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

by J F Straker

  Andrew nodded. ‘Well, anyway, Clarence doesn’t scare me. I reckon we can handle him.’

  ‘Oh, grow up, Andrew! You don’t think he’ll try to tackle us single-handed, do you? Clarence has friends. Unpleasant friends, I’ve no doubt. For a share in a hundred and twenty grand they’ll be queueing up to join him.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ Andrew looked at his watch. ‘Hey! It’s time for the news.’

  He switched on the radio. His watch was slow, and the news had already started.

  ‘…was discovered in an attic bedroom in an isolated house near Ryting,’ the newscaster said. ‘Mrs Collier is reported to have been kidnapped from her home in Hickworth sometime after nine o’clock last night, while her husband was in London. It was her husband who found the body, after being directed to the house by an anonymous telephone call. The police are treating the case as one of murder. News is just coming in of an accident on—’

  ‘Christ!’ Andrew switched off the radio. ‘She’s dead! You killed her, damn you! You bloody killed her!’

  Fists clenched, he stood over the bed.

  Luke rolled off the other side and stood up.

  ‘Don’t be a damned fool!’ he said curtly. ‘Of course I didn’t.’

  ‘No? Then who did? You heard the broadcast. She’s dead, isn’t she?’

  ‘Apparently. But I didn’t kill her and I don’t know who did.’ Luke shrugged. ‘If Collier found her it could have been him, I suppose. Though I admit that’s unlikely.’

  ‘Unlikely? It’s crazy. He loved her.’

  ‘That could be a reason. I hinted at the possibility she might be having it off with her kidnappers. He may have taken it literally and gone berserk. Anyway, it wasn’t me.’

  ‘You’re lying. Of course it was you. You killed her when you went upstairs before we left. Or was it earlier? Was that why you wouldn’t let me see her?’ Andrew’s voice was hoarse with anger. ‘But why, damn you, why? She couldn’t have identified you. You said so yourself.’

  ‘Exactly. Which is why I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘Then why did you refer to her in the past tense just now? “What made her so special?” you said. “Made”, not “makes”. And then telling me not to bank on bedding her. You knew I couldn’t, didn’t you? Because she was dead. You bastard, Luke! You sodding bastard!’

  Andrew slumped into a chair. Attracted to Gail in the first place as much by her husband’s apparent wealth as by the girl’s beauty, attraction had turned to desire, and confidence in his powers of seduction had led him to assume that it was only a matter of time before he got her into bed. Now desire had been thwarted, and distress at the girl’s death vied with anger against his brother for causing it.

  Bloody idiot! Luke thought. What a carry-on about one dead fish in the sea. But with Clarence almost certainly on the warpath a row with his brother was the last thing he needed.

  He put a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That she’s dead, I mean. But I didn’t kill her. Knowing how you felt about her—well, I wouldn’t, would I? I’m not that much of a bastard. Believe me, she was alive when we left the house.’

  Andrew shook his head. He knew his brother. Luke lied as smoothly as he told the truth, and everything pointed to the fact that he was lying now. Maybe he had never killed before, but Andrew had always suspected he was prepared to kill if it were essential to his purpose. Nor would it deter him if the victim was a woman; Luke had no special regard for women. But there was no proof, and without proof Luke would continue to deny it.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said sullenly. ‘You can deny it till you’re blue in the face, but I still won’t believe you. You killed her, Luke, and that’s something I’ll not forget in a hurry.’

  Luke lost his temper. ‘All right, damn you!’ he snapped. ‘Don’t forget it. But for Christ’s sake shelve it until we’ve settled what to do about Clarence.’

  ‘You settle it. You settled Gail, didn’t you? All right, then. Now settle Clarence.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so bloody childish!’ Luke paused. Cool it, he thought. A slanging match will get us nowhere. ‘Look, Andrew. I told you, I’m sorry about Gail. But don’t try and kid me she was the one great love of your life, because we both know she wasn’t. You fancied her, that’s all. You say she was special. Okay. But then quite a few of the others have been special, haven’t they?’ He shook his head. ‘Forget it, man. Look on the bright side. Right now you’re sixty grand the richer. Apart from a bulging belly you are also reasonably healthy. Do you want to stay that way? Or do you want Clarence and his pals to put you in hospital without a bean to your name? Because that’s what will happen if you just sit there sulking.’

  Andrew scowled at him. ‘You’re a bastard, Luke.’

  ‘All right, so I’m a bastard. But think, man, think! What do we do about Clarence?’

  Andrew thought. Luke’s assessment of his feelings wasn’t far from the truth, although he would not admit it. And he was still angry. But he recognised that Luke had not exaggerated the threat that Clarence now posed, and he said grudgingly, ‘Does he know this address?’

  Luke sighed in relief. ‘If he doesn’t he can get it from the telephone directory,’ he said. ‘Personally, I think we should move.’

  ‘Move where?’

  ‘That’s the question, isn’t it? Ideally, abroad. But we can’t do that until we’ve made arrangements about the money.’

  Andrew shrugged. ‘Bank it.’

  ‘Just like that? Can you imagine the teller’s reaction when you dump sixty grand in currency notes on the counter and ask him to credit it to your account? We need to be a bit more subtle than that. Particularly with the Westonbury bank job in the news.’

  Andrew had been slumped in the chair. Now he straightened.

  ‘Was it in the news?’

  ‘I told you, I didn’t listen. If it wasn’t it will be tomorrow. But the point is, we have to spread it around. That will take time, and it can’t be done from across the Channel.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘What do you?’ Luke asked.

  Andrew shrugged. ‘We could go to my place, I suppose. Clarence doesn’t know it. And the telephone number is under the owner’s name, not mine.’

  Luke nodded. It was what he had had in mind, but he had wanted Andrew to suggest it. Loxford was within a reasonable distance from London, where the financial arrangements would have to be made. And the cottage was isolated. No one to spy on them.

  ‘Right!’ he said. ‘We’ll go tomorrow. Early.’

  Andrew Osman was a man of vacillating emotions. A night’s sleep and the morning sun, and the weight of the money in the suitcases as he carried them out to the Lotus, caused much of his overnight anger to evaporate. He was whistling as he threw the suitcases into the back of the car and slid into the driving seat. Luke paused for a few words with Fred Lee, the porter, tipped him handsomely, and followed more circumspectly. This could be a dangerous moment. But he failed to see the man watching from behind a car parked across the road, and he put his suitcases beside Andrew’s and climbed into the Lotus.

  ‘Move it, brother,’ he said cheerfully.

  Fred Lee watched the Lotus until it was out of sight. Then he went back to the hall. He was making for the basement when a man’s voice stopped him.

  ‘Yes?’ he said. No need to ‘sir’ this one. The suit was well enough, but the accent wrong. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Was that Mr Osman I saw leaving just now?’ the man asked. ‘Mr Luke Osman?’

  ‘That’s right. Him and his brother.’

  ‘Damn!’ the man said. ‘I’m from his solicitor. He wants Mr Osman to ring him. When will he be back?’

  Fred shrugged. ‘He didn’t say. By the size of his luggage it could be quite a while.’

  ‘Do you know what his address will be?’ Fred shook his head. ‘Telephone number?’ Another shake. ‘You’ve no idea where he’s going?’

  ‘O
h, yes, I know where he’s going. His brother’s cottage.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘Ah!’ Fred was enjoying this. There was something about the man he disliked. ‘Now, there you have me. Mr Osman didn’t say. His friends would know the address, he said, and the rest could whistle. So unless your boss is a friend he’ll have to whistle, won’t he?’

  Frowning, the man considered. Then he nodded.

  ‘There could be another way,’ he said. ‘Thanks, mate.’

  11

  ‘Cut it fine, didn’t you?’ Grover said, as Kaufman thudded his stocky frame on to the back seat of the car. ‘What kept you?’

  ‘Latimer’s dentist.’ Kaufman mopped his brow. The day was warm and he perspired easily. As the car gathered speed he wound down a window. ‘That all right with you?’

  ‘Yes. What about Latimer’s dentist?’

  ‘He confirms that the dead man was Latimer.’

  ‘Well, that’s something. Any joy with the all-night caffs?’

  ‘The trouble with all-night caffs,’ Kaufman said, ‘is that the staff seems to vary. Day to day, week to week—I wouldn’t know. Or if the damned place opens during the day, then the day staff isn’t the same as the night staff.’

  ‘Seems reasonable. Who says?’

  ‘Pullin says. He got nowhere yesterday. I’m hoping he’ll get lucky this morning. How did your snatch go?’

  As they drove the twenty-odd miles to County headquarters, Grover told him. ‘It was after nine before I was through,’ he said. ‘Which meant I had to drop my date. And believe me, she didn’t like it. Not one little bit she didn’t. Some of the language that girl used was really foul. The telephone wires positively glowed.’

  Kaufman grinned. ‘All your dates were promising, you said. How promising was this one?’

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to find out, did I? Incidentally, thanks for fixing Castor’s medicine.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Too bloody well. The poor little bugger didn’t make the tray.’

  Kaufman wondered how many other officers had been obliged to cut a date the previous night. Pullin, for instance. Pullin was married, and wives were often less understanding than girlfriends. The way things are, Kaufman thought, I’m glad I’m not currently involved with a bird. This sort of caper can play havoc with one’s love life.

  ‘Did you know Adam Harkin is also in on this party?’ Grover asked.

  ‘He is?’ Detective Superintendent Harkin was head of East Division C.I.D. ‘Why?’

  ‘Bank job over at Westonbury. I understand they got away with something like a hundred grand. The top brass has called in the Crime Squad.’

  ‘Harkin won’t like that,’ Kaufman said. ‘He’ll blame the Gaffer.’

  ‘Nothing new in that,’ Grover said. ‘He always blames the Gaffer.’

  Fox was in his office when they arrived. So were Superintendent Harkin and a Detective Inspector Quigley from the Regional Crime Squad. Fox had his arm in a sling and his face looked drawn, but he made only a brief reference to the accident. He had asked them there, he said, because with three major crimes on the books it had seemed the easiest and the quickest way for all of them, himself included, to familiarise themselves with the present position and to decide possible action to be taken. ‘You all know my policy is to keep everyone fully informed; not only of events in his own division but in the Force as a whole. At least, that’s the ideal. Unfortunately it isn’t always possible.’ He looked at Harkin. ‘Can we start with you, Adam? And for the benefit of you and Derek, George, I should explain that the A.C.C. has asked the Crime Squad to assist in the Westonbury bank job. It’s a rather specialised field, more in their line than ours.’

  Like his chief, Adam Harkin was big and burly; two inches shorter and a year older. The two men had been at Westonbury Grammar together and had joined the Force within a few months of each other, but the younger man had always been a step ahead of the older on the promotion ladder. With Harkin, that rankled. In his opinion Fox owed his higher rank to his prowess on the Rugby field rather than to superior ability, and now, as always when dealing with Fox, his tone was brusque. He told how the manager and his wife had been taken from their house to the bank, where the gang had quickly filled three suitcases with used notes to the value of more than a hundred thousand pounds, and before leaving had locked the Landors in the vault. ‘That was just after 01.00 hours on Sunday,’ Harkin said. ‘The Landors were told they would be released within a few hours, but in fact they were there until seven-thirty last night, after we received an anonymous telephone call informing us of the robbery.’

  ‘Over eighteen hours, eh?’ Fox frowned. ‘Odd, that. Two or three hours is all they could possibly need for a safe getaway. Is the delay significant, I wonder?’

  ‘Something cropped up to make them forget?’ Grover suggested. ‘Something urgent and unexpected?’

  ‘Could be, sir,’ Quigley said. ‘Incidentally, the M.O. is similar to that of a gang that robbed Sherman’s Bank in Reading last October. In both cases the manager described them as polite and considerate.’

  ‘Locking him and his wife in the vault for all those hours wasn’t considerate,’ Harkin said. ‘Not if they knew the woman suffered from claustrophobia. I think George is right. Something cropped up.’

  Unfortunately the manager could name neither the make, colour nor registration number of the car in which the men had come to the house, Quigley said. Nor did he think he could identify them, for all four had worn masks. As far as he could recollect they were all clean-shaven and, apart from the leader, who had a rather non-descript voice difficult to place, all had sounded like Cockneys. ‘We haven’t been able to question Mrs Landor,’ Quigley said. ‘She is still in a state of shock. But I doubt if she’ll be of much help.’

  Fox smiled. ‘Are you married, Inspector?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It’s my experience women are more observant than men. They have a sharper eye for detail. That could be true of Mrs Landor.’

  ‘I hope it is,’ Quigley said. ‘It’s early days, of course, but so far all we have are their footprints. They entered the bank by the rear entrance, and to get to it they had to cross an extremely muddy yard. They left some excellent impressions.’

  ‘So all you have to do is find their footwear, eh?’ Fox said. ‘What was the result of your investigation in the Reading job?’

  ‘Absolutely none, I’m afraid,’ Quigley said. ‘So far there have been no arrests and none of the money has been recovered.’

  ‘Well, better luck with this one,’ Fox said. ‘You can rely on Superintendent Harkin and myself for full cooperation.’

  Grover had given him a brief run-down on the Collier case when he had looked in the previous evening to inquire after his injury. Now he gave it in more detail, adding what further information had come to light that morning. Inquiries among local estate agents had revealed that Foresters belonged to an elderly couple named Tressiter, now on a visit to a married daughter in Canada, and that during their absence the house had been let furnished on a six-monthly tenancy to a man calling himself Frank Salmon. Foresters was particularly suited to his requirements, Salmon had told the agent, as his wife was recovering from a nervous breakdown and needed rest and quiet. ‘He collected the key last Monday,’ Grover added.

  ‘Description?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Unusually detailed. Slightly above medium height, aged around thirty, dark hair, tanned complexion. Good-looking chap, the agent said, and well-spoken. Sophisticated, cultured type.’

  ‘How about the wife?’

  ‘The agent never saw her. I doubt if she exists.’

  ‘So do I,’ Fox said. ‘References?’

  ‘Excellent, but almost certainly forged. They’re being checked.’

  ‘If they collected the key last Monday they’ll have been there a week,’ Kaufman said. ‘Did they contact any of the local tradesmen?’

  ‘Not that we can discov
er. Not even the dairy. They must have shopped further afield.’

  ‘If they shopped at all,’ Harkin said. ‘They may not have been there during the week. Just the weekend. In which case they could have brought their supplies with them.’

  There were several odd aspects to the case which puzzled him, Grover said. The woman must have been kidnapped sometime between nine o’clock, when Collier claimed to have spoken to her on the telephone, and when he arrived home at midnight. According to Collier his wife never failed to draw the curtains in the sitting room at dusk, as the possibility that someone might be watching from outside unnerved her. So who had drawn them back? The kidnappers, so that they might keep an eye on Collier on his return? If so, then they must have known the plan of the ground floor, either from a previous visit or from inside information.

  ‘Or the other way round,’ Harkin said. ‘They went in for a drink after the snatch and saw that the room could be observed from the garden. So they drew back the curtains. In which case they wouldn’t have needed pre-knowledge of the interior.’

  ‘But why bother with a drink?’ Grover objected. ‘There was a plentiful supply at Foresters. And it wasn’t just one drink. One bottle empty, another nearly empty. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘You’re right, George, it doesn’t,’ Fox said.

  He left his desk to study a wall map. Grover frowned at the creases in his jacket and the sight of blue socks beneath tan trousers. Why doesn’t Grace tell him? he thought.

  ‘Then there are the four glasses,’ he said. ‘All lousy with prints, and only one used by Collier. Yet none of the prints tallies with those found at Foresters.’

  ‘None?’ Harkin asked.

  ‘None except Collier’s. And if the kidnappers used the three other glasses, why were they careless at Pinewood and careful at Foresters? Again, it doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘No,’ Fox said, turning from the map. ‘It doesn’t. It’s far more likely that they were careful at both houses. In fact, I’d say it’s a certainty. Even the kids wear gloves these days. I think you can forget prints, George. In both houses.’