by Ford, P. F.
Then he began to think about what had just happened. Had someone really tried to push him under a bus, or was he mistaken? Perhaps it was an accident? But deep inside he knew there was no mistake. If it had just been the original one hand, he might have considered the possibility it was an accident, but there was no mistaking the two-handed shove that had finally sent him flying into the bus.
But why would someone want to push him under a bus? There was only one reason he could think of.
He had been given this case just to keep him out of the way. The Met had only allowed it because they thought it was a waste of time, just like they thought he was a waste of time – but they were wrong. He was onto something and he was making progress, but this wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to be making progress, he was supposed to be a waste of space who would simply agree to do whatever he was told, and because he wouldn’t do that someone wanted to stop him. Someone was trying to scare him off.
He smiled to himself as he reached this conclusion. Well whoever you are, you’ve just made a big mistake, because now I know for sure I’m making progress.
He was going to solve this case, and he was going to find out who tried to push him under a bus. Waste of space? He’d show them just how wrong they were. But there was something he needed to do first thing tomorrow: he needed to speak to Bob Murray.
As he walked, he clenched his left fist and a sharp stab of pain reminded him that he might well have a broken wrist. Ouch, that’s something else I need to do. As soon as I get back to Tinton I need to get to the hospital.
Chapter Twelve
‘You look awful, if you don’t mind me saying,’ were Bob Murray’s first words next morning. Pointing at the now-plastered wrist, he added, ‘And what have you done to your wrist?’
‘I look so great,’ said Slater, ‘because I spent most of yesterday evening in A&E getting this fixed, and then I sat up into the early hours writing this report for you. I think you’ll find it proves quite conclusively that the case you gave me is far more than just a simple runaway. You’ll see what I mean as soon as you’ve read it.’
He placed the report on Murray’s desk.
‘What makes you so sure?’ asked Murray, ignoring the report and looking at Slater.
‘I got this,’ he said, holding the wrist out rather proudly, ‘when someone tried to push me under a bus. Fortunately, I was able to push back just long enough to avoid going under the wheels, but not long enough to stop me being slammed against the side of the bus.’
‘What?’ said Murray, aghast. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?’
‘Does a good, hard, shove from two hands placed in the small of your back sound like an accident, Guv?’
‘Hold on, Dave. I’m not questioning your judgement. This is a serious matter. If someone’s trying to kill one of my officers I’m not going to just sit back and do nothing, but we have to be sure. That’s all I’m doing, making sure. Are there any witnesses?’
‘No, sir. There was a guy who helped me get back on my feet afterwards, but he said he didn’t see anyone push me. But then we were in a heaving bus queue.’
‘A bus queue sounds like the perfect cover,’ murmured Murray, stroking his chin. ‘Is it in the report?’
‘Of course. You know me, Guv. Just the facts.’
‘Right,’ said Murray decisively, ‘I haven’t got time to read your report right now, but if someone’s out to stop you must have found something out. Give me a quick run-through.’
Slater gave Murray the short version of his progress to date, starting with his first impression of the original report and working his way on from there.
‘I’ve even found out where the missing girl was living,’ continued Slater. ‘The other guys claim they didn’t feel the need to look that far because they knew it was a runaway, but I’m 100% sure they found it and then didn’t do anything about it. I reckon they were told to forget about it by someone up above them. The whole thing smells bad to me, Sir.’
‘Hmm,’ growled Murray. ‘Maybe we should hand it over to Professional Standards. Let the police who police the police do their job... if you see what I mean.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t, Sir,’ Slater objected. ‘I’d quite like to sort this one out myself. You know why.’ This, of course, was a reference to Slater’s chance to get back at DI Jimmy Jones.
‘The problem with a vendetta,’ warned Murray. ‘Is it can cloud your judgement and blur your focus.’
‘I understand that, Guv. But I think this has got a whole lot bigger than just me trying to get one over Jimmy Jones. This is a cover-up. I think I’ve stumbled across something serious, something that needs investigating properly. I’ve got this far, and I’d like to see it through. Besides, how do we know who we can trust up there? It could have been pressure from someone in PS that’s kept the lid on it up until now.’
Murray paced up and down his office as he contemplated the situation, finally coming to a halt at the window where he clasped his hands behind his back and stared out at the world. Slater knew Murray was thinking he should hand the case over…but he also knew his boss, like him, would be wondering who they could trust.
‘Can I remind you, Sir,’ said Slater, cautiously. ‘You did tell me this would be my opportunity to put the record straight and prove everyone wrong. How can I do that if you take that chance away from me just as I’m starting to make some real progress?’
‘Fair comment, David,’ nodded Murray, keeping his back to Slater.
Slater watched Murray’s back anxiously. Every detective working in this station knew that Murray always looked out of the window when he was making a decision. They even joked that it just depended on the weather. If Murray looked upon sunshine, he would make a positive decision and if it was raining, it would be bad news. That was the joke, but in reality, they all knew Murray took his responsibility very seriously and to a man, they valued his judgement. He was rarely wrong, and on those odd occasions when he was, he would always be prepared to admit he’d made a mistake. It was one of the ways respect was won, and they all had great respect for Bob Murray. Finally, he stepped away from the window and turned back to Slater.
‘Right. This is what we’re going to do. First, you’re not going to hand this in,’ he said, handing the report back to Slater, and hushing his protests with, ‘If I read it I’ll have to pass the information on, but I can’t read it if you don’t give it to me. I’m sure you understand.’
Slater nodded as he took the report back from Murray. Oh yes, he understood.
‘You’re going to need some help,’ added Murray. ‘Reason number one – to watch your back. Reason number two – to make it much harder for anyone to claim you’re making it all up. And reason number three – because I said so.’
‘Do I get to choose?’ asked Slater, optimistically.
‘Who do you want?’
‘Steve Biddeford,’ said Slater without hesitation. They’d worked together before.
‘Wasn’t he one of the guys with you on that operation that went tits-up?’ asked Murray.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Slater, ‘But it wasn’t his fault. He was one of the few things about that operation that didn’t go bad.’
‘He’s young though, and inexperienced,’ said Murray. ‘I don’t think he’s ready to get involved in something like this. It could get seriously nasty and I’m not sure he’s equipped to deal with that sort of thing just yet. I think you’d be better off with someone more experienced.’
He responded to the grimace on Slater’s face.
‘I know you like him, Dave, but I have a duty to help develop his career and look after him. It’s all part of my job and you know it. Throw a young guy like him into a situation like the one you were in the other day, and he might not have the instincts to keep out of trouble. We could destroy a promising career before he’s really got started.’
Slater knew Murray was right, but he couldn’t hide his disappointment.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Murray. ‘He can help out down this end, but only if he’s free. If he’s busy you leave him alone. Okay?’
‘Ok, boss,’ agreed Slater. It was a compromise, and he knew there was a good chance he might not see Biddeford at all if he was kept busy elsewhere, but it was better than nothing. But that left one question.
‘So who’s the lucky person with the experience then?’ he asked. There were a lot of detectives here that Slater would prefer not to work with, but he knew he’d have to make do with whoever Murray offered.
‘DS Norman’s free right now.’ He smiled at Slater. ‘You can work with him. He originally came from London so he might have some useful local knowledge.’
‘DS Norman?’ repeated Slater, thinking things couldn’t get any worse.
‘Is there a problem?’ challenged Murray.
‘Err, no. I guess not,’ mumbled Slater. ‘I suppose help’s help, at the end of the day.’
‘Listen,’ said Murray. ‘Forget what you’ve heard about Norman from the other men. He’s not the fool they make him out to be. Give him a chance.’
Slater thought he had little choice, but he kept it to himself.
‘Yes, Boss. Of course,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Where can I find him?’
Murray looked at his watch.
‘He’s probably in the canteen, right now. He’s not attached to any other investigations at the moment so you can grab him now, get him up to speed, and you’re good to go. You can start by giving him your report to read. At least then you won’t have wasted your time writing it.’
With that, Murray returned to his desk and began going through the morning post. That was it. Meeting over.
Slater made his way to the door.
‘Oh, David,’ he called.
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘Don’t forget to keep me up to date.’
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘And give Norman a chance. Alright?’
‘Yes, Boss.’
Slater made his way quietly to the canteen. At this time of the morning, just after 9.30, it was too late for breakfast and too early for tea breaks, so there was hardly anyone around, just one lone, solitary, figure at a corner table. He had his back to the room and was hunched over a newspaper spread out on the table before him. A used cup and saucer had been pushed to one side of the table.
As there was no one else in the canteen, Slater guessed this must be the already legendary Detective Sergeant ‘Knocker’ Norman. Slater hadn’t met him before, having been suspended when Norman had arrived, so he only knew him by rumour. What he’d heard wasn’t exactly inspiring, and it would be difficult to ignore, but he was going to try and do as Bob Murray had suggested and give the guy a chance.
It appeared Norman had recently arrived in Hampshire, from the Met, via three years in the cold wastes of Northumberland. Rumour had it that he’d been put out to grass in Hampshire while he waited to reach retirement age. Rumour also suggested he had been given the nickname ‘Knocker’ because the only thing he was good for was going door-to-door asking the same questions over and over.
There was an unfortunate thing about rumour. It always provided plenty of information, but most of that information tended to be incorrect, and vastly exaggerated. A lot of it also tended to consist of speculation. The rest was often just downright lies.
Slater knew not one member of staff at Tinton (apart from Bob Murray) had actually taken the trouble to speak to Norman and get the real story direct from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.
The entire legend had been created from a few rumours planted, like seeds, over the grapevine from Northumberland, and then nourished by the fertile imaginations within Tinton itself. To be fair Slater hadn’t been around much until now, but he had been quite happy to dine on the feast provided by rumour without once questioning its accuracy.
He grabbed a cup of the pale grey liquid that passed for tea in this place and slowly made his way over to the corner where Norman was sitting. As he approached, he could see that his new partner wasn’t exactly going to be the fittest he’d ever had. He seemed to sag into his seat in such a way that he appeared to be spilling over the edges. His clothes had the crumpled air of a man living alone who had never mastered the art of ironing. On closer inspection, Slater thought it was possible he didn’t even know what an iron was.
He coughed as he made his way over to Norman’s table, keen to make sure his arrival wasn’t totally unexpected.
‘Err, is there room for one more?’ he asked.
Norman looked round in surprise. His face was mostly hidden by an unruly mop of thick curly hair, which had obviously decided to adopt a style all of its own on this particular morning, and a heavy, thick pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose. He looked at Slater over the top of the glasses for a moment, turned to look at his table, and then back at Slater.
‘Looks like there’s plenty of room to me,’ he said, waving at the table. ‘Come on down, take a seat.’
Slater sat down next to him and placed his cup on the table. The front of Norman’s suit was as crumpled as the back, and perfectly matched the equally crumpled appearance of his face. Slater had been told he was 53, but he could easily have passed for ten years older.
Slater felt there was an air of sadness about Knocker Norman. It was as if he’d had the stuffing knocked from him and all the substance had been sucked out. And it wasn’t just his scruffy appearance. Everything about his demeanour seemed to signal an air of defeat.
He couldn’t understand why he felt this way, and he certainly couldn’t have explained why, but he felt an immediate affinity with Norman.
‘You must be Dave Slater,’ said Norman extending his hand.
‘You’re expecting me?’ said Slater shaking the proffered hand. So Murray had arranged this before they’d even met this morning.. But, why me?
‘I’ve been expecting you for a couple of days,’ said Norman. ‘I was beginning to wonder if maybe this was some sort of cruel initiation joke. Make the new guy drink crappy tea until he throws up, or something like that. I have to say, there’s only so much shit tea one man can drink.’
‘There is?’ asked Slater. So this has been arranged for days and Murray didn’t tell me. Norman was talking again.
‘I reached my personal shitty tea limit at the end of the first cup. I tried another one this morning, thinking it couldn’t possibly be that bad two days running, but I’m afraid it was even worse.’
He looked into Slater’s cup.
‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘It could be that we’re both being punished by being force-fed shite tea.’
Slater just looked at him. Norman sighed heavily and studied Slater for a moment. He got the impression the scruffy police officer was appraising him – and not entirely happy with the results.
‘Bob Murray tells me you’re the only guy here who might accept me for who I am and not listen to all the rumours circulating about me,’ Norman said.
‘He did?’ Slater started to feel a tad guilty now. After all, he had been taking in the gossip along with everyone else. Even if he did take it with a pinch of salt, he knew he would have been quite happy to accept it as gospel just like the others.
‘But he didn’t tell me you only speak two words at a time.’ Norman smiled. It was a warm smile that changed his whole demeanour for those few moments it lasted.
Slater was briefly nonplussed, but finally he caught up. He smiled back.
‘Oh, I can do more than two words,’ he laughed. ‘Sometimes I even do whole sentences.’
‘I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that,’ said Norman. ‘I was beginning to think Bob Murray was telling me porkies.’
‘What else did he tell you?’
‘He told me that you and I have something in common.’
Slater looked sceptical. He found it hard to believe that he could really have anything in common with Knocker Norman.
Norman read Slat
er’s face, looked down at his spreading bulk and then back up to Slater.
‘Yeah, I know. It’s hard to believe I’m a sprint champion too, right?’
Slater couldn’t help but laugh. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but despite his air of defeat, there was definitely something about Norman that he liked.
‘Okay. You don’t believe me?’ asked Norman. ‘I hear you’ve just been made a scapegoat for the Serious Crime Unit. Welcome to the club, my friend.’
‘You too?’ asked Slater.
‘There you go with the two-word thing again,’ said Norman. ‘You’re gonna have to stop doing that. It’ll drive me crazy!’
‘Okay, okay. Point taken.’ Slater smiled. ‘I promise I’ll try to use whole sentences in future.’ Then, he became a bit more serious.
‘So tell me more,’ he urged Norman. ‘What happened to you?’
‘We can talk about that later,’ said Norman. ‘First, you tell me about this case you’re on that needs my help? You’ve heard the rumours, right? Knocker Norman’s only good for knocking on doors and doing house to house. Ergo, you must be pretty desperate if you need my help.’
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Slater.
‘No,’ agreed Norman. ‘But having heard the rumours you must be thinking it. If you’re not, you must be mad. I would be.’
‘Look,’ said Slater. ‘I’ll admit I’ve heard one or two rumours. But, I’ve not been in the station much lately so I’ve not heard it all. And I do like to try to make up my own mind about people, whatever the rest might think.’
‘Do you succeed?’ asked Norman.
‘Mostly. I’m known for having my own opinion. When you make your own decisions about people, or anything else, you only ever have yourself to blame if you’re wrong.’
