by Ford, P. F.
“Yes, it is. We prefer to deter, rather than waste time on pointless prosecutions, and in this case, I’d like you to be the deterrent. Try to find out where it’s going on; take a couple of uniforms along and carry out a raid. That should frighten the crap out of the buggers. Tell them to go and practice their dirty little hobby somewhere else.”
Murray looked up at Slater, gave him a nod, and the barest hint of a smile, and then returned to his paperwork once again.
“That’ll be all, David, thank you.”
As he closed the door behind him, Slater’s first instinct was to feel indignation at being handed such a shitty little job to do. He was better than this. He’d recently solved a murder and cracked a big corruption ring. Then his better side came to the fore and a little humility started to shine through. After all, he hadn’t actually solved those cases all on his own. There had been three brains working together…
Then he remembered he was supposed to be working on changing his thinking. During that particular case, he’d been made aware that he had a tendency to focus on negative thoughts and he’d resolved to try to become much more positive in his outlook. Maybe he needed to take another look at the job he’d just been given and view it in a different way.
Yes, it’s true it was a bit of a come down after the recent murder and corruption cases he’d been involved in, but they couldn’t give him big cases when there weren’t any, could they? He was here to do a job, and if finding a flasher was all they had for him to do, then he’d just have to get on with it. It didn’t matter if a case was big or small; he was still going to be pitting his wits against someone else. He was good at that, and he would catch this guy, whoever he was.
As he ambled back to his office, he recalled he’d read somewhere that some people found it helpful to give a name to their opponent, and that name then became the name of the case they were working on. He thought he could try that idea himself. So, he wondered, what could he call the flasher? The name came into his head so fast he felt it had to be a sign. A good sign. He was going to solve the Dick Waver case.
When he got back to his desk, he gathered together everything he could find related to his case. He hadn’t realised the flasher had been so busy. No wonder Murray wanted it sorted – in the last four weeks there had been nearly 20 reported incidents. He grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and made a quick note of the dates. There was no doubt about it, the guy was definitely escalating.
Just then, the phone on his desk buzzed.
“Slater.”
“I’m told you’re the ‘go to guy’ for the flasher case.” It was the duty sergeant from downstairs.
“How did you know that? I’ve only just this minute been given the case.”
“Well, perhaps I’m psychic, or maybe it’s just that I take the time to read the memos the boss sends me. Whatever. There’s been another sighting.”
“Where?”
“Swimming pool down at the leisure centre. Ladies changing rooms.”
“Christ! That’s bit brazen isn’t it? And risky.”
“Apparently it’s OAPs’ morning. There were only two old biddies in there, so it wasn’t that much of a risk. They’re waiting there now. I told them Tinton’s finest was on his way, so off you go.”
“Right. Great. Thank you so much. I suppose I’d better get down there.”
“That’s the general idea, Sherlock.”
There was a dull click as the call was ended, followed by a crash as someone tripped on their way through the office door.
“Arsehole,” muttered Slater, as he put the phone down.
“I hope that’s not me you’re calling names,” said a voice behind Slater. It was DS Norman Norman, one of the few people Slater was happy to exchange banter with. He looked as crumpled as ever, and his hair seemed to be even curlier than normal.
“I see you still haven’t found that iron,” said Slater, with a grin.
“As you’re so worried about it, and you have nothing better to do, maybe you should take on the job of trying to find it,” said Norman, heading towards his own desk. He had several folders tucked under one arm, a plate of doughnuts in the same hand, and a cup of dirty grey liquid, that was impersonating a cup of coffee, in his free hand.
“Sorry, mate,” Slater said, sighing in mock regret. “I’d love to help, but I already have a case to solve.”
“Really?” said Norman. “What is it?” He reached forward and managed to slide the plate of doughnuts onto his desk. As he did, the folders spilled from under his arm, disgorging their contents onto the floor. Inevitably, as he lunged for the folders, the coffee from the other hand followed in the same direction. He looked down sadly at the pile of soggy, brown-stained papers. Then his face brightened.
“The good news,” he said, “is I didn’t lose my doughnuts. Now that would have been a disaster.”
Slater watched as Norman sank to his knees and began to gather his mess together.
“So what’s this case?” he asked Slater from the floor.
“Dick Waver,” announced Slater.
“Who?”
“Dick Waver. The Phantom Flasher.”
“Ah! I see that razor sharp sense of humour of yours is hard at work,” said Norman. “I see what you did there. Dick Waver. That’s very good, but I should leave it at that. You don’t want to use up all that amazing comedy in one day.”
“What have you got there?” asked Slater, ignoring Norman’s dig at his sense of humour. “Apart from a bloody mess all over the floor.”
“Oooh! You’re so sharp today I might sustain a cut.” Norman grinned up at him. “What I have here is a case of genius counterfeiting.”
“Genius?” asked Slater dubiously.
“Apparently they’re selling Gucci bags. That’s Gucci, spelt G-U-C-H-I. It seems Tinton counterfeiters are illiterate. Or stupid. Or probably both.”
“Any leads?” asked Slater.
“Does the name Allison Beatty mean anything to you?”
A wicked smile raced into place on Slater’s face. Oh yes. He knew Allison Beatty. He thought probably everyone in this station knew Allison, and everyone in this station who had met her the first time hoped they never had to cross swords with her again. Everyone, that is, except Norman, who had only recently arrived in Tinton and hadn’t yet had the pleasure.
Slater wondered if he should warn his friend about Allison, but then he recalled how no-one had given him advance warning and decided it wouldn’t hurt to keep quiet. Norman was a big boy. He could take care of himself.
“Allison? Sure, I know her. She’s a real sweetie. You’ll love her,” lied Slater, knowing Norman couldn’t see his face from his position on his hands and knees on the floor.
“Any leads with the flasher?” asked Norman.
Slater looked at his watch, and began moving a bit faster.
“Apparently he’s just been pointing Percy at the pensioners down the swimming pool. I’m supposed to be on my way there now,” he said, gathering his mobile phone and notebook.
“Oh well.” Norman sighed heavily. “You run along, now. I guess I’ll just have to carry on being the only style icon in the country without an iron.”
As Slater headed out of the office, he glanced at the sticky paperwork that Norman was scraping off the floor, wondering idly how on earth his friend was going to manage to read any of it.
On his way out, Slater stuck his head into the main office and looked around. He was hoping to find Steve Biddeford. With any luck, he wouldn’t be too busy, in which case he just might fancy taking a ride out to the swimming pool. He finally spotted him standing over the printer, impatiently grabbing each printed sheet as it emerged.
“You looking for me?” Biddeford asked Slater as he approached across the office.
“If you’re not too busy,” said Slater, optimistically.
“If you can just hang on while this finishes printing,” he said, “I’ll be with you. Are we going somewhere nice?”
“OAPs’ swimming session,” said Slater. “Apparently the Phantom Flasher’s struck again. Dick Waver’s been entertaining the ladies in the changing rooms.”
“Can’t we pick him up if we know who he is?” asked Biddeford.
“Sorry?” said Slater.
“If you know his name, we can get an address and pick him up, can’t we?”
“But we don’t have a name.”
“I thought you said his name was Dick somebody.”
“Yeah. Dick Waver.” Slater sighed, heavily. Sometimes he wondered how Biddeford was ever going to survive out on the streets.
“No,” he explained. “That’s not the bloke’s name. It’s just what I call him, because it’s what he does.”
Biddeford looked blank.
“Oh come on, Steve,” said Slater, slowly and patiently. “What does a flasher do? He waves his dick at people, therefore he’s a dick waver. Yes?”
“Ah! Right.” Biddeford smiled, and then bent down to pick up the final piece of paper, which the printer had spat out onto the floor with some violence.
“It’s a sort of play on words, isn’t it?” He grinned at Slater. “Dick Waver. Clever.”
“It is if you get it, I suppose,” said Slater, shaking his head.
“Can I bring this with me?” asked Biddeford, putting his papers in order. “So I can have a quick read in the car.”
“Yeah, I don’t see why not.” Slater nodded, wondering what his colleague was working on.
Chapter 2
As Slater drove slowly out to the swimming pool, Biddeford cast his eyes quickly over his printing. As he read, he removed several pages, screwed them up and tossed them into the back of the car.
“I hope you’re going to collect your rubbish and take it with you when we get back,” said Slater, dismayed.
“Fifteen sheets of paper to print out what started off as a short email,” said Biddeford in disgust. “What a waste. Three sheets would have covered it with room to spare.”
“So, after you’ve discarded the waste paper, what are you left with? Anything interesting?”
“Missing girl,” said Biddeford. “Well, her mother says she’s missing. Thing is, she’s over 18, so she’s not exactly a minor is she? At that age she doesn’t have to tell her mum what she’s up to if she doesn’t want to.”
“So why has it been sent to us?” asked Slater.
“Apparently she’s from the Birmingham area. According to the mother, the girl might have been heading for Tinton when she left home,” said Biddeford, reading from the pages.
“Why would anyone want to come to Tinton?” asked Slater. “It’s not exactly a tourist hotspot, is it?”
“Doesn’t say why,” said Biddeford. “Doesn’t say if she ever arrived either.”
“So you’re looking for someone who might, or might not, have been heading for Tinton, and if she was coming here we don’t know if she ever arrived,” said Slater.
“That’s about the size of it,” agreed Biddeford, hoping Slater might see fit to offer him a little guidance.
“Well, good luck with that.”
The pair sat in silence for a few seconds.
“So, what are you going to do about this missing girl?” Slater asked, eventually.
“I’ll get some photos printed, and hand them out to all the uniforms. You never know, someone might spot her around town or might have already seen her. Then I’ll check the hospital, youth hostel, places like that. There’s not much more I can do really, is there?”
“That’s more or less got it covered,” Slater said. “Unless we get something a lot more definite to go on.”
Biddeford folded his papers and placed them, neatly and tidily, on the back seat.
“Right,” he said, as he turned back, pleased to have got some confirmation from Slater that he was on the right track. “So how come our flasher’s targeting pensioners?”
“Apparently Leisure for Pleasure is the company that owns a whole load of these leisure centres and they’ve come up with what they call their ‘pensioner initiative’. They’ve reserved the entire centre for pensioners only on Tuesday mornings. They seem to think it will encourage some of the old codgers to spend their grey pounds on annual memberships.”
“Have you seen the prices?” asked Biddeford. “I doubt many pensioners could afford to join for a week, never mind for a whole year. Why do they think they stay away in the first place?”
“Now you’re thinking like a pensioner,” Slater said, laughing. “But you’re exactly right. From what I can make out, the pensioners think the membership fees are outrageous and the few that do come along are only there because it’s something to do, and it’s free.”
He pulled into the car park and picked a space close to the entrance. It wasn’t difficult to get a space that close. In a car park that could probably hold a hundred cars, there were just six other cars that morning, and four of those were in the area reserved for staff.
“Looks like the pensioner initiative’s not working too well,” said Biddeford.
“I rest my case,” said Slater, smugly.
Slater led Biddeford into the building, and spotted a rather smarmy looking, ginger-haired man, in blue shorts and a ‘Leisure for Pleasure’ sweatshirt bustling across to meet them. He informed them his name was Rodney Rodgers, but he would be happy for them to call him Rod. “Call me Rod” turned out to be the manager, and, looking around, Slater thought this would explain quite a lot.
Slater guessed Rodgers was in his 50s, but he obviously worked out rather more than was necessary to keep fit. Slater noticed he kept flexing his muscles – no doubt trying to make some sort of impression. Well, he did make an impression. Unfortunately for Rodney Rogers, the impression Slater got was that he was a prize tit.
Things didn’t improve when he started to complain about how the police were failing to do their job and protect the people of Tinton from perverts and sexual deviants.
“We really don’t want this sort of thing happening here,” he said. “It lowers the tone. We run a very high-class establishment. Our clientele are the very best people and they expect only the best.”
“One of your ‘very best people’ could be the flasher,” Slater pointed out.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The flasher. He could well be one of your members,” repeated Slater.
“No. That’s just not possible,” said Rodgers indignantly. “In fact,” he continued, “I don’t know how you could think such a thing. We don’t allow any old riff-raff in here you know. We have security.”
“If your security is so great that no one but members can get in, it follows that the flasher must be a member, mustn’t he?” said Slater, giving Rodgers his best smile as he scored the first point.
The manager’s mouth flapped silently, as this logic clearly struck home.
“Anyway, where is this ‘security’?” asked Slater.
“Up there.” Rodgers pointed to a camera above the reception desk. “And there are three more outside, one in the area leading up to the changing rooms, and another one in the restaurant.”
“Right,” said Slater, beginning to feel they might just get a quick result here. “So we should be able to see exactly who the flasher is then.”
“Ah!” said Rodgers. “The thing is, err, how can I put this?”
“No. Don’t tell me. Let me guess,” said Slater, with exaggerated sarcasm. “They’re all dummies? Or, there’s no tape in the recorder? Or, they just don’t work.”
“A combination of all three, actually,” said a red-faced Rodgers.
“Wonderful.” Slater sighed heavily. “The fact is, you don’t have any bloody security, do you? Half the men in town could have waltzed in here this morning, waved their willies in the air and waltzed out again and we couldn’t prove anything.”
Slater had had enough of farting around with this puffed-up, ginger idiot, who wanted to be called Rod.
“Right,” he
said, decisively. “While I talk to the two ladies, my colleague here is going to interview every member of staff.”
“But you can’t think one of my staff is the flasher.”
“And why not?” said Slater, his patience now wearing very thin. “Whoever it is knows he can stroll in here unnoticed. Who would know that better than a member of your staff?”
“Err, yes, but...”
“Never mind ‘err, yes, but’,” said Slater. He pointed a finger at the manager. “We want to speak to every single member of staff, starting with you.”
He stalked away towards the restaurant. As he walked off, he heard Rodgers appeal to Biddeford in a whiny voice.
“Me? But he can’t think it’s me! I’m in charge. Of course it’s not me.”
Slater found the two lady pensioners drinking coffee in what the leisure centre rather grandly referred to as their restaurant. Slater thought it was a rather stuck-up name for what was really just a snack bar.
Mrs Grimley informed him she was 72 years old, and she was still quite fit. The younger of the two, Mrs Brannington, was just coming up to 70. They were both widows, but Slater suspected from their lively conversation and spiky wit that they were anything but the grieving type. He thought the title “merry widows” would be much nearer the mark.
When Slater showed his concern for what they had had to endure, he soon realised they didn’t seem to be too upset by their ordeal. In fact, they seemed to regard it as a rather amusing, and quite exciting, interlude to their morning. They were more than happy to tell Slater exactly what had happened, and were particularly good with details.
When he’d appeared, the man had been wearing a big, heavy, dark blue dressing gown and white training shoes with red soles. He’d marched up to them and pulled open the dressing gown to reveal himself in his full glory. Unfortunately, they didn’t see his face because he was wearing a mask. They thought it was one of the seven dwarfs.
“Which one?” asked Slater.
“Stiffy?” suggested Mrs Grimley.