Arthurs' Night (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 6)

by J F Straker

  ‘I might at that,’ he said.

  ‘Good man.’ Fitt produced a visiting card. ‘There’s the address. See you about twelve-thirty, eh?’ He turned to Northropp. ‘Can I give you a lift, Alec?’

  ‘It’s out of your way,’ Northropp said. ‘I’ll ring Godman’s for a taxi.’

  Fitt’s course up the steps was wayward. ‘He downs his whisky smartish, doesn’t he?’ Connor said. ‘I notice he takes it neat.’

  ‘He takes it any way,’ Northropp said. ‘Excuse me. I’ll ring for that taxi.’

  Alone, Connor glanced across at the blonde. She was toying with an empty glass and looking bored. Her companion had turned to talk to someone at the far end of the bar, and when eventually she looked Connor’s way he raised his glass invitingly. She gave a moue, nodded at her companion’s back, and shrugged. Connor thought he had the message. She was willing, the gestures said, but the situation was tricky.

  He drank to her, smiling over the top of the glass.

  Northropp returned to finish his drink. ‘Who’s the blonde?’ Connor asked. ‘I think she fancies me.’

  Northropp glanced along the bar. ‘You could be right,’ he said. ‘That’s Becky.’

  *

  Becky!

  They saw the sudden change of expression on his face. ‘Coming back to you, Mr. Connor, is it?’ Brummit said. ‘You certainly took your time.’

  ‘I met a girl in a bar while I was in Felborough,’ Connor said. ‘Wednesday evening. She called herself Becky. I don’t know her surname.’

  ‘Main,’ Brummit said. ‘Rebecca Main. And you met her in the cellar bar at the Malt House.’

  ‘If you knew that why the hell didn’t you say so?’ Connor felt he had a right to be angry. ‘Why all the tomfool questions when you already have the answers?’ He waited for someone to tell him. No one did. ‘Anyway, what about her? Why the interest?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ Brummit said. ‘That’s why.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘Murdered,’ Brummit added, not bothering to lower his voice. An elderly woman looked at them sharply in passing. ‘I imagine you don’t need the details, but if you do — well, she was strangled. Manually.’

  Connor was shocked and said so. It was tragic that the woman had been killed. But why had they come to him? He had not really known her; they had spent just that one evening together. What sort of information did they expect from him? Sergeant Vaisey supplied the answer. Except to nod a greeting at O’Halloran’s introduction the sergeant had so far remained silent. Now he said quietly, ‘She was killed around midnight on Wednesday, sir. You were probably the last person to see her alive.’

  A cold shiver ran down Connor’s spine. The last person to see her alive! He had heard and read that phrase often enough to appreciate its sinister significance: the murderer was usually the last person to see his victim alive. Did they think he had killed the woman? The look on Brummit’s face suggested that they did. Connor’s heart seemed to skip a beat as he realised that this was no routine quest for information. This was for real.

  ‘There are questions to be answered, Mr. Connor,’ Brummit said. ‘A lot of questions.’

  ‘Of course. But I assure you —’

  O’Halloran said smoothly, ‘It will take some time, I’m afraid. Wouldn’t it be more sensible to continue this conversation at the station? It would at least give us more privacy.’

  To Connor the three men looked no more like police officers than others milling around the airport, but as he looked about him now he saw that several small groups of people were watching them from a respectable distance. Maybe it was the officers’ attitudes — his too, come to that — which had alerted them to the fact that this was something different from the usual airport meeting. A few might even be waiting for the handcuffs to be produced.

  ‘Yes,’ he said meekly. ‘Yes, of course.’

  He sat between Brummit and Vaisey in the back of the police car, with O’Halloran in front beside the driver. They had gone some way up the M4 before anyone spoke. Then Connor said, ‘It’s a bit warm, isn’t it? Do you think we might have a window open?’

  The men flanking him took no notice, but O’Halloran wound down the nearside front window. Connor sucked the fresh air into his lungs and felt better. It wasn’t only the heat that had bothered him. To his sensitive nostrils Brummit stank like a polecat.

  ‘You’re sure there’s no mistake?’ he asked, seeking hope. ‘I mean, you’re sure it’s the same woman? There must be other Beckies in and around Felborough.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Brummit took a postcard from his wallet. ‘How about you?’

  It was a studio portrait, touched up to iron out the lines but an unmistakable likeness. Connor nodded and handed it back.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s her. How — who found her?’

  ‘Her old man.’

  ‘Her husband? She was married?’

  ‘Her father. On his way to work the next morning.’ Brummit’s voice hardened. ‘Nice for him, eh?’

  Connor did not answer. The tone and the question confirmed what he had feared: they thought he had killed her. Or Brummit did. No, not thought — was convinced. Brummit wasn’t there to confirm or refute a suspicion. He was going through the motions. But in his own mind Brummit was sure, and he wasn’t bothering to conceal it.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Where?’ he asked. ‘Where was she found?’

  Brummit shifted on the seat. His elbow dug hard into Connor’s side, but he offered no apology.

  ‘In a ditch,’ he said. ‘Near the entrance to the track that leads to their cottage. She lived with her parents. But then you’d know that, eh?’

  Connor felt sick. It had been bad before. Now it was a thousand times worse.

  He shook his head, swallowing the taste of vomit.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘She — she didn’t say.’

  *

  ‘She’s not what you would call a pro,’ Northropp said. ‘Not in the complete sense. More like an enthusiastic amateur. It’s not a sine qua non that you cross her palm with fivers, though I’m sure she wouldn’t spurn them if you did. I’m told that, provided she fancies you, a show or a good dinner will often suffice. But don’t quote me. I’ve no first-hand experience of the lady.’

  ‘She seems to know everyone,’ Connor said. ‘Is she a regular here?’

  ‘Reasonably so.’ Northropp drained his glass. ‘Fancy her, do you?’

  Connor gave what he hoped was a non-committal shrug. ‘I hadn’t thought about it,’ he said. ‘But she’s a sexy looking piece. I daresay one could do worse.’

  He was non-committal because he was uncertain how Northropp would view an open confession of lechery. It would be bad business to alienate a customer. But lecherous he was. Several nights away from Anne, the too brief glimpse of Mrs. Northropp’s nude beauty, the whisky he had drunk since and the blonde’s bare thighs gleaming at him from below the mini-skirt — it was a combination to make any red-blooded man feel lecherous.

  ‘So you fancy her,’ Northropp said. ‘Okay, I’ll introduce you. Then I’m off.’

  ‘But she’s with someone.’

  ‘No matter. She’ll ditch him if she fancies you.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he object?’

  ‘Not Adam Grant. He’s used to it.’

  The blonde watched them approach, smiling invitingly at Connor. The introduction over, he took the empty stool beside her and ordered drinks.

  ‘Connor, is it?’ she said. ‘What’s the first name?’

  ‘Jim,’ he told her. ‘Do I call you Becky or Rebecca?’

  ‘Becky.’ She watched him add ginger ale to her whisky. ‘New here, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you before.’

  ‘I’m visiting,’ Connor said. ‘On business.’

  Northropp put a hand on his shoulder. Both he and Grant had declined Connor’s offer of a drink. ‘I’m off,’ he said. ‘Grant here has offered to run me home. So long. I’ll be in touch.’

>   ‘But you ordered a taxi,’ Connor said.

  ‘Eh? Oh, didn’t I say? They said there would be some delay. I’ll get the hotel to cancel it.’

  ‘That all right with you, Becky?’ Grant said. He had a curiously childish voice that was almost a squeak. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she said. ‘Jim here will take me home.’ She put a hand on Connor’s thigh, the fingers pressing into his flesh. ‘That’s right, Jim, isn’t it?’

  ‘Quite right,’ Connor said.

  Grant looked at him. There was curiosity rather than animosity in the look. Then he nodded and followed Northropp up the steps.

  ‘You’ve trained him well,’ Connor said.

  ‘Who? Adam?’ She shrugged. ‘He’s timid. No spunk. Like a bloody —’ She broke off as the man to whom Grant had previously been talking moved close and put an arm round her waist. Becky removed the arm and playfully slapped his hand. ‘That’s enough of that, Charlie,’ she said. ‘Besides, isn’t it time you weren’t here? Or have you got an extension?’

  ‘Hell, no!’ He was small and balding and bespectacled, and faintly tipsy. ‘What’s the time, then?’ His eyes searched for the clock ‘Christ! Is that clock right, Harry?’

  ‘Ten minutes fast, Mr. Draper,’ the barman said. ‘No panic.’

  ‘Good.’ He looked at Connor, hesitated, and patted Becky’s neat behind. ‘Still, I’d best be going. See you, Becky.’

  He trotted rather than walked to the steps. ‘His wife gives him hell if he’s late,’ Becky said. ‘You staying the night, then?’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ Connor said. Her hand still rested on his thigh. He covered it with his, pressing down. ‘I could be persuaded.’

  ‘You’re persuaded,’ she said.

  ‘Good. Which means I’d better get myself a room. How about dinner? I haven’t eaten yet.’

  ‘I’m not hungry. Let’s just have a sandwich.’

  Yes, the receptionist told him, they had a room. Single or double? Single, Connor said, and reflected that had they moved to another hotel he could have registered Becky as his wife and booked a double. Now, unless Becky had her own pad, it would have to be the back seat of the car. He cancelled his booking at the Northampton hotel and then tried to ring Kessler; Kessler liked him to keep in daily touch against the possibility of a further call to be made in the area. But Kessler’s phone was busy, and he went back to the bar and ordered sandwiches and got on with the business of chatting up Becky. Some women he found hard to chat up, but not Becky. Yes, she said, she knew most of the regular visitors to the bar and had dated quite a few. Her uninhibited descriptions of their antics, both in and out of bed, were racily amusing; but she was careful not to name them, referring to them by animal nicknames. Why animals? Connor asked; a bit insulting, wasn’t it? Certainly not, she said. Didn’t he like animals? Personally, she preferred animals to quite a few humans she could name; she worked in the kitchens of the local zoo and spent much of her spare time watching and talking to them. The way she saw it, to liken human beings to animals — most animals, anyway — was a compliment, not an insult. But she agreed that others thought as Connor did, which was why she never revealed the nicknames to their recipients.

  ‘Have you got a nickname for me?’ he asked.

  ‘Give me time, love. I don’t know you, do I?’

  As the drinks and the evening progressed her manner became increasingly amorous; she sat with her body pressed against his, her hand exploring his thigh. Connor enjoyed the sensation yet felt uncomfortable and embarrassed at such a public exhibition of desire. When she suggested they move into a vacant alcove he refused with what firmness he could muster. Bars were for drinking, not snogging. The snogging would come later, he hoped, and develop naturally into its proper culmination. It could not culminate in a bar alcove, no matter how dark. In the alcove it could lead only to frustration.

  He was in the gents when he remembered that he had yet to contact Kessler. This time he got through without difficulty. Where the hell are you? Kessler demanded; I rang the Ram in Northampton and they told me you had cancelled your reservation. Connor explained about the blown gasket and his late arrival in Felborough, and that he had decided to stay the night. He would ring the Northampton customer in the morning, he said, and try to fix something. Forget Northampton, Kessler said, I’m sending young Docherty to handle that. You’re off to Holland. There’s been a bloody mix-up with van Kemper in Amsterdam and I want you to get over there and sort it out. You’re booked on the ten-thirty flight from Heathrow in the morning. Anne’s got the ticket. So cancel your room in Felborough and get cracking. Connor tried to argue, but Kessler wasn’t listening. This is an emergency, Jim, he said, it won’t keep. If you pull your finger out you might manage a couple of hours kip at home. But be on that bloody plane.

  Disgruntled, Connor cancelled his room and returned to the bar. It was not the long drive home and the sleepless night ahead that had him rattled. He had suffered these inconveniences before. But to have a woman like Becky tanked up and raring to go, and then have to abandon her — that was diabolical.

  Becky too thought it diabolical. ‘You mean you’ve got to leave now?’ she asked, her voice sharp. ‘Right away?’

  ‘More or less. It’s a long drive.’

  ‘So who takes me home?’

  ‘I do, of course. There’s not that much of a hurry.’ Nor was there. Pull your finger out, Kessler had said, and you might manage a couple of hours kip at home. But to Connor’s way of thinking the two hours could be more pleasurably spent before starting the journey. The prospect cheered him, and he grinned lecherously. ‘Who knows? There might even be time for a spot of the other.’

  *

  ‘All right,’ Brummit said. ‘So you chatted her up in the bar and then took her home. But don’t tell us you just dropped her off and drove straight on, because we know you didn’t. Your car was seen parked near the track that leads to the Main cottage.’

  They were in the interview room at the police station. O’Halloran had produced cups of tea and had offered food, but Connor had had no appetite. O’Halloran, he thought, was sympathetic to his plight, but Brummit had given him no respite. Brummit had buzzed him like an angry bee. Connor had tried to conceal such facts as seemed to him irrelevant but which the police might view unsympathetically, but about the only fact that Brummit had so far failed to batter out of him was Mrs. Northropp’s dramatic interruption of his conversation with her husband. And even Brummit couldn’t have tied that in with Becky’s murder.

  ‘So what?’ he said wearily. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Superintendent, but I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘No?’ Brummit sipped the cold tea and grimaced as he put down the cup. ‘Just what did you do, Mr. Connor?’

  Connor shook his head. ‘I want to telephone my wife,’ he said. ‘She’ll be worried.’

  She wouldn’t be worried. He had not told her on what flight he would be returning. But he needed a break, a few moments away from Brummit’s rasping voice. He needed time in which to collect his wits.

  O’Halloran said quietly, ‘There is no need to be concerned for your wife, sir. She knows you are here.’

  ‘She does?’ Connor was startled. ‘How come?’

  ‘We called first at your house. Your wife told us you were in Holland and would be returning this afternoon. That is how we came to be at the airport to meet you.’

  ‘Did you tell her why you wanted to see me?’

  ‘Only that we hoped you might be able to assist us in certain inquiries. But if you wish to telephone her I’m sure the Superintendent won’t object. Just as there would be no objection to you contacting your solicitor. You have the right to do so.’

  Brummit scowled. ‘No objection. If you consider you may incriminate yourself without his guidance, you go ahead and ring him. As the inspector says, it’s your privilege.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her,’ Connor said again. He had no regular solicitor. The last oc
casion on which he had needed the services of a solicitor had been six years ago when he and Anne had bought the house. And although old What’s-’is-name might be a dab hand at conveyancing and the like, what the hell use would he be in this predicament? ‘So I fail to see how I can incriminate myself.’

  ‘You don’t wish to call him?’

  ‘Not unless you’re thinking of arresting me.’

  ‘Ah!’ Brummit had difficulty in concealing his relief. He ignored the implied query. ‘Let’s get on with it then, shall we? What happened when you took the woman home?’

  *

  The night was almost as warm as the day had been. Connor left the head of the convertible down. Provided the weather was right he preferred an open car, and on that night in particular it seemed a wise precaution. With the wind on his face he would be less likely to fall asleep on the long drive home.

  Becky raised no objection. ‘You all right to drive?’ she asked. ‘You’ve had a lot to drink, haven’t you?’

  ‘Of course I’m all right.’

  The question irritated him. Alcohol increased his confidence in his driving skill. But irritation faded quickly. As they drove away from the Malt House she snuggled close to him, one arm around his neck, her hand fondling his cheek. The other hand was back on his thigh. He glanced down at her legs. She reclined rather than sat, with her skirt rucked up almost to her hips. Desire mounted in him and he put down a hand to touch her.

  ‘Watch it, love!’ she cautioned.

  ‘I am.’

  She giggled. ‘Not that, idiot. The road.’ Her hand moved up his thigh. She nibbled his ear, her breath warm on his cheek. ‘Don’t be so impatient. It’ll keep, won’t it?’

  ‘Only just,’ he said thickly. Kessler and Amsterdam and the long night drive home had ceased to be significant. ‘How far is it?’

  ‘Nine miles. Seven now, I should think.’

  ‘That’s seven too many.’ A car inched past and cut in ahead. ‘Crazy idiot! Hey! See that number plate? All the sevens. My lucky number.’