Dave Slater Mystery Novels Box Set Three

by P. F. Ford

  ‘Twenty minutes?’

  ‘You got it. I’ll bring cakes, too.’

  Slater watched fondly as Norman retreated through the door. It was true Norm seemed to be in a permanent state of near-chaos, whereas he preferred order, but then he was good company, and it was their differences that made them such a good team, wasn’t it?

  ***

  ‘I’m afraid Joe’s solicitor might not be very helpful,’ said Norman later that morning as they settled into Rosie’s comfy chairs, ready to try to get some background on Joe Dalgetty.

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘He can’t see us until tomorrow afternoon, but already he’s talking about client confidentiality and how he might not be able to help us much.’

  ‘But Joe’s dead! Does the solicitor think he’s going to rise from the dead and sue him if he talks to you? What a load of nonsense! Why don’t people use common sense any more? It’s ridiculous!’

  As soon as they had entered Rosie’s house, Slater had been outmanoeuvred by Norman’s claim of, ‘I don’t seem to have a pen, or a notebook . . .’ and so had scowlingly become the official note-taker. He looked up from his notepad now.

  ‘We can’t quite see how it applies when the man’s dead,’ he said, ‘but unfortunately we can’t make him talk to us if he doesn’t want to. We’re going to try to make a start by looking into Joe’s background, and we were just wondering if he ever told you anything about where he lived before he came here, or maybe something about where he grew up. It might give us somewhere to begin.’

  Rosie stared off into the distance and screwed her face up in concentration. ‘Well, I can tell you for sure he never told me anything about his recent past, but he was a lot more forthcoming about his childhood. We had quite a few chats about what we remembered from when we were kids, although he often seemed to get confused about when things happened. I’m sure he told me he went to school in Windsor until he was about seven, and then he moved to Germany. His father was in the army, you see, and he got posted out there for a few years.’

  ‘Did he say where he was posted?’ asked Slater as he scribbled away.

  ‘If he did, I’m afraid I don’t remember. I know he must have been out there for six or seven years because he told me he came back when he was thirteen. Or was it fourteen?’ She looked at Slater for inspiration. ‘Well, it was when he was at the younger end of his teenage years, anyway.’

  ‘Do you know where he came back to?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, looking pleased with herself. ‘It was Windsor again. And he must have been a bit brainy because he went to the grammar school. I remember that bit because I was surprised.’ She leaned towards them, conspiratorially. ‘He didn’t seem all that bright to me.’

  ‘So when would this have been?’ asked Norman.

  ‘Well, if he really was sixty-two, that would have meant he was born in 1954. So he would have gone to Germany in about 1961.’

  ‘You say if he really was sixty-two, as if you didn’t quite believe him,’ said Norman. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘If he was sixty-two, he looked a lot older,’ she said. ‘All right, maybe he had a hard life, but I know men ten years older who don’t look anything like as old as he looked. And when we talked about old times, he sometimes had different memories to me. It was like he thought things happened later than they really did. I’m sixty-three, see, and I know The Beatles became really big around 1963, when I was ten, yet he seemed to think they didn’t happen until he was in his twenties. He would accept he was wrong if I pointed it out, but I always thought it was bit strange. He said his memory was going, but I was never convinced.’

  She stopped talking and almost seemed to be looking back into another time. They kept a respectful silence for a few moments, but they didn’t want to be there all day.

  ‘This is all good stuff, Rosie,’ said Norman encouragingly. ‘It’ll be a great help. What about when he was older, after he left school? Did he tell you anything about that?’

  For a few seconds, she looked at him as if she had just woken up and had no idea who he was, but then she seemed to snap out of it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was miles away there for a minute. What was that you asked?’

  ‘What did he do after he left school?’

  ‘He never really spoke much about what he did after he left school. It was all a bit vague. He was some sort of builder I think. He did tell me some stories about when he was working in Germany. In the eighties, it was. There was a slump in the building trade and it was hard to get work, so he went to Germany. He’d grown up there, you see, so it made sense. He ended up with a bunch of men from Newcastle. They sure did get up to some stuff! From what he told me, it’s a wonder they ever got any work done. He must have enjoyed it out there because he seemed to have such clear memories of it. He could even remember all their names.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you can recall any of them?’ asked Slater.

  ‘Oh, I’ll never remember them all. I’m sure there was a Neville, or was it Dennis? I’m not sure now.’

  ‘Any idea where in Germany this was?’

  ‘I’m not good on place names. Would it have been Doosel-something?’

  Dusseldorf?’ suggested Slater, looking up from his note-taking.

  ‘That’s right!’ she said.

  ‘And these others were all Geordies?’

  ‘I don’t know about all of them, but certainly most of them. I’m sure that’s what he told me.’

  Slater looked thoughtful, nodded, grunted, and went back to his notebook.

  ‘We can check all this out when we get back,’ said Norman. ‘You’ve been really helpful, Rosie.’

  ‘I’m sorry it’s not more. It’s only now, when you’ve asked me to sit down and try to remember what he told me, it’s occurred to me he actually didn’t tell me much at all.’

  ***

  ‘You have a strange look about you,’ said Norman as they climbed back into the car. ‘Are you hacked off about the note-taking? I promise I wasn’t pulling a fast one. I genuinely did forget to bring anything with me.’

  Slater smiled. ‘No, I’m not hacked off about the note-taking. I’m worried about what Rosie has just told us.’

  ‘Why? What was wrong with it? I thought she was quite helpful.’

  ‘Well, it might be helpful if any of it’s true, but if this stuff really is what he’s told her, I think old Joe might not have been quite as dim as Rosie thinks.’

  ‘You think it’s not true? But why would she ask for our help and then feed us a load of crap?’

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure she’s recalling things Joe told her, I’m just beginning to think he’s fed her a load of bullshit.’

  ‘But why would you think that? We haven’t even started checking yet.’

  ‘I might be wrong,’ said Slater, ‘but that stuff about a group of Geordies in Dusseldorf, with guys called Neville and Dennis. Doesn’t it ring any bells with you?’

  ‘Should it?’ asked Norman.

  ‘Back about twelve or fifteen years ago, there was a revival of a TV series about a group of guys who had worked together in Germany in the eighties. The original series, way back in the eighties, was called Auf Wiedersehen, Pet. It was about the exploits of seven Geordie builders who can’t find work in England and end up in Dusseldorf.’

  Norman swore quietly. ‘So you’re telling me all that stuff about him working in Germany was just him retelling the story of a TV series?’

  ‘Well, we don’t know all the details about what he told her,’ admitted Slater, ‘but it’s a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘How come you know so much about it?’ asked Norman. ‘You would have been a little boy back in the eighties.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Slater. ‘But I enjoyed the revival so much I found the original series and watched it. It was a bit dated, but it still made me laugh.’

  ‘Crap!’ said Norman, unhappily. ‘So where are
we with this case? Are we wasting our time?’

  Slater beamed at him. ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but as far as I’m concerned this case has just moved up from the “maybe worth a look” category to “definitely worth checking out further”! I don’t think old Joe would have fed Rosie all that bullshit unless he had a good reason, and I’d like to know what it was.’

  Norman smiled happily. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Count me in.’ He thought for a few seconds and then spoke again. ‘Do you think all that stuff about being at school in Windsor is bullshit too?’

  ‘It has crossed my mind,’ confessed Slater. ‘But we won’t know for sure until we start checking it out. I just hope my laptop can cope.’

  ‘Shit, yeah, I’d forgotten about that,’ said Norman, glumly. ‘I should have had some sort of computer system sorted out by now.’

  ‘Actually, I think I’m as guilty as you,’ said Slater. ‘Although, to be fair, I don’t think either of us expected to have any work to do just yet. Let me get my laptop on the way back and I’ll see if I can start doing some research.’

  Chapter Five

  The 12.50 train from Waterloo pulled slowly into Tinton Station and squealed to a halt. A man disembarked from the train, placed his briefcase carefully on the ground, and looked at the clock on the wall. It was two o’clock and, to his great surprise, the train was on time. The quiet inactivity of a small town like Tinton came as a shock to the newcomer, who had got used to the hustle and bustle of central London. He had guessed his journey was going to deposit him into something of a backwater, and judging from the shabby look of the platform and its surroundings, he had made an astute assessment. After the noise and vibrancy of his normal surroundings, the first thing that came to mind here was a dull greyness. And where were all the people?

  Involuntarily, he brushed himself down, as if the grubby surroundings had somehow got into his clothes. Or maybe it was simply that he had exchanged his normal suit for jeans and a casual jacket, and he genuinely felt untidy. Finally, satisfied with the state of his attire, he picked up the briefcase and set off towards the exit. He had a somewhat strange imagination, and as he walked, he amused himself with the thought that maybe he’d managed to slip through some sort of time warp and had somehow arrived in a moment of time when no one else existed. It certainly felt that way.

  The doors of the train let out a heavy sigh as they squeezed themselves closed, and then the train let out a series of small screeches as it began to trundle onwards down the line towards the next station. As the rumbling train gathered speed behind him, the man made his way along the deserted platform, through the small station building, and out onto the street beyond.

  He had made good use of online maps the previous evening, so he knew the place he was looking for was less than a mile away. He had even drawn himself a rough sketch so he knew exactly which way to go. The sun was doing its best to add to the warmth he now felt towards this little town, so he decided to walk. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.

  The Old Brewery was formerly Tinton’s own brewery which, in days past, had supplied The Brewer’s Arms and other pubs in the area with the finest real ales. Sadly, those days were long gone, and the huge old building had recently been redeveloped and now housed several small businesses. To one side, separated from the main building, stood the old stables where the brewery horses had once lived. Now, gutted and refurbished, it was in the process of being made ready for business by its new occupiers.

  The Old Brewery car park had vehicular access from a road that ran parallel to the High Street, but there was a pathway that ran from the High Street, allowing pedestrian access. The man turned down that path. He followed it into the car park at the back of the new offices and across to the old stables. There was no sign to tell him he was at the right place, but he confidently pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  A man was sitting on a fold-up chair, hunched over a workstation, studying the screen of a laptop. He looked up in surprise as the door swung open.

  ***

  Slater took in the newcomer as he walked into the room. He reckoned the man was around fifty years old, must be a couple of inches over six feet tall, and looked reasonably fit. He was wearing jeans, a shirt, and a jacket, but it didn’t look quite right, somehow, and Slater got the impression he had felt the need to dress down to come here. The briefcase clearly didn’t go with the outfit, and he got the impression the man would normally wear a suit. He had the air of someone privately educated and was probably used to the ‘old school tie’ way of doing things. That could be a bit awkward; he and Norman were anything but.

  ‘Mr Slater?’ the man asked, extending his hand. ‘My name’s Robin Bradshaw.’

  Slater closed his laptop, jumped to his feet, and shook Bradshaw’s hand. The confident handshake matched his manner perfectly.

  ‘Err, we’re not exactly open for business,’ Slater said, indicating another folding chair set up by a second workstation. ‘But now you’re here, you’d better have a seat.’

  Bradshaw looked distrustfully at the chair. ‘It won’t collapse, will it?’ he asked.

  ‘The guy who usually sits on it weighs at least half as much again as you,’ said Slater, ‘and he hasn’t managed to break it yet.’

  ‘That must be Mr Norman,’ said Bradshaw as he lowered himself carefully onto the proffered seat and placed his briefcase on the floor next to him.

  ‘So, what can we do for you?’ asked Slater, warily.

  ‘How’s business?’ asked Bradshaw.

  Of all the questions he could have asked, this was one Slater hadn’t anticipated. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’re a new business, aren’t you? I just wondered how things were going.’

  ‘It’s not actually my business,’ said Slater.

  ‘Oh! I understood you were going into business together.’

  ‘That’s a possibility,’ admitted Slater. ‘But nothing’s set in concrete. Right now, I’m just here to help a friend get started.’

  ‘And that friend is Mr Norman, isn’t it?’

  Slater frowned suspiciously. ‘Is there something I can do for you, Mr Bradshaw?’

  ‘It’s not really working out though, is it?’ said Bradshaw, ignoring the question. ‘You don’t have any work. Is that why you’re no longer part of the business plan?’

  ‘There is no business plan,’ said Slater, testily, ‘and officially we’re not open for business yet, so we’re hardly going to have people fighting for our attention.’

  ‘We?’ asked Bradshaw. ‘I thought you just said it was your friend’s business?’

  ‘All right,’ said Slater. ‘So he’s not open for business yet.’

  Bradshaw looked a little puzzled. ‘And you say you’re not part of the business?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  Now Bradshaw looked thoughtful. ‘Hmm, that makes it a whole new ball game,’ he said. ‘Maybe I didn’t need to rush down here after all.’

  ‘Look, do you have a problem we can help you with?’ asked Slater, ‘or are you doing some sort of survey into new business start-ups?’

  Bradshaw gave him a ghost of a smile. ‘I see you’ve still got the feisty attitude, Mr Slater.’

  Slater sighed. ‘What exactly is it you want?’

  ‘It’s about you and the police force.’

  ‘I’m not in the police force. I resigned a few weeks ago.’

  Bradshaw gave him a condescending smile and gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. ‘Ah, but did you?’ he asked.

  Slater folded his arms. ‘Yes, I, bloody well did.’

  ‘Ah, but you didn’t, did you?’ said Bradshaw. ‘We both know you were persuaded to change your resignation to a request for a short sabbatical instead.’

  Slater frowned at him.

  ‘A leave of absence,’ said Bradshaw.

  ‘Yes, I know what a sabbatical is, thank you,’ snapped Slater. ‘I just don’t understand how you know about that!’
<
br />   ‘Ah! Yes, I should have made that clear from the start,’ said Bradshaw. He fished in his pocket and produced a warrant card, which he handed to Slater before continuing. ‘You see, we don’t think you really want to resign at all. That’s why you were persuaded to take a sabbatical – so you would have time to reconsider.’

  ‘Chief Superintendent Bradshaw,’ read Slater from the warrant card. ‘You’re from the police? But I’ve still got a few weeks to go before I’m supposed to confirm my decision to leave.’

  ‘Yes, we heard you were thinking of making the sabbatical a permanent break. I’m here to make you an offer so that doesn’t happen.’

  ‘We heard? What do you mean we heard? Who told you that?’

  Bradshaw said nothing.

  ‘Yeah, well, you’re wasting your time,’ said Slater. ‘This sabbatical was a stupid idea. You should have just let me go in the first place.’

  ‘But we didn’t think you really wanted to leave. The assessor you spoke to felt you were acting in haste for personal reasons rather than work reasons.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? What else could I have possibly meant when I wrote a letter of resignation?’

  Bradshaw inclined his head as if to acknowledge Slater’s point. ‘Well, of course, I can’t say for sure what you meant,’ he said, ‘but it was felt your unfortunate relationship with DCI Goodnews might have had rather more to do with your decision than anything work-related. You’re not the first officer to resign in this way.’

  Slater felt his face redden. If Bradshaw had intended to get under his skin, he had done an excellent job. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ he asked, angrily. ‘How do you know all this stuff? And what’s it got to do with you anyway?’

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m not here to pass judgement,’ said Bradshaw, hastily.

  ‘I think we’re probably done here,’ said Slater. ‘Unless you’ve actually got some sort of problem that needs investigating, I don’t feel inclined to listen to anything else you have to say.’