Dave Slater Mystery Novels Box Set One

by Ford, P. F.

  ‘You worry too much,’ said Jolly. ‘You were fine once you relaxed.’

  ‘I was?’ he asked, doubtfully.

  ‘Yes, you were. Didn’t you notice? Once you started talking about your job, they were hanging onto your every word.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘But that’s the easy bit. It’s when I have to engage with them informally. That’s when I feel awkward. And then I look across at you, and you find it so easy. It makes me feel totally inadequate.’

  ‘I have three kids of my own,’ explained Jolly. ‘I find it easy because I do it all the time. I suspect you don’t have much contact with kids. Are there no nephews or nieces? No friends with small children?’

  ‘No. You’re right. I don’t get any practice. But I can hardly go around accosting small children and engaging them in conversation, can I? I’d get arrested.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Jolly said, smiling at him. ‘If this is going to be a regular gig you’ll be getting plenty of practice.’

  ‘Norman’s the same rank as me. He can do the next one,’ said Slater, as he gathered up their stuff. ‘Come on, Jane. Let’s get out of here.’

  The source of Slater’s discomfort was the latest idea to come down from the chief constable’s think tank. The Children’s Community Initiative was intended to demonstrate to children that the police weren’t the enemy that many of them seemed to think they were, by sending out ‘appropriate’ officers to prove otherwise.

  To this end, Slater and Jolly had just spent the best part of two hours talking about their work and fielding questions. It had seemed to Slater that most of the questions seemed to be about how to avoid getting caught. Not for the first time, he thought their time would be better spent re-educating the parents who taught their children to think that way.

  ‘Was it me,’ he asked, as they walked towards their car, ‘or were most of the questions about how to get away with crime?’

  ‘I think you must have your cynical head on this morning,’ said Jolly, laughing. ‘It wasn’t that bad.’

  ‘Are you sure? It’s left me thinking the baddies are beginning to outnumber the goodies.’

  ‘I was wrong,’ Jolly said, shaking her head at him. ‘It’s not just the cynical head today, but the full Mr Negative head. Did you find something nasty in your breakfast this morning?’

  ‘Am I that bad? I just get frustrated when there’s so much petty crime going on. I mean, what’s wrong with people?’

  They had reached their car now and they climbed in.

  ‘I’m just a lowly PC and you’re a DS, so it’s not really my place, but shall I tell you what I think?’ said Jolly.

  ‘I think we’ve known each other long enough to forget about rank in these situations,’ said Slater. ‘I also think we’ve been friends long enough for you to know I value your opinion, so go ahead, Jane. Fire away.’

  ‘I think you’re getting bored. You like the big cases. They’re a challenge and you have to think. The small stuff, which is just about all we get here in Tinton, doesn’t challenge you at all. Maybe it’s time you moved on to somewhere bigger. Perhaps you should try to get into a murder squad somewhere.’

  ‘Move on?’ said Slater, in surprise. ‘Do you really think so?’

  He thought she was probably right about him being bored with the jobs he got to do, but moving on wasn’t something he’d really thought about. It was a bit drastic, wasn’t it? For the first time in a long time, he was in a serious relationship and he certainly didn’t want to walk away from that. But then if his job was making him unhappy he wasn’t going to be much fun to be around, was he? Perhaps she had a point.

  Unfortunately, the dull, grey morning they had left outside earlier showed little sign of improvement now they were back in the car. The only good thing was that it had finally stopped raining, but black clouds still lingered overhead. It was a typical Tuesday in late February.

  As Jolly started the car, she called in to let control know she was available.

  ‘Thank you one-seven,’ the radio crackled back at her. ‘I know you’ve got DS Slater with you, but could you look in at 17 Canal Street? It’s probably nothing, but the milkman’s called in to report his concern. Apparently it’s the home of an elderly person and the milk hasn’t been taken in for a couple of days. I’ve got no one else free at the moment so if you could take a look on your way back, it would help.’

  Jolly turned to Slater.

  ‘Is that alright with you?’

  Canal Street was only a short detour on the way back to the station. They would be there in about five minutes.

  ‘Sounds like another one of these big cases you were talking about,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Yeah, let’s do it. I’ve got nothing to rush back for.’

  As they emerged from the school car park, a fine drizzle began to fall, and by the time they reached Canal Street it had turned into steady rain once again.

  As its name suggested, Canal Street ran parallel to the old canal, with the back gardens of the houses only separated from the water by the old towpath. Many years ago, this waterway had been a hive of activity and then, like so many other canals, it fell into disuse and disrepair after the Second World War. More recently, it had been recognised as one Tinton eyesore that could be cleaned up and now, rubbish removed, banks rebuilt, and towpaths gradually being restored, it was becoming a popular place of retreat for many locals.

  The house was easy enough to find, the milk delivery van parked outside taking the guesswork out of the task. As they pulled up behind it, the driver’s door swung open and a soggy, bedraggled milkman emerged. Jolly felt a certain empathy for the milkman’s plight – she had spent countless hours standing on cordons while the rain lashed down around her, and she knew from experience that it didn’t really matter how good your waterproofs were, in this kind of weather, the rain still managed to get inside and soak you if you were out there long enough.

  ‘Are you coming in?’ Jolly asked Slater as she climbed from the car.

  He looked out at the increasingly grey day.

  ‘I think this is one of those situations where rank does count,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘I’ll wait here.’

  ‘I thought you might.’ Jolly sighed, closing the car door. She couldn’t really blame him – she would have much rather stayed in the comfort of the car too.

  ‘Are you the guy who called in?’ she asked the milkman as she walked over to him.

  ‘Yeah. I’m worried about Mr Winter, the old guy who lives here. This is one of the days I call in and see if he’s okay when I’ve finished my round. He usually makes me a cup of tea and I sit with him for a while and have a chat. But there’s no answer today.’

  ‘Maybe he’s gone out,’ said Jolly. ‘Perhaps he’s gone shopping.’

  ‘He has his shopping delivered,’ said the milkman. ‘If he needs anything else I get it for him. And he always tells me if he’s not going to be here.’

  Jolly could see the man was genuinely worried.

  ‘Have you looked round the back?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ he said. ‘There’s no sign of life, and yesterday’s milk is still on the step. It’s been there since six yesterday morning. That’s just not right. He wouldn’t do that. And the dog’s not barking.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s taken the dog for a walk?’

  ‘He’d be back by now,’ said the milkman.

  Jolly banged on the front door of the house and rang the bell.

  ‘I’ve done all that,’ said the milkman. ‘I told you. There’s no answer.’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ said Jolly. ‘I’m not doubting you, it’s just procedure I have to follow. I can’t go busting in without good reason.’

  She looked up at the house.

  ‘Right, she said. ‘Elderly person not answering the door. That’s a good enough reason for me. Let’s take a look around the back.’

  River Lane was tightly packed with small Victorian semi-detached houses. Narrow passageways
ran down between each pair of houses, leading to the back gates. Jolly led the way down the passageway to the left of the house and through the open gate that led into the back garden. A paved area led across the width of the narrow garden to the back door, and an adjoining window looked out onto the garden. Jolly peered through it into a kitchen that looked badly in need of updating, but for all that she could see, it was kept neat and tidy by the owner.

  She noticed the light was on and wondered if that meant it had been on all night. At the same time, she acknowledged just how gloomy it was at the back of these houses. You’d need a light in there on a day like this.

  ‘I can’t see anyone,’ she murmured. ‘It all looks neat and tidy enough.’

  ‘Suppose something happened to him upstairs,’ the milkman said over her shoulder.

  ‘I’m not supposed to break in unless I know for sure’.

  ‘There’s a key,’ said the milkman. ‘It’s so I can let myself in, but I’ve never felt the need to.’

  ‘Now might be a “need to” time, don’t you think?’ Jolly wondered why on earth he hadn’t done this already. Some people seemed to lack common sense.

  The milkman turned back the corner of the doormat. Then he pulled it back a bit further, until finally he’d lifted the whole thing. There was no key to be seen, but they could both clearly see the imprint of a key in the dust that had collected under the mat.

  ‘He kept it under the doormat?’ asked Jolly in dismay. ‘And you knew?’

  ‘I told him, but he wouldn’t listen to me,’ said the milkman. ‘I told him it was the first place anyone would look.’

  Now Jolly was worried. Of course, it was possible the key had been removed by the old man himself, but her instincts were telling her something very different.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’m going to let myself in. I want you to stay out here.’

  ‘But what if someone’s already let themselves in and-’

  ‘That’s precisely why you need to stay out here,’ interrupted Jolly. ‘If someone has been in there, this could well be a crime scene. If it is, we don’t need you contaminating it.’

  ‘Let me do something to help,’ pleaded the milkman. ‘Maybe I could knock the door down for you?’

  ‘You’ve been watching too many TV shows,’ said Jolly. ‘It’s not as easy as it looks. And anyway, that won’t be necessary. There’s a much easier way that makes much less mess and doesn’t take so much effort. Just turn around and look the other way.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just humour me,’ she said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. ‘It’ll be better if you don’t see what I’m doing. And the sooner I get in there, the sooner we’ll know what’s happened.’

  Reluctantly, the milkman turned his back. As he did, Jolly fished a set of picks from her pocket and knelt before the lock. It was unofficial, of course. She knew very well that a police officer picking locks could never be condoned, but sometimes these things just had to be done. And it just so happened she was rather good at it.

  After less than a minute, she felt the tumblers fall into place.

  ‘Just in case he’s standing guard, what’s the dog’s name?’ she asked over her shoulder as she stood up.

  ‘Dougie,’ said the milkman. ‘He’s only little but like I said earlier, if he was in there he’d be barking his head off by now.’

  ‘Right. You wait here,’ she said quietly, as she gently turned the handle and eased the door open.

  Inside, the house was still and silent but for a loud, regular tick, tock, tick, tock, that seemed to be coming from the hall.

  ‘Hello?’ she called out, as she walked across the kitchen. ‘Is there anyone home?’

  She stopped to listen, but there was nothing above the noise of the clock. She continued slowly into a tiny hall. Sure enough, a huge grandfather clock dominated the narrow space, the tick-tocking becoming even louder now she was right next to it. An open door led off to the right. She peered through it into a tiny living room with two shabby armchairs and an ancient television set. A huge, ornately framed landscape dominated the biggest wall in the room. It was obviously a print of something, maybe a Constable, Jolly guessed. Again everything appeared neat, and tidy, and in order.

  She began to ease her way carefully up the narrow staircase, careful to tread as far from the centre as possible, but even so, the ancient staircase creaked loudly about halfway up. She paused to listen once again but there was nothing to hear except the noisy clock below her.

  There were three doors off the landing. To the left, an open door led into a bedroom. The quilt had been folded back from the single bed and a bedside lamp was on, but the room was empty. Behind the middle door was the tiny bathroom. This, too, was empty.

  She found Mr Winter behind the only closed door in the house. It hid the smaller of the two bedrooms, which was obviously being used as an office. He was in his pyjamas, lying on his back on the floor in a corner. She checked his pulse but this only confirmed what she could see easily enough with her own eyes. Mr Winter was dead, and she thought he’d probably been there for at least 24 hours, and maybe even longer. She stood up, sighing heavily. You got used to death in this job, but she still always felt affected when confronted with a dead body. Edging out of the room, careful not to disturb anything, she headed back downstairs and out to the car.

  ‘The doctor’s on his way,’ Jolly told Slater, after she had called her find in to the station.

  ‘Waste of bloody time,’ muttered Slater. ‘The poor old guy’s obviously dead.’

  While she had radioed back to the station, Slater had gone for a nose around the house and after a few minutes, Jolly had forced herself to join him.

  She had been deeply affected at finding the little old man lying on the floor all alone, and two things were niggling away at her. First, there was the missing key. Although it didn’t seem to have any obvious relevance to what had happened, she would have been much happier if they knew where it was. And then, perhaps most worrying, the milkman had assured her Mr Winter and his little dog were inseparable. If that was the case, it would be reasonable to expect to find the dog close to his master, but there was no sign of him. It’s not as if he could have let himself out, so where was he?

  She took a last look around the tiny office where the body had been found. An old table had been put to use as a desk, while a rather uncomfortable-looking chair sat before it. A relatively new keyboard, mouse and screen sat on the table with a small printer off to one side. The cables ran tidily down the back of the table, where they were plugged into the back of a home computer. A small filing cabinet sat alongside the desk. She slid out the single drawer and peered inside. There was just the one file inside, which seemed to be crammed with household bills, statements, etc. Everything seemed to be in order. Whatever Mr Winter used this office for, he was obviously a neat and tidy worker.

  She closed the office door and then, carefully and deliberately, closed all the other doors as she made her way slowly back downstairs to the kitchen. As she closed the kitchen door, she leaned back against it and surveyed the tiny room. Slater had his back to her looking through the window and down the garden.

  ‘Are you going to call SOCOs out?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit worrying about the missing key, and the missing dog, but really there’s nothing here that makes me think a crime’s been committed. We just need to notify the next of kin.’

  An ancient refrigerator whirred away in the corner of the room. Three business cards were held to the fridge door with magnets. There was one for a plumber and another for a painter and decorator, but it was the third one that interested Jolly. She’d noticed earlier that this card was a solicitor’s business card. From its tatty appearance, she guessed Mr Winter had had the card for quite some time, so hopefully John Hunter, the solicitor in question, would be aware of who to contact. She made a note of the name and phone number in her notebook.

  �
��According to the milkman there are no next of kin,’ she said, sighing sadly. ‘And I haven’t found anything to suggest he’s wrong. It looks like the poor old guy was all alone. Perhaps this solicitor will know a bit more about him.’

  Finally, they slipped out through the back door and locked up, using the house keys Jolly had found in a kitchen drawer earlier. She was careful to leave the gate slightly ajar – at least if the missing dog came home he would be able to get into the garden. As if the weather felt the need to match their mood, the rain was now falling even harder, and the sky seemed to have become even more grey and gloomy than before.

  She thought it was a fitting tribute to the demise of another lonely old person, and she let out a long, sad sigh as she sank into her car seat. Slater was silent, and Jolly thought he had been affected by the whole thing too. After a few minutes, she decided to pull herself together. She was a tough cookie, after all, and had seen it all before. She put the car into gear and Slater looked across at her, surprise on his face.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘There’s not much we can do about what’s happened, but perhaps I can make sure he gets laid to rest in the right way. I think the world owes him that much, at least.’

  Chapter 3

  Up in the canteen at Tinton police station, Norman surveyed the room from a corner table. He had become something of a legend within the small community of Tinton police station. He had arrived with a reputation for being a lazy loner but had quickly disproved the reputation and was now held in both high esteem and great affection by all his colleagues. His positive attitude could always be relied upon to lift spirits and raise a smile if needed, and with his unruly hair and creased clothes (Norman didn’t do ironing, and appeared not to even own an iron), he had a unique style all of his own. Some might call it casual, although his friend and colleague Dave Slater was always quick to remind him, rather fondly, that ‘dragged through a hedge backwards’ would be more appropriate.