The Executor (Keith Calder Book 10)

by Gerald Hammond

  They were facing across a wide strip of grass, a flower border and the drive to the back door of the house some sixty yards away. The mass of berberis, bright with berries, led round the corner towards the front door.

  ‘I’ve had just about enough of—’ Ovenstone began.

  ‘Not yet,’ Keith said urgently. ‘Let me check something first.’ He listened, but there was no sound of a vehicle yet. He walked quickly across to the back door, looked behind the screen of berberis and came back again. ‘Right enough,’ he said.

  ‘What is?’ asked the detective chief inspector. ‘Please,’ he added.

  Keith started to put him out of at least part of his misery. ‘Mrs Winterton took me over the house yesterday,’ he said. ‘I was looking for clues to the whereabouts of Mr Winterton’s collection of guns. His very valuable collection. There were radiators in every room, but I never saw a boiler for the central heating. One of Danny Bruce’s men had just been round the house – I saw him returning – and there was grit on the floor and on the soap in the cloakroom.’

  ‘A boiler room?’ Molly said suddenly.

  ‘Exactly. So I looked at the chimneys and spotted the one with a taller, fatter pot. See it? There’s a manhole behind those shrubs and a flight of steps, leading down to a door. That’s where they’ll be, under the coal. And I’ll bet my chance of reaching Heaven that Danny Bruce is coming for them.’

  ‘And I’ve got this, exclusive,’ Philip said. ‘Molly, my darling, I’ll be your agent for any shots you get.’

  Detective Chief Inspector Ovenstone was looking less and less happy. ‘But if Duncan Laurie—’

  ‘Hush,’ Keith said. ‘Listen. Keep heads down and radios quiet.’

  Round the house came the sound of an approaching vehicle.

  ‘Could be reporters coming back,’ Keith said. ‘But if it’s not, it’ll be a group of very hard men, probably armed. Let Molly photograph them removing the goods before you make any move towards arresting them. You want me to get a gun from my jeep?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Ovenstone said. ‘That’s not how we operate in this country. You stay out of it. Fleet and I can cope. We’ve tackled armed men before.’

  Detective Inspector Fleet was looking unhappy. ‘This is my case,’ he said, ‘and if we have reason to believe that the men are armed—’

  ‘That’s only a guess,’ Ovenstone said. ‘We’re told that the two cases are connected, and I have the rank. No guns. I know what I’m doing. We could use our driver, though.’

  Keith could have pointed out that the man who was predicting guns was the man who said that the two cases were connected, but he decided to let Ovenstone have it both ways. Few things put his back up like a statement that the speaker knew what he was doing. In his experience, the contrary was usually true. ‘I’ll send him,’ he said.

  ‘Tell him to radio for reinforcements,’ Fleet said.

  A vehicle passed from tarmac on to gravel. The sound increased as a Range Rover came round the corner of the house. It halted when it had passed the end of the berberis. ‘Debbie, you can come with me,’ Keith whispered. ‘Molly and Philip, you stay right here, out of sight, and for the love of God don’t get involved.’

  ‘What grounds do we have for an arrest?’ Fleet whispered.

  The men in the Range Rover were sitting still, using their eyes. There seemed to be four men and Mary Bruce. ‘Don’t move,’ Keith whispered. ‘They can’t see us as long as you keep perfectly still. Grounds? I’m the executor for this estate. Anybody, anybody at all, removing anything from this house or its policies without my written permission is a thief. That’ll do to be getting along with.’

  The new arrivals seemed satisfied that they were alone. They began to disembark. Keith saw that Danny Bruce himself, immaculate as ever in camel-hair coat and trilby, was the first one out. Mary Bruce remained in the Range Rover. Her father took up sentry-duty at the corner of the house. The others descended the hidden steps, their heads seeming to sink as if they were walking into quicksand.

  ‘Come, Deb,’ Keith whispered. ‘Keep low and don’t make a sound, as if we were stalking rabbits.’

  The vegetable garden had a slight upward slope away from the house so that an unseen retreat in that direction was out of the question. They crawled back in the direction from which they had arrived, their concealment aided by the grasses which had been drawn up into the hedge, until they reached the double garage. A specimen weeping ash cut them off from Danny Bruce until they were behind the house.

  As they hurried, now upright, through the garden, Keith was worried by Ovenstone’s attitude and he was sure that Fleet was none too happy. There is a type of policeman, as there is a type of lollipop man, who believes that official status brings invulnerability, and the longer this delusion survives the stronger it can become. When Danny Bruce chose hard men he chose well, and Keith knew that he had been lucky to get on top of them and to stay there. They would not be overcome so easily a second time.

  He decided to take Ovenstone’s name in vain.

  They passed Philip’s minibus and the hatchback and found the police-car. All three were well tucked into the jungle but the police-car seemed to have a possible route forward on to the drive. The uniformed constable dozing behind the wheel jumped as Keith appeared at the window.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Ovenstone says you’re to pull forward and block the drive,’ Keith said. ‘Your engine’s quieter than mine.’ And if any car were going to be rammed he would prefer that it were the police BMW rather than either of his own cars. ‘Then get on your radio and call for assistance. There are four men and a woman, probably armed. After that, you go and join your bosses, without showing yourself.’ He described the covert route back to the vegetable garden.

  They held branches back while the constable eased the car forward and parked it across the drive. He was a good driver and managed it without raising the engine’s noise noticeably above tickover. While he was on his radio, Keith beckoned to Deborah and they faded away. There was no sign of another sentry.

  The jeep was as Keith had left it. He unlocked the back door. ‘What did you make of Chief Inspector Ovenstone?’ he asked Deborah.

  ‘I thought . . . .’ She paused and looked at him. ‘I thought he was silly. You warned him, but he still thinks Danny Bruce and his men are going to give up just because he tells them they’re under arrest.’

  ‘I agree with every word,’ Keith said. ‘Well, it’s on his own head if anything happens to him. I just hope your mother keeps her head down. The question is, what are we going to do, you and I?’

  Deborah shrugged. ‘You’ve already made up your mind,’ she said.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I haven’t. Let’s assume that, before reinforcements arrive, the Range Rover comes back down the drive. I don’t think it can get past the police-car. What will they do?’

  ‘Get out and run for it?’ Deborah suggested.

  ‘Very likely,’ Keith said. ‘And probably taking the most precious items with them. I don’t much like that idea. They’ll be caught, but just suppose they’ve hidden the pearls of the collection.’

  ‘They could be all rusted by the time we got them back,’ Deborah said.

  ‘That’s for sure,’ Keith opened the back door of the jeep, lifted the rubber mat and unlocked a trap in the floor. This opened a narrow, specially-built compartment, squeezed between the exhaust and the fuel tank, where he kept a couple of guns and some ammunition. Old and inexpensive as they were, the guns were carefully wrapped. No unexpected invitation to shoot was going to catch Keith unprepared.

  He handed Deborah the twenty-bore and a handful of blue cartridges. ‘Take this,’ he said, ‘but only if you’re absolutely sure.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ she said. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Back me up. Don’t shoot unless somebody’s coming at you or you think I’m in danger.’

  ‘And—’

  ‘Hush a minute,’ he said. He thought quickly.
Wherever the Range Rover stopped, there would be shrubbery close to the doors on either side. Better to allow them to emerge and to catch them nearer the gates. He placed Deborah behind a tree thirty yards beyond the police-car, and settled down in the bushes across the drive from her.

  Nothing happened for what seemed an age.

  ‘Dad, how long do we wait?’ Deborah’s voice came suddenly.

  ‘Something will happen eventually,’ Keith said. ‘Until then, we hang on.’

  Two minutes later they heard the Range Rover coming fast and his mouth went dry. Detective Chief Inspector Ovenstone’s belief that three unarmed policemen could arrest an armed gang had proved false. If Molly had disobeyed his last instruction . . . .

  The Range Rover came round the curve of the drive, already over 50 m.p.h. and still accelerating. The driver must have been distracted by something in his mirror or within the vehicle, because he left his brakes off for a few more seconds. The drive had a dusting of old leaves and when he braked the big car began to slide. He let up, corrected and tried again but it was already too late. As a last resort he tried to crash through off the drive but the resilient bushes threw him back. He hit the bonnet of the police-car with a noise of crumpling metal and tinkling glass, followed by a moment of deathly silence.

  Through the leaves, Keith saw an argument raging inside the vehicle. The Range Rover’s engine had stalled. The driver tried his starter but it was a forlorn hope. Hideous noises made it clear that the vehicle was beyond moving under its own power.

  There was more argument. Then a door opened and Danny Bruce’s dapper backside emerged. ‘. . . to the road and grab the first vehicle to come along,’ he was saying. ‘Bring what you can carry.’

  Keith waited until the motley group was almost abreast of them while he did a visual check of the guns on display. Musket . . . musket . . . pair of duellers . . . jezail and not a modern weapon to be seen. He stepped out of cover.

  ‘Don’t drop those guns,’ he said. Even as he spoke, the words seemed odd. The order was intended to keep the treasures undamaged rather than the hands of the enemy full, but it served both purposes. ‘Hold them over your heads. Anyone who doesn’t is going to lose some bits.’

  During the instant in which they were making up their minds, he put his safety-catch off with a vicious little snick. It was enough. Hands were raised.

  ‘Even me?’ Mary Bruce asked sweetly.

  ‘Especially you,’ Keith said.

  Most of the group had been caught in the open but one man was close to the greenery. He made a sudden dive sideways and vanished. Keith stood fast, impressing his domination over the remainder. But, inside, he was praying. The man was heading towards Deborah. He prayed that she would either shoot or run. If she froze . . . .

  The bushes parted again and the man backed hurriedly out, still holding a miquelet. Keith recognised him by the dressing on his face and the blood pouring over his chin. Deborah followed, her muzzles centred on his chest. Her face was contorted into a snarl like that of a cat on the point of attack.

  Keith felt again the crawl of atavistic dread up the back of his neck, but he kept his voice calm. ‘Hullo, Nigel. Welcome back. I see you’ve bust your nose again. About turn, everyone, and start back. Squeeze between the cars. The first one even to look round gets shot where it’ll do most harm. I’m not in a mood to take chances.’

  ‘Do what he says,’ Mary said. ‘The bugger’s mad.’

  Danny Bruce, true to form, had the steel-and-silver, Scottish snaphaunce in his hands. ‘He does seem to be a stumbling-block,’ he said. ‘One of these days . . .’

  ‘Just walk,’ Keith said. ‘And if I find that any one’s been badly damaged you’re for it. Where’s Eric?’

  ‘Not feeling up to walking. Which is probably just as well. The way he feels,’ Danny Bruce said thoughtfully, ‘he wouldn’t have stopped for a shotgun.’

  ‘None of you had better feel the same,’ Keith said, ‘or blood will flow. No more talking or I’ll think you’re setting me up. And if one of those guns gets dropped I’ll have to repair it. I’ll harden the parts the old way, with bonemeal charcoal. And guess whose bones I’ll use.’

  He stole a glance at Deborah, but the alien creature had vanished. She grinned at him and winked. He blew out a long breath. So it had been an act. He had half-suspected some changeling . . . .

  They plodded back towards the house with an interesting variety of limps. Keith dropped back a few paces. He winked back at Deborah. Tucking his own gun under one arm he took her gun from her, unloaded and closed it before handing it back. As they neared the end of the drive, he slid sideways into the bushes but continued on a parallel track, covering the party from there. It was folly, he knew. But Detective Chief Inspector Ovenstone had put his back most thoroughly up and, despite his anxiety, it tickled something deep inside him irresistibly to see the party marched back by a schoolgirl with an unloaded gun under the eye and camera of the nation’s press. . . .

  The scene which was appearing could not have been bettered. Molly had now emerged from hiding and was busily photographing the three policemen, who were handcuffed together. One of the pairs of handcuffs passed behind a stout downpipe. At first sight of the file of prisoners she poised for flight. Then she saw Deborah in command. The dedicated photographer united with the fond mother. She moved sideways to capture the whole scene, the automatic camera buzzing like a trapped insect.

  Keith tucked his magnum twelve-bore behind his leg whence he could produce it in a hurry and came a few paces into the open. ‘Down on your faces,’ he said. ‘Quickly. Philip, search them for guns, modern ones. Don’t get in Deborah’s way.’

  ‘And get the handcuff keys out of the woman’s handbag,’ Fleet said.

  The three officers were freed. Detective Inspector Fleet armed himself with a 9 mm. Luger from the collection. Ovenstone, black as thunder, rounded on Deborah. ‘Give me that,’ he said, grabbing the twenty-bore gun. ‘You’ve no business to be waving shotguns around, at your age.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s waving it around,’ Deborah pointed out. ‘Anyway, it isn’t loaded.’

  Philip Stratton, who was scribbling rapidly in his note-book, snorted with laughter.

  Molly had other things on her mind. ‘Keith,’ she said sharply. ‘Don’t do that.’

  Keith looked up. He was sitting on the grass, his shotgun beside him. He had donned his cotton gloves and was gently wiping the coal-dust from the Scottish long gun with his handkerchief. ‘I won’t scratch it,’ he said.

  ‘I know you won’t scratch it,’ Molly said. ‘I was thinking about your handkerchief.’

  Keith muttered something rude about his handkerchief. He stopped work and held up his hand. ‘Molly, what’s this on my glove?’

  Molly stooped. ‘Coal-dust,’ she said.

  ‘Not that. On the side of my thumb.’

  ‘A blonde hair,’ Molly said. ‘I could have betted on it.’

  ‘You’d have lost.’ Keith resumed his labour of love. ‘You beauty,’ he said. ‘You little beauty.’

  Chapter Eight

  Even after the arrival of reinforcements, the period of delay and confusion which Keith had learned to expect after any police action was extended and exacerbated by the fact that the drive was blocked and by Keith’s absolute refusal to have the Range Rover towed away until every gun from Robin Winterton’s collection had been removed, checked, listed and transferred to a police van for temporary safekeeping by the police.

  Philip Stratton had almost wrenched from Molly’s camera the film which recorded the capture, at gunpoint, of the three officers and the similar capture of the culprits by her daughter. While he made intensive use of his radio-telephone, the Calders were left to stand around on the gravel or to wait in their cars. Keith ran out of patience. At least he could have made a start to checking the inventory. He boosted Deborah through a high window-opening and she opened the front door.

  The mild panic which ensued w
hen the Calders were found to have vanished only abated when Deborah and Molly were discovered, drinking tea in the drawing room. Keith, who was pacing around the house with a mug in one hand, the inventory in the other and a parcel under his arm, was persuaded to join them.

  By common agreement between Detective Chief Inspector Ovenstone and Detective Inspector Fleet, a single constable to take notes was deemed sufficient. Even so, by the time that Philip Stratton had slipped unobtrusively into a corner, the available seating was filled. Ovenstone, still in surly mood after an unsuccessful attempt to persuade Philip Stratton not to market Molly’s photographs, had taken one of the armchairs and Keith the other. Fleet, who was making a poor attempt to conceal his delight at Ovenstone’s discomfiture, was squeezed on to the settee between Molly and Deborah and seemed to be enjoying the company.

  ‘Now, see here . . . .’ Ovenstone began.

  ‘One moment,’ Fleet said. ‘You may have the rank, but we’re on my patch and what we’re going to discuss relates more to my case than to yours. I think I should have first crack.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ Ovenstone almost managed to flounce in his chair and looked out of one of the long windows. The garden, beautiful under the declining sun, seemed to give him little comfort.

  ‘In point of fact,’ Keith said, ‘the two cases are bound up closely together. I’ll give you a written statement in due course, dotting the tees and crossing the eyes. Suppose I just hit the high spots for the moment? Then you can both ask questions.’

  ‘That’ll do fine,’ Fleet said. Ovenstone grunted.

  ‘And you can probably fill in some gaps,’ Keith said. ‘This is mostly the story of a very foolish old woman, who had been pampered all her life into such arrogance that she couldn’t believe that she could possibly be wrong about anything,’ Keith said. ‘You must know the type.’