by J F Straker
It was intended as sarcasm. Collier took it straight. ‘I wish to God I had,’ he said fervently.
‘He didn’t dream nothing,’ Bunny said. ‘It’s a bloody con, that’s what it is. I mean, how do we know his missus was snatched, that he give them the money? We don’t know nothing except what he tells us.’
‘Search the house if you don’t believe me,’ Collier said, ‘They’re not here.’
‘That proves nothing,’ Jock said, pouring himself a generous whisky. ‘You’ve had nine hours to get them someplace else.’
‘True. But use your loaf, man. Do you really believe that if I’d wanted to welsh on you I couldn’t have found a more fool proof plan than this? Of course I could.’
‘Then who’s this bloke on the blower who’s supposed to know it all?’ Bunny persisted. ‘I mean, how could he know we done the bank? He couldn’t, could he? No one could. Except us. And it wasn’t bloody us, that’s for sure.’
Terry nodded. ‘He’s got something there, Guy.’
‘Of course he has.’ Collier’s tone had sharpened. It was time to inject the poison. ‘As you said yourself, only we four knew about the bank and what was in the suitcases. Unless one of you talked, of course. And I think we can discount that. You’re professionals, you know how to keep your mouths shut. So who snatched my wife? It wasn’t one of you. I rang her shortly before we met in Westonbury, and she was here then.’ He did not think it necessary to mention that he always rang Gail before a job. Somehow the sound of her voice bolstered his confidence, made him feel lucky. ‘And from then on the four of us were together until I left to come home. And it wasn’t one of you on the blower, either. The voice was wrong.’
He paused to light a cigarette. Though his brain was active his body was tired, and it was something of an effort to raise his arm. His eyeballs seemed to be on fire, the lids heavy. How long since he had slept? Over twenty-four hours. And many more, perhaps, before he’d sleep again.
‘But that’s bloody nonsense,’ Terry objected. ‘If it wasn’t one of us it wasn’t no one. Couldn’t have been.’
‘It could if one of you had an accomplice and tipped him off after we left the bank,’ Collier said. ‘The accomplice could have done the snatch and collected the money. As he did. I’m sure of that.’
They stared at him. He noticed that Bunny’s lip was dark and swollen. Had it been swollen last night? He couldn’t remember.
‘Are you saying one of us is bent?’ Jock demanded.
‘I am.’ ‘Bent’ seemed a strange word to use in such a connection. ‘It’s the only possible explanation.’
‘But the money’s ours, dammit! So why grab it?’
‘Because one of you bastards got greedy, that’s why.’ So far he had kept his anger in check. Now he could give it free rein. ‘He wanted a larger cut than the one we all agreed. I don’t know how many accomplices he had—probably two, possibly more—but if they carve it up three ways he can count on a few extra grand, I suppose. And for that the bastard has sold us out and allowed his filthy friends to grab my wife.’ His voice rose. So did his anger. It seemed incredible that sitting across the table from him was the man responsible for his agony and that he did not recognise him. ‘But I’ll get him. Believe you me, I’ll get him. And when I do I—I—’ He choked and swallowed hard. ‘If any harm has come to my wife I’ll kill him. And I mean that. I’ll kill him.’
Even to their insensitive minds his anguish and rage carried conviction. But conviction brought with it no sympathy. Ignoring him, they broke into a harsh babble of sound, shouting each other down. Collier listened, hoping for a lead. But it was all too confused, and after a few minutes he slapped the flat of his hand hard against the table top.
‘Shut up, damn you! Shut up!’ Startled, they obeyed. ‘We’ll get nowhere if you just sit there yelling at each other.’
‘We’ll get nowhere anyhow,’ Jock said. He sounded aggrieved. ‘No one’s going to cut his own bleeding throat, is he?’
‘This bloke on the blower,’ Terry said. ‘What did he sound like?’
‘Cultured. Public school type. And the accent wasn’t faked.’ Collier frowned, considering. ‘What did each of you do after we split last night? You, for instance, Terry? What did you do?’
It had occurred to him that the culprit would have been impatient to check with his accomplices that the snatch had been successful—if not in person, then at least by telephone. But their answers provided no clue; each claimed to have returned directly to London in his own car. Collier did not question that. It was a procedure he had instituted to ensure that if one were stopped the others were not involved. Where were the cars parked? he asked. Jock’s and his were in the market place, Terry said, and they had gone there together. Bunny said he had parked his by the church. Collier had made a thorough reconnaissance of the town while planning the robbery, and he frowned at the answer.
‘There’s a telephone kiosk by the church,’ he said. ‘Did you use it?’
The others looked at Bunny, aware from Collier’s tone that the question could be significant. Uneasy under their scrutiny, Bunny glared back at them.
‘No,’ he said defiantly. ‘Why would I?’
Collier left the question unanswered. Uncertainty could add to the suspicion already created. ‘What have you done to your lip?’ he asked.
‘I fell over.’
‘Where?’ Jock demanded.
Bunny turned on him angrily. ‘What the hell’s it got to do with you?’ he snapped. Then, perhaps realising that truculence could only alienate them, he added sullenly, ‘I tripped, didn’t I? In the churchyard. It was dark.’
No one commented. ‘When I rang you earlier, Jock, what did you do?’ Collier asked.
‘What do you think I did? Collected the others, like you said.’
‘I know. But how? Who did you contact first?’
He had rung Bunny first, Jock said. Receiving no reply, he had rung Terry and the two had met and had driven to Bunny’s flat in Acton. Bunny’s car was parked outside, and after prolonged pressure on the doorbell he had opened the door for them. He was still in his pyjamas, but he had changed hurriedly and the three of them had driven out to Hickworth in Jock’s car.
‘You didn’t happen to put a hand on the bonnet of Bunny’s car?’ Collier asked.
‘Eh? Why would I do that?’
No reason, Collier said, although it might have helped if he had. If Bunny had driven directly to Acton after the robbery he would have come home some six or seven hours before they called to collect him. In that time the engine would have cooled. But if it were still warm…
‘He didn’t come straight home, eh?’ Terry said. He stood up and moved so that Bunny was between him and Jock.
Bunny looked uneasy at the manoeuvre, glancing from one to the other. But when he too started to rise Terry put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him firmly down. ‘How about it, mate? Did you go visiting after you left us at the bank?’
‘No!’ Bunny said fiercely. ‘I bloody didn’t. And I didn’t have nothing to do with his missus being snatched either. Which leaves you two bastards, don’t it? One of you must have done it.’
He tried unsuccessfully to shrug off the restraining hand. But Terry’s grip was firm and Jock was at his other shoulder. They were leaning over him, their faces close to his. Jock’s breath was foul, and he flinched in distaste.
‘Why didn’t you answer the blower this morning?’ Jock demanded. ‘It’s by your bed, so you must have heard it.’
Collier knew that violence was near. Temporarily they were a firm, but there was no loyalty, no real liking. If Terry and Jock believed that Bunny had shopped them—if they even suspected it—they would not hesitate to beat the truth out of him. And good luck to them, Collier thought. I’ll be happy to lend a hand.
‘I didn’t hear it because it didn’t ring,’ Bunny shouted. ‘It couldn’t, see? I’d taken it off the hook when I went to bed, so’s the bloody thing wouldn’t wa
ke me. It’s Sunday, ain’t it? I like to lie in Sundays.’
Jock’s grip tightened. ‘That’s a flaming lie,’ he said. ‘If it was off the hook I’d have got the engaged signal, wouldn’t I? Well, I didn’t. I got the ringing tone.’
Terry gave a sibilant hiss. His hand left Bunny’s shoulder and grabbed a fistful of hair.
‘You bastard!’ he shouted. ‘You filthy, sodding bastard!’ No longer calm, he forced Bunny’s head back with a vicious jerk. ‘What have you—’
He gasped and buckled as Bunny’s fist caught him low in the stomach. Then the two of them were on the floor, with Terry underneath. Jock kicked aside a chair and bent to grab Bunny’s collar, and heaved. As Bunny’s head came up he aimed a blow at Terry’s face; the blow missed, and his fist slammed against the floor. He gave a cry of pain. Then Terry was on his feet, and he and Jock caught Bunny’s arms and twisted them behind his back. Breathing heavily, Terry grabbed another fistful of hair and began to bang his face against the floor.
‘Stop it, you fools!’ Collier shouted. ‘Stop it, damn you! He can’t talk if you crack his skull.’
Somewhat to his surprise they stopped, although not until Terry had slammed his face down once more. They hauled him to his feet, resisting his struggles, and sat him on a chair. His swollen lip was split and bleeding. Blood streamed from his nose.
Collier leaned forward to stare at him. A pulse throbbed heavily in his temple. His eyes still ached and there was a pain in his stomach, but he no longer felt physically tired. It was not sympathy that had made him call a halt to the violence. He had itched to share it. But expediency demanded otherwise.
‘About that telephone call, Jock,’ he said, still staring at Bunny, trying to read guilt and seeing only anger. ‘You’re sure you heard the ringing tone?’
‘Yes. At least—well, I could be mistaken, I suppose. I mean, I was pretty dozy. I hadn’t had much sleep, had I? But yes—I’m pretty sure.’
Almost reluctantly, Collier turned his head to look at him.
‘Not much sleep? You had a good six—’
The telephone rang.
Startled, Terry and Jock released their grip on Bunny and looked at Collier. Swearing obscenely, Bunny took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his bloodied face. Collier stared at the instrument as if mesmerised. For hour after hour he had sat waiting for it to ring, willing it to ring. Now that the call had come he felt afraid, unable to cope. But indecision was only momentary. With a shaking hand he picked up the receiver.
‘Yes?’ he said hoarsely.
They watched as he listened. Apart from a few hasty affirmatives he was silent, but the strained expression on his face told them that this was the call for which he had waited. When eventually he replaced the receiver Jock said sharply, ‘Well?’
‘They told me where to find her.’
‘Where?’ Terry asked.
‘Near Ryting. A house called Foresters.’ He got up quickly, knocking over the chair in his haste, and stumbled. He had sat for so long that his joints seemed to have seized. ‘Come on! Let’s go!’
‘All of us?’ Terry said, surprised.
‘All of you. You’ll see then that this is no con, damn you! But most of all I want my wife to see you. Maybe she knows which of you bastards sold us out. And if she does I want him there.’ He glared at them in turn. ‘Any objections? Because we’ll know what that means, won’t we?’
None of the three objected. He had expected a blunt refusal from Bunny, involving both trouble and delay. But Bunny, no doubt aware that a refusal would result in further violence in which he would again be outnumbered, was the first to follow him from the house. Collier took him in his car, the others following in Jock’s; as the prime suspect, Collier wanted Bunny where he could watch him.
The kidnapper’s directions had been explicit, and he had no difficulty in locating the house. But as he drove in between the open gates his body was sweating and he felt a strange reluctance to leave the car. He had never been more eager to see her, to be with her, yet he was also fearful of what he might find. ‘She’s in an attic room at the top of the house,’ the man had said, and had rung off before Collier could put the question that had plagued him. How was she, what had they done to her?
He left the others in the cars, warning Jock and Terry to keep an eye on Bunny; he didn’t want them in the house, he wanted the reunion to be private. The front door was unlocked, as the kidnapper had promised, and he hurried up the stairs. He had expected her to rush thankfully into his arms as the door opened; but there was no movement in the room, and for a brief and terrible moment he thought the man had lied, that she wasn’t there. Then he saw her, and his heart leapt. She lay face down on the bed, arms stretched beside her, her blonde hair spread untidily on the pillow. He guessed that she was asleep and possibly drugged, and he went to her and knelt by the bed and put an arm across her back, his hand seeking her breast.
‘Gail darling,’ he said softly, anxious not to frighten her. ‘Wake up. It’s me, Henry. You’re safe now, darling.’
It could have been the coldness of her flesh under the flimsy nightgown, or the way her head seemed to lag behind her body as he drew her gently to him, that warned him of the horrible truth. Fear gripped him, and it needed all his courage to turn her head so that he might see her face. Her eyes, bloodshot and protruding, stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Red marks stained her neck. There was something odd about her mouth.
Gail was dead.
8
Hugh Ayres and his wife wasted no time in driving down from Chiswick. They went first to Buckington, where Brenda Ayres stayed to comfort her sister; and from there, after a decent interval, her husband drove to divisional headquarters, as Kaufman had requested. He was a tall man, round-shouldered and loud-voiced, with a large, rather flat nose which he blew constantly. He had had a cold for over a week now, he told Kaufman. Couldn’t seem to throw it off. He was plagued by colds; maybe the size of his nose had something to do with it. Kaufman, somewhat self-conscious about the size of his own nose, commiserated briefly over the cold and got down to business. They had contacted him, Kaufman explained, because although the bodies of the two occupants of the car were charred and mutilated beyond recognition, the engine and registration numbers of the car were those of his brother-in-law’s Viva. This led to the natural assumption that James Latimer had been the driver. But assumption wasn’t enough, identity had to be established beyond all doubt. In such instances dentistry was often the safest guide; but Latimer’s dentist, whose name and address had been supplied by Mrs Latimer, had chosen to go sailing and could not be reached. However, about the only recognisable personal effect recovered from the fire had been a wrist-watch; and although it was ruined and heavily discoloured they had managed to decipher the initials T.K.L. inside the metal casing. Did that convey anything to Ayres?
Ayres nodded. ‘His father. Thomas Latimer. He died about five years ago. Didn’t Molly—Mrs Latimer—couldn’t she have told you that?’
‘She did, sir. Unfortunately she can’t remember Thomas Latimer’s middle name. She doesn’t think she ever heard it.’
‘Oh! Well, neither did I, I’m afraid. Still, you’ve got enough, haven’t you?’
‘Not enough, no. For instance, even if the watch was your brother-in-law’s he wasn’t necessarily wearing it.’
‘Eh? Oh, I see what you mean. James could have been hijacked last night, and had his watch nicked along with the car. Yes, that’s possible, I suppose. But unlikely, surely.’
Kaufman nodded. Most unlikely, he thought. If the car had been stolen, why hadn’t Latimer surfaced or reported the theft? The thief could have killed him, of course, and dumped the body in some out of the way spot. But that would not explain the bomb.
‘Tell me about the conference you and he attended last night,’ he said.
It had been held at the Park Lane Hotel, Ayres said. The purpose had been a general discussion on sales and territories, but as the
evening progressed they had tended to split into small and more intimate groups. He and Latimer and three others had comprised one such group, and had stayed together until they left.
‘Was it a harmonious party?’ Kaufman asked. ‘Your group, I mean. No signs of ill-feeling or discord?’
‘None as I observed.’
Kaufman nodded. Ill-feeling generated at the conference would not account for the bomb. A time bomb implied premeditation, not a sudden impulse. According to Mrs Latimer, he said, her husband was not a popular man. Would Ayres agree with that? Ayres said he would. James was too dogmatic, openly contemptuous of the opinions of others. ‘But if you’re thinking someone at the conference might have put that bomb in his car, Chief Inspector, forget it.’
‘I already have,’ Kaufman said.
‘Good. Mind you, there was argument. There always was when James was around. But it was good-natured stuff; we were his friends, we made allowances. Anyway, the car wasn’t there. We’d left it at my place. Went by bus and returned by taxi.’
Kaufman made a note of the three other men in the group. ‘What happened when you got back to Chiswick?’ he asked.
His wife had gone to bed, Ayres said, and the two of them had sat drinking and talking, discussing personal matters that would have been out of place at the conference. Latimer had expressed concern about his marriage, which seemed to be heading for the rocks. He also thought his wife was hitting the bottle too hard. ‘Cause and effect, one might think,’ Ayres said, and blew vigorously. ‘But that was the pot calling the kettle black. He could put it away himself.’
‘What time did he leave?’
‘About one-fifteen. There or thereabouts. I pressed him to stay the night, but he wouldn’t listen. Typical, that. Once James made up his mind to something he couldn’t be persuaded otherwise. Reason didn’t come into it. He was just plain stubborn.’
‘Was he sober when he left?’
