Masters said: ‘Tough titty. Have another.’ He was at the bar when Peter Barnfelt came fast through the door and stopped to look around. With malice aforethought, Masters said: ‘I’m in the chair. Let me get you a drink, doctor.’
Barnfelt said: ‘I’ve come to warn you . . .’
Masters turned his back on him and called along the bar to Binkhorst: ‘And a whisky for the doctor, please.’ He turned back to Peter. ‘You were saying?’
Barnfelt looked hot and cross. A vein in his left temple was doing a belly dance. In, out. In, out. He looked at Masters with angry eyes. ‘I’ve just had a phone call from Miss Barrett.’
Masters played it cool. ‘I was hoping you had.’
‘What have our private affairs to do with you?’
‘Nothing. But I’m a nosey-parker by profession. And sometimes I try to make up for my shortcomings by explaining to interested parties some of the things I ferret out. You’d be surprised how often good comes of it.’ He took the glasses from Binkhorst. ‘Here, drink this. I hope you weren’t too short with Miss Barrett?’
‘I repeat, it’s no business of yours.’
Masters shrugged. He didn’t want a row in the bar. He would have liked to shake Barnfelt till his teeth rattled. He restrained himself from doing it—just. Instead he said: ‘I promise not to interfere directly in your love-life again. Now let’s talk about something else. Have you inspected the carpenter’s thumb lately?’
Barnfelt stared at him as though he were mad. ‘Carpenter?’
‘The chap who got a chisel cut last week.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. If I did, I wouldn’t answer. I’ve told you before, my patients’ affairs are their own business—and mine. Not yours.’
‘Sorry. Just trying to find common ground for a chat.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Cheers.’ Barnfelt sulkily followed suit.
*
Spaghetti Bolognaise for lunch. Gina serving. Masters said: ‘How’s Maria? I saw the doctor was here earlier.’
Gina said: ‘She is well. Very well. And she seems so happy. After the death of the father.’
‘It seems unkind to say so, but isn’t it just possible that she is feeling relieved.’
‘At this murder that is done?’
‘Not by the murder. By the fact that everything is now out in the open.’
Green said: ‘Perhaps she’s talked to the doctor about an abortion.’
Gina dropped the plate she was carrying. It clattered on the table. ‘That is wicked.’
‘Are you going to encourage her to keep the baby?’
‘Of course. It shall not be murdered like its father.’
‘Good. I’m sure you’ll make a first-class grandmother.’
‘It will be what I have to pay for not being a good mother.’ She left the room blindly. They finished the course in silence.
After they rose from the table Green said: ‘Now what? More legwork?’ It was a challenge, Masters thought. A dare. So he answered: ‘Yes.’ Green stared in disbelief. Masters went on. ‘I’ve given Hill the job of checking Pamela Parseloe’s timings on Sunday night. I’d like you and Brant to come with me.’
They set out across the square. Rooksby was quiet. The shops closed for half day. Green said: ‘Where to?’
‘As far as the schoolroom.’
Green grunted. Half in pleasure at the short distance. Half in scorn. ‘What the hell d’you expect to find there?’
Masters replied airily: ‘I don’t know. But even if it’s nothing it won’t be worse than your score this morning.’
‘Why go? The lads have been over it with a small-tooth comb. Not a flea.’
They turned into Church Walk. Masters said: ‘There’s been something bothering me. I can’t tell you what it is, but I’m positive it’s something to do with the schoolroom. If I can just get in there and think and look . . .’
They used the front door. The back entrance had been reboarded when the sergeants had finished their inspection and the duty constable relieved. The classroom was as they had first found it, with the exception of the corpse.
*
They’d been there two hours. Green’s cigarette ends littered the floor. Brant was prowling round. Masters was sitting on a bench, feet resting on the blackboard table. The present silence had lasted nearly twenty minutes. Brant was whistling soundlessly through his front teeth. Green said suddenly: ‘Face up to it. We’ve been all over this room a dozen times. We’re getting nowhere.’ He stopped in front of Masters. ‘You’ll never hit the nail on the head sitting here. And I could do with a cup of tea.’
Masters lowered his feet from the table and stood up slowly. He looked at Green for a moment, not seeing him. Then, absentmindedly, he said: ‘Thank you.’
‘Thank you? What for?’
Masters walked across to the upright plank nailed to the wall and stained with Parseloe’s blood. He looked at it carefully for a time and said quietly: ‘That’s it. By God, that’s it.’
Green was beside him. ‘What is?’
‘I remember now. We scoured this plank, looking for a bullet hole, didn’t we?’
Green looked enquiringly at Brant and then said: ‘We did. And we didn’t find a single mark.’
‘Exactly. But we should have done.’
‘Of course we should have done. That’s what the rest of us have been pointing out for days.’
Masters said: ‘Don’t you see? If I’d fixed that plank to the wall there would be marks. Hammer marks, all round every nail head.’
Brant was holding his breath. Green said: ‘Yes. There would. If you did it. But they’re professional carpenters. They don’t bodge jobs like do-it-yourself amateurs.’
Masters said: ‘Even when driving masonry pins into bricks and mortar? Of course there should be hammer marks—that is, if they used a hammer.’
‘Meaning what?’
Masters turned from the wall. ‘Think,’ he said. ‘What was it Dan Coulbeck said about Harry Pieters? When he put up Parseloe’s shelves? “He used a bolt-setting tool on the plates”.’ He turned to Green. ‘You called these, plates. Remember?’
Green nodded.
Brant said: ‘And when Sarn’t Hill and I asked Pieters for a list of his tools . . .’
Masters snapped his fingers: ‘There was a bolt-setting tool among them. Right. What is a bolt-setting tool? In my ignorance, I assumed it was some sort of spanner. But it begins to look as though I was wrong. Does either of you know? No? Then we’d better find out. But before we do, just one more thing.’
He left them and walked round the room, inspecting the plates on the other three walls. He came back and reexamined the stained one. He said: ‘That’s it. There are nine nails in each of the other three. One every four courses. About a foot apart. There are ten here.’ They counted for themselves. Brant said: ‘And the one near the blood is only about seven inches from the one above and five from the one below.’
Masters nodded. ‘An extra nail. And that, I think, is our projectile. Nicely hidden by being driven home in a plank of wood.’
Green let out an involuntary sigh. ‘It takes some believing.’
Brant said: ‘I suppose you want Harry Pieters?’
Green said: ‘And his tools.’
Masters said to Brant: ‘Collect the car and Hill and get Pieters. Try to be back here in half an hour. Remember Pieters will have been at the inquest, so I can’t say where you’ll find him.’
Brant went off at a half run. Masters sat down again. He felt momentarily weak. Green said: ‘There’s a transport caff on the High Street. I don’t expect it shuts on early closing day.’
They went out without another word. The café was grubby. Decorated in fly-blown dark green paint. Green said to the proprietor: ‘A pot for two. No. Make it for four, and strong enough for eight.’ He got his way. They were obviously known. The tea was like tar. Masters drank it like nectar. The afternoon had drained him. The caffeine and tannic acid restored h
im. They were back in the schoolroom before the half hour was up.
Green said: ‘A quarter to five.’
‘I want Hill to take Cora to see Dr Frank Barnfelt in about an hour’s time,’ Masters said.
Green stared at him. Unable to understand. Masters knew Green couldn’t appreciate how he—Masters—could think of what he—Green—considered to be an irrelevance at a time like this. It gave Masters a feeling of superiority—the sweet, better feeling of giving rather than receiving. He took out his pipe. Then sadly put it back in his breast pocket. He’d forgotten. The Warlock Flake tin was now empty, and he’d failed to pick up another from his bag at the Goblin. Green said: ‘Have a Kensitas. Go on. You’re on edge.’ Masters wondered how Green knew. But somehow, at times like this, Green seemed to grow more perceptive: more human. Masters took the cigarette so as not to disappoint him. He felt it was no substitute for a pipe, but it kept him busy until Pieters was ushered in.
The carpenter was nervous but, Masters felt, unafraid. He was in washed-out bib overalls. Where the braces should have buttoned, he had made do with inch long wire ovals. Under the overall a fair-isle jumper. Over it an old brown suit jacket; the side pockets overfull and sagging; the breast pocket loaded with flat pencils and a steel rule. He stood just inside the door and faced Masters. By his side, Brant. Behind him, carrying a brown canvas tool bag, Hill.
Masters said: ‘Come in, please.’
Pieters said: ‘I don’t know about that. Have I been arrested?’
It was a surly reply. Masters guessed it wasn’t meant to be obstructive. More the effort of a man at a grave disadvantage trying to reassert himself.
‘No. You haven’t been arrested, Mr Pieters.’
‘Well, I’ve lost enough time today through this murder lark. Half the afternoon at an inquest to answer three silly questions. Home to get changed again, and no sooner back on the job than these blokes turn up. What am I going to live on next week? Fresh air?’
Green said: ‘You’re in no position to complain.’
Pieters didn’t like the tone. ‘Oh, yes I am. And I’m doing it. Now, you’d best be quick or I’m going.’
Masters said: ‘I honestly believe it will be in your best interests to help us now. If you refuse we’ll have to think you’ve something to hide.’
Pieters walked forward. ‘You’re trying to soft soap me. I’ve nothing to hide.’
‘I’m glad of that. Let’s sort things out, shall we? Sit down.’
Pieters sat on the bench opposite Masters, who said: ‘You fixed those timbers to the walls, I think?’
‘That’s right.’
‘How?’
‘With a bolt setter.’
‘And what is a bolt setter?’
The answer came without thought. ‘It’s a gun.’
There was a moment’s silence.
Masters said: ‘A gun for firing nails?’
‘That’s right. Hell of a kick it needs, too, to drive pins into masonry.’
Masters said heavily: ‘Mr Pieters, a man was shot dead in this room three nights ago. Didn’t it occur to you that he might have been killed with your bolt setter?’
‘’Course not. Why should it?’
‘You left it here over the weekend?’
‘With all my other tools, yes.’
‘And you never gave the matter a thought?’
‘No. All I knew was that he’d been shot. I took it to mean somebody had used a proper gun on him—revolver or pistol or something.’
‘Or something’s right. I believe it was your bolt-setting tool.’
‘It couldn’t be. How would he know how to use it? I mean, you’ve got to know how to load it and . . .’ Pieters stopped and looked at Masters. ‘Here, you’re not thinking . . .’
Masters looked back at him and said nothing. Green said: ‘You know how it works. You threatened to get even with Parsloe.’
‘That’s as maybe.’ Pieters was getting excited. ‘And I wasn’t the only one who had it in for him.’
‘We know. But we haven’t come across anybody else who owned and knew how to work a bolt setter.’
Pieters looked at Green, angry eyes. ‘Haven’t you? Well, you haven’t looked very far. What about Perce Jonker? He sells ’em.’
Masters said: ‘Who to?’ Menacingly quiet.
Pieters looked down and said more slowly: ‘Well, he sold me mine, and I know he’s got one more in stock.’ He looked up. ‘Go on. You ask Perce. I’ll bet you he knows how to work it.’
Masters said: ‘In the dark?’
‘I don’t know about that. But I buy my cartridges from him, so he’ll have some of them handy, too.’
Masters said: ‘All right. For the moment we’ll believe you didn’t fire it at Parseloe. But somebody did, so let’s have a look at it.’
Hill dumped the toolbag on the blackboard. Pieters got to his feet and rummaged inside. He brought out a purple tin box about ten by five by three. Masters took it from him. Opened it up. The weapon—a lumpy pistol. Lying on its side in a padded nesting compartment. Around it, in clips and grooves, spare barrel, push rod and brushes. Clipped inside the lid an instruction leaflet—virtually new. Masters took both weapon and leaflet. He took minutes over reading the instructions, and seconds over the gun. Green looked over his shoulder. The other three watched closely.
Masters said to Pieters: ‘What did you use in this room? Butt-head nails?’
Pieters said: ‘That’s right. Two inch.’ He took a small cardboard cube from the bag, opened it, and handed Masters a white metal pin. The butt head was a tenth of an inch deep, a quarter of an inch in diameter. The shank was only half as wide as the butt. Masters looked at Green and said: ‘Long sharp point, long straight shank, thickening out into a wide heavy head. How does that match with the properties we suggested the projectile had?’
Green said: ‘It fits exactly. What’s that little red washer for? It’s in a daft place.’
Near the nose of the nail, just above the chamfering, was a push fit, red plastic washer. Green went on: ‘Shouldn’t that be near the head?’
Masters said: ‘I don’t believe it is a washer in the real sense of the word. If it were, it’d have to be metal. I think it’s a guide to make the shank fit the barrel—to bring it up to the same calibre as the head. Like sabot ammunition.’
Green understood. He’d fired sabot anti-tank shell in the latter years of the war. Hill didn’t. He said: ‘Could you explain a bit more, Chief?’
Masters said: ‘The calibre of the barrel is a quarter of an inch. So’s the head of the nail. So the nail will pass along the barrel quite easily. But the shank is narrower than the head, and so isn’t a tight fit in the barrel. Consequently, when you press a nail in, the shank may lie a bit askew in the barrel. If you were to fire like that, the nail would come out at an angle, and lord knows where it might not go. But with the washer to act as a spacing piece—centring piece would be a better term—the shank becomes the same calibre as the head, the nail goes home sweet and true, and comes out straight.’ He looked at Pieters. ‘Am I right?’
Pieters said: ‘That’s true enough. If you want a real washer you can get a washer holder for the gun, or even some pins with metal washers already attached like those red ones. But I didn’t want washers for this job. I wanted the nail heads driven right home, you see. Those red ones disintegrate on impact, mostly, an’ disappear without stopping the pins going right in.’
Masters said: ‘So here you used the quarter inch barrel and quarter inch cartridges?’
Pieters dipped into the bag again. This time he brought out four or five small round tins, two inches in diameter and less than an inch deep. Each had a different coloured label on the lid. He said: ‘Here y’are. Green—that’s weak. Yellow—where’s yellow?—that’s medium. Blue—strong. Red—very strong. And this black—that’s superpower. It’d drive a nail through from here to Australia.’
Masters took the tins and opened them. Cartridges�
�slightly stubbier than two-two’s, wadded and crimped. He said: ‘I think we’ve got it all.’ He picked up the gun and said: ‘What’s this called?’ He had his finger on a plate two inches square and half an inch thick, fixed at the business end of the barrel.
‘Safety shield,’ said Pieters. ‘You have to press that hard up against something before you can fire.’
Green said: ‘To cock it, you mean?’
Pieters nodded.
Masters said: ‘A hard push? How hard? Hard enough to bruise a man’s chest?’
Pieters said: ‘I reckon. But you’d best try it to make sure.’
Masters turned the pistol grip anti-clockwise, pulled it back, and opened the gun. He peered into the chamber. It was empty. He closed and locked it. Then he looked up at Hill and Brant.
Brant opened his jacket. ‘All right. I’ll buy it, Chief.’
‘Over by the wall.’
It took a lot of strength to force the shield back. If Brant had not had his back to the wall, Masters thought, he’d have staggered away. But trapped as he was, his chest provided a strong enough medium. When Masters lowered the cocked gun, Brant opened his shirt. The imprint of the shield was there. Red and square, and faintly angry. Masters stopped him from refastening the buttons, and kept his eye on the mark. It gradually lost shape and diffused. Green grunted: ‘Two minutes forty.’
Masters said: ‘Thanks. I hope it didn’t hurt.’
‘Not so’s you’d notice, but you used a hell of a pressure.’
‘It needed it. You were like a sponge.’
Brant buttoned his shirt. Hill said: ‘Well, I’ll be off now. Back soon. Just taking Cora for a ride.’
Masters turned to Pieters. ‘Come and look at this nail.’ He led him over to the stained plank. As soon as he saw the out-of-place pin, the carpenter said: ‘That’s not one of mine. See? I always aim plumb for the middle of a brick. This one’s hit the mortar. Look at all these others.’ He started to cross the room.
Masters said: ‘We’ve already examined them all.’
Pieters said: ‘Now you’ve found all this out you’ll be thinking more than ever that I did old Gobby in.’
Masters said quietly: ‘No.’
Death After Evensong Page 14
