The C.I.D Room

by Roderic Jeffries

When his after-dinner cigarette was half smoked, he stood up and said he must leave.

  ‘Will you be late, darling?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m afraid I may be.’

  ‘I won’t wait up for you. I’m feeling tired already because of this headache. George, please don’t go and overwork. You’ve been looking so tired recently.’

  He wondered if she could begin to appreciate the terrible irony of her worrying about his health when she was a human wreck and he was perfectly fit? He walked across to the door and had his hand on the handle when he stopped. ‘Gladys, why won’t you get someone in to give you a hand?’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘You could use some of the accident money.’

  ‘No, George.’

  He opened the door.

  ‘Look in to see if I’m awake when you get back,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep very much, even though I am so tired.’

  He went out and shut the door. If only she had been less of an invalid, or more, he was certain he could have accepted the position better. She had been awarded £21,000 after the accident, so why wouldn’t she use some of that money to make her life easier?

  He drove out on to the road. Their neighbour on the left, a retired bank manager, was mowing the front lawn. The man waved and Leery waved back. At one time, the two families had tried to strike up a friendship, but each had recognised in time that this was impossible. Now, they were happy to be distantly polite to each other.

  The drive to Crossford, thirty-five miles away, took just under the hour. He stopped at a garage immediately outside the town and bought four gallons of petrol and a pint of oil. The man at the pumps greeted him cheerfully and thanked him for the usual shilling tip.

  As he drove into town, he thought about Prudence with the bitter self-hatred that he so often knew. She was twenty-two and he was fifty-two, a difference in years which should have been enough to convince even him that he was acting the part of a ridiculous old goat — yet when the human emotions were involved, knowing and doing anything about this knowledge were two different things. He had known from the beginning it was madness to have anything to do with her, but this was a madness he was quite unable to control.

  He took the right-hand turn at the first set of lights and went down a small side road to park at the end of a cul-de-sac. Crossford was a long way from Fortrow and Pendleton Bray and the odds of anyone seeing the car in Crossford and identifying it as his were extremely remote, yet he was not prepared to take even the slight risk of leaving it anywhere near the flat where Prudence lived.

  There was a passage through from the cul-de-sac to a road where he caught a bus that took him across town. He always felt slightly silly at taking so many precautions, but the fear of being found out was enough to overcome any such feelings. Prudence even knew him under the name of Kershaw and thought he was in some business in London. He was not going to be betrayed by any words of hers.

  She lived in a flat in a recently converted Victorian building, on the bank of the river that ran through the centre of town. The rent was ten guineas a week. He paid it. He gave her £20 a week to ‘live on’. He’d bought her a £400 pearl necklace and all she’d said had been that the pearls were so small her friends would think they were beads. He’d bought her a £900 M.G. sports car and three days after delivery she had crushed a wing and the repairs had cost him over £80 because the insurance company had only given her third party cover.

  He went into the hall and rang the bell to her flat. The excitement within him began to build up.

  She was wearing a dress that over-emphasised her body and she wore far too much make-up. She looked like a tart: the kind of tart who turned every man’s head.

  ‘You’re late,’ she said sulkily.

  ‘Work tied me up.’ He went in and shut the door. Why, he wondered angrily, had she greeted him with almost the same words as Gladys had? He kissed her, but she remained contemptuously passive. After a short while, she freed herself and walked through to the sitting-room.

  He followed her and once inside lit a cigarette. The excitement within him grew. She excited him in the most basic and degrading way, degrading because experience had proved he could not control this excitement. He was a man of considerable will-power, yet when with her he had none. She went out of her way to humiliate him, gaining pleasure from doing so, and he meekly accepted the humiliation.

  ‘Sit down,’ she demanded petulantly. ‘You make me feel all nervous, standing there.’

  He sat down.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘Can’t we stay here?’

  ‘I’ve been stuck in this dump all day, just waiting for you. I want to get out. Anyway, I haven’t had any grub.’

  ‘But I’ve eaten…’

  ‘So that makes everything all right? You’ve fed and that’s all that matters?’

  ‘If you’re hungry, we’ll go out.’

  She rubbed the side of her face. Her blonde hair was set in a style that had the effect of underlining the roundness of her face and she looked younger than she was and even virginal. ‘I want to go to that new place in Ackleton,’ she said, in her soft lisping voice.

  He was not surprised. The restaurant had just opened and already was known as the most expensive one on the south coast. He remembered, bitterly, the first meal in a restaurant he and Gladys had had after their marriage. They had eaten in Soho in a place that was dirty but the food was cheap — in those days a seaman was lucky to be able to afford to eat out, no matter what the place was like.

  ‘Give me a drink,’ demanded Prudence.

  He stood up and went over to the cocktail cabinet. ‘What would you like, darling?’

  ‘Whisky. And don’t drown it.’

  If she was in a drinking mood, the night was hardly going to be much fun.

  *

  The relationship between Helen and Kerr was something more than mere friendship and something less than courtship. They had known each other for a year, gained enjoyment from each other’s company, and had discovered how many of their tastes were similar. He often thought that she was completely loyal and faithful, capable and intelligent, and her home would be a place of contentment. But she lacked one thing for him and that was excitement. Perhaps, he sometimes thought sadly, a woman couldn’t be both faithful and exciting. An exciting woman had the grace of a panther, the beauty of Venus, the wantonness of Messalina — a wantonness, of course, reserved for him. The exciting woman both instructed and obeyed… He was alone with this woman, certain of solitude. She had tried to resist, but the scorching fires within her had been lit by him and her resistance turned into fierce, turbulent, primeval, barbaric passion. She was tormented by desires, desperate to have him slake them, acknowledging that he was her master in all things…

  ‘A penny for them,’ said Helen suddenly. She was twenty-two. She had a face that was attractive but not beautiful, a body that was shapely but not extravagant, and a warm personality that suggested contentment. In a crowd she would be unremarked and unremarkable, unless an onlooker had the time and wit to appreciate her inner honesty.

  Her words jerked his mind back to the mundane world of a bus-stop and the light drizzle that had been falling when they came out of the cinema. ‘I was thinking of Arcadia,’ he answered.

  ‘Sometimes, John, I’m sure you depart off to another world.’

  ‘Not exactly…’ he began, then became silent. It was not something easily explained!

  ‘Other grass is always greener?’

  He was startled by her words and wondered if she had somehow accurately divined his thoughts. He studied her face, pleasantly shadowed by the half-light, and saw that she was smiling. She tucked her arm round his. ‘Stop looking so worried.’ She half-turned and stared down the road. ‘Isn’t that bus ever going to come along?’

  ‘I hope so, since it’s the last one.’

  ‘We could walk.’

  He groaned. ‘I’ve
spent the day walking here, there, and the other place.’

  ‘It’s good for the liver.’

  ‘I wish you’d get the D.I. walking, then, and calm his liver down.’

  ‘Is he a very livery gentleman?’

  ‘You can say that again. He treats me as if I’d just crawled out from under the carpet. The sarge says he’s O.K., and all that’s the matter is I got sent here to take over from a first-class bloke, but I didn’t arrange the transfer.’

  ‘No red carpet?’

  ‘No red carpet.’

  ‘Did no one tell them it was John Kerr, the detective constable of the year, who was joining?’ She became serious. ‘I hope it’s not too bad, John?’

  ‘It’s not going to get me down, but I wish he’d spit a few less tacks every time I heave into sight.’

  As he finished speaking, the bus turned the corner and drew up at the stop. An elderly couple got off and Helen and Kerr boarded.

  ‘There’s rather a good concert next Thursday, John,’ she said, as soon as they were seated. ‘Would you like to come?’

  ‘What are they playing?’

  ‘Tchaikovsky and Grieg mainly, so there’ll be plenty of oompty-boom for you.’ She laughed gaily.

  ‘Fine, as far as I can tell.’

  ‘But the master detective may be called away to solve the unsolvable?’

  ‘There’s always work for a genius.’ He offered her a boiled sweet and sucked one himself. Their time together was always pleasant, warm, happy — but it just wasn’t exciting. Now if she had some Brazilian blood in her… The balcony overlooked the warm sea that was bathed in cool moonlight. From the room behind came the sounds of a wild mazurka. She wore a dress that clung to her skin, caressed it, yet hid it. She ran her hands up his arms and down his back as she implored, begged, demanded. She spoke wildly of suicide, immolation, if he refused her. Calmly, he drank from the tall, frosted glass as she tore off her…

  ‘Gone for another trip?’ asked Helen.

  6

  On Friday morning, Kerr arrived at divisional H.Q. at 8.30 and met Welland for the first time. Welland was doing his six months as C.I.D. aide. He was a cheerful man with a face that looked as if at some time it had been pushed slightly to one side, an illusion fostered by his flappy ears which were set at slightly different heights.

  ‘Fred Rowan?’ said Welland, answering a question. ‘He’s a bit of a miserable bastard, all right, but I suppose he’s got cause.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You haven’t heard?’

  ‘Not a whisper.’

  ‘He’s married to a woman who does some modelling. He thinks she’s having too good a time with the bloke who gives her the jobs, but he’s not a bright enough detective to find out for certain.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he walk in on her unexpectedly?’

  ‘Probably scared to.’

  ‘Scared of the other bloke?’

  ‘Scared of what he’ll find.’ Welland grinned. ‘He’s the best advertisement I know for not getting married.’

  ‘D’you need one, then?’

  ‘Me? I’m married and wouldn’t change anything but the pay. And talking of money, I read of a bloke who earns five thousand quid a week. What d’you do with money like that?’

  ‘Spend it.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Look. You’ve got five thousand. You buy all the things you’ve ever wanted. But in seven days’ time there’s another five thousand and…’

  The door opened and Rowan entered, cutting short Welland’s words.

  ‘What’s up then?’ demanded Rowan.

  ‘Up?’

  ‘No work to do?’

  ‘I was just telling John all about the division and the blokes in it.’

  Rowan flushed, as if certain the relationship between himself and his wife had been discussed. ‘Has anyone got the lists up from down below?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then how about someone doin’ something about it?’

  Welland stood up. ‘Run along dog’s-body,’ he observed humorously, just before he left.

  Kerr stubbed out his cigarette. If he were married to a woman who might be spitting in his bed, he’d soon find out if in fact she was. Who’d been that bloke in Olympia who’d rigged up a net to catch his wife and her lover in its toils when the fun and games started? And everyone else had come along and had a good belly laugh at the sight.

  In his room, at the end of the corridor, Fusil packed his pipe with tobacco. He struck a match and it broke in two with the flaming head flicking across the desk and settling on the morning’s mail. He cursed as he smacked it out with his fist. It was going to be that kind of a morning.

  He thought about promotion. It depended on so many things, quite apart from ability. Was luck running? The difference between success and failure was often so small that only luck decided which it was going to be. One worked like hell to break a case and finally there would be one small piece of evidence still wanted if the case were to be brought to court. Luck often decided whether or not that piece of evidence turned up. Then, did one’s face fit? Superiors were men with likes and dislikes. If they were competent, they disliked incompetency, if incompetent, competency. Was the right position going to be vacant at the right time? There were three D.I.s to every D.C.I. It was no good serving in a force which had too many long-lived D.C.I.s.

  Promotion depended on riding one’s luck when it was holding, working like a black most times, keeping the clear-up rate high, keeping one’s nose clean, and making certain the other blokes kept their noses clean.

  He’d dirtied his nose in the Burchell case and dirtied it to no mean measure. If he was to overcome the effects of this, he had to solve the gold theft smartly. If he didn’t, promotion would become an unfamiliar word.

  He tamped the burning tobacco with a pencil. On the floor near the desk was the metal box, sent by air from Sydney, in which had been the gold. The Sydney police had found a number of finger-prints on the box and these were now being checked at the small factory in Cumberland.

  A case initially often responded best to logic. Where was it logical for the gold charms to have been stolen? Up in Cumberland, where workers were handling them. But the first report from the Whitehaven police said that security measures up there were such that there could be no question of theft at their end. Maybe.

  If it wasn’t the factory hands, had the theft occurred in transit between Cumberland and Fortrow? There seemed no chance of that. The lorry had been escorted all the way to the security shed. Had the dockers stolen the gold? How could they have upended the crate, ripped off the bottom, slit open the metal shield, emptied the ballast, taken out the tin box, forced the lock, substituted the bricks and paper for the gold, replaced the box and the ballast, nailed-up the crate, turned it right way up, and all this without being spotted by anyone? True, most watchmen overlooked any amount of petty pilfering, but this was large-scale theft. And when the valuable cargo was being loaded, there was always a ship’s officer present. Dockers were clever thieves, but not that clever.

  His pipe had gone out. He put it down on his desk, stood up, and picked up the key which had been sent from Sydney. Its design showed the lock was a good one — this was only to be expected, yet it made the time required for the theft still longer.

  He opened the box. Inside were two whole bricks, many bits of bricks, and a lot of scrumpled-up brown paper, all of which had been packed in a large, thick plastic bag — an unnecessary precaution, he thought.

  There was a knock on the door and Braddon entered.

  ‘’Morning, sir.’

  ‘’Morning.’ Fusil went back to his chair. ‘Let’s have the crime reports.’

  Braddon checked with his notebook. ‘Two breaking and enterings, nothing much gone: one attempted rape which sounds as if it could be last-minute nerves of the woman: three stolen cars: a knifing down by the docks: and a couple of very drunk and disorderlies fro
m Patchel.’

  ‘You don’t think much of the rape?’

  ‘The woman’s initial statement is on your desk and it’s pretty ambiguous. Rowan’s gone to see her to get a fuller statement.’

  ‘Rowan?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Why him?’

  ‘I thought it needed someone with experience and Kerr hasn’t any.’

  Braddon wasn’t stupid, thought Fusil, he just sometimes acted stupidly because he never gave any thought to the psychology of being a good detective — which was why he had never made better than detective sergeant. Rowan had a wife who might be two-timing him: that left him hating all women who stepped off the straight and narrow. If he thought the woman in this case was lying, he’d make his own feelings so clear that he’d never begin to get the truth from her. ‘I’ll go and see the woman myself.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘What scale are the breaking and enterings?’

  ‘No more than a hundred quid’s worth of stuff.’

  ‘The knifing?’

  ‘A seaman got it along the ribs in a dock pub brawl. The hospital says the knife never really got inside.’

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘A lot of people who were in the pub but can’t remember a thing.’

  ‘Then start kicking some life into their memories.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Fusil pointed to the metal box and the bricks and paper that were alongside it. ‘Get the bricks round to a local merchant and find out if there’s any chance of identifying where they came from: take the paper to the lab for the usual tests. O.K., that’s the lot.’

  He watched Braddon leave, then relit his pipe. The detective sergeant was a good detective for nine-tenths of his working life — nine-tenths of police work was routine.

  His thoughts returned to the gold theft. This was the case which was going to make or break him, not the knifing, the rape, the breaking and enterings. Solved or unsolved, they would end up as mere statistics, but the gold theft had become news.

  Could the ship’s officers have done the job? Clearly, there was little to stop them finding out where the gold had been. The shore office had known.