“Certainly not by visual examination. We’ll see what the P.M. can do.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll do the P.M. tomorrow morning. Will you have ready the usual facts: ages, physical peculiarities, injuries suffered, and so on?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” The pathologist left, accompanied by his secretary — an elderly man with a slight limp — who carried the large leather suitcase, gloves, and overalls.
One of the undertakers came up and spoke to Fusil. “Is it all right to take ’em off now?”
“Not yet. We’re still waiting for the scientists to turn up.”
“When your bloke rang he said to come right away,” protested the other. “We can’t hang around all night.”
Fusil shrugged his shoulders. He wondered whether they were quite insensible to the terrible brutality of the two deaths. There was a shout for him and he went over to where the sweating constables were searching the undergrowth, a mixture of grass, bracken, and occasional clumps of brambles. The bracken and grass had been knocked about and at one point the soil was bare and had taken an impression of a tyre. He studied the impression and although it was unlikely to be clear enough to give any help, he gave orders for photographs and then, if possible, a cast to be taken of it.
Two more men came into the clearing, one in fire brigade uniform, the other in sports coat and floppy grey flannel trousers. The fire officer specialised in investigating the causes of fires and the second man was a forensic scientist. Fusil introduced himself and gave them a brief résumé of the facts. The fire officer stared at the charred bodies and equipment. “That was one hell of a fire!” he commented.
*
Kerr arrived at Helen’s home, a semi-detached in the unfashionable suburb of Farnleigh, at a quarter to ten at night, just about three hours late. He rang the bell and as he waited he stared at the tiny front garden which consisted of a pocket-handkerchief lawn and a rose bed. The lawn was recently mown and the rose bed lacked a single weed. Mr. Barley, a retired shipping clerk, spent hours working in the front and back gardens.
Helen opened the door. “Well,” she said, “this is a surprise!”
“I’m sorry I’m late, but I got hung up…” he began.
“So hung up you couldn’t even give me a ring?”
It was not, he thought, the right moment to confess that in the stress of work he had forgotten their date until an hour after the time agreed. “There’s been a terrible robbery, with two poor devils murdered.”
She stepped back to let him enter the hall. Violence frightened her, not only because of its nature, but also because she was terrified he would get badly caught up in it. Sometimes in her imagination she saw him stabbed or battered to death. “What’s happened, John?”
He told her very briefly, then they went into the sitting room where Mr. and Mrs. Barley were watching the television and Kerr had to explain what had happened all over again. Mr. Barley, an inoffensive man who would have been most terribly sickened if actually faced by the scene in the clearing in Bellamy Wood, questioned Kerr closely on all the details, being an avid follower, at second hand, of all crime.
*
It was dusk. The Ford Executive, sidelights on but not headlights, at first gathered speed slowly, then with ever increasing momentum. It ran almost straight for a hundred yards before gradually veering to the left and the rock face. When the front near-side wheel touched the rock there was a quick screech of metal and the car jerked to the right, but then it once more veered over to the left. The gradient increased in severity, pushing up the speed of the Ford. It struck the rock face again, this time with so much force that it was catapulted over to the right, cutting across in front of a tired Mini that had just rounded the corner and was slogging up the hill in second. The Ford smashed into the white painted wooden guard rails, breaking off one of the uprights, fell nose down on to a rock ledge, bounced over and hurtled down to the ground below where it landed on the roof.
The driver of the Mini braked to a halt. He began to tremble. Down below, blood flowed from the shattered body of Robert Glenton.
Chapter 6
There had been talk of building a new mortuary in east Fortrow, but such talk had led nowhere. The mortuary remained in the converted stables near the old docks: it was a place of bad lighting and ingrained dirt.
The large X-ray machine had come from the general hospital, after the hospital had scrapped it. It was large, cumbersome, and seldom worked freely although, strangely, on the Saturday it gave no trouble. The pathologist was handed X-ray films of the two dead guards as soon as he had changed into his working kit of overalls, gum-boots, and long rubber gloves. He studied the plates. “Damn near impossible to be certain, Inspector, because of the damage from burning, but it looks as if both men were shot.”
Fusil was shown the X-rays. He was unable to decipher what he was looking at, even when the pathologist pointed out certain features with his long, shapely forefinger.
“I think,” said the pathologist, “the shooting was upwards from the back of the neck — it’s the surest method and neat.” He spoke rather as if describing the best way of knocking down a fast rising pheasant.
He turned and motioned to the post-mortem assistant, who pulled off the plastic sheet which covered the body on the P.M. table. Plastic bags had been placed over the remaining extremities and there was a plastic sheet underneath. The pathologist made a study of the badly charred body, then he ordered Walsh to take photographs from the right-hand side, using a large square of whitened hardboard to provide a background contrast. Whilst he waited, the pathologist dictated notes to his secretary. The forensic scientist crossed to a stool and sat down while the exhibits officer, a uniformed sergeant, leaned against one of the marble-topped built-in cupboards and whistled silently.
The required photographs were taken. The pathologist removed the plastic bags and each one was labelled before being put on one side. The body was stripped as far as was possible of all remaining charred clothing.
A uniformed constable looked through the outside doorway, saw Fusil, and indicated he was wanted outside. Grateful for the excuse to leave, Fusil went out into the small courtyard that was unkempt and had grass growing between the cracked paving stones, but which was bathed in bright sunshine and thus provided a sharp contrast to the room he had just left.
“A message has just come through, sir,” said the P.C., “from Detective Sergeant Braddon. A Miss Railton has complained about a car that’s been parked outside her house all night. Sergeant Braddon’s checked the registration number which she gave him and the car was stolen in London on Thursday.”
The villains, thought Fusil, would almost certainly have changed cars fairly soon after leaving Bellamy Wood just in case anyone had noticed their departure. This abandoned stolen car could have been used by them to get from the wood to wherever Miss Railton lived — on the other hand it could just be one of the dozens of cars that were stolen every day, driven, and then abandoned.
“Get on back to the sergeant,” said Fusil, “and tell him to send someone out to check the car and bring it in.”
The constable crossed the courtyard to his small office. Fusil, very reluctantly, returned to the post-mortem.
*
Kerr went down to the courtyard and discovered the C.I.D. Hillman had been taken out so that he was reduced to public transport. Even this did not disturb his feeling of sunny well-being. Carrying the car-equipment suitcase, he left the courtyard and walked briskly along Tidemouth Road to the northern end, which took him past the new row of shops that catered for people with not too much money and even less taste. He waited at the bus stop, thankful to put down the suitcase.
A green G.T. car, with fast-back lines, hummed past. The driver was a woman as sleek as the car. Offered one or other, which would he choose — the car or the girl? He decided almost immediately that he’d take the car. Experience was beginning to teach him that glamour only really exis
ted at a distance. In any case, that sort of woman would imagine mink was what the poorer people wore — nothing less than sable for her. Naturally, if you were in a position to keep both the woman and the car…
The bus arrived and he climbed up to the top deck. A few days ago he had, perhaps pretentiously, said to Helen that there was a heck of a lot of truth in the old saying about not everything that glittered being gold. She’d impishly corrected his quotation and then laughed and told him that he’d grown up all of a sudden and how much nicer he’d become even if his hair had turned a little grey. He’d checked in the mirror. His hair hadn’t shown a hint of grey. He’d said that if he was now grown-up it would be a good idea to play a grown-up game, or two. She’d laughed again, blushed, and suggested they went for a walk.
The bus reached Madders Avenue and he left it. The road was typical of the kind of development that had taken place between the wars when Fortrow had started to decay because of the shipping slump and because little industry had yet come to the area. The houses had cost under three hundred pounds, were semi-detached, without garages, and were depressingly uniform in style and construction. There was certainly no appearance of decay since almost all of them were in good order and well painted, but the suggestion was that no one who lived here would ever rise far in the world.
Number four was painted a sharp shade of yellow and there were lace curtains at all the windows. Kerr rang the bell and the door was opened almost immediately by Miss Railton, a sharp spinster in her middle sixties. She overwhelmingly reminded him of an aunt of his — a militant vegetarian — who was said to have died from eating too many raw carrots. “Miss Railton? My name’s Detective Constable Kerr.”
She stared at him. “You’re very young.”
He was nonplussed. “I believe you.”
“My father always said that you cannot trust a policeman until he is middle-aged. I distinctly asked for a middle-aged policeman.”
He now knew why Braddon had been grinning like a Cheshire cat when detailing him for this interview. “Would you…?”
“Why will no one do as he’s told today?”
He stepped into the hall and for some time the conversation was one-sided, but finally Kerr was able to introduce the subject of cars. Cars, she snapped angrily, kept on parking right in front of her house when they’d no right to be there and this even though she kept sticking notices on them to tell them to keep away. This car she’d rung up about had been outside her house ever since the previous afternoon and she wanted it removed immediately and the owner severely punished. Kerr held back telling her that she did not have the right to a clear road. He took out his notebook to make some notes and she suddenly, and somewhat inexplicably, led the way into the sitting room.
The room was almost in gloom and furniture loomed large in every direction. There was a framed print of Queen Victoria on one wall, one of George V’s coronation and one of Landseers ‘The Monarch of the Glen’ on another. On the heavy mantelpiece was an enormous ugly clock in a domed glass case, flanked on either side by small stuffed dogs whose sawdust stuffing was bursting out. The radio set was of a very early vintage, with only one waveband and a strip dial. Against the near wall was a six-foot-high glass-fronted cabinet that was filled with china animals. Kerr began to feel overwhelmed in a slightly hysterical manner. “Have you any idea when this car was left here?” he asked.
“It wasn’t there when I went out at half-past three, but it most certainly was when I returned at half-past four. I stuck a notice on the windscreen.”
He looked through the net curtaining over the window and could just make out the notice which was a few inches up from the base of the windscreen.
“It is monstrous, quite monstrous, how people treat other people’s properties these days. In any case, I had only just got rid of the red car.”
“What red car?”
“The one that was parked there all morning.”
“When did that one leave?”
“Whilst I was out.”
“Can you say when this red car was left here?”
“No. I didn’t notice it until nine o’clock.”
“Have you any idea what make of car it was?”
“I have not.”
“Was it a large one?”
“It was large and vulgar. But I called you about the yellow car that’s out there now and I want…”
“Was the red one bigger than the yellow one?”
She became haughtily angry at his interruption, but eventually looked through the window. “Yes.”
“When you slapped your notice on, did you see what was inside the car?”
“I am not in the habit of snooping, young man.”
Not much, he thought. “Is there anything else you noticed about it?”
“There is not.”
Kerr looked unseeingly at his notebook. If the yellow Austin now parked outside had been used by the gang who robbed the armoured truck and murdered the guards, then obviously this was where some or all of them had changed vehicles. The red car could have been their legit car, parked in readiness early that morning.
“Right. Thanks very much for your help, Miss Railton.”
“Is that all you have to say?” she asked, in icy tones of voice.
“Why, yes.”
“Then let me express my great surprise at the way in which you have wasted my time by worrying about a car that has gone away…”
Kerr listened. He had said all the wrong things, done all the wrong things, and shown himself to be totally incompetent. Her father had been quite right — no policeman was to be trusted until he had reached the discretion of middle age.
He thankfully left the house and went over to the yellow Austin. He put down the suitcase by the near-side front wheel and visually examined the car’s interior. The seats were empty and nothing was visible on the parcel shelf or on the floor, either in the front or the back.
There was nothing more he could do until the dabs man arrived, so he lit a cigarette. As he dropped the match into the gutter, he saw a movement in the lace curtain of the sitting room. No doubt he was under disapproving observation, decent middle-aged policemen didn’t smoke. It reminded him of the notice the old girl had stuck on the windscreen and he examined this. It was printed and he was just able to read the words through the paper. ‘This is not (underlined twice) a public parking place. Do not (underlined three times) park here.’ He grinned.
Detective Constable Walsh arrived in a police van and, true to form, began to moan even as he climbed out on to the road. “People seem to think I’ve got four arms and four legs and can be in two places at once.”
“That’s fair enough, isn’t it? Two arms and two legs for each place!”
“You blokes from the borough force are a real bunch of jokers.”
Walsh checked the button handle of the driving door for prints and found none. The door was unlocked and he opened it, then asked Kerr if he’d brought any plastic sheets in a tone of voice which suggested nothing was less likely. Kerr took one out of the suitcase and Walsh spread it over the front seats and the floor before lying across the near seats to test the gear lever and dashboard for prints. Three boys came along and stared with obvious fascination. The eldest finally asked what was going on and Kerr said they were searching for a gang who’d stolen Nelson’s Column. They became very excited.
Walsh backed out of the car. “There’s nothing there… I knew it would be a totally wasted journey.”
“Aren’t you lucky then?” said Kerr.
“What’s that?”
“You’ve discovered just how right you were.”
Walsh was not amused. Kerr picked out from the suitcase the special steering wheel and clamped this on the car’s wheel, where it stood proud by some two inches, thus enabling him to steer without any fear of putting his own prints on the real wheel. “Be seeing you,” he called out to Walsh.
“Not if I can help it,” retorted the other rudely.
Kerr drove back to the station and parked the Austin alongside the armoured truck, which stood outside the end garage bay that was equipped for vehicle inspection. The breakdown truck inside was being examined minutely, every piece of mud, fluff, and general dirt, being carefully bagged — and labelled because at this stage no one knew what was important to the case and what was not.
Kerr went inside. Braddon was down in the inspection pit, using a powerful trailing light to check around the chassis. Kerr squatted on his heels. “Sarge, I’m back.”
Braddon turned round and wiped his sweating forehead with the back of his hand, unknowingly leaving behind a trail of dirty grease. He smiled. “Was Miss Railton fun?”
“Hilarious. Next time, you try her.”
“Not me, chum, I’m too old to expose myself to such risks. Well — what’s the news?”
“There was a large red car parked in front of her place in the morning and until she went out at half past three: when she returned at half four, this yellow Austin was in its place. She doesn’t know any more than that, but she does want the owner of the Austin boiled in oil.”
Sweat trickled down Braddon’s face and he again used the dirty back of his hand to wipe it off. “The times could match, then, but that’s all. O.K., go and tell the old man.”
“Where is he?”
“How the hell should I know? I’ve been down here, frying, for hours.”
Tempers would soon get ragged, thought Kerr, as he left and crossed the courtyard to enter the building. Unless the case was very soon cleared up — and what chance was there of that? — life was going to become explosive.
*
Fusil watched the deft hands of the pathologist at work. One thing was already certain, he decided gloomily, this case was going to be a real pig. The villains had been professionals and the professionals had learned that the essential ingredients of successful crime were meticulous planning, attention to the smallest detail, and the use of violence whenever necessary, especially when covering up tracks.
Murder Among Thieves (C.I.D Room Book 3) Page 5
