‘OK. But remember, even the Gill can make a mistake. Sometimes.’
‘Suppose so. Can’t say I’d mind if this turned out to be one of the times. Bloody I’m-going-to-be-a-Chief, so you look out.’
‘Well, we’ll see.’
He got out, went over, tried the shop door and when that proved locked, rang long and hard at the bell beside it.
The heavily built man who answered, after a long enough wait, was everything that he had thought a Britforce thug would be. Hair cropped almost to shadow point, grey shirt buttoned at the neck with matching trousers that might or might not be a uniform, he stared out at them with a look of sullen aggression on his heavily moustached, dark-complexioned face.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘We’re police officers.’ He pulled out his warrant card. ‘We want to see Mr Marcus Pennings.’
‘You can’t.’
‘No question of can’t about it. We’re here to interview him. Is he in the house or not?’
‘He’s in. But he doesn’t have no truck with police.’
The thug, or trooper, stood there fisted hands on hips, defiant.
He sighed. Hard to understand a brute like this. Suppose he may have had a wretched upbringing of some sort. But, if this is a specimen of Marcus Pennings’s army, what’s the man himself going to be like?
‘We want no trouble,’ he said. ‘But I’m warning you: unless you let us in to see Mr Pennings we’ll have you, and him, in a cell before you know what’s hit you.’
He looked the trooper in the eye, unwaveringly.
And won.
‘OK then, if you must.’
Soft as a duck’s arse, he thought to himself with an access of cheerfulness as, followed by Bob Carter, he made his way into the shop.
More clenched-fist flags, a row of bright paperback books with titles like Britain for the British, Britain First and Britain Best and The Battle of King’s Hampton displayed on a shelf behind the pamphlet-piled counter. Weapons, he wondered. No guns, of course. But bludgeons for sale? But there was nothing he could see.
The thug led them into a back kitchen where the man he supposed must be Marcus Pennings was sitting at the plastic-covered table watching a boy of about ten eating a bowl of cornflakes.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Is it Mr Pennings? Marcus Pennings?’
‘It is. And who are you?’
Marcus Pennings, as he rose from his chair, could be seen to be almost as well built as his thuggish trooper, wearing the same grey shirt and semi-uniform. But his face, by contrast, was open and even seemed welcoming under its equally close-cropped hair, blond rather than muddy dark.
Once more he produced his warrant card, introducing this time Bob Carter.
Pennings held out his hand for the card, looked at it with care and handed it back. With a curt ‘Leave us’, he dismissed his trooper. Then he turned to the boy at the table.
‘Gobble that up, Tom,’ he said, giving him a friendly tap on the top of his blond head. ‘You’ll have to go now.’
He turned to Benholme.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just get this boy of mine off to school. Late, of course. But, seeing that all they teach them there is a lot of liberal whitewash, I don’t see it much matters.’
A remark best not pursued.
To be expected, of course, from the Britforce commander. But the way he had behaved with his son, now scuttling cheerfully out in front of him, was not exactly how one might have thought a martinet would act. And where was the wife? Dead? Divorced? Run away? Travis had said nothing about any wife, or wife trouble. But whatever, Pennings was apparently left looking after his son.
Unlike Phil Benholme, he thought wryly.
Through the door Pennings had left open behind him he heard ‘Eat your lunch’, and ‘Tell your teacher I said you could be late’. Then Pennings came back in.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘what brings you here bright and early in the morning?’
Despite his apparent friendliness, he answered him as stiffly as he could.
‘We’re inquiring into the death on Monday evening of a Mr Unwala who lived in the Sandymount area of King’s Hampton. Do you know it?’
‘Do I know King’s Hampton? Of course I do. The site of the battle where the only real invasion of England was beaten back.’
Another remark to be ignored.
‘I meant do you know the Sandymount area?’
‘Ah, I’m sorry. I’m afraid the very mention of King’s Hampton is inclined to carry me away.’
But, smooth though that was, it was no answer to the question.
‘Sandymount, sir?’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course, Sandymount. No, Chief Inspector, I can’t say I do know that particular area of King’s Hampton. It wasn’t where the battle took place, you know.’
‘Yes, sir. I do know that, as a matter of fact.’
He was glad of the opportunity to deliver that much of a rebuke. No harm in seeing what response it got. The tiger’s claws.
But they were still sheathed.
‘I’m glad to hear you know that much of your country’s history, Chief Inspector.’
‘Every police officer from King’s Hampton is likely to know about that “battle”, sir. Thanks to your organization.’
Despite the slight mocking emphasis he had put on battle, Marcus Pennings again seemed totally unruffled. But now the subject of Britforce and its thugs had been brought to the fore.
‘In fact, it’s the presence of Britforce personnel in King’s Hampton on Monday night, specifically in the Sandymount area, that we want to talk to you about, sir.’
No sign of discomposure. But perhaps Marcus Pennings had not heard what that party of his troopers had done. On the other hand, if everything Travis had said about the man was correct, he enforced strict discipline in his organization. So a beating-up that had ended as a fatality should have been reported to him.
‘The presence of Britforce members in Sandymount on Monday evening, Chief Inspector? Can you tell me what sort of time you’re talking about? I can’t be responsible for the actions of the volunteers who make up Britforce all of the time. They have their own lives to live, you know.’
Can’t be responsible … all of the time. Are we beginning to get somewhere now? The evasive excuse?
But Bob Carter, kept out of things too long, chose this moment to come bouncing in.
‘Six p.m. on Monday night,’ he snapped, plainly hoping to extract some admission.
Damn the fellow.
But what if he pulls it off?
Pennings smiled.
‘Monday at six, Inspector? Well, you should know where my troopers were then.’
Carter frowned.
‘And why is that?’
‘Because we were all at our battle anniversary rally in King’s Hampton Town Hall, observed by Inspector Travis of Special Branch and by one of your own local plain-clothes officers. That very handsome red-haired Detective Sergeant March, there to see we kept good order and discipline. Which we did. I made sure of that.’
Jesus, but yes, of course. Bob had even mentioned that March was there yesterday when she made that loud-voiced soft as a duck’s arse remark. He should have bloody well realized the rally was already taking place at six o’clock. I didn’t know it was as early as that, but he should have done. If he read March’s report already on his desk then. And here’s Pennings apparently claiming all his thugs were safely inside the Town Hall at the time.
‘Excuse me, sir, but are you saying all your - your troopers were at that rally in King’s Hampton Town Hall?’
‘I most certainly am, Chief Inspector. I wouldn’t like to be one of my men who’d failed to report for duty on the night of the Battle of King’s Hampton. In fact, I called the roll myself. Hundred per cent attendance.’
But make it all crystal clear.
‘May I get this quite straight? All your troopers, every one of them, from all over the count
y, were at the King’s Hampton rally at six p.m. on Monday?’
‘Yes, Chief Inspector. I would have allowed anyone seriously ill to be off duty, but there was no one. We’re a pretty fit force, you know.’
‘And the rally began when?’
‘At five p.m. promptly.’
‘And finished when?’
‘At eight. We were not allowed the use of the hall after that. A piece of petty bureaucratic interference. Which is why we had to begin so early. And why we were prevented from marching through the town.’
Now the claws were showing. Would they strike at any moment?
But I’m not going to be intimidated, though Bob looks as if he’s no longer as ready for the fray as he was before we came in. But I’m going to get at the full truth of this. The facts are crucial.
‘Let me get this absolutely right, Mr Pennings. All your troopers were there in the hall the whole time? None of them left for any reason?’
‘Once again, Chief Inspector, I wouldn’t like to have been in the shoes of anyone who’d dared. I think you’ll find that confirmed in any report your Detective Sergeant March may have made.’
No doubt we will. The cocky bastard.
But, once more, don’t let him off the hook just on his own say-so. And I think I may have something that will upset this calm of his. Yes, I believe I may.
‘I’m sorry to persist with my inquiries,’ he said. ‘But we have certain information that points towards brutal behaviour from Britforce personnel at that time, brutal behaviour that may have resulted in murder.’
He was just aware of Bob Carter beside him showing signs of uneasiness. But he knew much less of the business.
‘Brutal behaviour? Chief Inspector, you had better be very careful about what you’re saying. You have my word that not one of my men was at large in King’s Hampton at the time you tell me this murder took place. Challenge that if you will. But I warn you: I am more than happy to have recourse to the full weight of the law if you prove to be wrong.’
Bob was now rigid as a bar of ice just at his back.
‘I take note of what you have said, sir. But what I must ask you now is: have any of your troopers ever in the past gone into a house in the Sandymount area of King’s Hampton for the purpose of terrorizing a gentleman of Indian origin who lived there?’
A gamble. A hell of a gamble. Nothing fat Mrs Dam-berry had said in telling him of the u-rine-ated incident had really indicated that Britforce troopers were responsible. It could, in fact, be down to any bunch of racist yobbos. But, on the other hand, the attack had all the marks of more organized brutality than casual passing yobs might rise to.
And in Marcus Pennings’s handsome face he saw his answer. A tiny eye-flicker of pierced confidence.
‘Some four weeks ago, sir?’ he pressed on. ‘Was that incident then not reported to you? Or was it?’
‘Yes, Chief Inspector. Yes, it was, as a matter of fact. I pride myself on keeping my whole organization under strict control. Sometimes it is necessary to fight fire with fire. Our activities arouse a good deal of opposition among the intruders this country is swamped with. So when we do fight back, we do so as a force under orders. Yes, I did learn of the incident you mention, though I never heard of the name of the man who was, yes again, its victim. You are telling me now that it was actually this Mr - Mr Unwala who has subsequently been murdered?’
‘I am.’
Then Marcus Pennings smiled.
‘I can see the reasoning that brought you here, Chief Inspector. But it was, if I may say so, just one more example of the prejudice my organization finds in the police. However, leave that aside. I am happy to say that my reaction to that attack on this Mr Unwala goes a long way towards showing that no one from my force had anything to do with the subsequent attack made on him. Apart, that is, from my assurance that all my men were at the time inside King’s Hampton Town Hall.’
‘And what is that, sir?’
‘The simple fact, Chief Inspector, that those responsible on the former occasion were severely punished. Under my direct supervision.’
But now Bob Carter bounced back in.
‘Can’t believe that just because you say so.’
‘No, Inspector. As I was saying, you police officers tend to be somewhat heavily biased against my movement. Perhaps if you were not under orders to harass us, you would have a different point of view. But we won’t go into that. What I can do for you, however, is to show you plain evidence of the punishment I had to have inflicted for that incident.’
‘Evidence? What sort of evidence?’ Bob truculent as ever.
‘Evidence on the back of that trooper who brought you in here, Inspector. He was whipped. And when I feel that such punishment is necessary, I see that it’s carried out to the full. So do you want to see Trooper Peel’s back? Or will you take my word for it?’
Time to jump in, before Bob adds to the complications.
‘Very well, Mr Pennings, I am happy to believe that a number of your men assaulted Mr Unwala some four weeks ago, and that one or more of them has been assaulted in his turn. I may add that I don’t see charges being brought in this particular case, though I must warn you that we will not always treat such matters as private affairs.’
It was only as they stood in the mean little street outside that another thought struck him. I’ve got to go back now and tell this to the Gill. Tell him his instant solution doesn’t stand up. Check with March, of course, first. And perhaps with Travis. But, little doubt about it, it’s me for Detective Chief Superintendent Fothergill and you’ve gone and made a bloody fool of yourself sir.
The short interview he had, back at his own commandeered office, made the ensuing hour spent in the mortuary in attendance while the County Home Office pathologist carried out his examination of the tiny body of Edul Unwala seem almost a pleasure. The always unnerving sight of the scalpel slicing its way down the length of the sternum and the ribcage being sawn through and forcibly prised open with a chisel was a good deal more endurable than the Gill’s response.
He had endeavoured to keep his voice perfectly neutral while he gave him the facts, unembellished.
Then he waited for the explosion.
‘Chief Inspector, you are in charge of the CID in King’s Hampton. This meeting, or rally as they call it, was taking place within your bailiwick. And you have the effrontery to stand there and tell me that one of your own officers, Detective Sergeant March, was present at it and you still did not realize that it raised considerable doubts over the hypothesis that this murder was the work of Britforce troopers?’
‘I hadn’t realized that the rally had included every Britforce member, sir.’
‘But did it, Chief Inspector? Did it? As far as I can see you have only the word of a notorious fascist for that. What steps did you take to prove or disprove his assertion? You say he offered to show you the back of that man he had had beaten. But did you do it? Did you question him? You did not.’
Then he waited, icily, for a response.
He took a deep breath.
‘No, sir. I saw no point in taking up that offer. It was made in a spirit of sheer bravado. Marcus Pennings wanted me to see what sort of a hard man he was. And I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure.’
‘That’s no excuse, Chief Inspector. No excuse acceptable to me. Evidence, evidence of a sort, was put before you and you failed to examine it.’
‘Yes, sir. In fact, I saw no necessity for that. I had only to put myself in Pennings’s shoes. He was not going to offer what he did if he couldn’t have produced this Trooper Peel knowing the fellow would substantiate his statement.’
‘Well, I hope your confidence in Marcus Pennings turns out to be justified, Chief Inspector. But, let me tell you now, it is confidence I do not share.’
Back in the Incident Room he realized at once that, however much the Gill’s famous hypothesis about Brit-force was now looking dodgy, the man’s presence had produced that air of lively de
termination that he himself had failed to generate at his first briefing.
Well, he’s done it. Grant him that. Never mind that his theory was inspired, I bet, as much by a desire to tackle a nation-sized bogeyman as by the facts, the room now is buzzing with eagerness to get a result. Not that it’s so far produced anything worth getting excited about. Sod all, really, from the post-mortem just now. Confirmation, of course, that poor Professor Unwala did die within an hour either side of six o’clock. Report in from the forensic lab: a considerable amount of whisky in the vomit Jumbo was so pleased to get polished-nails aide Mo Hart to collect. But, though that’s interesting enough, there doesn’t seem to be anything to deduce from it. Or not until we have someone in the frame.
And nothing so far from the searchers along the tangled verge of Seabray Way. Nothing, too, from the now resumed doorstepping of local ‘bad lads’. Most of them out at this time of day, of course.
So sit here, read reports, action anything that looks worth any sort of follow-up. And hope.
At midday there came the press conference the Gill had seen himself triumphing at. And there were quite as many TV cameras whirring away as he had expected, even though he had precious little to say when they were on him. Nothing at all about Britforce. Even if he still hoped that his juicy line of inquiry would eventually pay dividends, clearly he was not going to stick his neck out over it now.
But, he asked himself bitterly as he sat there doing his best to look alert and supportive, who was it who had somehow got into Professor Unwala’s house round about six p.m.? Who had struck that single death-dealing blow and hastily attempted to make it look as if it was the result of that bookcase falling over? Who had then - it was almost certain - left by way of the overgrown, neglected garden, scaled the tall fence at the end putting beside it just one footmark? And who possibly had vomited up whisky as he went?
Early in the afternoon one further piece of evidence did come to hand. The search team at the throughway found, thrust into thick grass under one of the tangled bushes on the verge, what looked as if it must be the weapon. It was a cricket bat. A very old bat, its willow seamed with long cracks, the fifties-style orange rubber covering of its handle hopelessly perished. At its end, clearly visible through its plastic evidence bag, was a dark stain.
The Soft Detective Page 6
