by Ford, P. F.
‘I like to think we can sort these things out without the need for paperwork. I’m sure you know what I mean,’ Murray had said. ‘It’ll be much quicker than the official route.’
His assertion that a meeting should take place in a neutral venue seemed to convince Clinton he had nothing to worry about.
‘Police stations are very good places for rumours to start, don’t you think?’ Murray had suggested.
‘I’ll tell Detective Sergeant Salter you’ll meet him then, shall I?’
At 7.30 am on Wednesday morning, Dave Slater approached a man who sat on his own at Heston Services on the M4. He was at a corner table, far away from the busy end of the cafeteria, reading a newspaper and sipping a cup of scalding hot liquid that was supposed to be coffee.
‘Chief Inspector Clinton?’ asked Slater politely.
Clinton looked up at him. His face made it quite clear what he thought about this whole situation, but Slater could handle a bit of hostility. It went with the job most of the time.
‘I want to see your warrant card,’ said Clinton.
Slater handed his card over. Clinton studied it, and then looked up.
‘Murray told me I was meeting Detective Sergeant Salter,’ he said warily.
‘Ah!’ said Slater with a cheeky grin. ‘He’s always getting my name wrong. It’s his dyslexia.’
Clinton looked hard at him and Slater could tell he wasn’t amused. He wondered if Clinton had recognised his name.
‘I’m a busy man, Slater,’ he warned, his voice full of his own importance. ‘So you’d better make this quick.’
‘Oh, I don’t think it’ll take long. Is it alright if I sit down?’
‘Help yourself.’
Clinton pointed at the empty chairs opposite him. Slater dragged one out and made a big deal out of getting comfortable. He couldn’t use his rank to intimidate Clinton, but he could certainly annoy the hell out of him.
‘Right, Sergeant,’ snapped Clinton. ‘You can stop with the ‘aggravating and incompetent’ act, and get to the point. I’m only here as a favour to Chief Inspector Murray. I hope you realise that.’
‘Oh yes, of course, sir. And I’m very, very grateful,’ Slater gushed. He thought about doffing an imaginary cap, but decided that might be going just a bit too far.
‘Well, come on, man. Get on with it.’ Clinton’s fuse was getting shorter by the minute, which was good for Slater, but he knew if he pushed it too far, he might lose this chance.
‘Well, I’ve been investigating this case,’ he began, ‘And your name’s come up. Naturally I don’t want to bring your name into it if it can be avoided-’
‘Yes, yes,’ snapped Clinton. ‘I know all that.’
‘Do you know someone called Ruth Thornhill?’ asked Slater.
‘I don’t believe I do,’ said Clinton confidently. ‘It’s not ringing any bells for me. I’ve never heard that name before.’
‘Oh,’ Slater sounded disappointed. ‘Well, that answers that, then.’
‘Is that it?’ asked Clinton, red-faced with anger. ‘You got me all the way out here just to ask me that?’ He started to fold his newspaper in disgust.
‘Bloody Toytown coppers, wasting my time. I’m going to be making a complaint about this. Do you understand?’
Slater looked suitably embarrassed.
‘Right,’ said Clinton pushing his chair back. ‘If that’s all?’
‘How about Ruby Rider?’ said Slater, quietly. ‘Does that name ring any bells?’
Slater wished he’d had a camera with him, just so he could prove that the colour really does drain from people’s faces. But Clinton was pretty good, and once he got over the initial shock he was red-faced again in no time.
‘What is this? Twenty bloody questions? Have you got any more names you want to throw at me?’
‘That depends,’ said Slater calmly. ‘How many other hookers have you been seeing?’
‘You’re making a big mistake here, Slater. You’re going to regret making that accusation.’
‘No, I don’t think I am.’ He slid a photograph across to Clinton. ‘Recognise her now?’
Clinton looked at the photograph. Slater could see Clinton’s eyes widen as he recognised her, but still he kept up his denial.
‘What is this? Some sort of setup? I don’t care what anyone tells you. I’ve never seen this woman before. And I’ve certainly not had sex with any hooker.’
‘You must have a double, then,’ said Norman, who had crept up unnoticed by Clinton. ‘Cos this sure looks like you having fun with her, don’t you think?’
He slid another photo across the table as he sat down next to Slater. This one clearly showed Ruby and Clinton having what might be described as “fun”.
Clinton looked at the photo, horror etched across his face.
‘You!’ he said, looking up at the new arrival. ‘But I thought-’
‘Yeah,’ interrupted Norman, an evil grin on his face. ‘You thought you’d never see me again, huh?’
‘Wait a minute.’ Clinton turned to Slater. ‘I know who you are now. I thought the name was familiar. You’re another failure aren’t you? What’s Murray doing down there in Toytown? Creating a lame duck squad? By the time I’ve finished with him he’s going to be a lame duck himself.’
‘That’s very good,’ said Norman. ‘But do you really think you’re in a position to start using intimidation and threats? That’s not going to get you out of it this time.’
‘I know people,’ said Clinton. ‘One word from me and they’ll be more than happy to drum you out of the police force for trying to frame a senior officer with these trumped up charges.’
He glared at Norman and then at Slater, clearly expecting them to back down under his threats, but all he got in return were two smiling faces. Slater was enjoying Norman’s performance. He was happy to play second fiddle – he knew Norman had waited a long, long time for a chance like this.
‘You’re full of shit, Clinton,’ countered Norman. ‘Do you really think I give a toss what you do next? You’ve already ruined my life. What more could you possibly do to hurt me?’
‘I’ll make sure you lose your pension,’ said Clinton, not quite so sure of himself now.
‘Fine,’ said Norman. ‘I’ve got no one to share it with now, thanks to you, so I really don’t care. You’re the one who’s finished. Not me, not Slater here, and not Bob Murray. We have a video.’
The news about the video was their nuclear option, and it worked. Those four little words had an amazing effect on Clinton. First, his face filled with disbelief, and then, once again, the colour drained from his face, only this time it stayed a ghostly white. He gulped, fish-like, as he tried to form the words of denial.
‘You’re lying,’ he finally managed to say.
Slater and Norman shook their heads. Norman produced some more photos.
‘These are stills taken from it.’ He smiled. ‘D’you still reckon we’re lying?’
‘Where did you get this? How dare you video me?’ Clinton sounded desperate now.
‘You know damned well we didn’t make the video,’ said Slater. ‘Ruby made it. We reckon she was going to use it to blackmail you.’
‘Or perhaps she was already blackmailing you and that’s why you killed her,’ added Norman.
Slater sat, watching Clinton closely. He could tell the man was wrestling with whether to tell the truth or not.
‘Alright,’ conceded Clinton eventually. ‘I did know her. But I didn’t pay her for sex, and you can’t prove I did. I certainly didn’t kill her, and I didn’t know she had videoed me. She may well have been intending to blackmail me, but I can assure you she hadn’t started. So if you think you’ve discovered a motive that makes me a suspect, you’re wrong. And anyway, how do you know she’s dead? Do you have a body? I thought she’d just disappeared.’
‘So you know the findings of the investigation into her disappearance? That’s very interesting. After all, it was jus
t a runaway, wasn’t it? That’s hardly a case for your Serious Crime Unit, is it?’ asked Slater.
Clinton stared at him defiantly.
‘What investigation? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Slater shrugged his shoulders.
‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect you to admit that anyway.’
Then he turned to Norman.
‘I think we’re done here, don’t you?’
‘I reckon so,’ agreed Norman. ‘It’ll do, for now.’
They climbed to their feet, making a point of ignoring Clinton. Then, just as they were about to leave, Slater bent his head down towards him.
‘And for your information,’ he said quietly, ‘we can prove you paid her for sex. She videoed the transaction. Very thorough, young Ruby, don’t you think?’
Clinton was staring right through him. Slater wondered what he must be thinking right now. Maybe in his mind’s eye he was seeing his career going down the toilet. He hoped so anyway.
As he straightened back up, and they began to walk away, Norman spoke.
‘Did you tell him we’ve got the proof?’
‘I did.’
‘That should have been my line really.’
‘But you had all the good lines in the first part.’
Norman seemed to consider this as they walked.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said. ‘It went alright, didn’t it?’
‘It was great, Norm, just great,’ Slater assured him. ‘So how d’you feel now?’
‘Right now, I feel pretty good. Best I’ve felt in a long time.’
Slater clapped him on the back.
‘That’s good, Norm. I’m happy for you.’
‘Yeah. Thanks,’ said Norman.
They carried on walking without looking back, all the way out through the shopping area. Slater stopped to buy two takeaway coffees, and then they made their way out to the car. Bright, warm, morning sunshine bathed the car, so Slater and Norman chose to sit on the bonnet to drink their coffee.
‘What d’you think he’ll do now?’ asked Slater.
‘If he wants to shoot himself, I’ll happily supply the gun,’ joked Norman. ‘In fact, I’d even pull the trigger, make sure he doesn’t miss.’
‘But seriously,’ insisted Slater. ‘What next for him?’
‘If there was any decency about him, he’d resign,’ said Norman. ‘But we both know that’s unlikely. My guess is he’ll be calling in all the favours he can to try and save his arse.’
‘I guess it’s a case of “watch this space”, and see what happens,’ agreed Slater.
They sipped in silence for few minutes, enjoying the warmth of the sun. Finally, they finished their coffees. Norman took the empty cups and ambled across to the nearest bin. Slater looked at his wristwatch. It was 9am.
‘You know,’ said Norman, as he climbed into the car to join the waiting Slater. ‘We make a pretty good team.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Slater. ‘And we have a bit of fun, too.’
‘Yeah, we do.’ Norman reached for his seat belt. ‘I just wanted to say thank you.’
‘For what?’
Norman was fumbling with his seat belt, trying to click it into place.
‘Just thank you for being you, and for getting me to be more like the old me. I can’t remember the last time I was really like that, you know?’ He continued fighting with his seat belt.
‘Here’, said Slater finally. ‘For God’s sake let me do it. We can’t sit here all day while you fart around like this. If I’d known the “old you” was incapable of doing up a simple seat belt I would have left you how you were.’
‘I am not farting around,’ said Norman indignantly. ‘The bloody thing’s too short.’
‘I think maybe,’ Slater pointed out, tugging on the seat belt, ‘it’s not a case of the seat belt being too short, but your waist being a little too large.’
‘How dare you!’ said Norman, his voice heavy with mock indignation.
There was a click and Slater sat back.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Now can we get going? We have work to do.’
‘Are you trying to pull rank on me now?’ asked Norman, starting the car.
In a matter of a few days, they had forged the sort of easy friendship that meant they could keep this sort of banter going for hours.
Norman started to pull out of the parking space and then stopped and tutted, as Slater’s mobile began to trill.
‘That awful ringtone,’ he muttered. He really wished Slater would change it to something a bit more modern. He listened with interest to the conversation, although he could only hear Slater’s side of the discussion.
‘Dave Slater.’
‘Hi Steve, how are you?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. You’ve read the notes?’
‘Okay. What I need you to do right now, is find out all you can about Detective Chief Inspector Mark Clinton of the SCU. You got that?’
‘Good lad. Meet us over at my place at 2pm.’
‘Knocker Norman?’ Slater looked sideways at Norman. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘Yeah, he is a pain in the arse, but what can you do?’
Norman glanced at Slater and saw he was grinning.
‘Yeah, totally useless. You’ll meet him later and you’ll see what I mean. Okay mate, see you later.’
Slater ended the call, still grinning broadly, but staring forward so Norman couldn’t see his face.
Now Norman was grinning too.
‘I think that’s grossly unfair,’ he complained.
‘What?’ asked Slater, trying to look innocent.
‘Talking about me like that, while I’m sat here listening.’
‘My Mum would have said that’s what you get for listening in on other people’s conversations,’ said Slater.
Norman took three attempts before he finally crunched his way into reverse gear and manoeuvred them out of their parking spot. He responded to Slater’s jibe that ‘there must be a reverse gear in there somewhere’ with a disdainful look.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘If I’m going to have to work with a guy who’s just been told I’m a “totally useless pain in the arse”, the least you could do is give me the low down on him. So, come on, in just a few words, what’s he like?’
Slater seemed to consider this for a few moments before he spoke.
‘Young, good looking, honest, no, make that painfully honest, inexperienced, naive, keen to learn, keen to make a difference, brave, prepared to take responsibility for his own actions. Oh, and he’s fast, like a greyhound on steroids. Should I go on?’
‘So basically he’s everything I’m not, right?’
‘Yeah, more or less.’ Slater nodded.
‘Adding him to the team fills in all the gaps that I leave?’
‘Most definitely,’ agreed Slater.
‘And you like him, right?’
‘Yeah,’ said Slater. ‘I do. And so will you.’
‘Then he sounds perfect for the job. I look forward to meeting him.’
‘But I should tell you,’ warned Slater, ‘he can be even more of a stickler for following correct procedure than I am, and that can get seriously annoying at times, even for me, so I would imagine it will drive you mad.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Norman innocently. ‘I always follow procedure.’
‘Yeah. Right,’ said Slater. ‘You mean like Vinnie?’
‘Ah. Yes. Well, you have to have exceptions to illustrate the need for rules,’ explained Norman.
‘Do you have a degree in bullshit?’ laughed Slater. ‘You have an answer for everything, don’t you?’
‘I have a degree in survival, my friend,’ Norman assured him, with a knowing smile. ‘And let me assure you bullshit is one of the survivor’s greatest tools.’
Chapter Twenty
Slater knew that viewed on a map, it was a relatively simple journey from Heston services to Tinton. A short stretch of
the M4, followed by a quick dash along the M25, and then slip onto the M3 down into Hampshire. That’s less than 40 miles on the motorways, plus a further 10 miles on a decent dual carriageway, so they should have been back in an hour.
But the M25 is notorious for hold-ups that often reduce traffic to a snail’s pace, and this morning was no exception. In fact, Slater would have been happy if they had been crawling along at a snail’s pace. At least then they would have been moving.
Unfortunately, as they found out on the radio, just a mile ahead of them, a car travelling in the centre lane had suffered a burst tyre, causing the driver to lose control. A grain lorry, carrying 38 tons of oats, and a milk tanker, fully laden with fresh milk collected that very morning, had been following closely behind the car. Both swerved to avoid colliding with the out of control car, instead colliding with each other, causing both vehicles to overturn, and spilling their respective loads across the carriageway.
The resulting sea of congealing porridge had turned the entire anticlockwise carriageway into a sticky, slippery mess. The motorway had been closed for almost three hours, trapping all the traffic behind the accident where they had to stay until the mess was cleared.
As a result, it was close to one o’clock by the time they neared Tinton, so they decided to stop at a quiet pub outside town to grab some lunch. It was while they were enjoying their food, in the pub’s beer garden, that Slater’s phone began to ring. He would have preferred to leave the call until later, but the way things were developing, he didn’t want to leave anything to chance.
‘Slater.’
‘It’s Mark Clinton.’
Slater was so surprised he almost dropped the phone. Clinton was the last person he was expecting to hear from. He put his hand over the phone.
‘It’s Clinton,’ he hissed to Norman.
Norman’s mouth dropped open. Slater thought it wasn’t the prettiest sight he’d ever seen, especially as Norman had a mouthful of coleslaw.
‘I won’t pretend I’m not surprised to hear from you, sir,’ he said down the phone. ‘But if you’ve just called to offer more threats, we’re not listening.’