Pick Up the Pieces

by J F Straker

  Pick up the Pieces

  J. F. Straker

  © J. F. Straker 1955

  J. F. Straker has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1955 by Harrap

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  1 Hit and Run

  2 The Months Between

  3 The Way to Freedom

  4 End of a Tyrant

  5 No Pieces to Pick Up

  6 The Growth of Suspicion

  7 The Menace from Without

  8 Unknown Witness

  9 Design for a Scapegoat

  10 The First Arrest

  11 Pieces of Paper

  12 Death in the Forest

  13 The Pieces Are Fitted Together

  Extract from Death on a Sunday Morning by J F Straker

  1 Hit and Run

  Bert Wickery heaved his long, thin body from under the chassis of the ancient Humber and scrambled to his feet.

  ‘That should fix it,’ he said, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. ‘Let’s take her out now and see how she goes. We can paint the wing when we get back.’

  ‘Pop’ Wells (he had been christened Daniel, but few in Chaim were aware of that) swung his foot in disgust against a rear tyre.

  ‘Only a damn’ fool woman like Mrs Riley would waste money on her,’ he said. ‘Fit for the scrap-heap, that’s all she is.’

  ‘Mrs Riley?’

  ‘No, that wreck there. Not but what Mrs Riley isn’t as big a wreck herself, come to that.’

  Harry Forthright gazed impatiently at the garage clock. He was a burly, coarse-looking man, shorter than Wickery but with greater breadth of shoulder. As he peeled off his overalls a tattooed snake writhed on a hairy right arm.

  ‘Let’s get a move on, then. It’ll be after nine before we’re through, and I need a drink.’

  He wriggled into his jacket and began to tug at the heavy sliding doors.

  ‘White’s got a nerve, expecting us to work as late as this,’ Wells grumbled, as he went to help him. ‘Serve him right if we’d knocked off at six and left him to finish the job on his own. Suckers, that’s what we are.’

  ‘I’m not grousing,’ said Wickery. ‘I can do with the extra cash. Hullo — here’s Dave.’

  A young man, hands in pockets, a heavy muffler round his neck, sauntered into the widening beam of light that shone out on to the road. ‘Haven’t you chaps got any homes to go to?’ he asked amiably. ‘Talk about the slave-trade!’

  ‘Got the job?’ asked Wells.

  Dave Chitty nodded, grinning. He would have been good-looking but for the too sloping forehead and the small, beady eyes that shifted restlessly behind his spectacles. ‘Twenty-five bob a week more than I’m getting here. And prospects.’

  ‘Lucky devil.’

  ‘It’s a break,’ Chitty agreed. ‘And am I pleased to be leaving this ruddy dump! Is the old man in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh. I came up to give him the good news, but it’ll keep till the morning.’ He stood aside as Wickery began to back the Humber out of the garage. ‘Where are you chaps off to?’

  ‘Nowhere in particular,’ said Forthright. ‘Just taking her out on test. Want a lift home?’

  ‘I don’t mind. Or, better still, let’s go into Tanbury and have a drink at the George. I feel like celebrating.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the local?’ asked Wickery, joining them. ‘Give us a hand with the doors, Pop.’

  The heavy doors rumbled noisily in their grooves, met with a clang, and reopened slightly. It was dark outside, and cold. Forthright shivered. ‘That’s a good idea of yours, Dave,’ he said, as they moved towards the car. ‘Tanbury’s about the right distance; it’ll give the old sow a thorough testing. And it’s good beer at the George, too. Better than the Lion.’

  ‘White wouldn’t like it,’ said Wickery. ‘Joy-riding in a customer’s car. He’d be mad as hell.’

  ‘Let him —he’s always mad about something. And we’re not joy-riding, we’re testing. What’s wrong with having a drink on the way? It’s our time we’re working in, not his. The trouble with you, Bert, is that you’re too soft with the blighter. You want to get tough. Just because he’s Doris’s uncle that doesn’t make him Lord God Almighty, does it?’

  Wickery felt his cheeks flushing, and was glad of the dark. Harry had never fully forgiven him for marrying the boss’s niece. It made no difference that White had been against the marriage, had done his utmost to prevent it. In Harry’s eyes Wickery had betrayed them, had gone over to the enemy.

  There was a bit of the Communist in Harry, he thought.

  ‘If you’re set on losing your job, go ahead. I’m not. Maybe it isn’t so hot, but I’ve got Doris to consider.’ He appealed to Wells. ‘Don’t you agree it’d be a daft thing to do, Pop?’

  But Wells wanted to talk privately with Dave; and there was no privacy to be had at the Lion. ‘You’re letting White get you down, Bert, like Harry said. No harm in going into Tanbury. Anyway, White won’t know of it. He does his drinking at the club.’

  ‘There’s Loften.’

  ‘Oh, him!’ Forthright dismissed the junior partner with contempt. ‘Loften wouldn’t make anything of it. Come on, let’s get weaving. You’re outvoted, mate; better give in and come quietly.’

  I’m always giving in, Wickery thought bitterly, as he climbed into the driving-seat of the Humber. If it isn’t them it’s White — or Doris. I’m fed up with other people trying to run my life.

  He did not speak during the seven-mile journey into Tanbury. Wells, beside him, respected his silence. He knew that Bert had been right, that what they were doing was extremely foolish. But he comforted his conscience with the knowledge that discovery was unlikely.

  Forthright and Chitty were troubled with no such thoughts. Chitty was full of his new job. ‘It’s a smashing place, Harry. Every gadget and contraption you can think of. And big! You could lose White’s tin shack in one of the bays. There’s good money to be made there, boy, for a chap that knows his way around.’

  ‘Did you tell White you were going after it?’

  ‘No ruddy fear! He’d have put a stopper on it if he could. Changed my half-day or something.’

  The George was the largest pub in Tanbury, and popular. Unable to secure a table, the four men stood drinking at the bar. Under the influence of the beer Wickery’s mood gradually mellowed, and presently he and Forthright went over to the other end of the room to play darts.

  This gave Wells his chance. At fifty-five he was the oldest of the four — a thin, wiry little man with wispy red hair streaked with grey. It was his protruding eyes that had given him his nickname. In his wizened and weather-beaten face they seemed abnormally prominent. ‘Does Molly know about this new job of yours?’ he asked Chitty.

  ‘Not that I’ve got it. I told her I was going after it, of course. But she was out when I called at your place this evening.’

  ‘Out? Where?’

  ‘Mrs Wells didn’t know.’

  The older man frowned. Sarah ought to be more strict with the girl, he thought; Molly was becoming a sight too flighty these days. But such reflections were not to be voiced before his prospective son-in-law. ‘Think you’ll like London?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d like any place after Chaim,’ said Chitty.

  It was his round. He took two pints of beer to the darts-players and stood watching them for a few minutes. ‘They’re pretty good,’ he said, when he came back to the bar. ‘Take some beating, those two.’

  Wells nodded, impatient at the interruption. ‘There’s nothing to stop you and Molly getting married now,
is there?’ he asked.

  ‘Only cash. And we’ll need some place to live. London’s pretty full, they tell me.’

  ‘You won’t want much,’ Wells said hopefully. ‘A bed-sitter would do for a start. Needs less furniture. What about your sister?’

  The young man frowned.

  ‘Yes, Susan’s the difficulty. Molly and me could have been married months ago if it hadn’t been for her. On the money White pays me Susan and I can just about manage. The question is, will twenty-five bob meet the extra cost of three instead of two?’

  Wells was dismayed. ‘You’re not thinking of taking Susan with you? That’s asking for trouble.’

  ‘What else can I do? She can’t stay here.’

  ‘Why not? She could get a job, couldn’t she?’

  ‘She could get a job in London, come to that,’ Chitty said thoughtfully. ‘That’d help a lot. She wouldn’t have to do the housework and the cooking. Not with Molly there.’

  Wells called for another round.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘It’s all wrong for a young couple to start married life with a third person in the home. You want the place to yourselves. Why can’t Susan get a job here and stay on at the cottage?’

  Chitty put his glass down on the counter with a thump.

  ‘Because I don’t trust her. I don’t trust that blighter Loften, either.’

  ‘Loften? What’s he got to do with Susan?’

  ‘Far too much. He’s always sniffing around the place when I’m not there. If Susan weren’t a damned soft fool she’d have sent him packing. But he gets round her with tales about that wife of his how she doesn’t understand him, doesn’t love him.’ He took a long pull at the beer and came up panting. ‘Bah! It makes me sick.’

  Loften and Susan Chitty —that was news to Wells. He wondered if the others knew about it. ‘D’you mean he tries to make love to her?’ he asked.

  Chitty shook his head. ‘No. But it’ll come to that if I don’t get her away. I can’t watch her all the time. Maybe —’

  Wells caught his arm. ‘There’s Loften now,’ he said. ‘Just come in. Of all the ruddy luck...’

  Chitty turned towards the bar, leaning on it with both elbows firmly planted. ‘It’s a free house,’ he said. Noting the other’s anxious expression, he grinned. ‘Don’t worry, Pop, I’ll not make a scene. I’m not out for his blood. Not yet, anyway.’

  Loften came over to them, threading his way through the crowd. He was well-dressed, not particularly good-looking. ‘Have a drink?’ he said, his voice soft, smooth. He seemed pleased to see them. But then Loften was always pleased to see people, always affable. An improvement on Andrew White.

  ‘We were just going,’ said Wells. ‘Only dropped in for a quick one.’

  He hoped the newcomer had not noticed the darts-players.

  But Loften had. He called Forthright and Wickery over and insisted on all of them joining him in a drink. ‘Only time for a quick one myself,’ he explained, lifting a well-manicured right hand to look at his watch. ‘Nearly ten. I have to be in Chaim by ten-twenty. I’ll have one on you fellows some other time.’

  Wickery had not realized it was so late. ‘We’d best be going too,’ he said.

  Wells and Chitty nodded, but Forthright looked sour. He wasn’t ready to leave, he wanted another drink, he hadn’t finished his game of darts. But he could not protest in front of Loften. He despised the man, but Loften was a link with White.

  It had begun to rain, and the damp, cold air chilled them as they left the warmth of the pub. They watched Loften get into his car and drive off in the direction of Chaim, and then they walked down the High Street towards the Humber.

  ‘Good thing we didn’t leave it outside the George,’ said Wells. ‘Loften might have asked some awkward questions.’

  ‘Funny he didn’t offer us a lift,’ said Wickery. He and Wells were ahead of the other two. He could hear Forthright’s voice loud behind them, and wondered anxiously if Harry was a bit tight. Drink always loosened Harry’s tongue. ‘He couldn’t know we had a car.’

  ‘Didn’t think of it, perhaps. Just as well, too. I don’t know how we’d have got out of that one.’

  ‘He’s a rum chap,’ Wickery said thoughtfully.

  ‘I don’t trust him.’ Wells’s tone was definite. ‘Too smooth.’ He wondered whether he should mention what Dave had said about Susan and Loften, but decided against it. Dave might not want it broadcast. ‘Six months he’s been at the garage, and we don’t know a thing more about him than the day he first come except that he don’t know a back axle from a crankshaft.’

  ‘And his wife,’ said Wickery. ‘She was a bit of an eye-opener.’

  ‘Oh, her!’ The older man sniffed. ‘She’s a bitch of the highest order. You don’t have to be told that, it sticks out a mile.’

  ‘I wonder why they ever came to a place like Chaim. You can see they don’t belong.’

  They turned down the narrow, unlit road in which the Humber was parked. ‘I bet she leads Loften a dance. Every time she comes to the garage it’s either for money or to bawl him out,’ said Wickery.

  Wells remembered the last time Mrs Loften had come to the garage. He had seen Dave Chitty eyeing her, sizing her up. He wasn’t entirely happy about Dave. For a young man recently engaged to a pretty girl like Molly he seemed too lukewarm in his affections, too appreciative of other women’s charms.

  He was suddenly aware that the voices behind them had ceased. He stopped, clutching his companion’s arm. The two stood listening.

  ‘They’re not following,’ said Wells.

  ‘No. Maybe they missed the turning. Let’s get the car and go after them.’

  They cruised slowly down the High Street. There was no sign of the missing pair, and on the way back Wickery stopped the car opposite the turning down which it had been parked. ‘No sense in chasing around,’ he said. ‘We’ll wait here until they show up.’

  Across the street a sign, faintly illuminated, proclaimed the corner building to be a pub called the Boar’s Head. Wells drew his companion’s attention to it. ‘I’ll bet they slipped in there for a quick one,’ he said. ‘Sort of thing Harry would do. Once he’s on the booze he’s never satisfied until he’s had a skinful.’

  He was getting out of the car when Wickery stopped him.

  ‘Let ‘em be, Pop. Harry might turn awkward if he’s had a lot more to drink. You know how it takes him. They’ll be throwing them out shortly — it’s not far off closing-time now.’

  They had not long to wait. The two men came running across the road in response to Pop’s hail and clambered into the back seat. There was a pungent smell of whisky, and Chitty at least was very drunk.

  ‘Fooled you there.’ Forthright laughed stupidly. ‘That’ll learn you to drag me away from my beer before I’m ready.’

  ‘Damned idiots!’ said Wells, as Wickery let in the clutch. ‘You won’t half have a head tomorrow, drinking whisky on top of all that beer.’

  Wickery made no comment. He was driving fast, anxious to be back before White. The road was straight, but the beam from the headlamps was slashed and shortened by the rain, and the single ancient wiper moved slowly and jerkily. Forthright started to sing. He had a good baritone voice, and was much in demand at social gatherings. Chitty joined in intermittently, knowing neither the words nor the tune.

  Pop Wells stuffed his fingers in his ears.

  ‘Shut up, Dave! You’ve got a voice like a ruddy corncrake,’ he said, turning to look at the two behind. They were lolling back with their heads on the cushions and their feet propped against the front seat; but at this insult to his vocal powers Chitty struggled into a more upright position and reached forward.

  ‘Lemme tell you —’ he began indignantly.

  Forthright, without interrupting his song, stretched out an arm and caught the younger man by the collar, pulling him back on to the seat. A drunken struggle ensued, which resulted in Chitty collapsing on the floor of the car.<
br />
  Harry Forthright leaned back again, content.

  For a few moments Chitty remained recumbent; then he started clambering to his feet. As he did so the car began to swing round a left-hand bend and, losing his balance, he clutched wildly for support. His hand encountered Wickery’s head, and Wickery braked instinctively. Chitty, impelled forward by the sudden reduction in speed, threw both arms round the driver’s neck at the same time as Forthright, suddenly aware of the danger, caught him and pulled him sharply backward.

  Chitty hung on. With his neck being jerked over the back of the seat Wickery took one hand from the wheel to ease the pressure on his throat. As he did so...

  ‘Look out!’ screamed Wells and Forthright together.

  None of them saw what happened. Instinctively Wickery stamped both feet hard down on the pedals. The car lurched as it hit the verge and bounced off. There was a jarring bump; and then the car ran on for a few yards before coming to rest with its front wheels touching the grass on the opposite side of the road.

  For a moment they sat, collecting their wits. Then Wickery flung open the door of the car and got out to examine the near side. Wells and Forthright followed, the latter instantly sobered.

  ‘It wasn’t only the bank we hit,’ Wells said nervously. ‘We ran over something.’ ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. Didn’t you feel the bump?’

  He ran back down the road, followed by Forthright. Wickery stayed by the car, his whole body pregnant with fear. He had seen nothing, nobody. But he had felt the bump, and he guessed what was in Pop’s mind.

  Forthright’s voice called to him softly from the darkness.

  ‘It’s a woman, Bert. Back the car down here so as we can see.’

  She lay on her face, legs sprawling, one arm bent awkwardly beneath her. There was blood on the dull grey hair and the woollen-stockinged legs, indecently exposed by the rucked-up skirt.

  They turned her over gently. She was dead.

  For a few moments they knelt there in the heavy rain, full of pity for the old woman and fear for themselves. Then Forthright scrambled to his feet.