by Ford, P. F.
‘Well, come on,’ said Norman. ‘You’re the only fuzz here, so you’re going to have to do this whether you want to or not. I’m just here to make up the numbers, remember?’
Slater climbed slowly from the car.
‘It’s DS Slater, isn’t it?’ asked Jennings, who had climbed from his own car and was waiting by the front door.
‘You did say you’d prefer it if I came here with any further questions,’ said Slater as he walked up the drive towards Jennings.
‘I thought you might have called first,’ said Jennings, a small tic going in his cheek.
‘Were you worried we might see something we shouldn’t?’ asked Norman, pitching up beside Slater.
‘And who are you?’
‘DS Norman,’ said Norman, without pausing for breath, or thought.
Slater cringed as Norman came out with the reply, and then was relieved Jennings didn’t ask to see any proof of ID. Mind you, he didn’t really care too much about proper procedure any more, and it was probably going to be easier to go along with the lie than complicate things any further.
‘So why are you here?’ asked Jennings, making a big show of looking at his watch. ‘What exactly is it you want? I haven’t got all day, I’m a busy man.’
Slater gave him a sardonic smile. ‘As you’re such a busy man, I’ll try not to waste your time. But I think you already know why we’re here.’
‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to do better than that,’ said Jennings.
‘How about you explain why Ian Becks’ motorbike is in your garage,’ said Slater. ‘Is that better?’
‘I haven’t got time for this,’ insisted Jennings. ‘Like I said, I’m a busy man.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Norman. ‘We know just how busy you’ve been. It must have taken a lot of planning to kill those three guys. I bet you thought you’d got away with it, too, but that was your problem. You got overconfident.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Wow, he’s good, don’t you think?’ Norman said to Slater. ‘You could almost believe him.’ He looked hard at Jennings. ‘Now the sun’s gone in, why don’t you take off those shades?’
‘They’re not sunglasses,’ said Jennings. ‘I’m sensitive to all light.’
‘Or maybe you’ve got a lazy eye,’ said Norman, ‘you know, one that tends to do its own thing?’
‘I haven’t got time for this nonsense. I’ve got places to be.’ Jennings made to move towards his car, but with surprising speed, Norman was across the drive blocking his path.
‘How dare you! Get out of my way.’
Norman shook his head. ‘You can’t go anywhere anyway,’ he said. ‘Or maybe you’re planning on murdering us too? The thing is, I don’t see any syringe, and somehow I doubt you’d want a fair fight.’
‘I’ve told you I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Jennings, blustering. ‘I’ll be making the strongest complaint about this outrageous behaviour.’
‘You can do that while you’re at the station,’ said Slater.
‘What station? What are you talking about?’
‘When you get arrested and dragged off to be interviewed. You can make your complaint then.’
‘Interviewed? Why would I be interviewed?’
‘Well, for a start I think you’d need to explain why you have not one, but two motorcycles we’re looking for, parked in your garage.’
Jennings paled slightly. ‘Someone must have put them there,’ he said, lamely.
‘Yeah, right, sure they did,’ said Norman. ‘D’you think that would’ve been the same someone who put the red leathers there? And that crash helmet that looks suspiciously like the missing one that belonged to Ian Becks?’
Jennings’ jaw dropped and a sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. In the brief silence, Slater thought he could just about make out the distant sound of an approaching siren.
‘You remember Ian Becks, don’t you?’ he asked Jennings. ‘He was a colleague of ours, and a good friend.’
As soon as Slater mentioned Ian Becks, Jennings jerked his head.
‘He worked with you, and you befriended him?’ he asked. His expression was curious – not just the anger Slater had expected, but almost a twinge of regret.
‘I suggest the police need to be a bit more selective about who they employ, and you should be a bit more selective about your friends. Ian Becks was a killer. He killed a young boy with a brick to the head. Why didn’t you go after him back then? You tell me that. Why didn’t anyone go after him?’
‘If you’re talking about the Radford boy, there was never any evidence to prove Becks was involved,’ said Slater.
Jennings was looking slightly crazed, as if a whole lifetime of torment had become focused on this very moment.
‘I know what happened to that boy. I saw it with my own eyes,’ he said. ‘I’ve spent my entire life feeling guilty about it. It was me they were really after that afternoon. If I hadn’t managed to hide they would never have seen him cycling by underneath. He would still be alive now.’
‘Survivor’s guilt,’ said Norman. ‘So why didn’t you come forward if you were a witness?’
‘What, my word against the three of them? Who would have believed me? And they would have made me pay even more afterwards, wouldn’t they?’
The sound of the siren was getting nearer, but Jennings didn’t seem to have noticed.
‘So you admit you killed them?’ asked Slater.
For a moment, Jennings seemed to be about to admit it, but then his expression changed. At first Slater thought he’d heard the siren, but the look of realisation that was dawning on his face was combined with sly cunning.
‘I’m admitting nothing,’ he said.
‘We worked out how you did it on the way over here,’ said Norman. ‘You’ve got easy access to morphine as a dentist, haven’t you? You injected Terry Jones and John Willand with morphine and made it look like they died of natural causes and a drug overdose. Easy when one of them was a heroin addict, wasn’t it? Bet you were clapping your hands with glee at that turn of events.’
Jennings gawped at him, but didn’t say a word.
‘And then,’ Norman carried on, ‘you had to be a bit cleverer with Ian Becks, didn’t you? He was a forensic scientist, after all. You knew his death would come under scrutiny. You befriended him at Dickie’s Bar. You must have been stalking him and realised he was gay. What an opportunity, huh? You got to know him. Did he recognise you from years ago? Probably not, he probably didn’t have a clue who you were. And that made you even more mad, didn’t it?’
Jennings’ face was turning puce but he still didn’t say a word.
‘You were very clever,’ Norman said, shaking his head in mock admiration. ‘You’d put the groundwork in a while ago, stealing Jimmy Huston’s identity and James Radford’s name. You were playing the long game. You must have been watching Ian for some time, learning all about his life. How did you arrange for the manuscript to be delivered? Had you paid off someone in the dispatch department at P&P to tip you off? That’s my bet. They probably had no idea what they were getting involved in. Then all you had to do was phone the courier company and arrange for the parcel to be picked up and delivered to Ian Becks. You even told the courier that he might be waiting outside.
‘Of course, it was you who was waiting outside, wasn’t it? You pretended to be Ian Becks. You had even scoped the place out so you knew you wouldn’t be caught on CCTV. You signed for the parcel then took it in to Ian. Had you called him to tell him you were coming to see his lab and asked him to meet you in reception? You must have known how proud he was of it. And from that point, it was easy. How did it go down? You waited until he was sitting at his desk and opening his parcel – did you tell him it was a present? What was it, just a load of blank paper that went up in smoke? – and then stabbed the syringe into his neck.’
The sound of sirens was much closer now, but Jennings seemed to be tota
lly unaware.
‘The rest of it was easy for you,’ Slater cut in. ‘You were already wearing the red leathers, so all you had to do was put on Ian’s crash helmet, quickly open the fire escape, chuck your own helmet out so you could grab it when you got to the car park, and then leave via the front door. Nice touch, waving to Tom on the desk.
‘Of course, the explosion must have made you confused when you read the paper the next day. That wasn’t what you planned, but it worked well for you, didn’t it? We went totally off on the wrong track. And you got complacent.’
Norman pointed in the direction of the garage. ‘The motorbikes,’ he said. ‘You really should have got rid of them, Malcolm. But your arrogance has been your downfall.’
Jennings laughed, but his hands were shaking furiously. ‘You’re not a real policeman, are you?’ he said. ‘And you don’t have a search warrant, do you? Nothing you’ve seen is admissible without a warrant.’
‘I have to admit you’ve got us there, we don’t have a search warrant,’ Slater admitted. He nodded his head towards the police car, which was now crunching up the drive towards them, its wheels spitting gravel in all directions. ‘But they do.’
The car skidded to a halt alongside them, Steve Biddeford spilling from the passenger seat even before they had stopped. Quick as a flash, Jennings was off, but Biddeford was fast, and big, and fearless. Jennings barely got ten yards before he found himself being rugby tackled to the ground.
More cars could be heard screeching to a halt out in the road, and the sounds of car doors slamming and running feet began to fill the air.
Goodnews approached them, looking suitably unimpressed to find Norman with Slater. She made a point of ignoring the former detective and focused her attention on Slater.
‘Did he confess?’
Slater took a small dictaphone from his pocket, and handed it over to her. ‘Not exactly,’ he said. “Everything’s on there, but you probably won’t need it.’ He pointed in the general direction of the garage. ‘There’s enough evidence in the garage round the back.’
‘I’ll need a statement,’ she said, heading off towards the garage.
‘Yeah, right. I’ll get onto it,’ he said half-heartedly, but she had already gone He turned to Norman. ‘Come on, mate, let’s get out of here, while we can. They don’t need us any more.’
Chapter 38
Goodnews had told Slater she wanted to see him on Monday morning. She hadn’t specified a time, suggesting he should come in when he felt ready. It was just after ten when he parked in the car park and made his way through reception. To his relief, the desk sergeant, Tom Sanders, was occupied with a weeping woman, and he managed to sneak past without signing in. He figured this way he could avoid as many of his colleagues as possible, and thus avoid the need to answer any awkward questions.
Unfortunately, what he hadn’t allowed for was the unexpected in the form of a non-colleague, and he had barely got inside the building before he was confronted by DI Grimm. As usual, DS Fury was in attendance, following just a short distance behind him.
‘Ah, Detective Sergeant Slater,’ said Grimm, an ugly grin on his face. ‘Just the person I’ve been looking for. We still have an interview to conclude.’
‘I’m afraid I’m a bit busy now,’ said Slater. ‘I’ve got a meeting to attend.’
‘If you mean the one with DCI Goodnews,’ said Grimm, ‘you don’t need to worry. She’s aware of my need to interview you, and she says she’s happy to wait.’
Slater didn’t believe that for one minute, but he knew he was going to have to go through with this interview whether he liked it or not. Avoiding it was only postponing the inevitable, so he might as well get it over with. On the positive side, maybe he could find a way to speak up in defence of Naomi Darling.
‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
‘That’s better,’ said Grimm. ‘I was beginning to think you might be trying to avoid me.’
‘Good heavens, no,’ said Slater, sarcastically. ‘It’s always such a pleasure being interviewed by you people. You have such a worthwhile purpose, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.’
Grimm gave Slater one of his grimaced smiles. ‘Yeeeessss.’ He hissed the word, rather like a snake might hiss. ‘Come along then, follow me, let’s try not to waste too much of your precious time.’
He walked past Slater in the direction of the interview rooms. As she passed him, Fury rolled her eyes, gave him a long suffering look, and then a small smile.
‘Right,’ said Grimm, when they were settled on opposite sides of the table. ‘Let’s get this show on the road. Are you ready with your notebook, Fury?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Fury from her position alongside him.
‘I told you before,’ said Slater. ‘I wasn’t on duty at the time of the incident between DC Darling and the so-called victim.’
‘I’m not interested in what you know about DC Darling,’ said Grimm, dismissively. ‘She’s going to be charged with GBH. She’s finished. We’ve moved on to bigger fish now. What I want to know about is DCI Goodnews.’
For a moment Slater’s stomach lurched, first at the news of Darling’s impending doom, but then even more so at the mention of Goodnews’s name. Surely Grimm couldn’t know anything about that. No one else seemed to know, so how could he possibly know?
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know about DCI Goodnews?’
‘Well,’ said Grimm. ‘How can I put this? Let’s just say we have reason to believe she may not be totally suited to her position, and we’re trying to find evidence to prove it.’
‘We?’ asked Slater. ‘Who’s we?’
‘People way above me.’
‘You mean the chief constable.’
‘It doesn’t matter who I mean,’ said Grimm. ‘I’m just given a job to do, and I get on and do it.’
‘And you think I’m going to help you by stabbing her in the back, is that it?’ asked Slater.
Grimm beamed at him. ‘Well, I understand you’re the one who works closest to her, so it seems logical you’d be the one who would see all the flaws when they appear.’
‘Have you ever heard of a thing called loyalty?’ asked Slater.
‘Come, come,’ said Grimm. ‘That’s all very well in theory, but where does it get you in the real world?’
Slater looked down his nose at Grimm. ‘How do you sleep at night?’
‘Just give me what I need,’ said Grimm. ‘You never know, I might even be able to put in good word. Wouldn’t you like to be a DI?’
‘I’m not interested. As far as I’m concerned, she’s not a bad boss, and I have nothing to say against her.’
‘From what I’ve heard, you and her have been known to argue,’ said Grimm.
‘We’ve had a couple of barneys, yeah,’ said Slater. ‘There’s nothing strange about that. I used to argue with DCI Murray.’
‘Doesn’t it annoy you that a woman is above you in the pecking order?’
‘Not really. She’s got ambitions for her career, and I haven’t. As long as she’s not using other people to advance her career I don’t have a problem. Why would I?’
‘But, she’s younger than you, and bossing you around. Doesn’t that bother you?’
‘No, that doesn’t bother me, but I can tell you something that does.’
Grimm sat back and beamed a self-satisfied smile in Slater’s direction. It was plain from the look on his face that he thought he’d finally cracked it.
‘Please, DS Slater,’ he said. ‘Do go on.’
‘What really bothers me,’ said Slater, looking Grimm right in the eye, ‘is having a total twat of a DI wasting my time asking me stupid questions in an attempt to undermine a DCI who’s ten times the copper he’ll ever be. I always thought the idea of the police service was to solve crimes, not undermine people who are working their arses off to try and make things better for everyone.’
Out of the co
rner of his eye, Slater could see a broad grin break out on DS Fury’s face. Hastily, she angled her head away so Grimm wouldn’t see. Meanwhile, her boss was spluttering and coughing, so angry he was unable to form any words. But it didn’t matter, Slater wasn’t going to give him time to speak anyway.
‘If you’re trying to bury Goodnews, you must have realised by now that you’re not going to get any help from anyone here,’ said Slater, getting to his feet. ‘That should tell you everything you need to know about how highly regarded she is around here. We all know she’s not perfect, but then, who is? And compared with what they had to put up with before, she’s a saint. The fact you’re still hanging around here waiting for me suggests I’m your last hope, but I can assure you you’re hoping in vain because you certainly aren’t going to get any bloody help from me.’
He set off for the door, but he hadn’t yet finished speaking.
‘You can shove your interview up your arse,’ he said, ‘and if you try to ask me just one more question I’m going to take that notepad and ram it up there myself.’
‘Come back here,’ shouted Grimm. ‘You can’t speak to me like that. I’m going to make a complaint. You’ll be up in front of a disciplinary hearing—’
‘Yeah, you go ahead and do that,’ said Slater, and then he stalked from the room.
When Slater got up to Goodnews’s office the door was open, but he knocked anyway and poked his head around the corner. She looked up from her desk and smiled.
‘Come on in,’ she said.
He walked in carrying a tray with two coffees. ‘I got you a skinny latte, is that right?’ he asked.
‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and sit in the comfy seats.’ She led him across to the two comfy chairs. ‘That was great work tracking down Malcolm Jennings,’ she said.
‘He made it easy for us,’ said Slater. ‘He did all the hard work and then got complacent. All he had to do was ditch the motorbikes and the red leathers and all we would have been left with was purely circumstantial evidence. I wasn’t expecting to find Becksy’s bike there, and I never actually asked him how it got there. What did he say when you interviewed him?’