by J F Straker
She gave a little shiver, and nodded. Nicodemus said quietly, ‘I’m not being gruesome or prurient, Johnny, but when you told me about this on Thursday you said she hadn’t been raped. Just — well, used. How come? I mean, if Fred’s as strong as you say, what stopped him?’
‘He’s impotent.’ Johnny looked apologetically at the girl. ‘The head-shrinker who examined him says that’s why he killed her. A beautiful woman naked on a bed, and he couldn’t make it. It drove him crazy. Temporarily, I mean. Not Macnaughten crazy.’
‘Has he a record of violence?’
‘No record at all. Not in this country. But he admits to having killed a man in Lagos. That was while he was in the Merchant Navy. Some waterfront bum attacked him, he says, and Fred — well, Fred finished him off.’
‘What did he get for that?’
‘Nothing. He wasn’t caught. That probably gave him confidence for this little lot. Thought he could get away with it again.’ Nicodemus passed him a bottle. ‘Thanks. You know, I reckon one of the reasons Dassigne picked those three is because they were all clean on the books. They didn’t damage his aura of respectability.’
‘He didn’t pick Fred,’ Carole said. ‘Corby did.’
‘True. But he was willing to use him.’ The telephone rang in the hall. ‘I’ll get it,’ Nicodemus said.
When he had gone, Johnny moved to sit beside Carole. She responded happily when he kissed her. But when his hand started moving she pulled away.
‘Stop it, Johnny. He’ll be back any minute. I don’t want to look fussed.’
‘What’ll we do, then. Hold hands?’
‘Tell me what made you come bursting through the window the other night. You never have, you know. Only that you suddenly realized it was Fred you wanted, not Corby, and that he might be in here with me. Why? What changed your mind?’
The glass, Johnny told her, the one he had taken from the restaurant. He had taken it in the belief that one of the two sets of prints on it would tally with those found practically everywhere else. Well, they had; and because he was so convinced that Corby was their man he had immediately assumed that it was Corby’s prints that tallied. It never occurred to him that they might be Fred’s. Not until that sudden flash of insight as he was making for Fred’s digs.
‘Don’t ask me what sparked it off,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t know. I dare say Tom Bass’s statement that Fred had left early Tuesday evening had something to do with it. It could have set the old sub-conscious working, although at the time I just supposed Fred had made an innocent mistake.’ He paused to kiss her. ‘Anyway, once it reached the conscious it all seemed to click.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, one of the black marks against Corby was that he’d left the restaurant shortly after Jill on the evening she was killed. But Fred had left before him. It was his early night — remember? And on the evening Dassigne got his, Fred had left at a quarter to five right on time to collect the Mercedes and meet Dassigne at Paddington. Incidentally, Minter’s mechanic — Galloway later confirmed it was Fred. Not that we needed confirmation. Fred had already told us. He —’
He broke off as the door opened, and slid further along the sofa.
‘You’ve been a long while, Humphrey,’ Carole said, patting her hair. ‘Who’s your
garrulous friend?’
‘Sir John.’
They looked at him in surprise. ‘Sir John Diamond?’
‘The same.’ Nicodemus strolled to the empty chair, sat down, stretched out his legs, and surveyed them over finger-tips pressed together. There was a studied nonchalance in his manner that irritated Johnny. ‘He rang my digs first. The landlady gave him your number.’
‘Stop being mysterious, you nit,’ Johnny said. ‘What did he want?’
‘He didn’t want anything.’ Nicodemus reached for his beer. ‘He thought I might like to know that the police had recovered his brother’s ill-gotten hoard.’ Their simultaneous gasps of astonishment obviously delighted him. He dropped the pose and beamed at them. ‘Satisfying, eh? Everything nice and tidy, the way our beloved Boozer likes to have it.’
‘But how on earth did they get around to it so soon?’ Johnny asked. ‘The Boozer reckoned it could take months. Years, even. Where was it?’
‘In a bank.’
‘Oh? Which bank?’
‘That’s a good question.’ Nicodemus sipped leisurely. ‘In a sense you might say it was two banks.’
‘Oh, get on with it,’ Carole said sharply. ‘Don’t be so bloody perverse.’
Nicodemus got on with it; he had had his moment of triumph. It was Sir John, he said, who had supplied the police with the vital information. Like Nicodemus, he had decided that the fact that the list of numbers could be interpreted as the date of William Mort’s death was just a coincidence. Unlike Nicodemus, however, he had given it further thought. There was nothing under the flagstones, he was sure of that. But suppose Roger had been reading about Mort, and the name had suggested the date? Then what did the date stand for? Sir John had found no answer to that. Then he had thought: suppose it were the other way round? Suppose the date had suggested the name? The sensible place for Roger to store his treasures would be in a bank. But not his own bank, and not under his own name. That would be too obvious. So...
‘He used William Mort’s name,’ Carole said.
‘Yes.’ Nicodemus frowned at the interruption. ‘That’s what Sir John suggested to the police. Apparently he was right.’
‘But a name wasn’t enough, surely?’ Johnny said. ‘Not for such quick results. It’d mean contacting all the banks’ headquarters, the banks would have to circularize their branches, there’d be —’
‘Sir John gave them the name of the bank.’
‘Eh? I don’t believe it. How could he know?’
‘He didn’t know. It was an inspired guess. He decided to re-read William Mort’s diary, and he came across an entry which seemed to him — well, prophetic. I can’t quote the exact words Sir John read the entry to me over the phone but in it Mort wrote that, as he hoped to take his family into the country for the summer, he had walked round to Fenchurch Street to deposit his wife’s jewellery with his friend Henry Hankey, the goldsmith.’ Nicodemus drained his glass, picked up the bottle, and put it down when he saw that it was empty. ‘Well, Sir John argued that, if Roger had used Mort’s name, he might also have used Mort’s bankers. Most goldsmiths were bankers in those days. Anyway, he put it to the police, and they thought it was worth investigating.’
‘You mean to say the firm still exists?’ Carole said. ‘After all these years?’
‘Actually, no. One of the big five took it over around the turn of the century. But that’s where it was.’
‘Well, I’ll be plastered!’ Johnny said.
‘Bully for Sir John, eh?’ Carole clapped hands delightedly. ‘Who’d have thought he’d come up with a super brainwave like that? What’s the stuff worth, Humphrey? Did he say?’
‘No. It would have to be valued, wouldn’t it? But he gathered it was a pretty massive sum.’
‘Enough to settle the firm’s debts? Will Daddy benefit?’
Nicodemus shook his head. ‘It won’t settle anyone’s debts. It’s stolen property, according to Fred. Which means it will be handed back to the rightful owners, whoever they may be. They’re the only ones who’ll benefit.’ He eased himself out of the chair. ‘Well, I’m for bed. You coming, Johnny?’
‘How sad!’ Carole said. ‘For Daddy, I mean.’
‘I know. But we haven’t mentioned the matter to him, so at least he won’t be disappointed. Coming, Johnny?’
‘It’s a bit early for me,’ Johnny said. ‘There might be complications. I’ll hang on a while, I think. That all right with you, Carole?’
‘Of course. What complications?’
‘Never you mind.’
As the door closed behind Nicodemus Johnny said, ‘Did you know he was thinking of quitting the Force?’
&n
bsp; ‘Yes.’
‘Do you think he will?’
‘He might. He’s pretty fed up.’
He took her hand. ‘Poor old Knickers!’ Still staring at the door, he said, ‘You know something? I was thinking we might get married.’
‘You were?’
‘Yes. Any comment?’
‘Well, he’s not easy to live with. But if that’s what you fancy — yes, I suppose you could do worse.’
‘I’ll show you what I fancy,’ he said. ‘Come here.’
The demonstration was in its preliminary stages when the telephone rang. Johnny tightened his embrace. But she struggled energetically, and reluctantly he let her go.
‘It’ll be Mummy,’ she said. ‘Since that business with Fred she’s phoned practically every evening. She’s convinced I’ve got less than an even chance to escape being raped or murdered.’ As she went through the doorway she said, ‘It’s the rape, of course, that worries her most.’
‘Tell her it’s just starting,’ he called after her. ‘And tell her we don’t want any more interruptions.’
Moments later she was back. She stood in front of him, smiling. When he reached for her she stepped away.
‘It wasn’t Mummy.’ Dimples winked in her cheeks. ‘It’s your Boozer. Something about a robbery. He’s sending a car for you.’
‘Christ Almighty!’ Johnny said. ‘Here we go again!’
If you enjoyed reading Tight Circle, you might be interested in Death on a Sunday Morning by J F Straker, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Death on a Sunday Morning by J F Straker
1
With her wrists bound behind her back and her ankles tied to the legs of the chair, Rose Landor sat at her husband’s desk and strained her ears in an attempt to make sense of the muffled sounds and voices that filtered through to her from beyond the closed door of the office. She was more worried than frightened, for neither she nor Brian had been treated roughly and the men had curtly apologised for tying her up. She was also tired and physically distressed. Bound as she was, she could not relax her body against the chair or rest her head, and for what seemed like time interminable but was probably little more than half an hour she had been forced to sit upright. Her limbs ached, her eyes were hot and the lids heavy. Spasms of cramp attacked her soles and her thighs; and although her ankle bonds were sufficiently loose for her to dispel some of the pain by standing up, without the use of hands and arms the struggle to lift herself off the chair became increasingly hard.
Her main fear was of the dark. Since childhood she had suffered from claustrophobia, and the longer she sat the more menacingly the darkness seemed to close in on her. To overcome her fear, as well as to ease the increasing stiffness in her neck, she kept turning her head from side to side in an attempt to locate familiar objects and so make the gloom seem less opaque. She knew the room well: modest in size, but high-ceilinged and with a noble cornice, with a good Wilton carpet on the floor and an attractive yet unobtrusive paper on the walls. The furniture was functional rather than decorative, although the tubular-framed chairs were comfortable and the large flat-topped desk was admirable for its purpose. Yet she could remember when the room had looked very different. Only a few years back Brian had constantly complained about its appearance. It gave a bad impression, Brian had said, for the manager to receive his customers in an office with rusting filing cabinets and stained wallpaper, with large cracks in the ceiling and worn carpet on the floor. But then in those days Westonbury had been something of a backwater, a small country town where the Tuesday market was the main feature of practically every week except Race Week. And even Race Week could be something of a non-event. The meeting was too insignificant to attract the big stables or the heavy punters. We’ll pretty you up in time, the Bank had told Brian. But right now our resources are fully stretched and Westonbury is low in priority.
It was the arrival of Turnbull Motors that had changed the Bank’s attitude. Turnbull Motors were big, and with them had come a host of subsidiaries. New housing estates had sprung up on the periphery of the town to accommodate the influx of workers, new shops and services had opened to cater for the workers’ needs. Westonbury had become prosperous, and the Bank had reacted to its prosperity by starting work on larger and more suitable premises in the town centre. The new premises should have been ready the previous year, but there was still no firm date for completion. In the meantime the existing building, a converted Victorian dwelling-house, had been given a hasty facelift. Extra staff had been engaged and, although cramped for space, had so far managed to cope. Only during Race Week had the pressure become really excessive, for with the town’s new prosperity the meeting had grown in importance. In Race Week business was terrific.
It was Race Week now. Or the end of it. And that, Rose Landor supposed, was why she was sitting in the dark in her husband’s office, bound hand and foot, waiting for Brian and the men to return and wondering what was to follow when they did.
They had been watching the late night movie on television when the bell rang. She had opened the front door and there they were: two menacing figures in boiler suits, with wooden staves in their gloved hands and stocking masks over their heads. But despite their appearance their manner had been brusquely polite. They had urgent business at the bank, they told Brian, and needed his assistance; would he and his wife please get ready to accompany them? They hoped he would be cooperative, they said, because although they had no wish to get rough, rough was what they would get if he wasn’t. Brian had complied without argument; apart from the knowledge that resistance would have been futile, only a few months previously the Bank had issued instructions to all branches that under such circumstances they wanted no heroics from members of their staff. He had, however, queried the order for her to accompany them. Was that really necessary? They could lock her in a room without a telephone if they feared she might raise the alarm. But the men had insisted. They had their instructions, they said. The woman was to go with them.
They had gone in two cars: Brian driving his Austin, with her beside him and one of the men crouching in the back, and the second man following in the car in which the two had come. The house was some distance out of town, and as they drove she had wondered what the men would do if there were people on the street when they reached the bank — a possibility that was by no means unlikely, for although the bank was situated in a side street life did not die early on a Saturday night in the new Westonbury. Even if the men removed their masks even if Brian went unrecognised would not the sight of four people entering the bank at that hour arouse suspicion in an onlooker? But the hope that this thought had engendered vanished as they approached the bank. ‘Drive on past,’ the man in the back said, when Brian started to brake. ‘Take the first turning right and then right again.’ ‘Right again’ was a cul-de-sac that served the rear of the row of buildings in which the bank was situated, their back yards screened by a high brick wall; the buildings on the other side were in the process of being demolished to make way for a shopping complex. As the Austin stopped behind the bank two other masked men, also in boiler suits, emerged from the shadows. No one spoke. The man in the back motioned them to get out, whereupon they were grabbed by the newcomers and hustled through a gap in the brick wall. Moments later they heard the two cars being driven away.
At one time the back yard had boasted a lawn. Now it was little better than a sea of mud, the mud made sticky by a week of heavy and persistent rain. As they ploughed their way through it Rose wondered why Brian had done nothing to have it cleaned up. She never used the back entrance herself, but she knew that Brian did so regularly. The Bank had wanted to brick it in on grounds of security; it was a relic of the past, they said, when the building had been a private residence, and was out of place in a bank. But Brian had pressed for it to remain. With double yellow lines outside the front entrance and the nearest parking lot some distance away he preferred to park the Austin in the cul-de-sac and use the ‘t
radesmen’s entrance’, as he called it. The Bank had not insisted. Perhaps at the time they had reasoned that such an insignificant branch was unlikely to attract the attention of bank robbers. And had then forgotten.
A man’s voice, louder than before and quickly hushed, interrupted her uneasy musing. Then the door opened and Brian and the men were back. Though her eyes were now more accustomed to the dark she could not distinguish them as individuals, but as they approached the desk she saw that three of them were carrying suitcases. Another, the tallest of the four, switched on a torch. The beam lit her face, and she blinked and turned her head.
‘Sorry we had to neglect you, Mrs Landon’ the tall man said. ‘But business had to come first, I’m afraid. All right, are you?’
‘No.’ The quiet tone, the polite inquiry, dispelled all fear of what might be in store for them. She felt free to vent her anger. ‘I am far from all right. I have sore ankles and sore wrists and a blinding headache. I have also suffered severely from cramp.’ Her throat was dry, and she swallowed. ‘Are you all right, Brian? They haven’t harmed you in any way?’
‘No, dear. I’m perfectly all right.’
The controlled precision of his voice was reassuring. ‘Well, that’s something to be thankful for,’ she said. ‘I suppose they’ve taken all the money?’
‘I hope so, Mrs Landor,’ the tall man said. ‘That’s what we came for, and we pride ourselves on being thorough. Now, let’s get you out of that chair, shall we?’
Her bonds gone, she sat for a few moments, wiggling her feet and rubbing her chafed wrists to restore the circulation. Then, steadying herself against the desk, she stood up. Confident now — what did it matter that the bank had been robbed so long as she and Brian were safe? — she said tartly, ‘Well, what happens next? Do you drive us home? Or are we expected to walk?’
