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

by J F Straker

  ‘You said you’d be gone by this afternoon,’ he accused. ‘You trying to fool me? Because if you are—’

  ‘Fool you? Of course not, man.’ Luke poured drinks. ‘We’ve changed our plans, that’s all. We’re not leaving till this evening.’

  ‘So why didn’t you say so on the blower?’

  ‘Why the hell should I? When we leave is none of your business. It certainly never occurred to me that you would be daft enough to think I meant three-thirty in the morning.’ He handed the other a generous whisky. ‘Here, drink that. You look as if you need it.’

  Clarence nodded, as if recognising the validity of the argument. But he was still suspicious. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘So I boobed. But it’s twenty grand you owe me. And seeing as I’m here I reckon I’ll take it now.’

  Luke shook his head. ‘You’d be a fool if you did. But as it happens that’s impossible.’

  Clarence’s eyes narrowed. ‘You saying you never got it?’

  ‘Oh, we got it all right. Around a hundred and twenty grand, my brother reckons. Which suggests Collier was trying to do you, doesn’t it, when he put it at eighty? But we didn’t bring it here. We’re not that crazy.’

  ‘What’s crazy about here, then?’

  Luke sighed. ‘You can be extremely dim at times, Clarence. Think, man, think. Collier doesn’t know who took the money off him, but right now he’ll be moving heaven and earth to find it. And where will he look first? Who knew it came from the bank? You, Clarence. You and your mates. So he’ll check to find out if you’re home. And you’re not, are you? You’re here. Which makes you an obvious suspect.’ Luke shook his head. ‘That was another reason it never occurred to me you’d be fool enough to come out here tonight. Unfortunately it seems I overestimated the scope of your tiny mind.’

  Clarence scowled at the insult. It added to his uneasiness. His limited knowledge of Luke Osman had taught him that the more frequent the insults the more deviously his mind was working.

  ‘What the hell’s that got to do with you not bringing the money here?’ he demanded.

  Damn all, Luke thought, although he was pleased with the manner in which he had developed his argument and the impact it seemed to be making. His plan was to overwhelm the other with words. That the words had little to do with fact was immaterial. Clarence tended to be confused by words.

  ‘Because this happens to be my brother’s house,’ he said, and was glad Clarence could not see the startled look on Andrew’s face. He should have warned Andrew he was going to say that. But then he hadn’t known he was going to say it, it had come to him on the spur of the moment. ‘That’s why. He lives here and Collier knows it. Which means this is another place he might decide to investigate. Incidentally, where did you leave the car? I didn’t see it in the drive.’

  ‘In the trees past the gates. They were shut. But why …‘

  ‘I hope to Christ it’s well hidden.’ Luke nodded at Andrew to leave. ‘I wouldn’t fancy your chances if Collier were to spot it. Ours neither, come to that.’

  ‘It’s hidden,’ Clarence said. ‘Anyways, Collier don’t believe in violence.’

  Luke suspected he was trying to reassure himself. ‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘But he’s got violent friends. And the loss of over a hundred grand can hit a man’s beliefs as well as his pocket.’

  ‘But why would he come here?’ Clarence persisted. ‘I don’t get it. I mean—well, why would he?’

  ‘There are other things you don’t get, Clarence. Such as how we managed to part Collier from his money. What’s more, I don’t intend to tell you. It’s better you don’t know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because when Collier tells you what happened, as undoubtedly he will, your surprise will be genuine. You won’t have to simulate it. I suspect you’re not too hot at simulating, eh? But about the house. It so happens that my brother knows the Colliers’—Clarence nodded. That at least was true. He had visited Pinewood once and had seen Andrew there—‘and for some time now he has suspected that Collier’s wealth isn’t honestly come by. What’s more, he thinks Collier knows he suspects. So if Collier draws a blank with you lot it’s well on the cards he’ll decide to check on Andrew. Understood?’ It was plain that Clarence did not understand. Luke sympathised with him. The logic was poor. ‘That’s why we thought it wise to hang on here until this evening,’ he continued. ‘If Collier comes—well, I’m spending the weekend with my brother. All nice and normal, you see. Whereas if neither of us were here—well, that wouldn’t be quite so normal, would it?’ I mean, who goes back to Town on a Sunday morning? And if he isn’t satisfied he can search the house for all we care. As I said, the money isn’t here.’

  ‘Where is it then?’ Clarence demanded.

  Luke laughed. ‘Oh, come off it, man! You don’t really expect us to tell you that, do you?’

  ‘So when do I get my cut?’

  ‘I told you, this afternoon. If Collier’s coming he’ll come early.’ Luke looked at the clock. ‘He might even come this early. Which is why we want you off the premises and ourselves in bed, which is where we ought to be at this time of night. Otherwise’—he balled a fist lightly against the other’s chin. Scowling, Clarence backed. ‘Well, it could be messy if he brings his friends. So we’ll have one more drink and then off you go.’

  The one more drink was because Andrew had not yet returned. When eventually he did, Clarence said sharply, ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘The loo,’ Andrew said. ‘Not that it’s any business of yours.’

  ‘Whisky doesn’t agree with him,’ Luke said. ‘Tonight he’s overdone it.’ He downed his own drink. Now, come on, Clarence. Knock that back and get moving. We want to go to bed.’

  He was reluctant to leave. They had practically to propel him from the room. As they went into the hall there came a dull thud from above. Clarence halted abruptly.

  ‘What was that?’ he demanded.

  ‘Damn!’ Luke said. ‘We’ve woken Olga. My brother’s wife,’ he told Clarence. ‘Keep your voice down, man. We don’t want her getting inquisitive. She’s not in on this.’

  ‘So you’ve married me off, have you?’

  Andrew said, when their visitor had finally departed. ‘Why Olga?’

  ‘It was the first name that came into my head.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like it. Be a bit more choosy next time, will you?’ Andrew rubbed his tired eyes. ‘Did you convince him, do you think?’

  ‘Probably not. Right now he’s confused. Not exactly Mastermind, our Clarence. But given time to think it over—‘

  Andrew laughed. ‘Time is what he hasn’t got.’

  ‘True. Well, let’s get cracking. Clean up down here, will you, and then start packing. I’ll see to the girl.’

  ‘Couldn’t we put in a few hours kip first? I’m bloody whacked, Luke. It’s not that urgent, is it?’

  ‘You think I’m not tired? But we need to be away before dawn, and it’s not far off that now.’

  ‘Why dawn?’

  ‘Rural types start to move around early. We mustn’t be seen leaving.’

  ‘You’re sure your place is best? You wouldn’t prefer the cottage?’

  ‘It’s not a question of preference. We need to be where the action is. And that’s London.’ Luke smiled grimly. ‘But I think we’ll avoid the main road. I wouldn’t want to meet up with Clarence. It could be nasty.’

  ‘Very nasty,’ Andrew said.

  5

  Most mornings Jack Paterson enjoyed his walk to work in the early dawn. When he had first started at the bakery it had been a struggle to get out of bed. He had no appetite for breakfast (with the result that he had been ravenous a few hours later), and the walk down the long steep hill had been made only half awake and oblivious to everything except that it was something he had to do. But years of habit had mellowed his attitude. Habit had accustomed him to waking early and rising while others slept. Nowadays he ate a good breakfast, and as he clattered down the hill
in the quiet stillness he would fill his lungs with the fresh clean air and enjoy the solitude and the dawn chorus.

  That Sunday morning he wasn’t feeling so good. Most Sundays he stayed in bed late. But Kath and Willie’s wedding cake had to be iced, and on Saturday he had announced that he would go to the bakery at the usual time in order to leave the rest of the day free for any final preparations that had to be made. Now, as a result of Willie’s stag party the previous night, he was regretting that decision. His stomach was queasy and his head ached. No birds sang that morning; or if they did he didn’t hear them, for a veritable gale was blowing up the hill. Funnelled between the buildings that lined the narrow village street, it tore at his jacket and whipped his shoulder-length hair into a tangle, picking up dirt and dust and scraps of paper and hurling them at him as, head down, a hand shielding his eyes, he struggled against it.

  The bakery was on the other side of the street, but he paused before crossing. A car was coming up the hill, the beam from its headlamps bouncing on the roadway, and he waited for it to pass. Above the screeching of the wind he heard the surge of the engine as the driver changed gear. It was almost level with him when, with a deafening roar that shattered his eardrums, it disintegrated. The accompanying blast picked him up and hurled him against a wall; fragments of the car flew in every direction, to litter the roadway or spatter against brickwork or crash through glass. Moments later, with a frightening ‘whoosh’, what was left of the car burst into an inferno of flame that danced in the wind and spread slowly across the road.

  Jack Paterson did not see the flames. Stunned, he was still propped against the wall when a large fragment of metal descended on his head and felled him.

  Jack Paterson was dead.

  6

  Detective Chief Superintendent Ernest Driffield Fox, head of the country C.I.D., was a big man: six foot three inches in height, his frame and limbs were massive and his large feet were something of a joke in the Force. If the Gaffer puts his foot down, they said, it doesn’t just stop you, it squashes you. But the man himself was no joke. Despite the bushy eyebrows and the prominent ears, his round boyish face, crowned with an unruly thatch of prematurely grey hair—he was only forty-seven—was deceptively cherubic. Many a villain meeting him for the first time had been misled by it, to his ultimate confusion and regret. Ernest Fox was a kindly man, deeply religious and devoted to his wife and daughter. But he was also an astute and able policeman, to whom the enforcement of law and order was not only a job but a crusade. Not that he allowed the crusade to warp his judgment or his sense of justice. Even the villains admitted his fairness. And although he could be angry his anger was seldom petty.

  He would have had good reason to be in a fractious mood that Sunday morning. Away for the weekend in a country hotel with his wife, the first break he had had in months, he had been awakened at six-thirty by a telephone call from his headquarters with news of the explosion. He had accepted it philosophically; inconvenience was inherent with the job. Grace had been disappointed but understanding, and they had packed their bags and departed breakfastless for home. Now, looking at the clock as he came briskly into the conference room, he saw with satisfaction that he had made it with five minutes to spare. Eleven o’clock at Division, he had told his headquarters; fix it, will you? He regretted having to miss Matins, but that was another disappointment that went with the job. He wondered how many of his officers would have shared his regret. Not many, he suspected.

  The men already assembled in the room stood as he entered. He recognised all but two: an army captain and a man in a loud check suit. He bade them good-morning and motioned them to sit. ‘Sorry about this,’ he said. ‘But I need filling in. So let’s get on with it, shall we? Incidentally, I’m told there were three casualties. That right, George?’

  Detective Superintendent George Grover nodded. Commonly referred to as ‘Gee-gee’ by his subordinates, he was head of West Division C.I.D. and as different from his chief as chalk from cheese. Slim and dapper and only half an inch above minimum height, he had a long, sad face, its length emphasised by a rapidly receding hairline. At forty-three he was still a bachelor. After reading Law at Oxford he had joined the police—not, he claimed, from an urge to serve society but because the professions did not appeal to him and he had no aptitude for commerce or industry. To Grover it was a job of work; interesting, even exciting at times, but too often merely boring. He did it ably and conscientiously but, unlike Fox, he often resented its interference with his private life. Not that his private life was particularly hectic. He had several girlfriends and divided his attentions between them impartially. Unlike Fox, who had played at lock forward for the county and had been given an England trial, he got little enjoyment from sporting activities; his twice weekly games of squash were more to keep himself fit than for pleasure. Away from the Force he spent much of his time in the kitchen. Cookery had become an absorbing passion, and an invitation to dine at ‘Gee-gee’s stable’, the small flat he shared with Castor and Pollux, his two Burmese cats, was eagerly accepted by those who had previously sampled his culinary skills.

  ‘Quite right, sir,’ he said. ‘The two occupants of the car, a man and a woman, neither as yet identified, and the village baker. He happened to be almost level with the car when it exploded. Hadn’t a chance, poor devil.’ He indicated the army captain, who sat next to him. ‘Have you met Captain Denning, sir? He’s an explosives expert.’

  ‘No.’ Fox smiled a greeting. ‘Thank you for coming, Captain. Now, shall we—’

  ‘And this is Inspector Webb,’ Grover persisted. ‘Vehicle Investigation Branch.’

  The Chief Superintendent’s smile was less emphatic this time. Perhaps because it was a Sunday he found the loud check distasteful.

  Rixton, the Scene of Crime officer, was mature for a detective constable, and maturity gave him confidence. The explosion had occurred at approximately 04.20 hours, he said, when the car was about fifty yards from the top of Cuckswell Hill. A local inhabitant had put through a 999 call to the operations room at police headquarters but he, Rixton, had been the first police officer on the scene after the village constable; he lived in Cuckswell and had been awakened by the explosion. The car was still blazing fiercely when he arrived, and although a body could be seen slumped in the front passenger seat the flames made a rescue impossible. Another body, presumably that of the driver, had been blown from the car, together with the offside door, and lay beside it. The body of Jack Paterson was on the pavement. ‘Hit by the offside front wing, I think,’ Rixton said. ‘It was lying next to him.’

  Sadly, Fox shook his head. Grover said, ‘Derek Kaufman and I got there shortly after Ingram and the fire-brigade. So did the TV unit.’ Detective Chief Inspector Derek Kaufman was his Number Two, Ingram the subdivisional inspector. ‘It wasn’t a pretty sight. But at least the occupants of the car must have died instantly. Part of the woman’s head was blown off—so was the man’s left arm below the elbow—and both bodies were terribly mangled. By the time the fire-brigade had extinguished the fire they were also charred practically to a cinder.’ Grover’s face expressed his disgust at the memory. ‘Horrible! Difficult to recognise them as human corpses.’

  Fox looked at Denning. ‘How about the bomb, Captain?’

  ‘Big for the job,’ Denning said. ‘They weren’t leaving anything to chance. Around ten pounds of gelignite, fitted with a timing device and placed in the near side of the boot.’ He frowned. ‘Strangely, the blast was nearly all forward. So was the fire. The strong wind would be mainly responsible for that.’

  Inspector Webb had identified the car as a four-year-old Vauxhall Viva 1300 Estate, Grover said. They had the registration number, a local one—the rear number plate was intact—but, being Sunday, the Swansea offices were closed. ‘I’ve arranged a Press conference for midday, sir, if that’s okay by you.’ He hesitated. ‘How do you feel about a local radio appeal for anyone who might recognise the number to contact us? It could provide a
short cut to identification of the bodies.’

  Tugging hard at the lobe of his right ear, Fox considered the suggestion. ‘I think not,’ he said eventually. ‘The Press conference, yes. I’ll be there. But I’m against a radio appeal. It tends to conflict with the principle of not releasing a victim’s name until the relatives have been informed. I would prefer to wait until we can get the information from Swansea tomorrow. Now, let’s see the film and the stills, shall we?’

  The conference over, Grover and Kaufman went out to have another look at the burnt-out Vauxhall, which was parked in the divisional yard awaiting further examination. The two men were friends as well as colleagues. A cheerful, good-natured man of thirty-eight, Derek Kaufman was stockily built and sported a bushy moustache which he claimed to have cultivated in an attempt to lessen the prominence of his nose. Like Grover, he was a bachelor. Unlike Grover, sport of one kind or another filled most of his off-duty moments. A twelve handicap golfer, he was secretary of the Divisional Football team and a member of the Melborough Tennis and Squash Club. It was with Kaufman that Grover played most of his squash. The fact that he invariably lost did not bother him. He was there for the exercise, not the winning.