A Man Condemned

by Roderic Jeffries

  He finally moved away from his car and went into the building and up to his office. He telephoned Menton and reported the latest development.

  Kerr entered just after he had begun to jot down some notes and his ‘Yes?’ fully expressed his irritation at this interruption.

  ‘I thought you wanted to see me, sir?’

  This morning, his emotions unstretched by a grief-stricken widow, the question of proving O’Connell’s innocence could have seemed of small consequence, but he had given his word. ‘I want you to keep on trying to trace Fiona Allbright,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘But you said the evidence had become too cold and so we’d have to drop it.’

  ‘And now I’m saying differently.’

  Kerr waited for an explanation, but this did not come.

  ‘Talk to that friend of hers.’

  ‘Jane Newby? But we don’t know her married name or where she lives.’

  ‘You might just try to find out,’ said Fusil sarcastically.

  Kerr grinned. ‘The impossible takes a little longer.’

  ‘And Kerr . . . The enquiry has to be kept under wraps. I don’t want any official reference to it appearing anywhere. Is that clear?’

  ‘Not really, sir.’

  *

  Kerr spoke to one of the Hove DCs over the phone. ‘Can you do me a personal favour?’

  ‘No way,’ replied the DC.

  ‘I’m trying to trace an old friend who used to live in Potheringham. Her name was Jane Newby.’

  ‘How old?’

  He remembered Miss Datchett’s guess that Fiona Allbright was about twenty-five. ‘Twenty-five. By the way, she’s married now, but I don’t know her married name.’

  ‘So where were you on the wedding-day? . . . I’ll do what I can, but I’ve a feeling I shouldn’t. What if her husband’s a jealous bloke?’

  *

  The two detectives spoke to Olive Cromartie in the small back-to-back house in which she had lived for the past fifteen years, either with Cromartie or, when he was in prison, on her own. Had she had even a little imagination she must surely have railed against the fates which had ruled her life, but as it was she seemed to accept their curses without resentment. When she mentioned her husband she did so without anger and even without any obvious sorrow.

  ‘I never knew what Tom was doing,’ she said dully. ‘’E’d just come and go.’ She was knitting a very elaborate Fair—Isle sweater.

  ‘But you’ll have met his friends?’ suggested the detective sergeant.

  ‘They used to come in.’ She knitted with skill, scarcely bothering to look down at the needles.

  The DC said: ‘It’s like this, Mrs Cromartie, we’re looking for one particular bloke because we think he’s the one who killed your Tom.’

  If they had hoped to arouse a specific emotion in her, they failed.

  The detective sergeant became impatient. ‘Has Reg Whitehead been here very often recently?’

  ‘I’ve seen ’im around,’ she answered.

  ‘Was he ever with anyone else?’

  ‘Don’t rightly reckon so.’

  ‘Who else has been here in the last month? . . . Think back and then give us the names.’

  She reached out to a large carrier-bag and brought from it a fresh ball of wool. Eventually, she gave them four names. But even as he wrote them down, the DC could judge that not one of the four men was likely to prove to be of any relevancy to their enquiries.

  *

  Kerr eventually found Fusil in the canteen, eating a very late luncheon. Kerr sat at the table. ‘I’ve just had word through on the blower, sir, about Jane Newby.’

  Fusil speared two chips and a piece of unidentifiable fish on his fork and put them in his mouth. He was too hungry to notice the quality of what he was eating.

  ‘She was married locally to a bloke from London and her married name is Yearling. She’s living at five, Dean’s Road, West Ealing.’

  Fusil manoeuvred a small bone out of his mouth. ‘Go and see her and find out what she knows.’

  ‘I’ll get the first train in the morning . . .’

  ‘You’ll get the next train that’s leaving. And listen, don’t contact the local division. This is purely a private visit by you.’

  ‘But if anyone gets wind of it that could lead to pretty heavy trouble . . .’

  ‘It’s up to you to see no one gets wind of it.’

  ‘Anything more?’ asked Kerr heavily.

  ‘Only that you’d better keep your expenses light.’

  Kerr stood, left and went up and through to the front room and told the duty sergeant that on the DI’s orders he was to be driven to central station right away. The sergeant grumbled, but Fusil’s reputation ensured that he did not question the ‘order’. A panda car took Kerr to the station.

  After an hour and a quarter’s journey, he caught the tube out to Ealing Common and then a bus to West Ealing. A short walk brought him to Dean’s Road.

  Jane Yearling was having to cope with two young children, one of whom was determined to have a screaming fit, and it was a quarter of an hour before she could relax sufficiently to answer his questions. At that moment, her husband returned home from work. He had a sharp character, ever ready to challenge for his rights, and his initial reaction to Kerr’s visit was resentment, but under Kerr’s cheerful manner that resentment lessened.

  ‘I never liked Fiona and that’s straight.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Isn’t that right, love?’

  She was rocking the younger child in her arms and he was falling asleep; the elder child was playing with alphabetical bricks. ‘You wouldn’t try.’ She said to Kerr: ‘Bert gets an idea into his head and a ton of dynamite wouldn’t shift it.’

  ‘She was much too fond of the men.’

  His wife smiled. ‘You didn’t complain all that loud when she started giving you the come on. You men are always the same—complain about what you most like in order to try to make out you don’t like it.’ She spoke teasingly, with the satisfaction of knowing that she had never had cause to worry.

  ‘Give over!’

  ‘I liked Fiona, whatever she was,’ said Jane stoutly. ‘Fact is, she wanted me to go to Europe with her and I wouldn’t have minded, either, only me and Bert were courting by then. You weren’t for it, were you, Bert?’

  ‘And a good job too. Look what happened in Germany!’

  ‘And you think that if I’d gone with her I’d of done the same?’

  He suddenly grinned. ‘I’m not soft enough to answer that question.’

  ‘So tell me, what happened to Fiona in Germany?’ asked Kerr.

  ‘She met a man and lived with him, that’s all,’ said Jane. ‘It doesn’t mean a thing these days, but to listen to Bert you’d think she made history.’

  ‘It was more than that, wasn’t it?’ said Yearling.

  ‘It’s only you who couldn’t stop thinking it was!’

  ‘Look at the way she wrote about him.’

  ‘So what? She was in love with him and, unlike most men I know, she didn’t mind saying so. I thought it was all rather romantic.’

  ‘Romantic! That’s a new name for it.’ He spoke to Kerr. ‘Know what she said about him? So different and dangerously exciting. I’ll tell you what was dangerously exciting about him . . .’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ she interrupted, ‘not with someone else in the house.’

  ‘Did she tell you his name?’

  ‘I don’t think she ever did, no.’

  ‘How long ago was all this?’

  They looked at each other. ‘About a year,’ she said. Her husband corrected her. ‘More like a year and a half.’

  ‘D’you know whereabouts in Germany she was when she met this man?’

  She frowned as she tried to remember. ‘It was something to do with back,’ said Yearling. ‘Back . . . Backnang, that’s it. Doesn’t sound German, really.’

  ‘Did you hear from her very often?’

  ‘Not when sh
e was in Germany: only the once.’

  ‘Too busy living dangerously,’ said Yearling.

  ‘But she did tell you she’d come back to this country?’

  ‘I had a letter when she was up in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Now for the sixty-four dollar question. Where is she now?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. I mean, when she was in Edinburgh was the last time I heard from her. I’d no idea she’d come down south.’

  ‘Can you suggest where she might have gone after leaving Fortrow?’

  ‘I can’t, I’m afraid. And it’s a long time since we were both living in Sussex so I don’t know who any of her other friends are now.’ The child in her arms suddenly awoke with a jerk and immediately began to scream; she rocked her arms and crooned softly.

  ‘Blimey!’ said Yearling, ‘it’s a case of pass round the earplugs again.’

  *

  The phone rang as Fusil was finishing his supper. Josephine said: ‘If that’s for you, Bob, you’re not going back to the station tonight, not even if someone’s shot the chief constable.’

  ‘Find out who and what and then we’ll draw up the battle lines!’

  She answered the call and returned to the kitchen. ‘It’s Kerr, who wants a word with you. I’ve made him promise not to be very long.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t browbeat him?’

  She laughed. ‘D’you really think anyone could browbeat that young man?’

  Fusil went through to the hall, where the telephone stood on a small corner table.

  ‘I’m just back from London, sir. Mrs Yearling didn’t even know Fiona had been living in Fortrow. She can’t help at all.’

  ‘What about the past history?’

  ‘They didn’t see or hear from each other very often so it’s all a bit sketchy. Fiona was in Germany sometime between eighteen months and a year ago and she shacked up with a German, whom she described as different and dangerously exciting, but he’s the only contact she’s heard about.’

  ‘Surely she could suggest a few names of other friends for us to follow up?’

  ‘No help at all there.’

  ‘Blast! Then that finally is the end of the trail.’

  ‘’Fraid so, sir.’

  Fusil wearily said goodnight and replaced the receiver.

  *

  At four fifteen on Tuesday afternoon, the assistant manager of the Carley Street branch of the Midland Bank rang divisional HQ and spoke to the duty PC, who transferred the call to CID.

  ‘I thought I ought to get on to you immediately. We’ve just discovered that during the course of the day we’ve had paid in three ten pound notes with numbers which appear on the list you circulated last month.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘It is a pity we didn’t spot them right away,’ agreed the manager of the bank, as he sat behind his desk. ‘But throughout the day there’s been considerable pressure on all the cash-points and really it’s quite understandable that the clerks haven’t had time to check every note as it’s been paid in.’

  Fusil accepted that whatever he felt about the delay, there was no point in pursuing it. ‘Can you give me the full facts?’

  ‘There’s very little more to add. After the bank was closed to the public the cashiers balanced their floats. Miss Barnaby checked the numbers of the two highest denominations against your list and found that three of the numbers matched. She informed the assistant manager—I was very busy at the time—and he telephoned your people.’

  ‘Does she know who paid the money in?’

  ‘She says not. Considering the circumstances, I think it would be unreasonable to expect her to do so.’

  ‘Have you checked the notes to see if there are any identifying marks on them?’

  ‘I have. I’m afraid there is none?’

  ‘Is Miss Barnaby still here?’

  ‘I’ve asked her to hold herself ready to answer any questions you want to put to her.’

  She was a serious-looking woman of thirty, with a pear-shaped face and a severe hair-style; her manner was calm and deliberate. Fusil had, when he could be bothered to exercise it, considerable charm: ‘Miss Barnaby, it was very clever of you to spot those notes.’

  She smiled with pleasure at the compliment.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll appreciate just how important they are and how useful to us anything you can tell us about them will be. We know they were part of the money stolen in the wages-snatch outside the National Westminster Bank. If there’d just been one note, then it could have been paid in by a perfectly innocent person who’d received it in the normal course of events and who, even if we could identify him or her, wouldn’t be able to tell us anything of immediate importance. But since there were three notes it has to be odds on that they were paid in by someone who at the very least had close contact with the gunmen. So we’ve got to try and trace out who did pay them in.’

  She nodded. ‘I understand all that, of course, but as I’ve already told Mr Emerson I don’t remember who paid in that particular money. We’ve been unusually busy today and so it’s been impossible to remember detail.’

  ‘Let’s see how close we can get. I suppose it’s safe to say that not everyone who paid in paid in three ten-pound notes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you have a check on the amount of cash each person paid in, including the denomination of notes? Then you can draw up a list of people who paid in three or more ten pound notes?’

  ‘I can do that, certainly.’

  ‘And when we have the list you can go down the names and give me some idea of what kind of person they are?’

  She looked at the manager, who said: ‘You understand that we must maintain customer security?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Fusil, a shade too easily.

  She left the room, to return within a couple of minutes with a list which she handed to the manager, who read it. He looked up. ‘What exactly do you want to know about the people or firms who are named here?’

  ‘Which one of them is likely to be laundering hot money.’

  ‘You mean, I presume, stolen money being passed through an account in order to remove any suspicion attached to it?’

  Fusil nodded.

  The manager studied the list for a second and much longer time. ‘None of them,’ he finally said.

  ‘One of ’em’s got to be at it.’

  The manager spoke coldly. ‘The individuals are beyond any suggestion of suspicion and the firms are all old and established ones.’

  ‘May I see the list?’

  The manager hesitated, then passed it across.

  Fusil recognized roughly half the names and of necessity he had to accept that the other half were equally above suspicion. It was a bitter ending to what had seemed until now a valuable lead.

  ‘Sorry we can’t be of more help,’ said the manager, and there was a hint of smugness to his voice: he was glad he was not being called upon to decide on whether he should, in the name of justice, betray any confidences.

  *

  Kerr entered Fusil’s office at just after ten the next morning. ‘I’ve seen the list, sir, which you’ve circulated, giving the names the bank supplied yesterday . . . Well, I know it’s a heck of a long shot, but one of the names is of the estate agents who handled Fiona Allbright’s flat.’

  Fusil began to tap on the desk with his fingers. ‘Ring them and find out if they can tell us the source of the cash they paid into the bank yesterday.’

  Kerr dialled Bellows and Mathieson’s number and spoke to Mr Lever. At the end of the call, he reported, his voice excited: ‘It was the hundred pounds which Fiona sent to them to cover repairs and redecorations. Because of our enquiries, they decided it would be better to put it through the books and bank it rather than go on holding it as cash. There were three ten pound notes and the rest of the hundred was in fivers.’

  Fusil slammed the palm of his hand down on the desk. ‘It has to be part of the wages money they paid in!’
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  Chapter Eighteen

  Miss Datchett, trailing an aura of lavender scent, offered the three policemen—Fusil, Kerr and a PC—a sherry. Fusil, in the name of them all, accepted. When he tasted his, he was agreeably surprised to find it was a pleasant amontillado.

  ‘It’s very exciting to have so many people come to see me,’ she confided. ‘Usually there’s no one because so many of my friends are either dead or not well enough to travel . . . Now, you’ve asked me to tell you all I can about that foreign man in Fiona’s flat. But, you see, I didn’t look at him very closely because it was all rather embarrassing. And he seemed so very annoyed . . . I just left as quickly as I could.’

  ‘But I’ll bet you still remember exactly what you did notice about him,’ said Fusil. ‘So one of the things I’m going to ask you to do is to help produce an artist’s impression of this man. PC Rennet, here, is a dab hand at drawing pictures of people from descriptions, even if the descriptions are a bit vague . . . Don’t worry how often you have to ask him to change something, the only thing that’s important is for the two of you to end up with as close a likeness as possible.’ Fusil often preferred an artist’s impression even though more modern methods of identification had largely superseded them.

  Together, Miss Datchett and the PC built up a face: regular, good-looking or handsome, the most noticeable feature a mouth which had a slight twist to it which added a suggestion of coldness, even perhaps of cruelty.

  Fusil compared this portrait with those which had been produced of the three men involved in the wages-snatch; there was a likeness, but not a strong one. ‘Miss Datchett, the last time DC Kerr spoke to you, you told him that this man was a foreigner. What made you so sure of that?’

  ‘He was talking to Fiona in a foreign language and then when he spoke so rudely to me it was in a very heavily accented English and he didn’t seem certain of all his words; although some of the words he used he should not have known.’

  ‘Can you say what language they were talking?’

  ‘I think it was German: in fact, I’m almost certain it was. I don’t speak it, but really it’s such a hard language to hear—for an English person at any rate—that it’s not easily mistaken.’