I brush my teeth and think about the United Kingdom Independence Party. Mrs. Crew most definitely voted for that lot. She deserved what was coming to her. Her skin was very orange, between her folds gathered white pith. The sort of skin flakes that taste sour and accumulate on skirting boards. How? How does the dust ever accumulate on a skirting board? No one is being dusty near them. It is such a small surface, such a small surface area. How can it ever become so dusty?
I make sure my skirting boards are dust free.
They, as if they were my friends, must be completely clean. Three for one sponges from the wholesaler, a quiet Polish man, an infuriatingly sombre and still Polish man, who owns a van and a contract with a big supermarket which means he can sell their leftover goods. Their rubbish. Their unwanted abortions. Sponges that become saturated too quickly. Tea towels with poorly painted country scenes on. Poorly painted by a Thai boy in a basement in Bangkok, his fingers will get chopped off for painting so poorly, and for what?
So the timid Polish man can sell them three for a fiver at the Tuesday morning market.
I should kill the Polish wholesaler. Use those three for a fiver tea towels to mop up his loud, red blood.
Almost all investigations I’ve been a part of involve talking to a lot of morons. There’d never been anything like this though. Nothing like Mrs. Crew getting all stuffed into that roller. What was it? Last time. 11 year old boy. Luke, or Alex, or even, Susan. His name was Luke. “A fun, heartwarming boy.” Wasn’t that what they always said?
Like the people at the paper have a cupboard full of the words, like happy, popular, handsome, and when the time rolls around that someone drowns, is hit by a train, or is bashed over the head and squidged all up into their handy four-wheeled shopping cart, the people at the paper can pick out the words and string them all together, to appease, to make happy, the loved ones and the strangers.
Here it is.
Front page, of course. All over Facebook. Already everyone’s on a witch-hunt over the picture posted up of the spindly figure emerging from the hedge.
“No comment as of yet from Inspector Rodney, just this image.”
No comment. Sure. Right. No comment. I CTRL-F and look for “mouth” on the thread the picture is in. No results. No other fucker has noticed that evil mouth? I thought my isolated suffering in the maws of that black jaw were over.
Now we wait.
Wait and see if anyone knows anything about poor old Mrs. Crew.