by Ford,P. F.
“I think you need to hear this,” he said to Slater.
“Not right now, Norm. I have to go. I think Cindy’s in trouble.”
He grabbed his car keys and sprinted for the door.
Norman watched, perplexed, as Slater rushed out of the room.
“What’s all that about?” asked Biddeford.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Norman.
He was wondering what the hell was going on. Why was Slater rushing off to see Cindy? Why would she be in trouble? He thought perhaps Biddeford wasn’t the only one around here who thought with his dick. He hoped it wasn’t catching.
“Between you, me and the gatepost,” confided Norman. “I think DS Slater has a problem with Bressler. He wants him for murder and he’s just a tad disappointed he’s been released. And then there’s the small matter of a young lady called Cindy, who he seems to be rather smitten with.”
“Ah, I see.” Biddeford smiled as he realised what Norman was telling him. “So, you’re saying he’s thinking with his dick.”
“I didn’t say that,” Norman said, grinning back.
“No, of course not,” agreed Biddeford. “But he wants to be careful. That sort of thinking can get you into all sorts of trouble.”
“You think?” asked Norman.
“Trust me. I know,” said Biddeford, sadly.
“Anyway, whatever that was about doesn’t matter,” said Norman, finally. “Murray’s arranging a search warrant. He wants us to take some uniforms and pick up Jelena, now.”
Norman felt excited as they drove from the police station. This was sure to be dramatic, he thought.
“Apparently there’s some sort of commotion going on in town,” said Biddeford beside him. “Must be a fire, or something.”
“Let’s hope it’s not in the centre where we want to go,” said Norman.
It was only a short drive to get to their destination in town, but it became immediately obvious that whatever the problem was it was going to impede their progress.
“Crap,” said Norman. “It’ll be just as bad if we go around the other way. Let’s try some lights and sounds, maybe that might help. I’ll see if I can find out what’s going on.”
Biddeford switched on the siren and blue lights. Norman didn’t think it was going to help much because the traffic in front of them was trapped with nowhere to go, but it couldn’t do any harm, could it?
“Heap of rubbish,” said Norman a few seconds later. “The damned radio doesn’t work in this car. Why hasn’t it been reported and fixed?”
In exasperation, he fumbled his mobile phone from his pocket and chose a number.
“Yo, it’s Norman,” he said.
“I’m on the phone because the radio doesn’t work in this damned car,” he said, after a pause. “I want to know why we’re stuck in a traffic jam on the way into town.”
He paused again for an answer.
“A fire. Yeah.” Norman sighed heavily. “We guessed that much. Where is it?”
Another pause.
“You’re kidding me,” said Norman. “All of it?”
He cut the call in disgust.
“Where is the fire?” asked Biddeford.
“Sophia’s tea shop,” said Norman.
“But that’s where we’re going, isn’t it?” asked Biddeford.
“Yeah.” Norman shook his head. “Apparently the whole lots gone up, even the flats above. I think someone must have known we were coming.”
“That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?” said Biddeford.
“That’s the thing with these gangsters,” said Norman. “They’re not afraid to take drastic action if they think it’s necessary. But at least, because of that, we can be pretty sure we know who murdered Sarah Townley.”
“I guess that means our bird’s flown then,” Biddeford said.
“Vanished into thin air, no doubt,” agreed Norman. “We’ll do all the ‘wanted for murder’ stuff all over Europe, and we’ll get zilch in return.”
“So near to a good result,” said Biddeford. “But we end up with sod all. Shite!”
“Shite is right,” agreed Norman.
Chapter Forty
Slater was driving as fast as he could. He was in his own car, so he had no blue lights or siren to help him, but fortunately, there was little traffic about at this time of night. But would he get there in time?
He cursed as he heard the sound of sirens and the almost blinding blue flashes of emergency vehicle lights heading his way, and he was forced to waste time pulling over as two fire engines roared down the road towards town. Then he was accelerating away again.
Bressler had said “better luck next time”, and he had also pointed out there was no one to report Cindy missing if she disappeared. He knew Bressler was up to no good but would anyone else listen? What if he couldn’t get to Cindy in time? Was Bressler planning to take her up to the Haunted Copse so he could murder her too?
At last, he reached the small estate where Cindy lived. Now he slowed down and drove cautiously. Hers was the end house on the left. He could see her car parked outside, but there was no sign of Bressler’s car. Was he too late? Had Bressler already carried her off?
He killed his lights, switched off the engine, and climbed slowly and quietly from his car. In the house opposite the curtained windows glowed warm and inviting. His stomach lurched as he realised Cindy’s front door stood open. He became aware there was a sort of hush all around him.
He crept up to the front door and peered inside. The hall light was on dimly, and everything appeared normal, except for the almost deathly quiet. Surely if Cindy was here there would be some noise, wouldn’t there? A TV maybe, or some music.
Although the lights were off in the rooms at the front of the house, he could see a low light seeping from around the door that led into the lounge. The door was slightly ajar. He crept up to it as quietly as he could, scarcely daring to breathe. He stood outside the door and listened. He could just about make out something. Then he realised. It was someone quietly sobbing. All senses alert, he pushed the door open, not knowing what he might find in that room.
She was kneeling on the floor before a low table, a bouquet of flowers laid out on the floor next to her. In the centre of the table, a vase awaited the flowers. Her head was bowed over the flowers, and as Slater looked, a small sob shook her shoulders.
“Cindy?” he called softly. “Are you alright?”
She swung around, startled at first, but then she gave a small smile of recognition.
“Hello,” she said, hastily wiping her eyes. “I didn’t hear you arrive. How did you get in?”
“The front door was open,” he said. “Why are you crying? Has Bressler-”
“He brought me flowers,” she said, sadly. “Just to say goodbye, and good luck. Isn’t that sweet?”
“Flowers?” said Slater. “But I thought-”
“You see,” she interrupted him. “I told you Rudy was a nice man. He’s always been good to me. I know he got them from the late night supermarket but it was very thoughtful of him. I’ll miss that. Look, he even added a card.”
Slater was still not quite able to make sense of what he was seeing. He had expected an abduction, or worse, a murder. But flowers? And a card?
She reached forward and handed him the card.
To the one who got away, it read. Thank you and good luck for the future. Rudy.
Epilogue
It was nearly time to go home. As they stood outside Bob Murray’s office, Slater and Norman looked out onto a cold, dark November night. Slater knocked on the door, and waited patiently. Standing alongside him, Norman had made the effort to look smart for this meeting. Slater thought he’d failed, as usual, but at least he’d made the effort.
“Come,” boomed the familiar, deep voice from the other side of the door.
Norman looked at Slater.
“Who goes first?” he whispered.
Slater stepped aside and indicated fo
r Norman to lead the way.
“Age before beauty.” He smiled at Norman, knowing there was no time for a retort.
As they entered the room, Murray rose from behind his desk to meet them, shaking each warmly by the hand. Then he led them across to three easy chairs well away from the formality imposed by his desk, and settled them down with tea and biscuits.
“I thought we should meet so we all know what’s going on and why,” he explained. “I’m coming under a great deal of pressure to save money and that could mean making some tough decisions. As senior members of my team, I’d welcome your views on one or two things.”
Slater nodded his appreciation of Murray’s desire to make them feel included, but he also knew the old man well enough to know they were extremely unlikely to be able to change his mind if he’d already made it up.
“Right,” Murray began. “First thing to tell you is that PC Flight has finally chosen to resign. I can’t say I’m disappointed she’s going, but I can say I’m glad I didn’t have to sack her.”
Slater had mixed feelings about this news. On the one hand, he knew she had to go, but he also thought it was a pity someone with so much potential had got herself into such a mess and caused so much trouble. He knew she had been referred for psychiatric help, and he hoped it helped sort her out.
“You’ll be pleased to know DC Biddeford has returned from leave, but he won’t be returning to duty here.”
“But boss,” interrupted Slater. “You can’t just push him out like that. He made a mistake. We’ve all done it.”
Slater and Norman had both lobbied on behalf of Biddeford being given a second chance. He had apologised to all of them, and there was no doubt he was genuinely sorry and not just paying lip service to save his job.
“He made a grave error of judgement,” said Murray, firmly. “It was far more than a mistake.”
He let them absorb his opinion before he went on.
“However, if you’ll just let me finish,” he continued. “I can tell you that after listening to what you two had to say in his defence it was very easy to see how highly you both regard him. I suggested he take some leave so he could think about his situation. We’ve had two meetings during that time, and we’ve come up with a solution that I think will work for everyone.”
He sat back and sipped at his tea. Slater waited, slightly irritated at the way Murray always liked to keep people in suspense.
“He’s an ambitious young man,” he finally continued. “There’s a limit to how far he can go in a place like Tinton, so he’s going to have to move on eventually. In the meantime, I’m doing what I can to help him by sending him away for some further training. It’s not forever, and he will be back.”
Slater and Norman shared a sigh of relief.
“That sounds like a good solution,” said Norman. “He’s definitely a bright kid. It’ll be a shame to see him go, but you’re right, he’s going to need something more challenging than this to fulfil his full potential.”
“He’ll be a big miss if he goes for good,” agreed Slater.
“And now we come to you two,” said Murray.
“Us?” said Slater. “What about us?”
“I’m under a lot of pressure to split you two up,” answered Murray. “It seems it doesn’t matter how successful you are as a team, it’s more important how my head count appears on a spreadsheet. Having such limited numbers, I’m not supposed to put two detective sergeants together.”
“But we don’t work together all the time,” argued Slater.
“Yeah,” agreed Norman. “It’s only when we get a big case, and you have to admit we’ve been pretty successful as a team.”
“Oh, I agree with you completely.” Murray sighed, wearily. “But the people above me can’t see beyond their budgets and spreadsheets, and that seems to be all that matters these days.”
Slater thought his boss sounded thoroughly sick and tired of the continual battle he seemed to be fighting against cost cuts forced on him from above. He certainly looked tired.
“Talking of big cases,” said Murray. “Where are we with this missing murder suspect?”
“Still no sign,” said Norman, looking glum. “She seems to have vanished into thin air. We’ve had all the borders under scrutiny, we’ve got Interpol on it, and we’ve even had the Serbian police looking out for her, but she’s not turned up anywhere.”
“What about the fire?” asked Murray.
“Definitely deliberate,” said Norman. “They found traces of accelerant all over the place. According to the experts, this fire was set to destroy all traces of everything. It was designed to raze the building to the ground, and it did exactly that.”
“I’m still not convinced she’s murdered anyone,” Slater chipped in. “And as for being an arsonist... And the two witness statements we have are so unreliable. They wouldn’t stand up in court.”
“You’re not totally impartial though, are you?” asked Murray.
“It’s not just me,” said Slater. “Her aunt doesn’t believe it, and nor does her aunt’s boyfriend. They know her better than anyone.”
“Maybe they didn’t know her as well as they think,” said Norman. “According to the Serbian police, this Slick Tony guy definitely has a daughter who matches her description and is the right age.”
“There are lots of nice looking, dark-haired, Serbian girls who would be the right age,” argued Slater. “I still think you should be considering the possibility she was kidnapped or murdered.”
“Alright,” snapped Murray. “Let me stop you both right there. The fact is we have two statements that suggest she was involved and one of those also suggests she pushed a victim from an airplane. Taken at face value, and right now that’s all we can do, she becomes murder suspect number one.
“It appears she also set fire to her own home to destroy any evidence we might have found there and then she fled. The problem is, it’s been a month now and we’re still no further forward than we were on day one. As from today, this inquiry is going to be scaled down. By the end of the week it’s going to be shelved as unsolved.”
Slater was appalled at the idea. He glanced at Norman, who looked annoyed, but nowhere near as shocked as Slater felt. But Norman had been around a lot longer, he reasoned. This probably wasn’t the first time this has happened to Norman, after all. But to Slater, it was a new experience – and he didn’t like it one bit.
“I know you don’t like it,” said Murray to Slater. “I’m not mad about it myself, but we can’t afford to have our people tied up on this any longer. We’re getting nowhere, and meanwhile we’re building up a whole collection of smaller crimes that are going unsolved. The spreadsheet says we have to stop, like it or not.”
“But what do I tell her family here?” asked Slater.
“Tell them the truth,” said Murray.
“But they won’t give up on her, I can guarantee that,” said Slater, hugely disappointed.
“And if they come to us with any credible information I’ll be happy to re-open the case,” said Murray. “But for now it’s closed.”
For a while, they sipped their tea in gloomy silence, until Murray spoke again.
“Look, David,” he said. “In the space of a couple of weeks you and your team solved a 15-year old-murder, and stopped a smuggling ring in its tracks. You should be proud of yourself.”
“He’s right,” added Norman. “Okay, there’s another murder that hasn’t been solved, but the world still keeps turning. Some cases never get solved, no matter how much we want to find out what really happened. That’s just the way it is.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Slater sighed, resignedly.
“Come on,” said Norman. “I think the boss has finished with us for now.” He looked across at Murray who nodded his agreement.
“I think maybe we could do with a couple of beers and a takeaway to celebrate,” continued Norman.
“Celebrate what?” asked Slater.
; “The boss forgot to mention it.” Norman beamed at him. “But I haven’t forgotten how you also captured Dick Waver, the notorious Phantom Flasher.”
“Oh, yeah!” said Slater, a smile threatening to break out on his face. “My best collar ever.”
“Let’s go.” Norman grinned, as they stood ready to leave. “You know I’m right. I always am.”
“I guess I can drink to that.” Slater grinned back, feeling immensely grateful for Norman’s positivity.
***
Florence
A Dave Slater Mystery Series 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.
Prologue
It had been a cold, frosty February night. Now, in the early morning darkness, well before dawn, parts of the little town were beginning to come to life and prepare for the coming day. On the outskirts, away from the town centre, the lights were on in the small supermarket. Nearer the centre, the mouth-watering smell of bread, fresh from the oven, wafted from the open door of the bakery. A little further along, light shone across the pavement from the open door of the newsagents as the owner grappled the bundles of today’s news into the shop. An occasional car stopped outside and disgorged its occupant in search of an early morning newspaper and maybe a pack of cigarettes.
In the shadows, a small, tatty-looking old woman flitted from doorway to doorway, a grubby off-white coat tied around her waist with what appeared to be string. She seemed to be looking for something, and as she searched she muttered quietly to herself, absently running her fingers through her long silver-grey hair, much as a child might do.
As she got to the bakery, she hovered in the doorway, peering inside until a kindly woman dressed in white overalls came out carrying a large brown paper bag.
