Despite the Evidence

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And in view of this you’re quite certain you’ve flushed some major international crime?’

  Fusil’s lips tightened.

  ‘No doubt, then, you’ll be interested to hear that a house near Ecton Cross was broken into either late Friday night or early Saturday morning, that the villain left a print behind, and that that print has been identified as George Lowther’s?’

  Fusil stared at Menton. ‘But . . . but that’s impossible!’

  ‘I certainly don’t foresee much argument on that score. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a lot of work to get through.’

  Kywood managed to bottle up his fury until they were driving back to Fortrow along the main road. ‘You’ve made complete fools of us,’ he shouted, as he steered round a roundabout.

  Fusil stared through the windscreen against which a thin drizzle was falling.

  ‘It’ll be all round the county by tomorrow,’ moaned Kywood.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Good God, man, you’re not stupid. When the chief constable gets to hear of this he’ll rupture a blood vessel.’

  ‘Do him good.’

  ‘There’s no point in taking that attitude.’

  ‘So what attitude d’you want me to take? Would you rather I’d laid down on the floor so that everyone at county could wipe their shoes over me?’

  ‘I’m damned if I begin to understand you.’ This was true enough: Kywood had never understood Fusil and the way in which he ignored the dictates of expediency.

  For a time they were silent. Kywood was the first to speak, his voice now harsh. ‘You’ll investigate Kerr’s actions——’

  ‘I’ve done that, more than once,’ cut in Fusil heavily.

  Kywood continued as if nothing had been said. ‘And when you’re satisfied he was drunk, you’ll take the necessary steps to deal with the matter.’ Kywood, a slow and methodical driver, drew out to pass a lorry and then took so long about actually getting by that Fusil longed to reach over and push the accelerator down to the floor. ‘As he was in a car, you’ll charge him with drunken driving.’

  Fusil spoke sarcastically. ‘Would you mind telling me on what proof? Or are you going to claim that a wrong identification is proof enough? In that case, everyone in the force has been guilty of drunken driving at some time or other. . . . The hospital report made no mention of alcohol.’

  Kywood, having at last passed the lorry, regained the left-hand lane. What had he ever done to deserve a D.I. like Fusil?

  *

  Fusil sat on the edge of the desk in his office and stared out through the rain-frosted window. When a thing was impossible, it was impossible. If Lowther had broken into a house on Friday night or Saturday morning he couldn’t have been killed on Tuesday evening. So either Lowther had been in the Jensen and he hadn’t been nearly so badly smashed up as Kerr believed, or he’d never been in the Jensen. Kerr had had enough to do with injuries to be reasonably certain what were severe and what wasn’t — although if it had been Tarbard slumped over the wheel of the Jensen, Kerr obviously didn’t know a very light injury when he saw one. Yet surely no reasonably competent detective could mistake as serious an injury that called for no skilled medical care and only a piece of sticking plaster? And what about the visual identification of Lowther through the missing tip of the finger and the profile? But it couldn’t have been Lowther because three nights later he was burgling a house. . . . ‘Goddamn it,’ said Fusil aloud, ‘they’ll be carrying me out in a strait-jacket.’

  He slipped off the desk and crossed to his overcoat to get from one of the pockets a new tin of tobacco. He tried to ration himself to two ounces of tobacco a week, but there were times, and this was one of them, when he forgot all his good resolutions. He filled his pipe, lit it, went to his chair behind the desk, sat down, and linked his hands behind his head.

  His thoughts were almost immediately interrupted. Kywood telephoned to say that on his return to his office the chief constable had blasted him because it appeared no detective had been near the Glazebrook factory since the latest theft. Kywood, spluttering with anger, demanded to know why no further investigations had been made and then went on at length to curse Fusil for wasting all his time on a ridiculous case that was making Fortrow the laughing stock of the county.

  Fusil replaced the receiver. He was in it, right up to his neck. Kywood couldn’t bear to be made to look a fool, and although he often appeared to be no more than a blustering, pompous little man, it was necessary to remember that he had the kind of nature which could turn very mean, very suddenly. Unless this mess was cleared right up, Kywood would get his own back, probably by blocking any further chances of promotion for Fusil. . . .

  Fusil used the internal telephone to call Kerr into his room. When Kerr stood before his desk Fusil studied him. One day, when age and responsibility calmed him down, he’d make a first-class detective. This fact had to be remembered. ‘How certain are you, Kerr, of your identification of Lowther as the man you saw in the Jensen?’

  ‘Quite positive, sir.’

  ‘You’ve no room for any doubts?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘Even when you remember all the beer you’d drunk?’

  ‘It didn’t affect me that much. It was Lowther I saw, not Tarbard.’

  ‘And he was dead or dying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then, if that’s so, how could Lowther burgle a house Friday night?’

  ‘He couldn’t possibly,’ replied Kerr confidently.

  ‘But I’m telling you he did.’

  Kerr looked and saw the D.I. was serious. ‘That’s impossible! Whoever’s sent out that information has made a real boob.’

  ‘Lowther’s fingerprint was found in the strong-room.’

  Kerr was bewildered.

  ‘Well?’ snapped Fusil.

  ‘I saw Lowther in the Jensen,’ said Kerr stubbornly.

  ‘Then he couldn’t have been more than slightly injured.’

  ‘He was either dead or dying.’

  ‘You could easily be mistaken on this point.’

  ‘I know the state the man was in.’

  ‘How can a dead man burgle a house?’

  ‘He obviously can’t.’

  ‘We know he did.’

  Kerr spoke in a rush. ‘Don’t you think it could be significant that a villain in Lowther’s class should leave a print?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Someone like him just doesn’t do such a thing. It’s only the amateurs leave prints around today.’

  ‘Nonsense. It happens. A torn glove that’s not noticed, a mistake under tension.’

  ‘All right. But it’s got to be significant that his dab should appear just three days after I saw him in the car. What are the odds against that happening by chance? His dab turned up in order to try to make a nonsense of my evidence.’

  ‘It must succeed.’

  ‘Must it? The truth’s obvious. Lowther died and his finger was cut off and this was used to make that print.’

  Fusil began to drum on his desk. ‘How much faith does one place in your evidence? If I believe you, you’ve got to be right about the print. Yet if you were a shade tighter than you think, your evidence is nonsense and the dab proves it.’

  ‘I know it was Lowther.’

  ‘No one can accuse you of lacking self-confidence,’ murmured Fusil. Did he try to go deeper into the facts of the burglary and the quality of the fingerprint? The burglary had taken place in county territory and he couldn’t do or learn anything without their help. The moment he asked for that help, Menton would get to know about it and would make some sort of sneering, snide comment to Kywood. A really furious Kywood was a dangerous animal. Characteristically, Fusil stopped thinking about the ifs and buts and made up his mind. ‘Drive up to C division H.Q., speak to the D.I., make yourself as pleasant as you know how and find out all the details you can. Talk to Dabs about the possibility of
a cut-off finger having made the print.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ Kerr turned to go.

  ‘And on your way call in at the plastics factory and do something about those goddamn sneak thefts. Arrest the bloody lot of ’em.’

  Fusil watched Kerr leave. Would that he didn’t discover, too late, that he’d put far too much faith in Kerr.

  *

  Inside the ancient, near tumble-down building that housed the morgue, which was better equipped than outside appearances suggested, the pathologist cut neatly through the scalp of the man who had been discovered at the foot of Basset Cliffs. He peeled back the hair-covered flesh. ‘Hum!’ he muttered.

  Fusil jerked himself into an upright position. The pathologist’s ‘Hums’ were inevitably of significance. He stepped away from the wall to stand beside the pathologist’s secretary. He stared at the rectangular flap hanging down over the man’s shattered face and at the skull vault. The bitter thought came to him that his own head would look like a peeled orange under similar circumstances. ‘Is something up, sir?’

  The pathologist looked at him through the top half of his bi-focals. ‘Up where?’

  He should have remembered the other was a pedant. ‘Have you found something of significance, sir?’

  ‘The answer is yes, no, or maybe, Inspector, depending on what you want.’ The pathologist smiled: a pedant, with a sense of humour. He lightly tapped the skull with a scalpel. ‘At the back here the bone did not suffer direct crushing from the fall. Yet we have a small hair-line fracture. The force needed to cause this would be reasonable, if very much less than the force which so severely injured the frontal part of his head. We can thus say that this secondary injury was caused either by his being hit by something before he fell or that, after the main fall, his head recoiled and suffered a second blow.’

  ‘Can you say which happened?’

  The pathologist asked for the three photographs which showed the body as it had been found. He studied them. ‘I can’t see any stone which seems to be in the right position to give a secondary and recoil blow. Also, from the positioning of the body, I’d say it’s definitely lying exactly as it fell.’

  The photographs were handed to Fusil. It was impossible to disagree with the pathologist. However, there was still the possibility that the photographs were ‘lying’. Braddon would have to be questioned to see if he could help on this point.

  The pathologist examined the fracture from several angles, called for it to be photographed, then spoke to Fusil. ‘My estimate — and please understand it’s no more than an estimate — is that this blow was received before the fall.’

  ‘In that case, sir, how would the blow have affected him?’

  ‘It would probably have rendered him unconscious.’

  Great, thought Fusil sourly. Just when he needed to be able to concentrate on the Tarbard/Lowther case, a possible murder had to turn up.

  ‘Have you identified him yet?’ asked the pathologist.

  ‘I’m afraid not. There were no papers on him and his clothes were unmarked. We’ve naturally waited to take fingerprints until you’ve finished.’

  The pathologist resumed work and Fusil returned to his previous position by the work surface. The exhibits officer, a P.C., was sucking a sweet with a regular sloshing noise: Fusil ordered him to shut up. He looked at the D.I. with quick resentment.

  The pathologist finished work on the head and examined the surface of the rest of the body. He called Fusil across after examining the palm of the right hand. ‘There’s a recent tiny puncture in the palm, here. Caused by a small nail or tack. There’s something in it.’ He called for a much smaller scalpel than he’d been using and the mortuary assistant handed it to him. He cut into the flesh of the palm with very great care and after a time lifted out something on the blade of the scalpel. ‘A fleck of rust,’ he said, after examining it.

  So the unknown man had jabbed himself with a rusty nail, thought Fusil. That was going to be a big help!

  Chapter Twelve

  In the works manager’s office at Glazebrook factory, Williams’ nasal voice rose in tone. ‘It’s the seventh theft, now. I’m telling you, seven thefts and nothing done about ’em.’

  ‘We’ve done a very great deal,’ corrected Kerr.

  ‘Well, it ain’t been much use.’

  The works manager, sitting behind the desk, cleared his throat and seemed to be about to speak, but finally remained silent. Mrs. Hatchett, an elderly woman plainly upset by all the fuss, plucked nervously at her apron.

  ‘You don’t care,’ said Williams, as he smacked his fist down in to the palm of his hand. ‘When it’s only workers what get robbed, you just don’t care. But if the boss gets something stolen, you’re round like a bleeding army.’

  The man would be amusing, thought Kerr, except that he was quite serious. He really had convinced himself that the police weren’t bothering with the thefts because only ordinary workers were involved. His bitter indignation was genuine. ‘I can assure you, Mr. Williams, it doesn’t matter who’s concerned. Crime’s crime and that’s all we’re interested in — not the kind of person who’s suffered.’

  ‘Yeah? Wasn’t it you who said last time that the crime wasn’t of no importance because only three quid was pinched?’

  ‘As I remember it, I said that it wasn’t serious because only three pounds were stolen. That’s a very different thing from not being important.’ If he hadn’t said that, he undoubtedly should have done.

  Williams hotly denied there was any difference, referred to the police as the willing lackeys of the capitalists, said there’d be trouble this time and no mistake, and then stalked out of the office, slamming the door so hard it was a wonder the glass in the top half didn’t fracture.

  ‘Oh dear!’ muttered the works manager. ‘And this used to be such a happy factory.’

  ‘It’s his wife,’ said Mrs. Hatchett. ‘She’s always on at him.’

  ‘She’s got good cause.’ Kerr realised that if his words got back to Williams there’d be real trouble and he hastily said: ‘Let’s go over what happened once more, Mrs. Hatchett.’

  She sighed. ‘I left me bag in the locker when I started work——’

  ‘I carefully warned everyone against doing that,’ said the works manager.

  ‘I know, but it’s not easy to remember, specially when one’s in a hurry. You don’t like not trusting the others, either, do you?’ She looked uncertainly at them.

  ‘Of course not,’ agreed Kerr. ‘But I’m afraid one of them’s a thief. What happened after that?’

  ‘I was a little bit late leaving me table at lunch and when I went to the locker to get money for dinner in the canteen the purse was empty.’

  ‘How much was in it?’

  ‘A couple of quid. I can’t really stand losing a couple of quid,’ she said. ‘Will you get it back for me?’

  ‘We’ll do our very best,’ replied Kerr, knowing there unfortunately was no chance of succeeding. ‘So these two pounds could have been stolen at any time between seven in the morning, when you started work, and a little after twelve?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And is there nobody you suspect might have stolen your money? If you’ve any suspicions, you must tell me.’

  ‘But I don’t know anything.’

  He read her statement through to her and then she signed it. He thanked her for her help and she left.

  He took from his mackintosh pocket an old, tattered purse, in which were two one-pound notes, and a small plastic phial half filled with a fine silvery powder. ‘We want you to plant this purse somewhere in the women’s room where it’s fairly obvious — maybe in one of the aprons they wear at work.’

  ‘And you’re going to do something to the money?’

  ‘I’ll dust the notes with this powder. You said your cousin worked here and you could trust her absolutely, so get her to keep an eye on the purse and if the money’s swiped, you let us know immediately. The powder sti
cks on the hands and under the influence of light turns black. It can’t be washed off for quite a time, so we’ll have the thief cold.’

  ‘You know . . . I’m sure it can’t possibly be one of the women who works here.’

  ‘It’s got to be one, hasn’t it? All the money’s been pinched on a Monday, Thursday, or Friday, from the women’s room and probably close to the meal break. The pattern’s obvious.’

  The works manager shook his head. ‘I still find it hard to believe.’ He sighed. ‘If word gets round of what’s happening, Williams will——’

  ‘If you and your cousin don’t breathe a word, no one will know anything until the money’s swiped. Then we’ll be along to have a chat with whoever’s hands are stained black and the whole thing will be over and done with before Williams can sing a couple of lines from the Internationale.’

  ‘But if something should go wrong, Williams will cause such terrible trouble.’

  ‘Don’t worry. The worst can’t happen. If the money’s not pinched, no one will know: if it is, we have the thief. Foolproof, that’s what!’ Kerr breezily assured the other.

  The works manager seemed little reassured.

  Kerr left the office and walked through the factory. The woman with the twisted mouth was at one of the tables and she flashed her eyes at him. He stopped and chatted to her and she remarked that she was going to the pictures that evening with a girl friend who wasn’t really much of a friend and was a bit of a boor, to boot. He did not take up the obvious invitation and this made him feel pleasurably virtuous.

  He drove up to C division H.Q. in Marsfield, a journey which took him over an hour because the C.I.D. Hillman began to wander at any speed over sixty. It was after one-thirty when he arrived and his first concern was naturally to make certain he had a good meal at the small pub nearby to see him through the rigours of the rest of the day.

  The D.I. was well into middle age and clearly close to retiring. He had the easy-going, unruffled air of a man no longer troubled by the pangs of ambition and one to whom the clear-up rate graph was only of vague, general interest. ‘Have a fag?’ he said to Kerr. He leaned across the desk to offer a pack.