by P. F. Ford
A small figure lay in the back of the van. A black hood had been pulled over his head and he was tied up with what appeared to be several yards of rope wound round and round his chest and arms. His feet were tied together, but he had sufficient room to kick out at the side of the van, hence the booming noise.
‘Well, one thing’s for sure,’ said Biddeford. ‘He’s not related to Harry Houdini, is he?’
‘The poor old bloke’s been in there for the best part of two days,’ said Slater. ‘We’re probably lucky we haven’t got another dead body on our hands. You’d better call an ambulance while I see if I can get him out of there.’
Half an hour later, a very tearful and painfully stiff Joe Chandler was whisked off to hospital in an ambulance. The paramedics had been highly impressed with his resilience. Apart from dehydration, and some pretty severe cramp, he didn’t appear to have suffered any major physical trauma. What effect it would have on him psychologically remained to be seen.
Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t been able to tell the two detectives much, and Slater hadn’t wanted to push him too hard. It seemed he knew very little and had seen nothing.
‘What do you think?’ asked Biddeford. ‘Is his disappearance really relevant to Becksy’s death?’
‘I can’t see it to be honest,’ said Slater. ‘If we’re to assume this fake courier guy killed him and then rode off into the sunset having set a bomb to destroy the lab, where does the cleaner come into it?’
‘Perhaps we’re missing something.’
‘I’ve got a nagging feeling you’re right,’ said Slater. ‘But I’m buggered if I can think what it might be.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘We can’t ignore the possibility this is important. I’d like you to drive me back to the station and then get up to the hospital and see if you can get any sense out of old Joe. If he is part of it, I’ve got a feeling he won’t be able to help us much. This courier guy is way too careful to show his face or say much, but we have to try.’
‘I’ll give it a go,’ said Biddeford. ‘You never know, we might get lucky.’
Chapter Twenty
Biddeford dropped Slater at the back gate and headed off to the hospital. Slater made his way through the pedestrian gate and headed across the car park. As he walked, he thought about what he might have for lunch; it was well after one o’clock and he was starving. But before he had got even halfway to the back doors, his mobile phone began to jangle in his pocket.
Really? Do you have to ring now? he thought as he fumbled in his pocket. He didn’t recognise the number showing on the screen, but then he handed out his card all over the place...
‘Sergeant Slater, this is Bethan Becks. You said to call if I thought of anything that might help.’
‘Hi, Bethan,’ he said. ‘Have you remembered something?’
‘It’s not that I’ve remembered something. But something’s happened.’
‘What is it? Are you alright?’
‘I’m a bit shocked to be honest,’ she said. ‘I’ve been sent a letter. It’s from Ian. He must have posted it the day he died.’
‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘I’ve just got home. The postman must have come while I was out.’
‘Alright, Bethan,’ he said, sounding a lot calmer than he felt. ‘I want you to try not get too many fingerprints on the letter. I’m going to head over there now. I’ll be there just as soon as I can.’
He ended the call and headed towards his car. Lunch would have to wait; this might be important. At the very least, it might tell them if anything had been bothering him that day. As he walked, he found Goodnews’s number and pressed call. She answered as he climbed into his car.
‘How did you get on?’ she asked.
‘Oh, we found him,’ he told her. ‘He’s a bit sore and very upset, but other than that he seems to be okay.’
‘Did he tell you anything?’
‘Not yet. Steve’s gone over to the hospital to see if he can get him to talk once they’ve sorted him out.’
‘Where are you now?’ she asked.
‘I’ve just had a call from Bethan Becks. She’s had a letter from Ian. It was posted the day he died.’
‘Oh aye? That might be interesting. You’d better head on over there and see what’s what.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ he said. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’
When Bethan Becks’ front door swung open, Slater was rather taken aback to find a man standing facing him. He was casually dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, but even so, he managed to make Slater feel scruffy in his own shirt, jeans, and faded jacket.
‘You must be DS Slater,’ said the man. He held his hand out and Slater shook it. ‘I’m Jimmy Huston,’ he said. ‘I’m Bethan’s boyfriend. She called me when she got the letter. I had the day off work so I came straight over. It was me that suggested she should call you.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Slater. ‘Thanks. You did the right thing.’
‘Come on in,’ said Huston, stepping back to let Slater through and pointing towards the lounge. ‘Beth’s through there.’ He lowered his voice. ‘She’s been pretty upset by this whole terrible business, and now this letter’s arrived and set her right back.’
‘I know how upset she is,’ said Slater, stopping next to him. ‘I was the one who had to tell her about it.’
‘Oh, yeah, sorry, of course you were,’ said Huston. ‘That must be a horrible job, telling people things like that.’
‘Yeah, there are better things to have to do.’ Slater headed towards the lounge.
‘I’m just making some tea,’ said Huston. ‘Can I get you one?’
‘Please, that would be great. White, no sugar, thanks,’ said Slater over his shoulder.
Huston nodded and went off to the kitchen.
Beth was sitting on a settee, the letter lying on a coffee table in front of her. She had obviously been crying and looked desperately unhappy, but managed a small smile of recognition as he came into the room.
‘How are you, Beth?’ he asked.
‘I was just about holding it together,’ she said, glancing down at the letter, ‘until this arrived. It can’t be right. It’s just all wrong.’
‘Can I read it?’ he asked, gently.
‘Of course.’
He took a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, pulled them on, and then carefully picked up the letter. There were just a handful of lines so it didn’t take long to read. When he had finished, he glanced at Beth, but she had a faraway look in her eyes as if she was unaware he was there. Not quite able to take in what he had read, he went through the letter again.
‘You’re quite sure it’s Ian’s handwriting?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘He was never a tidy writer.’
Slater had read enough of Ian Becks’ reports to know that for a fact. ‘Did you know he was thinking about doing this?
‘Why he would he want to do such a thing?’ she said. ‘He was just getting his life together. He had his book deal and he had just met someone. He had everything to live for. Why would he kill himself? And what does it mean when he says he can’t live with what he’s done any longer? I just don’t understand.’
Slater thought about the cash that had been found in Becks’ flat, and for the first time he felt a shadow of doubt, but he would need convincing before he shared that with Bethan.
‘Can you think of anything he’s done that might make him think this way?’ he asked.
‘As far as I know, the only thing he’s ever regretted is marrying me,’ she said. ‘But he knew I didn’t hold that against him. We were still good friends. We’d moved on from that.’
Huston appeared, carrying a tray. ‘Here you go, love,’ he said, handing a cup to Bethan. ‘Drink this, it’ll make you feel better.’
He handed Slater a cup and then sat down next to Bethan.
‘I need to use the loo,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Excuse me a minut
e.’
‘It’s a bad business, isn’t it?’ Huston asked Slater, as Bethan left the room. ‘It just goes to show you never really know what people are thinking deep inside. I guess everyone has at least one skeleton in the closet.’
Slater heard what Huston said, but he wasn’t going to get into that conversation right now. He was studying the handwriting on the letter. It looked like Becks’ untidy scrawl, but he felt there was something not quite right about it, although he couldn’t have said what it was.
‘How well did you know Ian, Mr Huston?’ he asked.
‘We came from the same town,’ he said. ‘I vaguely knew Ian through my brother back then, but more recently when I started dating Bethan I met him and got to know him a bit.’
‘How long ago was that?’ asked Slater.
‘About six months ago.’
‘What did you think of Ian?’
‘It was a shame about him and Beth,’ said Huston. ‘But he seemed to be a nice guy, even if he was confused about who he was. Having said that, he seemed to be getting his head together, you know? Becoming the real Ian. And when I found out he was writing a novel, well, I work for a publishing company. I thought I might be able to help him, so I persuaded them to take look at it for him.’
‘Was that the manuscript that was delivered to him the day he died?’
‘Yes, I believe that’s right. It’s not my department, but I believe they had suggested some revisions and stuff that he needed to put right, and then there was a good chance they might take it further.’
Just then, Bethan came back into the room. Slater jumped to his feet; something was nagging away in his head and he needed to go.
‘I’m going to take this letter back to the station with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll get some tests done.’
He said his goodbyes and Huston showed him to the front door.
‘These tests. You don’t think it’s fake, do you?’ asked Huston, quietly, as he opened the door for Slater. ‘Only Bethan’s convinced it’s Ian’s handwriting.’
Slater stared at Huston. There was something about the man he didn’t like.
‘It’s procedure,’ he said. ‘Boring stuff, but it has to be done.’
As Slater climbed into his car and started back towards Tinton, he reflected on the letter he had in his pocket. He still wasn’t convinced Ian Becks was crooked. He couldn’t deny the letter made it seem a more credible idea, but there were enough questions to maintain the element of doubt. For a start, why would someone like Becksy turn against everything he stood for? What was it about the letter that made him suspicious? And wasn’t a bomb a rather extreme and untidy way of committing suicide? And if the bomb hadn’t been the cause of death, then why had it been planted in the first place? And by whom?
Chapter Twenty-One
It was late afternoon by the time Slater managed to get back and find Goodnews. She was sitting at her desk, looking distracted and almost distraught. Slater had never seen her like this before, and he wondered if perhaps she had been given some bad news. Maybe someone close to her had died.
‘Are you alright?’ he asked. ‘Only I can come back later if you’ve just had some bad news or something.’
She suddenly seemed to be aware he was standing in front of her. ‘What?’
‘Have you had some bad news?’
‘Bad news? You can’t begin to imagine,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ve come to give me some good news. I could do with a lifeline right now.’
Carefully, he placed the letter down in front of her. She quickly read it and then slowly read it a second time.
‘So that’s it, then,’ she said. ‘He was crooked, and he couldn’t live with himself any longer.’
‘Really?” said Slater in dismay. ‘I know you’d like a quick result, but that’s ridiculous!’
She frowned up at him.
‘Have you forgotten what the pathologist said?’ he asked. ‘He reckons Ian was dead before the bomb went off. And the bomb guy said it was detonated by a mobile phone. Have you ever heard of a dead man making a telephone call?’
‘I suppose there is that,’ she said.
‘What do you mean “you suppose there is that”?’ Slater said, his voice awash with irony.
‘These things can easily be scheduled with a computer,’ Goodnews said. ‘Anyway, you don’t have all the facts.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I had a call from Interpol while you were out. Remember that fingerprint I had Ian send over to them?’
Slater nodded.
‘Well, the bloody thing’s disappeared, vanished without trace.’
‘Yeah, but we’ve got a hard copy here,’ said Slater. He looked at her face. ‘We have still got the hard copy, haven’t we?’
‘Not any more,’ she said. ‘I’ve been down there checking. It’s not in the filing cabinet where it should be, and we don’t even have a copy on the bloody computer system anymore.’
‘But it must be on the central database,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘Oh no. It appears some bugger’s hacked the system and deleted it.’
‘And you think Becksy—’ began Slater.
‘I don’t think he hacked the system, but I think he vaporised the bloody original hard copy the night he cremated himself,’ she said. ‘I suspect it was on the desk right where the incendiary went off. Our one chance of tracing that bastard and it’s gone up in smoke.’
‘Oh shit!’ said Slater.
‘Oh shit, is right, and deep shit is what I’m now in, right up to my neck.’
‘Have you told the CC?’
‘I still have that pleasure to come,’ Goodnews said. ‘I was just hoping you might come back with some miracle I could offer to deflect his attention, you know?’
‘Christ, I’m sorry, boss,’ he said. ‘I wish I could help, but miracles aren’t really my thing.’
She gave him a sad smile. ‘You know, there are times when I feel we’re fighting against each other, but even when I think you must hate me, I know when it comes to it, you’d be there sticking up for me. That sort of loyalty is hard to find.’
For a moment, Slater was embarrassed and didn’t quite know what to say. ‘Even you can’t be all bad,’ he joked. ‘And I have to admit, there are one or two things you’ve changed for the better.’
She managed a half-smile. ‘Only one or two?’
‘Well, alright, quite a few things,’ he admitted. ‘But I don’t want you to think you’re doing too well.’
‘Ha! I think the CC will make sure I know I’m not,’ she said, ruefully. She looked up at the clock. It was just before 5pm. ‘Will you do me a favour?’
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘Can you go and get two coffees while I phone him?’
‘You mean can I clear off and give you some privacy?’ Slater said with a smile.
‘Something like that, yes,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m no longer your boss when you get back.’
‘Don’t talk bollocks,’ he said. ‘He’s not going to do that. He can’t afford to lose someone like you.’
‘Don’t be too sure about that. He’s been known to wield the hatchet for far less.’
‘Cobblers,’ said Slater. ‘I’ll get the coffees, you call the old man. How long do you want me to take?’
‘Ten minutes should be long enough,’ she said, glumly.
‘Right, ten minutes it is,’ he said, heading for the door.
When Slater got back to her office ten minutes later, she was nowhere to be seen, and he wondered what had happened. He put the coffees down and looked around, as if that would give him some kind of clue. Then she quickly slipped through the door and closed it behind her.
‘Just needed to powder my nose,’ she explained. As she sat down behind her desk, she glanced up at him. It was obvious she had been crying.
‘He didn’t take it too well, then?’ he asked.
‘About as well as I expected. A
t least he hasn’t sacked me. Yet. But it was a close thing, and there’s not much chance of meeting his expectations quick enough to save the situation.’
She let out a huge sigh and placed her head in her hands.
‘What’s happened to that positive attitude you’re always telling me about?’ he asked.
‘Aye. I know. I really shouldn’t let anyone see me like this.’
‘Do you want me to go?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t you dare. I need someone to help me figure out what the hell’s really going on here, and I think you’re the best hope I have.’
Slater felt a small glow of pride. It never did any harm to have your ego massaged, after all. ‘What have you got in mind?’ he asked.
‘I’m beginning to think there’s more to this case than first meets the eye,’ she said, ‘Some things just don’t add up, so I think the two of us need to go through what we know and see if we can make sense of it.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m happy to do that, but can I make a suggestion?’
‘Aye, go ahead.’
‘How about we adjourn to the pub? I missed lunch and I could do with a good meal, and, if you don’t mind me saying, you look like you could do with a drink.’
‘You know what? I haven’t eaten since breakfast either and I’m bloody starving, so sod it, why not?’ she said. ‘Come on, I’ll treat you to dinner.’
The pub was only a couple of hundred yards from the police station, so they left their cars in the car park and walked. There was a chilly wind blowing, and by the time they got to the pub, the pale-skinned Goodnews had cheeks that glowed a healthy pink. During the short walk, they had chatted about nothing in particular, and that seemed to have enabled her to relax. She was much more like the Goodnews Slater knew by the time they were stood at the bar.
‘Right,’ said Goodnews. ‘Shall we set up a tab?’
‘How long are you thinking of staying? he asked.
‘How long is a piece of string? I’ve got no reason to rush home, have you?’
‘Well, no, I suppose not.’
‘Well then, we’ll stay here as long as we’re making progress. Is that okay with you?’
