Dead Letter Day (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 3)

by J F Straker

  The gun-barrel butted into his back as he stopped dead. So they had got Polly! He wanted to ask, ‘What girl?’, to pretend that he was alone, that if there was a girl her presence there was coincidental. But he and Polly had been seen together by one or other of Lester’s mob on at least two occasions. To feign ignorance would be futile.

  ‘What have you done with her?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing yet. She’s in the van with the boys. We picked her up while you were bawling at each other.’ Lester chuckled hoarsely. ‘So you don’t know where to dig, eh? Well, I bet she does. She’ll tell us. Could be she’s told the boys already; they’re pretty crisp with birds. Anything as groovy as that one, and they just can’t leave it alone.’

  Johnny felt sick with rage. He was angry not only with his captor, but with himself; he should never have left the girl, it was criminal the way he had allowed himself to be trapped. To vent his rage he wanted to turn and smash his fist into Lester’s face. But sanity prevailed. He had to think of Polly. He had no clear idea of how he might help her, but he could not help her with a bullet in his back.

  He needed no prodding to get moving. He almost ran up the track. ‘If those bastards harm her — if they dare to lay a finger on her — I’ll crucify them.’ Spoken words could not contain his rage, he had to shout them. ‘I’ll bloody crucify them.’

  ‘You will?’ Lester laughed. ‘I’ll tell ‘em. It’ll scare the pants off them, I shouldn’t wonder. And stop running. The bird’ll keep. Maybe they’ll fig around some, but she’ll still be there.’

  She was still there. She sat on the floor of the van, with one of the men beside her. Her scarf was missing, and the buttons had gone from her coat. Johnny suspected she had put up quite a struggle, and wondered if she were hurt. She looked pale and frightened, but she managed a thin smile when she saw him, and nodded when he asked if she was all right.

  ‘You can cut the small talk,’ Lester said. ‘Get in.’ He nodded at a tall, morose-looking man who was leaning against the back of the van. Johnny recognized him as the third member of the party they had seen on Ditchling Common. ‘You take her, Chipper. And watch it. This is one trip we can’t afford the law.’

  Johnny got in and squatted next to Polly. The man on the far side of her was the man who had tangled with him at the Frazers’; he scowled at Johnny, but did not speak. The van was small, and when Lester joined them to sit opposite, gun in hand, all four had to hump their knees. Chipper closed the doors; moments later the engine fired, and the van started to rock and roll its way across the car park. With a final succession of bumps they were out on the road. The move puzzled Johnny. There were spades in the van, the men had obviously come prepared to dig; he had supposed that he and Polly had been brought to the van for a none too gentle inquiry into the exact location of the bullion. So why were they leaving? Had Lester accepted his statement that Slade had neglected to mention that final important detail? Without argument, without strong-arm coercion? It seemed totally out of character with his previous behaviour.

  ‘I can see why you need that gold,’ Johnny said. ‘The transport’s lousy.’ Lester made no comment. ‘Where are we off to now, then?’

  ‘Somewhere a bit more private,’ Lester said. ‘Me and the boys, we’ve got questions. We don’t want to be interrupted.’

  Johnny shrugged. ‘Well, it’s your party. But Miss Frazer and I are uncommonly short on answers.’

  ‘Not to worry, punk.’ Lester grinned. ‘We’ll help you find them.’

  Johnny did not doubt it. What worried him, and what Lester could not know, was that the answers were not available, no matter how potentially effective the ‘help’. How far would Lester go before acknowledging defeat?

  He wondered if the same unpleasant thought had occurred to Polly.

  ‘You didn’t follow us,’ he said, ‘so you must have been waiting. I suppose that bastard Cooke tipped you off.’

  Lester scowled. ‘Save your breath, punk. You may need it.’

  It had to be Cooke, Johnny decided. Cooke must have ignored his warning and risked a final killing. How much had Lester paid him? Johnny made a silent vow that, whatever the figure, if he ever got his hands on Cooke the man would decide it had been far from enough.

  There was practically no conversation on the journey. After a few miles Polly’s hand sought Johnny’s, and he held it tight, hoping it might bolster her courage but doubting that it would. On the other side of her the man Lester called Stan dozed fitfully, swaying with the motion. Occasionally he flopped against the girl. Lester did not doze. Johnny had hoped that as the journey progressed the man’s watchfulness might slacken, that there might come a moment when it would be possible to jump him. But the cold eyes never wavered in their scrutiny. When cramp in his right leg caused Johnny to shift his position the gun was levelled at his stomach. And at that range Lester could not miss.

  When they reached the suburbs Johnny checked their route through the rear windows. They took the Croydon bypass, went by unfamiliar sideroads to Balham, across Clapham Common and over Battersea Bridge to the Embankment. Passing Chelsea Hospital Lester moved a leg to nudge the dozing Stan, and as he jerked into wakefulness Stan clutched the girl’s thigh. She stiffened and caught her breath. Johnny gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. He guessed that the man’s action had been instinctive and without lecherous intent; that of a custodian caught napping beside his prisoner.

  Lester took a coloured handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Blindfold him,’ he said.

  The roof was too low for Stan to stand upright. He worked himself on to his haunches, grabbed the handkerchief, and shuffled round to crouch in front of Johnny. Johnny saw his chance, and took it. Stan was between him and Lester, and Johnny lifted his foot and crashed it into the man’s face. Stan screamed and fell back. Johnny had hoped he would fall against Lester, and that before Lester could recover there would be time to tackle him. But Lester moved too quickly. He rolled away from the sprawling Stan, and as Johnny scrambled to his feet, swaying with the van, he saw that Lester was up on one knee, the gun steady in his hand.

  ‘Don’t try it,’ Lester snapped. ‘Not unless you want a gutful of lead.’

  Johnny hesitated, one hand against the roof to steady himself. But his hesitation was brief. The opportunity was past, and with a muttered curse he took his hand from the roof and slid down beside the girl. As his legs straightened a foot came in contact with the crotch of the semi-recumbent Stan. Stan swore obscenely and lashed out with his foot, careless of his aim. The foot caught Polly on the shin, and she cried out in pain.

  ‘Cool it,’ Lester said. ‘Stop grovelling, Stan, and blindfold the punk.’

  Stan got back on his haunches. There was blood around the lower part of his face. Johnny could not tell if it came from his mouth or his nose or both, but the sight of it gave him some satisfaction. In the past week he had taken plenty from Lester and his thugs. Dishing it out had come as a welcome change.

  He submitted to the blindfold because he saw no option. Stan wasn’t gentle. Johnny suspected the man would have preferred to gouge out his eyes rather than cover them, that only his obvious respect for Lester’s authority prevented more brutal treatment. The handkerchief was tied too tight, cutting into the bridge of Johnny’s nose and the corners of his eyes. But he made no protest. He would not give Stan the satisfaction of ignoring it.

  Stan completed the knot and slammed Johnny’s head against the side of the van. ‘How about her?’ he asked. His voice sounded muffled. Johnny hoped his lip had been split.

  ‘Sit down and shove her head on your shoulder,’ Lester said. ‘It’s not far.’

  The man crawled back to his former position, hacking Johnny’s ankle as he did so, and put an arm round the girl’s neck. She gave a faint cry of protest as he pulled her towards him, but she did not struggle. The fact that he could do nothing to help made Johnny writhe. He scarcely felt the pain in his ankle.

  Some twenty minutes later the van stopped and t
he engine was cut. Cool air flowed in as the doors were opened. There was movement and a scuffling of feet, and more rough treatment for Johnny’s ankles. Someone gripped his arms, and he was pulled from the van like a sack of coal and dumped unceremoniously on his bottom. The ground was hard and wet, soaking his trousers, and when he put a hand down he felt rough cobblestones. It would be a yard, he thought, or perhaps a mews. Then he was jerked to his feet, and led through a doorway and down two flights of steps. The steps were well worn and smoothly concave, and twice he slipped and had to grasp the iron handrail to stop from falling. There were flagstones at the bottom, and another door. Johnny heard a key turn in the lock. Then the door opened, and he felt a blast of hot air as a fist prodded him in the back and pushed him through the opening. Footsteps echoed around him.

  ‘All right,’ Lester said. ‘Take it off.’

  There was no attempt to untie the knot. The handkerchief was whipped roughly from his head, searing the corners of his eyes. Johnny blinked his way round the room. They were in a cellar, without windows, the only light a naked electric bulb suspended from the ceiling. It was large for a cellar, and littered with junk; broken packing cases, bundles of newspapers, stacks of bottles, broken furniture, battered and rusting tins. In one corner stood a large solid-fuel stove, its furnace roaring, from which pipes led up through the ceiling. In the opposite corner a man was stretched prone on a dirty mattress, with flock spilling from the torn ticking. Johnny’s view was partially obscured by Stan and the girl. But the man lay perfectly still, apparently unaware of, or indifferent to, the sudden influx of people and light, and Johnny wondered vaguely if he were dead. He had to be either dead or asleep, and a corpse in that company did not seem improbable. It was certainly no more improbable than that he should choose to bed down in such filthy surroundings.

  Lester gave him a shove. ‘Park your arse over there,’ he said, pointing.

  Johnny sat down on a pile of newspapers, his back against the rough stone wall. Stan grabbed Polly’s arm and led her to a chair which was propped against the opposite wall; she sank into it rather than sat, the seat cushion bulging obscenely downward. Stan stayed by her, and Polly watched him nervously, her weight on one arm of the chair as she leaned away from him. The other arm of the chair lay on the floor.

  Chipper went over to the mattress and stirred the body with his foot. Johnny thought he heard the man groan. ‘He’s still breathing,’ Chipper said.

  ‘A pity,’ Lester said. He came to stand in front of Johnny. The revolver was no longer in evidence. Presumably he had decided that odds of three to one provided sufficient security. ‘You ready with those answers, punk?’

  ‘Such as what?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘Such as what exactly did Slade write in his letter to Obi Bullock?’

  Johnny told him. Since Lester already knew the locality he would be giving little away. And in his present predicament it seemed healthier to co-operate.

  ‘That all?’ Lester asked.

  ‘That’s all. Just to line up the three trees, and then dig. As I said, he didn’t mention where.’

  ‘You’re lying again.’

  Johnny shrugged. ‘Ask Miss Frazer. She’ll tell you.’

  ‘She’s already told us, punk. Back there, when we picked her up. We got the same answer. Rigged it beforehand, did you?’

  ‘Why should we?’ Johnny knew that trouble lay ahead, that he would need to be at his best to cope with it. But his ankle was giving him hell, he felt sick and tired and had developed a headache. ‘I didn’t expect Cooke to rat on me. We weren’t looking for visitors.’

  ‘Cooke would rat on his grandmother. What have you done with the letter?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s at the shop where Miss Frazer works. In the safe.’

  ‘That’s another lie.’ Lester’s tone had so far been reasonably amiable. Now it hardened. ‘She gave it you in the pub. I was there. I saw her.’

  ‘I know.’ So that was why he had looked familiar. ‘But I gave it back later.’

  ‘You put it in your pocket.’ Almost sadly, Lester shook his head. ‘Don’t be a fool, Inch. We can play this cool or we can play it rough.’ He moved a step nearer. ‘And I mean rough. So why not get smart, eh? Where’s that letter?’

  ‘Oh, go to hell!’ Johnny said. ‘What’s the use? A bastard like you wouldn’t believe God Almighty.’

  ‘I might,’ Lester said. ‘He’s got a reputation. You haven’t, punk. You’re just a bloody liar.’

  ‘But he’s not,’ Polly said desperately. Her voice was shrill, the Cockney undertones more in evidence. ‘He’s telling the truth. The letter really is in the safe.’

  Lester laughed. It was not an encouraging sound. ‘And the shop is closed for the weekend, and you haven’t got a key, so you can’t get it till Monday? Christ! What do you think I am? Some kind of a nutter?’

  ‘The biggest,’ Johnny said. ‘Stinking crazy. Anyway, what’s a locked shop to you and your playmates? Breaking and entering is right up your alley. You made a right mess of my office, didn’t you?’

  ‘We’ll make a right mess of you too if you don’t get wise to yourself.’ Johnny saw the kick coming and moved to avoid it. The shoe grazed his thigh. ‘Stan and Chipper here, they do a real neat job on jokers like you.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Johnny said. ‘I take it they did a real neat job on that poor bastard on the mattress, eh? Who is he? Or shouldn’t I ask?’

  ‘Your pal Cooke.’ Lester turned to look at the recumbent figure. As far as Johnny could see, Cooke had not moved since they had entered the cellar. ‘He got that way through trying to be smart. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  Johnny’s animosity towards Cooke drained way. He no longer wanted to do things to him; he suspected that too much had been done already. He could even feel compassion. And if they could so maltreat a man who had given them the information they wanted, as Cooke must have done, what would they do to someone who denied it them — or whom they thought was denying it? Imagination played havoc with his nerve as he pictured the probable answers. His fear was not only for himself, but for the girl. Especially for the girl. He had been roughed up before; and although what was to come would probably be more painful than anything yet he hoped he could take it. But Polly couldn’t. He knew it and they knew it — which was why they would concentrate on her. And the hell of it was, he could do nothing to prevent it. Polly — and he too, no doubt — was to be ‘persuaded’ into imparting information neither of them possessed.

  Me and my bloody vanity! he thought miserably. If I hadn’t insisted on a witness to my triumph she wouldn’t be here.

  ‘Between you and me, punk, Cooke got off lightly,’ Lester said. ‘Take Joe Slade, now. You heard about Joe? Well, when Joe came out after doing his porridge we asked him, very politely, where him and Martin had hidden the bullion. Not to worry, we said; we weren’t greedy, we’d see he got his cut. But Joe was obstinate, he just wouldn’t see it our way.’ He shook his head in mock regret. ‘Well, you know how it is. The boys get a bit excited, and one thing leads to another, and — bingo, he’s gone!’

  Piling on the agony, Johnny thought. ‘Take Dolores Cash too, while you’re about it,’ he said. ‘Someone got a bit excited over her, didn’t they? And she wasn’t even involved.’

  ‘Cash?’ Lester frowned. ‘Ah, yes! The Finsbury Park basher. Yes, Stan overreached himself there, I’m afraid. Eh, Stan?’ He turned to look at the man. Stan nodded and grinned, and Johnny was pleased to see that his upper lip had swollen nicely. ‘He mistook her for Alice Slade. The stupid bitch didn’t deny it; thought he was one of Alice’s customers, I suppose, and didn’t want to pass up an extra fiver. Of course, when things started to get rough she tried to tell him the truth. But Stan’s not the gullible type, he didn’t believe her. And who can blame him?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ Johnny said.

  ‘But it all goes to show, doesn’t it? I mean, we’re thorough, we don’t mess about. We want something, we go
right out and grab it. Anyone gets in our way, we squash him.’

  ‘Or her.’

  ‘Sure. What’s the difference? Now, let’s get back to you and the bird. O.K., so you haven’t got the letter. It’s in the safe.’ There was a loud snigger from Stan. ‘But you know what was in it, and that’s all we need. So give. Only watch it, punk. The two of you stay here while we check. If it doesn’t work out —’ Lester sighed lugubriously. ‘Maybe you’d best take another look at Cooke.’

  Johnny did not bother. Lester was plugging a message that had registered way back. But he decided to make a final plea for sanity. The girl was terrified, he said; Lester could see that, couldn’t he? If she had the information Lester wanted she would have surrendered it at the first hint of violence. But even violence could not produce what wasn’t there. ‘We’ve told you everything that was in the letter,’ he said earnestly. ‘Word for bloody word. And that’s gospel.’

  ‘So you take a spade,’ Lester said with heavy sarcasm, ‘all set to dig up the whole bleeding common! Pull the other one, punk.’

  Johnny tried to explain that it hadn’t been like that, that he had taken the spade on the off-chance that there might be some feature in line with the three trees that would suggest where to dig. Lester brushed the explanation impatiently aside. Johnny wondered why, since the man was obviously set on violence, he had allowed violence to wait on argument. Certainly not on humane grounds; there was nothing humane about Lester, he was a natural sadist. Perhaps that supplied a key to the answer. He wanted to prolong his victims’ agony, deriving pleasure in anticipation of what was to follow.

  ‘We’re wasting time,’ Lester said. ‘O.K., Stan?’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ Stan said eagerly. ‘I owe the bastard something.’

  ‘He can wait. The girl’ll be quicker.’

  ‘No!’ Johnny shouted. ‘Leave her alone, damn you!’

  Stan grabbed the girl’s hair, jerked back her head, and slapped her viciously across both cheeks. Polly’s screams brought Johnny to his feet, but before he was fully upright Chipper’s fist belted into his stomach, and he doubled up, gasping for air. Chipper hit him on the chin, and he went down, cracking his head against the wall as he fell. Dazed and breathless, he struggled to get up, the sound of Polly’s screams torturing his ears. Then he saw Chipper’s feet, only inches away, and discipline returned. He flopped prone, and waited until the feet moved, turning away. Then, exerting all his strength, he raised himself on an elbow and slammed his fist into Chipper’s crotch.