As Kerr struck a match for both of them, he wondered why he couldn’t have been posted to C division in the county force instead of east division in the borough force where the D.I. didn’t know what easy-going meant. Then, as he sat down, he realised with amazement that if given the chance, he’d elect to serve under Fusil. As someone with a great deal of ambition, he knew which of the two D.I.s was the more likely to help him fulfil that ambition.
‘You’d like to know the facts about the Seeton House burglary?’ The D.I. opened a folder. ‘How’s your interest arise?’
‘We’re trying to trace out Lowther’s movements,’ answered Kerr carefully, remembering Fusil’s explicit instructions. ‘He may have done a job down our way.’
‘I suppose you can’t tell me where he may be right now?’
‘It’s possible he’s dead.’
‘Is it? Well, if you find he is, let me know so as I can cross this case off my list.’ He looked down and read through some notes in the folder. ‘Mrs. Payne, a widow, lives alone in Seeton House. She’d some seventy-five thousand quid’s worth of jewellery, locked up in a strong-room that any self-respecting peterman could open with a can-opener: as always, the jewellery was insured for only half its present-day value. Entry was made through French windows which weren’t wired to any form of alarm. All the jewellery was stolen, but none of the fairly valuable silver. Dabs went over everything and turned up just the single print on one of the metal boxes inside. There’s nothing else of any significance: no other prints, no traces, and so far no buzzes from the local grassers. . . . Hang on, there is one more thing.’ He turned over a sheet of paper. ‘The villain picked up a chair that was in front of the strong-room door and jabbed a hand on a rusty nail: a lab test has confirmed the blood was human, but can’t group it.’
‘Was it likely to be bad enough to make him need medical help?’
‘It could only have been very minor. It’s not going to help until you find Lowther and he has a jab in his hand. Even then, it won’t carry much weight in court against a good counsel.’
Kerr pointed out a slight inconsistency. ‘If there aren’t any dabs except on the box, he must have been wearing gloves — so how come he left this one print behind?’
The D.I. shrugged his shoulders. ‘Took them off to force the strong-room.’
‘You said it was an easy mark.’
‘He could have needed a greater degree of feel when using the twirlers,’ said the D.I., a slight note of irritation in his voice. ‘He forgot to put them back on when he first handled the box.’
Kerr heeded the irritation and did not point out the obvious fact that a real villain like Lowther would not forget to replace a glove after using the skeleton keys unless there had been some alarm to disturb him — and if there had been an alarm, would he have gone on to touch the box? ‘D’you think I could have a quick word with Dabs, sir?’
‘Sure. No one from H.Q. was immediately available, as you probably know, so I told Detective Constable Jones to go ahead. D’you think there’s something about the print, then?’
‘There’s just a faint possibility it was faked with a finger cut-off from Lowther.’
The D.I. looked vaguely surprised. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, that’s going to be a hard one to answer.’
The D.I. was a prophet. Detective Constable Jones had completed the full course in the county fingerprint department, but his experience was limited. ‘Odd?’ His voice was thick with the accents of his native Devonshire. ‘I wouldn’t say there was much odd about it except there was maybe more of the print than you might expect.’
‘How d’you mean exactly?’ asked Kerr.
‘Usually, a scene-of-the-crime print is only part of one when compared to what you get when you’re taking someone’s prints and you roll his finger from side to side. This print was more like the latter.’
‘So you’re saying the finger might have been rolled and not just pressed down?’
‘Now hang on, chum. I’m not sticking my neck out that far! I’m just telling you what it was like. Could be, he pressed harder than usual and flattened out his finger to give a larger area.’
‘You’re making life difficult,’ said Kerr.
‘That’s the way it always comes.’ D.C. Jones grinned. The difficulties weren’t his to bother about.
*
Fusil listened to Kerr’s report. He began to pace the floor, soon coming to a halt in the centre of the frayed carpet. ‘So what does all that really add up to, even accepting you’re right about the inconsistencies? Nothing concrete. Nothing to get our teeth into.’
‘But Jones did make the point there was more of a print than he’d really expect. What he meant was . . .’
‘Just you stick to what he actually said,’ snapped Fusil, ‘and don’t start putting words into his mouth.’
Only trying to help, thought Kerr resentfully.
Chapter Thirteen
Tuesday was one of those rare December days when there was not a cloud in the sky, the sun had a little warmth to it, a light wind came in from the south bringing with it the tang of the sea, and the gloom of winter was momentarily dispelled.
Tarbard sat behind the wheel of the parked M.G. and stared across George Road at the prison walls. They were tall, topped with in-curving spikes, covered with the grime of eighty years so that the original redness of the bricks had become a dirty grey. He’d once been behind such walls and the memory of the claustrophobic hatred they’d provoked was still clear.
He let his mind wander. Initially, Lowther’s death had meant nothing but trouble, but then it had resulted in his having the pleasure of fooling the police completely and of meeting the challenge of finding a successor. He’d picked out Sails Cantor, doing eight years for manslaughter — a killing that should have gone down in the books as murder — so immediately another problem arose, how to free Cantor and yet hide the reason for his escape?
Someone, perhaps Shaw, had said that a millionaire, be he a misanthropic Quasimodo, could buy most things in life, but a clever man with charm could get anything. He’d used his brains to devise the scheme and a little money to bribe Spinks: his charm had not been needed.
A pantechnicon carefully turned the corner and entered the road. It was twelve feet six inches high and the name board on its roof was another two feet six inches. Tarbard backed himself to be able to judge a further six feet to a maximum error of six inches.
In order to measure the height of the prison walls, the pantechnicon could just have been stopped for a moment by the wall, but since the publication and implementation of the Mountbatten report that might have been an unsafe manœuvre: there were irregularly timed patrols outside the walls and a parked pantechnicon would immediately rouse suspicion. . . . Tarbard started the engine of the M.G. and waited to draw out until the pantechnicon was close. His timing was good. It braked sharply to avoid the collision and the M.G. also had to come to a stop. Tarbard shook his fist as if illogically to curse the driver for the near miss.
The top of the prison wall was about four feet above the board on the roof of the pantechnicon, judged Tarbard. He drove off.
After parking behind the White Angel Club he went inside. Two of the strippers were rehearsing their act because the previous night they had made mistakes and the cabaret manager rightly struggled for perfection. They smiled at him and he smiled back: who wouldn’t, faced by a seated blonde, natural, wearing only a pair of suède shoes, and a brunette who was just stepping out of her G-string?
In his office there were the usual kind of problems to be sorted out: the last consignment of oysters had not been of the right quality, what wines were to be ordered for Christmas and the New Year, one of the waiters had been sacked for stealing and should the police be informed? He looked through the previous day’s accounts. The club was profitable, but not so profitable as it might be if one or two economies were made, such as cutting down on the expenses of the cabaret. It had been his policy to run it as i
t was because he’d always been going to sell out and high turnover, which the extravagances had ensured — had been an obvious attraction.
He looked at the calendar. It was the fifth of December. Soon, months of preparation and planning would come to fruition and two and a half million pounds’ worth of jewellery would be his. Someday, when it was certain he was safe, he’d buy a property with a hill and he’d stand on that hill and every square yard of land he could see would be his.
*
Rowan had been an averagely happy bachelor, enjoying a few pints of beer at the pubs, or a night at the local hop, as much as the next man. Then he’d met Heather, fallen in love, and married. He’d always been jealous of anyone she’d known or knew, and at first she’d in many ways been flattered by this jealousy, but when he’d become too possessive, telling her whom she could and couldn’t see, she’d rebelled. Both strong characters, their arguments had become more and more bitter. Determined not to have to ask him for every penny, and also wanting a better standard of living, she’d got a job. This had hurt, as it had been meant to. It had hurt even harder when she began to make more money than he did and she stayed away from home for hours at a time, evenings as well as days. He’d often seen the photographer for whom she most often worked and each time he’d suffered a wild desire to smash the smooth, over-handsome man into a bleeding pulp. No one could now say he was averagely happy.
He typed at his desk, swearing each time he hit the wrong key. His telephone rang. ‘C.I.D.,’ he said.
‘Records here. We’ve identification for you, reference four twelve one.’
‘What case is that?’
‘How should I know, cock? You’re the originators.’
‘Then what the hell was it about?’
‘Bloke who spoiled his beauty by walking over a cliff. He’s Figgs Aspinall and almost all his form is for peterwork. D’you want the file down?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘The sergeant wants to know when the file on Lowther is going to be returned?’
‘That’s not my pigeon.’
‘You sound like your rich uncle’s just got married. Isn’t it a nice sunny day?’
Rowan muttered a good-bye and jotted down the facts both in the Messages Book and on a sheet of paper. He was about to take the paper through to the D.I.’s office when Kerr walked in. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘take this along to the old man.’
‘Take it yourself,’ replied Kerr cheerfully.
‘I can’t.’
‘Sudden paralysis of both legs? I’ll bet the paralysis would vanish if a blonde were giving you the old come-on.’
‘Don’t you ever think of anything but women?’
‘I very occasionally wonder what else there is to think about.’
‘You’re sex-starved.’
‘You talk for yourself, boy.’ The moment he saw the sudden twist of pain in Rowan’s expression Kerr knew he’d unwittingly hurt the other. He was sorry.
Rowan tried to cover up his emotions by a more friendly attitude. ‘I’d be grateful if you could take that through, John. The sarge has given me enough work to keep a dozen people busy.’
‘Sure. I’ll deliver the message at a rate of knots,’ replied Kerr, eager to make up for his last remark.
Rowan handed over the paper. ‘Records have just been on the blower to say that the bloke who fell over the cliff has form and his name’s Aspinall. They’re sending his file down.’ He looked up. ‘By the way, they’re shouting for the Lowther file back. I told ’em to wait.’ There was an expression of pleading in his eyes: he wanted and needed friendship, even while he recognised his manner did so much to repel it.
Kerr responded to the unspoken appeal. ‘D’you feel like a jar at lunchtime?’
‘That would be great.’
Kerr left. Fred really was dumb when it came to women, he thought, with the superiority of an engaged man who knew that his marriage was going to be one long springtime of happiness.
Fusil looked like a bothered man: his desk was a jumbled mass of papers and he held his hand over one telephone whilst he spoke into the other. Kerr stared at the yellowing photograph of some long forgotten D.I. which hung on the wall: why did no one ever take him down?
Fusil finished one conversation, replaced the receiver, had a short row with the second person and slammed the receiver down. He picked up a pencil and began to write, but the lead snapped. ‘Give me something to write with.’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t anything on me, sir.’
‘Goddamn it, you’ve never what’s wanted, but always what isn’t.’ He searched through the pockets of his coat, found a pen, and wrote rapidly. When he’d finished, he looked up. ‘Well? Are you going to stand there all day?’
Kerr put the paper on the desk. ‘An identification in the cliff death, sir.’
Fusil read the facts. ‘Figs Aspinall! I did him for a safe job some five years back, but damned if I began to recognise him with the face like it was.’ He spoke more slowly. ‘So how did he come to fall over? Have you seen the preliminary P.M. report?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Here it is. Read it through, then get out and find what Figs has been up to. Check if he’s maybe done a job recently that could have got him in bad odour with a mob.’
Kerr picked up the roughly typed report, something often given an investigating officer before the longer and more detailed official report. One sentence near the end immediately caught his attention.
‘What have you noticed?’ asked Fusil sharply.
‘It’s this bit about the puncture in the palm of the hand which had a flake of rust in it. The villain who broke into Seeton House picked up a chair which had a small, headless, rusty nail sticking out of it. There was dried blood on the nail which proved to be human, but couldn’t be typed. At the time there didn’t seem to be any real significance in this, but now there could be.’
‘How?’ asked Fusil, even though the answer was obvious.
‘The easiest way to make it appear Lowther couldn’t have been killed in the car crash was to have him apparently committing a burglary three days later. So Tarbard hired Figs Aspinall to break into Seeton House and plant a dab, using a finger hacked off the dead man. Then either Aspinall was fool enough to try to put on the black or else Tarbard was playing it absolutely safe and he slugged Aspinall and chucked him over the cliff — hoping the death would be taken as suicide. Even if murder should be suspected, there’d be no obvious connection between Aspinall and the burglary at Ecton Cross.’
Fusil began to tap on the desk. ‘You know something? Unless we can uncover very much stronger proof, we’re still out on a bloody great limb because we’re relying only on some untyped dried blood and a fleck of rust to prove a direct connection.’
*
Kywood was no fool, though there were many who’d have disputed the proposition. He played with the report, rolling up one corner and unrolling it. He looked across his large desk and stared at Fusil, who sat well back in the old armchair. ‘You’re stretching the facts all ways to suit your theories.’
‘The pattern is——’
‘There’s only a pattern if you make a dozen wild guesses.’
‘Everything’s beginning to fit.’
‘Nothing fits.’
How, wondered Fusil, did you convince a man who prided himself on being a realist that there could be times when instinct was almost as important as facts? ‘Of course, it can all be explained in other ways, but when you look at the whole picture——’
‘Which is highly coloured by the evidence of a D.C. who was tight.’ Kywood saw Fusil was about to speak. ‘It’s no good trying to go on telling me that Kerr was so sober he could have walked over the Thames on a tightrope. You’ve only his word for the state he was in and with a bloke like him, what’s his word worth? What did you call him, here in this office, just after he’d joined your division? So goddamn happy-go-lucky that you couldn’t trust him to give you the right time if he
was standing slap under Big Ben?’
‘He’s changed a lot since then,’ protested Fusil.
‘I wonder if you’d claim so if his evidence went contrary to the story you wanted accepted?’
Fusil was nearly very rude.
Kywood smoothed down his already smooth black hair. ‘You’ve been in the force long enough, Bob, to know that one can’t live on theories. Our job is to deal in facts.’
‘Which we’ve got by the dozen.’
‘Maybe, but none of them tie up except in your head.’
‘I’m telling you, everything goes to prove there’s a really big job coming up.’
‘Nothing goes to prove that.’
Fusil went on arguing, but he was wasting his time. In sheer practical terms Kywood was perfectly right and at such moments no one was more immovable than he.
*
Detective Chief Superintendent Menton, in the assistant chief constable’s office, smiled thinly. ‘At least, sir, nobody can accuse the Fortrow people of lacking imagination — what with hacked-off fingers, and so on. If they’re not careful, they’ll turn up a vampire or two, and have to put in a requisition to stores for some stout stakes and a mallet.’
*
‘What’s the devil’s going on, Kywood?’ demanded the chief constable of Fortrow borough police force, a choleric gentleman at any time. ‘Brendon from county says you’re chasing vampires and have ordered stakes and mallets from county stores to stick into bodies in graveyards. Have you all gone bloody raving mad?’
‘Oh, my God!’ moaned Kywood, to himself.
Chapter Fourteen
At supper on Wednesday evening, Josephine said to Fusil: ‘There’s a good play on telly tonight. I think we’ll like it for a change, since it’s not all about incest.’
‘Sorry, love,’ he replied, ‘I’ve got to go out after supper.’
Her manner changed abruptly. ‘Why?’
‘I’ve some work to clear up.’
‘Then let someone else do some of it for a change.’
Despite the Evidence Page 11
