Arthurs' Night (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 6)

by J F Straker

  He drove on down the lane. Buildings were scarce: a couple of farms, a few cottages, and a pub called The Rivals. Connor was intrigued — it seemed strange to find Sheridan in such rural surroundings — but it was too early for a drink and he returned to Felborough to question the furriers. It would take time, the saleswoman told him, to search the books, so was it that important? Connor gave her the same spiel as he had given Mrs. Main; it made a good cover and he had decided to stay with it. The woman was impressed. His best bet, she suggested, would be to talk to Mr. Roble, who had been manager at the shop in 1968. Mr. Roble had since retired, but he was living in the town and she could supply his address. Connor took her advice. Yes, Roble told him, he remembered the case. By some mischance he had not connected the Rebecca Main on their books with the woman whose death had been reported in the press, and about three weeks after the deposit had been paid he had advised Miss Main by letter that unless she completed the purchase within seven days the jacket would be sold and the deposit forfeited. Some days later a man who claimed to be the dead woman’s father had called at the shop and, after explaining the circumstances, had asked for the deposit to be refunded. ‘I was sympathetic, naturally,’ Mr. Roble said. ‘But as he could not produce the receipt I had to refuse. The money was refunded later, however, after investigation by our solicitors.’

  ‘Did the police make any inquiries at the shop?’ Connor asked.

  ‘Not as I recall, sir. No, I’m sure they didn’t.’

  Connor wondered if the firm’s solicitors had reported the matter to the police. Probably not; to them it would have been routine stuff, nothing to do with murder. And almost certainly Thomas Main had not reported it. Thomas Main’s concern had been to collect an unexpected windfall. Maybe, just this once, Brummit was not at fault.

  ‘All right, so you had a lucky break,’ Woolmer said when they lunched together. ‘But don’t expect that sort of luck to continue. It would be a near miracle if it did.’

  ‘Miracles happen,’ Connor said. ‘Near miracles should be more frequent.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have expected optimism from you,’ Woolmer said. ‘Not after the past six years. However, what have you got? A few facts and figures which suggest to you that the woman may have been blackmailing someone. Well, you could be right. Equally, you could be wrong.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Connor turned the leaves of the diary. ‘Look. Saturday, August the 24th — ‘Went with S. Saw B leaving and an 8 later. Could be my lucky day. G drove me home.’ Sunday the 25th — ‘Met B.’ Now —’ He turned to the credit book. ‘According to this she paid in twenty pounds on Monday, August the 26th, Tuesday September the 3rd, and Monday the 9th. All in cash. Yet previous to that the largest amount paid in, apart from the original two hundred, was fifteen pounds way back in February. So what was the source of this sudden wealth? B, obviously. Doesn’t that spell blackmail to you?’

  ‘It’s a reasonable assumption,’ Woolmer conceded. ‘Not necessarily an accurate one, though. Incidentally, why no credit on Monday the 16th? They met on the 15th. Did B, whoever he is, get tough and stop paying?’

  ‘No.’ Connor produced the furrier’s receipt. ‘He not only paid, he increased the amount and she used the money as a deposit. What’s more, she must have known he would continue to pay. With only fifty odd quid in the bank and, according to her mother, a meagre salary, how else would she hope to pay for a coat like that?’

  ‘It’s a point, certainly.’ Woolmer studied the credit book. ‘I wonder why she paid in on Tuesday that second week, and not the Monday.’

  Connor did not answer. He was staring across the restaurant. Woolmer repeated the question.

  ‘Eh? Oh, Monday September the 2nd was a Bank Holiday. I checked. Henry don’t look now, but isn’t that Alec Northropp sitting over by the window?’

  ‘I don’t have to look,’ Woolmer said. ‘It is. He lunches here regularly, and always at that table. It’s permanently reserved. He’s a big man now, is our Alec.’

  ‘You don’t like him?’

  ‘I don’t know him. Not socially, I mean. We bump into each other at the odd function, of course. He’s certainly a go-getter.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘No. Although I’m told he can be pretty ruthless if anyone gets in his way. Did he recognise you just now?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Connor finished the last mouthful of boeuf stroganoff and leaned back in contentment. After so many years of adequate but dull prison fare an epicurean meal made him feel like Lucullus. He pitied Woolmer his nut steak. ‘I suppose you could say he’s the real begetter of my misfortunes. If he hadn’t introduced me to Becky they wouldn’t have happened. Not that I blame him. I practically asked for it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, he could see I was interested.’

  Woolmer turned over the August pages of the diary. ‘There was something here about an eight. Yes, here it is. ‘Saw B and an 8 later.’ What’s the significance of that, I wonder?’

  ‘Eight was her lucky number. I remember her telling me.’

  ‘A pity she used initials for names,’ Woolmer said. ‘Initials don’t get you very far, do they? Are they Christian names or surnames?’ He closed the diary. ‘You’ve got a job on, tracing your Mr. B.’

  ‘Perhaps. I suppose it hasn’t occurred to you it might be Brummit?’

  Woolmer laughed. ‘You’re right, it hasn’t. That’s crazy, Jim. You’re letting anger govern reason.’

  Connor sighed. ‘I’d love it to be Brummit,’ he said. ‘I’d give a lot to nail that bandy-legged bastard.’

  ‘I believe you. Incidentally, I’ve been looking into his background, as you asked, and it seems he’s not naturally bandy-legged. He was run over trying to effect an arrest. Got both legs broken.’

  ‘Too bad.’ Connor spoke without feeling. ‘He’s still in the Force, isn’t he? He hasn’t retired?’

  ‘Due to retire next year.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Yes. But his wife’s a cripple. Contracted polio about fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Sad. She’s unlikely to get much sympathy from her old man. He didn’t strike me as the sympathetic sort. Who looks after her?’

  ‘An unmarried daughter. They have a house in Beck Lane. Number eighteen, if you’re interested.’

  ‘I’m interested.’

  They were drinking coffee when a man stopped at their table. He was plump and balding, with a round freckled face.

  ‘Hallo, there!’ He beamed at Woolmer. ‘All set for next weekend, are we?’

  ‘Not next weekend,’ Woolmer said. ‘I’ll be on holiday.’

  ‘A pity.’

  The newcomer looked at Connor. Woolmer introduced them, remembering just in time to name Connor as Mallorie.

  ‘Visiting the town, Mr. Mallorie?’ the man asked. ‘I haven’t seen you around before.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Staying at the Royal?’

  ‘No. The Malt House.’

  ‘The food at the Royal is pretty near tops,’ the man said. ‘So are the prices, of course.’

  ‘Who was that?’ Connor asked when the man had gone.

  ‘Ferris. A local estate agent. We belong to the same angling club.’

  Connor walked down Beck Lane after lunch and stood staring at Number 18 from the opposite pavement. It was a modest detached house of the three-bedroom variety, with a small front garden and a one-car garage. Connor didn’t see it as simply as that. To Connor it was the home of Enemy Number One, the man who had been instrumental in putting him away for a seven year stretch. Woolmer could insist all he liked that it was foolish to see Brummit as his enemy, but did not most convicted men feel that way about the arresting officer? Was it not even more natural in a man whose arrest had been unjustified?

  He was still staring at the house when Brummit came out. Connor had not seen him since the trial, and the muscles of his stomach tightened. Even from across the road Brummit looked older
than by the six years that had elapsed. His unruly hair was greyer and he had developed a slight stoop, so that his head seemed to project even more menacingly than before. He looked unkempt, shabby even. A poor advertisement for the Force, Connor thought.

  Brummit must have realised he was under scrutiny. For a few moments he stared back at Connor. Then he got into his car and drove away.

  Connor spent the evening drinking beer in The Rivals and talking to the customers, most of whom worked on the neighbouring farms. They were eager to help when he told them about the book — writers, it seemed to him, were romantic, almost mystical creatures to non-writers — but he did not find them particularly informative. The majority remembered Becky by name and by her tragic death, and by little else. She had never mixed locally, they said, not since she was a little girl; she had been seen walking to the bus stop in the mornings or parked with some man in a car at night, but otherwise she had been more or less a stranger. Her parents too tended to keep to themselves, especially since Becky’s death, and took no part in communal activities. Once a week Mrs. Main took the bus into Felborough, presumably to shop, and occasionally her husband called at The Rivals for a pint at midday. They found him uncommunicative, surly almost. ‘But then I reckon they’ve had more’n their fair share of troubles, them two,’ the landlord said. ‘First the boys and then Becky. I mean — well, that’s a lot for one family.’

  ‘Boys?’ Connor said.

  ‘That’s right. Bernie and — what was the name of the other lad, Alf?’

  The man addressed as Alf shrugged. ‘Bob, was it?’

  ‘Could be.’ The landlord returned to Connor. ‘Anyway, Bernie died when he was just a kid. The other — Bob — he was a real tearaway, he was. His parents couldn’t do nothing with him.’

  ‘Becky could,’ a man said. ‘Leastways, that’s what I heard. Seems they were real close.’

  ‘Was he younger than Becky?’ Connor asked.

  ‘Seven — eight years younger,’ the landlord said.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Run off and joined the Army, didn’t he?’ someone said.

  ‘That’s right. About two years before Becky was killed.’

  ‘’Bout that,’ Alf agreed.

  ‘Is he still in the Army?’ Connor asked.

  The landlord shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t know, sir. He’s not been seen around since. Someone said as how he’d deserted. Read it in the Gazette.’

  ‘I seen him.’

  They all turned to look at the speaker. He was a small elderly man who sat at a table with a near empty glass in front of him

  ‘You have, Duffy?’ someone said. ‘Where?’

  ‘’Uddersfield,’ Duffy said. ‘In a garridge. ’Bout three weeks ago. And his name ain’t Bob, it’s Ron.’

  ‘Ron,’ Alf said. ‘Yes, that’s right. Ron.’ Connor had only glanced at the earlier pages of Becky’s diary, concentrating his attention on the weeks prior to her death. But he had noticed she had written ‘Ron’ somewhere around April or May. He had noticed it because it was one of the few names given in full. He could not recall the context.

  ‘Did you speak to him?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, aye, I spoke to him.’

  Duffy finished his beer and joined them at the bar. The landlord refilled his glass. ‘Let me do that,’ Connor said, as Duffy fumbled in his pocket. ‘Anyone else thirsty?’

  They all were. ‘Tell me about your meeting with Ron Main,’ Connor said to Duffy.

  There wasn’t much to tell, Duffy said. He had gone into Huddersfield on the bus, and right opposite where he’d got off was this garage. There were a lot of flashy cars out front, and he had been casually inspecting them — ‘Not as I could buy one, me being on the pension’ and there was Ron, sticking a price label on one of the windscreens. Duffy had spoken to him, addressing him as Ron, whereupon the man had said his name was Barker and told him to scarper. ‘Well, I scarpered, didn’t I?’ Duffy said. ‘He looked real nasty. But it was him all right. A bit older, er course, but I knew it was him.’

  Connor found the information intriguing. It was unlikely that Becky’s brother could know anything of her death, but if the two had been close, as someone had said, it was just possible that he could suggest a name for the mysterious Mr. B. Provided, of course, that the man really was Ron Main. If he were a deserter it was not surprising that he had denied his identity to Duffy. Could he be persuaded — bribed — threatened into admitting it to a stranger?

  ‘What was the name of the garage?’ he asked.

  Duffy didn’t know. Nor did he know the name of the street. All he knew was that it was opposite where he had left the bus. Could he find it again? Of course he could, Duffy said. You couldn’t miss it. Not from the bus.

  ‘Could you find it from a car?’ Connor asked. ‘If I were to drive you there tomorrow, say? I’d pay for your time, of course.’

  ‘You follow the bus, I could,’ Duffy said.

  Connor arranged to pick him up in the morning. Back at the Malt House he checked through the diary. The first reference to Ron was on Friday, July the 5th, later than he had supposed. ‘Ron here’, Becky had written, ‘says he’s not going back and needs money.’ The next entry was on the following Monday, July the 8th. ‘Got money for Ron. H stopped me when I left, says he knows about Ron but will take no action if I’m willing. I said I was.’ And finally, on August the 15th, ‘Ron phoned, said he’s okay.’

  The entry on July the 8th agreed with the chequebook; Becky had cashed a cheque on that date, obviously for Ron. Connor scrutinised the diary for other references to H. The first was on April the 19th. ‘H at me again,’ Becky had written. There were similar entries in May and June, and on July the 13th the final cryptic comment, ‘Went with H. Foul! Felt sorry for the louse.’ To Connor the picture seemed clear. H, whoever he might be, had lusted after Becky and Becky, presumably because she disliked him, had turned him down. ‘Becky wouldn’t go with you unless she liked you,’ Adam Grant had testified at the trial. Then her brother had deserted and had come to Becky for financial aid, and Becky had provided it. Unfortunately for her, H had seen her with Ron, had probably discovered where Ron was hiding, and had threatened to inform the authorities unless Becky acceded to his demand. Cornered, Becky had agreed. Five days later she had discharged her debt, apparently much to her disgust — though it was odd that she should feel sorry for him.

  Connor reached for the telephone and rang Woolmer. ‘What’s Brummit’s Christian name?’ he asked.

  The drowsy voice that had acknowledged his call was shaken into annoyance.

  ‘Good God, man! What a time to ring about a triviality like that! It’s nearly midnight.’

  ‘It’s not trivial to me,’ Connor said, unrepentant.

  ‘I can’t think why. Anyway, it’s Vincent. Satisfied?’

  ‘Hasn’t he got a second name?’

  ‘Vincent George Makepeace Brummit,’ Woolmer’s tone was studiedly calm. ‘And much joy may it bring you. Good night!’

  The line went dead. Connor replaced the receiver. The information brought him no joy at all.

  Chapter 3

  ‘That’s it,’ Duffy said, pointing ahead. ‘Over there on the right. See it, do you?’

  Connor saw it — not a garage, but a filling station, the forecourt crowded with used cars for sale. A double yellow line forbade stopping, and he drove on until he found somewhere to park. With Duffy he walked back, and they stood on the far side of the street and waited for the man to show.

  They did not have long to wait. Two men came out from a low building behind the pumps and threaded their way through the cars. Duffy gripped Connor’s arm.

  ‘There he is, Mr. Mallorie. Not the little one, the one in overalls. That’s Ron.’

  Connor gave him a couple of pounds, told him to wait in the pub near where the car was parked, and dodged through the traffic to the opposite pavement. The man was alone now, polishing a radiator.

  Conno
r watched him, looking for a likeness to Becky. But the likeness wasn’t there, and he went quietly to stand behind him.

  ‘Ronald Main?’ he said curtly, in what he hoped was the right tone of officialdom.

  The man wheeled sharply, dropping the cloth as he banged his hand against a wing mirror. He was of medium height and stocky. Watching him suck a grazed knuckle, Connor noticed that his hands were unusually large.

  ‘Who — who the hell are you?’ the man stammered.

  ‘Who I am is immaterial,’ Connor said. ‘It’s who you are that matters. Ronald Main, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it ain’t.’ He stooped to pick up the cloth. ‘The name’s Barker.’

  ‘You sure? My nose says it’s Main.’

  ‘Stuff your bleeding nose.’ He turned back to the car. ‘Get lost, mate. I’m busy.’

  ‘Talking of busies,’ Connor said. ‘Where’s the nearest police station? I’m new around here.’

  The man stiffened. Still with his back to Connor he said, ‘What makes you think I’m this Main geezer?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘It’s mine too, ain’t it?’ He turned. ‘Anyways, what d’you want with him? Owes you money, does he?’

  ‘He’s a deserter,’ Connor said. ‘Deserted the Army in July 1968. Did you know Becky kept a diary?’

  ‘Becky? She never —’ He recovered quickly. ‘Who’s Becky?’

  Connor knew he didn’t need to be told, but he told him. He also told him of the relevant entries in the diary and the prevalence of the letters H and B. ‘Let’s stop playing games, shall we?’ he said. ‘I’m not out to shop you, Main. Just put names to those initials. That’s all I want.’