by Ford, P. F.
‘I don’t know any Gordon Ferguson,’ said Hunter.
‘That’s odd,’ said Slater. ‘You drove all the way down to Portsmouth to see him a few nights ago. The Belmont Nursing Home. Ring any bells, does it? And before you deny it, you have been identified by a member of staff, and you’re on CCTV.’
‘Anyway,’ continued Norman, ‘Maunder had begun to suspect what was going on with some of the kids up there. Once he got dragged into this murder and its subsequent cover up, your father saw the opportunity to trap him and shut him up for good. Maunder’s been paying for that mistake ever since. It also gave your father the opportunity to keep Ferguson under control too. He didn’t have any money, but he could be useful in other ways, right?’
‘You’ll never prove any of this,’ said Hunter, desperately. ‘You’ve no proof and no witnesses.’
‘I have to admit you’ve been pretty thorough there,’ said Norman. ‘We looked everywhere for surviving members of staff, but they all seem to be dead somehow. Except for Gordon Ferguson, but all the time he knew you were out there he wasn’t going to say a thing.’
Hunter looked briefly relieved, as Norman had hoped he would.
‘There’s a problem for you, though,’ said Norman. ‘Gordon didn’t die yet. We know you poisoned him when you were down there the other night, but he’s a tough old boy, and he ain’t dead yet. He’s going to die very soon, and if he lasts until the weekend it’ll be a miracle, but we told him we were going to bring you in here and you wouldn’t be coming back out, so guess what? He told us who the ringleader was up at Hatton House. He also told us how, when that evil man died, his son had carried on terrorising him.’
There was another knock on the door. This time Norman went. When he came back his grin was even wider.
‘It’s not looking good for you, is it?’ he said. ‘They’ve just unearthed a CD given to you by Mr Winter. I bet it’s identical to the one we have.’
Hunter’s face fell.
‘Oh boy.’ Norman laughed coldly. ‘You didn’t know we had our own copy? See, Mr Winter might have trusted you enough to let you into his house the night you murdered him, but he obviously didn’t totally trust you, so he made a copy for us too, in the event anything should happen to him. As you know, he thought it was Maunder who was the ringleader, but I figure he guessed your father might have been involved too.’
There was another knock on the door. This time it swung open and Bob Murray stuck his head into the room.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, ominously. ‘Could I have a word, with both of you?’
They trooped out to join him. Norman wondered what could have gone wrong this time.
‘I’ve just had the chief constable on the line,’ said Murray, looking deadly serious.
‘Don’t tell me we’re suspended,’ said Slater.
Murray looked at Slater hard, and then he broke into a broad smile.
‘Not this time,’ he said. ‘Apparently Sir Robert Maunder had planned to take his own life. This morning the CC received a letter through the post from Sir Robert. It’s a suicide note in effect, but in it he confesses to being involved in covering up the murder of Ferguson’s wife. He confesses to having known about the child abuse but not having the guts to do anything about it. He chose his career and reputation over those kids’ lives.
‘He also names John Hunter’s father as the leader of the child abuse ring, and as his blackmailer. He claims the present John Hunter carried this on. He also confesses to having been blackmailed into paying to have Mr Winter and his sister silenced. He couldn’t live with himself any longer.’
‘I’m not surprised he couldn’t live with himself any longer,’ said Norman. ‘I don’t think I could have lived with myself for five minutes.’
‘Yes,’ said Murray. ‘But not everyone has your moral compass, Norman.’
They stood in silent thought for a moment before Murray spoke again.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we’re ever going to be able to charge anyone over the historical child abuse, but we’ve got enough evidence to charge Hunter with two counts of murder and blackmail for a start. You can add another murder charge when Ferguson dies, and we ought to look back at the deaths of all those staff members who’ve died.’
Slater and Norman stood there.
‘Well go on, then,’ said Murray. ‘Get on with it.’
‘Right, boss,’ said Slater.
He turned to Norman.
‘Who’s going to do the honours, you or me?’
‘Aw, heck. I don’t know. Whose turn is it?’
‘I can’t remember,’ said Slater, fishing in his pocket for a coin.
‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘Heads or tails?’
‘Last time we did this I ended up watching a PM,’ said Norman. ‘I’m sure that coin’s double-headed…’
The Wrong Man
© 2015 P. F. Ford
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events in this book are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real life counterparts is purely coincidental.
Prologue
Diana Woods looked at herself in the mirror and was pleased with the reflection she saw. The new underwear she’d been given looked good on her, but then she had known it would. She worked hard to make sure that even at forty-five she still had the sort of figure that made everything look good. She did another twirl so she could catch a view of her backside. Yes, she thought, I feel good in this stuff. He’ll be drooling next time he watches me undress.
Then the doorbell rang and she wondered who it could be. Probably Laura from next door. But she’s not supposed to come round until six. Couldn’t she have waited? I’ve only been home from work five minutes.
She ran through to the front bedroom and looked out of the window. She could just see the roof of a small, white van parked outside. This was a nice surprise. She really hadn’t expected him to call round today. It was a pity she was going out in half an hour, but there would still be time for a little fun before she went.
She slipped a slinky, black negligee on over her new underwear and then padded down the stairs in her bare feet. She smiled to herself as she realised he had bought the negligee for her as well. It seemed as if he was all around her already, and soon she’d have him all to herself anytime she wanted.
The doorbell rang again.
‘Alright, I’m coming,’ she called, quickening her pace.
She threw the door open.
‘Oh. Hi. This is a surprise. You didn’t say you were coming round, did you? Well, come on in, but you’ll have to be quick. I wasn’t expecting you and I’m going out at six.’
She turned on her heel and started walking towards the kitchen at the back of the house, well aware that she was leaving little to her visitor’s imagination. But then, that was all part of the fun.
‘I was just going to make a cup of tea,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Come on. I’ll make us both one.’
She heard the front door close behind her as she picked up the kettle and walked across to the sink.
‘Why on earth have you got gloves on?’ she asked. ‘It’s not cold, is it? Or, are they your fancy driving gloves?’
There was no reply, and as she turned on the tap to fill the kettle she suddenly became aware that something wasn’t right. But by then it was too late, and her eyes widened in pain and shock as the blade of a knife was driven deep into her back.
It would be hard to say if the blow had been delivered with great accuracy or if it was just luck, but whichever was the case, the blade struck at the perfect angle to slip neatly between her ribs and plunge straight through her heart. She didn’t even have time to scream before she slumped forward across the sink and then her knees buckled beneath her. By the time she was sprawled face down on the floor, she was dead.
The killer watched in fascination as blood seeped from the wound,
creating a widening red patch around the knife handle as it soaked into the flimsy fabric of her negligee. But there wasn’t time to linger. There was still work to be done, although it wouldn’t take long.
In less than two minutes, the front door was quietly pulled closed and the killer was gone.
Chapter 1
The Bishops Common had been given to the townspeople of Tinton back in ancient times to allow the commoners to graze their animals without cost. Very few of the present day commoners were actually aware of this privilege, and none of them possessed livestock in need of grazing.
They did have a rather exclusive enclave of ten homes all to themselves. The houses had all originally been hovels, but it was impossible to tell now. Over the years they had been restored and extended by their various owners and now formed a collection of desirable homes, in an equally desirable location.
‘So where is this place?’ asked DS Norman Norman. ‘I never heard of this Bishops Common before.’
‘That’s because it’s a rather exclusive, and sought after, area,’ replied his friend and colleague DS Dave Slater, from the driving seat. ‘It’s the epitome of peace and tranquillity where nothing ever happens and the police never need to set foot.’
‘So this isn’t a regular event then?’
‘If you mean do they normally find dead bodies lying around, then the answer is no. I believe this is a first.’
‘I didn’t even know there were any houses down here,’ said Norman, as they turned off the main road and onto the track that led down to the common. ‘You are sure there are houses here, are you? Only I don’t see any.’
‘That’s because they’re down the lane here and round the corner,’ replied Slater. ‘That’s part of the attraction for the people who live here. It’s the seclusion that makes it such a sought-after spot. That and the fact all the houses are detached.’
‘Well I think it’s a crappy place to live.’ As a native Londoner who loved the place, Norman found it difficult to see the attraction of living in the countryside. ‘You couldn’t pay me to live out here.’
‘Trust me,’ said Slater, smiling, ‘the likes of you and me couldn’t afford to live out here. Anyway, I don’t understand this aversion you have to country life. You spent three years in Northumberland, and you’ve been here over a year now. Surely you can’t still hanker for the noise and pollution of London?’
‘You’re never going to convince me the smell of horse shit and cow shit is better than diesel fumes,’ said Norman. ‘No way.’
‘All that crap floating around in the London air is taking years off of everyone’s life.’
‘It’s an acquired taste, I’ll grant you that.’
‘The smell of farm animals doesn’t kill your lungs.’
‘But this hankering for the smell of cow shit just isn’t natural,’ said Norman. ‘If we were supposed to like it we would have been born cows, right?’
‘You need to see someone about your logic.’ Slater laughed, shaking his head. ‘There is absolutely nothing natural about breathing air filled with diesel fumes.’
They rounded a bend in the lane.
‘Here we go.’ Slater took one hand off the steering wheel and pointed. ‘Crime scene up ahead.’
They could see houses now, to the right and left of the lane. Some were set well back with hedges and trees out front, and one or two were much closer to the lane. The one they were looking for was about fifty yards up on the left hand side. It was easily identified by the blue and white cordon tape and the police vehicles parked outside.
‘What time is it?’ asked Norman, squinting at his watch.
‘Eight-thirty,’ said Slater. ‘So we had a whole two hours between finishing our normal day’s work and getting dragged back out for this.’
‘D’you think this is what they meant when they said we should make better use of our own time and our opportunities to relax and sleep in between shifts?’ Norman smiled wryly.
He was referring to a recent memo that had been sent round to every department, advising officers they could become more efficient if they made better use of their own time and made sure they had sufficient rest and sleep.
‘Just having some of my own time would be a start. Do you get any time of your own?’ asked Slater as he parked the car.
‘I know what you mean.’ Norman let out a laugh. ‘But right now you need to put Mr Negative to bed and slip on your positive head. Can you do that?’
Slater had a natural tendency to focus on the negatives. Norman had made it his personal goal to instil in Slater a much more positive attitude in line with his own. It was very much a work in progress, and he still had to remind Slater sometimes, but he saw hopeful signs in his colleague.
Slater fixed a stupid grin on his face and turned to Norman.
‘There you go,’ he said. ‘I’m happy. Okay?’
‘That’s a very insincere smile. Which, in itself, is indicative of possession of a negative attitude.’
‘Oh nuts,’ said Slater, swinging his door open. ‘The use of over-wordy pronouncements indicates the desire to appear superior, which surely, in itself, is a negative trait.’
Norman tried to think of a smart remark of his own, but Slater was out of the car and the moment was gone.
As this was the scene of a murder, it was necessary for anyone entering to don one of the all-in-one paper ‘romper’ suits provided by the forensics team. Slater headed into the tent that had been erected in the front garden. Getting into these suits had always been something of a challenge for the rather portly Norman, and was often a source of great amusement for his colleagues; Slater chief among them. Fortunately, Norman didn’t seem to be offended by this and there had been more than one occasion when he had played to the gallery and gone out his way to make everyone laugh. Slater knew Norman was of the same opinion as him: sometimes a little humour, in the right place and at the right time, was essential to help everyone cope with some of the darker stuff they had to deal with.
Recently the forensics department had invested in the latest design of the offending suits. No one seemed to know the official name, but because they were blue, the general consensus was they made anyone wearing one look like a smurf. Norman had somehow managed to keep back a personal supply of the older white suits but these all now seemed to be gone, as Norman had showed up empty-handed.
Slater put his own suit on in less than a minute and was ready to go, but Norman seemed to be having some sort of problem. Slater folded his arms and watched patiently as his friend struggled.
‘No, it’s okay,’ said Norman. ‘You go on. I’ll catch you up in a minute. Some joker seems to have given me a small size. I distinctly said large.’
Slater winked at the PC who was responsible for signing in and handing out suits. He put his finger to his lips to indicate the PC should say nothing.
‘Perhaps they didn’t bring any of the larger size,’ he suggested, smiling broadly. ‘I’ll go on ahead.’
He didn’t bother to tell Norman they were ‘one size fits all’ just like all the old white suits used to be. He figured his partner would find out soon enough.
He made his way through the open front door, stopped, and looked around.
‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Eamon? Where are you?’
‘Through here, in the kitchen.’
A familiar collection of noises told him there was a forensic photographer somewhere nearby, and as he followed the voice through to the kitchen, he could see the accompanying flashes as the cameraman did his work.
Dr Eamon Murphy, the pathologist, was kneeling over the victim’s facedown body, directing the photographer. He looked round when Slater came into the room.
‘I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s been dragged away from his dinner.’
‘Ah yes,’ Slater said, grinning at him. ‘These unannounced informal gatherings are one of the joys of police work.’
‘But I don’t work for the police.’
‘Only because we can’t afford to pay your exorbitant salary. Anyway, I thought you were on the payroll now.’
An agreement had recently been cobbled together with the local hospital whereby Murphy could be contracted out to the police as and when necessary.
‘I’m not actually a full time employee,’ said Murphy. ‘I’m supposed to be contracted on an ad-hoc, consultant, basis.’
‘So you get to choose how much you get paid? Now that’s a novel idea. Maybe I can try doing that.’
Slater squatted down near to the body, but not too near.
‘So this situation is just about perfect then,’ he continued, his grin becoming even wider.
Murphy raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Well, you couldn’t get much more ad-hoc than this, could you? And it just so happens I need to consult your considered opinion as to this unfortunate lady’s death.’
‘I suppose I asked for that,’ said Murphy, with a rueful smile.
‘You did once tell me you’d like to get out and about more often,’ said Slater.
He waited while Murphy directed the photographer to take one last shot for him.
‘So, what have we got, Eamon?’ he asked, once the photographer had stepped away.
‘Diana Woods. Forty-five years old, stabbed in the back with a wide-bladed knife, possibly the one missing from the knife block up there.’ He pointed to a knife block on the kitchen side. ‘I won’t know for sure until I do the PM, but it looks like the knife went straight into, and possibly right through, the heart.’
‘Would you like to guess a time?’
‘I estimate she’s been dead no more than three or four hours at most. So my best guess at this stage is that she died somewhere between four thirty and six-thirty. I can’t tell you much more at the moment.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Slater. ‘It’s a start. Are we sure she was murdered in here? The body hasn’t been moved or anything?’