‘Haven’t time to wonder such bloody silly things … Two loonies are due today. One’s killing all women because they eat apples, the other wants to banish the terrible disgrace of sex. See ’em and suggest one of those hot strip-shows to clear their minds.’
Rusk was not surprised to discover that the DI advocated a saucy strip for their mental troubles. ‘One point I’d like to bring up, sir.’
‘What?’
‘I still think Kremayne should be watched.’
‘Do you, now? Perhaps you’ve forgotten that Mr Quinn decided against such action?’
‘Kremayne’s wife is in very real danger.’
‘That’s her look-out, she married him. You know as well as I do there isn’t enough evidence on him to warrant us watching him.’
‘There’ll be another killing if he’s not shackled.’
The DI crossed his arms and leaned his elbows on the desk. ‘We may not all be up to your standard. Sergeant Rusk, but some of us have a little precipitance. We know there’s likely to be another murder — and we’re doing all we bloody well can to prevent it. But because the law’s soft in a job like this, we’re hamstrung. Even if we were all convinced Kremayne was our lad, we couldn’t hold him on suspicion and keep him out of the way. We can’t arrest a bloke when we know he did it but there isn’t enough proof to convince a jury. All the ruddy time we have to worry about those twelve morons and whether they’ll say the bloke’s guilty — and if a woman gets bashed because we can’t convince them of the truth, that’s their fault, not ours. If you could understand that, you’d be a better detective.’
‘Another death …’
‘You’ve really got your knife into him, haven’t you?’
‘Perhaps I’m worrying too much about the theory of my job.’
‘You worry, that’s for certain.’ The DI waved his right forefinger in the air.
*
Rusk sat down in his living-room. The places was a familiar jumble of books, newspapers, magazines, a wireless set, grotesquely ugly sideboard, two ponderous arm-chairs, and should-be-pensioned-off settee. This was where he could pick up a book and lose himself. Give him a thundering good book and anyone else could have the cinema, TV, wireless. Take the Odyssey. He’d read Rieu’s translation (he had long since given up battling with the Greek) half a dozen times and was now half-way on the seventh round. He’d always wanted to write, to draw from thin air characters that had life and lived, but he’d never got round to a serious attempt. Too easily discouraged by the rejection slips his too obviously clever short pieces had received. Yet at school, his English compositions had been so widely praised that it had seemed there would soon not be room for both Dickens and himself.
He tried to read about the landfall on Aeolia. It was no good. Every twist of his mind returned him to the psychiatrist, as the latter said that the killer must become madder in his mad moments and that if the killer was married his wife could be in great danger.
Life was full of events that happened to others and left you cold, then something happened to you and you couldn’t understand why the rest of the world wasn’t as immediately concerned as you were. Anne was living with death because the police had to have overwhelming proof before they could move.
Rusk stood up and lit a cigarette.
CHAPTER 10
Bert whistled as he drove the tractor along the road. It was a fine day, his wife had won over a quid at the whist drive the previous night, and the NFU were pressing for a rise in farm wages. He came up to a parked car by the five-acre field and drew out so that the cutter behind the tractor should clear it. The car was empty and he fleetingly wondered what it was doing there so early in the morning.
Half a mile farther on, he came to the twenty-acre field. He stopped the tractor, opened the gate, and drove in. The crop of lucern was thick — thanks to the many bags of artificials that had gone on earlier in the year — and when cut and dried would, together with hay and silage already made, see the boss’s cattle through the winter. He lowered the cutter bar and, adjusting it for height, started round the field in a clockwise direction. Frequently, he turned and looked back to make certain the cutters had not become clogged by the cut lucern: occasionally they had been, and he had had to stop and clear them. The day warmed up and Bert’s body began to sweat copiously. The flies worried him and he cursed them. Two strong conveys of partridges flushed before the cutter and he watched them glide down into the valley. He’d have them later in the year.
The boss arrived sharp at nine-thirty in a van which brought diesel fuel and hot tea. Bert came to a stop by the gate and before he climbed down from the tractor he stared across the standing lucern. He’d made a good start.
‘It’s a thick crop,’ said the boss.
‘Pick up close by two ’undred bales the acre.’
The boss looked up at the sky. ‘Barometer’s set fair so maybe the lucern’ll get the weather to dry.’
Bert poured himself out a mug of tea and added five spoonfuls of sugar.
‘There was a car parked by the five acre field as I came up,’ said the boss. ‘Looked round for the ruddy picnickers but couldn’t see ’em.’
‘There was a car there when I comes by.’
‘A three point four Jag?’
‘Don’t know one make from t’other. It looked rich like, and was grey.’
‘That’s the one … Funny place to be parked. Sounds as though it might well have been there all night.’
‘Might ’ave been.’ Bert was bored by the possibility. He took a package from his pocket which contained a cheese and a jam sandwich.
‘I’m beginning to wonder if we ought to let the local bobby know.’
‘“I’m?” Ain’t interested in anything but closing a pub when everyone’s enjoying themselves.’”
‘I heard he got nasty last week down at the Five Hounds.’
‘Bloody government,’ said Bert, with glorious irrelevancy.
‘What name did you say?’ asked the desk sergeant at Seetham police station. He held the telephone receiver in his left hand and used his right to bring the writing pad closer to him.
‘Fiona Johnson.’
‘And you expected her to return from the dance sometime early this morning but she hasn’t yet arrived?’
‘She went with Mr Haze in her car because he crashed his a short time ago and it hasn’t been repaired yet. Apparently she dropped him at his house just after one this morning and therefore she should have been home in another fifteen minutes at the most.’
‘Are you quite certain, madam, she hasn’t returned?’
‘Of course I am. Her bed hasn’t been slept in and the car’s not in the garage.’
‘What kind of car was she driving?’
‘A Jaguar.’
‘Have you any idea what model?’
‘It was a saloon and she drove it much too fast, and that’s all I can tell you.’
‘What colour?’
‘A light, slightly blue, grey.’
‘Have you been in touch with her friends to see if she’s stayed with any of them?’
‘I’ve tried everyone.’
‘And you’re quite certain she didn’t stay with Mr Haze?’
‘That’s an impertinent suggestion.’
‘I’m sorry, madam, but we have to explore all possibilities. What about hospitals?’
‘I’ve tried the local ones but they haven’t received anyone that could be she.’
‘Right you are, madam, we’ll look into the matter.’
*
Jones was ‘lookering’ his bullocks. The ministry man was due to make certain they measured up to a subsidy and until that day the bullocks had to be treated with all possible care and attention.
He walked along the grass verge and saw the scut of a rabbit disappear. He swore. Three months ago he’d paid a quid for a mixy rabbit which he’d dropped about the warren in the two acre copse. He’d hoped all the rabbits would go down with the di
sease and so rid him of a pest he was too lazy to reduce by any other means.
He opened the gate that was trying hard to fall to pieces and entered the field. The bullocks were in the far corner under the shade of an ash tree that should have been pollarded years back, and when they saw him they began to come towards him, thinking there might be something to eat. One of them broke into a canter, and immediately they all did the same.
They drew up short of him and milled around, their expressions suggesting they were not very astonished that there was, in fact, nothing to eat. He wanted an extra look at the red roan which wasn’t gaining the weight it should, and he stepped to his right. Something on the ground farther along the field attracted his attention: something white and shaped in curves.
He walked forward twenty yards. It was a young woman, naked. She had been stabbed a number of times.
*
No one doubted Fiona Johnson had been murdered by the man who had killed Brenda Ellery. By the side of Fiona Johnson’s body were the marks where the man had knelt and prayed and in a second field was a pile of clothes, neatly folded.
Because of the heavy storm of rain there had been three days previously, the ground was still soft and in a state to record imprints. The police photographed and took casts of the impressions left by the shoe and car tyres. They also removed skin from under the dead girl’s nails which, because there was no scratch on her, must have come from the murderer. They searched for bloody fingerprints and found none.
*
The murder had taken place immediately over the border of Carren’s division but, by a convenient fiction, it was held to have been committed immediately inside. Carren, under Ampforth, could therefore correlate the second investigation with the first.
*
It was the evening of the day that Fiona Johnson’s body had been found. Quinn, Ampforth, and Carren sat round Carren’s desk in the latter’s room at the police station.
Ampforth was looking old. Dark circles under his eyes matched the deep lines about his mouth. ‘We’ve got to make up our minds pretty smartly,’ he said.
There was a pause, then he continued speaking. ‘The killer has again been typed group B, a secretor. He has size ten or ten and a half feet and was wearing a pair of plimsolls when he killed the girl: it seems probable that these plimsolls were brand new. From the pattern of the tread of the soles — and also thanks to a slice of luck — we’ve already discovered who the manufacturers were and they’ve told us that many hundreds of pairs are sold each week at this time of the year. From that, it’s pretty certain we won’t be able to trace the particular pair used by the killer.
‘The flesh under the nails of the girl’s right-hand forefinger and middle finger make it certain she scratched her assailant in the course of the struggle. This wound is probably on the man’s neck or forearm.
‘The knife used was not the same as in the first case. The wounds were far more extensive and the preliminary report of the experts says the weapon was a sheath knife with a width of blade of about one inch. From the number of wounds and the ferocity with which they were inflicted, it is pretty certain that the killer has become more insane in the actual moment of insanity.
‘Mr Johnson identified the body of his daughter this morning and also the clothes that were found in the next field. Later, just before lunch, Robert Haze, the girl’s boy friend, was shown the clothes and asked if anything was missing and he quickly stated that the buckle from the belt was. Mrs Johnson was approached, but she is too distraught to be of any assistance, so Mr Johnson was brought back and he agreed that the buckle was missing. This buckle is oval, four inches long and two inches wide at the points of greatest measurement, and is made from highly polished brass which has been coated with a plastic to maintain the degree of polish. The design is formed by two entwined snakes. The buckle the girl was wearing had scratched on the back the letters FJ and RH … Fiona Johnson and Robert Haze. The psychiatrist has suggested the killer took this buckle from the dead girl as a masochistic talisman and something to keep, to remind him of the ghastly thing he had done. (A check in the Brenda Ellery case has not shown a similar missing article.) Normally, and if there were no cause for panic on his part, it would be in his possession for quite a time to come. The buckle is one that can be bought at a large number of stores and therefore the initials on the back of this one are of the greatest importance. We have already bought an identical buckle and Robert Haze has scratched on the back the two sets of initials as he most nearly remembered them: photographs of this reproduced buckle have been, and are being, distributed.
‘A check on the dead girl’s Jaguar showed a cracked rotor arm so that the car obviously broke down. On the verge near where the body was found were tyre marks made by half-worn Michelin X tyres. The Jaguar was not shod with this make.
‘The knee prints by the body weren’t of any help.’
Ampforth coughed, picked up a tumbler of water and drank half the contents. ‘Kremayne has a long scratch on his forearm. He claims this happened when he was carrying a bale of hay and it slipped. Medical evidence suggests that the scratch was made by a sharp pointed human nail rather than by anything that might be found in a hay bale, but no one will categorically state that this had to be so.
‘Kremayne denies owning, or having owned in years, any plimsolls. We have no proof that he has.
‘With Kremayne’s permission, his Rover has been examined. All four tyres were Michelin X and half worn. Because the marks found had no distinguishing features, there’s nothing more than similarity between them and marks made by the Rover’s tyres. The girl bled freely and we conducted a careful search for blood in the Rover — we found dried blood on the steering-wheel. Kremayne claims he scratched himself on some brambles and that the blood must have come from this scratch. He has a tear on the palm of his right hand. The blood found on the wheel was group B but both he and the dead girl belong to this group.
‘Kremayne has stated he was in bed, asleep all night. His wife supports his alibi.
‘Detective-Sergeant Rusk states he was watching the house last night and at two fifty-seven a.m a car pulled into the drive and from there carried on into the garage which is half-way to the house on the left-hand side. Rusk spoke to Kremayne as the latter climbed out of the car. You have a report of that interview before you and you’ll see Kremayne refused to answer any questions. Rusk states Kremayne appeared quite normal and there were no obvious signs of blood on him.’
Quinn spoke. ‘Why was Rusk watching the house?’
Carren answered. ‘On his own initiative, sir.’
‘Yes, yes, I quite understand that. My question was, why?’
‘He was convinced Kremayne was the killer, sir.’
‘However convinced, it’s unusual in this day and age to find policemen indulging in voluntary overtime.’
‘He’s an odd chap.’
‘Is that a reasoned epitaph? … Never mind, let’s move on.’
‘The question is, do we arrest Kremayne?’ Ampforth rested his right foot on the chair, his right elbow on his knee.
‘We daren’t afford to waste time and yet the evidence still isn’t conclusive by a long chalk,’ muttered Quinn. ‘What about that buckle?’
‘Quite, sir,’ replied Ampforth. ‘If we were to find it in his possession, the case would be tied up most beautifully. Therefore, I say we apply for a warrant and search his house.’
‘Is it likely to be there? Kremayne knows only too well that Rusk saw him early this morning and that therefore we must be breathing down his neck. If I were he, I’d have got rid of that buckle just as soon as Rusk was out of sight.’
‘Yes, sir, but you’re not him and you’re thinking far too logically. The psychiatrist says that despite everything, he may feel so secure that he’s still holding on to the buckle.’
‘Then you’d better get on with the search-warrant, I suppose.’
‘Yes, sir.’
*
The three police cars came to a halt outside the front door of Frithton Look. The detectives and uniformed men climbed out and waited in a ragged bunch while Superintendent Fearson rang the frontdoor bell.
Rusk stared across the Marsh and saw a plane rise steeply, half circle, then head across the Channel on its twenty-minute flight to Le Touquet. Not very far from the aerodrome, the atom station was beginning to take shape. Naturally, this had to be built slap next door to one of the finest bird sanctuaries in the country, with the result that migratory birds might cease to arrive there. Power was needed in the towns, the countryside must be destroyed to feed them.
Rusk turned and saw Kremayne speaking to the superintendent. Anne Kremayne came out and asked her husband something and he turned and replied. Quite obviously, the words shocked her.
Within a minute, the police were told to enter the house. Rusk followed McBade and Vernon, and as he stepped into the hall he had the strange knowledge that he was an unwanted intruder, not a guest. The DI was giving orders, twenty to the dozen. He was a wonderful chap for rapping out orders when any of his seniors were within earshot.
They were told to search the ground floor first. Rusk turned right to enter the library and was about to go in when Kremayne came across to him.
‘Blayne, I … Look — we’ve known each other long enough for me to ask you to do me a favour.’
Rusk waited.
Kremayne laughed nervously. ‘I’m not going to want you to forget the bodies under the stairs.’
‘You’re not?’
‘For God’s sake, man, can’t you show a little sympathy?’ Kremayne took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow with it. ‘All I’m requesting is that you and no one else search my office. You’ll do the job quickly and won’t read everything in there. I’ve a lot of confidential papers lying around and …’
‘I’ll see what I can do when we get that far.’
‘Thanks awfully, old man.’
Rusk stepped past Kremayne. Kremayne looked as he had done the day he was expelled.
Rusk went into the library. Anne stood in front of the fireplace and her head was framed on either side by the photographs of her wedding.
Exhibit No. Thirteen Page 9
