Despite the Evidence

by Roderic Jeffries

  He suffered a sudden feeling of resentment. Why had they dragged him away from jail? Inside he’d known exactly where he was. Meals were regular, work at the laundry enabled him to buy tobacco and cigarette papers, and there were always people to tell him what to do next. Now he was adrift, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, lonely and frightened.

  A patrolling constable came along the pavement in the opposite direction, his helmet visible above the bobbing heads of pedestrians. Vine hurriedly stopped and turned to stare through the window of a café. He waited, terrified — absurd, this, since only seconds before he’d been longing to be back in prison — for a hand to grip him and a quiet voice to tell him to take things easily, but nothing happened. This fear subsided when it was certain the constable must be past. That was when he noticed the man and woman at the nearest table who were eating eggs, sausages, beans and chips. He watched each forkful and suffered each time they filled their mouths. Before long they became aware of his intense gaze. The man stared angrily at him. Frightened, he hurried on.

  *

  ‘That’s right,’ said Kerr over the telephone, ‘about six foot high, mid twenties, and a crooked nose.’

  The sergeant in Records said: ‘Give us the rest, then.’

  ‘That’s the lot.’

  ‘You call that a description? What’s up with you blokes at borough. D’you think we’re miracle-workers?’

  ‘You’ve done ’em in the past, Sarge.’

  There was a short pause. ‘You aren’t the bloke who last time wanted a chummy with the tip of his finger missing and nothing more known, are you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Sarge, yes.’

  ‘D’you know how long that search took?’

  ‘It was a very successful one. . . . The D.I. said as quick as you possibly can, Sarge.’

  ‘Tell your D.I. to get stuffed.’

  If only he had the nerve, thought Kerr regretfully, as he replaced the telephone receiver. He looked at his watch. A little before twelve. Soon it would be lunchtime.

  A message came through from the county vehicle-licensing department. The pantechnicon was registered in the name of a company in Bratford. Kerr, to save himself the trouble of searching through the vehicle lists, telephoned the company and they reported that the vehicle had been stolen on Tuesday. He went down to the general area and asked the duty sergeant to contact one of the P.C.s in Alcott Road. The sergeant used the transmitter to speak to a P.C. through the latter’s pocket radio. After a short pause the P.C. reported back that on the D.I.’s orders D.C. Kerr was to get on to the Bratford police and ask them to make local enquiries.

  Kerr noticed the time was now a quarter past twelve. Fusil couldn’t possibly return from Alcott Road in under twenty minutes with traffic clogging the streets and the canteen started serving meals at a quarter past. He went down to the basement canteen and gathered his meal on a tray, then sat down at the table next to the telephone. He spoke to the Bratford police between mouthfuls.

  He was in the queue at the serving counter to choose a sweet when the telephone rang. A P.C. answered the call and shouted out it was for him. Believing it might be Fusil, he tried to think up a reasonable excuse for being in the canteen. However, when he answered he found the call was from the Glazebrook factory.

  ‘It’s gone,’ said the works manager, his voice excited.

  ‘What’s gone?’ asked Kerr, trying to line up his thoughts.

  ‘The money’s gone that you treated with powder and put in the purse.’

  ‘Right. That’s just what we wanted.’

  ‘Will you come out here immediately?’

  ‘Not right away, no.’ He looked across at the counter to try to see if there was plenty of lemon pie left.

  ‘But Williams is sure to discover——’

  ‘Just you and your cousin keep your eyes skinned for someone with dirty hands.’

  ‘But what shall I do if we find someone?’

  ‘Tell her to wash.’ Kerr chuckled. ‘It’ll only make things blacker.’ He said good-bye.

  After a hurried sweet he left and went upstairs. In the corridor he met Fusil and Kywood.

  Fusil came to a stop. ‘Have you been on to Records?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and on to Bratford. They’ll do all they can. By the way, a call’s just through from Glazebrook factory. The money we planted has been taken. Shall I get out there?’

  Fusil spoke to Kywood. ‘I take it, sir, the theft of two pounds in the factory is, because of local politics, more important than the prison break? Shall I send Kerr and bring Welland in from his house-to-house enquiries?’

  Kywood’s face reddened.

  ‘On second thoughts, perhaps I ought to get out to the factory myself. . . .’

  This time Fusil had gone too far. Kywood swore and his expression became mean. He walked away and went into the D.I.’s room. Fusil spoke once more to Kerr. ‘Have a word with the works manager and tell him we can’t get out immediately because of the prison break. He can inspect all the women’s hands and let us have the name of whoever’s gone black.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘As soon as you’ve done that, get out to Alcott Road and give Welland a hand. . . . I suppose you’ve made damned sure you’ve eaten?’

  Kerr hesitated, uncertain whether or not to tell the truth.

  *

  Tarbard made a point of studying the menu with his usual care and showing no sense of tension whatsoever. ‘I’ll have potted shrimps and a steak with beans but no potatoes.’

  The waiter waited for Paula’s order. She took another two minutes to choose pâté de foie gras and poularde demideuil. Tarbard wondered, with idle contempt, whether she really liked such rich food day after day or whether it was the cost that attracted her?

  As the waiter closed the door of the office behind him, she picked up her glass and finished her dry Martini. She fiddled with the stem. It was obvious she wanted another, but maliciously he refused to ask her. Finally, she said: ‘Can I have just a small one, Gerry?’

  He noticed how she didn’t look at him as she spoke. She’d no idea that he didn’t give a damn how much she drank because very soon now she’d be going her way and he’d be going his. By the time all the alcohol she’d drunk really affected her physically, he’d probably have trouble even remembering her name. ‘Help yourself,’ he said.

  He watched her cross to the cocktail cabinet. She had a way of moving that made a man visualise the limbs beneath the clothes. Until she lost her looks or figure she’d never lack for someone to pay for them.

  She filled her glass from the shaker and there was a little drink left. She had two quick mouthfuls, then emptied the shaker. ‘I saw a lovely dress in Hatchetts,’ she said, as she returned to her seat. Her voice was becoming a shade muffled. ‘It was green and . . .’

  He didn’t bother to listen. One of the things he was really beginning to miss was an intelligent conversation. Still, he was gaining plenty of intellectual exercise right now, weaving patterns that must have the police completely baffled and befuddled. His one regret was that he couldn’t be in a position to appreciate at first hand the extent of their bewilderment.

  He noticed the time was almost one o’clock. Now he could no longer hold back the tension. He wasn’t fool enough to think that perfect planning must always mean success and knew that chance could always throw a thick spanner in the works. He switched on the transistor radio and set it high enough for him to hear the news above her continual chatter. When she saw that he was listening she stopped talking for a short while, but she soon resumed, even asking him questions which she knew he would not answer.

  No mention was made of the prison break when the headlines were read out. He began to worry. It was his turn to need a drink and he went over and poured himself out a second whisky and soda.

  There was a knock on the door and the waiter came in with a trolley set for them and at which they would eat. ‘The wine’s just coming along . . .’ he began.r />
  ‘Shut up,’ ordered Tarbard, and the moment he had spoken regretted this open display of his feelings.

  The waiter was well tipped by Tarbard and he appeared not to be annoyed. He put the trolley in the centre of the room, placed two chairs at it, and left.

  The news of the prison break was at the very end. The announcer said a late news flash had just come in to the effect that three prisoners were reported to have escaped from Fortrow jail.

  The wine waiter entered as Paula and Tarbard sat down to eat. He brought the bottle of Volnay les Caillerets in a basket and showed it to Tarbard, then took great care in pulling the cork and pouring out a little into Tarbard’s glass. Tarbard sniffed the wine, but did not taste it as he was eating shrimps before the meat. He had a very good palate, one which had been developed from childhood.

  The waiter filled their glasses, put the basket on the side of the trolley, and left. Paula picked up her glass and took three quick gulps, then suddenly remembered and tried to make out she’d been savouring the wine from the beginning. She would never forget his cold fury when she’d drunk a whole glass of Château Mouton-Rothschild as if it were so much orangeade.

  *

  The call from Records was put through to Fusil and the sergeant reported that there were nine immediate possible villains, twenty-three more who fitted, and a further large collection who could well come into the picture if the age limit were raised. Fusil swore. He asked for all the names to be read over to him just in case one of them said something to him. The eighth name was Hagan.

  Fusil knew he’d recently come across the name but couldn’t place when or where. He drummed on the desk with his free hand. Hagan. It wasn’t very long ago and . . . Of course! Bates, the grasser he’d met at the One-Eyed Admiral, had told him that Clipper Hagan and Ted Uden were now all-pals-together, although not so long before they’d been threatening to knife each other. He asked the sergeant: ‘Have you an address for Hagan?’

  ‘Twelve, Bridgeland Avenue, Fortrow, is the last one in the files, sir.’

  Fusil wrote out the address. ‘Right. I’ve got that. Now get hold of Ted Uden’s file and give me his address.’

  After the phone call was completed Fusil went through to the general room. There was no one there. He stared at the muddle on Kerr’s table as he tried to plan how to make the best use of his very limited manpower to maintain the immediate investigations at the same level of intensity, yet at the same time to keep watch on Uden’s and Hagan’s houses in case he could learn something of value before trying to persuade a magistrate to give him the necessary search warrants.

  *

  Yet again Vine tried to thumb a ride and he’d become so conditioned to failure that he was quite astonished when a heavy lorry, headlights blinding him, stopped with a quick squealing of brakes.

  ‘Jump in, mate,’ came a hoarse shout.

  He scrambled up into the cab, catching his right shin a painful crack as he did so.

  ‘Going to Fortrow, then?’ asked the driver. ‘That’s where I’m heading.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What part would you like? Me — I’m heading for the docks and a kip at old Ma Porter’s. That’s after I’ve had a word or two with an old friend.’ The driver laughed coarsely, making it clear what kind of friend he was going to see. He engaged first gear and drew away from the grass verge, the diesel engine thumping heavily. ‘So what part of town would you like?’ he asked, for the second time.

  ‘Any part’ll do me,’ replied Vine.

  ‘You sound out of sorts. Care for a fag?’

  ‘Not ’alf.’

  The driver passed across a packet of twenty and a box of matches. Vine was so greedy for a cigarette that he became all thumbs and spilled several into his lap. He looked to see if there was any chance of being observed, then pocketed the loose ones.

  ‘Fortrow’s not a bad sort of place,’ said the driver, ‘but I wouldn’t like to live there and that’s straight. Never did like ports. As I’ve always said . . .’

  Vine lit the cigarette and dragged the smoke into his lungs. The other’s stream of words, the thump of the engine, the heat, and the continuous whine of the heavy tyres, had a slightly hypnotic effect on him. He stared through the windscreen at the traffic, and thought, without any trace of fear, that he must be round the twist to be returning to Fortrow. Yet the fact was that he didn’t know what else to do. He had to have help and in the whole of the country he could only think of Uden or Hagan who might give it to him. People from round where he lived would shop him without drawing breath on the way to the coppers: likewise, it was no use going to a flop-house because that was the first place the police would search and although he longed to return to the order and routine of prison life, he still illogically was fighting against being arrested. Uden had given him a tenner earlier on. Surely he’d give him another tenner now, and a bed for the night together with some grub, to help him on his way?

  The lorry reached Fortrow at twenty past nine and the driver stopped at Monument Square for him to get out. He muttered his thanks and then scuttled out of the well-lit square and into the comparative obscurity of the side streets.

  His knowledge of Fortrow was minimal and it took him an hour and a half to find the road in which Uden lived. He’d no idea of the number of the house, but when he asked a passer-by he was immediately directed to thirty-two. He knocked on the door and waited, desperately hoping his troubles were now all over.

  The door opened and light spilled out over him. Uden stared disbelievingly at him. ‘What the ’ell d’you want?’ he finally said.

  ‘I need some ’elp, Ted.’

  ‘I told you to get lost.’

  ‘I ain’t eaten. I ain’t nowhere to go,’ he whined.

  ‘I gave you a load of oncers.’

  ‘I got whizzed.’

  ‘You bleeding liar. Drank the lot, that’s what.’ Uden had been drinking and his face was flushed.

  A woman, a hard, blowsy tart, came up behind him and stared with contempt at Vine. ‘Come on back, Ted,’ she said.

  ‘Give us something,’ said Vine. ‘I ain’t eaten since being in the nick——’

  Uden’s face became savage and he instinctively looked round to see if the woman had understood. ‘Shove off. Come back again and I’ll cripple you.’

  ‘Just give us a couple. I told you, I ain’t nowhere——’

  Uden kicked the door shut.

  Vine stared at the closed door. He’d persuaded himself that Uden must help him, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. So how was he going to get some grub, where was he going to spend the night?

  His questions were answered as he shuffled his way along the pavement.

  ‘Hullo, Sid,’ said Braddon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Fusil’s temper was never proof against a case with a good beginning that fizzled out into a bad ending. When he’d learned that Vine had been recaptured outside Uden’s house it seemed as if the prison break must be close to being wrapped up. A grasser had mentioned a new friendship, a warder had noticed a bent nose, the preliminary investigations had gone in copybook style, and the escaped prisoner who had been captured must blow the gaff because he was only a mouse of a man. The trouble was, Vine was far more scared of Uden than of the police. If Vine didn’t try to carve up the police, they wouldn’t put their boots into him: but if he told them anything, Uden would get him, just as sure as fate.

  Fusil thumped the table in the bleak interview-room. ‘Why did you go to his place?’ he demanded for the fifth time.

  ‘I ’oped to touch ’im,’ mumbled Vine.

  ‘Who was in charge? Uden or Clipper Hagan?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re on about, mister.’

  ‘Who was driving the furniture van?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Hagan was working the ladder, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I didn’t see no one.’

  Fusil’s manner abruptly changed. He smiled
and spoke good humouredly. ‘You can’t expect me to wear that one when I know you were helped on to the roof! Don’t you understand, Sid? Hagan was identified. How d’you think we were outside Uden’s house if we didn’t know who worked the break?’

  ‘I tell you I don’t know nothing.’

  ‘Why make things so difficult for yourself?’

  Vine looked blank.

  ‘You know, a bit of help could make a lot of difference to you.’ Fusil was well aware he was breaking the judges’ rules regarding the interrogations of suspects, but like most detectives was careless of the fact since if he was to discover the truth he virtually had to break them.

  Vine tried to explain his ignorance. ‘Their faces was all covered up.’

  ‘But you know who they were.’

  ‘I don’t know nothing.’

  ‘Are you scared they’ll be after you if you talk? Forget it. They’ll be inside for so long they’ll grow snow white beards before they come out.’

  ‘I don’t know nothing.’

  ‘I’m telling you, they won’t get near you. So stop playing it dumb and do yourself some good.’

  Vine remained silent.

  Wearily, Fusil left the interview-room and went along to the general area where Kerr was chatting to the duty sergeant. ‘All right, Kerr, take over.’ His tone of voice made it unnecessary to add that he’d got nowhere.

  As he entered the interview-room, Kerr yawned. He looked at the clock on the wall, protected by fine steel mesh, and yawned again because he now felt still tireder. Vine was sitting huddled in his chair. ‘Have you got everything you want?’ Kerr asked, as he sat down.

  Vine nodded. It was true. He now had everything he wanted: food, cigarettes, shelter, certainty as to the future.