PRIMROSE VALE

PRIMROSE  VALE                                 

Primrose Vale was a very average street on the Bredon council estate. It was there Fred and Alma Covington had made their home.

“This is tasty, Fred.”

“It’s her cheeks, Alma, a very tasty part of the body.”

“Are we onto Rhodine already?”

“Yes, it’s Rhodine, we finished Laura yesterday.”

Fred was a butcher, so certainly knew how to cut meat. Chopping up bodies or carcases was second nature to him. Eating the neighbours didn’t  seem so awful, after all what had they done for him? Most of them complained of the smell of their dogs, which were well fed and weighty. Whether they were fit or not depended on your point of view.

Quite a way down the street , at one hundred and eleven, was Lewis, Lewis Hunter. Heaven forbid he should come into contact with Fred. Fred had seen him in his scout’s uniform walking past his house on Monday nights, scouts’ night. Today it was Monday. Lewis got into his scouts’ uniform as his mother Julie got the tea ready.

“What’s for tea, Mum?”asked Lewis.

“Beans on toast, Lewis.”

Beans was Lewis’s favourite, that and chicken nuggets. Lewis loved mystery novels and at the moment was reading ‘The Pale Horse’ by Agatha Christie. He wondered if one day he might become a real detective. Little did Lewis know there were weird goings-on in his very own street. Lewis left the house and made his way down the street for scouts, held at Kippers End, a short bus ride away. As he passed Fred and Alma’s house a net curtain twitched; inside Fred licked his lips. The man was incorrigible

“What do you think of that boy, Alma?”

“Oh no, Fred, he looks so innocent in his scouts’ uniform. You can’t murder him, Fred. In fact I think you should look further afield, and anyway I like females well cooked in butter, females in their twenties. Fred had already killed half a dozen women, only one of them a neighbour, his last victim, Rhodine Roberts.

“They have no clues in the case, Alma, do they? When they interviewd us nothing came out.”

“I don’t care, I like boys. We are not going down that route. The conversation was over. Lewis was safe; at least for the time being. Lewis enjoyed being in the scouts. They had a newly built scout hut at Kippers End, and soon it was Bob-a-Job week, though now of course you were expected to pay one pound for a job, or more if you were generous.

Fred used an outhouse for carving up the bodies, regularly cleaned by him and hosed down with water. In it he had a collection of tools, hammers and saws – all the regular paraphenalia. The back garden was neat and was mostly laid to lawn. A weeping willow in the corner spoke of mourning and death.

Next week came and Lewis started on his Bob-a-Job campaign. Obviously his own street was his hunting ground. He got to sweep paths, clean shoes, hose gardens and run various errands, but now, as he got to the end of the street, he faced number two, Fred and Alma’s house, and of course had no fear. Why would he? He rang the bell. Fred answered and Lewis gave his spiel. Fred was delighted, but Alma became afraid.

“You can mow our lawn at the back; it needs doing.”

Lewis thought it is another pound, and then I will make it do for the week. Fred took Lewis out to the back garden, all the while tempted, but Alma was keeping a close lookout from the kitchen window. He didn’t know why but Lewis felt just a bit uncomfortable He thought there was something funny in Fred’s demeanour; he seemed too familiar somehow. Anyway he got the lawnmower out of the outhouse and started to mow; soon it was finished, but my, thought Lewis, the edges look a tad untidy. He returned to the outhouse to look for a half moon tool to do the edging. Meanwhile Fred had gone back into the house to appease Alma. He wouldn’t murder now, so close to home. Rhodine had been close enough. It would only be asking for trouble.

There were many garden tools in the corner of the outhouse; a jumble in fact. Lewis had to sort them out first, but then he saw something on the ground. What was it? Behind the jumble of tools was a finger, a human finger.Lewis became terrified. He knew of the murder of Rhodine, and now this, in this terrible, creepy man’s outhouse. Maybe her body was nearby. But Lewis didn’t panic. He remembered Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot. What would they do? This was evidence. He quickly scooped up the finger, stuck it in his pocket, and ran out of the garden and through the back gate. He kept running until he got home, and then produced the finger, to his mother’s horror.

“Oh no, Lewis, this means something awful. I’ll have to call the police.”

Soon the police were on their way. They’d never really liked the look of Fred or Alma when they had interviewed them a couple of weeks ago. DNA tests proved it was the finger of Rhodine Roberts, murdered a few weeks ago in Primrose Vale. Lewis’s work as a detective had started. Certainly the police were impressed. The murder had been solved by a boy scout. It would only come out later why they had murdered – to eat the corpses. Primrose Vale was now notorious.