by Ford, P. F.
“But he told us he ended his affair as soon as Sandra suggested starting over,” Norman said, confused.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Slater said. “But what if he was having more than one affair?”
“Perhaps we’d better go and ask him,” said Norman. “But first I have to brief DC Dickhead Biddeford about the semi-literate counterfeit operation that’s currently running in Tinton.”
“Okay,” said Slater. “I’ll be waiting here somewhere.”
As Norman left the room, Slater was thinking about Cindy, and especially about the last thing she’d said to him the night before.
As he’d escorted her to her car, she had told him her deal with Bressler was due to end in just a few days.
“It’ll be strange,” she had said. “I’m going to be at a loose end. I won’t know what to do with myself. I suppose I’ll have to find a real boyfriend.”
Then they had reached her car, and it was time to say goodbye. Like a nervous teenager on a first date, Slater had suddenly found himself in that awkward situation where he wasn’t sure what he should do next, or even if he should do anything.
For a brief moment Cindy had seemed equally unsure of herself, but then she had rescued the situation, and made the decision for him, by leaning forward and gently planting her lips on his for just a couple of seconds. As she drew back from the kiss, she slipped a piece of paper into his pocket.
“My number,” she had said, patting the pocket. “In case you ever want to buy me another drink. Please don’t lose it.”
Then she had climbed into her car, blown him a kiss and driven off.
A smile spread across his face as he recalled that moment. There was no way he was going to lose that number. He’d had a great night and she had been wonderful company. He very much wanted to buy her another drink.
His thoughts were interrupted by a passing voice.
“Someone looks happy this morning,” said Jane Jolly. “Did you win the lottery last night?”
“I think I might have, in a manner of speaking,” Slater said, beaming at her. Maybe things were looking up.
Truth be told, Norman was glad to have a little time out from the murder inquiry, even if it was just for half an hour to brief Biddeford. All these early starts and late finishes were beginning to wear him out, and all these stairs were a pain in the backside, he thought, as he puffed his way up one flight.
He was breathing quite heavily by the time he reached the top. Maybe they were right and he did need to do something about his diet. And perhaps he could do with a little more exercise – but if it made him feel like this, how could it be good for him?
“Okay,” he said wearily, as he slumped into his chair and slapped a small folder down on the desk. “This is all the information on the case.”
“There’s not much there,” observed Biddeford, unhappily.
Norman thought Biddeford looked awful this morning, like he hadn’t slept for several nights. That was probably rich, coming from him. Norman had caught sight of his own reflection earlier as he passed a mirror, and had been shocked at the grey pallor of his skin. He was still out of breath from the stairs, too.
“Are you alright, Sarge?” Biddeford asked, looking concerned.
“Nothing a bacon sandwich and mug of coffee can’t cure,” Norman said, hoping that was the case. “I just haven’t eaten yet.”
“Right,” said Biddeford, unconvinced. “So what have we got, then?” he asked, clearly making some effort to sound keen and upbeat.
“Apparently the local Trading Standards people have had some complaints about a woman selling counterfeit Gucci handbags,” Norman began.
“Isn’t that their problem and not ours?” asked Biddeford.
“It seems the last time they had to speak to the suspected counterfeiter their man ended up in hospital, so now we’re involved.”
“Okay,” said Biddeford. “So who’s the lucky lady?”
“The chief suspect is one Allison Beatty,” said Norman.
Biddeford let out a groan.
“You know her?” asked Norman.
“I’ve not actually had the full pleasure yet,” said Biddeford. “But I know of her reputation. From what I’ve heard I’ll need a bloody armed guard if I’m going up there.”
“Surely she can’t be that bad,” said Norman.
“She’s officially unstable, and unpredictable,” Biddeford said, sighing. “It’s no wonder the Trading Standards guy ended up in hospital. Assault is second nature to Allison. She regards it as a form of communication. She’s put more than one innocent caller in hospital, and she hates any sort of authority, especially the police.”
“If she’s dangerous, why isn’t she locked away?” asked Norman.
“Care in the community,” said Biddeford. “If we try to charge her with assault they always get some do-gooder down here to tell us how ill she is and why we should leave her alone. That would be frustrating enough, but we also have to contend with her husband, who’s a one-man crime wave.”
“What does he get up to?”
“Oh, it’s mostly petty stuff. Burglaries, shoplifting, that sort of thing. They call him Billy Bumble because he’s supposed to be an idiot, but he’s not that dumb. He knows how to play the system regards Allison. If we go near the house to arrest him, he shouts for help from her do-gooder friends and we get accused of harassing her again.”
“He sounds pretty cute to me.” Norman smiled, recognising the type. “But this time you’ve got a search warrant to take with you, and a genuine reason for having it. Maybe you’ll find some stuff to use against both of them. Take a couple of uniforms up there and see what you can find.”
“Is this my punishment?” asked Biddeford.
“You can call it that if you want,” Norman said. “But, between you and me, you shouldn’t complain. You probably would have drawn this particular short straw anyway.”
Biddeford smiled, ruefully, as he gathered up the folder.
“I’m not complaining,” he said. “I can deal with it.”
“You wouldn’t have been given it if we thought you couldn’t deal with it,” said Norman. “Let me know what happens.”
“I’ll catch you later,” said Biddeford, closing the door behind him.
Chapter 27
Slater had been relieved to find Cindy’s car wasn’t parked on Bressler’s drive when they got to his house. At least he would avoid that particular embarrassing situation.
He and Norman were made about as welcome as the proverbial ‘turd in a swimming pool’ when Bressler opened the front door, and his irritation with them didn’t fade as Norman began to ask his questions.
“I thought I’d already told you,” said Bressler. “I ended my affair as soon as I knew Sandra was serious about us moving away and starting over. And anyway, the girl I was having the affair with was short and dark haired.”
“Women have been known to wear a wig,” Norman pointed out.
“Yes, that’s true,” Bressler said. “She could have changed her hair colour that way, but she could never have changed her voice to make her sound like an English woman.”
“Sorry?” said Norman.
“She was French,” said Bressler smugly. “She spoke English with a very heavy accent. It was part of the attraction, you see.”
“Right,” said Norman. “So she was French. Does she have a name? Do you know where she lives now?”
Slater got the distinct impression Bressler wasn’t telling them everything he knew, but he couldn’t decide if it was because he had something to hide, or because he just liked the idea of messing them around.
“Her name is Michelle Laurent,” said Bressler, with a heavy sigh. “Is this really necessary?”
“And her address?” Norman asked.
“I have no idea where she lives now, but back then she was a nurse working in the cardiology unit at Good Hope Hospital in the Midlands. That’s how we met. Cardiology is my area of expertise.”
“Right
. Thank you,” said Norman, pointedly, as he wrote this information in his notebook. “Is there anyone else we should know about from that time? Any Sandra lookalikes you were seeing behind her back?”
“I’m not sure I like your attitude, Detective Sergeant Norman,” said Bressler.
“And I’m not sure I like the fact that you seem to think it’s clever to withhold information,” said Norman.
“I can assure you I’m not withholding anything. The first ‘Sandra lookalike’, as you put it, didn’t come into my life until at least six months after Sandra disappeared.”
“Well, we know about Cindy, who’s number three, and now we know about Michelle, so we can check her out,” said Norman. “So how about you save us some time and give us the names of the first two lookalikes and then we can check them out too.”
“I really can’t see why you need to go poking your nose into the affairs of people who didn’t even know Sandra,” said Bressler, angrily. “Why are you doing this? You’re just wasting your time.”
“I don’t have to tell you why I’m following a particular line of enquiry, Sir,” explained Norman, quietly and patiently. “And, as long as it’s me choosing to waste my time, I won’t have to charge anyone with wasting police time, will I?”
“Oh, you people,” hissed Bressler. “Just wait a minute. I’ll write them down for you.”
He went to his desk and found an address book. He noted the two names and addresses on a sheet of paper and handed it to Norman.
“Thank you, Mr Bressler,” said Norman, holding Bressler’s gaze. “Do you think this is some sort of game we’re playing here? Is that it? Before I go, let me remind you this is a triple murder we’re investigating.”
Bressler said nothing, and Slater watched as he and Norman had some sort of staring contest. Slater’s money was on Norman, and right enough, it was Bressler who was first to look away.
“I hope we understand each other,” said Norman finally. “We’ll see ourselves out.”
Steve Biddeford arrived at the possible war zone that was Allison Beatty’s house, unsure what he would find there. To his great surprise, it was the unpredictable side of Allison Beatty that greeted his arrival. He was armed with two PCs, dressed in heavy protective gear. Instead of the expected battle on her doorstep, she had been sweetness personified when Biddeford had presented her with the search warrant, inviting them all in and offering to make tea.
Biddeford could tell the two PCs were pretty uncomfortable – on the journey over, they had talked about previous run-ins they’d had with Allison Beatty, and they sat in her living room as if they were waiting for a bomb to go off.
Biddeford had informed Allison what they were there for, and why Trading Standards weren’t dealing with the matter. Allison just smiled sweetly.
“Don’t look so nervous,” she’d said. “This new medication I’m on is good stuff. I’m in control.”
As if to demonstrate, she’d taken in one or two deep breaths.
“I’m not worried,” she told them. “I know why you’re here, and I know I ain’t done anyfink wrong. Some people just don’t have anything better to do with their time than try to spoil things for me just because I’m showing a little bit of enterprise. There’s nuffink counterfeit about them bags.”
“But ‘Gucci’ is a trademark,” explained Biddeford. “You can’t copy their name and use it on your own goods.”
“I know that, and I ain’t using their name. I might be mad,” she said, and Biddeford was glad she had at least some level of self-awareness. “But I ain’t bloody stupid. Their name is spelt G-U-C-C-I. Mine is spelt G-U-C-H-I. How’s that the same? An’ anyway, my bags don’t look nuffin’ like Gucci bags. ‘Ere, I’ll show you.”
She pulled open a cupboard door and half a dozen handbags fell out. She handed one to Biddeford.
“Now tell me how that’s a counterfeit bag.”
Biddeford could see her point. Looking at the obviously cheap handbag emblazoned with the name “Guchi”, he could see there had been no attempt to make it look even vaguely like a genuine Gucci bag.
It’s not the counterfeiter who’s illiterate, it’s the stupid people who reported her. And Trading Standards should know better.
He was just about to call the whole thing off when one of the PCs popped his head around the back door.
“You’d better come and have a look in the garage, Sir,” he said.
“What?” said Allison, surprised. “There’s nuffink in there.”
Biddeford headed outside, Allison following. As they reached the garage, he peered inside. The whole interior was stacked high from floor to ceiling with cartons of cigarettes.
Biddeford braced himself and turned to Allison. Now the battle would surely start. But whatever fight was in her seemed to drain away at the sight of the cigarettes. She just cursed quietly and sagged wearily against the wall.
“Oh, Billy.” She sighed wearily. “You’re supposed to be going straight, you stupid git.”
“I’m sorry, Allison,” said Biddeford. “But I’m going to have to ask you to go down to the station with these two.”
He indicated the two police officers, neither of whom looked convinced Allison was safe to be alone with.
“Yeah, I know,” she said, sighing. “But I ain’t going’ to say anyfink. An’ you’ll have to notify an appropriate adult to sit in wiv me.”
“You know your rights, then?” asked Biddeford with a trace of admiration.
“When you’re married to a bloody idiot like Billy Bumble, you ‘ave to,” she said, smiling wanly.
“Okay, you two go and book her in.” Biddeford turned to the two PCs. “I’ll get a team up here to finish the search and collect all this stuff. There must be a bloody lorry load here.”
Chapter 28
All the way back to the station from Bressler’s house, Norman kept on about how he must be hiding something. Even when they got out of the car and made their way up to their incident room, he was still going on about it.
“He’s fast becoming my number one suspect,” he said, as they walked back into the room.”
“No. Really? Now there’s a surprise.” Slater smiled at him, shaking his head. “I would never have guessed. But don’t we need to find some compelling evidence against him first?”
Before Norman could respond, the doors burst open and Tony Ashton walked in clutching some papers in his hand. He obviously had something to tell them.
“What have you got, Tony?” asked Slater. “Anything on that phone line yet?”
“I’ve been onto BT. As it all took place so long ago, they said it would take time to give me any answers, but when I started to make a lot of fuss and told them I’d come down and look for myself they changed their tune. Now they reckon someone will get back to me this afternoon.”
“What’s that in your hand?” asked Norman.
“Aha,” he said, mysteriously. “I think you’re going to like this. I’ve been digging around in Sandra Bressler’s bank account. I couldn’t find any evidence of anything untoward before she disappeared. She certainly wasn’t stashing any cash that I can see, and there were no big withdrawals or transfers.”
“Come on, Tony. Out with it.” Norman wasn’t feeling particularly patient today. “You said there was nothing untoward before she disappeared, so what happened after?”
“This is where it gets interesting,” said Ashton, placing the sheets of paper on the desk. “There were three big cheques written and cashed after she disappeared. These are photocopies.”
Slater and Norman stepped up beside Ashton and studied the photocopies of the cheques.
“If Sandra signed these cheques,” said Slater. “We can wave goodbye to our ‘lookalike called the taxi’ theory.”
“The last one’s dated nearly six months after she disappeared,” Norman said, looking closely at the cheques. “Why the hell weren’t these spotted 15 years ago?”
“Because they’d stopped looking,”
said Slater. “This is the sort of thing Nash would have done to protect one of his mates.”
He turned to Ashton.
“Tony, take a look back through Nash’s school years and compare it with Bressler’s. They both grew up in this area so they could have gone to the same school.”
“I’m on it,” said Ashton, heading back to his desk.
Norman began sifting through their accumulated paperwork. He finally produced the worksheet from the removals company.
“Let’s see if these signatures match,” he said, laying the worksheet next to the cheques.
They both leaned over the table and studied the documents.
“Hmm,” said Slater. “It’s close, but I’m not convinced it’s close enough.”
“Yeah,” said Norman. “I think I’d have to say I agree with you, but we need to get these to someone who can say for sure.”
“I’ll get onto Becksy. This sort of stuff is more his area than ours.”
As he hurried off to phone Ian Becks, Norman saw Jane Jolly stand up and make her way over to him.
“I’ve been digging around into Bressler’s background,” she said. “He has some huge investments and quite a property portfolio, but I’m not sure it’s really enough to pay for the lifestyle he has.”
“Are you suggesting he’s up to something?” asked Norman.
“There’s nothing I can point to for sure,” she said. “And maybe I’m completely wrong. It just seems a bit too honest, if you know what I mean.”
“So Mr Squeaky Clean might just be a little too squeaky to be really clean, huh?” said Norman, wishing Jolly had found something concrete he could use against Bressler.
“I did find one thing that might interest you,” she added.
“If it gives me a reason to lean on the guy then yes, you’re right, it does interest me,” he said, beaming. “What have you got?”
She placed a photograph, and a list of names, on the table.
“This was taken at a conference Bressler attended four months before Sandra disappeared,” she said.
