Rebel against the flesh and bone,
The word of the blood, the wily skin,
And the maggot no man can slay.
“This ear that you’re worried about,” said the Inspector, pushing the last corner of an egg sandwich into his mouth.
“It’s gone to forensic, sir.”
“Who actually found it?”
“Mrs Watkins Kingdom Hall,” replied the Sergeant, politely turning away as the Inspector scraped bits of bread from between his teeth with the sharp end of a paper clip.
“And where exactly did she come across it?”
“In the pull-in by the Scadan Coch.”
“And whose ear is it?”
“A man’s ear, sir. Right side.”
“Any distinguishing features?”
“Someone’s taken a large bite out of it.”
“And how was it detached from its owner?”
“Sharp blade, sir, like a razor.”
“Anything else?”
“This was pinned to it,” replied the Sergeant, passing across a stained post-it note wrapped in a polythene bag.
“Before death takes you, O take back this,” read the Inspector. “Mean anything to you?”
“Afraid not, sir.”
“Perhaps we should call in the Poet Laureate, then. To get the case going, to set things in motion,” suggested the Inspector, knowing it was wasted. “Doesn’t your auntie have any views on the matter?” he asked, trying to soften the bite in his voice.
“She always said that God has the hymns, and the Devil has the poetry.”
“From the maniac’s tongue pours deathfilled singing.”
“You’ve lost me there, sir.”
“Browning, the wife,” responded the Inspector, sighing loudly. “We have a murderer who knows his poems.”
“And is a bit of a butcher.”
“To whom does the ear in question belong?”
“Can’t say, sir. We’ve checked the hospitals and doctors. Nothing missing from the mortuary, either.”
“No pub brawls or dirty work in the scrum?”
“Not that we’ve been able to ascertain.”
“And no-one’s come in and reported their ear’s gone missing?”
“No, sir.”
“Or that of a close relative?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, Sergeant, you’d better start looking for a body, then.”
“Murder, sir?”
“Foul play of some kind.”