Armitage tried to sound casually astonished and failed. “What brings you here?…Sure, come on in.”
French stepped inside and although he didn’t appear to be examining Armitage closely, he missed none of the signs of nervous strain and tension.
Armitage led the way upstairs and, once they were in the sitting-room and seated, French said: “I’ve been talking to Miss Grant a second time, following a telephone call to Mrs. Havering, and she now says you’ll be able to help. I’m trying to have a word with Mrs. Broadbent, but unfortunately no one seems to know exactly where she is.”
Surprisingly, it took several seconds for Armitage to realise that Hermione must have deliberately given his name. Wildly, he wondered why? Then he remembered the look in her eyes when she’d left, only a short time ago, and he knew she was getting her own back on him because he’d refused to confide in her.
“Can you tell me where Mrs. Broadbent is?”
He tried to think clearly, and couldn’t, because his mind was panicking from the knowledge of what would happen to Patricia if this detective learned the truth.
“Mr. Armitage,” said French, “do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I…I’m sorry.” He passed the back of his hand over his forehead. “I haven’t been very well recently.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” replied French. “Then I’ll worry you for as little time as possible…Now, as I understand Miss Grant, you asked her to tell Mr. Broadbent that his wife had gone on a motoring holiday?” The question was so quietly put and French so pleasant that Armitage began to think he might talk himself out of even the present crisis. “Yes.”
“It seems a bit odd, so will you tell me why?”
“How…how far is all this going to go?”
“Only as far as it needs to, Mr. Armitage.”
“But what about her husband?”
French rubbed his square chin. “At the moment I can’t say any more than that Mr. Broadbent has not reported his wife as missing or requested us to search for her. If he does, we’ll have to tell him what we know. Until then, it depends on what you have to say to me now.”
Armitage told him the same story he’d told Hermione and French made a few notes. Patricia had stayed Saturday night, in the spare bedroom, and on Sunday morning had been so mentally upset that she’d decided to go off on her own. She’d taken a train to London and had refused to say where she was going to stay in case he tried to get in touch with her. As soon as she knew her own mind and what she was going to do, she’d return.
French looked up from his notebook. “So there really is no way I can get hold of her right away?”
“I’m afraid there isn’t.” Armitage was certain the story had been believed because of French’s continuing easy manner.
“But you’ve some idea of how long she’s gone for?”
“She did say she reckoned to be back within the week.”
French dropped his notebook in his pocket, then said: “She must have had some things with her, I suppose? Clean clothes, toilet articles, that sort of thing?”
It was absurd to suggest Patricia would have gone away for a week without them. “Yes.”
“Right. Well, that’s all, thanks very much…By the way, I read one of your books some time back and quite enjoyed it.”
Armitage muttered something suitable, as his mind began to play back all he’d said, to convince himself the secret was safe.
*
Carver had never been so bored. For him, life was lights, booze, and women, yet now life was watching a flat, twelve hours in every twenty-four. Just as soon as he could, he decided, he’d go down to Nestor, where Weir had told them to buy all their grub, and he’d get a bit of fresh air, buy a paper to find out if Warrington had won their rugby match the previous night, and see if there were any magazines with girls. He’d forgotten what girls looked like.
Across the road, a man walked up to the door of the flat and checked the number. Carver immediately placed him as a split, even though he’d have been unable to say exactly to what details his inbuilt alarm had reacted. He watched through the binoculars. The man rang the bell, Armitage opened the door, and the man showed something — his warrant card? — then the two of them went inside.
Carver hurried into the nearer bedroom and shook the snoring Ricard awake. “Tony, there’s a split gone in.”
Ricard took a few seconds to awaken sufficiently fully to understand the import of the words. “D’you say just one?”
“Yeah.”
“If they’ve got the news, they won’t send just one.”
“Come and have a butchers.”
Ricard climbed out of bed on which there was just a blanket and pulled on trousers and sweater over his T-shirt and pants. He followed Carver into the other room.
Through binoculars it was possible to see the front half of the sitting-room and the chair in which the man was seated. From time to time he wrote in what looked to be a regulation-size notebook. Ricard swore violently. He swung the binoculars round to look into the bank. There, everything was normal, with not another split in sight. Yet if Armitage had grassed, the place would be full of them. If he hadn’t grassed, what was a split doing in his place? The problem was too subtle for Ricard to solve. “I’m getting on to the blower to Lofty.”
*
Because Weir could never readily acknowledge himself to be wrong, his instinct was to disbelieve Tony Ricard. The man in the flat had been writing in a regulation-size notebook. How the hell could Ricard accurately judge the size from across the street? So Carver agreed the man had been a split. Neither of them was a genius. The man might have been a reporter, doing a piece for the local rag, or someone carrying out a survey…But Ricard and Carver weren’t fools and if they judged the man a split, there was a very good chance they were right.
Aaron and Smith watched him, their expressions similar. They believed the job had been blown. But, Weir told himself, it couldn’t be.
Aaron put his thoughts into words. “The job’s over.”
“No,” snapped Weir vehemently.
“Lofty, it ain’t no good. With the splits around, it’s finished.”
Weir’s instinct was to curse wildly, but he managed to control his temper because only reasoned argument was going to alter Aaron’s mind. “If the job was blown, there’d be an army of splits, not just one.”
“Maybe there was an army, only Tony and Angel didn’t see ‘em,” said Aaron flatly.
“They swear there couldn’t be.”
Aaron shook his head.
“Are you giving up, then, just like that? Kicking three million quid down the cawsy?”
Aaron hesitated, then said: “There ain’t no way of making sure.”
“Yes, there is,” answered Weir.
After a while, almost reluctantly, Aaron said: “How?”
“Her.” Weir jerked his head towards the beamed ceiling.
*
Simply because it wasn’t possible to stay utterly and totally frightened for days, Patricia had begun to regain hope. They’d promised she’d go free when the robbery was successfully carried out and that George wouldn’t be hurt. The man who was reasonably pleasant to her, an Australian, had reassured her several times. And on top of that, despite her outwardly quiet nature, she had great courage and will-power.
She was talking to Gates about Australia, and he was trying to shock her with some of the broader slang, when they heard the key in the door. He stopped in mid-sentence and they both turned. The door opened and Farnes came in. “You’re wanted,” he said to Patricia, and jerked his head.
This was the first time such a thing had happened — she’d never left the room except to go to the bathroom — and she was immediately apprehensive. Instinctively, she looked to Gates for help, but he carefully made it clear he would give none.
“Come on, lady,” said Farnes impatiently.
She slid off the bed, stood up, and smoothed down her dress, althoug
h it had become so crumpled that nothing she could do would really neaten it. She could smell herself, not having had a bath or proper wash in days, and this was yet one more humiliation. But she found the courage to demand: “What’s the matter?”
“Lofty wants you downstairs.”
“Why?”
“Lady, stop arguing.”
She left the room. Farnes frightened her in a straightforward manner — unlike Weir — because she sensed that he knew no humanity.
They went down stone stairs with a half-turn and into a squarish room with two bay windows. Weir was telephoning and when he looked at her she audibly gasped because his face was so thick with hatred. Two other men were present, but they stared at her with expressions she couldn’t read.
Weir spoke into the phone. “Who the bleeding hell…I’m telling you, you had a split…A detective, you stupid bastard. I told you what we’d do…Husband? Whose husband?” Weir turned to face Patricia. “Who’s your husband?”
Farnes, Aaron, and Smith showed their complete surprise at the question.
Patricia hesitated.
“Who’s your husband, you stupid bitch? Ain’t he Armitage?”
She shook her head.
He cursed her and although none of the words were new to her, they took on new and twisted meanings because of his viciousness.
Weir spoke into the phone again. “What d’you tell the split?…What else?…What did he say?…Nothing else?…Then you listen and just keep on listening.” Weir nodded at Farnes and then put down the receiver.
Farnes grabbed both her hands from behind and wrenched them round her back and forced them up until she stood on tiptoe to try to ease the pain. He jerked her forward until she was immediately in front of Weir.
Weir spoke to her, his voice thin. “Your boyfriend’s had a visitor. A bleeding split, wondering where you’ve got to. Your boyfriend sent him away with a story, but just to make certain he keeps talking right, he’s going to listen to a bit of what’ll happen if he don’t.”
Weir grabbed the front of her dress and ripped it open. She began to struggle, but Farnes applied more pressure to her arms and she had to stop. Weir tore her petticoat down, then wrenched at the brassiere, but couldn’t break it. He took a flick knife from his pocket, freed the blade, and sliced through the material connecting the two cups.
He fondled her breasts. She closed her eyes. Then he gripped each nipple between thumb and forefinger and twisted fiercely in opposite directions and her eyes jerked open as she screamed violently.
CHAPTER XVI
It was hours, now, since Armitage had heard the screams over the telephone, yet they still echoed through his mind. He poured himself another drink.
He’d pleaded, promised anything and everything, if only they’d stop, but the screams had continued until the sweat had rolled down his face.
He finished the drink, but couldn’t silence the screams.
*
The weather had done a turn-about as a cold, easterly wind brought back thick grey-bellied clouds. French, wishing he’d put on the sweater his wife had suggested before he left that morning, climbed out of his car and stared at Easthover House. It was nice to be rich, he thought, with only a twinge of envy.
He rang the bell and eventually Broadbent opened the door. He was full of pompous annoyance. What was a policeman doing interrupting him this early in the morning…” I’m a little worried about your wife,” said French.
Broadbent abruptly looked away.
He hadn’t been asked in, but French entered and shut the door. The hall, tastefully furnished, was warm and he guessed the central heating was set at at least seventy: easy when one didn’t have to worry about fuel bills. “I rang Mrs. Havering yesterday,” said French.
Broadbent’s fury, based on fright, was immediate. “Who the devil said you could?”
There were some jobs French hated, and this was one of them. “Mrs. Havering told me that she has not left home in weeks, far less been on any motoring holiday.” Broadbent seemed to shrink a little. “I don’t believe it,” he muttered. “It’s impossible. You spoke to the wrong Mrs. Havering.”
“No, sir. She was June Burn before she married and when at school was a close friend of your wife.”
“Then…then I understood the wrong name.” French waited.
“My wife…My wife’s not with another man,” said Broadbent suddenly. His voice rose. “You’ve got to understand that.”
“My latest information is that she’s gone up to London, on her own, but I’ve no idea where.”
“You said on her own?”
“Yes, sir.”
Broadbent took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. He was suddenly looking very middle-aged.
“What I’d like to know now, Mr. Broadbent, is whether you’ve any idea where she might have gone? Are there any hotels at which you normally stay when you go to London?”
Broadbent named two.
“Can you tell me how many clothes you think she took with her? This would give an idea of how long she intends to be away.”
“I…I don’t think she’s taken any clothes,” said Broadbent, very slowly.
As he’d checked, wondered French, how could he have made himself believe she’d gone on a motoring holiday? “What about toilet articles? Toothbrush?”
Broadbent shook his head.
“If she has a bank account of her own, would you give me the name of the bank and an authorisation to check it?”
French wondered whether Broadbent yet understood where his questions were really leading, or whether he was still fighting his growing belief that his wife must have run off with another man?
*
Armitage drained the glass, hesitated, then poured himself out another whisky. He noticed that the bottle was now almost empty. He heard the doorbell ring and it seemed to take on the shrill violence of a scream. He ignored it, but it rang again and when he finally went down he found his caller was Detective Inspector French and a younger man.
“I’d like a word or two more with you,” said French. It was as much a demand as anything.
Bitterly, Armitage stepped aside for them to enter and then led the way upstairs. Tell them the truth and they’d drop everything to help: tell them the truth and Patricia’s screams would be multiplied a thousandfold before she died.
“This is Detective Constable Steel,” said French, by way of a brief introduction, just before they all sat. Armitage noticed that Steel was looking at the drink by his side. It was still early enough in the morning to make it noteworthy.
“Mr. Armitage, will you describe again what happened when Mrs. Broadbent came here on Saturday?”
He told them, speaking slowly enough to check everything before he said it so that there should be no discrepancies with what he’d said last time.
“I don’t think you’ve ever actually said how Mrs. Broadbent went to London?” said French.
“I think I did. By train.”
“How did she get to the station?”
“I drove her in my car.”
“So what happened to her car?”
“She left it parked near here. As you well know.” French looked slightly nonplussed, as if he’d been hoping to trip up Armitage.
Armitage began to think that all the stories about country bumpkin police must be true. “What’s all the mystery about?” he demanded, taking the offensive.
“There’s no mystery and all we really want to do is to have a word or two with Mrs. Broadbent as soon as possible.”
“That won’t be for a week.”
“But are you sure it won’t be longer? Could she have taken clothes for more than a week, d’you think?”
“No.”
“How many suitcases did she have?”
Armitage answered carelessly: “Just the one.”
“In which she’d have had her night clothes, spare underclothes, toilet articles, and so on?”
“Of course. What
else would she have been carrying?”
“It rather interests me. Her husband has checked and no suitcase is missing from her home, none of her night clothes are gone, and all her toilet things are still in her bathroom.”
Armitage was shocked to discover the bumpkin of a country detective had tricked him.
“It doesn’t seem reasonable,” continued French, in the same level voice, “that any woman would go away for a week’s stay without night clothes, toilet articles, and spare underclothes, at the very least.”
There was a silence.
“Do you like pressed beef?” asked French.
Armitage stared at him with uneasy surprise. Finally, he said: “No.”
French sighed. “Will you tell me the truth now? Is Mrs. Broadbent in this flat, hiding from her husband?”
“Of course not.”
“Then would you have any objection to my searching it quickly?”
He had to keep the detectives away. “I’d object strongly.”
“Why?”
“It’s a matter of privacy.”
French shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve been cleaning the hall carpet recently?”
Armitage could not hide the shock that that question occasioned. All too clearly, he remembered the dead man and the blood which had spilled over the carpet and the floorboards. Cleaning the carpet had left a circle where the colours were fresher. “I stupidly spilt a pot of jam over it.”
“Jam?” repeated French heavily. “I will put a previous question to you again. Do you mind if we make a search of your flat?”
“The answer’s the same,” Armitage replied hoarsely.
“You’ll force me to get a search warrant.”
Armitage said nothing.
French stood up and D. C. Steel followed suit, opened notebook still in his right hand. “Have you anything you’d like to add to what you’ve said, Mr. Armitage, or would you like to amend any of your statements?”
He was so bloody polite about it all. Armitage’s mind raced on. Was there anything they could find if they searched? Surely there could be no traces of blood left?
The Colour of Violence Page 11
