by John Creasey
‘You’re probably right,’ said Roger, ‘but if there was more in it than Richardson thought, they might have been meeting on the quiet. Browny, you ring the Yard and check whether Paul Key’s at his home.’
Brown lifted a receiver.
‘Has Sir Lancelot Key been down?’ asked Roger.
‘He came down for the weekend, stayed here yesterday, and went back this morning,’ answered Tenterden.
‘Looks like a painting out of Van Dyck, goatee beard and all,’ volunteered Brown, and then said into the telephone: ‘Get me the Yard will you?—Chief Inspector Cope.’ He replaced his receiver.
‘I don’t know about Van Dyck,’ said Tenterden, ‘but most people get a bit of a shock when they see Sir Lancelot. He’s more like a popular idea of a painter than a printer.’
Roger said: ‘And he’s back in London.’
‘Yes.’
‘How about the blood on those spools?’ asked Roger, and then the telephone bell rang. Brown was passing on to Cope the instructions which Roger had given him, while Tenterden was saying quietly: ‘It’s almost certainly Jensen’s, Handsome. Group C, like Jensen’s, and as far as we can get from Arnold, several days old. But there’s something even more definite.’ He stretched out for a cardboard box, took the lid off, and with great care shook out a damaged spool, smeared with brown. As Roger took this gingerly, he saw what the Corby man meant; there were at least four hairs stuck on here. He touched a hair with his forefinger; it was almost jet black, and had a tendency to curl.
‘Jensen’s?’
‘Yes, for certain.’
‘So the weapon used to kill Jensen was used to smash the spools.’
‘Yes.’
‘It still doesn’t let Blake out,’ Roger argued, almost stubbornly. ‘He might have a good hate against the firm. There’s been this bother between him and Richardson.’ When Tenterden didn’t answer, Roger grinned, and went on: ‘I know, he would have had to have a brainstorm. How is Blake?’
‘Haven’t seen him since he was taken up to Colchester,’ said Tenterden. ‘I’m told he won’t eat, just sits and mopes in his cell. I don’t have to point out that Blake couldn’t have spirited Rose Richardson away, do I?’ asked Tenterden. ‘And I don’t—’
A telephone bell rang and Tenterden broke off at the same moment as Brown finished with the Yard. He lifted his receiver, frowned, said: ‘Yes, all right,’ and put the receiver down. He frowned as he reported: ‘It’s Richardson. He’s on his way up. I warn you, he’s almost violent. Try not to—’
There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs, then the door was thrust open and banged against the wall. Sydney Richardson strode in, and Roger was appalled at his appearance. Now his eyes glittered wildly, and he had no colour at all. Roger was reminded vividly of Charlie Blake; here was a man who hadn’t slept for a long time. Richardson strode into the room, stared at Tenterden, began to speak, and then spun round on Roger.
‘Have you found my daughter?’
‘Mr Richardson—’ Tenterden began.
‘You keep quiet. I’m talking to West. Have you found my daughter?’
‘No, Mr Richardson, but—’
‘When are you going to find her? Why are you sitting on your backsides instead of being out looking for her? Answer me that!’ he screeched. ‘Why are you sitting on your backsides—’
Roger was standing between Tenterden and Brown, and Richardson thrust himself forward, hands stretched out as if he would strike him. Tenterden muttered something in the back of his throat. A woman whom Roger had not seen before appeared in the doorway; all he knew was that on sight he felt sorry for her.
‘Mr Richardson—’ Brown was stung to say, ‘we’ve got the police forces of two counties, private search parties and—’
‘Words, words, words!’ Now the man was standing just in front of Roger; if he moved farther forward they were bound to collide. ‘I insist on knowing why you’re squatting here in this room instead of being out looking for my daughter. Are you going to tell me or aren’t you?’
He flung his hands out, and touched Roger on the chest.
The woman in the doorway said in a whispering voice: ‘Sydney, don’t.’
Roger dropped his right hand to Richardson’s left, gripped his wrist, twisted, and sent him staggering back. He struck a chair with the back of his legs, and would have fallen but for the wall. He looked dazed, and the wildness eased a little out of his eyes.
The woman said: ‘Arthur, he’s not himself, you know that.’
‘We know, Mrs Richardson,’ Tenterden said.
Richardson whispered. ‘We’ve got to find Rose. We’ve got to find Rose.’
‘I’m sure the police are doing all they can,’ his wife said unhappily. ‘If there’s any news, they’ll tell us. I’m sure they will.’
‘Of course, Mrs Richardson,’ Tenterden said. ‘We might stand a better chance of finding Miss Richardson and of saving her life if Mr Richardson would tell us everything he knows,’ said Roger coldly. ‘If we find her body, explanations would be too late.’
He stopped abruptly. No one else spoke. Even Tenterden and Brown stared at him uncomprehendingly, and from the doorway Richardson’s wife stood open-mouthed, her hands raised to her breast, as if in shock. Richardson straightened up from the wall, moistened his lips, and said to Roger: ‘I’ve nothing to blame myself for. You’re to blame. You knew there was danger, and you let this happen to her.’
‘We didn’t know there was any danger to your daughter,’ said Roger. ‘Did you?’ When Richardson didn’t answer, he went a step forward and demanded roughly: ‘Come on, let’s have the truth. Did you know? What’s eating you? What’s on your mind?’
‘He didn’t know—’ Mrs Richardson began.
Roger rasped: ‘Quiet, please!’
Richardson was sweating now, and his eyes closed.
‘I don’t know what—’ he began, stopped, opened his eyes and stared at Roger, and muttered: ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You know,’ Roger said, still roughly. ‘What’s on your mind, Richardson? Two people have been murdered, your own daughter might be dead at this moment, attempts have been made to sabotage the works, and you know what it’s all about. As soon as you tell us we’ll have a chance of finding out who’s behind it, and why it’s happening.’
There was a short, tense silence, and in it Richardson moved slowly back to the wall as if in need of support. Everyone was staring at him, no one could doubt that in his desperation he would talk.
Then a telephone bell blared out, breaking the tension. Tenterden glanced at it, but didn’t move towards it. The bell rang again, harshly. Richardson covered his face with his hands, and his wife went towards him. The bell rang for a third time. Tenterden said: ‘Damn the thing,’ and picked up the receiver. ‘Tenterden,’ he announced.
Then, he gasped: ‘Where is it?’ and on that instant everyone in the office swivelled round towards him.
Chapter Thirteen
Cliff Fall
The glitter was back in Richardson’s eyes, and he had a pin-point of scarlet on each cheek. His wife was clutching his arm now, but looking at Tenterden, whose eyes were glistening, whose knuckles were gleaming white where he gripped the telephone.
‘Right,’ he said, and put the receiver down with a bang. He drew a deep breath. ‘The car’s been seen at Bracken Head,’ he went on, with slow vehemence. ‘Men are being lowered to it now.’ After a pause he explained to Roger and Brown: ‘It’s a cliff headland about thirty miles from here.’
‘Rose—’ began Mrs Richardson.
‘By the time we get there we shall know whether your daughter’s in the car,’ said Tenterden. ‘I think you and Mr Richardson had better come in a police car, Mrs Richardson – unless you would rather wait until there’s definite news.’
‘I’d—I’d like to come,’ Mrs Richardson muttered. She looked almost as broken as her husband, timid, frightened, despairing.
‘Let him drive himself,’ Roger said. ‘I’ll come in your car, Arthur. I’ve done enough driving for today.’
‘Suits me,’ said Tenterden. ‘I’ll lay on a few odds and ends.’ He talked into the telephone for less than thirty seconds, brisk and efficient where action and routine were required, then moved with the others towards the door. A telephone rang on Brown’s desk, and he went back to answer it. Roger went with Tenterden, whose big car was in the yard by the side of the police station. By the time he had the engine started, Brown was alongside him, puffing.
‘That was Cope,’ he reported. ‘Paul Key’s been in London this week, and he and his brother and father are on the way down here. Because of their cousin’s disappearance, Cope understands.’
‘Thanks,’ said Roger. None of the report had any immediate significance, and he noted it automatically.
As they started out from Corby, Tenterden said: ‘Bracken Head’s a notorious suicide spot, and there have been three cases of cars going over it in the last few years. Tricky place, as you’ll see when we get there. Several gorges in the cliffs, and the bottom of them is under water up to about twenty feet at high tide.’ He swung past a Richardson and Key delivery van at the approach to the station, and said: ‘There’s young Cousins, who saw the car last night.’
Roger had caught a glimpse of a big-eyed, fair-haired youth.
‘So if the car went over the edge last night, it’s been under twenty feet of water at least once,’ he said.
‘Probably,’ answered Tenterden.
Brown hammered the obvious home hard.
‘So if she was in it, she’s had it,’ he said. ‘What do you think her father will do then, Handsome?’
‘I think he could explain what’s driving him off his head,’ Roger said.
A dozen cars were drawn up close to the edge of the cliffs at Bracken Head, and a fire engine, backed on to the edge, showed up vivid scarlet in the afternoon sun. At least thirty people stood about, many of them policemen, a few of them people whom Roger had recognised at the works. Farmer Sam Soley was there in a big old Austin. Richardson was standing so close to the edge that it looked as if his wife and another man, a small man whom Roger did not recognise from a distance, were trying to hold him back. Roger got out of the car as Tenterden pulled up, Brown squeezed himself out on the other side, and all three walked briskly towards the fire escape. As they drew nearer they could see stakes driven into the ground with ropes drawn taut from them to the cliff edge.
Richardson was saying: ‘I’ve got to go down, I tell you.’
The little man was Dr Arnold.
‘I wish you’d have more sense,’ the doctor said testily, and startled Roger; few people in Corby were likely to talk to Richardson like that. ‘You’re harassing everyone and making their job more difficult.’
Richardson seemed to sag.
A tall, lean man, Salmon, Tenterden’s chief aide and a competent detective, came from the edge of the cliff where he had been looking over. He had corn-coloured hair and very thin features, and his nose was pushed a little to one side.
‘Any report yet?’ asked Tenterden.
‘No,’ Salmon answered. ‘Afternoon, Mr West. The car’s in a damned awkward position, more by luck than judgement that anyone saw it. This is the best spot for getting down, but the best viewpoint is over there.’ He led the way towards the fringe of the crowd, to a spot where three men were standing, each with a camera. It hadn’t taken long for the news to spread, Roger reflected grimly, and he glanced round at Richardson, who seemed to have collapsed.
In this crisis, his wife appeared to find more strength, as if she were bracing herself for both their sakes.
‘There it is,’ Salmon announced.
Roger stared down the side of the rugged cliff. He was acutely conscious of the fact that all three cameras were training on him as he saw the small red car. It was at least three hundred feet below him, and had fallen into a kind of ravine and become jammed between big mounds on either side. Below it the sea, whipped by a brisk east wind, was seething about the cliff base and racing into a small, sandy cove. In places, the headland was sheer, and it jutted right out into the North Sea, so that it was impossible to see the rest of the coast when one stood on that tip.
The sun glistened on the blue water, the white froth of the waves, the scarlet of the pathetic-looking little car – and on three men, each climbing over the broken foot of the cliffs. Seaweed was making the clay and sand slippery, and each of the men wore rubber boots, which did not help foothold. They were some fifty yards from the car, as far as Roger could judge, but before they could reach it they had to climb a dozen steep ridges, each twenty or thirty feet high, and it would probably be ten or fifteen minutes before they looked into the car. Undoubtedly the firemen had selected the best place to lower them, however; the cliff over which the MG had fallen was overhanging and dangerous, and Roger saw that there were big cracks in it; the weight of a man could cause an avalanche, and even now there was some danger of falling clay and sandstone. The three men looked like midgets.
A car came crawling towards Roger and the others, and a Corby policeman said: ‘They’ve got radio down there, sir, they’ll report as soon as they’ve looked inside the car.’
‘How long have we got before the tide comes in?’ asked Roger.
‘Couple of hours yet,’ said Tenterden, ‘but as far as I can see from here, the car didn’t get down to the high-water mark. What do you think Salmon?’
‘Shouldn’t think it did,’ answered the other man. ‘About ten feet above it, I’d say. Not that it makes much difference if Rose Richardson’s in there. The crash would kill her.’
For ten interminable minutes the crowd stood watching, the three firemen crept and crawled over the ridges, and yet seemed to get no nearer. But they were nearer. Roger saw the walkie-talkie radio unit strapped to one man’s back – the man nearest the car. He watched everyone near him, and sensed the acuteness of their anxiety. Everyone who knew Rose Richardson had liked her, had been fond of her; and there was not a man here who did not think that she was dead. Her father and mother were now standing between the fire engine and Roger, Richardson staring down, the woman’s face set and bleak, Arnold between them.
A car engine sounded high and fast, and an Allard swung off the road and on to the headland. It stopped near the Richardson’s, and three men got out. The first was dapper and bearded, and Roger placed him at once as Sir Lancelot Key. The other two men were younger, one short, stocky, and fair, the other tall, good-looking, and very dark.
‘Strewth, there’s Paul Key!’ Salmon exclaimed. ‘Haven’t seen him for years!’
‘The dark one?’ Roger asked.
‘Yes.’
‘The black sheep of the Key family,’ Brown said, and then demanded edgily: ‘Why the hell don’t they get a move on down there?’
‘Sharp as a razor, those rocks,’ explained Tenterden. ‘Used to climb them when I was a boy. What was the record time to get across, Salmon?’
‘Forty-nine minutes in my time, sir.’
‘They’ve been about half an hour,’ said Tenterden. ‘I—hallo, he’s over.’ They saw the man with the walkie-talkie move much more quickly, as if he were no longer handicapped by the slippery ridges. The other two were some distance behind him, but this man went quite quickly, holding on wherever he could for support, but without seeming to be in any danger of falling.
He touched the car and looked in.
Tenterden drew in a hissing breath.
The man who had driven up behind them clicked on the radio, and little sounds came through, as of the man touching the door of the car, opening it, slipping on
the ridges. Then a voice came clearly: ‘Fireman Cartwright speaking, sir. Can you hear me?’
Another man said: ‘Yes, Cartwright, we can hear you.’
‘I’m leaning inside the car,’ Cartwright said. The tension even among those near Roger seemed to reach screaming point. Richardson was standing absolutely erect, with his hands clenched, Sir Lancelot Key was by his side, and Key’s two sons were on either side of Mrs Richardson. Then the fireman said in a matter-of-fact voice: ‘It’s Miss Richardson all right, sir.’
Someone gasped.
Cartwright went on in that unbelievably casual voice: ‘She has adhesive plaster over her mouth, as if to prevent her from crying out, the cold-blooded devil.’ Cartwright disappeared inside the car, but his voice came back just as clearly. ‘I am sitting by the side of Miss Richardson, sir, and I have reason to believe—’ He broke off.
What the hell had he reason to believe?
‘—that life is not extinct,’ Cartwright announced calmly. ‘I detect slight movement at the chest. I am about to check the pulse.’ There was an agony of silence, while men stared at each other unbelievingly; and Roger saw Dr Arnold leave Richardson and his party, and go towards the fire engine.
Cartwright said: ‘The pulse is faint but regular, sir. I think we ought to have a doctor down here at once.’
Another voice came, brisk and efficient, and quite as matter-of-fact as Cartwright’s.
‘Cartwright, this is Dr Arnold. Can you hear me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you surgical spirit in your first-aid kit?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Use this to dab over the adhesive plaster, allow it to soak in, and then pull the plaster away gently.’
‘I know how to do it, sir.’
‘Right. Get that done first, in order to improve the facilities for breathing. Report when the plaster’s off.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘My God,’ Salmon said tensely. ‘She’s alive.’
‘Wonder what Richardson—’ Tenterden began, and then he broke off. Roger glanced swiftly towards the spot where the Richardsons and the Keys were standing, and saw Mrs Richardson go forward, hands outstretched. He heard her cry: ‘Syd!’ Sir Lancelot Key grabbed her arm. Richardson reached the edge of the cliff, turned his back on the sea, and started to climb down. One moment his tall, angular figure was stark against the sky, the next only his head and shoulders appeared; and then they vanished. The Key brothers went running towards the edge, and Tenterden said: ‘He’ll kill himself.’
