Field of Fire

by Roderic Jeffries

  Kerr switched off the transceiver and lit another cigarette.

  *

  It was nearly two a.m. when the patrol car followed the undertaker’s van out of the docks. “Is that right you want to call back at the station?” asked the driver. He turned into one of the many side roads which cut through the huge, festering slum around the docks which brewed up more crime than the whole of the rest of the division.

  Kerr answered. “We’ve got to pick up a W.P.C. in case there’s a Mrs Swaithe to tell.”

  “You’re welcome to that job and that’s fact!”

  “I’ll echo that,” said the observer.

  Their relief that the job was his and not theirs was hardly surprising. Breaking tragic news was the most mentally agonising job any policeman had to do. When he’d first joined the force, he’d been able to isolate himself to a very large degree from the tragedies he reported, but now he could no longer do that. He was dreading the coming visit to Fairfield Close.

  At eastern division H.Q. the driver and observer went down to the canteen for a quick cup of tea. Kerr spoke to the duty sergeant, who called out a woman police constable from the interview room where she’d been waiting.

  W.P.C. Joan Tatham was solid and slightly oddly shaped and she had a manner that suggested she’d probably been very good at hockey when at school: careless of her physical appearance and of the unlikelihood of her ever getting married, she enjoyed her work with a deep satisfaction because so much of it consisted in helping others.

  Kerr told her the facts. “There was nothing on him to suggest he’s married, but we’ve obviously got to assume he was.”

  *

  “How old was he?” she asked, in her deep and husky voice.

  “In the middle or later forties, I’d guess.”

  “Then at least there shouldn’t be small kids to worry about on top of everything else.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, rather as if making ready for a long, hard run up the midfield. “Let’s get moving, then.”

  Dritlington, in the main, was a middle-income suburb. Houses tended to be either detached or large semi-detached with gardens and the shops stocked goods for the kind of people who spent well at all times and often bought luxuries. Fairfield Close was a crescent-shaped road of detached houses, built between the wars, which were ugly but obviously solid. In the street lighting the place looked dully prosperous.

  They were able to park directly in front of number twenty-three. Kerr and W.P.C. Tatham crossed the pavement and walked up the flagstone path, past a circular rose bed around the edges of which daffodils had headed but were not yet showing colour. Kerr switched on his torch, found the bell and pushed it. They heard the musical chimes from inside. After ringing once more, the door was opened by a woman whose face was pinched and lined with worry. Despite the time, she was wearing a blouse and skirt, but there was a blurry look to her eyes showing she’d been asleep until they’d rung. Fallen asleep while waiting for her husband to come home, thought Kerr.

  “Mrs Swaithe?” he asked.

  She stared past him at the uniformed W.P.C., her large brown eyes registering growing shocked fright. “What . . .? What’s happened? Where’s Ted?”

  W.P.C. Tatham stepped inside the house. “There’s been an accident and we’re afraid it may have been your husband who was involved.” Her voice was now gentle and compassionate and quite devoid of any overtones of the hockey field. “Do you have a photo of him?”

  Like a sleep-walker, Mrs Swaithe crossed the hall and went into the first room, returning with a small framed photograph. Kerr took it, looked quickly at the smiling man on some beach then nodded.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Swaithe, but he’s been killed.” W.P.C. Tatham put her stout right arm round the other woman’s shoulders and jerked her head at Kerr. “Find the kitchen and make something hot, John.”

  He crossed the hall and found the kitchen, where he was surprised by the fact that, by modern standards, it was so poorly equipped. Then it occurred to him that the hall had been virtually unfurnished.

  He searched for electric kettle, teapot, and tea. People often laughed at the idea of a cup of tea in every crisis, yet it was odd how often it did seem to help.

  Chapter Three

  Chokey Parsons should have made the big league. He was clever, cunning, callous, and very ambitious, he knew the law and how to use it, and he always kept enough money in reserve to hire a first-class lawyer if he should land in trouble. But he had a temper sometimes so uncontrollable that it scrambled his reason and he’d do something dead stupid, like belting a man twice as hard as necessary. In consequence, he was a loner because no mob could risk having him in case he lost his temper at the wrong moment.

  He was good-looking in a craggy, virile manner. He was a noted and feared fighter with a knife and had done a fair amount of amateur boxing when younger, so that his sense of balance and rhythm was good: he could chop even a large man with a couple of blows.

  He rang the doorbell and leaned against the door-frame as he vaguely wondered what was the purpose of his enquiries and why he was being paid so well.

  A blonde opened the door. Melissa Lockwood had a natural flair for makeup and a taste for clothes that exactly suited her, her manners were passable, she never drank heavily on the job, never showed contempt for her clients no matter how odd their little quirks, and she even simulated pleasure for some. She was of medium height, thin but not scraggy, had a round, attractive face with a smile that fixed two dimples in her cheeks, and a figure that was literally her fortune. “Yes?” she said.

  Parsons stepped past her into the flat. Her gaze narrowed, but she showed no fear as she studied him more closely and saw his suit was expensive but a shade too flamboyant in style, his shoes were hand-made, and there were large gold signet rings on his right forefinger and third finger which probably doubled up as knuckle-dusters. “I don’t know you,” she said.

  “That’s right.” His voice was slightly husky.

  She put her right hand in the pocket of her skirt and gripped the small flick-knife there. “So suppose you tell me what you want?”

  “Some information.” Through an open door he saw the small sitting-room and he walked into it.

  She followed, for the moment intrigued by him and well aware of his high degree of masculinity. So many of her clients were suffering from some measure of sexual inadequacy. “Information like what?”

  He sat down in the nearer of the armchairs and looked round the room with little interest, hardly noticing the cheapness of the furnishings. “Like do you know anyone what works at the town ’all?”

  She sat on the other armchair, carefully adjusting her dress with an instinctive gesture of propriety. Men liked this: ludicrously, they grabbed every opportunity of assuring themselves that really she wasn’t a tart.

  “Well?” he said. “D’you know someone?”

  She shook her head.

  “Look, lady, I want the news, fast.”

  “Not from me.”

  He spoke jeeringly. “D’you ever see a lady striped with an ’alf chiv?”

  She again gripped the flick-knife in her pocket. “Clear out, or I’ll call in help.”

  He lit a cigarette and contemptuously dropped the spent match on the threadbare carpet. “I’m talking for a tall mob. You couldn’t buy enough protection, not if you was to win the pools all on your tod.”

  She could not have survived without being tough: tough enough, even, to buy her protection when she needed it instead of falling under the grip of a ponce. But she recognised that she wasn’t tough enough, nor did she command sufficient protection, to stand up against this man and the tall mob he said was behind him. She stood up and crossed to a small built-in cupboard. “What are you drinking?”

  “Scotch. As it leaves the bottle.”

  She poured out two drinks and returned to her chair.

  He drank, emptying the glass with four quick swallows. “So let’s go back to t
he beginning. D’you know someone what works at the town ’all? There’s five ’undred going.”

  She was a realist and made up her mind. “There’s one bloke. Halfway round the twist, according to the way he likes things. He’s always talking about what he does at the town hall.”

  “Is ’e married?”

  “He says he ain’t, but I saw him one day in town with a woman and a kid that were his. She looked like she lives on vinegar.”

  He drained his glass. “What’s the name?”

  “Eric Appleton. He’s a big bloke, getting fat: big talker, too, always full of what he’s been doing and how he runs the town.”

  “Does ’e visit often?”

  “Maybe twice a month.” She suddenly spoke sneeringly. “In spite of all his talk, he can’t afford no more.”

  “So when was ’e last around?”

  She thought back. “A couple of weeks.”

  “It fits.” He spoke with satisfaction, his search amongst the money-lenders and prostitutes of Fortrow was over. “The next time he comes, I’ll be around. With a camera.”

  “Like bloody hell,” she said sharply. “You do that and he’ll know I’m in on it.”

  “You’re in on it, lady. For five ’undred. So ’e doesn’t come back for more batter. You’ve plenty of other mugs.”

  “And what about the coppers when they get the buzz? They don’t trouble me none now, but when they get told . . .”

  “They won’t get told nothing when ’e knows we’ve got the photos.” He grinned lasciviously. “Just one thing more, love. Co-operate and make the photos good ’uns. You know, lay on some of the party tricks.”

  The telephone rang and she went out and shut the door. When she returned, she said: “I’ll soon be busy.”

  “I’ll be moving. Hate to spoil the fun.” He stood up, crossed to where she stood, and put his hand round to cup her breast. “I’ll be on the blower, regular, so as to know when ’e’s coming.”

  *

  Detective Inspector Fusil read through the last of the crime reports and impatiently pushed them to one side. He checked half a dozen T21 forms, listing previous convictions of persons on remand, noted several typing errors and ringed them with a red pencil. There was a long memo from county H.Q. forensic laboratory, on the need for investigating officers to be more careful when taking swabs from dead bodies, which must go up on the notice-board in the general room. Two expense accounts were there for his O.K. Detective Constable Yarrow’s was by far the neater and more detailed, yet Fusil passed Rowan’s immediately and spent several minutes trying to find fault with Yarrow’s. He could discover nothing wrong . . . If only Yarrow weren’t so competent, he thought. Two requests for witness statements, both from up north, would need immediate attention, causing the borough force a great deal of unproductive work — forget all the witness statements he’d requested from other forces! Three alternative Identikit portraits of a man wanted by the Liverpool police in connexion with several acts of arson were put on to the general pile. He swore mildly over a request — or command — from county force to leave all thefts under five pounds in value out of the usual crime statistics, but to start a new, detailed set of figures for all thefts under five pounds.

  He leaned back and lit his pipe. He hated paperwork so much he often threw it straight into the wastepaper basket . . . from where Miss Wagner would retrieve it, with her mincing, boys-will-be-boys smile. He was a practical detective, not a desk polisher, and was only happy when out in the field, busting crime and criminals with at times a sharpness that even he recognised as dangerous. So how would promotion suit him? Any rank higher than his present one would mean less practical and more administrative work.

  There was a knock on the door and Kerr came in. As Fusil drew on his pipe, puffing out clouds of smoke, he unknowingly stared at the other with an expression of slight enquiry. Kerr was still inclined to take life too lightly, yet so far in his career luck had run with him and this was as important as anything to the successful detective: how long would that luck last?

  “I’ve just had word from the coroner’s officer, sir. The P.M. on Swaithe is at three this afternoon.”

  Fusil looked at his diary. “I’m tied up at H.Q., so you’d better attend.”

  “As a matter of fact I was on duty last night, sir, so it’s my afternoon off . . .”

  Fusil leaned back in his chair. “It was, you mean.”

  Kerr sighed. No slave in ancient Egypt had ever been worked half so hard. “They’ve hauled the car out of the dock.”

  The pipe refused to draw properly and Fusil separated the stem and blew down it. He looked up. “So?”

  So what’s Helen going to say when I tell her our trip to Keighley is off? wondered Kerr. “It’s a five-year-old Hillman in reasonable nick and the mechanics report everything in good working order.” He hesitated, then added: “But there’s confirmation of the rather odd fact that both windows in the front were wound right down.”

  Fusil puffed at his pipe. Kerr had already mentioned the windows. Were they really of significance? The night had been wet and chilly so that few cars would have had even one window partially open, but surely it was dangerous to read too much into this?

  Kerr continued speaking when he saw Fusil was not going to comment. “There were a few maps and an A.A. book in the glove locker and a bit of rubbish lying about, including a piece of chewing-gum. I’ve stored it all.”

  “Have you questioned the eye-witness?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Or been back to question Mrs. Swaithe more fully?”

  “I didn’t come off duty until five this morning, sir, and I presumed I was entitled . . .”

  “D.C.s are entitled to nothing. Question Mrs. Swaithe and the witness and let me have the report as soon as possible, together with the P.M. findings.”

  Looking annoyed, Kerr left. Fusil smiled briefly as he tamped down his pipe. There was an old saying, which had a kernel of hard truth, that if a man lasted one month in C.I.D., he’d last. The atmosphere and style of discipline were totally different from that of the uniform branch and seniors rode their juniors with a roughness that had disappeared in other walks of life. Strangely, and quite contrary to the forecast of critics, this method produced a special, old-fashioned style of esprit de corps among those who survived the first month.

  *

  The telephone rang in Melissa Lockwood’s flat — she had been christened Flora Baine, but needed a name more suitable for her professional work — and she climbed off the bed.

  “Let it ring,” said the man, naked except for his socks which, for some obscure reason, he never removed when with her.

  “I can’t do that, love. It might be important. Anyway, I’ve got to be going out soon so you’d best get dressed.” She slipped on a dressing-gown.

  “What’s the hurry?” he grumbled.

  As she went into the hall, she briefly thought again about the stupidity of men. They hated facing facts. They phoned her to fix times, yet when with her they became annoyed if reminded by hearing the phone bell ring that someone else could book her time and body provided only he could pay the price.

  She lifted the receiver. “Three eight three two one.”

  “Hullo, my darling. It’s Eric.”

  Eric Appleton. “How lovely to hear from you,” she answered automatically. She pictured the rough, tough man who wanted to fix Appleton.

  “I’d like to come and visit you, love.” His voice was thick, as if even to talk to her was to excite him.

  “That’ll be wonderful.”

  “How about in an hour’s time? I can . . .”

  “It’s no good today because I’m busy. Come along tomorrow.” Automatically, her voice sharpened. He was one of those who liked to be bossed around.

  “But I don’t think I can manage tomorrow. We’re frightfully busy and . . .”

  “Four o’clock.”

  “All right, love,” he said, “I’ll do what I ca
n to get away from the office. You’ll be especially nice, won’t you?”

  She knew what that meant. “Sure.” Sometimes, when she was feeling rotten, she refused his more peculiar requests. She replaced the receiver.

  The man, now dressed, came out of the bedroom. “I’ll be off, then.” He kissed her quickly and left, still plainly annoyed by the telephone call.

  She went into the bedroom and across to the table where two ten-pound notes had been carefully tucked under the glass ashtray. She put the money in the toe of one of the shoes in the large built-in wardrobe, making a mental note as she did so that she must pay into the bank again because she’d almost two hundred pounds in that shoe.

  Chapter Four

  Fusil arrived at the borough H.Q., also western division H.Q., at five minutes past three. He parked near the lockup garages and a blue Ford Cortina on which was the notice: ‘Don’t Touch. Waiting for fingerprints’, and hurried across the oblong courtyard to the square, red-bricked, functional, four-storey building.

  The conference room was on the third floor. He muttered a few words of apology on entering and sat down at the oblong table. Detective Chief Inspector Kywood glared at him, annoyed at his being late for a meeting called by the chief constable.

  Just as an independent borough force had virtually become an anachronism in an age of multi-county forces, so had Fortrow’s chief constable become outdated. A relic from the times when chief constables were often retired army officers, he was of a choleric disposition, not such a fool as reputation would have him and his manner often suggested, and his main concern in life was to keep the independent borough force in being long enough to see him through to his retirement.

  “You all know why we’re here, so I won’t waste any time on preliminaries,” said the chief constable, in his curt, parade-ground voice. He then wasted several minutes detailing the reason for their meeting.

  Fusil doodled on a sheet of paper. By his side were a uniform superintendent from borough H.Q. and a uniform chief superintendent from county H.Q., while opposite was a round-faced man with very thin eyebrows, unusually blue eyes, and a mouth which always seemed as if about to break into a smile, who presumably was the detective superintendent from Special Branch, down from Scotland Yard to advise on security. Fusil looked to the right of the last man and saw Plomb, on the watch committee, who was one long, thin streak of melancholy. Plomb was one of the bitterest opponents of police expenditure.