The Man Who Drowned.

The man, who drowned, lived in my house for about four or five months. I called him Pinky. I never knew what his real name was, until today.

The headline in the paper read, “MYSTERY MAN WASHED UP ON BEACH.” The brief article ended with an appeal for any information which could help identify the poor man, who had been in the briny water for some time, and was quite pickled. Not long enough for a decent onion or gherkin, but rather overdoing it for a human, apparently. Consequently, the most promising identifying feature, (a five foot, ten inch Caucasian was unlikely to ring many bells) was the missing tip of one of his fingers, which they were fairly sure had not been some crab’s lunch. There followed the phone number of the local nick and I picked up my handset and began pressing keys.

* * *

I rent out my spare room. The previous occupant, a slightly chubby student nicknamed Pieface (after Dennis the Menace’s pal), had finished his Open University course, and gone to work, appropriately enough, for a large supermarket, as a food technician. Anyway, he’d moved out, and the room had been devoid of a tenant for several weeks. I was pondering the questions of how to pay the gas bill and what I could do to attract a new lodger without spending any money sprucing the place up, when a sharp rap on the front door jolted me out of my reverie.

A pleasant looking young man stood before me on the step. He was around thirty years old, I suspected, give or take a decade. I am notoriously bad at gauging how many years people have inhabited this earth, even with the ten years either way. I generally divide humans into babies, small children, big children, young adults and old adults. He came into the young adult category, so I suppose realistically he could have been anything between sixteen and forty-five! People’s ages are not a matter of great importance to me. I am more concerned with whether they are nice, or interesting. His features made him look kind, and although some may have said he was unkempt, he had that casual look I have always found attractive, it indicating to me the lack of narcissistic grooming so often found in the egocentric.

When he spoke, his voice was mellow and deep and I found its resonance soothing somehow. The surprise of his sudden appearance and the mesmerising quality of his speech distracted me, so that I realised, rather embarrassed, that I had not the faintest idea what he was saying to me. It turned out, (after I had apologised for my vagueness and he had repeated, patiently, everything, from the beginning,) that he needed a place to stay for a while, and that the nice lady in the paper shop had recommended me to him. He was unsure exactly how long he would be staying, but offered a month’s rent as deposit, and another month’s in advance to start, promising as much notice as to when he would be leaving, as he was able.

In my head, the red gas bill was engulfed in blue flame as I pranced gleefully around its warming pyre. I held out my grateful hand for him to shake, and as his hand clasped mine and he introduced himself with the single word ‘Pinky’, I felt his short little finger in my right palm. I tried hard, but was unable to stop my treacherous eyes as they stole a quick glance at the guilty finger, but of course, I was too polite to say anything…

……Unlike the children, who, immediately on first meeting him, declared Pinky a very funny name, sang “Pinky and The Brain, Pinky and The Brain, one is a genius, the other’s insane!”, laughed like maniacs themselves and then asked how he’d lost it. I was cringing at their forthrightness, and wishing simultaneously; that I had taught them better manners, that he would not take offence and change his mind about staying with us, that the rather pitted kitchen tiles possessed a larger hole into which I could silently disappear, and finally, and most importantly, that he would tell us. I do not like not to know. Pinky, on the other hand, was entirely unfazed. He threw back his head, his long wavy brown hair swinging easily along with it, and laughed. Abruptly he stopped, capturing their attention with his intelligent eyes, and conspiratorially gestured for them to draw near. In a voice that was barely audible he breathed the answer, “It was taken by a felon!” and proceeded to tell them some fantastic tale about him having incredible powers this felon wanted, and how he’d been tricked into drinking a glass of drugged Coke. While he was unconscious, the baddy had chopped off the tip of his little digit and absconded with it, determined to discover his secret.

He told me later, when the boys were in bed, that as well as being a criminal, a felon is an infection of the fingertip. (This is true, because I looked it up later, just to be sure, you understand.) He’d been chopping firewood in his granny’s garden when he was about ten years old, and had got a splinter in the little finger of his right hand. Like most ten year old boys, he was not particularly concerned with matters of hygiene. He had managed to hook the splinter out, with a needle from the old felt pincushion his mother had made when she was at school. It was a such a relief, and he’d thought it was fine. In spite of his mother’s insistence that he wash it thoroughly with soap and water, he had done the usual thing, briefly showing the running tap his palms as he took a drink from his cupped hands. Then he’d wiped them over his face and rubbed the whole lot with a bunched up towel from the rail, before absently casting it to the floor as he left the bathroom. It was only days later, when the terrible throbbing became too much for even a brave chap like him to bear, that, after a sleepless night in spite of the painkillers, his mother had insisted on a visit to the doctor’s. His mother was appalled and horrified to learn that the infection had caused an abcess, which in turn had caused an infection in the bone. There was no other option but to remove the whole top joint of the finger. Pinky hadn’t been particularly bothered by the idea, and was somewhat puzzled by the serious upset it was obviously causing the grown-ups. It was so painful now, he would cheerfully have let them cut his entire hand off, just so long as it didn’t hurt anymore. And besides, it was bound to get him off school for a while. His mother was naturally mortified. Granny had nightmares about it until the day she died.

So that was how he’d got his name and since all our transactions were conducted very informally in cash, Pinky or Pink for short, was all I ever called him. I have a number of friends and acquaintances I know only by their first names. Unless there’s a particular reason, it rarely occurs to me to ask their full name and if it does, by the time I see them next, I’d forget again. The number of times you actually use somebody’s surname are few and far between, in my experience. Of course there are the exceptions, like the three Johns or Daves you know, who require further identification, but often even they are merely labelled Dave M or Big John. Mostly, the people’s surnames I do know; are my family, girls I went to school with, friends of my brothers and sisters who they went to school with, and those characters who are known only by their surnames, like Jonesy, and old Mrs. Patterson from the baker’s, in which case, I’d be hard pushed to tell you their Christian names!

Thinking about it now, although he always seemed so open and affable, and was always telling interesting tales from his past, I realise I know very little about him. The stories were mostly like the tale of his pinkie, that is, they were full of detailed personal information like feelings, but didn’t contain much by way of geography, for instance. Consequently, I find, not only do I not know his name, I do not know his parents’ or his granny’s. I do not know where any of them live, either!

I do know that his father left when he was seven after an amicable divorce. He was a good man, though, by all accounts, a mechanical engineer, who worked for the local council (local to where, of course, I don’t have a clue). He would visit or call Pinky almost every day, when Pinky wasn’t staying with him, and Pinky spent every other weekend with him until he was sixteen years old. He never forgot a birthday or Christmas, and each year in the summer holidays, they would have a whole fortnight together, most often camping somewhere lovely like the Lake District, or Scotland, or Wales or the West Country. (Hmm, so I sort of knew where they didn’t live, because he’d said how much he’d enjoyed those long journeys, motoring all day, in the big blue Austin A40.) They would fish together. His father taught him how to gut and clean their catch, and sometimes if they were lucky and caught enough mackerel for example, they would cook it crispy brown and salty in the old black frying pan on the primus stove. Pinky recalled the difficulties they had trying to light the old meths burner one particularly blustery day, He, holding out his jacket for a wind break, his father, pumping like crazy, and eventually having to go back to the site shop for more matches. There was such a pile of discarded Swan Vestas, he’d said, they could have made a fire with them and eaten several hours earlier. He’d wondered if the fish had only tasted that good because it took so long to get the thing going, he’d nearly starved to death waiting for it! They’d always had a good laugh together.

At school he found he was gifted in science and maths, and earned himself the alternative nickname of The Brain. I see now why he found my boys’ singing so amusing. He could also tell a good story, as I can confirm. He said he didn’t like school much. He found it difficult not being able to do things his own way, especially knowing that often his way was better. But he was popular enough with his fellow pupils and the teachers, to enable him to get on ok. He’d excelled in Chemistry, going to college and then on to university and getting his BSc. He’d then joined the Department of Chemistry or Chemical Biology, or something, at one of those famous American universities, where he supported himself with a Research Assistantship, while working for a Doctor of Philosophy degree, specialising in Biochemistry. He’d returned to the UK at some point, (obviously), and done some teaching at his old college to earn a living, while he worked on his master plan. He was now putting the finishing touches, he’d said, to a paper on something very technical I couldn’t even understand the title of, which was top secret (no danger of me giving anything away) , which he was hoping, when published, was going to rock the scientific world, transforming life as we know it and making his name and his fortune. The famous Professor Pinky! I didn’t believe this last bit of course but it was harmless enough and most entertaining.

His presence in our house was entirely positive. He never got in the way. He had no really annoying habits. He was, in fact, a sheer delight. He was always polite, always helpful and always interesting. He had an almost permanent air of fun about him, as if life was a very funny joke. He fitted in so smoothly and we all felt so comfortable with each other, that there soon developed an ongoing banter that kept us all amused and on our toes. Sometimes he was a bit too clever for us, but mostly just everyday exchanges brightened up our lives.

“Pain Brulee? Yes please!” enthused Pinky, winking surreptitiously at the children and exaggerating the scraping motion of his knife as the black dust fell to his plate. Whereupon the three of them would chew together, seriously, making sounds to indicate their exquisite pleasure, in that same melodramatic style, until I stopped pretending not to notice and gave them a ’that’s enough’ look, and they’d fall about laughing, he giving me a kindly smile, which was not at all patronising, but rather, included me in the joke. And I would feign offense, and tell them they could make their own, if that’s the way they felt…. but first, they’d have to pop down to the shop and buy some more bread, because that was the last of the loaf!

Then he would offer to walk the boys to school and pick up some bread on the way back, and was there anything else I needed? It really was no bother; he had some things to do and was going that way anyway. I felt the burden of my worries lift from me and began to truly enjoy my life for the first time in years. We had become, really, very good friends.

Sometimes, I would prepare a picnic, and we would take a leisurely stroll to the beach. It was perfect, our beach. There was a long stretch of fine, silver sand, bounded at both ends by solid stone cliffs, the rocks beneath growing gradually from the wet sand to meet them. The gentle slope of the beach ran smoothly under the clear sea water, making it really good for paddling and swimming. Toward the cliffs at either end, rock pools contained everything a young boy (and a middle-aged woman) could wish for; crabs, shrimp, tiddlers (little blennies and wrasse, mainly), anemones, mussels, barnacles, sometimes a brightly coloured periwinkle, and all kinds of seaweed, including the perennially popular for popping, bladder wrack. Once, up away from the water in the relatively dry splash zone, we even saw a creature looking rather like a large woodlouse, which Pinky informed us, was called a sea slater. He was in his element, pointing things out with childlike enthusiasm, and handling each with practiced care.

When it was warm enough, we would all go for a swim. Pinky was a strong swimmer, with a healthy respect for the sea, its power and its unpredictability. We’d emerge, dripping, to race back to our pitch. I was always last. Sometimes Pinky would let the boys win, assisting the younger on occasion, by holding the wriggling bigger one back. Other times though, he would sprint off leaving the three of us standing, and when we finally arrived at our blanket, unable to speak trying to catch our breath, he’d be lazing back smugly on his elbows, one leg stretched, the other bent up at the knee, smiling and wondering loudly what kept us? He was certainly pretty fit!

Pinky always paid his rent promptly, on the first of the month, leaving it by arrangement in ‘the useful pot for putting things in’, which sat to one end of the fireplace, in the living room. On the first of November, I put my hand in, and found only the rubber band, dead battery, dust, and collection of old keys, (no-one knew who they belonged to or what they might lock or unlock, so I didn’t dare throw them away,) which kept permanent residence there. The rubber band was perished for sure by now, and would certainly have broken if anyone had tried to use it.

Now, you may have already gathered, that I am a rather randomly organised person, so you will not be surprised to find that it took me a while to realise that something was amiss. At first, I merely thought I didn’t know what day it was, which was a perfectly reasonable thing for me to think. Then, having checked that it was indeed the first, I considered some other possibilities; days the bank may have been closed, empty ATMs, that he had run down his savings and was broke, illness. He had been perfectly well yesterday. Well, that meant nothing. My husband had popped down to the corner shop to buy a pint of milk one frosty morning, and dropped down dead of a heart attack. There had been no warning. He was only thirty-nine. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen Pinky all morning, and when I checked the clock on the mantle it showed me a startling quarter to eleven.

My heart thumping, I raced upstairs, and feeling alternately panicky and ridiculous, knocked on the door to his room, calling his name urgently. (Now that really did sound farcical!) And answer came there none. I knocked again, slowly and deliberately this time, and with my other, (shaking, I noticed,) hand, turned the shiny knob. The door swung open easily when I pushed it, me standing fixed to the landing floor, squeaking pathetically, “Hello, are you in there? Are you alright? I’m sorry to disturb you but……” But Pinky patently wasn’t there. I was grateful for the relief, as all the scary images in my head flew quickly away, along with the butterflies from my stomach. The room was impeccably tidy. It was empty, cold, as if nobody had been in it since Pieface had left, a whole summer ago. My mind reeled. For a moment, I thought I had really lost it. Thank heaven for the children. They would know if I’d imagined the whole thing and had finally lost my tentative grasp on reality, or if it was really true and he’d just suddenly left. Oh God! My poor boys! How could he? Without so much as a ‘by your leave’. Now I was angry. No, I was furious. Just as well bloody Pinky wasn’t there; I could cheerfully have killed him myself at that moment. I heard a short hysterical giggle, and I knew it had come from me. “Good grief, woman, get a grip.” I told myself sternly.

I decided at that point, that the thing to do was to make myself a cup of tea, light myself a fag, (curses! and I’d been doing so well lately,) and try and think the whole thing through a little more calmly. So that’s exactly what I did. I wondered, as I wandered downstairs to the kitchen, how many ghastly situations had been saved from ending up as disasters, by the preparation of a good, hot, sweet cuppa?

He was obviously gone for good. Nobody would clear out like that if they were just visiting some friend or relative for the weekend, or even the week. No, he had done a bunk. Probably just ran out of money and moved on to somewhere he could get work lecturing again. There was nowhere like that round here, we were just a tiny sea-side village where the only work there ever was, was seasonal anyway. That was what I really thought, and that is what I would tell the boys. I was still seething. There was no need for him to scarper like that. I thought that he would have known me well enough to know that I would have understood if he’d explained things. It’s not as if I’ve never been short of cash, and I’d told him what a godsend it had been for me the day he arrived at my front door. And he must have known how fond the boys were of him, that it would be a terrible shock for him to just disappear like that, and how very much they would miss him. I knew, or thought I knew, (that’s the trouble with these situations where communication is entirely lacking, you end up questioning everything you thought was real), that he really liked them too. Perhaps that was it. Maybe he didn’t want to prolong his own bad feelings, and thought the whole thing would be less painful for him if he just went. Selfish git. But he wasn’t, was he? He’d never seemed that way to me, but then I never thought he’d do anything like this either.

Luckily, I had been prudent enough during the last few months of plenty, to stash away a few pennies, so at least I’d still be able to put on a decent show at Christmas. Not as grand as I’d been hoping for, but still, it should be ok. My heart ached as I visualised my updated versions of Christmas Eve, Christmas morning, Christmas lunch, Boxing Day…. Oh well, we would still have fun. I would make sure of that.

Mixed in with my feelings of rage and sorrow, anger and resignation, was a niggle. My conscious mind, so busy re-working the foreseeable future, was resolutely ignoring it, of course. But it was there alright, beavering away, sifting through the contents of my memory, consuming evidence, and growing bigger all the while.

Anyway, I had better things to be thinking about than the errant Pinky. I am an artist Modern art I suppose you’d call it, mainly strange landscapes and animals, and I do seem to be able to capture a good likeness in a portrait. So, with great excitement, and not a little trepidation, I am preparing for my first exhibition. Oh, bother that man; I don’t want to be reminded of him. I had spent the longest time selecting my pictures, and finally chosen a nicely co-ordinated collection, to be completed by the (as yet unfinished) head of Pinky. I could probably still finish it without him, but I don’t want to now and I’d probably screw it up anyway, if I tried to, feeling like this. What’s more, I realised, I don’t even have a photograph of the damn fellow. I headed off to my studio, (by which I mean my bedroom), to find something among the rejects that might fit the bill.

No photos. I’ve always thought that was a shame. I’m not very good with a camera. Even my digital one with auto-everything, that’s such a piece of cake to use I don’t even need to wear my glasses! I always feel awkward using a camera, that it detracts somehow from the spontaneity of whatever’s going on. Either I want to be part of it the action and can’t because I’m separated from it by the stupid device, or I don’t, in which case, why would I want a picture of it? I do treasure the ones I’ve got though, and try to take enough, so that the boys can have some memory joggers of their own to treasure, when they grow up. As I was saying, I usually take very average snaps, but on our last trip to the beach, quite by chance (what else?), I’d taken a cracker. I’d been feeling a bit tired that day, so Pinky and the boys had gone for a swim, while I took the opportunity for a bit of a rest. Later, on impulse, having actually remembered to take the thing with me for a change, I snatched up the contraption and pressed the button, capturing the three of them racing up the beach towards me. It was rather late for us still to be down there, actually, but the quality of the evening light on their wet bodies, the all but deserted beach behind them (there was just the silhouette of a man and his playful dog), and the looks on their faces – pure joy, made a beautiful shot. So I was really disappointed when Pinky had insisted, as he always did, (he was terribly camera-shy), that I delete it. He looked awful, he said, lovely of the boys though, and he had made them do the run again to take a replacement. It was good, but it wasn’t as good as mine. I’d never managed to take one without him noticing.

Time passed, as it does, without announcing its passage, and Christmas approached, the way it does, with alarming speed. The exhibition had gone surprisingly well, well it was a surprise to me anyway, and I had actually sold quite a few paintings. So, this wet and miserable morning, I have made my children wrap up warm, and we have ventured out at some unearthly hour, to go and buy the local newspaper, wherein, so the nice young adult reporter informed me, I would find the article about their successful local artist. It would be accompanied, she’d said, with the photograph of (a slightly tipsy) me, handing over one of my sales to the happy purchaser. I don’t normally buy the local rag, I just read the free one that comes through my letterbox every week along with about a tree’s worth of advertising leaflets, but this was too good to miss. The amiable journalist had indicated that it may very well be front page news. I’d worked out I could probably manage with fifteen copies, so I wanted the boys with me to help carry them home. Newspapers are heavy. Besides, they were quite keen to see it themselves, if it were true. They would surely have a good laugh, the way you always can when the write up’s about somebody you know, and really they were quite proud of me. It might even provide them with a little kudos amongst their classmates.

We were all disappointed to see that I had been displaced from the front page by a shocking story about a body found on the beach. We were momentarily concerned that I may not be in there at all, but we needn’t have worried. A quick flick later, and there I was, bold as brass, on page three. What a laugh. This just gets better and better, I thought, trying to contain a rising giggle, so that I wouldn’t have to explain to the boys what was so funny. Inwardly I tried to think of some appropriately funny comments with which to embellish the article, when I distributed it to my loved ones.

It was only a short walk home. We went as quickly as we could, hampered by the swinging carriers, which bumped uncomfortably against our legs as we struggled along, heads bent down, trying in vain to shelter ourselves against the wind and rain. It didn’t take us long, less than five minutes, but even so, by the time we piled through the back door into the warmth of the kitchen, we were soaked through, and chilled to the bone. We made puddles on the floor where we stood if we stayed still for more than a few seconds. So there was a big one near the kettle and another by the door, where we’d hung our coats. We wiped our faces and rubbed our dripping hair with towels, and tried to warm our hands on steaming cups of tea, but it made our fingers hurt. I hoped I wouldn’t have to go out again. The temperature was falling so rapidly, it was much colder now, even, than when we had gone out, and I could envisage all that wetness turning to ice.

Finally, after our second cup of tea and a few slices of pain brulee, (I wouldn’t let them so much as look at a newspaper until they’d washed their hands), we gathered round the small square table with a paper each, and began to inspect our booty. Almost immediately, howls of laughter erupted amidst a lot of pointing and I had to admire their powers of imitation. There was no denying it, they had captured my wonky-eyed expression perfectly. “I thought that photographer was supposed to be a professional.” I grumbled. But I had to laugh too, it really was very funny. Gradually, calmness descended once more upon our little huddle as we all got into reading what had been written about me. There was another eruption as we learned that I came from a large family, having two sisters and four ‘bothers’. All in all, it was a good piece, in spite of the picture, and I was quite pleased. Well, when I say quite pleased, what I really mean is I was thrilled to bits!
The boys wandered off when they decided there was no more entertainment to be had at my expense, for the time being at least, and I settled down with yet another cup of (rather stewed) tea, to see if there was anything else worth reading. The washing could wait. This day was mine.

* * *

As I keyed in the number, I had an overwhelming urge to vomit. I discarded the handset and dashed out the back door, my hand over my mouth. My stomach empty, I felt it may be safe to try again, although I did wonder briefly if the volume of tears streaming down my face was enough to electrocute me. I was never able to grasp the technicalities; all I know is that electricity and water don’t mix!

Thirty minutes later, the boys securely encamped in front of next door’s tele watching a video, I was outside once again battling the elements. I hardly noticed them this time, though I’d been right about the freeze and slipped a few times, my mind racing, my stomach, empty as it was, still churning. By the time I got to the station, I was thankfully completely numb.

When I announced myself, the desk sergeant gave me a quizzical look, knowing perfectly well who I was, and gestured me to a wooden chair, while he went to fetch the detective in charge.

Settled either side of the table in the interview room, as the detective waited patiently for me to begin my tale, it occurred to me I could not remember how I’d got there. The lurch in my guts jolted my mind back to what I was supposed to be doing and I started to tell him everything that the niggle had accumulated from my mind.

Instead of telling him the tale of the infected fingertip, I heard myself relating the story Pinky had told the children. He had continued and embellished his story of the felon for the boys over the months, and that was mostly what I now tried to recall. While he was working for his degree in the States, he had been befriended by a personable young American called Brandon K. Washington Jr., known to all thereafter, as BK. They had been great pals, and had bounced ideas off each other while conducting their research, as they had been working in the same field. When Pinky had made his breakthrough, he had confided in his buddy, who was, naturally, sworn to secrecy. What he had developed was a simple chemical formula which could be used to control the rate of growth of any human cell.

The implications were literally fantastic. If you wanted long hair, you could target just those cells and, hey presto, a shining head of locks you could sit on. Big nose in the family? Regulate its growth at puberty, and a pert proboscis would be yours. But of course it was with the major defects and diseases where it would really have its mind-blowing impact; cancer, cystic fibrosis, dwarfism, gigantism, all those weird afflictions of under or overgrowth. All these things could be virtually eradicated, or at least contained, simply and cheaply. And fast. There were a few minor problems to resolve, the most obvious one being its anti-ageing potential. If you could arrest cell development, then you could stop people getting old and dying, (barring accident, lethal epidemics and war). The rapidly expanding good-looking population would quickly become too much for our earth to sustain and large scale colonisation of space was far from being advanced enough to cope.

Being a true scientist, Pinky had concocted a potion to try on himself and enlisted BK’s help in its administration and as a witness.

After that he had gone into serious hiding, changing where he lived every few months or so, trying not to leave a trail, which is how he had eventually ended up in my house. Then, either late on the thirty-first of October, or early on the first of November, he just left. “…and that’s all I know. I know it sounds unbelievable." But when I raised my eyes, I saw him looking intently at me. There was not the slightest hint of ridicule in his expression, in response to my absurd deductions.

He asked a few questions then.

“It was the top section of the little finger on his right hand. Just down to here.” I indicated the first joint on my own, to show him. As I spoke, tears welled up in my eyes as I felt again his hand in mine, at that first meeting. I shook them and the memory away by a jerk of my head, determined not to cry. I sniffed rather loudly.

“Not really. I’ve been racking my brains about that since he left so suddenly. The only thing at all unusual I’ve been able to think of at all, was the man with the dog on the beach.” And I told him about the photograph, and that I was convinced, although it was difficult to be sure in view of the lack of detail, that the man in it was a stranger, and that I certainly didn’t recognise the dog. He gave a brief smile at that last bit. “Well, it could be important.” I said defensively.

“No, I don’t have any photographs of Pinky but I do have an unfinished portrait and a few sketches, if that’s any use to you. They do look like him, certainly as good as a photofit. Better, possibly, I think.”

He thanked me, and told me to wait and he would organise a patrol car to take me home. He asked if there was anywhere we could stay while the forensic team examined our house. Alternatively, they could put us up in a hotel. Probably be about a week. We could take a few personal items each, but they would need to be checked out by his men first and not to touch anything we didn’t need to. He would certainly want the photograph and the pictures. They would take the greatest possible care of all our things. We would all have to come down to the station and have our fingerprints taken for elimination. (That would be some compensation for the kids, at least. They’d get a real kick out of that.)

He shook my hand (I was horribly aware of all five fingertips) already turning to leave. I was dismissed then, was I? That was it, was it?

“Stop!” I ordered. “You know who he is, was, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes.” He stressed the yes. “What you’ve told us pretty much confirms what we thought. The man in the photograph is almost certainly our murderer. Special Agent Brandon K. Washington Jr., aka Brian ‘Killer’ Whitehouse. An enigmatic smile flicked on and off his face. The dog’s a pedigree setter and his name is Rhode Island Red, aka Roady.” "I think we can be quite confident that the man who drowned was your lodger. His name was Reginald Edward Goldberg, Professor Reginald Goldberg, late of Thame in Oxfordshire. He was twenty-six years old. (Not bad!)

“Thank you,” I replied, “I think I’ll just stick to Pinky.”

Epilogue: – While searching the house, the police failed to find an unlabelled, apparently blank CD. We are still deciding what to do with it.