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

by Ford,P. F.

  Over the next two hours, she looked through six of the archive boxes, but found no reference to Hatton House or any other orphanage. The filing system seemed to be a bit hit and miss. Some boxes seemed to contain everything from a single year and some contained documents relating only to a single subject. The head torch proved to be invaluable in the gloom, but even so, she could feel a headache beginning to develop. She decided to take a break and get away from all this dirt and dust for a while, and made her way back up to the front end of the archive where the air was cleaner and the light was better.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Ryan when she emerged, covered in dust and grime. ‘Look at the state of you!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jolly. ‘Look at the state of your archive, you mean.’

  ‘I honestly had no idea it was that bad,’ he said. ‘That’s disgraceful.’

  He jumped up from his desk and pushed at the bars of a fire door.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Come outside and get some fresh air. I’ll get you a cup of tea.’

  She was totally unprepared for this change in his attitude, but so grateful to see daylight and fresh air she didn’t pass comment. She stepped outside, dragged off her overalls and face mask, and sank onto a chair.

  ‘Here you are,’ said Ryan, carrying a mug of tea out to her. ‘You shouldn’t be working down there in all that shit. It can’t be doing you any good.’

  ‘I don’t have much choice, do I?’ she said. ‘It’s got to be done.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we load the boxes onto my sack barrow and bring them up this end where there’s some decent light?’

  ‘We?’ she said, surprised. ‘Are you offering to help?’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand if you like. I’ve got nothing else to do. This job gets so boring I sometimes wonder if anyone actually knows I’m down here. It’ll make a change to have something useful to do. If anyone asks what I’m doing, I’ll tell them I’m starting to sort out the archive. They won’t know the difference anyway.’

  ‘I’d really appreciate that,’ said Jolly. ‘Thank you, Ryan.’

  ‘To tell the truth,’ he said, quietly, ‘I think I owe you that much. I don’t know why I was so shitty earlier. P’raps it’s because I’m so bloody bored, but it’s not your fault, is it? There’s no excuse for it. I was just being an arsehole because I could I suppose.’

  ‘That’s alright,’ she said. ‘What are you? Eighteen?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nodded, shyly.

  ‘Well that explains it then.’ She smiled at him. ‘Being an arsehole sometimes goes with the territory. It’s part of what being eighteen’s all about.’

  ‘You’re alright, you are,’ said Ryan. ‘I tell you what, you drink your tea and then we’ll get started.’

  Having led Ryan down to the back of the archive and shown him which boxes she wanted to look through, the whole operation began to move more quickly. He proved to be a keen, willing worker, despite the dirty conditions, and was happy to do as directed.

  Jolly eventually made her first breakthrough late in the afternoon when Ryan wheeled out a whole box devoted to child welfare. After much sorting, she finally came up with a list of all the children who had been sent to Hatton House from 1956 up to 1965 when it closed. Then, in the very next box, she struck gold in the form of records and documents from Hatton House itself.

  She beamed a smile at the now grubby, dusty teenager.

  ‘Ryan,’ she said, beaming. ‘I could kiss you.’

  ‘Steady on,’ he said, doubtfully. ‘You must be old enough to be my mum.’

  Then, he noticed the look on her face.

  ‘No offence, like,’ he added.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Slater was heading south towards the coast and The Belmont Nursing Home, which sat on a hill, high above Portsmouth, overlooking the town, the old naval dockyards, and out across the sea. He was driving alone as Norman had booked the afternoon off for reasons unknown. Slater was nosey enough to ask, but also understanding enough to accept Norman’s stonewalling of his questions. If he didn’t want to share his business, that was okay.

  The subject of his visit was Gordon Ferguson, the sole surviving member of staff from Hatton House. Ferguson had been the gardener at Hatton House from 1950 when the home had opened, right through until it had closed in 1965, so Slater was optimistic about his chances of learning something useful from his trip.

  It was a sunny day, and despite the fact it was late afternoon in February, there were a few hardy souls huddled together on the benches that were dotted about the sun terrace at the back of the building. And then there was one man who sat alone on a bench apart from the rest, staring out to sea. He was wrapped in a huge black coat, with a blue and white scarf coiled around his neck, and a matching woollen hat on his head.

  ‘That’s him,’ said the carer, pointing. ‘On his own as usual. He spends most of his time out here on his own, even when it’s freezing cold. He prefers to keep himself to himself, and he can be a bit grumpy, but mostly he’s okay.’

  She gave him a kindly smile.

  ‘Do you need me to take you over to meet him?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ said Slater, looking at the badge pinned to the front of her uniform blouse. ‘Thank you, Maggie. You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘If you need anything else, you’ll find me in or around the reception area. Just ring the bell if you can’t see me.’

  She hurried back inside. Despite the warm sunshine there was an icy wind blowing in from the sea, and Slater was grateful for his own thick, warm coat, which he kept in his car just in case. He turned the collar up and walked towards the solitary old man. He eased himself onto the bench, close, but not too close, to the old man, who studiously ignored him and continued staring into the distance.

  ‘Mr Ferguson?’ he said, after a minute or so. ‘My name’s DS Slater. I believe they told you I was coming.’

  The old man turned to look at him, and Slater’s heart gave a little flutter of excitement. His face had the weathered look of a man who had spent his life working outside in all conditions, but he was unmistakably the man in the photograph with the little girl, which was in his pocket.

  ‘Aye. They told me,’ the old man said, eventually. ‘But they didn’t tell me why.’

  His voice was a low growl, with just a faint trace of a Scottish accent remaining.

  ‘We’re running a murder inquiry,’ said Slater. ‘Our investigations have led us to an orphanage that was open in the fifties and closed in the mid-sixties. It was called Hatton House. Do you know it?’

  ‘I can’t say I do.’ Ferguson brushed an enormous, gnarled hand across his face.

  ‘That’s funny,’ said Slater. ‘Because there’s a Gordon Ferguson listed as a member of staff. He was the gardener. With hands like that, I reckon you were probably a gardener. Am I right?’

  ‘I’m an old man,’ said Ferguson. ‘My memory’s not what it was.’

  ‘According to the staff here, your memory is just fine,’ said Slater.

  ‘You’re wasting your time. I can’t tell you anything.’

  ‘I haven’t asked you anything, yet.’

  The old man just grunted in response.

  ‘You must have been good at your job,’ said Slater. ‘I mean, you were there from the day it opened. And I’ve seen those gardens. They’re beautiful, even now. And that walled vegetable plot. I bet you grew some stuff there.’

  ‘You’ll not flatter me, with your fancy talk,’ Ferguson said. ‘I told you. I can’t tell you anything.’

  ‘Maybe you just need something to jog your memory.’ Slater slipped his right hand into his pocket. ‘How about this?’

  He held the photograph out in front of Ferguson so he could see it. The old man’s face seemed to almost fold upon itself but then he quickly looked away.

  ‘Remember now?’ asked Slater, gently.

  The old man continu
ed to stare into the distance but said nothing. The photograph obviously meant something to him, so Slater decided it would be worth his while to be patient and wait a few minutes if he had to.

  ‘Where on earth did you get that?’ the old man asked at last, but he wouldn’t look at Slater.

  ‘I told you. We’ve been making enquiries,’ said Slater. ‘We found this in a log cabin in the gardens at Hatton House.’

  ‘Is the house still standing?’ Ferguson sounded surprised as he turned back to Slater, the track of a solitary tear still wet on his face.

  ‘The house is just about falling down,’ explained Slater. ‘But the gardens are still beautiful. The lady who lives in the log cabin has looked after them really well. She’s kept them just as you did. I bet you would be proud if you could see them now.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Ferguson looked at the ground. ‘I told you I can’t tell you anything.’

  ‘Her name’s Florence,’ said Slater. ‘She told us she was looking for someone called Dougal. Do you remember anyone called Dougal?’

  The old man’s face crumpled again, but this time he didn’t hide it and a sob shook his body. Another tear escaped and began its course down his cheek.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, sadly. ‘I know Dougal. No one ever called me Gordon. I was always Dougal.’

  ‘You’re Dougal?’ cried Slater in surprise. ‘But she’s always asking for you!’

  ‘Why is that such a surprise? I was the only one who ever showed her any kindness.’

  ‘But I thought…’ Slater’s voice trailed off. He studied the photograph again. ‘But, in this photograph she looks terrified. We thought that was because you were abusing her.’

  ‘Me? Ferguson looked appalled. ‘I didn’t abuse any children.’

  ‘But, this photograph-’

  ‘She wasn’t terrified of me, you bloody fool.’ Ferguson shook his head furiously. ‘She was terrified of the man taking the photograph. And so was I!’

  ‘I think you need to tell me about this, don’t you Mr Ferguson?’

  ‘It’s a bit late now, son. You couldn’t do anything about it back then, and it’s way too late to do anything about it now.’

  ‘So you knew about the child abuse back then?’

  ‘I already told you I don’t know anything,’ said Ferguson. ‘They told me if I said anything they’d tell the police about what I’d done and then I’d get put away for life.’

  ‘What did you do that you could get put away for life?’ asked Slater.

  ‘It was an accident is what it was. But they said they’d tell the police it wasn’t an accident. I didn’t know what to do, so in the end I did what they told me.’

  Slater was thinking hard. They needed a statement from this man, but it had to be done properly. He was old and upset. By the time they got him to Tinton it would be getting late. He had to consider his health.

  ‘I think I need you to come to Tinton and make a full statement, Mr Ferguson. If I send a car, will you agree to come?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no,’ said Ferguson.

  ‘I think you have to. It’s time the record was put straight. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘It’s much too late for that, now,’ said Ferguson. ‘I think you should let sleeping dogs lie. I’m not coming Mr Slater. I’m sorry, but I won’t do it.’

  On the way back through reception, Slater found Maggie, the kindly carer.

  ‘Was he alright?’ she asked. ‘Not too grumpy?’

  ‘He’s a bit upset,’ explained Slater. ‘Things from the past, you know. We need to take a full statement from him, but at the moment he doesn’t want to help us. I’ll give him a couple of days to think about it and then I’ll try again.’

  ‘He’s not in any trouble is he?’ she asked, anxiously. ‘Only he’s not well you see. He looks okay, but he’s got terminal cancer. We’re managing it, but he’s probably only got about six months left.’

  ‘It’s not what he’s done, Maggie. It’s what he knows about things others have done.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ she said. ‘Well, if he changes his mind I don’t think it will do him any harm. It’s funny, he’s been here all this time and never had a visitor, then he gets two in two days.’

  ‘He does?’ Slater’s curiosity was aroused. ‘Who was the other one?’

  ‘It was yesterday evening. It’s recorded in the book here, but it doesn’t say who the visitor was. I was off duty by then.’

  ‘Who was on duty?’

  ‘That’ll be Sheila Watts,’ said Maggie. ‘But she won’t be on duty until later.’

  ‘If I leave my number, do you think it would it be possible for her to call me?’ he asked.

  ‘Leave it with me. I’ll be handing over to her. I’ll tell her myself.’

  ‘Thanks, Maggie. You’re an angel,’ said Slater, smiling at her.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Slater had been so busy with what he had dubbed The Magic Roundabout inquiry, it seemed to have been a long time since he had spent an uninterrupted evening together with Cindy. He had warned her right from the start that the very nature of his job meant he was always on call, but she had been quite convinced she could cope with that. He knew from painful experience, however, that saying you can cope with a situation and actually being able to cope with it, were two very different things. It was one of the reasons he had insisted they should not move in together yet. It would be much better for her, he had explained, if she didn’t feel obliged to be there waiting for him to come home.

  But tonight, he had promised her on the phone earlier, she would have his undivided attention. In return, she had promised to cook dinner for him. However, she had warned him, if she was going to go to all that trouble he had to be there on time or it would spoil. If he failed to appear by 7.30pm, it would be going into the dustbin.

  Taking heed of her warning, he made it back from Portsmouth with just enough time to get home, shower, change, and drive over to her house, arriving at 7.25pm bearing a chilled bottle of champagne.

  ‘Are we celebrating?’ she asked, when he handed her the champagne.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’re celebrating how lucky I am to have met you. Now put that bottle down and let me show you how much I’ve missed you.’

  He took the bottle from her and placed it on the floor, before enveloping her in a huge hug and giving her a big wet kiss.

  ‘Oh! Goodness,’ she breathed into his ear. ‘This is going to have to stop right now, or dinner’s going to get ruined.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ he said, breathing in her wonderful smell.

  ‘I’m sure you don’t,’ she said, pushing him away. ‘But I’ve been slaving away for hours, and if you don’t eat now you’ll be hungry later.’

  ‘I’m hungry right now,’ he said, a wicked grin crossing his face.

  ‘We’ll get to that later, Mr Slater. I haven’t been cooking all evening so I can throw it away. Food first, afters after.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ he whispered, releasing his hold on her. ‘I love afters.’

  ‘I’m sure you only want me for my body,’ she said, as she returned to her cooker.

  ‘And the cooking,’ he teased, coming up behind her and encircling her with his arms again. ‘It’s almost as good.’

  ‘Go and find two glasses,’ she said, flapping a tea towel at him over her shoulder. ‘And get that bottle open. Now.’

  By nine o’clock, they had finished dinner, and retreated to the lounge where they had settled together on the settee to finish their champagne.

  ‘We need to clear up,’ Cindy said, drowsily.

  ‘Later,’ said Slater as he pulled Cindy close to him. ‘Let’s finish the champagne first.’

  But they soon forgot all about finishing champagne and clearing up. Laying so close together, something much more urgent was beginning to capture their attention, and it was something that needed satisfying right now.

  ‘Do you think we should go upsta
irs?’ mumbled Slater as he stopped briefly to draw breath.

  ‘Come on then, quickly,’ whispered Cindy, huskily.

  She almost dragged him from the settee and ran for the stairs. He chased after her and they fell tumbling at the foot of the stairs, exchanging more kisses, their hands all over each other.

  ‘No, not here,’ she said finally, breaking free and rushing up the stairs. ‘I really need you, but upstairs. Come on.’

  By the time he got to her bedroom, she was already naked and slipping under the covers. He felt himself rising to the occasion as he threw off his own clothes.

  ‘Is that a truncheon I see, Sergeant,’ she muttered, saucily. ‘Or are you just pleased to see me with my clothes off?’

  He stood to attention and saluted.

  ‘If you don’t behave yourself, madam,’ he said, in his best ‘Carry On film’ voice, ‘I just might have to use it.’

  ‘Oh, officer,’ she breathed. ‘You’d better show me what you mean.’

  Slater thought he was going to burst with excitement as he slid into bed and climbed into position above Cindy’s gorgeous, waiting body.

  And then his mobile phone began to ring.

  ‘Oh for f-’ he began to say.

  ‘Shhh! Ignore it,’ she pleaded, putting her finger to his lips to stifle his swearing. ‘They can leave a message. Focus on me. My need is much greater than theirs, trust me.’

  The phone stopped ringing and he tried desperately hard to concentrate his attention on Cindy and give her what she needed, but it was too late; the moment was gone, and so was his ‘truncheon’.

  And then the bloody phone started ringing again.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she snapped, angrily, into his face. ‘There. I’ve said it for you now. What? Am I not supposed to swear? Or perhaps you think it’s the sole preserve of men to have the satisfaction of being able to release their frustration with some good, old-fashioned bad language. And believe me, when I say frustration I really mean frustration.’