by Ford, P. F.
The young man who had answered the door looked shocked initially, but he quickly recovered his composure and the shocked expression was replaced with a smug grin. Youthful arrogance, Norman thought.
‘He’s not here. Why do you want to speak to him?’ he asked.
‘Who are you?’ asked Norman, noting the attitude. He liked a challenge.
‘Err, I’m John, his brother.’
‘Are you twins?’ asked Norman, looking him up and down.
‘What?’ he said, uncertainly. ‘Erm, no, of course not.’
‘Wrong answer, sunshine,’ said Norman.
Then, turning to Jolly, he said, ‘Got your cuffs handy?’
She nodded.
Norman turned back to face the now not-quite-so-smug looking young man.
‘Then arrest this man, Constable.’
Jolly took a step forward.
‘Now hold on a minute. You can’t just arrest me like this. You might think you can go around bullying people, but you’re not going to get away with it here. I’m a newspaper reporter.’
‘Really?’ said Norman, in mock wonder. ‘Oh wow. Who do you write for? The Times? Or maybe you’re a Telegraph man.’
‘The local newspaper,’ said the mystery man, looking as if he wanted a hole to open up in the ground and swallow him.
‘We’ll check that,’ said Norman.
‘And anyway, I haven’t even done anything wrong,’ bleated Trent.
‘Well now, let’s make a list, shall we?’ said Norman with an evil grin. ‘For a start you’ve just given a false name to a police officer. By doing that you’re obstructing a police inquiry, and you should understand we’re not talking some piffling little case. This is a murder inquiry.’
‘Bollocks!’ said the young man, his face reddening. ‘I’m John Trent, and I haven’t murdered anybody.’
‘Oh come on, son.’ Norman sighed wearily. ‘Do we really look that stupid? We found you through your car. We’ve seen your photograph on your driver’s licence. You might think you know it all, but you really don’t, do you?’
‘But I haven’t done anything wrong!’
‘What were you doing in the back garden of number 17 Canal Street ten days ago?’ asked Norman.
‘Never been there in my life,’ the man on the doorstep answered, a bit too quickly. ‘I don’t even know where it is.’
‘So how did your car get there?’ asked Jolly.
‘It wasn’t-’
‘It was,’ interrupted Jolly. ‘I saw it there myself and noted the registration number, just after I saw you running through the back gate.’
‘Look. I told you I’m a reporter. I don’t have to tell you anything.’ He folded his arms and leaned defiantly against the door.
‘Like I said before,’ said Norman, smiling pleasantly, ‘you don’t know quite as much as you think you do. Just so you understand, I’ll tell you again – this is a murder investigation, not some schoolboy game. Even if you are a reporter, you still have to talk to us. It’s true that if you tell us something second-hand you don’t have to reveal your source. But that’s not quite the same thing, is it?’
‘And just so you understand, mate, I’ll tell you what you can do-’ barked the young man, taking a step forward and jabbing his finger at Norman.
Norman watched with no small amount of pleasure as Jolly grabbed the man’s hand, twisted his arm up behind his back, slammed him up against the door and slapped on the handcuffs.
‘Now that was a silly thing to do,’ said Norman, patiently. ‘Now we can add threatening a police officer and resisting arrest to that list of charges. And think yourself lucky. If my colleague hadn’t been so quick off the mark, I might have been able to add assaulting a police officer to that list.’
Then, as an afterthought, he added, ‘And just so you know, I am not, and never will be, your “mate”.’
He looked at Jolly and nodded his head towards the road. Jolly began to drag her prisoner towards the car.
‘Ow!’ yelled Trent. ‘That hurts, you bitch. I’ll f-’
‘Foul and abusive language, and threatening behaviour towards a second police officer,’ interrupted Norman, following along behind. ‘At this rate, I’m gonna need a bigger notebook.’
‘Do you know how difficult it is to even keep near our budgeted costs?’ Bob Murray asked, sounding exasperated.
‘I appreciate you’re under a lot of pressure,’ sympathised Slater. ‘But-’
‘And now you want me to provide protection to someone who might be in danger, but you don’t exactly know for sure, and you don’t have a clue why. Come on, David, you need to be a bit more convincing than that.’
These rants about spiralling costs were certainly becoming more and more frequent, so Slater figured the pressure from above must be really getting to Murray. It explained why he seemed to be here seven days a week recently. He thought it couldn’t be much fun for an old school copper, who had spent his entire career doing whatever had to be done to get a result, to suddenly have to start worrying about balancing books. Murray sounded like a man who’d just about had enough.
‘We believe Mr Winter died because he had some information somebody wanted very badly,’ he said, trying to stay calm and reasonable. ‘When it couldn’t be found at his house, that same somebody decided Winter must have passed it on to his solicitor John Hunter. Now his office has been turned over, but nothing was found. It seems reasonable to assume the next place to be targeted is going to be Hunter’s home. We’ve already had one murder, and we believe the person behind this wouldn’t hesitate to murder again.’
‘How long’s it going to take?’ asked Murray.
‘How long’s a piece of string?’ replied Slater, tritely.
The scowl on Murray’s face immediately told Slater he’d spoken out of turn, and wished he could take the words straight back.
‘Don’t get clever, Sergeant,’ growled Murray. ‘This isn’t some bloody game we’re playing here.’
‘Yes sir. I’m sorry sir,’ mumbled Slater.
Murray sighed, heavily.
‘There’s no need to grovel,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t be snapping at you like that.’
Slater thought that was as near as Murray was going to get to an apology, but he also knew he had spoken out of turn.
‘No. You’re right to have a go. I was out of order,’ he admitted.
‘D’you know,’ said Murray, tiredly, sitting back in his seat. ‘There was a time when I used to love this job, but now I sometimes feel as if they want us to catch criminals with our hands tied behind our backs. How can we do the job with no bloody funds? It makes me so bloody angry!’
It was unusual for the old man to swear, and when he did it usually signified he was particularly angry about something. Right now Slater was losing count of the ‘bloodys’, and he had no wish to become the object of Murray’s ire, so he decided he should keep his mouth firmly closed.
‘Let me think about it,’ said Murray. ‘I’ll let you know later.’
‘Ok, Boss. Thank you,’ said Slater, climbing to his feet. At least the old man hadn’t said no. He figured it would probably be a good idea to get out while he was ahead.
‘Have you thought anymore about what we were talking about the other day?’ asked Murray, before Slater could escape.
‘Boss?’ asked Slater, dumbly.
‘About becoming a DI.’
‘Ah. Right. Yes,’ said Slater, awkwardly. ‘I have as it happens, but as there’s no vacancy for a DI here, it seems to me I’d have to move away. At this particular time, I’m not ready to do that. Maybe in a year or two.’
‘Serious this time, is it?’ asked Murray.
Slater looked nonplussed.
‘The new girlfriend. D’you think she might be the one?’
Slater felt himself going red. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t think Murray had the faintest inkling about Cindy.
‘Don’t look so surprised,’ Murray said, smilin
g. ‘It’s my job to know if people are happy or not, and I’d have to be blind to miss the fact that you have a spring in your step at the moment.’
He nodded his approval.
‘I do understand,’ he went on. ‘But just remember these career opportunities won’t always be there just when you want them. That’s all, David, thank you.’
‘Err, right. Thanks, Boss,’ said Slater, eager to get away before Murray embarrassed him any further.
Chapter 10
‘Is that Rita Myers?’ asked Norman into the phone. Rita was both editor and owner of Tinton’s only local newspaper, The Tinton Tribune.
‘Speaking,’ said a business-like voice on the other end of the line.
‘This is DS Norman from Tinton police. We’re questioning a young man who claims to work for you.’
‘Who is it?’ she asked.
‘His name’s Danny Trent,’ said Norman. ‘Says he’s a reporter.’
‘Ha!’ she laughed. ‘That boy has ambition, but I’m afraid he’s rather exaggerating his own importance. He’s not exactly reached those lofty heights just yet.’
‘So he’s definitely not a reporter,’ Norman said.
‘He’s just the office junior at the moment,’ she replied. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I sound rather flippant, but what’s he supposed to have done? It’s nothing serious, is it?’
‘We’re just asking him some questions relating to an inquiry. But he’s claiming because he works for the press as a reporter he doesn’t have to speak to us. To tell the truth, he could be in a lot of trouble if he’s not careful. He’s not doing himself any favours and he’s likely to get charged with wasting police time at the very least, but it could be a lot more serious than that.’
‘Would it help if I come in and talk to him?’ asked Rita.
‘I was hoping you might say that. Would you really be willing to?’ Norman jumped at the opportunity to get through to this stupid kid.
‘What’s he being questioned about?’ she asked.
‘Off the record?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘It could be that a death that we thought was an accident may actually be a murder,’ said Norman.
‘I didn’t know there had been a murder,’ she said in surprise. ‘Would that be the old man who was found dead in Canal Street?’
‘That’s the only one we’ve got,’ said Norman, hoping he wasn’t going to regret telling this to the local press.
‘Give me five minutes and I’ll be on my way,’ she said, hanging up the phone.
True to her word, Rita Meyers was there within less than fifteen minutes. She was a smartly dressed, no-nonsense sort of woman, and gave off an air of calm efficiency. Norman figured she wouldn’t be someone who tolerated bullshit in any form – and he had been right. When Norman pointed her in the direction of the interview room, she hadn’t hesitated to march straight in and deliver her message to the unsuspecting Danny Trent in no uncertain terms. Watching through the two-way mirror, Norman thought he was glad he wasn’t the one getting the bollocking.
‘Right,’ she said, to Norman and Slater when she’d finished. ‘I’ve explained to him that he’s not a reporter and even if he was, he wouldn’t have some sort of magic immunity, so I think he’ll talk now. Do you want me to hang on, just in case?’
‘How about if you sit in with him?’ ventured Slater.
Norman opened his mouth to protest, but Slater didn’t give him the chance.
‘We wouldn’t normally do this, of course,’ he continued, ‘but I think maybe if we make the whole thing a little less formal Danny might be more inclined to talk, and he trusts you, doesn’t he?’
‘Are you going to record this “chat”?’ she asked.
‘I thought maybe we’d try informal first,’ said Slater. ‘Then we can do the full statement afterwards.’
It was a gamble, but Danny Trent obviously didn’t trust the police and was unlikely to talk to them alone, Norman thought, grudgingly.
‘And what’s in it for me?’ she asked.
‘We can probably make sure you get to take him back home rather than spend the night in one of our cells,’ said Slater. ‘And I must ask that you keep this quiet, or Danny could be in danger. And that means not printing anything about this case.’
‘That sounds very melodramatic,’ she said, teasingly.
‘It’s for real,’ said Norman. ‘You’ll have to trust us on that, but it’s not something we’d joke about, believe me.’
She looked from one to the other, clearly weighing up her options.
‘Okay,’ she said, finally. ‘Let’s do it.’
Two hours later, Norman watched her walk out of the station with Danny in tow, the office junior having promised to make sure he went straight home and behaved himself.
‘What do you make of that?’ Slater asked Norman.
‘He’s an arrogant little bugger, but he’s no killer,’ said Norman. ‘His alibi for the night of the murder checks out.’
‘He’s a size ten shoe, though. And that’s just the right size for the break-in, even though he says the house was like that when he got there that morning.’
‘Well, yeah,’ said Norman, doubtfully. ‘But he says he doesn’t have any expensive trainers like that, and when I called his mum she confirmed that. Even Rita said she’s never seen him wearing a pair like that. Even if it was his, that shoe print was down by the gate not up by the house. I would say that tends to back up his story that he was just being nosey and panicked when Jane turned up.’
‘That’s what I think, too,’ agreed Slater. ‘He’s got an attitude on him, but he’s no house-breaker and definitely not a killer.’
‘But what do you make of this story about a London journalist he says he’s working for?’ asked Norman.
‘Well, Rita did say he’s ambitious. I think perhaps this guy’s found a naive kid to do some running around for him. In turn the kid probably thinks it’s going to fast track him to the big league.’
‘Rita didn’t look too impressed when he told us about his freelance gig,’ said Norman, grinning. ‘I bet he’s getting his ears roasted on the way home!’
‘Yeah, he’s just being used,’ said Slater. ‘I’m sure about that, and I’m sure Rita’s telling him exactly the same thing on the way home. The interesting question is: why? Why would a London journalist be sniffing around the seemingly unimportant murder of a little old man?’
‘Maybe he knows there’s a much bigger story behind the murder.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Slater. ‘In which case he knows a lot more than we do. But it’s the only reason that makes sense, isn’t it? We need to find out who he is and what he knows. Until we do, I think we might have run into a brick wall.’
‘Here, look at this,’ called Jolly, half an hour later.
Slater and Norman turned from their desks and joined her.
‘It’s the website for this journalist Danny Trent claims he’s working for. He’s some sort of freelance investigative journalist by the look of it.’
‘Ah. A sleazy muck-raker,’ said Norman derisively.
‘It looks like he does his fair share of that,’ agreed Jolly. ‘But he’s also a bit of a crusader for good causes.’
‘So what’s the guy in charge look like?’ asked Slater. ‘Are there any photos of him?’
‘Here,’ said Jolly.
She clicked a link and a head shot of Geoff Rippon, journalist at large, appeared.
‘Hey, wait a minute,’ said Norman. ‘I know that face.’
He retrieved his mobile phone from his desk and fumbled with it for a moment.
‘I thought so,’ he said, smiling. ‘Here, look. It’s the guy who was creeping about at the back of the funeral.’
He showed the photograph from his mobile phone. Even thought it was blurry, it was obviously the same guy.
‘My instincts told me not to delete it,’ he explained. ‘I also have a photo of his car registration.’
�
��Let’s have it,’ said Jolly. ‘Maybe I can find out where he lives.’
‘Is there no address on his website?’ asked Slater.
‘Just an office address,’ said Jolly. ‘And a couple of phone numbers. Here.’
She handed Slater a slip of paper with the two numbers.
‘Let me give these a ring,’ said Slater, turning back to his desk.
Over the next few minutes, he tried the two numbers but all he got in reply was the same voicemail message. He wasn’t really surprised. That would have been way too easy, wouldn’t it? But at least they now had a name and a face. It was a start.
‘Any luck with that car, Jane?’ he asked, turning back to her.
‘It’s a hire car,’ she said.
‘Huh! Just when I thought we’d got lucky,’ said Norman.
‘We have,’ she said. ‘It belongs to that car hire place down by the railway station. Apparently, he picked it up the day before the funeral and he’s got an open booking. He told them he’s staying at the Station Hotel but doesn’t know exactly how long he’s going to be here. I’m just printing it out now.’
Norman went to the printer and snatched up the sheet of paper as it finished printing. He scanned the sheet and grinned.
‘PC Jolly, come and stand out here. I feel I should prostrate myself at your feet,’ he declared, grandly.
‘I’m pleased you appreciate my efficiency, but that actually sounds rather pervy,’ she said, doubtfully, looking over her shoulder. ‘I think I’ll stay here and make do with a simple “thank you”, if you don’t mind.’
‘Rebuffed again.’ Norman staggered back, clutching his hands to his heart in faux hurt.
‘I hate to interrupt,’ said Slater, before Norman could get into his stride. ‘But we do have an investigation to get on with.’
‘Yes, PC Jolly,’ said Norman, looking suitably serious. ‘Quit fooling around!’
Jolly poked her tongue out and turned back to her computer.
‘Are you okay with carrying on with Mr Winters’ background check, Jane?’ Slater asked, noticing she looked a bit harassed.
‘I’d rather be busy than twiddling my thumbs,’ she said. ‘I’m actually quite good at this family tree stuff. It’ll keep me out of trouble for a while.’