PADS #34

After an exhaustive episode of questioning and cross examination worthy of any silk, Wyse announced that until evidence pointed otherwise Karen was correct, the victim’s friend who he had talked to earlier in the day was now also dead.

The breath had quite literally been stolen away from him. Only hours ago he had faced humiliation and been ridiculed for declaring a murder where none existed. One death he would admit may have been unfortunate, but two in the space of twelve hours was the proof foul deeds had been committed.

The opportunity to stop the murderer from committing this second murder had disappeared and if the murderer had vanished he knew who the magician was to perform such a tragic trick, Officer Rogers It was Rogers who hadn’t support him and undermined his position with the police officers, it was a grim satisfaction interrupted by the sudden appearance of a rushed and slightly breathless Elms.

‘Here they are!’ Elms exclaimed.

Wyse hadn't even noticed Elms departure as the last few minutes had turned an amazing day into a quite extraordinary one. The pieces of paper Elms waved in the air were snatched from his hand by Rowlands.

‘These are patient report forms of the two victims how did you get them? They were in the tamper proof storage boxes?’ quizzed Rowlands.

‘Tamper proof yes, but locked no, they never are.’ replied Elms.

‘Impossible,’ spluttered Rowlands, ‘they contain confidential information of the patients as well as the treatment they received, our managers would never allow such a thing, isn't that so Mr. Wyse?’

‘I'm afraid Elms is right Rowlands, our managers have become very slipshod of late,’ especially one of them he mused, ‘however, that does not excuse you Elms and they must be returned at once.’

Rowlands threw the paperwork at Elms who simply allowed the paperwork to bounce off his chest and land on the ping pong table. A gasp of outrage from Rowlands was immediately followed by the two protagonists arguing about the rights and wrongs of taking the forms.

During his time as an officer Wyse knew there would never have been the opportunity for such incidents to occur, there were strict protocols to follow when it came to such sensitive information and any infringement would be severally dealt with. He would have to report Elms for such a serious violation with a heavy heart as it would cost Elms dearly, perhaps even his career. 

He knew Elms’ immediate defence would be at least one of the forms was their own  paperwork they had filled out earlier in the day and as such remained part of their records. An argument which unfortunately held no water, once paperwork passed into the locked or at least tamper proof boxes it was inviolate and allowed no amendments to sensitive medical records by staff.  Even to see their own paperwork necessitated a complicated roll of red tape to be unravelled through the proper channels, this ensured the laws of privacy and confidentiality were maintained.

PADS #33

The noise stopped and the video faded to a ghostly visage in the full glare of the locker room neon strip lights which were flickering back into life.

‘Well,’ Elms began, ‘you must have dropped your phone because I found it outside the station after you left work and Carter was able to download the photos and video you had taken of the crime scene.’

A tangible pause ensued as Wyse recalled leaving work that morning and throwing the PADS phone away, a throw consisting of some force to hurl it into a dense rhododendron bush which kept the public at arms length from the ambulance station. How then did Elms find it? He glanced at Elms who with fierce determination was scrutinising the pristine demarcation lines on the ping pong table.

‘And may I say the video capture was rather an excellent idea and although the turn was a bit quick I managed to slow it down, I'd always assumed you were a bit of a technophobe Wyse because I thought you didn't know how to use a phone.’ said Carter who often showed his disdain for those who did not believe or have time for his technology.

He also believed the eyebrow was an essential part of communication and imparted valuable information if applied correctly, at the moment his left eyebrow was trying to bend itself into a ninety degree angle, one which he had been caught practicing numerous times in the mess room mirror. Wyse had accidentally found the non-verbal handbook Carter had studied in the local library which described the complex eyebrow patterns used for this sort of communication. He was fairly confident Carter was now attempting a double cross eyebrow, implying someone was both lucky and a liar.

Wyse replayed the event of him using the phone, yes the photos showed a dramatic artistic flair and did not surprise him in their quality or accuracy but the video though was perplexing. The voice recorder was the only other function he, ah divine intervention he must have activated the video recording facility instead of the voice recorder. Well this would straighten that eyebrow of Carters out when he told him what had happened, especially when he had no idea there was a video recording facility on the phone.

‘Yes well done Carter couldn't have done it ...’ started Wyse.

‘Only one problem,’ interrupted Carter, ‘but I can't quite get the sound yet. It will probably only take a few more minutes, it seems to be a lot longer than the video probably recorded the whole event.’

‘Yes, yes very good but don't bother about that now, it is I'm afraid as I have already said the end,’ said Wyse attempting to retrieve the phone from the table.

‘But...’ stammered Rowlands producing a scale model of the crime scene in perfect detail, except it was now Ken who laid crumpled on the floor with a bucket atop his head and a garish Barbie standing in the hallway.

‘No, that is enough!’ Wyse would have to get tough but not too harsh for they were to be cut free and their suffering should not be increased, ‘please my trusted companions let this be an end to it.’

‘He's dead!’ shrieked Karen.

‘           Yes he's dead,’ Wyse said, patting her on her head, ‘but it has been deemed by circumstances beyond our control that the mystery of the bucket killer is not ours to solve.’

‘Not him, you idiot, the man in the doorway!’ shouted Karen pointing at the projector screen.

The video had stopped, it had captured the distraught friend of the dead man waiting to be told everything was going to be okay, Karen shouted some more.

PADS #32

Carter however had already hit the button on the gizmo he had placed on the ping pong table and a projector screen unfurled itself from a recess in the ceiling which Wyse hadn’t noticed before. The screen successfully separated him and Elms from the rest of the group, who were still huddled around the ping pong table and the room was plunged into darkness, a projector light beamed upon the screen. Attempting to clamber around Elms and the now fully unfurled projector screen, Wyse could hear ohhs and ahhs emanating from those on the other side. Before he could say anything a rumbling noise, akin to the start of movies when they proudly demonstrate their latest noise system determined to at least annoy, if not actually wake the dead now joined the wondrous tones. Eventually managing to get past the screen he was momentarily taken aback by the display before him.

It was this morning’s murder scene.

A polite smattering of applause from the Society welcomed each new picture which appeared and disappeared before them with a rather intricate star fade which was making Wyse feel decidedly queasy. Stepping away to gain his balance he summoned the last of his strength and almost the meagre amount of food he had earlier consumed, to finally put an end to his dream but before he could say anything Carter breathed heavily,

 ‘and now the piece de résistance.’

Several more starburst patterns exploded onto the screen followed by a video recording of the murder scene in full panorama. It was Wyse thought quite astonishing to see the room displayed on the screen, especially as it was quite a bit larger than he remembered, the gasps and awes increased as the video paused upon the victim lying in the room.

‘Is that a bucket on his head?’ asked Karen who was peeking through her fingers as she watched.

‘Yes.’ replied Elms who now stood next to Wyse and had taken the last few minutes quite in his stride.

‘What is going on? How did you get that video and will someone please stop that noise,’ said Wyse.

PADS #31

Sitting around the ping pong table were the Paramedics who had joined PADS. Immediately in front of him was Karen, leaning forward she cradled her head in her hands with long brunette hair cascading down her face, she was distraught or possibly asleep it was difficult to say. Marina who sat opposite her was staring at a point behind his right shoulder and seemed to be auditioning for a part in a shampoo advert, with the occasional flick of her blond hair. Carter was next to her embracing his latest technical gizmo and hunched over a lap top scrutinizing the minutia, whilst his baseball cap which proudly displayed he had been to NASA and was angled appropriately to the stars. Lastly came Rowlands perched at the end of the table who seemed on the verge of full blown hysteria and had produced a crisp gold monogrammed handkerchief which he was furiously dabbing away with at his cheeks

Taking a deep breath Wyse began his liquidation of the Purple Plus Amateur Detective Society, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great regret that we must disband our group on this our first meeting. Due to circumstances beyond our control, we must immediately desist all activity.’

It was he knew the only way to let the group down by giving them a sense of finality driven by purpose, he stared at the group one by one holding their gaze slightly longer than was polite but one which allowed for no arguments. The stunned effect was what Wyse had expected, he had after all inflicted a grievous blow to them and turning to leave the locker room he heard several small coughs from Carter.

Sighing Wyse knew this was going to be difficult, he had been their inspiration and their leader,‘Yes Carter it's all over I'm afraid, now pull yourself together man we do after all work for the Greater London Ambulance Service,’ without turning back he continued past Elms ready to depart the locker room and leave PADS behind.

‘It's just, I thought?’ said Carter.

‘No! Let that be an end to it no matter what is discovered.’ said Wyse turning to face them, they must be made to understand it was all over. Another irony it should be discovery which was to end it all and he had had quite enough of irony for one day.

PADS #30

The locker room was the oasis of calm before a shift started and the relief of finishing one. It enabled a definitive beginning and end to working on the ambulance and was the only constant in the chaos of emergency ambulance work. Standing to attention were the greyless metal lockers decorated with solidarity stickers of the only ambulance strike to ever take place, the raised fist bleeding from clutching a perfectly smooth oxygen cylinder always seemed incongruous with the amount of blood it caused to the hand but was required for the motto underneath, ‘Freedom from the oppressive capitalist system with our revolutionary blood. Strike! Strike! Strike!’ Wyse’s locker was the only one not to have any stickers on it and still shone as if had been newly unwrapped, even though he too had proudly stood on the picket line but that was a different time.

In the middle of the room was the never used ping pong table with net still in situ and the faithful, the paramedics who hadn't laughed when he had first talked of his dream and for a few moments this morning he had lived that dream. To discover and solve a seemingly impossible murder case by using his logical deductive mind, the dream though now resembled nothing more than a nightmare he couldn’t awake from.

Wyse sighed and encompassed the brave souls around the ping pong table, those who had trusted him to guide them on such an experience.

The Purple Plus Amateur Detective Society.

PADS #29

Entering the car park Elms muttered under his breath. His parking place had been taken up by a badly parked car which he angrily recognised as Mrs. Perks, the office secretary. To Wyse it made no difference, he had never owned a car but he understood it was a matter of pride strongly defended within the hierarchal ladder where your parking space was.

The new ex-fire brigade ambulance station dwarfed the surrounding houses, its red and black fire brickwork impressed upon you the solid foundations of such an organisation as a place of safety and refuge amidst urbanisation. Wyse wondered what the residents thought of the new ambulance station, the public seemed to have a distorted view of the emergency services which hadn’t helped relationships. Of course this was mostly due to the press and their bias reporting over the years of anything to do with the emergency services. The Police and Fire Brigade would always be mentioned heroically saving lives but the Ambulance Service would be conveniently forgot even if the accompanying press picture only showed ambulances attending the  incident.

Elms reluctantly parked next to the Fire Brigades practice smoke tower and looked pensively upwards at the row of pigeons greedily waiting for an opportunity to see if they could eat his new car ariel and then in all likelihood perform some amazing acts of defecation upon the shiny car.

The large wooden French doors which would have comfortably accommodate a double decker bus, folded back on themselves and the glass panels that had not been smashed from the seasons indoor cricket tournament, miraculously remained intact much against expectations. Filling the area with a loud wooden clattering echo a much softer noise followed the pair walk across the littered garage floor.

Tapering from the relatively narrow opening the garage widened to allow several vehicles to be parked at the front of the station, exhaust fumes hung in the air mimicking the pea soupers of London lore. Yellow paint peeled from the walls and old painted Fire brigade signs refused to be scrubbed away, a constant reminder to them all they were the recipients of charity and confirmed their place in the emergency service pecking order.

Even in such dire circumstances a rueful tut escaped Wyse’s lips at the wastefulness of the Ambulance Service, along with the abandoned French ambulance presumably to show them no matter how bad things were they weren’t that bad, there was the clutter. Numerous boxes of equipment had been haphazardly stacked and randomly discarded on the floor. Each forgotten box contained defunct or such highly specialised items that no one could remember what they were for, let alone how to use them.

Navigating the supposedly defunct seven pin charging plugs dangling down from the ceiling, they swayed menacingly at eye level. Designed for ambulances which were far too old to be used for emergency work but had a nasty habit of always reappearing in use, no matter what catastrophic accident had occurred to it the week before. The new vehicle charging wires were equally devious, designed to garrotte the unwary instead of blinding them and stretched across the garage to the numerous ambulances waiting for their next shift. Ignoring the ambulance mess room door which was always the first port of call for a cup of tea richly deserved, they instead entered the male changing room.

PADS #28

The drive in Elms’ car, was an uncomfortable journey. Not only due to the situation and the muesli breakfast bar, which Elms had assured him was the best way to start the day but because of the car seats, which were apparently called bucket seats. In fact the whole car was a regrettable experience. Elms had fiercely defended his car, insisting it wasn’t a boy racers car but a car enthusiast’s car and you couldn’t actually buy go faster stripes to make the car go faster, no matter what anyone in the mess room said.

The road humps provided a melodious interlude whilst Wyse watched Elms move his jaw, practicing a question.

‘Well Elms, out with it?’ demanded Wyse.

‘I was just wondering, are you okay? You seem very quiet and a bit out of sorts, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ apologised Elms.

The silence seemed an appropriate answer to such a question, thought Wyse. It was indeed a day that was out of sorts, one he hoped to resolve very quickly when they reached their destination, although with no satisfaction upon his part. They soon approached the ambulance station, an abandoned fire brigade station complete except for the pole, which had been removed by the Fire Brigade before they vacated. This had started mutterings about the brigade being killjoys and initiated the underlying contempt between the two emergency services.

It had been a long standing bone of contention, not only confined to the Fire Brigade that there were only two emergency services, the Police and the Fire Brigade and the Ambulance Service was an essential service rather than a proper emergency service. This reasoning meant third place was still up for grabs with The Lifeboat Service pushing for a higher place and even roadside recovery organisations were making a claim, often with impressive credentials.

This had always seemed to rile even the most sedate ambulance road staff and had been among a number of reasons, why the Fire Brigade had become the focus of such enmity. The Fire Brigade even had the temerity to say they didn’t want to take over the Ambulance Service, but of course they could at any time if they wanted to do so. Although Wyse thought the pole a ridiculous reason for such dislike between the two services, he would agree the obvious superiority complex displayed by the Fire Brigade service would provide reason enough. Especially as it was the Ambulance Service which held the moral high ground in dignity and supremacy over the Fire Brigade.

PADS #27

The Purple Plus Amateur Detective Society as they had named themselves, a name he had vehemently disagreed with. Unfortunately Carter had seized upon Wyse's call of nature during the argument to whip up a frenzy for the name and they would not be dissuaded upon his return, especially as his suggestion of the Paramedic Amateur Detective Society was described as somewhat boring. At least this was the only silver lining, it had invaded his dreams in the early days of the Society that when questioned by the world press, he would have to explain what PADS stood for.

Purple Plus, was an arcane term still used by the Ambulance Service, to describe those patients who had been dead for some time and beyond any resuscitation attempt, the reason why this term had been coined was yet another mystery lost in the mists of ambulance lore. Theories ranged from the purple colour of the post mortem staining, which decorated the dead and that the Ambulance Service did relish the opportunity to use code words whenever possible. Of course any such suggestion this was the reason was staunchly denied by the Ambulance Service, who insisted it was to protect the public. They would not be able to cope if they heard ambulance staff saying it was too late to do anything for the dead patient and it would damage public confidence, even if it were true.

The irony did not escape Wyse that his Society was now also guilty of its own namesake and was beyond any resuscitation attempt

PADS #26

There was the fact Elms was the newest member of the Society, having only recently joined the Greater London Ambulance Service on frontline duties was still very much an unknown force. But to blame Elms for what had happened would in itself have been a gross case of injustice, for there was one common factor which had blighted Wyse’s career over and over again. It was Officer Rogers, he had been at the epicentre of the catastrophe which swept away all he had hoped for.

Bitterness rose within him and a sour metallic taste filled his mouth, Dartford another incident in which Rogers had been pivotal in trying to destroy him. This is what Rogers wanted to see, a broken man, a mere shadow of his former self.  It would be all too easy for Wyse to let the familiar despair take control and succumb to its enchanting comfort of persecution, how unfair everything was and that the world was set against you. But he had made that mistake once before and had no intention of returning to such a desolate place. Maybe for others it would be the only solution, but he was made of sterner stuff something Rogers would soon realise. His thoughts of last night were a moment of weakness pushed along with a regrettable amount of sherry and Wyse vowed to himself self pity and revenge were a dish he would not be serving.  Justice however was something he was not only determined but obliged to deliver and promised its swift retribution to the guilty.

With a renewed sense of purpose he stood proudly in front of the mirror, he admired his aquiline nose and regal chin. A person of Royal descent he had once overheard his colleagues describing him in muffled tones. A secret admiration which was full of praise and had instantly stopped the moment he had entered the ambulance mess room and was quickly replaced by embarrassed talk about the weather.  It was an apt description he could not but help to agree with, assuring them he hadn’t heard their full conversation which led to a spirited defence about ridicule and ambulance banter being a means of relieving stress. Despite their protestations, that one phrase had been enough to convince him of the high regard he must be held in.

Even dismissing his somewhat unruly appearance, his greying hair was still almost perfectly side parted and perfectly complemented his impeccable moustache which ended within the corners of an engaging smile. The wire framed half moon glasses which should have been perched upon his nose however would need some attention before they returned to their home. The twisted frame reflected a night of turmoil but fortunately the leather cord had kept them relatively safe around his neck. His clothes although not immaculate would have to suffice to address the Society and Elms agitation at being kept waiting was manifesting itself with his foot testing the strength of the door frame, which had started to creak alarmingly.

Preparing himself as best he could, he opened the door and buttoning his diamond patterned cardigan shooed Elms towards his car. Following Elms closely and slamming the front door with more force than was required, Wyse hoped this same strength would not desert him when he faced his Society.

PADS #25

Catching a glimpse of himself with sherry bottle in hand, he viewed the man who had just completed twenty years service for the Ambulance Service of London. Sparkling in the back or foreground, depending on your view of the mirror, was the accolade he had received. A crystal paperweight balanced on the mantelpiece with the word paramedic struggling to catch the light of the shallow engraving. Although the award letter for long service had proclaimed it to be a paperweight he was somewhat dubious to its description. The crystal was so light, that he had yet to find any paper it could successfully weigh down, he had therefore resorted to using it to weigh down a tissue for it to have some purpose. The same could be said of him as an amateur detective, a detective in name only and not fit for the purpose. It was fitting his sojourn should end here at the paperweight, with the mocking sherry bottle for company.

He had been so sure after all the years of secret planning and honing, that he was prepared and had eagerly anticipated the moment when he would come to the forefront.

Of course there had been several false starts by the Society, but it was to be expected as excitement and naivety had taken over various members. Their training to the workings of the logical deductive mind of the detective was quickly forgotten in the excitement of what they thought would have been the first PADs case. Understandable of course for them but how had things gone so terribly wrong for him.

PADS #24

‘PADS.’ continued Elms oblivious to the anger and fragile state of Wyse.

‘PADS?’ started Wyse, before his pause recognised it might know the answer, ‘Oh no, you don’t mean, The Society do you?’

Elms nodded vigorously and cast searching glances up and down the street, seizing the opportunity Wyse slumped against the door. It quickly slammed shut and allowed his mind to slowly open as the mornings events flooded back. It had been their last night shift after a run of four and up to that moment it had been filled with normal ambulance fare. This involved an equal measure of drunken revellers determined to impart their night of fun upon them, whether it be vomit or blood. Along with the ancients in the community who were equally determined to recount their life histories upon you and why there was no reason for them to be on the floor pressing their care line buttons repeatedly.

They had only just left the boundaries of the newly built Bedlam Hospital, whose architectural influence had been the Victorian mental asylums, unfortunately this inspiration had also carried on with the staff. It was always with a sense of foreboding for his patients that Wyse discharged his patients to those apparently in charge of the Accident and Emergency department, sincerely wishing them the very best. Receiving their next call via the MDT, Wyse had relayed the information to Elms who had turned on blue lights and sirens driven like a madman despite Wyse’s protestations that it would be yet another normal call Elms had driven like a madman. This normal sequence of events had changed of course with the discovery of the victim, the police, Rogers, the humiliation and the excitable Elms contacting the Society.

‘The Society, the Purple Plus Amateur Detective Society. A group dedicated to justice and truth, who will stop at nothing until the perpetrators of unsolved heinous crimes are exposed and held accountable.’

 It was, a press release speech Wyse had practiced many times, allowing his voice to drop and accentuate key words for full impact. Unfortunately the additional groans and sighs included in this rendition were not intentional. He glanced at his pocket watch it was already five thirty, the meeting would have been arranged for six o’clock. It would normally take him at least half an hour to prepare himself properly to venture into public, a regime he prided himself upon although obviously it stopped short of a compulsion. Elms had resumed his polite knocking on the door and it became painfully clear he would wait patiently until Wyse was suitably presentable.

There was to be no escape from the dogged Elms he realised studying himself in the mirror. He had accepted the burden of high expectation from people at an early age and he knew in all humility he was an example to others, but if he had been told he would be leaving his house in such a dishevelled state to buy a newspaper, let alone to meet work colleagues he would have ascribed this to tales of a madman. He stooped to remove the discarded sherry bottle from the previous nights attempted absolution which had ended for reasons unbeknown to him in the hallway.

PADS #23

He remembered nothing of his journey home, nor what transpired during the night alone in his house. Seeking refuge from what had occurred, he was only conscious of the void he currently occupied, one from which there was no escape. It was a state of oblivion which was surprised to find itself sharing this condition with a large band of drummers trying to wake the dead.

Eventually, he determined the pounding was inside his head and it was incessant. It did strangely remind him of the tune to Rule Britannia, a tune he often found himself humming and one in which his colleagues at work had taken great joy in singing off key to him whenever boredom took their minds. In fact the more he concentrated on the banging, the easier it became to notice the rhythm was slightly out, something he was sure his mind wouldn’t allow no matter what state it found itself in.

Opening eyes to a spinning world, he recounted opening the sherry when he had returned home and drinking far more than he had intended. The tannins left an uncomfortable palate and he brushed the crumbs of partially devoured water crackers from his ruffled cardigan. Slowly he made his way from the chaise lounge in the hallway to a shadow silhouetted against the frosted glass of his front door. It was rocking with movements which coincided with the out of tune banging. Against the laws of gravity Wyse rose from quadruped to biped and opened the door to be confronted by Elms.

‘Hello,’ said Elms.

‘What are you doing here?’ groaned Wyse, ‘we’re not back to work for three days and frankly I’m not feeling great, so if you wouldn’t mind.’

Trying to close the door, Elms deftly slipped his shoe into the doorway preventing it from closing. It was a technique he had demonstrated to Wyse before by keeping open hospital doors which seemed determined to shut by suddenly increasing their mass to that of a dwarf star.

‘Nope, don’t mind at all but what do you want me to tell them?’

‘Tell who exactly and again, why are you here Elms?’ demanded Wyse leaning against the door with all his might.

Although a civilized man, he had never invited Elms into his house and wasn’t quite sure why he was still arguing with Elms. In fact he wasn’t quite sure why he had answered the door, after the incident this morning he didn’t want to see anyone least of all a co-conspirator in his humiliation even if it were unintentional.

‘You know,’ said Elms leaning forward and dropping his voice to a conspirators whisper, ‘the group, the boys and girls, the club, the ones who need to know.’

‘Stop!’ said Wyse, ‘look I don’t care, I’m not meeting anyone in fact I’m going back to...’

PADS #22

QO 232 was back on the radio, desperately trying to cancel all the resources they had only recently requested. Wyse listened to the explanation given by QO 232 and it wasn’t flattering, his name was repeated several times. The humiliation was complete, not only in front of the police but worst still in front of Rogers who had witnessed everything. This would be talked over in ambulance control at coffee with biscuits and carefully planned impromptu meetings at the water cooler. All he wanted to do now was escape. His blood cells though were well ahead of him and were currently trying to escape via his ears, which had proceeded to blossom with the indignity of the situation.

‘Let’s go Elms.’ said Wyse, passing Rogers in the doorway.

Leaving the bedroom the friend lunged at Wyse grabbing his arm. The grip shook him out of his self pity and he felt his arm muscles slowly being compressed in an impassioned embrace.

‘Please, you promised I heard you.’ said the friend whose voice had dropped to a whimper and pressed the deceased friend’s details into Wyse’s palm, a last desperate paper bribe.

q‘I’m sorry,’ replied Wyse, ‘I can’t I...’ words faltered him, he was at a loss. He allowed his legs to make good his escape, from the broken friend and from his own shattered world.

qRogers shepherded Wyse and Elms down the stairs, ‘don’t worry, I’ll make sure the police have all the details, I just need your call sign.’

‘Romeo Bravo six oh one.’ replied Wyse.

‘Ah yes,’ snickered Rogers, closing the door behind them, ‘the finest ambulance crew in North London.’

The return journey in the ambulance was in stark contrast to their arrival, no wail of sirens or squealing of rubber heralded their approach, it was all Wyse could do to restrain himself from an emotional squeal or wail. Elms had attempted to engage him in talk but he had constructed an impenetrable shield to protect himself from the outside world. Leaving Elms to park the ambulance, Wyse quickly left the station and mounted his trusted steed. It was small solace to feel the reassurance of the leather worn saddle of his treasured sit up and beg, a bicycle he had received many years ago from his one true love. He had been so sure this had been the moment which would have finally released his true nature. Instead, he found himself in an abyss which even Dante would have been impressed to envisage.

PADS #21

‘Well, it does seem history has a habit or repeating itself doesn’t it Wyse? At least I can make sure this time things don’t get out of hand.’ said Rogers.


‘This is ridiculous,’ said Wyse, who was fairly certain what QO 232 had said wasn’t funny in any situation, ‘you can’t be saying that a man who dies with a bucket on his head is a natural death, surely there is something suspicious about it all?’

Neither officer was in a fit state to answer and any hope of salvation was quickly vanishing, he turned towards Elms, at least he wasn’t alone in this. Although not wanting to admit any blame as he was in the right, there was a time when all of us need to take responsibility thought Wyse. In this case Elms would be required to take responsibility for his part.

Wyse controlled his quivering voice and implored Elms, ‘don’t you think this is a bit odd?’

‘Yes I do, ’ replied Elms, ‘in fact and including the other four deaths I’ve been to where the dead have had a bucket stuck on their heads, I’ve thought them all to be suspicious.’

It was odd thought Wyse, that just when you were about to be saved after falling overboard by being thrown a lifeline, you discovered they had forgotten to tie it to anything.

‘So,’ said QO 232, ‘you believe this is the work of a serial bucket killer. Well I’m glad you bought this to our attention, I’ll be sure to let CID know exactly why they’ve been dragged out of bed at this time in the morning, just so they can pass on their full appreciation to you later.’

‘Well if you do, can you mention that the third incident involved a wheelie bin and technically the whole body was in the bin upside down. In fact she wasn’t actually dead. She was such a short lady she had lost her balance whilst throwing her rubbish away and therefore probably doesn’t fit the M.O. of our bucket killer.’ Elms happily replied.

Wyse groaned.

PADS #20

‘So you’re the Dartford One, well I won’t be turned into a laughing stock because of you. There’s a simple explanation to this accident, the gentleman is in bed, falls out, has a fit, sticks head in bucket and then dies, simple,’ said the numberless officer who had dispensed with the notepad and pencil.


Although humiliation and ridicule had followed him after the Dartford incident and at the moment seemed determined to stick around, this was too important to allow personal feelings to stand in the way of the truth. He turned towards QO 232, ‘Officer, surely you can’t agree with that?’

QO 232 weighed him up and down with a long disdainful look of contempt but finally spoke, ‘No you’re right, I don’t believe that.’

Wyse sighed with relief and retook the smug look which had formed upon Roger’s face, took stock of the narrow precipice he still clung to. Elms no longer attempted to show any emotion, as he hadn’t been sure what was going on for the last five minutes and the numberless officer seemed to be as dazed by his colleagues statement. Whereas the friend who had not moved from the doorway, continued to show the alarmed expression of someone who needs to be told that everything is going to be okay.

‘In fact,’ continued QO 232, ‘I believe the old man was having a nightmare and in fighting the monsters, tried to hide by putting the bucket on his head. Unfortunately they found him next to the sweet wrappers.’

Both QO 232 and the numberless officer had the dignity to pause for a few seconds before erupting with laughter. Patting one another on the back, a giggle from behind Wyse spun him round as if he had been caught by a whip.

PADS #19

A slow whistle from the deep exhalation of the numberless police officer stilled the atmosphere. Wyse later recalled that during life and death situations time is perceived to slow down. In situations of humiliation and ridicule however, it goes much, much slower.


The ugly head of defeat now threatened to start shouting, Rogers’ face contorted once more as it sensed blood, ‘Yes Wyse, explain to all of us about this murderous bucket of yours?’

‘You think a bucket killed him? Is this some sort of bloody joke?’ said the numberless police officer.

Releasing the radio button QO 232 turned, ‘What? I’ve just called the detectives, they’re on their way, how am I going to explain this? They haven’t forgiven me for the Dartford incident.’

Producing his notebook the numberless officer licked the tip of his pencil. Pointing it at Wyse he smiled with a flourish of his outstretched arm, ‘Well let’s not jump to any conclusions here, after all this is a murder scene. Now if I could take your name sir, so I may record it for prosperity.’

The sudden comic approach by the officer was obviously one he had practiced many times before and probably kept the pencil for just such an opportunity. Well so be it thought Wyse, his dignity however would not allow him to be a bit player in this officer’s attempt at farce, ‘Wise, with a y.’

QO 232 had started to say something but paused, a look of dread focused itself upon his face as realisation dawned in his eyes, ‘Oh no, wait a second it’s you!’

‘Who?’ asked the numberless officer.

‘Please Officers,’ said Officer Rogers, ‘I understand what you are referring to, but in that matter a full internal investigation took place and the appropriate action plan implemented. It would be wrong now to infer my colleague is incompetent because of what happened with the Queen nine months ago. Even if at the time there were those who thought he should have been arrested and at the very least dismissed from the Service. It was decided by others in command, not to proceed with such wisdom.’

Wyse was rooted to the spot, he realised too late something had indeed gone terribly wrong. In the last few moments, triumph had been snatched away from his grasp to be replaced with the jaws of defeat firmly clamped around him. He was aware of Elms nearby, but dared not glance at him. He would, of course, have to give Elms a true and honest account of what had happened, one which would contradict the ridiculous versions circulating at the time however this was neither the time nor the place. Focusing upon Rogers, Wyse sharpened his tongue for an appropriate thrust which would end this duel but before he could lunge, he was stopped in his riposte.

PADS #18

Triumphant, Wyse awaited the expected applause and acknowledgment from his new peers. There would probably be a commendation for his astute observations, he glanced at Officer Rogers to watch his reaction.


‘The murder weapon,’ choked back the response from police officer QO 232, his shoulder number hanging on by the merest of threads to his jacket, ‘I’ll need to get hold of CID, no one told us it was a murder. Forensics will have our guts for garters, letting everyone traipse all over the place.’

‘I never knew it was a murder scene,’ squeaked Rogers, stepping out of the way of officer QO 232, who was radioing in for an immediate crime scene and murder team response, ‘why haven’t you followed standard procedure Wyse? I shouldn’t even be here.’

‘I’m sure the police won’t mention how you contaminated their scene for no reason at all and I’m sure none of our senior managers will ever get to hear of this incident, don’t you agree officer?’ asked Wyse of the second police officer, who apparently had forgotten to attach any shoulder numbers to his jacket and was examining the body.

‘No I don’t agree, now where’s this bloody weapon?’ said the officer.

The triumphant smile froze itself upon the face of Wyse. Even though he had just scored over Rogers, an incident which would tarnish his reputation, there was a nagging concern beginning to rear its ugly head whispering softly something was wrong.

He peered to where the policeman was staring and hesitantly began, ‘Officer, as you can see the weapon is now next to the head but was firmly attached moments ago and although no expert in forensic examination, I would hesitate to surmise it was the paper bag wrapped around his head which did the real damage.’

PADS #17

Wyse was reeling. Not only from the fall, where the springs on the bed although old produced a bounce which would have tested the stomach of the most resilient test pilot. But much more importantly, he had in a moment of madness reduced to rubble one of the main pillars of his own philosophy. Struggling against the pull of gravity to get off the bed, a sickening feeling overwhelmed him with the turbulent vision before him.


Rogers had bent down and was in the process of removing the bucket from the victims head. A strangled yelp escaped from Wyse and Rogers turned towards him smiling cruelly.

The head was tightly wrapped in a brown paper bag and Wyse watched helplessly as Rogers nonchalantly ripped open the bag to expose the victims face.

An amazing shock of white hair escaped from the tear, released from solitary confinement it was trying to distance itself from the sunken pale blue eyes and hollow cheeks that were its gaolers.

‘A penniless vagabond, no doubt.’ remarked Rogers, holding his nose against the strong vinegar vapours.

The desecration of the scene and the cast away comment by Rogers was an outrage. Wyse’s very quiet austere Greek nobleman was in grave danger of giving way to an altogether more tempestuous ancient. He had found through his classical studies that the Romans were almost barbaric when compared to the Greeks but rising from the bed he was pleased to feel their ferocity coursing through his blood.

The outburst simmering on exploding was quickly dampened by the appearance of two police officers materialising out of the shadows next to Rogers. They were quickly led past Rogers with obvious disdain by Elms, who had no time for Rogers or any other officer, a trait which Wyse was not going to reprimand him for on this occasion. Hovering anxiously at the door stood the dead man’s friend, he was already transfixed with the unfolding melodrama and physically dared not enter the room.

A look of satisfaction stole over Wyse and positioning himself in front of Rogers he addressed the police officers, who by their appearance seemed to have been involved in a stakeout which must have been going on for some considerable time, in a very confined space. ‘Gentlemen, I present the victim who has been dead for approximately some time. There are no obvious marks upon the body that I can see and I have not touched the murder weapon.’

PADS #16

Rogers was struggling with maintaining the blissfully silent gargoyle gaze he had transfixed upon his face. His facial muscles twitched frantically attempting to revert to what for him would be some semblance of normality and as the facade of Rogers started to crack beads of perspiration dotted his forehead, Wyse relaxed.


Although there were numerous times when he would have liked to see Rogers’ eye or more poked out, this constant posturing by both of them was ludicrous. Neither liked the other and neither respected their professional abilities, although Wyse was adamant there was no case against him.

Seconds passed in the titanic battle of wills and it was with some satisfaction Wyse watched Rogers’ face slip back to its normal parasitic features, changing the status quo prompting Rogers to stride forward purposefully. Wyse was surprised to find himself stepping in front of him and the unexpected move caused Rogers to pull up short.

Fighting to regain his balance Rogers barked in a voice managed from the South, ‘Out of my way, I want to see what has delayed the revered Wyse.’

Wyse had no intention of moving and defiantly stood still with arms crossed defending the murder scene.

‘That’s a direct order Wyse, move!’

Wyse tightened his grip upon his resolve, this was a dilemma he could not have envisaged. Under normal circumstances he would have obeyed such a command before the last syllable had been uttered. Not blindly, but in the belief a world without order was a world where chaos reigned, something which was totally unacceptable to Wyse’s logical mind.

In disbelief he heard himself utter, ‘No.’

‘This is gross insubordination Wyse, something I will deal with later, personally!’

Having given chaos a free hand it next chose to manifest itself in Rogers, who firmly planted his hands on a horrified Wyse and pushed him roughly out of the way.

PADS #15

Wyse was astonished, no one ever mentioned the Dartford Incident even if they didn’t actually say it. It had been his Waterloo and had allowed Rogers his most coveted desire, promotion. He knew there had always been something undesirable about Officer Rogers from the very beginning, being unable to pinpoint any particular moment where this was evident he took little satisfaction in being proved correct many years later.


‘Ridiculous, you caused the disaster and one day I will prove it,’ said Wyse.

‘How dare you! I am your superior and I will not be talked to like that.’

‘I still remember the first day you joined Rogers. I even tried to defend you, saying you were young and would eventually learn. Even when they started what I believe is called a book on how long you would survive in the job, I still tried to defend you.’

‘They never! That’s a lie Wyse, admit it!’

‘Sorry, I believe the betting is still going strong, they do say though if you stay another year whoever wins it can retire on the amount in the pot.’

‘I, I...’

Wyse would have been less surprised if steam had emanated from Rogers ears, than by the transformation which occurred before him. The crooked smile of officer Rogers was trying to reposition itself entirely under his left ear and his left eye had tightly closed whilst his right eye bulged alarmingly outwards.

Staring at Wyse was a caricature of a saucy seaman’s lascivious leer, one who had entered the first tavern of ill repute after many months, possibly years at sea. This was no doubt a technique Rogers had learnt from the latest management course in Croydon which Wyse had recently heard about, where management were being imbued with alleged superhuman powers to deal with the constant villainy of road staff

The silence waited as Wyse rose to this non-verbal challenge, steeling himself he adopted the pose of the ancient noble Greeks. A civilisation he had greatly admired from his first introduction to them at preparatory school. Here was the stalwart protector of all which was noble and gracious, against the repugnant and grotesque vision of Rogers’ mask

PADS #14

Rogers restrained from gulping.


‘Fortunately a travelling blind tailor has been found who will repair the uniforms, at a cost. However there are constant allegations from the prospective candidates they had been deliberately measured incorrectly by this charlatan. Ensuring zips strain and on more than one unfortunate occasion buttons twang seemingly on command, leading to the most embarrassing situations.’

Rogers had started to unconsciously test his jacket buttons and almost yelped when the third brass button pinged into his hand.

‘Although the tailor has been accused of maliciously bringing the service into disrepute., these allegations have always been defended by the mysterious uniform sub-committee group whose memos would appear refuting any such intention, even if they had been whispered behind closed doors much to the surprise of the whisperers. The accusers quickly found no uniform ever fitted them again and this was of course the beginning of the end for their careers.’

A pop sounded from the jacket and the fourth brass button sprung into an increasingly nervous hand.

‘It was therefore hotly disputed whether it was fortunate the tailor seemed to have no concept of time. Disappearing for years with any number of the mystical uniforms in his possession which are eventually returned it does mean however there are only a precious, limited number of dress uniforms in circulation at any time,’ Wyse was enjoying this and pointed downwards at Rogers, ‘you seem to have lost something.’

Instinctively Rogers hand went to his trousers where were it not for the robust belt, a different sensation would have greeted his hands. His trouser button dangled by a thread and easily snapped as he retrieved it.

‘You’ve done this Wyse!’ accused Rogers with the buttons biting into his hand, ‘I don’t know how? But I know you’ve done it.’

It had always been Wyse’s fault, ever since he had joined the Service. Wyse had constantly undermined him and his efforts for promotion but he had shown him, he had shown them all.

‘You still blame me for what happened don’t you Wyse? Or do you resent the fact I am better than you and they gave me your old job? Even though it was me who saved the day, you were demoted because of your incompetence, you’re the one who started that farce. Well cat got your tongue old man or are you too embarrassed to say anything?’

PADS #13

‘The fact is people have been questioning your professionalism and I have been forced to investigate these matters,’ said Rogers, adjusting his ceremonial cap.


Wyse was incensed, not only by Rogers and his deliberate antagonism but more importantly by what he now realised the man was wearing. Even though Wyse did not listen to the rumours he had heard them. The most recent scandal mongering implied Rogers had taken to wearing dress uniform at night in some bizarre ritual. But even he could not believe Rogers would do such a thing, alas the proof now stood quite openly before him and again he had been shocked by the depths which this man would descend to.

‘That uniform!’ spluttered Wyse.

‘Yes, it fits quite well, much better than the last one,’ said Rogers, inspecting himself and pulling down his jacket sleeves.

‘That is a ceremonial uniform, only to be worn at the most sacred and solemn occasions.’

‘Ah, yes, well it is only a guide and who knows, there may be an early retirement in the very near future. You never know when you may be called upon to officiate at some unexpected event, it would never do to arrive in a state of distress.’

‘But it has only ever been used for service funerals and we never get invited to the big state functions, so why are you wearing it now?’

‘Let me remind you Wyse, who is in charge here,’ said Rogers clearing his throat, ‘I do not have to explain myself to you.’

‘No, not me but you may have to explain to others if it gets damaged.’

Rogers stopped his immediate rebuttal, ‘Who do you mean?’

‘The origins of the ambulance officers uniform you so brazenly wear, have now been lost in the mists of time but their value and rarity have never been questioned. Any damage to these uniforms is of course a serious charge and often has dire consequences for the vandal. No one has been able to replicate them and any attempt at repairing them always leads to disaster, therefore no tailor within London would forego his hard earned reputation to repair such a folly...’

‘Just as I thought,’ said Rogers, ‘another Wyse fabrication with no substance, I have never heard of such a...’

‘Except,’ said Wyse, with a Hitchcockian pause, ‘for the BlindTailor.’