by Ford,P. F.
‘Maybe we need to focus a few more resources on the problem,’ he suggested quietly. ‘At the moment it’s just me.’
‘I know, David, I know,’ Murray said, heaving a sigh. ‘But you’ll only have a small team, and you’ll have to keep on top of anything else you’re working on. I’ll speak to DS Norman and he can join you on the same condition. I’ll assign Jolly to work with you, and that’s it. It’s all I can spare right now.’
Slater considered it was hardly enough people to call a team, but again he thought better of complaining.
‘Of course,’ continued Murray, ‘if Biddeford was still here you could have had him too.’
The implication wasn’t lost on Slater, but again he resisted the urge to answer back. What had happened hadn’t been his fault, and he resented Murray suggesting it was. He had just been doing his job, after all.
DC Steve Biddeford was the best young detective they had at Tinton, but after an unfortunate misunderstanding in a case they were working on a few months ago, he had first accused Slater of being a sex pest, and then requested a transfer. Murray didn’t approve of people who rushed in without thinking, nor did he like people who disrupted the harmony among his staff, and so, despite Biddeford’s attempts to apologise and rescind his request, he had found himself shipped out of Tinton.
Even Slater had appealed to Murray, but the boss had been adamant – Biddeford had to learn his lesson. He had, however, drawn the line at a full-blown transfer, and instead arranged for Biddeford to be seconded to a bigger station. He would, hopefully, return to them as a much more rounded individual with additional experience and training that he couldn’t get here at Tinton.
‘That’s okay, Boss,’ said Slater. ‘A small team will do just fine.’
‘They’re all yours from first thing tomorrow,’ said Murray, turning back to his paperwork. ‘Just keep me informed, please.’
As Murray bent his head down to study yet another report, Slater realised the meeting was over.
‘Yes, Boss,’ he said, heading for the door.
‘Oh by the way,’ said Murray, just as Slater reached the door. ‘Have you ever considered promotion?’
‘What, me?’ asked a surprised Slater.
‘Why not? It’s a natural progression from DS to DI.’
‘To be honest, I’ve not given it much thought,’ said Slater, turning back to face his boss.
‘Well, perhaps you should,’ said Murray. ‘I’m not going to be here forever, and when I do go it’s quite possible they’ll take the opportunity to change the structure here, and that means there will almost certainly be vacancies created.’
Slater didn’t know what to say to that so he just stared at Murray.
‘Give it some thought,’ said Murray, returning to his paperwork once more.
‘Right,’ said Slater. ‘I will.’
Chapter Eight
Next morning, the two man, and one woman, team had assembled in the canteen for a breakfast briefing. It had been Norman’s idea, of course, to eat breakfast while Slater brought him up to speed with the case.
‘Right then, this is what we’ve got so far,’ said Slater. ‘On Tuesday the fifth, eleven days ago, Jane was called to investigate when an elderly man, Mr Dylan Winter, wasn’t answering his door. When she gained access to the house, Jane eventually found Mr Winter lying dead on a bedroom floor. There was no sign of any forced entry or any sort of struggle, and nothing appeared to be missing apart from a spare back door key and his dog.
‘There was no sign of any struggle or anything missing so I thought it was just a case of another sad, lonely, old person dying alone. And that was it, until yesterday. Jane looked in to see if the dog had turned up, narrowly missing someone who fled through the back gate. She noticed the shed had been broken into, and returning to the house, she then found it had also been entered, and it appears a print in a frame was stolen.
‘Then, yesterday afternoon, Forensics told me a couple of things that make me feel we may need to ask some serious questions about Mr Winter’s death. First they found a set of fingerprints they can’t account for, and second, there was no hard disk in Mr Winter’s computer.’
He stopped for a couple of moments to take a mouthful of coffee and let Norman absorb this information.
‘Murder?’ said Norman. ‘Just because his PC got broken, it’s murder?’
‘Forensics say there are traces of paint, dust etc. that suggest the PC was taken apart very recently on the table in Mr Winter’s office. The hard disk was taken out, the insides smashed up, and then it was put back together and placed back on the floor. From the outside you’d never know it had been damaged,’ explained Slater. ‘Taken in isolation that’s not such a big deal, but now we’ve had another look at the PM, the pathologist thinks his findings could be interpreted in another way.’
‘So how do we think he died now?’
‘This is just a guess, but I think he may have disturbed an intruder and then been attacked and pushed out of the way. His injuries are consistent with possibly being punched and kicked in the ribs, then being pushed backwards, banging his head against the wall,’ Slater said. ‘The pathologist agrees with me.’
‘So not the work of your average local house-breaker, then.’ Norman looked thoughtful.
‘There is a possible clue in a small scrap of paper the pathologist found in Mr Winter’s hand. It could be part of a phone number, but without the rest of it to match up it’s not much help.’
‘Maybe it was someone who isn’t from around here,’ Jolly said, tentatively. ‘Perhaps he was working for someone else.’
‘A contract killer sent to kill a little old man? That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?’ asked Norman.
‘You’re assuming he came to kill Mr Winter,’ said Jolly. ‘What if he was just supposed to steal the hard disk? What if his death was an accident? Suppose Mr Winter surprised him and he just lashed out with no intent to kill him?’
‘Now, that’s an interesting theory,’ Norman said, smiling.
‘It makes sense,’ agreed Slater. ‘If it was just some regular local burglar the house would probably have been thoroughly turned over, but this was a very specific, neat, tidy job. There was plenty of stuff that would have been worth pinching if the intruder was just looking to make a few quid, but it looks as though none of it was touched.’
‘But I thought in the second break-in the house was thoroughly turned over?’ said Norman.
‘Yeah, it was,’ agreed Slater. ‘But Mr Winter was killed during the first break-in and that time the house was left damned near spotless. All that seems to have been taken was the hard disk from the PC.
‘Do we know what he was looking for?’ asked Norman.
‘No,’ said Slater. ‘Not a clue, but it must have been on that hard disk.’
‘So we need to figure out what Mr Winter had found out that someone else might kill him for. But if they already had the hard disk, where does this second break-in come into it?’
‘That’s a good question.’ Slater rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘But I don’t know the answer I’m afraid.’
‘Maybe what they were looking for wasn’t on the disk?’ suggested Jolly.
‘What about the person you nearly caught?’
‘I was nowhere near catching him, to be honest,’ said Jolly. ‘If he hadn’t slammed the gate shut I wouldn’t even have known he was there.’
‘We don’t know for sure if the second intruder has anything to do with the original crime’, said Slater. ‘But for now I think we have to assume it’s all related. And now at least we’ve got some fingerprints and a footprint, from a size ten trainer. It’s a start.’
‘Probably not a woman then.’ Norman smiled.
‘But the fingerprints they found are a woman’s,’ said Slater.
‘Two people?’ suggested Norman.
‘Luckily for us, Jane had the bright idea of making a note of all the car registrations in the street,’ continued
Slater, looking in her direction. ‘She’s going to focus on that today. We might just get lucky and find our intruder that way.’
Jolly nodded her head in agreement.
‘Where are we gonna start?’ asked Norman.
‘We need to learn about Mr Winter, so we’re going to see his solicitor, John Hunter,’ said Slater. ‘He seems to be the only person who might know something about him.’ He looked at his watch. ‘But first I’ll let you eat your breakfast.’
‘Good idea. My stomach is starting to think my throat’s been cut,’ Norman said, digging in to the mound of food in front of him.
Slater had figured the solicitor wouldn’t start work before 9am, so he and Norman enjoyed a leisurely breakfast in the canteen. They were just finishing up and Slater was thinking about leaving when the door swung open and a young PC entered. He stood in the doorway frowning as he looked around. He was obviously searching for someone and as Slater made eye contact with him, the frown vanished to be replaced by a look of recognition.
‘I knew we should have left five minutes ago,’ muttered Slater to Norman, as the newcomer made his way across the canteen.
‘I’m innocent,’ said Norman. ‘So whatever it is, it must be your fault.’
‘Err, excuse me, sir,’ said the PC to Slater. ‘The duty sergeant asked me to give you this.’
He handed over a sheet of paper. As Slater read the notes, Norman’s phone broke into a tinny rendition of Blondie’s ‘Call Me’. Slater and the younger man exchanged glances.
‘What the hell’s that?’ the young PC asked, wincing.
‘A crappy phone making a mess of a ringtone,’ Slater said, grimacing at the racket.
‘Thanks for this,’ he added, indicating the paper, then nodded towards Norman and his squawking phone. ‘I should escape now if I were you, before it gets even worse.’
‘I’ll do that,’ the young PC said, grinning. ‘Thank you, sir.’
He turned on his heel and headed off. A moment later, Norman placed his phone back in his pocket.
‘Important?’ asked Slater.
‘Nah,’ said Norman. ‘Just some idiot salesman. What have you got there?’
‘It seems we’re going to kill two birds with one stone this morning. John Hunter’s secretary arrived this morning to find someone had been in their offices last night.’
‘What? No alarm?’ asked Norman.
‘On the contrary – they have a very sophisticated system, but it was disabled,’ said Slater.
‘That’s a bit clever for anyone local, so don’t hold your breath for any obvious evidence.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Slater said, sighing. ‘I suppose we’d better go take a look.’
A man was on his knees peering at the lock of the door emblazoned with the legend ‘John Hunter, Solicitor’. The man was dressed in one of the forensic team’s new blue paper romper suits, and he rustled quietly as he turned towards them. Once again, Slater pictured a smurf at work. He just couldn’t help it. The only thing that spoilt the image was the shape of the hood. He thought perhaps he should suggest a redesign. If they were going to look like smurfs, they might as well get it right.
‘Aha! The cavalry, at last,’ said the smurf. ‘Better late than never, I suppose.’
Slater realised it was Ian Becks, Tinton’s forensic wizard. Everyone in CID knew they were lucky to have him on their side, but just to make sure they never forgot, Becks thought it his duty to give them a hard time whenever the opportunity arose. The resulting banter kept everyone on their toes, and went a good way towards maintaining good morale between the two departments.
‘Morning, Becksy,’ Slater said, smiling broadly at him. ‘I take it this means you’ve found enough clues to solve the case all on your own and we’re not needed.’
‘I’m afraid there’s nothing to find, mate,’ said Becks.
‘What?’ said Norman, sounding surprised. ‘You mean there was no break-in?’
‘Oh, someone’s been in here, alright.’ Becks gestured to the office within. ‘But whoever it was knew what they were doing. I’m pretty sure the alarm was switched off, or temporarily disabled using some sort of wireless jamming device, and if they didn’t use a key to get in, it was picked by an expert. They were almost certainly wearing latex gloves too, so I’m sure we won’t find a single worthwhile fingerprint.’
‘No prints at all?’ asked Norman.
‘Oh there are plenty of prints,’ said Becks. ‘But I’ll bet a month’s wages any possibles will belong to the people who work here.’
‘So it’s going to be brains and not science that solves this one then,’ said Slater.
‘Well, if you two are the brains in question, you might as well put it straight into the “unsolved” folder.’ Becks grinned at them.
‘I’ll have you know we’ve not had a single “unsolved” since we became a team,’ said Norman, proudly.
‘That’s because my team have been there with the science each time,’ said Becks, with an evil grin. ‘And you know it!’
‘I’d love to continue this discussion,’ said Norman, heavily, ‘but, maybe some other time. Now perhaps if you could step aside and let the professionals do their jobs…’
‘You carry on.’ Becks laughed as he stepped away from the door. ‘I think we’re about done here anyway.’
As if to confirm his statement, the door suddenly opened to reveal two more blue-suited forensic guys, carrying their cases of equipment.
‘All done in here, Boss,’ said the first. ‘Sorry, but we haven’t found anything promising.’
‘No worries,’ said Becks, and then in a voice loaded with sarcasm added, ‘The Dynamic Duo have arrived now so we might as well head off.’
‘You’re done then, right?’ asked Slater, ignoring the bait.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Becks. ‘Like I said before, this guy knew what he was doing. I’ll do a full report, but you’ve already got the gist.’
‘Okay, thanks guys,’ said Slater.
He stepped aside to let the forensics guys out, and then followed Norman through the open door.
‘And you’re quite sure there’s nothing missing?’ Norman asked.
‘No, nothing. Not as far as I can see.’ Sheila Bettsan, John Hunter’s secretary, looked a bit shaken. ‘But someone has logged on to our computer system.’
‘There must be some sensitive information on there,’ said Slater.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Mr Hunter has always been very aware of his responsibilities re: confidentiality. The last thing we do every day is back up everything onto a portable hard disk and then clean the system to remove everything from that day. The portable hard disk is taken home overnight.’
‘That’s quite impressive,’ Norman said. ‘A lot of people wouldn’t go to all that trouble.’
‘It is a lot of fiddling around,’ she agreed, ‘but Mr Hunter’s a bit of a computer buff. He likes to dabble with designing software in his spare time and he’s created a programme that creates the backup and cleans up behind it. All I have to do is click a mouse, wait ten minutes, and it’s done. It means whoever was searching last night wouldn’t have found anything worthwhile.’
‘Do you actually have any information that someone would go to all this trouble to find?’ asked Slater.
‘You’ll have to ask Mr Hunter that question. But, as far as the stuff I deal with is concerned, it’s mostly small stuff like wills and property conveyancing, so I wouldn’t have thought so.’
‘Right. Thank you, Mrs Bettsan, you’ve been very helpful. We’ll let you get on now and we’ll talk to Mr Hunter.’
Slater’s first impression of John Hunter was of a kindly looking man, and he remembered that Jane Jolly had reported similar. Slater thought Mr Hunter looked the sort who wouldn’t get easily ruffled.
‘Mrs Bettsan is right,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine there’s a single thing in our files that would be of that much interest to anyone, and certainly nothing worth b
reaking in for.’
‘It does seem strange,’ said Slater. ‘But thanks to your back-up system, whoever broke in has wasted their time anyway.’
‘Yes.’ Hunter smiled, ruefully. ‘We’ve been doing it for years, but I always thought I would reach my retirement without ever knowing if it had been worth the effort. Well, I know now, don’t I? But I’m going to have to do something about the alarm. Your man said he thought it had been disabled with some sort of jamming signal.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Slater. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about that stuff, but Ian’s quite clued up. If he says that’s what happened, he’s usually right. At the very least you need to change your codes.’
‘So much for sophistication,’ said Hunter, sounding disappointed. ‘That’s supposed to be the latest, state-of-the-art system.’
‘The problem with these things,’ said Norman, ‘is that for every genius coming up with new technology, there’s another ten geniuses dreaming up ways of breaking it.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Hunter, gloomily. ‘It’s a pretty grim outlook, isn’t it? I wonder if anything is ever really secure. But then I suppose it’s up to us to try to stay one step ahead.’ He brightened. ‘Don’t let them grind you down, eh?’
‘It’s about all we can do,’ agreed Slater.
‘Anyway,’ said Hunter, ‘weren’t you coming to speak to me today anyway?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Slater. ‘It’s about a Mr Dylan Winter from 17 Canal Street.’
‘Ah, yes. I spoke to your PC Jolly. I had to arrange the funeral. It’s a bit sad when there’s no family or friends to contact and your solicitor is the only person left.’
‘So there’s definitely no family at all?’
‘Well, he’s left everything to his sister, Julia, but I have no idea where she is. He was adamant she was still alive when he came in to make his will a few weeks ago. I have to find her so she can have everything, but it seems she vanished years ago and I have no idea where she is. I’ve tried all the usual things, like adverts in all the newspapers, and even online searches. But so far I’ve drawn a blank.’