by Ford, P. F.
With time working against them, they had split up so they could work separate angles: Norman on the laptop and Slater out and about. Slater was on his way down to Winchester to see the former school bullies’ erstwhile victim, who was now a dentist with his own practice. It was probably going to be a waste of time, but they had agreed they couldn’t afford to miss anything.
Norman was secretly pleased Slater had gone out. He was supposed to be checking out the James Radford/Jimmy Huston name change cock-up, but he had started early because there was something else he wanted to have a look at first. Something had been bothering him ever since Slater had first told him about the case and what they knew, but he hadn’t been able to put his finger on what it was. Then, this morning, as soon as he woke up, he knew exactly what it was.
He was going back over the CCTV recording from the rear car park at the police station. He was looking for the images of the mystery courier’s motorcycle. He thought it strange that no one seemed to have done the obvious and followed up on the registration number, or at least if anyone had, he could find no evidence to say what they had found.
He stopped the footage running at the appropriate place and studied the images. The explanation was there right before his eyes. It was crystal clear the bike was a Suzuki, but there was no registration number. It had been covered with black tape. Norman stared at the image in frustration, but then something caught his attention. He enlarged the image a couple of times, then studied it again.
It had just been an indistinct smudge at the bottom of the number plate at normal size, but now it was blown up it was quite easy to see it was a name, and it was one he recognised. ‘Bikerzwurld’ was a grubby little motorcycle repair shop tucked away down a back street in Tinton which did servicing, and supplied spare parts. The shop wasn’t licensed to make number plates, and had been in trouble with the police before for doing it. It was a start, although whether it would be any good without the full registration number was debatable.
He looked again at the blacked-out number now it had been blown up to several times the original size. Was it his imagination, or could he just make out the base of the last two letters? He looked away for a minute, and then looked back at the image. There was definitely something there, along the bottom of the black tape on the right hand side. He studied it for several minutes, writing some letters on a pad as he studied. Finally, he sat back and looked at his pad. He had narrowed it down to a few possibilities. He thought the last letter could be T, I, P, F, or V. The letter preceding that could be R, K, H, X or N. He leaned forward and crossed out the P and the F. Whatever the last letter was, it had to have its lowest point in the centre.
Gathering up his writing pad, he headed for the front door. It was all going to be a bit vague, but he figured a seedy backstreet shop like that probably didn’t make too many number plates, so it had to be worth a try.
Norman drove slowly past Bikerzwurld and pulled in to the kerb. He climbed from his car and strolled back towards the shop, stopping to peer through the grimy front window. It looked as though there were no customers in the shop, which was just what Norman had been hoping for. He pushed the door open and walked in, flipping over the “closed” sign as he pushed the door shut. Just to be sure, he slid one of the bolts across to make sure no one could get in and spoil his fun.
The shop was as grubby inside as the windows were on the outside. Assorted spare parts were stacked in boxes all over the place, with no apparent order to any of it. A long counter ran across the back of the shop, and from somewhere beyond it, a noise that could optimistically have been described as music blared from a radio that wasn’t properly tuned in to the station. A sign on the counter asked him to ‘ring for attention’, so he did.
‘Yer’ll have to wait a coupla minutes,’ called a surly voice above the noise from the radio. ‘I’ve got me ’ands full of chains.’
Norman thought this was excellent news. Silently, he raised the flap in the counter, eased himself through, and made his way out through the open door into the workshop. A man was working at the side of a motorcycle, which was raised up on stands to enable him to work from a low stool on which he was perched, with his legs out in front of him under the bike.
He was dressed in a pair of overalls that had so much grease, oil, and general dirt ground into them that Norman thought they had to be totally waterproof. An equally greasy and dirty ponytail hung down the man’s back. He was hunched over, quietly muttering to himself as he struggled to replace the bike’s drive chain. He had no idea he had company sneaking up behind him.
Norman watched patiently as the man fiddled with the chain. Just at the vital moment when it seemed the task was about to be successfully completed, he spoke.
‘There’s much easier way of doing that, you know?’
Startled by the sudden voice right behind him, the mechanic nearly jumped out of his skin, letting go of the chain it had just taken him almost fifteen minutes to get into position. He sighed a big, heavy, impatient sigh.
‘I told you I’d be there in a couple minutes, didn’t I?’ he roared.
He made to get up off his stool, but Norman was right up behind him and shoved a knee in his back, making it impossible for him to move.
‘Hi, Georgie,’ he said. ‘Remember me?’
‘I ’aven’t got eyes in the back of me ’ead, ’ave I? An’ wiv me face stuck in this bike frame, ’ow am I supposed to see oo you are?’
‘Now I have to confess, that’s a fair point,’ agreed Norman. ‘Lemme see if I can help you with that.’
With one deft move, he kicked the stool from under the man, dropping him onto his backside and then onto his back. He made a loud ‘Ooooooff’ noise as he hit the floor. Norman smiled down at him.
‘Now you can see me, right?’ he asked.
The man looked up at him. It was clear from his expression, and the way he swore, that he remembered exactly who Norman was.
‘You’re the law, aintcha?’ he asked.
‘So you do remember me, Georgie, that’s very good,’ said Norman. ‘It’s a pity you don’t remember how we came to meet.’
‘I learnt me lesson. I don’t do number plates no more.’
‘I seem to recall there was actually a lot more to it than just number plates,’ said Norman. ‘But since you chose to mention it, I have to tell you I’m finding it hard to believe you.’
‘Look, I’d need to be pig-shit stupid to keep on doin’ that after I been done, wouldn’t I?’
‘That’s an insult to pig shit,’ said Norman. ‘Not only are you stupid enough to keep on doing it, you’re even stupid enough to keep on doing it and make it easy for us to know it’s you.’
‘I dunno what you’re talking about.’
‘You put your shop name on the bottom of the plate,’ said Norman. ‘Now that’s a really special kind of stupid, and I doubt even the worst kind of pig shit could be that stupid.’
‘That’s a load of old bollocks,’ said Georgie. ‘You can’t bluff me.’
Norman took a photo of the blacked-out number plate and dropped it on Georgie’s chest. ‘Take a look,’ he said.
Georgie picked up the photo and squinted at it. ‘You can’t prove I done that. The number’s blacked out.’
‘Very good,’ said Norman. ‘But what’s that across the bottom of the plate?’
‘Can’t see, it’s too small.’
‘Try this one,’ said Norman, dropping one of the blown up images.
Georgie looked at the second photo, and his face creased in frustrated defeat.
‘I think that’s called a fair cop, don’t you?’ asked Norman.
‘Oh, come on,’ pleaded Georgie. ‘Gimme a break. I struggle to make a livin’ as it is!’
‘Well, maybe it’s your lucky day. I’m prepared to overlook the fact you made this plate, as long as you tell me who you made it for.’
Georgie looked up at Norman as if he was mad. ‘I’m not that stupid I keep bloody records.�
�
Norman had been smiling all the time, but now his face fell. ‘Oh, now that’s a pity,’ he said. ‘I thought we were getting on so well, but now I’m gonna have to call the boys in to turn your shop over and see what else we can find.’
‘Nah, please, don’t do that,’ said Georgie, helplessly. ‘I’ll try and remember. But can I get up off this floor, it’s bloody freezing!’
‘I’ll let you get up,’ said Norman. ‘But you need to understand if you try anything, there’s a van with four bored uniforms right outside just waiting to come in and break someone’s head, alright?’
‘Aw, come on,’ said Georgie. ‘You know I don’t do that sort of violent stuff. I’m all talk, me, I wouldn’t ’urt a fly.’
Norman stepped back to give him some space. ‘Okay, get up,’ he said.
Georgie climbed stiffly to his feet.
‘Right,’ said Norman. ‘I told those boys outside to give me fifteen minutes before they came busting in and breaking things. We must have wasted half of that already, so you need to start talking fast.’
‘But I told you, I don’t keep no records about stuff like that,’ said Georgie. ‘An’ it’s a blacked-out number. ’Ow the ’ell am I supposed to know who I did it for?’
Norman turned and started walking back towards the shop.
‘Wait! Where yer goin’?’ asked Georgie, following him.
‘If all you’re going to do is waste my time, I’m going to tell my boys they might just as well start turning your shop over now.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ squealed Georgie. ‘I’m tryin’, honest.’
Norman stopped and turned around. ‘Let’s stop pissing around, shall we, Georgie? I know you don’t keep records, and I know whoever it was would have paid cash. But I also know a crappy little backstreet shop like this, dealing mostly in stolen goods, has very few customers, and those you do have will probably be regulars and you’ll know them all. And I bet you can count the number of plates you make on the fingers of one hand.’
Norman could see Georgie was thinking about it, but perhaps there was one thing that might really make his mind up for him. ‘D’you really want to be dragged away as an accessory to murder?’
Suddenly, Georgie looked as if he’d been smacked. ‘Murder?’ he yelped. ‘I ain’t been involved in no murder!’
‘But we think the guy who used this number plate has,’ said Norman. ‘And if you know who he is and don’t tell me, you’re withholding evidence. We can easily ramp that up to aiding and abetting.’
‘I dunno his name,’ said Georgie, suddenly only too willing to help as much as he could. ‘He comes in ’ere now an’ then, but he never says much, just finds what he wants, pays cash, and goes.’
‘So who is he? I need a name.’
‘I dunno, I swear.’
‘When was this?’ asked Norman.
‘About six weeks ago, I reckon.’
‘What about the full registration number?’
‘You don’t want much, do ya?’
‘Don’t let me down now,’ said Norman. ‘You see, I remember when we caught you doing this before. You used to keep a list of all the number plates you made up. At the time, you said it was to keep track of which numbers and letters you had used, but then later we found that wasn’t the only use for that list, right? You were keeping it just in case you ever got the opportunity to blackmail one of those people. That’s the sort of habit people like you never drop. So, either you find the list and give me the number, or I’ll ask four clumsy PCs to come in here and do it for you.’
‘You’re an evil bastard,’ said Georgie. ‘You’ll ruin me.’
‘I think I’ve been very fair. I’ve given you a choice.’ Norman looked at his watch. ‘And just to help you with your search, I can tell you you’ve got about two minutes before the storm troopers arrive.’
Muttering and cursing, Georgie slipped his hand under the counter and produced a tatty notebook. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I’ll read it out for yer.’
‘No need for that,’ said Norman, snatching the notebook from his hands. ‘I’ll look for myself.’
He looked at the number: RG15 AKV. He had been right about the last two letters.
‘What’s this guy look like?’
‘He’s usually got leathers on,’ said Georgie. ‘Late thirties. A bit on the short side, with funny eyes.’
‘What do you mean “funny eyes”?’ asked Norman.
‘You know, one’s looking at yer, the other one’s doin’ its own thing. They’re different colours too.’
‘What else?’
‘He’s a bit of a pansy, you know? Clean hands, bleached hair, that sort of thing. I think people that age with bleached hair must have something wrong with ’em.’
Norman took a long look at Georgie. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I can imagine you’d think anyone clean had something wrong with them. Actually it’s quite normal. It’s the result of washing. You should try it some time.’
He closed the notebook and put it in his pocket.
‘You can’t take that,’ said Georgie. ‘You ain’t got a search warrant.’
‘You really want me to get one?’ asked Norman.
‘But you can’t bring yer ’eavies in ’ere wivout one.’
‘You’re right about that,’ said Norman. ‘But that’s okay, there aren’t any heavies outside.’
‘But you said—’
Norman tried his best to look guilty. ‘Yeah, I know I did,’ he said. ‘Telling lies is terrible, isn’t it? Not that you would know, of course, seeing as you never tell any. I promise you, I do feel guilty about misleading an arsehole like you, but I just can’t seem to stop myself.’
‘You bastard,’ snapped Georgie. ‘I’m gonna complain to the nick about you.’
‘Oh, did I forget to tell you? I’m not with them any more. I retired.’
Georgie took a step towards him, but then seemed to realise Norman was both taller and heavier.
‘Uh uh,’ said Norman. ‘Remember, you said you don’t do violence. Best not to start now, huh?’
He walked back through the shop, slipped the bolt, turned the ‘closed’ sign to ‘open’, pulled the door open, and left the shop. As he headed for his car, he felt a spring in his step that had been missing for quite a while. There was no doubt about it: this is what he enjoyed doing, and this was probably what he did best.
Chapter 36
‘How was your trip to the dentist?’ asked Norman when Slater got back.
‘Well, Malcolm Jennings certainly remembers them all,’ said Slater. ‘He claims Ian Becks made the first two years of his life at senior school a complete misery, until Adam Radford got killed by a flying brick. The police were called in but no one ever got charged with anything. The only good thing to come out of it was that after the poor kid died, all the bullying stopped.’
‘I suppose you’d have to be pretty hard core to keep it going after something like that,’ said Norman.
‘According to Jennings, it was Ian Becks who threw that brick off the bridge.’
‘How the hell does he know that?’ asked Norman.
‘He says he was hiding from the three bullies at the time but he saw it all happen.’
‘So why didn’t he say something at the time?’
‘He says he never came forward because he knew it would be his word against three. He didn’t think anyone would believe him, and he knew he’d get another good kicking afterwards. They’d just killed one boy who had done nothing to them, what would they do to someone who grassed them up? He says he regrets it now, and he wished he’d been brave enough at the time.’
‘Was he any help to our inquiry?’ asked Norman.
‘He says he hasn’t seen any of them in years, and made it quite clear he really wouldn’t have wanted to.’
‘We can’t really blame him for that I suppose. I expect we can all think of plenty of people from our past we wouldn’t want to waste our time on.’
�
�Yeah, I suppose,’ said Slater. ‘So, all in all, he wasn’t really much help.’
‘At least we know,’ said Norman, ‘and we can tick him off the list.’
‘So what have you done this morning?’ asked Slater. ‘You seem to be looking rather pleased with yourself.’
Norman looked suitable abashed. ‘Well, I went a little off track this morning. There was something that had bothered me right from when you first told me about this case, and this morning, when I woke up, I knew what it was so I had to check it out. I didn’t tell you because it might have been a waste of time. Anyway, the thing is, I know the registration number of the bike the mystery courier used.’
Slater looked impressed. ‘How did you do that?’ he asked. ‘They told me it was covered in black tape and there was no way of reading it.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t tell me that,’ said Norman, ‘or I might never have looked at it. But I have to admit I got a bit lucky. When I blew up the images of the number plate, I realised there was a shop name across the bottom of the plate. It just so happens I busted the owner about twelve months ago for an assortment of charges, one of which was illegally selling number plates. I went over there and leaned all over him this morning and he coughed up the full registration number.’
‘That’s what’s missing at Tinton right now,’ said Slater. ‘There’s no one left with enough experience to listen to their hunches and then act upon them like that. That’s why we made a pretty good team: if one of us left a gap, the other one would usually fill it.’
Norman smiled. ‘Yeah, it did seem to work that way. Unfortunately, though, just like you, I’m human and I cock things up almost as often as I succeed.’
‘Yeah, well, none of us is perfect, Norm. I’ve had my own fair share of cock-ups you’ve had to dig me out of, so I’m not going to make a big deal out of it. Anyway, where are you with the registration number?’
‘Well, here’s where it gets confusing,’ said Norman. ‘The DVLA database has that number allocated to a Suzuki motorcycle, registered in the name of Jimmy Huston.’
‘But Goodnews reckons he’s got a cast-iron alibi,’ said Slater, ‘and his bike is a Yamaha. So he must have two bikes.’