by Ford, P. F.
‘This is rubbish,’ she said. ‘I was the one who wanted you to find her. I wouldn’t have done that if I had killed her would I?’
‘Yes,’ said Slater. ‘I must admit I had to think about that one, but then I realised, it wasn’t you who wanted the case re-investigated was it? It was Jenny Radstock. She was the one who pushed for us to get involved, and then once the ball was rolling you couldn’t stop it could you?’
‘You thought making out you were keen to find out what really happened would be way too clever for the stupid policemen, right?’ said Norman. ‘But I’m afraid you’re not as clever as you think you are, and we’re not quite as stupid as you think we are. All the clues led to your husband just as you had intended, but you made a couple of mistakes that didn’t quite fit, and that made us re-examine our evidence.’
‘You see no-one’s ever excluded until we’re sure we’ve got the right person,’ said Slater.
‘I want my lawyer,’ she demanded, heading for the phone in the hallway.
‘Don’t worry,’ Slater assured her. ‘You can make that call from the station. Okay Norm, take her away.’
Norman read Beverley Green her rights, and then led her towards their car. As they got to the front door, a van pulled up and the forensic technicians began to gather their equipment, ready to go through the freezers with a fine-toothed comb. They weren’t sure they would find anything, but according to Sebastian, they needed to take a good close look at the one in the garage.
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was 9pm on Friday evening. Dave Slater climbed from the shower and towelled himself dry. It had been a late finish, and he was tired and hungry, but he felt pretty good. And so he should, he thought. It wasn’t every week you got to solve so many major crimes at once.
He’d thought about getting dressed up and going down the pub but, quite frankly, he just couldn’t be bothered. Instead of dressing up, he dressed down in his pyjamas. He figured by the time he’d thrown together some sort of meal and watched an hour’s TV he’d be ready to hit the sack anyway. He knew he was being pretty boring, but that’s just how he felt tonight.
He made his way into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge door. He wasn’t really surprised to find there wasn’t much inside. A few limp vegetables and a pack of sausages that were a full week past their sell-by date didn’t exactly inspire his inner chef. He gathered the contents from the fridge, stepped on the pedal and dropped the lot into the bin. Oh well, he could always phone for a takeaway.
He was trying to decide if he fancied Chinese or Indian, when his doorbell rang. He looked at his watch. Who the hell was ringing his bell at gone nine? He thought about ignoring it, but whoever it was wasn’t going to give up. The bell rang again.
‘Bollocks!’ he said quietly to himself. Then, much louder, ‘Alright, alright. I’m coming.’
He swung the door open. A woman stood before him, her face hidden behind the carrier she was holding aloft in her left hand, obviously filled with food. It was Indian, he could smell the spices. The carrier slowly lowered and Jenny Radstock peeped over the top.
She smiled cautiously, and then brought her right arm from behind her back. In her right hand, she held a bottle of champagne by the neck. Her red hair had been released from the bun she often wore when working, and it flowed over her shoulders, framing her face.
‘I come in peace,’ she said. ‘I heard you’d got a result so I thought congratulations were in order. I thought you might be hungry. And I was hoping you might like some company.’
He looked at her in surprise. They hadn’t parted on very good terms last time they had spoken and he really hadn’t expected to see her again, so this really was a surprise.
She looked disappointed.
‘I can go away if you’d prefer,’ she said. ‘I do understand. I was a bit selfish, wasn’t I?’
She’d lowered the bag and the bottle to her sides now, and he could see she was dressed in jeans, designer, of course, and a thin tee shirt. He could see quite clearly there was nothing under the tee shirt. And she had open-toed shoes with four-inch heels and ankle straps. Oh my. How had she known he had a thing about ankle straps and high heels?
He suddenly realised he was in his pyjamas.
‘Err, I’m not exactly dressed for guests,’ he began.
‘I’ll go then, shall I?’ She pouted.
‘No! No. That’s not what I mean at all,’ he said. ‘I just wasn’t expecting anyone. I certainly didn’t expect you to turn up on my doorstep clutching a takeaway and a bottle.’
‘So, is that a yes?’ she asked. ‘Only this food’s going to get cold.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, stepping back. ‘Please come in.’
She came through the door, carrying her gifts, lingering in front of him long enough for him to inhale her perfume as she passed. Ah yes, he remembered, Chanel Number Five. He thought she smelled every bit as good as she looked, and right now, she looked pretty fabulous.
She marched straight through to his tiny kitchen and began opening cupboards looking for plates and dishes.
‘Here’ she instructed, offering him the bottle. ‘You find some glasses and open this, while I sort out this food.’
Obediently, he did as he was told. Suddenly he didn’t feel so tired. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be quite so boring after all.
By the time he’d found two glasses, opened the champagne, poured the drinks and handed one to her, she had the food laid out on the table. It was very cramped, and one or two dishes steamed away on the side, but there was more than enough to be going on with. He sat opposite her.
‘I think we should toast Sergeant Dave Slater and his dogged persistence.’ She smiled, her green eyes sparkling.
They clinked glasses and sipped their drinks.
‘It was a team effort,’ he said, slightly embarrassed at her praise.
‘I think we should also toast the fact that I can see I was behaving very badly and being very selfish,’ she said.
She raised her glass and clinked it against his again.
‘No hard feelings?’ she asked.
‘No hard feelings,’ he agreed.
They took another drink.
‘Can I also ask you to toast the resumption of friendly relations between us?’ she asked.
They clinked glasses and drank again. She reached for the bottle and topped up their glasses.
‘Whoa,’ said Slater. ‘You’re in a hurry! Are you trying to get me drunk?’
‘Good heavens no.’ She gave him a coy smile. ‘I’m trying to get both of us drunk.’
‘Do you think that’s necessary?’ he asked.
‘Oh, it’s not necessary,’ she agreed. ‘But it does help to remove any inhibitions, don’t you think?’
‘We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’ he said.
There was an awkward silence while they sat and watched each other. It was one of those “what’s going to happen next” situations, but the moment was lost when Slater’s stomach began growling loudly.
‘I think we should probably eat,’ he said, red-faced. ‘I haven’t eaten all day, and we don’t want it to get cold.’
As they began to eat, the tension between them eased and Slater began to relax. He had to admit she was very good company, very easy to be with, and very easy on the eye, too. She had that great talent of being a good listener as well as a good talker. She soon got him talking about the Ruth Thornhill case and how they’d come to the conclusion Beverley Green was the murderer.
‘So how does it all fit together?’ she asked him.
‘You’re not asking about this because you’re going to be defending her are you?’ asked Slater, wary of letting his guard down too far.
‘Good God, no! I’m far too close to get involved. Conflict of interest and all that,’ she explained. ‘I’m just curious to know how you did it, that’s all.’
And so he told her about Ruth and her double life as Ruby. He told her about Beverley ca
rrying on for years behind Paul’s back thinking he didn’t know, but he had known all along. About how Beverley had tried to make Ruth’s life a misery and how Ruth had gained her revenge by becoming Ruby and seducing Paul.
He told her about how Paul had found Ruth a job up in London, and then found a flat where he could be with her up in town. But, somehow, Beverley had found out and wanted revenge.
So she’d persuaded Sebastian to drive her up to Clapham so she could spy on Paul and Ruby. Then she’d heard about the Brazil nut protein and how it could be transmitted through sex. All she had to do was arrange for Paul to eat some brazil nuts before he had sex with Ruby.
‘But how did she get him to eat Brazil nuts at the right time?’ Jenny asked.
‘She used to pack him a bag full of healthy snacks to take with him every week. You know the sort of thing – dried fruits and seeds, energy bars, that sort of thing. Then on the week that mattered, she added Brazil nuts. She knew what would happen because she knew about Ruth’s allergy, but Paul had no idea. He was like a walking time bomb for Ruby that week.’
‘But how did she know about that, what’s it called? SPPA?’ she asked.
‘There was a TV show that featured it,’ he told her. ‘She says Paul watched it with her and he was really interested, but it was on a Wednesday. Paul was in London with Ruby.’
‘And I suppose Beverley knew that Paul’s rare blood group would lead you to him quite easily?’ she suggested.
‘Exactly,’ confirmed Slater. ‘She was pretty cute about the whole thing. But we think we’ve found evidence to prove Ruby’s body was kept in the freezer in Beverley’s garage, and they’ve found Ruby’s mobile phone. I’m betting Beverley’s finger prints will be all over it.’
‘But don’t you think your case is a bit flaky?’ she asked. ‘There’s plenty of circumstantial evidence against her, but there’s just as much against him. It’s his word against hers about the Brazil nuts. And can you really believe he didn’t know about her allergy? I’d fight tooth and nail on that if I was defending her. And what about the TV show? He could have seen it when he was with Ruby. And how could she have seen it if she was with Sebastian, sat outside Ruby’s flat? Then there’s the freezer. He’s got access to it as well, you know. And she could argue he hid the mobile phone.’
‘Ah!’ said Slater, triumphantly. ‘That’s why it’s a good job we’ve got our secret weapon. Sebastian can prove where she was on the night of the murder. He was her accomplice in removing the body and bringing it back down here and storing it in her freezer. He also helped her take the frozen body back up there and dump it in the river. Sadly, for Beverley, her accomplice isn’t made from the same stuff she is. No amount of sex with her could ease his conscience in the end.’
‘Now that does make a difference,’ she agreed.
‘You know him too, don’t you?’ he asked.
‘If you mean do I know Sebastian, yes I do,’ she said. ‘If you mean is he my tennis coach, then yes, sort of. Beverley and I play doubles together, and at one time she insisted he coach us, but frankly he’s got no idea.
‘However, if you mean am I having sex with him, no I am not. He’s not my type. I like a man who wants to be a man. Sebastian doesn’t screw Beverley, she screws him. It’s a subtle difference, but it’s real enough.’
‘Yeah. He’s not exactly the hero type,’ he agreed.
‘Well, I’m glad you’ve got him to complete your case,’ she said. ‘Otherwise you’d have to prove Beverley had found out about SPPA some other way.’
‘Like how?’ he asked.
‘Maybe she had a friend who saw the programme and told her about it,’ she suggested, mysteriously.
Slater sat there for a moment as her words slowly sunk in. What had she just said? His mind was buzzing, but she was talking again.
‘Now I don’t know about you,’ she murmured. ‘But I’m going upstairs to find your bed.’
She got up from her chair and moved around the table. As she passed him, she ran her fingers across his shoulders and through his hair.
‘Don’t be long,’ she whispered, as she walked towards the stairs.
‘But you’re a friend of hers,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Of course I am,’ she said. ‘One of dozens.’
He thought about this.
‘Are you telling me you told her?’
But there was no reply. She’d already gone upstairs. All he heard was the slight creak of the floorboards above him as she climbed into his bed.
Just A Coincidence
© 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
It was cold, and it was dark, and she was beginning to wish she was somewhere else. Crouching behind the tail of a small airplane parked about 30 yards from where he was, she watched him busily removing the canvas cover and guy ropes from a similar aircraft. He was working by the dim light that spilled from two distant security lights and a head torch he was wearing.
She thought he was maybe preparing for take-off, but why was he working in the dark? Surely he would need more light than this. At the very least, he would need runway lights, wouldn’t he?
Ten minutes ago, she’d thought about giving it up as a bad job, and leaving him to it. She had been thinking maybe following him hadn’t been such a brilliant idea, but then it had occurred to her that whatever he was doing out here, he had to be up to no good. If she could just find out what it was, maybe she would have some leverage; something she could threaten to use against him. Then he would have to listen, wouldn’t he?
As she concentrated on watching him, she was taken by surprise as a small figure appeared beside her. She felt the sharp stab of a hypodermic needle plunged into her neck, and then, remarkably quickly, she found she couldn’t move and everything was going black…
The pilot was not a happy man. Carrying an unconscious passenger all the way to France wasn’t part of the deal, and she certainly shouldn’t be in a heap on the floor of the tiny cockpit. But when the boss points a gun at you and insists you are going to do as you’re told, your options become severely limited, and he had no doubt the threat was genuine. So here they were, bumping along the runway, struggling to get off the ground because of the additional weight he hadn’t bargained on carrying.
The engine was screaming as they felt the wheels lift from the ground and they were airborne at last. The pilot focused his attention on the controls as they lifted away from the airfield and began to climb into the darkness. He’d done this plenty of times before, but it was always risky and required total concentration.
He thought he heard a grunt from the body curled on the floor, but the boss would have to deal with it. He had his hands full flying this thing in the dark. Such was his focus, he was suddenly shocked to hear the aircraft door bang open and feel air rushing all around him. The tiny airplane jerked violently to one side and it took all his skill and attention to keep it under control.
By the time he was able to look across to see what was happening, all had become calm again and the door had been closed. To his horror, he realised the unconscious girl was gone.
“I think maybe better this way,” shouted the boss above the engine noise. “Say nothing to anyone now.”
“But you can’t do that,” screamed the pilot. “It’s murder.”
“Is done.” The boss smiled, and the pilot caught sight of a pistol. “You have problem?”
The pilot had plenty of problems with the way things were going, but the sight of the pistol made him swallow his words before they got him into trouble. He chose to say nothing.
“No?” asked the boss, smiling broadly. “Is good. Is ver’ good.”
Chapter 1
The Phantom Flasher had been at large
for four weeks now. Or, at least, DS Dave Slater was told reports had been coming in for four weeks. Of course, the guy could have been waving his willy around Tinton for years without anyone even noticing, but whoever he was, and however long he’d been pursuing this particular hobby, he’d now officially become a nuisance.
The most likely scenario was that it was some sad case with too much time on his hands, but there was always the outside possibility that it could escalate into something much more serious. This was why Slater had been chosen to carry out an investigation – and hopefully apprehend the villain before the outside possibility had a chance to develop into reality.
Slater had not been best pleased when Murray had passed the case on to him.
“But, Boss,” he had protested. “This isn’t me. I want something I can get my teeth into.”
“That would probably be a very effective way of stopping a flasher,” growled Murray, returning to his paperwork. “But I’m sure it wouldn’t meet the approval of the health and safety people.”
Slater looked at Murray in amazement. His boss wasn’t noted for his sharp sense of humour, and his face very rarely showed his true feelings. Slater couldn’t be sure, but he could have sworn that was supposed to have been a joke.
It had taken Slater a further five minutes of futile protests, steadfastly ignored by Murray, before he reluctantly accepted that he had indeed been lumbered with solving the case of the Phantom Flasher. Then, just as he turned to go, Murray had added to his burden.
“I’m told we have an outbreak of dogging in the area,” he’d said, without looking up from his desk.
“Dogging?” echoed Slater.
“Yes, dogging. I don’t have to explain what that is, do I?”
“Err, no, Boss, of course not. But I thought that sort of thing was frowned upon rather than prosecuted?”