AND A SAD INDICTMENT OF GARSIDE
THE SWIFT BREEZE RUFFLED AT THE MAYOR’S SILVER MANE and flapped at the pages of his announcement, whistling through the hand-sized microphone in a high-pitched buzz. Cllr. Earnest Heatherton cleared his throat once again and began to speak, his words snatched away by the breeze. He stood a bit closer to the mike, tapped on it a couple of times, and started again.
‘Good people of West Garside. We all know about the dreadful murder of Emily Black, snatched from her innocent bed in the hospital here and brutally done to death in Bolehill Copse. This is a sad reflection of the times we live in and a sad indictment of Garside; for there is no doubt that whoever did such a terrible thing is a Garside man. A Garside man! As a town, a town of good people that I have been proud to serve, firstly as a councillor and now as Mayor, we cannot allow such a stain on our good name to remain.’
Another sudden gust of wind set up a howl of feedback before subsiding to a dull drone.
‘The police have asked for our help, and I am in full agreement. The police want every male resident of West Garside aged sixteen years and older to voluntarily, voluntarily I stress, to have their fingerprints taken for the purpose of elimination from the enquiry. Now I cannot tell what evidence the police have got to make such an appeal necessary, but I am assured, assured… that this course of action is absolutely vital in apprehending this cruel, vile killer. Think on, if you’ve got nowt to hide, there should be no reason not to volunteer. I will be the first to volunteer, here and now, right after this announcement I will go into the van parked across the square here to give my prints, and I ask every man here in this crowd today to do likewise.
Afterwards, teams of police will be calling at every house in town to take prints, at every village and farm. And I promise to every one of you, as does so, after this investigation is over, every single one of the fingerprint cards taken in this exercise will be destroyed, burnt so that there is no record of your prints on file. We only want the guilty party as killed young Emily. There is a terrible dark cloud hanging over this town, it is up to all of us to blow that cloud away. The stain of this crime brings shame to us all, let us wash away that stain. I appeal to you. Do the right thing and have your dabs taken. Thank you.’
There was a mild smattering of applause as Mayor Heatherton solemnly made his way down the Town Hall steps and through the crowd towards the waiting police fingerprint van, a photographer from the ‘Garside Gazette’ then took his photo as he climbed the steps to the back of the van and paused at the top to turn back and wave to the crowd like a film star at a premiere. Councillor Jack Whittle watched sardonically from the side of the crowd and then remarked to his wife, ‘that’s got to be the shortest speech Earnest’s ever given in his life.’
‘Might be,’ she responded, ‘but it’s also the most important he’s ever given.’
‘Aye love, reckon you’re right. Still, I’d best go and do my civil duty and let them take my prints.’
‘They, the police, they can’t mean the likes of you, a Councillor, and that, respected. Anyhow, you are far too old to be doing owt like that. Besides, you were fast asleep beside me that night, as every night, snoring away like a pig in a truffle wood.’
‘Everyone should do it, especially folk like me, can’t be seen using Council privilege to avoid doing so, I can’t ignore it, else everyone’ll claim some excuse and that defeats the object. It’ll not take long.’
‘Just don’t let them push you around, stand up for yourself a bit more, go to the head of the queue, assert yourself.’
‘Can’t do that either, I’ll stand in line with the rest of the blokes.’
‘Too weak by far,’ his wife muttered, but he had already moved away and joined the lines of Garside men queuing up outside the van.
Inside the van, Mayor Heatherton was wiping the thick black ink from his hands. On entering the van, he had given his name to a WPC who entered his name into a ledger and then onto a postcard-sized fingerprint card, which she then passed to the technician taking the actual prints. The technician squeezed a half-inch or so of the fingerprint ink onto a pad and using a small roller, spread the ink evenly. He then took Heatherton’s right hand, rolled each finger in turn across the pad, and then onto the fingerprint card before repeating the exercise with the other hand.
‘Thank you, Mr Mayor,’ he said and handed him the towel.
‘You’re welcome, lad, soonest we get the scum, the better, and owt I can do, as Mayor, just let us know.’
Even after vigorous rubbing, the ink remained on the mayoral hands and would remain so until he got home and could scrub at the stain with soap and a scrubbing brush. As Mayor Heatherton left the van, he again paused at the head of the steps and held up both hands to show the crowd his blackened fingertips. No photographs were taken, however, which seemed to disappoint him.