by P. F. Ford
‘You mean there’s no money for a major investigation.’ Becks smiled wryly.
‘Exactly,’ agreed Slater. ‘So I need to find something a bit more compelling to convince him Norm’s not pissing about.’
‘Well, I’ll do what I can to help,’ said Becks. ‘The problem is some of our equipment’s already gone.’
‘This is bloody crazy.’ Slater suddenly felt furious. ‘How can they expect us to be efficient when they’re forever taking our resources away?’
‘I’m with you, mate,’ said Becks. ‘I’ve argued until I’m blue in the face, but no one seems to listen.’
Slater’s mobile phone began to ring and he looked down at the screen to see it was Steve Biddeford.
‘Hi, Steve. What have you got?’ said Slater when he answered.
‘I’ve got some CCTV footage you’re going to want to see. It shows Norm getting on a train.’
‘Ah! At last we’re getting somewhere. Can you get copies?’
‘Already done. I’m on my way back, now.’
‘Great. Well done, Steve. I’ll set up the machine so it’s ready.’
‘You get off,’ said Becks when Slater had finished. ‘And do what you need to do. I’ll get to work on these.’
‘Okay, Becksy. Thanks,’ said Slater.
Chapter Ten
‘That’s Norm alright,’ said Slater, as he watched the familiar bulky figure with the wild hair walk slowly into view on the screen. He was dressed in jeans and a blue denim jacket. They were watching the recording from the outside camera. The time stamp told them it was 7.50pm.
‘If he’d come by taxi,’ Biddeford said, ‘you would have seen it pull up right in front of the camera, so I’m guessing he had walked from Porters after leaving his car.’
‘That would fit in with what we know so far. It would take roughly 20 minutes to drop off the car and then walk here,’ said Slater.
They watched as Norman passed under the camera and out of view. Biddeford stopped the CD and replaced it with another one, and then pressed play.
‘This is from the camera inside the station,’ he said.
Now they were watching Norman as he entered the station and approached the ticket machine. He seemed very distracted, as though something was weighing really heavily on his mind.
‘He certainly looks preoccupied,’ Biddeford ventured.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Slater. ‘I’ve caught him like that a lot recently, but if I ask him what’s up he just tells me it’s nothing, although he did admit he had some salesman hassling him on the phone.’
‘But he’d know how to deal with that,’ said Biddeford. ‘All he had to do was tell them who he was and play the heavy. They soon stop calling when they think the police are going to be after them.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Slater said. ‘But instead he just changed his phone. I assumed it was something to do with his wife. I got the impression maybe she wants a divorce, but I know he doesn’t like to talk about her, and you can’t force someone to talk about their private life, can you? He didn’t want to tell me what was on his mind, and I respected that. So I didn’t see what else I could do.’
On the screen, Norman had walked across to the ticket machine. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and studied it.
‘Looks like he had written down where he was going and what ticket to buy,’ Biddeford said.
‘But why would he need to do that?’ asked Slater. ‘You know where you want to go so you enter that into the machine and it tells you how much to pay and what train to get on.’
‘What if he didn’t know where he was going? Or suppose he wants to catch a particular train at a particular time. Remember, not every train stops at every station.’
Norman was pressing buttons on the ticket machine now.
‘Yeah, that’s true enough.’ Slater watched Norman fiddling with the machine. ‘I’d love to know what he’s keying into that machine. I don’t suppose we can zoom in?’
Biddeford gave him a look.
‘No. I didn’t think so,’ Slater said, sighing. ‘I’m in danger of clutching at straws, aren’t I?’
‘We must be able to find out,’ said Biddeford. ‘They must have a record of ticket sales somewhere.’
‘We can check his credit card too,’ said Slater still watching Norman on screen. ‘Oh. No. Forget that. He’s paying by cash.’
They watched Norman pouring pound coins into the machine, then he took his ticket and made his way slowly towards the platforms, finally walking out of the view of the internal camera. Biddeford stopped the CD and changed to yet another.
On screen, they watched from behind as Norman made his way out to the platforms.
‘It looks like his jacket is bursting at the seams,’ said Biddeford, pointing to a split in the back seam of Norman’s jacket. ‘You almost expect to see stuffing pouring from it.’
‘Yeah.’ Slater smiled fondly. ‘He refuses to do anything about it. There’s a cuff hanging off one sleeve as well. Apparently he’s had that jacket forever. He doesn’t seem to realise fashions have changed since then. He regards that split, and the tatty cuff, as his personal fashion statement.’
‘It’s more like two fingers up to fashion,’ said Biddeford.
‘Which way’s he going?’ asked Slater. ‘London-bound, or Southampton?’
‘He doesn’t seem to be going to the footbridge. He’s staying on this platform.’
‘He’s heading for Southampton, then,’ said Slater.
They watched as Norman took a seat and waited. He was normally something of an observer and by habit he tended to look around and take in everything, but in the video they were watching he appeared to be staring straight ahead, apparently at nothing in particular.
‘Come on, Norm. Give me some sort of sign,’ muttered Slater.
‘I get the impression he doesn’t want us to be able to work out where he’s going,’ said Biddeford.
‘He’s not making it easy, is he?’ agreed Slater. ‘He doesn’t usually carry enough cash to buy a cup of tea. He uses a card for everything, yet he must have poured nearly twenty quid into that machine.’
‘Eighteen pound coins,’ said Biddeford. ‘I counted them.’
‘So we should be able to get a good idea where he paid to go to,’ said Slater. ‘The ticket records will just confirm it.’
‘Right,’ said Biddeford, looking surprised he hadn’t thought of that.
On the screen, Norman sat absolutely still. A train came in, stopped to disgorge three passengers and then moved off again. Norman didn’t move a muscle.
‘Eight-ten,’ said Biddeford. ‘That’s the fast train. It only stops about three more times before Southampton.’
‘So why didn’t he get on that train?’ mused Slater. ‘Is it because he’s not going to Southampton? Or is he meeting someone on another train?’
The next train came in at eight-thirty. It was a slow train, stopping at every station between Tinton and Southampton. This time Norman got to his feet and climbed aboard. They watched as the train crawled slowly out of the station and disappeared from view.
‘Right,’ said Slater. ‘So now we know he left on a train, and we know which one. Let’s find out where he paid to go to. Maybe we can pick him up on CCTV at the other end.’
‘I’m on it,’ said Biddeford.
Chapter Eleven
It was just after two in the afternoon and Slater was bringing Murray up to speed with the latest developments.
‘And you say Ian Becks can process these cigarette butts here?’ asked Murray.
‘That’s what he says,’ Slater said. ‘Whose bloody bright idea is it to close them down?’
‘It’s a cost-cutting exercise,’ said Murray, looking uncomfortable, from behind his desk. ‘There are more budget cuts on the way, and this is one way they think they can save some money.’
‘It couldn’t have come at a worse time,’ complained Slater. ‘And why weren’t we consulted?’
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‘They can’t consult everyone every time they have to make an uncomfortable decision,’ said Murray. ‘Nothing would ever change that way.’
‘But they could have told us. It’s bad for morale when people find out at the last minute.’
‘That’s not for you to decide,’ Murray said shortly.
‘Did you know about it?’ asked Slater, suspiciously.
‘Well, yes, of course I did.’ Murray sighed wearily. ‘But I was ordered to keep quiet about it. And why? Because the powers-that-be realise we’d have all the bolshie DSs complaining about it when they should be concentrating on doing their jobs.’
He looked pointedly at Slater.
‘That’s told me, then,’ muttered Slater.
‘Yes, it has,’ Murray said, irritably. ‘Now can we get back to the more important matter of our missing colleague?’
‘This morning you said he wasn’t missing.’ Slater knew he sounded sulky, but he was annoyed.
‘I’m not going to get into that argument, so don’t even think about going there,’ said Murray, sounding tired. ‘I have people above me, just like you, and, just like you, I have to obey the orders they send down the line. But I don’t have to justify myself to you, and I’m not going to. You may not believe it, but I am concerned about Norman. Now can we get back to it?
‘You were saying you know which train he got on, and you’re trying to work out where he got off. Are you sure you haven’t missed him at Southampton?’
‘Steve Biddeford has spoken to them,’ said Slater. ‘He knows exactly what time the train arrived, and the CCTV covers the entire train. At that time of the evening, it’s not very busy so Norm would be easy to spot, but there’s no sign of him getting off. Steve’s now checking every camera they have, just in case Norman somehow managed to slip off without being seen, but we’re pretty certain he must have got off somewhere else.’
‘How many stations are there between here and Southampton?’ asked Murray.
‘Twenty-three,’ replied Slater. ‘We’re going to search the CCTV recordings from every station. We’re going to start at opposite ends and work our way through.’
‘I’ll get you some help with that. It’s been long enough now. County have said they’ll help in any way they can, so they can start by checking out some of these stations for us.’
‘That would be a great help,’ said Slater. ‘The longer this goes on…’
He left the sentence unfinished, but the implication was obvious enough.
‘I know.’ Murray nodded and Slater thought he looked worried. ‘But we can’t afford to rush things when we’ve got no idea what we’re up against.’
Murray seemed to be thinking about what he was going to say next. Slater wished he would get on and say whatever it was so he could get back to work. One thing was for sure – he wasn’t going to find Norman sitting around here. Finally, his boss seemed to make up his mind what he wanted to say.
‘Look, I’m concerned about the effect this case could have on you,’ Murray said.
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ said Slater. ‘I just want to get out there and find him.’
‘Yes, exactly,’ agreed Murray. ‘But you can’t be running around like a blue-arsed fly when you should be stepping back from the action and looking at the bigger picture. Someone needs to be controlling things.’
‘I’ve always managed before.’ Slater wasn’t sure he liked where this conversation was going, and felt defensive.
‘To be fair, you’ve never had to deal with a case like this before,’ said Murray. ‘And it’s always worse when you’re so close to a case.’
‘What are you trying to say?’ asked Slater uneasily. ‘You sound as if you’re building a case for taking me off this inquiry altogether.’
‘Removing one of my best officers from an investigation wouldn’t make much sense, would it?’ replied Murray. ‘However, bringing someone in who can take some of the pressure off you and allow you to do what you’re very good at, without having to worry about the rest of the team, would seem like a sensible move to me.’
‘You’re going to bring someone in over my head?’ asked Slater, in dismay.
Murray let out a heavy sigh. Slater was struggling not to take it as a personal slight. He knew there was probably some logic in there somewhere, but he couldn’t see it at the moment.
‘It’s not like that and it’s not a reflection on your ability,’ Murray said. ‘I believe you’re too involved to be able to step back and look objectively at what’s going on. I’ve decided to ask for a detective inspector from outside to head the investigation.’
‘A DI?’ said Slater. ‘So you really are going over my head. That’s hardly a motivational move, is it?’
‘Why do you always take everything personally?’ asked Murray, sounding irritated. ‘I’ve just said this isn’t a reflection on your ability. I’m just trying to take some weight off your shoulders.’
‘Yes, but-’ began Slater.
‘No buts,’ interrupted Murray, raising his voice, and Slater knew he’d had enough.
‘If you won’t accept the situation willingly,’ he said, gruffly, ‘I will order you to accept it. Your new, temporary, DI will be arriving either tomorrow or the day after. You will extend the courtesy, and respect, a senior officer warrants, and you will make sure the investigation is handed over in a proper manner. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Sir. Loud and clear,’ said a suitably chastened Slater.
He wasn’t at all happy about this situation, but he knew if he pushed it too far he might find himself taken off the case altogether. At least it seemed Murray had finally decided to accept Norman was actually missing.
‘Good,’ said Murray, with a grim smile. ‘Look on the bright side. At least you won’t have to come up here every day to keep me informed. Now, I think you should get on with your work. You won’t find Norman talking to me.’
Slater was going to point out that it hadn’t been his idea to come and waste time talking to Murray, but then he thought better of it.
‘What about Norm’s phone records?’ asked Slater. ‘You said you’d get them for me.’
‘It’s all in hand,’ said Murray, putting his head down and returning to his paperwork.
Slater knew that signified the meeting was over, and he made his way over to the door. As he reached it, Murray spoke once more.
‘I’ll arrange for all the CCTV recordings to be collected and brought up here. I’ll get them here for this evening, and I’ve arranged a small team to help. I’ll arrange for them all to be here at seven for a briefing, and then you can bring them all up to speed. And think about what we’ve just discussed re: the new DI,’ he said, his voice full of warning. ‘Because I really don’t want to hear anything that makes me think you haven’t fully understood the situation.’
Slater let himself out without responding.
Chapter Twelve
Behind the front desk at Tinton Police Station, Sergeant Sandy Mollinson yawned, stretched, and farted loudly. He had been on duty since ten the previous evening, having volunteered to stay in view of the situation, but, considering there was an officer missing, it had been a remarkably quiet day so far. It was just after 5pm and he hoped it was going to remain quiet. He’d hardly slept yesterday so he had been weary before he had even started his shift.
He decided he was due a cup of tea, so he made his way through the open door behind the desk and out to the tiny kitchen that was home to their kettle and teapot. He put the kettle on and as it noisily bubbled away, he found himself a clean mug, tea bag and spoon. He poured the boiling water onto the tea bag and opened the fridge.
His was the milk carton inscribed with the words ‘Sandy’s milk. Don’t even think about it. Just remember who runs the night shift.’ When he had first arrived, his milk had been treated as a communal possession by one and all. The warning had put paid to that.
Making tea was an art form to Sandy. The tea bag had to be
left in for just long enough, and of course, the milk had to be added last. He hummed to himself as he indulged his art. He thought he heard something out in the reception area, but decided whoever it was wouldn’t mind waiting for a minute or two. Great art just couldn’t be interrupted.
As he finished the laborious process, his spoon rattling against his cup, he heard a sudden noise. Puzzled, he grabbed his cup of tea and ambled back to his desk. A woman was trying to get into the area of the station that only police officers (and criminals) were allowed.
‘Err, can I help you, love?’ Mollinson asked. ‘That area’s off limits to the public.’
When the woman turned round, he finally got a look at her face, and saw that she was extremely attractive. She was around five feet eight inches in her trainers, and the designer jeans she wore were a good fit. A white tee shirt and a thin, expensive looking, faux leather jacket completed her outfit. She carried a large shoulder bag. Her shoulder-length, strawberry-blonde hair perfectly complemented her pale skin. A dusting of freckles and a pair of pale green eyes made her look vaguely Celtic.
She turned to face Mollinson, her manner calm and collected as she walked slowly across to the desk.
‘Yes, you can help me, Sergeant,’ she said, reaching a hand deep into her bag. ‘My name’s DI Marion Goodnews. I’m here to take charge of the investigation into a missing DS. And I’ll thank you not to call me “love”.’
She produced a warrant card and tossed it onto the desk. Sandy went pale. Why had no one warned him she was turning up tonight? He made sure to check the warrant card properly. It was genuine. She was who she said she was.
‘I’m sorry, Ma’am,’ he apologised. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. I just saw someone trying to get through that door-’
‘I’m no’ gonna make a big deal of it,’ she said. ‘I realise you weren’t expecting me. I managed to hand over my last case early so I was able to drive down this afternoon. I thought I’d come and introduce myself. I was hoping I might be able to have a wee look around. Just to get my bearings, you know?’
