she’s a, er, friend, just staying over.”

“Is she self-isolating with you, then?”

“Yes, that’s it. She couldn’t go to her husb…er…. parent’s house ‘cos she’s, er, well, here.”

“Yes. So I see.”

The late afternoon wind blew cool.

“Will that be all, er, inspector?”

Morose looked Vaughan hard in the face, before replying, “Yes. That’s about it for now.”

“Oh good!”

“Good?”

“Yes, well, you know things to do….”

“One last thing, sir.”

“Oh?”

Morose looked even harder, then ripped out a massive fart.

“Good God, inspector, are you ill? I mean, that doesn’t half ruddy well honk.”

“I’ll put some sterilising hand wash on the next one, sir.”

 

*****

“The man is a slimy toad, Harris.”

Inspector Morose threw this piece of information at his sergeant, with all the delicacy of a declaration of war.

“Aye man, aye,” replied Harris, “While you’ve bin out ruining his carpet, I’ve been out looking into his bank account, an’ that.”

“Does he have a lot of money?”

“Enough to get a load of home deliveries from Stainsbury Supermarkets, yes.”

“So not just buying for himself, then?”

Harris warmed to his blurb, “Not unless he regularly ate two steaks a day, with ten special reserve pork and roast duck sausages, and apple pie an’ craft custard for afters.”

“Every day?”

“Looks like it. And for the last month too.”

Now it was Morose’s turn to think that something wasn’t right.

“Harris, get that donkey fondler Max on the phone. And get your daughters down here. Something’s not adding up with this case.”

As Harris handed the landline to Morose, so he sent his elder girl a text, ‘git y’ass doon here noo’.

The landline connected.

“Max?” asked Morose.

“Fucking what?” Max’s voice greeted him, “Make it quick, I’m just getting off my face, I won’t make any sense at all, soon.”

“Have you got a report on the stomach contents of our canal bobber?”

“There wasn’t much to report, some vegan shit, you know, grass, seeds, hay. That’s about it. No wonder she died, sailors need nourishment.”

“Max, you daft bat, she wasn’t a sailor.”

“How can you know that? There was a tattoo….”

“The woman flew to and from Afghanistan, a country not noted for its navy, and she’s been a PHD lecturing in animal welfare since graduating, you utter moron!”

“Well, maybe her father was a sailor?”

“No, you tosser, he was from Oxford, another place not known for its port!”

“Some distant relative, a jack tar? Maybe a second cousin, did he own a parrot?”

“No, dick weed, there are no sailors.”

“Well, fuck you and your poncy policing, then. I’m off to meet Sailor Jerry.”

“I hope you get keelhauled, you loser.”

In the meantime, Harris’ two girls had arrived, having driven themselves in Claudia Harris’ new Jaguar.

“Bloody Hell, girls, ya mam will go ape shit when she finds you’ve driven here!”

“Ah, it’s okay Daddy man,” explained Jessica, “The roads are deserted anyway!”

“But you’re not insured!”

“Neither is Mummy!”

“Cack! Shhhh!” whispered Harris.

“Anyway,” chimed in Emily, “We had to swerve to avoid a greet massive fuck off delivery van, on the road that backs onto the canal, deliverin’ all dead geese an’ stuff.”

Harris looked at Morose. Morose looked at Harris. They both ran for the door, got stuck in the gap, pushed, shoved, and predictably the whole door frame fell out, taking them with it. Morose un- clamped his teeth from Jampton’s desk as they ran past; they grabbed Gonemad’s motorbike & sidecar combination, Harris was punched into the sidecar, and Morose battered the starter until it did, actually, start.

They tore out of the car park.

“So much for social distancing!” yelled Harris at Morose.

“I’ve already thought of that!” Morose yelled back, and taking the connecting bolt out, waved ‘bye bye’ to Harris and roared off, leaving Harris to wobble along in the sidecar, before coming to a stop against a tree at 30 mph.

“Bastard” muttered Harris and went to climb out, causing it to fall over, and taking him with it causing him to add, “Double bastard”.

PC Gonemad, seeing his beloved motorcycle & sidecar requisitioned, decided that something was up, and followed on his 1970s style Chopper bike. Taking a series of shortcuts he ended up there a mere half an hour later.

“You’re late,” scolded Morose.

“Sir,” replied Gonemad, “You are ugly, but later, I’ll be on time.”

“Gonemad,” sighed Morose, “You really are a mother fucker, but before I smash the shit out of you, give me a hand arresting this Mr Vaughan, there’s a good chap.”

“Certainly sir,” Gonemad saluted, and headed off the wrong way.

Morose threw a wall at him; and, having got his attention, indicated the correct way.

Morose rang on the bell, Gonemad rang on the cat flap. Mr Vaughan answered the cat flap.

“Yes, filth?”

Morose dragged Jake through the cat flap and slammed handcuffs on him, on the door, and on the cat.

“Jake Vaughan, I arrest you for the murder of Olivia Vaughan. Just deal with it, okay?”

“On what grounds, you dozy pig?”

“You’re already drawing up plans for your, er, cook, Miss Anita Lemon, for whom I also have an arrest warrant, to marry you? Your wife isn’t even in the morgue yet!”

“Inspector, you can’t accuse me of murder, for simply being a heartless shit!”

Robbie Harris appeared form the side of the house with Anita in an arm lock, and gave the damning retort,

“No, but we can arrest you for murder, on the grounds of strangling your wife with her own spaghetti!”

“Yes Mr Vaughan,” Morose explained, “Those were not rope marks on Olivia’s neck, they were spaghetti marks. Olivia turned up unexpectedly, for you thought she was still bagpiping in Afghanistan!”

“In fact,” continued Harris, “She’d come back here with no phones or communications, got a load of spaghetti, and was going to cook a big vegan style dinner for you both….”

“…. but,” ended Morose, “You were already cooking, as it were, with young Olivia here; saw you were found out, and choked the life out of her, with her pasta stringy stuff.”

Anita sank to her knees, “It’s all true. I wouldn’t have harmed her. He said it would be okay, just another body floating around in Oxford!”

“Damn you and your piggery!” Jake suddenly shouted, and, stitching the hapless Harris one in the face, added, “You’ll never take me alive!”

……and he ran straight to the railway line and threw himself on it.

“What now?” asked Gonemad, to the cat.

“Harris, go and get a platelayers trolley,” sighed Morose, “The soft prick’s forgotten there’s no trains on this line, due to service and staff cutbacks owing to the virus.”

Weird materialised as they rearrested Jake Vaughan.

“Nice work, you pair of oafs,” he hissed, “And good use of a 240-volt cattle prod to keep a social distance, too!”

“Ouch” cried Vaughan, as they led him off.

 

Copyright Howard White and Ian Sloan