A Skeleton In The Closet (Dave Slater Mystery Novels Book 7)

by P. F. Ford

  ‘Don’t look so glum,’ said Norman. ‘So you’ve been focused on one suspect and it’s swayed your thinking. We all do it from time to time. The important thing is now you’ve got the blinkers off you can look at everything with fresh eyes. Let me put some suggestions to you. If he was dead a couple of hours before the explosion, doesn’t that point the finger at the mystery guy in the red leathers?’

  ‘Yeah, of course it does,’ agreed Slater, ‘but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t sent from Serbia.’

  ‘I’m not saying it doesn’t,’ said Norman. ‘But it doesn’t mean he was sent from there either.’

  Slater pulled a face but he knew Norman was speaking sense.

  ‘You’re keeping an open mind, Dave, remember?’

  Slater managed a smile. ‘Yeah, I know, I’m just tired, but I don’t have time to be, you know?’

  ‘Maybe you should have had an early night instead of going on that hot date.’

  Slater blushed. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, ‘whatever.’

  Norman waited to see if Slater was going to elaborate, but he waited in vain.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, eventually. ‘What about the cleaner who was kidnapped?’

  ‘Yeah, that seems too much of a coincidence,’ agreed Slater, ‘but I can’t see where it fits in and we haven’t spoken to him yet. Steve Biddeford was hoping to talk to him this morning, but that was before the shit hit the fan. I don’t know if he actually did, and I can’t ask him without telling him what I’m doing.’

  ‘Maybe you need to go to the hospital yourself,’ said Norman.

  Slater sighed. His face spoke volumes.

  ‘Yeah, I know. It’s gonna be real hard trying to do all this on your own. I know I’m not authorised, and I shouldn’t be anywhere near a police inquiry, but how about I help out? I’ve got no badge so I can’t interview anyone, but I can sit down and go through all the evidence if you want.’

  Slater considered Norman’s offer.

  ‘Look, I know it goes against the rules,’ said Norman.

  ‘No, bugger the rules,’ said Slater. ‘Everything about this situation goes against the bloody rules.’

  Norman beamed a big smile. ‘So we’re good then, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, we’re good,’ said Slater. ‘The old team’s back in business, even if it is unofficial.’

  ‘Now that’s fighting talk,’ said Norman, ‘and I like the sound of it. Have you got your laptop here as well?’

  Slater pointed to a laptop bag on his settee. ‘It’s over there. I’ve changed my login details but I’ll write them down for you.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a whiteboard?’ asked Norman, optimistically.

  Slater laughed. ‘Jesus, you don’t want much, do you, Norm?’

  ‘I thought that was probably asking too much.’

  ‘Just hang on a minute,’ said Slater. ‘I may not have a white board, but I do have walls.’ He pointed to the walls around them.

  ‘You’ve just had a decorator in,’ said Norman. ‘You don’t wanna spoil your newly painted walls.’

  ‘He hasn’t done this room yet. You can stick sheets of paper to the walls. I’ve got some tape that peels off easy. I’ve used it before. It’s not perfect but it works.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ said Norman, uncertainly.

  ‘We owe it to Becksy, so yes, I’m sure,’ said Slater, decisively.

  ‘Go to the hospital and see your little old man. By the time you get back I’ll have the evidence up on the wall so we can see what we’ve got and where the gaps are.’

  ‘One thing,’ said Slater. ‘The only one who knows what I’m doing is Goodnews—’

  ‘She’s okay with this?’ asked a surprised Norman.

  ‘It was her idea,’ said Slater.

  ‘Really? Wow! What have you been doing to sweeten her up so much?’

  Slater felt his face reddening, so he turned away and pretended to be hunting for his car keys. ‘The thing is,’ he said, as he searched, ‘she might phone me. She’ll probably use my mobile number, but if she can’t get hold of me she might call here on the landline.’

  ‘I gotcha,’ said Norman, with a wry smile. ‘She wouldn’t be too happy if I answered the phone, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t touch it. I don’t have anything to say to her anyway.’

  ‘I’ll catch you later,’ said Slater.

  ‘I have to leave at seven, just for a couple of hours,’ said Norman, ‘but I’ll come back after that.’

  ‘I should be back before then.’

  ‘If not, you can bring me up to speed later,’ said Norman.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was 6pm. Slater had had a frustrating time at the hospital. Joe Chandler had been well enough to talk to him and had gone into great detail about how frightened he had been and how he’d thought he was going to die, but in terms of evidence, he had nothing to offer. All Slater learned was that it was a man who had abducted old Joe. He had sneaked up behind him and offered to cut the old man’s throat should he wish to argue in any way whatsoever. Naturally, poor old Joe had done as he was told, which basically amounted to being tied up and forced to wear a hood.

  Slater climbed into his car and slapped the steering wheel in frustration. It was an interview that had been necessary, but ultimately it had been a waste of time, and he had precious little of that. His mobile phone started to ring.

  ‘Where are you?’ Goodnews asked. ‘I thought you’d be at home so I tried your landline.’

  ‘I’m at the hospital. I’ve been talking to Joe Chandler, the kidnapped cleaner.’

  ‘Did he have anything to offer?’ she asked, optimistically.

  ‘Lots of information about how scared he was, but sod all that’s any help to us.’

  ‘You’d have kicked yourself if you hadn’t spoken to him and he knew something.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ he agreed. ‘It’s just a bit frustrating to know it was a waste of time, especially when there’s so little of it.’

  ‘Well, this might cheer you up,’ she said. ‘Eamon Murphy just called. He’s got that toxicology report we’re waiting for. He was going to bring it over, but I said you’d pick it up.’

  ‘That’s handy,’ said Slater. ‘I’m in just the right place. Did he say why it’s taken so long?’

  ‘I’ll let him tell you that himself,’ she said.

  ‘That sounds intriguing. Don’t I even get a hint?’

  ‘Not from me,’ she said, ‘but I can tell you you’ll like it.’

  ‘I’d better go then.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Well, as the CC has decided we have no case to investigate I’m going to go home for a change. If you need me for anything, just call.’

  Slater climbed back out of his car, plipped the locks, slipped his phone into his pocket, and headed back across the car park.

  ‘I seem to recall Ian used to take great delight in finding things that changed the course of your investigations,’ said Eamon Murphy when Slater got to his office.

  ‘Yeah,’ remembered Slater, fondly. ‘For him it was like scoring the winning goal in the cup final. It was as if it proved we really couldn’t manage without him.’

  ‘Well, it might be my turn to do the same, with Ian’s involvement from beyond the grave, as it were.’

  ‘Come on Eamon. We’ve waited long enough for this report already.’

  ‘Sorry about that, but I had to make sense of the report before I could pass it on to you.’

  ‘Don’t keep me in suspense,’ Slater pleaded.

  ‘I wasn’t sure what we would find in his blood, but I guessed there would be something,’ said Murphy. ‘You will recall it’s my belief he was dead before the bomb exploded, through respiratory failure, but I’d been unable to pinpoint why. When my colleague arrived to check my work he agreed with my findings and he suggested what it was. The toxicology report proved he was right. There was an enormous amount of morp
hine in his blood. That’s what caused his respiratory failure.’

  ‘Morphine?’ echoed Slater. ‘Are you telling me he overdosed on morphine?’

  Murphy smiled. ‘Now that’s an interesting question. Did he commit suicide or was he murdered? I think it’s safe to say we were supposed to believe he overdosed, but we’re not that silly, are we?’

  ‘You’re losing me, Eamon,’ said Slater. ‘I haven’t had much sleep this week, so you’ll have to tell me, not ask me.’

  ‘Okay. Let me make it easy for you. There were no traces of morphine in his stomach contents so the only way it could have been administered would have been with a needle, but I found no trace of any needle marks when I first examined the body. To be fair, I wasn’t looking specifically for needle marks, but a fresh one should have been pretty easy to spot. It actually took two of us most of this afternoon to locate it.’

  Slater sighed. He wondered why these people had to go around the houses with their explanations. Why couldn’t they keep it simple?

  ‘Did he inject himself, or not?’ he asked.

  ‘If you were going to inject yourself with a powerful painkiller, where would you stick the needle?’ asked Murphy.

  Slater shaped his right hand as if he was holding a syringe. He made to inject the invisible syringe into his left arm.

  ‘In my left arm, I suppose,’ he said, ‘or maybe in one of my thighs.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Murphy. ‘Ian Becks was a leftie, but the principle’s the same. You would expect him to inject his right arm or a thigh. It shouldn’t be hard to spot that needle mark, but I couldn’t find one in any of the obvious places, and nor could my colleague, so we started to look everywhere.’

  ‘You found it, right?’ asked Slater.

  ‘We did, eventually. In the back of his neck. It was above the hairline, and we very nearly missed it.’

  Slater shaped his hand again and raised it to the back of his neck. ‘You’re kidding me,’ he said. ‘It’s hardly a natural thing to do, is it? And why try to hide it anyway? Ian would know you do bloods and stomach contents. He wouldn’t be fooling anyone, and he would know that.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ agreed Murphy. ‘It only makes sense if—’

  ‘Someone else injected it,’ finished Slater.

  ‘That’s what I think, and my colleague is prepared to put pen to paper and agree with my conclusion.’

  ‘I knew he hadn’t topped himself,’ said Slater, excitement bright in his eyes.

  ‘I’m no expert,’ said Murphy, ‘but he certainly didn’t seem to be on the brink last time I spoke to him.’

  ‘It made no sense,’ agreed Slater. ‘His life was just coming together. He had everything to live for.’

  Slater had stopped for fish and chips and eaten them at a leisurely pace in his car, so it was approaching 8pm by the time got home. He knew Norman would be long gone, but even so, he was surprised to find his little house in total darkness; Norm wasn’t usually conscientious about conserving energy by switching lights off.

  He unlocked the front door, walked in, and pushed it closed behind him. Then he switched on the light.

  ‘Ah, good evening at last,’ said an unexpected, accented voice.

  Startled by the unexpected voice, Slater froze momentarily with his back to the room. Then a grim feeling of realisation began to take hold. He was sure he knew that voice.

  Holy shit, thought Slater, this is it. They’ve come for me!

  Slowly, carefully, he turned to face the owner of the voice. As he took in the grinning face of the man sitting in his favourite armchair, a sinking feeling began to creep into his mind, but he wasn’t about to give up without a fight.

  ‘You?’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘That’s such a stupid question, don’t you think?’ said the Russian, cheerfully. ‘I thought you would be pleased to see me.’

  Slater’s blood slowly began to run cold when he realised the Russian was holding all the cards, just like the last time they had met. At least this time the pistol wasn’t in the man’s hand pointed straight at him, but it lay on the arm of the chair, within easy reach of his right hand.

  ‘I’m disappointed to see you haven’t improved your security since the last time we met,’ said the Russian, his slow, clipped tones giving him an icy authority. ‘But then I suppose it’s just like the motor mechanic who looks after everyone else’s car but neglects his own.’

  ‘I’m disappointed to see you haven’t improved your manners,’ Slater retorted, sounding much braver than he felt.

  ‘Oh, you mean the pistol?’ asked the Russian. ‘I’m sorry if it offends you, but I find it’s a very effective way of establishing authority. But trust me, as long as you stay where you are, the pistol will stay where it is.’

  This news didn’t exactly make Slater relax, but he recalled the last time they had met when the Russian could very easily have blown his head off if he had so wished. He had made the same promise back then and kept it, so he chose to take him at face value. And, anyway, he really was in no position to argue.

  ‘Why would I be pleased to see you?’ he asked. ‘You’ve just murdered one of my friends.’

  ‘Oh please,’ said the Russian. ‘Do you really think we would be so stupid? What possible reason would we have for doing such a thing.’

  ‘We have evidence, a fingerprint—’

  ‘I think not,’ corrected the Russian. ‘I’m sure you must be aware by now that no such fingerprint exists.’

  ‘Ha! So it was you lot.’

  ‘Oh yes. Of course we have removed your “evidence”. I will even admit we removed some additional evidence from your forensics lab and planted it, along with some cash, in your friend’s flat to undermine his position and destroy his credibility. These things I admit we have done, but you’re an intelligent man, Mr Slater. Surely you are asking yourself why we would have done these things if we had intended to murder him?’

  This thought had occurred to Slater, but he wasn’t going to admit it now. ‘So you admit you stole evidence from our lab?’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult,’ said the Russian. ‘We even planted a small incendiary device as a further diversion.’

  ‘But that’s what killed Becksy.’

  The Russian shook his head and tut-tutted. ‘Really, Mr Slater,’ he said. ‘Is that the best you can do? How disappointing. Do I really look that stupid? We both know Mr Becks was dead long before our little fire-starter was detonated.’

  ‘How could you know that?’

  ‘I know a lot more than you can imagine. Security in your police station is almost as bad as it is here. I believe that’s down to your lady friend, the lovely DCI Goodnews.’

  Slater ignored the reference to Goodnews. He was much more interested in what happened the night Becks died. ‘How do you know Becks was already dead?’ he asked.

  The Russian sighed. ‘Come, come, Mr Slater. You’re supposed to be the detective here. Do I really have to do all your work for you?’

  ‘You’ve broken into my house,’ said Slater, ‘and, not for the first time, you have a gun pointed at me. On top of that, you want me to believe you haven’t committed a crime which all our evidence suggests you have done. So why not humour me and tell me why I should believe you?’

  ‘I’ve already told you we had no reason to kill Mr Becks,’ said the Russian. ‘Perhaps you should look at your evidence again and start to believe what you actually see, and not what you want to see.’

  Slater was confused.

  ‘I had to do something to pass the time after Mr Norman left, so I had a look through your case file,’ explained the Russian. ‘You already know the mystery courier in the red leathers killed Mr Becks, you just don’t know why.’

  ‘I think he was working for you,’ said Slater, ‘and I’m going to find the link that proves it.’

  The Russian laughed out loud and shook his head at Slater. ‘I hate to disappoint you, but you won’t find t
hat link, because it doesn’t exist. You really need to take off those blinkers that only allow you to see Serbia as your answer. Where is our motive? Isn’t that what you look for?’

  ‘Your motive is the fingerprint.’

  ‘But we both know that particular motive doesn’t exist now. If there is no fingerprint, then by definition that cannot be a motive.’

  Slater said nothing but studied the Russian’s implacable face. It didn’t tell him anything. This guy was so cool he gave absolutely nothing away. He wondered if it was possible he might actually be telling the truth.

  ‘I was rather hoping you were going to bring DCI Goodnews back with you, like last night,’ said the Russian. ‘I would so like to meet her. I wonder what your chief constable would say if he knew about your relationship.’

  Despite the seriousness of the situation Slater could feel his face redden. ‘There is no relationship,’ he said.

  The Russian smiled, indulgently. ‘Discretion,’ he said. ‘I like that. Such an important quality to have.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be discreet about,’ snapped Slater.

  ‘I beg to differ.’

  ‘You can differ all you like. You’re barking up the wrong tree. There is no relationship.’

  ‘As you wish.’ The Russian’s smile made it obvious he didn’t believe him.

  ‘For a start, it’s none of your bloody business,’ said Slater, ‘and I certainly don’t care what you think.’

  ‘Ah, but I can see you so obviously do,’ said the Russian, his grin becoming wider and wider. He let Slater stew angrily for a few seconds before he continued. ‘But I have to agree,’ he said. ‘Your love life really is none of my business. However, I would hate to see your career ruined by an ill-advised relationship with a senior officer. Let’s hope the chief doesn’t get to hear about it, for the sake of both your careers.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  The Russian smiled again. He obviously enjoyed getting under Slater’s skin. ‘I’d prefer to see it as good advice.’

  ‘Piss off,’ said Slater, angrily. ‘I don’t need your bloody advice.’