by Ford, P. F.
Biddeford strode up the path and rang the doorbell. A small boy, aged about 10, opened the door, stepped through and pulled it partly shut behind him. He stood looking up at Biddeford.
“Hello,” said Biddeford. “Is your mum or dad in?”
“Who are you?” asked the boy.
“I’m from the police. Look, here’s my warrant card.”
He opened his wallet and held it so the boy could see it. His eyes widened as he studied the card.
“Dad!” yelled the boy, without taking his eyes from the warrant card. “It’s the police!”
Then, he addressed Biddeford, in a much quieter voice.
“Has he been speeding again?”
“Not to my knowledge, no,” replied Biddeford. “He’s not done anything wrong. I’m just making enquiries from house to house.”
“What about?” asked the boy.
“Never you mind,” said the boy’s father, pulling the door open. He took the boy gently by the shoulders and steered him back through the door.
“You go inside,” he said. “I’ll deal with this.”
He turned back to Biddeford.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said, smiling. “He likes to stick his nose into everything.”
“That’s okay.” Biddeford smiled back.
“What can I do for you?” asked the man.
“We’re making enquiries about last Monday night,” Biddeford began.
“The night before that poor girl got found at the Haunted Copse?”
“That’s right,” said Biddeford. “Did you hear, or see, anything unusual that night?”
“No, I’m sorry. Is there anything in particular?”
“We believe a light aircraft may have passed over late that night.”
“Well, if it did,” said the man. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear it.”
“I did,” said the small boy from behind his father.
“I’ve told you about making these things up before.” The boy’s father turned to his son.
“But I did, honest,” said the boy.
Biddeford felt a slight tingle. This could be it.
The man turned back to Biddeford.
“Sorry about this,” he said. “He’s got a vivid imagination. He’s always saying he’s heard light aircraft in the night, but we never hear them.”
“I’ll prove it,” said the boy. “It’ll be in my diary.”
He rushed off and Biddeford could hear him running upstairs. His father looked distinctly embarrassed.
“I’m really sorry,” he began. “Isn’t there a law against wasting police time?”
“It’s okay, really,” said Biddeford. “I’ve got plenty of time. What’s in his diary?”
“He records the movements of light aircraft he reckons he can hear going over at night. He sits up in his room listening for them when he’s supposed to be asleep. He reckons there must be something suspicious going on because they’re not allowed to fly at night. Like I said, he’s got a vivid imagination.”
PC Flight had arrived behind Biddeford and he introduced her to the boy’s father. They learnt that his name was Richard Spencer and his son was Thomas, but everyone called him Tommy.
“Tommy’s got something to show us,” Biddeford explained to Flight.
The sound of a small boy running downstairs, not unlike thunder, thought Biddeford, announced his imminent arrival. He duly arrived clutching a small diary.
“I was right,” he said excitedly. “One went over just after 11, and it was pretty low too. Look, I wrote it in my diary.”
He thrust the diary at Biddeford. It was open at the page for Monday last. In his neat rounded handwriting, he had noted: 23.10 – single engine, light aircraft (possible Lincoln Beaver). Flying low. Estimated height no more than 300 feet.
Biddeford showed the diary to Flight and looked at the boy.
“You know a lot about these aircraft for a small boy, don’t you?”
“It’s just a hobby at the moment.” The little boy looked proud. “One day I’m going to fly one, so if I learn about them now it’s got to help me later. Don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do think,” said Biddeford. “Your dad was telling me you keep a record of night flights.”
“That’s right,” said the boy. “They’re not supposed to fly from Trapworth at night, but they often do. Usually they’re almost gliding on low power. It makes them difficult to hear, but that one last Monday wasn’t gliding.”
“How do you know they’re coming from Trapworth?” asked Biddeford.
“We’re right under the flight path,” said the boy, as though he thought everyone should know this fact.
“Oh, right. Of course,” said Biddeford, covering up for his ignorance.
He looked at the boy’s father.
“Will it be alright if we come in and talk to Tommy for a bit, Mr Spencer,” he asked. “You’ll need to be with us too, of course.”
“Are you sure he’s not wasting your time?” asked Spencer.
“I wouldn’t want to talk to him if I thought it was going to be a waste of time,” Biddeford assured him.
“You’d better come in then,” said Spencer, leading the way inside.
Chapter 18
Biddeford thought he and PC Flight had had a very successful first day together. According to Tommy Spencer’s diary, not only did an aircraft (probably a Lincoln Beaver, from the engine note) pass over last Monday night, but there was also a regular flight on the first Monday of every month, and random flights at other times. All appeared to be heading into Trapworth airfield. He had no idea what all these flights were about, but they were obviously highly suspicious.
Then, over lunch, he’d learnt that Phillipa’s marriage was on the rocks. This had made him feel much more comfortable about the way he was beginning to feel about her. He couldn’t be guilty of breaking up her marriage if it was already breaking up, now, could he?
In fact, he’d felt so much better that he’d agreed to meet her for a drink later that night. He told himself it was just two colleagues celebrating a successful day. He’d done it with Slater and Norman before now, so what was the difference? Well okay, so he didn’t fancy the pants off Slater and Norman, but it wouldn’t be a problem. They were mature adults. Nothing untoward was going to happen.
Biddeford was awakened from his thoughts about what wasn’t going to happen later by PC Flight slapping his arm.
“What?” he said, startled.
“Come on Steve, wake up,” she said. “The radio. They’re calling us. Are you going to answer it?”
“Oh. Yes. Of course,” he said reaching for the radio.
“Yoh!” he said into the radio.
“So you’ve finished your lunch have you, Oscar Tango One Four?”
“Err, yes. Sorry about that,” Biddeford mumbled, embarrassed.
“Yes. I’m sure you are. Now listen up. Everybody’s favourite wanker has been in action in town yet again, only this time he’s picked the wrong lady to wave at. She’s had a go back, and now he’s on the run. So be on the lookout for an old man in a Mickey Mouse mask, wearing a dark blue dressing gown, and white trainers with red soles. He should be easy enough to spot, but if there is more than one old guy out there who matches this description, you want to grab the one clutching his wedding tackle. He was last seen heading east along Enderby Road.”
“Oscar Tango One Four, got that. Out,” said Biddeford, as Flight flipped the switch that set the blue lights flashing and the siren blaring. She began to accelerate towards the town centre.
“Enderby Road’s the long one that runs out this way, isn’t it?” he said to her.
“I’m on it,” she said. “There’s plenty of places he could hide, but I’m feeling lucky today. Perhaps the old bugger will run right into our arms.”
A broad grin split Phillipa Flight’s face as she roared along the road.
They were approaching the junction that would take them into Enderby Road at high
speed. Biddeford thought they should be slowing down about now, but if anything, they were accelerating. He looked across at Flight, but she was totally engrossed in her driving. At the last minute, she swung on the steering wheel, putting the car into a controlled slide across the junction and right into Enderby Road.
Biddeford had visions of what was about to happen if there was anything coming along the road towards them. He closed his eyes and held his breath. But instead of the crash he expected to hear, all he heard was an almost maniacal laugh from his driver. He opened his mouth to order her to slow down, but before he could speak she was shouting to him.
“There’s the old pervert,” she yelled. “We’ve got the bugger!”
Up ahead, about 50 yards away, Mickey Mouse was hobbling in their direction. His dark blue dressing gown flapped open to reveal a scrawny white body and skinny white legs. His crown jewels would have been on display, but his clutching hands hid them from view. He skidded to a halt and headed back the way he had come as soon as he realised it was a police car that was heading in his direction.
Flight was homing in on him like a lion after its prey. Biddeford felt like a spectator as Flight skidded to halt, jumped from the car and leapt onto Mickey Mouse’s back, sending him crashing to the ground. It all happened in one seamless, fluid, motion, almost as if it had been choreographed for a movie. It was over so quickly; Biddeford had hardly climbed from the car before Flight was hauling the villain to his feet and preparing to handcuff him.
“For God’s sake, do up that dressing gown and cover him up before you handcuff him,” Biddeford said, trying not to get an eyeful.
Flight’s face darkened as she tidied up her prisoner, handcuffed him, and then clumsily bundled him into the back of the car. She didn’t say another word all the way back to the station. Biddeford could see she was brooding about something, but he was more concerned with the way she had approached the chase.
Driving at high speed is a skill that requires specialist training, and after her display earlier, he was pretty sure she’d never been on such a training course. To say her driving had been reckless would be an understatement. She had turned into some sort of maniacal risk-taker who could easily have killed an innocent bystander.
By the time they got back to the station and booked the old man in, they still hadn’t spoken, but at least now they had the old guy in an interview room.
“What’s your name?” Biddeford asked him.
“Mickey Mouse.”
“Yeah, but what about when you’re not in costume?” said Biddeford patiently.
“Bollocks,” said the old man, defiantly.
Biddeford wrote down the word “bollocks”.
“Is that Mister Bollocks?” he asked.
“Did you arrest that woman?” asked the old man. “I mean, you were quick enough to grab and beat up an innocent old man walking up the road, minding his own business. So what about the woman who assaulted me? Did you arrest her?”
Biddeford sighed heavily.
“Innocent old man? Really?” he said. “And where did this assault take place?”
“In the changing rooms.”
“And what were you doing in the changing rooms?”
“I was minding my own business.”
“According to the lady’s statement,” said Biddeford, wearily, “you were sticking your todger through a hole in the wall. It was poking into her cubicle. That’s called indecent exposure.”
“I was just resting it. It gets tiring walking around with a stalk on all the time. When you’ve got one this big it gets heavy, you see.”
“Please,” said Biddeford. “Spare me the details. I’m really not interested.”
“Yes, but-”
“No,” said Biddeford. “Just shut up while I decide what to do with you.”
He thought that maybe the old man would be a bit more co-operative if he had to spend the night in a cell. Perhaps, then, he would stop pissing about and they could get on with something worthwhile. Besides, he needed to talk to Flight. They had a date arranged tonight, and right now it seemed she didn’t even want to talk to him.
While Biddeford was thinking about what to do next, the old man had turned his attention to PC Flight. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
Flight looked down her nose at him. She was already red-faced with anger, as she had been since the arrest.
“I don’t think so, granddad,” she said in a snarl.
“I’m terrible with names but good with faces,” he said, staring at her. “I’m sure I know you from somewhere.”
“No,” she said, very deliberately. “You do not know my face.”
“Oh, I do,” he said. “It’ll come to me eventually.”
“Well,” said Biddeford. “You’ll have plenty of time to think about it. If you won’t talk to us, I’m going to lock you up in one of our cold, draughty, cells for the night.”
“What do you want to know?” asked the old man.
“Your name would be a start.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“You mean you won’t tell me,” corrected Biddeford. “So how about telling me why you feel the need to wave your donger at people.”
“It’s the Viagra.”
“Viagra?” asked Biddeford.
“I’m addicted to it,” explained the old man. “But, of course, that means I’ve got a permanent hard-on. It’s been years since I could manage a couple of minutes. Now I’ve got one all the time, it seems a shame to waste it, you know?”
“And you seriously expect me to believe this?” asked Biddeford.
“I don’t always wave it at people. Sometimes I just watch through their windows and, well, you know.”
“No. I don’t know. Tell me,” Biddeford said, pretty sure he wasn’t going to enjoy the answer.
“What he means is, he’s a peeping tom and he likes to wank himself stupid while he watches women undress,” snapped Flight.
“Oh yes,” sighed the old man, dreamily. “I do enjoy that. Best of all though, is watching the doggers up at the Haunted Copse.”
He went into a silent reverie at the memory.
“Talking of which,” he said suddenly, turning to Biddeford. “When are you lot going to finish up there? All the time you’ve got all those people up there, the doggers stay away.”
“You’ll be pleased to know, we’re moving out right this very afternoon,” said Biddeford. “Not that you’ll be going up there to watch again.”
“Oh, that is good news,” said the old man. “They’ll be up there tonight, then. You should try it some time. There’s one blonde girl up there-”
“Yes. Well we don’t want to hear any more of your dirty talk today, you old pervert,” interrupted Flight, her voice a little shaky. “My colleague’s right. You need a night in the cells.”
Biddeford looked at Flight in surprise. Since when was she in charge here? At least the red face of rage had faded now. In fact, she looked a bit peaky. He hoped she wasn’t going to call off their date.
“Could I have a word outside?” he asked her.
“You,” he said, turning back to the old man. “Wait here. We’ll be back in a minute.”
Flight climbed to her feet and followed Biddeford from the room.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Biddeford once they were out in the corridor.
“What’s the matter with me?” she said, bristling. “I’ll tell you what’s the matter with me. What happened to ‘well done, Phil, good catch’? What happened to being a team? I arrest the old fart while you’re still sat on your arse in the car, and suddenly you start ordering me around like I’m some moron who doesn’t know what they’re doing.”
“You were driving recklessly, and you know it,” he replied. “You could have killed someone.”
“Oh bullshit!” she snapped, turning her back on him and storming off.
“Wait a minute,” called Biddeford. “You can’t just walk off like that. Where d�
��you think you’re going?” He began to follow her down the corridor and around the corner. Then he continued, up the stairs and into the locker room, where he finally cornered her.
“Phillipa, wait,” he said. “You were happy enough earlier. What’s really wrong? Come on, talk to me.”
And so she did, for half an hour.
It was 5pm. Down in the interview room, Danny Bradford wondered how much longer they were going to be. They’d been gone for nearly 10 minutes already. He stood up and paced up and down. He pressed his ear to the door, but he couldn’t hear anyone outside. He tried turning the door handle. To his great surprise, it opened.
Gently, quietly, he opened the door just enough to peer out. There was no one outside. He poked his head out and looked up and down the corridor. Not a soul in sight. He stood and listened. He couldn’t hear a thing.
For a moment he thought about staying where he was, but then the thought of being cooped up in a cell all night reminded him why he had opened that door in the first place. He stepped into the corridor, quietly closed the door behind him, and headed off to the right. Eventually he came to a door with a small window, and looked carefully through it. He was looking out onto the main reception area. The desk was unmanned.
On the other side of the reception area, he could see the door that would lead him outside and to freedom. Surely, he thought, it couldn’t be this easy, could it? He’d be a fool not to, wouldn’t he? And anyway, what did he have to lose?
He turned the handle and pushed the door open, fearing it would squeak or make some noise that would bring someone running, but the door made no sound as he passed through and then gently closed it behind him. There was a raincoat hanging up just inside the outside door, and as he passed, Danny took the coat and slipped it on. It was a little on the large size but it would do to hide his dressing gown. He took a deep breath and pushed his way through the outside door. He was free, and, as luck would have it, it had just started to drizzle.
Now, he thought, a man in a raincoat in drizzle was going to blend in just perfectly.
Chapter 19