by P. F. Ford
The Wrong Man
A DS Dave Slater Novel
By
P. F. Ford
© 2015 P. F. Ford
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events in this book are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real life counterparts is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Angie Zambrano
Editing by KT Editing Services
With thanks to:
My amazing wife, Mary – sometimes we need someone else to believe in us before we really believe in ourselves. None of this would have happened without her unfailing belief and support.
Books by P.F. Ford
DS Dave Slater Mystery Novels
Death of a Temptress
Just a Coincidence
Florence
The WrongMan
The Red Telephone Box
Alfie Bowman Novellas:
An Unlikely Hero
Missing Without Trace
An Unnecessary Murder
Who Kidnapped Billy Bumble
A Handsome Stranger
P.F. Ford links:
P.F. Ford website
P.F. Ford’s Author Central page
P.F. Ford on Goodreads
P.F. Ford links:
P.F. Ford website
P.F. Ford’s Author Central page
P.F. Ford on Goodreads
Prologue
Diana Woods looked at herself in the mirror and was pleased with the reflection she saw. The new underwear she'd been given looked good on her, but then she had known it would. She worked hard to make sure that even at forty-five she still had the sort of figure that made everything look good. She did another twirl so she could catch a view of her backside. Yes, she thought, I feel good in this stuff. He'll be drooling next time he watches me undress.
Then the doorbell rang and she wondered who it could be. Probably Laura from next door, she thought. But she's not supposed to come round until six. Couldn't she have waited? I've only been home from work five minutes.
She ran through to the front bedroom and looked out of the window. She could just see the roof of a small, white, van parked outside. This was a nice surprise. She really hadn’t expected him to call round today. It was a pity she was going out in half an hour, but there would still be time for a little fun before she went.
She slipped a slinky, black, negligee on over her new underwear and then padded down the stairs in her bare feet. She smiled to herself as she realised he had brought the negligee for her as well. It seemed as if he was all around her already, and soon she'd have him all to herself anytime she wanted.
The doorbell rang again.
"Alright, I'm coming," she called, quickening her pace.
She threw the door open.
"Oh. Hi. This is a surprise. You didn't say you were coming round, did you? Well, come on in, but you'll have to be quick. I wasn't expecting you and I'm going out at six."
She turned on her heel and started walking towards the kitchen at the back of the house, well aware that she was leaving little to her visitor’s imagination, but then that was all part of the fun.
"I was just going to make a cup of tea," she called over her shoulder. "Come on. I'll make us both one."
She heard the front door close behind her as she picked up the kettle and walked across to the sink.
"Why on earth have you got gloves on?" she asked. "It's not cold, is it? Or, are they your fancy driving gloves?"
There was no reply, and as she turned on the tap to fill the kettle she suddenly became aware that something wasn't right, but by then it was too late, and her eyes widened in pain and shock as the blade of a knife was driven deep into her back.
It would be hard to say if the blow had been delivered with great accuracy or if it was just luck, but whichever was the case, the blade struck at the perfect angle to slip neatly between her ribs and plunge straight through her heart. She didn't even have time to scream before she slumped forward across the sink and then her knees buckled beneath her. By the time she was sprawled face down on the floor she was dead.
The killer watched in fascination, as blood seeped from the wound, creating a widening red patch around the knife handle as it soaked into the flimsy fabric of her negligee. But there wasn’t time to linger. There was still work to be done, although it wouldn't take long.
In less than two minutes the front door was quietly pulled closed and the killer was gone.
Chapter One
The Bishops Common had been given to the townspeople of Tinton back in ancient times to allow the commoners to graze their animals without cost. Very few of the present day commoners were actually aware of this privilege and none of them possessed livestock in need of grazing.
But they did have a rather exclusive enclave of ten homes all to themselves. The houses had all originally been hovels, but you wouldn't know it now. Over the years they had been restored and extended by their various owners and now formed a collection of desirable homes, in an equally desirable location.
"So where is this place?" asked DS Norman Norman. "I never heard of this Bishops Common before."
"That's because it's a rather exclusive, and sought after, area,” replied his friend and colleague DS Dave Slater, from the driving seat. “It's the epitome of peace and tranquillity where nothing ever happens and the police never need to set foot."
"So this isn't a regular event then?" asked Norman
"If you mean do they normally find dead bodies lying around, then the answer is no," confirmed Slater. "I believe this is a first."
"I didn't even know there were any houses down here," said Norman, as they turned off the main road and onto the track that led down to the common. "You are sure there are houses here, are you? Only I don't see any."
"That's because they're down the lane here and round the corner," replied Slater. "That's part of the attraction for the people who live here. It's the seclusion that makes it such a sought after spot. That and the fact all the houses are detached."
As a native Londoner who loved the place, Norman found it difficult to see the attraction of living in the countryside.
"Well I think it's a crappy place to live," he assured Slater. "You couldn't pay me to live out here."
"Trust me," smiled Slater. "The likes of you and me couldn't afford to live out here. Anyway, I don't understand this aversion you have to country life. You spent three years in Northumberland, and you've been here over a year now. Surely you can't still hanker for the noise and pollution of London?"
"You're never going to convince me the smell of horse shit and cow shit is better than diesel fumes," said Norman. "No way."
"All that crap floating around in the London air is taking years off of everyone's life," claimed Slater.
"It's an acquired taste, I'll grant you that," agreed Norman.
"The smell of farm animals doesn't kill your lungs," argued Slater.
"But this hankering for the smell of cow shit just isn't natural," said Norman. "If we were supposed to like it we would have been born cows, right?"
"You need to see someone about your logic," laughed Slater. "There is absolutely nothing natural about breathing air filled with diesel fumes."
They rounded a bend in the lane.
"Here we go," said Slater. "Crime scene up ahead."
They could see houses now, to the right and left of the lane. Some were set well back with hedges and trees out front, and one or two were much closer to the lane. The one they were looking for was about fifty yards up on the left hand side. It
was easily identified by the blue and white cordon tape and the police vehicles parked outside.
"What time is it?" asked Norman, squinting at his watch.
"Eight-thirty," said Slater. "So we had a whole two hours between finishing our normal day’s work and getting dragged back out for this."
"D'you think this is what they meant when they said we should make better use of our own time and our opportunities to relax and sleep in between shifts?" asked Norman with a wry smile.
He was referring to a recent memo that had been sent round to every department advising officers they could become more efficient if they made better use of their own time and made sure they had sufficient rest and sleep.
"Just having some of my own time would be a start. Do you get any time of your own?" asked Slater as he parked the car.
"I know what you mean," laughed Norman. "But right now you need to put Mr Negative to bed and slip on your positive head. Can you do that?"
Slater had a natural tendency to focus on the negatives. Norman had made it his personal goal to instill in Slater a much more positive attitude in line with his own. It was very much a work in progress, and he still had to remind Slater sometimes, but he saw hopeful signs in his colleague.
Slater fixed a stupid grin on his face and turned to Norman.
"There you go," he said. "I'm happy. Okay?"
"That's a very insincere smile," observed Norman. "Which, in itself, is indicative of possession of a negative attitude."
"Oh nuts," said Slater, swinging his door open. "The use of over-wordy pronouncements indicates the desire to appear superior, which surely, in itself, is a negative trait."
Norman tried to think of a smart remark of his own, but Slater was out of the car and the moment was gone.
As this was the scene of a murder, it was necessary for anyone entering to don one of the all-in-one, paper, 'romper' suits provided by the forensics team. A tent had been erected in the front garden to provide somewhere to sign in, collect a suit and put it on.
Getting into these suits had always been something of a challenge for the rather portly Norman and was often a source of great amusement for his colleagues. Fortunately Norman wasn't offended by this and there had been more than one occasion when he had played to the gallery and gone out his way to make everyone laugh. He felt a little humour, in the right place and at the right time, was essential to help everyone cope with some of the darker stuff they had to deal with. It was a view shared by most of his colleagues.
Recently the forensics department had invested in the latest design of such suits. No-one seemed to know the official name, but because they were blue, the general consensus seemed to suggest they made anyone wearing one look like a smurf. Norman had somehow managed to keep back a personal supply of the older white suits but these were now all gone, and he was just going to have to get used to wearing the new smurf suits.
Slater put his own suit on in less than a minute and was ready to go. Norman seemed to be having some sort of problem. Slater folded his arms and watched patiently as his friend struggled.
"No, it's okay," said Norman, when he realised Slater was waiting for him and watching him struggle. "You go on. I'll catch you up in a minute. Some joker seems to have given me a small size. I distinctly said large."
Slater winked at the PC who was responsible for signing in and handing out suits. He put his finger to his lips to indicate the PC should say nothing.
"Perhaps they didn't bring any of the larger size," he suggested, smiling broadly. "I'll go on ahead."
He didn't bother to tell Norman they were 'one size fits all' just like all the old white suits used to be. He figured his partner would find out soon enough.
He made his way through the open front door, stopped, and looked around.
"Hello?" he called. "Eamon? Where are you?"
"Through here, in the kitchen," called the voice of Dr Eamon Murphy, the pathologist.
A familiar collection of noises told him there was a forensic photographer somewhere nearby, and as he followed the voice through to the kitchen, he could see the accompanying flashes as the cameraman did his work.
The pathologist was kneeling over the victim's face-down body, directing the photographer. He looked round when Slater came into the room.
"I'm glad I'm not the only one who's been dragged away from his dinner," he said.
"Ah yes," grinned Slater. "These unannounced informal gatherings are one of the joys of police work."
"But I don't work for the police," complained Murphy.
"Only because we can't afford to pay your exorbitant salary," countered Slater. "Anyway, I thought you were on the payroll now."
An agreement had recently been cobbled together with the local hospital whereby Murphy could be contracted out to the Police as and when necessary.
"I'm not actually a full time employee," said Murphy. "I'm supposed to be contracted on an ad-hoc, consultant, basis," said Murphy.
"So you get to choose how much you get paid?" said Slater. "Now that's a novel idea. Maybe I can try doing that."
He squatted down near to the body, but not too near.
"So this situation is just about perfect then," Slater continued, his grin becoming even wider.
Murphy raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"Well, you couldn't get much more ad-hoc than this, could you?" asked Slater. “And it just so happens I need to consult your considered opinion as to this unfortunate lady's death."
"I suppose I asked for that," said Murphy with a rueful smile.
"You did once tell me you'd like to get out and about more often," said Slater.
He waited while Murphy directed the photographer to take one last shot for him.
"So, what have we got, Eamon?" he asked, once the photographer had stepped away.
"Diana Woods. 45 years old, stabbed in the back with a wide bladed knife, possibly the one missing from the knife block up there," he pointed to a knife block on the kitchen side. "I won't know for sure, until I do the PM, but it looks like the knife went straight into, and possibly right through, the heart."
"Would you like to guess a time?" asked Slater.
"I estimate she's been dead no more than three or four hours at most. So my best guess at this stage is that she died somewhere between four thirty and six thirty. I can't tell you much more at the moment."
"That's okay," said Slater. "It's a start. Are we sure she was murdered in here? The body hasn't been moved or anything?"
"I think she was stood at the sink, filling the kettle when it happened," said Murphy.
"Really?" asked Slater, looking suitably impressed. "Filling the kettle? How do you know that?"
"It's in the sink, it's full, and the lid's on the side," said Murphy. "Simples, as they say."
There was a commotion from the front of the house and Norman eventually arrived on the scene. He appeared to have squeezed himself into one suit, but another was draped over his shoulders with the arms tied around his neck, and the legs tied around his waist.
"What happened?" asked Slater.
"It seems they don't make these suits with the larger person in mind," explained Norman. "When I did the zip up the front the damned thing split up the back. So I had to put another one over the top just to cover the back."
Slater exchanged a glance with Murphy.
"Diana Woods," he said to Norman, pointing at the body on the floor. "Eamon says she was stabbed around five-thirtyish-"
"That's just a guess, and it could be an hour either way," emphasised the pathologist hastily, wary of committing to a time without a proper examination.
"And it looks like she was stabbed with one of her own carving knives," finished Slater, indicating the knife block with the missing knife.
"Who found the body?" asked Norman.
"Next door neighbour, I think," said Murphy. "One of your officers is with her."
Ian Becks, the Tinton forensic team leader appeared in the doorway.
"I thought I heard the cavalry," he said. "Late again, mind you."
"We can't get here until someone tells us we're needed," argued Norman.
Becks took a long, quizzical, look at him.
"What the hell are you wearing?" he asked. "Two suits?"
"Yes, about that," said Norman. "You need to order a larger size."
"That is the larger size," said Becks. "Maybe it's not actually the size of the suit that's the problem."
"We can argue about that another time, Becksy," interrupted Slater, before they went off on a tangent about Norman's weight problem. "What can you tell us about the murder scene?"
"Not much, so far," said Becks. "There's no sign of a struggle anywhere else in the house, and no sign of a break-in, so I guess that means she let her attacker in. We've got a couple of smudged footprints on the kitchen floor, but they seem to be the same size as the shoes the victim wore, so they're probably hers. No murder weapon so far either. We'll keep looking, but I wouldn't raise your hopes."
"I suppose it would have been too much to hope you might find a nice set of prints or something," sighed Slater.
"I'm just about ready to move the body now," said Murphy. "The guys will be here shortly to take her away. The PM will begin at eight in the morning, if that's okay with you."
"Sure," said Slater. "We'll be there."
"Yeah, great," said Norman, glumly. "I just love to watch a little slicing and dicing just after my breakfast."
"Maybe we can toss a coin-," began Slater.
"And maybe we can't," interrupted Norman. "Because you always cheat, and I end up losing. This time we'll both go."
"Whatever," said Slater. "But I'm sure there's something I have to do first thing."
"Yeah, there is. Come and watch a PM," said Norman, leaving no room for doubt.
