Death On a Sunday Morning (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 8)

by J F Straker

  ‘No. Too dodgy. And I can’t see him ringing Clarence or the others. The news wouldn’t exactly endear him to them. Not even if they believed it, which I’m damned sure they wouldn’t. They’d think it was a con.’

  ‘He’ll have to tell them eventually,’ Andrew said. ‘That’ll make the sparks fly. But I’ve been thinking about Gail, Luke. Do we really have to let Collier know where she is?’

  ‘You suggest we leave her there to rot?’

  ‘Christ, no! But what I would like would be for me to find her. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t drive down to the cottage tomorrow, is there? Foresters is a bit off the direct route, I suppose, but—’

  ‘A bit off? It’s miles off. Anyway, what would be the point? You’re not contemplating rape, I hope.’

  ‘Of course not. No, I just thought that if I were to rescue her and deliver her back to her husband unharmed they’d both be eternally grateful. I couldn’t care less about him, but Gail—well, she’d want to express her gratitude, wouldn’t she? And how better than in bed?’

  ‘There are other ways,’ Luke said. He steered the car cautiously round a sharp bend. With a hundred grand in the boot an accident, a brush with the Law, could spell disaster. ‘No, Andrew, definitely not. You must be crazy even to consider it. Apart from the fact that no one in his right senses would go to Loxford via Foresters, how would you explain your sudden decision to stop and explore a house belonging to a stranger, a house you are supposed never to have visited previously? And you would have to explore it to find her—if it were a chance thing, I mean. She couldn’t be heard from the road. That might not be obvious to Collier, but the police would certainly spot it.’

  ‘You think Collier would inform the police? I’m damned sure he wouldn’t. How could he explain the ransom money?’

  ‘True. All the same, Andrew, forget it. We’ll stick to the original plan. I’m not risking a balls-up just to further your sex life.’

  Andrew muttered under his breath. Bloody idiot, Luke thought. As if he hadn’t enough crumpet on his menu without this one!

  It was through Andrew that the scheme had originated. A keen fisherman, Andrew spent much of his time in a rented cottage by the river at Loxford, a small village some ten miles from Hickworth; and for some months, whenever he and Luke met, he had been sounding off about a blonde named Gail Collier. He had met her first at a party, and later at other parties, usually without her husband, a man almost twice her age. Luke had listened to his eulogising without much interest—unlike himself, Andrew was always heavily involved with some girl or other—until an evening when they had been drinking in a London bar and Andrew had suddenly exclaimed, ‘Well, I’ll be damned! There’s Henry Collier, Gail’s husband. Wonder what he’s doing here?’ Luke had looked across the crowded room to where a balding, middle-aged man was talking earnestly with a rather nondescript individual in a raincoat. Then the man in the raincoat had turned his head, and Andrew had gasped and gripped his brother’s arm and said excitedly, ‘Good God! Look, Luke! That’s Clarence he’s talking to. I’d swear to it’.

  Clarence had entered their lives one dark night in the previous summer. (‘Clarence’ was the name they had given him until they learned his real name, which was after seeing him in the bar with Collier. Later, because he obviously resented it and it amused them to rile him, they continued to use it.) That summer night Andrew had been parked with his current bird in the shadow of a clump of trees near the river. Wrestling with her in the back of the car, they had been startled by the unexpected arrival of another car. It had bumped past them without lights, paused briefly at the river bank, and had then plunged forward into the water. Alarmed, Andrew had struggled into a front seat and had switched on the headlights. Caught in the full glare of the beam, the man they later called Clarence halted abruptly, staring at them as if mesmerised; then he dodged sideways into the darkness and vanished. Andrew had gone down to the water’s edge; but the river was deep and there was no sign of the car, and he had returned to his bird and the purpose for which he had brought her—assuming that, since the man had not sought their aid but had deliberately avoided them, he had surreptitiously been disposing of an unwanted vehicle. Not until later did they learn through the media that the car had contained the much mutilated body of one Charlie Keen, a small-time criminal and police informer.

  At Luke’s suggestion Andrew had not reported the incident. A firm hold on a man like Clarence, Luke had pointed out, might well be profitable—provided, of course, that they ever caught up with him. Luke had become involved in crime while still at Oxford, smuggling contraband goods; later, with Andrew’s cooperation and a few useful contacts, they had expanded their activities. They had also diversified. With their father a retired general and their mother the daughter of a baronet they had presented an apparently impeccable front, behind which they manipulated a variety of shady schemes; and when their investors lost money, as invariably they did, it seemed not to occur to them that they had been conned—or, if it did, they kept their suspicions to themselves.

  But although crime had been profitable it had not produced the vast profits of which most criminals dream. The opportunity for a major coup that would rocket them into the big time continued to elude them.

  Until they caught up with Clarence.

  They had cornered him after he had parted from Collier in the bar. As Luke saw it, Clarence was almost certainly a villain and a murderer, and they had it in their power to denounce him as such. The hope was that he would see it in the same light, for it was possible he would insist that Andrew had mistaken his identity, or that it was Andrew’s word against his and what the hell, and tell them to get stuffed. As expected, he had denied the charge, but his denial and his blustering threats of mayhem had lacked conviction. You try anything, Clarence, they had told him (that was the first occasion on which they had actually addressed him as Clarence) and the sworn statement held by our solicitor goes straight to the police. However, not to worry. We’re not out to shop you.

  Play ball with us and we’ll play ball with you.

  Andrew’s knowledge of Collier had been vague. A quiet sort of chap, he said: doesn’t mix much but obviously dotes on his wife. Seems to be loaded and is reputed to gamble heavily. Then why, Luke wanted to know, would such a man be consorting with a villain like Clarence? Crime was the only possible answer. So what crime? he had asked Clarence. What are you two planning? Or rather, what is Collier planning? He’ll be the brains of the outfit.

  The realisation that his questioners were, like himself, on the wrong side of the law had put Clarence in an easier frame of mind, but it had needed considerable persuasion, not to mention threats, to produce the answer. A bank job, Clarence had said. He didn’t know when or where, but previous jobs he had done with Collier had all been big. Keep us informed, Luke had told him, and if there’s anything in it for us there’ll be something in it for you. The germ of a plan was already sprouting in his fertile brain, and when Clarence protested, with no great show of firmness, that he wasn’t one to shop his mates, Luke had dismissed the protest as irrelevant. No one is getting shopped, he said, and no one will interfere with the job, either during it or after. Clarence had obviously been puzzled how the Osmans could benefit from such an arrangement. But the promise of immunity and a sum of money over and above his share of the bank job had gained his grudging cooperation.

  Andrew had been against the kidnapping. He objected to the girl being manhandled and feared that, even though he were masked, she might recognise him. There’ll be no rough stuff, Luke had promised. We don’t have to wait while he finds the money. He’ll have it right there, and we just lock her up for a few hours while we collect it and make ourselves scarce. As for recognising you, she need neither see nor hear you. But it had been the prospect of a tidy fortune that had made Andrew forget his misgivings. Could be anything from fifty to a hundred grand, Luke had forecast. Even more. And we don’t have to rob a bank to get it. Collier does it for us.<
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  The kidnapping had gone without a hitch. While Andrew stayed in the car, Luke had gone up to the house and, when Gail opened the door, clad in nightdress and negligee, he had bundled her back into the sitting-room, where he had gagged and blindfolded her. After drawing back the curtains so that Andrew could watch Collier from the garden he had then put her in the back of the car and had sat with her while Andrew drove. Arrived at their temporary hideout, he had taken her up to an attic bedroom, and after removing the gag and blindfold he had left her on the bed with her wrists and ankles tied, securely but not too tightly, to the bedposts.

  He had thought it wise not to mention that last precaution to Andrew.

  The hideout was some thirty minutes’ drive away from Hickworth. Originally a forester’s cottage, it stood in woodland, some way back from the road and served by a track that was now a gravelled drive.

  The cottage had been modernised and enlarged by its present owners, a moderately wealthy couple now visiting a married daughter in Canada. Luke had chosen it for its seclusion and had rented it furnished for six months, although he had no intention of staying more than a few days.

  Arrived at the house now, they garaged the car and carried the cases into the sitting-room and forced open the locks. Andrew had been sourly monosyllabic since Luke had vetoed his request that he should be the one to rescue the girl, but at the sight of so much money, mostly in bundles of fives and tens and twenties, his good-humour returned. He emitted a soft whistle and slapped his brother exuberantly on the back.

  ‘Beautiful!’ He picked up a bundle and riffled the notes. ‘How much do you reckon? Would Clarence’s eighty grand be about right?’

  ‘Why not count it and see?’ Luke pulled the stocking mask from his pocket. ‘I’ll take a look at our guest.’

  She had lifted her head and was watching for him when he entered, and as he moved to stand by the bed she followed him with her eyes. Luke took little interest in women, nor was he a homosexual—the sex urge seemed not to work for him—but as he looked at her now he could appreciate something of her attraction for his brother. She was certainly beautiful, both in features and in form, although he recognised her beauty aesthetically rather than lustfully. In her struggle to free herself her clothes had rucked up around her delicate thighs; her negligee was open, and flesh glowed pinkly through the transparent nightdress. Her breasts were round and pink and coral-tipped. Just as well Andrew is barred from this part of the operation, Luke thought. The sight of her now would be too much for his self-control. It’s completely lacking where beautiful women are concerned.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked. Her low, resonant voice was oddly at variance with her slender littleness. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name when we met previously.’

  ‘Just look on me as your host. Temporary, that is.’ Luke was surprised and puzzled by her calmness. He had expected anger and resentment, fear even. True, she had not screamed or struggled earlier; but then he had given her little opportunity to do either. Now, free to express herself, she chose to be flippant.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I am in no great physical discomfort, if that is what you mean. But although I appreciate that I couldn’t be allowed the run of the house I object to being tied and roped like a bloody steer.’

  He shrugged. ‘We had to go out.’

  ‘To see my husband?’

  ‘Not to see him. To bargain with him for your release.’

  ‘Did he agree to pay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He would,’ she said. ‘Although I’m damned if I would. I’d see you in hell first.’

  He untied her wrists, and she sat up and pulled down the nightdress and wrapped the negligee more tightly about her. As he bent to untie her ankles she said, obviously surprised, ‘Don’t tell me I’m to be freed before you’ve got the money! Henry couldn’t have raised it already. Not at this hour. Not unless your demands were exceedingly modest and you settled for whatever was in the till.’ Her eyes were wide as she surveyed him. ‘It’s impossible to distinguish features behind that absurd stocking, of course, but somehow you don’t strike me as the modest type. And I noticed you didn’t exactly shudder when most of my all was bared to you just now.’

  The implied suggestion that he had enjoyed the experience annoyed him. ‘There’s no need to keep you in chains while we are in the house,’ he said curtly. ‘You can’t escape.’

  ‘I could open the window and scream.’

  ‘Could you?’ He looked up at the skylight, set high in the roof. ‘I doubt it. In any case, you’re at the back of the house and a long way from the road. No one would hear you.’

  She frowned. ‘Will I still be locked in?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What if I need the loo? Do I ring the imaginary bell?’

  ‘Use that.’ He pointed to a wooden commode. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I could use a drink. Vodka for preference. A large one.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Andrew had stacked the notes on a table. ‘I haven’t counted them individually,’ he said, ‘but Collier must have underestimated. I make it around a hundred and twenty grand, not eighty.’

  ‘Could be,’ Luke said. ‘The others are on a percentage. It would pay him to keep it low.’

  ‘Mean devil! However—sixty apiece, eh?’ Andrew whistled happily, picked up a bundle of notes, and threw it high in the air. Watching it fall, he caught it on his ankle and booted it expertly. ‘That should see us through the winter.’

  ‘You’re forgetting Clarence,’ Luke said, pouring vodka.

  Andrew laughed. ‘Yes, I’m forgetting Clarence. Is that whisky? I’ll have one too.’

  ‘You don’t like whisky.’

  ‘I do tonight. Tonight I could knock back a bottle.’

  ‘Well, don’t. Anyway, this isn’t for me, it’s for the girl. And it’s vodka, not whisky.’

  ‘Ah! How is she?’

  ‘Bearing up. I imagine she doesn’t scare easily.’

  ‘No. No, she wouldn’t.’ Andrew sighed. ‘You’re a lucky devil, Luke. I bet she looks great in her flimsies.’

  ‘I’ve seen worse.’

  Gail was standing on the bed, peering up through the skylight. ‘All I can see are the tree tops,’ she said irritably. ‘And sky. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Only the rest of the trees.’ He looked for somewhere to put the glass. The room was sparsely furnished. The bed, the commode, a chair and a small table, with no carpet on the floor. He settled for the table. ‘There’s your vodka.’

  ‘You’d better keep them coming if you don’t want me to die of boredom,’ she said, jumping down from the bed. ‘What a dump! Couldn’t you have found something more civilised?’

  ‘It won’t be for long.’

  ‘Long enough.’ She sipped the vodka. ‘Ugh! You forgot the ice. When do you collect the money?’

  He ignored the question. ‘We’ll be leaving in a few hours,’ he told her. ‘We’ll let your husband know where to find you. You should be free some time tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow? Tomorrow’s Monday. You mean today, I hope.’

  ‘Sorry. Yes, today. Probably early this afternoon.’

  ‘And in the meantime I moulder up here, do I?’ She put down the glass and came to face him. He saw that the negligee was open. Was that deliberate? Was she trying to seduce him? ‘That’s a perfectly lousy arrangement. Couldn’t you take me with you? Dump me somewhere convenient? Please! I’d much prefer that.’

  ‘You’re not dressed for dumping, Mrs Collier,’ he said. ‘As you may have noticed, it’s blowing a gale. And your preferences don’t interest me. Nor do you, I’m afraid, except as a hostage for your husband’s money. Now, if you’ll excuse me—’

  She uttered a crude oath and aimed a kick at his legs, but in her fleecy bedroom slippers it probably hurt her more than it did him. As he started down the stairs glass shattered against the bedroom door. Stu
pid bitch, he thought. All that that gets her is a spilt drink.

  Andrew was pouring another whisky. ‘I heard a crash,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘She’s throwing things. Getting restless.’ Luke started to pack the money back in the cases. ‘Give me a hand, will you? I want this out of the way before Clarence arrives. And remember. We have a drink together first. Then you disappear and leave me to do the talking. Okay?’

  ‘Yes. You think he’ll turn nasty?’

  ‘Probably. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Too bloody true.’ Andrew yawned. ‘I don’t know about you, Luke, but I’m just about whacked. It’s been a long night.’

  ‘So keep off the whisky. It’s not over yet.’

  Clarence’s arrival was heralded by a loud peal on the doorbell. With Andrew behind him, Luke opened the door and stared at their visitor in feigned astonishment.

  ‘Clarence!’ he exclaimed. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Eh?’ Startled by this unexpected reception, Clarence looked from one to the other. ‘You bloody told me to come, didn’t you? Three-thirty, you said. Well, that’s what it is. On the nose.’

  ‘Three-thirty this afternoon, you idiot, not this morning.’ Luke peered out into the darkness. ‘However, now you’re here you’d better come in, I suppose.’

  They went in. Clarence’s eyes were wary as he looked about him. The Osmans weren’t his kind, and over the weeks he had known them he had grown to hate them, with their snob accents and their supercilious manner and their studied insolence, and the way they kept calling him Clarence instead of his real name. It they hadn’t been more dangerous to him dead than alive he would long since have settled their score. As he had settled Charlie Keen’s. But unfortunately he had been careless with Charlie. He learned later that the Fuzz had found dabs on the ignition key and the dashboard, and he had remembered that he had removed a glove to extract the key from Charlie’s trouser pocket. The knowledge had been worrying, but not unduly so. Dabs were useless without matching prints, and he had no cons, he had never been knocked off, had never even been sussed. The advent of the Osmans, however, had shattered his complacency. They knew: not about the key, but that he had been there. And with their solicitor holding that damned statement (the Fuzz would be sceptical, but they would pull him in and ink him and that would be that) he would be crazy to eliminate them. And since he had no compunction about double-crossing Collier and the others—not if the double-cross could be profitable, as the Osmans had promised—he had agreed to play ball. But he didn’t trust them. They would do him if they could, he knew that. And his reception now suggested that ‘doing’ him might well be what they had in mind.