The Kidney Donor (Dave Slater Mystery Novels Book 8)

by P. F. Ford

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 smell. 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 obviou
sly 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.’

  ‘You became friends?’ asked Norman.

  ‘We had a common interest in historical fiction. He asked me to recommend some books, then we had lunch together, and before I knew it we were lovers. It was crazy, I know, but it was a bit like being on a runaway train. I just couldn’t stop it.’

  ‘But you did in the end?’ prompted Norman.

  ‘Had to,’ she said. ‘My husband found out.’

  ‘How did he react?’ asked Slater.

  She sighed. ‘How do you think? Let’s just say I was given an ultimatum that I couldn’t turn down. I told Morgan it was over, quit my job at the library, and didn’t see him again.’

  ‘And that was it?’ asked Norman.

  ‘I heard he went off to Afghanistan not long after, but once I left the library, I lost touch with what was going on. I suppose I did it deliberately, but the temptation was always there in the background. Then, a year ago, my husband was offered the opportunity to come and work here. He said it would be a chance for a fresh start, so we moved. After that it really was impossible to find out anything about Morgan, so I tried to forget it had ever happened. I focused on repairing my marriage and trying to be a better wife.’

  Slater was struggling to see how having an affair with Coulter could possibly fit in with the idea of being a better wife, but he managed to suppress the desire to as
k the question.

  ‘Do you have any idea why Morgan would have come to Tinton?’ asked Norman.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘He was looking for me.’

  ‘But I thought that was all over, years ago,’ said Slater.

  ‘He called me about a month ago, right out of the blue. I couldn’t believe it. God only knows how he found where we were living. He said he was completely messed up. He wanted to come and see me. He said I was the only person he felt he could trust.’

  ‘Why? What had happened?’ asked Norman.

  ‘What he told me was a bit sketchy, to say the least, but I think something terrible happened. I suppose it’s more or less inevitable in his line of work. They spend ages on psychological tests before they join up, but in the end it doesn’t matter how much psychological profiling they do, you never know for sure what might push someone over the edge. It appears whatever happened this time was enough to push him past his breaking point.

  ‘When I spoke to him he didn’t sound anything like the old Morgan I knew. It was as if he’d lost all his confidence. He sounded a hundred years old, but he wasn’t even forty. He kept saying he was going to try to make amends, whatever that meant.’

  She looked even more drained now, and her eyes were filling with tears. ‘He said he would call again when he arrived in Tinton. I waited and waited but he didn’t call, and then the next thing I know there’s one of those computer images in the local newspaper and a headline above it asking “Do you know this man”?’

  ‘But you didn’t come forward?’ asked Norman.

  ‘It might not have been him,’ she said, unconvincingly, ‘and I had to think of my husband. I didn’t want to drag that up all over again.’

  This time, Slater couldn’t help himself. ‘Of course not. Not when everything is obviously going so well between you.’

  Clara Sterling glared at him. ‘Don’t judge what you don’t understand,’ she snapped.

  Norman shot him an uncharacteristic angry glance. It was enough to stop his retort before it left his mouth.

  ‘Leaving the flowers was taking a risk,’ said Norman, clearly trying to draw her attention away from Slater and his judgemental comment. ‘Anyone could have seen you.’