by J F Straker
‘Then who handled the glasses?’
Fox shrugged. ‘Friends, I imagine.’
‘Mrs Collier didn’t say she’d had visitors when she spoke to her husband on the phone.’
‘She may have forgotten to mention it. Or perhaps they came later. Dropped in unexpectedly. People do.’
‘Objection,’ Grover said. ‘If they were friends she’d have had a drink with them, wouldn’t she? But she didn’t. All the glasses had contained whisky. Mrs Collier’s tipple was vodka,’
Fox smiled. ‘Objection overruled, George. I’m suggesting they were unwelcome visitors, she wanted to be rid of them. Joining them in a drink would have encouraged them to stay.’
‘Well, I don’t see it,’ Harkin said loudly, happy to disagree with his chief. ‘I’m with George. The case has been given extensive coverage by the media: TV, radio, the Press. If the visitors were friends they would have come forward, wouldn’t they? Or at least have contacted the bereaved husband. Have they, George?’
‘If they have he didn’t mention it to Parker when he was having his prints taken this morning,’ Grover said. ‘And he knew I was puzzled by those damned glasses. Besides, wouldn’t Mrs Collier have cleared them away after her friends had left? I know I would. I hate the smell of stale booze first thing in the morning. And women are usually far more fussy than men.’
‘Well, anyway, we’ll put out an appeal for anyone who may have visited the house Saturday night,’ Fox said. ‘But I agree a response is unlikely. So we have a choice, eh? Kidnappers or friends. It must be one or the other. Yet neither seems to tie in, does it? Most discouraging.’
‘Does there have to be a choice, sir?’ Kaufman said. ‘Couldn’t they be both? Couldn’t she have been kidnapped by friends? That might explain several things that otherwise seem inexplicable.’
‘Not a very friendly act, murder,’ Harkin said, with heavy sarcasm.
Up yours! Kaufman thought. Enemies posing as friends, then, he said blandly, refusing to be rattled. And as the chief superintendent had suggested, ones she had not been too pleased to see. The use of Foresters implied that the snatch had been planned in advance, that it wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing. ‘But even if they knew Collier was out that evening they would still want to make sure she was alone. So they’d pretend it was a friendly call and accept a drink while they probed for the information they wanted. And that would explain the prints on the glasses, wouldn’t it? Wearing gloves would have looked a bit off.’
‘You’re right, Derek,’ Grover said, waving away the smoke from Kaufman’s pipe. He disapproved of tobacco, it dulled the palate. ‘You know something? I’ve been bloody dense. From the start I’ve had this notion that the kidnappers were no strangers to the Colliers; that the woman’s death was the whole purpose of the exercise, not just an unfortunate but unpremeditated sequel. I said so, didn’t I?’ They looked at him blankly. ‘Didn’t I? No, perhaps not. But there are several pointers to it.’
‘Such as what?’ Harkin asked.
‘That ridiculously small ransom, for a start. Strangely enough, however, it never occurred to me that they might have arrived as friends and have been invited into the house. I imagined they’d snatch her at the door. But I’m sure Derek’s right. He has to be.’
‘Don’t be too sure,’ Fox said. ‘Preconceived theories are dangerous.’
‘I know, sir. But so far it’s the only one that makes any kind of sense. It might even explain that blood on the carpet. It wasn’t the woman’s, but it could have been one of the kidnappers.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know, do I? Perhaps she managed to clock one of them before they grabbed her.’
‘Perhaps,’ Fox said. He sounded dubious. ‘Although she was a small woman, wasn’t she? But aren’t we going rather too far into the realms of fantasy? Let’s leave it there, shall we, until we have more to go on.’
‘I’ve been trying to visualise the actual murder,’ Grover said. ‘The position of the marks on her neck suggest she was standing up and facing chummy when he attacked her. There were no traces of skin or blood in her fingernails, so he is probably unmarked. But she seems to have pulled out some of his hair. We found strands in both her hands, and more on the floor and on the bed.’
‘On the bed?’
‘Yes. He must have put her there after he’d killed her. Goodness knows why.’
‘Sex?’ Kaufman suggested.
‘No sign of it.’
‘Apart from the hair, any other signs of a struggle?’ Fox asked.
‘None.’
‘Hm! Well, the hair should be enough to convict him. Provided we can find him, that is. Anything else, George? Or can we move on?’
‘I don’t think so, sir. We’re making all the usual inquiries, of course. Routine stuff.’ Grover hesitated. ‘I’m not entirely happy about Collier, though.’
‘No? I don’t suppose he’s laughing either, poor chap. Or are you thinking he may be chummy? That he faked the kidnap as a blind?’
‘I suppose the kidnap could be some sort of a blind,’ Grover said. ‘But not devised by Collier. He didn’t kill her, I’m sure of that. And he certainly doesn’t fit Salmon’s description. No, it’s not that. But there’s something odd somewhere.’
‘Such as?’
Little things, Grover said. Such as going off alone that Saturday night, the fact that he happened to have five thousand pounds in his safe, the long delay before ringing the police. ‘His explanations sounded reasonable, I suppose. Yet I got the impression they weren’t genuine. None of them.’
The telephone rang. Fox picked up the receiver, his eyes on Grover as he listened. ‘It’s your Sergeant Pullin, George,’ he said. ‘He said to tell Derek he’s got lucky. I’ve told him to come up.’
Pullin was out of breath. The Chief Superintendent’s office was some distance from the car park and up two flights of steps, and Pullin had covered it at the double, eager to impart his news before the conference terminated. The opportunity to sit in with the top brass was not to be missed. He had never met Superintendent Harkin, and the chief only briefly on his promotion.
Fox told him to sit and wait until he got his breath back. Pullin sat, but he did not wait. He had located the café where Latimer had picked up the girl, he said. The proprietor, a man named Manly, had recognised Latimer from his photograph and remembered having seen him there on a previous occasion. Latimer had spent about twenty minutes over a cup of tea and a doughnut, and for most of that time he had been chatting up the girl, the only other customer in the café. Then Latimer had paid his bill and hers and the two had left together.
‘What time was that?’ Kaufman asked.
‘A quarter past three, sir. Manly remembers the time because it had seemed an appropriate moment to pack up. There hadn’t been much doing all evening, he said. Very quiet.’
‘Anything on the girl?’
‘No, sir. Manly hadn’t seen her before. About eighteen, he thought; not bad-looking, he said, but scruffy. She had come in with a previous customer, but they had quarrelled and the man had left without her.’
‘Did you investigate the possibility that the bomb might have been planted in Latimer’s car while he was in the café?’ Grover asked.
Pullin shook his head. ‘Not a chance, sir,’ he said firmly. ‘The café is a ramshackle wooden building on stilts, with a balcony running the length of the front. Latimer backed his car in with the boot against the balcony, and Manly says it was within his view the whole time Latimer was there. He is positive no one tampered with it.’
Grover had listened with growing interest. ‘Exactly where is this café, Sergeant?’ he asked.
‘About six miles this side of Ryting sir.’
‘On the south side of the road?’ Grover said. ‘With a large parking area?’
‘That’s right, sir. You know it, do you?’
‘I know it,’ Grover said.
There was something in his tone that stirred t
heir curiosity. ‘What’s up, George?’ Fox asked. ‘Why the interest?’
‘It’s less than a mile from the junction with Foresters lane,’ Grover said. ‘I noticed it yesterday afternoon.’
It was Pullin’s turn to show interest. ‘I was wondering about that, sir,’ he said. ‘Could Latimer have been involved in that business in any way?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Why?’
‘Well, Manly said that while Latimer was settling up he asked if there was some secluded spot nearby where he could park with the girl. He made no secret of what he was after. Manly thought he’d probably get it, too, and no bother.’ Pullin looked apologetically at Fox. ‘Well, anyway, Manly told him about this lane the one you mentioned, sir—and Latimer said he would give it a try. We don’t know that he did, of course.’
‘We can find out, Grover said. ‘Or I hope we can.’
‘Find out how?’ Kaufman asked, when he and Grover were on their way back to division. ‘Tyre tracks?’
‘Yes. Latimer’s rear tyres were practically untouched by the fire, weren’t they? We could be lucky.’
‘And if we are? What does that prove?
‘That Latimer had it away with a girl in the woods there. So what?’
‘So it could have been there that he picked up the bomb. It was probably his last stop before it exploded. And Foresters—well, let’s say I don’t believe in coincidence.’ Grover leaned forward to direct the driver. ‘Now, put that damned pipe away, Derek. We’re lunching at a pub where food is real, and although your taste buds are probably ruined already I’d like you to make the most of what you have left.’
The food was certainly real. Kaufman was hungry and did it full justice. Back in the car, he said, ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, George. That was quite a meal.’
‘Meant to be savoured, not gobbled. You’re a glutton, Derek.’
Kaufman grinned and blew out his cheeks. ‘Maybe. Anyway, squash tonight, eh? Work off the extra poundage.’
‘I haven’t got any extra poundage. But all right—if we must. And if crime permits.’
At divisional headquarters there was a message awaiting Grover: would he please ring Inspector Parker on his return? Parker was apologetic when Grover got through to him. The superintendent had asked to be kept informed of any development, Parker said, and rather than interrupt the chief’s conference it had seemed best to…
‘Quite,’ Grover said impatiently, ‘What’s the development?’
‘Collier, sir. You remember he said he had arrived home shortly after midnight to find his wife had been kidnapped?’
‘Of course. What of it?’
‘Well, it seems he got the time wrong. A local resident, a man named Walton, who knows Collier and his car by sight, called in at the station this morning. He had read the report on the kidnapping in his morning paper, he said, and realised that someone had made a mistake about the time. It probably wasn’t important, he said, but he thought we should know.’
‘Very proper,’ Grover said. ‘What’s the mistake?’
‘It was later, Walton says. He and his wife were walking home down Hickworth High Street after a Saturday night party when Collier overtook them in his Rover and turned down the lane leading to Pinewood. And that, Walton says, was somewhere around two-fifteen in the morning.’ Parker paused. ‘Shall I check with Collier?’
‘No,’ Grover said. ‘Two hours is too big an error to be accidental. Collier lied, and lied deliberately. I want to know why. But if he has something to hide, as it seems he has, he isn’t going to give us the answer. Not straight off. Not until we have something more with which to pressure him.’
The ‘routine stuff’, on which success or failure so often depended, was not going well. Neither inquiries in Hickworth nor a check on people using the lane past Foresters had elicited even a shred of information concerning the kidnapping and subsequent murder; and although this was not surprising, since both houses were isolated, Grover found it disappointing. Now, however, there was further ‘routine stuff’ to be put in motion: the woods around Foresters to be checked for recent tyre imprints, news media appeals for the man who had abandoned Latimer’s female companion in Manly’s café, discreet inquiries in Hickworth about the Colliers’ life-style. If Collier had needed to lie then something somewhere was wrong. Maybe someone in the village could provide, wittingly or unwittingly, a lead to that something. Moreover, working on the theory that at least one of Gail Collier’s kidnappers had been known to her—and despite the Gaffer’s warning Grover intended to work on it until it fell apart—a list of her friends and acquaintances became a prerequisite. If she had been the gay, party-loving creature that Collier had intimated the list would be long and would take time and men to check out. But first there had to be names, and Collier was the obvious source of supply.
Collier was in the garden. He had not shaved, and in the sunlight his skin looked unhealthily pale against the dark stubble. His eyes seemed to have sunk even further into their sockets, and Grover doubted if he had slept. He had probably not even been to bed, for he wore the same clothes as on the previous day and the suit was badly creased and the shirt collar crumpled and dirty. According to Mrs Wise, who had answered Grover’s knock, he had taken only a few mouthfuls of the lunch she had prepared for him. He’s like a lost soul, Mrs Wise had said; just wanders around with a sort of desperate look on his face. It’ll be a long, long while before he gets over it, poor thing. If he ever does.
Grover believed her. There was no doubting Collier’s grief. Why then had he lied about the time of his return? What did those two hours conceal that made them important? But the question must wait. Taxed with them now, Collier would say that the man Walton must have been mistaken. In any case, he would say, what does the exact time matter? And to that Grover as yet had no answer.
Collier shook his head when Grover told him the purpose of his visit. You’re on the wrong track, Superintendent, he said. I told you before, no one who knew Gail could ever have planned to kill her, let alone have carried out such a plan. You may be right, Grover said, but humour me, will you? Give me some names. She had more friends than I could name, Collier said; I may have met most of them at one time or another, but I really knew only a few. Would photographs help? There are albums full of them in her room. Gail was a keen photographer.
Grover said that photographs might help considerably.
The photographs were in colour, and mainly of informal groups taken al fresco. Collier named a few of the people pictured: the Hutchesons, the Walkers, Iris Vernon, Colin White, the Delahayes, the Brocklehursts, all Hickworth residents. Molly Peterson, Andrew Osman, the Mears and the Wyatts lived further afield. He had been to the homes of some of them, he said, but was vague about their addresses. Presumably all were on the telephone, however.
‘Didn’t your wife keep an address book?’ Grover asked.
‘I don’t remember seeing one,’ Collier said. ‘She seldom wrote letters. She preferred the telephone. Do you want me to look?’
Sensing his reluctance, Grover shook his head. It might be necessary later, he said, but for the present he had enough. ‘Do any of the men smoke cigars?’ he asked.
‘I don’t—oh, yes. Wyatt does. Little ones—cheroots. Perhaps others do too. I don’t know.’
He raised no objection to Grover’s request for the loan of the albums, and managed a tired grimace when the superintendent remarked on the welcome absence of reporters. They had been there earlier, he said, and to get rid of them he had told them what he could. ‘That wasn’t much,’ he said. ‘Nothing they didn’t know already.’
‘It’s the personal angle they’re after,’ Grover said. ‘They get the facts from us.’
He went directly to the estate agent who had rented Foresters to the kidnappers, and watched as the man sat examining the photographs in an inner office. He had turned over only a few leaves of the most recent collection when he paused and bent to peer more closely. Then he looked up.
‘That’s him, Superintendent,’ he said, jabbing with a forefinger. ‘That’s Salmon. I’m sure of it.’
The photograph had been taken on Westonbury Racecourse. At first glance Grover took it to be a general view of the crowd milling around in front of the grandstand, but on closer inspection he saw that several of the people depicted were smiling at the camera and were obviously aware that they were being photographed. And as the album was dated for the current year it seemed certain that the photograph had been taken during the race week just ended.
Luck, Grover decided, had turned sharply in his direction.
‘Which one?’ he asked.
The agent pointed to a man on the right of the picture. Dressed in a blazer and grey slacks and wearing a cap, he seemed to be just getting up from his shooting-stick or just about to sit on it. And to Grover’s intense delight he held a cigar in his free hand.
‘You’re sure?’ he asked. ‘I could have the photograph blown up if you’re not.’
‘Blow it up by all means,’ the agent said. ‘But it’s either him or his double.’
As the car sped back through the lanes to Hickworth Grover wondered why Salmon, or whatever his real name was, should have allowed himself to be photographed by his intended victim when, since he had leased Foresters before race week started, she must already have been selected. Presumably it had not occurred to him that Collier or the police might look for the kidnapper among her friends, or that the photograph might be shown to the estate agent—or, for that matter, to anyone else who might have known him as Salmon. The more fool him, Grover thought grimly. That photograph could put him away for life.
His elation suffered a temporary set-back when he arrived at Pinewood to find that Collier was no longer there. He had left shortly after the superintendent’s earlier visit, Mrs Wise said, telling her not to worry about dinner, he would eat out.
‘Which he won’t,’ she said, ‘I know he won’t.’
‘Starvation for a day or two won’t hurt him,’ Grover said, and wondered if that sounded hard. ‘Tell me—did Mrs Collier have any really close friends?’
