Just A Coincidence & Florence (Dave Slater Mystery Doubles Book 1)

by Ford,P. F.

  “OAPs’ swimming session,” said Slater. “Apparently the Phantom Flasher’s struck again. Dick Waver’s been entertaining the ladies in the changing rooms.”

  “Can’t we pick him up if we know who he is?” asked Biddeford.

  “Sorry?” said Slater.

  “If you know his name, we can get an address and pick him up, can’t we?”

  “But we don’t have a name.”

  “I thought you said his name was Dick somebody.”

  “Yeah. Dick Waver.” Slater sighed, heavily. Sometimes he wondered how Biddeford was ever going to survive out on the streets.

  “No,” he explained. “That’s not the bloke’s name. It’s just what I call him, because it’s what he does.”

  Biddeford looked blank.

  “Oh come on, Steve,” said Slater, slowly and patiently. “What does a flasher do? He waves his dick at people, therefore he’s a dick waver. Yes?”

  “Ah! Right.” Biddeford smiled, and then bent down to pick up the final piece of paper, which the printer had spat out onto the floor with some violence.

  “It’s a sort of play on words, isn’t it?” He grinned at Slater. “Dick Waver. Clever.”

  “It is if you get it, I suppose,” said Slater, shaking his head.

  “Can I bring this with me?” asked Biddeford, putting his papers in order. “So I can have a quick read in the car.”

  “Yeah, I don’t see why not.” Slater nodded, wondering what his colleague was working on.

  Chapter Two

  As Slater drove slowly out to the swimming pool, Biddeford cast his eyes quickly over his printing. As he read, he removed several pages, screwed them up and tossed them into the back of the car.

  “I hope you’re going to collect your rubbish and take it with you when we get back,” said Slater, sounding dismayed.

  “Fifteen sheets of paper to print out what started off as a short email,” said Biddeford in disgust. “What a waste. Three sheets would have covered it with room to spare.”

  “So, after you’ve discarded the waste paper, what are you left with? Anything interesting?”

  “Missing girl,” said Biddeford. “Well, her mother says she’s missing. Thing is, she’s over 18, so she’s not exactly a minor is she? At that age she doesn’t have to tell her mum what she’s up to if she doesn’t want to.”

  “So why has it been sent to us?” asked Slater.

  “Apparently she’s from the Birmingham area. According to the mother, the girl might have been heading for Tinton when she left home,” said Biddeford, reading from the pages.

  “Why would anyone want to come to Tinton?” asked Slater. “It’s not exactly a tourist hotspot, is it?”

  “Doesn’t say why,” said Biddeford. “Doesn’t say if she ever arrived either.”

  “So you’re looking for someone who might, or might not, have been heading for Tinton, and if she was coming here we don’t know if she ever arrived,” said Slater.

  “That’s about the size of it,” agreed Biddeford, hoping Slater might see fit to offer him a little guidance.

  “Well, good luck with that.”

  The pair sat in silence for a few seconds.

  “So, what are you going to do about this missing girl?” Slater asked, eventually.

  “I’ll get some photos printed, and hand them out to all the uniforms. You never know, someone might spot her around town or might have already seen her. Then I’ll check the hospital, youth hostel, places like that. There’s not much more I can do really, is there?”

  “That’s more or less got it covered,” Slater said. “Unless we get something a lot more definite to go on.”

  Biddeford folded his papers and placed them, neatly and tidily, on the back seat.

  “Right,” he said, as he turned back, pleased to have got some confirmation from Slater that he was on the right track. “So how come our flasher’s targeting pensioners?”

  “Apparently Leisure for Pleasure is the company that owns a whole load of these leisure centres and they’ve come up with what they call their ‘pensioner initiative’. They’ve reserved the entire centre for pensioners only on Tuesday mornings. They seem to think it will encourage some of the old codgers to spend their grey pounds on annual memberships.”

  “Have you seen the prices?” asked Biddeford. “I doubt many pensioners could afford to join for a week, never mind for a whole year. Why do they think they stay away in the first place?”

  “Now you’re thinking like a pensioner,” Slater said, laughing. “But you’re exactly right. From what I can make out, the pensioners think the membership fees are outrageous and the few that do come along are only there because it’s something to do, and it’s free.”

  He pulled into the car park and picked a space close to the entrance. It wasn’t difficult to get a space that close. In a car park that could probably hold a hundred cars, there were just six other cars that morning, and four of those were in the area reserved for staff.

  “Looks like the pensioner initiative’s not working too well,” said Biddeford.

  “I rest my case,” said Slater, sounding smug.

  Slater led Biddeford into the building, and spotted a rather smarmy looking, ginger-haired man, in blue shorts and a ‘Leisure for Pleasure’ sweatshirt bustling across to meet them. He informed them his name was Rodney Rodgers, but he would be happy for them to call him Rod. “Call me Rod” turned out to be the manager, and, looking around, Slater thought this would explain quite a lot.

  Slater guessed Rodgers was in his 50s, but he obviously worked out rather more than was necessary to keep fit. Slater noticed he kept flexing his muscles – no doubt trying to make some sort of impression. Well, he did make an impression. Unfortunately for Rodney Rogers, the impression Slater got was that he was a prize tit.

  Things didn’t improve when he started to complain about how the police were failing to do their job and protect the people of Tinton from perverts and sexual deviants.

  “We really don’t want this sort of thing happening here,” he said. “It lowers the tone. We run a very high-class establishment. Our clientele are the very best people and they expect only the best.”

  “One of your ‘very best people’ could be the flasher,” Slater pointed out.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The flasher. He could well be one of your members,” repeated Slater.

  “No. That’s just not possible,” said Rodgers indignantly. “In fact,” he continued, “I don’t know how you could think such a thing. We don’t allow any old riff-raff in here you know. We have security.”

  “If your security is so great that no one but members can get in, it follows that the flasher must be a member, mustn’t he?” said Slater, giving Rodgers his best smile as he scored the first point.

  The manager’s mouth flapped silently, as this logic clearly struck home.

  “Anyway, where is this ‘security’?” asked Slater.

  “Up there.” Rodgers pointed to a camera above the reception desk. “And there are three more outside, one in the area leading up to the changing rooms, and another one in the restaurant.”

  “Right,” said Slater, beginning to feel they might just get a quick result here. “So we should be able to see exactly who the flasher is then.”

  “Ah!” said Rodgers. “The thing is, err, how can I put this?”

  “No. Don’t tell me. Let me guess,” said Slater, with exaggerated sarcasm. “They’re all dummies? Or, there’s no tape in the recorder? Or, they just don’t work.”

  “A combination of all three, actually,” said a red-faced Rodgers.

  “Wonderful.” Slater sighed heavily. “The fact is, you don’t have any bloody security, do you? Half the men in town could have waltzed in here this morning, waved their willies in the air and waltzed out again and we couldn’t prove anything.”

  Slater had had enough of farting around with this puffed-up, ginger idiot, who wanted to be called Rod.

>   “Right,” he said, decisively. “While I talk to the two ladies, my colleague here is going to interview every member of staff.”

  “But you can’t think one of my staff is the flasher.”

  “And why not?” said Slater, his patience now wearing very thin. “Whoever it is knows he can stroll in here unnoticed. Who would know that better than a member of your staff?”

  “Err, yes, but...”

  “Never mind ‘err, yes, but’,” said Slater. He pointed a finger at the manager. “We want to speak to every single member of staff, starting with you.”

  He stalked away towards the restaurant. As he walked off, he heard Rodgers appeal to Biddeford in a whiny voice.

  “Me? But he can’t think it’s me! I’m in charge. Of course it’s not me.”

  Slater found the two lady pensioners drinking coffee in what the leisure centre rather grandly referred to as their restaurant. Slater thought it was a rather stuck-up name for what was really just a snack bar.

  Mrs Grimley informed him she was 72 years old, and she was still quite fit. The younger of the two, Mrs Brannington, was just coming up to 70. They were both widows, but Slater suspected from their lively conversation and spiky wit that they were anything but the grieving type. He thought the title “merry widows” would be much nearer the mark.

  When Slater showed his concern for what they had had to endure, he soon realised they didn’t seem to be too upset by their ordeal. In fact, they seemed to regard it as a rather amusing, and quite exciting, interlude to their morning. They were more than happy to tell Slater exactly what had happened, and were particularly good with details.

  When he’d appeared, the man had been wearing a big, heavy, dark blue dressing gown and white training shoes with red soles. He’d marched up to them and pulled open the dressing gown to reveal himself in his full glory. Unfortunately, they didn’t see his face because he was wearing a mask. They thought it was one of the seven dwarfs.

  “Which one?” asked Slater.

  “Stiffy?” suggested Mrs Grimley.

  “Oh yes! Most definitely,” agreed Mrs Brannington, sending both the ladies into fits of giggles.

  This seemed to set the tone for the rest of the interview and Slater began to doubt he was going to get any sense out of these two, who seemed to think the whole thing was an absolute hoot.

  “Widows of our age, don’t often get to see the working parts,” explained Mrs Grimley. “So when we do, we tend to have a good look. It’s a useful reminder.”

  “He’s an old boy, I think,” suggested Mrs Brannington. “Or at least, he’s old enough to have grey hair.”

  “Salt and pepper, dear. Salt and pepper,” corrected Mrs Grimley. “And it wasn’t all wrinkly,” she added. “There was none of that ‘last turkey in the shop’ nonsense you usually get with old men.”

  “Smooth as silk,” agreed Mrs Brannington. “Not a wrinkle in sight.”

  Slater was trying hard not to laugh as he took notes, but the twinkle in their eyes when he looked up was making it very difficult.

  “Between you and me, Sergeant,” Mrs Grimley confided, lowering her voice almost to a whisper. “Whoever that man is, he’s a very big boy.”

  “Hung like a donkey,” agreed Mrs Brannington, approvingly. “The soldier was standing very much to attention,” she added, as if she thought Slater might not have fully understood the reason for her admiration.

  “She means he had a massive hard on,” Mrs Grimley told him, just in case there should be any doubt at all.

  “Right. Yes,” spluttered Slater, beginning to blush furiously. “I think I’ve got the general idea.”

  “Oh yes.” Mrs Brannington smiled, wistfully. “It was a sight for sore eyes. When you find out who he is, Sergeant, I, for one, would love to know.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear,” said Mrs Grimley, dismissively. “He wouldn’t be any use to you. Can you imagine how hard his heart must have to work to inflate that thing? I would imagine actually using it for real would bring on a heart attack. That’s why he just waves it at people. It’s probably the best he can do. Don’t you agree, Sergeant?”

  Slater couldn’t stop himself from laughing this time, and he realised he’d now lost control of this interview and the direction it had taken. This was just way too much information, most of it speculation, and none of it would be much use in court.

  When they were driving back later, Biddeford told him he’d heard nothing to make him think he knew who the flasher was or how he’d got onto the premises. But his gut feeling told him it had to be someone associated with the leisure centre.

  “So, how did you get on with the two old dears?” he asked Slater.

  “Ah, yes. The merry widows,” said Slater. “Well, I had a very interesting and entertaining conversation with them. Whether I’ve actually learnt anything as a result is extremely debatable.”

  “They must have told you something useful,” said Biddeford. “He waved his willy at them. They’ve actually seen Dick Waver in the flesh.”

  “Oh you’re right,” said Slater with a broad grin. “They saw him alright.”

  “So what does he look like?”

  Slater sighed happily.

  “Well,” he said. “It seems we’re looking for an eighth dwarf. Or possibly a donkey disguised as a dwarf. He’s an old guy called Stiffy, who wears white trainers with red soles, and a big, dark blue, ‘Tinton Sports Centre’ dressing gown. When he opens the dressing gown he reveals grey pubes, or possibly salt and pepper, and a nob so big it drags along the floor when he walks.”

  “I think Dick Waver’s a much better name than Stiffy,” Biddeford said, smiling. “But if your description’s correct, we just need to look for a trail in the sand. It should lead us right to him.”

  Chapter Three

  The trouble with adopting a dog from one of these rescue places, thought Christine Pearce, is you never really knew how the dog was going to turn out. Sure, they tell you the dog’s great with people, and he doesn’t fight with other dogs, but what about when you let him off a lead for the first time? In the rescue centre it’s all enclosed, isn’t it? So the bloody dog can’t run away there, can he? And if he does, there are probably half a dozen people around to catch the damned thing.

  “Just keep him on the lead for a few days,” they said.

  “Once he’s happy to be with you he’ll always come back,” they said.

  “A week should be long enough,” they said.

  “Dannnnnny,” Christine yelled for the umpteenth time, adding much more quietly, “Come here, there’s a good boy, cos I’m really gonna kick your arse when I find you.”

  Rotten little bugger, thought Christine. The sun was still bright but its position in the sky told her time was getting on. She looked at her watch. Six thirty. She was supposed to be meeting the girls down the pub in an hour, and here she was looking for her mum’s bloody dog. Why on earth had she agreed to walk the stupid thing? And what on earth had possessed her to let him off the lead?

  “Danny,” she yelled again. She thought she heard something away to her right, near the small collection of trees known as Haunted Copse. Oh great. Well, if the bloody stupid dog’s in that copse he can damned well stay there, cos I’m certainly not going in after him.

  Local legend insisted the copse was the home to all things creepy and scary. Like everyone else in Tinton, Christine knew it was a ridiculous old wives’ tale. I mean, come on. Ghosts? In this day and age? And, just like everyone else in Tinton, Christine scoffed at the suggestion she was scared. What me? Scared? Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing to be scared of… But then again, there was no point in taking chances, was there?

  There it was again. It sounded like the sort of noise an excited dog would make – a combination of barks and excited yelps. Shit, the little bugger was definitely over by Haunted Copse. Now she didn’t have any bloody choice, did she? She couldn’t go home without the little sod, so she’d just have to go over there. Re
luctantly, she began to trudge slowly through the long grass, heading for the trees.

  “Danny,” she called. “Danny! Come on, boy.”

  As she neared the trees, she could hear the dog more clearly, and she finally caught a glimpse of him. Or, at least, she saw his tail wagging frantically back and forth. She noted with relief that he wasn’t actually in the copse. He was about 10 yards short of it, so at least she wouldn’t have to brave the ghosts and ghouls inside the copse. Not that there were any, of course.

  “Danny, you moronic mongrel,” she called as she approached. “For God’s sake, come here and let’s go home.”

  She could see his tail and the top of his back clearly now, his tail waving back and forth like a long, black, hairy, scimitar. He was yelping with delight as well, something he always did when he got excited when he was playing. She wondered what he could have found to play with out here. I hope it’s not a dead rabbit or he’s gonna stink to high heaven.

  “Danny. What have you got? If it’s something dead, I’m gonna kill you.”

  She made a lunge for the dog, trying to grab his collar, but he skipped away from her with ease. And that’s when she lost her balance and began to fall. As she fell, she saw what the dog had found, just before she landed on top of it. It certainly looked dead alright, there was blood and gore everywhere. But this was no rabbit.

  Horrified, she froze for a split second as she landed, but then a piercing, involuntary scream split the evening peace. Terrified now, her hands pawing uselessly at the slimy mess she had landed in, panic inevitably took over. Christine finally managed to scramble back to her feet, blood and gore dripping down her front. She became aware of the most god-awful smell, and then she began to run for her life.

  Danny, a big, energetic mongrel, thought this was the greatest game ever, and he took off after her just as fast as he could go, barking and yelping for all he was worth. She had only gone about 10 yards before he caught up with her, giving her heels a playful tap with his paw as he did so. It was enough to trip her up and she crashed to the ground, face down, all the wind knocked from her.