by Joyce Porter
‘It was the commander I was thinking about, actually, sir. You said he was shouting for action. He mightn’t be very pleased to find us sitting around doing nothing.’
‘Who’s sitting around doing nothing?’ demanded Dover with a great show of indignation. ‘Besides,’ – he sank lower in his chair and turned his coat collar up – ‘he’ll not know we’re here.’
They say he’s got spies and informers everywhere, sir,’ said MacGregor, knowing you sometimes had to be cruel to be kind, and loving it.
‘I’m planning my next bloody moves, aren’t I,’ whined Dover. ‘Why don’t you get your bloody notebook out and look busy?’
MacGregor did as he was told. ‘Ready, sir!’
‘Eh?’ Dover glowered. If he thought for one minute that this cheeky young whippersnapper was trying to . . . ‘Yes, well, we’ve not finished seeing everybody yet, have we?’
‘No, sir. There were still three of the people concerned we haven’t yet interviewed.’
Dover was obviously in one of his decisive moods. ‘So we’ll do ’em!’
‘We shall also have to re-interview the ones we’ve already seen, sir.’
The expectation of such unremitting toil began to leach the starch out of Dover’s iron resolve. ‘What for?’ he asked pathetically.
‘We didn’t know anything about this kangaroo court when we saw them the first time, sir. We thought we were dealing with a group of stamp collectors.’
‘Not me!’ boasted Dover, swinging effortlessly into his matchwinning mood. ‘I never fell for that. I had my suspicions right from the bloody start. I kept telling you what a clumsy bastard that toe doctor was, didn’t I? He damned near crippled me. Well, it stands to reason nobody fumbling around in great thick glasses like him could possibly manage with all those fiddly bits of paper. Same thing for that goat woman. She’d be more at home with a pickaxe instead of a pair of tweezers.’
‘How about handling a length of rope, sir?’
Dover caught on quickly. ‘Too right, laddie! She could have knocked Knapper off as soon as look at him. And so could that sadistic little rat of a toe doctor. He’d a grip like bloody steel. And what about that Special Branch lad? He’d got shoulders on him like a battleship – and he’s tough with it. ’Strewth, all three of ’em are more than capable physically of doing the murder or of humping the dead body around afterwards.’
‘I don’t doubt but that we shall find the next three suspects equally well endowed, sir.’
‘How do you make that out?’
They were hand-picked for the job, weren’t they, sir? Whoever selected them knew what they were going to have to do. Naturally, they went for people who could be relied upon to bring in a guilty verdict and be capable of carrying out the sentence afterwards. There was no room for even one milksop in that group. They all had to be capable of murder.’
Dover puffed his cheeks out doubtfully. ‘Are you including young Who’s-your-father in that lot?’
MacGregor was well versed in the way Dover’s – for want of a better word – mind worked. ‘Osmond, sir? Why not?’
Dover sniggered. ‘’Strewth, I’d like to see their faces if we nicked Osmond, eh? They’d have a bloody fit. It might be worth it, just for a laugh. Old Punchard’d be over the moon.’
‘Yes, 1 expect he would, sir.’ MacGregor had more than a touch of prig about him and sometimes it showed. He just didn’t see anything funny about arresting an innocent man for murder, even if he was a member of Special Branch. ‘Well, shall we be making a move, sir?’
Customers were beginning to come into the cafe for an early lunch and the aromatic smell of beefburgers, tomato sauce and chips made Dover even more reluctant than usual to get up and go. ‘Where to?’
To see Mr Michael Ruscoe, sir. He’s expecting us this afternoon. I took the liberty of giving him a ring and arranging a time while you were in the toilet.’
A look of deep disgust spread over Dover’s unprepossessing features, it’s just not safe for a chap to turn his back on you for a bloody instant, is it, laddie?’ he asked with studied ambiguity.
Fourteen
A mere thirty-six hours after Dover had set out with such a cheerful heart and light step, however, he came slinking back to London with his tail between his legs. It was, of course, pretty much the story of his life.
At first things had gone well. The train was on time and there was even a buffet car on board which enabled Dover to keep body and soul together for the whole seventy minutes of the journey. When they reached their destination, the promised police car was duly waiting in charge of a driver who may have lacked Elvira’s nubile charms but who did, on the other hand, know his right from his left. He conveyed his passengers to Mike Ruscoe’s address quickly and safely.
It was probably when Dover clawed his way out of the back seat that life began to turn sour. God knows, Dover knew better than to expect murder suspects to live in palaces, but this was going too far.
‘I think it’s a sort of garage, actually, sir,’ said MacGregor, indicating a battered sign which claimed that the specialities of Mike Ruscoe’s body shop were re-spraying and panel beating.
‘It’s a scrapyard!’ insisted Dover as he picked his way through rusting metal and old car seats. ‘Any fool can see that!’
The interview was apparently to take place in a tiny wooden the far corner of his workshop. The accommodation was cramped, but there would have been a sufficiency of room if Dover had not spread himself around so lavishly and if it had not been for the presence of an unexpected fourth party at the meeting.
Dover disliked Mr Ruscoe at sight. He hated all these aggressively body-conscious men who made a fetish of physical fitness and kept rippling their muscles under skimpy tee-shirts. Yes, Dover hated Mr Ruscoe, but it was the intrusive Weemys who really got up his nose.
Mr Weemys was a solicitor, retained by the Steel Band to protect Mike Ruscoe’s interests.
Dover could have spat. Indeed, he would have done if he’d been able to draw a deep enough breath in the restricting confines of that smelly little office. Given half a chance he could have run rings round Ruscoe. Not by using his favourite aids to interrogation, of course. Dover preferred to save his fists for expectant mothers, small children and old-age pensioners. Only a moron would contemplate giving Mike Ruscoe a punch up the throat, but it was obvious that the hairy brute was as thick as a couple of planks. Dover could have outwitted him, easy as falling off a log. Given a fair crack of the whip.
But that was just what Mr Weemys was there to prevent. It was soon apparent that the solicitor was one of these pernickety bastards who expect our over-worked and under-paid police force to conduct all their investigations strictly by the book. Even worse, he opened the proceedings by making an admission which took all the wind right out of Dover’s sails. The meeting, he announced, of the Bowerville-by-the-sea Seven at Rankin’s Holiday Ranch had been convened for the sole purpose of trying Arthur George Knapper for treason.
Dover’s chins sagged and even MacGregor blinked in amazement. This knowledge had, after all, been their trump card.
It was left to MacGregor to try and regain the initiative while Dover slumped back to his usual slough of indolence. ‘Why then was the accommodation booked in the name of the Dockwra Society?’
Mr Weemys could answer questions like that until the cows came home. He treated MacGregor to a moving sermon on the difficult position in which’ the Steel Band found itself, surrounded as it was by vicious enemies, most of whom were dirty foreigners and communists. ‘These Red subversives are everywhere,’ explained Mr Weemys with a wintry smile, ‘and only too ready to misrepresent us in any way they can. All our actions and motives are savagely distorted and we have learned the hard way how maliciously our public image can be tarnished. Now, this whole Knapper business was a matter purely of private and internal discipline. It had nothing to do with anybody outside the movement at all. It was a scandal, of course, of the sort which no
political party or organisation cares to have splashed all over the media. We naturally tried to keep it quiet. That’s understandable, isn’t it? And reserving accommodation in a holiday camp under an assumed name is not a criminal offence of any kind. If it were,’ – Mr Weemys widened his death’s head smile – ‘there would be a marked reduction in the number of Smiths spending the weekend in Brighton.’
‘Are you admitting, sir, that Mr Ruscoe here took part in an illegal trial at Bowerville-by-the-sea?’
‘In an unofficial trial, sergeant, not an illegal one. There is nothing illegal about the proceedings of a disciplinary committee. London clubs, trade associations, professional bodies of all sorts, including the police, have the right to expel unsatisfactory members of their organisations without reference to any external body whatsoever.’
‘They don’t have the right to subject them to further punishment, sir, like executing them.’
Mr Weemys stroked the meagre strand of hair which had been spread carefully across his bald patch. ‘Oh, I quite agree, sergeant, and I’m happy to be able to assure you that no such punishment was inflicted on Mr Knapper by the ad hoc committee of which Mr Ruscoe was a member. Mr Ruscoe and his colleagues simply heard the evidence against Knapper and listened to his defence. They then considered the facts, decided that he was guilty of betraying the principles of our movement,
and expelled him from the Steel Band, as they were empowered to do.’
‘And that’s all, sir?’
‘That is all, sergeant.’
MacGregor was having to think very fast. The questioning was reaching a delicate stage and the last thing he wanted was Dover opening his mouth and sticking his foot in it. MacGregor turned to Mike Ruscoe who was perched on the edge of a packing case and looking vicious. ‘Was Mr Knapper kept under guard while this “trial” was taking place?’
Mike Ruscoe looked across at Mr Weemys.
Mr Weemys shook his head.
‘No,’ said Mike Ruscoe.
‘What about meals?’ asked MacGregor.
‘What about ’em?’
MacGregor sighed. ‘Did he take all his meals in the public dining room with the rest of you?’
Mike Ruscoe looked across at Mr Weemys.
Mr Weemys nodded his head.
‘Yes,’ said Mike Ruscoe.
‘We have reason to believe that Mr Knapper took lunch on the Saturday in a room in one of the huts while you stood guard over him.’
Mike Ruscoe was lost way back and Mr Weemys took over.
‘Reason to believe, sergeant?’ he queried with some amusement.
‘I’m not at liberty to reveal my sources, sir.’
‘Should the matter ever come to court,’ said Mr Weemys indifferently, ‘you may have to. Meanwhile I should warn you that I will be able to put six witnesses in the box who will swear on oath that Knapper was never at any time kept under guard nor was his liberty of movement impeded in any way whatsoever.’
This spelt out so clearly which way the land lay that even Dover got the message. The Steel Band had produced their story and would stick to it. It might even, thought Dover dejectedly, be bloody true. This would mean that the Special Branch laddie was lying in his teeth but, then, mendacity was second nature to that lot. On the other hand, why should he lie? Dover’s brow creased in thought but his little grey cells balked at having to labour without some external assistance. Dover looked up. ‘Got a fag, laddie?’
MacGregor shook his head. ‘You smoked all mine on the train, sir.’
Dover scowled. There were bloody shops, weren’t there? He appealed to Mike Ruscoe.
Mike Ruscoe got very uptight about it. Nicotine spelt certain death to the body beautiful and Mr Ruscoe did not, never had and never would indulge in such a dangerous and dirty habit. It was for Mike Ruscoe something of an oration, especially as he made it without any help from his lawyer.
When his turn came, Mr Weemys managed a deprecating little smile. ‘I’m afraid I’m a snuff man, myself.’
All of which left MacGregor with two choices: he could break off the interview and go out and buy some cigarettes, or he could wrap the whole thing up with all possible speed. Taking into consideration that Dover was unlikely to stay sitting on that oil drum much longer, MacGregor plumped for the second option. Besides, this Ruscoe/Weemys combination was raising problems which the two Scotland Yard men really ought to discuss in private without delay.
MacGregor plugged doggedly away in the few moments he calculated he had left. It did no good. The story remained consistent and coherent whether it was Ruscoe or Weemys who provided the answers.
Everything up to the announcement of the verdict at the trial more or less agreed with what Osmond had said. Only the question of whether Knapper had been held in chains and under guard was in dispute. From the verdict on, though, the Ruscoe/Weemys version came down very heavily on the completely innocuous side. Knapper had merely been formally expelled from the Steel Band and, when he left the courtroom, that was the last Mike Ruscoe had seen of him. No, he wasn’t claiming that Knapper had left the holiday camp on that Saturday night. He was merely stating that, as far as he could recall, he personally hadn’t seen the miscreant again. No doubt it was an entirely appropriate sense of shame that had kept Knapper from imposing his company on his erstwhile companions.
Car keys. Where had Mr Ruscoe’s car keys been kept during the weekend at Bowerville-by-the-sea? In his trouser pocket, of course. Or on the bed-side table. Why?
But that was as far as MacGregor dared to go, in spite of Dover’s bland assurances that Commander Punchard was ready and willing to back them all the way. MacGregor was afraid to push any harder in case he started arousing suspicions about where the police had got their information from. Once that happened, it wouldn’t take a ferret like Weemys long to arrive at Osmond. MacGregor was still very reluctant to blow the Special Branch man’s cover but he knew he’d get no more out of Mike Ruscoe unless he took that risk.
Oh, hell!
The decision to bring the proceedings to a close was greeted with universal relief. Dover began waddling back to the police car like a pregnant homing pigeon while Weemys and Ruscoe triumphantly exchanged the Steel Band salute. This consisted in striking the right arm, with the palm rigidly open and facing downwards, across the chest so that the thumb-edge of the hand made contact exactly over the heart. If the description of this simple and sincere gesture sounds complicated, it must be remembered that, where hand and finger signals are concerned, it behoves one to get it absolutely right.
Dover showed unaccustomed vigour in stopping MacGregor joining him in the car. ‘You’ve got some shopping to do, laddie!’ he declared, indicating a complete readiness to slam the door shut whether or not MacGregor removed his fingers.
‘Shopping, sir?’
‘Cigarettes, you fool! And get a couple of packets while you’re at it!’
MacGregor turned meekly away and Dover was just about to close the door completely so as to keep out the cold when he found it was being held open by a hand clothed in a warm, woolly glove. It was Mr Weemys.
‘I wonder,’ said Mr Weemys, baring his teeth in as artificial a smile as Dover’s own, ‘if I may prevail upon you for a lift?’
‘Eh?’
‘You are on your way to see Mr Frederick Braithwaite, aren’t you?’
‘What?’
Many of Mr Weemys’s clients were just as slack-mouthed and inarticulate so he wasn’t as disconcerted by Dover’s pixilated mouthings as he might have been. ‘I don’t drive myself, you see,’ he explained as he bent forward and ducked his head, ‘and it would save me taking a taxi. We’ve all got to do our bit to conserve fossil fuels, haven’t we? So kind!’
‘Push off!’ said Dover as understanding dawned at last. ‘Beat it!’
‘But we’re both going to the same place, Chief Inspector!’ objected Mr Weemys, trying to deflect Dover’s clenched fist away from his nose.
‘Shove off!’ sna
rled Dover.
MacGregor returned in time to catch the tail end of this unedifying little exchange and for a fleeting moment wondered if Mr Weemys was trying to bribe Dover. Then he decided that Mr Weemys wouldn’t be such a fool and nor would Dover be repelling such an overture with quite such a display of fury.
‘The cheeky beggar was trying to scrounge a lift!’ snorted Dover, scrabbling away at the cellophane wrapping on one of the packets. ‘I sent him off with a flea in his ear!’
‘To Braithwaite’s place, sir?’
‘Or wherever,’ agreed Dover, going quite limp as he dragged the first lungful of smoke down.
‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd, sir, that the Steel Band suddenly seems to know every move we make?’
‘Not especially,’ said Dover.
‘We arrange to see Ruscoe, and Weemys is there waiting for us. We fix an interview with Braithwaite, and Weemys is going there, too. When we get round to Valentine, I suppose Weemys’ll be there as well, holding his hand.’
‘Sure to be,’ said Dover, happily letting a lump of cigarette ash drop down his waistcoat and take its chance with the gravy, dandruff, soft-boiled egg and beer stains that were already there. ‘Natural enough, if you ask me.’
‘But they didn’t bother laying on this sort of protection when we went to interview Pettitt and Mrs Hall, sir.’
‘That’s because we didn’t know they’d anything to do with the Steel Band, did we?’ asked Dover impatiently. ‘Now all that side of it’s out in the open, they’re just taking a few sensible precautions.’
MacGregor shook his head. ‘But how did they know we’re no longer swallowing that stamp-collecting society story, sir?’
‘Search me,’ said Dover glumly.
‘Somebody must have tipped them off, sir.’
‘Well, it wasn’t me, laddie!’
‘Nor me, sir. And it couldn’t have been Pettitt or Mrs Hall because, as far as they were concerned, we knew nothing about the Steel Band connection at all. That only leaves one other possibility.’
Dover sank deep into his overcoat. ‘You’re not suggesting Special Branch spilt the beans, are you?’
