by P. F. Ford
There was a lot of surprised murmuring at this piece of news.
‘Aye. It came as a bit of a shock when we found out earlier this morning, but it gets even more interesting.’
She nodded at Slater and he made his way to the front of the room.
‘I had a long chat with Bethan Becks earlier this morning,’ he began. ‘It was quite an eye-opener for me. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I always thought I knew Ian quite well. Now I’ve been nosing into his life for a few hours, I realise I actually know almost nothing about him. He was a very private person who would talk all night about football, and how we’d never solve any crimes if it wasn’t for his team, but he never actually revealed anything about himself.
‘I only found out this morning that he had been married. I was trying to find some evidence of any next of kin and I found some letters she had written to him. The letters show, quite clearly, they were still very close. When I met Beth, I couldn’t understand why Ian would have divorced her. And then she told me.
‘Ian had a secret. He was gay. The poor bloke had thought that if he married Beth everything would be alright, but it doesn’t work that way, does it? Although they still loved each other they decided it wasn’t fair on either of them to carry on as they were, and so they divorced.
‘Ian was going to try become the real him and was trying to pluck up the courage to come out. He had recently started going to gay bars, hoping to meet someone. Unfortunately, he met someone who took exception to him being gay and went after him with a baseball bat. Some of you may recall that a couple of months ago he had his arm in a sling for a few days. He said it was an accident playing cricket.’
‘A bomb’s a bit extreme for a gay-basher, isn’t it?’ asked Biddeford. ‘Battering someone with a baseball bat is the sort of thing we’ve come to expect from those people, but a bomb?’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Slater. ‘It does sound a bit extreme, doesn’t it? I agree with the boss that the courier should be our priority, but at the moment we have to consider all our options.’
‘Okay everyone,’ said Goodnews. ‘Now you know as much about this case as we do. We should be getting a full report on the actual explosive device soon, but until we know more I think we should assume it was a small bomb. What we need to know is how did it get there? We also need to know how the hell Ian Becks got there and why he was there. Who was the faceless courier? Why would Becks take him downstairs, and where did he go? How did he get out of the building? Where is Becks’ motorbike? And, of course, the million-dollar question: Why was Ian Becks a target?’
She left a brief silence and looked around the faces before her. ‘He was one of us,’ she said, finally. ‘As someone said earlier, he might have been a bit weird, but he was a genius, and he was our genius. He can’t help us with this one so we owe it to him to make sure we don’t need his help. I know we can do it, so let’s get busy.’
‘
What would you like me to do next?’ Slater asked Goodnews, when everyone had left the room.
‘Have a cup of coffee and take a look at these emails and phone records.’ She pointed to a pile of paperwork on her desk. ‘Then I’ve got something I’d like you to do quietly.’
‘What’s that then? You make it sound like a mission for James Bond.’
‘You’re not going to like it,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
She looked around to make sure everyone had gone and no one was within earshot. ‘I want you to take look at that CCTV footage from reception.’
‘But Steve’s already done it,’ said Slater. ‘Don’t you trust him?’
‘Aye, I know he’s already done it, but I’ve got a nagging doubt. I seem to recall another case where he reviewed some CCTV footage and missed not one, but two clues.’
‘So why did you ask him in the first place? We’re just wasting time this way. And he’s gonna be well pissed off when he finds out I’m checking up on him.’
‘I’m going to ask him to take a couple of uniforms and go search Ian Becks’ flat. That should keep him occupied for three or four hours,’ said Goodnews. ‘And if he does start to whinge I’ll make sure he knows it was my idea and not yours. Okay?’
‘You’re the boss,’ said Slater. ‘Of course I’ll do it if you think it’s really necessary.’
‘I’d be a lot happier. At least then I’d know for sure we haven’t missed anything.’
‘See,’ said Slater. ‘That’s where Norm was worth his weight in gold.’
Goodnews stiffened at Slater’s reference to Norman. She felt bad enough without having the spectre of Norman rising up. She’d given him a chance, she really had. She’d offered to help him lose the weight and then she’d given him another opportunity to keep on working as part of the team. She couldn’t have done anything else, could she? She stood up, feeling exhausted.
‘Aye,’ she said, pushing her chair back under her desk. ‘And what a lot of gold that was.’ She started to walk towards the door. ‘I’ll go and tell Biddeford he’s relieved from CCTV-watching once he’s found that registration number,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll be in my office if you want me.’
Slater felt guilty as he watched her walk from the room and wondered why he’d made that remark. He knew exactly why Norman had quit working with them, and he knew it had been his own choice. Goodnews had created the opportunity for him after he had retired. It wasn’t her fault he had felt trapped behind a desk. Come to think of it, she had given him plenty of chance to get himself fit before he had retired. It had been his own choice not to bother, even though he knew it would mean he had to retire.
He turned his attention to Becks’ emails. Maybe there would be something useful in there.
Chapter Ten
Goodnews looked up, startled, as her office door burst open to reveal Slater, a murderous look in his eyes.
‘Did you forget to knock, or what?’ she said. ‘I could have been on the phone or interviewing someone.’
‘What have you done?’ he asked, as he approached her desk.
‘I’m sorry? I’m not with you.’
He was right in front of her desk now, and he placed his hands along the front edge and leaned towards her. ‘What have you done?’ he repeated, angrily.
She pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘How dare you barge in here and raise your voice at me?’ she snapped. ‘Who the bloody hell do you think you are?’
‘You said at that briefing you wanted to know why Becks was a target, didn’t you?’ snarled Slater.
‘Yes, of course I want to know. We all want to know.’
‘I’ll tell you why he was a target. And I’ll tell you whose fault it is.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ She felt her face redden. ‘You’re not making any sense.’
‘Oh, you know what I’m talking about,’ said Slater. ‘I’m talking to the person who made Becks into a target.’ He snapped upright, his fists clenching, and began pacing up and down.
Goodnews was genuinely alarmed now. ‘I think you need to remember who you’re talking to,’ she said. ‘Now, you either calm down or I’ll have you removed from this office.’
‘How could you have been so stupid?’ he asked.
‘A little respect for my rank wouldn’t go amiss right now, Detective Sergeant Slater,’ she said menacingly. She placed her hand on her desk telephone. ‘Now, you either explain yourself or I make a call. What’s it going to be?’
‘Why did ask him to contact Interpol?’ asked Slater.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know. You’re copied in on all the emails.’
‘Since when do I have to explain my actions to you?’ she asked.
He looked at her in dismay. ‘Since you’re putting my life, Norman’s life, and Ian Becks’ life on the line, I would have thought it would have been reasonable to consult us first!’
Goodnews was fair-skinned anyway, but now she felt the blood draining from
her face and knew she probably looked like a ghost. ‘But it was confidential,’ she said. ‘It was just possible we had a fingerprint. We had to try.’
‘This is the man who had Norman’s flat turned into an inferno and had my car cremated,’ said Slater. ‘You should remember. It was you who came and rescued me after that Russian bloke had pointed a bloody gun at my head and left me handcuffed.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course I remember, and that’s exactly why I thought we should find out. When Becks asked me what he wanted me to do with that fingerprint, I thought why not?’
‘That case was shelved because there was no money for that sort of investigation and because we were no longer thought to be in any danger,’ said Slater. ‘It was like all the hornets had left the nest for one much further away and we wouldn’t get stung as long as we left them alone. Now you’ve gone and whacked the nest with a bloody great stick. My guess is the hornets are back!’
‘You think it’s my fault?’ she asked, horrified.
‘The reason me and Norm were happy to let it lie was because we knew they had to have a mole over there, even though Interpol would never admit it. We knew if we made any sort of move they would know straight away and the shit would hit the fan. You were here at the time, so how come you seem to be unaware of that?’
The full extent of what Slater was suggesting was beginning to sink in, but Goodnews wasn’t having it. ‘This is rubbish,’ she said. ‘We’ve already got a motorcycle courier as a likely suspect. Are you trying to tell me he came all the way from Serbia?’
‘You were just glory hunting, weren’t you?’ asked Slater. ‘Trying to make a name for yourself by going after the big one the old Serious Crime Unit had let get away. You thought you could make a name for yourself and now Ian Becks is dead, and quite possibly Norman, me, and you are next in line.’
‘I’ve heard enough of this drama queen nonsense,’ Goodnews roared, banging her fist on her desk. ‘You will not talk to me like this.’
There was a loud cough from the doorway. She looked across to see a very uncomfortable-looking Steve Biddeford standing in the doorway.
‘Yes?’ she snapped.
‘I’ve got the registration number of that motorbike,’ he said, waving a sheet of paper in the air. ‘It’s registered to a courier company in Winchester.’
‘I’ll have it here please,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ said Biddeford. ‘I thought—’
‘No, I told you earlier I want you to take a couple of uniforms and search Ian Becks’ flat.’
Biddeford walked across to her desk and she took the sheet of paper from him. She glanced at it then slid it across in front of Slater.
‘DS Slater will be following up on the courier.’
‘I’ll be off then,’ said Biddeford, clearly keen to get out of the firing line.
As he headed back for the door, he glanced back, and then quickened his pace when both Goodnews and Slater glared at him.
Goodnews waited until he had left the room, then she got up, walked across to the door and closed it.
‘I think you need to catch up on some sleep,’ she said to Slater as she walked back to her desk. ‘Becks was your mate. I understand. It gets to you. If you want to get away, I can find someone else to chase up the courier.’
‘I’ll sort out the courier,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Maybe he didn’t come from Serbia, but that doesn’t mean the package wasn’t sent from Serbia. When I’ve done that I’ll be going off-duty for a while – I need to warn Norman he’s going to have to watch his back. You should watch yours too. These people aren’t amateurs.’
‘I don’t want to hear any more talk about Serbian gangsters. At this stage there’s no reason to think they’ve got anything to do with it.’
‘Oh, I think there’s plenty of reason to consider the possibility they’re responsible.’ Slater’s voice was still angry but his body language was now much calmer. ‘And if I can find even the slightest link, I’ll make sure to remind you that I told you so.’
Goodnews took some deep, slow breaths as she watched Slater grab the sheet of paper and march out through the door. She had sounded a lot more confident than she actually felt when she told Slater he was talking rubbish. She knew there had always been a risk involved in asking Becks to send the fingerprint to Interpol but she had been assured the mole had been removed.
She had been so keen to impress, but as she sat at her desk, a horrible thought occurred to her. Had she ignored the possibility that there might have been more than one mole?
Chapter Eleven
Slater decided it wouldn’t be fair to inflict his current mood on anyone else, so he walked straight down to the car park and jumped into his car. He shoved the sheet of paper onto the passenger seat, fumbled for his mobile phone, found Norman’s number, and pressed call. He listened to Norman’s phone ringing for what seemed like an age, and then sighed impatiently as it went to voicemail.
‘Norm, it’s Dave. I need you to call me as soon as you get this message, mate. And don’t ignore me, it’s important.’
He cut the call and tossed his phone down on the passenger seat. Norman could be a pain when it came to returning calls; he just hoped this wasn’t going to be one of those occasions. He started the car and pulled out of the car park.
He couldn’t quite get his head around the idea that Goodnews had done this without even bothering to mention it to him. Fair enough, she was the boss and it was her call, but he and Norman were under a death threat. Surely she ought to have told them? It’s not as if she didn’t know all about it. The last time they had clashed with these people had been during her first case at Tinton, which had led directly to Norman having to retire. It wasn’t that long ago; she couldn’t have forgotten.
Slater could still vividly recall his terror when he’d found Norman’s flat a raging inferno and his friend nowhere to be seen. Then, a few days later, his own car was torched before he had spent a very uncomfortable few minutes staring down the barrel of a pistol being wielded by a Russian who, Slater had no doubt, knew exactly how to blow his brains out and would have enjoyed doing it. They had been very clearly warned that there would be severe consequences should they not back off. And now Interpol had been contacted and Becksy was dead. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
The thirty-minute drive was just about far enough to allow Slater to restore some of his good humour. ASprint Courier Company was located in one corner of a small industrial estate on the outskirts of Winchester. There was a small warehouse with office space above. A handful of small and medium-sized vans were parked outside, and as Slater waited, a forklift truck whined its way out of the warehouse doorway and across to a flatbed truck. The pallet it was carrying rose smoothly into the air and was deposited on the back of the truck, before the forklift eased back and the forks wheezed their way back down to ground level. The driver stopped and looked at Slater.
‘Yes, mate?’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Where’s the office?’ asked Slater.
‘Through the warehouse door, turn left and up the stairs,’ said the driver. ‘You can ignore the “beware of fork trucks” notice. We’ve only got the one and I’m out here.’
Slater made his way into the warehouse. Off to one side, three motorcycles were parked. He stopped to ease his notebook out of his pocket, flipped it open, and looked across at the bikes. The middle one had the registration number he was looking for. He made his way up the rickety staircase. There was a small landing area at the top, and a door with a large window allowed him to see into the office. A dark-haired woman with huge round spectacles was talking on the phone, but her face lit up when she saw him and she waved him in.
‘I’ll talk to you later,’ she was saying into the phone as Slater walked in. ‘Bye for now.’
She put the receiver down, looked up at Slater, and gave him another beaming smile. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘How can I help you?’
Slater produc
ed his warrant card and showed it to her as he announced himself. ‘I’m DS Slater from Tinton CID.’
Momentarily caught off guard, the woman’s smile faded briefly, but she quickly recovered. ‘There’s nothing wrong I hope,’ she said. ‘Is there?’
‘I’m investigating an incident which happened at Tinton Police Station yesterday evening,’ said Slater. ‘It may concern a package delivered by one of your motorcycle couriers.’
‘Oh, right,’ she said, doubtfully. ‘So how can I help?’
‘The motorbikes downstairs. Do they belong to you?’
‘Not me personally,’—she was beginning to sound worried—‘but they do belong to the company. I just look after the office and dole out the work. Mr Armstrong owns the business but he’s out at the moment.’
‘What’s your name?’ asked Slater.
‘Angie. Angie Banks.’
‘Right, Angie, don’t look so worried. A package was delivered to our station late yesterday afternoon. Whoever delivered it was riding one of your bikes from downstairs. I’m trying to find out where the package came from and who delivered it.’
‘Is the driver in trouble?’
‘I don’t think so, but he might have seen something or heard something that could help us.’
‘Let me have a look,’ Angie said, turning back a page in the diary on her desk. ‘What time did you say it was delivered?’
‘It would have been just after 6pm.’
‘Oh yes, here we are. Justin delivered it. Bit of a rush job.’
‘Can you tell me who sent the package?’
‘P&P Publishing,’ she said. ‘We do quite a lot of work for them. I remember now, they didn’t book us until just after five so it was always going to be a late delivery. They said the guy at the other end was going to be waiting, but he would be in a hurry to get away.’
‘Is it possible to speak to the driver?’ asked Slater.
‘I think he’s downstairs. Hang on a minute.’ She rose from her chair, crossed beyond Slater, and opened the office door. She leaned over the top of the stairs and called out Justin’s name.
