by P. F. Ford
‘We’ll have to stop meeting like this, people will start to talk,’ said Eddie Brent, the fire crew manager, to Slater.
‘At least this time no one’s missing,’ said Slater, grimly, as he surveyed the still steaming, charred wreck that had been his car.
‘Have you found him yet?’ asked Brent.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Is this linked?’
‘Do cars spontaneously catch fire?’ asked Slater.
‘Not normally, no,’ said Brent. ‘Most car fires these days are a result of arson, although it’s not unheard of for a car to catch fire on its own. But a fire like that usually starts in the engine compartment.’
Slater looked at what was left of his car again.
‘I’m no expert,’ he said, ‘but I think you’re telling me this was arson, right?’
‘It looks as though someone poured petrol all over your car, and inside it, and then set fire to it,’ explained Brent. ‘I’m assuming you didn’t leave it unlocked?’
‘It was locked,’ said Slater. ‘But that doesn’t seem to mean anything with this bloody car.’
Brent gave him a quizzical look.
‘Someone went for a drive in it the other night.’
‘Well, maybe that’s who set fire to it,’ said Brent, with an air of satisfaction.
He acknowledged a signal from his crew who had packed their gear away and were ready to leave.
‘There’s nothing else we can do here now,’ he said. ‘We need to get going, but I’ll send you my report.’
‘Yeah, right, thanks,’ said Slater, with a grim smile. ‘Let’s hope this doesn’t become a regular thing.’
He watched and waved off the fire crew. What he really needed was a torch so he could have good look around where he had seen the figure watching his car burn. However, his torch had been in his car, so that was out of the question. He was going to have to wait until morning. Frustrated, he turned to walk back up the path to his house.
It was dark inside his house as he wearily pushed open his front door. All he could think about was collapsing back into his bed, and it barely registered with him that his house was completely dark. Automatically, as he pushed his way inside, he reached for the light switch. Nothing happened. Sod it, he thought, the bulb must have blown.
His was only a tiny house, so it was only a couple of steps to the kitchen. He tried the light switch just inside the kitchen door, but again, nothing happened. It occurred to him that maybe the power was off, but then he immediately realised it couldn’t be that because the neon clock on the cooker was working.
This is bloody odd, he thought.
He dropped his jacket by the kitchen door and walked across his narrow lounge, feeling his way in the dark. There was a standard lamp in the corner, maybe that would work. He reached under the shade and clicked the switch. This time it worked and the room filled with dim light.
‘Ah, at last,’ said a heavily accented voice behind him. ‘I was beginning to think you were going to stay out there all night.’
Slater froze, still facing the corner of the room.
‘Please turn around,’ said the voice. ‘I need to see your face. But hold your hands up, and don’t try anything clever. I have a gun pointing at you, and much as I would prefer not to use it, I will if I must.’
Slater gulped hard. Was this the Russian? Slowly he turned around. The man was sitting in the only armchair, looking totally relaxed, despite the pistol held in his right hand pointing straight at Slater’s chest.
At the sight of the gun, Slater felt his insides turn icy cold. He was no coward, and would stand his ground against almost anyone in a fist fight, but he had a healthy fear of guns and what they could do.
‘Oh dear. You look a little fearful,’ said the Russian, with a cold smile. ‘But that is understandable. I expect, working out in the country here, you don’t have to face a man with a gun very often. But don’t worry. I am not one of these idiots who gets a gun and doesn’t know how to use it. I can assure you I am a professional, and I know exactly what I am doing.
‘Anyway, fear is a very healthy thing. If you fear the gun, you are more likely to behave yourself, and if you behave yourself you will not get hurt.’
‘Who are you, and what do you want?’ Slater had to try hard to keep his fear in check.
‘I understand, as a policeman, you are used to asking questions,’ said the Russian. ‘But on this occasion you will keep quiet unless I ask you to speak.’
Like a rabbit caught in a car’s headlights, Slater was becoming mesmerised by the hole at the end of the gun barrel, which seemed to be getting bigger and bigger the more he stared at it. When the Russian suddenly waved it to indicate he should sit on the settee, his stomach lurched violently and his heart seemed to miss several beats.
‘Please sit down Mr Slater, and try to relax,’ said the Russian, sounding quite reasonable. ‘Believe me, if I had come here to shoot you, I would have done so by now. Lucky for you, on this occasion I am not here as an assassin, but as a messenger. I have been sent to deliver a message to you and to your friend Mr Norman.’
‘What have you done with him?’ asked Slater, as he slowly, and carefully, lowered himself onto the settee.
The Russian looked puzzled.
‘What have I done with him?’ repeated the Russian. ‘Do you mean Mr Norman? I have done nothing with him. I only set fire to his house.’
Despite his heavy accent, the Russian spoke perfect English, which was delivered slowly and deliberately – and Slater could understand every word.
‘What do you mean, “I only set fire to his house”?’ asked Slater, who despite his fear of the gun, was irritated by the man’s casual attitude. ‘You could have bloody killed him. And what about all the other people who live in that block of flats?’
‘No, no, no,’ said the Russian, shaking his head. ‘Make no mistake. If I had wanted to kill Mr Norman, I would have shot him, and he would be dead. If I had wanted to hurt him, I would have started the fire while he was at home. And, if I had wanted to hurt other people, I would not have set off the fire alarm and called the fire service. I was very careful.’
Slater thought about this. Could he really believe this man when he said he hadn’t wanted to kill Norman? But then, hadn’t Goodnews suggested as much?
‘So where’s Norman now?’ he demanded.
Just for a moment, the Russian looked perplexed.
‘I have not seen him since the night I burnt his flat,’ he said. ‘Is he missing?’
‘You know bloody well he’s missing,’ Slater said, accusingly. ‘What have you done with him?’
‘This would explain why I have not seen him,’ said the Russian, ignoring Slater’s demands. ‘When did he go missing?’
‘Don’t play games. You know when.’
‘Why would I lie to you?’
Slater studied the Russian’s face. He had a point. There was absolutely no sensible reason for him to tell lies when he had that bloody gun in his hand.
‘How do I know I can trust what you say?’ he asked.
‘You don’t,’ said the Russian. ‘But ask yourself, why would I kidnap him? As I said, I am merely a messenger. We just want you to leave us alone. Kidnapping, or killing, either one of you is not going to help us achieve that. It would just make matters worse. At the moment we have two small-time policemen, who are a long way away, to deal with. It’s an annoying irritation, but that is all. If we hurt you, we will have every policeman in Europe looking for us. Our minor irritation would become a major problem. Do you really think we are that stupid?’
‘What about the people at Interpol?’ asked Slater. ‘Aren’t they looking for you on our behalf?’
‘I believe the expression is “to pay lip service”.’ The Russian smiled, coldly. ‘Do you really think they want to help two English detectives on a wild goose chase?’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Slater. ‘You’ve paid them off.’
Now the Russian’s smile became much bigger.
‘We pay insurance like any business, just to be sure,’ he said. ‘But they really don’t care to help the English anyway.’
This was news Slater wasn’t really surprised to hear.
‘So why did you set fire to my car?’ he asked. ‘That was another warning, was it? Am I supposed to be grateful you torched my car and not my house?’
‘Ah yes.’ The Russian smiled and nodded his head. ‘I confess. I did burn your car. But, I would suggest maybe that was not such a bad thing. I think you will agree when I say it was time for a new one.’
‘But why bother?’
‘I needed to make sure to get your attention,’ said the Russian.
‘Having that friggin’ cannon pointed at me is doing quite a good job of getting my attention, trust me,’ said Slater.
‘And now I have your attention I will deliver the message and then I will leave. And if you and Mr Norman do as I ask, I won’t have to come back.’
‘So why not just tell Norm, like you’re telling me?’ asked Slater. ‘He’s the one who’s been chasing you through Interpol, not me.’
‘Is he really missing?’ asked the Russian.
‘Yes, he really is.’
The Russian tutted, and sighed his disapproval, as if Slater had just told him he’d misplaced his car keys.
‘What is the matter with you people?’ he said. ‘I take my eye off him for one night, and this happens.’
‘What do you mean, “I take my eye off him for one night”?’ asked Slater. ‘How long have you been watching him?’
‘Six weeks. Six weeks waiting for him to leave his flat and give me the right opportunity to burn it. I admit I could have done it the night he was with you, and maybe in hindsight that was a mistake. But I am thinking he really needs to get out more. Spending every night at home on his own is not good. But then, on the one night he goes out alone, he goes missing.’
‘You waited for him to go out so you could burn his flat down?’ asked Slater.
‘I couldn’t burn it with him inside, could I? He might have been hurt. I already told you that was not my intention. I would have followed him when he went out, but I was busy. Now I wish I had followed him, perhaps I could have kept him safe.’
‘Don’t try to pretend you’re some sort of guardian angel. You were busy burning his flat.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the Russian. ‘But now you think I have something to do with his disappearance. This was not supposed to happen.’
The Russian looked at his wristwatch.
‘Oh dear, look at the time,’ he said, pleasantly. ‘I really would love to stay and talk, but time is getting on and I have things to do.’
‘Yeah,’ said Slater, sounding much more brave than he actually felt. ‘Houses to burn, people to terrify. It must keep you very busy.’
‘But you are not terrified of me,’ said the Russian.
‘No,’ agreed Slater. ‘I’m not afraid of you. But I have a very healthy respect for that thing in your hand.’
The Russian smiled and nodded his head.
‘Then it serves its purpose,’ he said.
He fumbled in his jacket pocket and produced a pair of handcuffs, which he tossed across to Slater.
‘Put these around your ankles,’ he ordered. ‘And no funny stuff. I don’t want to have to show you how accurate my aim is.’
Reluctantly, Slater did as he was told.
‘Now stand up, turn around, and put your hands behind your back. My message is simple,’ he said to the back of Slater’s head as he cuffed Slater’s wrists. ‘You are to call off your Interpol search and stop making trouble for my boss. I think you know him as Slick Tony. If you do this, no one will get hurt and we can all get on with our lives. I think the expression is “happily ever after”. Maybe you will even get to see your lady friend, Jelena, again.’
Slater stiffened at the mention of Jelena.
‘What?’ the Russian asked. ‘Did you think she was dead? Oh no, my friend. Unlike Mr Norman, who’s disappearance I know nothing about, Jelena was kidnapped by us. I promise you she is very much alive and she would love to be back here in your quaint little English town.’
‘How do I know any of this is true?’ Slater was very aware of the proximity of the gun to his spine.
‘You don’t,’ said the Russian, smiling. ‘And I can’t make you believe me if you don’t want to. But, you should ask yourself if you can afford not to believe me. There again, you could just wait and see.’
Slater felt the Russian release his grip and heard him back away. He was still facing the wall, and had no intention of turning around to see the gun again.
‘It has been nice meeting you, Mr Slater,’ he said. ‘But I hope you will make sure I don’t have to come and see you again, because next time it will not be such a cordial occasion. Don’t waste your time trying to use your telephone to call for help – I made sure it’s not working.’
Slater heard a rustling sound, and realised the Russian was going through his coat. His heart sank when he realised his mobile phone was in there.
‘I’ll take this, too,’ the Russian said. ‘You’ll find a key for the handcuffs on your bedside cabinet.’
Slater heard the front door open and then the Russian spoke one last time.
‘I hope you find your friend.’ Then he was gone, pulling the front door closed behind him.
Almost unable to believe he was still alive, Slater began to curse, loudly and violently. Hands secured behind his back, he turned slowly, and awkwardly, and began to bunny-hop his way across the room towards the stairs.
Chapter Thirty-One
It was surprisingly difficult to hop across the room, but motivated by all the different swear words he could think of to describe the man who had just got the better of him, Slater eventually reached the bottom of the stairs. Almost exhausted, and sweating profusely, he tried to hop up onto the first step, only to end up toppling backwards and landing in an uncomfortable heap on the floor.
It occurred to him that if he had asked for back-up when he had realised his car was on fire he wouldn’t be in this predicament. It was his own fault, and he slowly became aware that, as a result of his own stupidity, he could be trapped like this for hours before anyone missed him. This provoked another round of swearing, this time at his own incompetence.
After two or three minutes of futility, he finally pulled himself together. This was not the time to start panicking, or for wallowing in self-pity. If he was going to get out of this, he needed to think, and act, a lot more calmly.
Just breathe deeply, he told himself. You can do this. You just need to calm down and get it together, and then you can do this.
Where he had fallen, he was less than six feet from his front door, and as he lay there, recovering his energy and gathering his thoughts, he became aware of a sound outside. He probably wouldn’t have heard it normally, but at this time of the morning it was deathly quiet, and in the almost total silence he could hear someone creeping up the path towards his front door.
Oh, bloody hell, he thought, who the hell is this? One thing was for sure, if it was the Russian come back to finish him off, he was going to have to let himself in…
There was a gentle knock on the door.
Slater immediately thought it couldn’t be the Russian. He surely wasn’t the sort to knock, was he? Then he realised how absurd his own thoughts sounded.
There was another knock, this time a little louder, and seemingly a bit more insistent. A couple of seconds later he heard the rusty squeak of the flap of his letterbox as someone lifted it to peer inside.
‘Hello?’ hissed a familiar voice. ‘Hello? Are you there?’
‘Boss?’ called Slater. ‘Is that you?’
‘Are you alright?’ Goodnews’ voice came through the letterbox. ‘Can you let me in?’
‘I’m a bit tied up, right now,’ said Slater, almost crying with relief. ‘But just hang on a m
inute and I’ll see what I can do.’
It took an enormous amount of effort, but he finally managed to get to his feet and shuffle across to the door. Opening it with his hands behind his back proved rather challenging, but he was nothing if not determined, and eventually he heard the click of the latch.
Goodnews pushed gently at the door, but there was something in the way. It was Slater.
‘Are you going to let me in, or not?’ she asked.
‘Just hang on a minute,’ puffed Slater. ‘This isn’t easy, you know.’
Finally, the door swung slowly open to reveal Slater lying in a crumpled heap on the floor.
‘Oh God! Are you alright?’ she cried, as she rushed inside and knelt by him.
‘Why yes,’ he said, sarcastically. ‘I’ve never felt better.’
‘There’s no need to be bloody sarcastic,’ she said, testily. ‘I’ve come all the way out here in the middle of the night to see if you’re okay. The least you could do is show a bit of gratitude.’
‘I’m sorry. But you have to admit it’s a stupid question. I mean, you can see I’m trussed up like a chicken ready for the oven. Of course I’m not alright!’
‘If you keep on snapping at me, I’ll find some stuffing and put you in the bloody oven,’ she retorted. ‘You could be in the middle of some sordid sex game for all I know.’
‘Well, I don’t know about you,’ said Slater huffily, ‘but I tend to play those in the comfort of my bedroom, not on a bloody cold, hard, floor. And I never play them on my own.’
They glared at each other for a few seconds. It was Slater who spoke first.
‘Anyway, what are you doing here at four o’clock in the morning?’
‘Well, I can assure you I’m not here to make up the numbers for your sex game,’ said Goodnews, frostily. ‘I’m actually here because I asked the night shift duty sergeant to keep me informed if anything happened to any of my team. Especially if that someone was you.’