Miss Cocks stood beside her constable, Ethel Bromley, who’d only just finished apologising for her poor manners at Moore’s and was now battling to control her emotions. The dead body before them looked so very small under the sheet.
Detective Sergeant Fred Clarke’s message had expressly stated that they would meet at two o’clock to view the body, and he was now 40 minutes late for his own appointment.
Miss Cocks had not dealt with D.S. Clarke before and did not appreciate his tardiness. Nor did she appreciate the circling blowflies, the January heat, the overpowering smell of formaldehyde and decomposing human flesh, or the unpleasant drip echoing from drainage sewers deep beneath the floor. She closed her eyes to the sorry scene and whispered to the departed soul.
When we stand with Christ in glory, Looking o’er life’s finished story, Then, Lord, shall I fully know, Not till then, how much I owe.
Ethel Bromley was not one for reciting Methodist hymns. Surveying the feminine lines of the petite body beneath the sheet, she thought how fleeting life was, how fortunate
