by Ford,P. F.
Luckily for them, Mrs Deadman proved to have a pretty good memory, and she could remember the time in question quite well. It turned out her husband had been keen to make a statement to the police at the time to make it clear that whatever might have happened, it was nothing to do with him.
“It was terrible,” she told them. “Arthur was retired, really. He was only working that day to help out because they were short of staff. He was just doing his job, that’s all. He went to the police station to make a statement and then suddenly they were asking all sorts of questions about where he’d taken them and what he’d done to Mrs Bressler and her daughter. By the time they’d finished, they made him feel as though they thought he’d done away with them.”
Slater felt a certain amount of pity for the Deadmans. He knew DS Nash, who had led the inquiry back then, and he knew just how unpleasant Nash could be when it suited him. His nickname had been “Nasty Nash” and with good reason.
“Just to make sure we’ve got our facts right,” Norman said, patiently. “Can you tell me where he took them that day?”
“To Gatwick airport,” Mrs Deadman said. “Mrs Bressler, the little girl, and several suitcases. I remember him complaining about all the cases. He had to load them all onto a trolley and push them inside for her.”
“Did he say anything about Mrs Bressler? About her behaviour?”
“I remember he said she was quite unpleasant, and not at all grateful for his help with the cases. She didn’t even give him a tip.”
Slater leaned forward involuntarily at this little snippet, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Norman do the same.
“I don’t suppose there’s any point in showing him a photo to check if he recognises her?” Norman asked.
“Sorry,” Mrs Deadman said, sighing. “That would be a complete waste of time. I know he said she was very nice looking. ‘Well bred’ was the expression he used. I think that’s why he was so upset by her being so unpleasant. He thought someone like that should know better.”
“Would this woman fit the bill?” asked Norman, producing the photo of Sandra Bressler.
“Oh yes. I’m sure that’s the type,” she said, quite definitely. “Is that her?”
“Yes. That’s Sandra Bressler,” said Norman. “Did your husband ever mention the little girl who was with Mrs Bressler?”
“Oh yes.” She smiled at the memory and clasped her hands together. It was almost as if she could see the conversation back then and listen in to it.
“He thought she was wonderful,” Mrs Deadman continued. “A right little chatterbox, he said. Never stopped talking, even though her mother kept telling her to stop. She told him how they were going on holiday but she had to keep out of the sun, because she had pale skin and burned easily.”
“Do you know if she had red hair?” asked Norman.
“That’s right,” she said, clapping her hands together. “He told me she had red hair. Lots, and lots, of curly red hair.”
“Pale skin, and red hair,” said Norman carefully, clearly trying to coax as much detail as possible. “So lots of freckles.”
“It’s funny you should say that,” she began. “Because I clearly remember him saying she didn’t have any freckles at all. He thought that was odd, because pale skin and red hair usually means freckles, doesn’t it?”
“So what do you make of what we’ve learnt this morning?” asked Slater when they got back in their car to head back to the station. “Does it confirm your ‘second woman’ theory?”
“What ‘second woman’ theory?” asked Norman.
“Come on, Norm. Give me some credit here. I’m not an idiot. You showed Ted Pearce both photos because you figured he wouldn’t be able to tell one gorgeous, leggy, blonde, with big boobs and long hair, from another. Am I right?”
“It’s just an idea I think might be worth looking into,” Norman said. “Don’t you?”
“I think it’s an idea we have to look into,” Slater said, nodding. “Especially as we’ve just had two people give us totally opposite personality descriptions. For both mother and daughter.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I see PC Jolly’s done as you asked,” said Norman, as they came back into the incident room. He nodded towards the new whiteboard that now stood alongside the others.
“Now that’s more like it,” Slater said, following his gaze.
They both stopped in front of the board to admire Jolly’s handiwork. In large block letters, the board was devoted to: Victim Number Two – Rose Bressler, Age – five years. A nice big photograph clearly showed the slightly anxious smile of a shy-looking but pretty five year old with lots of freckles and long ginger hair that cascaded down over her shoulders.
“Well, I suppose you could turn straight hair into curly hair easy enough,” said Norman. “But there’s no way you could hide those freckles. So, if this is Rose, who’s the kid who got in the taxi?”
“And, even more important, who was the woman with her?” added Slater, tossing the removals worksheet onto his desk.
“We must try to keep open minds on this.” Norman said, still looking at the whiteboard. “We’ve only got Mrs Deadman’s word for it, and she wasn’t even there.”
“I haven’t forgotten that,” Slater said. “But you have to agree it all adds up. Someone murders Sandra and Rose, and then impersonates them to make it look like they ran away. It works for me.”
“It takes Bressler out of the frame then.”
“Not if he had an accomplice who looked like Sandra,” argued Slater.
“What about the matching kid? That would be just a little too convenient, don’t you think?”
“But that’s just the point,” Slater said, smiling. “It wasn’t a matching kid, was it? If Mrs Deadman is right, it was close to being a match, but not quite close enough.”
“We need some way of confirming her story.” Norman sighed heavily. “Maybe if we can find out which flight they got on at Gatwick we’ll get lucky.”
“Didn’t the original investigation say they never traced the flight?” asked Slater.
“Well, yeah,” said Norman. “But how hard do you think they looked?”
“Good point,” agreed Slater. “That’s the sort of job Steve Biddeford’s good at.”
As they were talking, Jane Jolly appeared.
“Nice work on the board.” Slater pointed at the picture of Rose.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, but she looked a bit uncertain.
“You didn’t come in here seeking praise, did you?”
“I’m afraid not.” She shifted uncomfortably. “It’s the boss. Big Bob. He left a message saying he wants to see you, in his office, just as soon as you get back.”
“What? Both of us?” asked Norman.
“Uh, uh,” said Jolly, shaking her head. “Just DS Slater.”
Slater began to get an ominous feeling. He’d been taken to task for speaking his mind before, but he was sure he hadn’t spoken out of turn recently. Even so, this sounded suspiciously like he was going to get a bollocking for something.
“Did he say what I’ve done wrong?” he asked.
“No,” said Jolly. “But he definitely didn’t sound very happy. Not even a ‘please’ or a ‘thank you’.”
“Shit,” muttered Norman. “Now that does sound bad.”
Bob Murray was renowned for his sometimes old-fashioned ways, which included good manners. He only ever forgot them when he was in a seriously bad mood.
“I’d better go face the music,” said Slater, grimly. He picked up the jacket he’d just taken off and turned to go.
“Good luck,” said Norman. “While you’re gone I’ll see if I can track down Biddeford and get him going on the flight search. Maybe he’ll be in a better mood now he’s had time to cool down.”
Norman watched Slater make his way from the room, feeling slightly worried for his colleague and friend.
“Anyway,” he said to Jolly, keen to lift the mood. “You seem to be the
only person who knows what’s going on around here, so where can I find Steve Biddeford?”
“Don’t know,” she said. “No one’s seen him since his little outburst this morning.”
“Really?” asked Norman. “That’s so unlike him to play the spoilt kid. He’s usually Mr Reliable. I wonder what’s eating him today.”
Jolly was looking distinctly uncomfortable, and studiously trying to avoid Norman’s gaze, but Norman was an old hand. He knew guilt when it was stood right in front of him.
“You know something about this, Jane, don’t you?”
She looked even more uncomfortable.
“Don’t make me pull rank, Jane. This is about holding the team together and keeping people happy. We’ll never solve this thing if there’s infighting going on, you know that. If you know something you need to tell me.”
“It might be nothing,” she said quietly.
“If it is, it’ll go no further than me, I promise.”
“I feel like a gossip,” she said, unhappily.
“Look. I’m known for my ability to keep a secret.” Norman sighed, impatiently. “If it turns out to be nothing, I won’t tell anyone and then no one will know you told me. Now come on, out with it.”
“Like I said, it might be nothing, but when Phillipa Flight phoned in sick this morning, she called from Steve Biddeford’s home phone number. I think she must have slept with him last night.”
“Ahhh. I see,” said Norman, very slowly and thoughtfully. “That could explain quite a lot.”
He could have said a whole load more, and Jolly looked as though she was expecting him to explain, but he figured she probably had no idea about Flight’s night-time hobby, and now certainly wasn’t the right time to tell her.
“Right,” he said decisively. “You know nothing about this, okay? I’ll speak to Dave when he comes back and we’ll work out what to do for the best. In the meantime, you get back to your work. I’ll speak to you later.”
“Okay. I know nothing,” said Jolly as she headed back to work.
Norman thought it would be great if he could say the same…
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Come,” boomed Murray’s voice from beyond the door, as Slater knocked.
Taking a deep breath, Slater opened the door and walked in. Murray had his head down reading something on the desk in front of him. He ignored Slater, leaving him feeling distinctly uncomfortable, until he’d finished reading, then he sat back in his seat.
“Ah. DS Slater. Thank you for coming to see me.”
Slater said nothing. Such formality from the boss was usually a bad sign, and there was an uncomfortable looking chair in front of Murray’s desk. This was known amongst the staff as the “chop chair”. Rumour had it that people were only ever invited to sit in this particular chair if they were about to get a serious bollocking.
Slater knew how uncomfortable that chair was – he’d been invited to sit in it on more than one occasion before, but he’d always known why. Usually it was because he’d said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and he accepted such bollockings as being fair enough, but right now he had no idea what he was guilty of.
“Is anything worrying you?” asked Murray. “Only you look a little uncomfortable.”
“Well, to be honest boss, I’m a bit concerned about the ‘chop chair’ being set in front of your desk like that. I’m always prepared to accept a bollocking when I’m in the wrong, you know that, but right now I’m in the dark about why this one’s coming my way.”
Murray let Slater stew for a few moments.
“That chair’s not just for the benefit of those about to be chewed up.” He smiled at Slater. “It’s also for people who annoy me by insisting on seeing me when I’m busy. By making them sit on an uncomfortable chair, they tend to take less of my time than they otherwise would. It works very well. I recommend it for time wasters.”
Slater breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
“Anyway, you already know just how uncomfortable that chair is, don’t you?” asked Murray, easing his chair back and getting to his feet.
“I have had the pleasure once or twice, yes,” Slater said.
“But not today,” said Murray, pointing across the office to two easy chairs either side of a low table. “This is a chat, not a bollocking.”
He led the way across the office, poured two cups of tea and invited Slater to settle into a chair.
“So how’s this case going?” he asked. “Give me a five-minute update.”
And so Slater did, bringing Murray right up to date with what they’d discovered this morning.
“And does Norman agree with this idea that there was a second woman impersonating Sandra Bressler?”
“He was already thinking it was a possibility before we spoke to Mrs Deadman,” Slater said. “But we’re also aware that even though it’s a neat theory, Mrs Deadman’s not a viable witness. We need to find some real proof.”
“It fits though, doesn’t it?” said Murray, thoughtfully. “I like the way you and Norman work together. I shouldn’t really have two sergeants working together, but it seems to be proving to be very successful. What’s young Biddeford working on today?”
“He’s out looking for the light aircraft,” Slater said, lying. “He’s pretty sure he’s got it narrowed down to the type of plane, and where it’s based-”
“Stop right there!” Murray barked. “I have to ask myself why you’re lying to me. Are you trying to protect Biddeford, or yourself?”
Slater stopped talking, his face turning scarlet. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times, but nothing came out.
“Did you know Biddeford came to see me earlier today to ask for a transfer?” said Murray, quietly.
“What? Err, I mean, no Sir. No. I didn’t know that,” said Slater.
“Did you know he is so unhappy he feels it’s the only thing he can do?”
No point in lying to cover for him now, thought Slater.
“Up until this morning,” he said, “Biddeford has given the impression that he’s happy to be an important part of our team, and we’ve done our best to encourage him and help him develop.”
“And what happened this morning?” prompted Murray.
“He came in like a bear with a sore head, complaining that we give him all the shit jobs to do and saying he’s had enough,” explained Slater. “When Norman tried to give him his task for today, he got all arsey. I told him he was going to be no use to the team the way he was, and to either change his attitude or sod off home.”
“And he chose to go home,” finished Murray.
“I thought he’d go off and have some breakfast, think about things, calm down and get back to normal.” Slater sighed. “I probably didn’t handle it very well, but I wasn’t going to have him bad-mouthing his superiors and upsetting the team.”
“Hmm,” said Murray. “You probably could have chosen your words better, but you’re right about his attitude. Like the rest of us, he has to respect the rank even if he doesn’t like the person. I’m sure half the staff here hate my guts and probably with good reason, but I still expect them to respect my position.”
Murray gazed out of the window. Slater thought his boss was probably right about half the staff hating his guts, but he didn’t think telling him so would be appropriate right now, so he kept quiet and let Murray think.
“And there’s nothing personal between the two of you?” Murray asked, eventually.
“Not that I’m aware of,” said Slater, a bit puzzled by the question.
“And as far as you know the other men in the team are quite happy?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What about the female members of the team? Are they all happy?”
Slater couldn’t see where Murray was going with these questions. What was he getting at? Am I being accused of something? Whatever it was, he wanted to know. He couldn’t handle all this piddling around.
&
nbsp; “Sir,” he said. “If I’m being accused of something, I think I have a right to know what it is.”
“Of course,” said Murray. “And, if you are accused of something, I’ll tell you.”
Now Slater was confused and getting a tad steamed up.
“I’m sorry, Sir, but that’s not good enough. Your questions appear to suggest there may be a problem between me and the female members of the team. If that’s what you’re suggesting, I’d rather you came out and said as much.”
Murray let out a long sigh.
“So tell me about PC Flight,” he said.
“What about her?” asked Slater, warily.
“How do you get on with her?”
“Well, she’s a bit fierce,” said Slater. “She fancies herself as a bit of an action woman so she creates merry hell when she’s asked to work inside. And I sometimes wonder if she has a sense of humour, but when she puts her mind to it she’s a good copper.”
“Have you had a sexual relationship with her?”
“What?” Slater was shocked. “No I bloody haven’t. Who says I have?”
“Calm down, calm down,” said Murray. “No one is saying you have, I’m just trying to establish a few facts.”
“Why?” asked Slater. “What the hell’s going on?
“There’s a possibility that PC Flight is going to file a complaint against you for sexual harassment.”
“She’s bloody lying,” said Slater, aghast. “Who’s told you this? Is that what Biddeford told you?”
“Is she off sick today?” asked Murray, ignoring Slater’s questions.
“Yes,” said Slater, trying desperately hard to keep his cool.
“Do you know why?”
“No,” Slater said, even though he knew full well.
“Get someone to find out,” said Murray. “And I want to know the real reason, not some made-up bullshit.”
He turned to face Slater, who was looking somewhere between shell-shocked and homicidal.
“Now listen to me,” said Murray sternly. “You are to speak to no one about this, do you understand? I know you want to go and murder someone right now, but you’re to do nothing. Got it?”
