One Deathless Hour (David Mallin Detective series Book 16)

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘Eight minutes to nine.’

  ‘Oh … clever. Now tell me I shouldn’t be questioning Mrs Colmore.’

  I stared at him and could say nothing. I had been annoyed that the time of the Colmore shot had seemed so rigid, annoyed that I’d been unable to think of any way to upset it. Now I was faced with another fixed time. And I hated the sound of it.

  ‘Or shall I take her down to the station to do it?’ He exposed those teeth again. ‘But I’ll tell you what I had in mind — what I’m going to do. The mountain’s going to Messingham. Damn it all if I’m not starting to believe Mrs Colmore. So I’m going to Watling to see how that idiot Messingham’s managed to cock it up. D’you understand? I’m going to show him that clocks with bullet holes in don’t mean a monkey’s arsehole.’

  ‘You haven’t seen it.’

  ‘And it’s getting late and I’d better go. Comfort her, friend. Earn your fee. Come on, Patterson, you’ve got some driving to do.’

  I wratched them leave. I turned to Dulcie. She gave me a strained smile.

  ‘You keep on trying, don’t you, George!’

  Their engine note was fading into the night. I watched her get to her feet wearily.

  ‘And I was making such an effort to keep him here,’ she said, her voice failing.

  The door behind me creaked, as a quiet door often does when opened gently. I turned.

  The lad was standing in the doorway, at his shoulder, one hand to his elbow, a girl of perhaps twenty. He was tall and slim and blond and had a bit out of his left earlobe. He also had Colmore’s Hammerli .22 in his right fist and a nasty look in his eye.

  ‘What’s this?’ I said.

  Dulcie sighed. ‘He came here. Him and his girl. Their bikes are in the shrubbery. He says he followed you up here … yesterday? It seems so long ago.’ She paused. The pistol had jerked towards her. Then her voice went on, emotionless. ‘He claims he saw Charles shot. That Tuesday night. He demanded money. To prove I hadn’t got any here, I opened the safe. Both safes. That’s how he got the gun. He seemed to know there’d be one around.’

  The girl was terrified. The youth himself wasn’t too steady and his eyes had the faraway look of a pot-head.

  ‘O’ course she got money,’ he said, his teeth barely parting. ‘Come on, missus, let’s have it.’

  ‘No.’ I considered him. Behind me, I was indicating that Dulcie should move out of his line of fire. ‘I want to hear this. What you saw about the shooting … ’

  ‘Wouldn’t ya like to know!’ he sneered. ‘Then what’d I have worth anythin’? Keep yer mouth to yerself, mister.’

  ‘You couldn’t hit a barn with that,’ I said. ‘Ever fired a gun?’

  But it was a target pistol. With that he couldn’t miss half a barn, which was the size I felt, five feet from that muzzle.

  ‘Don’t be corny, mister. And don’t tell me the safety’s on, because it ain’t. Gerrover by that wall.’

  I turned to obey, swivelled on my right foot and went at his gun arm. Cursing, he stepped back a pace and put two through the fleshy part of my left arm, just above the elbow. A .45 would’ve stopped me. Even a .32 would have caused me to pause. A target .22 only punches little holes in you. I went right on, because I couldn’t stop. He swung the pistol sideways, then back at the edge of my jaw. It snapped my head back, but I was still coming on.

  He broke, turned and ran. I clutched for him and missed, reached out and got a handful of arm and finished up in the hall in a tangle of arms, legs and teeth as the girl struggled me to the floor. And, by heaven, she was quite capable of taking off the end of my ear, the whole ear come to think of it. She would have done, if I hadn’t got in one good, open-handed slap, and she was clearly unused to any sort of rebuke, because the surprise of it shook her to stillness.

  I got up, dragging her with me. Outside, a bike’s engine roared into life.

  ‘Where’s he heading?’

  She spat in my face. The phone in the office began to ring. I tried to move her towards it, but she was full of fire. Dulcie came to the doorway.

  ‘Somebody wants you, George. A man.’ Then, as I struggled past her: ‘George! Your arm!’

  There was nothing for it but to take the phone with my left hand. One of the bullets must have nicked the bone. The arm was on fire from shoulder to fingertips.

  I barely heard what Dave said, certainly didn’t take it in. I asked Dulcie the questions and passed on her replies. It all meant nothing. We shook an answer from the girl. Ten o’clock? It had to mean something. Had to. But the fire seemed to be flaring all through my body and waves of darkness kept sweeping my head. Then I passed out.

  I tell you, it was the first time in my life. I came to, with Dulcie clattering a glass against my teeth. I was on the floor, half against the table. My right hand was still clasped on the girl’s wrist and, judging by her moans, pretty tightly.

  ‘Let her go, George. Please.’

  I did. The girl rolled away, then sat on her haunches, head down, rocking herself in agony.

  ‘Can you get to a chair?’ Dulcie asked.

  I managed that. The room steadied. My brain was stuffed with pudding. Dulcie fussed, swinging in and out of my area of vision.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, keep still,’ I appealed.

  ‘Let me bind your arm. I’ve got some emergency stuff.’

  She opened her first-aid box and we got the jacket off. The shirt-sleeve was soaked and expertly she simply tore it away. As I’ve explained, they make only neat little holes. Two in, two out again. One of those at the back was a bit ragged. She bound it, muttering disquiet and sorrow. The girl sat against the wall, watching me with smudged eyes. My head cleared.

  The young layabout had claimed he saw Colmore shot. The girl had said something about ten o’clock.

  ‘Were you there?’ I asked her. She did not respond. ‘Were you there at the clubhouse when your fancy moron of a boyfriend got his ear pierced?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Did he say it was ten?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how … ’

  ‘He was with me till a quarter to. Said he was gonna get himself a persuader.’

  ‘He would. Just his words. So you’d reckon he’d get to the clubhouse by ten?’

  ‘I reckon.’

  ‘Did he tell you he saw the man shot?’

  ‘Told her,’ she said, shooting a finger out towards Dulcie, its nail horribly long and silver.

  Dulcie was nodding at me, pouting. I asked her: ‘As a means of blackmail?’

  ‘He seems to have found out quite a few things about the background of all this.’

  ‘And it scared you, did it?’

  ‘I didn’t know what had happened at Watling, George, nor what had happened at that woman’s flat. I still don’t know. I was frightened.’

  I was seeing clearly enough now and what I saw was as painful as my arm. ‘Frightened for Abbott?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ve been lying to you, George.’

  ‘So I realize. But not how much.’

  ‘When Charles took his gun case with him on Tuesday, I did check. He hadn’t been taking it, you see — not recently. He wasn’t troubling any more with the pretence that he was going to his club to shoot his guns. So when he did, well, I had to check. And one of his guns was gone.’

  She stopped. It pained her, in retrospect. The girl gave a sharp little laugh of contempt at mature emotion.

  ‘There’d been, you see … ’ Dulcie paused and licked her lips. ‘Don’t look at me like that, George! How can I … There’d been such a row. His jealousy just boiled over. So that when he left, I just didn’t know what to think. I followed him — as I told you — and lost him. I was terrified.’

  A small silence stood between us.

  ‘So what did you do?’ I dared to ask.

  ‘Phoned Victor.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I knew he’d be at his own club, usually alone on Tuesday
s. I phoned him there. And arranged …’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. It took me a time to work up to it. Eight, say, eight-fifteen.’

  ‘You’re making this up!’ I said angrily.

  ‘And arranged,’ she went on, with cold stubbornness, ‘to meet him at the Parkway Service Area at nine.’

  ‘You’ve thought this up since that phone call. You’d do anything for Abbott.’

  ‘I can’t help it if I love him, George,’ she said simply.

  Again the girl broke in with a shrill cry of derision. ‘Brilliant!’ she sneered. I flinched.

  ‘You go along with anything he says,’ I said in disgust. ‘How could you have got to the Parkway Area in that blasted Mini of yours?’

  ‘You don’t let go … ’

  ‘No. You’re getting yourself involved.’

  And yet, although it hurt to hear her say this, I was aware that, if true, it would definitely preclude her from being anywhere near the flat at eight minutes to nine.

  ‘I didn’t use the Mini,’ she said. ‘I used the Cortina.’

  ‘It was there, in the multi-storey,’ I cried. ‘I saw the ticket.’

  ‘Don’t make it difficult,’ she pleaded. ‘I could have used it. I could have parked the Mini there and taken out the Cortina with that ticket.’

  ‘Oh sure, sure. And you’ve got this just pat in a few minutes. Think how you’ll build up the detail, given an hour or two, and a couple of phone calls to him.’

  ‘And I could,’ she said softly, ‘have driven the Cortina a little wildly in the car park at Parkway and have run into the back of Victor’s Dolomite.’

  Staring at me was the memory of Abbott’s car, with just such damage as she described. But I did not believe what she said. Colmore was shot at nine, wasn’t he? This woman, Marilyn, was shot at the same time, or thereabouts. For them both to have been at Parkway, Dulcie and Abbott, was just too coincidental to be accepted.

  And then I saw it. There was something that fitted the complete scenario. Abbott had driven to Bentley that night, determined to put an end to the Dulcie-Colmore affair once and for all, as it was threatening to destroy his own marriage. He’d discovered Colmore at the woman’s flat and there had shot her — possibly unplanned but unavoidable — had chased Colmore to the Dolomite and there had shot him. All within a few minutes of nine. And then … then had faked a crash with the Cortina, where Colmore’s car had stood in the multi-storey, having arranged with Dulcie the ridiculous alibi she’d come out with.

  There was only one snag. No, two.

  ‘The boy,’ I said. ‘Len, they call him. What words did he use when he said he saw him shot?’

  I aimed this question at the girl, who’d seemed to be sinking into the apathy to which they so easily retreat. Her eyes opened wide. ‘Ask her. He said it to her.’ Accusingly, even jealously.

  ‘Dulcie?’

  ‘I don’t really understand, George.’

  I couldn’t stand the beseeching look in her eyes. Perhaps I answered too sharply.

  ‘His exact words.’

  ‘He said … he said he saw him shot dead.’

  ‘No amplification?’

  ‘Why should he … No, those words.’

  Not, then, perhaps the deed. Using the word ‘shot’ in the past. Not meaning: ‘being shot dead.’ The boy could have come across the body in the car. He had seen him ‘shot dead’, after it had happened. It was a possibility. I nodded.

  The other point.

  ‘You said you drove your car — Colmore’s Cortina — into Abbott’s Dolomite. Were you driving forwards or backwards, Dulcie?’

  ‘I was driving out,’ she said distantly. ‘Forwards — into the back of his car.’ Her head was cocked. I detected she was on the defensive. ‘As you’d have seen, George, when it was in the car-park — if it hadn’t been parked nose-in.’

  But I wasn’t going to be shaken by that. It was true that Abbott, if he’d wanted simply to inflict damage between the two cars, while Colmore’s had been parked nose-in, could’ve done it easier by running his own car into the back of Colmore’s. There’d have been nothing to gain by getting Colmore’s car out just to make sure the damage to the Cortina was to its nose.

  I shook my head angrily. It was a minor point, but annoying. Apart from that I’d busted it, as Dave says when he completes the Times crossword. The more I thought about it, the more pleased I became. Only one detail remained.

  Abbott had been using two automatic pistols that evening and either would eject its shell-cases. He might think to pick up the one in the flat — but not the other in the clubhouse car-park. If Colmore had been shot at Watling, the police would have found a shell-case near the car. We’d heard nothing about that from Messingham.

  I reached for the phone. It was off its cradle and I put it back, waited a second, then got the dialling tone. At the other end the ringing went on for five seconds.

  ‘George?’

  ‘Yes, Dave.’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Hell yes. Listen — I’ve got it. Abbott did both up here and drove Colmore’s body back.’

  ‘George, I’ve already …’

  ‘I’ve got it down to the last detail. Last but one, perhaps. All you’ve gotta do is ask Messingham if they found a cartridge-case near the car.’

  ‘Don’t go gabbling on. I’ve already thought of that.’

  ‘But the damage to the Dolomite could’ve been done this end, in the multi-storey car-park.’

  He was silent. I thought I’d impressed him. But when he spoke again it was with weariness. ‘I don’t think we’ve got to consider that. There’s something you don’t know. The Dolomite couldn’t have moved after the bullet went through that clock.’

  ‘Couldn’t have moved?’ I repeated, trying to take it in.

  ‘It smashed the distributor, George.’

  ‘Are you telling me that one bullet did all that? Killed Colmore, went on and smashed the clock and then on some more and smashed the distributor?’ It could. A high-velocity .22, with a muzzle velocity of around 3,000 feet per second, could manage the penetration. But for one shot to achieve three critical tilings was almost unacceptable.

  ‘It’s a fact, George. The distributor was smashed. The car couldn’t have moved after the shot.’

  Couldn’t have moved from where? From the clubhouse car-park, of course. It made nonsense of everything. My head swam with pain. I had to try.

  ‘They’ve now got two witnesses to Marilyn Trask’s time of death. Two to say it was at eight minutes to nine.’

  He sighed. ‘I hear you.’

  ‘So the one your end must be wrong.’

  ‘If you’re looking at it from your end, George.’

  ‘It simply stopped at nine.’

  ‘The clock’s wound by the battery. Come on, George, you’re getting vague. What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘I’m coming back. It’ll take an hour. Tell Miller I’m bringing his sister and ask him about the shell-case.’

  ‘I’ll come and get you … ’

  ‘It’s just a couple of little holes in my arm, Dave. I’ll be there.’ And I hung up quickly.

  They’d been listening to my end of the conversation. I saw there was the look in Dulcie’s eyes of a woman who longs to throw her arms round you and beg forgiveness. She watched me with haunted eyes and as I looked at her she removed her glasses, blinking, and began furiously to search her sleeves for a clean handkerchief.

  ‘Lies, lies,’ I said sorrowfully.

  ‘Swear at me if you like!’ she burst out. ‘Don’t just look … ’

  ‘Charles died in that car-park. At nine, unless we can upset the clock business.’

  ‘If that’s what you say.’

  ‘Don’t you see what that means!’ I said angrily. ‘One dead each end at about the same time. Collusion, Dulcie, for God’s sake. It leaves you … ’

  ‘Unless you can break that clock busin
ess?’ she asked quietly.

  I tried, hanging on desperately to a possibility. ‘Charles … was he a time nut?’

  ‘I don’t understand … yes. He had a quartz watch. Was always resetting clocks.’

  Faced by a clock reading the wrong time, he was just the one to put it right! I groaned. ‘I’ll have to go.’

  ‘Don’t leave me now. There’re things … ’

  ‘It’s not the end of the world.’ I turned to the girl. ‘Can you drive a car?’

  ‘I ain’t going back.’

  ‘Tied to the seat, or driving, you’re going back.’

  She sulked childishly. ‘I’ll drive.’

  And have us in a ditch? I’d have to risk it. We trooped out to the Sceptre. ‘It’s an automatic,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, super!’ she said with heavy sarcasm. ‘Get in your seat, you big flab.’

  I tried to grin and went round to the passenger’s side. Dulcie stood on the front steps. She raised a hand in a signal. I couldn’t smile, but waved from inside.

  ‘You select R, for reverse.’

  ‘Immaculate,’ the girl snarled.

  We jerked into movement. She’d got the revs too high. My head spun with the abrupt motion and we were round a bend in the drive before I looked back again.

  It was not until we reached the motorway approach road that I remembered I should have checked the Cortina for damage to its nose. Then I realized, annoyingly, that the proposition was no longer valid.

  The girl had been driving as though the car was on two wheels. Sometimes it was. On the motorway we rocked from lane to lane. I think I passed out a few times. It was becoming very late.

  Phrases edged through my mind. ‘ … was always resetting clocks.’ It’d be correct, that fascia clock. He’d make sure it was. Any fiddling and what would you get, anyway? An alibi, that’s what, otherwise there was no point. What flaming alibi? ‘He’d reach forward and put it right. There’s a knob on the dial … ’ Had that been Dave?

  I passed away again. Dimly I was aware that I had something. Half dozing, I worked on it. The engine’s note rose. We were doing ninety. No matter — there was a hurry.

  There was a desperate hurry, I realized.