Dave Slater Mystery Novels Box Set One

by Ford, P. F.

  ‘Did he tell you that? That’s just another one of his fantasies I’m afraid.’

  ‘Like the fantasy about him earning a good living “messing about on the internet”?’

  ‘I know for sure she didn’t want him back,’ insisted Rossiter.

  ‘You do?’ said Norman. ‘And why was that? Did she have plans for her future?’

  ‘What do you mean “plans”?’

  ‘Well, maybe she wanted to turn your relationship into something more permanent,’ said Norman. ‘Perhaps she was planning on taking your wife’s place.’

  ‘No way,’ said Rossiter. ‘She knew right from day one that was never going to be an option. I just wanted a partner for sex, nothing more.’

  ‘But perhaps she didn’t see it like that anymore. Was she leaning on you? Trying to pressure you to get rid of your wife? Maybe she had threatened to tell your wife about your affair. I mean that would put you in a difficult position, wouldn’t it? You might even feel you had to do something about it’

  ‘Wait a minute. What are you suggesting?’ asked Rossiter. ‘You think I killed Diana? But that’s crazy. She didn’t threaten me with anything. We were both quite happy as we were.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ asked Slater.

  ‘Yes, I am. Quite sure.’

  ‘And are you quite sure your wife doesn’t know about you and Diana?’ asked Norman.

  ‘What? Now you think my wife killed her? Rossiter shook his head vigorously. ‘Now that’s just a crazy idea. My wife couldn’t do anything like that. She liked Diana. She thought Diana was wonderful, the best PA I had ever had.’

  ‘In which case the betrayal would hurt even more,’ said Norman.

  ‘I’m telling you she doesn’t know, and I don’t want you telling her.’

  ‘It might be difficult for us not to talk to your wife now, Mr Rossiter,’ said Slater. ‘In view of the circumstances she would have to be considered a possible suspect.’

  ‘Can you account for your movements on the day Diana died?’ asked Norman. ‘We know you were up in London, but what time did you get back to Tinton?’

  ‘I got back to the office just after five, and then I went home.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm you were up in London all day?’ asked Slater.

  ‘I think you’ll find there are about thirty witnesses who were with me from ten in the morning right through until we wound things up at around three,’ said Rossiter.

  ‘So you weren’t in Tinton at lunchtime?’

  ‘I just said I was in London, didn’t I?’

  ‘Diana had sex with someone at lunchtime on the day she died,’ said Norman. ‘Do you have any idea who that might have been?’

  ‘None at all,’ said Rossiter. ‘But if she was with someone else it rather proves she wasn’t trying to get closer to me, doesn’t it?’

  ‘When it comes to people like you and Diana, I think the only thing we can say it proves is that she was having sex with someone else that day,’ said Slater. ‘Normal rules don’t apply, do they?’

  ‘You can think whatever you like about my morals,’ said Rossiter. ‘The fact is I haven’t broken any laws, have I?’

  ‘We’re not sure about that yet,’ said Norman.

  There was a knock on the door. Slater got up and went across to answer it. He stuck his head out and there was a short, hissed conversation, before he came back across to the desk with a sheet of paper which he placed in front of Norman. A frown spread across Norman’s face as he studied the sheet of paper. Finally, he looked up at Rossiter.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know the fingerprints we found inside the mobile phone aren’t yours,’ he said.

  ‘I think you’ll find I told you that yesterday.’ Rossiter smiled broadly, his confidence and smugness now evidently fully restored. ‘I don’t know how that phone got into my desk.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Slater. ‘Of course you don’t.’

  ‘I think we’re done here, don’t you? Come on, Brian. I think I’ve answered enough questions for one day.’

  ‘You said it would be a piece of cake,’ Slater complained down the phone, ten minutes later.

  ‘And I was right,’ argued Becks. ‘It was a piece of cake. I got you a result in less than twenty minutes.’

  ‘Yeah, but you proved it wasn’t him.’

  ‘That’s not my fault. I can’t prove they’re his prints when they aren’t, can I? That’s the thing about fingerprints. They’re unique, or didn’t they teach you that at detective school?’

  ‘But we’ve had to let the bugger go now,’ said Slater.

  ‘Well don’t blame me, mate. I can only report what I find, and in this case I find the fingerprints don’t match. End of story.’

  ‘I was sure they were going to be his fingerprints, If they’re not his, who the bloody hell do they belong to?’

  ‘We’re running them through the database now,’ said Becks, testily. ‘That’s the best we can do.’

  ‘Okay Ian, I know it’s not your fault,’ said Slater, trying to pour some oil on the waters he had just stirred up. ‘Let me know if you find anything.’

  Slater felt like throwing the phone through the window in frustration, but he resisted the urge and placed it carefully back on its cradle.

  ‘It’s no good bollocking him,’ said Norman. ‘It’s not his fault.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Slater said, sighing. ‘I was just so sure.’

  ‘So we need to think again,’ said Norman.

  ‘And who the hell was she bonking that lunchtime if it wasn’t Rossiter?’ asked Slater.

  ‘Now there’s a good question.’ Norman looked thoughtful. ‘She certainly seems to have liked sharing it around. It could have been anyone. Did she have anyone working on her house, or her garden?’

  ‘There wasn’t any sign of that,’ said Slater.

  ‘Can I offer a suggestion?’ asked Jane Jolly. ‘Only I’m sitting here listening to you two talking doom and gloom, and I think maybe you’re missing something.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Slater. ‘What’s your suggestion?’

  ‘Now I don’t know anything about having affairs,’ she began. ‘But I do know something about men, and I know if I wanted my husband to get a mobile phone so I could contact him secretly I would probably have to wait a very long time for him to get around to doing it.’

  ‘No offence, Jane, but I don’t think you can compare your husband to an animal like Rossiter.’

  ‘Certainly not in terms of his morals, but most women will agree – if you want a man to do something it’s often best to do it yourself.’

  Slater wasn’t sure what she was getting at.

  ‘What I mean is, I would have to buy the phone myself,’ she said, slowly.

  ‘Ah. I see what you’re saying,’ said Slater. ‘You think Diana would have got the phone for Rossiter.’

  ‘She was his PA. She would have been used to doing stuff for him. I bet she bought the phone and set it up for him. All he had to do was use it.’

  Slater grabbed his phone and dialled Ian Becks’ number.

  ‘Hi, Ian? Can you check if those prints inside the phone belong to Diana Woods?’

  ‘Great minds think alike,’ said Becks. ‘I’ve just realised they’re a woman’s prints. I was just going to check hers first.’

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ said Slater, as he put the phone down. ‘Ian reckons they’re a woman’s prints. It has to be Diana.’

  ‘Well it helps in one way,’ said Norman. ‘But then you have to remember she would have had access to Rossiter’s desk, so in a way it strengthens his argument that he didn’t know the phone was there. He’ll say she put it there and he knew nothing about it.’

  ‘Yeah, but what about those texts from D to B? If we can manage to prove they’re from her to him, we’ve got him.’

  ‘Is that all we need to do?’ asked Norman. ‘Oh, great. It’s a piece of cake, then.’

  ‘D’you think there’s any doub
t?’

  ‘No, of course not. There’s no doubt the texts are from Diana to him, I just don’t think it’s going to be so easy to prove it without her phone.’

  ‘I do keep ringing it,’ said Jolly. ‘I’ve set up my computer to call it at random intervals. But whoever took it has either destroyed it, or they’re clever enough to keep it switched off.’

  ‘Keep on trying with that,’ said Slater. ‘I’m beginning to think it’s been destroyed, but you never know.’

  ‘Rossiter travels a lot, doesn’t he?’ Jolly said, suddenly. ‘You could try seeing if the text messages tie up with any events in his diary.’

  ‘He’s not going to help us out by giving us his diary,’ said Norman. ‘We’ll need to get a warrant.’

  ‘Before we do that, we could try asking our pet receptionist,’ said Slater. ‘Maybe she can help.’

  ‘Perhaps. And how about we track down some of the other men Diane Woods has been “seeing” at lunchtimes?’

  Chapter 13

  ‘Mr Stephen Grey? My name’s DS Slater from Tinton CID, and this is my colleague DS Norman.’

  The man was obviously startled to find two detectives on his doorstep asking awkward questions about his past. A small boy appeared at his side, but was quickly ushered back inside.

  ‘Go and help mummy,’ said Stephen Grey, steering the little boy back inside. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

  Once the boy had gone back inside he pulled the door closed behind him.

  ‘What’s this all about? I haven’t seen Diana Woods for years.’

  ‘As I said when I called,’ said Slater, ‘we’re investigating Diana Woods’ murder. I understand you were in a relationship with her.’

  ‘Yes, I was,’ said Grey. ‘But that was a mistake I made over fifteen years ago. I haven’t spoken to her since, and I don’t even know where she lives now.’

  ‘But you did have an affair with her?’ asked Norman.

  ‘Yes, but keep your voice down, can’t you? That was before I met my wife and she doesn’t know about it. I’d like to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Did you know Mr Woods?’ asked Slater.

  ‘Yes. He used to drink in the pub where I worked.’

  ‘Did you get on with him?’ asked Norman.

  ‘He’d buy me a drink now and then,’ said Grey. ‘I suppose he was alright.’

  ‘And when did you conduct this affair?’ asked Slater.

  ‘What? What do you mean “when”?’

  ‘Well, was it at night, in the morning, or when?’

  ‘Usually it was lunchtime,’ said Grey. ‘She used to reckon no one would ever guess she’d be going like a train all lunchtime and then back at work afterwards. And she was right.’

  ‘And you didn’t have a problem facing Ian Woods and accepting a drink from him while this was going on?’ asked Norman.

  ‘Look, Woody was alright, but he was stupid. At first I used to worry he’d find out, but he thought the sun shone out of her backside. He was so dazzled by it he couldn’t see what was going on right under his nose. Poor sap.’

  ‘Maybe he just made the mistake of trusting people,’ said Norman. ‘Like his mates.’

  ‘Oh, for sure. And the biggest mistake of all was trusting his wife. Like I said, poor sap. They were queuing up to give her one and he still couldn’t see it.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ called a woman’s voice from behind Grey, whose face suddenly turned ashen.

  A small, aggressive-looking woman pulled the door open and elbowed her way in alongside him.

  ‘Who are these men?’ she asked, looking hard at Slater and Norman.

  ‘We’re police officers,’ said Norman.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We’re just following up some enquiries about an accident,’ said Norman, thinking fast. ‘We were told Mr Grey might have seen it, but it seems we were misinformed.’

  Grey let out an audible sigh of relief.

  ‘Yes. Thank you for your time, Mr Grey,’ said Slater. ‘Sorry to have disturbed you. We’ll be off now.’

  They turned and headed for their car.

  ‘That was very noble of you, getting him out of that hole,’ said Slater, when they were out of earshot.

  ‘Noble?’ said Norman. ‘I don’t know about that. I just think it was a long time ago, and he seems to be married to a little terrier who would happily tear him apart at the drop of a hat. Why spoil things for them by telling her about something her husband did before he even met her?’

  ‘My point entirely. That was a noble act. You could have dropped him right in it.’

  ‘Yeah. But I doubt she bought that excuse I invented off the top of my head, so now we’ve given her cause to be suspicious. My guess is she’ll keep chipping away at him to try and find out what he’s really been up to, and I reckon that’s going to drive him mad.’

  ‘Noble, but devious with it,’ said Slater admiringly. ‘A slow, agonising, form of torture. And all because his wife doesn’t trust him.’

  ‘It seems appropriate somehow, don’t you think?’

  ‘Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you.’ Slater grinned, shaking his head.

  They reached their car and climbed in.

  ‘Being serious now, did we actually learn anything new?’ asked Slater.

  ‘Not exactly. But it confirms what Ian Woods told us about her past, and we also confirmed Diana’s liking for lunchtime nooky. Whether that really helps us in any significant way I’m not so sure.’

  ‘So what do you think, Norm? Are we getting anywhere? Because I’m not convinced we are.’

  ‘I’ll give you my best guess,’ said Norman. ‘Diana was pushing Rossiter about leaving his wife, and he had to stop her. Or, as an alternative, his wife found out, and she killed Diana.’

  ‘That’s two theories,’ said Slater. ‘I think I’m more inclined to agree with the first one.’

  ‘But you have to agree the second one works, and we haven’t spoken to his wife yet. We don’t have any idea what she really knows, but I find it hard to believe she’s unaware of what’s been going on if everyone else knew.’

  ‘Maybe she’s like Woody used to be, and just doesn’t see it.’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ said Norman. ‘Tomorrow morning, we’ll just have to go and ask her.’

  Chapter 14

  There had been hardly any mention of Angela Rossiter during the investigation to date, so Slater and Norman had no idea about her background, what she looked like, or what she did. Basically all they knew was that she was married to Bruce Rossiter, so they had requested Jolly to carry out some background research for them. It hadn’t taken her long to gather a few pages together, which she presented to them before she went home.

  ‘I sometimes wonder how Jane does this so quickly,’ said Slater to Norman as he read through the information. ‘It would have taken me all day yet she did this in a couple of hours. How does that work?’

  ‘For one thing she presses the right buttons, at the right time, and in the right order,’ said Norman.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I’m referring to the way you use that PC of yours. You need to learn how to type properly. I’ve watched you fumbling your way around the keyboard. It’s just as well we’re not still on typewriters. We’d have to buy correcting fluid by the gallon.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Slater. ‘My typing’s just fine.’

  ‘Then why do you swear so much when you use your PC?’ asked Norman, innocently.

  ‘That’s just my style, okay?’

  ‘Is clumsy classed as a style? Or should it be called all thumbs and no fingers?’

  ‘Arsehole,’ muttered Slater. ‘Since when have you been so good?’

  ‘I can do forty words a minute. It’s not high speed but it’s not bad. It’s certainly beats the twenty cock-ups a minute that you manage.’

  ‘Alright, so I admit you can type better than me.
All I said was I thought Jane was bloody brilliant at this stuff.’

  ‘She knows where to look, as well as being quick,’ said Norman. ‘I guess it’s because we give her lots of opportunities to practice.’

  ‘Do we ask too much?’ asked Slater.

  ‘Sometimes. But I think you’ll find she enjoys being part of the team. And let’s face it, she’s not shy about saying what she thinks, is she? I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m sure if she thought we were being unreasonable she’d say so.’

  He flipped a page and looked at the photo in front of him.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Angela Rossiter is a bit of a looker, don’t you think?’

  ‘Makes you wonder why old Bruce would need a bit on the side, doesn’t it?’ said Slater. ‘I guess some guys are just greedy.’

  ‘Or they just don’t appreciate what they have. Or maybe she’s been with him so long she despises him as much as I do.’

  ‘It says here this photo was taken at some marketing awards ceremony five years ago,’ said Slater. ‘She’s fifty-three now, so she must have been forty-eight when this was taken.’

  ‘She looks more like thirty-eight,’ said Norman, admiringly. ‘And I have to admit I do like small, slender women. Oh well, at least we know she’ll be nice to look at when we’re asking questions.’

  Slater thought so too.

  The Rossiters’ front door swung open, and Norman opened his mouth to introduce himself and then stopped, speechless, as what could only be described as a female version of him filled the doorway.

  ‘Err, we’ve an appointment to see Mrs Rossiter,’ said Norman, uncertainly.

  ‘That’s me,’ she said, with a cheery grin.

  ‘It is?’ he said, unable to stop the words spilling out.

  ‘Is there something wrong?

  ‘Oh no,’ rallied Norman. ‘No not at all, it’s just, ah, I was just, err..’

  ‘I’m DS Slater, Mrs Rossiter.’ Norman breathed a sigh of relief that Slater had stepped in to save the situation. ‘And this is DS Norman.’