“Did he buy you your new Morgan?”
She looked at him and moistened her lips. “Well, he… Maybe he did, but what’s it matter?”
“I don’t know,” he said, making it clear that he did.
“All he wanted to do was give me a nice present. He was really generous.”
Except to his wife. “I suppose you knew he was a lorry driver?”
“Well, of course I did. He used to tell me where he’d been and often he’d phone and have a chat if he was stuck someplace for the night.”
“He was earning good money, but it wasn’t a fortune. Certainly not the kind of money that pays for meals at the Miramar and a new Morgan.”
She ran the tips of her right hand fingers over her lightweight sweater and her breasts. He wondered whether she realised what she was doing and came to the immediate and obvious conclusion that she did.
“Miss Kristan, you must have wondered at some time or another how a lorry driver could afford to live like he did?”
She shook her head. “Andy was fun and I like fun so I never bothered about anything. Where did all his money come from?”
“Perhaps from the sale of drugs.” He watched her face and in so far as he could judge she was genuinely surprised.
She said: “Andy was pushing drugs?”
“You had no hint he might have been?”
“I told you, we just had fun.”
“He never offered you anything to help along that fun?”
She was worried, but not scared. “There was nothing like that.”
“When did you last see him?”
“The day before he disappeared. Like I said, one day we was having fun, the next he went missing.”
“How was he that day?”
“He was fun.” She ran her fingertips slowly down her breasts again. “It’s going to be dull without Andy.”
Was there hidden in those words a possible invitation? he wondered. Then he realised he was being stupid if he thought she’d ever have the slightest interest in a poorly paid copper. “Did he ever talk about being scared of anyone?”
She dropped her right hand on to her lap. “We never talked about things like that.”
Had they ever paused to talk? “Did you ever go fishing with him?”
“Not me, even though he was always asking. Where’s the fun in sitting still and holding on to a bit of wood?”
“Did you go out in his boat just for the trip and not for fishing?”
“I went once and that was enough. The boat went so fast it scared me silly.”
“Did he wear a lifejacket?”
“Yes, and so did I, I can tell you! And when we turned and I thought I was going to end up in the water, I hung on real tight to it.”
“Where and when did you first meet him?”
“At the beginning of the year. We were both at a pub and he started talking and buying drinks.”
He stood up. “Thanks for all your help, Miss Kristan.”
“Why don’t you call me Penny?”
“Next time we meet, I will.”
“Now that’s a promise!”
As he approached the front door, the doorbell rang and she hurried past him to open the door. “Ted! You’re looking sweeter than ever, I’ll swear you are.”
The man who entered was about Fusil’s age. His face was long and thin, with a weak mouth and almost no chin. His manner was nervous and he looked awkwardly at Fusil, then nodded.
“He’s a detective,” she said, in a stage whisper. She giggled. “He’s got a pair of handcuffs in his pocket.”
The man could not hide his sudden perturbation.
“I thought he’d come to arrest me, but I managed to persuade him not to. He’s nice and sweet when you really get to know him.”
Susan came into the hall. “Oh, it’s you.” She looked at her watch. “You’re late,” she said, with cold indifference.
“I’m sorry, I got held up. I rushed away…” He stopped suddenly, looked momentarily at Fusil.
Fusil said goodbye and left. He went down to his car, drove out of the courtyard and parked a short way along the road.
Ted had probably been scared to discover Fusil was a detective because he was married and frightened his wife would learn he was friendly (if friendly really described Susan’s attitude) with another woman. And yet… Fusil had seemed to catch some fear more urgent than that. Had Ted been buying drugs from Finch?
He lit his pipe and some five minutes later a fawn-coloured Rover came out of the courtyard and passed the Austin. Through its back window, Fusil could see Susan’s long black hair. He wrote down the car’s registration number on the back of an old envelope.
*
Yarrow could never wholly understand why he wasn’t a detective sergeant. He was a damned smart detective and his uncle was detective superintendent at county H.Q. It should have been a winning combination.
He drove along the lane which led to Single Head and then turned off on to the narrow dirt track which crossed gorse-covered land to the white coastguard station, built within ten feet of the edge of the cliff.
Wooden stairs led up to the open platform which surrounded the building and he climbed these. The duty room was circular, with floor to ceiling windows right round. The duty coastguard, a man in late middle life, was standing by the table in the centre and Yarrow introduced himself. The coastguard came forward and shook hands, a civility Yarrow had not been going to bother about. “I’ll brew up a cuppa as soon as I’ve logged the ship by the Shallows,” said the coastguard.
Yarrow watched the coastguard walk round a central table on which two charts were spread out, past a standard compass with azimuth mirror and a telescope on a tripod, to a small flag locker on the top of which was a pair of binoculars. He studied the ship. “Outward-bound container, heading for South Africa.” He returned to the table to make the entry in the log.
Unlike Kerr, Yarrow found no romance in ships, nor in the foreign ports they visited. “Do you log the movements of small boats? Like the motor boats people sail out in for fishing?”
“We do and we don’t. I’d put it this way. We’re naturally always on the lookout for signs of smuggling, so we get interested in certain boats. Then if someone’s sailing around the coast he’ll get on to us and give us an E.T.P. and we’ll log him through or give the alarm if he goes missing. But if we’re as busy as hell or see just a load of water-skiers, we forget the boats.”
“Can you tell me what small boats you logged out on the sixth of the month? It was a Monday.”
“Sure.” He went over to a desk, picked up a log book, and turned back the pages. “It’s a fair-sized list.”
“I’ll copy it out.”
“O.K. And while you’re doing that I’ll make some tea.”
*
P.C. Walsh, nicknamed Sunny because he looked as if he’d lost a pound and not yet found even a penny, stood on the dockside and stared down at the motor boat. His thoughts were predictably pessimistic. If he slipped on the ladder and fell into water that filthy, he’d surely be lucky if he suffered nothing worse than typhoid.
He descended the ladder, carrying his equipment. Once aboard, he went aft and studied the oil patch in which D.C. Kerr had reported finding a footprint. Film that? Was he now expected to perform miracles?
He put a clearly marked ruler alongside the print, set up his camera on a tripod and used oblique lighting to highlight it. He took several photographs, varying stops and speed. Then, swearing vehemently, he tried to lift the print, using a sheet of photographic film which had previously been fixed, washed, and dried, and moistened a few seconds before.
Chapter 14
The weekend brought a seemingly never-ending succession of crimes and although the vehicle licensing authority telephoned through on Monday afternoon with the identity of the owner of the Rover, it was Tuesday evening before Fusil could find the time to drive out to Oxover to question Edward Drake.
The house was deta
ched, one of many which differed only in details, with a small front garden, attached garage, bow windows, and recessed porch. It was the kind of house a man on a reasonable salary bought, on a mortgage.
Drake opened the front door, began to smile with weak uncertainty, then became horrified as he identified Fusil. In his panic he went to slam the door shut, but Fusil had moved forward sufficiently to prevent this. Drake stepped back and looked over his shoulder.
“You can always say I’m here over a car accident you witnessed,” said Fusil sarcastically.
“Who is it?” a woman called out.
Drake answered, in a voice grown squeaky: “It’s a detective, dear.”
As Fusil stepped inside, a woman came out of one of the rooms. She wasn’t particularly smart or attractive, but her warm, caring nature was unmistakable. She stared at Fusil with interest, but no apprehension.
“He wants… He wants to know more about the car accident I saw,” said Drake.
“You didn’t tell me you’d seen one.” She spoke to Fusil. “Do come along into the other room. Will you have a drink? We’ve sherry or beer.”
“A beer would go down a treat.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Detective Inspector Fusil.”
“Ted, take Inspector Fusil into the sitting room. I’ll bring the beer in and then leave you two to it.” She missed the look of sharp relief on her husband’s face.
In the sitting room with the door carefully shut, Drake took a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and offered it with a hand that shook.
“Thanks, no, I’m a pipe man. D’you mind if I light up?” Fusil began to pack his pipe with tobacco, carefully taking a long time to do it. Mrs Drake bustled into the room, carrying a tray with a pewter mug of beer and a glass of sherry. “For heaven’s sake. Ted, haven’t you yet asked Inspector Fusil to sit down? …I’m sorry, but Ted’s often not really with the rest of us because he will bring his work problems home with him.” She smiled, handed them their drinks and then left.
Fusil lit his pipe.
Drake cleared his throat. “You’ve… I mean, you’re here to ask about… Susan?” He looked at the door. “She’s someone I met who’s lonely. I occasionally take her out for a drink and let her tell me her troubles and that seems to help her. That’s all it is.”
The year’s most unlikely story, thought Fusil.
“Mr Drake, in that respect your private life is of no concern to me. In another respect, it might be.”
“But I swear…”
Fusil interrupted him. “You met Andy Finch at the flat, didn’t you?”
“How… how d’you mean?”
“When you went to Strayton Place you met Andy Finch there?”
“Well, yes, several times. We’ve all been out together because Susan and Penny are such good friends.”
“Did you know much about him?”
“Only what Penny told me. Have you come about him?”
“Yes.”
Drake stared at Fusil with a surprise which became overwhelmed by relief. He lit a cigarette, crossed to the second armchair, and sat.
“He seems to have had a lot of money?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Very much more than he could have earned at his job. Where d’you think it all came from?”
“How could I know that?”
“I think you’ve a very good idea… What were you buying? Up and downs? Poppers? Dream sticks?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Soft drugs, Mr Drake. Andy was a pusher.”
“Isn’t that a man who sells drugs?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve come here because you think I’ve been buying drugs from Andy?”
“Right again.”
“Then you’ve made a wasted journey. I’ve never taken drugs in my life.”
Fusil believed him and swore silently.
“What an incredible thing to think! What on earth made you believe that?” Drake’s relief had turned to condescending amusement.
Annoyed by this display of weakness — and angered by his own misreading of the facts — Fusil said crudely: “Then if you’re no drug user why were you so terrified when you learned in the flat that I was a detective?”
Drake was abruptly no longer either amused or condescending. He said: “But I wasn’t.” Then he realised that the denial was ridiculous. “What I mean is, I wasn’t upset because you were a detective and I’d committed some crime, it was because I’d come to see Susan. There’s nothing in our friendship, but Anne mightn’t understand and I’d do anything rather than upset her.”
Fusil’s scorn increased. He finished the beer, placed the mug on a table, and stood.
“You’re not going to tell Anne, are you? I mean, although there’s absolutely nothing…”
“What you do with that side of your personal life doesn’t concern me. Thank God!” He crossed to the door.
When Fusil arrived home, Josephine took one look at his tired, drawn face and told him in very sharp terms that she wasn’t going to go on and on seeing him work himself into an early grave, so what the hell was he going to do about it? He took her out to dinner.
*
Kywood sat behind the chief constable’s desk and stared at the framed photographs and paintings of past chief constables on the walls. Before long, Grant’s photograph would go up at the end of the row. Whose would follow Grant’s?
There was a knock and Fusil entered. Kywood watched him walk the length of the room. Too bloody sharp for his own or anybody else’s good. And yet… And yet, if he weren’t so sharp, Grant would still be chief constable. A temporary position often became permanent if the holder proved his ability. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that the next but one photograph on the wall would portray George Kywood… “Morning, Bob.”
“Morning, sir. I’ve brought the latest crime reports.” Fusil placed these on the desk.
“Grab a seat.” Kywood tapped a small pile of six folders. “I want to go over these cases with you.”
For three-quarters of an hour they discussed specific points in the cases. Then the last of the files was put to one side. Kywood leaned back in the chair, folded his arms across his chest, and said: “I’ve had Mrs Grant on the phone again.”
Fusil made no comment.
“She complained that her son was still terribly shocked by what he’d seen in the morgue. I said I was sorry to hear that.” He paused, then added in a stronger tone of voice: “But I made it quite clear that the ordinary citizen sometimes does have to be called on to carry out an objectionable task.”
The key word there, thought Fusil with cynical amusement, was ‘ordinary’: the Grants had become ordinary citizens.
“By the way, Bob, how is the Finch case coming along?”
Uncharacteristically, Fusil answered uncertainly. “I suppose really the answer is that it isn’t coming along at all.” He briefly detailed the facts.
Kywood smoothed down his already smooth hair. “So there’s nothing to say it was murder and not accident, or any further proof that Finch was a pusher? Let’s try looking at things from a different angle. If we say he was a pusher, where did he get his supplies from?”
“It’s a hundred to one they came from the docks. Either he collected the stuff — but where would he have found the stake money? — from the ships, or else he discovered he was hauling a load and decided to nick some or all of it. If he was murdered, it makes the latter possibility obviously the stronger.”
“All right. Can you trace out the cargo he handled?”
“I’ve had a word with Hendlesham Haulage. At this stage it’s virtually impossible to list all the people to whom he’s delivered cargo over the past six months. He’s made dozens of pick-ups at the docks and each pick-up could have been for more than one delivery point. The man I spoke to reckoned it would take a large team weeks to sort through the papers and trace out all his moveme
nts.”
“Then I’d say you’re in a bit of a vicious circle, Bob. Until you know whether it was or wasn’t murder, you can’t be certain he was a pusher, until you know he was a pusher, you can’t be reasonably certain whether it was murder or accidental drowning.”
“I know.”
“So where do you go?”
Fusil sighed. “With nothing definite and all the other work that’s pouring in? …It’s got to be put on ice.”
“The ice is getting kind of congested, isn’t it?” He wanted to make it clear that he would never settle for too much expediency. “If I were you, I’d carry the case a little longer. You’ve still room to work on Drake, haven’t you? You’re convinced he was dead scared because you were a policeman and not just because you found him with a girlfriend: if he wasn’t on drugs, why so scared?”
“I could have read him wrongly.”
“Now I’m not going to go along with that! You’ve one of the best instincts in the business, as I’ve cause to know… You carry on a while, in the hopes of picking up a direct lead.”
“All right,” said Fusil moodily.
Later, Kywood was to remember his order with the shocked incredulity of a man who looked back in time and vainly tried to understand how he could so calmly have stridden forward to disaster.
*
Fusil entered his office and sat. The goddamn fool, he thought, meaning Kywood. How typical that he should order the investigation into the Finch case to continue when it was so logically obvious to freeze it. He picked up the internal telephone and called the C.I.D. general room to discover who was there.
Kerr, curly brown hair in confusion, looked fit, flourishing, and totally untroubled. Would anything short of an atomic bomb ever really worry him? Fusil wondered enviously. “Drop whatever you’re doing and go and see Penny Kristan and Susan Lamont at four, Strayton Place. Pump ’em all you can about Edward Drake, Susan’s boyfriend. I want to know where Drake fits in, whether he’s a big spender, how often he sees Susan, and anything else either of them know about him.
“My guess is you’ll learn more at least from Penny — if she knows anything — provided you lay on some charm. But don’t go making the mistake of believing that you’re in the same league as her — you’re not.”
Murder is Suspected (C.I.D. Room Book 10) Page 10
