by P. F. Ford
Slater and Norman looked confused.
"What I mean is, I would have to buy the phone myself," she said.
"Ah. I see what you're saying," said Slater. "You think Diana would have got the phone for Rossiter."
"She was his PA," said Jolly. "She would have been used to doing stuff for him. I bet she bought the phone and set it up for him. All he had to do was use it."
Slater grabbed his phone and dialled Ian Becks' number.
"Hi, Ian? Can you check if those prints inside the phone belong to Diana Woods?"
"Great minds think alike," said Becks. "I've just realised they're a woman's prints. I was just going to check hers first."
"Now we're getting somewhere," said Slater as he put the phone down. "Ian reckons they're a woman's prints. It has to be Diana."
"Well it helps in one way," agreed Norman. "But then you have to remember she would have had access to Rossiter's desk, so in a way it strengthens his argument that he didn't know the phone was there. He'll say she put it there and he knew nothing about it."
"Yeah, but what about those texts from 'D' to 'B'?" said Slater. "If we can manage to prove they're from her to him, we've got him."
"Is that all we need to do?" asked Norman. "Oh, great. It's a piece of cake, then."
"D'you think there's any doubt?" asked Slater.
"No, of course not," said Norman. "There's no doubt the texts are from Diana to him, I just don't think it's going to be so easy to prove it without her phone."
"I do keep ringing it," said Jolly. "I've set up my computer to call it at random intervals. But whoever took it has either destroyed it, or they're clever enough to keep it switched off."
"Keep on trying with that," said Slater. "I'm beginning to think it's been destroyed, but you never know."
"Rossiter travels a lot, doesn't he?" suggested Jolly. "You could try seeing if the text messages tie up with any events in his diary."
"He's not going to help us out by giving us his diary," said Norman. "We'll need to get a warrant."
"Before we do that, we could try asking our pet receptionist," said Slater. "Maybe she can help."
Chapter Thirteen
"Mr Stephen Grey? My name's DS Slater from Tinton CID, and this is my colleague DS Norman."
The man was obviously startled to find two detectives on his doorstep asking awkward questions about his past. A small boy appeared at his side, but was quickly ushered back inside.
"Go and help mummy," said Stephen Grey, steering the little boy back inside. "I'll be there in a minute."
Once the boy had gone back inside he pulled the door to, behind him.
"What's this all about?" he asked. "I haven't seen Diana Woods for years."
"As I said when I called," said Slater. "We're investigating Diana Woods' murder. I understand you were in a relationship with her."
"Yes, I was," said Grey. "But that was a mistake I made over fifteen years ago. I haven't spoken to her since, and I don't even know where she lives now."
"But you did have an affair with her?" asked Norman.
"Yes, but keep your voice down, can't you? That was before I met my wife and she doesn't know about it. I'd like to keep it that way, if you don't mind."
"Did you know Mr Woods?" asked Slater.
"Yes. He used to drink in the pub where I worked," admitted Grey.
"Did you get on with him?" asked Norman.
"He'd buy me a drink now and then," said Grey. "I suppose he was alright."
"And when did you conduct this affair?" asked Slater.
"What?" asked Grey. "What do you mean when?"
"Well, was it at night, in the morning, or when?" asked Slater.
"Usually it was lunchtime," said Grey. "She used to reckon no-one would ever guess she'd be going like a train all lunchtime and then back at work afterwards. And she was right."
"And you didn't have a problem facing Ian Woods and accepting a drink from him while this was going on?" asked Norman.
"Look, Woody was alright, but he was stupid. At first I used to worry he'd find out, but he thought the sun shone out of her backside. He was so dazzled by it he couldn't see what was going on right under his nose. Poor sap."
"Maybe he just made the mistake of trusting people," said Norman. "Like his mates."
"Oh, for sure," agreed Grey. "And the biggest mistake of all was trusting his wife," said Grey. "Like I said, poor sap. They were queuing up to give her one and he still couldn't see it."
"What's going on?" called a woman's voice from behind Grey, who's face had suddenly turned ashen.
A small, aggressive-looking woman, pulled the door open and elbowed her way in alongside him.
"Who are these men?" she asked, looking hard at Slater and Norman.
"We're police officers," said Norman.
"What do you want?" she demanded.
"We're just following up some enquiries about an accident," said Norman, thinking fast. "We were told Mr Grey might have seen it, but it seems we were misinformed."
Grey let out an audible sigh of relief.
"Yes. Thank you for your time, Mr Grey," said Slater. "Sorry to have disturbed you. We'll be off now."
They turned and headed for their car.
"That was very noble of you, getting him out of that hole," said Slater when they were out of earshot.
"Noble?" said Norman. "I don't know about that. I just think it was a long time ago, and he seems to be married to a little terrier who would happily tear him apart at the drop of a hat. Why spoil things for them by telling her about something her husband did before he even met her?"
"My point entirely," smiled Slater. "That was a noble act. You could have dropped him right in it."
"Yeah," agreed Norman. "But she didn't buy that excuse I invented off the top of my head, so now we've given her cause to be suspicious. My guess is she'll keep chipping away at him to try and find out what he's really been up to, and I reckon that's going to drive him mad."
"Noble, but devious with it," said Slater admiringly. "A slow, agonising, form of torture. And all because his wife doesn't trust him."
"It seems appropriate somehow, don't you think?" asked Norman.
"Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you," said Slater with a grin.
They reached their car and climbed in.
"Being serious now, did we actually learn anything new?" asked Slater.
"Not exactly," said Norman. "But it confirms what Ian Woods told us about her past, and we also confirmed Diana's liking for lunchtime nooky. Whether that really helps us in any significant way I'm not so sure."
"So what do you think, Norm? Are we getting anywhere?" asked Slater, with a sigh. "Because I'm not convinced we are."
"I'll give you my best guess," said Norman. "Diana was pushing Rossiter about leaving his wife, and he had to stop her. Or, as an alternative, his wife found out, and she killed Diana."
"That's two theories," said Slater. "I think I'm more inclined to agree with the first one."
"But you have to agree the second one works, and we haven't spoken to his wife yet," said Norman. "We don't have any idea what she really knows, but I find it hard to believe she's unaware of what's been going on if everyone else knew."
"Maybe she's like Woody used to be, and just doesn't see it," said Slater.
"There's only one way to find out," said Norman. "Tomorrow morning, we'll just have to go and ask her."
Chapter Fourteen
There had been hardly any mention of Angela Rossiter during the investigation to date, so Slater and Norman had no idea about her background, what she looked like, or what she did. Basically all they knew was that she was married to Bruce Rossiter, so they had requested Jolly to carry out some background research for them. It hadn't taken her long to gather a few pages together which she presented to them before she went home.
"I sometimes wonder how Jane does this so quickly," said Slater to Norman as he read through the information. "It would have
taken me all day yet she did this in a couple of hours. How does that work?"
"For one thing she presses the right buttons, at the right time, and in the right order," said Norman.
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Slater, indignantly.
"I'm referring to the way you use that PC of yours," said Norman. "You need to learn how to type properly. I've watched you fumbling your way around the keyboard. It's just as well we're not still on typewriters. We'd have to buy correcting fluid by the gallon."
"Rubbish," said Slater. "My typing's just fine."
"Then why do you swear so much when you use your PC?" asked Norman, innocently.
"That's just my style, okay?" said Slater.
"Is clumsy classed as a style?" asked Norman. "Or should it be called all thumbs and no fingers?"
"Arseholes," muttered Slater. "Since when have you been so good?"
"I can do forty words a minute," said Norman. "It's not high speed but it's not bad. It's certainly beats the twenty cock-ups a minute that you manage."
"Alright, so I admit you can type better than me," conceded Slater. "All I said was I thought Jane was bloody brilliant at this stuff."
"She knows where to look, as well as being quick," said Norman. "I guess it's because we give her lots of opportunities to practice."
"Do we ask too much?" asked Slater.
"Sometimes," admitted Norman. "But I think you'll find she enjoys being part of the team. And let's face it, she's not shy about saying what she thinks, is she? I wouldn't worry about it. I'm sure if she thought we were being unreasonable she'd say so."
He flipped a page and looked at the photo in front of him.
"Wow," he said. "Angela Rossiter is a bit of a looker, don't you think?"
"Makes you wonder why old Bruce would need a bit on the side, doesn't it?" said Slater. "I guess some guys are just greedy."
"Or they just don't appreciate what they have," suggested Norman. "Or maybe she's been with him so long she despises him as much as I do."
"It says here this photo was taken at some marketing awards ceremony five years ago," said Slater. "She's 53 now, so she must have been forty-eight when this was taken."
"She looks more like thirty-eight," said Norman, admiringly. "And I have to admit I do like small, slender, women. Oh well, at least we know she'll be nice to look at when we're asking questions."
Slater thought so too, but that's not quite how it was next morning when the Rossiter's front door swung open to reveal a female version of Norman.
"Err, we've an appointment to see Mrs Rossiter," said Norman, uncertainly.
"That's me," she said, with a cheery grin.
"It is?" he said, unable to stop the words spilling out.
"Is there something wrong?" she asked.
"Oh no," rallied Norman. "No not at all, it's just, ah, I was just, err.."
"I'm DS Slater, Mrs Rossiter," smiled Slater, stepping in to save the situation. "And this is DS Norman."
"Your young lady said there would be two of you when she called yesterday. Don't you have to show me your badges, or something?"
"Oh, right. Yes," said Norman, fumbling in his pocket and producing his card.
She studied his warrant card, and then did the same with Slater's.
"Well, come on in," she said, turning on her heel. "Come through to the kitchen and I'll make some tea."
Norman wondered what had happened to the small, slender woman in the photo. It looked as though she had arrived at her fifties and then given up for some reason. Then she turned and gave him the most beautiful smile and he had a rush of guilt. It's not what's on the outside that matters, it's what's on the inside that really counts, he thought. And anyway, look at me. Who am I to criticise?
Angela Rossiter saw Slater spot the fancy coffee machine as soon as he walked into the kitchen.
"If you'd prefer coffee, it won't take a moment to fire up the machine," she said.
"Are you sure?" he asked her. "Only we don't get to drink decent coffee very often."
"Of course," she said. "My pleasure. Sit yourselves down."
She waved them towards the breakfast bar under a window looking out onto the garden.
"This is a nice place, Mrs Rossiter," said Norman looking out at the garden. "I bet this cost a tidy penny."
"That's the benefit of being married to a money machine," she said. "We can afford a nice house in a nice area. Of course the downside is he's away a lot."
"Can't you go with him?" asked Slater.
"Good God, no," she laughed. "I wish he went away more often, pompous pig that he is."
She saw Slater glance at Norman.
"Well, you've met him," she said with another flashing smile. "Don't tell me you liked him. If you did, you're the only ones."
"Err, well," said Norman. "He did seem to be a little-"
"Up his own backside?" she interrupted. "Yes, that's him. Thinks he's the only one in the world who has an opinion that matters. Fat sod."
Slater tried hard not to smile at the pot calling the kettle black, but she saw the smile and laughed with him.
"I know," she said. "How can I call him fat? Its pot and kettle, isn't it? The thing is, I know I've let myself go. He, on the other hand, thinks he's God's gift to women."
"It can't have always been like that," said Norman. "I saw a photo of you from five years ago and you looked pretty good to me."
"Why, thank you," she said, flattered by his comment. "I used to have to work at it though. It didn't come naturally to me. I had to be really careful what I ate, spend hours at the gym, didn't drink, all that sort of crap. And for what? Just so I could be displayed in public like some sort of possession. And then, just to top it all, I'd have to put up with that fat pig climbing all over me."
She stopped talking for a minute while she poured two coffees. Slater and Norman knew better than to interrupt while she was letting all this out, so they sat and waited for her to start again.
"And then, one day, I realised what a bloody fool I was," she said. "So I stopped doing it. I thought if I made myself less attractive he'd leave me alone."
"And did it work?" asked Norman.
"Not at first," she said. "But he finally got the hint when he came home one day and found we had separate bedrooms. That was nearly four years ago now. Best thing I ever did," she said. "The only pity is he still comes home. I haven't managed to drive him out completely yet, but I'm still hoping."
"That sounds like irretrievable breakdown," said Norman, carefully.
"Oh it is," she agreed.
"So how did it get that bad?" asked Slater, getting that strange tingling feeling inside.
"My husband has a roving eye and finds it impossible to keep his todger where it belongs," she said. "So now we have an understanding. I don't care what he does, as long as he doesn't try to do it with me, doesn't do it here in my house, and he doesn't embarrass me."
Slater hadn't been expecting that, and he found it impossible to keep it from his face.
"I know," she said. "You probably think I should divorce him. But what's the rush? I have a good life here, I don't want for anything, and now I can keep him at arm’s length."
"It wouldn't suit everyone," commented Slater.
"I'm biding my time," she said. "One of these days he's going to slip up, and then I'll have him for every penny I can, believe me."
Slater was confused. At first he had been thinking she must have known about Diana, but now he wasn't so sure. They needed to ask her about the dead woman, but what was going to be the best way to broach the subject?
Fortunately Norman had no such qualms.
"I'm sure you're aware of the death of Diana Woods, your husband's PA," said Norman. "We're trying to create as broad a picture of her as we can. Did you know her?"
"Oh yes," she said. "I met her at various functions to do with my husband's work, and of course as his PA she called here occasionally. She was a lovely girl. She always had time for every
one. She even found the time to help me with one or two fundraisers. In fact we were planning another one in a couple of months."
"What fundraisers are these, Mrs Rossiter," asked Slater.
"I volunteer at the St Anne's children's hospital," she said.
"That's miles away, isn't it?" he asked.
"We used to live near there," she said. "That's how I got involved originally. I was soon on the fundraising committee. When we moved here I thought I would have to give it all up, but I actually enjoy it, so I'm still doing it now. I work in the shop there on Tuesdays and Fridays. It keeps me busy and gives me something to look forward to."
"Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to murder Diana Woods?" asked Norman.
"Absolutely not, Sergeant," she said. "She was a lovely person. It makes no sense to me."
"One more thing," asked Norman. "Can you tell us where you were on Monday afternoon between five and six o'clock?"
"I drove down to the post box to catch the last post at five-fifteen," she said. "I almost didn't make it because the postman was already there."
"So he saw you there?" asked Norman.
"Oh yes," she smiled. "He held the bag open for me so I could put my letter straight in. Then I came back here to prepare a trough for Porky to come home to."
"What time did he come home?" asked Slater.
"Late," she said. "It was gone seven by the time he got here."
"Don't say a word," said Norman as Angela Rossiter closed her front door behind them, and they headed for their car.
"What do you mean?" asked Slater, in surprise.
"You're going to ask me what I think," explained Norman. "And right now I'm not ready to tell you."
"Why not?" asked Slater.
"I need ten minutes to consider, that's why," said Norman. "You rushing me isn't going to help."
"What do you want me to do, then?" asked Slater, impatiently.
"Drive," said Norman. "It'll take about ten minutes to get across town to that burger van. We'll stop there. Then I'll tell you what I think."
"You mean you want an early lunch, right?" said Slater.
"Now you're talking," said Norman. "That's a seriously cool idea. I always think better when I'm eating."
