Yarrow: The Smiley Killer

17:00

After he had returned to his office the smell that had hit Scott, Kristian and Christine was suddenly apparent to him. He lifted his arm and sniffed his pits. They were dry and crusty like sandpaper that had been worn down, yet the stale smell of exhaustion was quite clear.

It was with this realisation that he committed to having that shower his colleagues had suggested. He stood in his cubical as the spittal of water that forced its way from the shower head trickled down his back. He held a thin slither of soap, all that was left. He repeated those numbers over and over in his head - 2.13.2/4.16.1/8.18.2/5.4.1...2.13.2. The rhythm was partly due to obsession, partly to avoid thinking about all the bodies the soap had touched over its life at the station.

4.16.1/8.18.2/5.4.1...

He couldn't get past it, his mind occasionally flickering to those smiley faces carved above each code. He wondered if he was focusing on the wrong thing. Then it took over again:

2.13.2/4.16.1/8.18.2/5.4.1...

He washed under his arm pit and then to his left breast, he would have loved to call it a chest but those days had gone many years ago, age had caught up with his slim, athletic physic from his late twenties to early thirties. About the time he'd become a detective and married his job.

The shower coughed as he leaned back to wet his hair, his fingers ran through them - it was thinning. It had been grey for a long time but had always been quite thick, only recently had it started feeling as if it were fading.

He twisted the tap to turn of the shower, the last few drips echoing on the floor. His arm opened the shower door and fumbled for the towel, yanking it off the hook. He buried his face in it before drying anything else. He wrapped the towel around his waist and walked towards his locker, praying he had some old, unused gym clothes at least in there. It had been so long since he had opened it, he had no idea what it may contain.

He tried a few number combinations on his lock, 2132, 4161...He shook his head realising what he'd just put it, it clearly was not right. 1969 - The first moon landing, it was his code to nearly every 4 digit PIN.

There it sat, his old kappa drawstring bag he used to take to the gym. He cautiously opened it expecting the stale odour of old gym clothes to reach him, but they never did. He emptied it on the bench. an old pair of plain, grey cotton joggers and a black Gola tshirt. He squeezed each on, remembering fondly the time when he fitted comfortably in to each. Looking in the mirror the bottom of his belly poked out, so he stretched the t-shirt down over it. His mind momentarily distracted from the codes by wondering how long it had been since he had last worn them. Time flies as you get older, it seems to disappear in to you waistline.

"Well at least I'll fit in at the Seal Club," he whispered to himself, adjusting his t-shirt over his belly.

*   *   *

When Mrs. Lane opened the door to see Christine's smiling face she initially thought she was going to be sold something.

"Excuse me miss. My name's Christine Yarrow, I'm with the police."

"Oh dear," The ageing lady said as she tied up her dressing gown, "have you got identification."

"I have indeed."

Christine flashed her old badge from her days in the service.

"Wow dear, you look young," she said, "Well you can't be too sure can you? Not at my age."

Christine pursed her lips, the thought she could possibly be looking older wasn't expected.

"Quite. They don't update us zero hour contract employee ID badges often. Budget cuts hitting the public services and all that. May I come inside?"

"Of course...Officer?"

"Please, just Christine."

"OK, cup of tea?"

"Just a glass of water please," She followed her in to the kitchen, "Mrs...?"

"Lane."

"Mrs. Lane, I'm sorry to bother you but I'm sure you heard about the murder in the park a couple of nights ago. I noticed from the park you have a CCTV camera, I was wondering if I could have a look at the footage."

"Well absolutely but I have already shown the detectives a couple of days ago, I don't see what you will get from it, I'm a few houses down from where the body was found, you can't see anything in the park."

"I'm sure but something has come up and I need to look again."

"Well OK."

Mrs. Lane handed over the glass of water to Christine and headed to the living room. She turned the PC on in the corner, it didn't look dissimilar to the one in Doug's office. They stared at the screen as it uploaded.

"My husband set it up before he died, I just know the password. Do you think you can figure out how to work it?"

"I'm sure I'll manage."

Mrs. Lane entered her password and opened up the program that ran the CCTV. Christine sat down and started speed scrolling through the footage. She got to where the CCTV turned to infrared and paused.

She leaned closer and pressed play, speeding the footage up by ten, just looking for any movement.

"Am I to understand correctly that this was the day the bins were collected?"

"Friday? Yes I guess it must have been."

"Excellent, and I assume you, as a diligent resident, take the wheely bin in in the morning?" Christine could tell from the immaculate house this was the case without asking, but a little flattery never hurt anybody.

"Of course, I drop them off in the morning too, so sick of foxes getting in the bins and scattering chicken carcasses all over the road. If my mother was alive to see how these younger families deal with their waste she'd have clipped them around the ear by now."

"Precisely. Now as I understand there is a path through your gardens for rubbish to be moved."

"Why yes, we all share it."

"And how well do you know your neighbours."

"Oh I know everybody on this street, we've lived here for 34 years now. I know every coming and going. especially since I retired."

"Perfect," Christine said, finally turning towards Mrs. Lane and smiling, "Then do you recognise this man?"

She paused the footage at 20:25 on a tall man pushing a wheely bin through Mrs. Lane's immaculately kept garden. In the limited quality of the camera he seemed quite tall but and wore a hoody and baseball cap. Most other features were distorted either by clothing or by the pixelated image.

"Oh I'm not sure, it may be Mr. Johnson from number 40, he lives in that direction and has a similar build."

"You don't seem sure..."

"Well, it's only that he lives two doors down from the next alley. Seems strange that he would take the long way around."

"Is there anybody else that it could be?"

"Not that I can think unless someone has a family member staying with them."

"Excellent, thank you Mrs. Lane, can I take a photo?"

"You can have the tape dear if you can figure out how to do so."

"no need, modern technology and all that."

With a quick snap sound her phone had a photo of the man pushing the bin. She immediately forwarded it to Doug:

Doug, does this look like Teddy? on tape pushing brown wheeley bin through number 32, Juniper Road's garden, behind Timper Park. He's struggling with the bin as if it's heavy, strange for the evening when bins have been emptied don't ya think? Time on monitor is 20:25. Get forensics over to check all the brown bins in the gardens between number 32 and number 42. He isn't seen coming back. Speak soon poppet xo