Bill and the UFO15

The choking sound of Sergeant Cook’s attempt to swallow and hold a laugh down in the back of his throat riled Inspector Murphy, but apart from the involuntary grinding of his teeth, he tried not to show it in the clenched muscles of his face. He rapped on the peeling paint of the front door of…he checked the number again –15- and rapped again, pretending that he'd already noticed there was a doorbell.

A muffled ‘Who is it?’ came from what Inspector Murphy knew was the hallway to the house. The Inspector sighed. He’d become too cynical. On the last case in Whitecrook the same existential question was asked of him from behind much the same kind of green Clydebank Council house doors that seemed to grow on trees. The voice was weak and wobbly as a five year old trying to ride a two-wheeler bike for the first time; being a detective he figured that it was a man’s voice and that he’d been drinking. The detective had been up all night with toothache and was feeling a bit sorry for himself. Instead of courteously replying he decided to ask a few questions of his own.

‘Did you not hear the sirens?’

‘Nah, what siren?’

‘The siren of the police car you called for.’ Inspector Murphy heard the man clomping down the hallway. His index finger poked the letterbox open so that he could hear what was being said.

‘Did you phone the police? the reedy voice said.

‘Nah,’ a woman’s voice replied, ‘a phoned for a taxi.’

Inspector Murphy shook his head in disbelief. Sergeant Cook took his turn rapping on the front door. They could hear the puffing and panting of the man as he trudged back up the hall and could hear him breathing behind the door.

‘You’re not a taxi are you?’ said the reedy voice.

‘No. We are the police.’

‘Maisie,’ the reedy voice echoed down the hall, ‘they said they’re not a taxi, they’re the police.’

‘Ask them how do we know they’re the police?’ said the woman’s voice.

‘How do we know you’re the police?’ the voice behind the door sounded agitated and ready to start a fight with himself.

Inspector Murphy’s teeth were giving him gyp. He tried not to sigh and let the bitterness seep into his voice. ‘If you just open the door sir, you’ll see two officers in dress uniform and we can show you our identification.’

They could almost hear the sprockets and manifolds of the man’s mind clicking into place through his heavy breathing and him backing away from the door.

Sergeant Cook tried another tack. ‘Who do you think it is?’

‘The Jehovah’s’ answered the reedy voice instantly and with a note of triumph.

‘What makes you think it is the Jehovah’s?’ Inspector Murphy’s voice sounded as if every word was carrying his twenty years service.

‘Maisie. They said they’re not the Jehovah’s,’ the man behind the door shouted down the hallway to his partner.

There was a snort of derision, audible even in the Panda Car parked outside. ‘The Jehovah’s never tell you they’re the Jehovah’s,’ said the woman’s voice. ‘You know what will happen. They’re like ants, it doesnae matter what you do, you just cannae get rid of them.’

‘If you don’t open the door how will you ever know, or not know, we are, or are not, the Jehovah’s? Inspector Murphy was puffed up with his question, a variation of the metaphysics of Schrödinger's cat and if a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it…

‘Maisie. They definitely sound like Jehovah’s,’ echoed down the hallway. ‘What will I do?’

‘Kid on you’re not in,’ shouted back Maisie.

‘He better not say he’s not in, or I’m going to beat down the door and shove this,’ Sergeant Cook brandished his truncheon, ‘up his Jacksie.’

‘You’re too late,’ shouted the man from behind the door.

‘Too late for what?’ asked Sergeant Cook, who was beginning to enjoy himself.

‘You’re not getting me that easy,’ cackled the voice behind the door.

‘Getting who?’

‘My Maisie,’ the voice behind the door smaned, ‘she went to one of your meeting so used to be one of yousss Jehovah’s, but I read an article about how to deprogramme her in The Sunday Post and it wisnae easy and cost me 15 cans of Kestrel Strong, so now you can fuck off with your War Cry’s and Watchtowers and go and bother some other mug.’ A hand shot out of the letterbox and gave them the Vicky sign to embellish his message.

Inspector Murphy gave up on reasoning and fell back on Sergeant Cook’s initial supposition of sticking their truncheons up his Jacksie, even if it meant going through a letterbox to do it. ‘I think we’ll need to phone Gartnavel and get him committed.’

Sergeant Cook winked at his fellow officer, as if to say watch this. ‘What about all the stuff we brought back from the burglary you reported?’

‘Maisie, what about all the stuff from the burglary? What do you want me to do with it?’

‘That’s no’ our stuff,’ shouted back Maisie, ‘that’s the Cairn’s stuff next door. It was Benny Hagen that did it. They phoned the police, but you know what they’re like. There’s never one when you need them. That’s one good thing I’ll say about the Jehovah’s you never need them, but they’re always there for you.’

Inspector Murphy and Sergeant Cook used all their training to tip-toe down the close. The Panda Car coughed into life, but there was no siren as they drove down Whitecrook Street, ripping up the paper work as they went. The Cairn’s case would eventually go onto the missing files unit, if anybody could find the missing files. The next case sounded more interesting anyway, that of a missing boy and his pet Todger.