Despite the Evidence

by Roderic Jeffries

  He shook his head. ‘No one else can do this.’

  She rested her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. She spoke both angrily and plaintively. ‘Bob, you’re the only husband I’ve got and I want you around the place a bit longer. You just can’t go on and on working yourself over the limit and not expect to suffer.’

  ‘I’m tough.’

  ‘You’re pig-headed.’ Her voice softened. ‘Look, I’m asking you, please take the night off——’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t, Jo.’

  She began to eat. Her silence was expressive.

  He wondered if in the Tarbard case he was missing something that was staring him in the face or if he was just plain, hopelessly wrong. As he saw it, he was dealing with several parts of but one case, yet to back his belief he’d nothing but hunches and possibilities that so far refused to jell together. . . . As Kywood saw it, there were several cases quite unconnected. Who was right? Was there a really big job brewing up, in which Tarbard and Lowther had been connected? Or was there just an ordinary car crash, a straight burglary, a dead safe-breaker who might have been murdered?

  ‘You’re not even very good company,’ she snapped.

  He caught the look in her soft brown eyes and reached over to put a hand on hers. ‘I’m fine, Jo, and it’ll take a much bigger work load than I’ve got at the moment to shove a tombstone up over me.’

  She searched his face. ‘I worry,’ she said simply. ‘Why can’t you be just a little less keen?’

  ‘And more like Kywood?’

  She managed a smile. ‘Do that and I pack my bags.’

  He changed the conversation and they discussed Timothy’s latest hobby of building model aircraft: a hobby that made for bad temper and excessive demands for extra pocket money.

  Fusil left the house after coffee and he drove down to the area around the Old Docks. Here the streets were mean, there was some real poverty, much unhappiness and vice, and people who engaged in every form of villaining: without the docks, eastern division’s crime rate would have been only half of what it actually was.

  He went into the public bar of the One-Eyed Admiral, stepped round a bunch of arguing, half-drunk seamen, and ordered a pint of bitter from the barman. When he tried to pay, the barman shook his head. As always, when there was no particular reason for not doing so, he accepted this free drink. It was one of the few — unofficial — compensations for a job of endless hours, much tedium, small pay, and sometimes danger.

  Three tarts came in, searching for prospective customers. The barman caught their attention and gave them a sign and they left. Fusil wouldn’t have done anything even if they had started importuning: nothing would ever stop prostitution, certainly not the present hypocritical attitude of society.

  He filled his pipe, smoked, and talked to an Australian ship’s engineer who swore that Western Australia was the nearest thing to heaven mortal man would ever know. He sounded very convincing.

  One of the men Fusil wanted to see came into the pub at nine-forty-five, just as Fusil was thinking of leaving. Bates saw him and then carefully went across to the far end of the bar and ordered a gin and lime. Ten minutes, and another gin and lime, later Fusil left and walked down the road to where he’d parked his car. He got in and sat down. After a further five minutes Bates opened the rear nearside door and slid into the seat.

  Fusil asked what big jobs were now in the wings. Bates swore he didn’t know of any, but three one-pound notes reminded him that Clipper Hagan and Ted Uden were now all pals together, although only three months before Uden had been promising he’d cut Hagan in half because of woman trouble.

  ‘Who are they with?’ asked Fusil.

  ‘Ain’t seen them with nobody.’

  One more piece of information, thought Fusil moodily, that might be of importance someday and should be reported to the collator, but certainly offered no obvious connection with the Tarbard case. When, if ever, would he uncover some proof which once and for all would lay things down the line so he’d know what was what?

  *

  Uden had a vicious temper which under normal conditions was triggered off by the slightest provocation and he was a man able to find provocations all around him, yet when on a job he always stayed cool: that was why men liked to work for him, though once the job was over they kept well out of his way. He looked at Hagan. ‘O.K., Clipper?’

  As always, Hagan suffered a tension which gripped his stomach and dried his mouth, but this only added an edge to this ruthlessness. He nodded.

  Each man checked his equipment before leaving. Between them they had coshes made from sand-filled socks, a sawn-off shot-gun, dozens of steel crossed-triangles for puncturing tyres, a two-gallon can filled with petrol, and a thin rope ladder with rungs of aluminium. They wore overalls and caps, scarves around their necks which could be used to cover the lower half of their faces, and dark glasses.

  They carried the equipment out through the kitchen into the odd-shaped, rubbish-littered courtyard where was the stolen Rover three-litre. Because the house was at an angle to the next one, and there were no overlooking windows, they could work in safety.

  Uden wedged the shot-gun behind the ladder, slammed down the lid of the boot, and spat out the cigarette he had been smoking. ‘No more fags.’

  Hagan, a chain-smoker, didn’t argue: a cigarette butt could tell the splits much of what they wanted to know. As Uden climbed into the car, Hagan went over to the rotting wooden gates and opened them, having to lift each gate because the posts had sagged inwards. Uden drove out and Hagan climbed into the passenger seat. Their route lay through mean streets until they reached the Fortrow/Barstone road and each time they saw a copper a little extra tension gripped them even though they were old hands at villaining.

  Eight miles from Fortrow was a transport café that stayed open eighteen hours a day and had a dormitory with a dozen beds: lorries were in the park twenty-four hours a day. Their brown pantechnicon, bonnet facing outwards, was in the middle of the park furthest from the café. Having left the Rover a quarter of a mile away, they walked to the park and the pantechnicon. Hagan checked on the small piece of brown cotton he’d fixed across the bottom edge of the cab door, then nodded and they climbed into the cab. Uden drove them back to the Rover.

  It took them only seconds to off-load the equipment. Hagan stayed in the rear of the vehicle and Uden returned to the cab. Automatically, Uden checked his gloves before starting the engine and driving off.

  When St. Martin’s Church first came in sight, over the roofs of a row of houses, the clock in the steeple said two minutes to eleven: their timing was perfect. Uden thumped on the bulkhead as a signal that they were about to turn right into George Road. The huge prison wall loomed up, dwarfing their vehicle. He slowed right down to give Hagan as steady a platform as possible.

  Inside, a ladder had been fixed between floor and roof and immediately in front of the top of this a panel, secured with catches, had been cut out of the roof. Hagan picked up the rope ladder, quite a weight despite its light construction, and climbed until his head was just beneath the roof. He held on tightly with his left hand, but even so the jolting of the lorry almost toppled him down. He cursed Uden.

  Sweat rolled down his face and the muscles in his arms began to jump from the strain on them. Why had Uden given the signal so early? Why hadn’t they stopped? He’d been standing on top of the bloody ladder for hours: had something gone wrong at the very last moment? . . . Two thumps on the bulkhead and the pantechnicon stopped with only a slight jolt.

  As he released the two catches of the roof panel, he heard the church clock striking. The panel fell down on to the floor with a heavy clatter. He bundled the ladder out on to the roof as the clock went on striking.

  Two large hooks were welded on to the top of the roof and as soon as he had scrambled clear he fixed the end rung of the ladder under these. He stood up, the rest of the ladder in both hands. He had a flashing glimpse of a
car, seemingly a long way below and of the driver who gazed upwards with wild astonishment, and then all his concentration was on heaving the ladder up and over the spike-topped wall. The ladder momentarily stuck on one of the spikes, then it unrolled out of sight. The church clock stopped striking.

  No noise came from inside the prison and looking over the wall he could see no swirl of people. The mad thought flashed through his mind that the prison had been emptied of all inmates, turning their escape attempts into farce. Then there was a violent commotion below. Whistles blew, people swarmed into view — prisoners shouted and did all they could to get in the way of the warders who were trying to reach the ladder. The first head appeared above the wall. Alf Quenton gripped one of the inward curving spikes and levered himself up and over it and across the wall. He slithered down the rope on to the roof of the pantechnicon with the agility of a monkey. Next came Sails Cantor, seemingly not moving as fast as Quenton, yet reaching the roof as easily and sliding down the inside ladder without a word being said. The third man, Sid Vine, nearly made a nonsense of everything. Somehow, he caught a shoe on one of the spikes and there he was, trapped, frantically trying to gain support from the ladder, swaying violently and in very great danger of falling to the ground. Hagan leaned across and grabbed Vine’s hands and pulled. The shoe came off and Vine fell on to the roof with a force that made him cry out: he would then have slithered off had Hagan not still been gripping him. Hagan pulled and pushed him round and through the hole, careless of what happened thereafter, and pressed a small button on the inside of the roof. At the same time he pulled out a sheath knife and slashed at the ropes of the ladder.

  A warder’s face appeared above the spikes. Seeing what was about to happen, he wildly tried to pull himself up and over on to the wall. The pantechnicon began to drive away. Hagan hadn’t quite cut through the second rope, but this snapped immediately under the strain. The warder, one foot on the ladder which was held up now by the spikes, one foot on the spikes, shouted to his companions below for help.

  Hagan slid down the ladder, pushed past Vine, and went to the rear, already finding it difficult to stand because of the motion of the vehicle. He opened the small panel in the left-hand door and looked out. The car that had been stopped behind them during the escape was now tailing them, the driver blowing the horn almost continuously. Hagan bent down and picked up a handful of the metal crossed-triangles. He threw them out one at a time. The driver of the car failed to realise what was happening and took no evasive action. Several triangles failed to connect, then one of them found its mark. Deflation was not immediate, but the tyre became soft within a couple of hundred yards. The car pulled over to the right with the driver fighting the wheel.

  Hagan turned. In the dim light coming in through the opening in the roof he saw that Quenton had hold of the shot-gun. He was not going to be easily recaptured.

  *

  The news reached east division H.Q. at seven minutes past eleven. Fusil, just before leaving to drive to the prison, shouted to Braddon to get on to Operations at H.Q. for a county wide alert, if that had not already gone out, to report to Kywood and the detective chief superintendent at county H.Q., and then to organise the distribution of photographs of the men who had escaped just as soon as he, Fusil, had gained confirmation of their identities. In the initial chaos it was easily possible for the wrong men to have been reported as escapees.

  At the prison the assistant governor had, as requested, called into his room the warder who’d reached the top of the prison wall as the pantechnicon drove off. He gave his version of events and Fusil did not question him until he’d come to an end.

  ‘You got a good view of the man on the roof of the vehicle?’ asked Fusil.

  ‘Pretty good, but, like I said, there wasn’t much to see of him.’

  ‘Go over your description again in case you can add anything.’

  ‘Big, probably six foot, with broad shoulders. Dressed in blue overalls that looked new and white plimsolls. He’d a cap pulled right down, dark glasses, and a scarf covering his chin and most of his mouth. Didn’t leave much to look at, like.’ The warder was as conscious as any of them that his description was hardly a helpful one.

  ‘What shape of ears did he have?’

  ‘Most of ’em was hidden by his cap.’

  ‘Can you give an idea of the general shape of his head?’

  ‘It wasn’t anything unusual, like.’

  ‘And his nose?’

  ‘It was just ordinary . . .’ The warder stopped. ‘That ain’t right, you know. There was something a bit odd about his nose, come to think about it. Near as I can remember, it was twisted to one side, like it had once been broken.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Fusil. ‘You couldn’t see his hands because he was wearing gloves, but was he right- or left-handed?’

  The warder’s face became screwed up into an expression of concentration. ‘Seems like everything was ordinary so I guess he was right-handed. You notice when a bloke’s left-handed, don’t you?’

  ‘Usually,’ agreed Fusil. ‘What’s your guess of his general age?’

  ‘Mid-twenties.’

  The telephone rang and the assistant governor answered it, then handed the receiver to Fusil. Braddon reported that a large brown pantechnicon on a piece of waste land in Alcott Road had caught fire about a quarter of an hour previously and was burning furiously. The fire brigade now had a pump on the spot and were trying to put out the fire, but there was virtually no hope of doing this before the vehicle was too badly burned to offer up any clues. Braddon added that he’d sent Welland along to give a couple of P.C.s a hand in trying to discover something about the vehicle’s arrival and who’d got out of it, but he added mournfully that in such a neighbourhood the chances of finding anyone ready to talk were virtually nil.

  Fusil was irritated by Braddon’s ready acceptance of defeat, even if the other was being realistic.

  After the call, Fusil stared unseeingly at the assistant governor. If the escaping prisoners and the organising villains were to be apprehended all together there was little, if any, time left in which to do this. They would have changed to their get-away car near Alcott Road. Had he learned anything, any slight clue, to suggest the identity of the organising villains or the direction in which the get-away car might be heading? Alcott Road was to the north-east of Fortrow. From there they could be making for either the coast road to Keighley or the main road to Barstone and thence London. Or, of course, if really smart, they might be doubling back and going to ground in Fortrow. All in all, he hadn’t anything to work on.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fusil — as close to it as he could get — was studying the pantechnicon when he heard a car arrive. He turned. Kywood left the car and walked across the uneven, litter-strewn waste land, holding his hat on with one hand because it was a half-size too big and there was a gusty wind. One of the P.C.s recognised Kywood and saluted. Welland looked across to make certain Fusil knew of the D.C.I.s arrival.

  ‘Have you checked for prints?’ demanded Kywood, as soon as he was within earshot.

  Fusil was tempted to make a sarcastic answer, but in the end merely said: ‘It’s too hot yet, sir.’

  Kywood jammed his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. He stared at the side of the vehicle and the blistered and burned paint. ‘Have you checked out the registration number?’

  ‘We’ve put through a priority call.’

  ‘But you’ve had no report?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Chivy them up.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Fusil didn’t make a move.

  A group of young boys, none aged more than ten, approached too closely. One of the P.C.s told them to move away and they replied with an astonishing flood of obscenity.

  Kywood became irrationally angry because no one seemed to be doing anything. ‘Are you making enquiries around here to see if anyone saw the van arrive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then what’
s the result?’

  ‘None, so far.’

  ‘Someone must have seen something?’

  Of course, thought Fusil scornfully, but in this part of Fortrow the average person would as soon cut his own throat as tell a copper anything. His impatience grew. He wanted to leave, personally to organise the search now gaining momentum with road blocks being set up on all the main roads, but there was just one chance in a thousand that this pantechnicon might offer some sort of clue: therefore, because of this very remote possibility, he had to stay where he was.

  *

  Sid Vine walked along the street until he came to a tobacconist’s and there he stopped and stared through the window at the dummy packs of cigarettes. He longed for a full-sized, fat, smooth cigarette, something he had not smoked for eighteen months, but he hadn’t a penny. His throat and mouth seemed to ache at the sight of so much unavailable luxury.

  He walked on, a small, dejected, middle-aged man who was utterly bewildered by what had happened and quite unable to work out what to do next. When they’d said he was to go over the top with them he’d been excited at the prospect of escaping the rest of his sentence and he’d never stopped to think about the future. In the event, Uden had parked the car just off a main road by a wood and they’d changed into the clothes provided — his didn’t fit and he looked a clown — and he’d been given ten quid and told to get lost in the Big Smoke. He’d been so scared of Uden that he hadn’t even dared ask where he was.

  He’d thumbed a lift in a gravel lorry which took him to Barstone. By some terrible mischance this had dropped him slap outside a betting shop. Quite unable to resist the urge, even whilst knowing it must be disastrous, he’d gone into the betting shop. Within three races he’d lost the ten pounds.

  Miserably, he wandered on, away from the tobacconist’s. Uden had told him to get lost in London, but London offered him nothing. His wife, tired or ashamed of being married to him, had gone off with a man from Manchester. She’d told him she was going to do it on her last visit to prison, showing a brave, but painful honesty. He hadn’t tried to argue her out of it — even if he’d really wanted to, it would have been virtually impossible to carry on such a discussion with all the other prisoners having visits in the long brown-painted room. He knew some of the neighbours where they’d lived, of course, but they wouldn’t help him now, not after he’d been put inside for a crime that disgusted even them.