by Ford,P. F.
‘We were hoping there would be someone who could identify the body, and maybe arrange the funeral.’
‘Oh. I see. Why don’t I do it?’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Jolly.
‘Identification’s just a question of looking at his face, isn’t it?’ asked Hunter.
‘It’ll only take a minute,’ Jolly said. ‘It’s just a formality.’
‘It’s the least I can do. And I’ll get my secretary to arrange the funeral. It won’t be anything fancy, but at least he can be sent off with a bit of dignity.’
‘That’s so very kind of you,’ said Jolly. ‘Could you let me know when the funeral is arranged? I found him you see and it seems a bit sad dying all alone like that. I’d like to be there.’
‘How very thoughtful,’ said Hunter. ‘You’re a credit to the police, Miss Jolly. Leave me your number and I’ll make sure to let you know.’
John Hunter scored a few more ranking points for calling her ‘Miss’ Jolly. She knew she looked like a typical, harassed mother-of-three, and couldn’t remember the last time anyone had called her ‘miss’.
Norman snatched the phone from his desk and answered it with his usual professional manner.
‘Yo. Norman here.’
‘Hi Norm, it’s Ian Becks,’ replied the voice in Norman’s ear.
‘What can I do for you, Becksy?’
‘Are you ok?’ asked Becks. ‘That self-important twat was giving you a hard time this morning.’
‘I have broad shoulders,’ Norman said, sighing. ‘I’ve come across guys like him before. He can’t help it. He thinks that title makes him better than everyone else. He’s also missed the fact that time has moved on and he’s no longer in charge. And, of course, he was probably embarrassed at having to admit his alarm didn’t work and he slept through the robbery.’
‘Yeah, well that’s what I was calling to tell you. This might cheer you up. The alarm didn’t fail – the old duffer didn’t even switch it on.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. I’ve checked and double checked. It wasn’t switched on last night.’
‘Does that happen often?’ asked Norman, feeling slightly suspicious.
‘Can’t say for sure without a lot more testing,’ said Becks, ‘but I’d bet on it being an isolated incident.’
‘Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, Ian?’
‘Hey. It’s not my place to speculate, Norm, it’s my job to supply you with evidence and facts. And that’s just a fact.’
‘What else have you got?’
‘Not much if I’m honest,’ said Becks, sounding grim. ‘There’s no sign of forced entry, no unexplained fingerprints, and bugger all else, apart from that calling card.’
‘Anything on that?’
‘Nothing to get excited about. I have to send it off to Winchester so they can compare it to the cards they’ve got so far. Apparently, a lot of people are doing break-ins and leaving these calling cards, but when you put them next to each other the fakes are easy to spot. They tell me the real Night Caller uses very special ink and card. By comparing them, they can tell us if we’re dealing with the real Night Caller or not.’
‘Let’s hope it is,’ said Norman. ‘Then they can take over the case and I don’t have to deal with that pompous arse again.’
‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,’ Becks said, laughing.
‘Thanks for letting me know, Ian.’
As Norman put the phone down, he wondered about Sir Robert Maunder. It was a bit of a coincidence, wasn’t it? Forgot the alarm, left out the jewellery box, and then slept while the guy was there in the same room helping himself. And there was no sign of a forced entry. Someone could easily be forgiven for thinking there was some sort of insurance swindle going on.
But then, that someone would need to get their hands on the old guy’s financial information to take that suspicion any further. Norman thought he would stand more chance of finding a snowman on the equator.
Chapter Four
Dave Slater hated funerals. He subscribed to the idea that a funeral should be a celebration of a life gone by, but in his experience, that just didn’t happen. To be fair, he had only ever attended three in his life so far, but he had found each of them to be a very morbid affair. He knew it was probably down to the fact that all those funerals had been those of his grandparents, and each one had been very old fashioned. Whichever way he looked at it, though, and no matter how much allowance he made, he couldn’t deny he had found each one deeply depressing.
On this drab, grey Monday morning, he could see no reason to think Mr Winter’s funeral was going to be any less depressing. In fact, he was sure it would be even worse because, as far as he could make out, there were going to be very few people attending this particular interment. He’d shared his misgivings with his girlfriend, Cindy, and, bless her, she’d offered to come with him. But this was no place for her; he was only here himself because Jane Jolly had spent the past few days making him feel guilty about Mr Winter’s death. It wasn’t his fault the poor old guy had no friends or relatives, was it? Nor was it his fault the guy’s death had been an accident and he hadn’t been murdered.
Even so, in the end he had agreed to come as long as Norman came too so here they were, like three stooges who’d come along to make up the numbers – which was exactly what they were.
Now he was looking round the inside of the crematorium, Slater thought he had been correct in his assessment of the numbers attending, and apart from himself, Jolly, and Norman, the only people inside the church were John Hunter and his wife, a small, grey-looking man whom he vaguely recognised from around town, the small team from the undertaker’s, and the vicar who was conducting the service. He thought it very sad there were so few people here to pay their respects, then he felt worse still when he realised he and Norman wouldn’t have been here but for Jane Jolly cajoling them along.
The three police officers had at first chosen to sit several rows back, but they soon realised they had only succeeded in drawing attention to their presence. This made Slater feel even more uncomfortable, but Norman didn’t seem to notice. Enviously, Slater wondered how his colleague always managed to look at ease whatever their situation. The vicar was obviously doing his best to sound upbeat and interesting but, with such a small audience, it was hard going. Aware that he could easily fall asleep if it became any more boring, Slater tuned him out and allowed his mind to wander.
His thoughts were interrupted when Norman nudged him and then nodded towards the rear of the crematorium. Looking over his shoulder, Slater could see a figure hovering by the door. He turned slightly to get a better look at a small, grey-haired old woman who stood there in a shabby off-white coat. She looked rather fragile and fidgeted nervously as though she felt she shouldn’t really be there. There was an air of distraction about her which made her look lost and confused. He thought, rather poetically, that she reminded him of a butterfly, fluttering haphazardly on damaged wings.
He had been observing her for at least half a minute or so before she noticed, with a start, that he was staring at her. Not wishing to frighten her, he turned to face the front for a few seconds before sneaking another glance in her direction, but she was gone. He turned right round to have a better look, but she was nowhere to be seen. As he turned back, he was sure he caught a glimpse of someone else, a man, he thought, stepping back into the shadows at the back of the room. He wondered why someone would be creeping about like that. Or was he just being suspicious?
At long last, the curtains drew back and Mr Winter’s coffin began its slow journey out of sight. In a few minutes, it would be reduced to ashes and gone forever. As the coffin disappeared from view behind the closing curtains, Slater took another look around. There by the doorway he noticed her again: the small, grey-haired old woman in her shabby coat. She was holding her right hand to her mouth, in a gesture of dismay, perhaps, or maybe to stifle a sob. From this distance, h
e couldn’t tell for sure, but the gesture made him feel she must have known Mr Winter. Then, as before, she realised he was watching her and, taking a couple of steps back, she disappeared from view.
As they filed from the building, Slater pulled on Norman’s arm.
‘There was something weird going on at the back of the room,’ Slater said, when Norman looked at him quizzically.
‘You saw that too?’ Norman asked, looking around. ‘I thought I saw someone hanging around in the shadows back there.’
‘I’m going to slip off and see if I can see anything,’ Slater said, and Norman nodded.
‘I’ll see if I can find anything.’
Slater thought he had caught a glimpse of her as he left the building and he hurried across to a nearby clump of trees where he thought she’d been, but his elusive butterfly seemed to have flown. He searched around for few minutes, following a footpath that led through a small gate to the road outside, but she was nowhere to be seen.
As he came back through the gate, he could see Norman had returned and was now talking to Jolly and the Hunters and the small, grey-looking man Slater thought he should know. He briefly searched in and around the trees again, wondering how the woman could have just vanished without him seeing her go. It made no sense, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Cursing quietly, he made his way back. The tiny gathering had dispersed now, leaving just the solitary figure of Norman waiting for him. As he approached, Norman’s mobile phone started to ring. He watched him take the phone from his pocket and look at the screen before he turned his back and answered it. Slater assumed it must be a personal call, so he kept a discreet distance until Norman had finished. As he turned back to face Slater, it was obvious Norman was none too happy.
‘You okay?’ asked Slater.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Norman. He looked a bit pale, and he was turning the phone over and over in his hands. ‘These sales people just don’t know when to stop, do they?’
He thought Norman’s reaction was a bit over the top for a telesales call, but then Slater remembered how annoying he found them, and thought perhaps it wasn’t an overreaction after all.
‘What a waste of bloody time that was, Norm,’ he said as they headed back towards their car. ‘Maybe I’m losing my touch. I can’t even remember who that bloke was in church doing all the singing.’
‘Fred Green,’ said Norman. ‘He owns the greengrocer’s in town. He used to deliver to Mr Winter every week, had done for years.’
‘Ah, that’s it! I knew his face but I just couldn’t think who he was or where I knew him from.’
‘And it definitely wasn’t a waste of time,’ said Norman, smugly.
‘It was for me,’ Slater said, sighing. ‘She looked like some old bag lady or something, but I got the feeling she knew Mr Winter. Then when I went to talk to her, she just seemed to vanish into thin air. Did you manage to catch up with the guy who was hiding in the shadows?’
Norman shook his head.
‘He was way too quick for me,’ he said.
‘Bugger!’ said Slater, vehemently. ‘What a bloody useless pair we are. But then I suppose it doesn’t really matter. It’s not as if it’s an ongoing investigation.’
‘Speak for yourself.’ Norman waved his mobile phone at Slater. ‘I got a good photograph, and I got his car registration too!’
‘Well done, Sherlock,’ Slater said, smiling at the smug look on Norman’s face. ‘But you really ought to delete them. This is not a case we’re working on.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Norman shrugged, chuckling. ‘It doesn’t hurt to practise though, right?’
Chapter Five
It was late on Wednesday morning, two days since Mr Winter’s funeral. Jolly was supposed to be heading back to the station, but she had chosen to take a diversion which took her down Canal Street. Despite her best efforts, and making the RSPCA aware of the lost dog, there had been no sign of him anywhere. She was reluctant to give up on the dog and still felt it was somehow her responsibility to find him. Deep inside, though, she knew there wasn’t much chance of finding him now.
She pulled up outside the little house and stared up at the windows. Quite why she felt so sad about, and responsible for, this particular little old man dying, she couldn’t say. He wasn’t the first old person she had found dead in their home, and she very much doubted he would be the last.
As she closed the car door and turned to walk down the side path, she noticed the gate was wide open. She had left it propped ajar in case the dog came home, but now it was completely open. It was one of those gates that dragged on the ground, so it had to have been pushed. She quickened her pace, hoping the little dog was going to be waiting at the back door and pleased to see someone at last. To her disappointment, there was no dog waiting to greet her. She stopped to look in through the kitchen window, just in case it had somehow got inside. As she peered in the window, her heart leapt as a movement behind her own reflection made her jump.
She spun round to see a gate at the bottom of the garden – some hundred feet away – slamming shut. She sprinted down the garden, cursing herself for those wasted few seconds squinting into the dark kitchen.
She threw the gate open and ran out onto the towpath, but she had no idea which way the culprit had gone. She stared around wildly but there was no sign of anyone in either direction. She thought about starting a search, but she wasn’t even supposed to be here, so she couldn’t really justify wasting time on what was likely to be a fruitless exercise. Annoyed with herself, she made her way back into the garden, making sure to close the gate and put the bolt across. It wasn’t going to stop anyone who was determined to get in but it was the best she could do for now.
She hadn’t been down this end of the garden before, and for the first time she became aware of a tiny shed hidden away behind a small, weather-worn greenhouse. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before, then realised it would be hidden from view to anyone looking from the house. There was a small padlock on the shed door, but it was broken, and on closer inspection, Jolly thought it had been broken very recently.
As she pulled the door open, she could see there was hardly anything in the shed, and she wondered why anyone would have wanted to break in. She thought this was probably the work of some junkie looking to pinch a lawnmower or something similar – they’d do anything to make a few quid to help feed a drug habit these days. With a sigh, she made her way back up the garden to the house.
Again, she glanced through the kitchen window. She could see through the kitchen door and on into the hall. Everything looked neat and tidy, just as she’d left it. She had already turned away and taken a couple of steps towards the gate before the realisation struck her – she had closed all the doors inside the house, including the kitchen door. Someone had been inside the house after she had locked up.
Slater turned into Canal Street and made his way slowly towards the two patrol cars and the SOCO’s transit van that were parked outside the crime scene, making it impossible for him to park anywhere close by. Grumbling quietly to himself, he found a space a few houses down and walked the last few yards.
He stopped in the street and looked the house up and down. The houses the Night Caller had robbed so far were all pretty big and expensive. This was a tiny two up, two down. He thought they could probably rule him out as a suspect before they even started.
‘Hi, Jane,’ he said to the waiting PC Jolly as he approached the front door. ‘I didn’t think I’d be coming back to this house any time soon.’
‘It’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’ she said, with a grim smile. ‘But I think we can rule out the Night Caller for this one.’
‘It’s certainly not his preferred size of house, that’s for sure.’
‘I said there was something funny about his death,’ Jolly said, sounding slightly smug.
‘Now let’s not jump to any conclusions,’ he said. ‘It’s probably just kids taking advantage of an empty house. W
hat does it look like?’
‘Imagine a bomb going off in a house this small, but without the fire, and you’ll have a pretty good idea. Come round this way and I’ll show you.’
She led him down the side of the house and around to the back, stopping to indicate the kitchen window. Slater peered through the kitchen and on into the hall.
‘The kitchen’s still neat and tidy,’ said Jolly. ‘The mess is in all the other rooms.’
As Slater looked through the window, a blue figure walked from left to right beyond the doorway.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Is that a smurf in there?’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ Jolly said, laughing. ‘It’s the SOCOs in their new paper overalls. Apparently white’s no longer the in colour. It seems this season it’s all about blue.’
‘I think pink would have been far more fetching,’ Slater said. ‘I hope that’s not going to affect their performance.’
‘To be fair,’ said Jolly, ‘they’re all over it, but so far they’ve found nothing obviously useful. They’re hopeful there might be some good fingerprints.’
‘Let’s keep our fingers crossed.’ Slater scanned his surroundings. ‘Any sign of a break-in?’
‘No,’ she said, pointedly. ‘But then, if whoever did this has got the spare key that was under the doormat they wouldn’t have needed to break in, would they?’
Slater accepted the implied criticism without response. This was no time to get into an argument about interpretation of facts and the value of hindsight. He still thought he had made the right call based on the available evidence at the time they had found Mr Winter’s body.
‘Have you any idea what’s missing?’ he asked.
‘As I recall, there wasn’t anything worth stealing, but I haven’t had a chance to look around yet. I thought it would be better to let this lot do their thing first, but they did tell me there’s a mark on the wall in the living room where something used to hang. I seem to recall that was a print of some old landscape painting. It won’t have been worth much, although the frame might have been worth a few quid.’