by P. F. Ford
"Can't you do it here?" asked Humphreys.
"We tried that," said Norman. "But Mr Rossiter has indicated, quite clearly, that he prefers to come to the station. It's probably the right thing to do in the circumstances. It'll be more discreet. If you see what I mean."
Humphreys knew exactly what Norman meant. He had known Rossiter's behaviour was going to come back and haunt them all one day, and it looked as if it might just have arrived. Corporate law was his field, and that's what he was paid for, yet he seemed to spend more and more of his time cleaning up after Bruce bloody Rossiter. And now he was getting dragged into a murder inquiry! Well, they couldn't say he hadn't warned them enough times.
"Mr Rossiter found this phone in his desk," Slater told him, holding up the phone. "He says it's not his, and that someone must have planted it there. We're going to take it with us to check it for fingerprints. Obviously we'll need Mr Rossiter to allow us to take his fingerprints for elimination purposes."
Rossiter squirmed unhappily and turned to Humphreys. Surely his solicitor wouldn't allow this.
"Of course," said Humphreys, with a grimace that could have been a smirk. "That won't be a problem."
Norman was aware Humphreys seemed to be enjoying the fact that Rossiter was firmly on the back foot.
"Would ten o'clock tomorrow morning be convenient?" he asked the solicitor.
Rossiter opened his mouth to protest, but Humphreys beat him to it.
"It'll be a pleasure," grinned Humphreys. "I think we should all do our bit to help the police, and I'm sure Bruce agrees, don't you Bruce?"
But for once, Humphreys was pleased to see, Bruce Rossiter didn't seem to have anything to say.
Chapter Eleven
"I'm sorry," said Ian Becks, calling up from the tiny forensics lab in the basement at Tinton police station. "But this mobile phone's been wiped clean. There's not even a partial print anywhere on the case."
"Bugger," muttered Slater down the phone. "I should have known the slimy sod would be too clever for that. I know it's his bloody phone, and I bet no-one else has ever used it, but he's going to argue it's not his until he's blue in the face."
"So, let him argue," said Becks. "Because, you see, he's not actually as clever as he thinks he is."
"How do you mean?" asked Slater.
"You're saying he bought this as a PAYG phone, so he could communicate with his bit on the side without anyone ever knowing, right?" said Becks. "So, it would figure he's the only person who's ever handled this phone."
"Yes," said Slater, slowly, trying to guess where this train of thought was going, but not succeeding. "And?"
"Well, think about it," said Becks. "When you buy a mobile phone it comes in a box, but the battery and SIM card aren't usually already in the phone, are they? If he's the only one who knows about this phone, it means he must have put it together."
"Come on Becksy, get to the point. What are you saying?" asked Slater in exasperation. "Don't make me follow you all round the houses, mate. Just spit it out."
"What do you think I'm saying?" asked Becks. "I've found some fingerprints on the inside of the case and on the battery."
"You're kidding me," said Slater. "Really? Oh, Becksy, that's brilliant."
"It's just what we do down here," said Becks. "You've got a problem? Just send it down here, and the real brains will solve it for you."
Slater couldn't argue with that one. Well, not this time, anyway.
"He's coming in tomorrow morning," said Slater. "If we get him printed before we interview him, do you think you can give us a result while he's still here?"
"I don't see why not," said Becks. "It should be a piece of cake."
Slater was relieved to find Ian Woods was still in town when he called him just before lunch. He seemed quite keen to come in and talk to them again, but then, as he said, he didn't really have anything else to do.
"Thanks for coming in again, Ian," said Slater, a little later that afternoon. "I wasn't sure if you'd still be in town."
"Well, I was going to stay around for the funeral," said Woods. "But it's been made pretty clear I'm not going to be welcome. Besides which, they need a body, don't they?"
"Yes," said Slater. "I don't know for sure when it will be released. I heard they were considering a memorial service in the meantime."
"I'd like to go, really I would," said Woods. "But her parents will only cause a scene and I wouldn't want that."
"I'm sorry," said Slater. "Would it help if I talk to them?"
"Ha! I don't think so," said Woods. "They've made their minds up. You could come up with the real killer, but I don't think it would make any difference. Diana seems to have done a great job of discrediting me since I left, but I'm not surprised. Accepting responsibility for her actions never was her strong point."
"You have good reason to feel bitter," said Norman.
"But I don't, really," said Woods. "I'm more disappointed than bitter. And anyway, being bitter isn't going to change anything is it? What's done is done."
His sad face showed he wasn't really quite as happy about the situation as he was trying to make out, but then he seemed to snap out of it and perk up.
"Anyway, I'm making a new start down in Wales, so it really doesn't matter what anyone up here thinks. I know the truth, and I don't have any problem sleeping at night."
He offered them a brief smile.
"Anyway, what can I do for you?" he asked.
"When we spoke to her parents, we got the feeling Diana's mother wasn't quite so sure Diana was a saint," replied Slater. "Her father was adamant, but we felt your mother-in-law wasn't convinced."
"That's because she knew about the first affair," said Woods. "No-one told the old man, so he's totally unaware, but she knew."
"How did she react?" asked Norman.
"She never actually said anything to me," said Woods. "But I overheard her telling Diana how disappointed she was, and how she thought I didn't deserve to have that happen. Diana blamed it on me being at work all the time, you see. But like her mum said, I was only doing that to pay for all the improvements to the house. How else could we afford to get it all done as quickly as Diana wanted?"
"So who was the guy involved in this earlier affair?" asked Norman.
"There was more than one," said Woods. "Diana thought nothing of moving on if a better offer came along."
"A better offer?" asked Norman.
"The first guy flattered his way into her knickers and plied her with free gin and tonics. He was young and worked behind a bar, see," explained Woods. "Then this older guy started hitting on her, and she quickly discovered older men have money. The young barman couldn't compete with that, so he was ditched and she got used to having nice clothes bought for her. I was so thick I didn't realise she was spending his money on those things. I even told her to stop spending all our money on that stuff."
"So you knew?" asked Slater.
"You'd have thought, wouldn't you?" sighed Woods. "But I trusted her, you see, and it wasn't as if she was going out at night to see these blokes. She realised very early on that no-one suspects a lunchtime affair. She used to rush out of work at lunchtime, run around the corner and jump into the old guys car. Five minutes later they'd be stripping off in his bedroom, then he'd drop her back at work when they'd finished. It was great for him. He was nearly forty and she was barely twenty. And she was beautiful."
"Jeez," said Norman. "She was quite a piece of work."
"Not just deceitful, but cunning, too," agreed Woods.
"Can you name any of these guys?" asked Norman.
"Why? What difference will it make now?" asked Woods.
"It will help us to corroborate your story," explained Slater. "And it will confirm the picture we're building of Diana. We're going to need it because all her friends are going to stand up in court and say she was nothing like that. And they will probably also say that if she was like that it's because of the mental torture and physical abuse you su
bjected her to."
"But I never did," said Woods, emphatically.
"Easy, Woody, easy," soothed Norman. "We’re not accusing you, this is what we're hearing from them."
"If I was so evil," said Woods. "Why did she write to me telling me how much she missed what she called the 'mental support' I used to give her? And why did she keep asking me to come back?"
"Do you still have those letters?" asked Slater.
"Yeah, I think so," said Woods. "She didn't know where I was living, but she knew Jim Brennan was in touch with me so she asked him to send them on to me."
"D'you think we could see them?" added Slater.
"If I've still got them they'll be back at home," said Woods. "But I'm sure I know where they are."
"Why did you keep them?" asked Norman.
"I don't know," admitted Woods. "I suppose because they proved that, despite everything, I had actually meant something to her."
"Maybe you should show them to Diana's father," suggested Slater.
"He'd probably say I'd written them," said Woods. "It would be a waste of time."
"It would be really useful if you could let us have them," said Norman.
"I'm going back tomorrow," said Woods. "I'm not welcome around here, so there's not much point in hanging around. I'll post them to you."
"Take then down to your local station," advised Norman. "They'll make sure they get to us."
"And if you can give us those names," asked Slater.
"Sure," said Woods. "I'll write them down for you, but I don't know if they still live around here."
"I'm sure we'll be able to find them," said Slater.
It was seven-thirty. Slater was slouching in an armchair, trying to enjoy a can of lager, as he flicked through the TV channels trying to find something he actually wanted to watch. The best bet so far seemed to be a match from a pre-season friendly football tournament, but the fact it was a friendly match suggested it would be a passionless affair and he was clinging to the vain hope that surely there must be something better. He wondered what was the point in paying to have over a hundred channels to choose from if they were all showing crap?
This had become his habit over the last three months, and he found he was becoming increasingly apathetic about life outside of work. He knew exactly why he felt that way, and when it had started, yet he seemed powerless to snap out of it.
It had begun about a week after he had split from his girlfriend Cindy. When he had first got to know her he had actually thought he might have found the woman he had been looking for all his life. They had quickly become close, and he had been spending more and more of his time living at her house. But Cindy found it increasingly difficult to share Slater with the demands of his job, and they’d decided to take a break while she decided what it was she really wanted.
For the first week after she had left he had felt a sort of guilty relief, but then he had been so busy he had no time to think about what he’d lost. Now, however, he’d had plenty of time to think about it and he was keenly aware of the big empty space that seemed to fill his life away from work.
The agony was made worse for him by Cindy’s decision to fulfil an ambition and go travelling. She was keeping in touch with the occasional email. The one waiting for him when he got home announced her arrival in Thailand, but there was no suggestion she would be coming home anytime soon.
It probably didn’t help that he was spending so much time in her house. He had offered to keep an eye on it while she was away, but he found he was spending more and more time there, as if being there somehow made him nearer to her. He was there now, flicking through her TV channels.
He was aware that this was rather sad and pathetic behaviour, but such was his apathy, he just didn’t care about that. He wondered if perhaps he should take some leave and go and find her. But then, suppose she didn’t want him to find her. He’d never felt like this about anyone before, and he was struggling to cope with the possibility of losing her for good. How did other people cope? How did you stop thinking about her?
Then his mobile phone began to ring. He tossed the remote control onto the settee and reached for the phone. He squinted at the incoming number but it wasn't one he recognised, not that it mattered, he had to answer it just in case it was something important.
"Hello," he said into the handset.
"Oh, hello," said a pleasant female voice. "Is that DS Slater?"
"It is," he said. "Who's that?"
"It's Millie Gibson. From Rochester and Dorset. You said I could call."
"That's right, I did," said Slater, sitting up much straighter. "What can I do for you?"
"It's more what I might be able to do for you," she said mysteriously. "Only I've been thinking about what you said the other day. About if anyone had any information?"
"Oh, right," said Slater. "And does someone have some information?"
"We all know what's been going on," she said. "Between Diana and old Porky Rossiter. Diana thought no-one knew what they were up to, but we'd all have to be blind and stupid. The thing is I don't think anyone's brave enough to come forward and risk their job."
"Oh, that's a pity," said Slater.
"Oh it's alright," said Millie. "I heard today I've got another job. So I don't care. They can't sack me now, can they?"
"So what do you want to tell me?" asked Slater.
"It might be better if you were to come to my house," she said. "This could take quite a while. There's a lot to tell."
"Okay," agreed Slater. "Whatever suits you. When do you want us to come?"
"You can come now, if you want to," she suggested.
"I'll pick up my colleague DS Norman, on the way," said Slater. "Now what's your address?"
"This had better be good," warned Norman, five minutes later, as he climbed into Slater’s car. "I'd just got settled with a couple of cans of lager."
"Oh, it's good," laughed Slater. "Millie Gibson wants to spill the beans about Diana and Rossiter."
"In that case, the lager can wait," said Norman. “Let’s go!”
He let Slater get going before he spoke again.
“You were at Cindy’s again, weren’t you?” he asked.
Slater looked a little sheepish, and couldn’t think what to say.
“I know you were, so don’t deny it,” said Norman. “You couldn’t have got from your own house to my flat that quickly.”
“Okay,” said Slater, with a heavy sigh. “It’s a fair cop. I was just checking the post and making sure everything’s okay.”
“Are you sure you don’t keep going round there just to feel a little closer to her?” asked Norman.
“What? No, of course not,” said Slater.
“I know it’s hard,” said Norman. “But you’ve got to be patient. You have to give her as much time as she needs. In the meantime you have to stay positive about the outcome.”
“I am,” said Slater.
“Yeah, right,” said Norman. “Anyone can say the words, but if you don’t believe them...”
“I just didn’t realise it was going to be so bloody hard,” said Slater.
“I know,” said Norman. “I’ve been there. At least you still have hope.”
“I’m sorry,” said Slater. “I don’t mean to-.”
“Hey. I asked the question, didn’t I?” interrupted Norman.
“Well, yeah, but even so,” said Slater, guiltily. He knew how much Norman missed his wife, and she had assured him she was never coming back.
“It’s because I know how hard it is, that I worry about you,” said Norman. “But I can promise you, sitting there allowing yourself to get depressed doesn’t help. Trust me, it’s easy to get down, but it’s damned hard to get back up again. You can’t just flick a switch and turn your happiness back on.”
“That’s easy to say,” said Slater.
“It’s the truth,” said Norman. “If Cindy came back tomorrow, and found you like that, she’d think she was making a big mistake.
How’s that going to help?”
Slater thought about what Norman had said. When you thought about it, it made a lot of sense.
“You know,” he said, with a wry smile. “For an old ‘has been’, you talk a lot of sense.”
“The thing about an old ‘has been’ like me,” smiled Norman. “Is my experience. You name it, I’ve probably been there, done it, and got the tee shirt. Therefore I know what works and what doesn’t, and I can offer sound advice.”
They were parked outside Millie Gibson’s house now.
“You’re right,” said Slater. “I need to stay positive.”
“It’s difficult to get down when you’re positive about things,” said Norman. “It works for me, and it’ll work for you, just as long as you believe it.”
"Getting this new job is such a relief," said Millie Gibson, once they were all settled in her lounge. "I enjoyed working for Rochesters for the first month, then it all started to go sour."
"How come?" asked Norman. "You seemed pretty happy to us?"
"I put on a brave face," she said. "Most of the girls in that place are the same. The problem is the money's so good no-one can afford to leave."
"But why would they want to?" asked Slater.
"Sexual harassment," she said, bluntly. "Celia Rowntree knows it goes on, in fact he's probably tried it on with her, but she won't do anything about it, because that revolting man brings in all the money. Without him the company would sink like a stone."
"You mean Rossiter, right?" asked Norman.
"Porky the Pig, the girls call him," she said with distaste. "He thinks we're some sort of harem and he can have anyone he chooses. He's propositioned every girl who works there."
"All of them?" asked Slater, appalled.
"Oh yes. Married, single, old or young. He doesn't care. He seems to think he's God's gift to women and we'd all want to. Of course most of the girls thing he's disgusting. But then there was Diana. I suppose in a way she did all of us a favour. At least once she said yes he stopped hassling the rest of us."
"So he's a sex pest," suggested Norman.
