One Deathless Hour (David Mallin Detective series Book 16)

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘You do that, George.’

  ‘And if there’s anything … ’

  She didn’t wait for me to offer the motel’s phone number, but slammed the door and started the engine at once. I stood back. She reversed out, swung forward and accelerated a little blindly, her nearside wing brushing my leg. Then she was away.

  That is all I have to offer for a tragic lapse in observation.

  When I got back to the motel, I found Dave stretched out on his bed, doing nothing. I jollied him along, but he wasn’t in a good mood. So we sat and swapped experiences and I realized why. It had not, to that time, been a good day for Dave. I didn’t improve matters.

  ‘So what?’ I asked, ‘if we do get this layabout — Len, was it? — to come along? What if he does confirm he was at the clubhouse at around nine? I’ll bet you anything you like that there’s something fishy about that fascia clock. If that’s the case, an alibi for nine isn’t going to do Abbott much good.’

  He grunted. ‘Messingham sounded so confident.’

  ‘So what do we do, sit here and wait for this Len?’

  Dave looked at me steadily. ‘We could go and show that cigarette-case to Messingham — and perhaps not be here when our Len character arrives. Or we could split up. But I’m not keen on that.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m not sure our interests are heading in exactly the same direction, George.’

  And, d’you know, I couldn’t meet his eyes. In fact, I was staring at the door when somebody began knocking fiercely on it and went on doing it.

  Dave got to his feet — it was his Len — and opened the door. A young tough in denim pushed his way in, Dave backing away.

  ‘I’m going to kill you, Mallin,’ he shouted, waving nothing more lethal than his fist.

  I shut the door quickly. Dave gave a tired gesture of introduction. ‘Detective Constable Miller … my partner, George.’

  Miller was in no mood for the amenities. He was marching round the room, pounding the air with his fist, his words nearly unintelligible. ‘If any harm comes to her … I tell you … you forced my hand … ’

  ‘Sit down and tell us,’ said Dave, quietly enough. I thought he looked sick.

  Miller glared and refused the offer to sit. But he began to speak coherently. ‘Oh, I did as you wanted … as you bloody well made me do, you bastard. Went round to Len’s place. He lives with his mother. Damned whining creature. I put it to him. He was gonna come here and tell it — or else. He just looked at me. I could have taken him apart, and he knew it, but he sneered and said nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’ said Dave.

  ‘Not a blinding word. I said I’d come here and check, and if he hadn’t … What was the use? I oughto’ve spread him all over the room there and then. I told him that if he so much as looked at Tasha again … ’

  ‘That’s her real name? Natasha.’

  ‘Yes. She hates it. Makes fun of it. Anyway, I went home, to tell her some of the same, and she’d gone. Thrown some stuff into a kit-bag, my mother said, and gone off on her bike.’

  Now he was looking baffled and worried, appealing for help.

  ‘The bike was all right, then?’

  ‘What’s it matter? Yes, I suppose so. What … what are we going to do?’

  Dave didn’t seem to have an answer to that. So I supplied one.

  ‘You’ve got the backing of the police. How about getting your inspector to help?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ He was wild again, waving his arms. ‘I’d have to tell him the background and how it all fits with the Abbott case.’

  ‘Then don’t you think it’s your duty to tell him?’

  He glared at me. ‘Christ, duty!’

  I shrugged. We wanted the young yobbo, for Abbott’s alibi. We’d have to tell Messingham, if he didn’t. Dave spoke at last.

  ‘There’s nothing certain about this young gentleman. Abbott says he threatened him with a dummy pistol. He could be wrong about that. Suppose it was real. We’ve got a dead body in a car and it’s supposed to have happened around the time the young fool was messing about there. Have you got any personal knowledge of how dangerous he could be?’

  ‘I’ve never trusted him,’ said Miller reluctantly. ‘Didn’t like his eyes. He’s callous — vicious. I guess he’s capable of anything.’

  ‘Is that the girl’s brother talking, or the policeman?’

  ‘The policeman, damn you.’

  I put in: ‘And I happen to believe that the dead man was carrying his own gun that evening. How many could the young lout have now?’

  But Miller shook his head. ‘We found a twenty-two revolver on the floor of the car.’

  ‘A Colt Diamondback?’

  He looked startled, taking in the implication. ‘You know something?’

  ‘I think so. Don’t you think we ought to see Messingham?’

  We waited. He fought with it.

  ‘Come on, Miller,’ said Dave quietly. ‘You can’t abandon her now. He’s not going to eat you.’

  Miller looked at the phone, then he went and lifted it and asked for a number. He spoke quietly, his face hot. Then he replaced it and looked up.

  ‘We’ve just interrupted his evening meal. He’s livid. We’ve got to meet him at the station.’

  We hadn’t had any Sunday evening meal ourselves, but it was no time for complaint. Miller led with the Escort and we followed in my Sceptre.

  ‘Play it right, Dave, and we’re home,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t quite see that.’

  ‘This Len business, if Messingham sees it in a certain way he’ll argue he’s helping us if he produces this Len character as an alibi for Abbott.’

  ‘I could see that far.’

  ‘So he’ll reckon we’ll owe him a favour.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So that’ll have to be the cigarette-case. See what I mean?’

  He took it up smoothly. ‘But you’d rather use the cigarette case to bargain for a sight of the car?’

  ‘And a look at that clock. There must be something wrong with that timing, because Colmore … ’

  ‘If it’s him.’

  ‘ … can’t have died at one minute to nine.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s pretty, George. We bargain for a sight of the clock, or we bargain for his help in finding our young friend. We can’t expect both.’

  ‘We can’t know what this Len’s going to say,’ I pointed out uneasily. ‘Even if we get our hands on him.’

  He slapped my knee. ‘Which you don’t seem too keen about.’

  ‘Oh … I am.’

  ‘But you’d rather go for a sight of the clock, eh? Let’s not get our legs crossed, George. Dulcie Colmore’s not the client.’

  I said no more. Dave always sees through me, blast him.

  But in the end we took it as it came. The way it came at us, we didn’t have any choice. The Inspector Messingham who met us at the station, natty in grey slacks and a fawn cardigan, wasn’t anything like the one Dave had described. Not untidy, anyway.

  He was waiting for us in his office, so he must have moved fast. He stood in front of his desk, his eyes darting from one to the other of us, rubbing his hands. There seemed no regret for a ruined meal.

  ‘Well, gentlemen! Sit down. What aspect shall we discuss first?’ A purely rhetorical question; he didn’t pause for a suggestion. ‘You observe the virtue of patience. I had only to wait, and our two proud detectives, enjoying the confidence of Abbott in a way I did not — and obviously cherishing a secret — would surely return to me with information to Abbott’s advantage.’ His eyes considered us. ‘No? Then possibly to their own. And Miller, who seemed very concerned over an incident at the clubhouse and would not confide in me … oh, come on Miller, you’re not a fool. Give me credit for some intelligence and knowledge of my own force. You turn up here with a face full of despair … the problem must be personal. So — as I say — what aspect is most pressing?’

  I glanced at Dave, as Messi
ngham went round to his seat. I produced the envelope containing the cigarette-case.

  ‘Ah!’ said the inspector, staring down at it. ‘Two signatures over the flap. Very legal. I’m almost afraid to touch it.’ His paperknife slid it open. He delicately edged out the handkerchief and opened it out. ‘Initials C.C. Very interesting. This, I take it, is in the nature of a bargaining item?’

  His eyes came up and fixed me. There was no amusement there.

  ‘But let me warn you,’ he said softly, ‘to choose well. There’re many things you don’t know. Don’t expect everything for one cigarette-case, even one covered with the dead man’s prints.’

  ‘You know that?’

  ‘Why else should you treasure it? Of course they’re his.’

  ‘You’d better confirm it first,’ I suggested.

  ‘Oh, you’re being fair! I’m sorry, I didn’t expect that. Certainly we’ll confirm it.’

  He juggled with his intercom and presently a young copper with riding-boots appeared and was sent off on his Commando to County HQ with the cigarette-case, for a fingerprint check.

  ‘And so, said Messingham, ‘we wait for perhaps an hour and then we continue with the rest of your information — for which you’re asking … what?’

  ‘A sight of that car,’ I said. I cocked my head at Dave, who nodded. ‘His name’s Charles Colmore, of Bentley Hall Residential College, an hour’s drive from here. And there’s another murder up there, Colmore’s fancy woman, also with a twenty-two, timed at eight minutes to nine on Tuesday evening.’

  He was silent for a minute, then he looked at Dave. ‘You’re agreeing to this, Mr Mallin?’

  ‘If George says it, it’s true. He was there, not me.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. Agree to the offering of all this information for a mere sight of the car?’

  ‘I rather gather he took a dislike to Rogerson, who’s on that case.’ But his glance at me was mocking.

  Messingham laughed. ‘And so you load me with ammunition, believing that otherwise I’ll go under when he appears. I don’t find that very flattering.’ He shook his head. ‘But I’m grateful. Used properly … uhum! Yes. For a sight of the car?’

  ‘Sir … ’

  We looked at Miller. He was right on the edge of his chair.

  ‘Oh yes. I’m sorry, Miller, we’re neglecting you. Let’s have it.’

  One thing about Miller, he could make a concise report. Not a word was wasted; not one detail was omitted. Messingham was soon frowning, but Miller ploughed on to the end.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of this. We’ll put out an all-station call, but they’ll have gone to ground, and once they’re off their bikes … You think he’s dangerous, Miller?’

  ‘I’ve been watching him for quite a while, sir. I’d say he’s on the edge of doing something … ’ He grimaced apology.

  ‘Right!’

  Messingham seized his phone and got things moving. The all-station call went out. He replaced the phone.

  ‘Very well. While we wait for the lab’s report on those prints … what say we go down and have a look at that car?’ He raised his eyebrows. He, too, could be magnanimous.

  We trooped down after him into the underground carpark, where I’d left the Sceptre. I went over and dug out my torch, just in case there were any very dark corners to explore.

  They had parked the Dolomite well away from the wall, to give themselves clear access. There were still the odd patch of grey powder here and there, for what good it might have done them. We circled it warily, Dave and I, while Miller hovered at a distance and Messingham opened his own car door and sat sideways in it, watching us with a slight smile.

  There were two wing mirrors, which cleared that point straightaway and confirmed what Abbott had told Dave. The car had been badly used, there being an old, rusted dent in the nearside wing and a newer dent in the rear of the boot, to one side of the offside lights, one of the rear-lamp glasses being broken. There were traces of a grey or blue paint in the dent, though it could have been their powder. We opened the doors and wound down the windows and Dave demonstrated how a hand with a gun could have been reached through the rear one.

  The inspector spoke up. ‘I thought of that. But there were no flash burns in his hair.’

  Up to eighteen inches you’d get scorches from the flash; up to eight inches you’d even get powder marks. We went on with the examination — getting to the nub of it.

  The fascia was liberally splashed with blood. There was also blood on the passenger’s seat, the edge of the driver’s and the floor. The red coverings didn’t help, but it was visible. The clock face had also been obscured with blood, but the official clearing revealed it clearly enough. The glass had gone. The face was buckled inwards with the impact of the bullet, but, more importantly, the clock had not simply stopped — the hour-hand had been impressed by the bullet into the face and tangled into it at a point opposite the nine. This was confirmed by the minute-hand, which had not been harmed, but which stood at one minute to the hour.

  ‘See what I mean,’ said Messingham happily. ‘Not simply a stopped clock, but, with the hour-hand impaled like that, a clock stopped dead on one minute to nine.’

  ‘The bullet?’ asked Dave.

  ‘The engine’s behind that bulkhead. The bullet went on and flattened itself beyond all forensic checks.’

  ‘Except its weight,’ I pointed out.

  ‘We rescued thirty-nine grains of lead.’

  ‘So it was a twenty-two.’

  ‘I told you that.’ He grinned. ‘For nothing.’

  ‘His mistress died from a twenty-two.’

  ‘I heard you say that.’

  ‘From a revolver, we think. He was carrying a revolver.’

  ‘We found such a gun at his feet.’

  ‘Fired?’ I asked.

  He hesitated. ‘One shot.’

  It was all fitting together nicely, except the timing. The shots at one end or the other could not be at the times we knew.

  ‘Finished, gentlemen?’ he asked and we shut up the car. Dave was frowning, shaking his head.

  The station sergeant was standing at the foot of the steps. ‘Telephone, sir.’

  Messingham hurried away, Miller anxiously at his shoulder. But it wasn’t going to be news of his sister, not so soon. We followed and when we walked into his office he was just putting down his phone. There was an air of quiet satisfaction about him.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that we now have a name for our corpse. Charles Colmore. I think you’d better leave. I’ve got a phone call to make to Rogerson and he’s going to be annoyed.’

  We got into the Sceptre. Miller was hovering miserably, but we had nothing to offer him.

  ‘Let’s find somewhere to eat,’ I said. We drove away. The Flambé Room was open. We had nothing flambed, but ate simply on lamb chops and peas and new potatoes. I hardly noticed what I ate, which is saying something.

  Dave pointed his fork at me. ‘Now don’t go and say that clock could have been fiddled.’

  ‘Not after the shot, no.’

  ‘And before?’

  I chewed a while. ‘If I wanted an alibi for an intended shooting, I could alter the clock beforehand.’

  ‘But Colmore was sitting in front of that clock. He might notice it was wrong and put it right. You wouldn’t dare base an alibi on it.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘There’s no perhaps about it. And the shot, George!’

  ‘You don’t have to get worked up about it. I get the point. The shot pinned the hour-hand down. Some nifty shot, that, if it was intended. Not the minute-hand, you notice. That wouldn’t prove anything, because it’d leave the hour-hand moveable. The hour-hand pinned — that ties it down exactly.’

  ‘I saw a similar thing done,’ he said, nodding. ‘Only this morning, at a range of ten yards or so, and he got the minute-hand of a clock.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘Abbott. From the hip.’

&nb
sp; ‘I don’t like it, Dave, especially when he’s been so mad for us to produce an alibi for nine.’

  He beamed. ‘George, he did it from the hip, but it was an open shot. Nothing in between. In the car there was Colmore’s head in between. It’s a rank impossibility.’ He thought. ‘If it was planned, it’d be an impossibility. So we’re left with the fact that it was chance — pure chance — in which case we’ve got to accept the timing as shown by the clock.’

  ‘And Abbott’s alibi for nine happens to be roaming the countryside. Having coffee, Dave?’

  We had coffee.

  ‘Strictly speaking,’ he said, ‘and to be quite fair, Abbott didn’t push the alibi for nine. He asked us to prove he didn’t leave the clubroom between eight and ten.’

  ‘Comes to the same thing,’ I said impatiently, still brooding over that blasted clock.

  ‘It’s not the same thing.’

  ‘All right, Dave.’

  ‘You can see what this has got to be. A double murder by the same person.’ He waited, but I didn’t take it up. ‘The same, or similar guns. Two high-velocity cartridges. It asks for it.’

  He gets too enthusiastic. I nodded. ‘Within seven minutes of each other and an hour’s drive apart?’

  ‘So you see what you’ve got to do, George?’

  ‘I don’t see.’

  ‘You’re getting touchy. Give it some thought.’

  ‘D’you think I haven’t?’ I demanded angrily.

  ‘You’ve got to get back there and find a snag in that time of death.’

  ‘It has to be at this end. Dave — Colmore was seen alive at the flat just before eight. He made a phone call at two minutes past … ’

  ‘Tell you what … ’ He thumped my shoulder. ‘I’ll run you up there. A really fast run and then we’ll see what’s the shortest possible time.’

  ‘I can do a fast run.’

  ‘Can you match a Lancia Beta? It was that he must have been driving, this Marilyn Trask’s car.’

  ‘I’ll do you a bloody fast run.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘You do that.’

  We went back to the motel for his Porsche, then we drove one behind the other to the clubhouse, to get the timing right.

  ‘We don’t know where he left the Lancia,’ I pointed out.