Malice in Wonderland

'You had to be here at the time.'
Malec turned, seeking the owner of the quiet voice. The only candidate
was a tall individual standing motionless behind him.
'Who are you?' Malec asked - curious, not demanding.
'You can call me Peter if you like,' came the reply.
'Alright, Peter,' said Malec, 'I may want a word with you later -
though goodness knows, we're not short of witnesses.'
Peter didn't move a muscle, but Malec could have sworn a wild light
danced briefly in his eye. Malec turned his attention back to the space
which was still roped off although there was now nothing left to
distinguish it from any similar piece of landscape.
The police pathologist had come and gone, the scene of crime squad had
crawled all over the site, the remains had been removed, along with
just about every grain of dust. There was no reason why Malec should
have come back for another look. Trouble was, nobody knew whether a
crime had been committed. All that could be said with any degree of
certainty was that an event occurred - an event which left a fatality
behind. So many possibilities.
A voice disrupted Malec's thoughts. Peter again.
'He died for us. For our sins.'
Malec decided to humour him: 'Are you suggesting it was suicide?'
'However the deed was accomplished, it was his decision. He died that
we might live.'
'How does that work then?' Malec was genuinely puzzled. The only
response he got was the repetitious, 'He died for our sins.'
'Not for mine, mate,' Malec was adamant. 'He can't have my sins. I need
them too much.'
He turned away. The witnesses were being held at the station - they
wouldn't be going anywhere for a while. In the meantime, it would do no
harm to have a quiet word with the mother of the deceased. Offer his
sympathy; show the acceptable face of detection. After that he would
get down to the serious consideration of whether he was grappling with
murder, accident, suicide, or even, if the mentally dodgy Peter was
right, martyrdom.
She was at home and bearing up reasonably well, in the
circumstances.
'He was a good lad,' she told Malec. 'He had a glittering career ahead
of him.'
Malec nodded. The bereaved had a right to some illusions. She
continued:
'He could have been prime minister, or an olympic athlete, a great
composer. He could have played for Manchester United.'
That last bit was too much for Malec. He couldn't let it go:
'No ma'am, he could never have played for Man United. Look Mrs Dumpty.
You have to be realistic. Everyone knows your son, Humpty, was an
outsize egg with spindly limbs and trousers and tie drawn on his shell.
Man United was out of the question.'
Mrs Dumpty persisted:
'He had just applied for a job; they were going to have him sitting
among the Christmas lights draped in tinsel. Oh, Mr Malec, how did he
die?'
Malec shrugged, 'The coroner's verdict wasn't much help; cause of death
- a great fall. I'll keep you informed.'
He didn't want to go back to the station. It would be hectic there,
what with all those king's horses and king's men milling around, giving
statements and having their finger and hoof prints taken. Malec was
certain that mob were innocent, though clearly incompetent. They should
have dialled 999 for an emergency jig-saw expert, instead of trying to
put Humpty together themselves.
Struck by a new thought, Malec decided to make yet another visit to the
scene of the tragedy. Peter was still there. He greeted Malec with, 'He
shall rise again - just give it a few days.'
The only way he could ever rise again would be in a souffle, Malec
thought. Aloud, he said, 'You should stick to picking pickled peppers.
Now, what exactly is behind this wall? Has anybody bothered to
look?'
Peter knew a rhetorical question when he heard one. He shrugged and
said, 'If all the world is a stage, where does the audience sit?'
Malec ignored that: 'Be quiet and give me a punt up so I can look over
the top.'
There wasn't much to be seen at first; a grassy knoll, dense laurel
bushes off to one side. No sign of life. Then he spotted it. A shoe -
black, with a silver buckle - protruding from the laurels. Heaving
himself over, Malec went to investigate.
The shoe was attached to a foot, which was attached to a leg, which he
pulled to reveal a young person of the female persuasion. Her wrists
and ankles were roped together. Malec got to work loosening her
bonds:
'Miss Muffet, isn't it? Don't tell me Big Boy Blue has been up to his
kinky tricks again?'
Malec wondered why she didn't reply. Then he took the gag from her
mouth and repeated his question in case it had prevented her hearing
him. She said:
'Nah, that horn of his doesn't impress anybody any more. Here, let me
show you something.'
She led him behind the bushes and pointed. There was the biggest frying
pan he had ever seen.
'OK, sister,' he said, decisively, 'I want the facts. Take your time,
and don't leave anything out.'
Miss Muffet took a deep breath and began:
'It was the bears. Three of them - assorted sizes. See, I'm sitting
there on that grassy tuffet, minding my own curds and whey. Humpty
Dumpty is perched on the wall watching the procession riding past on
the other side - Christ knows how he got up there. Well, suddenly I'm
grabbed from behind and dragged into the bushes where I see these
bears, and they've got that old slapper Goldilocks with them. She
shouts to attract Humpty's attention, and what do you know? While they
tie me up, she only gets up on my tuffet and starts doing a slow sexy
strip. Of course, your egg-man forgets the crummy king's horses and
men, and turns around this way to watch the show.'
She paused for breath. Malec said, 'I think I can see where this is
going. Was the word "omelette" mentioned at any point?'
'Yeah, how did you know? I'm hearing the frigging bears muttering about
being fed up with porridge, and discussing recipes for toast soldiers.
Anyway, the striptease is a diversion to hold Humpty's attention, while
the biggest bear creeps along close to the wall with a long hooked pole
in his claws. He is intending to hook Humpty's foot and pull the poor
sap down on this side of the wall. But just as he's about to deliver
the crucial prod, Goldilocks reaches the climax of her act, and the
whole thing is too much for the egg-guy. He gets a kind of poached
look, turns a nasty colour, and flips backward off the wall. We all
hear the crash as he smashes to bits on the cobbles.'
'Are you sure the bear didn't get get it wrong, and push him with the
pole, instead of hooking him?' Malec asked the question very
carefully.
'Nah,' replied Miss Muffet, 'I reckon it was shell-shock.'