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Dusk was breaking while the old trusty ivory Volkswagen T2 trundled down a road headed for the middle of absolutely nowhere in Dartmoor. The little hula lady on the dashboard quivered idly as vibration from the well-worn gravel road reverberated through the pickup, which was riddled with ditches, coarse pebbles and muddy puddles. Eventually, the road ended in front of a double winged wrought iron gate, guarded by two police officers who couldn’t have looked more bored.
The impressive shape of Thornbridge Manor loomed dark and imposing in the background, a ragged mountain in an otherwise rather flat landscape. For miles it was the only building around, its solitude equally comforting as it felt foreboding — although every building of that size had that effect on Wicky.
To not get too hung up on it, Wicky trained his eyes back on the gate and wrestled the ID badge by its lanyard out from under his zipped up blue overall, but before he could stop the pickup and show the badge to the officers, they had opened the gate for him and beckoned him through — the Lausen’s logo on the side of the Volkswagen having undoubtedly given away his reasons for being here. He thanked the officers with a nod and quick wave, and continued on until he reached the steps leading up to the manor’s main entrance. There, alongside two Vauxhalls, Wicky pulled up and got out of the VW. PS Edwards was already awaiting him.
Up close, the old manor house looked even grander and… graver, if that was a thing. Oppressive, yet impressive.
Head tipped backwards, Wicky let out an amazed whistle as he walked around the VW. “Someone’s doing well,” he said and with a teasing grin looked at PS Edwards whilst gesturing at the building. “Nice holiday home.”
She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated, but fond manner. “You really think my job pays that well, do you?”
Wicky shrugged. “Well, if you can afford to go for the premium lager…,” he said and folded his arms. “And don’t try to deny it, I know what I saw.” Accusingly, he pointed at PS Edwards, taking a step towards her, knowing fully well how high he towered above her without actually trying, although he also knew PS Edwards wasn’t easily intimidated by him. Not that she had ever been.
At that moment, the front doors swung open and two police officers emerged carrying a stretcher, heading for a small van Wicky hadn’t previously noticed. Atop the stretcher lay a black body bag. Wicky watched them for a while as they loaded it into the vehicle.
“The unfortunate lady, I presume?” he asked and indicated the body bag with a nod of his head. “Looks… more intact than what I’d imagined, given what you told me had happened to her.” Even if it sounded rather grim but he had imagined Lady Carlisle to be little more than a great splat he would have to scrape off the floor and pointless decorative furniture.
“That’s her brother, Zachary Carlisle,” supplied PS Edwards helpfully. “He died last night.”
A surprised frown appeared on Wicky’s forehead, he hadn’t been made aware of a second death. “Oh wow. One hell of an unfortunate family, then.”
“It’s a bit of a mess…”
Wicky snorted and his eyes followed the car leaving the estate. “Yeah, you tell me. He, too, had a chandelier dropped on his head?”
“No.” PS Edwards shook her head. “He took his own life.”
Wicky looked at her for a moment without saying a word. It did sound like an absolute mess if he was honest, and once again he was more than happy he didn’t have to deal with the afflicted family directly. Most aristocratic families — or families of money — Wicky had come to learn were a pain in the arse. Entitled, condescending pricks, the lot of them.
“Isn’t it usually the other way around with these aristocratic pricks; first the ‘accident’, then the suicide?” he asked, putting massive air quotes around the word ‘accident’. “Ah, wait, it’s the first death that usually disguised as an accident or suicide…”
PS Edwards didn’t respond. She was more than used to this kind of talk coming from Wicky and instead of indulging him, she beckoned him to follow her inside. She pushed the door open and instantly was engulfed by darkness. It felt like stepping into an entirely different world altogether, Wicky thought as he tailed her. The heavy oak door fell into its lock and with it every noise ceased — not that there were many to begin with out here.
It took his eyes a moment to get used to the dim light the sconces cast around the foyer, the dark wood panelling seemed to absorb most of it anyway, leaving little behind to help him find his bearings. A thick rug muffled their footfalls and the creaking of the polished floor boards as they headed through the middle doorway, which was nothing more than a gaping hole in the twilight.
The aperture led them into a hallway with a set of stairs branching off from their left and right, and PS Edwards began climbing one of them, Wicky stayed close at her heel. A trolley with cleaning products stood abandoned on the larger platform at the stairs’ halfway point. It would take an army of trained staff to keep this place up and running. Wicky could quite easily imagine the restless bustling of every day, so seeing the manor this empty and quiet was probably uncommon.
“For reasons still unclear to us, Lady Carlisle appeared to have faked her own death,” PS Edwards went on, “the funeral was planned for later today. Her brother, stricken with grief about her sudden passing, took his own life during the night.”
They had reached the first floor and rounded a corner.
“Tragic,” Wicky mumbled, only half listening. They headed for a second flight of stairs. “Wait-” He stopped dead in his tracks as realisation hit him. “She faked her own death? Why would anyone do that? This is another rich people thing, innit?”
PS Edwards shrugged. “That’s what we’re still trying to determine. Too bad we can’t ask her anymore. Anyway, this morning the family discovered Lady Carlisle to be, in fact, not dead, however, the revelation came too little too late for Zachary who had taken his life during the night.”
“Right. Poor old Zach.” Wicky was now panting, his body no longer in peak condition like it used to be as they reached the end of the stairs, but PS Edwards didn’t stop and made straight for a third set of stairs. Wicky let out a groan.
“Oh, come on, old man,” she teased with a grin and nudged his arm. “We’re almost there.” In return, Wicky gave her a withering glare.
“So, this Lady Carlisle faked her own death, only to die anyway?” surmised Wicky. “That’s… actually quite funny.” The words had barely left his mouth when he was met with a disapproving look, the likes he hadn’t been prepared for. “I mean, it’s horrible for the family and all, but you have to admit, it’s also quite ironic.”
PS Edwards stopped outside of Lady Carlisle’s office and turned to Wicky once more. “Brace yourself,” she warned as if he hadn’t seen dozens of horrific crime scenes, “it’s not a pretty sight.” She took a key from her pocket and unlocked the door, leading Wicky inside.
The office was a sort of octagonal room with a balcony outside overlooking the garden and a staircase leading to somewhere upstairs. Shelves and cabinets housed a myriad of small, dust-collecting objects, red leather sofas and luxurious armchairs stood scattered (some had been moved aside), hunting trophies and paintings lined the walls, an especially large specimen of a moose’s head hung directly above the door, and a whole bunch of other expensive looking knick-knacks rich people put in their homes when they didn’t know what to do with their money anymore completed the appearance of pompous extant. There was also a fireplace, because of course there was.
Yet, ironically, these things were all just worth a fleeting glance, as the main object drawing Wicky’s attention was a broken chandelier found on the ground in the middle of the office. It was decorated with antlers, however, many of them were snapped in half, with bone and wood splinters broken off and sprinkled throughout the office. A pool of congealed blood marked where Lady Carlisle must have lain, bleeding out, after the chandelier crushed her.
PS Edwards was right. It was a gruesome sight, yet not the worst Wicky had ever seen. The blood, bones and other human remains that weren’t usually meant to leave the body he could deal with. However…
“Yeah, I’m not gonna be able to repair that,” Wicky said and pointed at the chandelier. The golden chain formerly holding it up appeared to have snapped in half, causing this whole accident.
“You’re not meant to. You’re just here to clean the blood and the rest of Lady Carlisle off of the furniture.”
“Lovely.” Wicky pressed his lips together. Specks of blood were literally everywhere and because the office was chock-full of useless crap, getting it all cleaned up would take forever, and it was already rather late.
“Best get started, eh?” PS Edwards poked her pointy elbow in his waist.
Wicky sighed, resigned. “Why can’t people die without getting their blood and brains everywhere?”
“Well, because Mr Mop’d be out of a job, then.” As she turned to leave, she gave Wicky her best cheeky grin.
“She must’ve been exceptionally unlucky standing right here when that thing came down.” Wicky glanced up at the ceiling where he could barely make out the other half of the chain and motioned for a heavy object to fall. The chances of this happening… It felt unreasonable, impossible. A thing that happens on telly for comedic effect and not-
“Well, accidents can happen to any of us.”
Together they left Lady Carlisle’s office — for Wicky to get his cleaning supplies from the Volkswagen and for PS Edwards to head home.
After some more trips between the office and his pickup (seriously, why did the old shrew have to die up there and couldn’t have kicked the bucket in the foyer?), Wicky had everything he needed to get started. He put his headphones on and set about to clear up the mess.
Mopping up the pool of blood and other visible stains was quick work and progress was good. After about two hours of tirelessly cleaning, Wicky allowed himself a little break. With his vape mod in hand, he climbed another set of stairs which lead to a third floor only accessible via Lady Carlisle’s office, mainly out of curiosity about what he’d find there, but also to see whether any of the blood had made it upstairs somehow.
As it turned out the third floor wasn’t really a floor but rather a walkway, its sole purpose, it seemed, to lead to yet another balcony (like, seriously, how many balconies did this manor have?). The chain links of the bit still fixed to the ceiling glinted in the lights from below. Earlier Wicky had had a look at the snapped link on the chandelier, although he lacked the knowledge to determine what had made it snap in the first place, after all, he was a crime scene cleaner and not a blacksmith. Though all the other links felt sturdy, so he didn’t see why suddenly one of them would have snapped. Could’ve been poor craftsmanship. Luck, or rather lack thereof. PS Edwards was right, accidents could happen to anyone, you just had to be unlucky enough.
There was also no light up here, at least not directly, and the last remnants of daylight had faded some considerable time ago. Further cementing the idea in Wicky’s head that this place had been built to show off rather than live at — the remote location also an indicator — because who would voluntarily live in a place like this? There was no amount of money in the world that could make him stay the night here.
One-handedly, Wicky seized the delicately curved door handle. The smooth metal was cool, but as he pressed down, the vape mod slipped through his fingers. It clattered to the ground, thankfully not falling far, and landing in front of an old telescope. Still annoyed, Wicky grumbled and stooped down to pick it up. Bloody thing. He gathered it up in his hand, but a dark stain on the rug caught his attention. There was another one. And another one.
Wicky reached out and dragged his finger through the dark stain, then distributed the coarse powder between thumb and index finger. Was that- He held his fingers up to his nose and sniffed. Why would there be soil up here of all places? He hadn’t noticed any plants in the office. Wicky glanced over the bannister, his gaze sweeping across the space below. No plants.
Wicky pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and activated the torch. It wasn’t merely soil randomly spilled onto the ground, they were in the rough outline of muddy boot prints. This place- The amount of cleaning products and tools he had seen lying around Thornbridge Manor, it didn’t strike him as a place where there were just simply a handful of muddy boot prints to be found.
With his torch, Wicky followed them from the balcony’s glass door towards the stairs, though he didn’t get far as only a couple of steps later, the previously rather clear boot prints were smudged, as if something heavy had been dragged over them. The smudged trail led to a chest on the opposite side of the stairs, large enough even Wicky could have fitted inside comfortably.
He shouldn’t snoop around. There was no blood up here that needed cleaning up, there wouldn’t be any blood in that chest either. It wasn’t his job to poke his nose in things that weren’t his business…
For a couple of inconclusive beats, Wicky stared at the chest. He was alone in the manor, there was no way he’d be found out if he had a little peek, no consequences whatsoever. What was the worst he could find? Some disused, moth-eaten curtains, probably. Maybe he’d give a spider a heart attack. Wicky flipped the metal latches and lifted the lid all the way up.
A bloodcurdling scream escaped him and he let go of the lid as he staggered backwards, bumping his hip on the bannister. The lid shut with a loud bang that echoed through the office. Quickly, Wicky clamped a shaking hand down over his mouth to silence himself.
For a good few minutes he stood like that, frozen in shock, his eyes never leaving the chest, his mind and heart racing, trying to make sense of it. Barely calmed and a lot more hesitant, his poor heart pounding loudly in his ears, Wicky approached the chest a second time and opened the lid again.
Inside the chest was a man — a naked man… Still wearing his pants, thank fuck. His eyes were closed. Was he asleep? Why would he be in a chest if he was? That made no sense, Wicky chastised himself. Slowly, yet automatically, he reached inside and placed his index and middle finger against the unresponsive man’s pulse point on his neck.
Wicky breathed a relieved sigh. The man was alive, but definitely unconscious as he did not react when Wicky shook him gently. The man’s head flopped to the side and in the light of the torch revealed a nasty wound from a blow to the backside of his head. Fuck! How long had he been like that, and almost more pertinently why?
Well, regardless of the why, the man was in dire need of help. Now. And Wicky did the only thing he could think of; he dialled PS Edwards’ mobile phone number.
After six harrowing rings, she picked up. “Done already? That was fast.” Her voice was distorted due to bad connection, she still had to be on the road, then.
“I think you’d better come back.” His own phone almost slipped through his fingers and his palms were slick with sweat.
“Why? Too scared to be alone in that old house?” He heard her smile despite the distortion, but this wasn’t the time for laughs.
“That’s the thing,” Wicky willed himself to calm down with a few deep breaths, “I’m not alone. There’s an unconscious naked man in a chest here.”
There was no response for a beat and he thought he may have gotten disconnected.
“Sorry?” The background noise on PS Edwards’ side was softer now and her voice cut sharp through the quiet of Lady Carlisle’s office.
“There’s a man here in a chest, he’s breathing, but not conscious, and he’s not wearing any clothes apart from his pants.” Wicky spoke slowly, hoping PS Edwards picked up on the pressing tone in his voice even if his words sounded mad. “And he’s also bleeding from a wound on his head.”
This time PS Edwards’ reaction came immediately. “All right, I’m on my way back now.”
“Thank you.”
The line went dead.
It didn’t take long for the police to return to Thornbridge Manor, and they arrived just before the ambulance did. As the paramedics lifted the unconscious man out of the chest, they discovered a pile of clothes underneath him, although it was impossible to say at first glance whether they belonged to the man in the chest or not. PS Edwards took them out and held them up for inspection. The first item was a black turtleneck, followed by grey trousers and a classic cut long coat. Not at all cheap-looking clothes.
Fidgeting agitatedly with the lanyard of his ID badge, Wicky watched as PS Edwards put the clothes into a clear plastic bag — for evidence. “Please tell me this makes as little sense to you as it does to me,” he said and nervously twirled the chord between thumb and index finger.
She didn’t react but Wicky could almost see the little gears inside her head turning and turning. He had heard the other officers talk and complain about his find, apparently no-one wanted to stay at Thornbridge Manor the entire night, yet this discovery had changed things. He still had a hard time making sense of it all. Why was there a man in the chest? He hadn’t put himself there, had he, but if he hadn’t, who had? Why hadn’t the police found him earlier? Had they even been up here, ‘cos if they hadn’t, they must have missed the muddy boot prints too.
So while PS Edwards was still here, Wicky directed her attention towards the boot prints. At first, she simply looked at them, her brows knitted together in deep thought, then the two headed out onto the balcony. The door wasn’t locked and a cold autumnal wind blew in their faces.
“You know, it’s strange,” she said and turned to face Wicky, nearly blinding him with her torch. “It’s strange that they start out here… Almost as if-”
PS Edwards didn’t finish the sentence, but stepped up to the bannister of the balcony, raised her torch and leant over it with way too much enthusiasm for Wicky’s liking. Wicky stepped closer immediately, hands raised before him, dithering. Ready to, what, grab her? Oh, this wasn’t good. What if she fell? What if-
With a triumphant exultation, she straightened up again. “Right, whoever put the guy in the chest, scaled up the drainpipe to get here. There’s muddy boot prints all over the wall.” Leaving a confused Wicky to simply gape after her, she went back inside and out of the cold night air.
Wicky was convinced he must have missed something and with a huff that turned visible in a small cloud, he followed. Where was this other guy suddenly coming from? “What- Why- Who’d do that?”
PS Edwards frowned at him. “Someone who wishes to avoid security, perhaps?” she suggested in a tone indicating Wicky wasn’t getting something.
“But why?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, leaning against the bannister inside. Her eyes scanned the office downstairs. “Lady Carlisle faked her own death — not something people usually do, is it? Take into account the amount of bodyguards and security detail she hired only recently… Maybe she was afraid.”
Wicky stepped up beside her. “And now she’s dead anyway, so it worked out perfectly well for her.”
“Precisely.” PS Edwards gave him an approving look. “You see where I’m going with this?”
“Not really, no,” Wicky admitted with a one-sided shrug. Together they descended the steps to the office and while PS Edwards examined the gold chain on the broken chandelier again, Wicky settled down at a desk opposite her.
After just a short moment PS Edwards drew back with a scowl on her face, however, it brightened up the instant her eyes fixed on Wicky — or rather somewhere behind him. With a grin PS Edwards pointed past his head and Wicky turned to discover another chest just beneath the staircase.
“Maybe you should check that chest too, see if there’s another guy inside,” she teased.
Wicky sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes, but even then he knew he’d humour her anyway. “If there is-,” said Wicky, slowly rising to his feet, “-then I’m gonna scream like a little girl.”
He wheeled around on his heel and approached the chest. With a cocked eyebrow, he glimpsed over his shoulder to make sure PS Edwards was watching, Wicky flipped the latches open one after another, then pried three of his fingers under the heavy lid. What would this chest contain; blankets, more novelty ornaments, stationery?
Wicky lifted the lid and barely glanced inside before turning back to PS Edwards, however, halfway turned, his brain registered the chest’s contents and his head snapped back around. In disbelief he stared into the chest, no sound leaving his lips which he opened and closed repeatedly like a fish on dry land, incapable of words.
It merely took a second for PS Edwards to appear at his side.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she mumbled, shaking her head.
Apparently, this day wasn’t meant to end for any of them. Would’ve been too good to be true anyway. Now that the total of unconscious men discovered had skyrocketed to two, PS Edwards radioed for reinforcements, which arrived after a short delay as none of her superiors wanted to believe her story (who would?).
The idea was to conduct another — more thorough — search of the premises this time around; of all chests, cupboards and other hidden crevices within the grounds of Thornbridge Manor where bodies could have been concealed away. Of course, this wasn’t made any easier by the fact it was utterly dark inside as well as outside on the moor and the police had to bring in extra flood lights and torches, but as both unconscious men had sustained dangerous head injuries that needed immediate medical treatment, the idea of waiting ‘til the morning was quickly discarded.
With all that police roaming about the place, it was unthinkable for Wicky to continue his work. He had moved on to another desk in the office — this one probably being Lady Carlisle’s herself — and he observed as PS Edwards instructed and ordered the other officers around who, intimidated and obedient, scampered out of the room at the earliest convenience. Wicky couldn’t help hiding a grin crossing his lips.
“Oi, what’re you grinning at? Something funny, eh?” She snapped a tad irritated as she noticed.
Trying hard not to actually laugh out loud, Wicky pursed his lips. “Oh, er, no. Nothing funny,” he said and exhaled relieved, when PS Edwards turned away and answered her radio.
Wicky dropped his gaze, a little guilty, she was only doing her job. He ran his fingers over the armchair’s armrests, feeling the smooth reddish leather and the ridges of cold metal rivets that lined both sides underneath the tips of his blunt fingers. There was a small depression in the leather of the right-hand armrest with what looked like a small button of the same colour as the leather, embedded in a brass-looking metal base.
Well, if it was a button it was there to be pressed, right? Even if there was a chance of it being the button to activate the ejector seat.
Wicky pressed the button and… nothing happened. Disappointing. Then he heard a quiet grating noise coming from somewhere behind him on his right and he craned his neck to look at it. PS Edwards had caught the noise as well.
“What have you done now, Wicky?” There was a note of tired resignation in her voice.
Wicky got up and examined the two paintings on the wall. Both of them were of dogs encased in wooden frames painted gold; the upper one of potentially a Bernedoodle or King Charles Spaniel and the lower one of a Scottish Terrier — but there was something off with the painting of the latter. It wasn’t hung on the wall like the other paintings, this one was in the wall. Carefully, Wicky placed his hands around the edges of the frame and tried to move it — and it did. With a little nudge it slid out of the way and revealed a safe. The button must have unlatched the painting so it could be moved.
“Look at that!” Wicky positively beamed as he pointed at the safe, however, PS Edwards was barely glancing in his direction, still busy on the radio. He was surprised, although he probably shouldn’t be, given where he was and so on. Obviously Lady Carlisle had a safe in her office.
The safe had a digital keypad and Wicky bent forward to get a better look at the keys. What was it about the ‘wear’ revealing the code? For a moment Wicky inspected the keypad. Unfortunately, this seemed to be a fairly new safe, there was no wear or greasy fingerprints to speak of, making it virtually impossible to even determine the keys used without some special equipment…
Four icons above the safe caught his eye; an old clock, a telescope, a fire, and a moose. Hadn’t there been a telescope upstairs? Wicky looked over at PS Edwards, yet she was still occupied doling out orders and wasn’t paying any mind to him. Without as much as batting an eye at him, Wicky walked past her and back upstairs.
There was indeed a telescope next to the door leading out onto the balcony, he had remembered correctly. Using the torch on his mobile phone once again, Wicky flashed its light at the dark corner. There was a somewhat large 9 painted on the wood panelling, half obscured by the telescope. Oh, this was too easy.
Where had he seen a moose in the office? Pondering that question, Wicky headed downstairs and stopped about five steps before the end of the staircase. Above the door, through which he had entered the office, was a hunting trophy in the form of the head of a moose fixed to the wall… But where was the number? Wicky retraced a couple of steps and soon discovered the number 5 behind the taxidermied animal head. This was beginning to be fun.
The fire icon could only mean the fireplace as so far all the other numbers had been in the office. And sure enough, a bold 7 was painted on the bricks at the back of the fireplace. Who had come up with this system? This was a serious security risk, everyone could stumble upon the button in the armrest and the safe. Who was this designed for? Burglars? If you had something to hide, wouldn’t you want it to be as securely hidden as possible?
The last icon was the clock, and there was a grandfather clock left of the fireplace.
This one appeared more tricky than the others as there was no obvious number painted on the wall behind it — finally someone had begun using their brain. Maybe the last digit was the time? Its handles were pointing at the 4 and at the 11. Fifteen? No, it was a four digit code and he had three of the four digits already. Was it one of the two? The 4 was the only number of the two possible…
Contemplating, Wicky turned his back on the grandfather clock. He could try the 4, but what if he got it wrong and triggered some kind of alarm? His eyes stopped on another clock next to the chest which had contained the second guy. Its appearance resembled the icon more closely than the grandfather clock. Well, it was worth a try.
Wicky sauntered over in an attempt to look as inconspicuous as possible, and this time he didn’t even have to try as the number 1 was painted as plain as day on the table in front of the clock. He must have been mistaken about someone using their brain, this was child’s play.
Now having all four digits needed, Wicky headed back to the safe, PS Edwards was still not paying attention to him. Another look at the icons… At this point he was ready to bet money this was also their order, thus he punched in: 1975.
Not even a second passed, the safe beeped and the door opened slightly, though not enough to catch a glimpse of its contents. However, and quite unfortunately, the noise alerted PS Edwards.
“Fuck’s sake, Wicky, what’ve-” She broke off mid-sentence as Wicky opened the door of the safe and glanced inside.
“… Well, that’s disappointing,” he concluded, definitely disappointed after his exciting (and way too easy) scavenger hunt. Somehow Wicky had expected more; some scandalous letters or other incriminating documents, money, cigars, drugs, a gun even. Not nothing. This was the most boring outcome imaginable!
“Bloody hell, Wicky,” PS Edwards said, arriving to also have a look at the safe, “you can’t just do that. That’s- We don’t have a warrant for this safe!”
“Not for this but for all the others?” Wicky grinned at her and received a light swat on his arm. “There’s nothing in it anyway.”
“That’s not the point,” chastised PS Edwards, “it’s about the principle, about not just breaking into a safe. How’d you even-”
Wicky raised his hands defensively. “I didn’t break into anything! I opened it with the code. Look!”
But PS Edwards was having none of it, kicking him out of the office — the impromptu centre of operations — and made him wait in the sitting room on the ground floor (also making some very specific and horrifying, although creative, threats in the process, which they both knew she’d never follow through with) while the police officers continued the search of the manor, completely oblivious to Wicky’s genius or what he had been threatened with.
Around midnight the search ended. For almost three hours in total, police officers had scoured every nook and cranny on this dastardly massive estate, and discovered two more men who had been rendered unconscious by a blow to the head. One of them was another bodyguard, but the other man’s clothes had been taken as well, although he had been left with the clothes of a bodyguard. It was a mess — and none of it made any real sense to any of them.
Since his ban to the sitting room, Wicky hadn’t moved and spent most of that time huddled in two blankets — as one of them wasn’t long enough to cover him entirely — and napped, the only sensible thing he could do while he waited. Everything about and surrounding Lady Carlisle’s accidental death felt off. There had to be another explanation to it all and if Wicky understood PS Edwards’ notion correctly, then she assumed this was done by a third party who was trying to stay undetected. A feat they seemingly achieved, given the police had no lead otherwise.
Just after the search was called off, an exhausted and frustrated PS Edwards slumped down onto the sofa, startling Wicky awake.
“Still holding onto the accidental death theory?” Wicky asked, yawning, and scrubbed a hand over his tired eyes. His question was answered with a discontented sigh.
“What do you think?”
Wicky disentangled himself from the blankets and unfolded his legs. “I think-,” he started but was interrupted by another yawn, “-that whoever took these people’s clothes had a good eye to pick someone who must have fit his own height.” He pushed himself off the sofa.
“You also think they disguised themself?” PS Edwards frowned up at him, but then her wrinkled forehead smoothed over and she smiled. “Go and start cleaning up, Mr Mop. I wanna leave this place for good.”
Wicky shrugged and rounded the sofa to go back to the office. As he reached the first floor, he approached the bannister to look down into the sitting room, PS Edwards had taken his place on the sofa and curled up in the blankets, already asleep. Wicky left her to it, after all, he had a job to do.