Dave Slater Mystery Novels Box Set Two

by Ford, P. F.

  ‘What’s it gotta do with you? You fat git,’ snarled the nearest boy.

  Slater threw his door open.

  ‘Police,’ he shouted as he jumped out. ‘Stay where you are.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said the boy, and then the two of them were off. The one carrying the fuel can fled back down the road while the other one shot off deeper into the estate.

  ‘Leave him,’ shouted Slater to Norman, as he started running. ‘Let’s go for the one with the can.’

  As Slater chased the teenager, he could feel himself beginning to flag. He saw the youth glance over his shoulder, clearly checking to see if he was being caught. Slater wasn’t unfit, but he was no sprinter, and he reckoned he must be giving away 20 years or more. He focused on the kid’s back. If he could just get a little closer before they got to that bend ahead, where they would have to slow down, maybe he could dive on him.

  Then, suddenly, his plan became purely academic as a flying fuel can filled his field of vision. Instinctively he put his arms up to shield his face. Being plastic, the fuel can bounced harmlessly off his arms, so there was no real harm done. His pursuit, however, was ruined. In taking evasive action, he had lost all his momentum while the fugitive seemed to have reaped the benefit from ditching the fuel can and had put on a spurt. While Slater was stumbling unsteadily towards the bend ahead, the boy had zoomed around it and was out of sight.

  ‘Bollocks!’ Slater stumbled to a halt against the fence that lined both sides of the alley. He gave it a frustrated kick.

  At the far end of the alley, Norman stood waiting, wearing a small fold-up pair of night vision goggles, which he was in the habit of carrying at night. He watched as the teenager suddenly ran into view – although there was no sign of Slater. He could see the boy as clearly as he would have done on a sunny day. Norman started walking down the alley and as he walked, he watched the boy slow down and stop. Then he began to climb over a fence. It was obvious, by the way he took his time, that he was convinced Norman couldn’t see him.

  Norman was barely five yards away from the point where the boy had climbed over the fence now. He was concerned about what might have happened to Slater, and this caused him to hesitate for a moment, but then he heard the distant sound of approaching, running footsteps, so he figured there couldn’t be too much wrong with him.

  He had been expecting to hear the sound of fading footsteps from beyond the fence as their fugitive made good his escape, but there wasn’t a sound. Surely the kid hadn’t just climbed the fence so he could hide, had he? Norman reached up for the top of the fence. He could just about manage. If he was careful, maybe he could pull himself up high enough to look over. Now wouldn’t that surprise Slater if he could point out exactly where the kid was hiding? As quietly as he could, he took hold of the top of the fence and began to ease himself upwards.

  As Slater came around the corner, he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. Was that Norman struggling to climb a fence? Convinced the chase was over and their fugitive had already made good his escape, he thought this was just too good an opportunity to miss. He crept slowly along until he was right behind Norman.

  He hadn’t actually realised just how big Norman’s arse was before, but now, faced with the sheer size of it, he began to wonder if maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Norman was one seriously heavy guy, and he could easily put his back out doing this. But then the devil that had put the idea into his head took over and all concerns for his own safety vanished.

  Norman had just about managed to get one elbow up on the top of the fence, but he was clearly struggling. Then, suddenly, he was shooting upwards, his arms flailing wildly. Slater watched, almost in slow motion, as Norman began to topple forward, and then realised that he, too, was being pulled forward towards the fence. But then he noticed the fence was moving away from him. What was going on?

  Releasing his hold on Norman’s feet he stepped back and watched helplessly as the fence, unable to take Norman’s weight, which, to be fair, it had never been designed for, toppled slowly and majestically into the garden it was supposed to be shielding. Norman, still clinging to the top, but now as a helpless passenger, let out a cry as it went.

  ‘Aaaaaarrrrgggghhh!’

  There was a crash as the fence hit the ground, and then there was another cry.

  ‘Aaaahhh! My legs! You’re crushin’ my legs!’

  Slater walked over to the wreckage of what had been quite a nice looking fence. The head and shoulders of a teenage boy were sticking out from under it.

  ‘Oh, well done, Norm,’ he said, surprised. ‘I have to say, it’s a bit of an unorthodox way to apprehend a suspect, but you caught him.’

  ‘Yeah,’ wheezed Norman, lying in a heap on top of the fence. ‘I’ve told you before, it’s not always about being able to run fast.’

  ‘Shame about the fence, though,’ said Slater. ‘I suppose you’re going to want me to take the blame for that.’

  Norman rolled to his left in an abortive attempt to get back to his feet. This prompted renewed screams from the trapped teenager.

  ‘Arrggh! Roll the other way, moron. You’re squashing me. I can’t breathe,’ he screamed; not unreasonably, Slater thought.

  ‘Will you quit whining?’ said Norman to the trapped youth, as Slater offered him a hand. ‘It’s your own fault. If you hadn’t been up to no good you wouldn’t be in this situation.’

  ‘It’s police brutality, that’s what this is,’ complained the teenager. ‘I’m gonna be suing you, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Oh, nuts,’ said Norman, now on his feet and brushing himself down. ‘If you don’t stop griping I’ll come and sit on you, then you will have something to complain about. Like I said before, it’s your own fault, and I doubt you’re hurt anyway.’

  ‘D’you think we should get him out from under there?’ asked Slater.

  ‘Nah, leave him,’ said Norman. ‘He must be able to breathe alright or he wouldn’t be able to keep complaining. If we let him out we’re going to have to hold him until the uniforms get here. They can let him out when they get here.’

  ‘I’ll get you for this,’ the boy spat out. ‘I know where you live.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Norman let out a theatrical yawn. ‘I’ll try not to lose too much sleep worrying about that.’

  It was almost midnight by the time they had handed over their prisoner and Slater had delivered Norman home.

  ‘Enjoy your two days off,’ Norman had said to Slater as he got out of the car. ‘It can’t stay this quiet for much longer, so make the most of it.’

  Yeah, a gloomy Slater thought to himself as he drove home. I’m going to have a real fun time all on my own.

  Chapter Three

  Slater’s day off had actually started quite well, with the arrival of an email from Cindy. It seemed she had now reached Australia but she only planned to stay for three or four weeks and then she would be coming home. She intended to come and see him as soon as she arrived.

  He thought this sounded like good news. Then he thought about it a bit more and decided it would only be good news if she was coming to tell him she wanted to get back together with him. But his tendency to lean towards the negative soon took over, and his initial optimism began to fade as it occurred to him it was equally possible she was coming back to tell him they were finished for good. And with that thought filling his head, his day, and his mood, quickly began to go downhill.

  In the end it had been a spectacularly boring day; the only good thing he could say about it was that at least now his house was clean. As a reward for his efforts, and in the hope of raising his spirits, he had called a taxi and taken himself off to the pub for the evening. Maybe he’d find some good company and sink a few pints. But it soon became apparent Tuesday night wasn’t a good night, and after spending the best part of an hour on his own, watching one of the dullest football matches he’d seen in a long time, he had given up all hope of having any meaningful conversation and made his way back hom
e.

  The gloomy silence that greeted him when he got back home was a stark reminder of how quiet life had become since he had split with Cindy. They had parted because she couldn’t cope with the demands his job made upon his personal time, and yet, since the split, he had been working more or less normal hours and he hadn’t had a late night callout in weeks.

  It was a classic case of sod’s law and he reflected on the irony of the situation as he made his way slowly upstairs and got ready for bed, becoming more and more miserable the more he thought about it. His final, rather depressing thought, as he turned out his bedside lamp, was that perhaps it was simply the case that fate, or whoever it was up there in the sky, had decided he shouldn’t be allowed to settle down and be happy.

  On that cheerful note, he tried, quite unsuccessfully, to go to sleep. He came close to dozing off around midnight, only to be awoken by someone starting a car up outside. Then again, about an hour or so later, he heard a car stopping outside. He made a mental note to have a word with his neighbours about car engines and doors in the middle of the night. Didn’t they realise people were trying to sleep?

  It was 3am before he finally drifted off, and then at 3.15am his phone began to ring. This can’t be right, he thought, as he came slowly to life. I’m supposed to be on leave. Norman’s supposed to be the one on call. Why are they calling me?

  ‘Go away,’ he mumbled, pulling a pillow over his head to try to drown out the noise. But it was no good. Whoever it was had no intention of letting him sleep. He was going to have to answer it.

  ‘Yes,’ he snapped into the phone.

  ‘And good morning to you, Detective Sergeant Slater.’

  It was Sandy Mollinson, the night shift duty sergeant.

  ‘This had better be good, Sandy,’ Slater said. ‘I’m supposed to be on leave. Why haven’t you called Norm?’

  ‘Well, he’s supposed to be on call. But there’s a bit of a problem on that score. I can’t get hold of him.’

  ‘Well send someone round to his flat and wake the bugger up.’ Slater sighed wearily.

  ‘I’ve tried that,’ said Mollinson. ‘That’s why I’m calling you. I sent two lads round there a few minutes ago. They got there at the same time as the first fire engine.’

  ‘What?’ Slater gasped, suddenly wide awake.

  ‘Apparently his block of flats is ablaze. They’re just going in with breathing apparatus to evacuate the building, but right now there’s no sign of Norman anywhere. I know you’re supposed to be on leave but I thought you should know.’

  ‘Holy shit.’ Slater was reeling, trying to make sense of what he’d just been told. ‘Yes. Right. Thanks for letting me know, Sandy. I’m on my way.’

  It took him less than five minutes to get dressed and out onto the street. His tiny house was the end one of a small terrace of six. Everyone tended to park their car outside their own house, and Slater was no exception. He was so used to just jumping in his car and going that he was puzzled for a moment when the door didn’t seem to be doing what he asked. He realised that what he thought was the driver’s door was actually one of the back passenger doors. That was odd, seeing as he usually parked the other way round. Whatever, he didn’t have time to think about it. He ran around the car, jumped in, turned the car round, and began his race across town to Norman’s flat.

  The dull glow of the fire became apparent in the sky long before he reached the turning. He had been hoping that maybe they had made a mistake and it was one of the other blocks that was on fire, but as he turned the corner he could see there was no mistake.

  There were three blocks of flats, each five storeys high and containing four flats on each floor. It was clearly Norman’s block that was the scene of the fire, and now he was this close he could see flames and thick, black smoke billowing from the windows of a flat on the top floor. With a sick feeling, he acknowledged there was no doubt about it: it was Norman’s flat.

  A fire engine had been deployed and the crew were working with professional efficiency to quell the fire. From the outside, it was clear all their efforts were focused upon the one flat. A ladder had been elevated to allow them to pump water in through the windows and a lone fireman balanced precariously at the top. Slater hated ladders and felt slightly queasy at the idea of being up there.

  The people who had been evacuated from the block of flats were huddled together, wrapped in assorted blankets. Two or three people from one of the adjoining blocks were ferrying mugs of tea across to the evacuees.

  Slater looked for the yellow helmet with the black band that would signify who was in charge amongst the firemen. It didn’t take long to find him. He walked over and introduced himself.

  ‘I’m DS Dave Slater,’ he said, pointing up at Norman’s flat. ‘My partner lives in that flat.’

  ‘I’m Eddie Brent,’ said the crew manager. ‘We’ve got two officers with breathing gear in there at the moment. We seem to have accounted for everyone else in the block, but I’m afraid your mate’s unaccounted for right now. Do you know if he was at home?’

  ‘I’ve been off duty today,’ said Slater, alarmed now. ‘But as far as I know he wasn’t planning on being out anywhere, so he should be in there.’

  ‘Well, let’s not assume the worst,’ said Brent. ‘There could be any number of reasons why we haven’t found him yet.’

  ‘Thanks for that,’ said Slater. ‘But we both know if he was asleep he could easily have been overcome by fumes.’

  ‘Yes.’ Brent nodded. ‘That’s true, but we try to take a positive outlook in our job otherwise we might as well not bother turning up.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Slater. ‘I guess I do tend to look on the black side. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Not really. We’ve got the fire under control, and I expect it to be out any time now. Most of that smoke you can see coming out of the windows is steam. All you can do really is just wait and see if they can find him.’

  ‘Honestly, though, what are his chances if he is in there?’ asked Slater.

  ‘Let’s just wait and see, shall we?’ said Brent. ‘Speculation doesn’t help in these situations. I’ll let you know just as soon as I know anything.’

  Slater could tell by Brent’s expression that he didn’t think Norman’s chances were good, but he chose to hold on to the thought that this was Norman they were talking about. He was indestructible. He would be alright. He would, wouldn’t he? Slater wanted to ask a million more questions, but Brent was right, speculation wasn’t going to help. He stepped back and let him get on with his job. It was going to be an anxious wait, but what else could he do?

  The next twenty minutes seemed like 20 days to Slater, but he resisted the temptation to poke his nose in and waited patiently for the firemen to come back out from the building, hopefully bringing Norman with them. Finally, they emerged, dragging off their breathing gear as they came out. But there was no sign of Norman.

  No, thought Slater, his concern beginning to confuse his thinking. This can’t be right. Why haven’t they brought him out? Did this mean he was dead? But Norm was his mate. He had become like part of the fixtures and fittings. He couldn’t be dead. They must have got it wrong. He waited for the two firemen to report to Eddie Brent, and then he was there, like a shot.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked Brent. ‘Where’s Norm? Is he dead?’

  ‘He’s not in there,’ said Brent. ‘Trust me, if he had been in there they would have brought him out, dead or alive. They’ve searched the flat thoroughly and there’s no one in there.’

  ‘But where is he, then?’ Slater was confused. ‘He must be in there.’

  ‘Look,’ said Brent. ‘I’m sorry. If he was in there my lads would have found him.’

  ‘But what if he was cremated in the fire?’ asked Slater, desperately.

  ‘The body couldn’t have burnt away to nothing,’ said Brent, patiently. ‘There wasn’t enough heat, or enough time, for that to happen. He just wasn’t in there. Pe
rhaps he went out somewhere.’

  ‘What? Norm? But he doesn’t have a social life. Where would he have gone?’

  ‘Look, mate,’ said Brent. ‘Our job is to put out fires and look after the people who have been affected by them. Right now, I’m quite sure your mate’s not in there, so, as far as we’re concerned he’s not been affected. If he’s missing I think you’ll find he now becomes a problem for the police, not the fire service. Now, if you don’t mind I need to get on with my job.’

  ‘But where would he have gone?’ Slater was close to panic now.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s got a bit on the side,’ said Brent. ‘Perhaps he rushed out to meet her and left the iron on. Maybe that’s what started the fire.’

  ‘Norman doesn’t have a bit on the side,’ said Slater. ‘And there’s one thing I can tell you for sure. That fire will not have been started by him leaving the iron on. He doesn’t have an iron, and he certainly never uses one.’

  ‘Look, I’m just suggesting what might have happened,’ said Brent. ‘We’ll know what started the fire when we’ve had a chance to check things out. As to where your mate is, well, you’re the detective so why not start detecting? I mean, for a start, have you tried calling his mobile phone? Or checked if his car’s here?’

  ‘What?’ asked Slater, slowly beginning to realise panic was stopping him from thinking.

  ‘His car,’ said Brent, again. ‘Do you know if it’s still here? If it’s gone, then probably he went out, right?’

  ‘Jeez.’ Slater was a trained police officer. It was time to start acting like one. He needed to focus his thoughts on what he should do next.

  ‘Of course,’ he began to explain himself. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that he’s such a good mate, and-’

  ‘It’s okay,’ interrupted Brent. ‘I understand your concern. But you’ll be a lot more help to him, and me, if you stop panicking and start thinking.’