The Mysterious Incident of the Glass Eye - Part 3

Here is part 3 of my story.

The Mysterious Incident of the Glass Eye - Part 3

“What do you know about him?” Bailey asked, pulling his notebook and pen from his pocket.

“Well,” she thought out loud. “He comes from London, drives a beaten up car and he likes four spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee in the morning!” she shuddered with disgust.

“Have you cleaned his room yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Can I have a look?” Bailey interrupted her, eager to get on.

“Course. Room 3, just on the left as you go up the stairs. Make sure you've wiped your feet.” She reached up to a rack of keys and handed him one. “Officer?”

“Mmm?” Bailey's patience was growing thin.

“What's he done?”

“Can't tell you, Madam.” Bailey headed up the stairs, trying not to look too closely at the giant floral pattern on the wallpaper, which clashed horribly with the magenta woodwork. The entire upstairs smelled like a tart's boudoir.

Reaching room 3, Bailey turned the key in the lock and the lurid door swung open. A musty aroma of sweat and feet assaulted his nose afresh. He flicked on the light and looked around. None of Cyclops' possessions were there. The bed linen was rumpled and the curtains were still closed.

Checking the avocado en suite, Bailey resigned himself to the fact that some people would never develop good taste. The Brays were stuck somewhere between 1975 and old age, they would never change. The bathroom was empty of Cyclops' belongings as well. Before leaving, Bailey looked in the bin, where he found an empty Vaseline jar. Unbidden, all manner of unpleasant thoughts entered his mind. Pushing them, and his inner comedian to one side, he popped the jar in an evidence bag and headed downstairs. Jones was chatting with Mrs Bray. He saw Bailey and nodded. They were both ready to go. Bailey handed Mrs Bray his card before heading for the car. As they climbed in, Bailey grinned at Jones.

“What did old Battered Husband have to say for himself then?”

“Not much,” Jones replied. “Reckons Cyclops worked for some advanced prosthetics company, developing tools to help the disabled or some sort of lark. Very noble, I'm sure.”

“Interesting,” Bailey smirked. “I found a massive empty Vaseline jar in his en suite.”

“Bloody Vaseline,” Jones snorted. “Wife makes me buy vats of that stuff for her chapped hands. Loves it. Bloody chemist sniggers every time I go in. I 'ate the stuff. 'ate it!”

 © Annie Bell 2012