Free The Maggie Murders by J P Lomas Page B

Wednesday evening had encouraged few takers for the
outside tables.  A couple of more elderly holidaymakers, taking advantage of
the pre-school holiday rates had braved one of the outside tables where the
only purpose of the sun umbrellas was to advertise a brand of continental lager
no longer served behind the bar. At least they were finding it fractionally
warmer than Wolverhampton…
     In the snug bar, a couple of
farm labourers with pints of Stella loured over one table, while a trio of
local underage teens drinking halves of snakebite and black tried to look older
than they were at another. The five of them made a fairly large crowd for the
time of year and nearly justified the landlord’s employment of his niece as a
second bar-maid.
    It was in the saloon bar where
the real profits lay. The presence of the nearby police incident room was as
welcome to the pub, as an unexpected coach party turning up for lunch in early
October. The prospect of overtime had already caused one of the off-duty
officers present that evening to splash out on the three tunes for a pound
offer on the jukebox.  Eddy Grant had already declared to anyone that cared
that he didn’t wanna dance and now 10cc were being similarly moody buggers by
hymning the fact they weren’t in love. Tight Fit would at least be able to
positively state that the lion was asleep that night with their hit 60s cover
version coming on next. There’d already been an informal agreement among the
uniforms that anyone who put on The Police would have to pay a £5 forfeit.
     Grouped around two small round
tables they’d moved together and slouching on a worn leather green sofa and
several reproduction Windsor chairs they’d commandeered in what they saw as
their part of the bar were PCs Mark Salmons, Tony Rundle, Lee Graham and Mike
Arthur.  Changed into their civvies, they now wore their casual uniform of
moccasins, jeans and Fred Perry shirts and they’d become like juniors the world
over in trying to outdo each other in making denigrating comments about their
superiors. Most casual observers would have wondered why these men hadn’t been
appointed to run the case, given they seemed certain of their ability to do it
so much better.
    Their comments had become more
vociferous with the arrival of two casually dressed ladies in optimistically
bought summer dresses.  WPCs Sandy Clark and Fiona Walker were the only
non-male uniforms working the case and their debut at the pub was an unexpected
bonus for their male colleagues.  To be honest, at least three of them were
acting up for the sole benefit of Sexy Sandy Clark, a young and attractive
leggy brunette who was only too aware of the soubriquet bestowed on her by the
men. She’d persuaded Fiona to come along as much needed insurance. In fact only
Mike Arthur was especially pleased by the presence of the older and fuller
figured Fiona Walker as he’d calculated he might have a better chance with her.
    Salmons, by far the least
intelligent of anyone in the pub and who lacked the crueller, but sharper wit
of Tony Rundle had resorted to doing an exaggerated impersonation of a gorilla
giving the morning briefing. This was in the instinctive belief that physical
clowning and casual racism might be the best way of getting into Sandy’s
knickers. Well, given Cheryl was pregnant he had to be getting it somewhere.
Sandy’s half-hearted- smile-to-fit-in-with-the-crowd reaction was not what he
had been looking for.
    ‘C’mon Sandy, crack a smile!’ he
implored.
    ‘Oh sit down Mark, it’s not that
funny – let’s just have a drink and relax.’
    He moved in front of her,
gyrating his stocky frame in the way no gorilla had ever managed in nature.
    ‘C’mon Sandy, have a suck on my
monkey nuts!’ he leered – the Stella having had the desired effect of loosening
his few inhibitions.
    ‘Look just sit down and let me
listen to the music. And for crying out loud, stop staring at my tits!’
    Moodily, Salmons sat