by Ford, P. F.
In the end, Biddeford had sent Flight home. Much as he would have liked to spend the evening with her down the pub, he had decided she was just a bit too upset today. And that episode this afternoon when she had been driving like some sort of maniac had unsettled him. He now realised he knew virtually nothing about her, and what he had seen so far today was ringing alarm bells in his head. He could do without getting involved with an adrenaline junkie who just wanted to take risks all the time.
By the time he got back down to the interview room, he was happy he had done the right thing.
“Right,” he said as he entered the room. “Sorry to keep you waiting so long.”
And then he stopped. The room was empty. He stepped back out into the corridor and checked the other rooms. They were all empty. So where was his prisoner? Maybe someone had put him in a cell for safekeeping. He made his way back to the duty sergeant.
“Have you seen my prisoner?” he asked.
“You mean the Phantom Flasher with the bent light sabre?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“No. Not set eyes on him. I thought you were interviewing him.”
“Yes. I was. But I took a time out, and now he’s gone,” said Biddeford, the colour draining from his face as he realised the enormity of what he’d done.
“Oh bloody hell,” said the sergeant, scrambling to his feet. “Well don’t just stand there. Help me search for the old bugger. He can’t have got far, can he? We’ll both be in the shit if he’s escaped.”
As if stung by an electric shock, Biddeford suddenly sprang into life, but after 10 minutes of frantic searching, they both knew it. Dick Waver, the Phantom Flasher, was on the loose.
It was approaching 6pm. Slater sat at his desk and looked around the empty incident room. As it was Saturday, he had stood everyone down, except for a lone PC up at the far end of the room, manning the phones. They were unlikely to achieve much more now it was this late into the day, so he didn’t see any point in making everyone hang around for the sake of it. Better to give them the rest of the weekend off and have them all fresh for Monday morning.
Norman was just finishing off a report before heading off to try out a new takeaway place that had just opened. Slater was only waiting for Steve Biddeford and Phillipa Flight to report in and he would be able to head off home himself.
Apparently, the new partnership of Biddeford and Flight had morphed into the dynamic duo and they were having a blinding day. Not only had they made progress on the light aircraft inquiry, but, on top of that, they’d managed to catch the flasher on their way back earlier this afternoon. They were interviewing him right now.
There was a knock at the door and as Slater looked up from his desk it opened just enough for him to see Steve Biddeford peering inside.
“Don’t just stand there. Come in, Steve,” he said.
Biddeford came slowly and nervously into the room, a desperate look on his face.
“I thought, from what you told me on the phone at lunchtime, you were having a good day,” said Slater. “But I take it from the look on your face that’s now changed.”
Biddeford stood in front of Slater’s desk shifting nervously from one foot to the other. Slater watched him for a few seconds.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong? Or are you demonstrating your Riverdance impression?”
“Err. Well. Yes. No, not Riverdance,” babbled Biddeford.
“Either talk some sense, or go away,” said Slater. “Because I’m bloody tired and I want to go home. If you just stand there like that for much longer I’m going to get seriously pissed off.”
“Dick Waver’s escaped,” said Biddeford.
There was a deathly hush as Slater digested what he had just said.
“What do you mean, he’s escaped?” he asked, after what seemed like an age. “Are you telling me he’s some sort of ninja who fought his way through the station?”
“Err, not exactly no. He didn’t actually have to fight his way out. We left him for a few minutes and he just sort of walked out.”
“He just ‘sort of walked out’?” echoed Slater, but with added sarcasm. “Surely you had someone watching him. Wouldn’t that be PC Flight’s job?”
“It’s not her fault,” said Biddeford, quietly. “I take full responsibility.”
“But he couldn’t have just walked out of the front door for God’s sake. What about the duty sergeant?”
“He was away from his desk, making himself a cup of tea.”
“Where is Flight, anyway?” asked Slater.
“I sent her home,” explained Biddeford. “I need to talk to you about her.”
“I don’t bloody well believe this.” Slater was furious. “He was an old man who’d been whacked in the goolies for God’s sake. How could he be allowed to walk out? And where is everybody who might have stopped him? One of them’s making a cup of bloody tea and the other one’s been told to go home early. Oh, Bob Murray’s gonna bloody love this. I can’t wait to tell him.”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” said Biddeford.
“You’re sorry?” said Slater. “We’re all going to be bloody sorry when Murray finds out. He’ll go ballistic.”
In the silence that followed Slater’s outburst, Biddeford stood before Slater’s desk, staring unhappily down at the floor. And then the silence was broken by the sound of giggling.
Slater looked in the direction of the giggles.
“I don’t see anything remotely bloody funny about this, Norm,” he snapped.
“Oh, come on, you mentioned ninjas” said Norman. “I just had this picture in my head of this old guy karate chopping his way through the assembled police force, fighting his way to freedom.”
“Yes. That’s very bloody funny, I’m sure.”
“Oh, get a grip,” said Norman. “It’s not as if it’s Jack the Ripper on the loose is it? The guy’s not going to rape or murder anyone, is he? At best, he’s a public nuisance. The whole town thinks he’s just a big joke. And now we know what he looks like, how hard’s it gonna be to track him down?”
“The local press will have a bloody field day when they find out,” said Slater, sulkily.
“So let’s see if we can find him before they find out,” said Norman.
“Once we put the word out that he’s gone missing some bigmouth will let the cat out of the bag. You know it, I know it, we all know it.”
“So don’t put the word out,” said Norman. “At least, not yet. My guess is the duty sergeant won’t be in any hurry to tell the world how he let a prisoner walk out the front door, so it should be easy enough to keep him quiet for a few hours.”
“But we don’t know where to start looking,” said Slater.
“Actually we might,” said Biddeford. “He was complaining about the Haunted Copse car park being closed and keeping the doggers away. I told him it would be open tonight.”
“We might just kill two birds with one stone,” said Slater, seeing a glimmer of hope. “I’m supposed to take a team up there and put the wind up the doggers. Murray seems to think scaring them will keep them away. Maybe we should raid them tonight. We might just find our dirty old man up there as well.”
“It looks like it’s gonna be a small team,” said Norman. “I have a hot date with a new takeaway joint, so it’s gonna be just the two of you.”
Slater looked at him with dismay.
“You take anyone else,” said Norman, “and they might just let your little secret out of the bag.”
Biddeford was relieved he had been given a second chance to catch the Phantom Flasher. He had been dreading telling Slater what had happened, and although his boss had been furious, they at least had a plan in mind.
They had a good three hours to kill before they could launch their two-man raid on the doggers, but first, they cornered the duty sergeant to make sure he was on their side. They had no worries on that score. Being exposed as the doorkeeper who let Dick Waver go free wasn’t something he was keen
to do.
After that, it was just a question of waiting, but Biddeford’s conscience was playing him up. He knew the old boy had escaped because he had been more interested in Phillipa Flight than in doing his job, and he wasn’t the sort who could live with himself if he didn’t confess.
“So, come on then Steve,” said Slater. “What’s on your mind? You said you had sent Flight home earlier and that you need to talk to me about her, remember?”
For a moment Biddeford thought Slater had read his thoughts, then he realised he had said exactly that, earlier.
“So why did you send her home?” asked Slater.
“She’d been fine earlier in the day,” said Biddeford. “In fact she’d been a pretty good partner to work with, and good company too. But then, when we got the call about the flasher, she went sort of crazy. She was driving like a mad thing. It’s a wonder we didn’t kill someone. And then her mood changed completely and she became aggressive and I just didn’t know where I stood with her. I thought she was a bit unstable to be honest.”
“Has she got problems?” asked Slater.
“She told me her marriage is on the rocks. Maybe that’s eating at her,” Biddeford said, shrugging.
“When did she tell you that?”
“Over lunch. She said I was a good listener,” said Biddeford.
“It’s your life, Steve, but my advice would be not to get involved with her.”
“Oh, I’m not.” Biddeford blushed. He was actually quite annoyed that Slater felt he needed advice. Who did he think he was telling people who they should and shouldn’t date?
“And another thing,” said Slater. “She doesn’t know it, but I know her husband. Now, she might tell you her marriage is on the rocks, and maybe she believes it is, but I can tell you for sure he doesn’t know about it. It sounds to me like she’s got you hooked and she’s reeling you in, mate.”
“No,” said Biddeford. “She’s not like that.”
The more Slater said against her, the more defensive Biddeford felt himself becoming.
“Like I said – it’s your life, Steve. I’m just warning you. She may be beautiful on the outside, but there’s something not right with that girl on the inside.”
“You really think so?” asked Biddeford, finally deciding he’d had enough free advice for one evening. “Because, to be honest, I really like her.”
“Well, I just hope you don’t do anything you’re going to regret. The problem with getting involved with a risk-taker is that they don’t care who gets hurt. The only people they care about are themselves, and then only when they get caught.”
Chapter 20
In the beam of their headlights, Slater could see there were several cars parked to one side of the car park. He stopped the car and used his mobile phone to photograph all the number plates, then parked his car in a space to one side. All the other cars were in darkness apart from a big SUV parked away from the others. This car seemed to be where it was all happening. A crowd of half a dozen men were gathered around it, peering in the windows. The interior lights were on to allow those on the outside to see what was happening on the inside.
One of the men was on his own at the front of the vehicle watching through the windscreen. He was wearing white trainers with red soles, and a big blue dressing gown. He was working hard, face contorted, as he stared into the interior of the car, his arm pumping furiously.
Slater switched off the lights and killed the engine.
“The guy at the front,” said Biddeford. “Isn’t that-”
“Yes it is,” interrupted Slater. “Dick Waver, doing Darth Vader, right down to the light sabre. Now go and grab the wanker while he’s distracted, and when you’ve got him, bring him back here and stay with him. Don’t let him get away again. I’m going to spoil the night for the other dirty buggers.”
“Awww, you’re kidding,” whined Biddeford. “Do I really have to?”
“You let him go last time, so yes you bloody do,” snapped Slater.
“I’m putting gloves on before I touch him, then,” said Biddeford, looking disgusted. “I don’t care if you put a bloody wet suit on,” said an exasperated Slater. “Just get out there and grab him.”
As they approached the SUV, Biddeford moved stealthily away to creep up on Dick Waver. Slater made his way around to the driver’s side where his arrival was greeted with a mumbled suggestion, from someone in the crowd of voyeurs, that he get to the back of the bloody queue.
“What do you mean, queue?” asked Slater.
“I mean queue, as in, ‘wait your bloody turn, I’m next’,” said a big-mouthed man without taking his eyes from the action within the car. “I’ve had to wait over a week to have a go with Blonde Bobby because of this friggin’ police investigation closing the car park, so you can just sod off and wait your turn.”
“You mean, the Blonde Bobby?” asked Slater. “As in, ‘the one and only’?” He didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, but it seemed to be as good a response as any.
“Yeah, the one and only,” said the man. “The reigning champion. Confirmed as the best shag in the county. And I’m next, just as soon as she’s finished with this one. Got it?”
This was all news to Slater. He didn’t even know there was such a championship. He peered over the heads of the other guys to see what all the fuss was about.
In the back of the big SUV, the back seats were all folded away and covered with some sort of mattress to make a more comfortable and spacious area. Within that comfortable, spacious area, an athletic looking blonde was enthusiastically grinding away astride a guy who appeared to be having an experience like no other. Slater couldn’t tell if his face was screwed up in agony or ecstasy, but reasoned that, from the way she was working him over, it could well have been a mixture of the two.
As he moved around to the back window, he had to peer between the heads of two other spectators, but even so, he still got a full frontal view of Blonde Bobby. He couldn’t see her face, which she kept turned down, and was also obscured by her long blonde hair, but he could see one thing for sure, she certainly wasn’t a natural blonde. He wondered if she was wearing a wig, or perhaps her hair was bleached? He thought it was probably a wig – it made for an easier, and quicker, disguise.
At the front of the car, Slater could hear the sounds of a scuffle taking place between Steve Biddeford and Dick Waver, who seemed to think pointing his light sabre at Biddeford was really going to be enough to ward him off. It almost worked too, as Biddeford’s first reaction was to recoil in horror in case it went off, but he quickly recovered, and a well-aimed kick soon quelled the uprising, so to speak.
Sadly, for the vanquished Dick, now lying in a crumpled heap on the ground clutching his rapidly deflating equipment for the second time that day, his waving days were over, at least for the immediate future.
Slater raised his hand and rapped his knuckles on the back window.
“Oi,” said the man with the big mouth, stepping towards Slater. “What d’you think you’re doin’? I told you I’m next, so why don’t you fuck off before I make you?”
Slater whipped out his warrant card, shone his torch on it, and waved it in the guy’s face.
“You really think that’s going to be a good idea, do you?” He was right in the guy’s face now, and his patience was beginning to wear very, very thin. “Why don’t you have a go, and we’ll see if you’re as hard as you think you are.”
Clearly driven by the possibility of perhaps missing out on his long-awaited go with Blonde Bobby, Big Mouth swung a huge haymaker at Slater’s head. Slater saw it coming from so far away he was easily able to duck out of the way, and as the guy lost his balance, he brought his knee up hard. With a muffled noise that was a mixture of curse and agonised sigh, all the breath whooshed from Mighty Mouth and he sank to the ground in an untidy heap, clutching his wedding tackle.
The rest of the audience quickly lost their enthusiasm for voyeurism, as they realised there was
trouble afoot, and began to flee the scene. Within seconds, cars were leaving the car park, roaring off into the night, quite unaware that their registration numbers had already been taken and they would soon be getting a warning visit from the local constabulary.
Unaware of the goings-on outside the car, Blonde Bobby, apparently the confirmed, ‘best shag in the county’, appeared to have exhausted her partner, who was laying on his back, looking almost comatose, with his head close to the tailgate of the vehicle. She was climbing off, ready to kick him out to make room for the next one in the queue.
As if to save them all time, Slater reached down and popped the catch. The tailgate swung up with a quiet hiss. The man didn’t move at first, but was suddenly shocked into life when Slater grabbed him by the arms and dragged him backwards, still stark naked, and dumped him on the ground.
“Whatthefuckin’ell’sgoin’on?” he gabbled.
“Police!” Slater bent over the man so he was right in his face.
The victim of his ire was struggling to get to his feet and cover his dignity with only two hands, but Slater was intent on making this as frightening an experience as possible, so he made it more difficult for the guy by aiming a kick at him. There was an untidy pile of men’s clothes just inside the tailgate of the car. Slater grabbed them and threw them at the naked man.
“Here. Take your clothes and bugger off, now,” he said. “And be aware we’ve got your registration number. We will be in touch very soon.”.
The terrified man grabbed his clothes and scuttled off in the dark towards the only other car left in the car park. Now Slater turned his attention back to the girl in the SUV, who hadn’t moved since he popped open the tailgate and announced his presence. She was still naked, having made no attempt to cover herself, and remained on her knees. Her head rested on her knees so he was looking along the graceful curves of her body from her shoulders, sweeping in to her waist and then curving out again to encompass her backside. He couldn’t see her face, but he didn’t need to. He already knew who she was.
The registration number had rung a bell in his head when he’d photographed it just a few minutes ago, but at that moment he’d been unable to recall why. However, his subconscious mind had obviously been working away at the problem as events had unfolded, and just as he’d dragged the unfortunate man out of the back of the car, he’d finally connected all the dots.