The telephone on the second desk, Rowan’s, buzzed twice and Kerr reluctantly stood up, crossed the room, and answered it. After a very short conversation, he replaced the receiver. “It’s the old man — wants one of us. Are you busy?”
“Very,” answered Welland.
As Kerr left the room, he thought about winning the football pools and four hundred thousand pounds. It was enough to make the mind boggle. How did you go about spending even the interest that sort of fortune earned you? There wouldn’t be a bird in the country would turn down an invitation to a quick trip to the Bahamas. He reached the end room along the corridor, knocked on the door, and went in.
Fusil was sharp both in appearance and by nature. His god was success and he was ready to work himself and those under him to the limit to achieve it and as a result of this he was respected but certainly not liked. He didn’t give a damn what others thought about him. He looked up as Kerr entered. “There’s a hit and run out at Ascrey Cross just been reported and the woman’s in a bad way and not likely to survive. Get on out to Chigwell Road junction and sort things out.”
“Right, sir.”
As Kerr walked down the stairs and along the passage to the courtyard, he reflected on the change that had apparently come over the relationship between himself and the D.I. Originally there had been nothing but hostility between them, mainly because of Kerr’s carefree attitude towards life and work, but since the Fraser case, when both men had discovered exactly how harsh and ugly life could become, they seemed to have reached an unspoken agreement to do all they could to avoid actively expressed dislike of each other.
For once, the C.I.D. Hillman was free and Kerr climbed into it. He pressed the starter and the notoriously erratic engine fired the first time. He drove out of the courtyard and on to the road.
The scene of the accident at Chigwell Road was marked by the inevitable knot of spectators, a line of police bollards in the road, a police car, and an ambulance: this latter driving away as Kerr parked behind the police car. There were two uniformed police constables from the patrol car and one of them was talking to an elderly woman while the other was collecting together the objects that had been lying on the road: a hat, a paper carrier bag out of which had rolled some potatoes, and a handbag that had opened to spill out a lipstick case and some loose change which had rolled into the gutter. Was the woman old or young, wondered Kerr? Her accident and probable death must be a tragedy for someone, whatever her age, but how much more of a tragedy if she had a young family who were awaiting her return. Fusil condemned his carefree attitude, but when one was so often forced to realise how close every living person was to tragedy, surely one had to treat life as something not quite serious or else go mad?
He walked over to the second P.C., at that moment replacing the lipstick in the brown plastic handbag. “Has anything useful turned up yet, George?”
The P.C. looked up and there was an expression of bitter anger on his face, yet when he spoke his voice was quite controlled. “The woman over on the pavement who Bert’s talking to saw the whole thing. She says it was a grey car and wasn’t very big, but more than that she doesn’t know. Never thought to look at the number until it was gone.”
“Is there any glass around?”
“No traces of any sort.”
The traffic snarled past them, some cars shaving the bollards so closely it seemed almost as if the drivers were trying to run them down. Did any of them care, he wondered, that three feet from the fourth bollard was a small, dirt-streaked pool of blood? He crossed to the pavement and spoke to the first P.C., then questioned the elderly woman eyewitness. She was shocked, yet able to give a perfectly coherent account of events. The road had been clear, the woman had stepped out from the kerb. The car had come round the corner very fast, there had been a squeal of tyres, the car had skidded, had hit the woman, and then carried on, even faster than before. It was just an ordinary saloon, like all the thousands of others.
He thanked her for her help, asked if she’d like a lift home, and then turned and stared at the road at the point where the collision had taken place. What were the odds against tracing the driver of the hit-and-run car? No glass meant there were no smashed headlights or sidelights and probably the only damage was a dented wing or bonnet. The driver would not have to call at a garage for immediate repairs and the dent, or dents, might easily be so insignificant as to be not readily discernible.
He returned to where the second P.C. was writing out a list of the things he had picked up from the road. “What was the woman like who got knocked down?”
The P.C. shook his head. “Just ordinary.”
“Young?”
“Middle-aged. Going a bit grey.”
Who was waiting at home for her, wondering why she was beginning to be late? Who would be arriving back from work to wonder where she had got to? Kerr acknowledged to himself that such questions would not have stood so large in his mind a few months before.
*
Superintendent Passmore, divisional superintendent, had the appearance of a kind, generous, family man whose greatest desire in life was for comfort and peace. To some extent appearance was a true guide to his character, but it did not disclose all the story: at work, he was a keen disciplinarian who would never tolerate slackness or incompetence, or barter integrity for popularity. Unlike Fusil, however, he was popular with those who served under him — as popular as anyone holding authority could be, that was.
He sat behind his desk in his room on the ground floor and looked at Fusil. “Anything more on that smash-and-grab raid which nicked a couple of thousand?”
“Nothing definite, sir, but a useful lead’s come in, to tell us which mob carried it out. All that remains is to prove it was them.”
Passmore did not comment, although he suffered a desire to tell Fusil not to press things too hard. Fusil disliked criminals with an unusual intensity, even for a policeman, and this made him too sharp. A policeman might believe his mission in life was to see every criminal brought to book for his crimes, but unless he wanted to end up in real trouble he had to recognise that, as bitterly ironic as it could become, a guilty criminal could only be brought to trial if the law allowed this. The law had supposedly been evolved to defend the honest people from the villains, yet by some strange transmutation over the years, it had come to support the villains more and more and to buttress them from any consequences of their crimes, so that honesty was being offered less and less protection. One might rail against such blind stupidity, but as a policeman one had to accept the law as it was because a policeman was no more than a servant of the law. Fusil must realise this, or suffer. Passmore turned over a sheet of paper that lay on his desk. “I’ve had another list from the Moxon Security Company of intended shipments of money. Why the devil do they keep on sending it to me instead of to you?”
“It’s not for want of telling them, sir.”
Passmore passed the sheet of paper across and Fusil looked quickly down it. “Moxons seem to be doing a lot of work these days.”
“They are, aren’t they? They turned themselves into a public company not so long ago and I see the shares are almost five bob up.”
Fusil shrugged his shoulders. Passmore’s wife was said to have a private income which might explain why he could be bothered with the movement of shares — no ordinary policeman had enough money to give a damn whether every share on the market doubled itself.
“There’s a shipment of over a hundred thousand on Friday,” said Passmore.
“Yes, sir.”
“Will you ask for special coverage from Traffic?”
Fusil hesitated. “I don’t think so, sir,” he said finally. “You remember the circular from county H.Q. a few months back to say that special coverage must be restricted to special cases? The only thing that’s special here is the total is fifteen thousand more than we’ve had through before.”
Passmore made no comment. It was always tricky to know precisely what steps t
o take in such circumstances. Because the county force had only enough cars for normal routine work, they did not welcome any request from Fortrow Borough police for secondment of a patrol car for special duties. As Fusil had pointed out, the only thing special about this shipment of money was the extra amount and county H.Q. (always eager to criticise the borough force) would almost certainly moan about providing special protection for such reason alone. Yet, should anything happen, Fusil would immediately be severely blamed and censured for not having asked for special protection if, in fact, he hadn’t. It was a heads you win, tails I lose, situation, something becoming all too familiar to the police.
Chapter 3
It was dusk. Glenton drew the heavy curtains and switched on the light in the sitting room of number 24, Challon Place. He crossed from the window to the table and took a cigar from the pack. He lit it with all his usual finical care. Riley and Croft sat at the table: Croft was drinking whisky, Riley had so far not drunk anything.
“All right,” said Glenton harshly, “Let’s have it. What’s the beef?” His thin lips were drawn tight.
“It’s Holdman,” said Riley.
“What about him?”
Riley was totally unperturbed by the other’s anger. He was a craftsman whose services were always in demand and he could afford to pick and choose his jobs. If anyone pushed him too hard, he would up and quit. “’E don’t fit.”
“Not by a flamin’ mile,” added Croft belligerently.
Glenton slowly sat down. He suffered a hard desire to tell them to get the hell out of it, but he suppressed the words. In the past fifteen years, since he had been a boss-man, he had learned to control his temper most times. “Holdman’s all right.”
“At what?” jeered Riley. “At talking?”
“I know he talks loud, but forget that. He’s O.K.”
“’E don’t fit,” snapped Croft. “Look, Bob, this job’s big, it needs the pros. You, me, Burner, Bill — we know. But Bert — ’e don’t know nothing but shouting loud.”
Glenton reached across and picked up the bottle of gin and poured himself out a drink. He added tonic. “I’m saying he fits.”
“Why?” demanded Riley pugnaciously, his expression one of hostility.
“We need a fifth man.”
“So why pick that loose-mouthed bastard?” said Croft. “According to ’im, ’e all but done the mail train robbery on ’is own — yet ’e ain’t ever been on a big job.”
“He’ll keep his mouth shut where it matters — outside this house.”
“You ain’t answered the question,” said Riley. “Why bring ’im in? If you wanted another driver, there’s Alf or Snout, who can ’andle a car as good as Stirling.”
Croft became more annoyed. No one could drive a car as well as he.
“He’s necessary to the job — take my word,” said Glenton.
“I ain’t,” replied Riley flatly.
Glenton drank heavily. He balled his big fists as he struggled to continue to control his temper. Gone were the days when the leader of a mob accepted no argument and smashed the guts in of anyone who became a nuisance: big crime now called for experts and they had to be convinced that everything was being done just right or they’d walk out, like goddamn prima donnas. Only reason would work. “Bert’s all right. It’s just that he’s raw.”
“Raw?” Croft spoke derisively. “’E’s so raw ’e ain’t even good enough for drumming.”
Glenton became earnest. “Look, you know me — I ain’t round the twist. Sure Bert opens his yap loud and wide, but that don’t signify, he’s just trying to make his place. I’m telling both of you, he’s real useful.”
They made no comment.
“I had a mate,” said Glenton, and he watched their faces closely. “We worked together and we worked good. We was doing a job on a jewellers one night when he fell through the skylight. The glass ripped him up and there wasn’t nothing I could do for him. I called the law up, but he was dead when they got him to hospital. Bert’s his son.”
“’E talks too big,” muttered Riley, but the sharp note had gone from his voice.
Glenton tried to conceal his relief. It was certain now that if he kept talking they would finally accept Holdman as one of the mob.
*
Helen Barley smiled at Kerr as he watched an over-made-up blonde waggle her way along the pavement. Trust him not to miss such a sight! “Is that how you’d like me to go about the place?”
“Is what what?” He turned and looked at her.
“John, you’re an unconcealed hypocrite. Just put your right hand over your heart and swear you weren’t watching every movement of that peroxide blonde.”
He grinned.
She tucked her arm round his. “You men are all the same: can’t keep your eyes at home.”
“I thought she was pretty ugly, as a matter of fact.”
“Now you’re being not only a hypocrite, but also a liar. Come on, let’s get walking. I’m hungry.”
“Where shall we go for a meal?”
“How about that new place which has just opened up by Rottmans?”
He tried to remember whether he had enough money for a pukka restaurant.
“Dutch, of course.” She knew how he hated not paying for both of them, but it did seem silly not to have a nice meal just because of this. She was a practical woman with a strong streak of realism to her character that allowed her to accept him for what he was. Perhaps he did daydream about exotic and passionate females chasing him until he could run no further, but what harm did that daydream do? He would never be called upon to submit to such a fate. Anyway, since the Fraser case, they had come very much closer together and he daydreamed less. That case had shocked him. It had hurt her, far more than she had ever admitted, but ironically good had come out of it because their relationship had become much sweeter.
“A penny for them,” he said, interrupting her thoughts.
It was her turn to avoid the truth. “I was wondering whether I could turn up the hem of my blue dress and make it last the rest of the summer.”
“Don’t you women ever stop worrying about what you’re wearing, have worn, or are going to wear?”
“Why should we? It’s a harmless occupation.”
They reached the restaurant and went in. It was sufficiently newly opened still to offer value for money and pleasant service. The head waiter could place a customer’s income pretty accurately, but he greeted Kerr as if the latter’s suit were not ready-made and well-worn, and escorted them both over to a corner table by the window, and accepted an order for a carafe of red wine with the same apparent pleasure as he would have shown had the order been for a bottle of Château Lafite.
Kerr offered cigarettes. “Did you have a pleasant evening Tuesday?” he asked with studied casualness.
“Tuesday… Why Tuesday?” she wondered aloud, her brown eyes showing a trace of amusement.
“Isn’t that when you went out with Phineas?”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“What a hell of a name! He sounds too la-di-da for words.”
“He’s certainly not that.”
“If I were called Phineas I’d… I’d…” He struggled to describe what he would do.
“No one would ever have made the mistake of giving you that name.”
He wasn’t certain whether this was a compliment or a gentle insult. “Where did you go?”
“To the theatre at Barstone where that London preview is on. I must say the play seemed a bit odd to me — all those four-letter words, and things.”
“He took you to that play?” Kerr’s voice rose. “That one where the cast walks around starkers?”
“Only one couple, actually, and the lights were very dim.”
“He must be crazy to take you there — or hopeful.”
She smiled and her long face lit up with a soft, warm attractiveness. He was, she thought contentedly, showing all the signs of jealousy.
*
Fortrow, Friday, mid-day. The weather had changed and although the day was still warm the sky was now overcast with high cloud. The forecast had been for light drizzle, but the hills at the back of the town often seemed to divert the weather promised by the met office. A street cleaner, brushing up muck in the gutter, found sixpence and hastily pocketed the mud-covered coin. In the Old Docks, a diver in the now unfamiliar full diver’s suit and helmet, with trailing air hose, slipped beneath the scummy surface of Harcourt Dock to try to discover why the huge wooden and steel gates wouldn’t shut properly. In the New Docks, a two-funnel liner slipped her head and stern ropes, and two wire back-springs, turned with the aid of tugs, and headed downstream to begin her journey to Australia. In the Four Castles, Old Dock Road, a Panamanian seaman, drunk since eleven, tried to stick a knife into an English greaser, missed, tripped, and knifed himself instead. In Brystrom Road, in a sordid, filthy, back-to-back house, a girl of fourteen gave birth to a boy and suffocated him with the blood-stained eiderdown. Twenty miles north-east of Fortrow, the driver of a grey Austin which had a dented near-side wing felt sick as a constable approached the newly parked car, but the constable walked on.
The Moxon Security Company’s local headquarters were in an old warehouse at Bratby Cross, an eastern suburb of Fortrow. The three armoured trucks were kept under cover at the front end of the courtyard at the back of the two-storey building, but there was so much air pollution from the many factories in the area that the trucks seemed always to be grimy no matter how often they were washed down — a source of constant strife between Weaver and the men.
Fish came out of the building and crossed the courtyard to the one remaining truck. “All ready?” he asked the three waiting guards. He inspected them. They wore the blue uniform of the company, crash helmets that at the back came low down over the neck, goggles which at the moment were pushed up on the helmets, truncheons and, in special pockets, gas pistols. Blether and Young also carried the three steel strong-boxes in which the money would be collected.
Murder Among Thieves (C.I.D Room Book 3) Page 2
