Despite the Evidence

by Roderic Jeffries

  *

  A second police car called at Melstone Garage and the driver spoke to Salisbury and said that he and his companion, Detective Sergeant Walsh, wanted to have another look at the crashed Jensen. Salisbury, looking dirtier than ever, did not try to hide his satisfaction at being able to say it was no longer there.

  ‘Come on, then, where is it?’ asked the driver, irritated by so surly an attitude.

  ‘Where it’s been taken, I suppose.’

  ‘Let’s start at the beginning, then.’ The P.C. rested large hands on large hips. ‘Has the owner driven it off home?’

  ‘With the front wheels pointing in different directions?’ Salisbury cleared his throat and spat on to the filthy floor. He picked up a spanner and opened the door of an ancient Austin A40.

  ‘So it was towed. Who towed it?’

  Salisbury hesitated, as if wondering whether he could continue to prevaricate, then said: ‘Darceys.’

  ‘The big place in the High Street back in Fortrow?’ The P.C. waited, but when there was no answer, which presumably meant an affirmative, he turned and left.

  The police car drove to the centre of the town and parked on double yellow lines. The Jensen was in the second of two repair shops and nothing had yet been done to it. The P.C. stared at the buckled bonnet and thought that even though he’d never begin to be able to afford a car like this, he hated seeing it in such a state. He automatically checked the registration number, then said to the foreman: ‘Right, we’ll just have a look over it.’

  ‘What’s up? Has Mr. Tarbard been . . .?’

  ‘Just routine,’ cut in the P.C. smoothly. He went back out through the first repair shop and past the showrooms to the parked police car. He opened the nearside door. ‘It’s here all right, Sarge.’

  Detective Sergeant Walsh, from county H.Q., turned up the collar of his mackintosh as he climbed out on to the pavement. ‘It’s bloody cold,’ he muttered.

  ‘Never, Sarge!’ The P.C. grinned as he swung his arms across his body and thumped himself. ‘It’s near so warm it’s like midsummer.’

  Walsh stared up at the overcast, leaden sky. ‘Looks like snow.’ His nickname was Sunny, though he was never called that to his face: there wasn’t a silver cloud that didn’t have a dirty lining for him.

  They went through to the Jensen. Walsh put his small black suitcase down on the front seat and took out from it two plastic bottles of light and dark dusting powder and two camel-hair brushes, one small and one large. Just before starting to brush the powder on to possible surfaces he said: ‘I’m telling you now, we’re wasting our time.’

  For once, Walsh’s pessimism was entirely justified. The only prints they found were those of Tarbard and there was not one of Lowther’s.

  *

  Richard Eckersley was a retired bank manager who had spent his last few years of work really looking forward to that retirement and then had suffered the death of his wife only two weeks after he’d been presented with the customary set of initialled pen and pencil by the general manager from London. Eckersley was a courageous man and he forced himself in a relatively short time to overcome the grief that was the stronger because they had never had any children and had thus been entirely wrapped up in each other. But what he could not hope to overcome was the loneliness and he went for long walks across the tops of the cliffs to the east of Fortrow.

  He had a slightly stooped back, legacy of living in an old and very low-ceilinged farmhouse until his early twenties, and long legs and he always walked briskly, as if he had to arrive somewhere exactly on time. His companion was a dog — a wild German short-haired pointer that never tired of chasing rabbits and hares and which sometimes caught and ate them — that Mary had given him as her ‘retiring’ present. She had collapsed on the same day that the dog had arrived. At first he had decided to put it down because of the unbearable association, but somehow he hadn’t and now there was a special bond between them.

  He left home at ten-fifteen, after his usual meagre breakfast of toast and coffee, and reached the cliff-tops in twenty minutes. Officially, the land was privately owned, but over the years the public had gained a right to stroll along it and there were even council notices to warn people of the obvious dangers of going too close to the edge. He walked past the grass-covered, slime-stained, World War II concrete pill-box — what armchair strategist had believed it could ever be of use in such a position? — and came to a spot where the cliff stuck out in a triangle some thirty feet deep. In summer, this was a favourite picnic area.

  The wind came off the sea and it was wet and salty; the clouds were a solid, formless layer of dirty grey; the sea was muddy green: the shallow waves broke close to shore and their crests were tinged with the same tired tints that permeated everything this December day and yet Eckersley found the scene one to comfort rather than to depress. He’d always liked the sea and, indeed, had wanted to become a sailor: his parents had steered him away from such a job.

  He sat down near the edge, careless the ground was damp. The dog, as near to a point as it ever got, suddenly leapt forward and narrowly missed catching a rabbit that sprang out of a tuft of grass which, once the rabbit was gone, looked far too small ever to have concealed it. He was glad to see the rabbits were returning, seemingly at last overcoming the awful man-made plague of myxomatosis.

  He took a pipe from his pocket and lit it, listening to the frustrated baying of the dog, rapidly getting fainter. The wind stirred the remaining hairs on his head as he stared out to sea and watched a very large tanker, whose bow wave suggested a high speed. Would he have been happier at sea, rather than stuck in an office? — perhaps happier to be at sea, but certainly not to be away from his wife for weeks on end. By chance, he looked down and stared at the rocks which littered the water’s edge where he saw an untidy bundle that, the longer he looked, more closely assumed the shape of a human.

  *

  Fusil checked on the clock on the wall of his office and saw it was nearly one o’clock. At one, barring floods or earthquakes, he was going home for the first week-end off in God knows how many months. He yawned. A man restless for success, he often found it difficult to relax because his conscience always reminded him there was something he could be doing: even should all major crimes be under control, inevitably there would be a whole string of minor crimes that needed attention.

  The telephone rang and he stared at it with sharp dislike. When it went on ringing, he at last lifted the receiver. ‘D.I.’

  ‘Desk sergeant, sir. The body of a man has just been found at the foot of Basset Cliffs. He’s suffered heavy damage and there are no means of identification.’

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘The P.C. called to the incident reports that as far as he can make out, the man’s pockets are empty of papers.’

  Fusil began to tap on the desk with his fingers. The lack of papers might be relevant or it might not — for the moment, at least, surely this could be treated as a straightforward case merely calling for identification and then that most agonising of all police jobs, the breaking of the news to relatives? ‘Have any new missing person reports come through that haven’t yet been sent up to C.I.D.?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Someone will be out as soon as possible. Tell the P.C. to stay by the body.’

  Fusil went through to the next room. Braddon was putting on his overcoat, preparatory to hurrying home for lunch. ‘There’s a fatality at Basset Cliffs and no means of identification,’ said Fusil. ‘Get over and sort things out.’

  Braddon’s expression became gloomier than ever. ‘Rowan’s on duty, sir.’

  ‘And he’s enough to keep him very busy,’ snapped Fusil.

  Braddon sighed ostentatiously. At his stage in life and career, he didn’t care that he was making his thoughts very obvious.

  Fusil, who seldom gave a damn what other people thought, left the station and drove home.

  ‘Well,’ said Josephine, as he walked into the
kitchen, ‘the age of miracles isn’t past after all! You said you’d be back at one o’clock and it’s only ten past. . . . You’re not going back to work after lunch?’ She spoke challengingly.

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘And you’re taking us out in the car to visit my parents?’

  He grinned. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve just remembered a very important——’

  ‘Sit down, eat up, and shut up!’ She stared affectionately at him. Would that the remaining years of their marriage were as happy as their past ones had been.

  *

  Braddon stared at the huddled form which had been a man but was now an untidy and unsightly mess of blood, flesh, and bone and from which all life had been shattered in one violent fraction of a second. How often, he wondered, had he stared at death in the twenty-three years in which he’d been in the force, yet still he suffered a quick feeling of repugnance and fright at being forced to understand how fleeting was life.

  The P.C. spoke blusteringly. ‘He’ll have bounced a couple of feet, or more, when he came down.’

  Braddon looked at the other. The young P.C.’s face was strained and unnaturally white: it seemed probable this was his first meeting with such brutal and messy death and his crude words were an attempt to cover up his own feelings. ‘Have you been through the pockets of the trousers as well as the coat and mack?’

  ‘The lot, Sarge.’ The P.C. suddenly looked down at his hands as if to see whether they were bloodied.

  A wave, larger than the preceding ones, broke and came rolling inshore: when it hit the rocks, spray flicked up into the air and was blown inshore so that Braddon felt his face wetten and when he licked his lips they were salty. He knelt down and examined the body. The man had landed on his face and his features were a squashed mess. Rigor mortis had begun and shoulders and arms were set so that it was quite difficult to go carefully through all the pockets to confirm what the P.C. had said without breaking down the stiffness and stretching muscles.

  He stood upright and as he stared at the sea he thought it was odd there shouldn’t be a single piece of paper in any of the pockets, nor any money. Odd, yet not necessarily of vital significance. People committing suicide often tried to hide their identity and they made certain they’d no money on them.

  Braddon spoke. ‘We’ll call up the undertakers and get him shipped to the morgue. You stay here until they come for the body.’

  ‘But, Sarge, I’d rather . . .’

  ‘Don’t let anyone near.’ Braddon spoke definitely, but kindly. It would not be a pleasant vigil to have to continue.

  He walked slowly back to a part of the cliff where there was a large fault up which steps had been hacked out. His car was in the empty car park at the top. The climb left him short of breath and with aching calf muscles and he was thankful to sit down behind the wheel.

  Before driving off, he mentally checked on what he had to do: call the undertakers and consult with them on how the body was to be recovered — perhaps by boat?; phone the coroner’s officer and say one body, Caucasian, male, was arriving for a P.M., prior to an inquest, and that to date there was no identification; double check the missing person lists to see if this man came within any of the descriptions; arrange for fingerprints to be taken after the P.M. in case the man had form; examine all his clothing for manufacturer’s tabs . . .

  Chapter Ten

  Helen said she’d love to go to the White Angel Club, then changed her mind and protested she couldn’t possibly go because she’d nothing suitable to wear to so expensive a place. Kerr told her that even in rags she’d look a lot better than some of the old trouts and in any case her blue-and-white dress made her look like a princess. She was flattered, but suspicious: wasn’t he trying to persuade her to go because he was so interested in eating and staring at all the naked women? Nothing like that, he assured her, and managed to sound virtuously truthful.

  In the end she wore her blue-and-white dress and borrowed a seed-pearl necklace from her mother. She still felt nervously diffident when they arrived at eight-thirty and kept close to him as the portly and over-dignified maître d’hôtel greeted them, took their names, and signalled to an underling to escort them to a table. The head waiter arrived and handed each of them a menu with a flourish of gloved hands. The menu thoroughly intimidated her since it was entirely in French and dishes such as truffes sous les cendres could have been stewed tripe and onions as far as she was concerned: but the head waiter, as attentive as if they were really important clients, translated every dish, told her how it was cooked, made some suggestions which she hastily accepted, not daring to turn them down, and then complimented her on her choice. He passed on the order to the table waiter, who’d heard every word, and left.

  When they were on their own, she leaned across the table. ‘John, I don’t want to stay. He was laughing at me.’

  ‘He was what? What on earth’s up, darling?’

  ‘He knows we wouldn’t normally come within miles of a place like this. Why was he taking all that care with us if he wasn’t secretly having fun?’

  ‘He wasn’t laughing — I’d’ve clocked him one if he had been,’ said Kerr rashly. He thought about what she’d said. ‘I guess he came over and helped us because Tarbard ordered him to.’ As he spoke, he realised that if true this could be significant. Why should Tarbard, having so generously given a lowly D.C. a night out, go on to order his staff to treat the D.C. like royalty unless that D.C. was of some special importance? But was all this moonshine? Perhaps Tarbard was far more sympathetic than he had ever appeared to be. . . .

  The first of the two floor shows began. Two attractive brunettes sang — or appeared to sing — to recorded music and stripped to the suggestive words.

  Kerr’s mind remained perplexed by all the ifs and buts of the case. There seemed to be an endless succession of alternatives and the only certain fact was that it had not been Tarbard who’d been sprawled out in the Jensen, it had been Lowther. But was even that really so certain? What if he’d been a lot more affected by the beer than he’d ever been prepared to admit and all his certainties were based on totally false observation, which though . . .

  ‘John!’

  His mind flicked back to the present. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you ill?’

  He was surprised by the look of worry on her face. ‘Of course I’m not. What on earth made you think that?’

  She hesitated, then said: ‘You haven’t been watching.’

  He stared at the small stage, that doubled up as the dance floor, and saw two neat bare bottoms disappear through one of the curtained doorways. Fancy missing that lot! He grinned at Helen. ‘I just thought they weren’t worth bothering with.’

  ‘Liar!’ She was relieved to discover he was quite all right.

  The table waiter brought them the two gins and tonics they’d ordered as aperitifs. Kerr lifted his glass. ‘Here’s to us.’ As he drank, he thought with amusement that there’d have been even stronger comment if he’d taken too much interest in the two ladies.

  Their meal was delicious and the wine, recommended by the wine waiter, had a smooth richness Kerr had never before experienced — hardly surprising, since he’d noticed the bottle cost over four pounds. The cabaret was slick, beautifully costumed when it was, the two novelty turns were clever, and the strippers were elegant and sexy. By the time the wine waiter served them with two cognacs, Kerr was convinced that this was the kind of life to which he should be allowed to become accustomed. He warmed the balloon glass in his hand — not quite certain why one did this — and looked at Helen and wished he could afford to give her this kind of luxury from time to time. His gaze was attracted to a striking red head on the far side of the room. She wore a dress that discreetly told everyone she’d a figure to match her looks. It was a safe bet that she didn’t waste her natural resources, he thought. She smiled, and it was easy to believe she was smiling at him. . . . This was the moment of instant recognition. There were important businessmen,
property tycoons, millionaires, in the room ready, nay desperate, to lavish their wealth on her, yet but one look at a curly-headed, tough, handsome detective constable had been enough to explode her heart with a wild, volcanic fire. The pains of passion. . . . He winced as Helen’s foot dug into the calf of his leg. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘Take that look off your face, John,’ she replied tightly.

  ‘What look? I was only——’

  ‘You were only thinking what you’d like to do with that tart over there.’

  ‘Nonsense. In any case, she’s not a tart. . . .’

  Further discussion about the lady’s qualifications in life stopped abruptly when it became clear she was heading for their table. Suddenly, and he failed to appreciate the irony of this, he was in a panic that his wild day dreams might for once be about to come true.

  ‘You’re John Kerr, aren’t you?’ said Paula. ‘And your friend is . . .?’

  ‘My name’s Helen Barley,’ said Helen, and she did not try to sound at all friendly.

  ‘I’m Paula Stokes. Gervaise asked me to make certain you enjoyed yourselves. D’you mind if I join you and say hullo properly?’ As she sat on the spare chair, a waiter brought a bottle of Bisquit Dubouché and a balloon glass. He poured her out a very large cognac, refilled Helen’s and Kerr’s glasses, and left the bottle on the table.

  When she tried, Paula had an easy charm and the useful art of disarming the suspicions of her own sex. Within only a few minutes, Helen’s hostility was gone and she was talking easily and cheerfully.

  ‘Gervaise was so sorry he couldn’t be here the one evening you said you’d like to come.’ Paula opened her small vanity bag, beautifully embroidered in Chinese style, and brought out a gold cigarette case and lighter. Kerr put his hand in his pocket to forestall her, but stopped when he remembered he’d very few cigarettes left in his battered pack. He had, however, a book of matches and he brought this out and struck a match for her. She thanked him. ‘I don’t suppose you realise it,’ she said, ‘but Gervaise was really shocked when he came to and saw you stretched out by the side of the car. He hates seeing anyone hurt and couldn’t get over what had happened to you and didn’t seem in the least bit worried about how hurt he was. I was frightened sick when I saw the state his face was in and I begged him to see the doctor, but all he’d talk about was seeing you lying under the branch that had been blown down, with the rain streaming off you.’