by John Creasey
Why the devil should she?
Payne began to shiver, only partly because of the cold. Then a car turned into the service road, its headlights on and dipped, and in a moment of awful fear he thought that this might be a police car. Could she have sent for them? The car came on, slowly. He could see the silvery streaks which the heavy rain made against the headlamps. He could just make out the outline of the driver and a passenger, a man and a woman. The police wouldn’t come in courting couples, he told himself fiercely. The car came on, and passed very slowly; it stopped three or four shops along, out of sight. He heard the car door open, and then close with a bang; he thought he heard footsteps, but soon silence told him that someone had gone into one of the other shops.
He heard a creak behind him, and spun round. The door bolts were being drawn back. He waited tensely until the door opened a foot, and saw Jennie outlined against the dim light of the back staircase. He saw no one else. She wore a black shawl, and her grey hair was frizzy and wispy against the light A squall of rain blew in, and she said testily: “Ma goodness me, man, come in oot of the rain.” She stood aside, and Payne went in, his wet raincoat brushing against her. “Man, yell catch your death,” she said, in the half querulous, half complaining tone that she had often used with old Anderson. “Why don’t ye take your coat and hat off and leave them doon here?”
“Yes, I will,” said Payne. “Nice to see you again, Jennie.”
“I don’t know what ye’ve come for,” she said, more shrilly than before. “I’m not saying there’s any information I can give ye, Mr. Payne. Tae think ye’ve made enough money to consider buying Mr. Anderson’s own business!” There was a note of admiration in her voice, and Payne thought that he detected something else, a kind of craftiness. “I’d like tae feel it was owned by someone I knew,” she went on. “I’m too old a body to be thrown out to find somewhere else to live.”
So that was it! The old crone was thinking of her future, and eager to find out what he had in mind. It was difficult not to laugh. She walked slowly up the stairs, one step at a time; she had an arthritic hip, he knew, and he could hear it creaking with every step she took. Life was really a burden to her, and whoever took over the premises would not want an old cripple on their hands.
Payne said: “Don’t you get nervous, living here by yourself, Jennie?”
“Och, what is there for an old body like me to be nairvous aboot?” she asked, and gave a cackle of laughter. “No one would want anything of me, would they now?” She was halfway up the first flight of stairs, and for the first time, Payne heard the television voices. “Is it for yourself you’re thinking of buying the business or are you acting for a thaird party?”
Payne said: “It’s for myself.”
He was wondering: How shall I do it?
He remembered how he had killed Alice, how easy it had been, how quick. It would be even easier with Jennie, because she was older and would not be able to put up any kind of fight. He had to shift that shawl, which would prevent him from getting a tight grip on her neck, but the ends might be pinned together under her chin, he couldn’t remember whether that was her custom or not. They reached the first landing, and Jennie stopped, grunting, and turned to look at him.
The shawl was not fastened; all he need do was to whip it off when she turned her back on him again.
The television voices sounded louder.
Jennie went on towards the next, narrower flight of stairs, and started up them slowly; she was breathing more heavily, and did not attempt to talk.
They were halfway up the stairs when Payne snatched a corner of the shawl away, and bared her scraggy neck.
He could not stand the television voices.
He stepped over old Jennie’s body, and went up to her room. An electric fire was burning, both bars on, and the room was much hotter than she would ever have dared to keep it in Anderson’s days. The television was on too loud. The picture was blurred a little, but it showed a girl answering a question in some quiz programme. The girl reminded Payne of Alice Murray. He stretched out his gloved hand and turned the set off; the ensuing silence seemed to hum about his ears. He saw that Jennie had put out a whisky bottle, so she had been going to do the honours. He eyed the bottle longingly, and then promised himself aloud: “Later.”
He went downstairs, climbed over the motionless body again, but when he reached the door leading to the shop and the strongroom he had forgotten old Jennie. It was going to be easy, all the difficulties were over. The keys turned smoothly, and the first door opened. Excitement held him taut for a few seconds, but he soon began to thaw. The strongroom door was as straightforward as he had hoped, because of the key which he owed to Alice.
The safes were easy to open with the old keys, too, and were crammed from top to bottom with all he had hoped to find; they had accumulated a huge stock. The only problem was to grade it, most of it was in a hopeless jumble. He told himself that this was due to Clayton’s inefficiency; with both the Andersons away, the manager was carrying on by himself, and he had always been a muddler.
Silly old fool.
Then Payne opened a safe which was in apple pie order, and recognised the hand of Julian. Soon he realised that this was the valuable jewellery he had really come to find.
The job was over in an hour and twenty five minutes from the time Payne had first parked the car at the back. He had filled the cases, and had destroyed the stock lists in the strongroom and in the little office – and no one was ever likely to be surprised, because everything else was in such confusion. Probably no one would ever be sure that there had been a stock list, and old Clayton would be blamed for losing it, anyhow.
The whole operation went just as smoothly as he had planned.
He closed and locked the back door, and drove back to Richmond Hill Road. He took out his ‘sample cases’ and carried them one at a time to the workshop, bent down and cleared away the oddments which covered the hiding places, and put the stolen goods in there. He felt as sure as it was humanly possible to be that no one would dream of looking there – unless the police had some reason to suspect him.
Why should they?
And even if they did, even if they ever found some of the jewellery, why should they think it was stolen? It was as near certain as could be that the records at Anderson’s place were poorly kept. The insurance cover was for overall value, seldom for specific items, and he knew that no single piece he had taken was worth more than a hundred pounds or so. Very few would have to be described for insurance purposes.
Within a day or two he could start selling to Benoni!
Now, he needed that drink.
It was still raining, and the wind was gusty and unpleasant. He went in by the back door, switched on the bright light of the kitchen, heard the television set going, hung his wet coat behind the back door to drain off, kicked off his wet shoes, and went on his stockinged feet towards the living room. He heard Gwen say: “Oh, why don’t you turn the rubbish off, and read a book or something?”
“It’s jolly good, Mum,” Maurice protested.
He ought to be in bed, of course, but Payne was in no mood to act the heavy father. He banged a door, and strode into the living room. Maurice jumped up from his chair, voice eager in spite of shadows beneath his eyes.
“Hallo, Dad! Mum said I could just stay up and see this Western.”
“And I’ve regretted it ever since,” declared Gwen. “Did you get very wet, Jack?”
“Not too bad, but I’d better change my trousers,” Payne said, then clapped his hands together with a report which drowned the shots coming from the screen. He had to talk, he had to boast, he had to have their praise. “Turn that off, chaps, and gather around! Maurice, pour me out a whisky, and be sparing with the soda!” He saw the excitement in their eyes, Gwen’s especially, and went on with his arms spread out as if he were exhor
ting a crowd. “Believe it or not, I have just completed the biggest deal of my life!” As he said that, it was the most natural thing to look excited, to put the right note into his voice; and this was exactly what Gwen wanted to believe. He had not felt so good for years for both wife and son were already eager and excited. “I’ve been nursing the deal for weeks, and wasn’t sure it would come off,” he went on. “There was an old shop in Watford with a lot of stock, mostly Regency jewellery and some French baubles, and I knew that there was a big American buyer coming over from New York for that kind of junk. So I got an option on the goods at a giveaway price, the chap who owned them didn’t know the value of what he’d got! I paid him a fair price though, young Maurice, even though business is business. He wouldn’t have got any better from anywhere else, and I happened to have this inside knowledge. Anyhow, the Yank’s in England, he’s buying big, and without putting a penny of our savings down, I can make enough for the deposit on that new house!”
He saw radiance spring into Gwen’s eyes.
Maurice brought him the whisky and soda, but before handing it to him slapped him on the back.
“Marvellous, Pop! I always knew you’d make it.”
“It’s wonderful!” Hilda said.
“So you’ve really pulled it off,” Gwen said, and her quiet tone was a tribute in itself.
“I’ve pulled it off, and there’s plenty more of the same,” Payne said gloatingly, and downed his drink.
From now on, it was simply a matter of filling in the details, and none of the family was ever likely to question him closely about the deal. The whole thing was working out like a perfectly planned operation should.
When undressing that night he wondered when the police would find the old woman’s body.
Roger West stepped into his office the next day, a little after eight o’clock, early because there had been a bank robbery during the night and he had to check some of the fingerprints found at the scene of it. He worked solidly on the case until half past nine, eased off, ran through all the other reports on his desk, then glanced across at Cope, who was looking harassed and restless; before long he would tire of the indoor work, bad ankle or not.
“How about a cuppa, Jim?” Roger asked. “Shall we send for one?”
“Mind if I hobble down and get one at the canteen?” asked Cope. “I don’t mind your ugly dial, but sitting cooped up in one place gets on my wick. Don’t think I can stand it much longer.”
“What’s the latest report on the ankle?”
“They hope to take the plaster off next week,” Cope answered. “Shall I send a cup up to you?”
“No—I’ll go down when you’re back,” Roger said. “What makes you think having an ankle in plaster is the only reason to hate being anchored to a desk?” He won a grin from Cope, and the burly man was in a better frame of mind when he went out. It was a pity about Cope; a Yard doctor had said that he doubted whether the ankle would ever stand up to heavy work again, and Cope had been one of the most active of men.
Roger was looking through the bank break details, so far as he yet had them, when the telephone bell rang, and Hardy, the Assistant Commissioner, said: “Can you come and see me, Handsome?”
‘Can you?’ was rhetorical.
“Right away,” Roger said. He rang off, called the exchange to put his calls through to Hardy’s office, and went out briskly. Charley Fox was coming out of a sergeants’ office.
“Dry-cleaned that bank properly?” Roger demanded.
“I will say one thing about banks, they keep the spit and polish on,” Fox retorted. “I’ll have a report ready by eleven o’clock. Can’t say I expect much for you.”
“Do the best you can,” Roger urged. He saw Fox lug the bag of a vacuum cleaner into the small room where he did most of the examination of the proceeds of his cleaning, then went along to Hardy’s office. Hardy was another heavily built man, rather quiet and sometimes aloof, who had come up from the ranks. He was not popular with everyone, but Roger had never had a serious clash with him, and rather liked what he knew of the man.
“Come in, Handsome,” Hardy said. He had on a new, well cut navy blue suit. His grey hair had just been cut very short and he had a fresh, scrubbed look. Roger thought: The Commissioner’s Conference, of course. It was a morning to pay deference. “Good morning, sir.”
“Got a funny one for you,” Hardy said. “Don’t remind me that you’ve got enough on your plate already, I know it. But if it’s necessary, hand that bank job over to Soames or McLiesh.” He paused, picking up a slip of memo paper, and Roger knew that whatever job he had in mind must be an important one; the Yard disliked switching its senior officers from one case to another. “Remember that old woman at Anderson’s flat?”
Roger’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes. Jennie Campbell.”
“That’s right. Found on the stairs this morning—dead.”
“Not strangled”
“Strangled.”
“Good God!”
“Funny turn up for the book, isn’t it?” Hardy remarked. “Could be coincidence, of course.”
Roger didn’t speak, but his mind was already beginning to race.
“Don’t you think so?” Hardy asked.
“Coincidence? Wouldn’t like to rule it out, but I want to see that body, quick,” Roger said. “Any of our chaps over there yet?”
“No, only the Divisional people,” Hardy replied. “I told them you would be coming over. I suppose you want Fox,” he added, with one of those quick flashes of understanding which made him easy to work with. “Better take him.”
“Thanks,” Roger said gratefully. “I really ought to have the same team as with Alice Murray.”
“Prise ’em away from other jobs if you can.”
“Thanks,” said Roger again. “Any other details?”
“Thomas of the Division called me when you were over at the bank,” Hardy replied. “Just reported that he’d had a call from the shop, and he thought we ought to know pretty quick. Trying to wash his hands of this one, of course.”
“Suits us, sir,” said Roger.
There were mornings when Hardy would say ‘forget the sir’; this morning it bolstered up his ego. In a few minutes he would be with the other bigwigs, feeling rather out of place. Roger went out, striding, and looked into Fox’s cubby hole. Fox was peering at a little pile of dust which had been shaken out of the bag of the vacuum cleaner on to a sheet of white cardboard. He had a pair of eyebrow tweezers in his hand, and kept picking out small objects.
Roger let the door bang.
“That’s right, that’s right, let’s have an Atlantic gale in here so we can make a proper dust storm,” Fox said irritably. “Why the hell—oh.” He looked round. “Sorry, sir!” The change in his expression was comical.
“I’m the one to be sorry,” Roger said, grinning. “Cover that up with a windproof bag, will you? I’ve got some real work for you.”
“Dunno that I like the sound of that,” Fox said. “What is it?”
Roger told him.
“Well, you never know, do you?” said Fox, heavily. He shook out a large polythene bag, and Roger held it open while Fox slid the sheet of cardboard with the pile of dust into it, then folded the end of the bag and sealed it; Fox was one of the most thorough men at the Yard. “I’ll go and get the vacuum cleaners,” he added. “Shall I meet you downstairs?”
“How long will you be?”
“Five minutes.”
“Downstairs, then.”
Roger called for a driver, collected his own case with his equipment, then hurried down to the canteen. He told Cope where he was going and what men he wanted to join him, and swallowed a cup of coffee. By the time he reached his car, both the driver and Fox were waiting; Fox with a large and a small vacuum cleaner and a b
ox of envelopes, bottles and small jars. He got in the back with Roger, and within ten minutes they were at the shop. Being in the High Street, the police cars had aroused a lot of attention, and several policemen were on duty to make sure that the crowd did not encroach on to the roadway, and so hold up traffic. Their ‘pass along, please, please pass along’ seemed to have an edge to it. There must be a hundred people standing, staring and pushing. The Division had come to the front instead of the back – a bad tactical move, but probably there had been no way of avoiding it.
Roger went in, to find bald-headed Clayton, the manager of Anderson’s, standing with a Divisional D.I., and looking as if he would soon go the way of old Anderson; two girls were standing just inside the shop, too, obviously shocked.
Roger remembered that the shop, with its crowded shelves and show cases, had always looked untidy; now it was in a state of chaos, because there was no controlling hand.
“Where is she?” he asked the Divisional man.
“On the second flight of stairs, sir,” the man answered. “We thought it best not to move her.”
“How was she found?”
“Mr. Clayton here—” the man began, but Clayton interrupted him with a wave of his hand, and spoke as if he were reciting blank verse.
“Every morning for twenty five years Jennie’s brought me a cup of tea as soon as I arrive. Every morning for twenty five years. She unbolts the front door and I always unlock it and get ready by nine o’clock, then she comes down with my cup of tea. She didn’t come down this morning, so I went to see if she was all right, and—and I found her lying there. I found her, dead.” He closed his eyes and raised his hands, the tips of the thin fingers pressed together. “There is a curse upon this place,” he declaimed. “There is the brand of Cain.”
Roger said: “I can imagine how you feel, Mr. Clayton. Take it easy for a while. You’re not opening the shop, I imagine?”
“No, sir, I am certainly not opening the shop.”
“That’s very wise,” said Roger. “Look after him,” he added to the Divisional man, and then went up the stairs, seeing two plainclothes men on the first landing. He hurried past, turned, and saw the old woman’s body. Except to make sure that she was dead, no one had touched it. From the landing ahead, a man was saying in a testy voice: “Dammit, I haven’t got all day to wait. She’s dead and that’s all about it.”
