“That is your privilege.”
“I shall not overlook your insolence.”
“My detective constable will bear witness that I have said nothing insulting.”
Findren looked contemptuously at Kerr. He stomped over to his chair behind his desk, sat down, picked up the nearer telephone and spoke to his manager. “Take the policemen down to the cellars. See they don’t pinch anything,” he added.
Anger whitened Fusil’s face, but he managed to say nothing.
The manager escorted them down to three interconnected cellars. His manner was nervously friendly, as if trying to tell them that he didn’t really suspect their intentions, but he did have to watch because his boss had ordered it.
The whisky, along with all other spirits, was in the third cellar, in metal racks. An easily conducted count showed there to be five hundred and twelve bottles of MacLaren whisky. Fusil picked out a number of the bottles, but none bore export labels. He went round the racks, checking on the other bottles of spirits and ordered Kerr into the next cellar.
Kerr walked under the low archway with bent shoulders and then straightened up. The place looked to be under six inches of dust and cobwebs — didn’t anyone ever clean up? He picked up a bottle from one of the racks and tried to brush the dust off the label to see what it contained.
“Oh, my God!” cried the manager, who had just followed him, “put that down.”
The voice startled Kerr and he let go of the bottle, catching it again just in time. He held it upside down by its neck. “No need to panic,” he said cheerfully, “it’s still in one piece.”
The manager began to stutter. “That… that’s a bot… bottle of Château Latour twenty-nine. Please, please, don’t shake it.”
“What’s so special about it?”
The manager came forward and took the bottle from Kerr. He slowly lowered it to a horizontal position and then replaced it in the rack as if it were egg-shell thin. “If Mr. Findren ever learns…” He shook his head, his expression almost frightened. “Those two dozen are for Lord Tasketh. There aren’t another couple of dozen of twenty-nines this side of London. They’re worth ten pounds a bottle, or more.”
“How much?” said Kerr, in tones of incredulity. “For a drop of old vino? Some people have more money than sense, that’s for sure.”
“You don’t understand,” said the manager plaintively. “You… you haven’t moved anything else?”
“Not yet.”
“Please don’t touch any other bottles in this bin. What could I have said to Mr. Findren if you’d dropped that one? What could I have said?”
“You could have told the old faggot he was ten quid the poorer,” replied Kerr, cheerfully forgetting the need for diplomacy.
Chapter 8
Kerr was about to leave the general room that evening, with the bottle of whisky that Sharman had given him, when Fusil walked in.
The D.I. looked round the room. “Why the hell can’t you ever keep this place tidy?” he demanded.
Reluctantly, Kerr had to agree that it was a little untidy. In one corner were a number of obscene books and photographic magazines, remarkable for their complete lack of originality, found in an abandoned stolen car, in another corner were the two pairs of overalls they had worn while examining the debris in the burned-out wine store, and on the floor by Rowan’s desk was a large heap of brown paper that had been ripped off the parcels taken from a small-time sneak-thief.
“Get this cleaned up by tomorrow,” ordered Fusil. “In the meantime, come along with me.”
“But I’m just off, sir.”
“You’re dead right, there. You’re just off with me to go and interview a likely villain.” Fusil turned and left the room.
The D.I.’s temper was inclined to be sharp at the best of times, thought Kerr, but after their interviews with Findren and Sharman it had become explosive. Why was it…
“Kerr,” came a distant shout, remarkable for its quality of anger.
He hurried out of the room and down to the courtyard and the D.I.’s car.
Fusil drove out on to the road with a rush. A pedestrian saved himself by hastily stepping back. “Bloody fool,” muttered Fusil.
Kerr leaned back in the seat and tried to concentrate on the problem of whether there was any chance he could get word to Helen that he would be late.
“We’re going to see Playford,” said Fusil abruptly. “I’ve sent Braddon and Rowan to question Stretley.”
“Who’s Playford, sir?”
“Don’t you ever bother to know what’s going on?” demanded Fusil, turning to glare at Kerr. When he looked back at the road, they were heading straight for a parked car. He wrenched the wheel over.
Would they ever get to Playford? Wondered Kerr.
“Playford and Stretley were with Finnigan in a dockside pub on Monday at lunchtime.” Fusil’s tone of voice was calmer. “The two of them have got more form than Finnigan had. It’s a hundred to one they’re our mark.”
“Have we any proof that they and Finnigan carried out the hijacking? Have we even any real proof, sir, that Finnigan was one of the hijackers?”
“No.”
“Then why…” Kerr stopped.
“Why are we moving so obviously? Because all our leads are drying up. Questioning Jackson again hasn’t added anything, we’re not getting anywhere fast, and the case is going stale. So I’ve secured a search warrant — we may turn up something.” Fusil spoke scornfully. “The old fool of a magistrate tried not to issue it to me: said there wasn’t really enough evidence. I had to improvise.”
It was typical of Fusil to bend the evidence to get the search warrant, thought Kerr. The moment the D.I. became impatient, he began taking risks. Was it really worth doing this? Weren’t there more senior officers in any force who’d never taken any real risks than there were those who had?
“We’ve only one joker to play,” went on Fusil. “We’ve made a point of not publishing the name of the dead man. If they didn’t murder Finnigan, they’ll not yet know what happened to him.”
Hardly a very effective joker, thought Kerr. These days, real villains knew their law: they knew it well enough to use it.
They entered an area of mean and depressing streets. Terraces of houses were all similar in size and construction and the front gardens were too small to be anything but patches of drabness.
Fusil spoke suddenly. “I have a recurring nightmare. Whenever I pass through this part of town, I imagine myself condemned by fate to live in it. I can feel the greyness closing in and choking me.”
Kerr was astonished on two scores: that Fusil should ever believe he could fail in life sufficiently to be condemned to live in such an area and that he should ever admit to this. Kerr looked very quickly sideways at the D.I. It was odd how very little you really knew about people, he thought. For most of the time, Fusil appeared to be just a razor-sharp, self-sufficient, supremely confident D.I. who believed there were twenty-five hours in every day… Yet very occasionally he offered a momentary glimpse of himself worrying, fearing, harried by the kind of doubts that any ordinary man knew. Hadn’t Shakespeare put it very clearly in one of his interminable plays? Or was he mixing up the reference with the very true saying that all cats were the same in the dark?
Someone had tried to make something of the pocket-sized front garden of Number 59, Arcoll Avenue. Five hybrid tea-roses had been planted in the bed. Unfortunately, the roses seemed to have been washed by the greyness of the area and their colours looked faded. The front door had been newly painted, but the light fawn showed streaks of dirt.
Mrs. Playford answered Fusil’s knock. She was a small, bird-like woman, with an air of harassment, as if life were one long rush. When Fusil introduced himself, she instinctively put her hand to her mouth in a gesture of fright.
“May we come in?” he asked. There was sympathy in his voice.
Wordlessly, she opened the door wider and they stepped inside. The hall was spotles
sly clean and smelled of polish. Some Middle Eastern copper coffee pots with long curving spouts stood on the window shelf and glinted in the light.
“Is Ginger in?” asked Fusil.
“I… I don’t know,” she answered, obviously lying.
“I’d like a word with him, Mrs. Playford.”
She hesitated, trying to find the courage to refuse, but eventually failing. She showed them into the front room and then mumbled that she’d try to find him. After she’d gone, Fusil crossed to the mantelpiece and looked at the group of family photographs. One of these was of Mrs. Playford and her three sons. Two of the sons, he knew, were hardworking and honest: Ginger Playford was a villain. What had led one member of this very ordinary family into villaining?
When Ginger Playford came into the room, his attitude was one of hostile insolence. “Well — what’s to do then?” Mrs. Playford stood in the doorway. She looked at her son, at Fusil, then back at her son again. Her expression became one of bitter, defeated despair. She seemed about to speak, but left without saying a word.
Playford stood by an armchair and lit a cigarette. “Speak up, mate. I ain’t got all day to waste.”
“Have you been busy lately?” asked Fusil.
“I’m always busy.” Playford swung round and spoke to Kerr. “You shove that down in your little notebook.”
“Been out on some jobs?” asked Fusil.
“I’ve been working legal, down at the docks. So don’t you come shading me.”
Fusil smiled sarcastically.
Playford, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, scratched the back of his neck. “Do me a favour. Say what you’ve got to say and then ’op it.”
“When did you do your last job?”
“I ain’t done one since the time you bastards nicked me.”
“So you haven’t been doing any driving lately?”
Playford’s manner changed: he became a shade less belligerent. “I’ve got me own car, if that’s what you mean.”
“Someone told me you’ve been driving a van around the place?”
“It’s a lie.”
“Then you weren’t out in one on Monday afternoon?”
Playford became very interested in the cigarette he was smoking.
“Would you have called in at the Jack of Hearts for a cuppa?”
“No.”
“D’you know the café?”
“’Course.”
“When were you last there?”
“Can’t remember.” He crossed to the settee and flopped down on it. He flicked the ash from his cigarette on to the carpet.
“Someone seems to think you were there in a van.” Fusil began to fill the bowl of his pipe with tobacco, shredding the tobacco with slow and deliberate movements. He looked up. “Who were you with?”
“I told you, I wasn’t there.” Playford threw the cigarette, only half smoked, into the fireplace.
“Abe Stretley?”
Playford lit another cigarette.
“D’you know Abe?” asked Fusil.
“Not really.”
“How about Ed Finnigan?”
“No.” Playford turned his head so that neither detective could clearly see his face.
“You weren’t with either of them on Monday afternoon?” asked Fusil, in the same even voice.
“No,” shouted Playford.
“I wonder why you’re lying?”
“I ain’t.”
“Didn’t you have a jar with Ed and Abe at The Jolly Admiral on Monday?”
Playford drew on the cigarette. “All right,” he muttered. “So me and them ’ad a drink together.”
“And it was this Monday?”
“It could’ve been.”
“That’s fine. Now I wonder why you bothered to lie about knowing them?”
“I wouldn’t tell a split the bleeding time of day.”
Fusil struck a match and lit his pipe. “I’d say you’d only deny knowing them if there was a very good reason for doing so. Maybe you all did a job together?” He dropped the spent match into an ashtray. “I wonder if the three of you hijacked that whisky lorry?”
“No.”
“And then you and Abe murdered Ed?”
Playford swung round. “We done what?” he cried.
“Murdered Ed. Burned him to death in the wine shop.”
There was no doubting the fact that Playford was shocked. “You… you’re trying it on?”
“We identified his body this morning,” lied Fusil. “I’ve come to pick you up for his murder.”
“We ain’t murdered ’im. When we left ’im be’ind…” Playford stopped suddenly.
“When you left him behind?” said Fusil softly.
Playford threw his cigarette into the fireplace. He immediately lit another.
“We’ve got you for a lifer,” said Fusil. “Unless it was Abe did the killing? If that’s the way it was, you’d better start talking quick.”
The two detectives watched Playford’s face. They saw indecision and then defiance: they knew the interview had just failed.
“We ’ad a drink at the pub and split up after. I don’t know nothing more,” muttered Playford.
Fusil stood up and took a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket. “Here’s a search warrant. We’ll start off by seeing what you’ve got on you.”
Playford jumped to his feet.
“Search him,” ordered Fusil.
Kerr approached Playford and stood in front of him. Kerr, having put the notebook in his coat pocket, held his fists clenched, his right knee ready, and his weight on his left leg.
Playford relaxed. Kerr searched him and found nothing.
They went upstairs, watched from the end of the hall by Mrs. Playford, to Playford’s bedroom. It was newly decorated and neat and tidy. They searched the chest of drawers, the wardrobe and all the clothes hanging in it, and the bed. In a small slit in the mattress, they found two hundred and sixty-three pounds in one-pound notes.
Fusil examined the notes.
“I won that on the dogs,” said Playford.
“Let’s have something more original than that,” replied Fusil, in a bored voice.
“I’m telling you, I won it on the dogs.”
“What’s the name of the bookie and which track was it at?”
“Several tracks, up in the Smoke.”
“The names of the bookies?”
“Can’t remember.”
“What dates?”
“I go regular. Can’t say exactly what dates.”
“Which dogs won?”
“I can’t remember. I just keep backing.” Fusil stared at the thick bundle of money in his hand. Playford’s explanation for the money was a hoary old chestnut, but it was one very difficult to disprove.
“Give us the money,” demanded Playford. Fusil swore silently. Without the necessary provable evidence, he was going to have to hand it back.
*
Braddon reported to Fusil, back at the station. “No luck, sir,” he said, more lugubriously than ever. “Stretley eventually admitted drinking with Finnigan and Playford, but says they split up as soon as they left the pub.”
“How did he take the news of Finnigan?”
“He was shocked, but he didn’t change his story.”
“Did you find anything in the house?”
“Nothing useful.”
Chapter 9
When Kerr, parcel in hand, arrived at Helen’s house that night, she said: “You’re only three hours late this time, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain.”
“I’m most terribly sorry, darling, but…”
“But you were held up and just couldn’t get to a phone — honest.” She linked her arm with his.
“As a matter of fact, it wasn’t quite like that. I’ve a confession to make.”
“Oh?” She began to frown slightly.
“I was just leaving the station when a blue Ferrari drew up. There was a gorgeous bit of crackling driving it and she l
eaned across and said she was lonely and would I…”
“John Kerr,” said Helen forcefully, “there are times when your so-called sense of humour positively stinks.”
They went into the sitting room. He apologised to Mrs. Barley for being late and she said it didn’t matter a bit as she hadn’t planned an early meal.
Kerr handed the parcel to Mr. Barley. “We had to visit a booze place today and they handed out a sample. Thought you might like it.”
Mr. Barley unwrapped the bottle. “That’s real nice of you, John, but are you sure you don’t want it…?” His question was asked for form only, as they all knew. He loved whisky but, now that he was retired, was seldom able to afford it.
“I don’t know whether you like MacLaren malt?” said Kerr, as he sat down on the settee.
“There’s nothing as good as a drop of real malt whisky, John.” Mr. Barley turned and spoke to his wife. “Remember the stuff we had when we went up to the Highlands?”
“I remember you drank far too much and tried to do a Scottish Reel and twisted your back.”
He grinned, in an embarrassed way. “It was a lovely drop of malt whisky. Never tasted anything like it since.”
“And that’s a very good job!” said Mrs. Barley. “Well, I’ll get the supper.”
“No hurry, Ducks. Let’s have a little drink first. A bit of a celebration, like.”
He took off his spectacles and polished them with a handkerchief. “We haven’t really drunk to Helen and John yet.”
“I suppose the stew won’t come to any harm for a while longer.” She settled back in her chair.
There was a strange exhilaration to genuine happiness, thought Kerr, a glow that explained why life was so precious a gift. It was one of the many discoveries he had made since meeting Helen.
*
Fusil and Josephine were watching television when the front doorbell rang. “Who in the world can that be at this time of night?” she said.
“I’ll find out and send ’em packing.” He stood up, yawned, and stretched.
The doorbell rang again.
“You can tell ’em we’re not deaf,” she said.
When he opened the front door, he found the caller was Kywood. “By God, Bob, there’s trouble!” Kywood, uninvited, stepped into the hall. “I’ve just had a bellyful from the chief constable. He’s been on the phone for over a quarter of an hour…”
Guilt Without Proof (C.I.D. Room Book 4) Page 8
