This, he thought with pride, was the perfect crime.
*
Ironically, Fusil heard the news at home because Josephine had finally persuaded him to take a morning off. The news flash came through on the radio at ten o’clock. The announcer said a gang of six armed men, effectively disguised, had hijacked the Bren Mattock, held the crew captive, shot and critically wounded one seaman, and escaped in a lifeboat when a mile off Cranley Forge on the Devon coast. They were known to have stolen most, probably all, of the jewellery that had been going to the exhibition in New York.
Josephine stared at Fusil. ‘So you were right! You told them again and again, but they wouldn’t believe you.’
He shrugged his shoulders as he concentrated on the immediate future. Obviously, Tarbard, Cantor, Thomas, and three men whose identities were at the moment unknown, had carried out this daring, brutal robbery. But where would be the proof of this? The six had been well disguised and in any case it was an unfortunate fact that when ordinary people were placed in a position of sudden shock they seldom, if ever, were able to make accurate observations that would prove at all valid in a court of law. Further, with Tarbard running things, there’d be no fingerprints and no traces, the guns would have been thrown into the sea, the clothing worn would have been burned. . . . Nothing would be left to prove that any of the six had taken part in the armed robbery. All Tarbard had to do was get rid of the jewellery. . . .
She interrupted his racing thoughts. ‘What happens now?’
He shrugged his shoulders. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t his pigeon any more. Wherever Tarbard had gone to earth, it certainly wouldn’t be in Fortrow. Obviously, there’d have to be a search of his house and of the club, but there was very little chance that any such search would lead to discovering where Tarbard was now.
By God, he thought, what wouldn’t he give to pluck Tarbard out of hiding! But how did you look for a man who could be anywhere in the British Isles, on the Continent, or even further afield?
*
Kerr sat on the bar stool and ate the last of the ham rolls. He pushed his glass across the bar and the bartender refilled it. ‘Two and a half million quid,’ said the bartender in tones of awe. ‘A man could begin to live on that. It’s better than winning the pools. I’m telling you, us honest blokes are the mugs of the world.’
Since the bartender looked the kind of man to be engaged in some or all of the small fiddles that went on in pubs, thought Kerr, there was the smack of hypocrisy in that last remark: nevertheless, it held a truth. When six men successfully nicked two and a half million pounds, honesty seemed a very poor relation.
‘Clever,’ said the barman. ‘They was real clever. The brains are going into crime these days. Know something? I really do admire these blokes.’
‘What about the seaman who got shot in the guts?’
The bartender shrugged his shoulders. Another man’s agony didn’t concern him: the thought of two and a half million pounds did.
Kerr lit a cigarette. After the Bren Mattock had sailed away with cargo untouched Fusil had become so sharp it hurt even to get near him, Kywood had looked like the wrath of God, and rumour had it that the chief constable had suffered a couple of quick strokes. One thing had then seemed absolutely certain — Fusil was for the chopping block. But Fusil had been right.
Kerr sipped the beer. This would be his last few quiet moments for a very long time.
He discovered his glass was empty. Normally, he never had more than two half-pints at lunchtime, but knowing what hell life was going to be in the near future, he ordered a third half-pint.
‘With two and half million,’ said the bartender, as he took the empty glass, ‘a man could live like a lord.’
Few lords today could afford to live in traditional style, thought Kerr. Of course, Tarbard wouldn’t have two and a half million for spending money. Expenses would have been high, the other villains would have their share, and hot jewels wouldn’t fetch more than half their value even under the most favourable circumstances, but he’d end up with enough to enjoy most of the luxuries of life. . . . ‘Some more champagne, sir? Some caviar? This smoked salmon is very delicious.’ He dismissed the white-coated servant. He stared at the three women sunbathing by the side of the pool: blonde, brunette, and red-head. Long-legged, slim waisted, gently — but definitely — bosomed. Each wanted to be with him tonight. Which one should he summon? The blonde? The brunette? The red-head? Life became tedious with so many decisions to be made . . .
‘Just imagine,’ said the bartender, ‘two and a half million.’ He put the filled glass in front of Kerr and left to serve another customer.
Kerr drank. What would have happened to Paula Stokes? Tarbard would surely have packed her off because he wouldn’t be fool enough to have her around now. Presumably she’d eventually get picked up by the police, but she wouldn’t know anything of any importance. A vague memory twitched his mind, but was gone before he could begin to identify it.
He returned to the police station ten minutes later and was immediately castigated at some length for having been away for so long. He was then sent out to Tarbard’s house.
The search was long and boring and because no one could say exactly what was being looked for, it was also very difficult. Everything had to be minutely examined, the dust in the attic, the pile of old newspapers in the broom cupboard, the muck in the water trap under the kitchen sink.
It was a quarter to six when the chill of the damp night air was beginning to spread through the unheated house, that Kerr suddenly and for no apparent reason remembered what it was he had almost recalled at lunchtime. He stood up, in the kitchen, and eased his aching back.
‘All right,’ snapped Braddon, who’d just walked in, ‘you’ve had your break. Now get back to work.’
‘Sarge, where’s the D.I.?’
‘How the hell should I know?’ Braddon’s usual good humour had long since deserted him.
‘I want a word with him.’
‘The feeling won’t be mutual.’
‘It could be important.’
Braddon studied Kerr and spoke with deep suspicion. ‘If you’re just trying to skive . . .’
‘Of course not.’
Braddon hesitated. ‘All right,’ he finally said. ‘Clear off and find him — he’s probably back at the station. But next time I see him I’ll ask him if it was really important and if he says it wasn’t I’ll have you on late turn every night of every week for the next year.’
Kerr drove back to the station in the C.I.D. Hillman. Fusil was in his room, together with Kywood and a detective chief inspector from county H.Q.
Fusil looked up. His face was red, as if he had been arguing heatedly. ‘Have you found anything?’ he snapped.
‘The search isn’t finished yet, sir. I’ve come to have a word with you.’
‘Well? Go on.’
‘I’ve just remembered something about Tarbard. I don’t know if it’s important.’
Kywood looked at Kerr with obvious dislike. The D.C.I. began to fidget with his lower lip.
‘Nobody,’ said Fusil with angry sarcasm, ‘can know whether it’s important until they hear what it is.’
‘You know Miss Barley and I went to the White Angel Club one Saturday evening?’
Kywood spoke belligerently. ‘Can’t all this wait for another time, Bob? Surely your D.C.——’
‘Just a minute, sir,’ cut in Fusil. He spoke to Kerr. ‘Yes?’
‘Tarbard was away that evening, but his girl friend Paula Stokes came and sat at the table for quite a while. At one stage, Helen commented on a ring she was wearing: it was old and silver and beautifully engraved, but Paula was pretty contemptuous about it — it wasn’t actually worth very much so she didn’t think much of it even though she was wearing it. She told us she and Tarbard had gone to a one-eyed place in Wales where there was nothing to do for her except wander round an old junk shop. The ring was the only thing she could find to buy. It sou
nded a real out-of-the-way place and I’ve been wondering why Tarbard should ever have gone there?’
Fusil picked up his pipe from the desk and began to fill the bowl without looking at either pipe or pouch. The biggest problem facing a villain after a successful crime was hiding himself and/or the evidence that he was in any way connected with the crime. Tarbard could never have believed the police would get on to him, but he’d have been clever enough all the same to allow for the possibility. That meant he needed a hiding place — in the British Isles or elsewhere in the world — that had been carefully set up beforehand: perhaps a rented house, visited occasionally over a period so that he became known to some of the locals and a prolonged stay wouldn’t occasion any surprise. . . . ‘What was this place she talked about?’
Kerr became slightly embarrassed. ‘As a matter of fact, sir, I . . . Well, I can’t remember its name exactly, but it was one of those Welsh places that sounds as if you’re spitting.’
Kywood began to swear.
Fusil looked up. ‘Just how many towns do you imagine there are in Wales that sound as if you’re spitting?’
‘I don’t know, sir, but . . .’
‘Then how in the hell d’you think this is going to help?’ He slumped back.
‘There’s just one more thing, sir. Maybe Helen could remember.’
‘Then ring her up and find out.’
Kerr made the call to the neighbour and asked if he might speak to Helen. Eventually, Helen came to the phone and said she thought the place was called Llanrhy something or other.
Fusil took from the bookcase an atlas of the British Isles and opened it at the gazetteer. Kywood and the D.C.I. crowded him as he searched through the names.
‘There are seven names close enough to fit,’ he said to Kerr. ‘Is there any chance she can get a bit more precise?’
‘No, sir, almost certainly not.’
Fusil brushed his hand across his forehead in a gesture of tiredness.
Kerr’s voice expressed a sudden excitement. ‘But there is one more thing that’s just come back to me. Paula said this place was on the sea.’
Fusil checked out the names. There were two on the sea, two on an estuary, and three inland. ‘If she wasn’t mixing up an estuary with the sea,’ he said, ‘we could just stand a chance. Tarbard won’t have slept for a long time, so he’ll not be going anywhere for a while.’
*
Fusil arrived at Llanrhysnog after a flight, a train journey, and a very rapid car ride, at two in the morning and just in time to join the three-car search party that was setting out from the small police station.
The inspector, a tall, thin, cheerful man in civvies, with a strong, lilting Welsh accent, gave him a quick résumé of events as they drove out of the seaside town.
‘We’ve been on to all the estate agents for miles, getting ’em out of bed, dragging ’em away to their offices, upsetting their wives, to check on newcomers to the district like your message said. We’ve got five addresses, but if you ask me, only one of ’em’s really possible and I’m telling you, he looks good. This bloke rented a house . . .’
Fusil only half listened. Events would soon prove whether the inspector’s optimism was well founded, or not. He yawned heavily.
They parked on the road, four miles out of the town and halfway up a hill, and then the ten men walked up the rough track to the square, white-painted, slate-roofed house that was visible as a dark mass against the half-clouded sky. The inspector sent six men to cover the other three sides of the house and detailed — he was friendly, but determined to let Fusil know who was in charge — Fusil, the sergeant, and a constable, to wait behind a clump of bushes. He switched on his torch, knocked on the solid front door, rang the bell, and knocked again.
A window was finally opened upstairs, but no light went on. ‘What d’you want?’ demanded a tired, belligerent voice.
The inspector shone his torch upwards in a casual, natural way — as a man would do, seeking to see whom he was speaking to — and the beam outlined the speaker’s head for a second. He was Thomas. The inspector shone his torch away and down, as if by chance to illuminate the starting handle in his hand. ‘Sorry to bother you at this time of night, but my car’s broken down and I must get help, for my wife’s expecting me an hour or more back. Dai will come out from the garage, seeing it was him who sold me the old wreck and . . .’
The window was slammed shut.
They waited, tensed. They had found their men — now they had, at all costs, to move quickly enough to prevent shooting.
A light went on over the front door and the door opened to the length of a chain. Once again, the inspector apologised profusely and his flood of words finally persuaded Thomas that he was in genuine distress. Thomas half shut the door, slipped the chain, and opened the door. ‘You’d better come in,’ he muttered ungraciously. He was not prepared for his invitation to be accepted so precipitately by so many.
*
The interview-room at the station was small, somewhat dirty, and it smelled of damp. Tarbard, despite some brave attempts, had not yet overcome his shocked surprise at being arrested when it seemed total success was his, yet he still tried to fight where most men would have admitted defeat.
‘How the hell do I know where all the jewellery came from?’ he said yet again. ‘We just found it when we arrived.’
‘You’re not a fool,’ replied Fusil wearily. ‘you can’t expect anyone to believe that. You know we’ve got you cold.’
There was a silence. The inspector scratched his neck.
Fusil spoke again. ‘I suppose you’ve realised that if the seaman dies you’ll be done for two murders on top of the robbery?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Figs Aspinall.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The man you hired to break into Seeton House to plant Lowther’s print on a jewel box.’
Tarbard shrugged his shoulders.
‘You smashed him on the head and chucked him over the cliffs once he’d done the job for you, hoping it would look like suicide or accident.’
‘Never knew the man.’ Tarbard even managed to drawl.
Fusil lit a cigarette, even though he’d smoked so much his mouth tasted like yesterday’s bath-water, and he was on the point of closing the interview and leaving for his hotel and some sleep when there was a knock on the door and a uniformed constable came in. He spoke to the inspector in a very low voice and the latter indicated he should report to Fusil. The constable said: ‘We’ve found this in the pocket of a coat belonging to this prisoner, sir. I didn’t know whether it’s important?’
Fusil took the small antique ruby and gold ring and stared at it for some little time without realising its significance — then his trained mind recalled the list of jewellery stolen from Mrs. Payne. He pushed the ring across the table. ‘Recognise this?’
Tarbard was quite unable to hide his suddenly aroused emotions.
‘You should do, since it wraps you up for the murder of Aspinall on top of everything else,’ said Fusil, in tones of open triumph, stressing the word ‘murder’ and allowing no suggestion that Aspinall’s death could still not be legally defined. ‘It’s really ironic, isn’t it? You murder a man in order to go ahead and steal two and a half million quid’s worth of jewellery, yet two rings that maybe aren’t worth a hundred quid between ’em tell us where to find you and provide the proof you murdered Aspinall.’
Tarbard finally admitted defeat. He slumped back in his chair and stared at the ring. After a moment he spoke in a low voice. ‘My mother gave it to her when I was a kid. When Figs unloaded all the loot . . .’ His face expressed puzzled anger. ‘Like a bloody fool, I kept it for sentimental reasons.’
Fusil stubbed out his cigarette in the overcrowded ashtray. ‘What happened to Lowther in the end?’ he asked casually.
‘I buried the stupid bastard in the woods near the house.’ Tarbard continued to stare at the ring.
; ‘How did you keep his finger fresh until you wanted it?’
‘Wrapped it up and shoved it in the deep freeze at the club.’
What would the public-health inspector make of that? wondered Fusil, with tired irrelevance.
*
Helen and Kerr drove up into the hills to a point where they had an uninterrupted view across Fortrow and out to sea. There was no direct sunlight, yet the clouds allowed an ever changing intensity of light to play on the sea so that its local colour was constantly changing.
Helen leaned against him and he put his arm round her. ‘It was very kind of Mr. Fusil to give you the afternoon off,’ she said.
‘I’d call it miraculous.’
‘Stop being cynical. I won’t have you like that when we’re married.’
‘No, m’am, certainly not.’ Life was good, thought Kerr contentedly, even if he hadn’t a swimming pool in the sun, a white-coated servant to serve champagne, and a very tricky decision to make before going to bed.
If you enjoyed Despite the Evidence, please share your thoughts on Amazon by leaving a review.
For more free and discounted eBooks every week, sign up to our newsletter.
Follow us on Twitter and Instagram.
Despite the Evidence Page 19
