by Roy Lewis
‘They weren’t bad days,’ she said reflectively. ‘No, hell, they were good days. Chuck could be a lot of fun. When he put himself out to please a woman he could do it, believe me. I’m easily pleased, of course but Chuck was something again, I can tell you. Why he—’ She broke off with a quick darting glance at Crow, as though wondering whether she should go on at all, and then she shrugged. ‘To cut a long story short, when I came on to the site here there was a flash Harry running the place who didn’t know his backside from his mouth and then old Forsyth bought up the place and installed Chuck Lindop as manager. First thing Chuck does is come around for a cup of coffee, just like you, now, and within thirty minutes we was in the sack—’
She stopped again and Crow grinned at her. She saw the humour in the situation and grinned back, relaxing somewhat.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I told you, he could really please a woman when he set out to. Not that I’m suggesting . . . Anyway, after that we had a going thing, you know? Maybe six months. But, like lots of other fellers, he got tired, maybe it’s the way I yammer, maybe it’s because they see me with a couple of brandies inside me and my hair down some night, I don’t know what it is, but like the others, he decided that was it. You know what I mean?’
Crow nodded, watching her. She was past the first flush of youth and with it had gone much of her innocence. Even so, he suspected that her cynicism was still edged with hope, she would still expect that one day things would be different — were already different, for all he knew.
‘I know what you mean,’ he said quietly.
‘Ahuh . . . Chuck, now, I’ll say this for him, he was this much different from the other characters I’ve known. Couple of them, they’ve given me the old heave-ho and you’d think I was something crawled out of the wainscoting next time I spoke to them. Chuck wasn’t like that; he gave me the push, told me so, in fact, right out, took my breath away so’s I couldn’t yell at him — but he didn’t just cut me dead thereafter. We stayed friendly. It was all right. I was a bit mad, I admit that, but we was still on speaking terms. It was just he’d found some other woman to crawl into the sack with — could I complain about that? We weren’t married, for God’s sake.’
‘Lindop . . . ah . . . played the field then?’ Ruby’s face creased into a broad grin. She shook her head, almost ruefully.
‘That’s an understatement. When he wasn’t with me, he was with some other bird. And after we finished, I don’t reckon his appetite changed much. Now look, talking to a copper is like talking to a doctor, you know, so I can tell you. Chuck was good in bed — and he saw no reason why lots of women shouldn’t know. A woman to Chuck Lindop was like a . . . well, you hold up a target, he had to let fly an arrow. Know what I mean?’
‘How long was it since you and he separated?’
Ruby shrugged. ‘Eight months, I reckon.’
‘Was he dating someone recently?’
‘Bet your last quid on it.’
‘Who was it?’
Ruby pulled a face and shook her head. ‘You’ll have to ask around. I’ve stayed out of Chuck’s way since he moved me down the field.’ The uncertainty was back in her china blue eyes again. ‘You’d better know about that, too. I didn’t play the rules with Chuck. When he’d finished it should have stayed that way. But I still . . . well, I lusted after him one night when I got a bit canned, and I went over to his van. Just walked in on him with my best see-through negligee — you know, film star stuff? He almost threw me out.’
‘Another woman with him?’ Crow asked.
‘No, no — a man, as a matter of fact. But next day he came around and told me I’d have to move down the site, well away from him. I didn’t argue.’
‘Not such a good position,’ Crow murmured, looking out of the window. ‘I’d have thought you would have complained.’
Ruby hesitated. ‘He had a look in his eye.’
Crow nodded. There was a short silence. He finished his coffee. ‘I’ve read your statement,’ he said.
‘That Inspector — Stafford? When he read it, he said it wouldn’t be easy to check out. I don’t see why. I was in the George and Dragon that evening — couple of dozen people can verify that.’
Crow looked at her soberly. ‘But as far as I recall, you left the pub at about nine.’
Sincerity and earnestness oozed out of Ruby’s eyes. ‘But I told you coppers what happened! I was in the George and Dragon and there was this feller — he was called Jimmie — he picked me up, told me he was a commercial traveller, and I didn’t want to stay around those pubs when all those roughneck gippoes was about. So I let him persuade me. We left about nine, we had another drink at the Hammer, and then he drove me out here to the caravan park. We stopped at the end of the lane, he pushed off, I came on to the site — and dark as hell it was too — and I heard the screaming. I went over to the Keene van, and there they were—’
‘This man — Jimmie. He gave you no other name?’
‘No.’
‘It’s just that we can’t verify your story from nine until the time you arrived at the Keene van,’ Crow explained. ‘What time was that?’
Ruby frowned, and a tiny line of uncertainty seemed to flicker in her eyes. She shrugged. ‘Can’t be sure.’
‘Try.’
‘Can’t be sure! Some time after ten-thirty, I reckon. Maybe ten forty-five give or take a few minutes either way. Ask Andrew Keene — not that he’ll be too sure, I guess, since he was worried as hell about his wife. I sent him packing almost immediately to phone for the ambulance. They arrived bang on eleven-fifteen, I can tell you that ‘cos I looked at Sara’s watch just about then.’
‘Was there a light on in Lindop’s van?’
‘No. I told you — it was all dark. And like I said to Inspector Stafford, and wrote in the statement — I didn’t hear anything either. All I heard was Mrs Keene moaning with the pain — and they had to operate on her in hospital, you know that?’
Crow nodded. He waited, but Ruby seemed disinclined to say any more. She seemed to feel insulted that he should have asked her the last few questions. She wasn’t a suspect, was she? The question was there in the angry pout of her mouth. John Crow rose to go. He thanked Ruby for the coffee, had almost reached the door when she said: ‘One more thing.’
‘Yes?’ Crow said, turning.
The defiance was there in her eyes again. ‘I told you about Chuck because the noseys on the site would probably have told you anyway. So I might as well get it all off my chest. If they talk about Chuck, they’ll talk about others too. You’ll hear from them about Hoagy Samson, so I’ll tell you first.’ Her chin came up, daring him to disapprove. ‘Hoagy came on the site about nine months ago. He took up with me a month after Chuck dropped me. We still sleep together occasionally. All right?’
‘But he wasn’t with you that night?’ Crow asked.
Her eyes widened suddenly and she sat up. ‘You’ll have to ask him where he was. Last time I saw him he was in Stowford with some gippoes. But Inspector Stafford promised he wouldn’t tell Hoagy, or let it out that I got a lift home from this Jimmie feller that night. You won’t let on, will you?’
Crow shook his head. ‘I won’t let on.’
As he left the van a little dog with a patch of black over one eye came dawdling along, smiling at him.
* * *
‘Hogarth Samson,’ Inspector Stafford said heavily, and tossed the file on the desk in front of Chief Inspector Crow. ‘He’s got form, all right.’
‘Tell me.’
Stafford dropped his mouth like a dolorous bloodhound and sniffed. ‘Nothing very big, nothing very important. He’s a roughneck, is friend Hogarth. Never held down a job for long, worked as a brickie’s labourer over on the Shenstone site last summer and made a few bob. Picks up some money on the horses from time to time, he’s got a lucky streak for such a thickie. Still, maybe he deserves that, for having parents who’d saddle him with a name like Hogarth. We’ve had him inside more than a fe
w times for drunk and disorderly; couple of assault cases. We think he’s had his hand in some petty thieving, a bit of receiving too — but we’ve pinned nothing on him so far. But we don’t like him. He’s big, he’s awkward, he’s ugly and he’s belligerent. One of these days he’ll lose his temper — and he’s thick enough to go too far, clobber someone, and find himself up for something big.’
‘As big as Chuck Lindop?’ Crow asked softly.
‘Could be. But Hogarth is a man of habit. Right now, for instance, he’ll be in the George and Dragon. A regular patron. Studying form for the first race this afternoon, over a pint. And most evenings he’s there swilling with the lads. As he claims to have been the night our friend got hammered.’
‘The George and Dragon, you say?’ Crow smiled. ‘I could do with a pint myself.’
* * *
The bar was crowded. Stowford Fair might be staggering on its last legs now but there were still more than enough tipplers to fill the George and Dragon at lunchtime - regulars, sightseers, and a group of swarthy men from the Romany vans scattered the length of the Broadway. They seemed more sensitive than most to the presence of a policeman. Crow became aware of a number of dark eyes flicking glances in his direction as he pushed through the throng to get to the bar for a pint for himself and one for Stafford. It could have been that they were surprised by his physical appearance, but he doubted that. Policeman. It was there in their eyes.
Crow got the drinks, called Stafford across and they stood at the corner of the bar, backs against the wall, and looked around.
‘Over there, in the far corner by the window,’ Stafford muttered and sank a copious draught of beer. Crow watched him in astonishment, and Stafford grinned. ‘Long practice. Pubs are great places for information, and a chap looks odd if he chats in a pub and doesn’t drink.’
Crow took a less hefty drink himself and then allowed his glance to drift casually towards the window seats. It was not casual enough, for the big man with the curly hair and the donkey jacket stared straight at him and grinned. He leaned sideways, said something to the man on his right and they both laughed. A quick conversation, and then they rose, elbowing their way past protesting acquaintances. The big man led the way towards Crow.
‘You was lookin’ at me, so I guess you wanted a chat, hey?’
Crow sipped his beer and looked coolly at the two men facing him. ‘One of the problems of being a policeman is that I can’t choose the people I have to speak to.’
The man with the curly hair reddened. He had his arm over his companion’s shoulder; the grip tightened.
‘I don’t have to speak to you,’ he said.
‘But you do,’ Crow replied. ‘I didn’t invite you over here. But you’re Hogarth Samson, and you need to talk to me, to convince me you had nothing to do with the death of Chuck Lindop.’
Samson’s mouth was twisted unpleasantly and his eyes glittered as he glanced from Crow to the amused Inspector Stafford. ‘You suggestin’ I did knock Chuck on the head? In front of a witness?’
Crow shook his head slowly. ‘I’m quite prepared to take a statement from you if you want to admit to it, but I’m not suggesting you did it. As for a witness, I imagine your . . . ah . . . friend here is with you because he has already been a witness to something.’
The man with Hoagy Samson looked baffled, his close-set eyes flickering uneasily at his nearness to two policemen. He was a gipsy, policemen were his natural enemies, and alone he would never have dreamed of crossing the bar floor to speak to Crow and Stafford. But Samson’s arm was across his shoulders, and Samson’s fingers were digging into his arm.
‘I was with Hoagy,’ he muttered. ‘That night, me an’ Hoagy was here, drinking.’
Crow nodded. ‘I’d heard.’
‘We’ve got it written down too,’ Samson said harshly. ‘It’s there in writin’, me an’ Billy here was in the pub all evenin’, till throwin’ out time. So there’s no way you can tie me in with bashin’ old Chuck over the head. That’s right, hey?’
‘So what are you so anxious about?’
Samson stared at Crow. His earlier belligerence had faded to be replaced with a cautious truculence. He considered his answer for a little while.
‘I know you coppers,’ he said at last. ‘Rather better than you should do, I understand,’ Crow replied.
‘If I been inside a few times, that don’t mean I’d take a crowbar to Chuck Lindop!’
‘No, but it does suggest to me that you might be aware of the person who might have done it,’ Crow said. ‘I gather you knew Lindop fairly well, visited him at his van, went out drinking with him from time to time.’
‘We was friendly.’
‘Sometimes a man with friends doesn’t need enemies.’
‘Oh no.’ Samson shook his head. ‘I had no cause to quarrel with Chuck. And I don’t know who did. Come to that, even if I did I wouldn’t grass to you — or any of your kind.’
‘You’ll be telling me there’s honour among thieves next,’ Crow said.
‘Now look here—’
‘What about you, Billy?’ Crow said, ignoring Samson’s threatening tone. ‘Anything to add to what you’ve said in your statement? You and Samson were here all evening?’
The gipsy licked his lips. ‘We was here — and down the road at the Miller. Took a skinful, I did, but me mind’s clear as a bell and me memory’s prodeejus when I’ve had a few beers and I’m with me muckers.’
‘Like me,’ Samson said, glowering.
‘Thass right. Like Hoagy.’
The two glared defiance at John Crow, who smiled non-committally. Away from Samson, Billy the gipsy would no doubt be much less certain and far less belligerent in his relationship with the police, but he borrowed truculence from Samson and was able to raise a defiant chin. As for Samson, he seemed tough enough, but John Crow suspected he still lacked inner strength and confidence. The man had been friendly with Chuck Lindop; it was said he tried to emulate him, be as positive as the dead man in his attitudes. Perhaps Hogarth Samson had got into trouble over the years because he had been trying to prove himself to himself; now Lindop was dead there was the possibility he saw himself stepping into Lindop’s shoes. The unanswered question so far was — how had Lindop filled those shoes?
* * *
George Stafford came into the office later that afternoon with a pleased smile on his rugged face. He waved a report and dropped it on Crow’s desk.
‘Bit of a lead at last.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Foxholes Quarry. Sent a constable up there, to do some checking. They’ve been through the stores and looked through their explosives book. Sure enough, there’s a shortage on the dynamite list. Someone’s been lifting a few sticks.’
Crow frowned. ‘Is that the quarry where this man Keene works?’
‘That’s it. He’s in charge of the stores there.’
‘Could be little more than a coincidence, of course. He lives at the site, he was there the night Lindop died, and he works at a quarry that’s lost some dynamite — but we don’t yet know why the generator was blown at the site. Apart from that, though I haven’t interviewed Keene yet, everyone tells me he’s a bit dreamy, quiet chap—’
‘Aha!’ Stafford said importantly. ‘It only goes to show, though, doesn’t it — you can never tell about these things.’
‘And just what is that dark comment supposed to mean?’
Stafford sat down, enjoying himself. ‘You’ll know better than most that you can’t tell a chap by the way he looks.’ He paused then, somewhat at a loss as he found himself staring at Crow’s bald head, deep-set eyes and hawkish nose, and aware of the implications behind his statement. ‘Well, what I mean to say is, young Keene is a quiet enough chap, sort of dreamy even, and the story he’s put about is that he’s working at the quarry because he was made redundant in his last job, the one he was holding since before he got married. Now then, I have information which tells me otherwise.’
/> ‘Tell me.’
‘We’ve started checking all the stories given in the statements now, of course. I’ve also got those two men you detailed to check backgrounds giving me reports every time they come up with something. Well, one of them comes up with a story about Andrew Keene. He was well thought of at the firm he worked for — he was a clerk in a haulage firm working out of Northleach. Been there for about four years, it seems. Well, he got married, and everything was okay for a while, then almost a year ago he began to get moody and depressed, his work fell off, and the boss — chap called Clarke had to speak to him several times.’
‘You’re saying Keene was dismissed for incompetence, not on account of redundancy?’ Crow asked.
‘No, not at all! Keene got into hotter water than that. Clarke wasn’t too happy about the way he was doing his job, and it may be he was looking for a chance to give him the push anyway, but Keene gave him one on a platter. There was one of the drivers, a fellow called Baker, one of these big, loudmouthed bullies, whose particular pleasure it was to take a rise out of Andrew Keene. Every time he passed Keene’s office he’d stick his head in, start ribbing him, give him a bit of a going-over verbally. Keene didn’t seem bothered, just ignored it. Until one day Baker met Keene down at the loading bays.’
‘The worm turned?’
‘And bit’ Stafford said with a grin. ‘I think from what I’m told more than a few people were pleased, but what happened was that Andrew Keene went for Baker with a piece of chain he’d picked up from the floor. Caught him across the nose, broke the bone, sent blood all over the place and Baker was screaming like a stuck pig when they hauled young Keene off him. Clarke had young Keene in, but got no satisfactory explanation, so told Keene he wasn’t satisfied with his work and this was the last straw — he couldn’t have that sort of violence among the workers. He gave Keene the push.’
