by Ford, P. F.
Dave Slater Mystery Novels Box Set One
P.F. Ford
This collection:
© 2016 P. F. Ford
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events in this book are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real life counterparts is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Kit Foster Design
Editing by KT Editing Services
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Death Of A Temptress
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Just A Coincidence
Prologue
33. Chapter 1
34. Chapter 2
35. Chapter 3
36. Chapter 4
37. Chapter 5
38. Chapter 6
39. Chapter 7
40. Chapter 8
41. Chapter 9
42. Chapter 10
43. Chapter 11
44. Chapter 12
45. Chapter 13
46. Chapter 14
47. Chapter 15
48. Chapter 16
49. Chapter 17
50. Chapter 18
51. Chapter 19
52. Chapter 20
53. Chapter 21
54. Chapter 22
55. Chapter 23
56. Chapter 24
57. Chapter 25
58. Chapter 26
59. Chapter 27
60. Chapter 28
61. Chapter 29
62. Chapter 30
63. Chapter 31
64. Chapter 32
65. Chapter 33
66. Chapter 34
67. Chapter 35
68. Chapter 36
69. Chapter 37
70. Chapter 38
71. Chapter 39
72. Chapter 40
Epilogue
Florence
Prologue
73. Chapter 1
74. Chapter 2
75. Chapter 3
76. Chapter 4
77. Chapter 5
78. Chapter 6
79. Chapter 7
80. Chapter 8
81. Chapter 9
82. Chapter 10
83. Chapter 11
84. Chapter 12
85. Chapter 13
86. Chapter 14
87. Chapter 15
88. Chapter 16
89. Chapter 17
90. Chapter 18
91. Chapter 19
92. Chapter 20
93. Chapter 21
94. Chapter 22
95. Chapter 23
96. Chapter 24
97. Chapter 25
98. Chapter 26
99. Chapter 27
100. Chapter 28
101. Chapter 29
102. Chapter 30
103. Chapter 31
104. Chapter 32
105. Chapter 33
106. Chapter 34
107. Chapter 35
108. Chapter 36
The Wrong Man
Prologue
109. Chapter 1
110. Chapter 2
111. Chapter 3
112. Chapter 4
113. Chapter 5
114. Chapter 6
115. Chapter 7
116. Chapter 8
117. Chapter 9
118. Chapter 10
119. Chapter 11
120. Chapter 12
121. Chapter 13
122. Chapter 14
123. Chapter 15
124. Chapter 16
125. Chapter 17
126. Chapter 18
127. Chapter 19
128. Chapter 20
129. Chapter 21
130. Chapter 22
131. Chapter 23
Epilogue
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About the Author
Death Of A Temptress
© 2014 P. F. Ford
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events in this book are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real life counterparts is purely coincidental.
Prologue
In the dark gloom of the early hours, with lights extinguished, the estate car reversed slowly off the main road into a narrow side-street and then continued to creep on down to the riverside, where it finally stopped at the top of an old, disused, slipway.
A man, dressed from head to toe in black, emerged from the car and made his way stealthily to the back. There was a loud, metallic, pop as the hatch opened, followed by a hiss as it glided upwards. Shocked by the apparent loudness of the noise, he froze and held his breath.
After what seemed an eternity, he began to relax. It seemed no one had heard the noise, so he began the business of removing what appeared to be a roll of carpet from the back of the car. It was roughly six feet long and was bound with string around the middle and over each end.
Somehow it seemed to have grown heavier on the journey and it was much harder to get it out of the car than it had been to put it in. In no time, he was sweating profusely from his efforts.
He eventually gave up trying to carry the carpet and settled for dragging it from the car and down the slipway. In the darkness, he didn’t notice the string was being loosened as it caught and snagged on the rough concrete.
Finally, he reached the river’s edge and there was a faint splash as he dropped the end he was holding into the water. Then he stepped back to the other end, dropped to his knees, and launched the carpet into the river like a torpedo. In the dim, murky, glow from the distant streetlights on the far bank, he could just about see it bobbing along on the surface as it floated out into the river and the current began to carry it away.
He watched with great satisfaction as it began to gather speed and was drawn out towards the middle without sinking. He had thought carefully about this – if it sank too soon it might be visible when the tide went out, so he had taken great care to make sure it floated long enough to reach the middle before it became waterlogged and sank.
He stood watching the slowly sinking package until it was lost from sight in the darkness, then made his way back to the car. After carefully easing the hatch shut, he climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. As he crawled back along the lane, the lights of a passing car flashed past, and his confidence began to waver once more.
Not for the first time,
he wondered how on earth he had been foolish enough to allow himself to be drawn into this situation. It was like the worst sort of nightmare, but, he also realised, it was too late for regrets. There could be no turning back now.
As the man turned onto the main road and switched his headlights on, the now waterlogged roll of carpet reached the middle of the river and disappeared below the surface, just as was intended.
The tide was in full flow now, and the fierce current had begun to work at the loosening string. Over the next half hour, the roll of carpet was dragged and bumped along the bottom, and in the process, the string was further loosened, and the carpet was almost unrolled.
It was quite possible that, in a day or two, the precious contents within could work loose and be carried away by the tidal current, and from there anything could happen...
Chapter One
Detective Sergeant Dave Slater itched and scratched at the unruly stubble on his chin. To say he felt aggrieved would be something of an understatement. He was currently on so-called ‘gardening leave’, which sounded as though it should be quite enjoyable, but, in reality, it was a euphemism for ‘suspended from duty pending investigation’. He had been tending his garden for two weeks now and he was bored out of his mind.
It’s not as if there was anything in particular to investigate. The simple truth was that an operation had been both poorly planned and badly executed, which, coupled with some very bad luck involving an unexpected dustcart and an idiot police driver, had resulted in their failure to apprehend the villain they had under surveillance.
The whole fiasco was a team effort, and Slater thought if anyone should have been singled out for blame it should have been DI Jimmy Jones of the Serious Crime Unit, who had been parachuted in from London to take control of the operation. But Jones was one of those fast-tracked rising stars, so he was never in any danger of carrying the can for his own incompetence.
In fact, it had been embarrassing to see how quickly everyone from the SCU had gazed in the direction of Jones’ finger, pointing straight at Dave Slater. The unfortunate Slater had swiftly been nominated as the official sacrificial lamb.
They had very conveniently overlooked the fact that even if the operation had gone as smoothly as a Rolls Royce, they still wouldn’t have got their man. He seemed to have been aware of everything they were doing and stayed one step ahead of them the whole time. It was quite clear to Dave Slater that the guy either had a crystal ball or, more likely, he had a man on the inside feeding him information the whole time.
In Slater’s opinion, what they should have been investigating was the amazing coincidence of how a London-based criminal who had never been to Tinton before in his life had managed to keep ahead of an operation being led by a DI brought in from London for this one operation. His point being that Tinton had never suffered from the effects of a leak before.
But, of course, it was less politically sensitive to just lay the blame on the local officer thrust in at the deep end to help run an operation he wasn’t trained for, and ignore the possibility that a favourite, rising star might not actually be all he was supposed to be.
So yes, he was aggrieved.
Just a tad.
His brooding was interrupted by the sound of his mobile phone warbling to acknowledge the arrival of an incoming call. He checked the number on the caller display. It was his boss, Detective Chief Inspector Bob Murray.
In his mind, he played through the scenario he had imagined hundreds of times over the last two weeks. It was the one he most dreaded – where he was called in and dismissed from the service.
He thought about ignoring the call. They couldn’t sack him if he didn’t answer it, could they? But he quickly realised just how stupid he was being. If that was what was going to happen it would be far better to get it over with, wouldn’t it? Either way, there was only one way to find out. He picked up the phone.
‘Hi, Boss.’
‘Good morning, David. How are you?’
Bob Murray was a strange mix of modern thinking and old-fashioned discipline. He was modern enough to allow the informality of calling Slater by his Christian name in this situation, but not informal enough to use the abbreviated form ‘Dave’. Everything about him was contradictory in this way, but Slater liked him.
‘I’ve been better,’ admitted Slater. ‘All this waiting around is driving me crazy.’
‘That’s what I’m calling about. I need to talk to you. Can you get here this afternoon?’
Slater felt his blood running a bit colder.
‘Is this something I want to hear?’
‘You’ll find out when you get here, won’t you?’ growled Murray. ‘About four o’clock suit you?’
‘Err, yes, sir. Of course.’
‘Good man. I’ll see you then.’
There was a soft click and the line was dead.
Well, thought Slater, that didn’t sound like I was going to get the sack. Perhaps someone’s finally going to ask me for my side of the story… but I have no idea what to think. I know a man who might, though. It’s time to make a call of my own…
‘But why does he want to see me?’ Slater asked, down the phone. ‘Come on, Stan, you’re my union rep so why haven’t you been told? I’ve been suspended from work and kept totally in the dark for two weeks and now, suddenly, my boss wants to see me and no one knows why. What the bloody hell’s going on?’
‘Look, calm down will you?’ said the voice at the other end of the line. ‘They can’t sack you without me being there. Anyway, this isn’t a disciplinary matter. I don’t know quite what’s going on but none of the usual procedures are being followed.
‘You’re not even officially suspended. I get the impression there’s some sort of barney going on between our lot and the Serious Crime Unit. They want you to get the blame but we’re saying you can’t be responsible when you’re not trained to run an operation like that. The feeling this end is Jones is responsible, not you.’
This was news to Slater. Maybe he wasn’t on his own after all.
‘And don’t start thinking Murray’s on their side,’ Stan continued. ‘He went ballistic when he found out you’d got the blame. He’s definitely fighting for you, so I can’t see how he’s going to suddenly turn on you now. If you want my honest opinion, I don’t think they know what to do with you.’
‘Why thank you, Stan,’ said Slater sarcastically. ‘You sure know how to make me feel better.’
‘Listen, Murray’s on your side and he’s got the big chief’s ear, which means now even the big man himself thinks you’re being used as a scapegoat. If you want my advice, you’ll stop feeling sorry for yourself, get in here this afternoon, and show these people they’re doing the right thing by backing you.’
Well, when it’s put to you like that, you can’t really argue, can you? And to be honest, self-pity hasn’t done me any good so far, has it?
He thought it might be a good idea to show a little respect to Bob Murray when he met him later. A shower and a shave certainly wouldn’t go amiss.
‘So, how come I get to take this over?’ asked Slater, when Murray explained the situation. ‘No, don’t tell me, let me guess. I suppose it’s a ticking time bomb that no one else wants to handle, but it’s okay if it blows up in my face because I’m expendable.’
‘Look,’ said Murray, patiently, ‘I understand how you feel and I’d probably feel the same if I was in your shoes, but I think you’re looking at it from the wrong angle.
‘This case has been kicking around for six months. It’s been dismissed as a simple runaway by our colleagues in the Met, and with no evidence to suggest otherwise, and no dead body, you can hardly blame them. But the missing girl’s sister won’t accept it. She’s found some barrister with a bit of clout to back her up, and now between them they’ve got the local MP on the case too.
‘The Met insist they don’t have the manpower to spend any more time on the case, so the local MP suggested it should be handed to us.
He’s got friends in very, very high places so he got his way.’
‘And how much help can I expect from the Met?’ asked Slater, wearily.