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

by J F Straker

  ‘Lots,’ she said. ‘At least—well, I wouldn’t know if they were close, would I? Except Mrs Vernon, perhaps. She was always popping in. They saw a lot of each other.’

  ‘Where does Mrs Vernon live?’

  ‘About a mile down the lane, sir. Hawk’s Cottage, it’s called, though I’m sure I don’t know why. A black and white house, if you know what I mean. You can’t miss it.’

  Gail Collier had been young and beautiful and, by all accounts, something of a social butterfly. Grover expected her friend to be cast in similar mould, but in that he was mistaken. Iris Vernon was somewhere in the forties, tall and angular, with greying hair and a weather-beaten face that showed no hint of cosmetics. ‘You’ll have come about poor Gail, I suppose,’ she said, leading Grover into a bright and chintzy drawing-room. ‘What a terrible thing to happen, Superintendent. She was such a gay, exciting person. She really loved life. And to lose it like that! It’s—oh, it’s horrible! Incidentally, there was another policeman here earlier, asking questions about her. Personal questions, like how did she and Henry get on, who were her friends, how did she occupy her time? That sort of thing. I’m afraid I was rather short with him. It seemed unnecessarily nosy. Ghoulish, almost.’

  It was neither nosy nor ghoulish, Grover said, and explained that there were certain aspects of the crime that suggested the kidnappers, or at least one of them, had not been strangers to the dead woman. Hence the questions about her friends and life style. ‘Anything you can tell us will be treated as confidential,’ he assured her. ‘And quite trivial items of information can sometimes be important.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She thought for a moment. ‘You know Henry’s a gambler?’

  ‘Yes.’ Collier’s claim to have had a handsome win at the Highway Club on Thursday night had been proved correct.

  ‘I can’t think of anything else. Except did you know they weren’t married?’

  ‘The Colliers?’

  ‘Yes. His wife refused to divorce him. Gail took his name by deed poll.’ She frowned. ‘And that really is confidential, Superintendent. I think I’m the only person around here who knows.’

  He assured her that confidence would be respected and produced the photograph. ‘It was taken by Mrs Collier,’ he said. ‘Last week, if I’m not mistaken. At Westonbury Races, eh?’

  She nodded. ‘Tuesday. She went with the Cannocks. I was supposed to go too, but I had a tummy upset.’

  ‘Can you name some of the people?’

  ‘Of course.’ She took the photograph, laid it on a table, and donned spectacles. ‘Now, let’s see. Yes, that’s George Cannock. He’s a retired Gunner, runs a pub out on the Westonbury road. The woman behind him, the one in the pink hat—that’s Davina, his wife.’ Her finger moved and stopped. ‘The tall man with the drooping moustache is Andrew Osman. I don’t know much about him, except that he’s a keen angler. He has a cottage on the river over at Loxford; I went there once with Gail. The little man next to him with the binoculars is Tommy Gunn. You know Tommy? By repute, I mean?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Should I?’

  ‘You certainly should. He’s a leading National Hunt jockey.’ The finger moved again. ‘The tall girl in green—there that’s Merien Sowerby. I think the man next to her, the one with his back to the camera, is her fiancé. Ted something or other. And—’

  ‘Who’s the chap on the right?’ Grover asked, wearying of the indirect approach. ‘The one with the shooting-stick.’ He pointed. ‘There.’

  She bent to look more closely. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  Grover was disappointed. ‘I was hoping you’d know all her friends,’ he said. ‘The local ones, anyway.’

  ‘So I do. Or I think I do.’

  ‘But not this one, eh?’

  ‘Him?’ She shook her head. ‘No. But then he isn’t—wasn’t one of Gail’s friends. He’s a complete stranger. You can take my word for that.’

  12

  Collier drove fast. He knew he was being reckless, that there was no need for speed, that he had all the evening at his disposal and if necessary all night. But speed suited his mood—although after two sleepless nights and two days with only a few mouthfuls of food it was a miracle that he could drive at all. His eyes burned and the lids were heavy, his head and his limbs ached, there was the now familiar dull, unceasing pain in his stomach. Yet his brain was fiercely active. There had been a period when reaction had set in and, numb with grief, he could neither think nor plan constructively. Then the inertia had lifted and he had been possessed by an overwhelming need for action. With Gail’s death action could take only one form: to find the man who had killed her. And only Jock or Bunny or Terry could direct him.

  He had not told them he was coming.

  He wanted to surprise them, hoping that their reaction to the unexpected confrontation might tell him something of their guilt or innocence. Not that he was in much doubt about who was innocent and who was guilty. It was for that reason he had decided to tackle Jock and Terry first. If they could finally convince him of their innocence the door was wide open and he could enlist their help to tackle Bunny.

  He had hoped to see them singly, but when he reached Terry’s flat it was to find both of them there. They were apprehensive and uneasy at sight of him, and that did not surprise him; they knew why he had come. They were also truculent. That did not surprise him either. By handing over the ransom he had robbed them of their cut and they expected him to see them right. ‘We was coming down to your place,’ Terry said. ‘Not yet, of course. Not with the Fuzz sitting on the bleeding doorstep. But we was coming. That’s fifteen grand apiece you owe us and we bloody want it.’

  ‘You’ll get it,’ Collier said impatiently. ‘Or two of you will. The third—’ He paused. ‘You were all coming? Bunny Warren as well?’

  Terry looked at Jock before answering. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not him. He’s the bastard what done us.’

  ‘Then why haven’t you persuaded him to talk? I imagine you can both be very persuasive given the incentive. You’ve got that, haven’t you?’

  Terry shrugged. ‘You think we haven’t tried? He just don’t seem to be around.’

  ‘He came back with you in Jock’s car on Sunday,’ Collier said. ‘Didn’t you have it out with him then?’

  They had had it in mind, Terry said, but Bunny had forestalled them. When Jock had slowed to turn off the highway so that they might tackle him in greater privacy—and, if necessary, give him the sort of treatment that might persuade him to talk—Bunny had flashed a knife. With him in the back and the two of them in the front he had had them at a disadvantage. Just keep going, he had said: and with the point of the knife pricking his neck Jock had obeyed. ‘When we tried to discuss it reasonable like he told us to shut up,’ Terry said. ‘Flaming mad, he was. Swearing blue murder all the bloody way. Then, going down Kilburn High Street, he tells Jock to stop and nips out. We haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘Like Terry said, we tried,’ Jock said. ‘We was at his pad last night but he didn’t show. He’s took off, I reckon.’

  ‘You’re sure he’s guilty, are you?’ Collier said.

  ‘Of course.’ Jock looked surprised. ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘All I’m sure of is that it has to be one of you three. I agree the odds are on Bunny. But there’s no proof. Only suspicion.’

  That was where Collier was wrong, Jock said. There was proof. He and Terry had parted from Bunny outside the bank and had walked together to the car park. Terry had driven off first, he had followed, and he had had Terry’s car in view until they reached the outskirts of London. Westonbury was considerably nearer to Hickworth than to London, and Collier would have been home and in contact with the kidnappers long before he or Terry could have got in touch with them, let alone have visited them at Foresters. ‘You said yourself it had to be one of us three. So if it weren’t Terry or me, that leaves Bunny, doesn’t it?’

  Collier looked at Terry. ‘Is that true?’ he asked. ‘
Did you know Jock was behind you? Did you see him?’

  ‘On and off.’ Terry said. ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘How? It was dark. All you would see were headlights. How did you know they were his?’

  ‘I flashed them, didn’t I?’ Jock said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Terry said. ‘He flashed them.’

  Collier looked from one to the other, trying to read their faces. ‘You didn’t mention this before,’ he said curtly. ‘At Pinewood. Why not?’

  ‘How the bloody hell could we?’ Jock protested. ‘We didn’t get the chance, did we? You’d only just started the bloody inquest when the man came on the blower and you hared off to see your missus.’

  That was true. And yet…

  ‘All right,’ Collier said. ‘We’ll pay Bunny a visit. Yes, I know,’ he added, as Terry started to object. ‘He wasn’t there last night. But that’s not to say he won’t be there this evening.’

  Bunny’s flat was in the basement of a three-storeyed building. Collier had never previously visited it, and he parked the Rover in a parallel street and followed the others. The basement area was protected by railings, and they went down the steps and banged on Bunny’s door. There was no response. ‘If he’s in he’s not answering,’ Jock said. ‘But I reckon he’s took off.’

  ‘Could be he’s down the boozer,’ Terry said.

  ‘Wherever he is, we’ll wait,’ Collier said. ‘But not here. Farther along the street.’

  Jock laughed. ‘What’s wrong with inside, Guv’nor? Like we done last night. It won’t take a minute. These old locks are a doddle.’

  The speed with which he picked the lock justified his confidence.

  The flat consisted of bedroom and sitting-room, with a small kitchen and a bathroom. Dusk was well advanced, but to switch on the lights would be to warn Bunny of their presence, and they sat in the bedroom because that was at the back and waited for him to come home. It was clear from their comments that both Jock and Terry thought he wouldn’t show, that he had decided to get lost for a while. Collier knew they could be right, but wishful thinking made him optimistic; Bunny was his only lead to whoever had killed Gail. And Bunny was tough, he wasn’t a runner. It didn’t have to be fear that had kept him away from home the previous night. He could have been with a bird, he could have been celebrating his…

  ‘Search the place,’ he said, getting off the bed.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Search the place. If Bunny sold out he got paid, didn’t he? So let’s see if the money’s here.’

  It was difficult to be thorough in the near dark. They stripped the bed, ransacked drawers and cupboards and tested for loose floorboards, but they found no money. They were discussing whether to move to the kitchen or the bathroom when they heard the front door open and footsteps in the hall. The door was slammed shut. Then Bunny said thickly, ‘I need a drink.’

  The sound of a woman’s voice reassured them. Had Bunny’s companion been a man the confrontation could have been rougher than they had bargained for.

  ‘You’ve been drinking all evening,’ the woman said. ‘We don’t want a fiasco, love, do we?’

  Bunny snorted loudly. After a pause he said, ‘Call that a fiasco, would you?’

  The woman laughed and they went into the sitting-room, leaving the door open. Collier’s heart started to race. ‘Okay,’ he said huskily. ‘Now we’ll talk to him.’

  ‘How about the woman?’ Jock said.

  ‘Get rid of her.’

  Bunny was pouring a drink, his back to the door. The woman lounged in an armchair, one knee lodged over the other, her skirt half way up her thighs. She was middle-aged and plump, with thick legs and rich auburn hair. She leaned forward when she saw them in the doorway, screwing up her eyes to peer at them.

  ‘You never said you’d got company,’ she said.

  Bunny turned, tumbler and bottle in hand. He had taken off his jacket and the collar of his shirt was undone, the tie loose. His trousers gaped where the zip had been pulled down.

  ‘What the bleeding hell!’ he bellowed furiously, his face red with sudden anger. ‘Who let you lot in?’

  ‘We let ourselves in, didn’t we?’ Jock said, and turned to the woman. ‘Get lost, you old cow. This is business.’

  ‘Well, really!’ She bridled nervously and looked at Bunny. ‘Nice friends you’ve got, I don’t think!’

  Bunny ignored her. He smashed the tumbler against the edge of the table. Gripping the jagged remnant in one hand and holding the bottle by the neck in the other, he took a few menacing steps towards his unwelcome visitors.

  ‘Now get out!’ he said fiercely. ‘Get out before I smash your bleeding heads in. Go on! Scarper!’

  Collier reached for a wooden chair that stood just inside the door. A pulse hammered in his temple. Tiredness slipped from him, he felt exhilarated at the prospect of action. Holding the chair as a shield he said harshly, ‘Put that bottle down, you fool, and talk. Otherwise there’ll be trouble. Real trouble.’

  Had Bunny been sober he might have realised that the odds were against him and have heeded the warning. As it was he tried to rush them, using the bottle as a flail. He caught Terry on the shoulder, and Terry swore and aimed a blow that missed. Then Collier lifted the chair and brought it down on Bunny’s head with a sweeping blow that knocked him sideways, and he grunted and fell. Before he could recover, Terry and Jock were on him. Seizing an arm each, they sat on him and held him.

  Collier put down the chair. ‘You’d better go,’ he told the woman.

  She needed no second bidding. Wriggling her plump body out of the chair, she grabbed her handbag and hurried from the room. As the front door closed, Terry said ‘What now, Guy?’

  ‘Hang on to him,’ Collier said.

  He went into the bedroom and tore a sheet into strips, slitting the hems with his penknife. Bunny was back to full vigour by the time he returned, thrashing his legs and twisting his body in a frantic effort to dislodge his captors. Trussing him up was a struggle. When eventually the task was complete they left him on his back on the floor and poured drinks. Sipping neat whisky they gathered round him. He had ceased to struggle, but if looks could kill all three would instantly have dropped dead.

  ‘Right,’ Collier said. Now talk, damn you! Who kidnapped my wife?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ Bunny shouted. ‘I told you, didn’t I? I had nothing to do with it.’

  Jock kicked him in the ribs. ‘You’re lying, Bunny,’ he said, and kicked him again. ‘That’s bad. How much did they pay you?’

  ‘Nothing, damn you!’ He looked appealingly at Collier. ‘It wasn’t me, Guv’nor,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Honest to God it wasn’t! One of them two bastards must have done it.’

  His face creased in pain as Terry’s toecap landed hard against his other side.

  ‘They didn’t,’ Collier said. ‘They couldn’t have. Which leaves you. Stop lying, damn you, and tell us the truth.’

  ‘But it is the truth!’ He saw the disbelief on their faces and swore blasphemously. ‘Oh, what the hell! Screw the lot of you!’

  They went to work on him with their feet, indiscriminate in their aim, so that as Bunny writhed and twisted under the onslaught they made contact with back and stomach and chest, with arms and legs and even his genitals. Only his head was spared; a decisive blow there could kill, and dead men can’t talk. Collier took no active part in the attack, but mentally the violence was all his. Bunny Warren had not killed Gail; but it was because of him that she was dead, and felling him with the chair had released a little of the anger and hate and thirst for vengeance that possessed him. Yet it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough; and as he watched the feet go in, heard the thuds as they landed and Bunny’s screams of anguish, his body trembled and his limbs itched to compete. He wanted to plant his heel on Bunny’s face and grind it round and round until the flabby nose was squashed flat and his teeth were gone and his face was red with blood. And Bunny was only the link man, he…


  The trembling changed to an icy shiver, his body went cold; there was vomit in his mouth. Suddenly he was ashamed. For Bunny wouldn’t talk, he knew that; they could kick him senseless and he wouldn’t talk. This was violence for the sake of violence. It could serve no purpose, it was brutal and unavailing. And he, Henry Collier, who had prided himself on his humaneness, who had always seen violence as degrading, had allowed himself to be part of it, had practically initiated it.

  ‘Stop it!’ he cried, his voice hoarse. ‘That’s enough! Stop it!’

  Terry delivered a final kick and stopped. If Jock heard he took no notice. Teeth gritted, fists clenched, he went on kicking, breathing heavily through his nostrils. They had to pull him away.

  ‘What’s the big idea?’ Terry protested. ‘We was just warming up nicely. A bit more of the same and he’d have squealed his bloody head off.’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ Collier said. ‘Not in a month of Sundays. He knows he’s finished if he does. If he doesn’t get it from us he’ll get it from them. Either way he’s had it. And it’s better to be sore than dead.’

  ‘So what’ll we do?’

  ‘Untie his hands and leave him. He can manage the rest himself.’

  ‘I reckon I could make him talk,’ Jock said. ‘Maybe you’re right, Guv’nor. Maybe this won’t do it.’ He aimed a kick that failed to land. ‘But there’s ways. He’d talk.’

  ‘Would you?’ Collier asked. ‘Knowing what to expect if you did, would you talk?’

  Jock shrugged. ‘How about the money?’ Terry said. ‘It could be here. We only searched the bedroom.’

  ‘Then look,’ Collier said.

  He did not join in the search. Fatigue had finally caught up with him, and he slumped wearily into an armchair and closed his heavy lids. While they were absent the only sound in the room was Bunny’s heavy breathing as he struggled unsuccessfully to free himself.

  ‘No luck, Guy,’ Terry said, when the two returned.