by Ford,P. F.
‘We have a CD,’ said Norman. ‘We believe it’s a copy of what Mr Winter was going to give you. But we also believe someone else has a copy.’
‘Well if it was me I’d have written the story by now.’
‘We believe someone has it because they seem to be keeping one step ahead of us,’ said Slater. ‘So if we thought you had it, we would have arrested you by now.’
He raised his glass to Rippon and took a mouthful of his beer.
‘We don’t drink on duty,’ said Norman. ‘This is off the record.’
‘Well, I can tell you this,’ said Rippon. ‘Off the record or on it: if you’ve got a CD, you’ve got a bloody sight more than I have.’
‘It was sent to us from a back-up service,’ said Norman.
‘You don’t use one of them unless you feel your security’s been compromised,’ said Rippon.
‘That’s what we think,’ said Slater. ‘So do you know anyone who might make him feel that way?’
‘The guy who the story’s about would have pretty powerful motive, don’t you think?’ Rippon looked interested and less hostile now.
‘Yeah, we figured that one out for ourselves,’ said Norman. ‘But is there anyone else?’
‘You know more than I do,’ said Rippon. ‘But if you had another copy and you wanted it kept safe, who would you leave it with? The bank, in a safety deposit box, or with your solicitor.’
‘But he had the back-up service set up,’ argued Norman.
‘Maybe he didn’t trust his solicitor or his bank,’ suggested Rippon.
Slater pondered that as he took another sip of his beer.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As the front door swung open, Slater got his first glimpse of Sir Robert Maunder. He was good six inches shorter than Slater but, even though he was in his eighties, he stood tall and erect, his attitude confrontational right from the start.
‘Sir Robert Maunder?’ said Slater, politely, producing his warrant card. ‘I’m DS Slater, from Tinton police station, and this is my colleague DS Norman.’
Norman had been standing behind Slater, but he stepped forward at the sound of his name.
‘What do you want?’ snapped Sir Robert. Then he pointed a finger at Norman. ‘And what’s that idiot doing here? I specifically told them not to send him again.’
Norman didn’t say anything; Slater knew this was probably a monumental effort on his friend’s part.
‘Oh. Is there a problem?’ asked Slater. ‘I’m afraid no-one told me. We’re here to discuss the findings of the inquiry into the break-in here recently.’
‘Surely there’s nothing to discuss,’ grumbled Maunder. ‘It was this Night Caller chap, end of story.’
‘Yes,’ said Slater. ‘I understand your theory, sir. But there are one or two things I need to clarify if you could spare me a few minutes.’
‘Clarify? What do you mean clarify?’
‘Perhaps if we could come in?’
They were obviously as welcome as herpes, but after a few moments, Maunder backed into the house and opened the door to allow them in.
‘I’ll talk to you in the library, Slater,’ he said as they stepped inside. ‘But your “colleague” will have to wait out here in the hall. I’ve got nothing to say to him.’
They hadn’t been expecting a warm welcome, but even so, Slater found it hard to accept such open hostility towards Norman. He thought about insisting Norman should be in on any discussion, but Norman intervened before he could speak.
‘That’s okay, Sir Robert,’ he said. ‘I understand. I’ll wait out here. It’s better than being outside in the cold.’
Maunder grunted at Norman, then turned his back and led Slater through a door across the hall. Once inside, he closed the door behind them.
‘So what do you want to clarify, Sergeant?’ said Maunder, settling himself into the chair behind his desk. He left Slater standing, with the desk between them. The battle lines were drawn.
‘First off,’ said Slater, ‘forensic evidence indicates this was not the work of the Night Caller.’
‘Of course, it was.’ Maunder glared at him. ‘He even left his calling card. I hear he leaves it every time. And we’re just the class of people with the sort of house he would target.’
‘I can’t argue about the target,’ agreed Slater. ‘And I can’t argue about the card being left. The thing is, it’s not the Night Caller’s card. This card was left by someone who wanted us to think it was the Night Caller.’
For a few brief seconds Maunder’s eyes narrowed and a trace of panic flitted across his face. It would have been easy to miss, but it was the sort of reaction Slater had been looking for.
‘Your people must be wrong,’ he blustered.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Slater. ‘There are very distinct differences between the card left here and the real Night Caller’s card.’
Maunder said nothing.
‘How often do you forget to turn on your alarm at night?’ asked Slater.
‘That’s a very impertinent question. Don’t you know who I am?’
‘Yes, sir, I do know who you are,’ said Slater. ‘I also know how old you are, and, with respect, you wouldn’t be the first person your age to have a problem with their memory.’
‘I’m not sure I like what you’re suggesting, Sergeant.’
‘I’m not suggesting anything, Sir.’ Slater smiled pleasantly. ‘Maybe your wife has a problem with her memory, too.’
Maunder’s face had turned an angry red now.
‘I think that’s enough innuendo and suggestion, Sergeant,’ he snapped. ‘I think perhaps you should leave.’
As soon as the library door had closed, Norman started to look around. There were two more doors at the end of the hall, one of which was slightly ajar. He walked quietly across to it, stopped, and listened. He could hear nothing, so he gently pushed the door open and stepped inside.
‘Who on earth are you?’ asked a bright-eyed, sprightly looking old lady.
Norman nearly jumped out of his skin, then quickly realised this must be Maunder’s wife.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Norman, fumbling for his warrant card. ‘I’m DS Norman. I came with my colleague to speak to your husband, but I’m afraid he doesn’t want to talk to me. I was just looking for a glass of water.’
‘Ah!’ She smiled at him. ‘Do come in, Sergeant. I can do better than water. I’ve just made a pot of tea, if you’d like one.’
‘Oh, that would be wonderful,’ agreed Norman. He already liked this woman, who seemed to be the complete opposite of her grumpy husband.
‘Come and sit down.’ She indicated two chairs at the kitchen table.
‘Thank you.’ Norman grinned at her and sat down.
‘So you must be the poor soul who came when we had the break-in,’ said Lady Maunder, as she fussed around finding a cup and saucer and then pouring tea for him.
‘That was me,’ conceded Norman.
‘I’m afraid my husband’s not blessed with a great deal of patience,’ she said, setting his tea down on the table, and then settling in the chair next to him. ‘In fact just recently he seems to have none at all. But he’s not a bad person, he’s just never quite managed to retire properly, if you see what I mean. He still thinks he’s the one in charge and what he says is all that matters.’
‘Maybe something’s bothering him,’ ventured Norman. ‘If someone’s worrying about something it can make them seriously short of patience. And I understand what you mean about not retiring properly. My dad was the same. Does Sir Robert have problems with his memory, too? That’s what used to make my dad angry.’
‘Oh there’s nothing wrong with his memory.’ She laughed. ‘I think it’s just that he’s so good at everything he doesn’t expect anyone to disagree with him.’
‘It’s a shame you left your jewellery box out that night,’ said Norman. ‘It must have been sad to lose all that fabulous family stuff.’
‘Now that he
did forget to do,’ she said. ‘I had already gone to bed. I did ask him to put it away for me when he came up, but it wasn’t part of his normal routine, you see, so I expect that’s why he forgot it. It was such a pity. Still, at least we don’t have any family to pass it on to, so no one’s going to miss it, only me.’
‘You have no children?’ asked Norman.
‘No. It obviously wasn’t meant to be.’ She sighed sadly. ‘But then if we’d had children of our own he probably wouldn’t have had time for all those orphans and the children’s charities he’s helped over the years.’
‘Oh really?’ said Norman. ‘I didn’t know about that.’
‘He never used to make a song and dance about it,’ she said, smiling fondly. ‘I think it helped him deal with the fact we had none of our own.’
‘It’s funny you should mention orphans,’ said Norman. ‘I’ve only just found out there was an orphanage not far from here. What was it called now…’
‘Hatton House,’ she answered. ‘Oh yes. Robert used to spend lots of time there. It was such a pity when it closed.’
‘If you really want me to leave, I will,’ Slater said to Maunder. ‘But before I go, can you tell me if you know this man?’
He placed a photograph of Mr Winter on the desk.
Maunder looked at the photograph, and then sat back in horror.
‘Good God,’ he said. ‘That’s a mortuary photograph. That man’s dead.’
‘I’m afraid he is, yes,’ agreed Slater. ‘Do you recognise him?’
‘I’ve never set eyes on him before,’ said Maunder. ‘What makes you think I would recognise him?’
‘I thought you might know him. After all, he sent you a letter a few weeks ago.’
‘What makes you think he sent me a letter?’
‘We found a copy,’ said Slater.
‘I think you’re mistaken, Sergeant Slater.’ Maunder’s voice had taken on a menacing tone.
‘You’re probably right,’ agreed Slater, with a condescending smile. ‘Us modern-day coppers have got no idea what we’re doing. Not like it was back in your day, eh? Sir.’
‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ Maunder leapt to his feet – impressively for a man in his eighties – and rushed to the door, flinging it open with a flourish. ‘Get out of my house!’ he shouted.
‘Good heavens,’ said Lady Maunder in the kitchen, as the sound of her husband’s shouting reached them. ‘Whatever is going on?’
‘I think maybe my colleague and your husband have finished talking,’ said Norman. ‘Thank you for the tea, and I really enjoyed talking to you, but I think I’d better be going, too.’
He stood and made his way back to the hall where Maunder was berating Slater as a disgrace to the police force. Then he spotted Norman coming from the kitchen.
‘And what the hell do you think you’re doing wandering around my house?’
‘Err, your wife offered me a cup of tea-’
‘You’ve been talking to my wife? How dare you?’ Maunder roared. ‘Get out of my house, the pair of you. You’ll pay for this. It’s harassment. I’ll be talking to the chief constable, and to my lawyer.’
‘Right,’ said Norman, as he ducked past Maunder to join Slater by the front door. ‘We’ll let ourselves out then, shall we?’
‘That seemed to go well,’ observed Norman, tongue firmly in cheek, as they drove off.
‘The guy’s a real charmer, just like you said,’ said Slater. ‘He didn’t like it at all when I suggested there was something fishy about their break-in. And when I asked him about Winter… Well, he denied knowing Winter, or about any letter. But he went crazy. I thought he was going to go into orbit.’
‘Yeah. See, I told you he was an arse,’ said Norman. ‘But how does a guy like that end up with such a lovely wife? She’s his polar opposite, honestly. She’s sweet, and gentle. She made me a cup of tea and we had a cosy little chat. She tells me it was her husband who was supposed to put the jewellery box away that night. And she assures me there’s absolutely nothing wrong with his memory.’
‘That more or less confirms it, then. I bet if we get a search warrant we’ll find the stuff’s still there somewhere.’
‘Yeah. Good luck with getting someone to sanction that. I think we’ll have more luck coming at him from the other direction. His wife confirms they have no kids. She says, to make up for it, he’s always done lots for children’s charities. And get this – he used to spend loads of his spare time down at Hatton House when it was open.’
‘Do you think she knows what he was really doing down there?’ asked Slater.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Norman. ‘She sees him as spikey on the outside but with a heart of gold on the inside. She thinks he’s one of the good guys.’
‘I’ve found you a real, live ex-staff member,’ announced Jolly, when they got back to the office. ‘Gordon Ferguson. He lives in a nursing home down Portsmouth way. I’ve spoken to the staff there. They say he’s a bit of a loner, keeps himself to himself. He’s quite frail, but he’s also quite lucid, and he never gets any visitors so he’d probably appreciate someone going to see him.’
‘Now, we’re getting somewhere,’ said Slater. ‘Well done, Jane.’
‘I’ve also located some records to do with Hatton House,’ she said. ‘They’re archived at the County Council’s offices. The only problem is they’ve got no-one to sort through them, so this afternoon I’m going to go down and start sorting through it all myself.’
‘Are you okay with that?’ asked Norman.
‘It’s got to be done,’ she said. ‘And I’m sure I can do it a lot more efficiently than you two.’
‘Ouch,’ said Norman. ‘I felt that.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
When Jolly had finally tracked down the whereabouts of the records she was looking for, she had been warned about the likely condition of both the records themselves and the place where they were kept. Now she had reached that place, she could see they hadn’t been joking. She was surprised to find the archive appeared to be run by a young man who looked about thirteen years old. He introduced himself as Ryan.
‘Everything you want will be down the far end there,’ he said, pointing to the far end of the basement area. He was obviously none too keen on actually going with her to help in any way, although he didn’t say as much.
‘Right. Thank you,’ she said, doubtfully, surveying the rows of dusty shelves packed tightly with boxes and boxes of paperwork. ‘Do I get any sort of clue about exactly where it might be? Or what it might look like?’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been down that far, so I couldn’t tell you what’s down there. I suppose it’ll be in archive boxes like the rest of it.’
‘Oh, great. That’s really helpful,’ she said, testily.
‘Old Mr Rodgers would know exactly where everything was,’ he said.
‘Where’s he today?’ she asked, hopefully. If he was on a day off, maybe she could come back tomorrow.
‘In his grave,’ Ryan said. ‘He died all of a sudden. He had a heart attack. Left me in charge of this bloody lot but I’d only been here a week so he never got round to showing me what’s what.’
‘That was very inconsiderate of him,’ said Jolly, acidly, but her sarcasm was wasted. If the youthful Ryan had detected her tone, it certainly didn’t show.
‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘He was a bit of a selfish old git.’
‘It’s been lovely talking to you,’ said Jolly. ‘But I’m afraid I need to get on. It looks like I’ve got a lot to do.’
She slung her rucksack over her shoulder and made to walk past him.
‘Sorry. You can’t take that in there.’ He pointed at the rucksack.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know what’s inside it, do I?’
‘But it’s just overalls, face masks, and stuff, so I don’t get covered in dust and other assorted crap.’
‘You might want to smuggle something out,’
Ryan said, gravely. ‘I can’t allow that.’
‘I’m the bloody police, you moron,’ Jolly snapped. ‘I’m looking for evidence, and I can assure you if I find any I don’t need to smuggle it out. I’ll bloody well walk out with it under my arm! Are you clear on that?’
Ryan looked distinctly embarrassed.
‘Alright, alright,’ he said. ‘I’m just doing my job.’
‘No, Ryan,’ said Jolly. ‘You’re not doing your job, you’re obstructing a police inquiry, and the police are beginning to lose their patience. Now, are you going to let me past?’
The young man looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights, and quickly stood aside.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t so difficult, was it?’
She stepped past him and started to make her way through the basement. At the beginning it was all neat and tidy and relatively dust-free. But she couldn’t quite get her head around the sheer volume of paperwork that seemed to represent just one month’s work. If this was the paperless society computers were supposed to have heralded, she thought, then we’re all in serious trouble.
By the time she had gone back fifteen years, to the turn of the century, the dust was thick enough to write her name. It was time to don the blue smurf suit she’d persuaded Ian Becks to part with. When she told him why she wanted one, he’d also supplied her with goggles, a face mask with several spare filters, and a head torch. She wasn’t sure she’d need the goggles, but already she could see the face mask had been a good idea. As she headed deeper into the archive and the lights became less effective, she knew she was also going to be grateful for the head torch.
It took her an hour to locate what she was looking for. The dust was so thick on the top of the boxes it was obvious they hadn’t been opened in years. She was undecided if this was a good sign or a bad sign, but at least it meant no one else had been looking here, so perhaps, for once, they were ahead of the game. Then again, she thought, it could mean there was nothing here to find. Finally, she realised all this speculation was getting her nowhere. She wasn’t going to know, one way or the other, unless she opened the boxes and looked inside.
