The Murder Line
Roderic Jeffries
© Roderic Jeffries 1974
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 1974 by John Long Ltd.
This edition published in 2016 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 1
The bodega on Calle Juan de Moyá was unpretentious, though not without character, a place where few foreigners and certainly no casual tourist ever drank. It was larger inside than the exterior suggested and was cool in the heat of the day. Along one wall were the ends of four reinforced wine butts, eight feet in diameter, and one of these was still used to hold the vino corriente. There were curiously painted gourds along the shelf which ran the length of two walls, a stuffed wild cat, five corn dollies, and a battered straw hat on the other walls. The shelves behind the bar were packed with bottles, smuggled American cigarettes were kept in a locker below the bar, and the television set — reception was bad and ‘snow-storms’ were frequent — was switched on whenever there was transmission.
Longman entered and went up to the bar, after looking around and finding his contact was not there. “Gin and tonic,” he ordered. The middle-aged owner, with a tanned face heavily wrinkled, shook his head and said something in Spanish or Mallorquin, Longman didn’t know, or care, which. “A gin and tonic. Can’t you even understand that?” His voice was belligerent. He’d had several drinks already at his hotel and in any case, being English, he believed that the louder he spoke, the more likely it was that a dim-witted foreigner would understand him.
In the end Longman, his fair hair and un-bronzed skin identifying him as a newcomer to the island, went round the bar and pointed to a bottle of gin and then to a bottle of tonic, of which there were several in a crate on the floor. The owner grinned, finding a source of pleasant, naïve amusement in their inability to communicate except by sign language.
Bloody old fool, thought Longman. He passed a twenty-five peseta piece across and was given three fives and two ones in return. When he realised he’d only been charged eight for the drink when the hotel had charged him twenty-five, he cursed the natives for a bunch of thieves. He drank.
Two men came in, followed by another on his own, and each of them had a brandy. They knew each other and the conversation rattled away, so often sounding as if a furious argument was in progress. Time passed, drifting with the ease with which it did on this timeless island. In the next hour and a half, Longman had five more drinks and he smoked the best part of a pack of cigarettes. His orders had been clear. Wait for two hours, then leave if no contact had been made and go the next day to the bodega in Calle Santo Galdós. But why hadn’t his contact turned up? Had something gone wrong? They’d told him nothing could go wrong.
A cartoon was shown on the television. He’d seen it in England only recently and was contemptuously surprised anything could happen out here so up-to-date. Just as the mouse was slaughtering the cat, four men, in a tight bunch, came through the bead curtain over the doorway and crossed to the bar, shouting remarks to each other and to the owner. With typical politeness they stopped their conversation long enough to wish Longman a quick buenas, but he suspected there was some sort of mockery involved and didn’t even smile in return. They drank and their conversation became still livelier. Like a band of gibbering monkeys, he thought morosely.
As he ordered his last drink which would take him up to the two hours, a single man entered the bar and immediately there were roars of greeting from the four at the bar. The newcomer grinned, shouted back something which made the owner choke with laughter, then took up an exaggerated singer’s stance and sang not unmusically a song whose words were clearly obscene.
He reckoned he was a right comic, thought Longman, with a fogginess which made him suddenly realise he was more than a little cut. This irritated him. He was always able to hold his booze. It must be the Spanish gin.
The singer, in his thirties, squat, a prune of a face, began to stagger round the floor, dying from a certain type of exhaustion it appeared, cheered on by the others. He staggered a little far, tripped over Longman’s outstretched foot, cannoned into the seated Longman, and pitched on to the stone floor.
The laughter redoubled, as the man said something in a mournful voice, then he looked up at Longman and apologised in Spanish, getting the sense of his apology across by clever use of his hands.
“You bloody stupid dago,” said Longman furiously, “why the hell don’t you look where you’re going?”
The man’s laughter stopped and he scrambled to his feet. Someone asked him a quick question to which he replied and then everyone in the bar was staring at Longman with puzzled dislike, wondering how any man could be so crudely rude in another’s country.
The man spoke in stilted English. “I say, I sorry.”
Sober, Longman would have had the wit to realise that his only reasonable course of action was to recognise his own stupidity at believing none of them could possibly understand colloquial English and to assuage their collective pride, as quick on this island to die down as to rise, by apologising in turn for his gross rudeness, and to stand everyone a drink. But he wasn’t sober. “And I said you ought to look where you’re going, you stupid dago.”
The man walked over to the bar and now there was a dignity to all his actions. He picked up one of the glasses, half-filled with brandy, returned to Longman’s table, and said: “Please, Señor, permit a dago to offer drink.” He threw the brandy into Longman’s face.
The brandy stung his eyes like fire. Cursing, he knuckled them, trying to ease the pain, and after a while he succeeded, helped by his tears. The silence, which had followed the throwing of the brandy, was broken when the man said something and there was a roar of laughter. Wild with fury, Longman jumped off the chair and swung a haymaker of a right. The man swayed, the blow missed, and Longman only just maintained his balance. His right shoulder was gripped and he was spun round, to collapse over his own feet. The laughter redoubled.
Longman struggled to his feet, determined to smash his tormentor. He threw himself forward, grabbed thin air, and crashed painfully into a table. More laughter. There were shouts which told him he’d been cast as a bull and his opponent as a matador. The man held his arms to one side, waving an imaginary cape.
Longman acted as stupidly as any bull. He rushed forward, committed from the start, and failed to make contact by inches. He collapsed on to a chair, which fell over and shattered into several bits. One of the pieces, a leg with two inches of cross-piece, provided him with a weapon. He grabbed this as he stumbled to his feet and lashed out. The man, perhaps shocked by the sudden slide into viciousness, only just avoided the blow. But, prepared for the second one, he stepped neatly to one side and waved his imaginary cape in a chicuelina. Longman was by his table on which were three empty tonic bottles. He picked up one and threw it. It missed the man, scattered the bead curtain, and hit one of the two passing members of the Guardia Civil.
Members of the Policia Municipal, local islanders, very conscious of the need to encourage tourism, might have sorted o
ut things discreetly. But the two Guardia Civil, both from the Peninsula and both homesick, disliking Mallorca, Mallorquins, and foreigners, with equal impartiality, came in with the express intention of sorting out the trouble in double quick time. The first thing they saw was Longman with a second bottle which he was about to throw. They ordered him to stop and give himself up to the law. He, reacting still more stupidly, desperate to escape this catastrophe of his own making, kicked the first one and tried to hit the second in the stomach.
An annoyed, homesick, slightly injured member of the Guardia Civil made an excellent trouble-stopper. Within fifteen seconds, Longman was on the floor, dazed, and bleeding at the scalp.
He spent that night in a prison cell which, contrary to popular belief, was clean and tidy. In the morning, despite a grandfather of a headache, he was made to clean the cell out, even to the extent of getting down on hands and knees to scrub the floor. He wished to God he’d never listened to the stories of how easy it was to make a thousand pounds and get a free holiday as well.
*
Vincent Wraight studied his reflection in the mirror.
He took a comb from his pocket and carefully ran that through his hair, patting into place the natural wave.
“Are you going out, then, Vince?” asked Violet.
“That’s right,” he answered curtly.
“When will you be back, love?”
“I can’t say.” He wasn’t going to tie himself down like that. Tell a dame exactly when you were returning and if you were a few minutes late she’d start bellyaching.
He turned away from the mirror. She sat on the bed, feet tucked under her, wearing a frock that did things even for her figure, in a thoroughly discreet fashion. She had class, which was why he bothered with her.
“How about us having some grub together tomorrow evening, Vince?” she asked, her voice pleading.
He considered the question. “Ain’t you working?”
“I feel like a night off. You don’t mind, do you, love?”
He looked annoyed, as if she’d no right to plan any such thing without his express permission.
She slipped off the bed, moving with the natural grace that was so essential a part of her. She was tall and ash blonde, a striking combination. Her eyes were deep blue, her nose had the hint of a snub tip, her teeth were regular and white, and her mouth had the lilting form of someone who often laughed. Her figure was full, but not directly voluptuous although no one could miss its essential sexiness. She looked twenty and she was twenty-five.
She put her arms round his neck and pressed her body against his and began to wriggle with expert skill. After a while she giggled, because she knew what she was doing to him.
“Lay off, will you,” he muttered, trying to sound angry and failing.
“Feeling strong?” she asked and kissed him with genuine passion.
He pushed her away, though he now longed to stay. Give in, he thought, and she’d start thinking she was really winning and once an attractive broad thought that…
He left the flat, slammed the door shut, and crossed the thickly carpeted square to the lift. He pressed the call button, then stepped back to inspect his reflection again in the two foot square mirror to the right of the lift doors. Suit fitting like it should, at a hundred and twenty quid. Tie in the latest style. Shoulders broad, stomach slim.
The lift arrived and the doors slid open with only a whisper of sound. The flats were new and expensive and everything was of luxurious quality. One of the clauses in the lease demanded that all tenants lead sober and virtuous lives. From the beginning, he’d paid the day and night porters a tenner a month each, to keep their mouths tight shut. That way, they’d been taking bribes before they knew the full score and therefore couldn’t shake down Violet and himself for really heavy money.
The ground floor lobby was octagonal in shape, with a central, octagonal raised bed in which grew tired looking indoor plants and, inset in one wall, three tanks of tropical fish.
The night porter, newly on duty and sitting behind his desk, wished him a good evening in neutral tones. He knew the porters despised him, but envied him his money. He was also certain they were scared of him because it was clear to anyone that he could be dangerous. Had been very dangerous, in the past.
His bright red Mustang was parked in its usual bay. It was big, fast and it unmistakably spelled out money in a country of smaller cars. He crossed to it and was about to open the driving door when the back doors of the saloon alongside opened and two men climbed out: the one on the far side came round quickly. At first he thought they were police, but a second and closer look told him they weren’t.
“Hullo, Vince,” said the first man: Large, tough, pockmarked face and curly black hair.
He tried to break away from the Mustang to give himself room, but the second man carefully crowded him.
“You’re coming with us to see the boss, Vince.”
“Get lost,” he said viciously.
“Now don’t start getting stupid.” The first man pulled a flick knife from his coat pocket and pressed the stud and the four inch blade shot out.
They weren’t from Fortrow, he thought, which meant they’d been pulled in for this one job: and they were real professionals. He knew a tension that wasn’t fear — he was not a man to be afraid of something as yet not defined — but was a sharp warning to himself to button down his temper and take things very, very smoothly. “Look, mate,” he said easily, “I’ve got an important date. You tell me who wants to see me and where I can meet him tomorrow and I’ll be there.”
The knife was pressed against his side with the point pricking his coat just beneath his lowest rib. One quick, twisting thrust and he would be dying, if not dead.
“Come on, Vince,” said the man with the curly black hair.
“O.K., O.K. So someone’s in a hurry.” He turned, moving slowly, looking for the chance to break free. But professionals of their calibre did not make elementary mistakes. They made him sit in the back of the Jaguar and all the time the knife continued just to prick his side.
“Hands on your knees, palm downwards and lean right back,” came the order.
The driver, whose face he hadn’t yet seen clearly, started the engine and backed out and around.
“Who’s sent out this pressing invitation?” Wraight asked, sounding only vaguely interested by all that had happened.
No one bothered to answer.
He looked past the man with curly black hair and through the window as the Jaguar passed the bed of carefully tended roses and out on to the road. People walked the pavement, not giving the Jaguar a second look. Neat, thought Wraight. He knew why they’d come for him. Someone big had moved into Fortrow and was trying to take over all the prostitutes. When he’d been approached for his cooperation, he’d told the man to take a big running jump. But this showed him it was a much bigger operation than he’d imagined and so, probably, he’d now have to be flexible enough in approach to cooperate.
They drove through the suburbs and out to the hills at the back of Fortrow. He noted that the driver was really good at his job, changing down for corners, holding the correct line, always ready to be able to blast off with a fierce burst of acceleration, even though the odds against any emergency were pretty well nil.
The Jaguar stopped at a lay-by, set amongst a small wood of mixed trees. The man with curly black hair said: The boss is waiting on the other side.”
One man got out, then Wraight. The second man slid out behind him. The driver stayed at the wheel.
A ride, not very wide, led roughly north and they walked along it, in Indian file, kicking up dust because it had not rained for a long time. After a hundred yards, there was a clatter of wings as half a dozen wood pigeons suddenly took to the air and momentarily startled them all.
Beyond the woods, which were no more than three hundred yards thick, the ride came to an end at the edge of a large wheat field. Wraight looked round for the man he had com
e to see and with whom he would have to bargain. “So where’s the…” he began.
They coshed him with skill. After the first blow, only semi-conscious, knees buckling, he tried to throw himself to one side, but they were waiting for such a move and the second man caught him across the back of his neck to fell him. They leaned over and hit him with short, savage blows and soon he died.
Chapter 2
In the Eastern Division C.I.D. general room, ill designed for any degree of warm weather so that it soon became airless and stuffy, Fred Rowan used the ancient, temperamental clattering typewriter to fill out the last of the T21 forms, listing previous convictions of persons on remand. He pulled out the foolscap size sheet of paper, checked the typing, and found a couple of literals which he neatly corrected in ink. Detective Inspector Fusil was a nut on accurate typing. Most police forces now had civilian secretaries so that at least some of the routine paperwork was done by them, but the Fortrow borough force never had enough money for its major needs, let alone its minor ones. Their sole civilian secretary, the middle-aged Miss Wagner, was a law unto herself and seldom did work for anyone but Fusil.
“Aren’t you ever going home?” asked Welland.
Rowan looked up and across at the desk where Welland, on night duty, was sprawled back in his chair. “I had a load of T twenty-ones,” he said.
“If you’re that keen to do ’em this late, would you care to do my shift for me?” Welland grinned. He was a large, amiable, boisterous man, troubled by little other than the slightest indisposition of his wife.
Rowan collected up the half dozen forms and fastened them together with a paperclip.
“I’m telling you, Fred, Molly’s getting browned off with me having to do night work. She can get real sharp when she wants!” Welland sounded delighted that this should be.
The Murder Line (C.I.D. Room Book 8) Page 1
