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

by J F Straker

  Reluctantly, Collier heaved himself out of the chair. ‘Untie his hands, then, and let’s go.’

  Bunny glared at them as they obeyed. ‘I’ll fix you bastards,’ he snarled. ‘If it’s the last thing I do I’ll bloody fix you.’

  ‘You and who else?’ Jock said, and gave him a parting kick.

  Walking back to the car, Terry said, ‘What’ll you do now, Guy? Go back to Hickworth?’

  Collier shook his head. It was only a little after nine-thirty, but he knew he couldn’t face it. He was too tired. He couldn’t face the journey. Above all, he couldn’t face the prospect of Pinewood, of entering that sad and empty house and going to bed alone in the room he had shared with Gail.

  ‘I’m staying in Town,’ he said. ‘I’ll find a hotel.’

  13

  ‘Not here?’ Grover looked his annoyance. Out yesterday, out again that morning. To Grover it seemed almost indecent. A man so recently bereaved, and in such tragic circumstances, should be nursing his grief at home. ‘Any idea when he’ll be back?’

  Mrs Wise shook her head. ‘He didn’t say, sir. He went off yesterday afternoon, like I told you, and he hasn’t been back since. His bed hasn’t been slept in. Nor none of the others either. And his car isn’t here.’

  ‘He didn’t say where he was going?’ Parker asked.

  ‘No. He didn’t say anything, really, except not to bother about dinner.’

  ‘Well, when he returns ask him to get in touch with me, will you?’ Grover said. ‘It’s important, tell him.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But I’m glad you’ve come. I think someone broke in here last night.’ Grover looked at Parker. This was his pigeon. Parker frowned. ‘We’ve had no report of a break-in,’ he said. ‘Did you report it, Mrs Wise?’

  She hadn’t reported it, she said, because she wasn’t sure. Nothing seemed to be missing, nothing had been disturbed. As far as she could see the safe had not been tampered with and she had checked the silver. ‘I wouldn’t know about Mr Collier’s things, of course—or poor Mrs Collier’s—her jewellery and such, I mean—but everything looks all right.’

  ‘So what makes you think there was an intruder?’

  They were in the hall. Mrs Wise pointed to the sitting-room door. ‘In there, Inspector,’ she said. ‘The French windows weren’t properly shut.’

  ‘And when did you discover that? This morning?’

  No, she said, last night. She and her husband had spent the evening with her sister in Westonbury, and it was after midnight when they got back to Hickworth. Driving through the village she remembered that she had left her spectacles at Pinewood, and despite the late hour she had popped in to collect them. ‘I have my own key, you see. Actually, of course, the spectacles weren’t important, they could have waited until this morning. But I was worried about Mr Collier, and it gave me the chance to see if there was anything he needed.’

  ‘Didn’t you expect him to be in bed?’ Grover asked.

  ‘He’s hardly been to bed at all, sir, since Mrs Collier was killed. That’s why I was surprised there weren’t any lights. Still, seeing as how I was here I decided I might as well collect the spectacles, and while I was in the kitchen I saw—at least, I thought I saw—someone go past the window. The curtains weren’t drawn, you see. Well, I called George—that’s my husband, sir—and we had a look round. And that’s when we found the French windows weren’t properly shut.’ Mrs Wise shook her head. ‘Mind you, I could have forgotten to close them when I left earlier. I don’t usually have to lock up, you see. And I suppose I could have imagined the man outside the window. I know George thought I did. That’s why we didn’t call the police. That, and nothing having been took.’

  They examined the French windows. There was no indication that the lock had been forced. ‘This man you thought you saw when you were in the kitchen,’ Parker said. Was he coming from this direction?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Towards the car.’

  ‘Car? What car?’

  ‘There’s an opening to a field just before you get to the house. There was a car parked there when we arrived—we both noticed it—but it wasn’t there when we left. We heard it drive away as we were locking up.’

  ‘Can you describe the car?’ Parker asked. ‘Make? Colour? Registration number?’

  Not properly, she said, except that it was a dark green saloon. She and her husband had discussed it at breakfast that morning, and her husband thought the registration number ended with a seven and that the suffix letter was L. ‘But he didn’t know the make,’ she said. ‘They all look much alike these days, don’t they? Especially from the back.’

  Parker nodded. ‘You say you heard it drive away. Towards the village?’

  ‘Yes.’ Recognising their interest, she said, ‘I could show you where it was parked.’

  That would not be necessary, Grover said, there was only the one field between the house and the village. As he walked down the drive with Parker he said irritably, ‘She should have reported it, dammit! The car wasn’t imaginary. And that adds weight to the rest.’

  ‘Possibly waiting for Collier to return,’ Parker said. ‘Leaving it to him. But I doubt if it matters much. There won’t be any prints. Whoever picked that lock was a professional.’

  ‘Even professionals get careless,’ Grover said. ‘We all have our off days.’

  If whoever had parked his car in the field entrance had done so with criminal intent he had certainly been careless. The treads of all four tyres were clearly imprinted in the heavy soil, churned into mud by the passage of cattle. There were also footprints. ‘We’ll need casts of that lot,’ Grover said. He had picked his way over the mud with considerable care. Even more carefully than Parker. Parker was concerned only with preserving imprints. Grover was also interested in preserving an expensive pair of suede shoes. ‘Hang on here, will you, while I ring division.’

  Parker accepted the arrangement, albeit with a sense of grievance. This was a sub-divisional job, and the superintendent seemed to be taking over. He could not know that for Grover tyre tracks had become something of an obsession. Recent sets had been found in the woods on either side of Foresters, and those to the west tallied with the rear tyres of Latimer’s burnt-out Viva. Those to the east had yet to be identified. Now there was another lot. With so much mystery and suspicion surrounding Collier’s actions and behaviour, wasn’t it possible that Mrs Wise’s intruder was in some way connected with the kidnapping? At that stage it was difficult to see how. But was it merely coincidence that Pinewood, rather than other and larger houses in the lane, had been chosen for entry?

  He had made the necessary telephone call and was questioning Mrs Wise about the bloodstain on the sitting-room carpet—she was positive it had not been there when she left on the Friday she said—when Collier returned. He had had business in London, he told Grover, and had stayed overnight. ‘I saw your Inspector Parker up the lane,’ he said. ‘What’s up, Superintendent?’

  Grover told him, and he went upstairs to check. No, he said when he returned, nothing seemed to have been stolen. His wife’s jewellery, among which were some valuable pieces, was intact. ‘Mrs Wise must have surprised him before he could get started,’ he said.

  ‘Either that, or he was after something in the sitting-room and didn’t need to look further.’

  Collier frowned. ‘Such as what? There’s nothing of value in here.’

  ‘You haven’t checked the safe,’ Grover said. ‘If chummy got in through the French windows he knows how to handle locks. A safe is a different proposition, of course, but I think you should check.’

  Collier’s frown deepened. To reveal the contents of the safe to the superintendent would result in more questions, and of necessity more lies. Yet to refuse could be equally damaging. And now he felt more confident, more alert. That night he had finally slept, a long deep sleep that had refreshed both his brain and his body. He could cope, he told himself.

  As the safe door swung open Grover no
dded to himself. Here was yet another instance of deliberate deception. But why? There seemed to be absolutely no point to it.

  ‘I understood you to say you gave all the money in the safe to the kidnappers,’ he said.

  ‘Well I didn’t, did I?’ Collier said truculently. ‘I kept some back.’

  ‘Three—four thousand, would you say?’

  ‘Something like that. Do you want me to count it?’

  ‘No thank you, sir. But with the five thousand you paid in ransom, you must have had somewhere around eight thousand pounds in the safe on Saturday. How come?’

  ‘I told you. I had a good win at the Highway on Thursday. And I was only guessing when I said I gave the kidnappers five grand. It could have been less.’

  ‘Not a lot less, I fancy, Mr Collier,’ Grover said. ‘You are obviously accustomed to handling large sums of money. Your estimate is unlikely to be far out. As for your winnings at the Highway they amounted to three and a half thousand. We checked.’

  ‘Did you now? I can’t imagine why.’ That was true, and it worried him. Why should they investigate him so closely? He was the bereaved husband, not the murderer. ‘Frankly, Superintendent, I can’t see how the exact amount I had in my safe—or for that matter, how much I handed over to the kidnappers—can have the slightest bearing on your inquiries into my wife’s death.’

  ‘Neither can I, sir,’ Grover said. ‘Which is why I am puzzled that you should try to mislead us.’

  ‘I didn’t try, Superintendent. It wasn’t intentional. I wasn’t thinking straight, that’s all. I doubt if you would either if you had just found your wife as I had found mine.’ Collier gulped. Each time he remembered how Gail had looked he suffered afresh. ‘Well, would you?’

  ‘Probably not.’ Grover knew he was lying. The discrepancy was too big, the explanation too weak. He had to be lying. But again, why? Maybe further pressure would provide a clue to that. Let him have it all at once, smother him with his own lies and hope that in his confusion he would betray whatever there was to betray. ‘Tell me, sir. Was the error you made in the time of your return Saturday night also unintentional?’

  ‘Eh? I don’t get you.’

  ‘You claim to have returned shortly after midnight. We have witnesses who saw you driving through the village at two-fifteen a.m.’

  ‘Witnesses? What witnesses?’ Collier sought to remember. There had been that shadowy figure in the doorway of the Corner Store. Was he one of them? ‘Well, whoever they are they’re mistaken. I suppose it could have been nearer twelve-thirty than twelve, but certainly no later. Two-fifteen is way out.’

  ‘Is it? Our witnesses, a married couple, were returning home from a party, and their host supports their statement that they left shortly after two o’clock.’

  ‘Ah!’ Collier remembered. ‘Late night revellers, eh? Probably stoned, their host included. They must have mistaken another car for mine. There’s more than one Rover Two Thousand in the district. But even if they were right—and I assure you they’re not—what on earth does it matter? It might conceivably affect the time at which the kidnapper rang me, but that’s all. It doesn’t alter the fact that my wife was kidnapped and murdered. And that’s what matters. Nothing else. Not to me, anyway.’

  ‘I agree. And again I am puzzled by what seems like yet another pointless digression from the truth. First the money, then the time.’ Grover paused. ‘And that’s not all, is it? You still have to explain those three extra glasses.’ He nodded at the table. ‘They were there, remember, when we returned from Foresters.’

  ‘Of course I remember.’ Collier frowned. ‘But—explain? How can I? I don’t understand it myself.’

  ‘No? I believe you said it was shortly after one o’clock when the kidnapper rang the second time, telling you where to find your wife?’

  ‘Yes.’ Collier managed a thin smile. ‘You’re not querying the time again, I hope.’

  ‘No, sir. Because shortly after one o’clock you were seen driving fast through the village in the direction of Ryting. And not only did you have a male passenger beside you, but you were closely followed by two other men in another car.’ Grover took a deep breath. ‘I’m suggesting, Mr Collier, that those three men were your fellow drinkers that morning.’

  Collier was silent. He should have realised he might have been seen and recognised. He would have realised it had he been given time to think. As it was he had concentrated on events prior to his return home, giving no thought to what had happened after. For that he had had to improvise. But how to improvise now?

  Stalling for time, he said, ‘The fact that another car was following me doesn’t mean it was with me.’

  Interruption came in the form of police reinforcements. Grover was annoyed, it gave Collier time to fashion yet another lie; and although he saw no way in which Collier could wriggle out of this one he was not entirely confident that it would not happen. His lack of confidence seemed justified when, after an interval, they moved to another room to allow the sitting-room to be dusted for prints. Collier’s long face, dark now with stubble, was appropriately grave as he said, ‘My apologies, Superintendent. You’re right, of course. The men were here, and it was stupid of me to pretend they were not. But I was anxious not to involve them. They had absolutely no connection with my wife’s death, either before or after.’

  Grover glowered at him. ‘Very stupid, sir, And wrong. However, perhaps you will now tell me who they were and why they were here.’

  They had come, Collier said, because he had sent for them. While waiting for the kidnapper to ring back it had occurred to him, as he believed it had occurred to the superintendent, that there were aspects of the kidnapping that were unusual. The size of the ransom, for instance, and the way in which it was collected. ‘So perhaps it was me they were after, I thought, not the money, and they were using my wife as bait. They would ring and tell me where to find her, and I would rush into the trap.’

  ‘Very perspicacious of you, sir,’ Grover said drily. ‘But I thought you claimed to have no enemies?’

  ‘None that I am aware of, Superintendent. But gamblers often make enemies. Particularly successful ones. So I decided to play safe. I telephoned someone I had met at the Highway—they’re a pretty mixed lot—and asked him to supply me with three heavies. Which he did. They were here in a little under three hours.’ Grover’s face proclaimed his incredulity.

  ‘Really? At what time did you ring this obliging gentleman?’

  Collier repeated his thin smile. It was an effort, for he did not feel like smiling. This verbal sparring was not to his liking. It demanded total concentration and he found that difficult, for his mind kept harking back to the previous evening’s unpleasant session with Bunny Warren. Had Bunny really lied when he claimed to know nothing of the kidnapping? Lied because he feared the inevitable reprisal? If so, how near had he been to breaking? He had taken quite a beating. Or was there no breaking point—not because Bunny was tough, but because there was nothing to tell? That thought had worried Collier all the way down from London. It worried him now. For if it wasn’t Bunny it had to be Jock or Terry. Both, probably, since they had given each other an alibi. And he couldn’t handle them as they had handled Bunny. So he had to think, to plan, to make decisions. And how could he do that with the superintendent needling him about stupid, insignificant details that had nothing to do with Gail?

  ‘I must be careful about time, mustn’t I?’ he said. ‘But if memory doesn’t fail me it was around nine o’clock. I know they were here before midday. Or was it just after? About then, anyway.’

  ‘And it was these three men who used the glasses?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And spilt blood on the carpet?’

  ‘Ah, yes! The blood.’ He had forgotten the blood. ‘Frankly, I can’t explain that. Maybe one of them had a nose bleed, or cut himself. I don’t remember. Anyway, they went to Foresters with me. But there was no trap, so I got rid of them.’

  ‘Did they go i
nto the house with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? So if there had been a trap they wouldn’t have been much use, would they?’

  ‘I know. But they were there—visible—a show of force. I reckoned that was enough. And I—well, I didn’t want them with me when I met my wife. It could be an emotional moment—as God knows it was!’

  ‘Of course.’ Grover saw the pain in his eyes and sympathised. But sympathy would help neither of them, and he pressed on. ‘However, if these men were merely for show you didn’t need heavies from London. Two or three local friends would have filled the bill, wouldn’t they? And frankly, sir, I find it extremely hard to accept that you could lay on a bodyguard almost instantaneously—and on a Sunday morning at that. Who was the obliging entrepreneur who organised it?’

  Collier shook his head, ‘I’m not saying, Superintendent. Nor am I giving you the names of the three men. That was part of the deal. And as I’ve already said, they are quite irrelevant to your inquiries.’

  Grover tried to press him, but Collier was adamant. No names. Nor was he more responsive to the superintendent’s efforts to persuade him, as they drank coffee brought by Mrs Wise, to talk in more general terms about himself. Under interrogation he had obviously been on his guard, though the reason for that was still obscure. Grover had hoped that in a more relaxed atmosphere the guard might slip a little and perhaps allow a hint to what he was hiding. But Collier wasn’t talking. With the minimum of rudeness he made it plain that he had had enough. If there was nothing else, he said, there were things he had to do.

  Grover produced a blow-up of the photograph taken on Westonbury racecourse. ‘Do you recognise him, sir?’ he asked, pointing to the man with the shooting-stick.

  Collier studied it carefully. Then, almost regretfully, he shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘Should I?’

  ‘I was hoping you might.’

  ‘Why? Is he one of the kidnappers?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Grover said. ‘But I think your wife knew him.’