Death Of a Temptress

by P. F. Ford

  “You think some people aren’t telling us all they know?” asked Norman.

  “I could be totally wrong,” said Slater. “But my gut’s telling me there’s something not right about all this. I get the feeling there’s a lot of smoke and mirrors in use.”

  “You should always follow your gut.” Norman was a strong believer in following his instincts. “And I agree with you. I still think it’s very convenient the body turns up as soon as Clinton and Jones have been locked up.”

  “I think we need to use your expertise with the shovel again, Steve,” said Slater, turning to Biddeford.

  “Sorry?” Biddeford looked confused. “With a shovel?”

  “He means digging.” Norman laughed at the look on his young colleague’s face.

  “Oh, right. You have anyone particular in mind?” asked Biddeford.

  “I think you should start with Jenny Radstock,” said Slater, quietly.

  “Really? But I thought she was on our side?” said Biddeford, sounding surprised.

  “She used all that fake outrage about Ruby’s disappearance to get us involved and then led us to Clinton and Jones,” said Norman. “You’re right. She couldn’t give a damn about Ruby.”

  “Okay,” said Biddeford. “I’ll get on it as soon as we get back.”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment, then he spoke again.

  “While we’re on the subject of things not being quite right,” he said. “Does anyone else think it’s a little odd we’ve not heard anything from Ruth’s sister? I mean she made all that fuss about the original investigation, then she went to great lengths to get it re-investigated, and now it seems she’s not interested in how we’re getting on.”

  “Maybe she’s busy,” said Norman. “Or maybe she just trusts us to come up with the right result.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I just think it’s a bit strange, that’s all.”

  “Now you come to mention it,” said Slater. “It does seem to be out of character. But we’ve got the delightful job of telling her we’ve found a body tomorrow morning. Maybe we’ll learn a bit more about her when we do that. Don’t you agree, Norm?”

  “Am I being volunteered to go with you? I really don’t mind if young Steve here wants to go.” Telling people about the death of a loved one was a part of the job they’d all rather not have to do, and it was something Norman particularly hated.

  “Young Steve here will be busy with a shovel,” Slater reminded Norman.

  “Oh. Right,” said Norman, reluctantly. “So that’s a definite booking then. Gee, thanks.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Slater thought Tuesday morning wasn’t a good time to be telling someone their missing sister had just been found in a mortuary. Actually, he knew it really wouldn’t have mattered what morning it was. The fact is, there’s never a good time to do this part of the job. He knew he wasn’t alone in feeling this way – it was the one part of the job you could never enjoy. Everyone really detested doing it, but, like the national anthem, it was one of those things that had to be endured.

  Beverley Green’s eyes had sparkled with pleasure when she opened the door and saw Slater standing there. Dressed in her tennis outfit, she looked tanned and fit, and there was nothing subtle about the way she was looking him over.

  “Why, Sergeant,” she had purred. “What a nice surprise. Have you come for that game I suggested?”

  “Err, no, not exactly,” Slater said, awkwardly. “I’m afraid we need to talk to you.”

  She looked past him “We?” she asked.

  “My colleague.” Slater indicated Norman puffing towards them from the car. “DS Norman.”

  Her smile had faded at the sight of the untidy bundle that was Norman. “Oh, him,” she said, sounding dismayed. “I suppose you’d better come in then.”

  She had been suitably distraught, almost verging on hysteria, when he had broken the news to her, but when he looked across at Norman, it was obvious his colleague was unimpressed with her performance.

  When she eventually calmed down enough to talk, and Slater told her about the cause of death, she was adamant her sister avoided Brazil nuts like the plague. She told them she would never eat any food if she thought there was even the slightest risk of contamination with nuts of any sort, especially Brazil nuts.

  They kept the news of Ruth’s pregnancy until last. But when Slater told her, to his great surprise, she said she had guessed as much.

  “A woman can tell, you know,” she had said in a condescending tone. When pressed about whom the father might be, she claimed Ruth had never discussed the matter with her and that she had no idea. Her best guess would be the boyfriend, Tony Warwick, she suggested, “but frankly I don’t think he’s got it in him.”

  Slater figured she was probably experienced enough to be a good judge, and then felt guilty for thinking that way about someone who had just been told their sister was dead. But only slightly guilty.

  Having done his mournful duty, Slater just wanted to get away and be somewhere else, but before he made his escape, he asked if he could call anyone for her. She told him that wasn’t necessary as a good friend would be arriving shortly. She assured him that would be sufficient comfort for her.

  “Life has to go on, Sergeant,” she told him. “One can’t dwell on these tragic events.”

  “Did you buy any of that crap?” asked Norman as he drove slowly back down from the house. He hadn’t bought Beverley Green’s theatrics. “You must have done this shitty part of the job before. Have you ever seen anyone react like that? Or perhaps I should say ‘have you ever seen anyone over-react like that?’”

  “It was a bit hysterical wasn’t it?” agreed Slater.

  “Yeah! For a couple of minutes,” said Norman. “Then she just turned it off like it was a tap. I’m telling you, that was bollocks. And do you think a woman like that would keep her nose out of her younger sister’s pregnancy? No. I don’t buy it.”

  They passed through the gated entrance to the estate and out onto the road.

  “Just pull up here for a few minutes,” said Slater.

  Norman pulled the car over and looked quizzically at Slater.

  “Just give it a couple of minutes,” said Slater, in response to the look. “I want to see if I’m right about her good friend. Going back to what you were saying, yes I agree. It was a bit like a prepared statement, wasn’t it?”

  He was looking back over his shoulder along the road.

  “What are we waiting for?” asked Norman.

  “I think this is it, coming now,” said Slater, smiling broadly.

  Norman looked in his mirror to see what Slater was talking about. In the distance, heading their way, a young man pedalled furiously on his bicycle.

  “Who’s this?” asked Norman.

  “This is Sebastian. He’s Beverley’s tennis coach. She likes to play mixed doubles with him, and he’s happy to play with her.”

  “Yeah. I bet he is.” Norman sighed. “That was the one nice thing about her, her body. She’d like to play mixed doubles with you too.”

  “Oh, cobblers!” said Slater.

  “Please don’t treat me like an idiot,” said Norman. “You know I’m right. You saw the way she was looking you up and down. If I hadn’t been with you, she’d a had you for breakfast.”

  “Not while I’m on duty, mate,” Slater assured him. “And anyway she’s not my type.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if you really know what type you’re looking for,” said Norman.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Slater, indignantly.

  “Don’t start getting uppity. I don’t care what your preferences are. I have friends who are gay. It’s not a problem for me.”

  Norman put the car in gear and started to pull away.

  “I’m not gay,” said Slater, shaking his head. “What is it with people trying to put a bloody label on me? First I’m negative, now I’m gay. Not so long ago I was told I was a bloody stalker.”
<
br />   “Now just hold on a minute,” said Norman soothingly. “I didn’t say you were gay. I just said I wouldn’t have a problem if you were, that’s all.”

  “Well, I’m bloody not, alright?” snapped Slater. “So you don’t need to worry about whether you would have a problem. Got it?”

  “Ok, ok.” Norman held up a hand in pacification. “I got it.”

  He smiled quietly to himself. The thing was, he just couldn’t stop himself sometimes, and Slater was so very easy to wind up.

  Back at the ranch, Biddeford had clearly been digging furiously while they were gone. As soon as they got back, he told them: far from being only recently acquainted by the disappearance of Ruth, Jenny and Beverley were in fact old friends. They belonged to the same tennis club, and played doubles together. They even shared the same tennis coach.

  “That would be Sebastian, right?” asked Slater.

  “That’s him,” said Biddeford, nodding “Sebastian Coombes. He’s not the club coach though. He seems to be some sort of private coach.”

  “Yeah,” added Norman. “We saw him. Apparently he’s into mixed doubles. I’m sure he’s up there comforting Beverley Green with a game, right now.” Then as an afterthought he added, “Do you think he plays mixed doubles with Jenny Radstock too?”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” said Slater, grimly. “See if you can find anything out about him too, will you Steve?”

  “Are you two off out again?” asked Biddeford.

  “Norm and me are going up to see an old lady and show her some photos. Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll recognise one of our suspects.”

  “Before you go,” said Biddeford hesitantly. “I’ve got this idea nagging away in my head.”

  “A problem shared is a problem halved,” said Norman. “Come on, let’s hear it.”

  “It’s not really a problem,” explained Biddeford. “And it’s probably nothing anyway.”

  “Steve,” pleaded Slater. “Just tell us, please?”

  “It’s probably just a coincidence, but I seem to recall watching a TV show recently where a woman was murdered by anaphylaxis. I can’t remember what exactly happened, but I know it was to do with Brazil nuts.”

  Slater and Norman looked at each other, and then back at Biddeford.

  “And this helps us how?” asked Norman.

  “I just thought maybe if I could find the programme it might tell us how it happened. Maybe our murderer saw the programme too.”

  Slater felt a bit embarrassed for Biddeford.

  “Murder by copying a TV show? It’s a little unlikely, don’t you think?” said Slater.

  “Not to mention the fact that our murder was committed six months ago,” added Norman. “And you say this TV show was in the last few weeks? Are we looking for Doctor Who, d’you think? Or is there someone else who travels through time we should be questioning?”

  Biddeford blushed scarlet.

  “I’m sorry, Steve,” said Norman. “I don’t mean to make you look stupid, but let’s be honest, as theories go that’s pretty wild, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” sighed Biddeford, sadly.

  “Put it on the backburner,” suggested Slater, not wishing to extinguish the fire of Biddeford’s enthusiasm. “We’ll maybe take a closer look at it if we find we run into another roadblock, okay?”

  Biddeford nodded, but still looked unhappy

  “Right,” Slater said to Norman. “Let’s get going.”

  As they left he turned back to Biddeford.

  “Don’t stop coming up with ideas, Steve,” he said. “We all come up with some wild theories at times, but sometimes it’s the wild theories that provide a breakthrough. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay, boss. Thank you.” Biddeford smiled. “And don’t worry about Norman taking the piss out of me. I can handle it. And I’ll get my own back in time, don’t you worry.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Slater said, smiling back. “Good lad.”

  Much to Slater’s dismay, Norman had insisted on driving all the way up to Clapham. He was quite sure they would probably spend half the day stuck in traffic, but he’d forgotten that Norman used to work up in town. And there was obviously nothing wrong with his memory. His extensive knowledge of back roads and side streets enabled them to dodge all the usual black spots. Slater was impressed. Norman had promised it would be quicker than the train, and he was right.

  The last time Slater had knocked on Mrs Webster’s door, she had been hostility personified. This time he had chosen to phone ahead and warn her he was on the way. As soon as they stepped from Norman’s car, her front door opened. She waved them across the road and ushered them inside. Slater assumed she didn’t get many visitors, and regarded their visit as a rare treat for her.

  She fussed around them, making tea and producing what she called “me posh crockery” to serve it to them.

  “Oh, and I got some nice biscuits from the corner shop, special like.” She beamed at them.

  “This is really nice of you, Mrs Webster,” said Slater. “But you didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble for proper policemen,” she said. “You’re not like the useless idiots we get round here. Wankers, the lot of ‘em. They’re more interested in lining their pockets than solving crimes.”

  Mrs Webster was evidently a firm believer in saying it how she saw it and not mincing her words. Having given her opinion of the local police, she now turned her attention to Norman.

  “And who’s this nice young man?” She squinted at Norman. “Has ‘e got a name?”

  “I’m DS Norman,” said Norman. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs Webster.”

  “You’re a big ‘un, ain’t you?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not as slim as I used to be,” admitted Norman with good grace. “But my excuse is I’m getting older.”

  “So am I, son,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “But I haven’t doubled in size, have I?”

  Slater tried to disguise a smile as he watched Norman take the insult firmly on the chin. He was sure his colleague had heard much worse in the past. .

  “So what can I do for you, Mr Slater?” said the old lady, turning her attention back to him. “You said something about some photos. Is it still to do with that girl from across the road?”

  “Yes it is,” said Slater. “I’ve got some photos for you to look at. I’m hoping you might be able to tell us if any of them ever visited her.”

  He pulled the photos from his pocket and passed the first one over. It was Tony Warwick. She looked long and hard at it.

  “He’s not a very happy soul, is ‘e?” she observed. “But I don’t recognise him. I’m sure he’s never been there. I’d remember an ugly mug like that, wouldn’t I?”

  She passed the photo back and Slater gave her the next one. This was Jimmy Jones. Again, she studied it long and hard.

  “Looks like a crook,” she said. “But his face doesn’t ring any bells. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologise,” said Norman. “It might be you don’t recognise any of them. We understand that.”

  Slater handed her another photo. This one was a tester. If she didn’t know Mr Chan, they would know they were wasting their time.

  “Ha! Charlie Chan,” she said straightaway. “He lives over there, don’t ‘e? He might have been one of her visitors, but I never seen ‘em together. Everyone around ‘ere knows ‘im. Nasty piece of work if you get on the wrong side of ‘im.”

  The next photo was Mark Clinton. Mrs Webster didn’t take long to recognise him.

  “Now this one was a regular,” she told them. “Tuesday afternoons. And sometimes on a Friday morning.”

  Norman looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

  “What?” she asked. “I suppose you think I’m a nosey old git, don’tcha? Well, you wait until you’re my age and you’re sat ‘ere day after day, on your own, with nothin’ to do, and no one to talk to. There’s bugger all worth watching on th
e telly most days, so I look out the window. Is that so wrong?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Norman. “That wasn’t what I meant to imply. I was actually impressed your memory is so good.”

  “Ha! It’s good for some things,” she said. “But bleedin’ useless for other things. One day you’ll see what I mean. You’ll find you can remember all the things you’d like to forget, and you forget all the memories you’d like to hang on to.”

  “Really?” said Norman, gloomily. “Jeez, I hope it’s not like that. I’ve only got memories to cling to as it is.”

  They allowed Mrs Webster to reminisce for another 10 minutes or so, and then Slater thought it was probably time they made a move.

  “Thank you Mrs Webster,” he said, as they got ready to leave. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Have I?” she said doubtfully. “I only recognised two of ‘em.”

  “That means we don’t have to waste time on the ones who haven’t been here, and that is very helpful, believe me.”

  She looked at the empty plate on the table.

  “That’s why you’re so big, son,” she said to Norman. “It’s got nothin’ to do with your age. It’s all to do with bein’ a pig. You’ve eaten a whole packet of biscuits!”

  “Did I eat all of them?” Norman looked deeply embarrassed. “I didn’t realise. There’s a shop on the corner back there. Let me go and get you some more.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She laughed. “Who’s going to eat them if you do that? No, it’s alright. I bought them for you two. I just hope Mr Slater’s not disappointed he didn’t get to eat any.”

  “That’s alright,” said Slater, with a sly grin. “I’m used to it.”

  They headed towards the front door.

  “Oooh! Just a minute,” cried Mrs Webster. “I nearly forgot.” She rushed over to an ancient sideboard in the corner of the room and pulled open a drawer. She rummaged around briefly and then turned to them holding aloft what looked like a newspaper cutting.

  “See what I mean about my memory? I nearly forgot about this.”