by P. F. Ford
Who Kidnapped Billy Bumble?
by
P.F. Ford
Cover Design by Angie Zambrano
Edited by KT Editing Services
© 2013 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.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter One
What with modern technology and having a small circle of friends who mostly live quite close by, I don’t get much in the way of post, so the arrival of a letter is something of an event. The thing is, when I do hear the clack of the letterbox snapping shut, it invariably heralds the arrival of a request for payment from one company or another, so I’m never in a great hurry to see what the postman’s deposited on my doormat.
The grubby off-white envelope that lay on the floor that particular morning was so battered and creased it looked as though it must have been up and down the country two or three times before it got to me. When I picked it up and turned it over, however, I realised that wherever it had been, I couldn’t blame anyone at the Post Office for its condition. The absence of a proper address or stamp meant this particular letter had been delivered by hand. It was addressed in neat, simple handwriting to ‘Mr. A. Bowman.’
To my great surprise, despite the tatty state of the envelope the letter inside was written on a pristine sheet of writing paper. The thought flitted through my mind that perhaps whoever wrote this liked to recycle their envelopes. I unfolded the single sheet of paper to find more of the same neat handwriting. This is what it said:
Dear Mr Bowman,
I hope you don’t mind me writing to you, but I don’t know who else to turn to. My name is Allison Beatty. You may recall we met a while ago when you were looking into the disappearance of Simon Younger. You came to my house – I hope you remember. (Thanks to you I’m now getting some help with my problems.)
Unfortunately, my husband Billy was in prison when you came to see me, but he was released not long after and he’s been doing well at keeping out of trouble. He’s even got a real, proper job. He’s been trying really hard, but then last week he was arrested again. I know he didn’t do what they’re saying he did. I’ve told the police he couldn’t have done it but they won’t listen to me.
I’m at my wits end. If my husband goes back inside I don’t know what will happen to him. He’s not the sharpest knife in the block and as a result he tends to get bullied. He’s done some stupid things in the past, but he’s trying really hard to go straight now, and I know he’s being fitted up. And I think it’s all my fault. They’re picking on him because of the evidence I gave. I know it.
Please can you help me and my husband?
Allison.
I remembered Allison well enough. As she said in her letter, we met when I was looking into the thirty-year-old case of Simon Younger, a little boy who had gone missing. Allison’s evidence had been instrumental in helping us to figure out what had happened. She had been abused herself back then and still bore the mental scars today, but at least now, as a result of coming forward, she was getting some much needed counselling.
I knew nothing about her husband but I did know something about being fitted up, having been on the receiving end of such treatment myself during the Simon Younger enquiry. No doubt the same person who had been responsible for that would feel he had reason to get back at Allison. Doing it through her husband would appeal to his vindictive nature. Detective Inspector Nash of the local police was known as ‘Nasty’ Nash for good reason.
If he was involved in this, Allison would need all the help she could get, but first I thought it might be a good idea to see what I could find out before I spoke to her. Maybe a call to one of the friendlier members of the local force, in the form of my friend Detective Sergeant Dave Slater, would shed some light on the situation.
‘What can you tell me about a guy called Billy Beatty?’ I asked Slater.
‘What makes you think I know anything about him?’
‘As I understand it, he’s something of a thorn in the side of the local police. You must know him.’
‘I presume you’re talking about Billy Bumble? Lives up on The Dump?’
The Dump was the local name for a small, rather uninviting housing estate called The Valleys. As its local name suggested, it wasn’t exactly the most inviting of places. The assorted rubbish strewn everywhere was a sad reflection of the fact that some of its residents just didn’t care.
‘If he’s the same guy as Billy Beatty then yeah, that’s him. Why do you call him Billy Bumble?’
‘Because he’s what you might call “a sandwich short of a picnic”. At his best, he’s a little on the slow side, but when he’s in trouble he becomes a bumbling idiot, hence Billy Bumble. He’s just a petty thief. Well no, actually he’s more than just a petty thief, he’s a persistent petty thief and for that reason he is, as you say, a pain in the arse. Anyway, what’s it to you?’
‘Remember Allison Beatty?’
This made Slater laugh out loud. ‘How could I ever forget Allison? She was my star witness, but she hated me at first. I’ve been called some names in my time…’
Allison Beatty had indeed been a key witness in the aforementioned murder enquiry that Dave Slater and I had been involved in, but she had a troubled past and an instinctive dislike of authorities, especially police officers. Getting her to accept, and then trust, Dave Slater had been a long process.
‘Allison sent me a letter. She says Billy’s been arrested for something he didn’t do. She reckons he’s being framed. I just thought I’d ask you what you know before I go up and see her.’
‘Well, if he has been nicked, it’s not by me, and I certainly haven’t heard his name mentioned around here recently. Any idea what he’s done?’
‘Sorry, Dave. All I know is what I’ve told you. In the letter, Allison says she thinks Billy’s being stitched up because of the evidence she gave. I haven’t even spoken to her yet.’
‘Give me a couple of hours. I’ll see what I can find out and get back to you.’
Chapter Two
My old friend Dry Biro had been in a coma for several weeks now. I came to his house every three or four days just to make sure everything was okay and to water his plants. At first, I’d had to come every day to keep collecting the post, but I’d managed to catch the postman and persuade him that it really wasn’t a good idea to keep delivering letters to the home of a man who was in hospital in a coma.
On this occasion, as soon as I let myself in I knew something was different. There was nothing obvious; I just felt it. I knew someone had been in there. Very slowly and quietly, I made my way from room to room, looking for some sign that I was right, but nothing seemed out of place and nothing seemed to be missing. There was no sign of a break-in either – all the windows seemed to be intact and locked.
I went back to the kitchen. I stood in the centre and slowly looked all around. Something in here wasn’t quite right, but what was it? It took me several minutes before I finally saw what was differe
nt.
The day I had found him stretched out on the floor, my old friend had been working at the table. The two folders on the kitchen table had been on there ever since, the pale blue one on the right and the pale green on the left. Now, they were the other way around.
I studied the two folders, my mind working furiously. Could I really be sure? What if I was mistaken? After all, there was no sign of forced entry and I had the only key. Or did I? I had always been convinced that someone had attacked DB and used a key to lock the door on the way out. That key had never been recovered.
What if the attacker still had the key and had come back looking for something in those folders? Those papers had been strewn across the table that day as if someone had been searching through them, so they must mean something. What if they hadn’t found what they were looking for and had come back to look again?
But what could I do? Although I was convinced the old guy had been attacked, I had been unable to offer any proof to the police. Yes, the missing key was a little suspicious but it proved nothing. Simply having a hunch that someone had been here again was going to be even less convincing.
The sound of my phone interrupted my train of thought and I glanced at the display to see it was Dave Slater.
‘I’ve found out Billy Bumble’s not been arrested by anyone here. He’s not even on our radar right now. We’re hoping he may just have learnt his lesson this time. He’s just done six months for persistent offending. Apparently, he had a hard time inside. Slow guys like him are an easy target for bullies on the inside. The word is Billy Bumble’s trying to go straight.’
‘That’s more or less what Allison told me in her letter. So can I tell her she’s wrong to think our friend DI Nash might be behind this?’
‘Ah! Well, it’s funny you should mention him. He can’t nick anyone at the moment because he’s on gardening leave. Apparently, stress has got the better of him. Between you, me, and the gatepost, I think the “powers that be” don’t know what to do with him, so he’s been put out to grass while they decide.’
‘That must be good news for you.’
‘It’s good news for everyone here.’ He laughed. ‘There was quite a party when it was announced. He was the only one not invited.’
‘So he’s not the one who’s nicked Billy, then?’
‘I hate to disappoint you, but on this occasion I’m afraid the Nasty One is not the villain.’
‘I wonder what Allison’s on about then,’ I said absently.
‘You’ll just have to go up there and find out, won’t you?’ he said. ‘Where are you anyway?’
‘I’m just checking DB’s place and watering his plants.’
I wondered if I should mention my suspicions to him. Dave Slater had become a friend but I didn’t want to take advantage of that, nor did I want to waste his time with something I couldn’t prove. As if he could read my mind, he spoke again.
‘So what’s on your mind?’
‘Do they train you to read minds?’
‘Ha! I wish they did – it would make my job a whole lot easier. It’s just that you went quiet, as if you were trying to decide if you should share something.’
‘Bloody hell. You really do read minds. I’m going to have to be careful what I’m thinking in future.’
‘So, what did you decide?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Are you going to share or not?’
‘Well, I wasn’t going to, but since you ask – I think someone’s been in here.’
‘What? A break-in? What’s missing?’ Slater sounded interested.
‘That’s the thing. It’s not a break-in and nothing seems to be missing. I can’t show you any proof other than two folders on a table that have changed places.’
‘You’re quite sure?’
‘I couldn’t put my hand on my heart and hope to die but yeah, I’m pretty sure. I could report it but I don’t want to waste your time. Then again, we never did find that missing key.’
‘If you want to hang on there for a bit, I can take an early lunch break and come over and have a look around. Unofficially, of course. So that means you’re buying, right?’
‘You’re such a smooth talker, how could I possibly refuse?’
Chapter Three
We’d been all over the little house, checking every room for even the tiniest sign that might be a clue, but we hadn’t found a thing. If someone really had been inside the house, they had been incredibly careful. I was even beginning to doubt my certainty about the two folders being moved. Dave was doing a good job of hiding his doubts, but I could feel them coming from him in waves. The longer he was there, the more sceptical he became.
We were back in the kitchen now, standing before the table and its offending folders, waiting for the kettle to boil.
Dave had decided to change the subject away from intruders and missing clues.
‘So how is the old guy? It seems like he’s been in hospital for a long time now. Is he getting any better?’
‘It’s like he’s stuck in whatever place he is. He never seems to get any better or any worse.’
‘I honestly don’t know what to say to that. I suppose it’s good that he doesn’t get any worse, but it’s got to be a worry that he doesn’t improve at all. Do you still visit him every day?’
‘At least one of us goes every day. It seems wrong not to.’
‘But what do you do? And what do you say?’
‘I met someone years ago who had been in a coma for a couple of weeks,’ I explained. ‘She said it was like being fully restrained and then locked in a dark room. She reckoned she could hear everything everyone said but she couldn’t respond in any way. It scared the shit out of her.
‘I often wonder if that’s what it’s like for him right now, and that’s why I feel we have to go, to let him know he’s not alone. I owe him that much at least – he’s always been good to me.’
‘You must be some sort of saint. I’m not sure I could keep going every day.’
‘It’s not just me on my own, and I don’t go every day now. Sophia usually comes with me, and Pete and Daphne are regulars too.’
‘So how are things going with Sophia?’
‘Ah! Now that’s the million-dollar question.’
‘Why? Is there a problem?’
‘Not as such, no. I mean she’s gorgeous and she’s a lovely person and she’s great company-’
‘You’re surely not going to add a “but”!’ His face told me he thought I couldn’t possibly, but that didn’t stop me.
‘But,’ I carried on, ‘once she gets her confidence back I’m sure she’ll soon get tired of me and realise she could do a whole lot better.’
‘Are you serious? You are her confidence. I’ve seen you two together and I can tell you she doesn’t take her eyes off you.’
He left a little time for that to sink in before continuing. ‘And you don’t take your eyes off her. For what it’s worth, I think you two make a great couple. Whatever confidence issues you might think she has, I can promise you they disappear when she’s with you.’
He looked at me like I was the biggest idiot he’d ever met, then shook his head before continuing.
‘You want to do something about your attitude, mate. If you carry on thinking like that you’ll end up pushing her away, and if you do, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. If it was me making the choice between being with Sophia and being on my own, it would be a no-brainer.’
Leaving me to think about that, he opened the back door.
‘I’m just going to have a look around out here,’ he said, and walked out into the garden.
I’m not very good at being on the receiving end of a lecture, and this wasn’t the first one I’d been given about my relationship with Sophia. The gist seemed to be that my problem with Sophia was all in my head. Sophia’s niece Jelena was always telling me this, but hearing it now from Dave Slater, whom I hadn’t known that long, made me stop and think.
&n
bsp; I wondered what Positive Pete would think. Of course, he would say that whatever you focus your thoughts on is what will happen. And then he’d point out that my thoughts seemed to be all about losing Sophia…
The thing is, they were right, weren’t they? If I wanted Sophia to stick around I was going to have to start believing that she wanted to be with me, and stop acting like I expected her to leave at any minute. After all, what did I have to lose?
My thoughts were interrupted by a call from outside.
‘Aha! Now this might be interesting!’
‘What? What have you found?’ I rushed out to see.
Slater had one foot on the paving and the other on the drain under the kitchen window. In between his feet was a narrow flowerbed that ran along the wall under the window. The leaves of a small shrub spread out to cover the soil, but where Dave held them back there was a clearly defined footprint.
‘I take it you haven’t stepped on here recently?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Why would I? Why would anyone, come to that?’
‘I’ll show you,’ he said, stepping back onto the paving. ‘Watch this. See what you think.’
He walked back a couple of steps, turned, and acted out a possible scenario.
‘Right. I’m a burglar. I’ve got a key to let myself in, but I want to make sure the house is empty.’
He walked towards the back door. ‘So I think it might be a good idea to take a peep through the kitchen window before I unlock the door.’
He went to step across to the kitchen window, on the left side of the door, stopping with his left foot just above the ground. Right where the offending footprint was.
I could see exactly what he meant.
‘So you think he stepped from the door into the flower bed to look through the window?’
‘Exactly,’ Slater said, crouching down to have a closer look at the footprint. ‘In fact, if you look closely you can see it’s deeper on the side furthest away from the door, which is exactly what you would expect if he had stepped across the way I said.’
