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

by Ford,P. F.

  Jolly looked at him strangely, and Slater knew his reaction had probably seemed a bit odd.

  “Right,” he said, beginning the briefing. “We’ve had some interesting developments and we’ve got one or two leads that probably should have meant something to the original inquiry, but don’t appear to have been checked out. We believe they are worth pursuing, so listen up.”

  Slater noticed Steve Biddeford wasn’t in his usual place right at the front. Instead, he was right at the back, and he didn’t appear to be paying a great deal of attention, which wasn’t like him at all. It was as if he had something on his mind and he was brooding over it. He made a mental note to try to find time to ask him what was wrong.

  Slater’s observation that Biddeford wasn’t paying much attention was correct. Hidden away at the back of the room, he wasn’t listening to the briefing at all. He was pissed off. He was pissed off with being used as a bloody clerk by Slater and Norman. Phillipa Flight had told him he was being used, and she was right. He was pissed off with Slater for another reason too. It was his fault Flight was off sick. She’d turned up at his house yesterday afternoon. The poor girl had been distraught, but she’d had no-one else to turn to.

  She had told him how Slater had been sexually harassing her for weeks and how things had come to a head Saturday night, and that she just couldn’t take any more. From what she’d said, it sounded as though he’d almost raped her. Biddeford had told her she should make an official complaint, but she’d just asked what was the point? She thought no one would believe her word against Golden Boy Slater. She was going to resign instead.

  But that just wasn’t fair, was it? If Slater was some sort of sex pest, why should he get away with it? If Phillipa wouldn’t make a complaint, then perhaps he should. He’d told her so this morning when they’d woken up. She had insisted he shouldn’t, and he’d told her he wouldn’t, but on the drive to work he’d realised he had to do what he believed was right. He was going to see Bob Murray later and do just that.

  “So that’s where we are,” Slater concluded. “We’ve got progress on the light aircraft front, thanks to good work from DC Biddeford and PC Flight, and we’ve got the new leads. There’s the telephone issue – was it working or not? And we’ve got the taxi. Did Sandra book it, and if so, where was she going? Did she even get in it?”

  “We’re making progress. Well done everyone. See DS Norman before you head off for breakfast and he’ll give you your assignments for today.”

  There was the sound of chairs scraping on the floor as people began to get to their feet and make their way to the front.

  “One more thing I nearly forgot. While all that was going down on Saturday, we also caught Dick Waver, the Phantom Flasher. Well done DC Biddeford and PC Flight, again.”

  This announcement was accompanied by a small round of cheering, some ironic boos, and a lot of ribald comments. Slater stood back out of the way to allow everyone easy access to Norman, and took a big, long, slug of coffee. When you step back and looked at it objectively, we are making progress. It’s never quick enough, of course, but we are finding leads to follow, and that has to be progress. He became aware PC Jolly was standing before him.

  “Can I ask a question?”

  “Sure,” said Slater. “Fire away.”

  “I may well be speaking out of turn,” she said. “But I’ve got a problem with this inquiry.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “There’s one victim who seems to be getting forgotten about,” she said. “And being a mum with a little girl of my own, I’m becoming a bit uncomfortable about it.”

  She pointed at the white boards. Slater’s gaze followed where she indicated.

  “We haven’t even got the poor little thing’s name on the bloody board,” she said, sadly. “And that piddly little photo. Can’t we get a decent sized one put up there? Perhaps then everyone might notice that she was a victim too.”

  Slater knew she was right on the mark. He suddenly felt about an inch tall. His face was glowing red like a traffic light.

  “Is this where I get chewed off for speaking out of turn?” Jolly said, nervously.

  “Not at all,” said Slater. “On the contrary, this is where I go and find a nice big stone to hide under. I’m ashamed to admit it, but you’re right. We’ve focused so much on the adults, simply because we feel that’s where our best leads will come from, but we should never forget there’s a third victim. Can I ask you to get this sorted for me today?”

  “I’d love to,” she said. “Leave it with me.”

  As she turned to go, he called her back.

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” She smiled, turning to Norman.

  “Ah, PC Jolly Jane,” said Norman, sorting out a task sheet and handing it to her. “It’s your lucky day. Today you get to look for the needle in the haystack.”

  “Come on, then,” she said, sighing. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Fifteen years ago, a taxi supposedly picked up Sandra Bressler from her house. To win today’s star prize of a night out with yours truly, all you have to do is find out which taxi company.”

  “Oh, you’re so kind,” she said, laughing. “I get all the easy jobs. Is there a booby prize if I fail?”

  “Oh yes, you lucky girl. The prize for failure is a night IN with me.”

  “Now there’s an incentive to succeed if ever there was one,” she said over her shoulder, as she bustled away.

  “And the next lucky winner,” said Norman, to the remaining two detectives. “Is DC Tony Ashton, who gets not one, but two tasks.”

  “Bring it on,” said Ashton, sounding keen as ever.

  “Okay,” began Norman, handing him a task sheet. “Task number one is to contact BT and find out the state of play with the telephone line to the Bressler’s house back then. Was it connected before they moved in? Was it working? Was it reported as not working? Blah, blah, blah.

  “Task number two is to look into Sandra Bressler’s bank accounts. You know the drill – we’re looking for anything that looks suspicious. We especially want to know if she was stashing money away, so check for savings accounts or large withdrawals of cash.”

  “I’m on it,” said Ashton, and headed out of the room.

  “And that just leaves our star performer.” Norman smiled at Biddeford.

  Slater watched as Biddeford stared grumpily at Norman. What was going on with him today?

  “Did you get out of bed on the wrong side today?” enquired Norman.

  “Have you got anything special for me today, or not?” said Biddeford. “Because if you haven’t I’ll get on my way. I’ve got an airplane to look for.”

  “That’ll keep for tomorrow,” said Norman. “We want you to look into Bressler’s background today.”

  “Oh, terrific.” Biddeford sighed heavily. “Another day stuck in front of a bloody computer.”

  Slater had walked over to stand beside Norman; he wanted to speak to Biddeford when they had finished. His mouth dropped open in surprise at this outburst, and he saw Norman’s do the same.

  “D’you have a problem with that, Detective Constable?” asked Norman, bristling with anger.

  “What do you care if I have?” snapped Biddeford.

  “Hey,” said Slater, shocked by Biddeford’s venom. “Just watch with the attitude, Steve.”

  “Pick on Steve Biddeford day, is it?” Biddeford glared at Slater.

  For a few brief seconds there was a standoff, Slater and Norman one side of the table, and Biddeford the other. It was Slater who broke the ice.

  “Let’s start again, shall we? How did it go yesterday interviewing the flasher with Tony Ashton?”

  Biddeford tossed the folder he was holding onto the desk in front of Slater.

  “It’s all in my report.”

  Slater felt like Biddeford was trying to goad him, but he had absolutely no idea why. He had to bite his tongue not to retaliate. Perhaps something had hap
pened outside of work to put Biddeford in a rotten mood.

  “I’ve got those registration numbers from Saturday night,” said Slater, handing Biddeford a sheet of paper. “Can you get someone to find out who the owners are and we can go pay them all a visit.”

  Biddeford took the list and looked at it.

  “You’ve missed one. I’m sure there were eight cars, but there’s only seven numbers here.”

  “Well, I only seem to have the seven,” said Slater, carefully. “Perhaps you were mistaken.”

  “I don’t think I am, but if you say so, I suppose I must have been,” said Biddeford, sulkily.

  That was it. Slater had had enough of the sulky little boy attitude.

  “Look,” he said, sternly. “I don’t know what your problem is this morning, but whatever it is, you’re no good to this team if you’re going to behave like a little boy who’s lost his favourite toy. I suggest you go and find yourself a better attitude before you start work, otherwise you might just as well sod off for the rest of the day.”

  “Is that it?” said Biddeford. “You finished?”

  “Yes,” said Slater.

  “Good,” said Biddeford. “In that case I’ll do what you said and sod off for the rest of the day. Alright?”

  With that, he turned and slammed his way out of the room. Slater and Norman watched him go.

  “What was that all about?” asked Norman.

  “Buggered if I know,” said Slater, wearily.

  “That’s not because someone’s been taking the piss over the flasher escaping, is it?”

  “I don’t see how. I don’t think anyone really knows about it except me, you, him, and the duty sergeant, and he’s not going to take the piss without making himself look an idiot, is he?”

  “This just isn’t like him at all, is it?” said Norman, sounding worried. “I wonder what’s got into him?”

  “No, it’s not like him, but if he doesn’t want to talk about it there’s not much we can do is there? Let’s just give him some space. I’m sure he’ll be alright later.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Rustins Removals was the only real removals company in Tinton. There were a couple of one, or two-man operations, but Rustins went that bit further with a large factory unit that incorporated office space, a storage facility, and garaging for several vehicles. They also employed enough staff to cope with the demand their service generated.

  When Slater had phoned earlier to ask if anyone could help with their enquiries, he had been pleasantly surprised to find the foreman, Ted Pearce, who had supervised the Bressler’s move, was still with the company. Although close to retirement, he now worked in the unit looking after the storage containers and doing whatever needed doing to keep things running smoothly.

  “I read about them bodies being found in the newspaper,” he told Slater and Norman as he made three cups of tea. “They said she’d moved here from the Midlands 15 years ago. I remembered we’d done a job moving a lady and her daughter back then, and they’d disappeared not long after. I figured it couldn’t be a coincidence, so I thought I’d have a look back through the records to see.”

  He handed a worksheet to Slater.

  “I thought you might want this. That’s her signature at the bottom of the sheet,” he told them.

  “You must have a very good filing system, Mr Pearce,” said Norman, sounding impressed.

  “Certainly better than anything we’ve got,” admitted Slater, as he studied the worksheet.

  “It never used to be,” said Pearce. “But it gets a bit boring around here some days, so about a year ago I set myself the task of sorting it all out. Now I can put me finger on just about anything within five minutes. I didn’t think I’d ever need to, it was just something to keep me occupied, you know?”

  “You did a good job, Mr Pearce.” Slater smiled, beginning to feel human again now. “You’ve probably saved us a lot of time. I know it was a long time ago now, but can you remember anything about the job that was unusual?”

  “The fact that we went up there to move them down here was different,” said Pearce, scratching his balding head thoughtfully. “Usually it was about us moving people from this area away to somewhere else. But other than that I honestly don’t remember much.”

  “What about Mrs Bressler?” asked Norman. “Do you remember anything about her?”

  “I remember she was a nice looking girl,” Pearce said. “Very nice. Set all the lads’ pulses racing that day, she did. Mine too.”

  “Good figure, huh?” Norman asked, encouragingly.

  “Oh yes.” Pearce nodded wistfully. “Lovely face, long blonde hair, long legs and-”

  “Big boobs,” finished Norman.

  “That’s right,” Pearce said, nodding enthusiastically. “She had the lot, and she was really nice with it, you know? Not stuck-up like some rich girls. She was happy to make us tea all day. She even made us breakfast when we got there because we’d had an early start. She was a good ‘un. I couldn’t believe it when I heard she’d run away a week later.”

  “You thought that strange?” asked Slater.

  “Well, you can’t ever get to know someone well in a few hours, can you?” said Pearce. “But she didn’t seem like she was planning on leaving to me. She was more like someone who was coming home, for good.”

  Norman fumbled in his jacket pocket and produced two photos. He laid the photo of Sandra Bressler on the table.

  “Is this her?”

  Pearce looked at the photo.

  “It was 15 years ago,” he said cautiously. “It probably is, but I couldn’t swear to it.”

  “What about this one?” asked Norman, placing a photo of Cindy Maine on the table, next to Sandra Bressler’s.

  Ted Pearce frowned in concentration as he looked from photo to photo.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t want to let you down. But it was a long time ago, and these girls all look the same to me. Don’t you agree? It’s like they all come out the same mould or something.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s okay,” Norman reassured him. “That’s kind of what I’m thinking. I have a theory that it’s very hard to remember faces from many years ago. Like you say, when they have the same hair and figure, they do tend to all look the same.”

  Pearce looked relieved.

  “I do remember the little girl,” he said. “She was a pretty little thing, just like a mini version of her mum. I seem to recall she was very shy, but the thing that really sticks in my mind and makes me remember her so well, is that she had very pale skin, with lots and lots of freckles. And she had lots of long ginger hair. It reached halfway down her back. Lovely little thing, she was.”

  He had a faraway look on his face as he remembered the little girl from 15 years ago.

  “Well, thanks for sparing us your time, Mr Pearce,” said Slater, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet. “We really appreciate it.”

  “Can we keep this worksheet?” asked Norman.

  “Of course you can,” Pearce said, smiling. “And it’s no trouble. If you need to ask any more questions I’ll do my best to help.”

  As they made their way back to the car, Slater’s mobile phone began making weird noises. He stopped and dragged it from his pocket.

  “Slater,” he said into the phone.

  He listened for a few moments, said “brilliant”, and then listened a bit longer.

  “Well done, Jane. Can you text it to me, please?”

  “Sorry, no,” Slater continued. “You can’t go home early. But you can give Steve Biddeford a hand looking into Bressler’s background.

  “No, no, no,” he said finally. “You only had to spend the night in with Norm if you failed. Yeah, I know, a fate worse than death. But I’ll tell you what, you’ve done so well, we’ll both take you out!”

  He was smiling broadly as he ended the call.

  “That was Jolly Jane,” he said, beaming. “She’s only managed to find the taxi driver w
ho picked Sandra up that day! She’s just going to text me his address. Apparently it’s not far from here. We can call in on the way back.”

  “Now that is good news,” agreed Norman. “You know, I think that girl’s far more resourceful than we give her credit for.”

  They climbed into the car, both listening for Slater’s phone to herald the arrival of the taxi driver’s address.

  “I have a complaint,” said Norman, as they waited.

  “What?”

  “Next time I offer Jolly Jane the chance to spend an evening with me as a reward for a job well done, do not suggest it’s a fate worse than death, and do not try to gatecrash by inviting yourself. Okay?”

  “She wouldn’t spend an evening with either of us, you fool,” said Slater. They both knew Jane Jolly was devoted to her husband and kids.

  “That’s not the point,” said Norman. “When someone is offered the chance of a lifetime, like that, they don’t want to hear you’re coming along too. You know you’ll just spoil the whole thing for them, right?”

  Slater looked at Norman, who was trying hard, but failing, to maintain a serious expression.

  “Yeah, right, Norm. Whatever you say, mate.”

  Slater’s mood improved even further when he discovered it was going to take just 10 minutes to drive to the home of Arthur Deadman, the taxi driver who had collected Sandra Bressler on the day she disappeared. However, it was a short-lived improvement, as it soon became clear Mr Deadman was not going to be anywhere near as helpful as Ted Pearce had been.

  Arthur Deadman was 83 and was not a well man. He was deaf as a post, his eyesight was going, and his memory was so hazy he didn’t even seem sure what day it was. Slater was pretty sure that if the old man’s wife hadn’t been there to look after him, he would have been unable to fend for himself and would have been in a care home.

  Norman instinctively took the lead once Mrs Deadman had let them in, his natural patience and easy-going charm immediately putting her at ease. Slater was happy to take a back seat and look on admiringly as Norman worked his magic.