Dead Man's Sofa

"There's a dead man on the sofa," Julie said when I got home from work.

 

It was old Tom, sitting perched cross-legged like a wise Buddha watching over the world. Only he wasn't watching anything, he was stone cold dead.

 

We hadn't seen old Tom for years. He was a friend of a friend who'd been made homeless, he'd been through a messy divorce, lost his job, and had nowhere to go. We'd let him sleep in a tent in our back garden as a temporary measure while the council got their arse together and he'd ended up staying there for six months.

 

A homeless charity had eventually found him a flat on the other side of town after which we hadn't seen him for years.

 

"He must have got a copy of the key cut at some point," I said. He didn't stay in the house with us, for the most part he kept out of our way, but we gave him a back door key so that he could use the bathroom when he needed to, our tent didn't run to en suite facilities.

 

"I wonder what he was doing here?" Julie said.

 

"I wonder how many times he's been here before?" I said. We both worked, if he had a key he could have spent every afternoon here and we wouldn't know. This time he'd slipped up and left his dead body behind.

 

We called the emergency services. A couple of police officers came, PC Didcot and PC Parkway, both ridiculously young men straight out of police finishing school. They did a brief tour of the house to confirm that he hadn't broken in or attempted to rob the house, spoke briefly with the medic, then took statements from us.

 

"The doctor's initial thoughts are that it's a heart attack, nothing suspicious, we'll know for sure after the post mortem," Didcot said.

 

We described how we knew him, why he had a key, but explained that we had no idea what he was doing there. The police seemed satisfied and left shortly afterwards.

 

It was shortly after that that the third policeman appeared. He flashed his ID card, Sergeant BD Truscott. "Can I have a quick word," he said.

 

"We've already spoken to the other policemen," Julie said.

 

"I'm afraid Didcot and Parkway don't know anything," the Sergeant said. "I'm working on a case with the Serious Crimes Office, Tom is a key suspect. I can't tell you any details but he's become involve with a criminal gang planning a major crime."

 

"As I said, we've not seen him for years."

 

"We think he deliberately kept the key to your house to use as a bolthole. Somewhere he could go, perhaps somewhere he could meet people, knowing that you were out of the house during the day and there wouldn't be anyone there. Which is why I need your help?"

 

"What can we do?" Julie said.

 

"The rest of his gang don't know he'd dead. We need to cover it up, that way we can lure them here and arrest them. Don't worry, I will leave undercover officers watching the house, pairs of officers in each of the surrounding houses, and people on the ground, street cleaners, flower sellers, there'll be people here 24/7.  I just need one thing from you."

 

"Of course," Julie said. "Anything."

 

"Selfies."

 

"Selfies?"

 

"Selfies. Photos of you and Tom posted on Facebook, or whatever social media you use. The gang will be watching your posts and it will look like he's here as planned. Don't engage with anyone once you've posted the photos, I'm sure your friends will ask questions - just ignore them. The key thing is to draw the gang into our net."

 

"But he's dead," Julie said.

 

"I'll help you position the body for the photos. We can do it now, before the medics take the body away - they are expecting to see him in your home."

 

Reluctantly we posed for selfies with Tom's corpse. Julie refused to touch the body so it was me who had my arm round his shoulder for the photos of the three of us together on the sofa. We took photos of the three of us engaged in a pillow fight and a few of me and Tom playing snooker.

 

"One more thing," Truscott said before he left. "Do you still have Tom's tent?"

 

"Yes," Julie said. "It's in our loft."

 

"Then bring it down and put it up. We want to convince the gang that he's living here."

 

The body was taken away and we were left alone. We took the tent down from the loft that night and set it up in the garden the next morning before leaving for work. It still smelt of Tom, it would probably benefit from a few days outside being properly aired.

 

I returned home from work before Julie, I think she was deliberately late returning, I could discover the dead bodies in future. There was no sign of life, nobody had been in, the tent was still there, unused. Later that evening a flower seller called round. "Would you like to buy some chrysanthemums," he said. He had a basked of red and white flowers, I don't know what they were but the weren't chrysanthemums.

 

"No thanks," I said. "But you're doing a good job, it's reassuring to see you." He looked confused and left quickly.

 

The following day I returned home before Julie again, only this time I wasn't alone, there was a strange man waiting for me, sat cross-legged on the sofa like old Tom, but very much alive.

 

"Where is he?" the man said before I could say anything.

 

"Who?"

 

"Who do you think, the man in the tent, old Tom."

 

"He's not here. He does his own thing."

 

"Course he does, course he does, like pillow fights, he does that all alone."

 

"Oh he was here. He's staying in the tent. But I don't know where he is now."

 

"When you see him call me."  He gave me a card. 'Dirk Bogard, Private Detective'.

 

"Dirk Bogard?" I said, surprised.

 

"It's not my real name. A private eye needs a catchy name people remember."

 

The man left. I was expecting him to be arrested straight away by the many policemen that were watching the house, but he walked to his car and drove off without any incident.

 

I took a note of the registration (LV23 LOE) and phoned the police station, asking for Sergeant Truscott.  "There's no-one here of that name," I was told. I eventually got through to Didcot, or possibly Parkway. "The case is closed," I was told. "It was just a heart attack, there is no third policeman." 

 

There weren't pairs of cops in all the surrounding houses, the flower seller was just a flower seller. I put the tent back up the loft and phoned Dirk Bogard to let him know that old Tom was dead.