by Ford,P. F.
“Now that is a great idea.” Slater looked round the room. “Take PC Flight with you. She keeps saying she’d rather be out and about.”
“You’re telling me she does,” said Biddeford. “She never stops going on about it. Grumpy cow.”
Slater was quite taken aback by Biddeford’s tone. It wasn’t like him to speak ill of any of his colleagues.
“Really that bad, is it?” asked Slater.
“Hell hath no fury like Phillipa Flight,” said Biddeford. “Miss Fire and Brimstone they call her behind her back.”
“Any idea why she’s so shitty?” Slater was curious.
“Not a clue,” said Biddeford. “But I can try and find out while we’re on the road, if you like?”
“I’d like to know,” said Slater, “because when she’s on the ball she’s pretty good at her job. But I don’t want her pissing the team off – we’ve got a crappy enough job as it is. Put your new skills to good use, but try to be a bit subtle. I don’t want you coming back here minus your testicles because she snapped them off, okay?”
“I’ll be careful, I promise,” said Biddeford, nodding.
“So how was Flighty when you told her she was going out in plain clothes with Steve Biddeford today?” Slater asked Norman when things began to quieten down.
“She looked at me as if I’d handed her a slimy turd,” said Norman.
“What the hell’s the matter with her?” said a frustrated Slater. “We try and keep her happy and she’s still complaining. What’s she got against Biddeford?”
“Oh, I don’t think she’s got anything against him personally. Or against us, come to that. It seems to be life in general that’s the problem. Maybe she’s just not getting enough at home,” said Norman, with a dirty wink. “You seem to have a way with the ladies. Perhaps you should include it in your duties, as team leader, to keep the female staff happy.”
“Ha! I don’t think that’s ever going to happen,” said Slater. “The last time I tried to make a joke about her and me she seemed to take offence, so I won’t be doing that again.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Look, I know it’s none of my business,” began Biddeford from the passenger seat, feeling slightly nervous about the conversation he was embarking on.
“You’re right. It’s not,” said PC Flight, grimly, her eyes glued to the road ahead as she drove them out towards Trapworth airfield.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say yet,” Biddeford said, shaking his head.
“When someone starts a sentence with the words ‘I know it’s none of my business,” snapped Flight, “it nearly always means they’re right. So, if you’re going to ask anything about me in any way, shape, or form, it is none of your business. Alright?”
Biddeford sighed wearily.
“Okay, Constable,” he said. “Turn the car round and let’s go back.”
“What?” PC Flight turned to look at him, her voice full of surprise. “Why?”
“I’ll drop you back at the station and drive myself, thank you.”
“But you can’t do that,” she said, still sounding shocked.
“It’s alright,” said Biddeford. “I’m sure when you explain to Dave Slater that I’ve refused to work with you, he’ll be just fine about it.”
“But why don’t you want to work with me?”
“Do you know what they call you back at the station, behind your back?” said Biddeford. “Miss Hellfire and Brimstone.”
Flight kept her eyes on the road and said nothing.
“Have you listened to yourself lately?” Biddeford continued. “You haven’t got a good word to say about anyone, or anything. You’ve done nothing but bitch and moan about being stuck inside, and now you’ve been given what you want, and let out to play, you’re still bitching and moaning.”
He realised then that PC Flight had pulled the car over to the side of the road, and was sitting there looking at him, her face bright red. He paused to give her the opportunity to speak, but his verbal attack seemed to have caught her completely off-guard.
“I was actually looking forward to having someone different to work with,” he said, when it became obvious she had nothing to say. “I thought it would be good to have someone different to talk to, and something different to talk about. I even hoped I might be able to have an intelligent conversation for a change. But, no. What I seem to have been lumbered with is a bear with a bloody sore head, and I’m sorry, but I’m not having it.”
“Look,” she said, eventually. “I’m just having a rough time right now, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you to talk about it,” said Biddeford. “I was just going to politely point out that you’re getting a reputation for being a right miserable cow, that’s all. And whatever your rough time might be, making life hell for everyone else won’t solve it.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and Biddeford thought she actually sounded it. “I know you’re right. I just don’t know what’s wrong with me lately, but please don’t make me go back. I promise I’ll try not to be grumpy.”
“You don’t have to be all happy clappy, you know,” said Biddeford. “Just be civil. We all have shit days, and we all sometimes have to do crappy jobs we’d rather not have to do, but acting like a snappy cow and making it a shit day for everyone else is not the answer.”
“Right. Yes. I’m sorry,” she said. Biddeford felt a bit sorry for her, sitting there, her face scarlet.
“Okay. Let’s hope we don’t need to mention your attitude again,” he said, once he thought she’d got the message. “Now, shall we proceed?”
“Yes,” she said, her relief at not having to face Slater almost palpable. “Of course.”
She eased back into the traffic and headed for Trapworth. Biddeford glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He knew he had left her quite stunned by his outburst – he wasn’t the kind of guy who usually spoke up about stuff like that. If he was honest, he was quite stunned too. When he’d been on a recent training course he’d been told he needed to have more confidence in himself. They told him he needed to assert himself and take control when the situation demanded it. Also, he should not be afraid to express his opinion a bit more often if he really wanted to get on.
This was the first time he’d actually put any of it into practice. He thought he’d taken control of this particular situation and really been assertive. It wasn’t so hard after all, he thought. And it looked like it had worked. He already had the feeling PC Flight had a new respect for him now he’d offered her some sound advice about her attitude.
He sneaked a sideways glance at her again. He’d never taken much notice of her before, but then he’d only ever seen her in uniform. Now she was this close to him, in jeans, tee shirt and bomber jacket, he realised she was actually quite attractive. She had quite a pretty face when she stopped scowling, and he liked the way her short, dark hair was styled. She looked quite different without the usual hat.
But then he began to feel guilty. What was he thinking? She was married, for goodness sake. And anyway, she was 10 years older than he was.
He sneaked another quick little look. Married or not, she was certainly one fit looking lady. He began to blush slightly at the direction his thoughts were taking. He thought it was a good thing she was unaware he was eyeing her up like this.
“Do I have to call you sir?” she asked.
“I’m sorry?” he said.
“While we’re working like this,” she said. “Do I have to call you sir? Or detective constable? Or what?”
“Oh. Right,” said Biddeford. “I see what you mean. I’m not sure, to be honest.”
He thought about it for a moment or two.
“Whenever I’m with Dave Slater, it’s always first names unless we’re dealing with the public, and then I call him boss, or guv, or sir. So while we’re working together how about you call me Steve, or boss? I really don’t want you to call me ‘sir’. I mean,
we’re both constables, aren’t we? So ‘sir’ doesn’t seem right somehow.”
“Okay, Steve. That’s good enough for me. I’m Phillipa, Philly, or Phil.”
“Which do you prefer?” he asked.
“Phil is just fine, for work colleagues,” she said.
Then, after a pause she added, “Of course, that will change when you get to know me better.”
Biddeford shifted uncomfortably, and wondered what exactly it was he was feeling. He thought back to what he had learnt on the training course. Be more confident, he told himself. Be assertive. I am in control here. We’re just colleagues, and that’s all we’re ever going to be. We’re never going to be anything more. You don’t mix work and pleasure. And anyway, she’s a married woman. Now pull yourself together, focus on the job in hand, and stop behaving like some lovesick schoolboy.
As if on cue, the entrance to Trapworth airfield appeared ahead. When he’d spoken to the guy who ran the airfield, Biddeford had been given the impression it was a bustling transport hub, but he could see straight away that he’d been subjected to a considerable degree of exaggeration. Compared with one or two of the other small airfields he’d visited, it was a bit of a stretch to even mention this one in the same breath.
Flight pulled in through the entrance and stopped the car while they got their bearings. The airfield was simply a field on top of a hill. It was surrounded by trees on all four sides, making it pretty well hidden from anyone living anywhere near, although Biddeford was pretty certain there were no houses within at least a quarter of a mile. The runway was a strip of well-mown grass running from east to west across the middle. At each end of the runway, the mown strip turned towards the far end of the field.
At that far end, in the right hand corner, sat a vast, ancient, open-sided barn with a sagging tin roof. Biddeford thought this must be the hangar he’d been told to look out for. Two tatty, sad-looking, aircraft squatted under the sagging roof, both presumably undergoing some form of restoration or repair.
There appeared to be somewhere between 20 and 30 small aircraft parked in two rows, in front of, and around, the old barn. Many were tethered with guy ropes, presumably to protect them from the wind, which could be a bit gusty up here on the brow of the hill. They were all exposed to whatever the weather could throw at them, relying on canvas covers to protect them. It was an assortment of old and modern, all pretty small and well within the size that Biddeford assumed would be called light aircraft.
A two-storey wooden pavilion was the only thing that seemed even vaguely modern. It had a balcony overlooking the field, and the upper storey wall facing the field appeared to be all glass. Biddeford figured this must be the operations centre and control tower he’d been told to look out for.
“Right, Phil,” Biddeford said. “We’re looking for a bloke called Captain Smithers. He said we’d find him either in the control room or the hangar. I’m guessing that means that pavilion over there or the barn that looks like it’s just about to fall down.”
“Okay, Steve, you’re the boss.” Flight smiled at him. “I’ll try not to make it too bumpy.”
On their side, the field had been ploughed, apart from a mown strip that served as the access road. Flight carefully made her way across, clearly trying to avoid as many bumps as she could.
“Thank God we didn’t have to come out here in the winter,” she said. “You’d need a Landrover to cope with the mud.”
Chapter Fifteen
Rudy, or Rudolph, if you want to be formal, Bressler lived in an enormous house about a mile to the south of Tinton. As he and Norman stood on the front step, Slater looked around and admired the view across the surrounding fields and into the distance. He knew a view like this would cost a small fortune in this area, but then if the owner of this house could afford the dark blue Maserati parked in front of the double garage, money wasn’t really a problem, was it?
A bright pink Mini Cooper was parked rather haphazardly next to the Maserati. Slater thought absently that abandoned might be a more appropriate word than parked. He was just picturing the stereotypical woman who would own the car, when the door opened behind him and interrupted his thoughts.
Some people would consider themselves over the brow of the hill and on the way down the other side at 58 years of age, but Rudy Bressler was clearly in his prime. He stood 6ft 2 inches tall, was well muscled, deeply suntanned, and had a good head of hair. As he shook their hands, Slater observed that the only thing that gave the man’s age away was the fact that his hair was obviously dyed. It was always vanity that gave the game away in the end.
He stole a glance at Norman, standing beside him. Of course, no one would ever have the opportunity to accuse him of being vain. He seemed to have achieved his most crumpled appearance ever on this particular morning, and his waistline appeared to have finally won the ongoing battle with his trousers, which were no longer able to encircle him at this widest part of his body. However, if any of this concerned him, he made a very good job of hiding it.
Comparing the two in appearance, Slater thought Bressler could easily pass for a man 10 years younger than he really was. On the other hand, Norman, who at 53 was five years younger than Bressler, could easily pass for a vagrant in his 70s if he wasn’t so obviously well-fed. He thought it really was time his partner did something about his appearance. And, his weight. Come to think of it, his colour was none to good either. Perhaps he should suggest that maybe it was time Norman had a health check.
“Please come in, gentlemen,” said Bressler, swinging the door invitingly open to reveal an immense hallway with a fabulous, very expensive-looking, Persian rug, perfectly centred on the polished oak floor. Slater and Norman skirted round it – Slater knew neither of them wanted to risk stepping on it.
“I’ll get the maid to bring some tea. Or would you prefer coffee?” asked Bressler pleasantly. He oozed charm, confidence and good looks, and certainly didn’t appear to be the least bit concerned by their unannounced arrival.
“Let’s go through to the library.” He indicated a doorway at the far end of the hall. “We can talk in there.”
Before anyone could move, Slater heard a clattering of high heels on a wooden floor, and an attractive, leggy, large-busted blonde, dressed in a tight-fitting, white trouser suit, rushed breathlessly from another room. In her left hand, she clutched a handbag which looked in imminent danger of bursting, and in the other hand, she held aloft a set of car keys.
“Found them, darling.” She giggled at Bressler, then stopped suddenly as she saw the two detectives. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realise you had company.”
“This is my girlfriend, Cindy Maine,” Bressler said.
Slater and Norman smiled a hello, and she smiled sweetly in return. Slater thought she was quite a good match for the stereotype he had been imagining, only better looking, and classier. He guessed she was about 30 years old. Not bad going, for a guy of nearly 60, he thought. He thought she looked familiar somehow. Yes, that was it – she looked a lot like Sandra Bressler, the dead wife. Rudy Bressler obviously had a preferred type.
“These police officers have just come for a chat.” Bressler indicated the two officers.
“I’m sorry I can’t stop,” she told them, flicking her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “I’m running late for the hairdresser. Couldn’t find my keys.” She was still holding the keys aloft and she jingled them to emphasise her point. She reached up to peck Bressler on the cheek, and with a final, breathy “Must dash,” she was gone.
Slater felt as though a small whirlwind had just passed through.
“You must excuse Cindy,” Bressler said, laughing indulgently. “She has the looks, but she’s a bit disorganised. As a result, much of her life seems to happen at breakneck speed, trying to make up for lost time.”
He led them through to the library which turned out to be every bit as grand as it sounded. A long, rectangular room, three walls were lined from floor to ceiling with books. The fourth w
all was one huge set of folding glass doors, giving a wonderful view down the length of an extensive, lawned garden.
Slater saw Norman head over to the bookcases. He looked like a kid in a sweetshop. “Please, take a look,” Bressler said, noticing Norman’s interest. “If you know anything about books you’ll see some classics there.”
“Oh, I’m no expert,” said Norman. “I just love the look and smell of old books.”
Slater knew he was being modest – from conversations he and Norman had had before, it was clear he knew quite a lot about books, it was one of his areas of interest. Bressler picked up the phone and muttered something about tea in the library, then turned his full attention back to them.
“I assume you’ve come to ask me about Sandra?” he asked.
Slater and Norman exchanged a glance.
“Come now, gentlemen,” said Bressler. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work it out, now does it? You’ve just unearthed her body for goodness sake. Not to mention the fact that her younger sister turned up dead in more or less exactly the same spot. I’m just surprised it’s taken you so long.”
“I’m equally surprised you didn’t come forward,” said Norman.
“But, why would I? Sandra left me, completely without warning. She took our daughter, emptied my safe, jumped into a taxi, and then just vanished into thin air while I was out of the country. You probably think I’m very cold, but I did my grieving 15 years ago. I’ve moved on from there. And besides, with her mother around, I didn’t need to come forward. I knew she’d be pointing the finger straight at me, and sure enough, here you are.”
“Taxi?” said Slater and Norman in unison.
“Did you say she jumped into a taxi?” asked Slater. “There’s no mention of a taxi in the original investigation.”
“Well, there should have been.” Bressler sounded genuinely surprised. “I definitely told them about it.”
