With which, for the moment, Webb had to be content. ‘Thanks for your help, Mr Freebody. We shall be interviewing your staff later; Crawford might have mentioned something useful.’ Such as the identity of the potential car-buyer, though, on reflection, that was unlikely. He wouldn’t have admitted to his colleagues that he was selling it.
‘It was the Chief Super on the blower,’ he told Jackson as they walked back to Carrington Street. ‘He wants me to call in, a.s.a.p. No point in dragging you out to Stonebridge; you can use the time getting your paperwork up to date and I’ll meet you back here at two.’
Constabulary Headquarters was situated in the middle of the Broadshire countryside. There was no village within miles, and it took its name from the stone bridge that crossed the Avon and Broadshire Canal some yards farther down the road. Webb drove round the corner to the car park and went inside.
Chief Superintendent Phil Fleming was fresh-faced, bright-eyed and highly intelligent. Webb liked him, though he wished he would drop that irritating nickname, invented by an old lag years before. It was still in circulation, but no one else dared use it to his face.
‘Now, Spider,’ Fleming began before he was properly into the room, ‘fill me in on how things are going.’
‘Well, we are making progress, sir. Reports are coming in all the time and being checked against each other. I don’t need to tell you everyone’s working flat out on this one.’
Fleming nodded gravely. ‘This latest death — the son-in-law. Any connection?’
‘I think there has to be. The murder weapon’s at the lab going through tests at the moment. If there are any fingerprints other than Mrs Bennett’s, we’re in with a chance.’
‘Different MO though, isn’t it? How do you account for that?’
‘At the moment I can’t, sir,’ Webb said frankly.
‘If he was in the habit of carrying a knife, why not use it on Bennett instead of lugging in a piece of wood?’
‘That’s the big question. It seems likely, by the way, that he was waiting in the house for Bennett to come home.’
Fleming cocked his head, his bird-bright eyes on Webb’s face. ‘How do you make that out?’
‘Mrs Bennett had the impression someone was there when she returned briefly just beforehand.’
‘In the clear herself, would you say?’
‘Well, sir, she found both bodies, and we know how many killers claim to do that. It’s still possible she murdered her husband, though I think we can rule her out on Crawford. The devil of it is, the timing’s very tight in both cases and she’s been within a hair’s breadth each time.’
‘Prefer it not to be her,’ Fleming said gruffly. ‘Anyone else in the frame?’
‘Not as yet. We’re concentrating on two fronts now, family and work. We’re sure to come up with something soon.’
He sounded more confident than he felt. But damn it, they had to, and not, in this instance, because top brass were restive and the press baying for blood as usual. This time it was because one of their own had been murdered, a man who had lived and laughed and cursed among them for many years, who had shared the same dangers, frustrations and sheer bloody hard work as the rest of them; a man, furthermore, who had believed in a decent, law-abiding society and who, in the end, had given his life trying to achieve it. Because, for all his reservations, Webb still felt they’d find the reason for Malcolm’s death buried in his case files. Though how the hell Crawford’s tied in with it was another matter entirely.
14
Late that afternoon there was a double breakthrough; a message came from the lab to say the knife which killed Crawford was the same as that which had stabbed Michelle Taylor in the Lethbridge off-licence. There was a nick out of the blade, matching both wounds. Furthermore, a footprint taken from the lift in Lowther Building was identical with one from the newsagent’s in Dick Lane, thus tying two of the raids firmly in with the murder.
With fingerprints, they were less fortunate; only Mrs Bennett’s had shown up clearly. Two other smudged sets were not distinct enough to check against records.
The fact that it was Crawford’s death rather than Bennett’s that tied in with the raids was puzzling. Had he died simply because he’d come out of the bank while a raid was in progress, or was there more to it? And if he was killed because he saw something, why not there and then, on the pavement, instead of outside Una Bennett’s office?
Come to that, they were no nearer knowing why Crawford had gone there, particularly if someone was after him.
As to the killer, it must surely be ‘Kev’, who had used the knife in the Lethbridge raid. It was imperative that they find him as soon as possible, but so far their leads were minimal; only the name itself, a different getaway vehicle each time, and the fact that there seemed to be four in the gang. It wasn’t much to go on, and the manager in King Street had been unable to add to it.
The change of vans might be significant; possibly one of them worked at a second-hand dealer’s. He’d get Bob Dawson on to that. Then there were Clark and Cooch, small-time crooks who might well mix with others — and Partridge had thought they might cough. He lifted the phone.
‘Don, those two lads you interviewed; have another go at them, will you, on the shop-raid gang? We’re looking at murder now; the knife which killed Crawford is the one used in the Lethbridge raid. And there’s something else: they’ve always gone for the smaller shops before. This time, they’re confident enough to tackle a supermarket. Is it just coincidence that Clark and Cooch both work in one, or could they have passed on tips? It’s a long shot, but worth a try. Oh, and get John Manning to dig out all we’ve got on any Kevins who’ve come our way, particularly the Kevin Baker DS Carter mentioned. He’s moved from the address they have on file, but dammit, he must live somewhere. Try the DSS.’
Webb sat back in his seat, staring moodily across the room. It was barely five days since Malcolm’s death, but already he was feeling the need to set what he knew down on paper, an urge which usually came later in a case. He’d a niggling suspicion that there were connections which he hadn’t made and which were there for the searching.
His habit of ‘drawing conclusions’ was well known in the force, and had often opened up previously unsuspected avenues leading to the villain.
He looked at his watch. Five-thirty. ‘I’m knocking off early this evening, Alan; I want to sort a few things out in my mind. If anything important comes up, give me a buzz at home.’
In each case it was the motive that was so baffling, he thought as he drove through the rush-hour traffic. Find the motive, and they’d find the killer — only one, he was convinced, for both murders. But what had Malcolm and Neil in common, other than their relationship? And how could that concern a gang of thieves?
He turned up the hill out of town, past the entrance to Montpellier Gardens where Hannah’s school was. She’d be home by now. He wondered if, despite his reassurances, she was still uneasy about Susan’s reappearance.
Having let himself into the flat and poured a stiff drink, he went to the phone and dialled her number.
‘I’ve been reading about the latest murder,’ she said, after they’d exchanged banalities. ‘There’s a photo of the victim in the News, and it says he’s your friend’s son-in-law.’
‘That’s right.’
‘But how awful, David. Does it mean the same person killed him?’
‘That, my love, is what we have to discover. Not to mention his identity. Which leads me to the point of this phone call; have you anything on this evening?’
‘No, why?’
‘Could I stick my neck out and invite myself to supper? A lateish one, though. I’ve got the bit between my teeth — or rather, a pencil between my fingers — and I want to spend some time getting things down. But I’d also like to see you, and this seemed a good, if selfish, way of achieving both ends.’
‘You’re doing your drawing already? Isn’t it rather early?’
‘Yes, but we can’t hang a
round on this one. None of us can settle to anything while this brute’s on the loose, and the sooner we nab him, the happier everyone will be.’
‘Fair enough. And of course you’re welcome to supper. Eight o’clock? Nine?’
‘Let’s split the difference and say eight-thirty. Bless you, Hannah.’
He set up his easel in the living-room, pulled over a stool and a table for his drink and crayons, and settled down. He’d do the two crimes separately first, before checking for common features. The background, then: the Bennett sitting-room, and, across the hall, the kitchen with its broken pane of glass.
His pencil moved rapidly over the paper, marking out the layout of the ground floor. Then he drew a stick figure representing Malcolm in his easy chair. Normally, when he knew the people involved, he fleshed them out as easily recognizable caricatures, but he couldn’t bring himself to subject Malcolm to this treatment.
There could have been a shadowy figure in the background, that presence which Una had felt, and which might or might not have been imaginary. However, under his self-imposed rules, no hypotheses were allowed in this exercise and only known facts could be included.
So, assuming the time of death to be roughly one-thirty, where exactly had the suspects been? Come to that, who were they? Una, certainly, who in the first instance hadn’t admitted returning to the house. According to her statement, she’d have been on her way to Steeple Bayliss. He sketched in a car at the far edge of the paper.
Neil Crawford was another; allegedly he’d been at the DIY centre at the time, but he had no alibi. Though Webb strongly believed him to be a victim of the same killer, there was still no proof of this, so he must make his appearance. In another corner, a few strokes of the pencil produced a startlingly lifelike figure beside a notice reading ‘DIY’.
Steven Clark also had no alibi; what was more, he’d a grudge — albeit a small one — against Malcolm, and, as they’d now discovered, criminal tendencies. In a third corner, his form took shape, seated before a television set.
And lastly there was the unknown Kevin, whom Webb, breaking all his rules, uncompromisingly placed behind Malcolm’s chair. He was, after all, the most likely bet.
One by one he studied his cast of suspects, each distinguished by a different colour: black for Una’s hair and eyes, yellow for the blond Crawford, brown for Clark’s jacket, and green for Kevin’s balaclava — if it was Kevin. And that was about it. Not a very promising start. Before abandoning the drawing, he sketched Malcolm’s missing ring in the final corner, which completed just about all they had on the case.
He let the paper fall to the floor and took another sheet, this time sketching King Street, with the hotel on the corner of Gloucester Circus, and, across the road, the National Bank, Dring’s Superstore and Lowther Building, all of which had featured in the case. Then he sat staring at it for a long time.
Exactly what had happened in those ten crucial minutes? Una had walked back from the King’s Head, Neil had left the bank, the supermarket had been raided. Were those facts connected, and if so, how?
He reproduced the figures from the first sheet, putting them in appropriate positions: Neil outside the bank, the helmeted figure by the store, Una by the King’s Head — since by the time she reached the supermarket, the police had arrived.
The knife tied one of the raiders in with the murder; but why kill Neil, an innocent bystander? Previously those injured had been staff of the targeted shop. Had he tried to prevent their getaway? But if so, he’d surely have been stabbed in front of the store? Above all, why did one of the perpetrators waste precious time going after him instead of making his escape? None of it made sense.
Almost without thinking, Webb tore off a third sheet and depicted the scene on the second floor: the open lift, the sprawled body with Una Bennett bending over it, and Daisy Saunders with her wide, screaming mouth.
SOCO had reported shoe prints in the lift and leading along the corridor to the emergency exit. Another had been lifted from a stone step halfway down, then the trail went cold. Had the getaway van waited at a prearranged spot, or had there been no time to arrange a rendezvous?
Webb made a note to check that all shops and offices in King Street and Franklyn Street had been contacted, and everyone asked if they’d seen anyone running from the scene.
He went to the kitchen to refresh his drink, then took up his position again. The clock ticked slowly on as he sat there, staring first at one drawing, then another. There was something he was missing, he was sure of it. But what? Perhaps after all it was too early in the case to embark on this exercise.
When he finally abandoned it, it was after eight and he’d only time for a quick wash before going downstairs to join Hannah.
‘Any luck?’ she greeted him.
He shook his head dispiritedly.
‘Barbara Wood phoned me to request leave, for at least the rest of this week. I believe she’s with her niece?’
‘Yes; the poor girl’s in a bad way. Hardly surprising, when her father and husband have been murdered within four days of each other.’
Hannah shuddered. ‘And you still don’t know why?’
‘At this moment, love, I haven’t a clue. That’s what bugs me.’
‘You need some food inside you,’ she said practically. ‘That will help to put things in perspective.’
‘You’re right; I had to go over to Stonebridge at lunchtime, so I only managed a sandwich.’
Hannah chatted lightly during the meal, but for the most part Webb was too tired to make the effort to reply. The emotional undertone of this case was taking it out of all of them, everyone slogging his guts out to avenge Malcolm, and the strain was beginning to tell.
During coffee, he put his hand over Hannah’s. ‘Sorry to be such poor company, love, but that was just what I needed. Your company as much as the meal.’
‘Would you like to stay?’
‘Better not; as you’ll have gathered, I’m in need of an early night and there’s another long day tomorrow.’
She noted his drawn face and the circles under his eyes. She, too, would be glad when this case was over, for Barbara’s sake as well as David’s. His work didn’t usually touch her so closely and she could only be grateful. At least it seemed that Susan’s coming had passed without repercussions, though she hadn’t dared raise the subject.
At the door, he stood holding her tightly for several minutes. Then he kissed her good night, and she closed the door after him.
Back in his own flat, Webb showered and prepared for bed, his mind returning again and again to the papers on his abandoned easel. Forget it, he told himself firmly, or you’ll be no good for anything tomorrow.
He was about to get into bed when the phone rang. With a frown, he glanced at the clock, surprised to see it was only ten-thirty.
‘Webb.’
It was the duty sergeant at Carrington Street. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but we’ve got the manager of Dring’s Superstore on the line — name of Stamp.’
Webb’s tiredness melted away. ‘Yes?’
‘He wants to speak to the officer in charge of the Crawford case — insists it’s urgent. All right if I say you’ll ring him back? He won’t speak to anyone else.’
‘Certainly, Sergeant, let me have his number.’
He scribbled it down on a pad and promptly dialled it. A nervous voice answered at once. ‘Bernard Stamp.’
Webb sat down on the bed. ‘This is Chief Inspector Webb, Mr Stamp. I believe you want to speak to me.’
‘Oh yes, Chief Inspector. I’m sorry it’s so late but I’ve been out and only just seen the evening paper. That man who was killed — Neil Crawford—’
‘Yes?’
‘I recognized him at once. He was outside the store when the raiders ran out.’
Webb’s hand tightened on the phone. ‘Yes?’ he said again.
‘Well, he told me the van had turned down Franklyn Street, but it was only when I saw his picture that
I realized he was the one who’d been killed. And I’ve remembered something else he said: he told me one of them had dropped something.’
Webb rose slowly to his feet. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, I’m awfully sorry, I wasn’t really paying attention. All I could think of was that we’d lost the day’s takings, and then I saw a policeman across the road and was desperate to attract his attention. He ran over and I told him what had happened, and when I next looked round, the other chap had gone.’
‘Did he say what the thief had dropped?’
‘No, but it must have been small, because he was holding it in his hand.’
‘What were his exact words, do you remember?’
‘I’ve been trying to. I think he said — “They went round the corner. I didn’t get their number, but one of them dropped this.” But I — I’m afraid I didn’t look to see what it was. Could it be important?’
Webb closed his eyes on a wave of exasperation. ‘Yes, Mr Stamp, it could very well be vital. Have you no idea at all?’
‘Absolutely none, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.’
‘Never mind, what you’ve told me is a great help. Thank you for calling.’
Webb walked back into the living-room and stood in front of the easel, excitement moving inside him. Neil had picked up something the thieves had dropped. That, it seemed crystal-clear, was why he died. But what could he have found that was so incriminating it was worth killing for? Would it identify the thief in some way? Or tie him in with something much more serious than raiding shops?
His eyes moved slowly over the sheets he’d worked on earlier. And suddenly there it was, its yellow crayon seeming to shine like real gold in an effort to attract his attention. Malcolm’s ring!
A wave of heat sluiced over him. Could it have been? Suppose one of the raiders — the killer — had been wearing it, and in the panic of running out of the shop had somehow dropped it and Neil picked it up? It had to be that, because here at last was the only possible explanation for Neil’s going to Una’s office. He’d wanted her to identify it.
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