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

by Ford,P. F.

  “I’m not sure I like your attitude, Detective Sergeant Norman,” said Bressler.

  “And I’m not sure I like the fact that you seem to think it’s clever to withhold information,” said Norman.

  “I can assure you I’m not withholding anything. The first ‘Sandra lookalike’, as you put it, didn’t come into my life until at least six months after Sandra disappeared.”

  “Well, we know about Cindy, who’s number three, and now we know about Michelle, so we can check her out,” said Norman. “So how about you save us some time and give us the names of the first two lookalikes and then we can check them out too.”

  “I really can’t see why you need to go poking your nose into the affairs of people who didn’t even know Sandra,” said Bressler, angrily. “Why are you doing this? You’re just wasting your time.”

  “I don’t have to tell you why I’m following a particular line of enquiry, Sir,” explained Norman, quietly and patiently. “And, as long as it’s me choosing to waste my time, I won’t have to charge anyone with wasting police time, will I?”

  “Oh, you people,” hissed Bressler. “Just wait a minute. I’ll write them down for you.”

  He went to his desk and found an address book. He noted the two names and addresses on a sheet of paper and handed it to Norman.

  “Thank you, Mr Bressler,” said Norman, holding Bressler’s gaze. “Do you think this is some sort of game we’re playing here? Is that it? Before I go, let me remind you this is a triple murder we’re investigating.”

  Bressler said nothing, and Slater watched as he and Norman had some sort of staring contest. Slater’s money was on Norman, and right enough, it was Bressler who was first to look away.

  “I hope we understand each other,” said Norman finally. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

  Steve Biddeford arrived at the possible war zone that was Allison Beatty’s house, unsure what he would find there. To his great surprise, it was the unpredictable side of Allison Beatty that greeted his arrival. He was armed with two PCs, dressed in heavy protective gear. Instead of the expected battle on her doorstep, she had been sweetness personified when Biddeford had presented her with the search warrant, inviting them all in and offering to make tea.

  Biddeford could tell the two PCs were pretty uncomfortable – on the journey over, they had talked about previous run-ins they’d had with Allison Beatty, and they sat in her living room as if they were waiting for a bomb to go off.

  Biddeford had informed Allison what they were there for, and why Trading Standards weren’t dealing with the matter. Allison just smiled sweetly.

  “Don’t look so nervous,” she’d said. “This new medication I’m on is good stuff. I’m in control.”

  As if to demonstrate, she’d taken in one or two deep breaths.

  “I’m not worried,” she told them. “I know why you’re here, and I know I ain’t done anyfink wrong. Some people just don’t have anything better to do with their time than try to spoil things for me just because I’m showing a little bit of enterprise. There’s nuffink counterfeit about them bags.”

  “But ‘Gucci’ is a trademark,” explained Biddeford. “You can’t copy their name and use it on your own goods.”

  “I know that, and I ain’t using their name. I might be mad,” she said, and Biddeford was glad she had at least some level of self-awareness. “But I ain’t bloody stupid. Their name is spelt G-U-C-C-I. Mine is spelt G-U-C-H-I. How’s that the same? An’ anyway, my bags don’t look nuffin’ like Gucci bags. ‘Ere, I’ll show you.”

  She pulled open a cupboard door and half a dozen handbags fell out. She handed one to Biddeford.

  “Now tell me how that’s a counterfeit bag.”

  Biddeford could see her point. Looking at the obviously cheap handbag emblazoned with the name “Guchi”, he could see there had been no attempt to make it look even vaguely like a genuine Gucci bag.

  It’s not the counterfeiter who’s illiterate, it’s the stupid people who reported her. And Trading Standards should know better.

  He was just about to call the whole thing off when one of the PCs popped his head around the back door.

  “You’d better come and have a look in the garage, Sir,” he said.

  “What?” said Allison, sounding surprised. “There’s nuffink in there.”

  Biddeford headed outside, Allison following. As they reached the garage, he peered inside. The whole interior was stacked high from floor to ceiling with cartons of cigarettes.

  Biddeford braced himself and turned to Allison. Now the battle would surely start. But whatever fight was in her seemed to drain away at the sight of the cigarettes. She just cursed quietly and sagged wearily against the wall.

  “Oh, Billy.” She sighed wearily. “You’re supposed to be going straight, you stupid git.”

  “I’m sorry, Allison,” said Biddeford. “But I’m going to have to ask you to go down to the station with these two.”

  He indicated the two police officers, neither of whom looked convinced Allison was safe to be alone with.

  “Yeah, I know,” she said, sighing. “But I ain’t going’ to say anyfink. An’ you’ll have to notify an appropriate adult to sit in wiv me.”

  “You know your rights, then?” asked Biddeford with a trace of admiration.

  “When you’re married to a bloody idiot like Billy Bumble, you ‘ave to,” she said, smiling wanly.

  “Okay, you two go and book her in.” Biddeford turned to the two PCs. “I’ll get a team up here to finish the search and collect all this stuff. There must be a bloody lorry load here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  All the way back to the station from Bressler’s house, Norman kept on about how he must be hiding something. Even when they got out of the car and made their way up to their incident room, he was still going on about it.

  “He’s fast becoming my number one suspect,” he said, as they walked back into the room.”

  “No. Really? Now there’s a surprise.” Slater smiled at him, shaking his head. “I would never have guessed. But don’t we need to find some compelling evidence against him first?”

  Before Norman could respond, the doors burst open and Tony Ashton walked in clutching some papers in his hand. He obviously had something to tell them.

  “What have you got, Tony?” asked Slater. “Anything on that phone line yet?”

  “I’ve been onto BT. As it all took place so long ago, they said it would take time to give me any answers, but when I started to make a lot of fuss and told them I’d come down and look for myself they changed their tune. Now they reckon someone will get back to me this afternoon.”

  “What’s that in your hand?” asked Norman.

  “Aha,” he said, mysteriously. “I think you’re going to like this. I’ve been digging around in Sandra Bressler’s bank account. I couldn’t find any evidence of anything untoward before she disappeared. She certainly wasn’t stashing any cash that I can see, and there were no big withdrawals or transfers.”

  “Come on, Tony. Out with it.” Norman wasn’t feeling particularly patient today. “You said there was nothing untoward before she disappeared, so what happened after?”

  “This is where it gets interesting,” said Ashton, placing the sheets of paper on the desk. “There were three big cheques written and cashed after she disappeared. These are photocopies.”

  Slater and Norman stepped up beside Ashton and studied the photocopies of the cheques.

  “If Sandra signed these cheques,” said Slater. “We can wave goodbye to our ‘lookalike called the taxi’ theory.”

  “The last one’s dated nearly six months after she disappeared,” Norman said, looking closely at the cheques. “Why the hell weren’t these spotted 15 years ago?”

  “Because they’d stopped looking,” said Slater. “This is the sort of thing Nash would have done to protect one of his mates.”

  He turned to Ashton.

  “Tony, take a look back throu
gh Nash’s school years and compare it with Bressler’s. They both grew up in this area so they could have gone to the same school.”

  “I’m on it,” said Ashton, heading back to his desk.

  Norman began sifting through their accumulated paperwork. He finally produced the worksheet from the removals company.

  “Let’s see if these signatures match,” he said, laying the worksheet next to the cheques.

  They both leaned over the table and studied the documents.

  “Hmm,” said Slater. “It’s close, but I’m not convinced it’s close enough.”

  “Yeah,” said Norman. “I think I’d have to say I agree with you, but we need to get these to someone who can say for sure.”

  “I’ll get onto Becksy. This sort of stuff is more his area than ours.”

  As he hurried off to phone Ian Becks, Norman saw Jane Jolly stand up and make her way over to him.

  “I’ve been digging around into Bressler’s background,” she said. “He has some huge investments and quite a property portfolio, but I’m not sure it’s really enough to pay for the lifestyle he has.”

  “Are you suggesting he’s up to something?” asked Norman.

  “There’s nothing I can point to for sure,” she said. “And maybe I’m completely wrong. It just seems a bit too honest, if you know what I mean.”

  “So Mr Squeaky Clean might just be a little too squeaky to be really clean, huh?” said Norman, wishing Jolly had found something concrete he could use against Bressler.

  “I did find one thing that might interest you,” she added.

  “If it gives me a reason to lean on the guy then yes, you’re right, it does interest me,” he said, beaming. “What have you got?”

  She placed a photograph, and a list of names, on the table.

  “This was taken at a conference Bressler attended four months before Sandra disappeared,” she said.

  The photograph clearly showed Rudy Bressler dressed up to the nines in dinner jacket and bow tie, obviously attending a dinner of some sort.

  “It was taken at a cardiology conference.” Jolly pointed to the list of names. “This is a list of those who attended. Apparently this was taken at the grand dinner on the final evening.”

  “So, who’s the blonde?” asked Norman. On Bressler’s arm in the photo was a stunning looking blonde, straight out of the “Sandra lookalike” mould.

  “According to the blurb,” said Jolly, reading her notes, “her name is Lindy Fellows. She was one of the doctors attending the conference.”

  “She was also Bressler’s first girlfriend after Sandra disappeared,” Norman said, recognising the name. “He says she didn’t come into the picture until six months after Sandra left, but they look pretty cosy to me.”

  Norman sensed someone peering over his shoulder, and turned to see Slater had returned.

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t necessarily mean there was anything going on,” Slater said.

  “No, but I’d be willing to bet a whole lot of money I’m right,” said Norman. “Jane, can you check out the conference Bressler was on when Sandra disappeared. See if you can find a list of attendees. Maybe Lindy Fellows attended that one too, and see if you can find anyone else who attended both. I’d like to speak to them and see if they can remember anything about Bressler and Fellows back then.”

  “Okay,” said Jolly. “Would you like me to look into Lindy Fellows while I’m at it?”

  “Now you’re thinking.” Slater smiled at Jolly. “Well done, Jane.”

  As she left, Tony Ashton came rushing back.

  “Just had BT back on the phone.” He was grinning widely. “According to their records, Sandra did report the line not working, but when they did a line test it was working just fine, so they didn’t send an engineer out.”

  “So why would Sandra report the phone not working if it was okay?” asked Slater, thoughtfully.

  “What if someone had tampered with it?” Ashton said. “Maybe they rigged the phone so it seemed like it wasn’t working but still passed a line test?”

  “I wonder if Ian Becks would know about that sort of thing,” said Slater. “I’ll go and pick his brains and see if he knows.”

  When Slater found Ian Becks, he was interested to discover that Ashton’s suggestion about rigging the phone was, in fact, possible.

  “Anyone could do it if they had the right equipment,” Becks assured him. “You’ll also be pleased to know that it’s not going to take long to get your signatures verified.”

  “But I thought you said it would take at least a week,” said Slater.

  “Normally it would,” Becks said, “because I would have to send it away to be analysed. But it just so happens, it’s your lucky day. Nadira, our tiny, travelling pathologist, also happens to be an expert at handwriting.”

  “You’re kidding me,” said Slater, hardly able to believe his luck.

  “She’ll let us know tomorrow, before they head back home.”

  “They’re going already?” asked Slater.

  “They’re very expensive to maintain, mate,” Becks said, shrugging. “Unless you can come up with another body we can’t afford to keep them here any longer.”

  “That’s okay,” said Slater. “We’ll pass on a fourth body. We already have too many for my liking.”

  It was a pretty happy Dave Slater who made his way back to the incident room and across to where Jane Jolly was tapping away at her keyboard.

  “Have you found anything else?” he asked.

  “I’ve got the list of attendees for the second conference,” she said. “Lindy Fellows was supposed to have been there but she dropped out the day before it started. Other than that, there were only two other people who attended both. I’ve highlighted their names on the list.”

  “So,” said Slater. “Only four people were booked to attend both conferences, and two of those happen to be Rudy Bressler and Lindy Fellows. That’s a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “It’s a bit too much of a coincidence for me,” Jolly said, nodding.

  Can you find contact details for the other two-”

  “Already done,” interrupted Jolly, with a grin.

  She handed Slater another sheet of paper.

  “I’ve confirmed the top one is still working at the same place, but I don’t know about the second one.”

  “That’s very impressive work, Jane,” said Slater, impressed. “I’ll go and try the top one, maybe we won’t even need both.”

  “By the way,” said Jolly. “I also found that same photo of Bressler and Lindy on her profile. She’s not working as a doctor any more. Apparently she retired when she came into a lot of money about 15 years ago.”

  “Which would have been when she hooked up with Bressler,” said Slater thoughtfully, as he walked off to make his phone call. He looked down at the names on the sheet Jolly had handed him, and wondered if Dr John McCall would we able to remember anything about those conferences all those years ago.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Slater was huddled over his desk, preparing the next morning’s briefing when Norman shuffled his way in. He looked quite pleased with himself, but there was obviously something bothering him too.

  “You look like the cat who got the cream and then found it tasted sour,” said Slater.

  “Ten out of ten for the analogy,” Norman said, smiling slightly. “That’s pretty much how I feel right now.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “You know Allison Beatty, don’t you?”

  “Oh yes.” Slater repressed a shudder. “Angry Allison. Has she been maiming people again?”

  “On the contrary,” said Norman. “Apparently she now has medication that actually works to keep her calm. Steve Biddeford went up there today with two PCs and she was as sweet as you like. And I owe her an apology for suggesting she was an illiterate counterfeiter.”

  Slater listened with interest as Norman explained how they had no grounds for arr
esting her for counterfeiting. Then he told how they’d found a garage full of smuggled cigarettes and had to arrest her for that instead.

  “What does she say about it?” asked Slater.

  “She said absolutely nothing until her appropriate adult turned up,” said Norman. “And now we’ve got some mental health guy here telling us we’re persecuting her. Steve says she was genuinely shocked when she saw the garage stacked to the roof with cartons. You know her. Would she be involved in cigarette smuggling?”

  “No,” said Slater with conviction. “I don’t think so. That’s not the Allison I know. That’s going to be Billy. Mind you, it’s a step up for him. Nicking one packet out of someone’s pocket is more his style. This sounds like big boy stuff.”

  “You reckon I should get a search going for Billy?”

  “No need,” said Slater. “Just hold onto Allison overnight. She won’t like it, and nor will the do-gooders, but when Billy gets home he’ll be scared shitless if she’s not there. He’s like a headless chicken without her. He’ll come down here to report her missing. And, if he finds out she’s been dragged down here because of something he’s done, he’ll be down here like a shot to give himself up. He’d admit to murder if it meant getting her out of trouble.”

  “Now that’s true love,” said Norman.

  “Oh, he worships her.” Slater said, thinking there was an odd sweetness to their relationship. “He really would do anything for her.”

  “And there’s another thing you need to bear in mind,” he added, as the thought suddenly occurred to him. “If you let her go now, and she gets to him before we do, she’ll beat the crap out of him. She might even kill him if she gets carried away.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” asked Norman, looking shocked.

  “It’ll be a good test for how effective that medication is,” said Slater grimly. “I’ve always thought she’ll snap one day. This could be the day. Do you want to risk it?”

  Just then, the phone on the desk buzzed.