by P. F. Ford
Slater was beginning to feel pretty stupid. ‘You’re saying I worked with her for all that time and never suspected her once?’
‘No, I’m saying she was brilliant at her job, and no one suspected her.’
Slater thought for a minute. ‘Robbins and Wesley might have got this all wrong,’ he said. ‘If you’re right about Watson being undercover and spying on Bradshaw, and he had found out, I might not be the target at all.’
‘Yeah, you could well be right about that.’
‘You saw that photo of Lenkov talking to Watson and me in the airport lounge in Thailand. What if he had gone to Thailand because he wanted me to lead him back to her? Maybe the photo was sent to someone to confirm it was her.’
‘You think he was on your flight and followed Watson in your car, thinking it was her car?’
‘I’m not exactly sure what I think, but it’s possible, isn’t it?’
Chapter 14
On Friday morning they made an extra early start. Slater was still brooding about the visit from DI Robbins, but the real reason for his dark mood was that Watson was continuing to ignore his calls. She hadn’t spoken to him since she had hung up on him, but, as Norman had pointed out, there was nothing they could do about it right now, and anyway, they had a case of their own to investigate.
Their early start meant they made good time, and it was just after ten when they turned onto the shingle driveway that led up to ‘Ivor Jones’s’ caravan site.
‘Somehow, I was expecting something rather grander,’ said Norman as he surveyed the slightly tatty-looking collection of caravans they could see.
‘It’s not exactly the Ritz, is it?’ agreed Slater, his mood having mellowed during their four-hour journey. ‘I’m having difficulty picturing someone like Harkness using a place like this. Maybe there are some bigger, better caravans somewhere else on the site.’
‘Jeez, I hope so,’ said Norman. ‘But if there are, why put all this crap here where it’s the first thing people see? It’s put me off, and I wasn’t even considering staying here.’
‘And you can cancel my booking, that’s for sure.’
They parked the car and made their way to what they assumed must be the site office. A smiley-faced girl of about eighteen jumped to her feet to greet them.
‘You must be the detectives,’ she said. ‘If you’d like to follow me, Mr Jones is expecting you.’
She led them out of the office and along a narrow, hedge-lined path that seemed to go on forever. Eventually, they emerged onto a tarmac road lined at intervals with mobile homes. These were nothing like the shabby little caravans they had seen before.
‘This is the executive area,’ the girl explained. ‘Mr Jones thought you would prefer to see him here where the murder happened.’ She said the word ‘murder’ as if it might turn and bite her.
‘He’s in this first caravan, here,’ she said, leading them up some steps onto an area of decking that surrounded the caravan. She knocked on the door and pushed it open.
‘The detectives are here to see you, Ivor,’ she called, indicating to Slater and Norman they should go in.
A small, grey-haired man welcomed them in. ‘Do come in,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a long journey. I expect you could do with a cup of tea.’
‘Now that sounds a like a plan.’ Norman looked curiously around the inside of the mobile home. It was definitely a lot smarter than the battered old caravans they’d seen on the way in.
‘Is this the actual caravan where the murder took place?’ asked Slater.
‘This is the same pitch where the murder took place,’ explained Jones. ‘But it’s not the same vehicle. We had always intended to improve this area, and it didn’t seem right asking people to stay in a van where a murder had taken place, so we took the opportunity to remove all the old caravans from here and replace them with chalets. It made it a bit more upmarket.’
‘That’s a pity,’ said Norman. ‘It would have been good to get a feel for the area.’
‘I’m sorry, but once the police said they’d finished with the scene, we couldn’t wait to change it.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Norman. ‘I think we can understand that. We probably would have done the same.’
‘It was a terrible thing.’ Jones looked down at his hands. ‘People stayed away. It took us three or four years to recover.’
Norman pulled a sheet of paper from the folder he had brought with him. ‘According to the information we have here, there was maintenance scheduled for the caravan but it was never carried out. Is that right?’
There was a small briefcase on the floor by Jones’s chair, and now he pulled a slim folder from it. ‘You mentioned that when you called, so I went back through the records. I don’t have the customer copy of the original order, but I do have our carbon copy, and I also have a copy of the telephone message that cancelled the order.’
He thumbed through the handful of sheets from the folder and handed two to Norman. ‘These are copies I made. You can keep them if you like.’
Norman looked at the first carbon copy and handed it over to Slater. Then he took the second sheet and studied it.
It was a form headed ‘telephone message’ and was obviously a standard form they had been using in the site office ten years ago. The message read, simply, ‘Please hold off on maintenance work until I notify you.’ A name had been scrawled in the ‘from’ box. Norman studied the name, but the writing had been crammed in, and it was so faded, he couldn’t decide what it said.
‘I can’t read that name,’ he said, as he passed it over to Slater.
Slater studied the name, but he couldn’t be sure either.
‘It was ten years ago now, and I can’t be sure,’ Jones said, ‘but Julie used to be the one who dealt with us all the time, so we took it to be J Harris.’
‘Did you take the message?’ asked Slater.
‘No, it would have been my wife. She was running the office back then.’
‘Maybe we could ask her?’
‘I’m afraid you’d need a seance to do that, Mr Slater,’ said Jones, ruefully. ‘My wife died four years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Slater, awkwardly.
‘That’s okay, you weren’t to know. But I’m afraid she can’t help you now.’
‘Was the site closed at the time of the murder?’ asked Norman.
‘Well, officially, yes.’ Jones looked down at his hands again. ‘The local council insists we have to close to qualify as a holiday site. If we allow access to the caravans for more than nine months of the year, we become classed as a residential site, and then we’d have to abide by a whole new set of rules.’
‘What do you mean by “officially” closed?’ asked Slater.
‘Back then we used to turn a blind eye to anyone who wanted to come for a weekend as long as they were discreet.’
‘So, if someone wanted to come for a dirty weekend?’ asked Norman.
‘We weren’t always here, and we never used to ask why they were here.’
‘So, they could have been?’
‘If we were here and we saw them, we didn’t ask. As long as people were discreet, we turned a blind eye. We certainly didn’t go spying on people to see what they were up to.’
‘Did you keep records of who was here unofficially?’ asked Slater.
‘No, we didn’t. Anyway, we stopped all that after the murder.’
‘Did people pay for these unofficial visits?’
‘No.’ Jones shook his head firmly. ‘I kept no records, and I took no money. It was like a perk for those who owned their caravans and kept them on this site.’
‘And you were never notified to carry out the maintenance work?’ asked Norman.
‘No.’
‘Didn’t you chase them up about it?’ asked Slater. ‘I thought that was when all that sort of work was supposed to be carried out.’
‘We have a hundred caravans of our own to service and thirty-eight belonging to owne
rs. I used to do all the maintenance myself. If someone told me to hold off, I was only too happy to have one less to look after. Besides, if they ask for maintenance outside those three months, I can charge them extra.’
‘You prefer not to chase them,’ said Slater.
‘Wouldn’t you?’ asked Jones. ‘To be honest, I wish I had chased them. Have you ever been near a body that’s been dead for a few weeks? Jesus, the stink ...’
Chapter 15
‘This is getting to be a habit,’ said Slater, as Robbins and Wesley came through the door late on Friday afternoon.
‘One that I could do without, quite frankly,’ said Robbins. ‘I’d much rather be working in Winchester where I know my way around.’ She looked around. ‘I know it’s a bit cheeky, but d’you mind if I use your loo?’
‘It’s through there.’ Slater pointed to a door across the office. ‘It’s a bit basic. We haven’t got around to finishing the decorating yet.’
Robbins pulled a face. ‘Is it clean?’
‘Yes.’
She headed for the door. ‘Good,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I don’t mind basic, as long as it’s clean.’
As the door closed behind her, Slater and Wesley stared at each other. ‘So, what brings you here today?’ asked Slater.
‘I take it you still haven’t managed to get in touch with the elusive DS Brearley?’
‘I’m afraid not. I have no idea where she is.’
‘Really?’ The suspicion was clear in Wesley’s voice.
‘I’m beginning to think the last few months of my life must have been a dream.’
‘A good one?’
‘I thought so at the time, but now I think it was a nightmare in disguise.’
‘Well, it’s about to get worse.’
Slater sighed. ‘How does that work?’
‘Can you tell me where you were on Tuesday night, say between ten and one?’
‘Asleep, in my bed,’ said Slater.
‘Can anyone verify that?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Wesley sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Have you thought about why Lenkov might have wanted to kill you?’
‘I told you, I have no idea.’
‘Or perhaps you know exactly why,’ said Wesley, with a smug grin, ‘and you killed him before he could kill you.’
Slater studied the young DS. ‘Is this why I need an alibi? Are you suggesting I was there and somehow detonated the bomb as he got out from under the car?’
Wesley said nothing but looked immensely pleased with himself.
‘Sorry,’ said Slater, ‘but you’ve lost me. I thought your theory was that Lenkov detonated the bomb himself, accidentally, while he was planting it.’
‘It was, but now we’ve changed our minds. It makes sense when you think about it. The guy was supposed to be something of an expert with car bombs, so he would be the last person to make a stupid mistake and blow himself up.’
‘So, you think someone waited for him to plant his bomb, and then blew him up? How could they do that?’
‘Remote control.’
Slater thought for a second. ‘But that means—’
‘Someone watched Lenkov plant his bomb and then pressed a button?’ Wesley smiled coldly. ‘That’s the most likely way. It’s not looking too good for you, is it?’
Slater looked at Wesley as though he were deranged. ‘You seriously think I killed him?’ he asked, incredulously. ‘That would require some serious technical know-how, and anyone will tell you that’s not in my remit.’
‘I think someone killed him that night, and you don’t have an alibi.’
‘Most of the people who live alone in this town won’t have an alibi,’ said Slater. ‘And why would I kill him? I didn’t even know he existed until you showed me his photograph.’
‘Well, that’s what you’ve told us,’ said Wesley.
The door opened across the room and Robbins appeared. She stared at the two men, immediately reading their body language. Suddenly, Wesley didn’t look quite so sure of himself.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘You’d better ask young Sherlock here.’ Slater jerked his thumb at Wesley. ‘He seems to think he’s going to put me away for murder.’
Robbins looked hard at Wesley. ‘I told you to wait for me, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘You know, Wesley,’ said Slater, ‘you really should listen to your boss when she tells you to put that spade down and keep quiet.’
Wesley looked puzzled. ‘Spade? What spade?’
‘The one you’re using to dig yourself a bloody great hole. I don’t give a damn that you don’t like me, but I can tell you now, you’re going to be wasting a lot of your time, and hers, if you continue trying to make your evidence fit me.’
‘Is that right?’ said Wesley, the smug grin back on his face. ‘So how do you explain being photographed driving your car into Winchester on Tuesday night from the Tinton direction?’
Across the room, Norman was pottering about making tea, but he froze as Wesley spoke. As for Slater, he had been caught completely off guard. How the hell could he have been photographed driving his car anywhere that night? Would Watson have driven down to Winchester? She had promised him she wouldn’t use it like that and assured him she hadn’t moved the car. Surely, she would have told him first.
Norman spun around to see Slater’s mouth flapping wordlessly. He obviously didn’t know what to say, but Wesley was so pleased with himself he completely missed the chance to catch Slater out and instead began speaking again.
‘We checked on ANPR, and sure enough, it comes into the city at 23.05.’
‘And you’re quite sure it was Dave’s car, and he was driving it?’ asked Norman.
‘Who else would it have been?’
‘Ah! You’re not sure, are you? Can you show us the photos?’ Norman moved across to stand next to Slater. ‘That would show the number plate, right? And with any luck, we can see the driver, too. Trust me – if it shows Dave in the driver’s seat, I’ll hand him over to you myself.’
The smile disappeared from Wesley’s face and his confidence visibly evaporated. ‘Er, well, I don’t think we can do that,’ he began.
Robbins stepped forward, placing a hand on his arm to warn him into silence. ‘It’s alright, Wesley. I think you can leave this to me.’ She turned to Norman. ‘For some reason, the number plate isn’t clear. And we haven’t got a shot that identifies the driver.’
Norman was on a roll now and he wasn’t going to stop. ‘So, all you have is a blurred photograph of a car, that’s a similar model and colour to Dave’s, that could be his but could as easily belong to someone else. You also have no idea who’s driving, or even if it’s a man or a woman. Am I right?’
Robbins nodded.
‘Now, I don’t want to tell you guys how to do your jobs,’ continued Norman, ‘but I think we’ve all been detectives long enough to agree this might be enough to give you grounds for suspicion, but it proves nothing.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Robbins held her hands up. ‘I think I’ve allowed my colleague to get a bit carried away, and I apologise for that, but we were all young and keen once, weren’t we?’
‘So, am I accused of murder, or what?’ asked Slater.
‘I understand how you must feel, Mr Slater,’ said Robbins, looking him right in the eye. ‘But you know how it is. I have to dot the “i”s, and cross the “t”s, and at the moment you can’t explain why this man had your details and photos, and you have no alibi.’
Slater studied her face for a few seconds. ‘But you don’t really believe I murdered him, do you?’
She made a face that suggested it was in the balance but then gave a half-smile. ‘You know I can’t just dismiss you as a suspect with all these loose ends, don’t you?’
Slater nodded. ‘Yeah, I understand. You need to make sure.’
‘As I said before, you’re not exactly making it easy for us, ar
e you?’
‘And as I said before, I honestly don’t know what to tell you,’ said Slater.
‘Well, what about your car? If you didn’t drive it to Winchester, how did it come to be parked in that car park?’
‘I told you, I loaned it to DS Brearley when we got back from Thailand.’
‘Oh, yes, you trusted your girlfriend with your almost new Range Rover.’
‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ said Slater, patiently, ‘and why does everyone find it so surprising? It’s just a car.’
Robbins smiled. ‘Spoken like a true millionaire. But you’re wrong. It’s not, “just a car” – it’s fifty-grand’s worth of car!’
‘Yes, alright, if you want to put it like that.’ Slater shrugged. ‘But it’s in the hands of a police officer who has all the advanced driver training you can think of.’
‘Is that what she told you?’
‘Look, she used to drive the car when we worked together. I’d trust her with my gold-plated Rolls Royce if I had one.’
‘The thing is, we still haven’t been able to find her.’
‘What about the airline?’
‘Oh, they confirm someone using that name was on the plane, and they confirm she was sitting next to you, but after that, she vanishes into thin air. There’s no trace of her anywhere.’
‘She can’t be here one minute and then completely disappear,’ said Slater.
Robbins’ mobile phone was ringing. She pulled it from her pocket and looked at the screen. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I need to take this.’
She retreated to the other side of the office and spoke into the phone for about thirty seconds then came back to join them. She looked distinctly uncomfortable but was trying not to show it.
‘That was my boss,’ she said. ‘Something’s come up. We have to go.’
