A Man Condemned

by Roderic Jeffries

  Allbright released his lip. ‘Chit of a girl. Didn’t do nothing for me, though I’d brought her up and paid for everything . . .’

  ‘Now don’t get all excited,’ said the widow.

  ‘We’d like a word with her, Mr Allbright, so can you tell us where she’s living now?’ asked the CID aide.

  He shook his head.

  ‘He hasn’t heard a single word from her since she left home,’ said the widow. ‘Not one letter to say how she’s doing. And if that isn’t ingratitude I don’t know what is.’

  The CID aide asked: ‘Is there any way you can help us find her, Mr Allbright?’

  ‘There’s no way,’ the widow answered for him. Certain he could not see, she gestured with her hands to indicate that she’d say something later on. ‘Now, Basil, it’s time for your telly programme, so I’ll just switch it on before I see this gentleman out . . . Loves the children’s programmes, especially the cartoons. Isn’t that right, Basil?’ She switched on the television and then led the way out and into the second downstairs room, in which was the outside front door.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s a bit more muddled than usual today, but he can’t stand talking about Fiona. Not surprising, really is it? . . . As I’ve always held, kids can be a blessing or a curse and you don’t find out until too late which your own are . . . Now what I wanted to say to you, mister, was this. There’s one person might be able to say where Fiona is now and that’s Jane, because they was very great friends.’

  He took out his notebook. ‘What’s Jane’s surname?’

  ‘It used to be Newby. Only she got married and I don’t recollect what her married name is.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Now? I can’t tell you that for sure, only I did hear she went to London where her husband works. But when her and Fiona used to be such friends she was living at Potheringham, which is close to Steventon, and maybe her family or a friend can tell you where she is.’

  He finished writing, thanked her for her help and left.

  *

  The body would have remained hidden if it hadn’t been buried near a natural watercourse and if on the Monday night there had not been an intense but localized storm. Water surged down the watercourse and because of its volume spilled over to gouge out a secondary channel. By the time the storm was over, at one-fifteen on Tuesday morning, a hand had been exposed two-thirds of the way along the secondary channel.

  The keeper of the estate, a morose individual due to the fact that the proximity of the town ensured that his land was heavily poached the year round, saw the hand at ten past two that afternoon. Showing little emotion, he called his dog away and trudged back to his cottage to telephone the local police.

  Campson and Smith arrived at the keeper’s cottage within twenty minutes and he led them round the edge of a newly ploughed field to the copse in which he’d found the body. Campson looked at the hand for a moment, then ordered Smith to return to their car and call up HQ to ask the DI to come out and to send along a squad of PCs with searching and digging equipment and to advise the duty photographer and the pathologist: Smith kicked some of the clay off his shoes and wearily returned the way they had come.

  Although the area around the grave was almost clear, beyond was a tangled mass of brambles, bracken and whippy shoots—the scrub hornbeam, beech and ash had been cut down three years previously. The growth caught at the searching PCs’ legs, scratched them and soaked them, despite their leggings. To add to their discomfort, they found nothing of the slightest consequence.

  Photographs were taken and then Fusil gave the order to dig out the body. Four PCs, dressed in green overalls and wearing thick rubber gloves, uncovered the body of a well built, fairly tall man, whose undamaged face held a slack expression of surprise rather than of horror. He had red hair, an oval face with a very square nose, and lips which were too full. The pathologist began his first examination.

  ‘I’m certain I haven’t seen him before,’ said Campson, ‘yet there’s something about that face which is familiar.’

  Fusil nodded and tried to pin down why, for him also, the man’s face seemed familiar.

  The pathologist stood up from the plastic sack on which he’d been kneeling. ‘All right, you can bring him out now.’

  The four PCs in overalls slowly and carefully eased a thick canvas-and-rubber sheet under the body. When it was finally in position, each man took hold of one corner and they lifted the body out and on to the ground. The pathologist asked for photographs to be taken of the back of the head, from different angles, and then he carried out his graveside examination. At the conclusion of this, he spoke to Fusil. ‘The man was almost certainly shot in the nape of the neck, with the muzzle pointing at the right centre of the forehead—it’s sometimes referred to as the classical execution shot. Death would have been instantaneous. There’s no exit wound, so the bullet will still be in the head.

  ‘The best estimate I can give for time of death is between two and four weeks, but the condition and type of soil could mean there’s considerable error in those figures.

  ‘I imagine you want prints, but they’ll have to wait until we’re back at the morgue because there’s been some slight destruction of the friction ridges and we may have to work very carefully to get good impressions.

  ‘Beyond that I can’t tell you anything more for the present.’

  The photographer took two final photographs and then Campson gave orders for the body to be carried back to the road and the waiting undertaker’s van. It was as the four PCs lifted up the canvas-and-rubber sheet that Fusil suddenly realized why the face had seemed vaguely familiar both to Campson and himself. The lower half bore a faint likeness to one of the identikit portraits of the villains who had carried out the wages-snatch and shot the guard.

  *

  Fusil reported to Menton over the phone. ‘There is the facial similarity, but no one’s yet going to call it a meaningful one. The pathologist has promised to get a set of dabs as soon as possible, but these may be difficult because of the condition of the skin.’

  ‘What about the dead man’s clothes?’

  ‘They don’t match the description of the clothes the three villains wore for the raid, but then they’d have changed as soon as possible. The contents of the clothes are of no account.’

  ‘I’ll be down first thing tomorrow morning.’

  That’ll be a great help! thought Fusil, before saying goodbye and ringing off. He began to doodle on a scrap piece of paper. Assume this dead man was one of the three wage-snatchers, why had he been murdered? A disagreement over the pay-out? Normally there’d have been no payout until they were back home. An argument on some other matter? But would any argument end in murder before they reached safety and could afford to relax? Then had this been a planned murder, to secure for the survivors the third man’s share of the loot? . . . Shouldn’t one remember that whoever had shot the guard had proved himself to be totally callous . . .?

  Kerr entered the room. ‘I’ve just had Hove CID on the blower, sir. They’ve traced Fiona Allbright’s father. He’s pretty gaga and can’t really help because Fiona cleared out of the house when her mother died and hasn’t been in touch with him since. But the widow with whom he’s living suggests it might be worth getting in touch with a friend, Jane Newby. Trouble is, the widow doesn’t know Jane Newby’s married name or where she’s living now, except it’s probably in London. She does know where the family used to live.’

  Fusil leaned back in his chair. ‘It’s gone too cold. We’ll have to drop the enquiry.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I want you to take four PCs out to Barrack Woods and dig up all the open ground where the body was found.’

  Kerr looked up at the electric clock on the wall.

  ‘Worried about getting home on time?’ asked Fusil sarcastically.

  ‘No, sir,’ denied Kerr, almost convincingly, ‘but it’ll soon be dark . . .’

  ‘Take portable lights with
you.’

  ‘What am I looking for?’ asked Kerr, resentfully wondering if he’d ever get any supper that night.

  ‘A second body.’

  *

  They found the second body buried to the right of where the first one had been. At a quarter to twelve, when the gusty wind delivered the first drops of what threatened to be heavy rain which would make their work even more objectionable, the PCs lifted out the body and placed it down on the ground. The dead man had a square face, crudely featured; his expression was one of twisted hatred.

  *

  Menton paced the length of Fusil’s room. ‘You’re saying that these were two of the three who carried out the wages-snatch?’

  ‘I’m saying that at this moment it’s a strong possibility,’ replied Fusil.

  Menton turned and paced back to the window and looked out at the row of small Victorian houses. ‘If you’re right, this third villain is an exceptionally dangerous man.’

  ‘I’d add, significantly dangerous.’

  He was silent for a moment, then said: ‘Have you circulated photos?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We may get a response from some grasser before long.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you have heard from Dabs?’

  ‘I’m sure they’re doing their best. I doubt we’ll gain anything by badgering them at this stage.’

  Menton’s expression tightened. Would Fusil never learn to show a reasonable respect for his seniors? . . . That reminded him. He faced Fusil. ‘I decided to check through the logs of our requests to other forces and I came across one from you, directed to the Hove CID, made very recently. What case was that in connection with?’

  ‘Trying to trace Fiona Allbright, sir,’ said Fusil stonily.

  ‘I seem to remember giving you instructions to drop such investigation?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But you continued?’

  ‘At the time it was my judgement that this was warranted.’

  ‘I confess that I find it incredible that a man who has reached your rank should appear to be unable to obey instructions.’ Menton was enjoying himself: he had Fusil over a barrel and they both knew this. ‘I presume you understood my order?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then you deliberately disobeyed it?’

  ‘If you care to see my exercise of judgement in that light.’

  ‘Is there any other light in which it can be viewed? . . . I feel I have no option but to refer the matter to the ACC.’

  Fusil made no comment. He’d known the risk he’d been running: he’d just hoped Menton would, for once, be far too busy to bother about unimportant details . . .

  The telephone rang, to break the sense of tension between the two men. Fusil answered the call and Dabs reported that both sets of prints of the dead men had been identified. Reginald Whitehead and Thomas Cromartie. Long records, guilty of crimes of violence, known to carry firearms.

  Fusil gave Menton the gist of the message. ‘Right now, sir, I’d say that’s near enough confirmation the two men were in the wages-snatch.’

  Menton nodded, but his thoughts were still mainly concerned with the problem of Fusil. How could a man be so good a detective and yet so bad a policeman? ‘I have to go on to Cruxley, but I’ll be back this afternoon. Perhaps Ballistics will have reported by then.’ He left, satisfied he had shown restraint over Fusil’s actions and completely failing to recognize that the real source of his sharp annoyance was not the fact that his orders had been disobeyed, but his certainty that by disobeying them Fusil was showing a measure of openly expressed contempt for him.

  Fusil lit his pipe and thought about the two men who had been expertly murdered with shots in the head and he tried to judge the full significance of the character of the man who had killed them and, as he was certain, the security guard.

  Campson came into the room. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s a bit of a problem just arisen. We’ve Mrs O’Connell down below.’

  Fusil took his pipe from his mouth. ‘Well?’

  ‘She’s asking to see you and making quite a scene about it. I thought I’d better have a word with you before telling her you’re too busy to see her.’

  Always looking over his shoulder, thought Fusil contemptuously. ‘Has she said what she specifically wants to see me about?’

  ‘Just that she must speak to you personally.’

  ‘All right, I’ll see her.’

  Vera O’Connell was no longer wearing black, except for a small armband. Some of the visible pain had gone, leaving her face more relaxed, but the hurt was still in her eyes. He met her in the middle of the room. ‘Hullo, Mrs O’Connell. Did you get in touch with WPC Brown?’

  She shook her head as she sat on the chair he had placed near, and to the side of, his desk.

  He returned to his own chair. ‘I had a word with her and she’ll be only too glad to help if any help’s needed, so don’t forget.’

  ‘You promised . . .’ She stopped. She sat up a little straighter. ‘You promised to prove Reg wasn’t no thief.’

  ‘I promised to do my best to try to prove he wasn’t,’ he corrected quietly.

  ‘But you haven’t managed nothing, have you?’ She looked at him, a beseeching expression on her face.

  ‘I’ve had little or no success,’ he agreed sadly.

  ‘But if you can’t . . .’ Her face began to work and then her eyes filled with tears. ‘Judy’s been telling me that . . . that the lads are talking.’

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘That he must’ve pinched the whisky because there ain’t no other explanation. Why can’t you prove he wasn’t no thief?’

  ‘Unfortunately there are times when one knows instinctively that something is fact, yet it seems impossible to prove this: it’s one of the worst kinds of injustice . . .’ He stopped. Goddam it, he thought angrily, what good did he imagine he was doing by mouthing clichés? She wasn’t interested in an impersonal discussion on the qualities of injustice, only in her own personal, hateful, agonizing injustice.

  ‘You’ve got to prove he didn’t steal the whisky,’ she said fiercely.

  ‘I’ve been trying very hard.’

  He wondered how to break the news that on the orders of his senior the investigation was now closed? She said desperately: ‘Reg always said you’d do anything to help one of your blokes: that’s why he was so happy to work for you, even if in the end you reckoned he wasn’t good enough to stay.’

  He knew a humble pride.

  ‘Please,’ she pleaded, still more urgently. ‘Now Reg is gone, I’ve only got memories. And if his mates think him a thief I ain’t even going to have them.’

  ‘I’ll do everything I can,’ he said, almost harshly.

  ‘I knew you would.’ She stood. ‘I won’t keep you no longer.’

  He escorted her downstairs and out through the courtyard. A couple of PCs who had been standing by one of the panda cars stared at her with the curious, almost sly interest that seemed to be aroused by someone else’s misfortune, but then they saw Fusil’s expression and they hastily moved away.

  Fusil said goodbye, returned to his room. He pulled open the small blade of his penknife and began carefully to scrape out the bowl of his pipe. The obvious and sensible thing to do was to do nothing, but at some later date to tell her that all his further efforts had been without success. To do otherwise would be to risk the whole of his career merely because he had been emotionally affected to be told that the men who served under him believed in him because he would always stand by them . . .

  He tapped the scrapings out into a brass ashtray and filled the pipe with tobacco. If he took that risk, he wouldn’t be gambling with just his own future: Josephine’s and Timothy’s futures would also be at stake.

  *

  Fusil climbed into bed as Josephine slipped a nightdress over her head and shoulders and eased it down her body. ‘I want a word,’ he said.

  She was not surprised: his manner during the evening
had told her that something was troubling him. She climbed into bed and nestled against him and he felt the warmth of her body. Years of marriage hadn’t undermined the pleasurable excitement of that, he thought gratefully, as he put his arm round her. ‘Something difficult’s cropped up and I don’t know how to handle it. Either I do as I’ve been ordered and then have to live with my conscience, or else I follow my conscience and then have to live with Menton.’ Briefly, he told her what had happened and, in much more detail, explained that if things stayed as they were he could hopefully expect no more than a sharp reprimand from the ACC, but that if he again defied Menton and this were discovered he must expect to be in very serious trouble which would affect his career.

  She thought for a moment, then said: ‘What do you feel now about O’Connell?’

  ‘I still think the bottle of whisky was planted on him,’

  ‘Then ignore the old fool, Menton, and go ahead and prove it.’

  He kissed her, knowing a surge of gratitude that she was the kind of woman she was.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ballistics reported by phone on Thursday morning. The bullets which had killed Whitehead and Cromartie had been fired from the same gun; this was also the gun which had been used to kill Badger, the security guard.

  The message was given to Fusil as he climbed out of his car. He rapidly went over in his mind the further steps which now had to be taken: continuing extensive enquires in London into the backgrounds of the two men; a further request to Records to trace out any names of men who had shown the chilling indifference to life which the third gunman had. (What did this brutal indifference suggest? Merely a lack of normal human scruples, or something more? The fanatacism developed by the more dangerous terrorists? Could the third gunman be an assassin who had organized and carried out the wages-snatch in order to make his stake money for a coming assassination? . . . Jazeyeri would be moving into Windleton Manor in four days’ time); the local villains had to be turned over yet again in case any of them had had contact with either of the dead men; the local grassers had to be canvassed yet again . . .