Exhibit No. Thirteen

by Roderic Jeffries

  EXHIBIT NO. THIRTEEN

  RODERIC JEFFRIES

  © Roderic Jeffries 1962

  Roderic Jeffries has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1962 by Collins Clear Type Press.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 1

  The sunlight used the comers of the curtain to form, on the far wall of the bedroom, the outline of a Springer Spaniel. Rusk yawned. Five minutes to the rise. When at sea, he’d been called at one bell, ten to, and five to, and between each call he’d gone fast back to sleep. There was no watch to keep now, only a detective-inspector to be reported to at nine o’clock sharp. In many ways, it was a pity he wasn’t still at sea: an untapped future, an unshakable certainty that death was only for the next person, and a firm belief in happy marriages … this last an act of faith, since the women in ports weren’t usually of the domestic variety, as witness the sub-lieutenant who’d hammered Cape rum and disappeared from the party with a bottled blonde (twice over) draped around him. He was knocking twenty-one and she was a charitable thirty-five in subdued lighting. Two hours later, the sub-lieutenant had surfaced to find himself hammering on the door of a minister of the Dutch Reformed Church, and, despite the fact that it was two-thirty in the morning, calling on the occupant to marry him. The shock had caused him to take his first unbiased look at his companion and he’d thereupon legged it at full speed down the street. He’d never dared set foot ashore again.

  Barring extreme emergencies, he had to report to Carren, the detective-inspector, sharp at nine. The DI was the kind of man who thought that rules came straight from Heaven. Had he lived in ancient China, he would have kowtowed with the best of them before mandarins of the crystal button. Rusk grinned. In his mind, the DI was banging his head on the ground in a very ecstasy of humiliation. The mandarin’s face had borrowed many of Rusk’s features.

  He pushed back the bedclothes and swivelled round, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He studied the bedroom. The furniture was good but had been used hard and long and bore many scars. Ruth would have called it slummy, a word she used for anything that wasn’t new, shiny, and slap in fashion. She’d never been able to understand that fashion was transient but craftsmanship permanent.

  He stood up and yawned, looked at his face in the sun-ray mirror he’d bought for three pounds ten in a shop in Maidstone. Unshaven, and his face still sleep-haunted, he looked rather old and rather weary. One of these days, no doubt, a young policeman would call him “sir”.

  *

  Dunn came slowly up the ride, with the loose-limbed walk of someone who spent his days on foot. Across his right forearm was a hammerless twelve bore, and he wore a modified Norfolk jacket, plus-fours, gaiters, and boots. Behind him trotted a black Labrador.

  He came to a Y fork, took the left-hand ride, and a hundred yards up it began to whistle a two-tone sound. Within thirty seconds, there was a rustling from the undergrowth on both sides of the ride and young pheasants, not yet old enough for the cocks to have more than a suspicion of red on their chests, stepped out into the clear space.’‘

  ‘Sit,’ he ordered the dog. ‘And wipe that hungry smile off your face. They ain’t ready for you yet.’ He broke his gun and laid it down on the ground but did not extract the cartridges. With a shrug, he slipped off the bag he had been carrying looped over his left shoulder, opened it, and began to throw wheat about the ride. The pheasants, over a hundred of them, rushed forward to scratch the earth and snap up the corn with their beaks.

  He looked up and scanned the sky for any winged predator, then, satisfied there was none, stepped back and relaxed. The dog, its tail slowly fanning the ground, seemed to have a glint in its two dark-brown eyes as it stared at the feeding birds.

  Five minutes later, Dunn picked up the now empty bag and fixed it over his left shoulder, retrieved his gun and closed it, and, calling up the dog, made his way to the rearing-field. This was surrounded on three sides by the woods and on the fourth by two acres of kale in which the weeds stood too proud. Across the field stretched a diagonal line of movable pens in which the pheasants were reared until six weeks old. In the nearest corner was a wooden hut. Dunn unlocked the securing padlock, pulled the chain free from the claw and opened the door. He picked up a sack filled with half a hundredweight of pheasant crumbs and an empty five-gallon oil drum which had handles welded to its side. Twenty feet beyond the hut was a large cattle trough fitted with a ball cock, and from this he drew half a drumful of water.

  He walked down the line of pens, stopping at each to fill up the feed and water bins and inspect the broody hen and her fifteen to twenty pheasant chicks. He was half-way along when from ahead there came a loud warning cackle of a hen, a sound that was immediately repeated by two others. He dropped the crumbs and water and looked around. Fox? He’d lost thirty laying hen pheasants in the open pen earlier that year and had had to buy in eggs from a game farm. Sir Edgar Hothe had kicked up hell because of the additional expense, but both men knew a determined fox could break through any defence.

  He saw the hawk. It hovered fifty feet up, at the far corner of the field. Its wings beat quickly and its fierce eyes explored the ground while its curved beak expectantly waited to tear into living flesh.

  Dunn swore. There were partridges in that corner of the field and if the hawk found them, they were done for. The fox, the carrion crow, the hawk … vicious, blood-loving killers.

  His gun was by the shed. He moved slowly, fluidly, making every movement melt into the next. He reached the shed, picked up the gun and felt that the two cartridges were in the chambers, and all the time he kept watch on the hawk. It had descended lower.

  The dog wagged its tail and swished the grass on either side. ‘Wait,’ muttered Dunn.

  He had a special hatred for that hawk. It had dived a hundred yards in front of Sir Edgar a week ago and taken a pheasant chick as neat as you like. Later that day, Sir Edgar had demanded to know if Dunn were deliberately succouring vermin.

  Dunn moved back into the cover of the woods and, reaching the ride, turned up a small cross-ride. In the old days when the estate kept three keepers it would have been one man’s job to land that bird … Now there was only himself to do that and feed the poults, move the pens, tend the tunnel traps, and kick out would-be lovers who always seemed to prefer the very best nesting cover for their larking-abouts. He stopped walking and peered between the branches of an oak. The hawk was still there, hovering. Then, as he watched, it sheered off in a sweeping flight of pace and beauty, a schooner of the skies.

  He cursed silently. Perhaps the bird had radar … Then it was back on station, wings beating, head pointing downwards as its eyes searched the runs in the longish grass.

  There was excitement within Dunn. The bird was becoming over-confident and some of the cards were moving into his hands. Hunger or over-confidence were quick killers.

  He resumed walking, slowly and silently. People said birds couldn’t hear very well. Most people didn’t know the world they lived in. A hawk in Kent would hear a man cough in Surrey. He moved the gun until his
left hand gripped the barrels and his right hand the stock immediately aft of the trigger guard. An alarmed hawk went like a bat out of hell: with a shot spread of only thirty inches, the hawk moved four times that distance while the message to pull the trigger travelled from the mind to the finger.

  He was nearly within range now. The wood twisted round the corner of the field and if he could clear the corner unobserved, he was home. If he shot straight. The hawk came lower, nearer the ground, nearer the kill.

  He made the last ten yards and the bird was within range but hidden by the gnarled trunk of an old misshapen beech tree. He moved his right foot. It came down on a twig that snapped. He watched the hawk. It had heard him, of course, and would now be searching for him without knowing what it was searching for. If it separated his form from the undergrowth, it would be away in a second. He kept his head down so that the peak of his cap hid most of his face, and his hands by his side with the gun straddling his legs.

  The compulsive need to know made him slowly raise his head until he could look up. The sky was empty. He’d lost. Then the sky was filled again with the hawk.

  A man had to be damned clever to outwit a bird. He’d done so. Two sidesteps and it was his. He looked down to make certain he was putting his weight on solid earth and saw the bare human foot.

  A couple must be there having fun. If they moved in the next few seconds they’d frighten the bird and if they did that he’d frighten them so much they’d have a baby.

  He made his two steps. The leaves of the tree were still thick. Did he shoot now, or did he make a third move sideways and so ensure a completely clear arc of fire? The hawk was still there, at ease once more. Then it would be a third step. He looked sideways at the couple and discovered there was only one girl and he’d caught her in a position no girl should ever be caught in. He grinned. He wasn’t averse from causing a few blushes.

  He took the third step. Now, he realised something more. The girl wasn’t asleep, she was dead. She’d been murdered.

  He half turned, watched the hawk, raised his gun and fired the right barrel. The bird shivered. He fired the left barrel. The hawk collapsed and fell to the ground, an inert bundle of feathers.

  CHAPTER 2

  Rusk spooned the bubbling fat over the egg and wondered whether it was ready for serving. It was odd how the simple fried egg always beat him and ended up either over-or under-done. In his more cynical breakfast moments he told himself that it was the one time of the day when he really missed Ruth: she had cooked his eggs exactly and precisely as he liked them. But then maybe even that memory was a myth. It was twelve years now since Big Buddy, an American Master-Sergeant, had come to the small churchyard of Quenton village — to the north of Maidstone — to see if he could find his ancestors. Big Buddy had failed in that quest, but he had left with a woman who’d rapidly given promise of presenting him with innumerable descendants.

  Rusk flipped the egg on to the toast and then did the same with the bacon. He carried the plate across to the kitchen table, drew up the nearest chair and sat down. He examined the kitchen with a critical eye and wondered what Old Mother Alows would say when she came to clear up the mess. Ruth had always called him the untidiest man in the world and he thought that that represented her one inspired judgement.

  He ate the egg, bacon, and toast, and noticed without much resentment that the egg was underdone and gooey, exactly as he least liked it. He thought about the previous night. Pub duty. Round all the pubs in the south-east section, listen to the conversation, and watch out for any of the ‘boys’. The drinks were on the county constabulary, but nothing beyond beer and never more than one at a pub. Some of the men welcomed the duty but he found beer as attractive as gooey eggs. The DI had first begun to dislike him when he’d said he preferred most drinks to beer.

  The telephone rang. Rusk swallowed the mouthful, left the kitchen and went down the hall — a solemn, dismal area, that to anyone but an estate-agent was no more than a corridor. He lifted the receiver. ‘Rusk here.’

  ‘Station, Skipper. Great doings at Sway-ton. One female missing her bikini stabbed to death. The DI says you’re to meet him there five minutes ago.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing.’

  ‘I quote: “Tell him to get out there double bloody quick sharp with his shoe leather on fire” … In a bit of a muck sweat, is our DI.’

  ‘How about laying on a car?’

  ‘On its way. You’ve just time to wish yourself back in bed and it’ll be with you. Good night, last night?’

  ‘Too much beer and too many cigarettes.’

  ‘Some blokes never know when they’re on velvet.’

  The connection was cut and Rusk returned to his breakfast. Taffy — his real name was McBade — always made it sound as though he thought the world one huge joke. Rusk finished the egg and bacon and buttered a piece of toast. He heard a car come to a halt and a car horn blipped twice. The car — and the DI — would have to wait until he had finished breakfast. By refusing to jump to the every command of the DI, he, Rusk, managed to retain some of his own individuality … When you were in the force and your immediate superior was delighted to hate your guts, you had to do something to fight back.

  There was a knock on the front door. Rusk took a large bite out of the toast and chewed as he made his way to the door. He opened it and spoke to Field. ‘Keep your hair on.’

  ‘No hurry as far as I’m concerned, Serge.’

  ‘How about a cup of coffee?’

  ‘That’s the first civilised suggestion I’ve heard today.’

  Rusk led Field through to the kitchen. Field looked round. ‘These police houses all have the same smell. Stale toe-fug, I wouldn’t mind betting.’

  Rusk half smiled. He liked Field and knew the younger man reciprocated the feeling. As a matter of fact, most of the men liked him: unless, of course, it was his rank they went for.

  Ten minutes later, they left the house. Field drove quickly through the streets of Ashford, which were rapidly filling up with people and cars, and out on to the A20. At Swayton crossroads they turned left and threaded their way through the narrow lanes until they reached the woods that marked the eastern side of Swayton Park.

  Ten cars were already parked by the edge of the woods. One of them was a van, along each side of which was printed the name of one of the three local papers: the Press had excellent lines of communication.

  Rusk climbed out of the car.

  Field took off his peaked cap and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘Let’s hope it’s not another Appleton case, with six months’ hard labour and nothing to show for it at the end but some ruddy bad-tempered policemen. Give us a buzz, Serge, when you get back, and say what’s the joy.’

  ‘You never know your luck, chum. You may be seconded out here to help search and then you’ll know everything for yourself. That’ll be quite an interesting job if the day gets as hot as yesterday.’

  ‘Keep that idea to yourself.’ Field waved a hand, gunned the engine and drove off with an acceleration fierce enough to chum up the loose gravel. He’d always wanted to be a racing driver and it often seemed as if he were playing at being one.

  Rusk studied the surrounding fields of newly-cut grass or of waving corn, the woods, and the distant hills. Field would have been a racing driver. He, Rusk, would have been one of the landed gentry, if that weren’t too filthy a word for the present day and age. He loved growing crops and rearing animals, running his hands through the soil. His father had once owned a small estate on the north side of Ashford which, before the family crash, had always been for him to take over.

  He shrugged his shoulders and made his way up the ride immediately before him and soon he came to a number of people who were standing round, waiting. The uniformed constable who was preventing their going any farther, recognised him and waved him on.

  Twenty yards along the ride were two men: the DI and Detective Constable Vernon. Carren, a large, fleshy man who would soon be running to
fat, possessed good-looking features that were marred because they were too sleek. He turned.

  ‘’Morning, sir,’ said Rusk.

  Carren made a show of looking at his watch. ‘So sorry to worry you. I hope we didn’t rush your satirical toilet too much?’

  Rusk said nothing. The DI was heavily addicted to weak sarcasm which as often as not was reduced to absurdity by his misuse of words.

  Rusk stared at the nude body of the girl. She had been quite good-looking in a tarty sort of a way. A false blonde — her nudity played her traitor there. Her blue eyes were half showing, her right forearm was across her breasts, and on it and on her chest and abdomen were stab wounds. One of them had a half-circular bruise around it.

  ‘The body was dragged here,’ said the DI, ‘the trail’s as clear as a bell.’ He pointed to the right of the dead girl and at the jagged track formed by crushed and broken bracken. ‘The track connects up with the ride again and there’s a hell of a battlefield at the join … But her clothes are neatly folded up with her handbag carefully placed on top. A tidy bastard.’

  ‘He didn’t kill her all that neatly.’

  ‘You can say that again … Where the hell’s the photographer? Every Tom, Dick, and Harry seems to think he can procreate for as long as he damn’ well pleases. Vernon, did you phone him?’

  ‘As soon as the message came through, sir. He has to come up from Folkestone, though.’

  ‘And I always thought he drove down from John o’ Groats! … He’d better put skates under his tail. The Old Man’ll be out any minute now.’

  A short tubby man, in a suit that had seen a great deal of wear, pushed past the onlookers along the ride and came up to the three detectives by the body. He was puffing and beads of sweat stood out around the greying hairs of his moustache and on his forehead. ‘’Morning. Spend the night delivering a breech baby and then you have the gall to call me away from home before I’ve time to swallow half my breakfast.’