The Invisible Man

  The Invisible Man

  P.F. Ford

  © 2019 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.

  Cover Design by Kit Foster Design

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To my amazing wife, Mary – sometimes we need someone else to believe in us before we really believe in ourselves. None of this would have happened without her unfailing belief and support.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Did You Enjoy This Book?

  Don’t Miss The Next Book!

  Also by P.F. Ford

  About the Author

  1

  Saturday 14th February 2017

  There was a terrifying screech of metal on tarmac as the overturned car skidded along the road, sparks flying out behind it. Then, as the car finally came to a stop, the screeching was replaced by the rhythmic thrumming of a wheel spinning uselessly, until finally there was just eerie silence, punctuated only by the metallic ticking as the hot engine and exhaust pipe began to cool.

  To his great surprise, he seemed to be unhurt, but the car was upside down, which meant he was hanging upside down from the driver's seat, held by his seat belt. His head had been protected from the road surface by the roll-over bars which had recently been fitted for precisely this scenario. A 1960s open-topped sports car was a beautiful thing to drive, but safety had never been a significant feature back in those days.

  He became aware of a faint splashing sound, and the sudden whiff of petrol was enough to rouse him into action. After a brief struggle he managed to release the seat belt, and with the extra strength his fear had generated, he lowered himself to the road.

  In the darkness, he could barely make out his passenger, but she had not been wearing a seat belt, so he was in no doubt she must be dead. It had never been his intention for anything like this to happen, and he suffered a moment of panic wondering how he was going to explain it, but then he had an idea. Sad as it may seem for someone so young to lose their life, this outcome might prove to be for the best. With any luck, he could manipulate the situation to hide his involvement.

  He crawled out through the gaping hole where the door had been, his gloved hands protecting him from the debris of the shattered windscreen, then turned and crawled back inside, just far enough to enable him to reach the girl. For one final time, and in entirely different circumstances to usual, he appreciated her diminutive size, which helped him to quickly manoeuvre her small body across from the passenger side, as he backed out again.

  He decided he didn't need to be too fussy; with petrol leaking, it was likely the car would catch fire and when that happened there wouldn't be much left of her, or the car. A few seconds later she was positioned on the driver's side, and he took a moment to sit back and admire his handiwork and ingenuity. As he did so, there was a familiar "ping" as her mobile phone gave notification of a message received. After a hasty search of her coat pockets, he found the phone and then scuttled away from the car.

  Fifty yards away under the solitary street light that lit up this part of the road, he stopped to check the phone. He removed the battery and threw it as far as he could towards the distant trees, then put the rest of the phone back together, turned around, and threw it as far as he could in the other direction.

  Then he started to run towards the woods on the other side of the road…

  2

  Dave Slater leaned back, balanced on the back legs of his chair, took careful aim at the wastepaper basket and launched the piece of waste paper he had just scrunched into a ball. The missile bounced on the edge of the basket and joined the twenty-two others scattered across the floor.

  'This is ridiculous,' he said.

  Norman tore his eyes away from the small TV they were watching and stared at the rubbish all over the floor.

  'I don't understand how you can be so good at darts, and yet be complete crap at getting a ball of paper into a bin.'

  'It's my superpower,' said Slater. He took his feet from the desk and dropped his chair back onto all four legs.

  'We could always play darts,' suggested Norman.

  'No offence, Norm, but beating you over, and over, is every bit as boring as watching those crappy daytime TV repeats.'

  Norman turned back to his TV show.

  'Look,' said Slater, 'I know you don't want to talk about it, Norm, but we can't put it off any longer.'

  Norman sighed and aimed the remote control at the TV, clicked the button, and watched as the picture shrank into the centre and then disappeared. He tossed the remote onto his desk and turned to face Slater.

  'I know you're right,' he said, gloomily. 'I just keep hoping someone's going to walk in that door with an outstanding job, and that'll be the one that gets the ball rolling, you know?'

  'I know, mate,' said Slater, 'and I'm sorry it hasn't worked out the way we wanted, but we have to face facts and be realistic.'

  'How long has it been now?'

  'Two weeks and three days since our last job. I don't know about you, but if we're going to sit around doing nothing I'd rather do it at home and not have to pay for this place.'

  Norman sighed again.

  'I was sure those adverts, on the back of that story in the newspaper, would bring some work in,' he said.

  'Yeah, well, we'll have to put that down to experience,' said Slater. 'I think, if we're honest, it was always going to be a risk trying to find enough work in a small town like this.'

  Norman cast an eye around the office.

  'What are we going to do with all this stuff?'

  'I dunno,' said Slater. 'I don't want any of it except my laptop. Maybe we can sell it. Anyway, we can decide that later.' He stood up. 'Come on, get your backside off that chair. Let's go down the pub and celebrate.'

  'Celebrate what?'

  'Finally opening our eyes to the truth, and admitting defeat.'

  Norman got slowly to his feet. He appreciated Slater was trying to cheer him up, but he didn't feel they had anything to celebrate.

  'Should we be celebrating defeat?' he asked.

  'Maybe you're right,' said Slater, heading for the door. 'So let's celebrate something more positive, like making a decision. Of course, you can always stay here and be miserable if you prefer.'

  Norman was finding it difficult to find anything to be cheerful about, but there again,
he wasn't going to refuse a free lunch. He jumped to his feet and scuttled after Slater.

  Slater jumped into his car, started the engine and pressed the button to lower his window.

  'Let's get some fresh air circulating through here,' he said. 'Maybe it will wake us up.'

  As he drove slowly towards the car park exit, a car turned off the road and into the car park. He pulled over to the left and stopped to allow the car into the car park, but instead of driving past it stopped alongside him, the driver's window slid downwards, and a worried-looking woman stared uncertainly at him.

  Slater smiled.

  'Can I help you? You look a little lost.'

  'I'm not sure I'm in the right place,' she said. 'I'm supposed to be looking for some detectives.'

  Slater couldn't hide the surprise on his face.

  'Really?'

  'Yes,' she said, mistaking his reason for surprise. Then, taking a quick look at her surrounding, 'But this isn't exactly the sort of place you'd find a detective is it?'

  'Actually, it is,' said Slater, grinning widely, 'and you've found them.'

  'I have?'

  'Slater and Norman at your service.'

  'Really? Thank goodness,' she said, flustered. 'I need your help.'

  'It'll be a lot easier to talk in our office,' said Slater. 'Follow me.'

  He slipped his car into reverse and carefully made his way back to the space he had vacated just two minutes before.

  'How weird is that?' said Norman. 'Another minute and we would have missed her.'

  'Yeah, it was lucky, wasn't it?'

  'Maybe it's fate. Perhaps she's the one we've been waiting for.'

  Slater rolled his eyes.

  'Yeah, right,' he said, slipping from the car.

  The woman followed and parked next to them.

  Slater left Norman to escort her into the office while he went on ahead and unlocked the doors.

  3

  Norman fussed around the woman as she climbed from her car.

  'My name's Norman Norman.' He offered a hand, and she shook it.

  'Lizzie Becker,' she said.

  She was a small woman, and what Norman would describe as a neat and tidy dresser. He guessed she was around forty, but the lines on her face suggested the last few years hadn't been her happiest.

  Norman indicated their office.

  'Won't you come this way, Mrs Becker.'

  'Call me Lizzie,' she said, hesitantly, then looked around startled as Slater noisily opened the office door.

  'That's my partner, Dave Slater,' explained Norman.

  Slater shook her hand as she entered the office, and indicated the small informal seating area.

  'Please, come and sit down,' he said.

  She looked uncertain, as though she was having second thoughts.

  'Perhaps I shouldn't have come. I have thought about it before, but I never quite had the courage.'

  'Lizzie, I'm sure you wouldn't have come to find us for no reason,' Norman assured her. 'Besides, you're here now…'

  Norman's words seemed to be enough to strengthen her resolve. Nodding her agreement, she made her way across the room and took a seat. She swallowed nervously as they joined her and Slater produced a notebook and pen.

  'You see I've had this weird text message,' she began, then seemed to have second thoughts.

  'I'm afraid we need a little more than that,' encouraged Norman, after a few seconds of silence.

  'You're going to think I'm crazy,' she said.

  Norman smiled, reassuringly.

  'I very much doubt that,' he said. 'Anyway, we're not here to judge. We need you to tell us what your problem is, and we'll tell you whether we can help or not.' He indicated his partner. 'Dave's going to take some notes, but if we decide not to take your case for any reason, we'll be sure to destroy those notes. Is that okay?'

  She nodded, her eyes wandering to Slater's notebook, then his face, and then back to Norman.

  'Okay, Lizzie, you said you had received a weird text message.'

  'That's right.'

  'Can you tell us what was weird about it?'

  'It was from my daughter,' she said as if that explained everything.

  'And that's weird, because…?'

  'It's weird because she died two years ago.'

  Norman's mouth formed a silent, surprised, "O", and Slater's pen stopped mid-word.

  'Can you say that again?' asked Norman, tentatively.

  She seemed to be staring at Norman but seeing through him, as if into some personal nightmare. Her shoulders raised as she heaved an enormous sigh, and when she spoke, her voice was almost a whisper.

  'Just over two years ago our daughter went out for the afternoon. She told me she was going over to her boyfriend's house. His name is Mickey Crothers. He wasn't a boyfriend, in the real sense, she just called him that. The Crothers were old family friends. Mickey's mother and I were in hospital together when the children were born, and they grew up together. They lived in the same village as us, Lower Winton. Mickey was often at our house, or Lilly was over there. We were at opposite ends of the village, but it's only a five-minute walk through the woods.'

  'On that day she told me she was going to Mickey's, so I wasn't worried about her, but then come the evening I started to get a bit concerned. I thought maybe she would be staying for dinner, so I rang them to make sure, but there was no answer. I tried calling and texting Lilly, but her mobile phone must have been switched off.

  'I tried not to worry, you know? I thought maybe they had all gone to the cinema or something. I was a bit annoyed, to tell the truth, because normally they would phone and let me know if they were going out somewhere, but they didn't, and by eleven I was getting distraught, so my husband took me over to their house.'

  She stopped speaking and stared down at her hands. A big, fat tear rolled slowly down her cheek. Norman reached for a box of tissues, grabbed a handful and passed them to her.

  'Take your time Lizzie,' he said, gently. 'We're in no hurry.'

  She took the tissues and wiped her eyes. Then she gripped them tightly in her fists as she composed herself.

  'When we got to their house there was no sign of anyone. I was beside myself by then, but we didn't know what to do for the best. Eventually, even though we thought we would probably be wasting their time, we called the police and reported her missing.

  'It was well after midnight before someone came to our house, but by then they had found her. She had been in a car crash just five miles from home.'

  'Oh, I see,' said Norman.

  Another solitary tear slid slowly down her cheek.

  'She died in the crash,' she said.

  'Oh, my,' said Norman. 'We're sorry to hear that.'

  There was an awkward silence. Norman looked at Slater, who shook his head.

  'They said she had stolen the car,' continued Lizzie, suddenly. 'But I couldn't believe that. She didn't have the first idea of how to drive, and she had never shown any interest in learning. Why would she at fourteen years of age? And she was a good girl. She would never have stolen a car, especially from Jason Crothers. He was a family friend, and she knew that the sports car was his pride and joy!'

  Now she focused on Norman's face, a look of pure anguish on her face.

  'The car had turned over,' she said. 'The roof was down, and she wasn't wearing a seat belt. They said she died instantly!'

  She buried her face in her hands and sobbed loudly.

  Slater's pen hovered over the page. He hadn't written a single word of what she had just told them, such was the intensity of her story. He exchanged a pained expression with Norman, who had apparently found watching Lizzie Becker relive her agony an equally uncomfortable experience.

  'I'm sorry to hear that, Lizzie,' said Norman, passing her more tissues. 'If you want to take a break—'

  She shook her head. 'No. I'll be all right in a minute.'

  'That's okay,' said Norman, gently. 'You take as long as you need.' br />
  'I'll make us all some tea,' said Slater, and made his way to the small kitchen.

  An uncomfortable five minutes later she seemed to have regained her composure.

  'I'm sorry,' she said.

  'Don't be silly,' said Norman. 'Are you sure you're okay to carry on?'

  'Yes. I'm fine.'

  'This text message that's got you so upset,' said Norman. 'Can we see it?'

  She fished her mobile phone from her bag, found the message and handed the phone to Norman, who studied it, and then passed it on to Slater.

  Hi Mm, wn't be hme 2nt but dn't wrry styng with M xx

  'Does this message mean anything to you?' asked Slater.

  Lizzie shook her head.

  'Is this the sort of message Lilly would have sent?' asked Norman.

  'Well, yes, but it can't have come from her, can it?' she said. 'It's not possible.'

  'I'm not suggesting Lilly sent it,' said Norman. 'But I think we have to assume someone is trying to upset you. If that's the case then the more it seems like Lilly could have written it, the more it will upset you.'

  'I see what you mean. Lilly wouldn't normally tell me she wasn't coming home, but it's definitely her style to omit all the vowels, and she always ended her messages with two kisses.'

  'Did you say Lilly was fourteen?' asked Slater.

  'Yes. That's what I mean when I say she wouldn't normally be telling me she wasn't coming home. She wasn't old enough to stay out without permission from me or her dad.'