Nobody had taken much notice of the old man as he’d trudged down the road pulling a battered shopping trolley along behind him. When the police questioned local inhabitants, details of what they’d actually seen were vague, to say the least.
One woman, Mrs Simpson from number 42, insisted he was in his eighties wearing a smart dark overcoat and a trilby. While Marjorie Fitzgerald, the doctor’s wife, told them he was in his sixties dressed in a dirty grey duffle coat with a red bobble hat pulled down over his ears.
The only thing the witnesses could agree upon was the fact that he’d stopped by the bins and taken something from his trolley. Exactly what, nobody except the senior police investigators knew and they weren’t saying.
This was the fifth parcel they’d found that week. In every case, there’d been the sighting of an old man pulling a shopping trolley.
John Hopkins, a small man in his mid-thirties, stared down on the grisly scene from his tenth-floor apartment and smiled. Tomorrow he’d put on a different hat and coat, take another of his estranged wife’s body parts from the freezer and drop it into his shopping trolley.
200-word story for this week’s prompt at Sunday Photo Fiction.
Photo courtesy of CE Ayr