The Soft Detective

by H. R. F. Keating

  ‘Alec?’ his father asked.

  ‘I already said: I don’t care.’

  And Verney, of course, ordered him to supervise the fingerprint taking.

  He’s right, though. Should be me doing it. Keeping the bloody pressure up. God knows, if it’s left just to some WPC she may smile at him, crack some joke. And bang, he’ll get back all his cockiness. But with suddenly-transformed-into-hard-man Detective Chief Inspector Benholme there, grim-faced, it’ll be a very different matter.

  ‘Very good, Alec,’ he said. ‘Shall we go? Mr Gaffney, do you wish to be present?’

  ‘I’m not a bloody ten-year-old,’ Alec snapped.

  Good sign. He’s really feeling the pressure now. Whether it’s just Verney’s questioning or whether it’s knowing he put prints there when he yelled out You black bastard, he’s good and worried. That’s for sure.

  But that yell? It was high-pitched, Mrs Ahmed certain about that. And Alec’s voice is well broken. So, are we all— No. No, by God. When Alec reacted to Verney’s tough little tactic with the fingerprint experts - experts, whole imaginary team of them, the cunning old bugger - then his voice wasn’t so adult. No, that I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it. Under that much strain his voice had been a real screech.

  Which means it could be him, and he could well be on the point of cracking. Just as I’m taking his prints? Because I think I’ve got to do that myself. If I can remember the exact procedure. But my hand pressing his fingers down, that’ll add one more degree to the pressure he’s under. One more nerve-breaking degree.

  Poor kid.

  Murdering kid?

  He led the boy - victim or killer - off in the direction of the Fingerprint Room. Outside the little washroom next door to it he paused.

  ‘I suppose this is as good a time as any,’ he said, ‘to tell you that, if your fingerprints are not required as evidence, they will be destroyed. You have the right to witness that being done. So in the event that your prints are not needed’ - he put a strong, lingering emphasis on the not, one more jab of pressure - ‘would you wish to exercise that right?’

  ‘Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know. What’s it matter?’

  ‘Well, I shall record you as wishing to witness their destruction, if it should arise. Now, come into this room here with me and I want you to wash your hands. Wash them well. And then dry them very thoroughly.’

  I’m making a meal of all this, but every police-officer order I give him screws up the heat one notch more.

  He watched while Alec sluiced his hands, reddened with the interior pulsing of blood, under the cold tap and then, on the thin, damp roller towel hanging beside the sink, began to dry them.

  ‘Better than that, please. Do it again, and then get them completely dry. We need perfect impressions.’

  At last he marched him into the Fingerprint Room itself.

  A WPC, one whose name he did not know, was there, as he had thought there might be.

  ‘I’m going to take this young gentleman’s prints,’ he said to her, voice in the official mode. ‘Please ink up for me.’

  They watched in silence while she squeezed oily black ink out of a monster tube and then with the well-grimed wooden roller spread it carefully over the heavy copper plate on the counter.

  ‘Right,’ he said when the process was over, ‘let me fill in the particulars on the Fingerprints form in the frame over here and then we’ll be ready.’

  He took his time, peering down at the heavy-paper form clamped in its metal frame at the other end of the counter. By his side he could feel the heat emanating from Alec’s gangly body.

  Good. Good. Stew, lad. Stew.

  ‘Now,’ he said at last, ‘give me your right hand.’

  Alec thrust it out. Despite the cold water poured over it not five minutes earlier it was already beginning to glisten with sweat. He took a tight grip of the forefinger, placed it firmly down on the inky surface of the plate, moved with Alec over to the clamped form, keeping an unrelenting grip all the while, and subjected the pad of the finger to the correct rolling motion, which, just in time, he remembered from his earlier days.

  ‘All right, middle finger now.’

  Back to the ink stone, keeping a blank, uncommunicative silence. Then over again to the form.

  ‘Good. Ring finger next.’

  As he transferred his grasp he could distinctly feel that this finger was sweatier than the forefinger had been, probably even sweatier than the middle finger.

  Won’t give a very clear impression. But as this is all nothing more than jiggery-pokery, doesn’t matter. Unless that WPC notices and tries to put me right.

  The rolling motion in the appropriate square on the absorbent paper of the form.

  Now shift myself round a bit - wish I could remember the lass’s name - make sure she can’t see too well. Little frown on her face. Better be careful. Don’t want the whole show spoiled.

  ‘Very good. Now your little finger.’

  Ink it well. Press really hard, even harder than I really should. Not a flicker on my face. Over to the form. Roll the finger. Good.

  ‘Thumb now.’

  At last, leading him back to the ink slab to begin on his left hand, he felt the pulse in the wrist he had just changed his hold to begin to throb violently.

  Is this it? Is he going to crack now?

  He took the forefinger, moved with deliberate slowness over the glistening black surface of the copper plate, brought the finger down slowly at last, inked it with care.

  But, leading the boy for the sixth time to the form stretched in its metal frame, he realized that the throbbing in his wrist, instead of growing faster, was suddenly less intense.

  What’s gone wrong? I thought I’d got him. What the hell’s gone wrong?

  Then he saw. Across on the other side of the counter the WPC had a faint lingering smile on her face.

  Christ, she’s done something to reassure him. Winked? Shrugged? Something, anything. And whatever it was, it’s saved him. Guilty or not guilty, guilty of murder or guilty of some lesser offence, he feels he’s not alone any more. He feels able to cope.

  What to do? Well, one thing. If that girl, whatever her name is, ever tries to get into CID, she’s rejected. But what about young Alec here?

  There was only one course left. He knew it. Carry on with the charade. Never do to let the boy see it’s all been a hoax. If he tells old Baa-baa, we could find ourselves talking to the Police Complaints Authority.

  No, it’s all down to Verney now. If there’s anything to be rescued from the cock-up.

  Back into the interview room. Verney sitting where he had been, ready to rumble forward into battle. Opposite, Harold Gaffney and Baa-baa evidently trying to hold some sort of a neutral conversation. As he ushered Alec in he caught the words ‘… can never tell with house prices’. Then they broke off, as if they had been discovered exchanging dirty stories.

  Just behind Alec’s back he gave Verney a minute shake of the head. No joy.

  Difficult to interpret that quick look back. Fury? Acceptance of the inevitable? Never mind, I’ve done my best. Hard man never allowed himself to relax for an instant. Not till that silly bitch spoilt it all. And that was hardly her fault, really. I should have warned her what I was up to. Only how could I have done? Having to keep Alec on a tight rein the whole time like that.

  Ah, well. See if Verney can pull something out of the hat.

  ‘Right, I’ll just put the regulation words on to the tape again, and then I shall want to ask you once more what I’ve been asking before.’

  Ritual completed, Verney leant heavily across.

  ‘Now, while we’re waiting to know what our fingerprint people over at Headquarters in Barminster make of the impressions they’ve just had faxed to them …’

  He allowed his voice to trail away.

  Well, will he be able to stoke up the pressure again? That line about faxing the prints to HQ, impressive enough. But is the boy, in fact, our
intolerant killer? Or is he just a stupid youngster who’s got himself, and Conor’s Belinda, Conor’s ex-Belinda, into trouble?

  Whichever, plainly Alec has now regained enough confidence to look squarely back at Verney.

  ‘All right, let’s go over again what you’ve told us so far. You’ve admitted you were down in Sandymount at six o’clock on Monday evening last, the time Mr Edul Unwala was murdered. You—’

  ‘No. No, it’s true I was in Sandymount. In that shop. But that was at round about five. You’ve just said the murder didn’t happen till six, and we weren’t - I wasn’t in Sandymount at all then.’

  Verney was unfazed.

  ‘Where were you then, lad? It’s not enough, you know, to swear black and blue you weren’t somewhere, you’ve got to tell us where you were. And it’d be a lot better for you if you could provide some reliable witnesses. Because, remember, we’ve got a witness, a reliable witness, who saw someone, someone in a black jacket like the Harrison Academy uniform, lurking at the other end of Percival Road for a good twenty minutes just before six o’clock.’

  Good old Verney stretching a point again. I don’t know how reliable old asthmatic Mr Jones would look if we ever had to put him in the witness box, and, as far as I remember, he was none too sure he’d seen that figure in the fog for as long as twenty minutes. Nor did he call it lurking. However … If it all gets Alec’s attempt to give himself an alibi to fall down who’s going to object? Not even old Baa-baa.

  ‘I bet he didn’t see me - I bet he didn’t see whoever was there well enough to identify them. Or you’d have had an identity parade, wouldn’t you?’

  But Verney was not going to take insolence of that sort.

  ‘I’ve half a mind to play back the tape to you, lad. Just to let you hear exactly what you said only half a minute ago. “I bet he didn’t see me.” Those were your exact words. Me. Me. Me. That’s what you said. He didn’t see you well enough to identify you, that’s what you were boasting about. And what I say to you now is: there’s no need to identify you. You’ve just told me out of your own mouth that you were standing there at the end of Percival Road shortly before Mr Unwala was beaten to death at number twelve.’

  And it was enough. Alec’s head dropped as though he had been pole-axed.

  ‘Yes.’

  The word was almost inaudible.

  But Verney, instead of pouncing on it, demanding it be repeated, left a silence. Which, after some long seconds, Alec filled of his own accord.

  ‘It’s no use,’ he said, speaking with strangulated clarity. T was there. Whoever you said saw me did see me. I was there at the end of Percival Road.’

  And then,’ Verney came quietly in, ‘you walked up to that house, you conned the old man into letting you in and then you battered him to death. Yes? Yes? Wasn’t that the way it was?’

  ‘No.’

  A No uttered with perfect calm. A simply stated truth.

  Chapter Eighteen

  They had all been rocked. The No had been said with such plain firmness it was all but impossible not to believe it was the truth. No, Alec had stated, no, I did not go into number twelve Percival Road, for all that I admit I was standing in the road outside. Even Verney, who had been almost plunging across the table to deliver his final question, had seemed totally taken aback. He had swung away till his chair had creaked almost to breaking point. Harold Gaffney had switched in an instant from giving his son, the murderer, a look of incredulous disgust to a blank lack of comprehension. Baa-baa Williams had slowly removed the veiny hands which he had held in front of his face as Verney had battered out his accusation.

  He himself had wondered for a moment if he had actually heard the No, clearly and firmly spoken though it had been.

  But I did hear it. And young Alec, then, did not do it. I can’t believe anything else now. The pressure we’ve put him under, and at last that single, clear, decisive No.

  God knows why he’s resisted up till now. There must be more to it. Though I’ve no idea what it is. But he’s innocent. At least of murder. Whatever else he may have done, he did not kill Edul Unwala. I know that now. We all know it. Even Verney.

  But it was Verney who recovered first.

  ‘All right,’ he said, slowly bringing himself forward again, ‘so you did not kill Mr Unwala. Very well, lad, if you say so. But don’t tell me you don’t know something about that death. Don’t tell me you haven’t been straining and struggling to keep something from us all this while. And now you’re going to tell us about it. Right?’

  ‘I’ve got nothing more to say.’

  Alec pushed himself round to face Baa-baa Williams.

  ‘Mr Williams, I don’t have to answer their questions, do I?’

  ‘No, no, my boy. You’re perfectly within your rights to answer “No comment” if you wish. Yes. And I think I’d advise you to do just that.’

  ‘But I would not.’

  Verney was back in action once more. Tank gun spitting harsh fire.

  ‘Listen to me, Alec Gaffney,’ he growled out. T am investigating a case of murder. A particularly brutal and vicious murder. And it is the duty of everyone who may know anything which could lead to the arrest of the perpetrator of that murder to assist the police in whatever way they can. Now, it’s plain to me, and equally plain to Detective Chief Inspector Benholme here, that you know something that will lead directly to the apprehension of that murderer. So, I am asking you: what is it you have been keeping from us?’

  ‘I - I can’t say.’

  ‘Won’t say.’

  ‘All right, won’t say, if that’s how you want it. But I won’t. I won’t. And that’s that.’

  Verney leant an inch nearer, and dropped his voice to the point where it seemed he was talking to Alec and Alec alone.

  ‘Now, you’ve told us you did not kill Edul Unwala. And I’m inclined, I tell you frankly, to believe you. But what I am not inclined in any way to believe is that you know nothing about his murder. I am inclined to believe in fact that you saw it done.’

  ‘No.’

  But this No was distinctly different from that earlier firm and clear denial. There was in it, not to be mistaken, a note of hysteria.

  Verney was quick to follow up.

  ‘No? You deny you were in that house when the poor old man was battered down? Well, I wonder whether in just a minute or two I won’t be in possession of evidence that tells me the exact contrary.’

  He swung round to address the recording machine more directly.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Benholme is now leaving the room in order to collect a fax message from Fingerprints Section at Barshire Police Headquarters.’

  Going it a bit, aren’t you? Wonder what all the lawyers will make of that when they listen to the tapes. In order to collect a fax message from Fingerprints Section. As if it would be ready in anything like this time. However… Detective Chief Inspector Benholme knows how to play his part when he gets the tip.

  He got up, even making a performance of slapping his hands down on the table for the benefit of the machine. Let alone of Alec Gaffney.

  Outside, he looked at his watch.

  Give it five minutes? No, probably a bit less. Don’t want this new pressure Verney’s built up to fizzle away. But can he bring it off? Or are we going to end up as much in the dark as when it was clear Conor was off the hook?

  Conor.

  My Conor. Where are you? Will I ever see you again? Will we ever get back to our old life? Or … Or to today’s version of it, you there with your mum and that bloody Mike, me seeing you at home every now and again. Unless I do sell the place, move into a flat. But oh, for the real old life. Sitting round the kitchen table for meals, talking about your prospects, how well you’ll do in your A levels … God, he may never take them now. Never. A drifter in London, drugs, a rent boy, Aids. All that, instead of treasure-hunting holi— No, detectorist. Detectorist. And the chance of getting in to Cambridge, getting a degree in archaeology—

/>   He forced himself to stop. Before his racing mind pictured yet worse calamities.

  Before I bloody break down and weep.

  Come on, think. Think what you’re here for, Phil Benholme. Detective Chief Inspector Benholme. To assist in Detective Superintendent Verney’s cunning ploy.

  Right. So what have I got to do? Go back to the interview room - Detective Chief Inspector Benholme has just re-entered - and make Alec Gaffney believe I’ve just heard from HQ that they’ve found some dabs that correspond—

  Oh my God. A fax. I’ve got to go in there carrying a fax, pull the trick off properly. To find out, perhaps, if Verney’s guess is right and Alec was at least in the house, was watching when someone - Who? Who? - killed the old man.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Benholme has re-entered the room, bringing a fax message.’

  Jesus, Verney’s going it. Trust he’ll keep a straight face when he sees the Daily Crime Bulletin sheet I snatched off Bob Carter’s desk. Best I could find in the circs.

  Oh, but yes. Should have known I could rely on Verney. Look at the way he’s perusing that sheet. Perusing: the word. And now… Leaning forward again. Into battle.

  ‘Yes. As I thought, two distinct prints, not whole but cleanly lifted. Of course, not proof…’

  Verney leant back in his chair.

  ‘Do you know anything about the law and fingerprints, Alec?’

  Abruptly playing the soft man. Or his inept version of it. An over-rich avuncular act. Pathetic, really. But may work.

  ‘No? Well, I’ll explain a bit. Under the law of this country fingerprints identification is held not to be valid unless sixteen points, as we call them, sixteen places in the print of a suspect’s finger, whichever finger it may be …’

  He’s building it up and up. Hope his little card castle won’t tumble down.

  ‘… are found precisely to correspond. Fifteen points only, on some incomplete fingermark lifted at the scene of a crime and our Fingerprint officer does not even go into the witness box, although those of us investigating the crime know perfectly well that fifteen points indicate just as surely as sixteen that our suspect was at the scene. As do fourteen points, thirteen, twelve, or even most probably ten. But the courts don’t recognize that. They would hold that putting up an FPO to give evidence would constitute an attempt to influence a jury. You follow me so far?’