by Ford, P. F.
Slater fished a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and snapped them onto his hands. He began to work his way through the jacket. First he checked for anything obvious on the outside, and then on the inside – but there didn’t appear to be anything to see. Then he went through the pockets. There was nothing of interest in the side pockets, so that just left the two button-down pockets at the front.
In the left one, he found the ticket to Southampton that Norman had paid for. He placed it on the table and turned his attention to the remaining pocket.
Goodnews studied the ticket Slater had placed on the table.
‘Can you turn that over for me?’ she asked Slater.
He looked at her quizzically.
‘I can’t, can I?’ she said, wiggling her fingers at him. ‘No gloves.’
‘Ah, right. Of course.’
He turned the ticket over and placed it back down in front of her.
‘Aye, aye,’ said Goodnews, as soon as she looked at the back of the ticket. ‘What’s this?’
Someone had drawn an arrow on the back of the ticket.
‘Norm must have done that,’ said Slater. ‘But what the hell does it mean?’
‘Is he a doodler?’ asked Goodnews.
‘What?’
‘Does he doodle?’ she said. ‘You know what doodles are, don’t you?’
‘Well, yeah. Of course I do,’ said Slater. ‘But what’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Oh come on.’ She sighed. ‘Just when I was beginning to think we were on the same wavelength.’
‘I’m not with you,’ said Slater.
‘Obviously,’ she said, patiently, pointing at the arrow. ‘If Norman’s a doodler, it might be that’s just what this is. A doodle. But if he’s not a doodler, that would suggest this arrow is very deliberate and is supposed to tell us something.’
‘Right. I see what you mean,’ said Slater. ‘No he’s not a great doodler, and when he does it’s cartoon characters, not random stuff, nothing like this arrow. That’s way too deliberate to be one of his doodles.’
‘So what the hell is it telling us?’ asked Goodnews, almost to herself.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Slater, carefully picking up the ticket. ‘I pulled it from his pocket like this.’
He moved the ticket so it was in the same position as it had been when he had pulled it from the jacket pocket.
‘So the arrow was pointing to the right as we’re looking at it,’ said Goodnews, looking puzzled. ‘So what’s it pointing at?’
‘The right hand pocket, of course,’ said Slater. ‘He’s telling us to look in the other pocket.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Goodnews, sceptically. ‘It seems a bit unlikely, doesn’t it? Do you really think he would do that?’
‘Who knows Norm? You or me?’ asked Slater. ‘You did say you wanted me along because I knew him well.’
Goodnews looked dubious.
‘Okay,’ she said, doubtfully. ‘For the moment, and because we have nothing better to go on right now, I’ll bow to your greater knowledge of our victim. Let’s see if you’re right.’
Slater had been struggling to undo the final button, but after a good deal of fumbling, he eventually managed it. He carefully lifted the flap and peered inside, then, using two fingers, he gently teased a folded piece of foil from the pocket and placed it on the table.
‘Bugger it,’ said Goodnews, disappointed. ‘It’s just an old chewing gum wrapper.’
‘Which has been folded, not screwed up,’ said Slater. ‘That’s way too tidy for the normal Norm. I think he’s done that very deliberately.’
He carefully unfolded the foil to reveal a scrap of paper, with what appeared to be a rather hurried scribble across it.
‘What’s that say on there?’ asked Goodnews, squinting at the scrap of paper. ‘Something about an old box? Lock the old box? Is that it?’
Slater studied the faint pencil markings.
‘No,’ he said finally. ‘It says check the old box, not lock the old box.’
‘Aye, but what sodding box?’ Goodnews sounded exasperated.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Slater. ‘It would help wouldn’t it?’
‘Does he have some sort of old box at home that he keeps treasured stuff in?’ asked Goodnews. ‘Or a safety deposit box?’
‘Somehow I can’t imagine Norm having a safety deposit box,’ replied Slater. ‘And if he had an old wooden box at home, it’s probably burnt to a bloody cinder in that fire.’
‘Maybe that’s why they set the fire,’ said Goodnews. ‘If it was the kidnapper they would have known he wasn’t at home. Maybe it wasn’t meant to kill him, just to destroy any evidence he might have.’
‘Yes, but evidence of what?’ asked Slater.
‘If we can work that out,’ said Goodnews, ‘we’ll probably know who the kidnapper is. I’ll get someone to check his flat for a box of some sort.’
‘It’s worth a try I suppose,’ Slater said. ‘But I’ve got the feeling we’re missing something, and it’s right under our noses.’
His phone started to ring.
‘Slater,’ he said into the phone.
‘It’s PC Bateman, sir.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve flattered your way to another conquest, Bateman,’ said Slater, wickedly. He could almost hear Bateman cringing with embarrassment.
‘Err, not exactly, sir,’ said Bateman. ‘This might not be important, but I thought that last time, so I decided I ought to let you know.’
Slater waited for Bateman to continue, but nothing happened.
‘Well, go on, then,’ he said, after a few seconds’ pregnant pause. ‘I can’t decide if you don’t tell me.’
‘Oh, yes, right, of course,’ said Bateman. ‘Sorry, Sir. I’ve just been accosted by Major Ray. He’s chairman of the Little Balding village committee. He’s very upset that someone has vandalised their phone box. Apparently it’s their pride and joy.’
‘Are you serious?’ asked Slater. ‘We have an officer missing and you think I should know their phone box has been vandalised. Do you think I really care?’
‘Well, I was pretty sure you wouldn’t care,’ said Bateman. ‘Until he told me it was vandalised the same night Norman went missing. Like I say, it might be nothing, but it does seem to be a bit of a coincidence.’
‘Phone boxes get vandalised all the time,’ said Slater.
‘Not this one,’ said Bateman. ‘Apparently they paid a lot of money to buy it and get it installed, and it seems the villagers treat it like some sort of holy shrine. In 15 years it’s never been so much as scratched.’
‘Ah. I see what you mean,’ said Slater. ‘Can you bring the major to the phone box? DI Goodnews and I will meet you there. And well done, Bateman. Good work.’
‘Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir,’ said Bateman.
‘Apparently someone has vandalised the village phone box,’ Slater told Goodnews, as he ended the call.
‘And that helps us how?’ asked Goodnews. ‘There probably isn’t a phone box in the UK that hasn’t been smashed up, or used as a public convenience. It happens everywhere, all of the time.’
‘Not in Little Balding,’ said Slater. ‘This is the first time in fifteen years, and it happened the same night Norm went missing.’
Now Goodnews looked interested.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘You mean, check the old box?’ Slater nodded. ‘It’s got to be worth a look, hasn’t it? It’s just too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘But how would he have known he was going to be going anywhere near the phone box?’ asked Goodnews as she gathered her things together.
‘We’re guessing he got a call once he got on the train, to tell him he was only going to Little Balding, right?’ said Slater. ‘Now Norm’s a bit of a nostalgia freak. He would have known there was an old red telephone box in the village, because that’s the sort of thing he remembers. Maybe he figured he could find
a way of going in there to leave us some sort of clue.’
‘But what if he was being watched?’ said Goodnews.
‘Now who’s being negative?’ Slater asked, smiling.
‘I suppose I asked for that,’ conceded Goodnews, with a smile of her own.
‘If he was being watched we probably won’t find anything. But suppose he was told he had to use the box to make a call?’
‘Alright, alright. You’ve convinced me. Let’s get over there and take a look.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Major Ray must have been at least 90, but he looked as fit as a fiddle, and his bright, sharp eyes and no-nonsense attitude made it clear he would be a formidable leader of any committee. His goal in life appeared to be to allow Little Balding to move along with the 21st century, but to maintain as many of the old traditions as he possibly could.
He told Slater and Goodnews that one of the highlights of his village committee stewardship had been winning the battle to persuade the rest of his committee to purchase and install an old-fashioned red telephone box. It was only for show, but placed alongside the matching, old-fashioned post box, he felt it added genuine vintage appeal to the village. He had even managed to find an old dial telephone and some genuine 1960s telephone directories with which to furnish the inside.
It was his pride and joy, and he made a point of checking it every time he passed to ensure no one had tried to spoil it.
‘It’s a disgrace,’ he told Goodnews. ‘Fifteen years and not a scratch. Now look at it.’
Slater couldn’t quite see what the problem was. The old red telephone box looked pristine to his eyes.
‘So what exactly is the damage?’ Goodnews asked him. Clearly she, too, couldn’t see any vandalism.
The major swung the door open and pointed to the off-white board they had used to line the back of the phone box.
‘That damned drawing,’ he said, pointing to where someone had etched a simple pencil sketch of the top of a head and a nose looking over a wall.
‘I suppose I should think myself lucky it doesn’t say “Kilroy woz ‘ere”,’ he added, in disgust.
Slater was trying to look over their shoulders to see the drawing properly, but the major seemed intent upon getting in the way.
‘How about you and I go and talk about this while my sergeant takes a look,’ said Goodnews, clearly sensing Slater’s growing impatience.
She led the major off to one side and Slater finally got a good look at the drawing.
Slater peered at the drawing. It was just like the old Kilroy drawings, but with one difference. The standard ‘Kilroy woz ere’ drawing showed a bald head. This particular Kilroy had wild, fuzzy hair that seemed to go all over the place. To Slater’s eyes, it could only mean one thing.
‘But is that it, Norm? Or is there a clue in here somewhere?’ he said quietly to himself.
He looked all around the phone box. It had to be here somewhere, but he couldn’t see anything obvious. But of course, it wouldn’t be obvious, would it?
There were four old London telephone directories neatly stacked on the shelf under the payphone. Slater realised straight away they were years out of date and obviously just for effect. As he looked at the directories, he guessed they must be there because of Major Ray. He pulled each one out in turn and looked it over. It was the fourth one that caught his eye. A small block of pages had had their corners turned over. Slater doubted the meticulous Major Ray would allow such a thing, so maybe someone had done it on purpose. And maybe that someone was Norman.
He opened the directory where the pages were turned over and looked at them. The listings on the pages all began with the letter ‘J’ for Jones. There were hundreds and hundreds of them, but a pencil circle had been drawn around one particular block of names. The were all listed as Jones. J.
‘Boss,’ he called. ‘You need to see this.’
Goodnews carefully handed Major Ray back to the unfortunate PC Bateman, who was entrusted with escorting him to Tinton Police Station where DC Biddeford would be waiting to take his statement.
‘What is it?’ she asked Slater, as she crowded into the phone box with him.
‘That drawing,’ he said, indicating the pencil sketch. ‘This is no “Kilroy woz ‘ere” graffiti. Look at the wild hair on it. To me it says “Norman woz ‘ere”.’
Goodnews didn’t look convinced. Undeterred, Slater opened the telephone directory, and pointed to the pencilled circle.
‘And look at this. I reckon this is telling us we need to look at former DI Jimmy Jones. He’s the SCU guy that stitched up Norm and me.’
‘Didn’t he get put away?’ asked Goodnews.
‘He got ten years. There’s no way he can be out yet, but that doesn’t mean he’s not behind this, does it?’
‘Are you sure about this?’ Goodnews sounded sceptical.
‘Yes,’ said Slater, with conviction. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘I believe you, but we can easily make sure,’ said Goodnews. ‘Get forensics out here to check out this phone box, and the directory. If they can find just one of Norman’s fingerprints, that’s good enough for me.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘I took that call you were expecting,’ Biddeford told Goodnews when she got back to the incident room. ‘From Norm’s old stomping ground. They’ve come up with a name they think might have an axe to grind where Norm’s concerned. His name’s Tommy Howes. He was released from prison six months ago. Apparently he has always maintained he was innocent and Norman set him up.’
‘What was he inside for?’ Goodnews wondered where Tommy Howes would fit in to their increasingly complex investigation.
‘He’s a career criminal. He’s done most things in his time, but the one in question was a robbery. A jewellery shop. They had shooters and everything.’
‘Did anyone get hurt?’
‘Not a shot fired,’ replied Biddeford. ‘The guns weren’t even loaded.’
‘If you’ve got a gun pointing at you, it’s terrifying enough,’ Goodnews said. ‘If you’ve got any sense, you assume it’s loaded and make sure you don’t give anyone a reason to prove it.’
Biddeford nodded but didn’t speak.
‘Have we got a file on him?’ she asked.
‘It’s being emailed to us as we speak.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Well done.’
‘You haven’t heard the best bit yet,’ said Biddeford. ‘Apparently he’s shacked up with Norman’s wife.’
‘What?’ Goodnews was surprised. She thought of what Slater had told her; about Norman wanting to get back together with his wife.
‘The word is she’s very happy with him. At least, that’s what they told me,’ insisted Biddeford.
‘Well that puts a whole new complexion on things,’ mused Goodnews. ‘But would she want her new bloke to kidnap Norman?’
‘If it is him, would he tell her?’ asked Biddeford. ‘As far as I know there wasn’t any real, nasty, animosity between her and Norm, so if it is him maybe she doesn’t know anything about it.’
‘There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there? We’ll just have to go up there in the morning and ask her.’
Biddeford looked as though he had more to say, but then Slater banged his way through the doors.
‘Right. I’ll get on then,’ said Biddeford, sounding slightly guilty, and he headed for the door.
‘We have a possible from Norman’s past,’ Goodnews told Slater, as Biddeford left the room. ‘A guy called Tommy Howes. Apparently he’s been carrying a grudge for years.’
‘The name doesn’t ring a bell,’ said Slater. ‘I’m sure Norm’s never mentioned him.’
‘Well, that’s a surprise,’ said Goodnews. ‘According to what Biddeford was told, Tommy Howes is now living with Norman’s wife.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Slater, and he looked shocked. ‘And he was hoping they might get back together. No wonder he doesn’t talk about it.’
‘It t
urns out Norman stole her from Howes years ago while he was in the nick,’ explained Goodnews. ‘He’s always maintained Norman set him up.’
‘No,’ said Slater. ‘I can’t believe that.’
‘Don’t forget – love is blind,’ said Goodnews. ‘People have done worse to get a woman.’
‘I dunno,’ said Slater. ‘I can’t see it. Not the Norman I know.’
‘Well, whatever,’ she said, shrugging. ‘It’s a lead we can’t ignore. How’s that weird mate of yours doing with the telephone directory?’
‘D’you mean Becksy?’ asked Slater.
‘Well, come on,’ she said, with a wry smile. ‘He’s a bit of a geek, isn’t he?’
‘Intensely focused, is quite a good way to describe him,’ Slater said, grinning back. ‘I’ll admit he takes some getting used to, and he’s quite easy to upset, but I’d have him in my team any day. He said to tell you he’s pushed everything else aside so he can check out that directory personally, and he’s sent a team out to check the phone box. He reckons he’ll have a result for us inside an hour.’
‘Is he really as good as I’m told?’ asked Goodnews.
‘Considering the crappy, out of date, equipment he has to use, I think he’s probably exceptional. If there’s something there he’ll find it, and if he can’t find it, no-one will. It’s just a pity they’re going to shut him down and move him.’
‘Oh, is that right?’ asked Goodnews, thoughtfully. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Another cost-cutting exercise,’ said Slater. ‘Apparently we’re not important enough to warrant our own forensics team.’
‘And Murray’s okay with that, is he?’
‘According to him there’s nothing he can do,’ said Slater, grimly. ‘Anyway I thought you agreed with smaller budgets.’
‘I didn’t say I thought they were good. I said they’re a fact of life and we have to deal with them. But I’ll tell you this: if I was Murray, I’d be arguing to keep forensics and look to make savings somewhere else.’
‘Well, let’s hope whoever replaces the old bugger thinks the same,’ said Slater. ‘But it’s going to have to happen pretty swiftly. The only reason Becks and his team are still here is because Norman’s missing. Once we’ve found him they’ll be gone. I can’t see a replacement arriving that quickly, can you?’