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

by P. F. Ford

  ‘I don’t buy that,’ said Norman. ‘From what you were telling me, she’s in enough shit with Darling being suspended and the non-existent security at Tinton. He can easily enough stamp on her for all that if he wants to. A murder in a police station is a big deal because it looks bad on everyone, all the way to the top.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Slater, opening and closing cupboards, ‘a murder does look bad, but if it’s an employee committing suicide, it’s a whole new ball game. In this scenario, the dead guy was supposed to be in the building so it becomes much easier to gloss over the lapses in security. To anyone looking in from the outside, it suggests no one got in who shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Norman, leaning against the kitchen doorpost.

  ‘So do I,’ said Slater, ‘because, if the CC is bent, then we’re all in trouble. Anyway, we don’t have time to worry about that. We’re already running out of time.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said Norman. ‘But it would be interesting to take a closer look, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe later,’ said Slater, having finished his search. ‘Right, do you fancy cereal, or would you prefer cereal?’

  ‘Cupboards bare again?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘I guess I’ll have cereal then. You have got milk, haven’t you?’

  ‘That’s one thing I have got,’ said Slater, swinging open the fridge door to demonstrate. He busied himself making two bowls of cereal and passed one to Norman.

  ‘Thanks. So tell me again what his parting words were last night.’

  Slater watched him take a huge spoonful of cereal before he answered. ‘He said “it’s often the oldest skeleton in the closet that rattles loudest”.’

  Norman chewed thoughtfully. ‘Any idea what that refers to?’

  ‘I can only think he means there’s something from Becksy’s past,’ said Slater.

  ‘You don’t think it’s about him being gay, do you? I mean he wasn’t exactly shouting it from the rooftops.’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ said Slater. ‘But he said the “oldest skeleton”. My hunch is he was referring to something from way back when.’

  ‘D’you think Bethan might be able to help out with that?’

  ‘It wouldn’t hurt to ask, although now I think about it, she did mention something about bullying at his old school.’

  ‘I can imagine a geek like him would have been a perfect target for school bullies,’ said Norman.

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought,’ admitted Slater, ‘but I didn’t see how it could be relevant to his murder.’

  ‘I agree it seems unlikely, but it would be somewhere to start. Did she tell you which school it was?’

  ‘Yeah I wrote it down in my notebook. It’s not local though. It’s out Winchester way I think.’

  ‘I’ll give them a call later,’ said Norman. ‘You never know, they could have some information that would help.’

  ‘Hello, Bethan,’ said Slater, when she opened her front door. ‘I’m sorry to be here again.’

  ‘I hope you haven’t come to try and convince me about this stupid suicide idea,’ she said, angrily. ‘I’ve never heard anything so absurd in all my life.’

  ‘Oh. You’ve been told about that.’ He was thinking fast. He wondered who had decided to tell her. It would have been good if whoever it was had thought to tell him. Should he tell her the truth?

  ‘It’s ridiculous,’ she said.

  Slater made his decision. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I quite agree. And so does the pathologist.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ she said. ‘But I thought—’

  ‘Can I come in, Beth? It’s a bit public out here.’

  She studied him, her face a picture of suspicion.

  ‘I’m on your side, Beth,’ he pleaded. ‘Ian was a good mate as well as a colleague.’

  She seemed to relax, and then stepped back to let him in. ‘He used to talk about you,’ she said. ‘He thought the three of you made a good team, him, you, and the other guy who got kidnapped.’

  ‘Norman,’ said Slater.

  ‘That’s the one. Ian said he was always good for making everyone laugh.’

  Slater smiled at the memory ‘Oh we had plenty of laughs,’ he said, fondly. ‘We got some good results too.’

  ‘Come and sit down and tell me about the pathologist,’ she said.

  He followed her through to the lounge and sat down. ‘I won’t bore you with the fine detail,’ he said. ‘The long and the short of it is Ian’s blood was full of morphine. When they eventually found the needle mark from the injection, it was quite clear it would have been difficult for him to have injected himself, and why would he hide it anyway? The conclusion has to be someone murdered him.’

  She sat perfectly still for few moments and said nothing.

  ‘We also have reason to believe his death may be related to an event from his past,’ he continued. ‘Do you have any idea what this might be?’

  ‘I honestly have no idea,’ she said. ‘As far as I know, there are no major events in his past. Jimmy’s got quite close to Ian, maybe he knows something.’

  ‘Is he here?’ asked Slater.

  ‘No, he’s back at work now I’ve got myself a bit more together.’

  ‘He seems like a nice guy.’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ she agreed. ‘He’s been my rock through this.’

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘It was quite strange really,’ she said. ‘He came to our wedding reception. It turns out they were at the same school, but Ian hadn’t seen Jimmy for years because he had left the area. But he had come back, and somehow he had found out about the wedding. He wasn’t invited, he just turned up, but Ian felt as he’d made the effort we couldn’t turn him away, so we let him stay.’

  ‘So, did they resume their friendship?’ asked Slater.

  ‘That was the funny thing,’ she said. ‘He disappeared again, and we didn’t see him for a long time. Then, when Ian and I divorced, he came back on the scene, and the rest, as they say, is history.’

  ‘That was good timing on his part,’ said Slater, but the inference was lost on her. ‘He was telling me he works for Ian’s publishing company.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was his idea Ian should submit his manuscript. He was very supportive, he even put in a good word with his bosses.’

  ‘He doesn’t deal with that sort of thing himself, then?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘He runs the mailing room. Dispatching letters and parcels, stuff like that.’

  Like a bloodhound picking up a scent, Slater felt a sudden rush of adrenaline, but he kept his excitement in check and remained calm.

  ‘Well, thanks for talking to me,’ he said, ‘but I’m going to have to get going. And don’t worry, I won’t settle for a suicide verdict, I promise.’

  He knew he shouldn’t make such promises, and he regretted it as soon as he’d said it, but it was too late now, he couldn’t take his words back. He would just have to make sure he didn’t let her down.

  He climbed into his car and drove away from Bethan Becks’ house, but as soon as he had gone round the first corner, he pulled over and called Norman.

  ‘There’s someone I need you to check out,’ he told Norman. ‘His name’s Jimmy Huston.’

  He spelt the name out and Norman read it back to him.

  ‘Who’s he?’ asked Norman.

  ‘He’s Bethan Becks’ boyfriend.’

  ‘Ah, right, yeah, of course. So what’s he done to arouse your suspicions?’

  ‘He works for P&P Publishing.’

  ‘Now there’s a coincidence,’ said Norman.

  ‘It gets better,’ said Slater. ‘He works in the mailing room. In fact, he runs it.’

  ‘Oh my,’ said Norman. ‘Now that is interesting. Does he deliver manuscripts?’

  ‘Ha! That would be too easy,’ said Slater, ‘but he must know something about the couriers they use. Funny he didn’t mention it w
hen I spoke to him before.’

  ‘Did you ask Bethan about that?’

  ‘I didn’t want to ask too much and spook her. If she gets suspicious and starts asking him questions he might do a runner. I’d like you to see if you can find any ammo I can use when I talk to him again.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Norman. ‘I’ll warm up your trusty laptop and see if I can dig anything up you can add to the armoury.’

  ‘Did you get hold of the school?’ asked Slater.

  ‘I did, but the secretary made it clear they’re not too keen on talking to me. However, I’m sure if a nice detective sergeant was to arrive waving a warrant card, he wouldn’t have too much trouble getting past her. She seemed genuinely saddened to hear about the death of an old pupil, I just made the mistake of telling her I’m not a policeman. I think she jumped to the conclusion that meant I must be a journalist sniffing around for a bit of scandal.’

  ‘You’re losing your touch,’ said Slater.

  ‘Yeah, it’s weird,’ admitted Norman. ‘I must have told thousands of little white lies over the years to help get the job done, and yet these days I seem to find it difficult to even think of one when I need it. I must have become more honest now I’ve retired.’

  ‘That’s a worrying idea,’ said Slater.

  He heard Norman chuckle over the line. ‘If it’s worrying you, think how I feel.’

  Slater laughed out loud. ‘What’s the address of that school?’ he asked, ‘I might as well get over there now.’

  ‘I’ll text it to you,’ said Norman. ‘Have fun now, and mind you don’t get lippy and end up being put into detention.’

  Less than a minute later, Slater’s phone beeped. He opened the message and read it. He thought he knew vaguely where this school was, but just to make sure he didn’t waste any time, he tapped the address into his car’s satnav.

  ‘Right,’ he said to himself, as he put the car into gear and pulled away. ‘Let’s see if we can find any skeletons to rattle.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Slater parked in the car park of Radletts School, looked at the front of the old building, and shivered involuntarily. He was two years older than Ian Becks, but whereas he couldn’t wait to escape at the earliest opportunity, Becks had stayed on another two years in the sixth form. So he figured Becks must have left school about five years later, which would have been around nineteen or twenty years ago. As he opened his car door, he wondered what chance there was that any of the teachers from back then would still be here. Was this going to be a wild goose chase?

  As he pushed open the doors and walked into the school, Slater began to get that same old feeling he used to get all those years ago when he was a schoolboy. The school he went to back then was housed in a similar building to this one. It even seemed to smell the same. He almost expected the headmaster to come out and shout at him at any minute. Then he realised that was ridiculous. He was nearly forty years old, for goodness sake.

  To his relief, the headmaster didn’t come out and shout at him. In fact, there didn’t appear to be anyone anywhere to do any shouting. He could see no signs to direct him anywhere, so he stopped and listened for signs of life. All he could hear was a faint tap tap sound, not unlike the sound of someone using an old typewriter. The sound seemed to be coming from a corridor to his left, so he followed it until he found the source.

  The door to the room bore the words School Secretary. The door was closed, but there was a hatch in the wall with two small sliding-glass windows. He walked to the hatch and peered inside. A kindly looking woman, who Slater guessed must be in her mid fifties, was efficiently tapping away at an old typewriter. She was engrossed in her work and didn’t notice him until he knocked on one of the windows. She looked up, acknowledged him with a warm smile, rose from her desk, and walked across to the window. She slid one of the two windows open.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘How can I help you?’

  Slater had to bend down to see her face as he spoke to her. As he spoke, he showed his warrant card.

  ‘I’m DS Slater from Tinton Police. We’re investigating the death of an old pupil and I wondered if there was anyone here who might be able to help us.’

  ‘I’m Mrs Spencer, the school secretary. I’m afraid the teachers are on strike today, so there’s hardly anyone here,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come into my office? It’ll be much easier than stooping to see me through that window.’

  He opened the door and walked into her office. It was very neat and orderly, with another desk on the opposite side of the room from the one she had been sitting at.

  ‘Can you tell me who the pupil was and when he was a student here?’ she asked.

  ‘His name was Ian Becks. I believe he was a student from around 1989 until 1996.’

  ‘Goodness, that is a long time ago. I don’t think any of the teachers from back then are still here.’

  Slater’s heart sank. ‘Oh, that’s a pity,’ he said. ‘Ian was a colleague. We believe his death may be related to an event from his youth. We were hoping someone here might have been able to help.’

  ‘Well, you may be in luck,’ she said. ‘It just so happens I am the one constant in this place. I’ve been school secretary since 1986. Obviously I didn’t know the boys as well as a teacher would, but even so, I might be able to help.’

  She walked across to the second desk, pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘What was the boy’s name again?’ she asked, as she fired up the computer in front of her.

  ‘Ian Becks.’

  ‘I feel I should know that name.’

  ‘You might have seen it in the newspaper,’ said Slater. ‘He was a forensic scientist. He died in the forensics lab in the basement at Tinton Police Station.’

  ‘No, that’s not it,’ she said, as her fingers flicked across the keyboard. ‘There must be something in here...’

  ‘How come you still use a typewriter when you’ve got the computer?’ he asked.

  ‘I prefer it for writing letters. It’s no good for doing circulars and things like that, but when it’s a one-off letter I just think it produces a better finished product. I’ve got nothing against computers, I just like a good, old-fashioned typewriter.’

  Slater watched as she studied her computer screen for a moment, pressed a couple of keys, and then he saw her face break into a broad smile.

  ‘Ah. Here we are,’ she said. ‘No wonder I remembered the name. He went on to get a First at Oxford.’

  ‘That sounds like him,’ said Slater.

  ‘When I first started to put all this information onto a database, the others told me I was mad and I was wasting my time,’ she said, ‘but I knew it would come in useful. I’ve got all the school reports on here for every pupil from 1980 onwards, and where I know what they went on to achieve, I’ve got that too. If you want to know how many of our kids went on to Oxford or Cambridge on any given year I’ve only got to push a button and I can tell you.’

  Slater wasn’t as impressed with the database as Mrs Spencer obviously was. He had been hoping for a bit more than which university Becksy went to. He already knew that.

  ‘Can you tell me anything else about him?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve got his school reports for every year he was here. Let’s have a look and see if there’s anything that might interest you.’

  ‘Don’t let me hold you up,’ he said, thinking that her idea of what was interesting might be quite different to his. ‘Why don’t I sit and read the reports? Then you can get on with your letter.’

  ‘Is that allowed?’ she asked. ‘With all this data protection malarkey, don’t you need a warrant or something?’

  Inwardly, Slater sighed. If she was going to insist, this was going to be damned hard work.

  ‘Well, I could go back to Tinton and tell my boss you’re holding up a possible murder inquiry until we get a warrant,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure you don’t really want me to do that.’

  ‘Murder inquiry?’
she said. ‘You didn’t say anything about a murder.’

  ‘It’s a possible murder inquiry. We’re not sure yet, but obviously the quicker we get on the better it will be.’

  ‘Oh, well, when you put it like that,’ she said. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. And Mr Becks is dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘I’m afraid he is, and you’d be helping his wife if we can get this settled quickly.’

  ‘Oh yes, poor thing.’ She stood up from her chair and stepped aside. ‘Here you are, Sergeant. If there’s anything you need, just call, I’m only across the room.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Spencer,’ he said. ‘I really appreciate your help.’

  He slid into her vacant seat and began to delve into Ian Becks’ schooldays. He didn’t know what he was looking for, so he figured the sensible thing would be to start from the beginning. It seems Becks was just an average kid when he first arrived at the school. His year-one report was certainly nothing to write home about. In fact, Slater thought he could remember getting a better report himself, and he had hated every minute.

  Year two was much the same, and then, in year three, results seemed to pick up. Something had changed. Becks had become a model student. This improvement was maintained for the rest of his time at the school, finishing with his acceptance into Oxford. Slater wondered what had happened between the year-two results and those for year three. Perhaps he should look again at that year-three report. As he read through it again, he realised he had somehow missed the summary first time around, but this time he read it word for word, and that’s where he found the answer.

  Since Ian has been removed from the bad influences he had previously associated with, his performance has improved dramatically.

  Slater read the summary again. He wondered how he might find out who those bad influences were.

  ‘Is there a school summary report for each year?’ he asked Mrs Spencer.

  ‘If you come back out to the home page, you’ll find a link to all the annual reports. Are you looking for any year in particular?’

  ‘1991 and 1992.’