Dead Man's Bluff

by Roderic Jeffries

  Burrows left. Burrows, thought Clayton, was stolid, unimaginative, and not particularly bright, but when you really considered the matter you realized how much any police force depended on men like him: they were the ones who would carry out the routine investigations that went on and on and they would not, because of their lack of imagination, become inefficient through too much impatience at work which seemingly offered no return.

  Morris came into the room. ‘’Morning, sir,’ he said.

  Clayton scrumpled up the last of the circular letters and threw it into the waste-paper basket. ‘What happened with your interview?’

  Morris smirked. ‘As a matter of fact, sir, I’ve already reported to Mr Akers.’

  ‘Then now you can have the added pleasure of reporting a second time, to me.’

  Morris’s expression became slightly sullen. ‘I went to Trighton and saw the girl. She’s a real snappy tart. It’s a long time since I saw anyone … quite so openly sexy.’

  She’d certainly made an impression, thought Clayton.

  ‘She’s known old Knott for about nine months. She works in a flower shop and he came in to buy some flowers, saw her, and from that moment on chased her as hard as he could go. She says he went really soft on her.’

  ‘What d’you reckon her feelings were?’

  Morris smoothed down his already smooth black hair with the palm of his hand. ‘I’d say she found him a dirty old man who she was playing for all she could get.’

  ‘In other words, just taking him for a ride?’

  ‘Must have been, mustn’t she? She’d want someone younger and more vigorous.’

  ‘Like you?’

  Morris failed to accept the question as a sarcastic one. ‘That’s right,’ he said complacently. ‘By the way, sir, whilst I was there a boy-friend of hers turned up. He was in his mid-twenties and really sharp. When she told him who I was, he looked mean — the way an ex-con always looks mean when he meets the law.’

  ‘Check through the mug shots and see if you can find him.’

  ‘I was going to.’

  Of course, thought Clayton! ‘Does she know about the forty thousand quid life insurance?’

  ‘I threw out some hints, but she didn’t bite. Only thing is, I gained the impression that she knows a lot more than she’s letting on to.’

  ‘It wasn’t more than an impression?’

  Morris shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Right. I want you now to … ’

  ‘Mr Akers has told me to get on to Louthy Products head office for help in tracing Alexander’s sister and also to have a word with the Atherstone police.’

  ‘You’d better do that, then, hadn’t you?’

  Morris turned and crossed to the door. He spoke as he opened it. ‘Mr Akers is quite a live-wire, isn’t he?’ There was open admiration in his voice.

  ‘I suppose he is. Which means he’d better not get mixed up or he’ll blow a fuse.’

  Morris looked at Clayton in a pitying way, then left. Clayton settled back in the chair. Morris was many things, but he wasn’t a fool. If he gained the impression that Hazel Clews knew something about the life insurance, that was a likely possibility.

  He looked at his watch and saw the time was half-past nine. If he was to escape the press conference, he’d better get out of the station smartly.

  He went down and out to the courtyard. On the far side of this were five lock-up garages, for the Panda and patrol cars which worked from the station, and a search bay for vehicles.

  The half-ton van that had been found at Knott Farm was in the search bay. A uniformed constable, in overalls, was in the pit, using a trailing light to check underneath the car, and DC Pritchard was searching the interior.

  Clayton spoke to Pritchard. ‘Anything turned up?’

  ‘Not really, sir,’ boomed Pritchard. ‘Just a letter that was under the front seat. There’s nothing of interest in it.’ Clayton read the letter. It was signed Alice and was in the same handwriting as the two letters found in Alexander’s room. There was no address, but the postmark was Atherstone and the date the first of August. He read the spidery writing. Joe had died after his accident and a month in hospital and his funeral had been the biggest seen for years: Joe’s wife was having a terrible time with the kids. Angela Puttock had run off with a salesman. Old Mrs Fortes had gone barmy and there was some scandal the family had somehow managed to hush up. He handed the letter back. ‘Has Dabs been over the car?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘No luck?’

  ‘No. There just weren’t any prints.’

  ‘D’you mean Dabs didn’t find a single one?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Pritchard jerked a large thumb in the direction of the paper sacks in the back of the van. ‘The cow cake in them smells good enough to eat.’

  Clayton made no answer and walked slowly over to his car. It seemed odd that there should be no finger-prints at all on the van. Admittedly the surfaces inside any vehicle smooth enough and large enough to take prints were far fewer than might be imagined, yet to drive a van round the countryside without leaving a single print … Would anyone in this heat wear gloves?

  A uniformed constable came up to the car. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  Clayton recognized him as one of the PCs who had been sent out to Endley Cross to make general enquiries. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was asking around the village, sir, and spoke to the landlord of the pub out there — it’s his wife what runs the place during the day. He said he saw a van going up the farm drive at about a quarter past two.’

  ‘How sure is he of the time?’

  ‘Near enough exact, sir. He was back in the pub at twenty past for certain.’

  ‘Can he tell us anything about the van?’

  ‘It was a green one, from Louthy Products. He’s got a few chickens and buys their grub from that firm, so that’s why he noticed.’

  ‘Could he see the driver?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Clayton thanked the PC, who left. One time was now established — Alexander had driven up to the farm at two-fifteen.

  Clayton drove out of the courtyard on to the road. There was considerable traffic, especially by the entrance to the diesel factory, and it was not until he was beyond the town that he was able to relax. He loved the countryside and all that went on in it, having a sympathy with the slower pace of living, a quiet acceptance of a life that was so largely ruled by the most arbitrary of all things, the English weather. In other circumstances, he would have liked to have been a farmer. Perhaps, when he retired, he and Margery could somehow find enough money to buy a small place in the country … He grinned. Nothing so effectively cured an ambition, so the cynics said, as attaining it. As a townsman — he’d always lived in towns — he was inclined to think of the countryside as perpetually bathed in warm sunshine, the only sounds the chirping of birds and the droning of insects: what about mud a foot deep, electricity cuts, roads blocked by snow, doctors who wouldn’t attend a patient who lived several miles from the surgery?

  He reached Endley Cross and saw two cars parked outside the pub: was the landlord breaking the laws and opening a bit early? He didn’t know and didn’t care. He continued over the cross-roads and came to the beginning of the woods on the left and the first of the fields belonging to Knott Farm on the right, a field thick with docks and thistles. How could Knott have allowed the place to fall into such disrepair? A man had to be completely insensible to do that, unable to appreciate that he was in honour bound to pass on the inheritance he had received. He passed the farmhouse, then on the left the ornamental gates across the drive up to the hidden derelict house, and continued down the short hill to Browland’s cottage.

  He stood in the garden and carefully admired the serried rows of vegetables. When he turned back towards the cottage, he saw the edge of the curtains of the downstairs room move. He knocked and Meg opened the door. She stared up at him and her small, peaked face held both challenge and fear.

/>   ‘I’m sorry to bother you again,’ he said in friendly tones. ‘I’ve just had a look at your garden — I’ve never seen such vegetables.’

  Shyly, she said that her husband often won prizes at the local village flower-show and when he said he wasn’t surprised and had they thought of entering larger shows, she became quite talkative. After a while, she asked him if he’d like a cup of tea and he replied that nothing would be more welcome. They went inside.

  His tea was served in a chipped mug, but she was now sufficiently at ease not to bother to apologise. He offered her a cigarette, but she refused. ‘By the way,’ he asked, ‘does your husband work up at the farm all morning?’

  ‘ ’E don’t, because ’e ain’t paid for it,’ she answered. ‘What’s more, there’s someone turned up there what says ’e’s the new owner. Tom says ’e’s good at givin’ orders. We don’t know what’s going to ’appen to us.’ A look of deep worry crossed her face.

  ‘Mr Hulton will have to have help — you can’t run a dairy farm that size on your own.’

  ‘It ain’t everyone what’ll employ Tom,’ she said candidly.

  ‘But I hear he’s a first-class milker.’

  ‘He’s that all right — and he gets on well with animals.’

  ‘He’ll be OK. If Tom’s not at the farm, I suppose he’s here?’

  ‘Yes, ’e is … ’ She suddenly stared at him with renewed fear.

  ‘Mrs Browland, I promise you I’m not going to harm him. I just want a word with him.’

  ‘ ’E’s … ’e’s afraid of the police, always ’as been.’ Hastily, she added: ‘Not that ’e’s any cause to be.’

  ‘Tell him that he’s absolutely no cause to be afraid of me.’ She studied his face and was relieved by what she saw. She left and he heard her climb uncarpeted stairs. A murmur of voices came from above and after a while she returned with Browland. He remained close to her and was so nervous that he couldn’t keep still, but kept fidgeting with his nose. He was wearing the same clothes as he had been the night before.

  ‘Those are some wonderful marrows you’ve got outside,’ said Clayton. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen their equal.’

  In next to no time, Browland was chatting happily about his garden and when Clayton eventually brought the subject round to the murders, he seemed quite unafraid.

  ‘I came back here because I thought you might remember something more,’ said Clayton. ‘You know how things go — one day you clean forget something, the next day it’s clear in your mind. I’ll tell you one of our big problems — what could have started the fire? Obviously once it was going, the diesel oil and paraffin helped it along a lot, but what started it?’

  Browland left his wife’s side and sat down. His brow furrowed as he thought hard. ‘Maybe it were the ’lectricity,’ he finally said.

  ‘Why might it have been that?’

  ‘It were in a terrible state. The man what came to look at it said it needed new wiring. Mr Knott said as ’e couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘D’you know where the wiring was so bad?’

  ‘The ’lectricity man said it was real dangerous in the store-room.’

  ‘That’s the place where the fire was?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘D’you know who it was came and inspected the wiring?’

  ‘It were Mike, from the village.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Mike Langham,’ said Meg. ‘ ’E lives at Netsway Cottages, does a lot of work for people.’

  Clayton noted down the name and address. When he looked up, he smiled at Browland. ‘Now is there anything else, anything at all that might help?’

  Browland shook his head. He began to fiddle with his nose once more and carefully did not look at Clayton.

  ‘You didn’t by chance see or hear anything early on Monday afternoon?’

  Browland shook his head vigorously.

  Meg hurriedly asked Clayton if he would like some more tea and he said he would. She refilled his mug, then went and stood by the chair in which Browland sat.

  As Clayton stirred his tea, he said: ‘There was a lovely smell of cooking here last night.’

  Meg reached across with her hand and gripped her husband.

  ‘If it weren’t out of season, I’d have guessed it was pheasant.’ He sipped his tea.

  Browland’s expression was one of terrified panic. Clayton put the mug down on his knees. ‘I’ll tell you something. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t care whether it was pheasant or chicken. All I’m interested in is hearing about Monday afternoon.’

  Meg spoke in little more than a whisper. ‘You … you ain’t going to ’urt ’im, Mister?’

  ‘I’ve already promised you I’ll do nothing to hurt him.’

  ‘ ’E only … only did it ’cause it was our wedding anniversary and we couldn’t afford nothing special.’

  ‘Then that’s all forgotten.’ He spoke directly to Browland. ‘Just what happened on Monday afternoon?’

  Speaking jerkily, looking at his wife all the time, frequently fiddling with his nose, Browland told him how he’d left the house to go ‘looking’ in Parson’s Wood.

  Clayton listened in silence to the end, then said: ‘You left the house at ten past two, walked through the woods, and heard this shot, checked on the time and it was five minutes past three? How correct’s your watch?’

  ‘It ain’t never wrong,’ Browland answered proudly.

  ‘It don’t never lose more ’n a minute a day,’ Meg said. ‘It was dead right for the news on the telly last night.’ ‘Good. Now just think very carefully, then tell me how certain you are that the shot was on the farm or woods and from the direction of the buildings?’

  Browland’s face screwed up. ‘The wind was from over there. That shot didn’t come from nowhere else.’

  It was very difficult to identify the direction of a shot, especially in woods, Clayton thought. ‘Have you any idea what sort of gun it was?’

  ‘It weren’t a two-two, nor likely was it a four-ten. Could’ve been two shots going off very close together, like. ’Ad a strange echo to it.’

  ‘If I arrange to have a gun fired in the food store, could you go into the woods and see if the noise is the same?’ Browland grinned, as if the idea of being asked by the police to trespass was a wonderful one.

  ‘Tell me about Knott, will you? Was he very difficult to work for?’

  Browland was puzzled by the question and it had to be explained in simpler terms before he understood. ‘ ’E ’ad a temper and used to shout a lot and ’e didn’t know much.’

  ‘Did he ever do the milking?’

  ‘Not ’im. Couldn’t abide muck.’

  ‘So what did he do? Work in the fields all day?’

  ‘Like as not, ’e wouldn’t do nothing. Used to go off a lot.’

  ‘You mean, he left the farm?’

  Browland nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘All day?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Had he always done this sort of thing?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know, seeing as I ain’t worked there afore the middle of last year. ’E was around the farm until just before Christmas, but ’e weren’t around much after that.’

  ‘Did he ever talk about making hay or silage for this year?’

  ‘Never said nothing.’

  ‘Have you any idea why he bought so much cow cake and stored it in the interior Dutch barn?’

  Browland shook his head.

  Clayton stood up. ‘I’ll be moving. Thanks very much for the talk and the tea.’

  Meg spoke hesitatingly. ‘You promised ’e wouldn’t get into no trouble. But what if ’e ’as to say ’e was in them woods … ?’

  ‘There’s no reason on earth why he shouldn’t go for a walk in the woods to enjoy the peace.’ Clayton winked.

  Browland laughed, a strange, neighing, grunting sound.

  Clayton left. He drove to the end of the road and turned right
at the T-junction, continuing two hundred yards to the cross-roads around which the village of Cregiton was set. To the south, the land fell away and the sea was visible, six miles away. Netsway Cottages were a row of six semidetached council houses which were to the left of the wooden school house and the village hut: on the other side of the road was the village pub.

  Mrs Langham said her husband was out at work a couple of miles away and she gave him the address. He thanked her, then drove along the winding lanes, past acres of mixed woodland that had not yet been massacred by the Forestry Commission and was still a melange of oak, ash, birch, hazel, hornbeam, bramble and bracken, and he reached the address, a small, pimply farmhouse. To the left were large and graceless concrete and asbestos buildings in which were calves being reared for veal. Langham was working in the first of these buildings. He said he’d been called to Knott Farm in July to inspect the wiring in the wing nearest the road. He’d never seen wiring like it: it was perished from one end to the other. Why the whole place hadn’t gone up in smoke a couple of years before was a mystery: the slightest disturbance to the wires would creat a short. If anyone from the Electricity Board had seen it, the electricity would have been cut off until every last inch of wiring had been renewed. Yet Knott had said he couldn’t afford to do anything.

  *

  Clayton arrived back at the police station at half-past eleven. When he entered his room, he found another desk had been installed and on this were two typewriters, two telephones, and a number of folders. Detective-Sergeant Bodmin sat to the side of the desk, typing.

  ‘Make yourself at home, won’t you?’ said Clayton.

  ‘Sorry, sir, but Mr Akers said we were to work in here.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if I moved out?’

  Bodmin went on typing.

  The door slammed open and Akers hurried in. ‘So you’ve finally managed to arrive, Inspector?’

  ‘Did you want me, sir?’

  ‘Want you? Of course I goddamn wanted you. Did I not order a press conference for ten o’clock this morning?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Why didn’t you attend it?’