The Tightrope Men / The Enemy

by Desmond Bagley

  ‘I believe he went away on a business trip. As for the house I wouldn’t know—I haven’t been there lately.’

  ‘I suppose that’s your story and you’re sticking to it,’ he said. ‘Who’s going to tell the Ashton sisters—you or me?’

  ‘I will,’ I said. ‘After I’ve made sure of Mayberry.’

  ‘All right. Any time you’re down this way pop in and see me. We can have another noggin at the Coach and Horses. I’ll be very interested in anything you can tell me.’ He rang off.

  I smiled. I was sure Honnister would be interested. Something funny was going on in his parish which he didn’t know about, and it irked him.

  I dialled Scotland Yard and got hold of Crammond. ‘Oh yes. Mr Jaggard: it’s about this acid-throwing attack. I’ll be seeing Mayberry tonight—he doesn’t get home until about six-thirty, so his landlady tells us. I suggest you meet me here at six and we’ll drive out.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘There’s just one thing,’ Crammond said. ‘Whose jurisdiction applies here—ours or yours?’

  I said slowly, ‘That depends on what Mayberry says. The acid-throwing is straightforward criminal assault, so as far as that’s concerned he’s your man and you can have him and welcome. But there are other matters I’m not at liberty to go into, and we might like to question him further before you charge him. Informally, of course.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Crammond. ‘It’s just that it’s best to get these things straight first. See you at six, Mr Jaggard.’

  Crammond was properly cautious. The police were not very comfortable when mixing with people like us. They knew that some of the things we did, if strictly interpreted, could be construed as law-breaking, and it went against the grain with them to turn a blind eye. Also they tended to think of themselves as the only professionals in the business and looked down on us as amateurs and, in their view, they were not there to help amateurs break the law of the land.

  I phoned Ogilvie and told him. All he said was, ‘Ah well, we’ll see what comes of it.’

  I met Crammond as arranged. He was a middling-sized thickset man of nondescript appearance, very useful in a plain clothes officer. We went out to Finsbury in his car, with a uniformed copper in the back seat, and he told me what he knew.

  ‘When Honnister passed the word to us I had Mayberry checked out. That was this morning so he wasn’t at home. He lives on the top floor of a house that’s been broken up into flats. At least, that’s what they call them: most of them are single rooms. His landlady described him as a quiet type—a bit bookish.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘No. She thinks he never has been, either. He has a job as some kind of clerk working for a City firm. She wasn’t too clear about that.’

  ‘He doesn’t sound the type,’ I complained.

  ‘He does have a police record,’ said Crammond.

  ‘That’s better.’

  ‘Wait until you hear it. One charge of assaulting a police officer, that’s all. I went into it and the charge should never have been brought, even though he was found guilty. He got into a brawl during one of the Aldermaston marches a few years ago and was lugged in with a few others.’

  ‘A protester,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Amateur or professional?’

  ‘Amateur, I’d say. He’s not on our list of known rabblerousers and, in any case, he has the wrong job for it. He’s not mobile enough. But his appearance fits the description given by Honnister’s witness. We’ll see. Who does the asking?’

  ‘You do,’ I said. ‘I’ll hang about in the background. He’ll think I’m just another copper.’

  Mayberry had not arrived home when we got there so his landlady accommodated us in her front parlour. She was plainly curious and said archly, ‘Has Mr Mayberry been doing anything naughty?’

  ‘We just want him to help us in our enquiries.’ said Crammond blandly. ‘Is he a good tenant, Mrs Jackson?’

  ‘He pays his rent regularly, and he’s quiet. That’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Lived here long?’

  ‘Five years—or is it six?’ After much thought she decided it was six.

  ‘Has he any hobbies? What does he do with his spare time?’

  ‘He reads a lot; always got his head in a book. And he’s religious—he goes to church twice every Sunday.’

  I was depressed. This sounded less and less like our man. ‘Did he go to church on the Sunday two weekends ago?’ asked Crammond.

  ‘Very likely,’ she said. ‘But I was away that weekend.’ She held her head on one side. ‘That sounds like him now.’

  Someone walked along the passage outside the room and began to ascend the stairs. We gave him time to get settled then went after him. On the first landing Crammond said to the uniformed man, ‘Wait outside the door, Shaw. If he makes a break grab him. It’s not likely to happen, but if he is an acid-throwing bastard he can be dangerous.’

  I stood behind Crammond as he tapped on Mayberry’s door and noted that Shaw was flat against the wall so Mayberry couldn’t see him. It’s nice to see professionals at work. Mayberry was a man in his late forties and had a sallow complexion as though he did not eat well. His eyes were sunk deep into his skull.

  ‘Mr Peter Mayberry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re police officers,’ said Crammond pleasantly. ‘And we think you can help us. Do you mind if we come in?’

  I saw Mayberry’s knuckles whiten a little as he gripped the edge of the door. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Just by answering a few questions. Can we come in?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Mayberry held open the door.

  It wasn’t much of a place; the carpet was threadbare and the furniture was of painted whitewood and very cheap; but it was clean and tidy. Along one wall was a shelf containing perhaps forty or fifty books; anyone with so many would doubtless be a great reader to Mrs Jackson who probably got through one book a year, if that.

  I glanced at the titles. Some were religious and of a decidedly fundamentalist slant: there was a collection of environmental stuff including some pamphlets issued by Friends of the Earth. For the rest they were novels, all classics and none modern. Most of the books were paperbacks.

  There were no pictures in the room except for one poster which was stuck on the wall by sticky tape at the corners. It depicted the earth from space, a photograph taken by an astronaut. Printed at the bottom were the words: I’M ALL YOU’VE GOT; LOOK, AFTER ME.

  Crammond started by saying, ‘Can I see your driving licence, Mr Mayberry?’

  ‘I don’t have a car.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I asked,’ said Crammond. ‘Your driving licence, please.’

  Mayberry had taken off his jacket which was hanging on the back of a chair. He bent down and took his wallet from the inside breast pocket, took out his licence and gave it to Crammond who examined it gravely and in silence. At last Crammond said approvingly, ‘Clean; no endorsements.’ He handed it to me.

  ‘I always drive carefully,’ said Mayberry.

  ‘I’m sure you do. Do you drive often?’

  ‘I told you—I don’t have a car.’

  ‘And I heard you. Do you drive often?’

  ‘Not very. What’s all this about?’

  ‘When did you last drive a car?’

  Mayberry said, ‘Look, if anyone says I’ve been in an accident they’re wrong because I haven’t.’ He seemed very nervous, but many people are in the presence of authority, even if innocent. It’s the villain who brazens it out.

  I put the licence on the table and picked up the book Mayberry had been reading. It was on so-called alternative technology and was turned to a chapter telling how to make a digester to produced methane from manure. It seemed an unlikely subject for Finsbury.

  Crammond said, ‘When did you last drive a car?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know—several months ago.’

  ‘Whose car was it?’

  ‘I forget. It was a
long time ago.’

  ‘Whose car do you usually drive?’

  There was a pause while Mayberry sorted that one out. ‘I don’t usually drive.’ He had begun to sweat.

  ‘Do you ever hire a car?’

  ‘I have.’ Mayberry swallowed. ‘Yes. I have hired cars.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Supposing I said that you hired a car in Slough two weekends ago, what would you say?’

  ‘I’d say you were wrong,’ said Mayberry sullenly.

  ‘Yes, you might say that,’ said Crammond. ‘But would I be wrong. Mr Mayberry?’

  Mayberry straightened his shoulders. ‘Yes,’ he said defiantly.

  ‘Where were you that weekend?’

  ‘Here as usual. You can ask Mrs Jackson, my landlady.’

  Crammond regarded him for a moment in silence. ‘But Mrs Jackson was away that weekend, wasn’t she? So you were here all weekend. In this room? Didn’t you go out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not at all? Not even to church as usual?’

  Mayberry was beginning to curl up at the edges. ‘I didn’t feel well,’ he muttered.

  ‘When was the last time you missed church on Sunday, Mr Mayberry?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Can you produce one person to testify to your presence here in this room on the whole of that Sunday?’

  ‘How can I? I didn’t go out.’

  ‘Didn’t you eat?’

  ‘I didn’t feel well, I tell you. I wasn’t hungry.’

  ‘What about the Saturday? Didn’t you go out then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And didn’t you eat on the Saturday, either?’

  Mayberry shifted his feet nervously; the unending stream of questions was getting to him. ‘I had some apples.’

  ‘You had some apples,’ said Crammond flatly. ‘Where and when did you buy the apples?’

  ‘On the Friday afternoon at a supermarket.’

  Crammond let that go. He said, ‘Mr Mayberry, I suggest that all you’ve told me is a pack of lies. I suggest that on the Saturday morning you went to Slough by train where you hired a Chrysler Sceptre from Joliffe’s garage. Mr Joliffe was very upset by the acid damage to the back seat of the car. Where did you buy the acid?’

  ‘I bought no acid.’

  ‘But you hired the car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how do you account for the fact that the name and address taken from a driving licence—this driving licence -’ Crammond picked it up and waved it under Mayberry’s nose—‘is your name and your address?’

  ‘I can’t account for it. I don’t have to account for it. Perhaps someone impersonated me.’

  ‘Why should anyone want to impersonate you, Mr Mayberry?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone would know,’ observed Crammond. ‘However, the matter can be settled very easily. We have the fingerprints from the car and they can be compared with yours quite easily. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind coming to the station and giving us your prints, sir.’

  It was the first I’d heard of fingerprints and I guessed Crammond was bluffing. Mayberry said, ‘I’m…I’m not coming. Not to the police station.’

  ‘I see,’ said Crammond softly. ‘Do you regard yourself as a public-spirited citizen?’

  ‘As much as anybody.’

  ‘But you object to coming to the police station.’

  ‘I’ve had a hard day,’ said Mayberry. ‘I’m not feeling well. I was about to go to bed when you came in.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Crammond, as though illuminated with insight. ‘Well, if that’s your only objection I have a fingerprint kit in the car. We can settle the matter here and now.’

  ‘You’re not taking my fingerprints. I don’t have to give them to you. And now I want you to leave.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s your true objection.’

  ‘I want you to leave or I’ll -’ Mayberry stopped short.

  ‘Send for the police?’ said Crammond ironically. ‘When did you first meet Miss Ashton?’

  ‘I’ve never met her,’ said Mayberry quickly. Too quickly.

  ‘But you know of her.’

  Mayberry took a step backwards and banged into the table. The book fell to the floor. ‘I know nobody of that name.’

  ‘Not personally, perhaps-but you do know of her?’

  I stopped to pick up the book. A thin pamphlet had fallen from the pages and I glanced at it before putting the book on the table. Mayberry repeated, ‘I know nobody of that name.’

  The pamphlet was a Parliamentary Report issued by the Stationery Office. Beneath the Royal coat-of-arms was the title: Report of the Working Party on the Experimental Manipulation of the Genetic Composition of Micro-organisms.

  A whole lot of apparently unrelated facts suddenly slotted into place: Mayberry’s fundamentalist religion, his environmental interests, and the work Penny Ashton was doing. I said, ‘Mr Mayberry, what do you think of the state of modern biological science?’

  Crammond, his mouth opened to ask another question, gaped at me in astonishment. Mayberry jerked his head around to look at me. ‘Bad,’ he said. ‘Very bad.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The biologists are breaking the laws of God,’ he said. ‘Defiling life itself.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘By mixing like with unlike—by creating monsters.’ Mayberry’s voice rose. ‘“And God said, ‘Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind.’” “That’s what He said—after his kind. “Cattle, and creeping thing, and beast of the earth after his kind.” After his kind! That is on the very first page of the Holy Bible.’

  Crammond glanced at me with a mystified expression, and then looked again at Mayberry. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir.’

  Mayberry was exalted. ‘And God said unto Noah. “Of fowls after their kind”—after their kind—“and of cattle after their kind”—after their kind—“of every creeping thing of the earth after his kind”—after his kind—“two of every sort shall come unto thee, to keep them alive.” She’s godless; she would destroy God’s own work as is set down in the Book.’

  I doubted if Crammond knew what Mayberry was saying, but I did. I said, ‘How?’

  ‘She would break down the seed which God has made, and mingle one kind with another kind, and so create monsters—chimaeras and abominations.’

  I had difficulty in keeping my voice even. ‘I take it by “she” you mean Dr Penelope Ashton?’

  Crammond’s head jerked. Mayberry, still caught up in religious fervour, said thoughtlessly, ‘Among others.’

  ‘Such as Professor Lumsden,’ I suggested.

  ‘Her master in devilry.’

  ‘If you thought she was doing wrong why didn’t you talk to her about it? Perhaps you could have led her to see her error.’

  ‘I wouldn’t foul my ears with her voice,’ he said contemptuously.

  I said, ‘Doesn’t it say in the Bible that God gave Adam dominion over the fish of the sea, the fowls of the air, and every beast or thing that creeps on the earth? Perhaps she’s in the right.’

  ‘The Devil can quote scripture,’ said Mayberry, and turned away from me. I felt sick.

  Crammond woke up to what was happening. ‘Mr Mayberry, are you admitting to having thrown acid into the face of a woman called Ashton?’

  Mayberry had a hunted look, conscious of having said too much. ‘I haven’t said that.’

  ‘You’ve said enough.’ Crammond turned to me. ‘I think we have enough to take him.’

  I nodded, then said to Mayberry, ‘You’re a religious man. You go to church every Sunday—twice, so I’m told. Do you think it was a Christian act to throw battery acid into the face of a young woman?’

  ‘I am not responsible to you for my actions,’ said Mayberry. ‘I am responsible to God.’

  Crammond nodded gravely. ‘Nevertheless, I believe someone sai
d, “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.” I think you’ll have to come along with us, Mr Mayberry.’

  ‘And may God help you,’ I said. ‘Because you got the wrong girl. You threw the acid in the face of Dr Ashton’s sister who was coming back from church.’

  Mayberry stared at me. As he had spoken of being responsible to God he had worn a lofty expression but now his face crumpled and horror crept into his eyes. He whispered. ‘The wrong…wrong…’ Suddenly he jerked convulsively and screamed at the top of his voice.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ said Crammond as Shaw burst into the room.

  Mayberry collapsed to the floor, babbling a string of obscenities in a low and monotonous voice. When Crammond turned to speak to me he was sweating. ‘This one’s not for the slammer. He’ll go to Broadmoor for sure. Do you want any more out of him?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ I said. ‘Not now.’

  Crammond turned to Shaw. ‘Phone for an ambulance. Tell them it’s religious mania and they might need a restraining jacket.’

  SIXTEEN

  By the time we’d got Mayberry into an ambulance Ogilvie had left the office and gone home. I didn’t bother ringing his home, but I did ring Penny because I thought she ought to know about Mayberry. Mary Cope answered again and said that Penny wasn’t in, but this time I pushed it harder. She said Penny had gone to Oxford to attend a lecture and wouldn’t be back until late. I rang off, satisfied I wasn’t being given another brush-off.

  Before seeing Ogilvie next morning I rang Crammond. ‘What’s new on Mayberry?’

  ‘He’s at King’s College Hospital - under guard in a private ward.’

  ‘Did he recover?’

  ‘Not so you’d notice. It seems like a complete breakdown to me, but I’m no specialist.’

  ‘A pity. I’ll have to talk to him again, you know.’

  ‘You’ll have to get through a platoon of assorted doctors first,’ warned Crammond. ‘It seems he’s suffering from everything from ingrowing toenails to psychoceramica.’

  ‘What the hell’s that?’

  ‘It means he’s a crack-pot,’ said Crammond sourly. ‘The head-shrinkers are keeping him isolated.’