by Ford, P. F.
‘Oh, really?’ he said, non-committally, ‘but I thought it was Goodnews who got her fast-tracked.’
‘Yeah, that’s right, but it was also Goodnews who dropped her like a hot potato when the accusation about beating that guy up first surfaced. Naomi feels that as DCI, Goodnews should have supported her, but she didn’t listen to her side of the story at all. Instead, she hung her out to dry. It seems all she cared about was what the chief constable would say when he found her recommendation had gone bad.’
‘I feel bad about that,’ said Slater, guiltily. ‘I should have done more.’
‘Yeah, you should have,’ agreed Norman. ‘But don’t worry, Naomi doesn’t have it in for you, at least not as much as the other two. She did say you were in hospital at the time because of her, so you had reason not to want to help.’
‘It wasn’t that I didn’t want to help,’ said Slater. ‘She was gone before I got back, and I didn’t know where she was.’
‘You have to admit that sounds pretty lame. I mean, you are a detective, aren’t you?’
Slater was stung by Norman’s comment, but he had to admit it was true – it wouldn’t have been that hard to track her down if only he had tried.
‘Yeah, but to be fair, one of my mates did get murdered,’ he said, defensively, ‘and that rather grabbed my attention and became my priority.’
‘It’s okay, she understands that. And she doesn’t hate you. She has more than enough of that for the other two.’
‘Has she asked for a transfer?’ asked Slater. ‘If it’s that bad, she’d be better out of it.’
‘It’s worse than that. She’s gonna quit,’ said Norman. ‘She’s just biding her time, although I’m not sure what for.’
‘I hope she’s not planning some sort of revenge,’ said Slater.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised, and you have to admit, it would be poetic justice,’ said Norman. ‘In the meantime, she said if there’s anything she can do to help, I should let her know. She’s gonna call me later with an address to go with that number plate.’
Not for the first time, Slater was in awe of the way Norman got on so well with someone he himself should have known better. He had worked with Naomi, yet he knew hardly anything about her. Norman was more of a passing acquaintance, yet he seemed to know her like an old friend. How did that work?
His thoughts were interrupted by a ring tone. Norman grabbed the phone from his pocket and put it to his ear.
‘Yo,’ he said.
Slater watched his friend’s facial animations as he embarked on a short conversation. Of course, Slater could only hear Norman’s half of the conversation so he had to guess at the responses from the other end.
‘Oh, right. Wow! That was quick.’
Slater guessed it must be Naomi Darling.
‘Just make sure you don’t get caught. We don’t want you getting into trouble because you’re helping us. Yeah, I suppose there is that. Can you text it to me? That’s brilliant! I owe you one, right? Yeah, I’ll tell him. Speak soon. Take care.’
Norman cut the call and placed the phone down on the table.
‘That was Naomi. She’s gonna text me the address. How quick was that?’
‘Pretty impressive,’ said Slater. ‘But she’s taking a big risk.’
‘I told her that. She said she doesn’t give a shit. If they sack her it’ll save her writing out a resignation letter.’
Slater didn’t quite know what to say to that, so he took a sip of his shandy. ‘So what did she ask you to tell me?’ he asked.
‘She said to tell you she still hasn’t told anyone what really happened that night she slept with you.’
Slater almost sprayed shandy everywhere. ‘She didn’t bloody sleep with me,’ he spluttered, red-faced.
Norman grinned at his friend’s discomfort. ‘Surely that depends on how you want to define “sleep with”.’
‘She told you?’ asked Slater, aghast.
‘She told me you were too drunk to stand up,’ said Norman with a huge grin. ‘And that when she put you to bed, you didn’t even get excited when she undressed you.’
‘Jesus, who else knows?’
‘Aw, come on,’ said Norman, shaking his head. ‘Do you really think I’m going to go blabbing about it? Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. She swore me to secrecy, and I promise you she won’t tell another soul.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Oh come on, get real. If she told anyone, how many would believe nothing happened? Not many, right? So look at it from her point of view. Do you really think a good-looking young woman like her is going to admit she shared a bed with an old guy like you? How desperate would she need to be? She has her pride, you know.’
Slater was about to argue the case for men his age, but then the phone on the table pinged to announce the arrival of a text message, distracting Norman’s attention from the conversation. It was just enough of a distraction to give Slater the chance to think better of continuing the argument. Second thoughts told him he would be playing right into Norman’s hands and setting himself up for more humiliation.
Norman looked at the phone, and then passed it over to Slater. ‘D’you know this name and address?’
Slater took the phone and read the message. ‘The name doesn’t mean anything to me, but Malvern Gardens rings a bell,’ he said, thinking hard. ‘I feel I should know it. I’ve got a feeling it’s one of the roads on that big estate to the east of town. It’s all great big new houses with huge gardens.’
‘So we know this Clarissa Sterling isn’t short of cash then,’ said Norman. ‘You don’t get to buy one of those houses for less than a million. Should we go up there now?’
‘Don’t you want to finish your lunch first?’
‘Well, yes, obviously.’ Norman rolled his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean we should drop everything and rush off straight away.’
Norman eased the car along the road and turned right into Malvern Gardens.
‘Just look at these houses,’ he said, as they drove slowly down the road. ‘Who the hell can afford to buy these places?’
‘Certainly not Mr Average,’ said Slater. ‘So, I guess that means it must be millionaires.’
‘They would have to be, wouldn’t they?’
The house they were looking for was called Silver Birches, but if they thought there would be a clue in the name, they were mistaken. There were silver birch trees everywhere.
‘I should have known that would be too easy,’ muttered Norman.
There was a driveway up ahead on the left. They could see a pair of double gates were open inwards, but there seemed to be no sign of a house name anywhere.
‘I bet they’ve got a nameplate up inside the drive,’ said Norman. ‘How is anyone supposed to be able to see that?’
He was just about to crawl past the gates so Slater could have a good look up the drive, when a chauffeur-driven Jaguar suddenly emerged at speed and swung right across the front of them. Norman slammed on the brakes, stopping just inches away from the other car’s doors. The chauffeur had been equally sharp on the brakes, and a collision was narrowly avoided.
Norman wound down his window and gave the other driver a vividly coloured piece of his mind, but the abuse was wasted as the driver studiously ignored him, managing to avoid eye contact as he eased the Jaguar slowly and carefully around the front of their car. As the Jaguar came alongside, the chauffeur stopped so his passenger, a smartly dressed man in his early sixties, could wind his window down and speak to Norman from the back seat.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said, genially, ‘if it isn’t PC Wide-Arse Norman, the fattest copper on the force. I thought I recognised you.’
From alongside Norman, Slater got the distinct feeling these two had a past, and from the way Norman had stiffened and almost swelled in size, he guessed they weren’t exactly the best of mates.
‘Stan Coulter?’ said Norman in undisguised disgust. ‘I thought there was a funny sme
ll. What are you doing here? Are you out on parole?’
‘Ha! You cheeky fat lump,’ sneered Coulter. ‘What do you mean, “out on parole”? I’m a law-abiding businessman.’
‘Yeah, sure you are. And I’m auditioning for Stick Man. What you mean is they haven’t managed to put you away yet.’
‘I can’t help it if the Metropolitan Police mistakenly think I’m some sort of criminal,’ said Coulter. ‘My solicitor thinks it’s a disgrace the way they keep harassing me. We’re seriously considering a law suit. I’ll be happy to include your name on the credits if you’re going to start hassling me for visiting a friend.’
‘You have a friend?’ said Norman. ‘Really? Are they simple, or are they just stupid?’
Coulter grinned and winked at Norman. ‘Actually, she’s more than just a friend, if you get my drift. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.’
‘What does she do with her guide dog when you’re being friends?’ asked Norman, straight-faced.
Slater sniggered and then tried to disguise the sound with a cough, but despite the fact it wasn’t exactly an oblique reference, it was obviously way too subtle for Coulter and sailed harmlessly over his head.
‘She doesn’t have a guide dog,’ he said, confused. ‘Why on earth would she need a guide dog?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Norman. ‘It would take far too long to explain it to someone like you. So what are you doing in this part of the world anyway? It’s a bit of a long way from your comfort zone, isn’t it?’
‘I’m minding my own business,’ said Coulter, venomously. ‘You should try it some time.’
‘The thing is, it’s like when you have a busted drain,’ explained Norman. ‘Once you see that first turd floating your way, you just know you need to investigate and find out what’s going on.’
Slater wondered if this insult was going to fly over Coulter’s head too, but he needn’t have worried. He could tell by the way the other man’s eyes had narrowed that Norman had scored a direct hit.
‘There’s only one turd around here,’ hissed Coulter, angrily, ‘and you’re it, sitting in that shit-heap of a car. What’s with that anyway? Can’t the village plod around here afford to buy decent cars?’
Coulter obviously thought he was still in the police force, and Norman didn’t seem to see any need to put him straight. It might suit their purposes better this way anyway, Slater thought.
‘You should have something better to do than go around picking on people like me,’ continued Coulter, climbing onto his favourite soap box. ‘There’s enough real scumbags in this country. Why don’t you go and pick on some of them? My son didn’t fight in Afghanistan so you lot could pick on his old dad. No, he fought so we could keep our freedom, and I’m buggered if some fat, cowardly slug of a man like you is going to besmirch his memory.’
Coulter had become increasingly animated as he was speaking, his face a fiery red, his eyes bulging. It was as if he couldn’t stop himself.
‘It’s a bloody sin that my younger son’s dying too,’ he said. ‘What did he ever do to anyone? Why should he d–’
The chauffeur coughed loudly, and Coulter suddenly stopped speaking. ‘Anyway, I have my rights,’ he said, finally. ‘And I haven’t done anything wrong. Do you understand?’
Norman stared impassively at Coulter, but said nothing. Slater wasn’t sure Coulter himself had understood what he had been ranting about, but Norman obviously recognised there was no point in arguing with the man once he started going on about his rights.
‘Like I said, I came to see my friend’–Coulter was off again–‘and as far as I’m aware, there’s no law against a man having a bit on the side, is there? So, just piss off and leave me alone. Drive on, chauffeur.’
The driver slipped the car into gear and it began to move forward, rapidly gaining speed as it purred away down the road.
Norman sat in silence for a moment, and it was Slater who spoke first. ‘You could have introduced me to your friend.’
‘You wouldn’t like him,’ said Norman. ‘He’s a complete arsehole.’
Slater laughed. ‘Really? I would never have guessed. He seemed so likeable.’
‘He’s a total shit, and if he’s involved with some woman down here, she must be either stupid, desperate, or caught in some sort of trap.’
‘He sounds like a real charmer.’
‘Oh, he is. You name it, he’s done it. He must have covered the whole spectrum in his time.’
He had put the car in gear now and began to edge forward.
‘Silver Birches,’ said Slater, looking up the drive to their left.
‘What?’
‘The house. Silver Birches. This is it. It’s where your friend Coulter has just come from. It looks like our Mrs Sterling must be his bit on the side.’
‘Oh, crap,’ said Norman. ‘I wonder if that means she’s desperate or caught in one of Coulter’s traps.’
‘Or stupid,’ said Slater, ‘you forgot stupid.’
‘Good afternoon,’ said Norman. ‘Are you Mrs Clarissa Sterling?’
The tall, slender woman who had opened the door eyed them nervously. She was expensively and elegantly dressed. Slater guessed she was mid-forties, but what struck him most was the expression on her face. She looked distinctly rattled, and it would have been no surprise if she had slammed the door in their faces.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’ she asked.
‘My name’s Norman Norman, and this is my colleague Dave Slater. We’re investigating the identity of a man who was recently found dead in Tinton.’
‘Man? What man?’ she said. ‘Are you the police? Don’t you have to show me some identification?’
‘We’re not the police,’ said Norman, handing her one of his newly printed business cards.
She scanned the card quickly. ‘Well, if you’re not the police, I don’t have to talk to you, do I?’
‘No, you don’t have to, ma’am,’ said Norman, ‘but we were hoping you might, because we know almost nothing about the dead man. However, we have reason to believe you knew him, in which case you could maybe fill in some of the blanks for us.’
She looked uncertainly from Norman’s face to Slater’s and then back to Norman. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have nothing to say,’ she said, taking a step back, ready to close the door.
‘Why did you leave flowers on his grave?’ asked Slater, before she had time to close it.
Now she paused, confused, her eyes darting back and forth. She licked her lips nervously. ‘You’re not the police. I don’t have to talk to you.’
‘We could call them if you’d prefer to talk to them,’ said Slater. ‘I’m sure they’d be interested in what you know.’
‘Or perhaps we could talk to your husband,’ said Norman, ‘about that nice Mr Coulter.’
Her face changed quickly from nervous defiance to blind panic. ‘Who?’
‘He was just leaving as we arrived,’ said Norman.
‘Oh, Mr Coulter. Yes, he was here to talk business.’
‘Business?’ said Slater. ‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it, but that’s not quite how he described your meeting.’
‘Of course, it’s up to you who you choose to have as a friend,’ said Norman, ‘but I don’t think your husband would be too impressed if I was to explain to him just what sort of man Coulter really is. You see, we go back a long way, and I can assure you he’s a bad man, a really bad man.’
Her face had flushed a deep shade of red.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sterling. What you do in the privacy of your own house is your business, but I’m afraid a man like Coulter likes to think he can impress other men by bragging about his conquests. If you don’t mind me saying, he’s batting way above his average with you, so in his head that’s something he has to shout about, especially to someone like me.’
Now the colour had drained from her face and she had turned a ghostly shade of white.
‘Oh my God,’
she said, quietly. She sagged against the door.
‘Here,’ said Norman stepping forward to take her arm. ‘You need to sit down.’
He helped her inside the house, following her directions in answer to his ‘Where should we go?’
While Norman helped Clara Sterling into a small sitting room, Slater stepped through an open door into the kitchen, opening cupboards until he found a glass and fetched her some water. He handed the water to her and then stepped back to give her some space. She sipped the water and within a minute, she seemed to regain some of her composure.
‘How did you know it was me who left the flowers?’ she asked.
‘There’s a CCTV camera just across the road from the car park,’ explained Norman. ‘It got a great shot of your car’s registration number.’
‘I suppose there’s no point in denying it then, is there?’
‘Not really,’ said Norman, gently.
‘You’re not in any trouble,’ said Slater. ‘We know you had nothing to do with his death. It’s just that we know very little about him, or where he came from, or what he’s doing here. The thing is, the police are happy to accept his death was an accident, but we think they’re wrong.’
‘We’re hoping you can help us,’ said Norman.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘At the moment we know next to nothing, so anything you can tell us will be a big help,’ said Slater.
‘Eight years ago, we lived just outside Hereford,’ she began.
‘Where the SAS is based,’ added Norman.
‘Yes, that’s right. My husband’s a doctor, in private practice. I used to work part-time in the public library. Morgan used to come into the library, that’s how we met.’
‘He was a bookworm?’ asked Slater. ‘That seems at odds with being an SAS action man.’
‘Doesn’t quite fit the image, does it? But just because a man fights for a living, it doesn’t mean he’s too stupid to read. I’ll admit it did surprise me, though. I suppose it made him intriguing, as if being in the SAS wasn’t intriguing enough.’
