Mistaken Identiy

Mistaken Identity.

Sitting on the kerb we watched as the police went in and out of number 22 Albert Road. A large black van had arrived earlier and something wrapped in black plastic was removed. We had a feeling it was a body but realistically had no idea. We just knew our mate Jack was missing and so was the woman from number 22.  It was after the pub on Monday night we lost Jack in the crowd at kicking out time. This wasn’t unusual so we expected to hear from him later with tales of his latest conquest. But that was three days back; it was unlike Jack to bugger off without a bye or leave. And there was no way he wouldn’t have got in touch.   

            The officer at the station said that we were right to be concerned as a nutter was loose preying on young men. For four or five weeks the newspapers had carried the headlines:

‘HALF EATEN BODIES FOUND, POLICE ENQUIRE ABOUT MISSING LOCAL MEN’

            Rumours had started straight after the word got out that all the missing men had drunk in The Dogs Kennel, the local pub on the corner. That’s where we lost sight of Jack on Monday. An incident room had been set up in the pub car park.  The landlord wasn’t chuffed about it as it meant he could no longer have his lock-ins after hours. We weren’t best pleased either, no more sneaky joints out back for the time being. The police had called at all the houses on our street and we were interviewed in turn. None of us knew any of the missing men so that was that...until now!

            Like most places our town was bursting at the seams. Nearly all the kids from our school had either moved away to somewhere better or like us stayed and signed on. Unemployment was rife and finding any kind of work - even cash in hand odd jobs - was a daily grind. Grass cutting, hedge clipping and window washing all helped stretch the pennies into pounds.

            Albert Road was a dead end. It ended abruptly at a large brick wall. Tall Victorian terraced houses lined both sides. Wheelie bin sized gardens allowed some privacy with their low walls and neatly trimmed hedges. Wide pavements filled the space to the cobbled road. It was quiet, respectable, some what serene...until now!

            The occupant of number 22, Octavia Mulgrove was in her late fifties. We thought more like 45. A glamorous granny, who made an effort in the way she looked and the wolf whistles, proved she was doing something right.  We didn’t really know that much about her. It had been said that she came from a small town somewhere down south. Had been married but husband died couple of years back. Had three grown up kids - that never visited- and some grandkids. That’s all we knew.

            We’d see Octavia most days walking up the street, sometimes alone and sometimes with company.  It’s those times that were most interesting. If we’d seen her going out earlier in the day we would glue ourselves to an upstairs window watching, waiting, ready to guess the age of the latest visitor. Usually this would be just a few years older than us. We’d seen loads of young guys going in and out of number 22 ever since Octavia moved in. They call them cougars these days, older women going after younger men. We thought this was super funny but the local gossips didn’t. They’d been surmising all sorts of goings on inside. Words like disgraceful and disgusting were banded over the back fences. Usually by women whose faces hadn’t been touched by glamour. We thought jealously more like. 

            It was odd jobs that led us to number 22. One Monday morning, we spent a couple of hours cleaning all the windows and tidying up the garden out the back. When Octavia offered us coffee and cake, we jumped at the chance to get warm inside by the fire. It also gave us the opportunity to have a nosey inside cougar mansion.

            Pushing open the back door we were faced by the strong smell of fresh made coffee. The kitchen was clean and very modern, designer spec. Not at all like other grannies kitchens. No home made cakes. No cupboards full of tinned food. And no cosy on a teapot, in fact there was no teapot, just a high-tech cappuccino machine. Number 22, wasn’t so much stepping into the past, more like a leaping into the future. We didn’t have a cappa-what-you-ma-call-it machine. Ours was just a kettle with one-cup teabags and coffee from a jar. But if Octavia’s kitchen took us by surprise the rest of the house left us gob-smacked! It was a minimalist, spotless space with wooden floors throughout. A number of selective pieces of designer furniture were precisely placed around the lounge. Lounge! We had living rooms in our houses.

            The fire in the longue was a hole in the wall full of stones. Some fancy designer thing. That only felt warm if you stood right in front of it. Octavia entered with mugs of coffee, some Columbian brand. Though we didn’t care: it was coffee...

            We sat chatting about the garden and other jobs she wanted doing. Our minds were curious about the younger men. To be honest Octavia was a stunner for a woman older than our mams. But none of us could bring ourselves to see her in any other light except the old woman from across the road. At least that’s what we thought. It seemed however that Jack had a bit of a thing for older women. It was easy to assume that at some point they had become...close! But run away together...Nah...we didn’t think so. Even-though it would explain where they both were.

            The police are still filing in and out of number 22. We’re still sitting in the street watching. The rest of the street has joined us. The gossips are adding their two bits to the proceedings. And for a moment Albert Street seems exciting for a dull grey Thursday lunchtime. The black van has gone and been replaced by two police cars and a smaller white van. Out of which had come a bunch of blokes dressed in white plastic all-in-ones.

            A heavy built officer came over and informed us that there was ‘nothing more to see’ and that we should all go back home. This wasn’t going to happen until we knew the whereabouts of Jack. Had they gone off together? Or was that glamorous granny really a cold sadistic killer and our mate Jack the latest victim.

            The whole street was now standing opposite number 22. The talk of Octavia being the killer heightened the anticipation and had the gossips on overdrive. We listened puzzled at the bits of tittle-tattle.

            ‘I heard she had more than one at a time’

            ‘Never!’

            ‘Oh yes, played the field she did!’

            ‘Don’t believe it, she always looked so respectable’

            ‘Well I knew as soon as those lace curtains went up’

            ‘You never said anything to me’

            ‘Oh yes- lace curtains with all that designer furniture, not a chance’

            ‘And then there were those young men’

            ‘Come to clean the windows indeed’

            ‘Did she drink in the Kennel?’

            ‘No idea but the missing men all did at some point, so I’ve heard’

            ‘And were any of the men that were murdered ever at Octavia’s?’

            ‘Ahh well, who knows!’

            Obviously that, was some sort of secret code between the gossips, one that only they would understand. To us it was just a stream of voices. All sounding the same, with a know-it-all whine attached. At one point we couldn’t even tell who it was talking. Becoming bored we left the gossips yapping and went inside.

            We’d not been indoors long when there was an almighty crack of thunder. Outside went a darker shade of dull. And the heavens opened. We laughed as one by one everyone disappeared into their homes. Alone one solitary policeman stood at the gate to number 22. We watched as the wetness travelled up his legs and down his face. Within minutes he was soaked through just in time for another officer to bring him a waterproof coat. We couldn’t quite make out what was said, but the wet one wasn’t happy. We were still laughing minutes later.

            The rain continued for most of the day. As night set in we still waited for news of Jack. The police kept arriving and going but none came over to tell us anything. The wet officer had been changed to a temporary dry one and was standing at the gate. We considered taking him a cuppa, but it was still chucking it down so we thought ...sod it!

            We retraced our steps from Monday night. We'd all been in the Kennel. It was a good night. A group of lasses kept giving us the eye. As the night went on the 2 groups merged. Jack was chatting with this blonde woman. A bit later he came over alone saying he was going for a piss. We finished our drinks and invited the gals back here. We left the pub at kicking out time. Saw Jack outside, thought he'd followed us till next morning when he wasn't there. So assumed he shacked up with the blonde woman. But it wasn't Octavia.

            Jack always kept stuff like that close to his chest. But if he was having a thing with the woman over the road, we'd know about it, this street never misses anything. We saw him every day even though he lived on the other side of town. Rarely for a whole day as he always had other things going on. We thought it would be possible for them to meet somewhere else judging on the nosiness of Albert road. Jacks flat wouldn’t have done, he wasn’t the tidiest of people. No way would a posh bird like Octavia be entertained in there. Slowly the thoughts that they had buggered off together disappeared. We were really thinking about the ‘item’ that was removed was it really Jack!

The police always have a way of knocking on a door as if removing it from its hinges is the intention. The officers on the other side flashed badges in our faces and requested entry.  They informed us that a formal identity had been made on the human remains found early in the day and that they wished to speak to Jack...

‘JACK?’

‘He’s been missing for days, we haven’t seen him, was it not him in the black plastic?’

‘No sir, the human remains are female, and believed to be that of Ms Mulgrove.

‘Octavia dead! But how?’

‘We believe that she had known her killer there was no sign of a break in...She was last seen on Monday evening with a young man. Witnesses say she was wearing a blonde wig’

Ahh the blonde woman...maybe we were a little over lubricated than we thought. It must have been Octavia.

‘Yes, we have evidence to prove he was responsible for the murder of the local men and believe Ms Mulgrove had confronted him in her home on Monday evening.

‘Hang on, you think our mate Jack has been killing men and eating them!!’

‘That’s right sir. You and your friends are lucky to be alive’

©Mills Laine