by J F Straker
Sinclair pulled at the door. It did not close properly, and he opened it again and slammed it shut. Both hands gripping the wheel, he stared bleakly out through the windscreen.
“Everything,” he said, and gulped. “The money isn’t there.”
3
Sinclair was uncommunicative on the way back, and his answers to Johnny’s questions were brief and evasive. He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, a set expression on his round face. Occasionally his lower jaw sagged and quivered, and Johnny suspected he was near to tears. Yes, he said tersely, his search had been thorough; and yes, he had known exactly where to look. How had he known? Johnny asked. Had Wheeler told him? He knew, he said. It didn’t matter how. Johnny had not pressed him further. But he had ostentatiously opened the brief-case and looked inside, both for his own satisfaction and because it seemed in character with the heavy mob. Honour among thieves would be pie in the sky to them.
The brief-case was empty.
Back at the house Sinclair poured himself a large whisky and slumped in a chair. Johnny helped himself. He disliked whisky, but again it seemed in character.
“You’re in a mess,” he said breezily. “They’re not going to like this.”
He wished he knew to whom he was referring.
Sinclair seemed to come to a decision. He sat up and looked hard at Johnny over the top of his spectacles.
“You’re a copper, aren’t you?” he said.
Taken aback, Johnny forced a grin. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“The kids said you were. I heard them tell their mother. ‘The nice policeman’s out in the lane,’ they said.”
Johnny managed to maintain the grin. This was his cue to admit his identity and take Sinclair along to the nick for interrogation. But he disregarded it. He had to keep trying. Sinclair without the maggot was a waste of time. Apart from what he had admitted to Johnny that afternoon (which couldn’t be used) SIN had nothing on him.
“Flattery again,” he said. “Like I said, Sinclair, you’re still wet behind the ears. How do you think I knew what time Brown had arranged to collect the dogs, and the price he was paying? Telepathy?”
Sinclair blinked at him. “You mean you posed as a copper?”
“Meet the nice policeman.”
Sinclair continued to watch him, blinking intermittently. Then he lifted his glass and drained it.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t think.”
“Then start thinking now,” Johnny said, relieved that the dangerous notion was past, whisking it away before he could return to it. “Where do you go from here?”
“Isn’t that up to you?”
“Don’t you believe it. My job was to ensure you didn’t scarper with the cash. No cash, no job. The way I see it, I’m out.”
Sinclair got up and poured himself another whisky. His hand shook as he lifted the glass.
“I’ll have to tell them,” he said. “They won’t believe me. But what else can I do?”
“You could run,” Johnny suggested. “Provided, of course, you run fast enough.”
“No-one runs fast enough. Not from them.” He lit a cigarette from a dying stub. “Besides, there’s Beryl. I can’t desert her.”
“They didn’t tell me about Beryl,” Johnny said. The unfamiliar whisky, taken neat, had hardened his confidence. “She’s your wife, isn’t she? Where does she fit in?”
“They’re holding her as a hostage.”
“Tough. How do you propose to pass the glad tidings?”
“They fixed for me to meet them this evening.”
“And you’ll do that?” Sinclair nodded. “What time?”
“If they didn’t tell you they didn’t want you to know.” There was a thickening of his speech, a tendency to drop the final palatals. “The same goes for where.”
He sounded aggressive. Johnny wondered if too many questions had re-awakened suspicion.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
“I will.” Sinclair poured yet another whisky. Like the others, it came well up the glass. A good treble, Johnny reckoned. “Are you supposed to come with me?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Johnny said, stalling while he considered. “With the lolly, yes. Without it —” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
If he went with Sinclair he needed to know that friends were close behind. ‘They’ were obviously dangerous; and although he had never shirked danger, this time it could be absolute. Wheeler and Goodwin were evidence of that. Certainly the Boozer would not approve; stupidity, the Boozer would call it. But to contact friends necessitated using a telephone, and the telephone was on a table beside his chair. How did he convey the necessary information without betraying himself to an already suspicious listener? And who was available? By now Nicodemus and half the nick would be on their way to the Wheelers’. So would the Boozer if he were back. And to get the message across to the station sergeant just wasn’t on.
Which left Karen.
“I’d better check,” he said. “Mind if I use your phone?”
“Help yourself.”
He dialled the hotel, praying that it would be Karen who answered. It was. “This is Johnny,” he said briskly. “Is Humphrey there?”
Karen laughed. It was an infectious sound, and Johnny stopped the involuntary grin it evoked.
“What’s wrong with Knickers?” she asked. “Company too polite? Anyway, he left ten minutes ago.”
“How about the Boozer?”
“I haven’t seen him. Shall I try his room?”
“Tell him I want instructions,” Johnny said. “Tell him I’m with Sinclair, that the money isn’t where we expected it to be, and that he now has to report. So do I go with him, or do I sign off? Ask him that, will you?”
There was a short silence. Then — “Hang on,” she said. “I’ll see if he’s in.”
He had kept the receiver close to his ear so that the girl’s voice should not be audible to Sinclair. He kept it close while he waited.
Sinclair was watching him. “You know the Boozer?” Johnny asked. “No? Well, you haven’t missed much. He’s tough.” The other did not comment. He looked puzzled.
“Johnny?” Karen was back. “Sorry. He’s not there.”
“Right,” he said. “But I’ll need collecting. Tell Coley to pick me up at the corner of Melling Drive and —” He clapped a hand to the mouthpiece and looked at Sinclair. “What’s the road at the end?”
“George Street.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Karen’s voice was shrill. “I don’t —”
“Corner of Melling Drive and George Street,” Johnny told her. “Be there in ten minutes. Okay?”
He rang off before the girl could answer, and hoped that she would understand. Surely she must translate Coley into Chief Inspector Cole?
“You’re on your own,” he said. He got up stiffly, a hand to his side. The pain was not severe, but it was there. “I’m off. Don’t step out of line, and give my love to Beryl. And good luck. I guess you’re going to need it.”
Sinclair’s eyes followed him to the door.
Out in the street Johnny hesitated. Was Sinclair watching from the window? There was no movement of the curtains, and he ducked round to the off-side of the van and twisted the wing mirror. Sinclair was unlikely to notice it before he drove off, still less likely to stop and adjust it later. And a lack of vision would give the police a healthier chance to tail him unobserved.
He waited not ten minutes, but twenty. He stood at the corner, keeping a watchful eye on the van, expecting to see Sinclair drive away and himself unable to follow. And when eventually the car came it was not the police, but Karen.
She parked the Hillman opposite the corner and leaned out of the window to wave.
“Hi! Johnny!” she called.
He went over to her. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. Dusk had fallen, and as a passing motorist flashed his headlights he saw that she looked cross. Well, he was cross h
imself. “It was Cole I wanted. I thought I made that clear.”
“The only thing you made clear was that you wanted a lift,” she retorted. “The rest was gibberish. So, at considerable inconvenience to myself and the hotel, a lift you get.” She leaned across to open the door. “Hop in. I’m in a hurry.”
He hopped in. But when she made to switch on the ignition he stopped her.
“Hold it,” he said. And told her briefly what had happened.
“So what?” she asked. “You still need a lift, don’t you?”
“I need a carload of cops to tail the bastard. That’s what I need, and that’s what I asked for. What I get —”
He stopped. He had not seen Sinclair leave the house, but the van’s sidelights were on.
“What you get is me.” She reached once more for the switch. “Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it.” His hand grasped hers on the gear lever. “But the car only, love. I want to tail Sinclair.”
“Alone?” There was anxiety in her eyes as she looked at him. “Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes! “ The van had left the kerb and was heading towards them. He tore a leaf from his notebook and scribbled down its number. “Take that to the nick and tell them to pick up the van and tail it. Give them the Hillman’s number as well. But tell them not to interfere until they’re dead sure Sinclair has reached his destination.” The van was at the corner, waiting for a gap in the traffic. He leaned across and opened the door. “Out you get. I don’t want to lose him.”
“But, Johnny! Please!”
“Out!” The van was moving again, and he gave her a shove. “Tell them he’s heading north. And thanks.” He slammed the door shut. “See you.”
She walked away without reply. Seconds later, as he accelerated past in pursuit of the van, he gave her a wave. She did not wave back. But he caught a brief glimpse of her face. Although facial expressions in the yellow street lighting could be deceptive, it seemed to him that she was crying.
Is that for me? he wondered. Had he become that important to her? Elated at the thought, he gave a farewell toot on the horn and settled more comfortably behind the steering-wheel. His damaged side was forgotten, he felt ten feet tall and full of confidence. This, he told himself, is my lucky day; nothing can go wrong now. I’m going to get those bastards; if the lads from the nick do their stuff we could have the whole firm in the bag by midnight. That would really make the Boozer sit up. And afterwards ...
He whistled to himself as he imagined the fond reception he would get from Karen on his return. It could be quite a night.
Sinclair was in no hurry. Once clear of the town he drove at a steady thirty-five, and Johnny guessed that he was early for his appointment. To Johnny the district was new; when eventually they left the main road for a secondary road, and then turned into a succession of winding lanes, he was completely lost. At times Sinclair too seemed uncertain of his route, and occasionally he stopped to read the names on the signposts; but to Johnny the names meant nothing, he had known none of them before. He followed the van blindly, driving on sidelights for most of the way, keeping his distance on the occasional straight and closing the gap round the bends.
The Hillman’s dashboard light was not working, but when eventually the van’s braking lights glowed and it slowed to a halt Johnny reckoned they had covered the best part of twelve miles. Ahead were the tail-lights of a car, parked tight against the hedge. As the van pulled up behind it he saw two men get out and stand waiting.
This, then, was the rendezvous. He slowed in indecision. To drive on past might be to lose his quarry, to stop would arouse suspicion; there was no sign of police reinforcements, and he could not tackle the three men unaided. Nor did he wish to. This was only a wayside meeting; presumably the newcomers would go on from there, with or without Sinclair. His task, as he saw it, was to follow, not to arrest.
A turning to the right solved his dilemma. As he swung into it he saw Sinclair leave the van. He drove some fifty yards down the turning, parked the Hillman with the engine running, and ran back to the corner as fast as his injured side permitted. His rubber soles made little sound on the packed gravel.
The three men stood by the car, talking. He could hear their voices but not what was said. By their gestures he thought they were arguing; and presently they all three got into the car and he heard the engine start.
He did not wait to see more. As he ran back to the Hillman he heard the car accelerate away, saw its lights disappear round a bend. It was out of sight by the time he turned the corner, and he went after it in a hurry, pushing the Hillman as hard as the narrow lane would permit.
It was sheer luck that he caught them. They were really motoring now, and from the way they twisted and turned through the lanes he suspected they knew they were being followed, and were trying to lose him. But at that speed they had to use their headlights, and it was these he followed. Once he lost them at a crossing. He chanced his luck and went straight on. And his luck held.
It was, he thought, a good omen.
He picked up their tail-lights again on one of the longer straights, only to see them turn left and disappear. Above the high hedge the lights dipped and soared, suggesting uneven ground, and Johnny approached the turning cautiously. What he had supposed to be yet another lane was a rough track, the barred gate propped open. At the far end of the track, illuminated by the lights of the approaching car, stood a long, low building.
So this was journey’s end.
He drew in close to the opposite verge, switched off all lights, and reviewed his position. Throughout the chase there had been no sign of the police — not surprising, considering the nature of the route — and he could not invade the building unaided. The sensible course was to locate his position and then get to the nearest telephone and ring the Boozer. And quickly. Without the money, Sinclair could be in for an unhappy reception.
His side was stiff from driving, and he stood for a few seconds, easing it into mobility. Lights showed in the building. But there was no other habitation in sight at which he might inquire, and he went over to the gate. Striking a match, he shielded it with his hands and bent to read the name.
There was none. He was moving to the far post when he heard the footsteps. They broke into the silence abruptly — not one pair of feet, but several, loud and crisp in the still air. It was a dark night, and because of the rising ground he could not see them. But they were coming down the track towards the gate, and he supposed he had not heard them previously because they had been walking on the grass.
He dropped the match and turned to make for the Hillman. He never reached it. A light was switched on suddenly from the lane, its beam directed at his face. As he lifted a hand to shield his eyes a voice from behind the beam said benignly, “Good evening, Sergeant. I can’t say you’re entirely welcome. But since you insist on being with us you’d better come in.”
The voice was that of Dennis Cooper.
4
It was after eight o’clock when Sherrey returned to the hotel. He was in an impatient mood, and the sight of the diminutive figure of Lucinda Bollender rising hurriedly from a chair to intercept him did not lessen his impatience.
“Thank goodness you’re here at last!” Her thin little voice was shrill. “I tried the police station, but they referred me to you. Inspector, I —”
“Superintendent, madam. Detective superintendent.”
“Of course. I beg your pardon. But is it true about Mr Goodwin?” She gripped his arm, her fingers kneading convulsively. “I telephoned from Venice, and they told me he was dead, that he had fallen from the window of his flat. I flew back at once. Now they are saying in the town that he was murdered. Is that true? Was he murdered, Superintendent?”
There were lines on the young-old face that he had not noticed on their previous meeting. The smart Givenchy suit was neither crushed nor creased, yet somehow it gave the impression of having been hastily donned and carelessly worn. The elaborate make-u
p was there, but it lacked its former perfection.
“You cut short your holiday on account of Mr Goodwin’s death?” he asked.
“No. No, of course not.” Heavy pendant ear-rings flashed as she vehemently denied the suggestion. “Mr Goodwin was a friend of mine — that is, he used to drive me — but I wouldn’t —” Confused, she broke off. “You haven’t answered my question, Superintendent. Was he murdered?”
“We are treating it as murder.”
“Then who killed him?” She still had hold of his arm. “Or don’t you know?”
He wondered why that should be important to her. If rumour were correct in saying that Goodwin had been her lover he would have expected the fact of death to concern her more than the manner of it.
“Not yet,” he told her.
He was saved from further interrogation by the arrival of Nicodemus. The sergeant’s high forehead was furrowed, there was a look of angry bewilderment on his handsome face. He hesitated when he saw Mrs Bollender, and then came up to them.
“May I have a word with you, sir? It’s important.”
Sherrey murmured a polite apology to the woman, removed her hand from his arm, and, gripping Nicodemus by the elbow, propelled him into the bar. But not to the counter. He chose a corner table by the window.
“I couldn’t make it,” he said, pulling out a chair. “Only just got back. Well? How did it go?”
“It didn’t, sir. That’s the devil of it. Mrs Wheeler told Johnny she was expecting Brown at seven-thirty, and we were in position a good hour before that. Around seven-twenty, when it was beginning to get dark, I decided on a quick recce.” Nicodemus took a deep breath. “The dogs had gone, sir. So then I nipped up to the house to see Mrs Wheeler. She said Brown and Sinclair had collected them close on two hours before.”
“The devil they had!” The superintendent’s fingers beat an angry tattoo on the table. Behind the counter the manager heard the noise and looked at them inquiringly. Sherrey waved a hand in impatient denial. “Someone is due for a thumping for this, Sergeant. Who slipped up? You?”
