I am a member of the Facebook group UK Crime Book Club – UKCBC. They’re a fun bunch of crime fiction lovers and today they’ve celebrated Halloween by inviting UKCBC members to write a short story. Here’s mine.

DEAD TO RIGHTS by Bill Todd

The explosive wet sneeze rocked the parked BMW. Boggart held her breath, rolled her eyes. What was the point of all those gym visits, the energy diet, the circuit training, when you spent hours stuck in a steel box with a plague carrier like Sam Hain.
The detective constable wiped his snotty nose on a limp tissue.
‘This job’ll be the death of me.’
‘Probably both of us,’ said Detective Sergeant Boggart.
Hain looked at her, expression pained. ‘I requested today off, put in for it ages ago, promised my kiddies we’d go trick or treating. Dexter and Donald are gutted. My Wendy’s spitting teeth.’
‘That’s the job,’ said Boggart. Hain ignored her, ploughed on.
‘We were all set to go. Kids all done up, looked horrible, they did. Then I get called in for this. Dexter was in tears. Wendy’s not speaking to me. Donald’s gone into one of his strops, sulking and kicking a ball against the back wall. I keep telling him no. He’s broken the kitchen window twice already.’
As Hain wiped his nose again he became aware of the hard look on Boggart’s face.
‘So what are we doing here?’
‘You weren’t briefed?’
‘Told you, I was hoiked in last minute. George Jeffreys threw a sicky again.’
‘Breathe on him, did you?’ Boggart muttered.
Hain turned, the tissue streaking a strand of slime across his cheek.
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’
Hain looked at the kaleidoscope of colours wriggling down the windscreen as driving rain thrummed on the car’s steel roof.
‘Jeffreys is always doing this to me,’ said Hain. ‘I swear I’ll swing for that bloke one day.’
The inside of the Beemer fell quiet. As Hain became aware of the silence he looked at the detective sergeant.
‘So what’s up, then?’
Boggart pointed into the impenetrable night.
‘We’re watching the pub over the road, The Gallows.’
Hain nodded, thoughtful.
‘I know it. Bit of a shithole but does a passable pint of Harvey’s. Who we after?’
Boggart looked at Hain, aware of the millions of bacteria he exhaled with every breath. She’d gargle when she got home.
‘Conman, a nasty one, William Hare.’
‘What’s he been up to?’
‘You heard of a direct funeral?’
Hain looked blank.
‘It’s where the deceased is cremated but you don’t have a ceremony.’
‘So what happens?’
‘There’s a cremation but no service, no one attends, then you get the ashes if you want them.’
‘Bit brutal if you ask me, soulless.’
Boggart shook her head. ‘People find funerals stressful, and they’re a ripoff, rinsing people when they’re vulnerable. Sometimes family are a long way away, Australia or wherever. Not very environmentally friendly either with all the travelling and forcing flowers in greenhouses. It’s outdated.’
Hain looked offended. ‘But it’s how you say your farewells, remember the dearly departed. My Auntie Rita had a lovely funeral, horse-drawn hearse, nags with those black plumes, bit of Sinatra’s My Way. She had a proper send off. Terrific buffet too.’
Boggart shifted in her seat to ease her cramping legs. ‘I’m not saying it doesn’t suit some people, just not everyone. If you’re on a tight budget or you’re not a god botherer it’s a waste of time and money.’
Hain bubbled into his disintegrating tissue and emerged shaking his head.
‘Still doesn’t sound right to me,’ he said, shrugging his disagreement. Then he reached down into the footwell, pulled up his shoulderbag.
Boggart watched in silent horror as he took out a cardboard box, extracted a half-pound burger in a juice-soggy bun, bit down hard. The smell of grease wrapped itself around her like a mouldy old blanket.
‘Do you have to do that in here?’
‘Told you,’ said Hain, small pieces of meat falling from wet lips as he spoke. ‘We were going trick or treating, then home to a big spread. My missus does a fantastic spread. Meant to grab a scotch egg on the way out but forgot. My Wendy makes a cracking scotch egg. Anyway, long story short, I haven’t eaten since lunchtime.’
To illustrate his point, Hain bit out another big chunk of burger, eyes squeezed shut, mewling with pleasure. Boggart watched Hain masticating vigorously. Even the rain pounding on the Beemer’s roof couldn’t drown out the squelch of his chewing. The feeble street lights made the trickles of juice wriggling down his chin glow a sickly orange.
Boggart tried to refocus on the job in hand. Breathing through her mouth to avoid the smell, she said: ‘Anyway, we’re not here to debate funeral ethics. We’re after Hare.’
‘So what’s he done?’
‘He’s preying on the elderly, getting old people to sign up for his low cost direct funerals, then dumping the bodies. It’s a serious case. Hare is picking on the vulnerable, ruining their lives when they’re at their lowest.’
‘Bastard!’
Meat particles flew. A few more stuck to the dashboard.
‘His latest victim was Alice Samuel who died last week, age 94. We’ve had our suspicions about Hare but this is the first solid evidence we’ve come up with.’
‘Body of evidence,’ Hain chuckled. Boggart ignored him.
‘Alice and John were married 54 years. He couldn’t face a full funeral, heart problems. So he opted for a direct funeral and now he’s over the road in The Gallows having drinks with a handful of old friends and family. Hare, with a wonderful sense of timing, is coming to collect the last installment of his money.’
More burger burst from Hain’s outraged lips.
‘Scumbag!’
They both stared ahead through the wriggling rivulets on the windscreen, trying to make out the wobbling shapes beyond. The street lights were haloes of dull orange. The brightest illumination came from the spot lamp that lit up the pub sign.
Through the driving rain they couldn’t see the tormented features of the hanging convict but Boggart found the idea of a choking man suddenly appealing.
Hain opened his mouth for another bite and stopped, puzzled.
‘So if this Hare character is conning the bereaved, what’s he doing with the bodies?’ he said, voice muffled by meat.
Boggart couldn’t resist a cold smile.
‘He runs a butcher’s shop.’
Hain’s face went white. Boggart could see his Adam’s apple bouncing like a basketball. The greaseproof wrapper with the remains of the burger dropped slowly into his lap. As his stunned fingers relaxed it fell into the footwell.
‘Bugger!’
He flicked on the interior light and leaned forward to search.
‘Turn that out!’ snapped Boggart. As she looked towards the windscreen, squinting, a shape shimmered under the pub spotlight.
William Hare’s head snapped round when he saw the light flash on to throw a feeble glow over two dark shapes in a parked BMW. He ran.
‘Get him!’ yelled Boggart. She unclipped her seatbelt and sprang from the Beemer. Hain tried to follow but snagged the strap of his shoulderbag and ended up on all fours on the sodden roadway. By the time he struggled, wheezing, to his feet there was no one in the street but Boggart.
‘Where’d he go?’
‘You bloody idiot!’
‘Where’s Hare?’ Hain persisted. Boggart swept a long tongue of sodden red hair from her face and glared at him.
‘He ran across the road and down one of those side streets. You take the first one. I’ll take the second.’
And she was gone. As Hain wheezed towards the first turning the detective sergeant raced away, dissolving into curtains of rain.
Breathing hard, Hain reached the corner and looked down a narrow, dark lane. Most of the houses were in darkness and the street lights were smashed. Keenly aware he had done himself no favours this evening he began to plod along through sheets of harsh rain that pattered on his head like an insistent child.
After a hundred yards his chest ached and he doubled over, hands on knees, sucking at the wet air.
For a moment he considered going back to the car, calling for backup. Then he remembered the poor old sod grieving in the pub, fleeced by a vulture. Hain was surprised by his second wind. He pulled himself up and plodded on.
Thirty seconds later he saw shapes in a newsagent doorway and stopped.
Three witches were sheltering from the rain, surrounded by two small, sodden devils, a green ogre and a tiny witch whose cardboard broom was buckling under the wet.
‘You seen anyone go past?’
‘Who are you?’ asked the first witch.
‘I’m a police officer.’
The smallest devil bared plastic fangs and thrust a crudely carved pumpkin head at Hain.
The wheezing detective saw it had rows of vicious teeth made from cocktail sticks and just knew that kid would be known to police before he was much older.
The first witch pulled the kid back and stepped forward, defensive.
‘Where’s you ID?’ asked the second.
Hain ignored her. ‘You out trick or treating?’
The third witch laughed. ‘You really are a copper, aren’t you.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘In this bloody weather?’ said the first witch.
‘You must be joking,’ said the second.
‘We’re giving up and treating the kids to Maccy D’s,’ added the third.
Hain swallowed hard at the mention of hamburger, suddenly tasted it again. He took a deep breath. ‘Small bloke, leather jacket, jeans?’
The witches shook their heads, laughing, wet hair swinging.
Hain touched a sarcastic finger of thanks to his forehead and plodded on. He wasn’t built for running. The strain was starting to tell but he’d made a mess of things this evening and might never be able to face a hamburger again. God forbid, he might even end up a veggie. Hare had to pay.
A hunched shape materialised through the curtains of rain, a man, head down, walking fast.
‘You see a guy run past, small bloke, leather jacket, jeans?’
The man didn’t pause, just stuck up a middle finger that looked bony white in the gloom and ploughed on.
‘Charming,’ muttered Hain. He breathed hard, trotted on.
Fifty yards on a shimmering shape emerged from the murk. Hain skidded to a halt in front of a young woman in a red coat. She smiled and for a moment it made him forget the rain and his aching legs and lungs.
It took several attempts to suck in enough air to speak.
‘Have you… have you… have you seen a man running down here, small bloke, leather jacket, jeans.’
The woman smiled again, turned, pointing back the way she’d come with a long, elegant finger tipped with an immaculate blood red nail.
‘Twitten down there on the left.’
Nice to know someone was prepared to help the constabulary, thought Hain as he tipped a grateful finger to his forehead and set off, faster than before.
The driving rain cut visibility to a few feet and he was level with the twitten before he saw it. Just as he turned a shadow barrelled out of the blackness like a bat out of hell, cannoned into him. As Hain grabbed he felt leather. The man wriggled like a hooked fish. The leather was slippery with wet and as the man began to slide from Hain’s grasp he lashed out, kicking him under the kneecap. There was a howl of pain. The man buckled, fell.
Hain rolled his prisoner onto his front as he spluttered in the gutter.
‘William Hare, I am arresting you…’

***

Sam Hain was out of tissues so he wiped his sour mouth on his sleeve. The rain had eased up. His legs felt wobbly as he stood outside The Gallows watching a police van pull away, William Hare secure in its rear cage.
Hain felt wrecked. Hell of a night, too much stress, too much physical exertion. And too much juicy, rare hamburger. Just the thought made him gag.
He’d been dragged away from a family trick or treat party, then dropped himself in the brown stuff with DS Boggart. Still, he’d nicked the bastard butcher so, all in all, result!
He trudged towards the pub door and pushed it open. The prospect of a decent drink was very attractive but he was still in the doghouse so best not. When you’re in a hole you stop digging.
Boggart was standing by a table in an alcove at the back of the saloon bar beside a wizened old man, red eyes, blue lips, mauve nose. He was swamped by a worn dark suit that probably fitted him back in the day. The old man nodded robotically as Boggart spoke.
‘We wanted to thank you for your cooperation this evening, Mr Samuel. It must be very stressful, can’t have been easy for you. You’ve been very brave. We’ve recovered the money you gave Hare.’
When the old man spoke his voice was a quivering whisper.
‘Least I could do after what that so-and-so did to my Alice, ‘scuse my language.’
Boggart saw Hain looming behind her and stepped aside to let him move closer. He saw half a dozen old people around a table dotted with sherry glasses and half pints. The detective sergeant looked at John Samuel and indicated Hain.
‘This is the officer who apprehended Hare.’
A thin, pale arm woven with thick ropes of blue vein extended towards him. Hain reached out to shake. It felt damp and cool but the grip was surprisingly strong.
‘He ran like a bloody hare, too, but we got the bugger.’
The old man’s gaunt and weathered face creased into a filo pastry smile.
‘Just wanted to thank you, son. You police do a wonderful job. My Alice would say the same if she was here, God bless her.’
Hain struggled for something to say, settled for, ‘That’s what we’re here for, sir. Glad to help.’
The old man started to shake. Boggart looked alarmed until a dry chuckle struggled its way out of the weathered lungs.
‘We must look like a right old bunch of crocks to you youngsters…’ Samuel wheezed again. ‘Wasn’t always that way, you know.’ Another chuckle. ‘We were young once.’
Hain ignored Boggart glancing at him and rolling her eyes.
The withered arm, like an ancient tree branch, reached out, pointing across the glasses on the table to a bunch of flowers on the far side and an old hand-tinted photo framed in black ribbon.
‘My Alice was a real looker in her day. Beautiful face. A beautiful soul. Smile like sunshine on a rainy day. You can’t imagine how much I miss her.’
Hain glanced across the table. The whole pub went quiet and everyone turned to look as the chubby detective hit the wooden floor, limp and unconscious.
Startled, Boggart wasn’t sure whether to attend to the grieving widower or her embarrassment of a colleague.
In the second it took to decide she looked across the table at the old photo and saw a stunningly attractive young woman with a smile like sunlight.
She wore a red coat and held up her hand to show off an engagement ring on a long finger tipped with a blood red nail.

• Direct funerals are increasingly popular but this story is pure fiction. None of the characters resemble anyone living or dead. Any errors in DEAD TO RIGHTS are entirely the fault of evil sprites and my current attack of man flu. Sleep tight tonight.

©BILLTODD

• Don’t forget! The ebook of my first Danny Lancaster crime thriller – THE WRECK OF THE MARGHERITA – is free to download. The other six titles in the series are just 99p/99c each. Enjoy!