by P. F. Ford
Slater stared miserably down at his feet. ‘I’m not sure I’d know where to start.’
‘Do you think anyone does? Jeez, even people who plan to have kids have no idea where to start when they arrive. Do you think I knew what to do when I first met Jane’s kids? I was over fifty, and I had to face three of them!’
‘Yeah, but I’ve always been awkward with kids. You’re different. You’re much more outgoing than me.’
‘D’you think you’re the only introvert in the world? There are plenty of people out there just like you who have kids and love them.’
‘But I’d been working with her for months, and she never once mentioned it. We used to stay away from home all week. How could she do that?’
‘Maybe she thought you’d regard her as somehow less able to focus on her work if you knew.’
‘But how could she stay away from her daughter all week?’
‘Says the guy who hasn’t seen, or spoken to, his mother in months.’
‘That’s different, and you know it.’
Norman wasn’t going to argue that one; instead, he jumped to Watson’s defence. ‘If the job were her only way of providing for the child, she would have to do whatever it takes. It doesn’t mean she wanted to be away from home. She must have had a good support network to help with the childcare, but you won’t know because you haven’t given her a chance to explain, have you?’
Slater shrugged unhappily but offered no defence, so Norman carried on. ‘I don’t see how you can criticise if you haven’t asked her for her side of the story.’
‘I suppose if you put it like that—’
‘How come you didn’t find out when you went to her place after you quit your job? Kids have loads of stuff. It’s usually everywhere.’
Slater hadn’t thought about this, and Norman could see a spark of curiosity.
‘Now you come to mention it, there was no kid’s stuff anywhere. It was just a small flat.’
‘It sounds to me like you need to ask some questions,’ said Norman.
‘I can’t believe I didn’t think of that when she told me.’
‘Maybe there was a custody battle, and the girl is with her father and her mum doesn’t have much access. Or maybe deep inside you were waiting to play your “get out of jail free card” and jumped at the opportunity without thinking.’
A retort was on the tip of Slater’s tongue, but he managed to hold on to it. ‘Yeah, well, it’s done now,’ he said, miserably.
‘So, undo it.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Norman. ‘You told her you needed some space, right?’
Slater said nothing.
‘That is what you told her, isn’t it?’ insisted Norman.
‘Yes.’
‘Well then, now you’ve had some space, you can use the return of your car as an excuse to get in touch and tell her you’d like to see her again and hear her side of the story.’
‘I dunno …’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Norman, ‘but I could have sworn you told me you liked her.’
‘Well, yeah, I do.’
‘So how about you start behaving like the new, adult Dave Slater you claim to be, and do something about it. The only way you’re ever going to get past this “deceit” thing is if you face up to it instead of hiding behind it. It’s like you think you deserve some pure, angel-like woman who’s perfect in every way, is that it?’
Slater was studying his feet and wouldn’t look up, so Norman continued his lecture. ‘You need to get it into your head that this fantasy woman you’re waiting for doesn’t exist, and why should she? None of us are perfect, so what right do we have to expect anyone else to be? Unless, of course, you somehow think you’re better than the rest of us?’
‘Of course, I don’t.’
‘Well, then, Mr Adult, you need to accept wonder woman doesn’t exist and get real, because if you keep on looking for her, you’re just going to end up a sad and lonely old man.’
Slater looked up, red-eyed. ‘You think so?’
‘I might be wrong, but I can’t believe Watson had any intention of deceiving you. My guess is she was too professional to mention it at first, and then maybe she just found it more difficult as time went on. Maybe she’s in a complicated situation and she doesn’t know how to handle it. If you ask her, maybe you’ll find out.’
‘You make it sound easy.’
‘That’s because it is,’ said Norman. ‘The only thing that’s stopping you is you. You’ve got nothing to lose, because if you let this deceit thing win now, you’ve lost her for good anyway. If it were me, I’d give her a chance.’
Slater said nothing and went back to contemplating his shoes. Norman stepped forward and patted his shoulder. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I just thought it needed to be said. I think you’re a great guy, and I don’t want to see you turn into some bitter, lonely old man.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Slater. ‘I appreciate your honesty, even if I don’t necessarily agree with it.’
‘You don’t care about your car, do you?’
‘At the end of the day, it’s just a car. I would like to know what the hell’s going on, though. A guy died, and it might be because of me.’
‘But even that’s not what’s worrying you is it?’
Slater let out a long heavy sigh. ‘It’s Sam,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand how she’s involved in this, but I’m sure she is somehow.’
‘Do we need to put our case on hold?’
‘That wouldn’t be right, would it? We took on the job, so we need to get on with it. Besides, Robbins looked as if she knew what she was doing, and she won’t appreciate us getting under her feet. Let’s see what she can dig up first.’
‘Right,’ agreed Norman.
There was an uneasy silence for first few minutes of their journey to work that morning, but Slater and Norman had disagreed before. They both knew any bad blood between them would soon be gone, and by the time they reached their office things were back to normal.
Chapter 11
They had been inside the office less than five minutes when there was a knock on the door, and it swung open. It was DI Robbins and DS Wesley. Robbins smiled, but Wesley could only manage a scowl.
Norman looked up from his tea-making. ‘I guess that’s two more teas, then, right?’
‘Oh, yes please,’ said Robbins. ‘I could murder a cup of tea.’
‘Back already?’ asked Slater. ‘I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Didn’t Sam Brearley put you straight about the car?’
‘Ah, yes, your mysterious friend DS Samantha Brearley, also known as Watson because she’s so good with H.O.L.M.E.S.’ Robbins’ voice was heavy with sarcasm.
‘What?’ asked Slater.
Robbins sighed. ‘I’m afraid your friend is proving rather hard to find.’
‘What do you mean? I gave you her contact details yesterday.’
‘Have you tried contacting her since we spoke, Mr Slater?’
‘Well, yeah, I wanted to know what had happened to my car.’
‘And did she answer her phone?’
Slater’s instincts told him he should tread carefully here. ‘No, she didn’t answer her phone.’
‘Now there’s a coincidence,’ said Robbins. ‘I left several messages yesterday, but when I got no response, I tried tracking her down using other methods. Now I’m beginning to wonder if DS Samantha Brearley actually exists.’
‘Don’t talk bollocks,’ said Slater. ‘She was my DS! We worked together for a few months. She had a warrant card and everything. She flew out to join me in Thailand. I saw her passport when we checked in on the way back.’
Slater couldn’t read Robbins’ face, but it was clear what Wesley thought. He looked at Robbins again, and she shrugged as she spoke. ‘All I can tell you is that she didn’t show up when I tried searching the police database yesterday.’
‘That doesn’t make sense.’
‘You sai
d she was starting a new job. Did she tell you what that job was?’
‘No, she didn’t. She liked to keep work separate from her private life.’
‘Do you know her home address?’
‘No, I never had any need to know it.’
Now Robbins stared at him, and Slater knew she –rightly – didn’t believe him.
‘Really? You expect me to believe you spent months working with this woman, even going on holiday together, and you have no idea where she lives.’
‘We worked away. We stayed in hotels during the week and went our separate ways on weekends. I didn’t need to know where she lived.’
Robbins stared at Slater. He knew she was weighing him up, and he wondered how close he was to being taken back to Winchester for questioning.
‘DS Wesley would like to ask you a few more questions about the man who died when your car blew up.’
‘What questions?’
Wesley opened the folder he was carrying and handed Slater a photograph. ‘Do you still claim you don’t know this man, Mr Slater?’
Slater looked at the photograph. ‘I told you I didn’t know him yesterday, and I still don’t know him today.’
‘You’re quite sure about that?’
‘Yes, I’m sure. Who is he?’
‘We’ll come to that,’ said Wesley, slipping another photo from the file. ‘How about this one?’
Slater did a double take and looked at Wesley. ‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘Do I look as though I’m laughing?’
‘This is me,’ said Slater, ‘unless I’ve got a double somewhere. Where did you get it?’
‘It was on the dead man’s phone, along with your home address.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t have his phone.’
‘It was in his rucksack,’ said Wesley. ‘It got blown across the car park and didn’t get found until late yesterday afternoon. Why do you think he had your photograph?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Slater. ‘Perhaps he was looking for a pair of detectives to solve a case.’
The sarcasm flew, unnoticed, over Wesley’s head. ‘There are no photos of Mr Norman anywhere and no mention of his name,’ he said. ‘He only seems to have been interested in you. I’m still waiting for you to tell me why.’
Slater sighed. He had come across in-your-face young coppers like Wesley many times before. ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have a long wait. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’ He tapped the photo. ‘And this bloke can’t tell you because he’s dead. Perhaps we’d get a bit further if you tell me who he is and why you think I should know him.’
Robbins had been studying Slater’s face. ‘We might have drawn a blank with your girlfriend’ – she clearly knew that would annoy Slater – ‘but things have been moving quite fast with the investigation into what actually happened to your car. When we found bits of that man scattered around your car, we thought he’d been blown up by a bomb that had been planted under the car earlier.
‘Now we know who he is, we believe he was actually attaching the bomb to your car while it was in the car park, but somehow managed to detonate it while he was still there. At the moment, we’re thinking he had just placed it under the car and for some reason it went off as he stood up. His face was undamaged because he must have been turning away as it went off. Everything from the waist down was mincemeat.’
‘You know who he is, then?’ asked Slater.
‘His name is, or was, Yuri Lenkov.’
Slater stiffened. ‘Lenkov? What’s that, Russian?’
‘That’s where he originates from, but more recently he’s based himself in London, working for whoever wants to hire him. He’s believed to have carried out at least two murders using car bombs, and as he was carrying your photograph, we have to consider the distinct possibility he may have been down here looking to complete his hat trick.’
‘But why would he want to kill me?’
‘That’s what we were hoping you could tell us. He’s never been known to work outside London before, and yet, just a day after you arrive back from Thailand, here he is in Winchester with your photo and your address, planting a bomb under your car. It’s a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘You’re saying he’s a hitman?’ asked Norman. ‘I worked up in London for years, and I don’t recall ever seeing that face or hearing that name.’
‘My colleagues in London tell me he’s a recent addition,’ said Robbins. ‘He only came to anyone’s attention in the last couple of years, so he wouldn’t have been around when you were still working there.’
‘You’ve done your homework, then,’ said Slater.
‘You’ve been a DI. You know it always pays to know as much as you can before you start asking questions. Or are you still a DI? I couldn’t quite make out exactly what your status is.’
‘Definitely an ex-DI,’ said Slater. ‘I won’t bore you with the details.’
Robbins was waiting for more, but Slater wasn’t forthcoming, so she dug a little deeper. ‘Like you said, I’ve done my homework, so I know this wouldn’t be the first time a Russian has crossed your path.’
Slater had been expecting this to come up as soon as he heard the Russian-sounding name. ‘If you’re referring to the guy who waved a gun in my face, that was ages ago now, and I can assure you I can recall his face in great detail. It’s not the same guy.’
‘That must have been a pretty unnerving experience,’ said Wesley.
Slater gave the young DS a withering look. ‘You think? Let me tell you, looking down the barrel of a gun held by a hardened killer scared the shit out of me, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I certainly wouldn’t recommend it.’
‘He didn’t shoot you though, did he?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, there must have been some reason why he let you go.’
The inference was clear, but Robbins apparently hadn’t been expecting Wesley to start drawing his own conclusions just yet. ‘That’s enough, Jason,’ she said. ‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about what happened back then, and I’m not aware of any reason we should question it.’
The young DS looked suitably chastened, but Slater wasn’t going to let it lie there. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, Sergeant,’ he said, looking daggers at Wesley, ‘but if you read the case notes, you’ll see the conclusion the senior officers came to is that he never intended to shoot me. The whole episode was designed to scare the crap out of me, and I can assure you it did, almost literally.’
Wesley grinned at Slater. He might have annoyed Robbins, but he had been hoping to get under Slater’s skin, and now it seemed he had succeeded. ‘And you’re quite sure you’ve never met this man?’ he asked, again.
‘How many more times do I have to deny it?’
Wesley smiled a wicked smile. ‘In that case, Mr Slater,’ he said, slowly withdrawing yet another photograph from the folder, ‘how do you explain this?’
The photograph showed Slater and Watson sitting at a table in an airport lounge. They were looking up at the dead man, who appeared to be speaking to Slater.
Slater’s mouth had dropped open. He studied the photograph for a minute before he spoke. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Again, it was on his phone. It looks to me like you were having a conversation with this recently murdered man you claim never to have set eyes on.’
‘Now don’t get ahead of yourself. I said I didn’t know him. It’s not the same thing.’
‘But you have to admit that it does look as if you’re speaking to him.’
‘That doesn’t mean I know him, does it? I could be saying “no, that seat’s not taken”,’ said Slater. ‘The fact we appear to be speaking proves nothing. If you wanted to ask someone if there was an empty seat at their table, would you introduce yourself first?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Wesley, reluctantly.
‘It’s obviously not a selfie un
less he’s got another pair of arms ten feet long, so he must have given someone else his phone and asked them to take the picture.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Slater. ‘Perhaps it’s so you could come and ask me a load of stupid questions.’ He had been hoping to get a reaction from Wesley, but the younger man didn’t oblige.
‘Frame you for what?’
Slater sighed his exasperation. ‘I appreciate you’re quite new to this, but surely even you can understand that the basic idea behind framing someone is that they don’t know anything about it until it’s too late.’
‘Of course, I know that,’ said Wesley.
‘So why do you expect me to know the answer?’ asked Slater, through gritted teeth.
‘Alright then. Can you tell us how you and Mr Lenkov appear to be speaking to each other in this photograph?’
‘No, I can’t, unless it’s like I said, and he asked about a seat,’ admitted Slater. ‘I can tell you one thing, though. That photograph must have been taken an hour or so before I boarded my flight home from Thailand, yet you say your man rarely leaves London. Has it occurred to you it could have been manipulated?’
Wesley tried to look sceptical, but instead, he looked guilty. ‘Manipulated? How d’you mean?’
‘Photoshopped, of course. How d’you think I mean?’
The young detective’s face told its own story. ‘You haven’t even considered the possibility, have you?’ asked Slater. ‘I suggest you get it checked out to make sure it’s genuine before you jump to conclusions about my relationship with the guy.’
Robbins could see Wesley was about to be swallowed up by the hole he was digging for himself. ‘We’ll get it checked,’ she said, hastily. ‘Are you sure the photo couldn’t have been taken at any other time?’
‘No chance,’ said Slater. ‘It’s the only time I’ve ever waited in an airport lounge with the girl in the photograph.’
‘Is that who I think it is?’
‘Yes, this is DS Samantha Brearley, the friend who borrowed my car,’ said Slater. ‘At least now you can see she does exist.’
Robbins smiled. ‘I can see someone was with you in the airport lounge, but it doesn’t prove who she is, does it?’
