The Writer by RB Banfield

letters and the weather. Far as I remember, my
own conversations never went much beyond those things. Not that
they were uninteresting points, seeing the weather dictates our
lives more than we know, and I don’t need to mention the importance
of that mail needing to get to its rightful recipients.
    “Sadly, Allan’s death was
the result of vehicle collision, and that makes it a murder case.
With us now is Dale Gant, who has come up from the city to ask some
of you a few questions regarding the investigation. Now, let me
assure you, this meeting is all completely informal and it’s just
to let the city boy know what life’s like here and how well we get
on with each other. You all know as well as I do, we enjoy the
quiet and slow here, and whoever did this crime must have been
travelling through at too fast a rate, as they typically
do.”
    “Always in a fast hurry to
get back to their miserable fast city!” added Two-Tooth Hendersen,
gaining light titters from a few people near to him.
    “We have yet to determine
that,” said Dale, not at all interested in the humour of the Gendry
locals. He viewed the meeting as an opportunity to find quick
information, to help in his leaving the town. “The assault vehicle
in question has not been found, and until that happens we need to
continue with our inquiry and study of your town.”
    “And you are quite welcome,”
Andy said to him kindly, but neglected to look at him, by
design.
    “Fact is,” Dale said, “Andy
and I are leaning to the possibility it was an
out-of-towner.”
    “No one living here ever
needs to get anywhere fast,” added Andy.
    “Given the high number of
speeding vehicles, particularly at night,” said Dale, “it’s a
surprise more of you are not endangered. I’ve noticed how some of
you take no notice of traffic when crossing roads, even the main
road outside this building. However, we still need to ask our
questions, and what better place to do that than this fine
diner?”
    “What if it’s someone who’s
from the city but is currently living here?” asked Sophie, drawing
surprise from the two men.
    “That’s what we will to
determine through are inquiries,” said Dale. “If you don’t mind, I
would prefer asking brief questions.”
    “We would like to have a
word with each one of you while you’re all here,” added Andy. “You
can go on your way if you want, but I know most of you would like
to get this out of the way here and now.”
    Dale turned to the nearest
person, a tall elderly man with a dull expression. “Can I have your
name, sir?”
    “Ken Giblett.”
    “And what is your
occupation?” Dale asked as he filled in his small
notebook.
    “Town undertaker. Thirty
seven years since I took over from my daddy. That’s Marvin Giblett,
who was a tall and bold man and proud to serve as Gendry undertaker
for sixty years, and I am equally proud to stand in his place at
this time. My first role as official town undertaker was to bury my
dear departed daddy. It was just the way he wanted it, too. He
primed me for the role for many years, since I was nothing but a
small and shaky youngster. Had me practising until I was so good at
it, he knew he was leaving the business in sound hands. Sound
enough to bury him with.”
    “Well, it’s good to know
Gendry is served so well,” Dale said, not wanting to know most of
what he had just heard.
    “Given your answer, Kenny,”
Andy said, “I think Dale here might hesitate in asking you any
further in-depth questions.”
    “Well, that’s his job, son,”
Ken replied studiously.
    “I’m just bantering with
you,” said Andy, “pay my humour no mind. The wife
doesn’t.”
    “Now, tell me,” Dale said to
Ken, trying to ignore Andy, “did you see or hear anything of the
unusual type on the eighteenth?”
    “No, sir, and I’m certain of
that fact. Cross my heart, hope to die and be buried somewhere as
nice as Gendry. Once my own son realises his place and is fit to
honour his