Murder Among Thieves (C.I.D Room Book 3)

by Roderic Jeffries

  “It ought to, shouldn’t it?”

  “But will it?”

  What did he want? Wondered Fusil scornfully. The comfort of an affirmative answer, no matter what the truth?

  “Have you heard anything on the marks of the oxygen bottle?” asked Kywood, when it became clear there was to be no answer to his previous question.

  “A report came through this morning just before I left. That was a batch number, giving the manufacturers an identification. There are ten bottles to each batch number and once a bottle is sent out, no further record is kept — no one can say how often or when a bottle comes back for refilling. Three one two six was a recent batch number and all ten bottles went to one main distributor. Enquiries are being made there to see if those people can help.”

  “And how likely is that?” asked Kywood fretfully. “Exactly how long ago did this bottle leave the manufacturers?”

  “Near enough to three months.”

  “Then it could have been back a dozen times for refilling and passed through a dozen different hands.”

  “I know.”

  “Every goddamn lead fizzles out.”

  “These were professionals, doing a job professionally. Look at the way they killed the two guards just in case they might have noticed something. Look at the way they discovered that the one weak spot in the defences of the armoured truck was the intake for the air to the cab.”

  “One of the guards must have sold the information,” said Kywood.

  “We’ve checked and double-checked. There’s no extra money lying around anywhere.”

  “Then what about the people who adapted the trucks?”

  Fusil sighed. “You’ve surely read my report? The firm does a lot of special conversion jobs and there’s a staff of sixty-five, not counting the directors. That’s a hell of a lot of people to look over thoroughly.”

  “I don’t care if it is, they’ve got to be checked.”

  “They are being, but you know what happens when a division gets this sort of request from an outside force. They’ll have enough work on their plates, without our doubling it for them.”

  “Are you saying they won’t do the job properly?” Kywood’s voice rose. “If that’s so…” The telephone rang and interrupted him. He picked up the receiver.

  Fusil remembered the times requests of a similar nature had come through from other forces and how Kywood had angrily protested that the Fortrow police weren’t in existence just to be at everybody’s beck and call.

  “It’s for you,” said Kywood, holding out the receiver.

  The call was short. When it was over, Fusil replaced the receiver and returned to the chair. He sat down, crossed his legs, hitched up his trousers. “That was London, sir.”

  “Well?” demanded Kywood impatiently.

  “They’ve checked Glenton’s house and the place was stiff with dabs. They’ve identified those of Burner Riley, Stirling Croft, Bill Weston, and Bert Holdman. All four have form. Riley’s an artist with a burner, Croft drives a car like he’s in formula one, and Weston knows more about wireless than Marconi ever suspected.”

  “By God!” exploded Kywood. He slammed his fist down on the desk. “That’s the mob.”

  “There’s one more thing,” said Fusil, his voice sharp. “Weston has been fished out of a river. He’s been stabbed to death.”

  Chapter 11

  Fusil drove from H.Q. straight to Carlton Street, which lay at the back of the market, and found a parking space close by the Remembrance Gardens. He walked from there to the gardens, commemorating the four hundred and fifty-three people who had died in the air raids on Fortrow, and sat down on one of the wooden benches. He stared at a bed of Peace roses.

  At last, on the fifth day after the robbery, the case was beginning to move. Without a shadow of doubt, the police knew who at least five members of the gang were and so the odds had levelled out. When you were certain who were guilty, you could set about proving them so, knowing that now the evidence was no longer anonymous but must point to those whom you had identified.

  And yet, his mind insisted on saying, was it quite so simple? Any really good detective developed an instinct that told him whether things were fitting together, or whether some of the pieces of the case were out of true. Because Weston had been murdered, it seemed certain Glenton had been murdered, remembering that he’d been as tight as a tick yet without money, and that if he hadn’t been murdered he must have driven at least a mile when all but comatose. So, Glenton had been murdered, for his share of the robbery. The murderer had to be a member of the gang. The time of death proved that: driving at an average of forty from the time of picking up his Ford outside the Railton house to the time of crashing at the pass provided only a five-minute discrepancy: forty was a very good average for the route he must have taken, that included crossing through London or detouring round. There just was no time for anyone else to have become involved. So one or more members of the gang had been with him in the car and this member, or members, had murdered him cleverly enough to make it seem a drunken accident. The murderer, or murderers, had then travelled back to Plexford and murdered Weston.

  Fusil took his pipe from his pocket and lit up. He leaned back against the hard wooden oak slats of the seat. Holdman worried him. The mob was professional and they’d carried out the job with professional skill, brutally killing because the only truly dumb witness was the dead one. Glenton, Riley, Croft, and Weston, were four professional villains, each first-class at his own job and together forming a hard, vicious, successful mob. But what was Holdman? A small-time punk, in trouble with the police a number of times for punkish crimes, who had never before been near the big league.

  A man could get too suspicious, he suddenly thought, noting every slight inconsistency and blowing it right up to treat it as something strange and sinister: was it too farfetched to think that maybe this was Holdman’s initiation into big crime, the apprentice making good? And yet… And yet since when had a really top mob saddled themselves with a punk?

  He shrugged his shoulders. He knew the names of at least some of the villains and he’d nail their crimes on to them in a court of law. Instinct and intuition were very necessary assets for any successful D.I., but if he were to stay successful he had to learn when to allow that both could be wrong.

  *

  Kerr watched a red-head climb into a Porsche. She had lovely legs and was ready to show them. Her face expressed a superior confidence, but her lips were thick and sensuous and on a hot night… He watched the Porsche drive away. She probably had a hell of a temper, sulked if she didn’t get her way, collected diamonds, and was frigid.

  He walked on to the bus-stop and joined the small queue. A bus came along within three minutes and this took him out to Astey where Young lived.

  Police work could get very, very boring. As he walked up the road from the bus-stop and turned down into the large council estate, a graceless series of parallel rows of identical houses, he tried to work out how many times he had had to visit one of the guards’ homes, or check the guards’ bank, post office, or trustee savings accounts, or talk to the owners of betting shops, as he went on and on trying to uncover proof that one of the guards had spent more money than he earned. What he had done had either duplicated or been duplicated by the other detectives — the same ground was covered again and again because what one man might miss, another might note, what was not there on one visit might be there on the next.

  Mrs. Young opened the door to his knock. She sighed when she saw him. “Oh, dear! I’m afraid the house isn’t tidy.”

  She stepped aside and he went into the hall. She was a small, spiritless woman, prepared to suffer all that life and her husband inflicted on her without any attempt to fight back. Young was in the sitting room, watching the racing on television. He looked up as Kerr entered, swore, and angrily demanded to know when in the hell he was going to be allowed some privacy. He called his wife a fool for letting the detective in. Kerr tried
to be diplomatically polite, but the attempt withered under Young’s hard antagonism. By the time he left the house, having discovered nothing of value, Kerr was feeling as sour as he looked.

  There was a telephone kiosk by the corner where the road from the council estate met the main road and he went in this. He dialled Helen’s office number.

  “I’m feeling sad, lonely, and fed up,” he said, as soon as she came on the other end of the line. “How about dancing tonight?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Who the heck d’you think I am? The maharaja of Jaipur?”

  She laughed. “At least I recognise that tone of voice.”

  Had she been expecting a call from Phineas, he wondered? Surely she’d enough taste and common sense to see that Phineas was a first-class twit, even if he did own a sports car and could afford to take her to expensive restaurants? “Are you or aren’t you interested?”

  “My, you do sound in a paddy.”

  “I’ve had a lousy, boring day.”

  “So now you’re looking for a lousy, boring evening?”

  It was only recently that she had begun to pull his leg like this and it obviously marked some change in their relationship. To his annoyance, he couldn’t be certain what sort of a change it was. “Will you or won’t you?”

  “‘Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?’ Recognise that, John?”

  “No.”

  “What’s happened to that expensive classical education?”

  “It’s a long time since I was at Eton. Can I pick you up at seven?”

  “Suppose you come at six-thirty and have supper with us?”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  “Be seeing you, John. Don’t stand me up as you did last time!”

  He said goodbye and rang off. When he stepped out of the callbox he noticed how brightly the sun was shining. No matter what you said, life was good.

  Life remained good until he reached the station and was told to report immediately to Fusil. He did so.

  “Now?” he said, dismayed.

  “Isn’t that what I said?” snapped Fusil.

  “But I… I’ve made arrangements to go out tonight.”

  Fusil glared at Kerr. “When are you going to develop enough sense of responsibility to learn that a job of work doesn’t come to an end just because the clock says five?”

  “I had to cancel a date when you sent me up to Cressfield, sir.”

  “I’m weeping. Goddamn it, am I supposed to bring all the police enquiries to a halt so as you can grab yourself a night out?”

  “I must ring up and explain.”

  Fusil looked as if he wanted to refuse even that request, but after a short pause he finally nodded. “But you’ve got no more than three minutes. And bring the list of the numbers of the stolen notes down with you.”

  Kerr telephoned Helen’s office from the general room. He explained that their date was off. She tartly replied that she fully understood that he obviously had not really wanted to spend a lousy, boring evening with her after all.

  As he hurried downstairs, Kerr gloomily decided that it didn’t really matter what you did, life turned round and clobbered you. When he reached the car, Fusil asked him if he’d remembered the list. He hadn’t.

  The drive to London was mostly a silent one, with Fusil wrapped up in his thoughts and Kerr, in the front passenger seat, fretfully wondering whether Helen had understood that he’d had absolutely no choice in the matter and had had to break the date so recently before made. An unwelcome thought occurred to him. Might Phineas ring and suggest a night out and might she go out with that twit?

  They lost their way in the maze of streets on the outskirts of London and this did nothing to help Fusil’s temper, but a constable on point duty directed them to the right road and they reached the police station. The duty inspector called up two cups of coffee from the canteen and introduced them to Detective Sergeant Jones who was to accompany them. Jones at first treated Fusil with patronising respect — the city slicker coping with his country cousin — but Fusil very soon made it clear that if anyone was going to do any patronising, it would be he.

  “I’ve made arrangements with the next division,” said the duty inspector, “so there’s no need to contact them when you go on to see Croft. I’ve also got the search warrants for you. Had a spot of trouble with them. The magistrates here have become sticky over issuing warrants without strong proof — you must have read what happened in the appeal court the other day?”

  The inspector obviously wanted to chat, but Fusil finished his coffee as soon as it was cool enough, stood up, and asked for the warrants. Jones took them from his pocket and passed them across. Fusil opened the first one to read it.

  “They’re quite all right, sir,” said Jones, “I’ve checked.”

  “But I haven’t,” snapped Fusil, and went on reading.

  It was pleasant, thought Kerr, to see others receiving the sharp edge of Fusil’s tongue.

  They left the station in two cars, Jones leading. Their route lay through streets of back-to-back houses whose front doors opened directly on to the grimy pavements, houses which had been condemned years before but which still stood because those in authority — who didn’t have to live in them — had decided there were other projects of greater priority.

  They passed a factory, which had an air of prison about it because of the surrounding high brick wall topped with barbed wire, and then stopped in front of a row of houses that were just slightly better, but only just, than the ones they had been driving past. It was odd to find a man as successful as Riley living in so slummy an area.

  Jones spoke as they gathered on the pavement. “He’s a cunning little sod. You’ll have to watch him, sir.”

  “I’ll try hard to do just that, Sergeant,” said Fusil.

  Jones coloured slightly. “I was only attempting to help, sir. He often tries to make out he’s half-witted — he’s anything but.”

  Fusil crossed to the front door of number 17 and tried to use the knocker, but found it had rusted solid. He rapped with his knuckles.

  The door was opened by Riley. He was wearing a collar-less shirt, trousers and braces, and bedroom slippers: there was a day’s growth of stubble on his chin. At first he didn’t notice Jones and he studied Fusil with dislike and distrust.

  “Riley?” said Fusil.

  “What d’you want?” Riley’s gaze flicked past Fusil and he saw Jones. His expression perceptibly hardened.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Fusil, of the Fortrow police.”

  Riley could not hide his shock. He had correctly identified Fusil as a policeman, even before noticing Jones, but it had not crossed his mind that Fusil could be from Fortrow. He tried belatedly to cover his emotions. “Where d’you say you was from?”

  Fusil didn’t bother to answer.

  Riley scratched his cheek at the point where it was scarred and pitted. “Something’s bothering you then, Mister?”

  “They’ve come to ask how your garage is making out,” jeered Jones. Fusil swung round and although he said nothing, Jones got the message: Fusil did not like detective sergeants who interrupted.

  Fusil went to step inside the house.

  “You don’t want to come in ’ere,” said Riley. “There ain’t nothing I can do for you.”

  Fusil took the search warrant from his pocket and handed it to Riley, then pushed his way inside. Jones and Kerr followed him and Kerr shut the front door.

  A woman came out into the small, dark hall from the front room. In appearance, she was very similar to her husband: small, spry, and good humoured. One look was enough to tell her most of what was going on and she retreated back into the room and slammed the door shut.

  “O.K.,” said Fusil, “start searching. And begin in there.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the front room into which Mrs. Riley had disappeared.

  “You ain’t no right…” began Riley.

  “
Keep your breath for cooling the porridge,” snapped Fusil. “Now where are you and I going for a chat?”

  “There ain’t nowhere ’ere, Mister.”

  “In that case, we’ll cart you back to Fortrow.”

  Riley’s eyes gleamed with sharp anger, but he controlled himself. “All right, Mister, come in ’ere.” He led the way into the dining room.

  Fusil sat down on one of the rickety wooden chairs around the scarred mahogany table and took out his pipe, which he slowly and carefully filled with tobacco. Riley, too old a hand to be worried immediately by silence, crossed to the mantelpiece and searched amongst the litter on it until he found a packet of cigarettes.

  The heat made Fusil’s forehead prickle with sweat and he looked at the window. “Don’t you like fresh air? How about opening the window?”

  “I like it shut, Mister.”

  Fusil stuck his pipe in his mouth, stood up, and went over. He tried to force open the window, but it refused to move. He returned to the chair and lit his pipe. They again were silent. They heard the tramp of feet from overhead as the detectives began searching there and from behind the far wall came the booming roar of a record player being played in the next house.

  Fusil puffed away at the pipe, filling the room with acrid smoke.

  In the end, Riley was the first to speak. “You ain’t said what you want?”

  “Feel like guessing?”

  “I don’t know nothing about that place you said you was from.”

  “Fortrow? Never been there?”

  “No, I ain’t.”

  “Read about it recently?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t know two security officers were murdered there on Friday?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Since then, two more men have been murdered.”

  Riley looked quickly at Fusil, then away.

  “Their names were Glenton and Weston.”

  Riley was utterly astonished. He licked his thin lips with his tongue and scratched at his pitted cheek without really knowing he was doing so.

  Fusil’s pipe had gone out and he struck a match, sucking the flame down into the bowl. “Weston got a knife in his guts.”