by Ford, P. F.
“A pint?” Becks sounded indignant. “I think you owe me a damned sight more than one. It’s got to be at least half a dozen by my reckoning.”
“Becksy.” Slater sighed, impatiently. “I’ll keep you in beer for a whole night, alright. Now, either tell me what you know, or I hang up.”
“The signature on those cheques,” said Becks. “Lindy Fellows isn’t your forger.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why do you always ask me that?” said Becks. “Of course I’m bloody sure. It’s my job. I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t sure, you ungrateful sod.”
“Yeah, but,” It was too late. Becks had cut the connection. Slater looked gloomily at the now-dead phone in his hand.
“Lover’s tiff?” asked Norman.
“Looks like I’ve pissed him off,” Slater said, putting his phone back in his pocket.
“He thinks you’re questioning his judgement, right?” said Norman. “Because you always ask him if he’s sure.”
“Do I really?” asked Slater. “I don’t mean to. It’s just that-”
“Maybe you need to choose your words a little more carefully when he doesn’t come up with the answers you want. It would piss me off if you kept asking me if I was sure.”
The only reply Slater could think of was to make a “hmmph” sound.
“So what was the call about anyway?” asked Norman.
“It wasn’t Lindy Fellows who forged Sandra’s signature on those cheques.”
“Really?” said Norman. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m s-” started Slater irritably, then he saw the huge grin on Norman’s face. He’d been caught out…again.
Chapter 35
It was past 9pm, and Slater was dog-tired. He would have loved to have gone home, but Jolly had just delivered the bad news that Lindy’s niece, Melanie, was away on holiday and she was having trouble contacting her. This was a blow – Slater was convinced she could be key to their inquiry.
Now he was hoping Ashton was going to call at some stage, with some good news. He had settled into a chair in the observation room where he could watch, through a two-way mirror, as Rodgers was interviewed. They had decided over their earlier dinner that, as Biddeford had done all the work on this case, he should lead the interview, accompanied by Norman.
Through the mirror Slater was watching a very uncomfortable Rodney Rodgers fidgeting restlessly as he waited to be interviewed. It was almost as if Rodgers had the word “guilty” tattooed on his forehead; but Slater wondered what exactly they were going to be able to prove he was guilty of.
“I want to make a complaint,” said Rodgers, even before Biddeford had managed to sit down.
“Oh, really?” said Biddeford, unimpressed. “I’m sorry to hear that. Has someone upset you? We did explain down at the leisure centre why we were bringing you in.”
“Smuggling?” Rodgers looked incredulous. “It’s just ridiculous. And you marched me out in front of all those people.”
“Yes,” Biddeford said, nodding. “That was a bit embarrassing, wasn’t it? Maybe you would have preferred us to arrest you on suspicion of murder. That would have been something to be proud of, wouldn’t it?”
“Murder?” Rodgers voice rose to a shriek. “You can’t be serious. This is a nightmare.”
“Afraid not.” Biddeford smiled brightly at him. “You wake up in the morning and a nightmare’s gone. When you wake up tomorrow morning, we’ll still be here.”
“That’s if you can sleep at all, in one of our cells,” Norman pitched in, with a smile.
“So, what was it you wanted to complain about?” Biddeford asked.
“Someone has been poking their nose into my affairs without my consent.”
“Oh dear,” said Biddeford. “That’s not good, is it? But that’s what happens when we investigate crimes.”
“But what about the data protection act?” Rodgers’ face was red with anger.
“Yes?” Biddeford smiled again, more icily this time. “What about it? I’ve got a better idea, Mr Rodgers. What about you stop wasting our time, and start answering some questions?”
“I understand you own a Lincoln Beaver aircraft,” said Norman, studying a sheet of paper on the table in front of him.
“That’s right,” Rodgers said.
“Not a very fuel efficient engine is it?”.
Rodgers looked rather puzzled by this line of questioning, but he answered quickly enough.
“Actually it’s very economical to run,” he said. “One of the best around.”
“Oh really?” said Norman. “What sort of figure does it return?”
“In car terms I guess a Beaver does about 20 miles to the gallon,” Rodgers said.
“Something wrong with yours, is there?” Biddeford took the lead again.
“I’m sorry?” said Rodgers, looking even more confused.
“The thing is,” Biddeford said, forcing himself to be patient, “I’ve been looking at the fuel log at Trapworth, and the flight log. According to the flights you’ve logged and the fuel you’ve used, I estimate you’re getting less than five miles to the gallon. Why do you think that is?”
“I had a fuel leak,” said Rodgers, but Biddeford wasn’t fooled at all. “It must have been worse than I thought.”
“Or perhaps you’ve forgotten to log all your flights?” Biddeford asked, setting a trap. He wondered if Rodgers would spring it.
“Yes,” said Rodgers. “That must be it. I’ve forgotten to log a couple of flights.”
“Now, I understand.” Biddeford smiled at him. “No wonder my maths is up the creek. Perhaps you could fill me in with these missing flights.”
“Err, yes. Alright,” said Rodgers. Biddeford could tell he was becoming desperate.
“Let’s start with the night flights you make.” Biddeford crossed his arms and looked at Rodgers intently.
“What?”
“The night flights you make,” repeated Biddeford. “We’ve even got the dates you made them here somewhere.”
He nodded to Norman, who began looking through the documents on the table in front of him. He handed a sheet of paper to Biddeford, who glanced at it and then placed it on the table before Rodgers.
“Here we are,” he said. “A regular little fly-by-night, you might say.”
Rodgers looked at the list, and his face turned to horror.
“But I don’t fly at night. We’re not allowed to,” he said, mumbling. “It’s against the rules. There’s no safety certificate.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Biddeford said, nodding. “The thing is, we tend to find criminals aren’t the sort of people who worry about rules, or safety certificates.”
“But, I’m not a criminal,” said Rodgers.
“Oh, I think you’ll find you are,” said Biddeford. “But that’s another thing about criminals. They tend to be in denial all the time.”
“And they tell lies.” Biddeford had to repress a smile at Norman’s cheery demeanour.
He knew Slater was in the observation room, watching the interview. He hoped that seeing him in action, using the skills that Slater had helped him hone, perhaps made up, just a little, for how Biddeford had treated him. But he had to stay focused on the interview now. He felt like he was getting somewhere.
“We’ll come back to the matter of your night flights a bit later, shall we?” Biddeford asked. “It’ll give you a chance to think about whether denying you’ve made them is really a good idea.”
Rodgers didn’t know what to say to this so he chose to say nothing.
“So, what shall we talk about now,” continued Biddeford, thoughtfully. “I know. Why don’t you tell us about Sarah Townley?”
“Who?” said Rodgers.
“This girl.” Norman slid a photograph across the table in front of Rodgers. “Now do you know her?”
Rodgers stared down at the pretty face in the photo.
“I’ve never seen this girl before in my life,” he sai
d, but Biddeford was unconvinced.
“You know her double though, don’t you?” he asked.
“Double?” asked Rodgers, looking puzzled again. “What double?”
“It’s like this,” Biddeford said, taking the photo back. “This girl, or her double, has been identified by staff at your leisure centre. They say she came asking for you.”
“Well, that may well be the case,” said Rodgers. “She may well have come looking for me, but that doesn’t mean to say-”
“The witnesses also say they saw you taking her into your office,” interrupted Biddeford. “So was it her? Or does she have a double going around impersonating her?”
“Alright.” Rodgers sighed. “Yes she did come looking for me, but that’s not the name she used. She told me her name was Anne Hunter.”
“Anne Hunter?” said Norman, doubtfully. “Right. Okay, so why was Anne Hunter looking for Rodney Rodgers?”
“She wanted to hire a pilot with a light aircraft.”
“And why would she want to do that?”
“Because I occasionally make flights to France for people to collect stuff and bring it back here.”
“Oh, do you?” said Biddeford, surprised by this admission. “And who would these people be?”
“Actually there’s only one person,” Rodgers said, and Biddeford could tell he was reluctant to give any more information about this individual.
“And we’re talking dodgy stuff are we? Stolen goods, drugs, that sort of thing?” suggested Biddeford.
“No!” said Rodgers, looking dismayed. “We’re talking legitimate stuff like antiques, paintings, old books, stuff like that. And it’s all above board, with the proper documents. The only thing that’s dodgy is the fact that I get paid cash and don’t declare it to the taxman.”
Rodgers actually managed to look slightly embarrassed by his last admission. Biddeford studied his face. He looked pretty miserable, but he also looked, and sounded, pretty convincing.
“So, if it’s all legit,” asked Biddeford. “Why do you make these flights at night?”
“I d-don’t,” Rodgers said, stuttering over his words. “I’ve told you. We’re not allowed to fly at night. I don’t even make the flights very often. The last one was about two months ago. I don’t recall the exact date, but it was a Wednesday, my day off. If you check my flight log, or the airfield log, you’ll see when it was.”
They had a copy of both logs, and Norman quickly began checking back. After a few seconds, he indicated an entry to Biddeford. He read the entry, and was amazed to find that Rodgers appeared to be telling the truth. This was completely unexpected.
“Does this person you work for have a name?” he asked, recovering his composure. “Maybe he can save us some time and verify your story.”
Rodgers seemed to realise he had little choice.
“Yes.” He sighed. “He’s called Rudolph Bressler.”
Norman’s jaw dropped open in surprise at this news. Biddeford was sure Slater’s would be doing the same in the observation room. He paused for a moment, thinking of how to handle this unexpected revelation.
“It puzzles me, that the man, whose wife you got pregnant, should then employ you,” said Biddeford.
Rodgers said nothing.
“Doesn’t it seem odd?” asked Biddeford. “If he’d wanted revenge and perhaps murdered you, I could understand that, but to employ you seems odd. Why do you think he did that?”
“It wasn’t like that,” said Rodgers.
“So what was it like?” Norman piped up.
“You make it sound like I was on the payroll, full time,” began Rodgers. “It was just an occasional thing. Sometimes I didn’t hear from him for months, and then other times he’d need me two weeks running.”
“How long has it been going on?” Norman was like a dog with a bone, now, and Biddeford was content to let him follow this particular avenue for the time being.
“It started about a year or so after I got moved down here to Tinton. He just turned up one day and asked me to fly for him.”
“Didn’t that seem a bit strange?” asked Norman. “Him just turning up, like that?”
“Are you kidding?” said Rodgers. “Of course it was bloody strange. I thought he’d come to hound me out of another job. But then he told me he understood how he’d been wrong to pin all the blame on me. He said he and Sandra were as much to blame as I was and he felt bad about forcing me to have to leave home and move all the way down here.”
“And you believed him?” Biddeford jumped back in, dubious.
“I didn’t know what to believe at first,” said Rodgers. “But he seemed sincere enough. Then he offered me a grand to fly to France, collect a couple of paintings and fly back. I was short of money and this seemed easy enough, so I said yes.”
“So, you’re mates now then, you and him?” Norman looked disbelieving.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Rodgers. “It’s just a business deal. How could I be mates with him? I’d be forever expecting a knife in the back, or something.”
“Has he ever asked you to do anything else?” asked Biddeford.
“No,” said Rodgers firmly. “Never.”
“Are you sure about that?” Biddeford wondered if he was telling the truth.
“What is it you think he might have asked me to do? You must have something in mind,” said Rodgers, warily.
“D’you ever chop logs?” asked Norman. “Or dig? You look like you could handle an axe and a shovel.”
Rodgers seemed to consider the question for a few moments.
“I have never done anything for him except fly,” he said, finally.
There was a tense silence in the room that seemed to last for a long, long time.
“Alright,” said Biddeford, eventually. “So what did Anne Hunter want you to fly in for her?”
“She had this crazy idea that I was the sort of guy who would be prepared to fly over to France one night, and bring back a load of knocked-off wine.”
“But you’re not that sort of guy, are you?” Biddeford asked.
“Of course not,” said Rodgers, indignantly.
“No, of course not.” Biddeford sat back in his chair. “Wine’s much too heavy. You need something that doesn’t weigh too much in a piddly little aircraft like yours. Knocked off cigarettes is more up your street, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rodgers’ eyes darted wildly about the room.
“Yeah, right.” Norman sighed, wearily. “Of course you don’t.”
“But why you?” persisted Biddeford. “Why d’you think Anne Hunter would be prepared to come all the way down here to ask you if you’d be willing to do something like that for her? You’d think there would be plenty of pilots where she lived, wouldn’t you? Why travel nearly 150 miles specifically to find you? It makes no sense to us, don’t you agree, Mr Rodgers?”
“I don’t know,” said Rodgers. “I didn’t know where she’d come from. She never said.”
“Anne Hunter, or to use her real name, Sarah Townley, came from the Birmingham area, Mr Rodgers,” continued Biddeford. “A little to the south actually, not far from Redditch. She had a sister who lived in Redditch. That was about 20 years ago. You know Redditch, don’t you, Mr Rodgers?”
“Yes,” answered Rodgers, sullenly.
“Because that’s where you used to work, and that’s where Sandra Bressler lived. You remember Sandra – she used to come to your gym, didn’t she?”
“Yes, alright,” said Rodgers. “I thought we’d already done this bit.”
“You got moved sideways because you had an affair with her, didn’t you?” Norman leant across the table towards him.
“Look.” Rodgers looked wild with desperation now. “You know the story, so why keep asking me these questions? Yes, I had an affair with Sandra Bressler. Yes, she got pregnant, and yes, I was told to move to a different location or lose my job. That’s how I came to be here in Tinton, a
lright?”
The outburst was followed by a sudden silence.
“Got a bit of a temper, haven’t you?” Norman said, quietly.
“Of course I have,” said Rodgers. “So would you have if you’d been dragged in here accused of smuggling and then been asked all these questions that have no relevance to anything.”
“You’re sure they have no relevance, are you?” asked Biddeford.
“What possible connection could there be between a mistake I made in my personal life 20 years ago, a girl who came looking for me, and this night flying smuggling thing you seem to think I’m involved in?”
“Just bear with me a moment and I’ll tell you.” Biddeford smiled, in control again. “Let’s just go back a little way and make sure I’ve got this right. So you were moved to Tinton 20 years ago, because you got Sandra Bressler pregnant, yes?”
“Yes. I was moved out of the way to prevent a scandal,” said Rodgers.
“But what about 15 years ago, when the Bresslers moved here? I understand your company provide transferable memberships. So, as she was still a member, it would make sense for Sandra to transfer her membership to Tinton, right? But, I’m guessing if she did that it would have made things a bit awkward for you. Am I right again?”
Rodgers sighed heavily.
“Yes,” he said, finally. “It would have been very awkward, but it never happened.”
“Why not?” asked Biddeford, fully expecting Rodgers to say that she had disappeared before it got that far.
“I don’t know,” Rodgers said, sighing again. “She came into the leisure centre about a month before they were due to move. She was checking out the schools, doctor surgeries, things like that, and she came to see where the gym was and what it was like. She was as surprised as I was when she walked in the door.
“She told me she was going to become a member when she moved to Tinton, and she hoped we could be friends. The company even notified us they were transferring her membership, but then she never came to the gym and I never saw her again.”
“Did you know what happened to her?” asked Biddeford.
“I read in the local newspaper about her disappearing.”