Hythe Murder

EAST TOWN

Hythe, an ancient port town on the Eastern coast, seemed to be where dreams met their demise, and where the minds of others lost their marvel. There was an eerie silence that hung in the air, as if the town itself held its secrets close, refusing to divulge them.

The streets were a contrast of modern red brick buildings and dilapidated past. Bygone walls, weathered and worn, and old-fashioned barn-style roofs created a rustic ambiance, punctuated by the occasional sound of creaking wood. The scent of salt from the nearby sea wafted through the air, mingling with the mustiness of time. It was as if the very essence of the town had seeped into the bones of its inhabitants, leaving them with a peculiar aura. Their eyes held a distant gaze, as if the wind carried away their thoughts, forever lost in their own realms. It was a place where the boundaries between reality and fantasy blurred, leaving one to wonder if anyone truly understood the depths of their own oddities.

Stepping foot in this foreign land feels like being thrust into a perplexing maze. The issues that arise here are so vastly different that communication becomes an insurmountable challenge. Picture this: you arrange a meeting at the local pub at 3 p.m. 20th, Sunday, and both parties agree. You sit at the Three Bills, the air thick with the scent of freshly brewed ale. The clock strikes 3 p.m. As you glance at the calendar; you realise today is no 20th, and the two events, 20th and Sunday, will never match in this month. Confusion engulfs your mind, and you desperately search for a way to convey this discrepancy to the event's creator without causing offense. As perspectives diverge, the stark contrast becomes clear. However, when the designated date carries significant weight for business or any other purpose, you, as the highly engaged participant, discover yourself confronting a perplexing predicament.

As you ponder the situation, the faint scent of uncertainty fills the air. Thoughts swirl through your mind like a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of a nearby tree. Should you voice your concerns? The possibility of history repeating itself looms blackly. Is there a glimmer of hope for a peaceful resolution? However, the risk of being misunderstood and labelled as 'rude' lingers like an unsettling echo. The confusion within your mind is palpable, leaving you wondering and searching for answers. But fear not, for the essence of East Town will guide you towards enlightenment and reveal its profound wisdom.

SPRUCE

On a blustery day, I received a call to investigate a scene where a naked female body lay perfectly positioned beneath the red boat. The rusty shackles that embellished her neck like some heavy necklace seemed to reflect the weight of the tragedy. As the truth unfolded, it seemed to spin on its own axis, daring us to uncover its secrets.

‘Good, you're here,’ said SC Peter Cobbler of the Port Police with a warm smile. ‘We have a minor problem with…’ he said, gesturing towards the bustling bundle of fishermen on the quay.

‘Any leads?’ I asked, my eyes scouring for any hint of hope.

‘Nope,’ Peter said firmly, shaking his head. ‘The girl's reputation was apparently in tatters.’

‘A hooker?’

‘That's our first take. There is one thing that doesn't check, though.’

‘Oh? Shoot.’

‘None of those guys know a thing about her. That's weird. She lived right across the quay. And they use pro skirt services all the damn time.’

‘What a bummer, eh?’

I had to perk up my ears to catch the cheese without being biased.

‘I thought she had catalepsy. She lied there completely frozen, like a statue,’ the fisher from Callipygous said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

‘Who are you talking about?’ a fisher dude from Lucky replied.

‘That skirt. She was lying there all stiff, like she was having a fit.’

‘But before the cops showed up, you said you never actually saw the body, just smelled its awful stench when you dug down to anchor.’

‘Did I really say that? I can't recall.’

'Gentlemen! Just one at a time, please!’ I said, my words carrying a hint of frustration. 'We're seeking any insights or encounters you may have had that could help us identify the murderer.’

SOCO swiftly mobilised, their actions purposeful as they aimed to finish their work before nightfall. Fat chance for that. I unbuttoned my beige trench coat, revealing a crimson jumper underneath, as the icy wind sent chills down my aging bones. The surrounding men stared, their eyes filled with suspicion, as if I were the culprit. With my left hand, I held my Arsen Pink cigar, a deliberate choice of name inspired by the famous detective Arsène Lupin, who once solved a mystery that even Herlock Sholmes could not unravel. I took a deep inhale; the smoke filling my lungs. The inert body of the girl lay in the plastic bag, embarking on its last journey. Her long red nails, incongruous in their elegance, pointed the way like a signpost, surely carrying a wealth of evidence.

'Has anyone of you noticed anything out of the ordinary lately? Anyone visiting the quay, buying fish, any vehicles?’

'Oh, I've seen one,' the fisher from Ferry Prince popped up from the crowd like a thistle in a wild Scottish meadow.

‘Yes,’ I nodded.

‘I didn't pay it any mind back then. The other day, some stranger surveyed the quay and my small red boat. I thought it was no biggie if he'd ask me something, but he never did.’

‘Can you describe how this man looked?’ I asked.

'I paid little attention to him, as my focus was elsewhere. And when he took off, I realised I totally blanked on it.’

‘Any details you can think of, anything at all?’

‘I sorta remember, but I think he had some lapel pin on his jacket. I reckon it was a guitar. But I wouldn't die for it.’

After a while of prevailing silence, I mustered the words, 'Thank you. Thank you all,' before promptly turning away from the weathered fishermen. Luckily, the suffocating air of the port would no longer invade my lungs for much longer. Gradually, it became apparent that the fishermen harboured their own deep-seated resentments.

As the day waned, hues of purple bled across the sky, painting a melancholic scene. On the horizon a blur of men milled near the water, heavy socks smashing faces and abdomens into one big pulp.

In that moment, I realised that there was no weapon as potent as one's will, as I directed my steps towards the town in the East.

SHEILA

She felt inveigled, as if invisible hands were pulling at her, coercing her into actions she had no desire to take. The sound of her own heart pounding in her ears drowned out any rational thoughts. The scent of desperation hung heavy in the air, mingling with the stale odour of neglected bills. It was an oppressive feeling, this sense of being trapped, forced to make choices she never wanted to make, all in exchange for a reprieve from the unpaid rent.

The city lights shimmered below as she stood on the balcony, her heart fluttering like a captive bird. Yes, she liked men, but only as fleeting encounters, testing them out on her journey to finding the right one. But as she stepped into flat number 9, a feeling of entrapment settled over her like a heavy fog. There was no escape.

She was too good, too genuine for this world. Pimp Roy, with his crude demeanour, often reproached her for being too candid and too classic with the clients. She used to wait for them on the balcony, like Juliette longing for her Romeo. The city's sounds, a symphony of car horns and distant conversations, filled the air as she stood there, her delicate fingers gripping the railing. Roy despised this corny trick, a reminder of a time long gone.

But when she started to be choosy, rejecting wealthy customers who saw her as nothing more than an object, Roy's anger simmered beneath the surface. He wanted to temper her, to break her spirit, and he searched for the right opportunity to do so. A pungent aroma of premeditation permeated the air, blending with the subtle traces of cigarettes and cheap perfume.

Jay orbited around her like a star-struck admirer, his eyes never straying far from her presence. Both on and off stage, she observed him with a keenness that bordered on fascination. Their connection soon blossomed into a passionate romance, igniting a fire that consumed them both. Remarkably, Jay's conduct exuded a gentlemanly charm, often whisking her away to the illustrious Red Lion, the town's finest eatery. As they settled onto the delicately carved ivory chairs, surrounded by flickering candlesticks, an air of regality enveloped them. The milieu delighted Sheila, who revelled in every moment.

One sunny day, he led her onto a small cruise boat gliding along the serene river Colne. As they sailed, the gentle breeze caressed their faces, carrying the faint scent of water lilies. He softly whispered that this was the perfect hideaway, shielded from prying eyes. Confused, she struggled to understand the significance of his words. The atmosphere felt unexpectedly plain, lacking the romantic enchantment she had expected.

Roy’s instructions were crystal clear: move the body discreetly to a new location, away from suspicion. As he checked out the quay, Jay's gaze settled upon a little red boat that appeared neglected and untouched. The faint scent of saltwater mingled with the musty odour of disuse.

Jay beckoned his bandmate, Rob, to join him on this clandestine mission. Rob complied; his mind fraught with lingering doubts.

‘Relax,’ Jay said, his voice calm and reassuring. ‘Nobody can hook you up with her, right?’

‘Nah, not really. I used her once, ya know?’

‘Huh? Are you kidding? So she knew you?’

‘Well, she only saw me once,’ Rob scratched his head, still not sure. ‘It's kinda creepy to put her here. What if someone finds her?’

‘Dude, they're totally gonna find her. Do you think she'll be chilling here forever? Don't bet on it. Let's speed it up, shall we?’

They laid her beneath the boat, taking precautions to conceal any visible evidence from the outside. There wasn't a lot of blood. All the red stuff went into the water when Jay whacked her with the oar.

With a menacing look, Jay snatched the chain that was tethered to the boat and looped it around the girl's neck.

‘There,’ he finished the job with a flourish and stood back to admire his work.

'What took her out?’

‘Trust me, you're better off not knowing that. The less you know, the happier you'll be. Let's bounce, come on.’

With the boys gone, the girl lay there, her blank gaze fixed on the abyss, disturbing the flock of seagulls that had assembled on the quay with their manic cries. The sight of a rusty chain wrapped around her neck told the story of her bound existence.

SPRUCE

The ad stated the flat was for females only. The single bedroom appeared adequate for the lady's requirements. Word had it that the pimp lived opposite, keeping a close eye on his inventory. Determined not to waste any time, I rapped on the door, eager to gather first-hand data.

I skipped the dog tag and assumed the role of a concerned father seeking a haven for his daughter while she pursued her studies. I hoped this ruse would grant me the precious time and vital leak I desperately needed to apprehend the elusive killer.

'Mr Roy Ribbard? My name is Havelock Spruce. I’m here about an ad.’

‘Please, come in,’ the man eagerly ushered me inside and followed closely behind as we made our way into the flat. ‘Did you find it alright?’ he asked.

‘Huh?’

‘The way to here, you said over the phone that you don’t know the area. Where is it you come from?’

‘Cambridge. My daughter despised the best education in the country and opted for something less popular. What can you do?’

‘What will she be studying?’

'Ah, history. However, the crucial aspect is that as she chose not to be close to her parents, I am left to fund her education elsewhere. My intention is for her to steer clear of any student loan debts, you understand.’

‘Ah, a good father. Please, can I get you something? Soft, hard drink?’

‘No, I'm driving. Could I have some water, please? Thank you.’

The place was a far cry from the one depicted in the ad. Wires protruded from the sockets, intertwining with the jumble of cables strewn across the living room's ashen carpet. A sleek black Fender Stratocaster leaned against the wall, emanating an aura of musical potential. A stack of amplifiers and gramophones cluttered the shelves, hinting at a sale in progress. The room exuded a faint scent of old wood and dust, while the sight of the dishevelled setup evoked a sense of disarray and unfinished business.

‘By the way,’ Roy said, seemingly aware of my disappointment, ‘these will all be gone before a new tenant arrives.’

‘Oh, so the previous occupant was a musician?’ I casually remarked, as I carefully placed my coat on the vibrant orange couch.

‘No, no,’ Roy chuckled. ‘I use it as a storage room for the band's equipment. Have you heard of Red Feathers?’

'No, should I?’ I subtly shook my head.

‘No, I don't think so, unless you're into garage bands who play for liquor. But I truly believe this band will make it big someday. I'm their manager, and if you'd like to see them perform, come to Coda in town on Thursday night. If you have the time, of course.’

I thanked him politely and decided to stop by, intrigued by the guitar-shaped lapel pin that seemed to resonate in my ears.

As I was leaving the place, a foghorn suddenly pierced the evening air, like a warning. But I knew deep down that I wasn't someone who backed down easily.

*

On the following Thursday, I explored the city's attractions. After the show, I headed backstage in search of a specific individual – someone sporting a guitar-shaped lapel pin. Unfortunately, from my position in the audience, I couldn't see much because of the distracting waitresses who seemed to resemble a harlot. Where did they come from? And what did they do after hours? Surely the cult of the body doesn't end with the last note.

I vaguely recall conversing with one guitarist with bleached hair, but my vision was now blurry. Everything seemed to sway around me like an old ship on rough waters. I suspected that I had consumed one too many pints. LV16 Colne Light had been on countless voyages, finally finding relief in the specially crafted nest provided for this occasion. Was it retirement designed for the ship? I couldn't help but ponder when my retirement would come. The echoes of the long-forgotten ship crew added to my suspicions about their ultimate resting place.

I lay on the red hull of the ship, breathing in the crisp air. An incandescent lamp with a harsh glare met my wide-open eyes, piercing my pupils like sharp knives. Trying to make sense of what had happened, I chewed on my thoughts, only to discover a rapidly growing lump on my forehead and my left hand came back to me, deeply doused in blood. Stunned, I brushed off my jacket and noticed a strand of light hair adorning the lapel, resembling a flower in a boutonniere, screaming at me for attention.

I quickly got to my feet and felt for my phone in the right coat pocket. To my dismay, it was gone. Determined, I hurried back towards the city.

*

After a few days of walking on eggshells, Peter surprised me one morning.

‘We've analysed the hair from your jacket,’ he said.

‘And?’ I asked.

‘It belongs to a guy named Jay Cutt, a musician. Noted once for drug dealing, but he quit after this incident. He must have been the guy you spoke to. You should be able to recognise him.’

‘Show me, Cobbler,’ I asked.

My superior brought up a picture of a blonde man on the screen. Everything matched except for my fugue.

‘I remember nothing. But we can still nail him, right? At least bring him in for questioning?’

‘Of course. But if he refuses to talk, then we're out of luck,’ Peter said with a bitter note.

‘Let's try though,’ I insisted.

*

Four days later, as anticipation filled the air, the startling revelation came to light – the DNA found under the girl's nails perfectly aligned with the DNA extracted from the single strand of hair. In her ending struggle, she clawed at her attacker, leaving distinct and deep marks on their skin that could help in identifying them.

The room grew tense, the atmosphere heavy with the weight of the truth. Time seemed to freeze as we knew that whatever Jay was about to unveil will burden him and his potential collaborators one hundred percent.

– THE END –

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

***

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