by Ford, P. F.
Slater’s mouth plopped open in surprise. He just couldn’t imagine Norman being anything but the happy-go-lucky guy he appeared to be. Never in his wildest dreams could he picture Norman being depressed.
“Anyway, we’d better go,” said Norman. “We have a briefing to prepare.”
With that, he began marching off towards their incident room, leaving Slater, still gobsmacked, trailing in his wake.
Chapter 13
“Good morning, people,” said Slater. “We’ve decided the easiest way to do this is to go over everything we’ve got so far. I know it might be rather boring for those who’ve been here from the start, but it doesn’t do any harm to go over things again. You’ve all got copies of the notes we’re using for the briefing, but if anyone has any questions, feel free to ask. Remember, the only stupid question is the one you don’t ask. Okay?”
There was a murmur of “okays” from around the room. Slater had been a little disappointed to find there wasn’t exactly an army of new faces to help, but then he knew the situation. Tinton was a very small town with a very small number of police officers – resources were limited. The original team of Slater, Norman, Biddeford, Flight, and Jolly had been upgraded with the addition of two DCs, two PCs, and a sergeant who had apparently volunteered his services. Thus, the team had doubled in size overnight.
Slater knew Sergeant Toby Allen was adept at office management, which was going to be a huge bonus. While Jolly Jane was always happy to pitch in and do whatever was needed, her partner was clearly not enamoured with the idea of being tied to a desk or a phone. In fact, PC Phillipa Flight was becoming increasingly tetchy with every hour she was kept inside. Slater and Norman had agreed last night, the sooner they could get her out on the road, the happier the whole team would be.
“So this is what we have so far.” Norman moved across to the whiteboards, taking up a position alongside the first board, where he could easily point out what he was talking about.
“Our original body.” He pointed to the photo of Sarah Townley, as provided by her mother. “Sarah Townley. She was found close to the Haunted Copse on Tuesday evening by an unfortunate dog walker. The body was a terrible mess and at first could not easily be identified. The pathologist believes the girl was drugged by her attacker, loaded into a small aircraft, taken up into the air, and pushed out.”
A hand shot up from Tony Ashton, one of the DCs.
“Yes, Tony?”
“Was the girl dead before she was put into the airplane?”
“Good question,” said Norman, approvingly. “I’d like to be able to say yes, but the pathologist isn’t sure. He believes there’s a good chance she was still alive when she was pushed from the aircraft. She might even have been conscious. At this stage we just don’t know.”
There was a brief hush as they absorbed this particular piece of news and its implications.
“Her mother tells us Sarah was here to try and find out what happened to her sister who disappeared from here 15 years ago along with her daughter.”
Slater now moved alongside the second board.
“As DS Norman has already told you, this body was found by a dog walker. While we were investigating, the dog, which had run off, decided to come back. It came back carrying a human femur. A search the next morning revealed a shallow grave in the middle of the Haunted Copse. This grave contained the skeletal remains of Sandra Bressler and her five-year-old daughter.
“At that stage, we didn’t know why Sarah had come to Tinton, so there was no immediate connection between the first body and these two. However, once we were told why Sarah had come to Tinton, it seemed an unlikely coincidence. DNA proved it was no coincidence. Sandra Bressler is the sister Sarah Townley was looking for.
“Fifteen years ago, Sandra, her husband, and daughter, moved down to Tinton from the Midlands. Sandra supervised the move because her husband was away at the time. He came home at the end of the first week to find the move had gone smoothly enough, but Sandra, her daughter, and all their belongings had disappeared.”
Slater took a sip of his coffee while he let everyone absorb this.
It was Tony Ashton who asked the question, again.
“Wasn’t she reported missing at the time?”
“Yes, she was,” said Slater, slowly. “Unfortunately it seems the investigation wasn’t exactly the most thorough that’s ever been carried out.”
“It was a joke.” Norman shook his head in disgust. “I don’t think they could have stopped the murder, but they might well have found the bodies if only they’d tried looking.”
There was a hubbub about the quality of some past investigations and the word Nash was mentioned more than once, but Slater could see they were getting off the point.
“Okay, everybody,” he said, raising his voice. “We’re getting off the point here.”
Tony Ashton had another question.
“How were the mother and daughter killed, Sir?”
“This was another grisly murder,” said Norman. “It looks as if the mother was chased into the woods and then hunted down by someone using an axe. He took three big swipes at her and then smashed the back of her head in. The kid was just bashed over the head with the axe.”
“And before you ask,” added Slater. “We don’t know if the child had to watch her mother being hunted before she was killed.”
“Jesus!” Ashton looked and sounded horrified. “That’s one cold bastard that could do that.”
He had spoken for all of them.
“They’re both pretty cold murders if you ask me,” said Norman. “But then I’ve never come across a murder yet that left me feeling all warm and fuzzy, you know?”
“What you just heard,” Slater spoke loudly and deliberately, “stays in this room. The press will be told we’ve found, and identified, two bodies. They will not be told how they were killed, and no one outside this room is to know. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you why.”
“Are we looking for one killer, or two?” asked the sergeant, Toby Allen.
“That’s the $64,000 question,” said Slater. “While the victims are definitely connected, there’s 15 years between their deaths, and the methods are totally different. Having said that, it seems the first victim, Sarah, had been looking for her sister or at least trying to find out what had happened to her, so it’s quite possible she stumbled across the original killer who then killed again.”
“At the moment,” Norman said, “we’re trying to keep an open mind, and that’s what we all need to do until we have some evidence to give us a pointer. The problem with speculating without any evidence is that it’s just guessing, and I shouldn’t need to tell anyone what a waste of time that is.”
There were more murmurs of agreement.
“Okay,” said Slater. “That’s about it for now. Make sure you read your notes and remember, if you have questions, for goodness sake, ask. I don’t want to find two weeks down the road that someone had an idea but chose to keep quiet in case they made a fool of themselves.
“DS Norman will give you your assignments for today. From now on we’ll be having regular gatherings like this until we’ve solved this case, okay?”
He could hear the assorted groans and grumbles about early starts as the meeting began to break up. He could understand how they all felt, but it was part of the job, and they all knew it. He looked around for Steve Biddeford.
“Steve? Have you got a minute, please?”
“Sure,” said Biddeford, making his way across the room. “What can I do for you?”
“Any luck with your hunt for a light aircraft?”
“Not a bloody thing so far,” he said, gloomily. “I started 20 miles out, like you said, and I’m working my way back in. I’ve got just the one airfield left to visit, at Trapworth. It’s about five miles away, but I’m not optimistic, to be honest. I did think it might be an idea to do a house to house within the area around the Haunted Copse. Maybe someone actually heard an aircraft tha
t night. At least I’d know for sure that I was following the right trail.”
“Now that is a great idea.” Slater looked round the room. “Take PC Flight with you. She keeps saying she’d rather be out and about.”
“You’re telling me she does,” said Biddeford. “She never stops going on about it. Grumpy cow.”
Slater was quite taken aback by Biddeford’s tone. It wasn’t like him to speak ill of any of his colleagues.
“Really that bad, is it?” asked Slater.
“Hell hath no fury like Phillipa Flight,” said Biddeford. “Miss Fire and Brimstone they call her behind her back.”
“Any idea why she’s so shitty?” Slater was curious.
“Not a clue,” said Biddeford. “But I can try and find out while we’re on the road, if you like?”
“I’d like to know,” said Slater, “because when she’s on the ball she’s pretty good at her job. But I don’t want her pissing the team off – we’ve got a crappy enough job as it is. Put your new skills to good use, but try to be a bit subtle. I don’t want you coming back here minus your testicles because she snapped them off, okay?”
“I’ll be careful, I promise,” said Biddeford, nodding.
“So how was Flighty when you told her she was going out in plain clothes with Steve Biddeford today?” Slater asked Norman when things began to quieten down.
“She looked at me as if I’d handed her a slimy turd,” said Norman.
“What the hell’s the matter with her?” said a frustrated Slater. “We try and keep her happy and she’s still complaining. What’s she got against Biddeford?”
“Oh, I don’t think she’s got anything against him personally. Or against us, come to that. It seems to be life in general that’s the problem. Maybe she’s just not getting enough at home,” said Norman, with a dirty wink. “You seem to have a way with the ladies. Perhaps you should include it in your duties, as team leader, to keep the female staff happy.”
“Ha! I don’t think that’s ever going to happen,” said Slater. “The last time I tried to make a joke about her and me she seemed to take offence, so I won’t be doing that again.”
Chapter 14
“Look, I know it’s none of my business,” began Biddeford from the passenger seat, feeling slightly nervous about the conversation he was embarking on.
“You’re right. It’s not,” said PC Flight, grimly, her eyes glued to the road ahead as she drove them out towards Trapworth airfield.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say yet,” Biddeford said, shaking his head.
“When someone starts a sentence with the words ‘I know it’s none of my business,” snapped Flight, “it nearly always means they’re right. So, if you’re going to ask anything about me in any way, shape, or form, it is none of your business. Alright?”
Biddeford sighed wearily.
“Okay, Constable,” he said. “Turn the car round and let’s go back.”
“What?” PC Flight turned to look at him, her voice full of surprise. “Why?”
“I’ll drop you back at the station and drive myself, thank you.”
“But you can’t do that,” she said.
“It’s alright,” said Biddeford. “I’m sure when you explain to Dave Slater that I’ve refused to work with you, he’ll be just fine about it.”
“But why don’t you want to work with me?”
“Do you know what they call you back at the station, behind your back?” said Biddeford. “Miss Hellfire and Brimstone.”
Flight kept her eyes on the road and said nothing.
“Have you listened to yourself lately?” Biddeford continued. “You haven’t got a good word to say about anyone, or anything. You’ve done nothing but bitch and moan about being stuck inside, and now you’ve been given what you want, and let out to play, you’re still bitching and moaning.”
He realised then that PC Flight had pulled the car over to the side of the road, and was sitting there looking at him, her face bright red. He paused to give her the opportunity to speak, but his verbal attack seemed to have caught her completely off-guard.
“I was actually looking forward to having someone different to work with,” he said, when it became obvious she had nothing to say. “I thought it would be good to have someone different to talk to, and something different to talk about. I even hoped I might be able to have an intelligent conversation for a change. But, no. What I seem to have been lumbered with is a bear with a bloody sore head, and I’m sorry, but I’m not having it.”
“Look,” she said, eventually. “I’m just having a rough time right now, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you to talk about it,” said Biddeford. “I was just going to politely point out that you’re getting a reputation for being a right miserable cow, that’s all. And whatever your rough time might be, making life hell for everyone else won’t solve it.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and Biddeford thought she actually sounded it. “I know you’re right. I just don’t know what’s wrong with me lately, but please don’t make me go back. I promise I’ll try not to be grumpy.”
“You don’t have to be all happy clappy, you know,” said Biddeford. “Just be civil. We all have shit days, and we all sometimes have to do crappy jobs we’d rather not have to do, but acting like a snappy cow and making it a shit day for everyone else is not the answer.”
“Right. Yes. I’m sorry,” she said. Biddeford felt a bit sorry for her, sitting there, her face scarlet.
“Okay. Let’s hope we don’t need to mention your attitude again,” he said, once he thought she’d got the message. “Now, shall we proceed?”
“Yes,” she said, her relief at not having to face Slater almost palpable. “Of course.”
She eased back into the traffic and headed for Trapworth. Biddeford glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He knew he had left her quite stunned by his outburst – he wasn’t the kind of guy who usually spoke up about stuff like that. If he was honest, he was quite stunned too. When he’d been on a recent training course he’d been told he needed to have more confidence in himself. They told him he needed to assert himself and take control when the situation demanded it. Also, he should not be afraid to express his opinion a bit more often if he really wanted to get on.
This was the first time he’d actually put any of it into practice. He thought he’d taken control of this particular situation and really been assertive. It wasn’t so hard after all, he thought. And it looked like it had worked. He already had the feeling PC Flight had a new respect for him now he’d offered her some sound advice about her attitude.
He sneaked a sideways glance at her again. He’d never taken much notice of her before, but then he’d only ever seen her in uniform. Now she was this close to him, in jeans, tee shirt and bomber jacket, he realised she was actually quite attractive. She had quite a pretty face when she stopped scowling, and he liked the way her short, dark hair was styled. She looked quite different without the usual hat.
But then he began to feel guilty. What was he thinking? She was married, for goodness sake. And anyway, she was 10 years older than he was.
He sneaked another quick little look. Married or not, she was certainly one fit looking lady. He began to blush slightly at the direction his thoughts were taking. He thought it was a good thing she was unaware he was eyeing her up like this.
“Do I have to call you sir?” she asked.
“I’m sorry?” he said.
“While we’re working like this,” she said. “Do I have to call you sir? Or detective constable? Or what?”
“Oh. Right,” said Biddeford. “I see what you mean. I’m not sure, to be honest.”
He thought about it for a moment or two.
“Whenever I’m with Dave Slater, it’s always first names unless we’re dealing with the public, and then I call him boss, or guv, or sir. So while we’re working together how about you call me Steve, or boss? I really
don’t want you to call me ‘sir’. I mean, we’re both constables, aren’t we? So ‘sir’ doesn’t seem right somehow.”
“Okay, Steve. That’s good enough for me. I’m Phillipa, Philly, or Phil.”
“Which do you prefer?” he asked.
“Phil is just fine, for work colleagues,” she said.
Then, after a pause she added, “Of course, that will change when you get to know me better.”
Biddeford shifted uncomfortably, and wondered what exactly it was he was feeling. He thought back to what he had learnt on the training course. Be more confident, he told himself. Be assertive. I am in control here. We’re just colleagues, and that’s all we’re ever going to be. We’re never going to be anything more. You don’t mix work and pleasure. And anyway, she’s a married woman. Now pull yourself together, focus on the job in hand, and stop behaving like some lovesick schoolboy.
As if on cue, the entrance to Trapworth airfield appeared ahead. When he’d spoken to the guy who ran the airfield, Biddeford had been given the impression it was a bustling transport hub, but he could see straight away that he’d been subjected to a considerable degree of exaggeration. Compared with one or two of the other small airfields he’d visited, it was a bit of a stretch to even mention this one in the same breath.
Flight pulled in through the entrance and stopped the car while they got their bearings. The airfield was simply a field on top of a hill. It was surrounded by trees on all four sides, making it pretty well hidden from anyone living anywhere near, although Biddeford was pretty certain there were no houses within at least a quarter of a mile. The runway was a strip of well-mown grass running from east to west across the middle. At each end of the runway, the mown strip turned towards the far end of the field.
At that far end, in the right hand corner, sat a vast, ancient, open-sided barn with a sagging tin roof. Biddeford thought this must be the hangar he’d been told to look out for. Two tatty, sad-looking, aircraft squatted under the sagging roof, both presumably undergoing some form of restoration or repair.