A Complete Fiasco

by P. F. Ford

  ‘Ah! Mr Bowman. I’m so glad I found you,’ said an unfamiliar voice. It was a sort of flat, toneless voice that said absolutely nothing about its owner, except it was obviously a man. Was there a trace of an accent? Possibly, but Alfie couldn’t even hazard a guess at the origin.

  ‘Who is this? How did you get this number?’

  ‘You don’t know me, my friend. We’ve never met. But trust me, I’m calling to do you a favour.’

  ‘And what sort of favour do you think you have to offer me?’

  ‘I don’t think, my friend, I know. I’ve got some advice you would do very well to listen to, and then act upon.’

  Some people can imply a major threat with the mere tone of their voice. Alfie thought this guy was one of those people, but he wasn’t easily intimidated.

  ‘Let’s get a couple of things straight, shall we?’ he said. ‘You’ve just said we’ve never met, so you’re not my “friend” okay? And when I need advice I generally turn to people I trust. I don’t take it from complete strangers.’

  ‘But maybe your friends are unaware of your situation and so unable to advise you.’

  ‘What do you mean “my situation”? And why do I feel this is sounding more and more like a threat?’

  ‘Let me make it as clear as I can, so you understand exactly what I’m saying,’ said the man, very deliberately. ‘Right now I’m offering you some friendly advice. However, should you choose to ignore this advice, I may have to be a little more persuasive.’

  Alfie didn’t like being threatened and now he was getting irritated.

  ‘This doesn’t sound very “friendly” to me,’ he said. ‘So, let me tell you what you can do with your advice. Why don’t you-’

  ‘Oh dear,’ interrupted the voice. ‘I don’t seem to have your attention. That’s a pity. Perhaps if I was to mention a name it might help you to focus your mind on what I’m trying to tell you. How about Sophia Ingliss? Does that name mean anything to you?’

  Sophia was Alfie’s girlfriend. He had been about to hang up, but the man certainly had his full attention now.

  ‘Sophia? What about her? What’s she got to do with this?’ He couldn’t disguise the panic in his voice.

  ‘Oh good. Now I seem to have your attention. Are you listening now?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, through gritted teeth. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I just want to advise you to keep away from her. That’s all. It’s quite simple. Even someone like you should be able to do that.’

  ‘But she’s my neighbour. She owns the flat I live in. I can’t just ignore her.’

  ‘Tut, tut, Mr Bowman. You shouldn’t lie to me. We both know you and Sophia are much more than just neighbours, don’t we? And of course you can ignore her, and you must. This is not negotiable. Sophia’s husband made it very clear to me that I must insist. In fact, he asked me to tell you to go and see her tonight and explain to her that you never want to see her again.’

  Alfie was struggling to get his head around what he was hearing. What was this man talking about? Sophia was divorced. She had told him so. There was no reason why she would lie about something like that.

  ‘You seem to have gone very quiet, Mr Bowman. Has the cat got your tongue? I understood you were a rather moral person – surely you don’t think it is right to be having an affair with a married woman, do you?’

  Alfie could hardly think straight. Surely this couldn’t be right.

  ‘I hate to disappoint you,’ he said, ‘but we’re not having an affair. And anyway she’s not married. She’s divorced.’

  ‘Is that what she told you? Oh dear, oh dear. How very remiss of her. You just don’t know who you can trust these days, do you?’

  There was a brief silence, then he added his final thoughts.

  ‘Let me put it like this,’ he said. ‘If I find you’ve been anywhere near her after you have spoken to her tonight, you’re both going to regret it. And trust me, I will find out.’

  And with that, he ended the call.

  Chapter Six

  It was just coming up to 7am and it was raining. Dave Slater was quietly cursing Slick Tony. DC Richie Weir was less forgiving, and was very loudly cursing Slick Tony, DCI Jimmy Jones from the Serious bloody Crime sodding Unit, and just about anyone else he could think of. He was especially pissed off with Dave Slater, who had volunteered him for this stupid job in the first place, but he knew better than to complain out loud. For now, at least, he contented himself with just thinking what he thought of Slater. These were by far the foulest of his curses.

  ‘Bloody Biddeford should be carrying this stuff,’ he complained. ‘I’m supposed to be the sodding surveillance expert not some friggin’ pack animal humping all the equipment.’

  ‘Will you stop complaining,’ replied Slater. ‘Biddeford is with the techie guy setting up a camera at the back of the target house. You had the choice and you didn’t want to do it, so you’ve only got yourself to blame.’

  ‘I would have done it if I’d known what the bloody alternative was,’ grumbled Weir.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you would have, but you thought you were picking the easy ride, as usual, so it’s your own fault. Now quit bitching and let’s get on.’

  There were three of them in the team: DS Dave Slater, his young, inexperienced but mad-keen partner DC Steve Biddeford, and DC Richie Weir. If Steve Biddeford was the policeman of the future, Richie Weir considered himself the policeman of the past. He was old school, and proud of it. He knew Biddeford considered him a dinosaur, though. They were not friends.

  When Slater had given the other two the choice of helping the techie or helping him, Weir had jumped at the chance to help Slater. Unfortunately for him, he had assumed Slater would have kept the softest job for himself – it’s what he himself would have done – but to Weir’s disgust, Slater was leading by example across a ploughed field, laden with surveillance equipment.

  ‘I don’t see why we couldn’t just drive the sodding van up to the old girl’s front door and unloaded it like a normal job,’ he complained.

  ‘But it’s not a normal job, is it?’ snapped Slater. ‘If it was a normal job, we wouldn’t have the SCU down here watching our every move, would we? If it was a normal job, we wouldn’t have a guy like Slick Tony on our patch. And-’ He raised his voice for this last bit. ‘If it was a normal job, I wouldn’t have to listen to you bloody whingeing, would I?’

  ‘But look at this mud?’ Weir glared down at his feet. ‘I’m knee-deep in the bloody stuff.’

  ‘No, Richie. We’re knee-deep in the bloody stuff. It’s not just you. I’m here too. But it’s what we’ve got to do, alright? And I’m warning you, if you don’t stop complaining I’m going to dump you on your arse in the bloody stuff.’ Slater looked towards the fences at the back of the houses they were approaching. ‘Look, we’re nearly there now.’

  They had decided to approach their surveillance house from the back so they couldn’t be seen bringing in their equipment. The plan had been to drive across the field behind the houses, stop by the fence, remove a panel and walk their equipment the few yards across the back garden and into the house. This had seemed a brilliantly simple idea. What could possibly go wrong?

  Unfortunately, this brilliantly simple plan hadn’t taken into account the fact this was farmland. Farmland that had been freshly ploughed just the day before their arrival. Even when he had opened the gate and waved Weir through, Slater hadn’t noticed what should have been obvious. Even a Land Rover would have been in trouble trying to cross this freshly ploughed field. Their van had no chance. Before they knew it, they were up to their axles and going nowhere. They couldn’t even reverse back out. They had something like 250 yards to cover. They hadn’t even covered twenty-five yards before they became stuck fast.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Weir had announced. ‘Looks like we’re stuck. Better call for some help.’

  Having stated the blindingly obvious, he had then started to settle himself for a long wai
t. He knew it was likely to be two or three hours before help arrived, and he wished he’d brought a newspaper or something. His contentment had been rudely shattered by Slater making his own announcement.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ he’d said. ‘We can’t hang around here. We were already late before we got stuck. We’ll just have to walk the stuff across to the house. This is way too important for us to just sit here and do nothing.’

  Despite Weir’s protests, Slater had insisted. And, of course, just to punish them even further, the minute they started walking it had begun to rain…

  At last, they reached the fence. It was wooden panels set in grooved concrete posts. At least this part of the operation presented no problem. It was a simple matter to lift a panel out and place it carefully to one side. Roughly twenty yards of lawn remained between them and the back of the house. Just 20 yards more and they could put their equipment down. In the early morning quiet, laden like pack horses, both puffing and sweating profusely, they began to walk across the lawn.

  They got just halfway before the silence was shattered in spectacular fashion by the abrupt arrival, seemingly from nowhere, of a snarling, yapping dog, which proceeded to attack DC Weir’s ankles.

  ‘Aaarrgghh! The little bugger’s bitten me,’ screamed Weir, dropping his precious cargo to clutch his freshly gnawed left ankle. He began to hop on the spot, the dog rushing in to snap at his unprotected right ankle.

  ‘Mind the bloody gear,’ cried Slater, as the equipment Weir was carrying crashed to the ground.

  ‘Bugger the soddin’ gear,’ yelled Weir. ‘The friggin’ thing’s drawn blood.’

  He released his ankle long enough to aim a kick at the onrushing dog, but the dog was way too quick and he missed by miles. Seeing an easy opportunity, it rushed in and took another hefty nip at the same ankle.

  ‘Aya little bastard! I’ll get you for this.’

  Just as the dog seemed to be about to launch another attack. it suddenly stopped, looked to the back of the house, and then trotted off as if nothing had happened.

  Then they heard a voice calling, ‘Bobby, Bobby. Come here, you naughty boy.’ A little old lady appeared at the back door. ‘Coooee,’ she called. ‘Is that you, Sergeant Slater?’

  ‘Mrs Thatcher,’ Slater called back. ‘Sorry we’re a bit late.’

  ‘Sorry we’re a bit late?’ hissed Weir. ‘What about my friggin’ ankle?’

  ‘All I can say is it can’t have tasted very good,’ said Slater, quietly with a grin, ‘or he’d still be chewing it now. Let’s just hope he doesn’t get food poisoning. And I don’t want you making a fuss about this. We need this lady on our side so you say nothing.’ Slater marched across to speak with Mrs Thatcher. As he approached, the dog peered at him from behind her skirt.

  ‘I see you’ve met Bobby,’ she said. ‘He does like to say hello in his own way.’

  Slater smiled at her.

  ‘Yes, he does,’ he agreed. ‘He’s certainly made an impression on my colleague.’

  Across the other side of The Dump, blissfully unaware of the mess his colleagues had managed to create for themselves, DC Steve Biddeford hummed happily to himself as he stepped back to admire their pet techie’s handiwork. Despite the early morning gloom under the trees, they’d quickly managed to find the perfect place for the camera, and it now nestled up in a tree overlooking the back garden of number 38. It had been safely fixed in place, and was working. He could see the results for himself on the portable screen he was now holding.

  ‘Great job, Mike.’ He patted the techie on the back. ‘I owe you a pint.’

  ‘Or maybe two pints. Can I get off out of the rain now?’

  ‘Yes, you get off home. And I’ll carry this little baby with me.’ He tucked the portable screen inside his jacket to keep it out of the rain. All he had to do now was meet up with the other two and add his contribution to their collection of surveillance equipment.

  In the back bedroom of number 38, Slick Tony was laying on the bed watching early morning TV. But this was no ordinary early morning TV. The programme he was watching featured two guys setting up a camera in a tree beyond the garden of this very house.

  Slick Tony had managed to build an empire and stay out of trouble by making sure he was always one step ahead of everyone else. And even now he was on the run, his escape plan included staying ahead of the police.

  ‘So.’ He smiled to himself. ‘Now they’re watching the back garden.’ He had expected that, so there was no need to panic.

  Chapter Seven

  At last, Slater and Weir had reached terra firma in the form of the patio outside Mrs Thatcher’s back door. The rain had now settled to a steady drizzle and both men were soaked to the skin. A trail of muddy footprints led across the lawn and patio. The unfit Richie Weir was exhausted and was wondering loudly why they were still out here in the rain when they could be inside getting dry and drinking tea.

  He took a step towards the back door, but Mrs. Thatcher held up her hand.

  ‘Shoes!’ She pointed down at their shoes, covered in sticky mud. ‘You’re not coming in my house with your shoes in that state. You’ll have to leave them outside.’ She took a good look at both of them. ‘And look at the state of your trousers. You look as if you’ve walked across a ploughed field. Fancy turning up in that filthy state and expecting to come into my house. I’m telling you now, you’re not coming in here until you clean yourselves up.’

  ‘But we need to get set up as soon as we can, Mrs Thatcher,’ pleaded Slater. ‘It’s important-’

  ‘Oh rubbish! It’s taken years for anyone to bother about doing this. And anyway there’ll be no kids out on the green in this weather.’

  Slater was momentarily confused, then he remembered the cover story they had used to convince Mrs Thatcher to let them use her house. Weir looked totally confused, having no knowledge of any cover story.

  ‘Kids?’ he said, looking at Slater. ‘What bloody kids?’

  Slater immediately regretted the oversight of not telling Weir about their cover story.

  ‘It’s okay, Richie, I’ll explain later,’ he said.

  ‘But I’m friggin’ soaked,’ Weir hissed, ‘and I’m bloody freezin’. And my leg’s throbbing from where that little sod bit me.’ He glared hard at Bobby, still hiding behind his owner.

  ‘I may be a bit hard of hearing, young man,’ snapped Mrs Thatcher, ‘but I can hear your bad language clearly enough. I’ll ask you not to swear in my house.’

  ‘We’re not in your bloody house yet, are we?’ muttered Weir under his breath, his face beginning to turn purple with rage.

  ‘Is there somewhere we can wait for our colleague to arrive with clean, dry clothes?’ asked Slater, trying desperately to keep everyone happy. The last thing he needed was for Weir to engage Mrs Thatcher in a war of words that might end up with her turning them away.

  ‘You can wait in the garage.’ She pointed the way. ‘I’ll bring you over a cup of tea in a minute.’

  As Slater led the grumbling, swearing DC Weir to the garage, he fumbled for his phone and called Steve Biddeford.

  ‘I’m just on my way, Sir’

  ‘I need you to make a detour,’ explained Slater. ‘We need clean clothes and shoes. Oh, and you’ll need wellies. We all need wellies.’

  ‘Wellies?’

  ‘Wellington boots. For wet and muddy conditions.’

  ‘I know what wellies are. I just didn’t think they were necessary equipment for surveillance.’

  ‘Trust me, Steve, it’s a long story. Just don’t drive into that bloody field behind us. Leave your car outside the gate and walk from there. You’ll see why, and why you need the wellies. Just be as quick as you can, please.’

  As he ended the call, Slater thought things couldn’t really have got off to a worse start, but then, he figured, they could only get better from here on in, couldn’t they?’

  They’d been waiting half an hour for Biddeford to come back with their clean dry clothes.
At least they had found a heater in the garage, and having been fed bacon sandwiches and tea by Mrs Thatcher, Weir’s mood had finally improved to the point where had stopped swearing and muttering to himself. Slater’s phone began to ring.

  ‘DI Jones here,’ said the now familiar voice of Slater’s temporary boss. ‘Would you like to fill me in on why your partner’s been sneaking about downstairs gathering dry clothes, shoes, and wellington boots? You’re supposed to be on a stake-out, not parading about in a bloody fashion show.’

  ‘Ah. Yes, Sir. I can explain that,’ said Slater, cursing their luck. He was rather hoping Jones wouldn’t find out.

  ‘Please do, Sergeant. I’m all ears.’

  And so Slater explained about the ploughed field, and how they’d had to carry the equipment, and how it had rained.

  ‘It was bad luck the field had been ploughed just the day before, Sir,’ he finished.

  ‘Of course it could simply have been bad planning,’ said Jones. ‘Why didn’t anyone check?’

  ‘Errr. Right. Yes, I suppose I should have checked. Sorry, sir,’ Slater agreed reluctantly.

  ‘So you haven’t even got set up yet?’

  ‘I’m afraid Mrs Thatcher won’t let us into her house until we’re in clean clothes and shoes, Sir.’

  ‘And I can’t say I blame her, can you?’

  ‘No, Sir,’ said Slater. He was wondering how much more demoralised Jones wanted him to become. Didn’t the DI think he was feeling bad enough already?

  ‘Well, let’s hope the bugger’s still in there when you do get set up,’ said Jones. ‘Anyway, that’s not what I really wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘Sir?’ Slater wondered what he was going to get blamed for now.

  ‘What do you know about the person listed as the tenant of that house?’

  At least this wasn’t something Slater could be blamed for.

  ‘Nothing really. Only the guy’s name. Fletcher’s tracking him down.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jones, and Slater was sure he could hear Jones smiling. ‘He’s found him.’