‘May I see your hands, please, Mrs. Williams?’
*
Josephine Fusil spoke to Kerr as he stood on the door-step outside the front door of her house. ‘Must you really trouble him this late?’ she asked angrily.
‘I’m afraid so, Mrs. Fusil.’ She always had been high-hat, he thought, not realising how hard she tried to protect her husband from over-working.
She sighed. ‘I suppose you’d better come in, then.’ As he closed the front door, she crossed the hall to the nearest door and looked inside to call out her husband.
Fusil was wearing an open-necked shirt, an old sweater, and well-creased grey flannels, and he looked almost genial in such informal clothes. ‘What’s the excitement — has someone nicked the town hall?’
‘I’ve sorted out the factory thefts, sir.’
‘So you’ve rushed to bring the good news to Ghent?’
‘To Ghent?’ queried Kerr, perplexed.
‘Never mind. Come in and have a beer and tell me what’s what.’
Once in a well worn armchair in the sitting-room, Kerr said: ‘It was Williams finally gave the game away, only I didn’t realise it immediately. He was always eager to make trouble and when the works manager inspected the hands of everyone at the factory on Thursday to see whose was stained and therefore the thief, he all but raised the roof with his angry complaints. Yet when the works manager did the same thing on the Friday and Williams could have been expected to make even more trouble, there wasn’t a peep out of him. That had to mean he’d discovered when he went home on the Thursday that his wife’s hands were stained and she was the thief — other people said she was always going on at him for more money.
‘When I realised this, I could see the significance in something I’d learned right at the beginning, the first time I went to the factory. Williams told me his wife had brought him his lunch because she wasn’t playing bingo that afternoon. I’ve discovered that bingo’s played at a local cinema on the evenings of Monday, Thursday, and Friday, and not on those afternoons — and it was always on one of those afternoons when she took him his grub that the thefts took place and never on the other afternoons when she was playing and so didn’t visit the factory.’
‘Have you been to see her?’
‘Yes, sir, and her hands were spotted black. She’s made a full confession and signed it.’
‘What about the husband?’
Kerr spoke slowly. ‘It was just like someone had belted him in the family jewels. He couldn’t really say or do anything. D’you know, sir, I really felt sorry for him, yet all the way over to his house I’d been telling myself what a pleasure it was going to be to knock the cocky little basket sideways.’
‘It does sometimes happen that way.’
Josephine came into the room with two bottles of beer and two pewter tankards on a tray. After handing Fusil the tray, she gave him a look which said he was to cut matters as short as he decently could. Then she left.
Fusil poured out the beer. ‘It’s a pity we can’t link up all the other cases and get them out of the way as slickly,’ he said, as he passed over one of the tankards.
The impossible had been accomplished, thought Kerr: miracles took a little longer.
Chapter Twenty
Fusil was almost always an early waker, thanks to his restless nature. When he awoke on Sunday morning and looked at the luminous dial of his wrist watch he saw the time was six o’clock. He turned on to his back and stared up at the ceiling which was adumbrated by the light that came through the curtains from the nearest street lamp.
Credit had to be given to Kerr for clearing up the factory case: it was to be hoped that now the factory owner would be convinced the police were highly efficient and would convey his feelings to Roberts on the watch committee. To some of the local politicians the solving of this case would, almost unbelievably, be far more important than finding out if there were a link, and what this was, between the possible death of Lowther, the burglary at Seeton House, the death of Aspinall, and Tarbard’s possible implication in the prison escapes and in the bribing of Holmqvist following the knife fight in the pub.
Instinct told him there had to be a link, but there were times when instinct was a very bad liar. Any D.I. who pinned too much faith on it was not going to get much promotion, any D.I. who ignored it was equally going to miss out.
The factory case had proved something any detective knew — it was all too easy to overlook a vital fact. Something stared you in the face, but you overlooked it because you were searching in all the corners, where things were usually hidden. Was the connecting link between Lowther, the burglary, Aspinall, the prison break, the bribery, staring him in the face, but was he too blind to see it? Or had instinct led him completely astray? Was Kywood right and he’d got Tarbard on the brain? Was there no big job lined up, but only a series of separate cases, totally unconnected, which he wasn’t getting anywhere near solving?
He silently swore as his brain went round in circles. One thing was for sure. If there was a big job lined up, Tarbard must be laughing himself sick at the certain knowledge the police were all at sea.
Fusil decided to make himself a cup of tea. He carefully pulled back the bedclothes, swivelled round, and put his feet on the floor.
‘What’s time?’ mumbled Josephine.
‘It’s pretty early yet.’
She turned over, but then became motionless and her breathing thickened slightly as she returned to sleep. He’d been lucky to marry her, he thought with a rush of affection.
He put on dressing-gown and slippers, went downstairs and made the tea. He lit his pipe and had just got it going nicely when he suddenly wondered whether he’d told himself what the link was between the cases only a few minutes earlier, without realising it? Were the police all at sea because they didn’t realise the fact that the sea was the link? Lowther had been at sea: Thomas had been at sea. To that extent, this could be coincidence. What did they know about Alf Quenton? He sucked flame into the bowl of his pipe. Quenton was a typical modern thug — first petty thieving, then graduating through approved schools, Borstal, and prison, to armed robbery and the heavy jobs. Quenton had never been at sea. Fusil puffed away at the pipe as he added some more milk to the tea. That was a short-lived link, that was!
*
Kerr had never quite overcome his reluctance to working on a Sunday when he knew that most other people were having a day off. One of the consequences of this was that on Sundays he took little trouble to arrive at the station by eight-thirty and even considered nine o’clock a very good effort on his part.
When he entered the general room at a few minutes after nine he was shaken to find Fusil waiting there. This was obviously going to be another of those days, he decided gloomily.
Fusil walked past him to the door. ‘Come along to my room,’ he ordered and left, slamming the door behind him.
Kerr took off his mackintosh and hung it on the stand. Welland said, ‘Good-bye, old son,’ grinned broadly, and drew his forefinger across his throat. ‘Very funny,’ muttered Kerr, before leaving and going along the corridor to the D.I.’s room. Dare he again plead a headache?
Fusil sat slumped behind his desk. He pointed to one of the chairs in front of him. ‘Park yourself.’
Kerr was astonished by the vague friendliness of the greeting.
‘I’ve asked you to come in here, Kerr, to help me go over what we know and don’t know in the Tarbard case and to see whether there’s some linking factor which we’re overlooking and which could give us a clue as to what’s going on. First of all, who was in that Jensen and what state was he in?’
Kerr’s voice became stubborn. ‘The driver was Lowther and he was either dead or dying. I don’t care if since then he’s been reported dancing a tango on top of Nelson’s column, he bought it in the crash.’
‘All right. Lowther’s dead, three days before he apparently commits a burglary. Aspinall burgles the house in Ecton Cross and plants the dab. Where does Ta
rbard come into things and how are the deaths tied up with Quenton and Thomas?’
‘Well, sir . . . To begin with, Tarbard pops up in each case.’
‘There’s no certainty he’s had anything to do with any of them except the car crash. Just for a second suppose Lowther wasn’t the man in the Jensen — I said, suppose — then there isn’t even any link between the car crash and Aspinall’s death.’
‘Aspinall was murdered after breaking into that house in Ecton Cross and planting the fingerprint . . .’
‘We can’t prove Aspinall was murdered, we can’t prove he planted the fingerprint.’
Kerr was silent.
‘All right,’ said Fusil, ‘assume everything, assume the cases flow directly one to another, where the hell’s the link?’ He took his pipe from his pocket and played with it, rubbing the bowl against the palm of his hand. ‘I had the sudden thought first thing this morning that perhaps the sea was some sort of answer. Both Lowther and Thomas have been at sea. But Quenton certainly hasn’t and——’
Kerr broke in excitedly. ‘But Sails Cantor must surely have been, sir, to have such a nickname?’
Fusil held the pipe motionless. ‘That’s meaningless. It was Alf Quenton who organised the escape from inside and for whom it was organised. Cantor — and Vine, for that matter — just went over the top with him because they were in the same working party.’
‘But was it really like that or are we supposed to believe it was? When I questioned Vine after his recapture he told me the escape had originally been set for Tuesday but was put off until Thursday when Cantor was temporarily moved to another working party. Quenton wouldn’t have worried about a thing like that if Cantor was just tagging along — he’d have gone over the top as arranged.’
‘I haven’t heard all this before,’ snapped Fusil.
‘It didn’t seem important before, sir.’
Fusil put his pipe in his mouth and sucked at it, careless it was empty. Had the prison break really been organised to get Cantor out, but in order to hide this fact Quenton had been set up as the front man? — not a difficult deception since on the face of it Quenton was the most important of the three escaping prisoners. Such a plan was a subtle one, thought up by a subtle mind — Tarbard’s?
Lowther had served at sea before he became a skilled peterman . . . Cantor had served at sea . . . Thomas had been at sea . . .
Fusil slammed his fist on the desk. ‘It’s got to be. Lowther’s death was concealed so elaborately because if we’d known for certain of it, we might have cottoned on to something. The Jensen crashed on November the twenty-eighth. What ships were in port that day?’
Kerr reached forward and picked up the outside telephone. He dialled the number of the harbourmaster’s office and when the connection was made asked for a list of ships in port on the twenty-eighth of the previous month. There was only a short wait before he was given a list of fifty-two names. When the call was over he handed the list to Fusil.
Fusil looked up. ‘Hasn’t the S.S. Bren Taggart been in the news recently?’
Kerr scratched the lobe of his left ear. ‘It rings a bell, but I can’t think why. . . . Or is it a Bren something that’s going to take the collection of jewellery worth so many million quid to the States?’
‘By God!’ exclaimed Fusil explosively. ‘You’re right. And the Bren Taggart must be a sister ship to whichever one is carrying the jewellery and Tarbard and Lowther had been down to the docks to see what they were up against. Then there was the car crash. Tarbard reckoned that if we’d known Lowther had been in the Jensen with him, we’d have checked to try and find where they’d been. That could have led us to the docks and the Bren Taggart, which in turn would have led to the jewellery. So he had to do all he could to make certain your story went disbelieved.’
*
Kywood lit a cigarette, took one puff, put the cigarette down on the ash-tray, fidgeted with his tie, smoothed down his smooth black hair. He spoke in a bitterly aggrieved tone of voice. ‘It’s still all supposition.’
‘Supposition based on fact,’ retorted Fusil.
‘Facts? There aren’t any facts. Goddamn it, as I keep telling you . . .’ He stopped. Even he could realise it wasn’t necessary to repeat everything yet again.
‘They’re planning to nick two and a half million quid’s worth of jewellery.’
‘But you’ve nothing to prove that.’
‘What else could begin to explain so elaborate a series of deceptions? We’ve got to ask county for enough men and mobiles to be able to ring the docks well enough to stop an army getting through.’
‘We can’t call on county.’
‘With two and a half million at stake we’ve got to.’
‘But . . . but . . .’ Kywood sweated, although the room was not very warm. If there was one thing in the world he dreaded more than any other, it was being placed in a position where he had no alternative but to make a decision which, for good or ill, must affect him directly. If he refused to agree to Fusil’s demands and a successful attempt was made to steal the jewellery, his head would inevitably be on the chopping block: if he called on county for help and there was no attempt, he would be in almost as much trouble. He hated Fusil.
*
Detective Chief Superintendent Menton looked vaguely surprised. ‘You mean you really are serious about all this?’
‘Yes, sir,’ muttered Kywood.
‘You don’t think you might be chasing more vampires?’
‘We didn’t ever . . .’ Kywood stopped.
Menton leaned back in his chair, his thin lips now expressing quiet amusement.
‘My detective inspector——’ Kywood began blusteringly.
‘Is clearly a man of considerable imagination.’
‘He’s certain he’s right.’
Menton shrugged his shoulders. ‘You realise, of course, that county will have to send in one hell of a bill for all the help you’re asking for?’
‘Yes,’ muttered Kywood.
Menton looked down at a sheet of paper in front of himself. ‘Six fully manned mobiles active and another six standing by, communications van, forty uniformed personnel and five C.I.D., some armed . . . Quite a budget!’
Kywood tried not to think of what was the total sum involved, or of what the watch committee would say if nothing happened and the money had been wasted.
Chapter Twenty-One
The jewellery, in several large packing cases that were steellined and in effect strong-boxes, were loaded into two armoured vans in the courtyard at the back of the building in which the exhibition had been on view for the past month — an exhibition which had attracted over a quarter of a million visitors. Press and TV watched the loading, but were kept at a distance by security guards who had visors down over their faces and batons dangling from their hands. There were a large number of uniformed policemen around.
Two police cars accompanied the vans, one in the lead and the other in the rear. In each of the vans were driver, observer, and four guards in the cargo compartment: radio checks by both vans were made every five minutes. The route through London to the main Fortrow road had been carefully plotted to avoid any stretch of road that invited an ambush.
They reached the outskirts of London at eleven-fifteen. Along the main road the convoy maintained a steady forty-five. Patrol cars from the county force, at carefully calculated irregular intervals, watched the convoy safely past.
*
The parade room in east division H.Q. was filled with men and in order to be certain he would be heard by everyone Fusil called for a chair and stood on it. A sergeant shouted for silence and the hubbub died down.
‘You all know the drill and the positions you’re to take up. While it’s obvious the attempt may be made at any time, and our immediate responsibility starts the moment the convoy crosses the borough boundary, the attempt is most likely to be made once the jewellery is inside the docks, perhaps even after stowing aboard when under normal conditi
ons security would have been relaxed. You’ve all been issued with photographs of three of the suspects. If you see any of these three, or any unexplained knot of people, or anything in the least bit suspicious, you’re to report immediately to control, but you are not, and I repeat and underline not, to make any move or to do anything unless and until direct orders are given.
‘Aboard ship, unknown to the crew, there are now a number of police officers, some of whom are armed. A shot is to be taken as an immediate signal to move in. An extra gangway has been made fast to the ship, ostensibly to load stores, to allow us quicker access. . . . Sergeant, switch on the light over the plan.’
A uniformed sergeant switched on a light above the noticeboard on which was pinned a plan of the accommodation and cargo decks of the Bren Mattock, and of a section of the docks.
Fusil used a five-foot-long pointer to reach across to the plan and indicate the points he was discussing. ‘Here’s the strong-room, at the end of this corridor, and it can be reached down these stairs.’
‘You never went to sea,’ murmured a P.C.
‘To load any bulky cargo, access is through number three hold, here. The shore crane will pick up the crates one by one, as they’re unloaded from the vans, and drop them at the back of the hold and stevedores will manhandle them on rollers. Security guards will lock and seal the doors of the strong-room. By the way, special locks have been installed for this cargo and the makers guarantee they can’t be forced. This means a good peterman will take at least a quarter of an hour to open up the doors.’
There was subdued laughter.
‘The most obvious time to attack is when the first of the crates is unloaded from the van and is actually on the quayside about to be picked up by the crane. Once the crates are aboard, the difficulties become very much greater. For this reason, parties one and two will be in hiding here, in the cargo shed, and they will be responsible for cutting off any escape in this direction, or this one. Parties three and four will be in reserve, by the dock gates, in this building. Q mobiles will be standing by to block the gateways and patrol cars will be sited in an arc, half a mile back.
Despite the Evidence Page 17
