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

by Ford,P. F.

  He nodded his approval.

  ‘I do understand,’ he went on. ‘But just remember these career opportunities won’t always be there just when you want them. That’s all, David, thank you.’

  ‘Err, right. Thanks, Boss,’ said Slater, eager to get away before Murray embarrassed him any further.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Is that Rita Myers?’ asked Norman into the phone. Rita was both editor and owner of Tinton’s only local newspaper, The Tinton Tribune.

  ‘Speaking,’ said a business-like voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘This is DS Norman from Tinton police. We’re questioning a young man who claims to work for you.’

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  ‘His name’s Danny Trent,’ said Norman. ‘Says he’s a reporter.’

  ‘Ha!’ she laughed. ‘That boy has ambition, but I’m afraid he’s rather exaggerating his own importance. He’s not exactly reached those lofty heights just yet.’

  ‘So he’s definitely not a reporter,’ Norman said.

  ‘He’s just the office junior at the moment,’ she replied. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I sound rather flippant, but what’s he supposed to have done? It’s nothing serious, is it?’

  ‘We’re just asking him some questions relating to an inquiry. But he’s claiming because he works for the press as a reporter he doesn’t have to speak to us. To tell the truth, he could be in a lot of trouble if he’s not careful. He’s not doing himself any favours and he’s likely to get charged with wasting police time at the very least, but it could be a lot more serious than that.’

  ‘Would it help if I come in and talk to him?’ asked Rita.

  ‘I was hoping you might say that. Would you really be willing to?’ Norman jumped at the opportunity to get through to this stupid kid.

  ‘What’s he being questioned about?’ she asked.

  ‘Off the record?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘It could be that a death that we thought was an accident may actually be a murder,’ said Norman.

  ‘I didn’t know there had been a murder,’ she said in surprise. ‘Would that be the old man who was found dead in Canal Street?’

  ‘That’s the only one we’ve got,’ said Norman, hoping he wasn’t going to regret telling this to the local press.

  ‘Give me five minutes and I’ll be on my way,’ she said, hanging up the phone.

  True to her word, Rita Meyers was there within less than fifteen minutes. She was a smartly dressed, no-nonsense sort of woman, and gave off an air of calm efficiency. Norman figured she wouldn’t be someone who tolerated bullshit in any form – and he had been right. When Norman pointed her in the direction of the interview room, she hadn’t hesitated to march straight in and deliver her message to the unsuspecting Danny Trent in no uncertain terms. Watching through the two-way mirror, Norman thought he was glad he wasn’t the one getting the bollocking.

  ‘Right,’ she said, to Norman and Slater when she’d finished. ‘I’ve explained to him that he’s not a reporter and even if he was, he wouldn’t have some sort of magic immunity, so I think he’ll talk now. Do you want me to hang on, just in case?’

  ‘How about if you sit in with him?’ ventured Slater.

  Norman opened his mouth to protest, but Slater didn’t give him the chance.

  ‘We wouldn’t normally do this, of course,’ he continued, ‘but I think maybe if we make the whole thing a little less formal Danny might be more inclined to talk, and he trusts you, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Are you going to record this “chat”?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought maybe we’d try informal first,’ said Slater. ‘Then we can do the full statement afterwards.’

  It was a gamble, but Danny Trent obviously didn’t trust the police and was unlikely to talk to them alone, Norman thought, grudgingly.

  ‘And what’s in it for me?’ she asked.

  ‘We can probably make sure you get to take him back home rather than spend the night in one of our cells,’ said Slater. ‘And I must ask that you keep this quiet, or Danny could be in danger. And that means not printing anything about this case.’

  ‘That sounds very melodramatic,’ she said, teasingly.

  ‘It’s for real,’ said Norman. ‘You’ll have to trust us on that, but it’s not something we’d joke about, believe me.’

  She looked from one to the other, clearly weighing up her options.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, finally. ‘Let’s do it.’

  Two hours later, Norman watched her walk out of the station with Danny in tow, the office junior having promised to make sure he went straight home and behaved himself.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ Slater asked Norman.

  ‘He’s an arrogant little bugger, but he’s no killer,’ said Norman. ‘His alibi for the night of the murder checks out.’

  ‘He’s a size ten shoe, though. And that’s just the right size for the break-in, even though he says the house was like that when he got there that morning.’

  ‘Well, yeah,’ said Norman, doubtfully. ‘But he says he doesn’t have any expensive trainers like that, and when I called his mum she confirmed that. Even Rita said she’s never seen him wearing a pair like that. Even if it was his, that shoe print was down by the gate not up by the house. I would say that tends to back up his story that he was just being nosey and panicked when Jane turned up.’

  ‘That’s what I think, too,’ agreed Slater. ‘He’s got an attitude on him, but he’s no house-breaker and definitely not a killer.’

  ‘But what do you make of this story about a London journalist he says he’s working for?’ asked Norman.

  ‘Well, Rita did say he’s ambitious. I think perhaps this guy’s found a naive kid to do some running around for him. In turn the kid probably thinks it’s going to fast track him to the big league.’

  ‘Rita didn’t look too impressed when he told us about his freelance gig,’ said Norman, grinning. ‘I bet he’s getting his ears roasted on the way home!’

  ‘Yeah, he’s just being used,’ said Slater. ‘I’m sure about that, and I’m sure Rita’s telling him exactly the same thing on the way home. The interesting question is: why? Why would a London journalist be sniffing around the seemingly unimportant murder of a little old man?’

  ‘Maybe he knows there’s a much bigger story behind the murder.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Slater. ‘In which case he knows a lot more than we do. But it’s the only reason that makes sense, isn’t it? We need to find out who he is and what he knows. Until we do, I think we might have run into a brick wall.’

  ‘Here, look at this,’ called Jolly, half an hour later.

  Slater and Norman turned from their desks and joined her.

  ‘It’s the website for this journalist Danny Trent claims he’s working for. He’s some sort of freelance investigative journalist by the look of it.’

  ‘Ah. A sleazy muck-raker,’ said Norman derisively.

  ‘It looks like he does his fair share of that,’ agreed Jolly. ‘But he’s also a bit of a crusader for good causes.’

  ‘So what’s the guy in charge look like?’ asked Slater. ‘Are there any photos of him?’

  ‘Here,’ said Jolly.

  She clicked a link and a head shot of Geoff Rippon, journalist at large, appeared.

  ‘Hey, wait a minute,’ said Norman. ‘I know that face.’

  He retrieved his mobile phone from his desk and fumbled with it for a moment.

  ‘I thought so,’ he said, smiling. ‘Here, look. It’s the guy who was creeping about at the back of the funeral.’

  He showed the photograph from his mobile phone. Even thought it was blurry, it was obviously the same guy.

  ‘My instincts told me not to delete it,’ he explained. ‘I also have a photo of his car registration.’

  ‘Let’s have it,’ said Jolly. ‘Maybe I can find out where he lives.’

  ‘Is there no address on his website?’ asked Slater.<
br />
  ‘Just an office address,’ said Jolly. ‘And a couple of phone numbers. Here.’

  She handed Slater a slip of paper with the two numbers.

  ‘Let me give these a ring,’ said Slater, turning back to his desk.

  Over the next few minutes, he tried the two numbers but all he got in reply was the same voicemail message. He wasn’t really surprised. That would have been way too easy, wouldn’t it? But at least they now had a name and a face. It was a start.

  ‘Any luck with that car, Jane?’ he asked, turning back to her.

  ‘It’s a hire car,’ she said.

  ‘Huh! Just when I thought we’d got lucky,’ said Norman.

  ‘We have,’ she said. ‘It belongs to that car hire place down by the railway station. Apparently, he picked it up the day before the funeral and he’s got an open booking. He told them he’s staying at the Station Hotel but doesn’t know exactly how long he’s going to be here. I’m just printing it out now.’

  Norman went to the printer and snatched up the sheet of paper as it finished printing. He scanned the sheet and grinned.

  ‘PC Jolly, come and stand out here. I feel I should prostrate myself at your feet,’ he declared, grandly.

  ‘I’m pleased you appreciate my efficiency, but that actually sounds rather pervy,’ she said, doubtfully, looking over her shoulder. ‘I think I’ll stay here and make do with a simple “thank you”, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Rebuffed again.’ Norman staggered back, clutching his hands to his heart in faux hurt.

  ‘I hate to interrupt,’ said Slater, before Norman could get into his stride. ‘But we do have an investigation to get on with.’

  ‘Yes, PC Jolly,’ said Norman, looking suitably serious. ‘Quit fooling around!’

  Jolly poked her tongue out and turned back to her computer.

  ‘Are you okay with carrying on with Mr Winters’ background check, Jane?’ Slater asked, noticing she looked a bit harassed.

  ‘I’d rather be busy than twiddling my thumbs,’ she said. ‘I’m actually quite good at this family tree stuff. It’ll keep me out of trouble for a while.’

  ‘I’ll take Norman for a ride. That way he can’t keep distracting you,’ said Slater. ‘We’ll be at the Station Hotel if you need us.’

  Chapter Eleven

  They found Geoff Rippon in the bar at the Station Hotel. He was on his own at a corner table, pecking away at a laptop. A cigarette smouldered away in an ashtray next to his half-empty pint of beer. Slater thought there was something sleazy about him, although he couldn’t have said exactly why. Perhaps it was just that Geoff Rippon looked rather cold and hard. He seemed to be painfully thin and had extraordinarily white skin. His greasy, black hair was plastered across his head in a vain, but futile, attempt to hide its sparseness.

  He appeared to be engrossed in his writing and didn’t notice their approach.

  ‘Geoff Rippon?’ asked Slater.

  Rippon glanced up but continued typing. He had a large hooked nose and sharp, beady eyes, which glared at them from behind huge spectacles. In that moment, Slater thought there was something of the vulture about him, and somehow that seemed appropriate.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Detective Sergeants Slater and Norman.’

  They produced their warrant cards. Rippon didn’t appear to be unduly interested in them, but he did stop tapping at his keyboard and gave them his attention.

  ‘Have I broken any laws?’ he asked.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ replied Slater.

  ‘I didn’t think I had,’ said Rippon, returning to his keyboard. ‘Now, if you don’t mind I’m rather busy.’

  ‘We’d like a few words, if that’s ok,’ said Slater, ignoring the rebuff.

  Rippon sighed heavily then sat back in his seat and looked at Slater and then at Norman.

  ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘I can see you’re not going to give me any peace, so what do you want to talk about?’

  ‘Mind if we sit down?’ asked Norman, pulling out a chair opposite Rippon. Slater did likewise and they both sat.

  ‘They’re nice trainers,’ observed Slater, pointing at Rippon’s shoes. ‘I fancy a pair of them myself, but I can’t afford them on my salary.’

  ‘I do a lot of running,’ said Rippon. ‘And I can afford the best, so I buy the best. Is there a law against that, now?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Slater. ‘What size are you?’

  ‘Nine,’ said Rippon, ‘I’ll take one off so you can check if you don’t believe me. I’m blessed with small feet, but I make up for it in other areas.’

  He gave them a sickly grin and Slater felt disappointment wash over him.

  ‘We’re curious,’ said Slater. ‘We can’t help but wonder why someone like you would have come down here to attend a funeral. It’s not as if you knew Mr Winter, is it?’

  ‘I just wanted to see what it’s like when someone with no friends gets buried,’ said Rippon, seeming completely unfazed by the question. ‘It’s a bit of research for something I’m writing about sad and lonely old people.’

  ‘Yeah, right!’ Norman smiled at him. ‘Like you don’t have many examples up in London.’

  Rippon smiled right back at Norman.

  ‘There’s no law against attending a funeral.’

  ‘We’re also curious to know why you employed a local youngster to nose around and interfere with a crime scene,’ continued Slater.

  ‘I didn’t ask him to do that,’ snapped Rippon. ‘He was just supposed to let me know if anything significant happened.’

  ‘He thinks you’ve employed him as co-writer,’ said Norman.

  ‘Well, he thinks wrong. He’s just a runner. If he did more than I asked, that’s his problem, not mine.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Slater. ‘We didn’t think for one minute you’d actually care about what happened to him, and we certainly didn’t expect you to accept any responsibility for what he’s done.’

  ‘You’re not going to be disappointed then, are you?’ sneered Rippon.

  Slater looked hard at him. He really did seem to be a most unpleasant human being.

  ‘So what is so interesting about Dylan Winter’s death?’ asked Norman.

  ‘You really have no idea, do you?’

  ‘So why don’t you give us a clue?’

  ‘What’s in it for me?’ Rippon’s lips pressed into a tight line.

  ‘Ah!’ Norman smiled pleasantly. ‘What a surprise. And there I was hoping you would be a public-spirited citizen willing to help us.’

  ‘Why should I?’ Rippon sneered again.

  ‘So you don’t think you should help us solve a murder?’ asked Slater.

  ‘Ha! Cover up a murder, more like! You lot are all the same. You’re all bent as nine bob notes. He contacted me in the first place because he didn’t know if he could trust you lot!’

  ‘Winter contacted you?’ asked Slater in surprise. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he had a story to tell, of course.’

  ‘And you’re telling us he would trust someone like you with this story,’ scoffed Norman.

  ‘When did he contact you? What story?’ asked Slater.

  Rippon said nothing.

  ‘Why didn’t he trust us?’ Norman furrowed his brow

  ‘I never actually found that out,’ said Rippon. ‘But I suspect it was because he crossed swords with some bent coppers in his past. Same reason I don’t trust you.’

  ‘So that means we’re all bent, does it?’ asked Norman, sighing heavily.

  ‘If the cap fits.’ Rippon smiled unpleasantly, showing yellowing teeth.

  ‘Actually it doesn’t bloody fit.’ Slater smacked his hand down on the table, making Rippon jump. ‘Yes, unfortunately there are some bent coppers, but we’re not. In fact, we’ve both been the victims of bent coppers.’

  ‘Yeah, sure you have,’ said Rippon, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘If you’ve got some information
that will lead us to his killer, and there’s any police involvement, we’ll be happy to bring it out into the open. We’ve done it before,’ explained Norman.

  ‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ muttered Rippon.

  ‘You’re the journalist,’ said Norman. ‘Do your homework and you’ll see we’re telling the truth.’

  Rippon looked doubtfully at Norman and Slater.

  ‘I tell you what,’ said Norman. ‘How about we give you a couple of days to check us out and think about it?’

  ‘And how am I supposed to do that?’

  ‘Like I said,’ answered Norman, as he rose casually to his feet, ‘you’re the journalist. And somehow I can’t believe you don’t know how to access that sort of information.’

  ‘We’ll be back.’ Slater, taking his cue from Norman, stood up too. ‘Same time, same place.’

  They turned together and walked from the bar, Slater feeling Rippon’s eyes burning into his back as he left.

  ‘That guy gives me the creeps,’ he said, as they approached their car. ‘He reminds me of a vulture.’

  ‘You’re exactly right,’ Norman said, snorting with laughter. ‘I knew he reminded me of something, but I couldn’t think what it was.’

  ‘D’you think he actually knows anything?’

  ‘I can’t imagine Winter would want to talk to a creep like that.’ Norman unlocked the car, and climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘But even if he did, I don’t think he told him much. Let’s be honest now, if you were old and on your own, and that guy turned up at your home, would you feel you could trust him?’

  ‘Good point.’ Slater nodded as he buckled up his seatbelt. ‘He certainly wouldn’t put me at ease.’

  ‘He knows something, though,’ said Norman. ‘And I guess anything would help, right now. Let’s see what a couple of days does for us. If he still doesn’t want to talk to us, we’ll have to think again. He obviously wants this story or he wouldn’t have come down here.’

  ‘Did he want it so badly he murdered for it?’ suggested Slater, as Norman started the car and pulled out of the space.