by J F Straker
‘Great!’ Simon said, when Robin rang him that evening. ‘We jump him on the building site.’
‘Yes. Always provided he’s on foot, of course, and that he’s making for the pub. But we’ll have to move to beat him to it.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Simon sounded eager.
Yes, Robin said, tomorrow. Tomorrow was a Saturday, and if Gatesby ever visited the pub of an evening a Saturday evening was the most likely of all. They would park in the Morris as far down Colet Road as was compatible with watching the house and if and when he came out they would make for the building site to intercept him. ‘From what I saw this morning the locals use it as a free parking lot,’ he said. ‘The Morris won’t arouse any suspicion.’
‘Do we deal with him on the spot?’ Simon asked. ‘Or do we cart him off to somewhere more private?’
The suppressed excitement in his voice found an answering chord in Robin. It was for this he had worked and planned. Short of murder, nothing he could do to Jonno Gatesby would compensate for what Gatesby had done to Karen and, through Karen, to him. But to drive his fist hard into the man’s face, to batter his foul body, to reduce him to a physical wreck and leave him screaming, would at least release some of the pent-up hatred that was in him and perhaps provide a consoling memory for the future.
‘Provided there’s no one about we’ll deal with him there,’ he said, his voice taut. ‘But remember what I said. Once we have him cornered he belongs to me. No interference, Simon.’
Excitement mounted in him as Saturday evening approached. Polly had the week-ends free and he was thankful not to have her goading him. But Karen must have guessed that something was afoot. She did not question him, but her parting kiss was particularly fervent. ‘Be careful, darling,’ she said. ‘I need you.’
They were in position before the pubs were due to open, parked within view of the house on the opposite side of the road. Occasionally a pedestrian passed; but Colet Road being a cul-de-sac there was no through traffic, no headlights to pick them out. They talked only fitfully. Robin’s hands on the wheel were sweating, there was dampness under his collar. Simon had brought a heavy stick to counter the threat of Gatesby’s knife; he sat with it between his knees, tapping a rhythmic tattoo on the floor. Robin found the noise irritating, but he made no comment. He had rejected Simon’s suggestion that he too should arm himself. The use of a weapon could never provide the same savage satisfaction as the feel of his clenched fist sinking into the man’s body.
‘There he is!’ Simon exclaimed. ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Robin said. ‘That’s him.’
He had insisted that if Gatesby were accompanied by the girl there could be no action. But Gatesby was alone. Tension grew in them as they watched him come down the path and on to the pavement. Robin reached for the ignition. Then his hand dropped to his knee, thumping it in angry frustration as Gatesby walked round the front of the red Cortina, patting the bonnet as he went, and climbed in behind the steering-wheel.
‘Damn!’ Robin exclaimed.
‘Me too,’ Simon said. ‘So that’s that, eh?’
It wasn’t quite that. The whirr of the starter motor was drowned by the roar of an explosion that tore the Cortina apart. Blast rocked the Morris, flying pieces of metal shattered the side windows. Seconds later the Cortina erupted in a great ball of fire that engulfed it almost immediately, sizzling and crackling as the flames leapt high, filling the street with light. Robin could feel the heat scorching his cheek.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Simon exclaimed.
Robin started the engine and put the car in gear. ‘Time we weren’t here,’ he said grimly.
Sixteen
People were running from their houses as Robin drove rapidly down Colet Road and away. Most of them, he knew, would have had eyes only for the burning Cortina, but some might have noticed the Morris and have wondered at its haste to quit a spectacle that attracted everyone else. One or two might even have recognised the Traveller as such and would mention it to the police when they arrived; and with its shattered windows and bruised coachwork it would not be long before the car was traced to his garage and so to him. The prospect strengthened the decision he knew he had to make and when they were through the town he pulled into a lay-by and told Simon.
‘We have to go to the police, Simon,’ he said. ‘Apart from the fact that if we don’t they’ll come to us, we’re witnesses to a murder. What’s more, we know who was responsible. That leaves us no alternative.’
‘I suppose not,’ Simon said gloomily, dabbing at his cheek where flying glass had cut it. ‘But I don’t like it. We could be in trouble.’
‘You think I like it?’ Robin said. ‘Like hell I do! But trouble — no, I don’t think so. We’ve committed no crime. True, we put a little pressure on Welsh Gwyn. But unless she complains, which you can be damned sure she won’t, there’s nothing else. I’ll probably get a roasting from Martin for not confiding in him, but the law as such can’t touch us. Or I don’t think it can.’
‘I suppose it was Rowson,’ Simon said.
‘It has to be. He realised we were on to Gatesby, and if Gatesby talked it was curtains for him. So Gatesby had to be eliminated.’ Robin frowned. ‘Odd, though. If Gatesby was the tough villain we gather he was, why should Rowson expect him to break under pressure?’
‘Search me. But have you considered how this is going to affect Karen? Talking to the police, I mean.’
‘I hope it won’t affect her,’ Robin said. ‘And I’m hoping I can make her see that it won’t. As far as the police are concerned, Rowson is wanted for murder, and only for murder. They know nothing of the kidnapping.’
‘It might be mentioned at the trial.’
‘By whom? Not Rowson or his counsel. They won’t want another serious charge on the indictment.’
‘Well, I hope you’re right,’ Simon said. ‘But there’s something else. If you’re going to tell Karen the truth about tonight, how will you explain my being with you?’
‘I’ll think of something. Right now that’s the least of my worries.’ Robin restarted the engine. ‘You need a plaster on that cut. Tell your parents we had a slight accident, eh?’
‘Yes.’ Simon examined his cheek in the driving mirror.
‘Don’t you feel bad about lying to Karen? I know I would.’
‘Of course I bloody do!’ Robin’s tone was tetchy. ‘But rather that than embarrass her. Which it would if she knew the truth.’
Driving home, he tried to analyse his reaction to Jonno Gatesby’s death. For months his mind had been concentrated on vengeance; now, when it had seemed that the time for vengeance had come, Rowson had intervened to inflict a penalty far more terrible than he had contemplated in even his most bitter moments. How did he feel about that? Did he regret the man’s death, period, because violent death, even of a villain such as Gatesby, was always to be regretted? Did he regret it because it had robbed him of exacting the retribution he had planned? Or was he relieved because, deep down, he had dreaded the violence that retribution would have involved? A little of all three, perhaps. Yet if he shed no tears over Gatesby’s death, that did not mean he condoned it. Murder had been done and only the police could deal adequately with the murderer. It was his duty to give them what help he could.
He stressed this responsibility to Karen when he talked to her that evening. He also pointed out that if he did not go to the police the police would inevitably come to him, having traced him through the Morris. Wouldn’t it be preferable, he said, to confess the truth to Martin rather than risk an official interrogation by some strange and possibly antagonistic police officer who would not let up until he had uncovered the reason for the visit to Colet Road that evening? Martin would undoubtedly be angry at his intention to usurp the Law, but he would not allow anger to negate his friendship. Hadn’t he proved that already? But it was Robin’s assertion that Rowson would be charged only with murder, that there was no reason why the kidnapping should eve
r be mentioned, that finally convinced her. She was still uneasy. But she was also relieved that his vendetta against the kidnappers was finally at an end. ‘I never said much, darling, because I realised it was something you felt you had to do. But I hated it. I really did. I mean, those people — they were dangerous. You could have got hurt.’
‘Well, it’s over now.’ He kissed her. ‘No more worries, eh?’
‘There’s still Martin,’ she said.
‘Martin isn’t a worry. We can trust Martin.’
He discounted her suggestion that they should invite Martin to dinner. As far as Karen was concerned, Martin knew only of the kidnapping; he could not risk the possibility that Martin might inadvertently mention the rape. ‘Better if I see him alone,’ he said. ‘Less embarrassing all round. I’ll give him a ring and arrange a meeting.’
‘Lunch tomorrow?’ Martin sounded dubious. ‘Yes, I know it’s a Sunday. But crime doesn’t stop at week-ends, Robin. Make it sometime next week, eh? Right now I’m up to my eyeballs.’
‘It won’t wait till next week,’ Robin said. ‘It’s urgent, Martin. Very.’
‘Sorry,’ Martin said. ‘It’s urgent my end too.’
‘I believe you,’ Robin said. ‘Would your urgency be connected with the bomb outrage in Colet Road this evening?’
‘You know about that?’
‘I was there.’
‘Oh!’ A pause. ‘You weren’t driving a Morris Traveller, were you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see.’ This time the pause was longer. ‘In that case we had better make it tonight, not tomorrow. It’s too late for the pubs. Your place or mine?’
‘Yours,’ Robin said. ‘Be with you in forty minutes.’
He had never had occasion to visit Martin’s flat since his marriage. He found considerable improvements: the room redecorated, several new pieces of furniture, a new carpet in the sitting-room. But Martin cut short his compliments. It’s late, Martin said, pouring whisky, and I’ve a hard day ahead. Let’s get on with it, shall we? Embarrassed, Robin got on with it, feeling more and more like a guilty schoolboy confessing to his headmaster as he watched the frown deepen on Martin’s face and heard his exclamations of disapproval or disgust.
‘You’re a bloody idiot, Robin,’ was Martin’s comment when Robin had finished. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
‘No, I don’t. If it were your wife who’d been kidnapped and raped, wouldn’t you want to do something about it?’
‘Yes. But through the Law. And I hope my wife would have agreed.’ Martin rested an elbow on the arm of his chair and cupped his chin in his hand. He looked tired. ‘Tell me. If Gatesby hadn’t got himself blown to pieces, just what did you have in mind to do? Beat him to death? Castrate him? Break a few limbs? I’d like to know.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Robin admitted. ‘I don’t suppose I’d have gone to such extremes. I just needed to make the swine suffer, hear him squeal.’
‘And that would have satisfied you?’
‘Probably not. But it would at least have been something on the credit side.’
‘H’m! As it is, and assuming you’re right about Rowson — which I don’t necessarily accept — by showing your hand you probably signed the poor bugger’s death-warrant. How do you see that? Credit or debit?’
Robin shrugged. ‘Well, I’m not giving three cheers. On the other hand I’m not shedding any tears. By all accounts Gatesby was a mean, vicious thug who would stick a knife into you as soon as look at you. He —’
‘Thug? Gatesby? Balls, Robin! Mean, yes. Vicious, yes. And bent as they come. He’d done time for breaking and entering —’
‘Welsh Gwyn said it was G.B.H.’
‘Then she was lying. Or he was. An attempt to sharpen his image, perhaps. But I know his record, Robin. Jonno Gatesby’s defect, criminally speaking, was that he lacked bottle. He was just a weak, small-time crook. A dogsbody for the big boys.’
‘But Welsh Gwyn said —’
‘I know. You told me. He took a knife to her. Did she show you the scar?’
‘No.’
‘She was probably lying. Trying to gain a bit of sympathy. If Jonno carried a knife it was more as a frightener than as a weapon.’
‘But you told me yourself — Tuesday, wasn’t it? —that she’d been admitted to hospital with knife wounds.’
‘I didn’t say Jonno was responsible,’ Martin reminded him. ‘Neither did she. Too bloody scared to name names. Mind you, I’m not saying he wouldn’t use it. Not if he were really pushed. Just that it doesn’t go with his record. Still, I dare say assaulting a defenceless woman would have pleased his vicious little mind.’
It had pleased the swine to rape a defenceless Karen, Robin reflected, although it seemed that the real Gatesby was a somewhat different character from the one he had imagined. And that made the manner of his death more credible. A petty crook such as Martin had described, liable to crack under pressure, would be a far greater threat to Rowson’s continued freedom than the hardened villain Robin had assumed him to be. But Martin was not impressed by that argument. It was based on a supposition that could not be supported, he said. Although Rowson was suspected of having a finger in many of the unsavoury pies cooked up in the district, so far there had never been sufficient evidence to warrant an arrest. Nor was there now. What real proof did Robin have that Rowson had been involved in the kidnapping? Just Welsh Gwyn’s statement that the Anson building, which Rowson owned, had been used to hold Karen captive. ‘It means damn all, Robin, and you know it,’ Martin concluded. ‘The building could have been used — if it was used — without Rowson’s knowledge. Gaining an unlawful entry would be child’s play.’
‘It would carry more weight, wouldn’t it, if you could prove a connection between him and Gatesby?’ Robin suggested.
‘Because of Welsh Gwyn’s statement? Maybe. But do you think she would repeat that statement to us or in a court of law? Of course she wouldn’t. It would incriminate her in the kidnapping.’
‘There are three of us to testify she made it,’ Robin said.
‘So she claims it was extracted under duress. And it was, wasn’t it?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, then! Scrub that statement, and there isn’t a shred of evidence that Jonno Gatesby was involved in the kidnapping. So bang goes your motive for Rowson to have had him killed.’
Robin was shocked. He knew Welsh Gwyn and Gatesby had kidnapped Karen. He knew Rowson had been involved. He knew Rowson had had Gatesby killed. He knew, because he believed Welsh Gwyn had spoken the truth. It all stemmed from that. But he could see that if the stem was not accepted, as in Martin’s case it wasn’t, the rest also became unacceptable.
‘Are you saying you won’t even consider Rowson?’ he asked.
Martin sighed wearily. ‘Chief Inspector Weightman is in charge of the investigation, Robin, not me. I’m just one of the team. If we uncover evidence that suggests Rowson might be involved it will be followed up. Otherwise —’
He shrugged and left it at that.
‘So nothing of what I’ve told you carries any weight?’ Robin persisted.
‘I don’t know about weight,’ Martin said. ‘But it’s a fact, isn’t it, that you don’t want Karen involved? Or yourself, for that matter. You don’t want any reference to the kidnapping?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘So you’re tying my hands. All I can tell Weightman is that I have been informed by a usually reliable source that Rowson was behind the Gatesby murder.’
‘Will he want to know the source?’
‘He may ask. He won’t press me.’
‘Do you think he’ll take it seriously?’
‘Possibly. But he can only look into it. He can’t act on it. Not without evidence.’ Martin shrugged. ‘Evidence is all, Robin.’
‘What if the Morris Traveller is traced to me?’ Robin asked.
‘Yes, that could be awkward.’ Martin sipped whisky, considering.
‘You’ll need a plausible explanation for being there tonight. You will also need to explain the Traveller.’ He smiled wanly. ‘Your best bet might be to bribe the garage proprietor. But don’t quote me on that.’
Robin was too concerned to echo the smile. ‘That’s that, then, isn’t it?’ he said gloomily. ‘To use a cliché literally, Rowson looks like getting away with murder.’
‘Not necessarily. If the evidence is there we’ll find it.’
‘I hope you do,’ Robin said. ‘But apart from that — well, I feel guilty about involving you like this. Asking you to cover for us, I mean. It won’t make trouble for you, will it?’
‘No,’ Martin said. ‘Definitely not. I’ll see to that. Anyway, you’ve committed no crime. There’s no law that says you have to report a kidnap or a rape, and I know you didn’t plant the bomb in Gatesby’s car. And as you were only two out of several witnesses to the explosion your evidence isn’t all that important.’ He finished his drink and stood up. ‘Not to worry, Robin. Neither my conscience nor my career will suffer. My health might, though, if I don’t get to bed.’
Simon professed to be equally shocked when he heard of Martin’s reaction, although Robin suspected he probably saw the murder of a black villain as nothing to fuss about. But he had the answer to their more personal problem. Several of the firm’s employees lived in the Radcliffe Park district, he said, as had their fathers during his grandfather’s time. Mike Harg, for one. So why should not he and Robin have been making for a pub out that way, intending to pick up Mike en route? He did not know exactly where Mike lived; but if it wasn’t in Colet Road they could say they had taken a wrong turning and had been reversing when the explosion occurred. Why the Morris? Well, his MG was out of action, and as Robin had considered the Rolls and the Porsche too ostentatious for the district he had borrowed the Morris. ‘Borrowed’, Simon said, sounded better than ‘hired’. Perhaps Robin could fix that with his garage? Had they in fact picked up Mike Harg? No, they had not. With the car windows shattered and Simon’s cheek cut they had abandoned the evening and gone home. ‘I’ll talk to Mike,’ Simon said. ‘He’ll play along.’
