by J F Straker
‘What’s all this, then?’ Grover asked, as he and Kaufman walked to their car. ‘Tuesday night you were doing your nut to avoid the girl, now you have a date with her. Do I detect a change of heart? Is love starting to blossom?’
‘Hell, no! I’m only taking her out to dinner, dammit! You don’t have to make a thing of it.’
‘I’m not making a thing of it. I’m just trying to understand. There has to be a reason for such a sudden volte-face, and if it isn’t love—well, what is it? Ambition? Are you wooing the boss’s daughter in the hope of rapid promotion?’
‘Don’t be a bloody fool, George. Of course not.’
‘What, then?’ Grover persisted.
‘If you must know, I was more or less conned into it,’ Kaufman said, following Grover into the car. He slammed the door shut with unnecessary vigour. ‘I popped into the Lion for a pint at lunchtime, and I had hardly sat down when in comes Arabella with this weirdo. You know the type: all hair and tatters. She spotted me right away and brought him over to my table, and after a while they started to quarrel. Apparently he was supposed to be taking her out to dinner and on to a party, and he was crying off the dinner and said he’d meet her at the party. That got her rag out. “To hell with you,” she snapped. “Derek’ll take me. Won’t you, Derek?” Well, that put me in a spot. I muttered something about having a hell of a lot of bumph to tackle before Monday—and that’s true enough, God knows—and I didn’t feel I could spare the time for one of her all-night parties. “Not the party”, she said, “just dinner. You have to eat, don’t you?” So I said okay. I just couldn’t bring myself to let her down in front of the weirdo.’
‘Fair enough,’ Grover said. ‘Where are you taking her?’
‘I haven’t thought. Too busy. Where do you suggest? You’re the expert.’
‘Try the Cauldron in Brick Street. It’s a bit chi-chi, but the food’s good and it’s not too pricy. But give them a ring first. They may not have a table. One’s supposed to book.’
They had a table and, as Grover had promised, the food was good. Kaufman had been shaken by Arabella’s frock when he called at the house to collect her, for it plunged in a deep ‘V’ almost to her navel.
It would have looked indecent on most girls; but Arabella had little to hide, and as the meal progressed it ceased to disturb him. He was agreeably surprised to find her a more interesting and congenial companion than he had expected. He had thought her shallow and self-centred, but she listened attentively and talked intelligently—although he suspected that this was something of an act adopted to impress him. She made little attempt to hide the fact that she was attracted to him. Whenever possible her hand would touch his, and the look in her eyes as she leaned towards him made him glad that the table was between them. Although flattered by her interest he would have preferred it to be less obvious.
Inevitably the conversation turned to the kidnapping and murder of Gail Collier. Arabella had heard snatches of the case from her father, she said, but somehow she had been unable to put it all together. Could Derek? ‘Daddy thinks you’re wonderful,’ she said, her grey eyes intent on his. ‘He’s always saying so.’
Kaufman grinned. ‘Wonderful’ was a most unlikely word for the Gaffer to use in such context. ‘Competent’, perhaps. But no more.
He had concentrated mainly on the Latimer end of the case, he told her, and apart from the denouement at Lower Riverside Cottage the rest had come to him second-hand. ‘Until Wednesday night I had never even met any of the guilty parties, so I’m not competent to comment on the human angle,’ he said. ‘Just the facts.’
‘What happened at the cottage?’ she asked. ‘Was it very exciting?’
‘No. Rather tame. None of them showed any fight.’
‘Daddy said one of the Osmans had been badly hurt. Andrew, was it?’
Kaufman nodded. ‘He’s not as bad as he looked. The hospital cleaned him up and put a few stitches in his face, and then handed him back to us.’
They had finished the entree. As the waiter removed their plates she took a packet of cigarettes from her bag. ‘Do you mind my smoking between courses?’ she said. ‘I won’t if you do.’
‘Of course not.’ He wondered what Grover would have said. ‘I can’t offer you one, I’m afraid. I smoke a pipe.’ He reached into his pocket for a lighter. His hand encountered the jeweller’s box. ‘Your father asked me to give you this. I should have given it you earlier. Sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She put the box unopened in her bag. ‘It’s a necklace. Daddy had the pearls restrung.’ She leaned forward for him to light her cigarette, her hand holding his, ostensibly to steady it. The ‘V’ gaped, revealing the faintest surge of flesh at either side. Releasing his hand, she tilted back her head to exhale smoke. ‘What will happen to all those men, Derek?’
‘The charges vary,’ he said. ‘Robbery, kidnapping, murder. It’s an impressive list. I can’t see any of them getting less than twelve years. Some will get more.’
‘The Osmans, I suppose. They’re murderers. Or one of them is.’
‘You mean the bomb? There was no intention to kill Latimer, of course, but there was certainly an intention to kill unlawfully. And that’s murder.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of Latimer,’ she said. ‘I was thinking of that poor woman.’
‘You mean Latimer’s companion?’
‘No. The other one. Mrs Collier.’
‘Mrs Collier?’ He shook his head. ‘The Osmans didn’t kill Mrs Collier.’
She took the cigarette from her mouth and gaped at him. He saw that her teeth were white but uneven.
‘They didn’t? But I thought…I know Daddy didn’t actually say they were guilty, but that was the impression I got. He obviously thought they were.’
‘We all did,’ Kaufman said. ‘Even Andrew Osman. He thought his brother was responsible, although he didn’t admit it until he knew they were in the clear. And that wasn’t until this afternoon, when we got the lab report.’
‘Report on what?’
‘Some strands of hair the dead woman had pulled from the killer’s head.’ Kaufman reached across to refill her glass. Again she held his hand, and this time she continued to hold it. ‘Sounds a little thing, doesn’t it, to convict a man of murder. But it will. What’s more, he knows it. That’s why he confessed.’ He looked at her restraining hand. ‘No more wine? You’re sure?’
She shook her head and removed her hand. ‘Derek, please!’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t be so damned exasperating. Convict who? Who confessed?’
‘Jock Bristowe,’ he said. ‘The one the Osmans call Clarence.’
‘Him?’ She stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette. ‘But how could it be him? I know Daddy said he had been to the house—Fosters, is it?’
‘Foresters.’
‘Oh! Well, anyway, he’d only gone there to collect his share of the money, Daddy said. And he claimed to have left around four o’clock, Daddy said, and the Osmans confirmed that, didn’t they? And Daddy said the medical evidence put the time of her death at several hours later. At least three hours, Daddy said. So how could he possibly have killed her?’
‘Ah! But what Daddy didn’t know—’ He shook his head. ‘Daddy’ had become infectious. ‘Sorry. What your father didn’t know—what no one knew until Bristowe confessed—is that he returned to the house after the Osmans had left.’ Kaufman paused while the waiter removed the remains of the sweet. ‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’ She smiled at the waiter. ‘But why, Derek? Why did he go back?’
‘Because the further he drove the more he became convinced that the Osmans were trying to con him, that if he waited until the afternoon to collect, as the Osmans had said, there would be nothing to collect, the Osmans would have scarpered. So he turned the car round and went back. There’d be trouble, he knew that, but he reckoned he could handle it. Unfortunately for him—and especially for Mrs Collier—the Osmans had already departed. But they had left the front door on
the latch for Collier, and when Bristowe got into the hall he heard sounds coming from upstairs. So he went up to investigate. And when he opened the attic bedroom door—the key was in the lock—there was Mrs Collier.’
‘She was all right?’
‘Apart from an inflamed temper, yes, perfectly all right.’ He finished his coffee and took out his pipe. ‘Do you mind?’
She shook her head impatiently, seduction temporarily forgotten in her curiosity.
‘But why did he kill her?’
‘Well, apparently he had once visited Collier at Pinewood, and it seems there was mutual recognition. That put him in a fix. If he let her go she was bound to tell Collier, and how could he explain his presence there? Collier would know at once that he was involved with the kidnappers. So would the rest of the firm, and they had never echoed Collier’s claim to eschew violence. Far from it.’ Kaufman had been stuffing tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. Now he paused to light it, waving away the resultant cloud of smoke. ‘I daresay if he had given the problem proper consideration he might have cooked up some sort of an explanation, although he doesn’t strike me as being well endowed in the upper storey. Anyway, he decided it wasn’t on, he couldn’t risk it. So he killed her. Then he scarpered. In panic, he says, although I doubt that. He was sufficiently composed to lay her out on the bed before leaving.’
‘Why did he do that?’
‘He says it seemed wrong to leave her on the floor.’ Kaufman shrugged. ‘I suppose a psychologist might be able to explain that, but I’m damned if I can. More coffee?’
‘Please.’ He signalled the waiter. ‘I think I’ve had enough crime for one evening, Derek. Let’s change the subject, eh?’
They changed the subject. Presently he said, ‘How about your party? Isn’t it time we were leaving?’
‘Stuff the party,’ she said. ‘I’m not in the mood. Anyway, it’s too hot. Couldn’t we go for a drive, or something? I know. Let’s drive down to the sea and have a swim.’
‘I’ve work to do,’ he reminded her. ‘And no costume.’
‘Who needs costumes? It’s dark, isn’t it?’
‘Not that dark,’ Kaufman said. ‘There’s a moon.’
‘Well, I’m not worried, and I don’t see why you should be. I’m not that ugly, am I?’
‘Good God, no!’ He wondered how the Gaffer would react to the prospect of his daughter bathing in the nude with one of his officers. ‘It’s not that. But—’
‘I know. You’ve got work to do. But it needn’t take long. We could be there in less than half an hour.’ She leaned forward to clasp his hand and squeeze it. ‘Please, Derek! It would be a lovely way to round off the evening.’
Against his better judgment, he nodded. ‘We’ll drive down to the coast,’ he said. ‘But I’m leaving the swim in abeyance.’
For a while they drove in silence. He had expected her to make close contact but she sat apart, contained by the seat belt. Presently she said, ‘You’re not scared of Daddy, are you?’
‘Not normally. I am now, though, when I think of how you propose to finish the evening.’
She laughed. ‘You don’t know how I propose to finish it. It doesn’t have to be in the sea. There could be more to follow.’
Instinctively his foot eased on the throttle. Jesus! he thought. What the hell is she hinting at? If it’s what I think it is, then it’s time I turned the car round and made for home.
‘Why are we slowing?’ She looked at him expectantly. ‘Are you looking for somewhere to park?’
‘I am not. I am thinking about that swim. I am thinking of what your father would say if he knew. And because the very thought of it gives me the shivers I am looking for a place to turn. I’m taking you home.’
‘You’re a coward,’ she said crossly.
‘Maybe.’ He drove on slowly. ‘Dammit, Arabella! Don’t you ever wonder about his reaction if he knew some of the things you get up to?’
‘I don’t have to wonder. I know. Anyway, how do you know what I get up to?’
‘I can guess.’
‘And you probably guess wrong. I’m not permissive or promiscuous. I enjoy life, but I know where to draw the line.’
‘One of these days you’ll get careless and won’t.’ He slowed as the headlights picked out a turning. ‘It happens. We all get careless once in a while.’
‘Even policemen?’ she mocked. ‘Surely not!’
‘Even policemen.’
He pulled up and reversed into the turning. ‘Well, at least that evens the odds,’ she said.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, criminals get careless too, don’t they? Your Mr Osman certainly did. But then he isn’t a professional, I suppose.’
‘He likes to think he is. They both do.’ The road was clear. He swung the car into it and accelerated homeward. ‘What particular piece of carelessness are you referring to?’
‘Calling himself Salmon, of course. Or do you think it was deliberate? A sort of dare.’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘What’s careless about Salmon?’
She waited while he changed into top. ‘You don’t know?’ He shrugged but did not answer. ‘You don’t, do you?’ she said excitedly. ‘Don’t any of you know? Good Lord!’
‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Arabella, stop blethering! What are you getting at?’
‘Luke Osman,’ she said. ‘L. Osman. Salmon’s an anagram. And none of you spotted it! Be honest, now. You didn’t, did you?’
Kaufman was silent. She was right, he hadn’t spotted it. He suspected that none of the others had either. Certainly no one had mentioned it. Was that a reflection on his and their intelligence? Would recognition of the anagram have resulted in an earlier arrest and less spade-work?
‘We’re not all crossword addicts,’ he said eventually.
She heard the annoyance in his voice and hastened to placate him.
‘Don’t be cross.’ She put a hand on his knee. ‘I was only teasing.’
He shifted his leg and pressed down the accelerator. ‘I’m not cross,’ he said.
But he was. And more cross with himself for reacting to the taunt than with her for making it. He knew he was being childish and petty, but he couldn’t help it. It was infuriating to be outwitted by a girl of seventeen, a girl he had always looked on as something of a scatterbrain. And although later he tried to recapture his former good-humour he was only partially successful.
Not until some hours after he had deposited Arabella at her home did he realise that her taunt had been completely unjustified. Until the raid on Lower Riverside Cottage on Wednesday night neither he nor anyone else at division had ever heard of Luke Osman, they hadn’t known such a person existed. All they had had was Andrew.
And they couldn’t have made Salmon out of that.
If you enjoyed Death on a Sunday Morning, you might also be interested in A Real Shot in the Arm by Annette Roome.
Extract from A Real Shot in the Arm by Annette Roome
Chapter One
The years had crept up on me while I wasn’t looking, and there I was, forty, standing in an untidy kitchen, having done very little since I was born but stand in kitchens in varying stages of untidiness and wonder what I was going to do next. It was just after Christmas, and the light filtering in from outside was as grey and as bored with what it touched as I was. I looked in the mirror. There was my face, looking like a weather map just before a particularly windy day: masses of lines running together into converging depressions. My hair, once auburn, was dull as a winter pond, and my eyes, which Keith in youthful passion (and with wild inaccuracy) had described as “traffic-light green for go”, were now sunk into dark recesses. It was a bad moment. I looked around the kitchen, festooned with the unappetising debris of family festivities, and was overcome with a raging desire to destroy everything in sight. I didn’t do it, of course; I’d have had to clear up the mess.
Instead, I
did what I always did to drive away what people call “the blues”: I got a black plastic sack and started methodically disposing of the rubbish. Then I would set to with a variety of cleaning liquids and powders and several cloths, and after that there would be the rest of the house, Hoovering, washing, etc. By the time Julie, Richard and Keith came home I’d be feeling a lot better, and anyway I’d be so busy tidying up after them I wouldn’t have time to think about it much. So, with a full programme ahead of me it’s surprising I stopped to read the paper as I spread it on the floor but I did, and that momentary lapse changed my life. What I read was an advertisement in our local Tipping Herald for a junior reporter. Years ago, before babies and sterilising routines took their toll, I had wanted very much to be a newspaper reporter. Now, as I looked at the advertisement, the years closed up like a telescope, and a young girl’s pulse brought colour to my cheeks. Later I told the family about it enthusiastically. My son Richard, age twenty, encouraged me to have a go; Julie, my sixteen-year-old, was thrilled — would we be able to jump queues for the cinema and pop concerts on my Press card? she wanted to know. Keith took a different attitude.
“You’re nuts, Chris!” he said. “That’s a full-time job! If you want to work, fine — get a part-time job in Marks and Spencer if you’re so anti-office work — you’ll even get a staff discount. I absolutely forbid you to be so stupid about this newspaper nonsense.”
I went for my interview early in January, the day of the first snowfall. Mr Heslop, the editor, and I, established an immediate rapport. He had also recently suffered a severe trauma by courtesy of his mirror — that of waking up on his fiftieth birthday to be confronted by a bald man with bad skin and a pronounced paunch. He said he detected a kindred spirit in me: I was mature, sensitive, and yet youthful in approach. I don’t know which of us he was trying to flatter. He gave me the job.
Keith was right of course: I couldn’t cope with the house and Julie’s emotional problems and getting the stains out of Keith’s sports gear as well as the job. Worse, reporting on Council meetings and the appearance of brides at weddings was almost as dull as waiting for another day’s dust to accumulate on the television screen, or daisies to open in the lawn. I only kept on with it because it made Keith angry, and we were entering one of our bad patches. I never knew what brought these on, but they were characterised by arguments he started with the words “you never”, or “if only you would”. If I didn’t want to spend my time apologising for nebulous faults, then my only defence was to work out new ways of making him angry, and I was getting quite good at this.
