The Weight of Evidence

by Roger Ormerod

  “We’re being followed.”

  “I know. It’s me they’re following. It’s been around all day, too far off for identification, though. A big dark thing.”

  “This is a Wolseley. The front-drive job.”

  “Ignore it,” he said complacently.

  We reached the site, and maybe I’d been imagining things, because there was no car now, and no lights or movements on the site. Experience had taught me to leave the Porsche by the gate, and we got out to walk, in spite of the persistent rain.

  “Can’t see the damned thing,” said George.

  The sky was so dark that the crane’s boom was not visible against any lighter area.

  “It was over there.”

  Before we’d gone fifty yards I was aware that a vehicle of some sort was bumping over the rough surface behind us. There were no lights on. We turned.

  “Who’ve you been annoying, George?” I asked softly.

  “Anybody around.”

  “It’s Lubin,” I guessed.

  “Watch for that lock of Greenbaum’s.”

  That was the trouble. You prepare yourself for twists and throws, and you don’t expect a wrestler to be carrying a gun. No doubt Lubin was training him, but I wished Greenbaum’s heavy face hadn’t looked so nervous of the thing. The Colt .45 was like a toy in his hand, and he wasn’t sure of it at all. Because of his uncertainty, we made no argument about getting into the car.

  I left the door open an inch so that we continued to have the benefit of the courtesy light. I say benefit, but this was the first time we had been close — shoulder to shoulder

  and I didn’t like Lubin’s aftershave. George and I sat in the back with him, Lubin between us. It was a strange arrangement, because Greenbaum, twisted in the driver’s seat, could not have covered both of us without panning past his boss.

  Then I felt the hardness in my side, and I saw that Greenbaum’s eyes were concentrated on George. Not so strange, after all. It gave the affair a spurious friendliness. It also allowed Lubin to address both of us by staring ahead. Lubin was happier with that arrangement. He was a man who doesn’t like to look you in the eye. I had a view of a stubbly, rounded chin — did he use aftershave without even shaving? — and a snub little nose. His lips did not seem to exist. He was younger than I’d thought, in his early forties perhaps.

  “This case you’ve got,” he said, amused with our efforts, not making an issue of it. “I’m interested.”

  “You would be,” I agreed. “Being so close.”

  “Am I close? You didn’t come to me.”

  I couldn’t understand what he meant. “What we get, we take to the client.”

  “But I’m asking you to bring it to me.”

  George said: “It goes to the one who pays the money.”

  “I can pay. More.”

  “We’re not up for auction,” George said, and I felt the shoulder move against mine. A hint of emotion.

  “Or I can be unpleasant,” he said, his voice lifeless.

  Somewhere out in the wet night there was the shattering roar of a diesel breaking into life. I was staring ahead, beyond Greenbaum, and suddenly a whole bank of heads and spots flashed on, blasting right into my eyes. I didn’t need telling, not with all those lights festooned on it. The crawler crane was alive and well. It was also moving.

  It’s difficult to judge distance when you’re staring into a blinding glare. I’d have said fifty yards. Those things do about two miles an hour. More, perhaps, if pushed. That’s about a yard a second, straight at the car. It gave us fifty seconds. No panic.

  Greenbaum went crazy. He bounced round so that his chest was pressing against the wheel, and violently operated the starter. The engine failed to fire, possibly because he was pumping the throttle at the same time. All the same, no need to worry. The monster was lumbering only ponderously at us.

  “Start the bloody thing,” said Lubin, so much acid in his voice that Greenbaum flinched.

  The engine fired. Greenbaum raced it, and banged it into the wrong gear. Reverse would have been sensible. Bottom only jerked us forward into one of the depressions that I’d already explored with the Porsche. The engine stalled.

  There were still a good thirty seconds left. Or rather, there would have been except for the fact that I noticed, by the flickering distortion to the light, that the boom was coming down. Forty — or was it fifty — feet of boom reduced the actionable seconds to fifteen. Fourteen now.

  “Let me out of here,” Lubin screamed.

  The boom was now horizontal. It was like a latticed spike, horribly blunted by the tackle winched hard to its nose. It traversed the intervening distance at a height roughly the same as the centre of the windscreen.

  “I don’t know,” said George consideringly. “I think it’ll miss.”

  I was sure it would not. “And anyway, it’s you in the middle,” I pointed out to Lubin.

  “I’ll blast you...”

  “And never get over the bodies,” I said. We had, perhaps, four seconds. “George, is it still raining your side?”

  We got out to see. Lubin followed me so fast that he doubled the force of the left I threw to his belly. He went down, pewking, and I reached for his gun. But he wasn’t that far gone. On his knees, head twisted in agony, he nevertheless had the muzzle up and in line with my guts, and though he couldn’t speak, his eyes said it all.

  I decided not to take the gun, and went to help George.

  Greenbaum, though, was still learning to use his Colt, and one of the things he didn’t yet know was how to hold on to the thing when there’s a big foot on your wrist. Greenbaum had fallen on his face. He was too terrified of the crawler to reach for George’s ankle.

  Then we scattered. The mass of the crane was high above us, its roar deafening. It must have been evident that we were all clear, but there was no pause. The boom came on. It drove its way steadily through the windscreen, rather than smashed it. There was a horrible inevitability about it. At that end, close to, the boom was larger than I had thought. As it penetrated the car it seemed to fill it, to expand within it, throwing the metal outwards until slowly, still with that stately pace, it emerged from the rear screen. The car hung like a kebab on its spike.

  Lubin and Greenbaum were running. We made a half-hearted attempt to chase them, our ankles protesting.

  “What the hell’re we trying to catch ‘em for, George?” I panted.

  We stopped and turned.

  The crane operator was raising the boom. As its angle increased, the car slowly slid down the boom, so that as the latticework became fatter the car’s own weight disintegrated itself, and portions began to clatter and thump to the ground.

  Then I realised that for some seconds the boom had remained still, at an angle of forty-five degrees. The engine was still running and the lights on. We ran to it, and being the odd few stones lighter I was up to the cab first. There was no one in there.

  I reached in and turned off the engine and the lights. But it was too late. He had used the blackness behind the glare and the noise of the engine to cover his retreat.

  Our rescuer — if that had been his intention — wished to remain anonymous.

  Nine

  I overslept on Friday morning, and when I woke up George was sitting on the only chair the hotel allowed us, stripping the gun he’d taken from Greenbaum.

  “Lovely,” he said, seeing I was awake. “Nearly new.”

  George likes the action to go click, clock, clack. I don’t think he likes them to go bang.

  “D’you think you’re going to need it?” I asked dismally.

  He’d got oil on my shirt. “Things were getting a bit rough last night.”

  “Then perhaps I’d better nip home and get mine.”

  I don’t like guns, but I own a neat little Sauer .38. I didn’t really think I’d have need of it, but I did need to get home for a while. George looked at me strangely, but made no comment.

  I suppose I drove wil
dly, but I was mad to get home. There was just a possibility that Elsa was back, and hadn’t troubled to phone the George.

  She wasn’t at home. Doris was worried.

  “It’s not like her, David.”

  I agreed. I got the gun and a handful of cartridges, and the phone caught me in the hall on the way out.

  That she had phoned home and not the George was significant. I’d given her the George’s number. Perhaps she’d really only intended to speak to Doris.

  We exchanged general words of affection. I said how much I was missing her, keeping it mild.

  “Me too, David,” she said, but there was no heart in it. She didn’t ask when I’d be free to help her.

  “Should break this case today, love,” I said, wildly optimistic. “Then I’ll be right over.”

  “It’s all right, David. Not to worry.” That was a new approach. I was at once suspicious.

  “It must be interesting.” I really did mean the case. There wasn’t going to be any mention from me of Ian Carefree.

  “Nothing in it for you, though.”

  Damn it, she was deliberately telling me to keep away. I edged for it, aching for some words of reassurance from her.

  “There’s something you haven’t told me.” My voice was tight. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s a straightforward kidnap,” she said, dismissing it. Nothing for me, she’d said. I was about to shout out that Ginger Dyke could go hang, as far as I was concerned, but she went on, coolly and quickly: “I must go, David. So much to do.”

  You bet there was. “I don’t like the sound of it.”

  She drew in her breath at my tone. “I’ll be in touch.”

  And she made a stupid kissing noise. It didn’t have to be for me. Perhaps he was standing beside her, grinning, enjoying himself.

  I realised that the phone was dead, and I was still standing there, holding it, dazed with the agony of uncertainty. Slowly I replaced it, and at once it rang again.

  She’d had second thoughts! I snatched it up. It was George.

  “The line’s been busy for hours,” he complained.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m having a right time here with Dyke. And you had to be missing.”

  “All right,” I said savagely. “What can’t you handle?”

  “He’s had a phone call. Anonymous. Somebody tipping him off that now Wallach’s out of the way, Clare’s taken on another lover. Dyke’s crazy to get there. I can’t hold him.”

  I knew just how Dyke was feeling. “Did you ask him about the crane?”

  “What? Oh, you mean if it was him who spiked Lubin’s car. He says it wasn’t. Duxford’s been along and asked him the same thing.”

  It was all I could do not to go running to Elsa. I nearly said: well let him off the leash. I said: “What d’you want me to do?”

  “I’ve promised him you’ll call in at their place and sort things out.”

  “That pleased him, did it?”

  “Seemed to make him more wild. Can’t think why.”

  I was working it out. If I made a ten mile diversion, I could take in Clare’s flat on the way back.

  “How’d it be if I picked her up and brought her to him? He couldn’t very well beat her up with us there.”

  I heard George muttering in the background, and heard Dyke howling something about not bringing her near him.

  “He says that’ll be fine,” said George blandly. “So you’d better do that.” So I did it.

  Or rather, I made an attempt, but there was nobody at home at the flat, and I was having nasty thoughts about her all the way back. Then, only half a mile from the hotel, I saw her getting off the bus.

  I recognised her by her walk. She moved with a lithe grace, unconscious of it, confident, though, in its effect.

  “I’m so glad I met you,” she said, getting into the Porsche. “I didn’t know where to find him.”

  “We’ve got him safe.”

  “I’ve been so worried. He’s the one, isn’t he — helping the police with their enquiries?”

  “Not helping himself much, though.”

  He was in our room. George was sitting close to the door. Dyke was nervous and violent, holding it just in control. He watched us come in. His eyes were suspicious, darting from Clare to me.

  “You’ve been at it again,” he shouted at her.

  I was close behind her. I saw her shoulders stiffen. She walked past him, tossing her handbag on the bed. She stared out of the window at the drab, streaming town.

  “I didn’t come for another row,” she whispered.

  “If you don’t want rows, then you want to keep your eyes to yourself.”

  “You’ve got no right...”

  “Every damn right.”

  “No reason, then.” Every word was distinct, definite. “Have I got to keep saying it! There isn’t anybody else. Nobody. Oh dear God!”

  There was pain in the hard line of her lips. That she turned away only seemed to prove to Dyke that she could not look him in the eyes.

  He flung his arms about, turning to us and protesting.

  “Y’ see how it is. Always the same. Denies it. If she’d only come out with it. Just say she’d done it, and she’s sorry, and we can start again. Some sort of —”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry when I’ve done nothing,” she flared at him. For a moment the anger had suppressed the misery.

  “Then what about this new one, damn you.”

  “This... what?” She faltered, looking round wildly for assistance. “What does he mean? Somebody tell me.”

  “He believes you’ve got another man,” said George. “To replace Wallach.”

  The grace had gone from her, as a cat, trapped, can become an ugly, arched and violent thing.

  “He’s insane. There’s no reason...” She turned on him. “You’ve made my life a misery with your stupid suspicions. Yes, I knew Fred — yes, I went with him.” She was shouting, her eyes blazing, her fingers curled. “Yes, damn you Wal, he came to the flat.”

  “You see!” he said, turning to us in appeal, his hair flying about. The sudden admission had taken the wind from his guts. “You see how it is.”

  “I get the blame,” she threw at him. “Day in and day out, these foul accusations — for nothing. Can I help it if the men get an eyeful. You’re revolting, d’you know that? On and on. So in the end — get the blame, I might as well get the fun.”

  “Fun!” It was nearly a whimper from him.

  Then abruptly the bristling anger flowed from her, and she was close to tears.

  “I hated it,” she whispered. “Every minute. I wanted you, Wal.”

  He could have done it then. He’d got the lead-in. It could have been a happy ending.

  “Get away from me, you dirty whore!”

  The tears came. She sat on the edge of my bed, a limp and beaten animal. She did not cover her face. It was drab in distress.

  “I’ll take you home,” I said.

  “I bet you will,” Dyke shouted. “Just your chance.”

  I should have hit him there and then, only it would have gained nothing. The truth was that I had to get away from him. He disgusted me. He was tearing her apart bit by bit, as I, if I could not control it, would eventually come to do with Elsa. I had to get away because I was hating myself, and only Clare’s closeness would save my sanity in the next few minutes.

  I got her down to the car, and she wouldn’t have cared if I’d driven straight into the river. I wanted to take her in my arms and comfort her, because I was too far from Elsa. I wanted her to comfort me.

  “Have you home in two shakes,” I said.

  “Why can’t he give up his job?” she whimpered. “Why can’t he be home every night, like a normal husband?”

  You get to drive from instinct. I wasn’t seeing the road. She loved that wretched, possessive idiot, and he did not know it. I realised, with something of a shock, that I’d always taken it for granted that Elsa loved m
e. It’s a dangerous attitude. Some people can resent being taken for granted. It can make them turn away, as a gesture, as a demand for more demonstrativeness.

  I stood in the open doorway of the flat, reluctant to go in, not because I’d be unable to resist any temptation, but because I could understand Dyke’s suffering until I returned.

  “I don’t think I’ll stay — unless you want me to.”

  She had walked directly through into the bedroom. She put her head back, and her smile was mischievous.

  “Better not worry him.” She put her head on one side. “Or would it do him good?”

  She was recovering. My grin was to the empty doorway, because she had gone.

  There is always an awareness of the blow a split second before it lands. By then it’s too late, and the plunging blackness has taken you. There is no awareness of how long it lasts.

  She was on her knees beside me, her eyes huge, her skin white and drawn. The phone was ringing.

  I said: “The phone.” It seemed desperately important.

  “You’re hurt.”

  I was recovering. “Are you all right?” She drew in a shuddering breath. “He fired a gun at me.”

  “Missed?”

  “Yes. I fainted right out.”

  I was getting to my feet. That phone! “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “He had a kind of scarf over his face.”

  The shock was coming, now that she no longer needed to worry about me. Her teeth were chattering. I said I’d answer the phone.

  “Got any brandy?” I asked. She nodded dumbly, and went out.

  It was George. “Don’t you ever answer phones?” he complained.

  “What is it, George? Has he had another anonymous caller?”

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Oh Lord!”

  “No,” he protested. “Dave, if I’m right, you’ll need to look out for yourself.”

  I told him that it was too late, and he ought to think a bit faster. I explained why my voice kept fading.