by John Creasey
‘Anything in from London about the Keys or the Ragg mob?’ asked Roger.
‘Nothing that helps us yet,’ answered Brown. ‘The Yard’s put the call out everywhere – they’ll be picked up soon.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘Oughtn’t we to get some more chaps out to turn this place upside down now we’ve the chance?’
‘No,’ said Roger, and glanced at Tenterden. ‘We don’t want a lot of Corby coppers going over the place, do we? This is our job.’
‘Gawd,’ breathed Brown.
‘I think you’re wise,’ said Tenterden, brightening. ‘I’ll work all night if necessary.’
‘If Handsome works all night he’ll be flat out tomorrow when we need him most,’ said Brown grumbling, ‘but I suppose we’ll have to do it his way. What do we want to check, Handsome?’
‘That bottle the tablets were in and the glass by it, for prints,’ Roger said. ‘Then we want a search of the whole house for threatening letters or for anything which might give us an idea who hates Richardson.’ He didn’t repeat that he was beginning to feel certain that this was a case of a personal vendetta against Sydney Richardson; he wouldn’t say so until he could see how the murder of Jensen and Doris fitted in. He realised that so much had happened during the day that he had almost forgotten the engineering foreman who was on remand in Colchester; the case seemed to have gone far beyond the original murders, and its implications were so much deeper. And Blake might hate Richardson …
Roger rejected that, sharply. Whoever hated Richardson had kidnapped his daughter and nearly killed her; had sent Soley’s car hurtling over the cliff; and had taken Richardson to the verge of death. It couldn’t be Blake; in fact, there was a good case for believing that Blake should never have been charged.
‘Where do we start?’ inquired Brown.
‘Richardson’s got a small office here, where he works at weekends and in the evenings.’ Tenterden said. ‘There’s a safe, too. We’ll start in there.’
They worked solidly for a little over two hours. Roger’s eyes felt as if they had sandpaper behind them, and he kept straightening up to rest his back, but he felt more determined than ever to finish the search. Once he had accepted its inevitability, Brown worked with a will, and Tenterden with a thoroughness which Roger had come to expect from him. But they found nothing about threatening letters, little about business, nothing at all to help them. The safe, an old-fashioned kind, had not been locked, and obviously it was used against fire rather than against burglars. There were bundles of securities, both in Richardson’s name and his wife’s, and details of other securities lodged in the bank for safe keeping; and there were some of Rose Richardson’s securities, too. None of the family was poor. Rose had nearly ten thousand pounds in her own right, and some shares in Richardson and Key. Richardson himself was worth over fifty thousand, his wife at least thirty thousand pounds. Each had made a will, and each had left a third of the estate to Rose, and two-thirds to husband or wife. All this was quite normal. Roger glanced through the wills and the securities, pondered over the figures, and tried to square what he knew of Sydney Richardson with everything that this implied.
Then he came upon Richardson’s bank statements, and found heavy withdrawals of cash over the past three months – a total of over two thousand pounds more than average.
‘Know what that could mean, don’t you?’ Tenterden said heavily. ‘That he’s been blackmailed, too.’
‘Could be,’ conceded Roger non-committally.
‘If it was blackmail the blackmailer didn’t bleed him enough to do him any harm financially,’ Brown said thoughtfully.
Certainly Richardson had no financial anxieties of any kind, Roger mused. Richardson and Key as a firm was flourishing more than ever, in spite of the troubles at the works, none of which had been more than a pin prick – although the cumulative effect might be considerable over a period, and there might be worse to follow.
‘Who’d hate the man enough to do this to him?’ Brown asked heavily.
Roger didn’t speak.
‘Can’t even be sure he’ll come round enough to make a statement,’ Brown went on. ‘This is as tough a one as I’ve come up against, I will say that.’
It was a little before three o’clock when Tenterden stood back from a writing bureau in Rose Richardson’s bedroom, yawned, and said: ‘Well, that’s the lot, and we haven’t proved a thing.’
‘Not a sausage,’ Brown said, with gloomy satisfaction; he just saved himself from adding: ‘I told you so.’
‘We know he’s paid out two thousand pounds in cash recently,’ Roger said. ‘That could have been to Ragg and his friends, if they’re involved. How about watching this place, Arthur?’ he asked abruptly.
‘I’ll send for some of my chaps to guard the place back and front,’ answered Tenterden. ‘Got six on duty at the works. I’ll need some more help if this goes on much longer.’ He telephoned his office, gave instructions, and then went on: ‘Now we’ll go to my place for a cup of tea and a snack. After that I think you ought to do what Browny tells you, Handsome – put your head down for a few hours.’
That’s all right with me,’ Roger said. ‘Ask the station to check on Rose Richardson’s condition, will you?’
When they reached Corby they were told that Rose Richardson was out of danger, that her father was still in a coma and Dr Arnold had little hope of his recovering, and that Mrs Richardson was at the doctor’s home. Ten minutes afterwards, they went to Tenterden’s house. Roger was surprised to find the lights on, and Mrs Tenterden in a red silk dressing-gown, high at the neck, was at the door to greet them. Tea and sandwiches were ready in the spotless modern kitchen. Tenterden’s wife looked bright-eyed, and nothing like as tired as the men.
‘Mrs Arnold called and told me about Mary Richardson, and I went round to see her,’ she said. ‘I’ve only been back for an hour.’ She was perched on a kitchen stool while the men were seated round the small table with its blue Formica top, demolishing the sandwiches. ‘I know that a policeman’s wife should be seen and not heard, but haven’t you any idea who’s responsible for all of this yet?’
‘No, Maggie,’ Tenterden said, and summoned a smile. ‘Now tell us who it is?’
Maggie Tenterden smiled back, a little mockingly. Roger saw Brown eyeing her with admiration, and felt the same kind of admiration himself. Although she had expected all three men, she had cleaned her face of make-up, and it was shiny with some kind of night cream. Her thick hair was in a red net, and pulled back from her forehead, her temples and the back of her neck.
‘I know where I would look, dear,’ she said, and glanced up out of the window, smiling faintly and giving the impression that she was really saying: ‘See where I’m looking.’ Roger was jolted out of his tiredness, and he watched first the woman and then Tenterden, who was frowning as if wishing that his wife would not behave like this.
‘Where?’ demanded Brown bluntly.
‘I think Sam Soley has more hate in his little finger than everyone else in Corby put together,’ Maggie said. ‘Don’t say I haven’t warned you, Art, I have several times. He’s never forgiven the firm for taking that land from him, and if you ask me, it’s turned his mind. Of course no one will take any notice of me, but you mark my words.’ She was nursing her knees, and held her head back; when she finished she smiled broadly.
‘You’re not so smart,’ her husband said disparagingly. ‘You’ve worked that out after living here for thirty years. Handsome thought of Soley after being here for about four days. But you’re both guessing, and—’
The telephone bell rang.
He said. ‘Who the blasted—?’ and then broke off. His wife stretched out her right hand and picked up a red telephone standing on a small shelf bracketed to the wall. She held it out to Tenterden as he got up.
‘Tenterden here,’ he grunted. Who … what?’ He closed his eyes for a moment, not from tiredness but because he was suffering from some new kind of shock, and it seemed a long time b
efore he said: ‘All right, ta … No, it’s all right.’ He put down the receiver, pushed his fingers through his hair, and announced in a steady voice: ‘Richardson’s gone.’
Brown exclaimed: ‘Dead?’
Tenterden nodded glumly.
‘Oh, poor Mary,’ Maggie Tenterden exclaimed, and her smile vanished.
Roger said slowly: ‘So we’re back even farther than when we started.’ He rubbed his eyes as he stood up from the table. ‘Mrs Tenterden—’
‘My men friends call me Maggie,’ Mrs Tenterden said, but it was a strangely pathetic attempt to be flippant, and the hurt was still in her eyes. ‘Yes?’
‘Why did you name Soley?’
‘Surely I told you,’ she said.
‘You told us of his hate, you didn’t say why you should be so sure.’
‘Call it feminine intuition,’ Maggie said, and then she moved towards Roger and touched the back of his hand. ‘Don’t take any notice of me. I suppose it is intuition, but I haven’t any real reason for saying it’s Sam Soley, except that—well, I’ve never liked our Sam. I think he’s a nasty little man. When he was young, if he couldn’t get everything he wanted he used to have to hit someone, hurt someone badly. Isn’t that true, Art?’
‘You always have exaggerated,’ Tenterden said, and then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh, it’s true up to a point, but there’s no reason at all to suspect Soley. All the same—’ He broke off. ‘Think we ought to have an eye kept on him, Handsome?’
‘It was his car that nearly buried you alive,’ said Brown.
‘And killed Tom Salmon,’ Maggie put in.
‘We’ll sift every piece of evidence in the morning and decide whether to tackle him then,’ said Roger. ‘Soley isn’t likely to run away. We haven’t heard if there were any finger-prints on that bottle from which Richardson took the tablets,’ he added.
‘Oh,’ said Tenterden. ‘Sorry. The station just told me. Only Richardson’s.’ He pushed his fingers through his hair again, and went on: ‘Well, we’ll soon know whether it’s a personal feud. If the trouble stops now Richardson’s dead there’ll be some reason to think so. But if it doesn’t—’ He broke off.
Roger said: ‘I’m going round to the hotel, I want to see the Keys fairly early in the morning, and I’d better be able to talk sense.’ He turned towards the door.
‘We’ve a spare room with twin beds, and the beds are made and ready for you and Browny,’ said Maggie Tenterden. ‘That way you’ll get a longer night’s sleep and a better breakfast – provided you don’t mind being the guest of a country copper.’
‘You try to keep me away from that bed,’ Brown said, and his face lit up, but that was the only moment of relief from gloom.
Chapter Twenty
Not Over Yet
Roger was aware of subdued noises, of bright light on his eyes, of a heavy head, of repugnance to the very idea of waking. Then the voices became more insistent, they were a man’s and a woman’s, and he recognised Maggie Tenterden’s. He forced himself to open his eyes. He was on the bed nearer the door in the pleasant, white-painted room where Tenterden had shown him the previous night; Brown had the bed closer to the wall, and was still asleep; at least, he was lying still. Roger eased himself up on his pillows, and Maggie Tenterden, wearing a short-sleeved dress which fitted her slim figure like a sheath, her hair done, her make-up beautiful, stood in the doorway holding a tea-try. Behind her was Dr Arnold, behind him a taller man from the Corby Police Station. There was a sense of emergency about the whole visitation. Roger sat up.
‘Good morning,’ Maggie greeted. ‘I tried to keep them at bay until you’d had time to wake, but they wouldn’t listen, and Arthur’s in the bath.’ She put the tea-tray down on the side table at Roger’s bed, looked across at Brown, and added laughingly: ‘There’s a man who really knows how to sleep.’
Brown was making a noise between a grunt and a snore.
‘Thanks,’ said Roger gratefully, and noticed her long, slender hands as she poured out a cup of tea. ‘What’s new, Doctor?’
Arnold said: ‘I think you should know at once that the poison which killed Richardson was exclusively barbiturate, the drug in all the sleeping tablets which I prescribed for him. There was no additional factor.’
Roger sipped tea.
‘How many did he take?’
‘Very difficult to say, except in certain circumstances,’ replied Arnold. ‘Perhaps fifteen. I wanted to report to Superintendent Tenterden, but I have several urgent calls to make, so I must ask you to pass on this message.’ There wasn’t a vestige of humour in the little man. He backed away. ‘No doubt I shall see you later. The official post-mortem report should be prepared by midday.’ He reached the door, and added: ‘Rose Richardson is conscious and will be able to make a statement during the morning.’
He vanished past the Corby plain-clothes man, and Maggie walked after him; Roger heard her talking as they went downstairs. The Corby man, not unlike Salmon to look at but younger and fuller in the face, stood in the doorway as if diffidently, as Roger asked: ‘And what have you got for us?’
‘A report from Superintendent Clark of Kemble, sir,’ the man said, and came forward with a sealed envelope. ‘I was instructed to hand it to you or to Mr Tenterden in person. I’m sorry to have arrived at such an inconvenient hour.’
‘It’s all right,’ Roger said, and took the report, slit the envelope open with the handle of a teaspoon, and took out several folded sheets of paper, each filled with small-face typewriting. ‘Arrange for Mr Tenterden and me to see Miss Richardson at the hospital in an hour’s time,’ went on Roger, and in the same breath asked: ‘Does Mrs Richardson know what happened last night?’
‘I believe Dr Arnold broke the news to her, sir.’
‘Good,’ said Roger, and hitched himself up on his pillows and began to read the report, a model in presentation, and a pleasure to read. He looked for the entry opposite Handbrake, and read:
Hand-brake. Pistol type, released by pressure of forefinger. Chromium and cellulose in good condition. Trigger well worn and polished. Only prints: Mr S. Soley’s. Prints checked against other articles known to be handled by Mr Soley. Some sign of smearing through use of glove. Main prints show top and middle joint of right hand, could be commensurate with pressure exerted from the doorway by person leaning in at open door or window.
Roger read this again, his heart beginning to thump.
‘What’ve you got?’ asked Brown, and Roger turned to see him half-way up in bed, hair standing on end, face looking grubby and unshaven, eyes bleary.
Roger said: ‘The indications are that Soley handled the brake of that Austin just before it ran down the cliff.’
‘Who’s surprised?’ asked Brown, and looked towards the door. ‘What a woman! You wouldn’t think Arthur T. would have anything to attract her, would you? Don’t mind admitting I pretended to be asleep, I am not a thing of beauty first thing in the morning. Got a spot of tea?’ Roger passed him the tray.
‘Ta,’ said Brown. ‘Well, it’s a case of the obvious again, isn’t it? Everything pointed to Soley, and now this does. What’s it say?’ He listened as Roger read it out, and then went on: ‘That chap Clark seems good. I did a hand-brake print check last month, remember that case where we thought the man had fiddled with the brake to send his wife down Putney Hill? We proved he would have made the print on one side if he’d leaned in the car and done it, the brake had been released by direct pressure from someone sitting in the drivingseat. This is the reverse. On the strength of that we’ve got a lot to say to Soley.’
‘After we’ve talked to Rose Richardson,’ Roger said. ‘I wonder if she knows about her father.’
The moment he stepped into the hospital ward, he felt sure that Rose knew about Richardson. That showed in the shadows in her eyes, in the tension at her lips, which were still red and puffy from the adhesive plaster. Apart from that and some bruises on her cheek and at her wrists, she looked fairly normal.
‘I know,’ said Rose; her voice was hoarse and tired.
‘We’ll make it as quick as we can,’ Roger promised her, and he already had a mental note of what he wanted to ask. ‘How many men attacked you?’
‘Two,’ she said.
‘Did you recognise either of them?’
‘No, unfortunately.’
‘Did you notice anything about them which might help us to identify them?’
‘I think they were young, and each was quite small,’ Rose answered. ‘One man was very thin. I can remember every moment of what happened vividly. I’ve been thinking about it a great deal, especially since I heard what happened to my father.’ There was no venom in her voice, but a hardness which told its own story: she wanted above everything else to help them catch the attackers. She told them exactly what had happened, even to the moment when one car drew alongside and there had been an exchange of shouts. She remembered exactly what had been said, and Tenterden made notes. Each man felt her horror, each hated the men who had talked so cold-bloodedly about killing her, in her hearing.
‘Did they give the slightest hint about this man who laid the golden eggs?’ Roger asked.
‘Absolutely none.’
‘And you can’t place either of the voices?’
‘No,’ she answered, ‘although I think I could recognise one of them if I heard it again. The noise of the engine drowned the other.’ She hesitated, and then went on rather more slowly, as if she wasn’t quite sure of herself: ‘I recognised one thing, though.’
Tenterden exclaimed: ‘Ah!’
‘What was it?’ asked Roger.
‘The car which drew alongside,’ answered Rose flatly. ‘It was Sam Soley’s old Austin. I recognised the mascot in front, a big fish. I don’t think it was Sam at the wheel, but I can’t really be sure,’ she added. ‘There was the roar of the engines and the wind was cutting in at the window. It might have been Sam, but I couldn’t swear to it. I can swear to the car.’
