by Ford, P. F.
Although equal in rank to Slater, Norman was older and not interested in climbing any greasy promotion pole. When they worked together, he was happy to defer to his younger partner as he knew that in return, Slater was more than happy to accept Norman as a valuable source of experience and ability. After working together for a few months, they had developed a healthy respect for each other, and a friendship that seemed to grow ever stronger. Combining this respect for each other with their complementary abilities had enabled them to create a formidable partnership.
Right now, though, Norman’s attitude was anything but positive, having just received what he considered to be a totally undeserved bollocking from his boss, Detective Chief Inspector Bob Murray. He bore no real malice towards his boss, whom he knew was simply passing on the dressing down he had no doubt been given from above earlier that day. What irked Norman was the injustice of it all.
Norman had known the old fart, Sir Robert Maunder, was going to cause trouble the moment he had arrived at his house. The man had been a complete arsehole, not just filled with his own self-importance, but positively over-flowing with it. A clash of personalities had been inevitable, but Norman hadn’t expected to be on the receiving end of the backlash quite so quickly. Now it seemed it was Norman’s fault Maunder and his wife had slept while the thief broke in. It appeared it was also Norman’s fault the burglar alarm hadn’t worked. And who left all that jewellery out in the open? Apparently that was Norman’s fault too. According to the retired chief constable, everyone at Tinton was totally incompetent and he had convinced the current chief constable to agree with him.
Norman wasn’t one to dwell on negatives, however, and he knew there were two things that would quickly restore his good humour. The first was the huge, bacon-filled, torpedo roll he was about to devour. The second was the eagerly anticipated, imminent arrival of Dave Slater. Slater had been complaining about having to speak in front of all those kids from the moment Murray had bestowed the honour upon him and Norman couldn’t wait for him to get back. Winding up Slater was almost like a hobby for Norman. While he waited and chewed on his bacon roll, he thought about what he would say to Slater.
When the doors swung open and Slater and Jane Jolly pushed their way through, it only took Norman a quick glance at their faces to see they’d had a bad morning. As Norman watched them queue for their food and then walk slowly across to join him, he decided maybe it would be better to test the water before he started taking the piss.
Everyone at Tinton had a big soft spot for PC Jane Jolly, and Norman was no exception. She was one of the station stalwarts, always there, and always with a kind word and a smile. She wasn’t known as Jolly Jane for nothing. Norman had been particularly impressed with her efforts when they had worked together in the past and, despite the difference in rank, he regarded her very much as part of their ‘team’, and he knew Slater did too. Norman thought he probably had a larger soft spot for her than most because she reminded him of his wife, although he’d never told her as much.
He looked at her as she approached. The smile was there on her face, but it was half-hearted, lacking its usual vibrancy.
‘You two had a shite morning too, huh?’ asked Norman.
‘It started off okay,’ Slater said, sitting down opposite him. ‘We got through talking to the kids alright, but then we got the call to deal with an old man who wasn’t answering his door.’
‘Poor old bloke was dead when I found him,’ Jolly said, sighing. ‘He had died all on his own and he’d been lying there for at least a day.’
‘Ah. A really shite morning, then,’ Norman said, sympathetically. ‘That’s never a nice thing to have to deal with. So how come you got to find him?’
‘The milkman cared enough to look in on him three or four times a week,’ she said. ‘He knew as soon as he got there this morning that something was wrong, so he called us.’
‘This seems to be becoming more and more common as more and more people live on their own,’ said Norman, gloomily. ‘There used to be a time when everyone knew their neighbours and those neighbours looked out for each other, but this is fast becoming a land of strangers.’
‘Looks like he died of natural causes,’ Slater said. ‘There’s no sign of a break in and I couldn’t see any sign of a struggle or anything like that.’
‘It’s a bit odd his dog is missing though.’ Jolly looked slightly puzzled and Norman raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘According to the milkman, they were inseparable,’ she explained. ‘So why wasn’t the dog there? I thought it seemed a bit strange that’s all.’
‘Maybe he’d run away,’ Norman ventured.
‘Maybe,’ agreed Jolly, but she sounded doubtful. ‘But I’m going to look in every time I go past in case he turns up.’
‘Isn’t that something for the family to sort out, or the RSPCA?’ asked Slater.
‘But it looks like there is no family, remember?’ said Jolly. ‘I suppose that’s why the poor old bloke was living on his own. All I’ve got is the name and phone number of his solicitor.’
‘Well, give him a call,’ said Norman. ‘Let him sort things out and earn his keep.’
‘Yeah. I suppose I should.’ Jolly looked unhappy, though, and Norman knew she would want to do everything herself.
‘So, why was your morning shitty?’ asked Slater.
‘Oh, it’s been great,’ said Norman, sarcastically. ‘Remember that Maunder guy I told you about?’
‘The one who got a knighthood because he was a chief constable?’
‘Huh. He could easily have got his knighthood for being a complete arsehole,’ said Norman. ‘He’s certainly damned good at it. Anyway, it turns out he knows the current chief constable and he’s complained about me.
‘Apparently it’s my fault his alarm didn’t work, and that his wife left all her jewellery out. It’s even my fault him and his wife slept through it all.’
‘Great mornings all round then,’ Jolly said, smiling sadly.
When she called on him later that day, Jane Jolly thought solicitor John Hunter was a kindly looking man. In his sixties, he obviously looked after himself, but didn’t seem vain enough to worry about the fact that his hair was grey or anything like that. Jolly approved of that. As he came from behind his desk and extended his hand to greet her, he scored more points for his engaging smile and easy manner. A waft of aftershave came her way. She didn’t know what it was, but it was rather pleasant, and she added a few more points to his score.
‘Good morning, Mr Hunter. I’m PC Jane Jolly from Tinton police,’ she said, shaking his hand.
‘My secretary tells me you think one of my clients has met with a fatal accident,’ said Hunter, looking concerned. ‘What terrible news. Of course I’ll help in any way I can.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jolly.
‘Please sit down.’ He indicated a chair and she sat down. He sat down opposite her.
‘So what happened?’ he asked.
She gave him a brief rundown on what had happened to Mr Winter.
‘So he fell and hit his head?’
‘That’s how it looks,’ said Jolly. ‘The thing is, we could find no evidence of any next of kin. I was hoping, as his solicitor, you might be able to help us out there.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t know him very well,’ said Hunter. ‘He only came to me a few weeks ago to make his will.’
‘Ah.’ Jolly pulled out her notebook. ‘So he’ll have told you about his family.’
‘I’m afraid what he told me isn’t going to be much help,’ Hunter said. ‘According to Mr Winter, his only living relative is a sister, Julia, but he had no idea where she is now.’
‘Oh.’ Jolly was crestfallen
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve been trying to find her but with no success so far. I’m going to have to redouble my efforts now – he’s left everything to her in his will.’
‘We were hoping there would be someone who could identify the body, and
maybe arrange the funeral.’
‘Oh. I see. Why don’t I do it?’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Jolly.
‘Identification’s just a question of looking at his face, isn’t it?’ asked Hunter.
‘It’ll only take a minute,’ Jolly said. ‘It’s just a formality.’
‘It’s the least I can do. And I’ll get my secretary to arrange the funeral. It won’t be anything fancy, but at least he can be sent off with a bit of dignity.’
‘That’s so very kind of you,’ said Jolly. ‘Could you let me know when the funeral is arranged? I found him you see and it seems a bit sad dying all alone like that. I’d like to be there.’
‘How very thoughtful,’ said Hunter. ‘You’re a credit to the police, Miss Jolly. Leave me your number and I’ll make sure to let you know.’
John Hunter scored a few more ranking points for calling her ‘Miss’ Jolly. She knew she looked like a typical, harassed mother-of-three, and couldn’t remember the last time anyone had called her ‘miss’.
Norman snatched the phone from his desk and answered it with his usual professional manner.
‘Yo. Norman here.’
‘Hi Norm, it’s Ian Becks,’ replied the voice in Norman’s ear.
‘What can I do for you, Becksy?’
‘Are you ok?’ asked Becks. ‘That self-important twat was giving you a hard time this morning.’
‘I have broad shoulders,’ Norman said, sighing. ‘I’ve come across guys like him before. He can’t help it. He thinks that title makes him better than everyone else. He’s also missed the fact that time has moved on and he’s no longer in charge. And, of course, he was probably embarrassed at having to admit his alarm didn’t work and he slept through the robbery.’
‘Yeah, well that’s what I was calling to tell you. This might cheer you up. The alarm didn’t fail – the old duffer didn’t even switch it on.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. I’ve checked and double checked. It wasn’t switched on last night.’
‘Does that happen often?’ asked Norman, feeling slightly suspicious.
‘Can’t say for sure without a lot more testing,’ said Becks, ‘but I’d bet on it being an isolated incident.’
‘Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, Ian?’
‘Hey. It’s not my place to speculate, Norm, it’s my job to supply you with evidence and facts. And that’s just a fact.’
‘What else have you got?’
‘Not much if I’m honest,’ said Becks, sounding grim. ‘There’s no sign of forced entry, no unexplained fingerprints, and bugger all else, apart from that calling card.’
‘Anything on that?’
‘Nothing to get excited about. I have to send it off to Winchester so they can compare it to the cards they’ve got so far. Apparently, a lot of people are doing break-ins and leaving these calling cards, but when you put them next to each other the fakes are easy to spot. They tell me the real Night Caller uses very special ink and card. By comparing them, they can tell us if we’re dealing with the real Night Caller or not.’
‘Let’s hope it is,’ said Norman. ‘Then they can take over the case and I don’t have to deal with that pompous arse again.’
‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,’ Becks said, laughing.
‘Thanks for letting me know, Ian.’
As Norman put the phone down, he wondered about Sir Robert Maunder. It was a bit of a coincidence, wasn’t it? Forgot the alarm, left out the jewellery box, and then slept while the guy was there in the same room helping himself. And there was no sign of a forced entry. Someone could easily be forgiven for thinking there was some sort of insurance swindle going on.
But then, that someone would need to get their hands on the old guy’s financial information to take that suspicion any further. Norman thought he would stand more chance of finding a snowman on the equator.
Chapter 4
Dave Slater hated funerals. He subscribed to the idea that a funeral should be a celebration of a life gone by, but in his experience, that just didn’t happen. To be fair, he had only ever attended three in his life so far, but he had found each of them to be a very morbid affair. He knew it was probably down to the fact that all those funerals had been those of his grandparents, and each one had been very old fashioned. Whichever way he looked at it, though, and no matter how much allowance he made, he couldn’t deny he had found each one deeply depressing.
On this drab, grey Monday morning, he could see no reason to think Mr Winter’s funeral was going to be any less depressing. In fact, he was sure it would be even worse because, as far as he could make out, there were going to be very few people attending this particular interment. He’d shared his misgivings with his girlfriend, Cindy, and, bless her, she’d offered to come with him. But this was no place for her; he was only here himself because Jane Jolly had spent the past few days making him feel guilty about Mr Winter’s death. It wasn’t his fault the poor old guy had no friends or relatives, was it? Nor was it his fault the guy’s death had been an accident and he hadn’t been murdered.
Even so, in the end he had agreed to come as long as Norman came too so here they were, like three stooges who’d come along to make up the numbers – which was exactly what they were.
Now he was looking round the inside of the crematorium, Slater thought he had been correct in his assessment of the numbers attending, and apart from himself, Jolly, and Norman, the only people inside the church were John Hunter and his wife, a small, grey-looking man whom he vaguely recognised from around town, the small team from the undertaker’s, and the vicar who was conducting the service. He thought it very sad there were so few people here to pay their respects, then he felt worse still when he realised he and Norman wouldn’t have been here but for Jane Jolly cajoling them along.
The three police officers had at first chosen to sit several rows back, but they soon realised they had only succeeded in drawing attention to their presence. This made Slater feel even more uncomfortable, but Norman didn’t seem to notice. Enviously, Slater wondered how his colleague always managed to look at ease whatever their situation. The vicar was obviously doing his best to sound upbeat and interesting but, with such a small audience, it was hard going. Aware that he could easily fall asleep if it became any more boring, Slater tuned him out and allowed his mind to wander.
His thoughts were interrupted when Norman nudged him and then nodded towards the rear of the crematorium. Looking over his shoulder, Slater could see a figure hovering by the door. He turned slightly to get a better look at a small, grey-haired old woman who stood there in a shabby off-white coat. She looked rather fragile and fidgeted nervously as though she felt she shouldn’t really be there. There was an air of distraction about her which made her look lost and confused. He thought, rather poetically, that she reminded him of a butterfly, fluttering haphazardly on damaged wings.
He had been observing her for at least half a minute or so before she noticed, with a start, that he was staring at her. Not wishing to frighten her, he turned to face the front for a few seconds before sneaking another glance in her direction, but she was gone. He turned right round to have a better look, but she was nowhere to be seen. As he turned back, he was sure he caught a glimpse of someone else, a man, he thought, stepping back into the shadows at the back of the room. He wondered why someone would be creeping about like that. Or was he just being suspicious?
At long last, the curtains drew back and Mr Winter’s coffin began its slow journey out of sight. In a few minutes, it would be reduced to ashes and gone forever. As the coffin disappeared from view behind the closing curtains, Slater took another look around. There by the doorway he noticed her again: the small, grey-haired old woman in her shabby coat. She was holding her right hand to her mouth, in a gesture of dismay, perhaps, or maybe to stifle a sob. From this distance, he couldn’t tell for sure, but the gesture made him feel she must have known Mr Winter. Then, as
before, she realised he was watching her and, taking a couple of steps back, she disappeared from view.
As they filed from the building, Slater pulled on Norman’s arm.
‘There was something weird going on at the back of the room,’ Slater said, when Norman looked at him quizzically.
‘You saw that too?’ Norman asked, looking around. ‘I thought I saw someone hanging around in the shadows back there.’
‘I’m going to slip off and see if I can see anything,’ Slater said, and Norman nodded.
‘I’ll see if I can find anything.’
Slater thought he had caught a glimpse of her as he left the building and he hurried across to a nearby clump of trees where he thought she’d been, but his elusive butterfly seemed to have flown. He searched around for few minutes, following a footpath that led through a small gate to the road outside, but she was nowhere to be seen.
As he came back through the gate, he could see Norman had returned and was now talking to Jolly and the Hunters and the small, grey-looking man Slater thought he should know. He briefly searched in and around the trees again, wondering how the woman could have just vanished without him seeing her go. It made no sense, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Cursing quietly, he made his way back. The tiny gathering had dispersed now, leaving just the solitary figure of Norman waiting for him. As he approached, Norman’s mobile phone started to ring. He watched him take the phone from his pocket and look at the screen before he turned his back and answered it. Slater assumed it must be a personal call, so he kept a discreet distance until Norman had finished. As he turned back to face Slater, it was obvious Norman was none too happy.
‘You okay?’ asked Slater.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Norman. He looked a bit pale, and he was turning the phone over and over in his hands. ‘These sales people just don’t know when to stop, do they?’
He thought Norman’s reaction was a bit over the top for a telesales call, but then Slater remembered how annoying he found them, and thought perhaps it wasn’t an overreaction after all.