Death Of a Temptress

by P. F. Ford

  Slater showed him the two photos again.

  “The girl you said you wouldn’t be interested in. It’s the same girl.”

  “What?” said the boy, in disbelief. He looked hard at the photos again. “No way. You’re takin’ the piss.”

  “I’m not. Seriously. It’s the same girl. Just the clothes and the make-up are different.”

  The boy studied the photos again.

  “Jeez.” He whistled. “You’re right. But why would she want to look that bad when she scrubs up so well?”

  “Now that,” said Slater as he gathered the two photos and slid them back into his pocket, “is your starter for 10.”

  “What? You’ve lost me now, mate.”

  “It’s a TV show. University Challenge. It’s what the quizmaster says,” explained Slater, but the boy’s eyes seemed to have glazed over at the mention of the word university, and now his nose was back in his dirty magazine.

  “Don’t watch poncey crap like that,” he mumbled.

  “No? Now there’s a surprise. Oh well, never mind,” said Slater, as he turned and left the shop.

  He started to head back up the road to Mistral Court. At least now he felt he might be getting somewhere. It was a start.

  He peered through the gates at the empty courtyard, wondering how he was going to get inside. Normally in this sort of situation, there would be a row of buttons to push and he would just work his way through them until someone answered. Then the magic words “police officer” tended to get him inside quite easily.

  That wasn’t going to work here for two reasons. First, there were no buttons, and second, he didn’t want to use the magic words if he could avoid it. The original investigation had failed to mention this flat and that could only mean one of two things: either it was down to incompetence or it was a cover-up. Whichever it was, he wasn’t going to be very popular when it was discovered he’d found it, so the longer no one knew he was here, the better.

  He scratched his head as he tried to come up with a plan. Perhaps he should just press all the keys? No. That would be stupid. There might be some sort of alarm system that alerted the local police. That would make a mockery of his desire to keep a low profile.

  After five minutes, the best he could come up with was to wait until someone actually used the keypad. It wasn’t a great plan, but he didn’t have anything better. He settled back against the wall and opened his newspaper. He started with the football results.

  He was bemoaning the fact that Spurs had lost yet again when he became aware of a familiar noise. Someone was sweeping. He looked around, expecting to see someone sweeping the street, but there was no one there. But he could still hear the noise. He peered through the gate. There, at the back of the courtyard, a little old man was sweeping. He was obviously happy in his work, singing quietly to himself and shuffling some fancy footwork in time to his singing.

  Slater guessed the little man must be in his 70s, his white hair perfectly matched by an equally white moustache. He wore round wire-rimmed glasses, and a flat cap which seemed the perfect accompaniment to his faded blue overalls. He looked like a throwback from the 50s, but he also had the unmistakable air of a man who took pride in his work, no matter how humble that work might be.

  “Excuse me,” Slater called through the gates.

  The little old man continued to sweep and sing, apparently oblivious to the voice calling him. Then he turned slightly to his left and Slater saw the unmistakable white lead trailing from his ears down to an MP3 player clipped to his belt. He might look like something from the 50s, but he was no stranger to modern-day pleasures.

  “Excuse me,” called Slater again, only a bit louder this time, and with some arm-waving thrown in. “Over here.”

  The sweeper looked up at Slater, smiled and waved back, then pirouetted neatly in time to the music before turning back to his sweeping.

  Slater waited patiently as the sweeper waltzed slowly back along his line, and then as the man reached the end of the line and did his next pirouette, he called again, this time shoving his arms through the gate and waving even more frantically.

  The sweeper waved back to him but continued his little dance for a few more seconds. Then, with a flourish, he made a little skip in the air and stamped his feet together. Slater watched fascinated as the man then bowed gracefully to his broom before leaning it against the wall.

  “I’ll be right back,” he promised the broom. “The next one’s a foxtrot.”

  As he walked over to Slater, he reached down to pause his MP3 player.

  “Yes, mate,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Morning,” replied Slater. “How do I get in?”

  “If you don’t know how to get in, then you ain’t supposed to get in.”

  “But I need to get in to see someone,” insisted Slater.

  “Well perhaps you do, son, but if they haven’t told you how to get in, maybe they don’t want to see you.”

  Slater produced the photo of sexy Ruth.

  “I’m trying to find this woman,” he said, showing the photograph. “I think she lives here.”

  The old man studied the photo, and then looked suspiciously at Slater.

  “You’re not one of those weird people are you?”

  “What weird people?”

  “One of them whatchacallums. Errm, ah, yes. A stalker.”

  This was the second time Slater had been accused of being a stalker in less than an hour. He wondered if maybe he needed to change the way he dressed or something.

  “Do I look like a bloody stalker?” he asked, irritated.

  “Dunno,” came the reply. “I never seen one before. But I suppose you must look like one if you are one.”

  “But I’m not one. I’m an undercover police officer.”

  The little old man stepped back and looked Slater up and down. He sucked on his teeth as he considered this newcomer who claimed first to be a stalker, and now to be a police officer.

  “Well,” he said after some consideration. “If you are an undercover police officer, you ain’t a very good one, are you?”

  “What?” Slater was puzzled.

  “You won’t stay undercover for long if you go around telling everyone you’re undercover, now will you? I mean, I was quite happy to believe you were a stalker.”

  “But I’m not a bloody stalker,” said Slater, his patience wearing thin. He took a couple of deep breaths and made a decision.

  “Look,” he said, producing his warrant card. “I’m a police officer. The girl in this photograph has gone missing. I believe she lives, or may have once lived, here, but I need to confirm this. That’s why I want to come in.”

  So much for keeping my identity quiet.

  The old man studied the warrant card, then looked again at the photograph of Ruth Thornhill.

  “Nice looking girl,” the old man said. “But she don’t live here. I’ve been working here for the last four months and I ain’t never set eyes on her. And I would have remembered a face like that!”

  “She went missing about six months ago,” explained Slater. “There must be someone who would know if she lived here.”

  “They’ll know in the office,” the old man told him. “They got records an’ that.”

  “And where’s the office?” asked Slater.

  “I’ll take you there.”

  He walked to the side of the gate and pressed the keys on the inside. The gates glided smoothly open and Slater walked in. The gates closed behind him.

  “This way.”

  Slater followed the old man across the courtyard to the corner of the buildings where a door was marked “office”.

  “If you’d said you was a copper I’d have let you in straight away,” explained the old man, “But when you said you was a stalker. Well. I mean. We don’t want none of them in ‘ere, now do we?”

  Slater ground his teeth in frustration.

  “Do I really look like a stalker?” he asked.

&
nbsp; They were outside the office door now. The old man knocked on the door and then turned to look at him.

  “I dunno, son.” He smiled. “Like I said, I never seen one before.”

  He winked at Slater and doffed his cap.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, as he started walking away. “My partner’s impatient to be swept off her feet. If you get my drift.”

  Slater couldn’t help smiling as he watched the old man return to his broom, where he bowed and offered his hand. Then taking up the broom he carefully clicked play and took his position.

  “Foxtrot. It’s our favourite,” he called to Slater as he spun away to his left and began sweeping and singing in time to the music.

  Slater thought this man was either very happy with his lot, or just plain mad. He finally decided he must be happy, because whatever else the old man might be, he was certainly no fool.

  “Can I help you?”

  He turned to find a pleasant looking woman in the doorway of the office.

  She held out her hand.

  “I’m Janice,” she said, introducing herself. “I run the office here.”

  Slater took the hand and shook it.

  “DS Dave Slater,” he said, showing her his warrant card. He thought the old man would almost certainly tell her was a police officer, and besides, she might be more helpful if he told her the truth.

  “Ooh! We don’t often get the police coming here. Come on in.”

  She backed into the office and he followed her in. It wasn’t exactly the biggest office he’d ever seen. She saw his expression.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s a bit pokey, isn’t it? You’d think the office would be as lavish as the flats here, but I suppose they had to save some money somewhere.”

  “The old guy’s a bit of a character,” he said.

  “You mean Sid? Yes, he’s a lovely old fellow.” She smiled, sadly. “He’s my dad. He dances with his broom every day. He and my mum used to be champion ballroom dancers. They used to dance all the time. But she died last year just before Christmas. He took it very badly; they were very close. I got him the job here keeping the place tidy so I could keep an eye on him. You have to look after your family, don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.” Slater suddenly felt a bit small.

  “No. It’s alright. He’d much rather you called him an old guy. He is an old guy. He doesn’t want to be treated special or anything. He just wants to be treated like anyone else.”

  With the tiniest of shivers, she seemed to shake her sadness away and then she was ready for business again.

  “Now then, Sergeant. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for a missing girl.” He showed her the photograph. “Ruth Thornhill. I believe she used to live here, or she might even still be living here.”

  Janice looked at the photo.

  “Used to live here,” she said. “She doesn’t live here any more. And she hasn’t done for about six months. She left before the lease expired, which is a bit odd considering how much these places cost to rent.”

  “How much?”

  “Five thousand a month,” she told him.

  “Wow! They must be pretty special.”

  “At the end of the day they’re just pokey little terraced houses that have been done up inside. I think the rent’s extortionate, but people are prepared to pay it. I suppose they must have more money than sense.”

  Having said her piece, Janice looked embarrassed.

  “Listen to me. Not very professional am I?”

  “You’re probably right though,” Slater agreed. “And anyway, I’m not going to run to your boss and tell him what you said. So what’s happened to her flat now?” “It’s vacant, waiting for a new tenant.”

  Slater could hardly believe his luck.

  “Could I take look inside?”

  “I’d have to get permission,” she said.

  “How long would that take?”

  “They’re not quick at that sort of thing. It could be days.”

  “But I only want to have a look, to try and learn a bit more about her. Seeing where she lived might give me a bit more insight.”

  “Have you ever thought about renting a place like this?” she asked.

  “You have to be joking,” he said, disappointed by her refusal to let him see inside the flat. “On my salary?”

  “It’s just that when people are interested I’m allowed to show them around,” she continued.

  He was trying to think what to do next, so he wasn’t really listening to what she was saying. She pushed a form across her desk towards him.

  “If you were to just fill this form in stating your interest, I would have a good enough reason to show you around.”

  “What?” He had just caught the last bit.

  “The form.” She waved it at him. “Fill it in and I can show you around as a potential tenant.”

  “And this is the exact flat Ruth lived in until six months ago?” he asked, as Janice opened the front door.

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Ruth. The missing girl.”

  “That’s not the name we knew her by,” said Janice. “She called herself Ruby. Ruby Rider. She said she was a writer and it was her pen-name.”

  The plot thickens. “Did she pay the rent in that name?”

  “It was her publisher that paid the rent. Or, at least, she said it was her publisher. To be honest, as long as the money comes in on time it doesn’t really matter who pays, you know?”

  “Can I see who the payee was?”

  “I think you’d need a warrant for that, to be honest,” she replied. “I can get away with this because I can plead ignorance. I can tell them you’re just a bloke who enquired about the flat and I showed him round. How am I to know you weren’t who you said you were? But I can’t plead ignorance to showing confidential stuff to someone who just walked in, can I?”

  She had a point, and Slater knew it, so he didn’t think he should push his luck.

  “I didn’t realise it would be furnished,” he said.

  “They’re not usually, but she left everything behind. The boss kept it in lieu of notice. He figured it made up for the rent he’s lost.” She pulled a face. She obviously wasn’t a big fan of her boss or his ethics.

  “So, she left everything?”

  “Yep,” said Janice. “Every little thing, right down to her make-up and lipstick.”

  “Didn’t anyone think that was a bit strange?” he asked. “Don’t women take their make-up everywhere? Especially their lipstick?”

  “When I asked my boss, I was just told that she’d left, and if she chose to leave her stuff it was none of my business.” She pulled another face. “Whatever that means.”

  The building may have looked like an old terraced house from the outside, but inside it had been gutted to create an open-plan living space with a kitchen built on at the back. The old staircase had been replaced with a modern spiral staircase.

  “Ok if I look upstairs?” he asked, nodding towards the staircase.

  “Carry on,” she said. “As a potential tenant you can go anywhere you like.”

  He walked slowly up the spiral, emerging onto a small landing. A luxurious bathroom and dressing room were at the back, and a huge bedroom to the front. The bed appeared to be big enough to have filled the entire upper floor back in his little house in Tinton. Janice informed him it was a super kingsize. He had to admit, he had never seen a bed that big before.

  He pulled open a drawer in the bedroom, hoping he might find something of interest, but it was empty.

  “What happened to all her personal stuff, and clothes?” he asked.

  “I think they’re in one of the lock-ups out the back,” she told him. “I can check if you like.”

  “Any chance I could see them?”

  “I’ll ask my boss,” she said. “Maybe if I explain there’s a missing girl he might be a little more inclined to help yo
u out. If you’ve finished up here, I’ll make a phone call and see what I can do.”

  He didn’t think it would do any harm, and he desperately needed to see these personal things, so Slater agreed to her plan.

  Back in the office, he waited while Janice made the phone call.

  He heard her start with “Hello, Mr Chan. It’s Janice here…”

  He expected his request to be turned down, so he tuned her out and thought about other ways he might wangle his way into the lock-ups.

  Twenty minutes later, he was making his way back out of the gates to Mistral Court. To his surprise, Janice had managed to convince her boss that it would be a good idea to let him have a look at Ruby/Ruth’s personal stuff, and even more surprising he had agreed, but, only if he could also be there. So Slater had had to agree to go away and come back again in the morning.

  It was a pain, but if that was what he had to do, then that’s what he would do.

  Chapter Nine

  As the gates closed smoothly behind him, Slater caught a movement from a window opposite. There was someone at the window, watching him. And they had a camera.

  “I wonder if you can help me,” he muttered to himself, making a beeline straight across the road to the house opposite.

  He rang the doorbell and banged on the door. Nothing happened for a few minutes so he hammered on the door again. He pressed his ear to the door and listened hard. Eventually he could hear someone on the other side.

  “Just a minute,” called the voice. It sounded like an older woman. Then he could hear a quieter muttering. “Gawd, dear oh dear. Can’t a person be left in peace? Hammering on the door like that. You’ll wake the blinkin’ dead, you will.”

  Eventually the door opened a crack until the chain inside took the strain. Part of a face and a baleful eye peered around the door at him.

  “What you want?” demanded a grey haired old woman.

  “I want to know why you were pointing a camera at me,” said Slater.

  “Eh? You must be seein’ things. I ain’t got no camera.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I come in and take a look, will you?” insisted Slater.

  “You can’t do that!” she snapped. “Go away or I’ll call the police!”