The Red Telephone Box (DS Dave Slater Mystery Novels Book 5)

by P. F. Ford

‘But what if I’m wrong?’ asked Slater. ‘You don’t want all the troops coming out here for nothing.’

  ‘They won’t be,’ she said, fishing her mobile phone from her pocket. ‘My gut’s telling me you’re right, and I always listen to my gut.’

  ‘You’ll be damned lucky if you get a signal out here.’

  She looked at the phone and from the look on her face, Slater knew he had been right.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re used to,’ he said, ‘but you’re out in the country now. There are lots of places like this once you get a few miles away from Tinton. You might just as well be in the middle of nowhere.’

  Goodnews looked at their surroundings.

  ‘We are in the middle of bloody nowhere, aren’t we?’ she said, bitterly. ‘How am I going to call for backup now?’

  ‘You could try going out into the meadow,’ he suggested. ‘Maybe all these trees are blocking the signal.’

  She took a few tentative steps towards the meadow, then hesitated and turned towards him.

  ‘What about the cows?’ she asked.

  ‘You’ll be alright,’ he muttered to himself. ‘In your current mood they’ll probably recognise you as one of their own.’

  ‘What was that?’ she asked.

  ‘I said you’ll be alright. It looks like they’re probably waiting to be taken in for milking,’ he said, this time loud enough for her to hear. ‘Anyway, they won’t hurt you. It’s the bulls you have to watch out for.’

  ‘If I step in cow shit, you’ll be cleaning my shoes,’ she warned him, as she turned towards the meadow.

  ‘Just look where you’re stepping, and it won’t happen. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can find the way in.’

  ‘If you find it, just wait,’ she said. ‘I don’t want any heroics. Just make sure he doesn’t escape. We’ll decide how we’re going to get in there when the troops arrive.’

  Norman saw Tim Jolly freeze, and he strained his ears. He thought he could hear people speaking, although it was hard to tell.

  ‘What’s up Tim?’ said Norman. ‘Is that voices you can hear? I told you they’d find us. Now what are you going to do?’

  He was tied to a chair, his legs secured to the front legs by coarse rope which had rubbed a raw red band around each ankle. His hands were secured behind him with the same rope which was so tight he could no longer feel them. As if that wasn’t enough to hold him, Jolly had then wrapped yards and yards of rope around his chest and the back of the chair.

  In different circumstances, Norman might have found it amusing to see someone trussed up like this, almost in cartoon fashion, but as he was the victim it was anything but amusing.

  ‘Shut up, lard arse,’ snapped Jolly. ‘I’m trying to think.’

  Norman was thinking too. He’d been thinking hard ever since he had walked into this trap. He didn’t have Jolly down as a jealous husband, and this kidnapping was completely out of character. He had been challenging Jolly about the supposed affair all along, asking him what evidence he had, and when he thought Jane and he actually had the time, or opportunity, to conduct an affair, but Tim Jolly had been adamant. His response to every question Norman asked was that it didn’t matter what he said, he had to be punished.

  ‘You mean you don’t have an exit strategy?’ asked Norman. ‘I thought you were stupid when you said you thought me and Jane were having an affair, but now you’re saying you hadn’t considered what you would do if they found us? Jeez, now I know you’re way more stupid than I thought possible.’

  ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen,’ said Jolly, his voice tinged with panic. ‘He said they’d never find you in time.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Norman. ‘Who said they’d never find me in time?’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘D’you mean your friend Howes? He put all that crap into your head so you’d do this for him. Do you really think he cares what happens to you? I didn’t think you could have planned any of this this. But now look at the mess you’re in. How are you ever going to explain this to Jane? She thinks the world of you, but what’s she going to think now?’

  ‘Just shut up,’ Jolly said again, his voice wild. ‘You’re supposed to be the prisoner. You don’t get to ask questions.’

  ‘You’re not made for this sort of stuff, are you?’ said Norman, ignoring the threat. ‘How the hell did you let yourself get involved with something like this?’

  ‘I’m sorry, alright?’ said Jolly. ‘But I had no choice. When someone threatens your kids, you don’t have a choice.’

  ‘But why didn’t you tell Jane, or me? We could have protected your kids. We could have protected all of you.’

  ‘It’s too late now,’ said Jolly. ‘There’s nothing you can do.’

  He headed off towards the back of the room. Norman had his back to that end of the room and couldn’t see what Jolly was doing.

  ‘Come on, Tim,’ he said. ‘It’s not too late. It’s never too late. Tell us what you know and we can stop him. We’ll pick up Jane and the kids. They’ll be safe. Tim? Tim? Are you there?’

  But there was no reply from Jolly, and as Norman strained to hear, he realised he couldn’t make out any sound from the back of the room. And then, suddenly, a knife was thrust between his wrists and the rope around his hands went slack.

  His feet were still tied to the chair, but at least Jolly had freed his wrists. He tried to flex his fingers, but his hands were so numb he couldn’t even feel them.

  Then he let out an involuntary gasp of pain as the blood vessels which had been starved of blood for so long began to ache with the sudden surge of blood flowing freely through them once again. Oh boy, now he could feel them…

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Slater watched Goodnews make her way gingerly through the trees. He winced as she grabbed the thin wire of the fence and pushed it down to swing a leg over it, but if it was electric, as he had expected, it must have been switched off. Then finally she was out in the open air of the meadow and he returned to the job of trying to find a way in to the basement.

  There was clearly no trap door set in the concrete floor here, so he figured wherever it was, it had to be hidden somewhere beneath the surrounding bushes. He began to work his way around the perimeter of the building. He reminded himself this was Tim Jolly they were looking for, not some master criminal. There had to be a clue here somewhere.

  Slater walked slowly and carefully, studying the ground as he went, and then suddenly the world seemed to cave in beneath his feet with a loud crack, and he was tumbling down a rickety wooden staircase.

  Out of control, he hurtled down the stairs, coming to a crashing halt against a wooden door. The breath had been knocked from him, his ears were ringing, and he’d suffered a painful blow just above his right eye, splitting the skin of his eyebrow. Blood seeped slowly from the wound and ran down into his eye. He lay still for a moment, trying to catch his breath and figure out what had just happened. He felt as though he’d had a severe battering, but the good news was he didn’t seem to have broken any bones.

  Out in the meadow, Goodnews had managed to find a feeble signal for her mobile phone, but it kept breaking up and she was struggling to make her call. She had eventually managed to reach the duty sergeant but whether he was actually able to understand what she was saying was debatable.

  It was her habit to pace up and down as she spoke on the phone, and she did exactly that as she was trying to communicate with the sergeant. Unfortunately, she took one or two steps too many and lost the signal completely and, of course, once she lost the signal it was gone for good.

  In the ensuing rage that engulfed her, she felt like throwing the phone away, but she knew that would be a stupid thing to do and would solve nothing.

  She had been keeping a wary eye on the cows at the far end of the meadow, but, as Slater had assured her, they seemed to be waiting to be taken in for milking and had shown little interest in her, or what she was doing. But then, as she glanced in
their direction once more, there was a commotion amongst them and suddenly the figure of a man emerged and began to run towards her.

  She watched as the man approached, slowly growing larger as he ran. Then her apprehension turned to relief as she realised it was Steve Biddeford. Against all the odds, the cavalry had arrived.

  Whatever faults Biddeford might have, thought Goodnews, as she watched him approach, there was nothing wrong with his fitness and he cut an impressive figure as he raced across the rough ground. Even so, by the time he reached her he was panting hard, but then to be fair, he had just run the best part of 150 yards across some pretty rough ground.

  ‘How did you manage to find us?’ she said. ‘I’ve only just called in, and the signal’s crap.’

  ‘I know,’ gasped Biddeford, his hands on his knees as he fought to get his breath back. ‘I’ve been trying to call you for ages. In the end I thought I’d better make my way out here anyway.’

  ‘Are you on your own?’ she asked. ‘Is there no team coming out?’

  ‘I couldn’t get it authorised. I couldn’t get hold of you, and DCI Murray’s gone missing. I tried calling headquarters, but they didn’t want to know.’

  ‘Oh, bloody wonderful,’ said Goodnews. ‘So there’s just the three of us.’

  ‘That’s about how it usually works at Tinton,’ puffed Biddeford. ‘You sort of get used to it.’

  ‘We’ll see about that, when this is over,’ muttered Goodnews.

  She wasn’t impressed with the resources at her disposal, but they were just going to have to make do. They couldn’t mess about any longer.

  ‘We think we know where he’s holding Norman,’ she told Biddeford. ‘There’s some sort of basement under an old ruined building. DS Slater’s trying to find a way in-’

  She was interrupted by Biddeford pointing behind her. She turned just in time to see a man break cover about 50 yards away and began to run off across the meadow, heading away from them.

  ‘It’s Tim Jolly,’ said Goodnews. ‘Slater must have flushed him out. Quick, after him!’

  ‘I’m knackered already,’ said Biddeford, wearily. ‘Shouldn’t Dave be chasing him?’

  ‘I seem to recall you wanted to get off the computer and be the action man,’ she said. ‘Well, here’s your chance.’

  With a groan, Biddeford dragged himself upright and set off in pursuit.

  Goodnews watched the chase. It was a complete mismatch. Biddeford was the better part of a foot taller than Jolly, and his legs seemed to be much, much longer. He was also a good 15 years younger, and his superior fitness was obvious despite the fact he had already run across the meadow.

  It like watching a cheetah chasing down its prey, and it ended in similar fashion as Biddeford chased Jolly down, leapt onto his back, and brought him crashing to the ground.

  Satisfied Jolly was in safe hands, Goodnews turned her attention back in the direction of the old basement. She had expected Slater to appear by now, and she was wondering what had happened.

  She made her way back to where she had last seen him, in the centre of the ruin, and looked around. Where the hell had he gone?

  ‘DS Slater?’ she called.

  ‘Over here,’ said a groggy voice.

  She quickly made her way over to where the voice seemed to have come from. As she approached closer, she saw the hole in the ground, and the beginnings of a stairway.

  She peered over the edge. Down at the bottom, propped against what appeared to be a door, was Slater. He was lying on top of the pieces of the rotting board which had been the trapdoor he had stepped upon. He was holding his face, and blood was oozing from between his fingers.

  She started down the rickety stairs.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she called.

  ‘My head hurts, my ears are ringing, and I seem to be bleeding, but apart from that I’m wonderful,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘You’ll have to do something about your sarcasm,’ she said, as she carefully negotiated the tumbledown staircase. ‘It’s not your most endearing characteristic.’

  She stooped down next to him. Despite the blood, she suspected it was more a case of wounded pride than physical injury.

  ‘I see you’ve been throwing yourself into the part again,’ she said, with a wicked grin. ‘Here, let me have a look at your eye.’

  Slater took his hands away from his bleeding eyebrow.

  ‘You’ll need a few stitches,’ said Goodnews, peering at the wound. ‘But I don’t think we’ll be needing to notify your next of kin this time. You’ll live.’

  ‘And you think I need to do something about my sarcasm,’ he said. ‘Here, help me get to my feet.’

  As she helped him struggle to his feet, the door behind them suddenly opened, and Slater heard a familiar voice.

  ‘Will you quit making all that noise? Some of us are trying to sleep in here.’

  They both swung round to see the dishevelled figure of Norman in the doorway. He had his hands raised, hanging on to each side of the doorframe.

  ‘Norm!’ called Slater. ‘Am I glad to see you. Are you okay?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Just peachy,’ Norman said, sighing. ‘Never better.’

  He took one hand from the doorframe to shield his eyes.

  ‘Jesus, that light’s bright,’ he said with a feeble smile, and then slowly, almost majestically, his legs seemed to fold beneath him and he slid down into an untidy heap in the doorway.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked Goodnews.

  ‘Norm?’ called Slater, stooping down over his partner. ‘Norm? Can you hear me?’

  Concerned, he felt for a pulse and was immediately relieved to find he wasn’t dead.

  ‘He’s passed out,’ said Slater. ‘We need an ambulance.’

  ‘Try and make him comfortable, and stay with him. Steve Biddeford’s out here. He’s caught Jolly. We’ll get you an ambulance, somehow.’

  Slater wondered how on earth she was going to call an ambulance with no phone signal.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  As luck would have it, the farmer had arrived, to lead his cows in for milking, just minutes before Goodnews arrived back in the meadow. He had been angered by the sight of Biddeford and Tim Jolly wrestling in the middle of his meadow, and had used his own mobile phone to call the police and report what he assumed was two yobs fighting.

  Fortunately, the duty sergeant had pre-warned the call centre about a possible incident just outside Little Balding. As soon as the farmer’s call came in it was diverted to Tinton where a team was already on standby and ready to go almost instantly. Realising this was probably all to do with finding Norman, the duty sergeant had thrown all caution to the wind and paramedics and an ambulance were quickly dispatched as well.

  In less than half an hour, the unconscious Norman had been carefully loaded onto a stretcher and, accompanied by the walking wounded Dave Slater, taken off to Tinton hospital.

  There followed a heated debate amongst the remaining officers about who would be taking Tim Jolly back to Tinton. While everyone wanted to be involved in the rescue of Norman and the arrest of his kidnapper, their enthusiasm waned somewhat when they got close enough to smell him.

  Biddeford’s splendid rugby tackle had brought them both to ground in the middle of an extensive group of cowpats, and the subsequent struggle had seen both of them comprehensively smothered in the stuff. This was particularly bad news for Steve Biddeford, as he was going to have to drive his own car back to Tinton.

  Satisfied that Ian Becks and his team were in situ and ready to process the crime scene, Goodnews finally lost patience with the arguing officers.

  ‘Now listen up, you bunch of wankers,’ she said. ‘My fuse has been burning long enough, and I’m warning you now, you do not want to be in the way when it runs out.

  ‘I really don’t care how much he stinks, or whose car ends up with a shitty back seat. I just want someone to do their job and take the prisoner back to Tinton and make sure he’s secur
ely locked up until I have time to interview him. And here’s my promise to all of you; if he’s not on the way in the next five minutes, you’ll be in far worse shite than a wee cowpat.’

  There were some mumbles of dissent, although no one was brave enough to speak out loud, but it didn’t matter now. Goodnews had heard enough.

  ‘Right,’ she said, pointing to the nearest two officers. ‘Do you two have a car?’

  ‘Err, yes,’ replied the nearest.

  ‘It’s, yes, Ma’am,’ snapped Goodnews. ‘I really don’t care if you hate my guts, but you will respect my rank.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ mumbled the now red-faced constable.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t so difficult was it?’

  The constable shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

  ‘I’m ordering you, and your partner, to take the prisoner back to the station and make sure he’s locked up.’

  She turned her focus from the constable to include all of them and then continued.

  ‘And take note, all of you – I know DS Norman is one of our own, and I am as unhappy as the rest of you that this has happened to him. However, if anything should accidentally happen to the prisoner before I interview him, every single one of you here will be facing a disciplinary enquiry. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ agreed the constable, reluctantly.

  ‘And the rest of you?’ she asked taking in all the faces.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ mumbled the collective voices.

  ‘Good.’

  Then she took another look at the faces around her.

  ‘Is something amusing you?’ she snapped at another PC.

  He shook his head vehemently.

  ‘Who me, Ma’am? No, Ma’am,’ he spluttered, innocently.

  ‘Well then, I suggest you take that smirk off your face, or I might just change my mind about who gets the shit job. No, hang on. I’ve got a better idea. You can have a different shit job. You can give me a lift back to the railway station so I can pick up my car.’