Dzur leaned forward and touched the barrels of the Holland & Holland. “As I always said, we need only the rifle.”
“The shotgun was a bloody good idea,” said Thornton belligerently.
Dzur shrugged his shoulders.
“You don’t know everything, not by a long chalk,” sneered Thornton, as always sharply riled by Dzur’s open contempt for him.
Dzur spoke to Napier. “I suppose we’re leaving him behind as there’s no need for him?”
“Yeah?” shouted Thornton. “So who gets Pakac after you’ve missed with both barrels?”
“There’s room for both of you,” said Napier. “Three windows overlook the road.”
Both Joyce and Foley were surprised by the decision and their faces registered this fact. When two men disliked each other to the extent that Dzur and Thornton plainly did, it was obvious there was the danger they’d see themselves in competition. The urge to fire first and be the one to succeed might be just sufficient to upset each man’s aim.
“We leave here at five-thirty tomorrow morning: Josef, Alec, and Tim in the Jag. Stick and me in the Ford. We join up at Keighley at one o’clock, in the car-park on the front by the pier. The law’ll be watching the roads into Fortrow, but with the traffic that’ll be around they can’t be sharp. We use a bit of disguise, so as we don’t get pulled in on routine checks. Josef, you use a moustache, part your hair different, and shove pads into your cheeks. I’ll be dressed as a woman. Going into Fortrow, me, Josef, Stick and Alec, will be in the Jag and Tim in the Ford.”
“Tim parks in Altar Square and then follows on. We carry on in the Jag to arrive near to the block of flats at twenty-five past three. Stick gets out one road away and plants the bomb down Carlton Street. When that goes off, every copper in the area will make for the explosion.
“We go into the building separate and join up on the sixth floor, at flat sixty-one. An old couple lives there and they won’t make no trouble after a quick belt on the head. The procession’s due in view at three-forty-six. Josef has the right-hand window, Alec the centre one. As soon as Pakac’s dead, we get below. Tim, who’s in the Jag, is outside the building at three-forty-seven. The coppers’ll move quick, but they can’t keep up with us. We drive to Alton Square, move from the Jag to the Ford. We leave Fortrow on the coast road to Tawsey Head. If there is a road block out there, it’ll only be one patrol car because they won’t be expecting the break in that direction. I’ll get out and seeing a woman they’ll hesitate. Josef and Alec take ’em. After that, we’re clear.”
“And this time tomorrow we’ll be watching it all on telly,” said Thornton. “Seeing Pakax get a couple of three o three slugs in his head.” He looked across, but Dzur ignored the gibe.
“All right,” said Napier. “Each of you come in in turn with your job. Josef — you start.”
It was an hour and a half before Napier was satisfied they all knew exactly what they had to do. When he was, he collected up the maps and itineraries and told Thornton to help him burn them in the kitchen.
Napier opened the fire door of the Aga stove. “Give ’em to me one at a time.”
Thornton handed him a map and he tore it into several pieces before throwing it on to the red-hot anthracite. The paper burst into flames almost immediately. He turned. “What did I say I was paying you?” he asked.
Thornton spoke pugnaciously. “Two grand to join and two grand for the job and you ain’t cutting back . . .”
“Josef’s getting twenty.”
“Twenty grand?” Thornton’s voice rose. “Just on reputation? I gets four and he gets twenty? Yet who scored the most bulls last time? And what good’s a bloke who goes so soft over a rifle he don’t . . .?”
“Are you in the market for twenty?”
Thornton stared at Napier. “Twenty grand?” There was a note of awe in his voice.”
“That’s the measure.”
Thornton spoke with wild eagerness. “You make it twenty grand and I’ll shoot the whole bleeding procession.”
“Just Josef,” replied Napier softly.
Chapter Nineteen
Fusil sat in the mobile command centre — loaned by county, at the full-scale rate — a truck equipped with telephones, radio, shelving, working surfaces, five television screens, four on closed circuit, the fifth tuned to B.B.C., and a gas stove.
He watched the B.B.C. programme. The gangway was just being made fast and the commentator identified one of the men on deck as Dr. Jiri Pakac. On Fusil’s right, a uniformed sergeant sat by three telephones and on the other side a P.C. manned four radio receivers, tuned respectively to operations room at county H.Q., two frequencies being used by the patrol cars, and the transceivers operated by men on foot.
A telephone rang. Fusil turned, tension rising. The sergeant took a message and replaced the receiver. “Number six observation point, sir. They’ve just picked up three dips.”
Fusil swore. Who the hell cared that because of this massive police operation a pickpocketing team had been nabbed? The television camera zoomed into the gangway. Dr. Pakac walked slowly down it, a slight, benign-looking man who wore rimless glasses and a poorly cut suit.
Fusil searched in his pocket for his pipe, only to discover he must have left it back at the station. “Someone give me a fag.”
The constable concentrated on twiddling a dial on one of the transmitters and the sergeant finally offered a pack. Fusil lit the cigarette and dragged the smoke deep down into his lungs. Only seconds now to the moment when Pakac set foot on English soil. Fifteen minutes after that . . .
The Czechoslovakian security men went down the gangway. They’d demanded to ride in the carriage along with Pakac, the mayor, Lord Tideworth, and the lord lieutenant. When told that that was quite impossible, they’d protested volubly and at length.
Fusil spoke to the P.C. “Ask nine for a report.”
The P.C. flicked down a switch on one of the transmitters. “Hullo, Zero Nine. Come in, please.”
“Hullo, Foxtrot Alpha,” came the reply through a loudspeaker high up.
“Please report.”
“All quiet.”
“Thank you, Zero Nine. Over and out.”
Fusil smoked quickly. That message had been totally unnecessary: if anything suspicious had been noticed, it would have been reported.
Pakac was met by the welcoming committee, led by Lord Tideworth. Fusil looked away from the B.B.C. transmission and at the closed-circuit screens: the cameras ranged over the crowds and the buildings, returned to the crowds. Camera number two panned on to a warehouse that had a flat roof and Fusil saw a man on the roof. He opened his mouth to shout orders, then recognised the man was in uniform, one of the many P.C.’s posted at strategic positions.
Detective Superintendent Dalby climbed up into the truck and stood by Fusil’s stool as he stared at the TV screens. There were dark patches under his eyes and heavy lines around his mouth to testify to all the hours of work and worry.
“Nothing yet, sir,” said Fusil, stating the obvious, but easing a fraction of the tension by speaking.
Dalby grunted.
Pakac, the mayor with chain of office jangling round his prominent stomach, Lord Tideworth, and the lord lieutenant of the county, settled in the carriage. The six greys strained at the traces and the carriage rolled forward, almost unseating the elderly Lord Tideworth. Eight police motor-cyclist led the procession and behind the carriage came one car filled with Czech security guards, four limousines filled with dignitaries, and finally two police cars.
Fusil could feel the sweat on his face and down his back.
The carriage lurched and swayed and Pakac waved at the fair-sized crowd with a stiff manner which suggested this was not something he did very often. In close-up, Lord Tideworth looked annoyed about something, or maybe it was boredom. The mayor was smiling broadly and constantly fingering his chain of office. The lord lieutenant looked a little seasick from the constant lurching movement of the carriage. On
roofs, in warehouses, office, and flats, amongst the crowd, policemen in uniform and civvies watched and waited: security branch men eased their 9 mm. Walthers in their shoulder holsters.
The minutes passed without alarm. Then the carriage reached the South Gate and slowed right down in order to go round on the right-hand side where the bend of the road was more gentle. A man burst through the police cordon. Both the B.B.C. and the third closed-circuit cameras were focused on that part of the crowd. Fusil began to rise from his stool. The man threw a paper which was caught by the wind and blown clear of the carriage. As two uniformed policemen tackled him, Fusil slumped back on to his seat and Dalby swore.
The procession came to the crossroads and slowed almost to a halt for the right turn into Bombay Road. It reached Parstone Square and the temporary stands where sat town councillors and their guests, many still resentful at not being in one of the four limousines. It reached the main entrance to the station and stopped. The station-master, in traditional top hat and tails, came forward, pushing past a uniformed sergeant who tried to hold him back.
The train, unusually washed and cleaned, stood at platform two, which had been decorated with flags. Pakac shook hands with a number of people, then boarded, followed by Lord Tideworth, the Czechoslovakian security guards, and two British security men. The station-master waved the train out.
Fusil mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“I could do with a drink,” muttered Dalby hoarsely.
Fusil checked on the time. “The pubs are shut, so come on home and have a stiff one, sir.”
They left.
“It’s all right for some,” said the sergeant, as he began the laborious task of securing all the equipment for the journey back to county H.Q.
Chapter Twenty
The Jaguar was first seen against the broken-down entrance gate into the twenty-acre field by the tractor driver at six o’clock in the evening when the sun was dipping down towards the small copse. He was in a hurry to get home and have his supper and he did no more than wonder if a couple were so eager they couldn’t wait for dark. Next morning, he returned along the road at ten past eight in his rusting Austin A40 and when he saw the Jaguar still there he stopped to have a look at it. Through the rear window he saw on the back seat the huddled figure of a man whose head was partially missing. A bolt-action rifle lay under him.
The tractor driver had over the years seen many badly injured animals, so that he was used to the sight of blood and mangled flesh, yet this dead man still made him swallow quickly. He returned to his car and drove to the farm, parking behind the new cowshed. Inside, the farmer and his son were down in the pit of the herringbone parlour, milking. A cow, disturbed by something, kicked with its back leg and knocked off the cluster into the slurry on the floor. The farmer picked up the cluster and bent the suction pipe over to cut it off, used a spray to clean down the cluster. Stroking the cow’s udder, he replaced each teat-cup in turn.
Satisfied everything was quiet again, the tractor driver shouted out the news.
“Best ring the police,” said the farmer, without much interest.
The tractor driver left, to go to the farmhouse. The farmer resumed milking, checking the level in the collecting jar of number four which seemed to be ten pounds down on normal.
*
Fusil was late in returning to his office in the afternoon, having fallen asleep in the armchair at home. He sat down at his desk and stared moodily at the piles of papers and files. The real tension was off him now, but he’d no time in which to recharge his mental batteries: now he had to catch up with all the work that had been pushed to one side over the past days.
The telephone rang. “Menton here, Fusil.”
He visualised the thin-faced, sarcastic-mannered detective superintendent from county and wondered if he was about to be asked to promote Yarrow to detective chief inspector. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“The body of a man, shot in the head, was found in a Jaguar near Marsfield this morning. The initial identification of Josef Dzur has been confirmed.
“Ye Gods!” muttered Fusil.
“There was a rifle in the car with him, a three o three S.M.L.E. with one round fired. A check shows this is one of the two rifles stolen from the London gunsmiths, Jones and Craddon.”
“What the hell happened?” asked Fusil, ignoring the need for a more respectful form of questioning.
Menton, a stickler for convention, became a shade frostier in manner. “The pathologist’s preliminary report says the gun was fired at very close quarters. From the path of the bullet, the position of the body, and the prints on the butt, it seems probable Dzur shot himself by accident.”
“Which begins to explain why we escaped trouble yesterday.”
“Quite so.”
Fusil tapped on the desk with his fingers. “Yet it does seem a little odd for a man of his experience to shoot himself accidentally.”
“Experienced men often become careless simply through over-confidence.”
“I suppose so. But is there anything that runs counter to the theory of accident?”
“Nothing, or I would have mentioned it.”
Of course, thought Fusil sarcastically. “Then it seems like we were saved an assassination by an accident.”
“I would prefer to believe, Fusil, that even if there had not been an accident your security precautions would have ensured there was no assassination.”
Believe that and you’d believe anything, thought Fusil.
“I will have a copy of the full crime report sent through to you,” said Menton.
“Thank you very much, sir.”
Menton curtly said goodbye and rang off.
Fusil leaned back in his chair. It was a very satisfactory way in which to end a case — the body of the would-be assassin found outside the borough boundaries so that it was no concern of the Fortrow police. He rested his feet on the desk and lit his pipe. How the mob must have collapsed when Dzur shot himself. Months of planning and the large sum of money they must inevitably have used up all wasted in one second of carelessness.
His temporary sense of contentment led him to close his eyes. Within seconds he was asleep again.
*
Napier poured himself out another whisky and then slid the bottle across to Thornton. He fondled his chin which was so free of facial hairs that he could never have grown even the outline of a beard.
“Titch . . .” began Joyce, and stopped.
They hadn’t a clue, he thought, and silently chuckled. They didn’t know and they were scared because Josef Dzur had been murdered with such causal ease that each man — lacking any ideas as to motive — was secretly terrified he might be next on the list.
Foley lit a cigarette. There was a hard gleam in his eyes. No one was going to rub him out too easily.
“Titch, what we want to know . . .” Joyce again became silent. It seemed absurd that a man of such great physical strength should be afraid of anyone so puny.
“Somethin’ churning you?” asked Napier. He slowly looked around the table. Each man’s eyes slid away from his, the cocky Thornton’s quickest of all.
Foley finally said: “Why?”
Napier drank, then gently replaced the glass on the table. “Why did we kill Josef? Because it was absolutely necessary.”
“Why?” demanded Foley again.
Napier spoke so softly they could only just hear him. “To make certain that the assassination of Kano goes off smoothly.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Sunday was sunny and warm and many people drove out to the beaches: some children even paddled in the sea though this, despite the sunshine, remained icy cold.
Kerr sat in the general room and disliked the sunshine because it was his week-end on duty. Why should others enjoy life when he couldn’t? The world was a lousy place. For weeks he’d been working himself to death and as a direct result the state visit had gone off without a hitch. True, he hadn’t expected a medal,
but he had thought Fusil would offer a few words of congratulations and suggested a day or two off work to recover from the strain. Instead of which, at lunch-time there’d been a shout for the duty man and a hundredweight of papers had been dumped on him. If he worked flat out for the rest of the day and all night, he couldn’t hope to clear them all.
He lit a cigarette and thought about a cup of coffee, plugged in the electric kettle and borrowed Rowan’s jar of instant coffee and Welland’s tin of condensed milk. The coffee made him hungry, but it was still some time before the canteen would open.
Fusil entered the room with a rush. He stared at the steaming kettle and the mug in Kerr’s hand. “Why is it I never find you doing anything but eating and drinking?” he asked, with sharp interest.
Because you always arrive at the wrong moment, thought Kerr.
“What’s the latest on the aeroplane which may have landed illegal immigrants at Brackenbank Farm?”
Kerr put down the mug. “I’m afraid we’ve nothing further on that, sir.”
“Why not?”
“As a matter of fact . . .”
“If we’re dealing in facts, I suppose you’ve forgotten all about it?”
“I’ve covered it from every angle,” protested Kerr. “Right now, I’m waiting for the answers.”
“But denying yourself nothing while you wait. Just take some time off from coffee and find out if there was or wasn’t a load of illegal immigrants, will you?” Fusil walked to the door. He turned back. “Another thing. Have we heard from Reg Swaithe yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Dammit! There’s been enough time for a letter to come by a one-legged runner. If we were as efficient as the Post Office, we’d still be looking for Jack the Ripper.” He stared round the room. “What a mess” Get it cleared up.” He left.
Kerr drank the coffee which was now only luke-warm and wondered why so much rushing around didn’t give Fusil a throm? The telephone rang and the P.C. on switchboard duty said there was a call for the D.I. who couldn’t be found. Kerr spoke to a member of the airport security guard at Axton Airport. A light plane had flown over from France and although there was no apparent reason to suspect it of illegal operations, the waterguard officer who’d carried out the routine search had noticed an aerial photograph of a port and surrounding farmland. A field has been marked with a cross in ink. The waterguard officer had once lived in the south and he’d identified the port as Fortrow. Did Kerr know of a reason for taking any particular note of this plane?
Field of Fire Page 13
