by Ford, P. F.
‘Are you Mr Porter?’ shouted Slater, above the din.
The man looked around in surprise. He hung up his lamp and walked out from under the car.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked. ‘D’you want your car serviced? MOT test?’
‘Police,’ said Slater, flashing his warrant card.
He had thought the man might show some reaction to the badge, but he didn’t show anything more than normal curiosity.
‘Are you Mr Porter?’ he asked again.
‘One of ‘em,’ said the man. ‘My brother works with me but he’s starting late today.’
That’s interesting, thought Slater. Norman’s car’s outside and the brother’s starting late.
‘That blue car outside,’ he said. ‘Can I ask you what it’s doing here?’
‘If you mean that old heap of scrap metal that calls itself a car,’ replied Porter, with a grin, ‘it’s waiting for my brother to come in and perform a miracle.’
Slater was confused.
‘How did it get here?’ he asked.
‘Some bloke brought it in the other day and asked us if we could make it work. Said he was fed up with everyone taking the piss. I told him I wasn’t surprised they were taking the piss and he should scrap it and buy a real car, but my brother took pity on him and said if the guy left it with us he’d have a look and see what he could do.’
‘When did he drop it off?’ asked Slater.
‘Well it wasn’t there when we went home at five yesterday afternoon, but it was there when I came in at eight this morning,’ said Porter. ‘He stuffed the keys through the letterbox. People like to drop their cars off on the way to work or on the way home. It happens all the time.’
‘Have you got his name?’ asked Slater, realising this was probably a wild goose chase.
‘It’ll be in the book.’ Porter led the way across to his office. ‘Here we are,’ he said, looking down at the book. ‘Mr Norman. He even left his mobile number so my brother can warn him what it’s going to cost.’
‘Can you remember what he looked like?’ asked Slater.
‘Oh yeah.’ Porter grinned. ‘How should I put it? Err, rather a large gent, if you know what I mean. A bit untidy, but a nice bloke, though. His hair was bit weird.’
‘Sort of doing its own thing?’ suggested Slater.
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Porter said, nodding and smiling. ‘D’you know him?’
‘I work with him,’ said Slater, feeling incredibly disappointed as the lead evaporated in front of his eyes.
‘Is there a problem?’ asked Porter. ‘I mean he asked us to do the job and left his car. That’s how it works, you know?’
‘There is a problem,’ said Slater, ‘but it’s nothing to do with you. He’s gone missing and I was hoping if we found his car it would tell us where he was. I don’t suppose you have CCTV, do you? It might tell me what time he left the car here.’
‘Ha! Sorry, mate,’ said Porter, with a wry smile. ‘We don’t make enough money to spend it on such luxuries, and to be honest, in twenty years we’ve never needed it.’
‘Oh well.’ Slater sighed heavily. ‘At least now I know finding his car’s not going to lead me to him. Can I have the keys? There might be something inside that’ll help me.’
Porter handed over the keys and Slater made his way over to the faded blue car. Inside it was like a rubbish tip, as usual, but despite a thorough search, there didn’t seem to be anything that would help him work out where Norman was.
What a waste of time that was, thought Slater, as he headed back to Tinton. He looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty. Norman had been missing for fifteen hours now and he still had absolutely zilch to go on.
Chapter Seven
As Slater indicated a left and turned into the car park back at Tinton Police Station, he realised the car behind was following him in. It was a small, red, sporty-looking Ford, not one he recognised. The car followed him through the gates and parked next to him. Then, as the door opened and the driver emerged, Slater saw it was Steve Biddeford.
‘Hi, Steve,’ he said, as he emerged from his own car.
He waited for Biddeford to catch up, and then stuck his hand out in greeting. Biddeford accepted the handshake with a smile.
‘Hi, Boss,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s good to be back.’
‘That’s bullshit and you know it.’ Slater laughed. ‘You must have been having a lot more fun in the big town.’
‘Well, okay,’ Biddeford said, his grin widening. ‘I can’t deny that, and I wasn’t best pleased when they told me I was coming back early. But when they told me Norm was missing it became a no-brainer. I couldn’t ignore my mates at a time like this.’
He looked at Slater uncertainly.
‘We are mates, aren’t we?’ he asked.
‘What happened has happened,’ said Slater. ‘Things will never be quite the same as before, but I’m not holding a grudge, if that’s what you mean. When the guvnor told me you were coming to help I was pleased to know I was going to get some real help. Come on, let’s go and grab a coffee and I’ll bring you up to speed.’
‘So basically we know nothing,’ said Slater when he’d finished explaining the situation to Biddeford.
‘Well, at least we know he left at about seven-thirty,’ said Biddeford. ‘That’s a start.’
‘And we know that, at some stage, after he left here yesterday, he dropped his car off at Porters. Of course, he could have dropped it off on the way home, but my feeling is he still had his car at seven-thirty. It’s possible he went somewhere by train. The railway station’s not far from there. He could easily have dropped his car off and then walked the rest of the way to the station.’
‘It’s only a five-minute walk from there,’ agreed Biddeford. ‘If he dropped his car off on the way home from work he would have needed a taxi or something to get home.’
‘And he would have needed a taxi again, later,’ said Slater. ‘Unless someone picked him up. If the Old Man would only let me get my hands on his mobile phone records, we could soon work out which way it was.’
‘Okay,’ Biddeford said. ‘So what do you want me to do first? Start ringing around the taxi companies or go and check out the station? It might not be manned at that time of the evening, but there should be CCTV.’
‘I need to bring the Old Man up to speed later,’ said Slater, ‘so I’d like you to go down to the railway station. I’ll see if I can persuade him to let me have someone to start ringing round the taxi companies.’
‘Right. I’m on it.’ Biddeford, climbed to his feet. ‘I’ll call you if I find anything.’
Chapter Eight
‘It’s PC Bateman, Sir, up at the flats,’ said the voice on Slater’s office extension a few minutes later.
Bateman was one of the two PCs canvassing the flats where Norman lived.
‘What can I do for you, Bateman?’ said Slater.
‘You said to let you know if we heard anything that might be useful,’ began Bateman. ‘Well, this might be something, and then again it might not.’
‘Come on, then,’ Slater said, encouragingly. ‘Let’s hear it.’
‘It’s Mrs Gregory at number 5A on the top floor,’ explained Bateman. ‘She reckons she’s seen a man hanging around the place. She says she saw him last night, before the fire. And she says she saw him after the fire had started too.’
‘You sound doubtful. Can I ask why?’ asked Slater.
‘She’s getting on a bit, Sir. And she’s a bit, you know, paranoid. Seems to think the place is crawling with suspicious people who want to do her harm. I’m not sure she’s all there, if you know what I mean.’
Slater couldn’t help smiling to himself.
‘You mean she’s old and batty, and it could all be bollocks,’ he said.
‘Err. Yes. Sir,’ said Bateman, sounding uncertain.
‘It’s alright, Constable,’ said Slater. ‘We’ve all met them. And yes, she could well be batty, but that doesn�
��t necessarily mean it’s all bollocks and we shouldn’t listen to her. Well done, and thank you for letting me know. Can you tell her I’d like to speak to her and would she mind waiting? I’ll be there in about 20 minutes or so.’
‘Oh. Right. Thank you, Sir.’ PC Bateman sounded both surprised and pleased. ‘I’ll do that, right now.’
As Slater put the phone down and gathered together his keys and phone, he smiled, ruefully. Bateman was right; it could all be a figment of the old lady’s imagination, but they couldn’t afford to ignore her. They had precious little else to go on so far.
Slater made his way up the stairs to the top floor. As he passed Norman’s flat, he couldn’t help but stop and look. The doorway had been boarded up but even so, the scorch marks on the concrete floor where the petrol had flowed back out under the door and ignited were proof of the ferocity of the fire. If Norm had been inside…
But Norm hadn’t been inside, had he? If whoever had done this wanted Norman dead, wouldn’t they have made sure he was inside before they started the fire? And if he had been lured away, or even kidnapped, why start the fire? It didn’t seem to add up. He was still wondering what he was missing when he arrived at flat 5A.
The door was opened by PC Bateman, who showed him through to Mrs Gregory’s living room. She must have been 80 if she was a day, with stick thin arms and wispy white hair that was doing its best to escape from the headscarf she had over her head. But her eyes were bright and they sparkled with life when she saw Slater.
‘You must be the detective,’ she said. ‘Here. Come and sit down
She pointed to a chair opposite her own.
‘Thank you, Mrs Gregory,’ said Slater, taking the chair she had indicated. ‘I’m DS Slater. I understand you may have seen someone suspicious in the area.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘That would be very nice, thank you,’ said Slater.
‘Andy,’ said Mrs Gregory to Constable Bateman. ‘Be a dear and make the tea, will you?’
Bateman’s face turned a nice shade of red, and he looked helplessly at Slater.
‘Yes,’ agreed Slater, wickedly. ‘Go on, Andy. Be a dear. No sugar in mine.’
Bateman hurried off to make the tea.
‘Have you caught him yet?’ Mrs Gregory asked Slater.
‘Have we caught who?’
‘Well, whoever started the fire, of course,’ she said.
‘We don’t know for sure if anyone did start the fire,’ said Slater.
‘Oh, don’t give me that,’ she said, dismissively. ‘I saw that man who was here this morning. The grumpy one. From the way you were talking to him, he must be your boss. Now you can’t tell me someone of that rank would be called out to a simple house fire. And you wouldn’t be asking all these questions, would you?’
‘There’s no flies on you, Mrs Gregory,’ said Slater.
‘You can call me Vi,’ she said, conspiratorially. ‘If we’re going to work together we should be on first name terms, don’t you think?’
‘Err, work together?’ said Slater, awkwardly. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’
She suddenly got up from her chair and, using a walking frame, tottered across to another chair next to a small table over by the window. There was a small pair of binoculars and a notebook on the table.
‘Here’ she said. ‘Come and take a look.’
He did as she asked and took a look, over her shoulder, out through the window. He could see right across the car park and to the play area beyond it. There was a small group of trees to one side. As he looked out he realised that Norman’s flat was just two flats away.
‘I can’t get out much these days,’ she said, ‘and there’s not much worth watching on TV, so I sit up here and look out of the window. You’d be amazed what you can see from up here.’
She picked up the notebook from the table.
‘And I write it all down in here,’ she said as she handed it to him. ‘Dates, times, even people’s names if I know them. Who did what, who they did it to. I knew it would come in handy sooner or later.’
Slater flipped through the book. He thought some of these people would be horrified if they knew they were being spied on. There were some guilty secrets in here. He thumbed through to the last entry. It was from last night. He read it twice just to make sure he’d got it right.
‘You say this man was just watching the flats. Are you sure?’
‘Not just the flats,’ she said. ‘He was watching Mr Norman’s flat. And last night wasn’t the first time. If you look back, you’ll find he’s been here several times. I call him the Russian.’
‘Why do you call him that?’ asked Slater.
‘Because I think he looks like a Russian,’ she explained. ‘He’s got those Slavic features that Russians have. And he smokes like a chimney.’
Slater didn’t think that was quite enough detail to convince him the man was Russian, but it did create an impression in his mind.
‘Do you think if I sent an artist over you could create a likeness?’
‘I can try,’ she said. ‘But I have to admit my eyesight’s not what it used to be so I’m not sure how good it would be.’
Slater was looking at the book again.
‘You’re quite sure he was out there before the fire started?’ he asked. ‘It would have been dark.’
‘He was out there before it was dark,’ she said, pointing out at the group of trees. ‘Over there. And he was still there later. I could just about make him out in the light from the street lights, and I could see his cigarette glowing in the dark before the fire started.’
‘But you say he was there after the fire started as well,’ Slater reminded her.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘When they woke us up to evacuate the building I looked out again. I could still see the cigarette glowing. I told you, he smokes like a chimney. As I watched, he seemed to throw the cigarette down and then I saw him walking off. He went away from the fire as if he was going to cross the play area. I had to leave then so I didn’t see where he went after that.’
Slater thought this could be a promising lead. He stayed for a few more minutes to drink his tea with his new friends Vi and Andy, and listened as Mrs Gregory gave a wicked description of what it was like to be carried down four flights of stairs by a fireman. It seems this had been the highlight of her year so far, and possibly of her whole life.
When he finished his tea, he felt he’d done his duty and it was time to move.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to go now, Mrs Gregory,’ he said. ‘And I’m going to steal Andy and take him with me.’
‘Oh. Must you?’ she said. ‘We were getting on so well.’
PC Bateman’s face turned a nice shade of beetroot red.
‘I know,’ Slater said, sympathetically. ‘He’s such a nice lad, isn’t he? But I’m afraid we have work to do.’
‘Oh well, if you must, I suppose I’ll have to let you go.’ She let out a heavy sigh. ‘But I hope you’ll let me know what happens.’
‘I’ll call you to let you know when the artist is coming to see you,’ Slater said. ‘And we’ll catch up when I bring your book back.’
‘Oh good,’ she said. ‘I’ll look forward to that. It’s not often we have any excitement around here.’
‘Right, you can stop being embarrassed now,’ Slater said to Bateman as they made their way down the stairs.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Bateman. ‘It was a bit awkward.’
‘Much better they take a shine to you like that than spit venom at you,’ said Slater. ‘When you meet someone who hates the police, you’ll look back fondly at people like Mrs Gregory.’
‘Oh she was nice enough,’ said Bateman. ‘But, really? A Russian?’
‘You think she’s making it up?’
‘I think maybe she’s a bit confused.’
They pushed their way out through the main door.
‘Okay, so let’s see if we can prove her stor
y,’ said Slater.
‘Sir?’ asked a puzzled-sounding PC Bateman.
‘Follow me, Constable,’ said Slater.
He led Bateman across the car park to the group of trees Mrs Gregory had indicated from her window. He stopped a few yards short of the trees and turned back to face the flats.
‘Now then,’ he said. ‘If you wanted to watch those windows up there on the top floor, where would be the best place to stand? Bear in mind you’re going to be here for hours.’
Bateman looked back at the block of flats. He walked backwards and forward until he thought he had found the place.
‘Anywhere around here would do,’ he said.
Then he looked back at the trees.
‘But, if I wanted to make myself less obvious, and maybe have a tree to lean against, I’d probably stand about there.’
He pointed to a tree that leaned back slightly. Slater looked at the tree and nodded his head.
‘That’s what I figured, too,’ said Slater. ‘That’s the tree I noticed from Mrs Gregory’s window. Now let’s see if Mrs Gregory’s as daft as you think she is.’
He led the way to the tree they had both identified.
‘Of course,’ he explained, ‘if our “Russian” is a real professional, he’ll have cleared up behind him. But if he’s been coming unnoticed for some time he might have got a bit complacent. You never know your luck.’
Slater could tell Bateman hadn’t a clue what he was talking about, and smiled as he started walking slowly around the tree. With a cry of ‘Aha’, he squatted down and pointed at something on the ground at the base of the tree.
‘Maybe Mrs Gregory’s not as daft as some people think,’ Slater said, proudly. ‘Have you got an evidence bag?’
‘Yessir,’ said Bateman, fumbling through his pockets.
‘See this?’ Slater pointed at the ground.
‘What? You mean that tuft of grass?’ asked Bateman, leaning forward and squinting.