by J F Straker
Driving across town to Charlotte Evans’ address, obtained from the telephone directory, Connor tried to picture Adam Grant as one of the B animals. The majority were massive creatures — baboon, bear, bison, boar, buffalo, bull — and they were out; Grant was fairly tall, but he certainly wasn’t massive. Nor, apart from that small, squeaky voice, was there anything peculiarly distinctive about him. Unless Becky had seen something that was not apparent to Connor, Grant wasn’t B.
Charlotte Evans was an attractive redhead of about Connor’s own age. Connor was pleasantly surprised; he had expected her to be older. Yes, she told him, she remembered that particular visit to the theatre. They had gone to see The Alexander Brothers Show at the Grand Theatre, Leeds. She remembered it not only for its tragic sequel but because it was her first visit to a place of entertainment since her husband’s death earlier in the year. She could not, however, recall the names of all those in the party. Mrs. McGuppy and Mrs. Draper were two, of course, and others she remembered were Rose Knott-Semple and a Mrs. Carrington. The rest escaped her. ‘I could ask the secretary to check the records,’ she said. ‘Or isn’t it that important?’
‘I don’t know,’ Connor said. ‘It could be completely useless information. On the other hand — yes, if it’s not too much trouble I’d like to know. Could you ring me at the hotel?’ She was good to look at. He was reminded that she was a widow. ‘Or I could call back.’
‘I’ll ring,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow, probably. But do you really think one of their husbands — I mean, the husband of one of them — might have killed poor Mr. McGuppy? I may not know them all personally, but I am sure they are highly reputable.’
‘They would have known McGuppy would be on his own that night,’ Connor said. ‘That could be significant. And it isn’t only the disreputable who kill. Was the outing planned long in advance?’
‘Proposed, yes. But tickets were scarce. I remember it was thanks to Alec that we got them. Even then we had to reduce the numbers. We had planned for ten, but he could manage only seven.’
‘Alec?’
‘Alec Northropp. My brother.’ She saw the look on Connor’s face. ‘You know my brother, Mr. Mallorie?’
‘I’ve heard the name,’ Connor said. ‘We haven’t met.’
She gave a wry smile. ‘It is difficult not to hear Alec’s name in Felborough. They’ve even named a street after him.’
‘So I’ve heard. How did he manage to fix the tickets for you?’
‘How do you think? He knew someone who knew someone.’ The shrug was expressive. Connor got the impression that she did not wholly approve of her brother. ‘That’s how men like Alec get on, isn’t it? They know the right people and they use them.’
From repute Northropp could be ruthless, which taken to its logical conclusion implied that he could kill. It was hard to imagine why he might wish to kill the apparently inoffensive Arnold McGuppy. But then it was hard to imagine why anyone might wish to kill McGuppy. Yet it was not this thought that made Connor dismiss Northropp from suspicion almost as soon as he had considered him. He was positive that whoever had killed McGuppy had also killed Becky. It had to be like that. And Northropp could not have killed Becky. At the time Becky died he had been attending the Arthurs’ Night dinner at the Royal.
A pity, Connor thought. He had no personal feelings about Northropp; he neither liked nor disliked him. But to reveal the important Alec Northropp as a double murderer would cause quite a stir. It would hit Brummit hard. There could even be suspicion that Brummit had been fixed, that Northropp had bought him. There might be no truth in it, but it would create a storm that Brummit would find it hard to ride.
‘There was a telephone call for you this afternoon, Mr. Mallorie,’ the receptionist told him when he returned to the hotel. ‘He wouldn’t leave a message. He said he would ring again later.’
The call came while Connor was at dinner. He did not recognise the voice: a brusque and husky voice that sounded impatient.
‘You Mallorie?’ the caller demanded.
‘Yes. Who’s speaking?’
‘Never you mind. You’ve been asking questions about Becky Main, haven’t you?’
‘I still am,’ Connor said. ‘What of it?’
‘I reckon I know some of the answers.’
‘Oh? Such as what?’
‘Not on the blower, mate. It’s going to cost you.’
I might have guessed, Connor thought. A bloody crank who thinks he’s on to a soft touch. If he has anything to tell he would not have kept it all these years, he’d have cashed in early. He could not have anticipated this second chance.
But curiosity had to be satisfied. ‘I’ll pay if it’s worth it,’ he said. ‘What do you know?’
‘The night she was killed there was someone in the woods,’ the voice said. ‘I saw him. That ought to be worth fifty.’
‘You mean you recognised him?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why didn’t you tell the police?’
‘Are you crazy?’ There was a sound that could have been a grunt or a laugh. ‘They’d have cut me, that’s why. They’d cut me now if they knew I was grassing.’
‘They?’ He’s piling it on, Connor thought. Real melodrama. ‘Who are they?’
‘That’s not what I’m selling,’ the voice said. ‘Look, man. Do we trade or don’t we?’
‘I’ll hear what you have to say,’ Connor told him. ‘Come and see me.’
‘No bloody fear! You meet me, man.’
‘All right. Where and when?’
‘You know Church Street?’ Yes, Connor said, he knew Church Street. It was only a few hundred yards down the road from the hotel. ‘Right. So you go down there to the church. I’ll be in the cemetery round the back. Eleven o’clock. Okay?’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘You do that. And bring the bread. No cheques and no promises, or the deal’s off.’
The line went dead. This could be nasty, Connor thought. A cemetery at night was a lonely place, and maybe the caller had nothing to sell but was merely out to rob. Connor was husky and fancied his chances in a rough house, but the knowledge that he might have to contend with more than one opponent was daunting. Yet suppose the man was on the level? Suppose he really had been in the wood that night and had seen Becky’s killer? If ‘they’ existed and were as vicious and as menacing as his words over the telephone suggested, it was possible he had kept his mouth shut for fear of reprisals. Now, nearly seven years later, he could be thinking that the heat was off and had decided to cash in on his knowledge — although if, as he had implied, the risk was still there, fifty pounds seemed a paltry sum to make it acceptable.
Weighing the chances, Connor knew it was long odds on a rough house. But he had to take the gamble. There was too much at stake to ignore it.
He was thirty minutes early at the church. If this were a trap he wanted to see it set, and although the forecourt was lit from the street the interior of the porch was in shadow, and he crouched in a corner and waited. A few people passed the church but none entered the gate, and at five minutes to eleven Connor tucked the money behind a notice pinned to the church door and moved out from the porch. If the man was on the level he could have his money and welcome; if not, he could whistle for it.
The night was dark, and at the rear of the church the cemetery seemed to stretch to eternity. Connor sought the shelter of a buttress and waited. There was no movement that he could see or hear; the only sounds were those of the traffic on the London Road and the distant clatter of a train. When his eyes had become accustomed to the dark he left the buttress and walked slowly along the path that led round the back of the church. The nearest graves were old, the headstones sunken and twisting grotesquely. An owl hooted, and he wondered if it could be a human signal.
‘Anyone there?’ he called.
No answer came. If the man had entered the cemetery from the rear he could be waiting there, and Connor turned down the centre path towards it.
Some fifty yards on he came to an archway cut into a high yew hedge, and even in the dark he could see that beyond the hedge the terrain was different. The grass looked coarser, the graves newer, and he guessed that this was a later extension to the original churchyard cemetery. It was lighter here, and he stood in the archway and peered ahead. The path led to a gate set in a low fence of post and rails, and beyond the fence a field. But although he could distinguish distant headstones there was no dark figure silhouetted against the night sky.
‘Anyone there?’ he called again.
This time the answer was prompt and violent. What felt like an iron bar hit him across the back of the shoulders, and as he stumbled forward a boot landed viciously on his posterior and sent him sprawling. The path was of gravel and he hit it hard, sharp stones biting into his palms. Before he could attempt to get up the boot connected again — once — twice — against his side, and he cried out at the agony of it. Hands caught him roughly by the shoulders and threw rather than turned him on to his back, bumping his head on the gravel. A boot landed heavily on his chest and pinned him down. His jacket was open, and through the shirt he felt steel grate against his sternum as the heel of the boot twisted.
‘Keep still, jerk!’ a harsh voice ordered.
Connor kept still. There were two of them, big men in jeans and dark jerseys. One flashed a torch and held him down with his foot while the other searched the pockets of his jacket. The search went unrewarded, for Connor had removed everything of value before leaving the hotel. Angrily they turned him over with their feet and searched his trousers. Again they got nothing. They hauled him roughly to his feet, and before he could defend himself one of them promptly knocked him down with a swift crack to the jaw. He fell on his back on the grass, banging his head against a tombstone.
‘Smart guy, eh?’ one of them said. ‘Well, stay smart, mister, and keep your bloody nose out of our business. We want you out, see? And fast. Otherwise —’
Once more a boot lammed into Connor’s side, sending fresh rivers of pain through his body. ‘That’s just for openers. Stick around and you’ll get the full treatment. So get lost, see?’
They left him then, their iron-shod boots scattering loose gravel as they ran down the path to the gate. Connor lay still, waiting for the pain to subside. Throughout the encounter he had offered no resistance. He would have done so initially had he not been caught unaware, but once he was down and the boot was in he had known that resistance would be futile, that it could lead only to greater violence on the part of his assailants. Now, racked with pain, he felt a spasm of anger at his passivity. To have landed a telling blow or two might have made the pain more bearable.
Presently he crawled on to hands and knees. After a rest to ease the surge of pain brought on by movement he got to his feet and made his way unsteadily down the path to the church and out into the street. Each step was an agony; there was a sickness in his stomach and his right side felt as if every rib had been broken and was digging into his flesh. As he turned the corner into the London Road nausea overcame him. For a few seconds he fought to contain it. Then he gripped the house railings and vomited noisily.
A woman’s voice said nervously, ‘Is he drunk?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’ It seemed to Connor that the man’s voice was vaguely familiar, but he was too sick to care. A hand gripped his shoulder. ‘Are you all right, friend?’
Connor took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his lips. Still bent, he turned to confront the voice. Alec Northropp was staring at him, concern in his dark eyes.
‘I’ll manage,’ Connor said thickly.
‘You look all in,’ Northropp said. Connor tried to straighten. Pain engulfed him, and he winced and put a hand to his side. ‘What happened? Was there an accident?’
‘I’ve been mugged,’ Connor said. A maroon Rover saloon stood alongside the kerb. A few yards away an elderly woman was watching them. ‘I think they’ve cracked a few ribs.’
‘Good God! Well, questions can wait. We’d best get you to a doctor.’
He took Connor’s arm and led him to the car. Connor did not protest. As they drove away Northropp said, ‘I don’t know how you feel about casualty wards, but to my mind they’re bloody off-putting. We’ll make it my place, shall we? You’ll be more comfortable there. I’ll get Follick — he’s my doctor — to give you the once-over. If he thinks you need hospital treatment well, too bad. But let’s hope you don’t.’
‘Thanks.’ Now that the nausea and the dizziness had passed Connor felt more alert. The Northropps’ flat would be as good a temporary haven as any. He had to clean up somewhere before returning to the hotel. ‘But I don’t want to impose on you.’
‘Nonsense,’ Northropp said. ‘You’re not imposing. I’m Alec Northropp, by the way. And you?’
‘Mallorie,’ Connor said. ‘James Mallorie.’
‘Not local, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Care to tell me how it happened?’
‘There’s not much to tell,’ Connor said. ‘I was taking a breather down Church Street before bed, and they jumped me. Two of them.’
‘Odd place for a mugging. It’s reasonably well lit. Did you lose anything of value?’
‘No. If I was unlucky — well, so were they.’
Connor was puzzled by the direction they were taking. To the best of his recollection Northropp’s flat had been somewhere near the old town. Now they were well down the London Road, heading south into the country. Presently they turned into a side road, and then through a pair of open iron gates and up a long tree-lined avenue. Connor was impressed — not only by the approach, but by the house. As the car swept round a circular lawn the headlights gave a panoramic view of an imposing building in grey stone, with wide steps leading to a front door set back in an entrance flanked by slender stone columns. Northropp’s flat had been impressive but, to Connor’s mind, slightly vulgar. This was a residence of magnificence combined with elegance. Alec Northropp had certainly prospered.
He got out of the car unaided, but his side was stiff as well as sore, and climbing the steps was a painful process. They went through a rather disappointing hall into a long, high-ceilinged room furnished as befitted the delicate cornice work and the marble fireplace and the large windows curtained with dark green velvet. Either the Northropps had acquired taste with their wealth, or they had bought the services of someone who possessed it.
Northropp poured brandies and then rang the doctor. ‘He shouldn’t be long,’ he said. ‘Is there anyone you’d like to contact?’
Connor shook his head. ‘I’m here on a visit. Staying at the Malt House.’
‘How about the police?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Not worth the trouble.’
Northropp shrugged. ‘It’s your decision. Excuse me a moment, will you? I’ll just have a word with my wife.’
Susan Northropp came with him when he returned. Her concern for Connor was evident, but she did not fuss over him; once assured that he was not hungry and that there was nothing she could do for him she accepted a brandy from her husband and sat quietly while the two men talked. Connor studied her over the rim of his glass. Her long hair gleamed darkly against the white negligee; presumably ready for bed, she wore neither jewellery nor make-up. To Connor she seemed to have aged little since that brief but revealing glimpse of her in the flat. He thought now, as he had thought then, that she was one of the loveliest women he had seen.
Northropp monopolised the conversation. Having digested all that Connor was prepared to tell him, he talked about himself and his work. Had Connor seen the shopping complex? Connor said he had lunched there, and forbade from decrying the fare. Had he seen the new industrial area? No, Connor said. Don’t leave the town until you have, Northropp said; we have incorporated ideas and materials that may revolutionise future planning on this scale. Though I say it as shouldn’t, it’s unique. There is still much to be done, of course, but I’d be happy to show you round if
we can fix a time.
The offer did not greatly interest Connor, but he said he too would be happy. Politeness seemed to demand that.
