Death Of a Temptress

by P. F. Ford

  “Hmm,” growled Murray. “Maybe we should hand it over to Professional Standards. Let the police who police the police do their job... if you see what I mean.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t, Sir,” Slater objected. “I’d quite like to sort this one out myself. You know why.” This, of course, was a reference to Slater’s chance to get back at DI Jimmy Jones.

  “The problem with a vendetta,” warned Murray. “Is it can cloud your judgement and blur your focus.”

  “I understand that, Guv. But I think this has got a whole lot bigger than just me trying to get one over Jimmy Jones. This is a major cover-up. I think I’ve stumbled across something serious, something that needs investigating properly. I’ve got this far, and I’d like to see it through. Besides, how do we know who we can trust up there? It could have been pressure from someone in PS that’s kept the lid on it up until now.”

  Murray paced up and down his office as he contemplated the situation, finally coming to a halt at the window where he clasped his hands behind his back and stared out at the world. Slater knew Murray was thinking he should hand the case over…but he also knew his boss, like him, would be wondering who they could trust.

  “Can I remind you, Sir,” said Slater, cautiously. “You did tell me this would be my opportunity to put the record straight and prove everyone wrong. How can I do that if you take that chance away from me just as I’m starting to make some real progress?”

  “Fair comment, David,” nodded Murray, keeping his back to Slater.

  Slater watched Murray’s back anxiously. Every detective working in this station knew that Murray always looked out of the window when he was making a decision. They even joked that it just depended on the weather. If Murray looked upon sunshine, he would make a positive decision and if it was raining, it would be bad news. That was the joke, but in reality, they all knew Murray took his responsibility very seriously and to a man, they valued his judgement. He was rarely wrong, and on those odd occasions when he was, he would always be prepared to admit he’d made a mistake. It was one of the ways respect was won, and they all had great respect for Bob Murray. Finally, he stepped away from the window and turned back to Slater.

  “Right. This is what we’re going to do. First, you’re not going to hand this in,” he said, handing the report back to Slater, and hushing his protests with, “If I read it I’ll have to pass the information on, but I can’t read it if you don’t give it to me. I’m sure you understand.”

  Slater nodded as he took the report back from Murray. Oh yes, he understood.

  “You’re going to need some help,” added Murray. “Reason number one – to watch your back. Reason number two – to make it much harder for anyone to claim you’re making it all up. And reason number three – because I said so.”

  “Do I get to choose?” asked Slater, optimistically.

  “Who do you want?”

  “Steve Biddeford,” said Slater without hesitation. They’d worked together before.

  “Wasn’t he one of the guys with you on that operation that went tits-up?” asked Murray.

  “Yeah,” agreed Slater, “But it wasn’t his fault. He was one of the few things about that operation that didn’t go bad.”

  “He’s young though, and inexperienced,” said Murray. “I don’t think he’s ready to get involved in something like this. It could get seriously nasty and I’m not sure he’s equipped to deal with that sort of thing just yet. I think you’d be better off with someone more experienced.”

  He responded to the grimace on Slater’s face.

  “I know you like him, Dave, but I have a duty to help develop his career and look after him. It’s all part of my job and you know it. Throw a young guy like him into a situation like the one you were in the other day, and he might not have the instincts to keep out of trouble. We could destroy a promising career before he’s really got started.”

  Slater knew Murray was right, but he couldn’t hide his disappointment.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Murray. “He can help out down this end, but only if he’s free. If he’s busy you leave him alone. Okay?”

  “Ok, boss,” agreed Slater. It was a compromise, and he knew there was a good chance he might not see Biddeford at all if he was kept busy elsewhere, but it was better than nothing. But that left one question.

  “So who’s the lucky person with the experience then?” he asked. There were a lot of detectives here that Slater would prefer not to work with, but he knew he’d have to make do with whoever Murray offered.

  “DS Norman’s free right now.” He smiled at Slater. “You can work with him. He originally came from London so he might have some useful local knowledge.”

  “DS Norman?” repeated Slater, thinking things couldn’t get any worse.

  “Is there a problem?” Murray said, sounding challenging.

  “Err, no. I guess not,” mumbled Slater. “I suppose help’s help, at the end of the day.”

  “Listen,” said Murray. “Forget what you’ve heard about Norman from the other men. He’s not the fool they make him out to be. Give him a chance.”

  Slater thought he had little choice, but he kept it to himself.

  “Yes, Boss. Of course,” he said through gritted teeth. “Where can I find him?”

  Murray looked at his watch.

  “He’s probably in the canteen, right now. He’s not attached to any other enquiries at the moment so you can grab him now, get him up to speed, and you’re good to go. You can start by giving him your report to read. At least then you won’t have wasted your time writing it.”

  With that, Murray returned to his desk and began going through the morning post. That was it. Meeting over.

  Slater made his way to the door.

  “Oh, David,” he called.

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “Don’t forget to keep me up to date.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “And give Norman a chance. Alright?”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  Slater made his way quietly to the canteen. At this time of the morning, just after 9.30, it was too late for breakfast and too early for tea breaks, so there was hardly anyone around, just one lone, solitary, figure at a corner table. He had his back to the room and was hunched over a newspaper spread out on the table before him. A used cup and saucer had been pushed to one side of the table.

  As there was no one else in the canteen, Slater guessed this must be the already legendary Detective Sergeant “Knocker” Norman. Slater hadn’t met him before, having been suspended when Norman had arrived, so he only knew him by rumour. What he’d heard wasn’t exactly inspiring, and it would be difficult to ignore, but he was going to try and do as Bob Murray had suggested and give the guy a chance.

  It appeared Norman had recently arrived in Hampshire, from the Met, via three years in the cold wastes of Northumberland. Rumour had it that he’d been put out to grass in Hampshire while he waited to reach retirement age. Rumour also suggested he had been given the nickname “Knocker” because the only thing he was good for was going door-to-door asking the same questions over and over.

  There was an unfortunate thing about rumour. It always provided plenty of information, but most of that information tended to be incorrect, and vastly exaggerated. A lot of it also tended to consist of speculation. The rest was often just downright lies.

  Slater knew not one member of staff at Tinton (apart from Bob Murray) had actually taken the trouble to speak to Norman and get the real story direct from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.

  The entire legend had been created from a few rumours planted, like seeds, over the grapevine from Northumberland, and then nourished by the fertile imaginations within Tinton itself. To be fair Slater hadn’t been around much until now, but he had been quite happy to dine on the feast provided by rumour without once questioning its accuracy.

  He grabbed a cup of the pale grey liquid that passed for tea in this place and slowly made his way over to the co
rner where Norman was sitting. As he approached, he could see that his new partner wasn’t exactly going to be the fittest he’d ever had. He seemed to sag into his seat in such a way that he appeared to be spilling over the edges. His clothes had the crumpled air of a man living alone who had never mastered the art of ironing. On closer inspection, Slater thought it was possible he didn’t even know what an iron was.

  He coughed as he made his way over to Norman’s table, keen to make sure his arrival wasn’t totally unexpected.

  “Err, is there room for one more?” he asked.

  Norman looked round in surprise. His face was mostly hidden by an unruly mop of thick curly hair, which had obviously decided to adopt a style all of its own on this particular morning, and a heavy, thick pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose. He looked at Slater over the top of the glasses for a moment, turned to look at his table, and then back at Slater.

  “Looks like there’s plenty of room to me,” he said, waving at the table. “Come on down, take a seat.”

  Slater sat down next to him and placed his cup on the table. The front of Norman’s suit was as crumpled as the back, and perfectly matched the equally crumpled appearance of his face. Slater had been told he was 53, but he could easily have passed for ten years older.

  Slater felt there was an air of sadness about Knocker Norman. It was as if he’d had the stuffing knocked from him and all the substance had been sucked out. And it wasn’t just his scruffy appearance. Everything about his demeanour seemed to signal an air of defeat.

  He couldn’t understand why he felt this way, and he certainly couldn’t have explained why, but he felt an immediate affinity with Norman.

  “You must be Dave Slater,” said Norman extending his hand.

  “You’re expecting me?” said Slater shaking the proffered hand. So Murray had arranged this before they’d even met this morning.. But, why me?

  “I’ve been expecting you for a couple of days,” said Norman. “I was beginning to wonder if maybe this was some sort of cruel initiation joke. Make the new guy drink crappy tea until he throws up, or something like that. I have to say, there’s only so much shit tea one man can drink.”

  “There is?” asked Slater. So this has been arranged for days and Murray didn’t tell me. Norman was talking again.

  “I reached my personal shitty tea limit at the end of the first cup. I tried another one this morning, thinking it couldn’t possibly be that bad two days running, but I’m afraid it was even worse.”

  He looked into Slater’s cup.

  “Of course,” he continued, “It could be that we’re both being punished by being force-fed shite tea.”

  Slater just looked at him. Norman sighed heavily and studied Slater for a moment. He got the impression the scruffy police officer was appraising him – and not entirely happy with the results.

  “Bob Murray tells me you’re the only guy here who might accept me for who I am and not listen to all the rumours circulating about me,” Norman said.

  “He did?” Slater started to feel a tad guilty now. After all, he had been taking in the gossip along with everyone else. Even if he did take it with a pinch of salt, he knew he would have been quite happy to accept it as gospel just like the others.

  “But he didn’t tell me you only speak two words at a time.” Norman smiled. It was a warm smile that changed his whole demeanour for those few moments it lasted.

  Slater was briefly non-plussed, but finally he caught up. He smiled back.

  “Oh, I can do more than two words,” he laughed. “Sometimes I even do whole sentences.”

  “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that,” sighed Norman. “I was beginning to think Bob Murray was telling me porkies.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “He told me that you and I have something in common.”

  Slater looked sceptical. He found it hard to believe that he could really have anything in common with Knocker Norman.

  Norman read Slater’s face, looked down at his spreading bulk and then back up to Slater.

  “Yeah, I know. It’s hard to believe I’m a sprint champion too, right?”

  Slater couldn’t help but laugh. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but despite his air of defeat, there was definitely something about Norman that he liked.

  “Okay. You don’t believe me?” asked Norman. “I hear you’ve just been made a scapegoat for the Serious Crime Unit. Welcome to the club my friend.”

  “You too?” asked Slater.

  “There you go with the two word thing again,” said Norman. “You’re gonna have to stop doing that. It’ll drive me crazy!”

  “Okay, okay. Point taken.” Slater smiled. “I promise I’ll try to use whole sentences in future.” Then, he became a bit more serious.

  “So tell me more,” he urged Norman. “What happened to you?”

  “We can talk about that later,” said Norman. “First, you tell me about this case you’re on that needs my help? You’ve heard the rumours, right? Knocker Norman’s only good for knocking on doors and doing house to house. Ergo, you must be pretty desperate if you need my help.”

  “I didn’t say that,” said Slater.

  “No,” agreed Norman. “But having heard the rumours you must be thinking it. If you’re not, you must be mad. I would be.”

  “Look,” said Slater. “I’ll admit I’ve heard one or two rumours. But, I’ve not been in the station much lately so I’ve not heard it all. And I do like to try to make up my own mind about people, whatever the rest might think.”

  “Do you succeed?” asked Norman.

  “Mostly. I’m known for having my own opinion. When you make your own decisions about people, or anything else, you only ever have yourself to blame if you’re wrong.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said Norman nodding and looking thoughtful. “Anyway, you were going to tell me about this case you’re on.”

  Slater looked around at the dull drab canteen. It made him feel like hibernating, and he was used to it. God knows what Norman must be feeling if he’d been sat here for two days waiting for him. If it had been the other way around, Slater would have been going crazy by now. He made a decision.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of this dump. I’ll show you where you can get a decent cup of tea around here, and while we’re drinking it I’ll tell you what we’ve got.”

  They stood together.

  “Your car or mine?” asked Norman.

  “You drive, I’ll show you the way,” said Slater, showing his plastered wrist. “It’s not far.”

  “What happened to you?” asked Norman, clearly noticing the wrist for the first time.

  “Close encounter of the big red bus kind,” was all Slater said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It wasn’t a long walk from the canteen to the car park, but by the time they got there, Norman was puffing and blowing like a damaged steam engine. Slater regarded him with genuine concern.

  “I know,” wheezed Norman, obviously noting the expression on Slater’s face. “I’m not the fittest. I do try though. Believe it or not, I count calories and I eat mostly salads. And I eat my five a day. It’s all healthy stuff you know. It just doesn’t seem to make any difference.”

  “You can say that again,” agreed Slater doubtfully, under his breath.

  “I might be a bit overweight, and a bit unfit,” warned Norman, “but I’m not deaf.”

  “Sorry,” admitted Slater guiltily. “But you’ve got to admit you’re in a bit of a state. What do you do if you have to chase someone?”

  “Oh, I don’t do chasing,” said Norman, leaning back against his car to catch his breath. “In fact I don’t do any sort of running. At my age there’s no point. They’re all years younger than me and twice as fast as I ever was. You have to use your assets, and speed isn’t one of mine. I use my head instead.”

  “What? You mean you nut people?” Slater asked, laughing. “You still ne
ed to get close to do that.”

  “No. Of course I don’t nut them,” said Norman reproachfully. “I might get hurt myself doing that. No, what I mean is I use my brain to outwit them.”

  “And that works?” asked a sceptical Slater.

  “Look,” explained Norman, fumbling for his keys. “I might have been pushed into a siding, but I wasn’t sacked, was I? And the reason I didn’t get the sack is because I’m a bloody good copper. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  He held up his car key triumphantly and looked across the car roof at Slater waiting patiently at the passenger door.

  “From what I’ve heard,” continued Norman, “that sounds exactly like what happened to you. You’re a bloody good copper who happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and got dumped on from a great height. Am I right?”

  Slater was flattered that he should be considered a good copper, but at the same time he was aggrieved at being reminded of the injustice of his situation. And now it seemed he had a partner with exactly the same problem.

  He heard Norman plip the door locks and opened his door. A small sea of empty sweet wrappers filled the footwell on his side.

  “Hang on a minute. I’ll clear that up,” said Norman, obviously seeing the look on Slater’s face. He reached across and grabbed for the wrappers, but two hands were never going to be enough. With a sigh, Slater began to help him. Eventually they managed to clear enough of the sweet wrappers to find the carpet underneath and Slater climbed in.

  As he took his seat, Slater looked around. The car had the appearance of a mobile rubbish tip.

  “If I put this down in here,” he indicated the report he was still carrying, “will you be able to find it again?”

  “Look, I know it’s a bit untidy-” began Norman.