We held our weekly meeting in Scoresdale. It was convenient for myself and Constable Colin Burgos though less so for Constable Clare Turner.
It was our first meeting with the new CSO Francis Skinner, a former member of the RAF Regiment. He didn't mind making the tea although he was older than any of us.
We had a call from Lev Petrovitch, the owner of Jacob's Farm. It was as though an alien craft had landed, if aliens started using Land Rovers. It was axle-deep in mud. This was hardly surprising, it had been raining since March.
"There was a corpse in the vehicle," Colin paused.
"It was a sheep. Why anybody needs to drive around with a dead sheep in the back is something I prefer not to speculate about."
"Petrovitch sounds like a foreigner." was the contribution of the CSO.
"Lev Petrovitch is as English as I am," I said, "His family have lived in Sussex for 150 years."
"When he took over the farm he thought an Old Testament name would make it sound nicely English." was Clare's contribution.
"He is married with two children who moved away because they hated farming. Then he lost his wife. That's not a euphemism. She is not deceased. She is just missing," Colin said.
"Well did we investigate at the time?" Clare asked.
"She was an adult and chose to part company with her husband once the children had left home. We searched the premises and found nothing suspicious. Old man Petrovitch seemed genuinely upset and, well, we left it at that." I said.
Clare had been brought up in the area.
"There are two sheep farms. I have arranged to interview the farmers, both of whom are tenants, this afternoon."
When Clare reported back, she said, "They both thought they might have lost a sheep but when I told them it had been found dead they lost interest. Sheep which have not been through a registered abattoir are not saleable."
"I dropped in on old Petrovitch as well. He hasn't been the same since his wife absconded but he is certain the Land Rover has nothing to do with him and 'might have dropped from the sky' for all he knew."
It was my task to persuade the pathologist that a sheep was within her job description. A bottle of whisky did the trick.
"I can tell you that this poor lamb (or sheep) died from a massive loss of blood. There were no bloodstains in the Land Rover and a couple of puncture wounds in the neck which must be connected because there were no other wounds of any sort."
Our next call from Lev Petrovitch was to report that the vehicle had disappeared as mysteriously as it had appeared.
We had ascertained that the number plates were valid enough but registered to a Mini Cooper in Sheffield.
Assuming the driver had not changed the plates, we ran a check on the traffic cameras in the area but without much hope of success. The number plates on the Land Rover had been covered with mud. This is, of course, illegal but local farmers laugh at the idea of keeping their vehicles free from mud on a farm.
"I've found the victim's name. It's Geoffrey Howe," was Francis Skinner's contribution. He was the only one old enough to remember the joke that being attacked by Sir Geoffrey was like being savaged by a dead sheep. We provisionally used the name from then on.
We concentrated on this case because it was the only one in our area at the time. A Rev Parsons reported his bike as stolen but then rang up to say he had left it at the house of Miss Eckett, a parishioner.
A local pub is often a source of what we call "intelligence" although the state of some customers...well you can imagine.
The Old Red Lion was owned by a formidable woman called Mrs Steadfast. There was no Mr Steadfast and people did not like to enquire.
"I remember old Helga Petrovitch. She used to come in here but she fell in with a strange crowd who used to drink in the snug. Unlike everybody else they fell silent when I appeared so I only caught one snatch of their conversation. 'Here comes Buffy', the cheeky blighters.
"They spent enough on booze so I turned a blind eye to the fact they always had a thermos flask which they handed round. When poor Helga disappeared they stopped coming here."
Colin was able to clarify the Buffy reference. He had the complete series of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the spinoff Angel on video. He offered to share them with the team. We took a raincheck on it.
I took it on myself to visit James Kaldor who, Mrs Steadfast told us, was another member of the secretive group.
"Oh yes, the Dracula Club. We meet here now," he said, "It's just a bit of fun, you could come along yourself if you like, Sergeant. If you don't mind drinking blood."
He laughed at my expression.
"Come now, officer. It is only animal blood. We get it from a perfectly respectable veterinary surgeon."
It is a criminal offence to sell blood intended for dogs , who need a transfusion, to humans but we soon had other matters to concern us.
Lev Petrovitch did not frequent The Old Red Lion. He had his booze much cheaper from Waitrose. A worried Waitrose delivery driver rang to say they could not 'raise" Mr Petrovitch and he was usually there when the van arrived.
Since the Reverend Parsons had solved his little problem - and created a scandal about his goings-on with Miss Eckett - Francis went to the farm to investigate.
He did not ask permission to make a forced entry, perhaps the RAF Regiment have different rules.
"Sergeant, I think you should get over here. Mr Petrowatsit has kicked the bucket as far as I can tell."
"Any more details?"
"I entered the premises."
"The door was open?"
"It certainly was when I'd finished with it."
"You had reason to believe life was in danger?"
"Well he is out of any danger now. Could you come along, please?"
What I found was remarkable.
Lev Petrovitch was tied to the bed and I don't think it was voluntary. A drain tube was attached to his neck and a few drops of blood on the floor suggested that it had been used to drain the blood from his body.
"You remember the Christie case?" asked Colin.
I didn't but it is best to give Colin his head when he has an idea.
"The police did a very inadequate search and missed the two dead bodies in the garden. We should take the time to search this place from top to bottom."
I called in the only backup I could, which was Clare and we started a thorough search of the farm.
"Look at this, Sarge."
Clare had found the elusive Land Rover in a barn.
"It could have been here all the time."
That was worth searching for but there was more to come.
There was a locked door in the cottage. We set Francis on it and it was not locked for long.
The basement was well-furnished for a basement with a luxurious double bed and in the bed was a very sleepy Helga. She was surrounded by several bottles of blood. Without testing we jumped to the conclusion that this was not animal blood.
"Who the f*** are you?"
"It is a pleasure to meet you too, Mrs Petrovitch."
"Don't mention that bastard's name to me. You know he kept me locked up in here."
"Not so much that you couldn't break out and borrow a Land Rover."
"Well he was a swine but an incompetent swine. I could get out and he's paid the price for locking me in here."
"Why did he do it?"
"He stopped me from meeting my friends."
"The Dracula Club?"
"How do you know about that?"
"We asked Mr Kaldor."
"He was useless. He made no attempt to rescue me."
"I am afraid we will have to ask you to come with us."
"What for?"
"Mrs Petrovitch, I am arresting you for the..."
And she screamed over the rest of the caution.
She screamed even more when we handcuffed her.
"You can't take me out in daylight. It will be the death of me."
We overrode her objection and we have regretted it ever since.
She collapsed when led outside and died from a heart attack.
The End
Bio:
Derek McMillan is a writer in Durrington in the UK. His editor is his
wife, Angela. He has written for print and online publications in the
UK, USA, Australia and Canada. His latest book is an audio-book with the
cheerful title, "Murder from Beyond the Grave" which is available on eBay.
He also publishes a blog for flash fiction with the help of over 100
contributors, http://worthingflash.blogspot.