by Joyce Porter
Dover frowned horribly and snapped his fingers for another cigarette. ‘But some of you had cars up there, didn’t you?’
‘All of us except Knapper, as it happens. But almost the first thing Pettitt did was confiscate all our car keys and hide ’em away somewhere.’
‘Interesting,’ observed Dover, sinking back and closing his eyes the better to picture the scene. ‘Fancy.’
Osmond glanced across at Sven who permitted himself the very faintest shrug of his shoulders. Actually, Sven was just beginning to experience a tiny twinge of doubt. Could all this mowing and moping and general air of seediness be merely a blind? Was Dover, in fact, cleverer than he looked? Well, yes, he’d have to be, if only to keep breathing – but Sven meant really clever. Could there perhaps be a brilliant detective lurking beneath that unbelievably sordid exterior? Sven told himself‘no’, but he was still plagued with this niggling sense of unease. Had he made a disastrous mistake in letting somebody from the CID get a peep at one of Special Branch’s more exotic operations? The CID were always such an envious, vindictive, jealous bunch. As a rule, of course, Sven felt more than capable of running circles round them, but if they were going to produce somebody subtle and devious enough to go around playing the village idiot . . . Sven decided to batten down a few hatches, just in case.
He cleared his throat, caught Osmond’s eye and smiled very sweetly. ‘I should keep it as short as you can, Trill, old chap,’ he suggested casually. ‘We don’t want to bore everybody with a lot of unnecessary detail.’
A nod is as good as a wink. ‘OK,’ said Osmond. ‘Well, like I said, Pettitt was the boss and he was the one who knew what was going on. His job was to act as president of the court and as prosecutor. He’d been supplied with all the evidence against Knapper. The rest of us formed a sort of jury. Mike Ruscoe – he’s a Trooper Colonel in the Special Force – and I were also detailed off to guard Knapper and see he didn’t take a powder. We had him handcuffed to a tubular steel chair with two sets of handcuffs. Ruscoe kept one set of keys and I kept the other. That meant Knapper couldn’t be released unless we were both there and he just hadn’t a hope in hell of overpowering the two of us. Mrs Hall was appointed secretary to the court and was supposed to be keeping a record of the trial, but I don’t think she did. Well, it’s not the sort of thing you’d put down in writing, not if you’d any bloody sense.’
‘Was there a counsel for the defence?’ asked MacGregor.
‘No, Knapper had to look out for himself. He was allowed to speak and ask questions and make statements on his own behalf but, of course, he’d no chance to call witnesses and no time to prepare a reasoned answer to the charges that were brought against him – up to and including the fact that he was Jewish.’ Dover pried one eyelid open. ‘It’s beginning to sound like something out of a bloody book!’ he charged, unable to think of anything more disparaging than that.
‘It was for real all right!’ retorted Osmond grimly. ‘They were accusing Knapper of infiltrating the Steel Band for the sole purpose of betraying its innermost secrets to some sort of Israeli security agency. Knapper denied it, of course.
‘Hey, just a minute!’ Dover had been working things out. There were, after all, some subjects upon which he was the acknowledged expert. ‘If you’d got this What’s-his-name trussed up like a chicken, how did he get over to the dining room for his venison dinner?’
Osmond blinked. ‘Well, he didn’t. I brought a tray back for him. And for Mike Ruscoe, too. He stayed behind to guard Knapper.’ Osmond shivered slightly. ‘It beats me how Knapper had the appetite to eat anything, but he did. He downed half a pint of beer, too. Maybe the poor bugger thought we were going to find him innocent or something.’
‘But you didn’t?’ MacGregor was not taking notes. Somehow he felt that the two Special Branch men would prefer things this way.
‘Find him innocent? Not bloody likely!’ Osmond’s attempt to laugh the question off fell very flat. ‘All the so-called evidence against him was just a load of rubbish. Mostly it was just friend Pettitt shouting accusations and abuse at the top of his voice. Mind you, the case for the defence wasn’t much better. That was all denials and counter-abuse and counter-accusation. Half the time I couldn’t follow what was going on at all, and I don’t reckon my fellow judges could, either. Not that it made a monkey’s one way or the other. We had to register our verdict by a show of hands. Well, nobody wanted to be standing in Knapper’s shoes so, naturally, we all voted with great enthusiasm for guilty.’
Sven felt that some comment might not come amiss at this point. ‘It was all most unfortunate,’ he explained smoothly, ‘but these things happen. It’s a question of deciding where the greater good lies. Even if Trill, here, had played the hero and spoken up, it wouldn’t have saved Knapper’s life, would it? It would merely have cost Trill his, and ruined several years of painstaking and dangerous work into the bargain.’
Nobody seemed to have any response to this and Osmond nervously pulled out another cigarette and borrowed a light from MacGregor. ‘Pettitt congratulated us on our verdict,’ he went on, exhaling a deep lungful of smoke, ‘and then informed us that we had to decide on the sentence as well. Well, we’d no bloody choice, had we? It was treason, and traitors always get the chop. It’s an occupational hazard. Well, we thought that was the end of it. Mrs Hall wrote it all out – verdict and sentence – and we signed it. I’m not saying anybody felt particularly happy about it, especially with Knapper blubbering away there and whining and tugging at his handcuffs. Of course, we none of us realised at this stage that we weren’t only judge and jury, we were the bloody executioner as well.’
‘’Strewth!’ said Dover. ‘You mean Knapper was murdered by a bloody collective?’
‘No, I don’t!’ said Osmond quickly. ‘We drew lots for it.’
‘’Strewth,’ said Dover again. He was a man of few words. ‘So that means you actually know who
‘It means nothing of the. sort!’ snapped Osmond irritably. ‘If you’d just keep quiet for a minute, I’ll explain!’
Now, if there was one thing that Dover was a stickler for, it was proper respect from his subordinates. He appreciated that Osmond was under something of a strain and was prepared to make allowances. Which is why he restricted himself to the promise to come over there and ram the young ponce’s snout through to the back of his bloody head should there be any further manifestations of lese-majeste.
It was Sven who eventually offered the abject apology which Osmond, for some reason, seemed strangely reluctant to make. In due course the previous atmosphere of goodwill and harmony was restored, though both Osmond and Dover had the air of men who were making some quite extensive mental reservations. In Osmond’s case these probably didn’t amount to much, but Dover prided himself on bearing his grudges untarnished to the grave.
‘We drew cards for the job,’ said Osmond, taking up his story again in a low, tight voice. ‘Well, we were dealt the cards, actually – like a game of bridge. Pettitt produced a brand-new pack and discared all the jokers and the deuces. That left him with a deck of forty-eight cards – eight for each of us. Pettitt included himself in the deal, too, you see.’
MacGregor checked the arithmetic. Pettitt and Osmond made two. Mrs Hall made three. And there were the other men who had not yet been interviewed: Ruscoe, Braithwaite and Valentine. That made a total of six. So, there were six players in this gruesome game and forty-eight cards. That, indeed, meant eight cards each. MacGregor nodded his approval.
One can see why, from time to time, he did tend to get right up Dover’s nose.
‘We were each allowed to cut and shuffle the pack,’ said Osmond. ‘To prove it was all fair and above board, I suppose. Then Pettitt dealt the cards. Whoever got the Knave of Clubs was the executioner and thus responsible for putting Knapper to death. Whoever got the King of Spades drew the job of disposing of the body. This was to be done in such a way that a) it would never be found, b) if it was found it would
never be identified, and c) if it was found and identified it would never be traced back to the Steel Band and our meeting at the Bowerville-by-the-sea Holiday Ranch. As you will appreciate,’ added Osmond with a wry grin, ‘the eventual disposal of the body left rather a lot to be desired.’
‘Comes of using bloody amateurs,’ growled Dover.
‘The cards were dealt face downwards on the table in the usual way. When they’d all been dealt, we picked our hands up and looked at what we’d got. Then we chucked them all back, face downwards, in a heap. Pettitt added the deuces and the jokers and we all cut and shuffled them again before they were put back in their box.’
MacGregor pursed his lips. ‘That seems safe enough,’ he said. ‘Only those who got them would know where the two vital cards had been dealt.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘Oh?’
‘I reckon Pettitt could have marked those two cards. Pricks on the back or something that he could have felt with his fingertips when he dealt them. After all, it’s no great shakes to re-seal a pack of playing cards, is it?’
Dover had been left way behind as usual. ‘What’s the point?’ he asked.
Osmond shrugged his shoulders. ‘They’d have a hold on you for life, wouldn’t they? They could blackmail you into doing anything for ’em for evermore. Or say you got the Knave of Clubs and just sat tight and didn’t kill Knapper. Well, the Steel Band couldn’t have let you get away with that, could it? They’d have had to dish out punishment for back-sliding like that – and quick! Me, if I’d been in Pettitt’s shoes, I’d have bloody well marked those cards.’
Dover wrinkled up his nose in fierce concentration. ‘So that grotty little toe doctor knows who the bloody murderer is?’
‘He might,’ agreed Osmond, ‘but there’s no proof. All I’m telling you is what flashed through my mind – and everybody else’s, I’ll bet. Whoever got either of those cards must have realised it wasn’t only Knapper’s life that was on the line – theirs was, too.’
‘I suppose there’s no chance you were one of the lucky lads?’
Osmond stared with considerable dislike at the grinning Dover. ‘My hand hadn’t got a face card of any sort in it,’ he said loftily. ‘And I’d barely had time to grasp that before Pettitt was telling us to throw the cards back into the middle of the table. That meant I didn’t get a chance to spot anybody else’s reaction.’
‘Pity,’ sneered Dover. ‘Then what?’
‘Time was getting on. It was late afternoon and Pettitt obviously wanted to get all his orders issued before supper. He told us that, whoever killed Knapper, they had to strip him as well and put all his belongings in a plastic bag for separate disposal.’
Dover shot into an upright position as though some public-spirited citizen had just sent a thousand volts through him. That woman!’ He flapped his hands at MacGregor. ‘Mrs What’s-her-name! The one with the bloody goats!’
‘Mrs Hall, sir?’
‘A pound to a penny she got rid of the clothes!’ Dover sank back exhausted.
MacGregor was not best pleased to have Dover making this connection (however elementary) and in front of witnesses. Dear heavens, another burst of inspiration like this and the Special Branch men would be thinking that Dover was the brains of the partnership. ‘Mrs Hall certainly mentioned that she’d despatched a bundle of old clothes to charity, sir. I suppose it’s possible that they belonged to Knapper.’
Osmond wasn’t interested. ‘I don’t know how they got rid of Knapper’s gear. All I know is the stuff Pettitt told us about how Knapper was to be killed and his body disposed of. Believe me, that was more than enough for me. Pettitt had to tell the lot of us, you see, because nobody knew who the murderer and his mate actually were.’
‘You’ve got to take your hat off to ’em,’ said Dover admiringly. ‘It’s all very clever. Where was Knapper when all this was going on?’
‘Right there in the room with us. He heard it all.’
‘This Steel Band lot don’t mess about, do they?’ asked Dover, who would have felt quite honoured to shake the hand of Ghengis Khan. ‘I suppose that’s when Knapper got the idea of swallowing the blue bead. You were bloody careless there, you know. If it hadn’t been for that bead, we’d have never bloody well got started.’
‘I know,’ agreed Osmond. ‘I’ve been wondering when he managed to do it. It must have been when he went to the toilet. He probably had a blue bead in his pocket or something.’
‘Didn’t you search him, for God’s sake?’
‘Only for weapons.’ Osmond got to his feet and stretched himself. He was a very physical young man and he was finding all this sitting around in smoke-filled rooms very tedious. He walked over to the window and peered out. ‘Who’d have thought a lousy blue bead was going to be that important.’
‘Were you told how Knapper was to be killed?’ asked MacGregor.
‘Lord, yes! Strangled from behind with,a piece of cord. Garotting.’
‘And getting rid of the body afterwards?’ MacGregor was finding it hard to believe all this. Surely even the upper echelons of the Steel Band wouldn’t indulge in such sadistic folly? ‘Were you given full instructions about that, too?’
Osmond shook his head and resumed his seat. ‘No, that was left up to the person concerned. Pettitt said he thought it would be better if the rest of us didn’t know where the body was concealed.’
‘That’s a bit funny, isn’t it?’ pressed MacGregor. ‘I mean, murder’s bad enough, but to be suddenly presented with the problem of disposing of a corpse right out of the blue . . .’
‘There was plenty of time to work things out,’ said Osmond indifferently. ‘Several hours. Knapper had to be dead by one o’clock in the morning and the removal of the body was scheduled to start at two, by which time it would have been stripped and the false teeth removed. There was to be a large sheet of plastic to wrap the body in and transport was laid on. I told you all our car keys had been confiscated when we arrived? Well, they were now going to be left out on the table, all labelled with the number and make of the car they belonged to. The “King of Spades” character could use whichever car he wanted to ship the body out in. Yet another way of tying us all in, you see. Even if, like me, you didn’t draw either of the vital cards, you could still find yourself in it up to your neck because it was your car that had been used.’
MacGregor stared. ‘You were already in it up to your neck,’ he pointed out severely.
Osmond flicked a glance across at Sven. ‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ he admitted. ‘Sort of. Anyhow, I gave my car a damned good clean, inside and out, when I got home. And I’ll bet everybody else did the same.’
MacGregor was horrified. ‘You might have destroyed some vital evidence!’
Osmond shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, it’s done now, sarge. Anyhow, I’ve told you about all I know. When Pettitt had finished, we all went off and had supper. I brought some food back for Knapper again, but the poor sod seemed to have lost his appetite. Then we all retired to our rooms. Oh, by the way, Mrs Hall moved into Knappers old room. This meant that the hut where Knapper was being held prisoner had nobody sleeping in it.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought anybody was bloody sleeping anywhere,’ observed Dover, although his own Churchillian ability to cat nap at the drop of a hat was never impaired by anything much, other than a bout of acute indigestion.
‘What about this man Ruscoe who was guarding Knapper?’ asked MacGregor.
‘He stayed on duty till eleven o’clock. Then he went to bed, having first ensured that there was no way Knapper could escape. The killing was to take place between midnight and one a.m. and, when the body had been stripped, the murderer was to return to his own room. Between two and three, the other chap had to come along and do his stuff. Well, say he got back to the Holiday Ranch by seven o’clock – that’d give him something like five hours. Ample time to drive to Muncaster and back – and in winter the gates of the holiday camp are left
open all night, and unguarded. It was a piece of cake. When the chap got back, all he had to do was drop the borrowed car keys back in the pile and go to bed.’
‘You make it sound very easy,’ said MacGregor uncomfortably.
‘It was,’ said Osmond shortly. ‘Proof of the pudding, sarge. I reckon the whole thing went off like clockwork – which is why I can’t tell you who killed Knapper and who dumped his body in the rubbish tip. Sorry, but I just don’t have the faintest.’
‘Stuff that for a lark, laddie!’ Dover rose to a half-sitting position in his indignation. ‘You’re supposed to be a trained detective! You must have spotted something.’
‘Well, I didn’t.’
‘Look, don’t mess me about, laddie!’
‘I tell you, I didn’t see anything.’
Dover’s face blackened. ‘Try pulling the other one!’ he invited threateningly.
‘I went to bed and stayed there. With my head under the blankets.’
Dover appealed to Sven. ‘Did you hear that? This bloody young whippersnapper of yours claims he went to bed and stayed there while somebody was committing murder not a dozen yards away!’
‘I daren’t risk blowing my cover,’ insisted Osmond. ‘Not for somebody like Knapper. Guilty or innocent, he was of no great loss either way. It’s a question of priorities. I saw it as my duty to put the welfare of the country as a whole first.’
‘Jesus!’ exploded Dover. ‘Look, we’re not talking about being a bloody hero, laddie. Anybody can see you’re not the type to go sticking your neck out to save somebody else’s life, but you could show a bit of common or garden curiosity, for God’s sake! What was to stop you taking a peep through the bloody curtains?’