Damned by Logic

by Jeffrey Ashford

  ‘Sarah Jones, speaking. You want to make a reservation? Please state the company’s reference number for the cruise you wish to sail on and what type of berth you require.’

  Belinda explained she required information concerning a passenger who had sailed on the Helios in June.

  ‘You should have dialled nine.’

  She expected to be put through to the correct destination, wasn’t. She pressed nine, spoke to a man.

  ‘We do not provide such information without a reason which we consider valid.’

  She identified herself. ‘This is an important police matter.’

  ‘Very well. Will you kindly repeat your request?’

  She did so.

  ‘If you will give me your phone number, I’ll ring back as soon as I have the answer.’

  At four in the afternoon, Belinda was given a name and an address: Albert Crowhurst, Fontuna, Church Road, East Endley.

  She phoned divisional HQ in East Endley, spoke to Sergeant Pace.

  ‘This kind of job can take time,’ Pace said.

  A standard complaint which was easily countered. ‘As did a recent request from your lot. The guv’nor would be grateful for your help as this is priority.’

  ‘It always is when it’s another force.’

  She spoke sweetly and Sergeant Pace said in a more friendly tone they would do as asked.

  She replaced the receiver. It was probably a forlorn hope that Crowhurst could offer any useful information, but it had given Ansell a boost to know someone was trying to support him when she had told him what she intended to do.

  Ansell just managed to catch the seven o’clock train whereas he normally made the earlier one and gained a seat; he had left the office later than usual because he was finding work difficult, his mind constantly asking questions it could not answer. Initially, he had to stand next to a man who disconcertingly spoke to himself in a low murmur. Ansell stared through the window at the London suburbs, streets of look-alike, architecturally barren houses. However dull the lives of those who lived in them, they were to be envied; the husbands would not be suspected of killing their wives, of being indirectly responsible for the horrific murder of a woman. Would Belinda be able to help him prove his innocence? Only she could because only she believed him. Why did she? Because she had an inbuilt distrust of settled judgements, responded to an instinctive belief not readily explainable?

  The train slowed, came to a halt and, seen through a line of trees and beyond a road, was a large billboard on which was a colourful advertisement for a cream which smoothed facial skin, banished wrinkles, held age at bay. He had composed that last claim. Did anyone really believe it, had belief in advertising survived the plethora of advertisements?

  The train drew into its first stop and many passengers got out on to the refurbished platform. He found a window seat, facing the direction of travel. Just before they cleared the city, he saw a section of the circling outside wall of a prison. How long before he saw that wall from the inside?

  The drive to Bracken Lane was short and when life had been more structured, he had often walked to and from the station, but walking quickened the mind which increased imagination. He arrived at number thirty-four. A house which had been empty all day and so gained shadows all of its very own. On his return from work, Eileen had usually found reason to complain about something, but her presence had kept those shadows at bay.

  He poured himself a drink, switched on the television, watched but noted little. Was there the chance he could escape suspicion before that became guilt? It was a proud boast that British justice was as good as that in any other country, yet occasionally an innocent person was unjustly convicted because innocence could never be a guarantee.

  His mind wandered. What kind of a man was this Peter bloke Belinda had told him about? Belinda had spoken about his attempts to control and regulate her life and the breakup of their relationship without noticeable emotion. Had that relationship become as stilled as his own marriage; had its break-up left her emotionally battered, unable to understand how or why she had entered into it, very wary of any future one or even rejecting the possibility? Had she also suffered from such a lack of human emotion and affection as to render her childlike and naïve in all further attempts at relationships and so prone to the likes of Melanie Caine? Perhaps they deserved each other; perhaps they needed each other?

  Detective Constable Younger – the name still provided stupid comments at work – knocked on the door of the terraced house. A child began to shout, another, to scream. The door was opened by a woman whose appearance was that of dull exhaustion. ‘Mrs Crowhurst?’ he asked.

  ‘If that’s what you likes to call me.’

  A blubbing child ran out of the room to her right and put her arms around her mother’s legs. ‘What’s the matter, Celly?’

  ‘He bit me.’

  A boy, slightly older than the girl, appeared in the doorway of the room. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he shouted.

  He ran past them and up the stairs. ‘She hit me.’

  ‘Kids!’ Mrs Crawford added a few adjectives. She spoke to Younger. ‘What d’you want?’

  He identified himself. ‘I’d like a word with your husband.’

  ‘You reckon he’ll be here with the pubs open? What’s he done this time to have you around?’

  ‘Nothing that’ll worry you.’

  ‘If what he did worried me, I’ve of been in a loony bin long since.’

  ‘I only want to ask him about someone he met on a cruise.’

  ‘That bleeding nonsense? Won a packet on the horses and spent the lot on cruising. When he said what he was going to do, I asked him what about the kids and me, how about spending some of the money on us instead of himself.’

  Something was thrown down from the landing and landed on the floor.

  ‘It’s Betty,’ the girl screamed. She let go of her mother and rushed to pick up the doll. ‘He’s bust her.’

  ‘Little sod,’ Mrs Crowhurst muttered.

  Younger tried to hasten his departure. ‘Can you suggest where your husband is?’

  ‘Pissing away the money that’s left.’

  ‘Where’s that likely to be?’

  ‘The Dirty Duck.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘End of the road, turn right.’

  As he left, something more was thrown down from upstairs and the girl started to wail, her mother to swear.

  The correct name of the pub was The White Swan; its nickname, a more accurate description. Younger entered, crossed to the bar, ordered half a pint of bitter. ‘Is Crowhurst here?’ he asked as he paid.

  The bartender seemed not to have heard.

  ‘It’s only for a quiet chat.’

  After a moment’s reflection, he said, ‘Playing darts.’

  ‘Which one is he?’

  ‘Looks like he’s just climbed out of a dustbin.’

  It was a reasonable description. Like his wife/partner, Crowhurst took little care over his appearance or personal hygiene. He needed a double seventeen to bring the game to a successful conclusion for his partner and himself. He threw and his dart ended up just outside the double circle. His partner swore, his opponents jeered. He turned to face Younger, identified him as a copper through an instinctive ability gained from years of experience.

  The game finished two throws later. Younger looked at Crowhurst and jerked his head to indicate the outside, drained his glass, left. He sat behind the wheel of his car, briefly activated the sidelights. Crowhurst reluctantly crossed to the car, more reluctantly settled on the front passenger seat.

  ‘Hear you’ve been cruising,’ Younger said.

  ‘Who’s the sodding bastard trying to say that?’

  ‘Cruising on a ship in the Mediterranean.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Must’ve cost a fortune.’

  ‘Won a slice on a belter.’

  ‘How many times have I heard that after a quick in-and-out to nick a load of
silver?’

  ‘Ask ’em where I laid me bet.’

  ‘When you tell me where that is.’

  Crowhurst named the local office of a country-wide betting agency.

  ‘Your missus is moaning about the cruise. Says you never give her and the kids any joy.’

  ‘They ain’t never given me nowt but grief.’

  ‘A cruise isn’t your usual line of business, so what were you after?’

  ‘Wasn’t after anything.’

  ‘Hoping there’d be plenty to nick from people rich enough to see the world?’

  ‘It’s like ...’

  ‘Having trouble thinking up a reason which I’ll believe?’

  ‘Like when I was a kid and we was lucky if there was some bread to eat and I saw a travel film.’

  ‘You’d money to go to the flics, then?’

  ‘There was an exit-only door what could be worked from outside. Saw one of them travel shorts about the Mediterranean. The places were so beautiful, I said when I grew up, I’d see ’em for real.’

  ‘An ambition achieved on the Helios. Shared a cabin on it, didn’t you?’

  ‘How d’you know what I did?’

  ‘The lads down south told me.’

  ‘I ain’t never worked there.’

  ‘Someone sliced up a woman.’

  Crowhurst panicked and shouted his innocence, causing a couple who had just left the pub to check their walk, briefly stare at the car, hurry on.

  ‘No one’s saying you did. My interest is the bloke with you in the cabin in the boat.’

  ‘He did the slicing?’

  ‘South thinks he can help ’em find out who did and you being in the cabin means you can tell me about him.’

  ‘When he looked at me like I was a piece of shit? And all he’d any time for was that toolbox he’d met and who helped him shag himself dry.’

  ‘Did you see the Barbary ape he bought in Gibraltar?’

  ‘Not until he was packing it.’

  ‘Did he say who he’d bought it for?’

  ‘Didn’t say nothing.’

  ‘Did you see him go ashore at the end of the trip?’

  ‘No and didn’t see her neither until she came out of the building after I’d had a mouthful on me mobile with a bloody fool who said he’d meet me and forgot. As I told him—’

  ‘Not interested. Get back to her.’

  ‘Surprised to see her around still. You know, there was something about her ... Didn’t hot you straight up, but kept you looking, made you think she could teach you a thing or two.’

  ‘What happened when you saw her ashore?’

  ‘A bloody great car was waiting and the driver got out and took the luggage from her and then they was off.’

  ‘Did you know the driver?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you recognize him?’

  ‘Can’t say.’

  ‘Was anyone else in the car?’

  ‘Didn’t see no one.’

  ‘You better look through some mug shots.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To put a name to the driver of the car.’

  ‘It ain’t worth me trying ’cause he was a long way off.’

  ‘A look through the photos will shorten the distance. I’ll get you another of what you’re drinking before we move.’

  ‘The old woman’s expecting me back.’

  ‘Not before tomorrow, she hopes.’

  Forty minutes later, Crowhurst reluctantly opened another volume of photographs of convicted criminals and began to study these. It was accepted that a person’s concentration wandered when he or she had continually looked at similar photographs for a long time and soon Younger called a halt.

  The following morning, Crowhurst identified the driver of the car.

  ‘Noyes,’ Younger said reflectively. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells, but maybe Records down south will be able to put flesh on him.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  An unseasonably warm and sunny morning induced in most people a sense of well-being, but not in Frick. Seated behind his desk, he looked up at Belinda. ‘Do you understand English?’

  ‘Depends who speaks it,’ she answered.

  ‘What d’you think it bloody well meant when you were told to have nothing more to do with Ansell?’

  ‘That the guv’nor was reaching too far.’

  ‘You knew Ansell had been charged and you were told all contact between the two of you must cease. Yet you got in touch with him again.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Don’t try to play stupid. You’re blind to orders because you’re soft on him.’

  ‘Hardly a comment you should make.’

  ‘I’ll make any sodding comment I want to. I’ve just seen an email written by a Constable Younger from up north, to you, and copied in to me as your superior. Huh! You know what it says?’

  ‘Not until I read it.’

  ‘“Enquiries being carried out. Info to follow.” D’you want to say you didn’t send that request?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Enquiries regarding what?’

  ‘If Crowhurst could provide any relevant information about Ansell and Melanie Caine when they were on the ship.’

  ‘Who’s Crowhurst?’

  ‘Ansell’s cabin mate. He might have learned something.’

  ‘How d’you know about him?’

  ‘The Rex Cruising Company gave me his name.’

  ‘Because of your “friendship” with Ansell, you won’t believe the evidence which says that to save the Melanie woman, he so terrified his wife, he caused her death. The guv’nor will likely have you up before a disciplinary hearing for disobeying orders.’

  ‘For trying to get the case moving.’

  ‘You’re trying to say you ...’ His words became confused because of his anger, caused by her disobedience and by the possibility that when the case came to court, the defence, because of her friendship with Ansell, would be able to nullify the worth of some of the prosecution’s evidence. ‘Get out.’

  The phone rang as Glover was about to return home and allow himself the unusual pleasure of lunch with Anne. Temptation said to leave the call unanswered, duty caused him to lift the receiver.

  ‘Appleby, C div, Doncaster. How are things with you?’

  The question was conventional since they had never met.

  Moments later, Appleby said, ‘I’ve a report which may bring a necessary bit of warmth to your day if it’s like Siberia, as up here. A man named Crowhurst has identified one of the two men who met Melanie Caine at the docks. Steven Noyes.’

  Glover recognized the name. ‘Nightclub bouncer who landed a deuce for beating up a youngster?’

  ‘That’s the lad.’

  ‘How safe is the ID?’

  ‘As good as you’ll get from a mug shot.’

  After a further, brief conversation, the call ended. Glover sat back in his chair. He worked out immediately how this new piece of information had suddenly appeared. Clearly DC Draper had been doing a bit of extra-curricular questioning. But, lucky for her, it had turned up trumps. Records, hopefully, would provide the last known address of Noyes; if that was no longer valid, it could lead to his current one. He phoned Anne. ‘Sorry, love ...’

  ‘You aren’t going to make lunch. I’ll see if I can find something else to have and hold the intended meal for tonight.’

  He used the internal phone to call Frick to his room. ‘Can you place Steven Noyes?’

  Frick thought briefly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I want him here.’

  ‘Another GBH?’

  ‘For questioning about the Ansell case.’

  ‘Where’s the tip from?’ Frick asked, although he knew exactly where and the fact that Belinda had obviously tuned into something relevant annoyed him.

  ‘A fellow passenger on the Helios who bunked in the same cabin as Ansell. He saw Melanie leave the shed, met by Noyes, and driven off.’

  ‘And this man finally turned up to
tell us?’

  ‘No. Just imaginative intelligence.’

  ‘I don’t ... Sorry, guv, I’m being slow. How did you manage to get this ID on Melanie Caine’s acquaintance? How do we know the info is to be taken seriously?’

  ‘As I said before, imaginative intelligence. Draper wondered who had shared the cabin with Ansell and whether he might have learned something relevant. She phoned the shipping company, learned the man’s name and address, asked them up north to question him.’

  Frick muttered something.

  ‘You’re concerned?’

  ‘I should have known what was going on. Draper should have worked through me.’ He didn’t want to admit that he already knew that Belinda had been on to this strand of the investigation and that he’d decided not to tell Glover about it, assuming nothing was going to come of it.

  ‘Perhaps she was worried how you’d accept her suggestion.’

  Noyes, his facial features partially moulded by much of his life having been spent in the company of violence, watched Frick start the tape recorder. ‘Why’ve you dragged me here?’ he demanded, to show there was no reason for him to be suspected of anything.

  ‘Thought it would be nice to have a chat and learn what you’re doing these days,’ Glover answered.

  Noyes failed to conceal his uneasiness. ‘I don’t work the clubs no longer.’

  ‘So what keeps you busy?’

  ‘The odd job.’

  ‘Like in the docks?’

  ‘They ain’t no good, me not being in the union.’

  ‘Then you just drift there from time to time?’

  ‘Ain’t been near ’em in months.’

  ‘So you didn’t recently collect a young woman from the cruise ship, Helios?’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘The car was a sharp limousine that’ll have cost tens of Ks. Whose was it?’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Picking up Melanie Caine from the Helios.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘You want us to believe you’re only dumb when you want to be? What happened after you’d picked her up?’

  ‘Wasn’t there.’

  ‘It was your twin brother? You took Melanie’s luggage from her and saw her into the car.’

  ‘That’s shit.’

  ‘Good manners.’