Arthurs' Night (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 6)

by J F Straker

  Arthurs’ Night

  J.F. Straker

  Copyright © J.F. Straker 1976

  The right of J.F. Straker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1976 by Robert Hale Ltd.

  This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Part One — 1968

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Part Two — 1974

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Extract from Death on a Sunday Morning by J F Straker

  Part One — 1968

  Chapter 1

  They were waiting for him as he left the Customs Hall at Heathrow; two men in lounge suits, one short and stocky, with bandy legs and a round head, his grey suit creased and ill-fitting; the other of medium height, with jet black hair curling under his bowler hat and the eager expression of a pedigree terrier. A third man, thick lipped and with a large mole on his left cheek, his burly frame clothed in a check jacket and brown trousers, hovered in the background.

  ‘Mr. Connor?’ Bowler Hat said. ‘Mr. James Connor?’

  ‘Yes.’ Connor frowned, not recognising them. ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘We are police officers, sir. These gentlemen are from the Fell Valley C.I.D. Detective Superintendent Brummit —’ He indicated the bandy-legged man — ‘and Detective Sergeant Vaisey. My name is O’Halloran. Detective Inspector O’Halloran.’ He had a crisp public school accent. ‘We think you may be able to help us with certain inquiries we are making.’

  ‘Oh? Such as what?’

  ‘It might be better if we discussed it at the station,’ O’Halloran said.

  ‘Better for you, perhaps,’ Connor said. ‘Not for me. In the past week I have spent less than six hours at home. I slept there for part of Wednesday night.’ Not much sleep either, he reflected, recalling the invective that had greeted his arrival home and the frosty treatment the next morning. Unfortunately that had become typical of life with Anne. Partly his fault, no doubt, but mostly hers. If they didn’t watch it the marriage could crack. ‘Today is Saturday. I intend to spend the weekend catching up on my home life. So say what you have to say, gentlemen, and let’s be done with it.’

  ‘Do you know a Miss Rebecca Main?’ Brummit asked. He had a raucous voice with the hint of a North Country accent.

  Connor thought to detect hostility in his manner. ‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘No? You were in Felborough on Wednesday, I believe, sir. What was your business there?’

  ‘Visiting a customer. That’s my business most places, Superintendent. I’m sales manager at Kesslers: we manufacture cement mixers. Though how that can concern the police —’

  ‘I imagine you’d not be selling cement mixers the whole time, eh?’ Brummit said. ‘So if you don’t mind, we’d like to know how you spent that evening.’

  Connor stared at him. The Superintendent’s round head was thrust forward aggressively. His ears stuck out, there was an unruly growth of hair on each cheek of the otherwise clean-shaven face. It was a brutal face, Connor thought. It suggested a man more accustomed to flouting the Law than to enforcing it.

  ‘You would, would you? Why, for Heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Never mind why, sir. Just tell us, will you?’

  *

  The appointment with A. Northropp and Company had been for three o’clock, and he had left Durham in good time. It was the car that delayed him. Forty-five miles from Felborough it blew a gasket, and although he was lucky enough to find a garage with a replacement in stock he did not reach Felborough until after five-thirty, by which time the firm’s offices were closed. That put him in a spot. He had a room booked in Northampton for the night and an appointment there at ten o’clock the next morning; so either he cut out Northropp and carried on to Northampton that evening, or he stayed in Felborough overnight, saw Northropp in the morning, and gave the Northampton customer a miss. No go in the afternoon, the latter had said. I won’t be available.

  Neither alternative appealed. He found a telephone booth and looked up A. Northropp in the directory. There were two: A. H. Northropp and A. C. Northropp. The latter was listed as a pharmacist, and he made a note of the former’s private address and considered the best mode of approach. Did he telephone and ask if he might call? It was odds-on that Northropp would refuse to see him. It might be more advantageous to call without telephoning first. The man might still refuse to talk business, but at least he would get to see him.

  The address was a block of expensive-looking apartments on the outskirts of the town. The hall porter wanted to announce his arrival over the house telephone, but Connor said he was expected and not to bother, and which was Mr. Northropp’s apartment? Number Five, the man said. Connor went up in the lift and rang the bell. He had to wait some time for his ring to be answered. When eventually the door opened he was confronted by a thickset man wearing a bright green dressing gown and apparently very little underneath. His greying hair was ruffled and his swarthy complexion partially concealed the evening stubble on his chin. He frowned when he saw Connor and pulled the dressing gown more tightly about him. His legs and the backs of his hands were dark with fur-like hair.

  ‘Yes?’ he demanded.

  Connor introduced himself and hastened to explain. ‘You must think I’ve got a nerve, calling at this hour,’ he said. ‘But your letter suggested you were definitely interested. I didn’t want to pass you up.’

  ‘I’m interested,’ Northropp said, his tone less brusque. ‘But you’ve chosen a hell of a time to call. I was just running a bath. However, now you’re here you’d better come in.’

  Connor went in. The living room was large, and the four doors leading off it suggested that it was the focal point of the apartment. Connor knew little of Chippendale and Sheraton and the Adam brothers, but even to him it was obvious that the furnishings owed them nothing. Everything was ultra modern, with glass and steel and plastic as much in evidence as wood. But the pile on the carpet was thick and the swivel armchairs looked comfortable, and the Impressionist paintings on the walls added colour to the room.

  ‘Whisky or gin?’ Northropp asked.

  ‘Whisky, please.’

  Northropp went over to a corner bar and poured the drinks. From behind one of the closed doors came the sound of music; Northropp’s bedroom, Connor supposed, where he had neglected to switch off the radio or record player when interrupted. There were no flowers in the room and few ornaments. Connor found that disappointing. He liked both.

  ‘Shouldn’t you turn off your bath water?’ he asked.

  ‘It’ll turn itself off. I’m fully automated.’ Northropp handed him a glass containing a generous measure of whisky and placed a jug of water on the glass-topped table. ‘Help yourself. Now, let’s have the sales talk, shall we?’ He picked up an illustrated pamphlet Connor had laid on the table. ‘Is this it?’

  ‘That’s the Esiflo,’ Connor said. ‘All hydraulic — drum drive, loading hopper, scraper — which obviates gearing and makes it extremely easy to handle. But its mixed capacity is limited to seven cubic feet, and your letter suggested you were looking for something bigger.’ He picked up a second pamphlet. ‘These are the Kessler 10K and 20K — mixed capacity of
ten and twenty cubic feet respectively. They give a very fast mix — around thirty seconds — and we guarantee thorough integration. There is practically no fluctuation in concrete strength — less than four per cent — and —’

  Neither man had heard the bedroom door open. Northropp was studying the pamphlet and Connor was watching him. Their first intimation of the girl’s presence was the sound of her voice, softly plaintive.

  ‘Alec darling, you didn’t —’

  She broke off as they turned to look at her. Of medium height, with long legs and an incredibly small waist, she stood framed in the doorway, naked except for a brief pair of lace panties. Her hair was long and straight and gleaming black, her breasts small and firm. Connor judged her to be in the early twenties. He thought her one of the most beautiful women he had seen.

  For a moment too brief for Connor’s pleasure she stared back at them, amusement — glee, almost — replacing the initial astonishment in her wide grey eyes. There was the flash of diamonds as beringed fingers moved to cover her breasts. Then she vanished into the bedroom, slamming the door shut.

  Connor knew he should have averted his gaze, but he had continued to look, mesmerised by her nude beauty. Now embarrassment took over and he began to stammer an apology. Northropp, obviously furious, cut him short.

  ‘Not your fault,’ he said brusquely. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘But your wife —’

  ‘I said forget it.’

  Connor knew it was a confrontation he was unlikely to forget. Northropp drained his glass, poured himself another whisky, and took it into the bedroom. The music ceased, to be succeeded by the sound of voices raised in altercation. Left to himself, Connor wandered round the room, examining the pictures. He was beginning to regret the incident. An angry Northropp was unlikely to be receptive to sales talk.

  He was staring blankly at a Matisse reproduction and considering the best line to take when Northropp returned. Northropp was fully dressed and appeared to have discarded his ill humour. He said briskly, ‘I need some air. Care to inspect the site?’

  ‘Sure,’ Connor said. He did not see how inspecting the site could influence a sale. But anything to please a customer. ‘I’d be glad to.’

  ‘We’ll take your car,’ Northropp said. ‘No, leave the bumph. I’ll look at it later.’

  Felborough was really two towns in juxtaposition, the old and the new. In the old town were narrow one-way streets flanked by seventeenth and eighteenth century houses, the cattle market, and an area of pitiful slum dwellings, some still occupied, which was earmarked for demolition. The new town had grown rapidly and was still growing, with its racecourse and zoo and a fine park and blocks of high-rise flats. Now the new and the old were partially to merge. The slum area in the latter was to be replaced by a modern shopping centre, the contract for which had been given to Northropp’s firm. It was the largest project they had yet handled, he told Connor with undisguised elation and pride, and he was confident it would lead to even more impressive contracts.

  Work on the site had already started. Northropp explained the layout: a rectangle of shops, and inside the rectangle a sunken playground for children, a bandstand and both open-air and enclosed cafés. Back to back with the rectangle of shops were more shops flanked by wide pavements and tree-lined avenues, and beyond the avenues were car parks and gardens.

  ‘Very impressive,’ Connor said.

  ‘Yes. I’m sub-contracting, of course, but the bulk of it will be done by us. And there’ll be more to follow. Over there —’ Northropp pointed east. ‘Over there we plan to build an industrial estate. The way the town is growing we need industry to support it, and industry won’t come unless we provide adequate factory space and facilities. Mind you, that’s for the future. It hasn’t even reached the drawing board yet. But it’ll come. It has to.’

  ‘Will you tender?’

  ‘Of course. We may not get the lot, but we’ll get a healthy slice. That I guarantee.’

  Connor wondered if the man’s confidence was justified. Northropp’s firm was small to be given such ambitious projects.

  As they walked back to the car an elderly man hailed Northropp by name and hurried to join them. The expression on Northropp’s face suggested that the encounter was unwelcome; but he made no attempt to avoid it and introduced the newcomer as George Fitt, the chief planning officer. Fitt muttered a perfunctory greeting and led Northropp a few paces away. Connor walked on to the car and waited.

  When Northropp rejoined him Fitt came too. Unlike Northropp, who wore a polo-necked sweater and tan trousers, he was impeccably dressed in a well-cut grey suit. The fringe of hair that showed beneath the smart grey homburg was also grey. So was the complexion on his deeply lined face. Connor put his age in the late fifties.

  ‘Connor, eh?’ Fitt said. He had a dry, tired voice. ‘My C.O. in Germany was a Connor. Colonel Cornelius Connor. You look a bit like him. Any relation?’

  ‘My father,’ Connor said.

  ‘Really? How is he? We lost touch after the war.’

  ‘Fine. He’s retired, of course. Pig farming in Dorset.’

  ‘Good for him.’ The tip of Fitt’s tongue protruded as he licked his scaly-looking lips. ‘You know, I rather think this calls for a drink. How about it, eh?’

  Connor hesitated. He had yet to clinch a sale and no doubt it would go more smoothly over a drink. But if Northropp declined then so must he. In which case maybe he could swing it on the drive back to the flat.

  ‘All right with you, Connor?’ Northropp said. Connor nodded. ‘Just a quick one, then. I can’t stay long. And I expect you’re wanting to be on your way.’

  ‘No hurry,’ Connor lied. Haste was something a salesman could not afford.

  ‘It’ll have to be quick for me too,’ Fitt said. ‘It’s Arthurs’ Night. We’ll make it the Malt House, shall we?’

  ‘Who’s Arthur?’ Connor asked as they followed Fitt’s Mercedes through the town.

  Arthurs’ Night, Northropp said, had become something of an institution in Felborough. It had started in 1946, when George and Hilda Arthur, a wealthy local couple, had celebrated their ruby wedding by giving a party at the Royal. To it they had invited others of their friends and acquaintances who had also enjoyed a long and happy married life.

  ‘They had intended to celebrate their golden wedding in similar fashion,’ Northropp said. ‘Unfortunately George died in 1955 and Hilda six months later. They were a popular couple, and their friends decided to hold a sort of memorial dinner for them on the anniversary date. It was then that Arthurs’ Night was founded. Every September the 18th there is a party at the Royal. Only now it is held in aid of charity. Tickets at a tenner each, wines included.’

  ‘Can anyone attend?’ Connor asked.

  ‘Yes. Provided they’re married, of course. But both partners have to be present. If one falls sick or something, bang goes twenty quid. Hard luck on the remaining spouse, perhaps, but fine for charity.’

  The Malt House was a hotel on the main road south, a long, low modern building that did its best to look old. They went down stone steps to a dimly lit cellar bar where, although it was not yet seven o’clock, amorous young couples were already ensconced in most of the dark recesses. No doubt experience had taught them the wisdom of an early reservation. The more serious drinkers sat on high settle benches or on stools at the bar.

  There were nods and greetings as the three men entered. Fitt bought the first round, ordering double whiskies. Twenty minutes and two doubles later Connor began to feel slightly light-headed; he was unused to drinking at such a rapid rate. Not so Fitt, who emptied his glass quickly and drummed impatiently on the counter as he waited for it to be refilled. Connor decided he was a bit of a soak. Northropp opted out after the second round. The elation he had displayed earlier had gone. He seemed more interested in the other occupants of the bar than in his companions, and took little part in the conversation.

  Connor decided it was time to talk business. �
��About that mixer, Mr. Northropp,’ he said. ‘Any further ideas?’

  Northropp nodded. ‘I’ll be in touch. No hurry.’

  ‘The sooner you get your order in the better,’ Connor persisted. ‘There is at least four weeks’ delay in delivery. Could be more.’

  Northropp did not answer. He was watching a couple who had just entered the bar. Connor watched them too, but it was the woman who held his gaze. She was tiny, with close-cropped blonde hair and a boyish figure. She seemed to know most of the customers, greeting them by their Christian names. So did her companion, who Connor judged to be the younger of the two. Despite her youthful figure and the generous expanse of thigh displayed beneath the mini-skirt, there were lines in her face that suggested she would not see thirty again. Northropp and Fitt were apparently not among her familiars, for although she gave them a nod and a smile, in which Connor thought himself included, she did not speak to them.

  Northropp turned back to the bar. ‘I don’t like being pushed, Connor,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  Fitt drained his glass. ‘I’ll have to be going,’ he said, and sounded reluctant. ‘Nice to have met you, Connor. Tell you what — have lunch out at my place tomorrow. Susan would be delighted to meet you. You can fill me in on your father.’

  ‘Connor’s on his way to Northampton,’ Northropp said. ‘Leaving tonight. He has an appointment there in the morning.’

  ‘So what? He can postpone it, can’t he? Stay overnight and ring them in the morning, Connor. How about it, eh?’

  Connor considered. Northampton was well over a hundred miles away; even if he left now he would not make it before eleven, not even if he pushed it. And he didn’t feel like pushing it. Not at that hour and after three large whiskies. To stay overnight might provide the opportunity to clinch a definite sale with Northropp, which was more than he could expect at Northampton. The fact that the blonde in the mini-skirt was showing interest was a further inducement to stay. She had moved to the bar with her companion and had smiled at him more than once. Handle this right, Connor thought, and it could develop into quite an evening.