by J F Straker
Brummit frowned. ‘You say the constable recognised the car. How come?’
‘He had had occasion to speak to Mr. Mallorie on Saturday, sir. One of the tyres on the Cortina was worn and he advised the gentleman to get it changed. I understand Mr. Mallorie resented the advice.’
‘That I can believe,’ Brummit said. ‘Anything else?’
‘No, sir. Except that previous to the accident Mr. Northropp may have had a passenger in the car. There was a raincoat on the back seat. According to Mrs. Northropp it doesn’t belong to her husband.’
Brummit made for his office. Vaisey followed. ‘What do you make of it?’ Brummit said.
‘You mean Connor?’
‘Of course I mean Connor.’
Vaisey told him of his talk with Connor in the George on the previous evening. ‘I didn’t believe him, of course. I daresay he was meeting someone — probably a con who was aiming to take him — but I didn’t believe all that guff about McGuppy. But now —’ Vaisey shook his head. ‘Northropp Way is an odd place to choose for a meeting. I bet Connor wouldn’t have chosen it. Ten to one he’s never been in that part of the town.’
‘You think it’s the muggers again?’
Vaisey shrugged. ‘Could be.’
‘The car was locked,’ Brummit said. ‘That suggests he moved some distance away from it; otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered.’ He banged a fist on the desk. ‘Damn the bloody man! Why can’t he get off our backs?’
‘It doesn’t have to be the muggers,’ Vaisey said. ‘He could have lost the ignition key and had to walk. Or maybe the car wouldn’t start.’
‘It won’t be as simple as that,’ Brummit said. Not with Connor. But ring the hotel and check.’
Mr. Mallorie’s key was still on the board, a sleepy male voice said when the call was eventually answered. It could be the wrong key, Vaisey said; check, will you? Some five minutes later the man was back. No, he said, Mr. Mallorie was not in his room.
‘Damn!’ Brummit rose wearily from his chair. ‘Who’d be a copper with Connor around? Come on, Paul. Let’s go look for him.’
‘Can’t we send a patrol car?’ Vaisey protested. ‘I mean — well, Alice —’
‘That too,’ Brummit said. ‘The more the merrier. I want him found.’
Constable Hewett was waiting in the patrol car when they turned into Northropp Way. The Cortina was still where Connor had left it. ‘Isn’t there a night watchman on the site?’ Brummit asked.
‘Yes, sir. He’s on the dump at the far end.’
‘Have you questioned him?’
‘No, sir. Our orders were to wait until you arrived.’
‘Then let’s question him now,’ Brummit said.
The night watchman, elderly and bewhiskered, watched from the doorway of his hut as they picked their way across the dump. Yes, he said, he had seen Mr. Northropp’s Rover. It had come down the road earlier in the evening, turned, and gone back again. Time? Oh, about half past eight or a little after. Certainly before nine.
‘What time was the accident, Hewett?’ Brummit asked.
‘Just before ten, sir.’
‘That’s odd,’ Vaisey said. ‘What was he up to in the interval? Come to that, why was he here at all? A bit late for a tour of inspection, wasn’t it?’
Brummit did not comment. ‘Was Mr. Northropp alone in the car?’ he asked the watchman.
‘I wouldn’t know, would I?’ the man said. ‘It was getting dark, see. I just saw the car.’
‘Anyone else been around?’
‘Not down here there hasn’t.’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of the town. ‘I wouldn’t know what goes on up there. My job’s to keep an eye on this lot. I can’t be in two places at once, can I?’
He sounded aggrieved.
As they walked back to the cars Vaisey said, ‘That raincoat on the rear seat: the missing passenger. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘That it was Connor?’ Brummit shrugged. ‘Unlikely. They were acquainted, so I suppose it’s a possibility. But God knows what they’d be doing here.’
Back at the Cortina he organised the search: himself and Vaisey to take the south side of the road, the two constables the north. ‘And make it thorough,’ he told them. ‘If he’s anywhere around he’ll probably be unconscious. You’ll have to do more than shout.’
Torch in hand, he set off across the road towards the row of derelict houses. Vaisey followed. ‘Wasn’t he in the construction business?’ Vaisey said. ‘Before his conviction, I mean.’
‘Cement mixers.’ Brummit swore as his foot caught in a rut. ‘What of it?’
‘Perhaps Northropp brought him out here to have a look round. If they went over some of the factories it would account for the time gap before the accident.’
‘So what happened to Connor? Northropp would drop him off at the Cortina. What then?’
Vaisey didn’t know what then.
They searched the first two houses without success. The doors to the next were locked and the windows boarded, and they moved on to the last. Brummit called Connor’s name as they entered the hall, and stood listening. There was no answer, and he called again. From down the hall came the sound of someone thumping on wood. A muffled voice called, ‘Here! I’m in here! Under the stairs.’
Brummit ran the beam of the torch over the cupboard door. ‘How the devil did he get in there?’ he said to Vaisey. ‘The handle’s missing. We’ll have to force it. See what you can find in the car, Paul.’
Long hours in the dark confines of the cupboard, with the threat of death ever present in his mind, had played havoc with Connor’s nerves. He had never thought to find pleasure in the sound of Brummit’s voice, but he found pleasure now. Relief was so overwhelming that it needed to express itself, and the name ‘Paul’ provided the spark. Applied to Vaisey he found it irresistibly comic, and his pent-up emotions erupted in a paroxysm of hysterical laughter.
Vaisey grimaced. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘I’ve a feeling we’re going to regret this. Maybe we ought to leave him where he is.’
Chapter 10
‘Well?’ Connor said. ‘You’ve heard the tape. Believe me now, do you?’
Brummit shrugged. ‘I’ve no option, have I?’
‘Big of you. How about Northropp? Are you going to arrest him?’
‘He’s still unconscious,’ Brummit said. ‘It seems that his injuries are more serious than was first supposed. There may be brain damage. We’ll have to wait and see.’
They were in the superintendent’s office. Connor had slept soundly and late after his ordeal and was feeling cock-a-hoop; his meeting with Northropp had achieved more than, twenty-four hours earlier, he had thought it possible to achieve. But elation at his success had in no way softened his attitude towards Brummit. Nor had the fact that Brummit had been instrumental in effecting his release. If anything, his animosity had hardened. Brummit himself was largely responsible for this. Don’t thank us, Mr. Connor, Brummit had said curtly when Connor had grudgingly started to do so; just another unnecessary job of work caused by reckless stupidity in a member of the public. So stuff you! Connor had thought angrily. To owe gratitude to an enemy was infuriating, and doubly so to have that gratitude rejected.
‘Not good enough, Brummit,’ he said now. ‘I want action and I want it fast. It’s your responsibility, isn’t it? You arrested me, dammit!’
‘It might be argued that the responsibility was largely yours,’ Brummit said. ‘Your behaviour was hardly consistent with innocence. However, that is by the way. If you are thinking of a pardon —’
‘I am not,’ Connor told him. ‘Pardons are for the guilty. I’m innocent, and I want that freely acknowledged. I also want damages for wrongful arrest and compensation for six years in the nick. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?’
Brummit sighed. In general he found little joy in life. The exigencies of his job, concern for his wife’s health, the recurring pain in his legs, contributed to a mood of near c
onstant depression. That morning he was more depressed than usual. A mistaken arrest, no matter how apparently justified at the time, left a nasty taste in the mouth; and although his superiors might feel some gratification that the six-year-old murder of Arnold McGuppy had finally been solved, the fact that the police had had no hand in the solution would do him no good at all. That it should be Connor, a man he thoroughly disliked, who had uncovered the truth was particularly galling.
‘You are unlikely to get damages,’ he said. ‘The arrest was upheld in the courts. Compensation — yes, probably. But that is not my concern. See your solicitor. He’ll advise you.’
‘And the fact that I’m innocent? Whose concern is that?’
‘The Home Office.’
‘I see. So none of it’s yours, eh?’
‘We do the spade work, Mr. Connor,’ Brummit said wearily. ‘The legwork. We shall also be preparing the case against Alec Northropp.’
‘Not much for you to do there,’ Connor said. ‘It’s all on the tape.’
‘Maybe. Though not quite all, perhaps. There is nothing on the tape to explain why you suddenly switched your interest from Fitt to Northropp. As a suspect, that is. Not that it’s important,’ Brummit added, reluctant to appear to be asking a favour. ‘Just curiosity. We don’t need it.’
‘You may as well have it,’ Connor said. ‘I noticed the registration number of his car. It’s AN8.’
Brummit nodded. ‘His initials. He’s had that number for years. Transfers it whenever he buys a new car. What of it?’
‘Let me quote from Becky’s diary.’ Connor took the diary from his pocket. There was no need to refer to it — he had read it so often that he knew the relevant entries by heart — but the sight of it in his hand should remind Brummit that for him there was more at stake than failure. ‘On the night McGuppy was killed she wrote ‘Saw B and an 8 later.’ The way she formed her characters, I didn’t realise it was AN8, a car registration number. I thought she was referring to the 8 in 38, the number of McGuppy’s house. But she had been out with Northropp in the past — you heard that on the tape — and although, as she said, she did not recognise him in the dark, she saw him drive away and would know the number of his car. It’s not one you’d forget.’
‘Thank you,’ Brummit said. ‘Well, that seems to be that. So if there’s nothing else —’
‘There is.’ Connor waggled the diary at him. ‘There’s this.’
‘What about it?’
‘You didn’t believe there was a diary, did you? Well, here it is. You accused me of lying when I said you figured in it. You didn’t know Becky, you said. Okay — let me quote you some more.’ He thumbed the leaves of the diary slowly, hoping to create suspense. ‘On July the 8th she wrote ‘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 then, five days later, ‘Went with H. Foul! Felt sorry for the louse.’ Connor smiled to himself. Brummit’s hands were on the desk, his fists clenching and unclenching. ‘I don’t have to tell you that Ron is — was Becky’s brother and that he’s a deserter from the Army. And the way I see it, those entries have only one possible interpretation: that H bartered Ron’s freedom for a bit on the side with his sister. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Possibly. But it’s far too vague for me to investigate.’
‘Oh, come off it, Brummit!’ Connor’s tone was sharp. ‘Quit stalling. You’re H, dammit! I know that.’
Brummit’s face went a shade greyer. There was a pause before he answered. ‘You do? How?’
Much as he disliked the man, Connor could not bring himself to give the direct answer. ‘Look up the Hs in the animal kingdom,’ he said. ‘You’ll recognise yourself if you’re honest. I did.’
Brummit forced a wintry smile. ‘In that case it won’t be complimentary.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘And you consider this supposed likeness sufficient reason for such a grave accusation?’
It wasn’t, of course. Connor knew that. There was the wariness that had come into Brummit’s eyes when Connor had hinted at the charge on his previous visit, the fact that a man with a sick wife would need to look outside marriage for sex and that if he were as unprepossessing as Brummit — and as Becky’s comment suggested she had found H — he would have to find someone like Becky to provide it. But Connor saw no reason to go into such detail, and he said doggedly, ‘It’s enough for me.’
‘But not for me.’ The smile vanished as Brummit stood up. ‘And not for any sane-minded person. It’s the most preposterous rubbish I’ve heard in all my life, and I don’t intend to listen to any more of it. On your way, Connor, before I run out of patience.’
‘It’s not rubbish,’ Connor said, angered by the other’s scornful tone. ‘What’s more, I meant it when I said I was taking this further. I don’t like coppers, Brummit, least of all bent coppers. And a copper who deliberately ignores his duty for a bit on the side — well, he’s not only bent, he’s bloody twisted.’
Brummit stared at him through narrowed eyes. Then he nodded.
‘I see. Like that, is it? You’re not only crazy, you’re vicious with it.’ He pressed a bell. ‘What were those dates again?’
‘The 8th and 13th of July.’
A uniformed sergeant appeared in the doorway. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘I want to know what I was doing on the 8th and 13th of July, 1968,’ Brummit told him. ‘Check the diary, will you?’
‘Now, sir?’
‘Now, Sergeant.’
The sergeant left. Brummit began to examine the papers on his desk. After a while the silence got on Connor’s nerves, and he picked up one of the framed photographs. It depicted a man and a woman standing by the open door of a car. The man wore a dark grey suit, the woman a yellow costume.
‘That’s Vaisey, isn’t it?’ he said. Brummit did not answer. ‘But on a bit of weight since then, hasn’t he?’
‘It was taken eight years ago,’ Brummit said, without looking up. ‘After his wedding.’
‘I’d have thought you see enough of him around here without having his photo on your desk.’
‘His wife happens to be my daughter.’
‘Oh!’ Connor replaced the photograph. ‘I thought she was unmarried.’
‘I have two daughters.’ Brummit looked up. ‘Why this interest in my family?’
‘Just passing the time.’ Connor picked up a second photograph. ‘These your grandchildren?’
‘Yes. And to forestall your next question, the other is of my wife and elder daughter.’
When eventually the sergeant returned he carried what Connor assumed to be the diary. ‘Do you want to look for yourself, sir?’ the sergeant asked.
‘No. Just tell me, will you?’
‘You were away on holiday that week, sir. Staying with Mrs. Brummit’s sister in Wales. You left on the 7th and returned on the 20th.’
Brummit waited until the sergeant had gone. ‘Well, Mr. Connor?’ he said. ‘Does that satisfy you?’
Connor was dumbfounded. The thought crossed his mind that, forewarned by his previous visit and banking on the probability that a lapse of six years would dim the memories of his staff, Brummit had somehow managed to rig the diary. But he knew it wasn’t true, and the thought did not linger.
‘I suppose so,’ he said flatly.
‘No apology?’
‘I don’t recall any apologies from you,’ Connor said.
The elation that had possessed him earlier was gone. He felt cheated. Victory was incomplete. He had established his innocence beyond doubt, and he could expect in due course to get suitable compensation. But he had wanted more than that. He had wanted Brummit; and Brummit was still up there on his pedestal and likely to stay there. He might get a reprimand for lack of initiative over the McGuppy murder, but for Connor that wasn’t enough. He wanted him toppled. He wanted him to sweat as he, Connor, had sweated, to know despair and humiliation and loss. He told himself that
revenge was self-destructive, that it could eat away a man’s soul, and what would it benefit him to destroy Brummit? But for six long miserable years he had lived with that aim constantly in mind. It could not be instantly dismissed.
There was nothing further to keep him in Felborough. He decided to leave on the morrow, and spent the day tidying up loose ends. Woolmer was still on holiday, but Torrance, Woolmer’s partner, assured him that the matter would be dealt with as expeditiously as possible. Torrance also took charge of Becky’s diary. For over a week the diary had been Connor’s bible, he felt lost without it; but he had promised Mrs. Main it would be returned, and Torrance undertook to do this after Woolmer had seen it and had made what use of it he could. A visit to Leeds to sell the tape recorder back to Jarvis brought him little more than half what he had paid for it. But it had done its job and he needed the money.
He had tea with Charlotte Evans and dinner with Alison Fitt. He had invited Alison to dine with him at the Malt House, but because she was on call she had had to refuse; come and eat at my place, she had said, I’m quite a reasonable cook. Connor had readily accepted, arriving at her flat with an enormous bunch of carnations and a couple of bottles of champagne. The flowers are a thank-offering, he said, when she rebuked him for extravagance, the champagne is for celebrating. Both are in order.
Yet somehow he did not feel in the mood for a celebration, and despite the champagne and an excellent dinner he failed to sparkle. His tone as he related the events of the previous night and of his interview with Brummit that morning was almost matter-of-fact. If Alison felt surprise at his lack of elation she made no comment. ‘What will you do now?’ she asked, the congratulations over. ‘Have you thought?’
‘Not really. Look for a job, I suppose. Funds are running low, and God knows how long it’ll be before I get compensation. If I get it at all, that is.’
‘Of course you’ll get it. Don’t be so pessimistic. You should be feeling on top of the world.’
