Dead Letter Day (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 3)

by J F Straker

  ‘Suppose Lester has taken the key with him?’

  ‘Too bad. Still, they’ll have to open the door somehow. They can’t just let the place burn.’

  He made two more flock sausages, and laid them along the gap under the door. Then, with the aid of newspaper as a starter, he set fire to them. As he had hoped, they smouldered rather than burned, and soon the atmosphere in the room became unpleasantly acrid. It occurred to Johnny that Polly might have been visible to Jill Porter when Lester went out to speak to her, and he got Polly to sit in the chair, draped cord round her ankles, and told her to clasp her hands behind her back when they heard someone coming. It might be Jill.

  As the room filled with smoke they started to cough. The girls were concerned for Cooke, whose condition was rapidly deteriorating; if someone didn’t come soon, Jasmine said, he might die. They might all die, Johnny said, and why all this pessimism? He spoke sharply because that possibility had been with him from the start. If there was no-one in the club — if the smoke took too long to penetrate upstairs — they might suffocate before anyone came to investigate.

  ‘Shouldn’t we shout for help?’ Polly suggested. ‘That’s what we’d do if the room was really on fire.’

  Johnny agreed. They might not be heard at once, but there was no knowing when someone might open a door, smell smoke, and wonder at the silence. The smoke made shouting painful, and they coughed more than they shouted. Tears streamed from their eyes, and over on the mattress Cooke started to retch and presently to vomit. As the atmosphere thickened, so that from the door the far wall became almost totally obscured, Johnny realized that they could not take much more. Even if he were to acknowledge defeat and stamp out the smouldering flock now, it would take time for the smoke to disperse. The gap beneath the door provided the only outlet, and the rapidity with which the volume of smoke grew suggested that all the draught was inward.

  He decided to give it another five minutes. By then the smoke would have become a greater hazard than Lester.

  The five minutes were almost up when he heard the footsteps. Two people, he thought, a man and a woman. The girls had also heard them, and they redoubled their cries for help. Enveloped in smoke, Polly stayed in the chair, and as Johnny grabbed the chair arm — it had already proved its efficacy as a weapon — and stood so as to be hidden by the door when it opened, Jasmine scuttled across the room to join him.

  ‘What shall I do?’ she asked in a hoarse whisper, between coughs. ‘You didn’t say.’

  ‘Keep quiet.’

  A key turned in the lock, the door was thrown open. ‘Christ!’ a man’s voice exclaimed. ‘Get the others.’ As he came through the doorway, waving his hands to disperse the billowing smoke, Johnny brought the chair arm down hard across his shoulders. The man stumbled and fell, but he wasn’t out. Groaning, he started to rise, and Johnny caught him with his foot and sent him sprawling.

  ‘Come on, you two,’ he shouted. ‘Run!’

  By the time he was through the doorway the woman had reached a small landing at the top of the first flight of steps. Two doors led off it, and with a quick backward glance she opened the door to her right and disappeared. Johnny recognized her as Jill Porter, and supposed that the man he had hit was her husband. She had not closed the door, and through the opening he saw the tables and chairs of the club and suspected that she had gone to fetch the others; if he went that way he would be running into further trouble. He opened the second door. It led to more steps, and he hurried up them, with Polly and Jasmine close behind. The door at the top was locked, and bolted top and bottom.

  The key was in the lock, and turned smoothly. Johnny was reaching for the top bolt when the door below him slammed, and he looked back to see Porter starting up the second flight.

  He pushed past the two girls. He still held the chair arm. ‘Get that door open,’ he snapped. ‘If there’s a way out, take it.’

  Porter stopped when he saw the upraised chair arm. The two men glared at each other. ‘One more step,’ Johnny threatened, ‘and I’ll smash your bloody skull in. And that’s a promise.’ Porter placed a tentative foot on the next step. ‘I mean it,’ Johnny said. ‘I’ve had enough of you bastards.’ Behind him he heard the click of a bolt being withdrawn. ‘Want to try me?’

  Porter removed his foot. ‘The boys’ll get you later,’ he said angrily. ‘That’s another promise.’

  The second bolt was withdrawn. Johnny felt cool air on his neck, a hand tugged at his jacket. ‘Don’t worry about me, Porter,’ he said. ‘Start thinking about what the boys will do to you when they find you’ve let us escape. It could be rather nasty.’ He backed up a step. Beyond the lower door a man’s voice shouted instructions. ‘But the key in the lock on the outside, Polly. What’s out there, by the way?’

  ‘A mews,’ she said.

  ‘Be ready to slam the door as I come out.’ He backed up another step. ‘This creep may try to follow.’

  Porter didn’t follow. Either he didn’t relish the threatened assault, or he had other plans for their recapture. Even before Johnny had backed out through the doorway he had turned and hurried down the steps.

  Johnny slammed the door and locked it. They were at the closed end of a deserted mews. ‘Let’s get moving,’ he said. ‘His pals may try to cut us off. I want to see people.’

  ‘How about Mr Cooke?’ Jasmine panted, as they ran down the mews. Jasmine seldom took exercise. ‘I mean — well, should we leave him?’

  ‘What else can we do? Carry him?’ There was no sign of pursuit when they reached the street. It was a relatively quiet street — residential, with a few small shops — but there was traffic, and Johnny slowed to a walk, looking for a telephone kiosk. There was one at the second crossing. He went in and rang the Yard and asked to be put through to Detective Superintendent Sherrey. It was either the Boozer or the local nick, and if the Boozer were available he could summon the bigger guns. He could also bring them into action more rapidly.

  Waiting for the Boozer to come on the line, he saw Jasmine jigging up and down on the pavement. He recognized the symptom. Jasmine had a weak bladder, and her work in the office was punctuated by constant trips to the loo. As the only loo in the building was three floors down, she was invariably breathless when she returned.

  He reached for his wallet, selected a pound note, and opened the door. ‘Off you go, love,’ he said, pushing the note into her hand. ‘Take a taxi. I’ll see you Monday.’

  ‘You sure, Mr Inch?’ She was jigging more rapidly. ‘You don’t want me to wait?’

  ‘Heaven forbid!’ Waiting could be disastrous. ‘How about you, Polly?’

  ‘I’ll wait. But don’t be long.’

  Jasmine lumbered off down the road, heading for the main crossing. Johnny smiled as he watched her through the glass. She rolled from side to side, her legs splayed. Then the Boozer was on the line, and he forgot her.

  ‘Bloody young fool!’ the Boozer said, when Johnny had put him briefly in the picture. ‘You want your head examined.’ He’s right there, Johnny thought, fingering the wound. According to Polly there was a two-inch gash above his left ear; not deep, she thought, but it would need stitching. ‘With your experience you should have known this wasn’t for private enterprise. Bound to be a balls-up. However, we’ll go into that later. Where are you now?’ Johnny told him. ‘Right. Grab a taxi and meet me this side of the Albert Bridge. I’ll alert the Sussex police. Where’s the best place to rendezvous with them?’

  Johnny suggested East Grinstead. Should the Sussex police take it into their heads to forage ahead for Lester and the others, East Grinstead was far enough from their destination to nullify their chance of success. The thunder was his, and he wanted no-one to steal it. ‘Do I take it you’re coming yourself, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘You do and I am.’ The Boozer hesitated. ‘This may be news to you, young man, but ten years ago Slade and that blasted bullion cost me quite a few sleepless nights. I was engaged in the investigation.’
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br />   ‘I didn’t know,’ Johnny said.

  ‘No. Did you get the number of the van when they carted you off?’

  No, Johnny said. One of the men had been standing in front of the rear number plate until he got in. And he could only describe the back of the van; that was all he had seen of it. He thought it was a Morris, but he couldn’t be sure.

  ‘H’m! Not much to go on. But I’ll put out a broadcast, for what it’s worth. Right, then. The Albert Bridge. In half an hour, say.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But how about Cooke? He’s in pretty poor shape. He needs medical attention, and quick.’

  ‘So get off the line and let me fix it.’

  When he came out of the kiosk Polly said, ‘All fixed? Good. Now let’s grab a taxi and get you to hospital. It’s high time that head of yours was seen to.’

  He grinned. ‘The Boozer had the same thought. Sorry — the superintendent. But the head must wait. I’m off to Sussex. I want to be there when they pick up Lester and the boys.’

  Polly shrugged. ‘You’re crazy, of course. Still, it’s your head. Will the police want to question me?’

  ‘Later, perhaps. Right now they’ve got other fish.’

  ‘I may as well go home, then. After all that dirt and smoke and —’ She paused, her cheeks flushing. Johnny guessed she was remembering Stan’s hands. ‘Well, I could do with a bath. And now that my stomach’s got over its fright it’s beginning to squeal.’

  ‘Mine too. Maybe I can grab a sandwich.’

  ‘Let me know what happens, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ He hesitated. ‘You had it pretty rough, didn’t you? I’m sorry.’

  She shrugged. ‘I can’t say it’s been a pleasure. Still, it was certainly exciting.’ She leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I don’t want to get emotional but — well, thanks for getting us out of that dreadful cellar. You were marvellous. I never thought we’d make it.’

  ‘You were pretty good yourself,’ Johnny said.

  He put her in a taxi, and hailed another for himself. He felt good. The aches and pains were still there, but they mattered less; now, if all went well, he was about to get his revenge. I’m like good old England, he thought. I’ve lost most of the battles, but I’m going to win the war. I hope!

  He was not kept waiting long at the bridge. It was a pity, the Boozer said, eyeing him with distaste as Johnny climbed into the back of the police car, that he had not found time to wash. All that dried blood! Disgusting! Johnny grinned at this typical Boozerism (if the Boozer ever felt sympathy or pity he seldom showed it), and as they journeyed down the A22 he expanded on the brief account he had given over the telephone. He got the expected ticking-off for his behaviour, but it was less acid than he had anticipated. He thought he knew the reason for that. The Boozer would soon be due for retirement, and he had made no secret of the fact that the prospect filled him with gloom; Johnny suspected he didn’t get on with his missus. It would sugar the pill if he could go out on a high note by correcting the failure he had registered a decade ago.

  ‘I visited Slade periodically while he was in prison,’ the Boozer said. He had a harsh, grating voice. ‘Mere routine, really. I never expected him to disclose where the stuff was hidden. I thought it might be different when he was in hospital; he must have known he was dying. And I pointed out that even if he were lucky enough to survive he would miss out on the gold, for he’d be under surveillance from the moment he left the hospital. But he was a stubborn brute. He wouldn’t co-operate. And now you tell me he’s left the lot to his Doctor Fells, eh?’ Not knowing the answer, Johnny contented himself with a shrug. ‘Some sort of trick?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Neither does Lester, apparently.’

  ‘Well, we’ll soon know. What sort of start have they had?’

  Johnny couldn’t be sure. About an hour, he thought. They would have lost some of that on the journey down; the van lacked the speed of the police car. Even so, they would have had something like three-quarters of an hour in which to dig up the bullion before the police could arrive. They would not be expecting police intervention, of course. But even if they took their time, three-quarters of an hour should be more than enough. ‘Still, they may not strike lucky right away,’ he said hopefully. ‘We may still catch them before they leave.’

  ‘It’s not important. They’ll be picked up on the way back.’

  ‘I know, sir. It’s just that I would have liked us to make the arrest, not the locals. After what those chaps did to me it would be sort of poetic justice.’

  ‘Us?’ Sherrey’s tone was cool. ‘The police will make the arrest. And there will be nothing poetic about it, I imagine.’

  Two police cars were waiting for them on the outskirts of East Grinstead. A uniformed inspector left one of the cars to join them, and as they drove through the town and sped on down the A22 he informed them of an incident that might or might not be relevant. About an hour previously a Ford van had been in collision with a saloon car at a road junction in Forest Row. No-one had been injured, and the damage to both vehicles had been slight: a smashed headlamp and a bent bumper on the saloon, a buckled wing on the van. The driver of the saloon had been at fault, but it was he who had insisted that the police be summoned. ‘Obviously a man with a conscience,’ the inspector said, turning in the front seat to face the superintendent. ‘The other chap didn’t want to know; just wanted to shove off. That intrigued the constable who attended the accident. But there was no reason to detain anyone. He took the necessary particulars and let them go. Unfortunately he wasn’t in radio contact, so he didn’t know of the broadcast until he reported back to the station. Still, it probably wasn’t your chaps. A Morris, you said, didn’t you?’

  ‘Possibly a Morris. How many occupants?’

  ‘Only the driver. Of course, there could have been others inside the van. The constable didn’t look.’

  ‘A pity.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Still, he won’t get far. Not with the whole county on the alert.’

  ‘What was the driver’s name, Inspector?’ Johnny asked. No need to address the man as ‘sir’. He was no longer a police sergeant. ‘Lester?’

  ‘No. William Chipperfield, according to his licence.’

  ‘Chipper!’ Johnny exclaimed. ‘That’s them! It must be. Lester called the tall one Chipper!’

  ‘No need to get excited,’ Sherrey said. ‘That van or another, it makes no difference. As the inspector says, they’ll be picked up.’

  It made a difference to Johnny. It meant that a probable forty-five minutes’ start could have been whittled down by more than half. It meant that he could be on the spot before the men had disinterred the bullion, almost certainly before they had loaded it and left. It meant that he would be in at the kill.

  The dusk was deepening as the convoy turned right at Wych Cross, and a heavily overcast sky added to the gloom. The Yard car was leading and, at Johnny’s suggestion, they switched off ignition and lights when they reached the turning, and coasted to a stop. The other drivers followed suit. They walked the rest of the way. In addition to the inspector there were four men from the local force, and Johnny decided that that was a very satisfactory number. But he remembered to inform the others that Lester would be armed. The inspector seemed unperturbed. They had tackled armed men before, he said, and no doubt would again.

  As they came out from the trees to the car park they saw the van. Silhouetted against the night sky, it stood some fifty yards from the road. They approached it cautiously. The near-side front wing was buckled, but the van was deserted, its rear doors open. The inspector shone a torch into the interior. It was empty except for an old car seat and a pile of sacking.

  ‘Where now?’ Sherrey asked.

  Johnny pointed. ‘There’s a track runs parallel to the road the other side of a ridge,’ he said. ‘If the men are there they’ll be about two hundred yards further down the valley.’

  A car came down the road, its lights undulating. They stay
ed in the lee of the van until it had passed, then moved on to the ridge. There they stopped and listened. Voices drifted faintly up from below. Tense with excitement, Johnny strained his ears for the sound of digging.

  Sherrey and the inspector held a whispered consultation. Was there only the one way down? Sherrey asked Johnny. There were other tracks, Johnny said, but he didn’t know whether they converged. The ground between them was uneven, and thick with bushes. It would be next to impossible to traverse it silently in the dark.

  Next to impossible or not, they would have to try it, Sherrey said; they could not all go blundering down the one track. One man was dispatched to the right, another to the left; since there was no visible landmark on which to converge, they were to keep more or less parallel to the track and close in at the sound of trouble. Johnny wanted to lead the way down, but the inspector ordered him back. This was his territory, he said, he and the constable would lead and make the arrests. Since Johnny was no longer a member of the Force, it was only on sufferance, and at the superintendent’s request, that he was allowed to be present.

  They had gone some way down the track, treading cautiously, with the voices growing louder and the new sound of spades clinking against stone, when a vivid streak of flame split the darkness below. It merged into a deafening explosion. In the brief moment of light Johnny saw men’s bodies hurled into the air above a spreading cloud of earth and vegetation, and as the noise of the explosion rumbled away across the valley the cloud came down, spattering the ground around the stunned onlookers.

  10

  If it was not the most terrifying experience of his life, Johnny told Polly when he took her to dinner the following Monday evening, it was certainly the most awesome. Like war, he supposed. It had affected them all. They had stood there on the track, with a barrage of earth and God knew what raining down on them, too stunned to move or utter more than a few fractured expletives. When eventually they had pulled themselves together and had gone on down, it was to find an enormous gaping hole with the vegetation around it torn and blackened for yards. By the light of the inspector’s torch they had searched the immediate area. It had been an unpleasant and a horrifying task. Mangled fragments of flesh and bone and cloth were all that remained of Lester and his accomplices. And without foreknowledge, and in such a difficult and cursory examination, it would have been impossible to say from how many bodies the fragments had come.