Masters said: ‘Come in, please.’
Pieters said: ‘I don’t know about that. Have I been arrested?’
It was a surly reply. Masters guessed it wasn’t meant to be obstructive. More the effort of a man at a grave disadvantage trying to reassert himself.
‘No. You haven’t been arrested, Mr Pieters.’
‘Well, I’ve lost enough time today through this murder lark. Half the afternoon at an inquest to answer three silly questions. Home to get changed again, and no sooner back on the job than these blokes turn up. What am I going to live on next week? Fresh air?’
Green said: ‘You’re in no position to complain.’
Pieters didn’t like the tone. ‘Oh, yes I am. And I’m doing it. Now, you’d best be quick or I’m going.’
Masters said: ‘I honestly believe it will be in your best interests to help us now. If you refuse we’ll have to think you’ve something to hide.’
Pieters walked forward. ‘You’re trying to soft soap me. I’ve nothing to hide.’
‘I’m glad of that. Let’s sort things out, shall we? Sit down.’
Pieters sat on the bench opposite Masters, who said: ‘You fixed those timbers to the walls, I think?’
‘That’s right.’
‘How?’
‘With a bolt setter.’
‘And what is a bolt setter?’
The answer came without thought. ‘It’s a gun.’
There was a moment’s silence.
Masters said: ‘A gun for firing nails?’
‘That’s right. Hell of a kick it needs, too, to drive pins into masonry.’
Masters said heavily: ‘Mr Pieters, a man was shot dead in this room three nights ago. Didn’t it occur to you that he might have been killed with your bolt setter?’
‘’Course not. Why should it?’
‘You left it here over the weekend?’
‘With all my other tools, yes.’
‘And you never gave the matter a thought?’
‘No. All I knew was that he’d been shot. I took it to mean somebody had used a proper gun on him—revolver or pistol or something.’
‘Or something’s right. I believe it was your bolt-setting tool.’
‘It couldn’t be. How would he know how to use it? I mean, you’ve got to know how to load it and . . .’ Pieters stopped and looked at Masters. ‘Here, you’re not thinking . . .’
Masters looked back at him and said nothing. Green said: ‘You know how it works. You threatened to get even with Parsloe.’
‘That’s as maybe.’ Pieters was getting excited. ‘And I wasn’t the only one who had it in for him.’
‘We know. But we haven’t come across anybody else who owned and knew how to work a bolt setter.’
Pieters looked at Green, angry eyes. ‘Haven’t you? Well, you haven’t looked very far. What about Perce Jonker? He sells ’em.’
Masters said: ‘Who to?’ Menacingly quiet.
Pieters looked down and said more slowly: ‘Well, he sold me mine, and I know he’s got one more in stock.’ He looked up. ‘Go on. You ask Perce. I’ll bet you he knows how to work it.’
Masters said: ‘In the dark?’
‘I don’t know about that. But I buy my cartridges from him, so he’ll have some of them handy, too.’
Masters said: ‘All right. For the moment we’ll believe you didn’t fire it at Parseloe. But somebody did, so let’s have a look at it.’
Hill dumped the toolbag on the blackboard. Pieters got to his feet and rummaged inside. He brought out a purple tin box about ten by five by three. Masters took it from him. Opened it up. The weapon—a lumpy pistol. Lying on its side in a padded nesting compartment. Around it, in clips and grooves, spare barrel, push rod and brushes. Clipped inside the lid an instruction leaflet—virtually new. Masters took both weapon and leaflet. He took minutes over reading the instructions, and seconds over the gun. Green looked over his shoulder. The other three watched closely.
Masters said to Pieters: ‘What did you use in this room? Butt-head nails?’
Pieters said: ‘That’s right. Two inch.’ He took a small cardboard cube from the bag, opened it, and handed Masters a white metal pin. The butt head was a tenth of an inch deep, a quarter of an inch in diameter. The shank was only half as wide as the butt. Masters looked at Green and said: ‘Long sharp point, long straight shank, thickening out into a wide heavy head. How does that match with the properties we suggested the projectile had?’
Green said: ‘It fits exactly. What’s that little red washer for? It’s in a daft place.’
Near the nose of the nail, just above the chamfering, was a push fit, red plastic washer. Green went on: ‘Shouldn’t that be near the head?’
Masters said: ‘I don’t believe it is a washer in the real sense of the word. If it were, it’d have to be metal. I think it’s a guide to make the shank fit the barrel—to bring it up to the same calibre as the head. Like sabot ammunition.’
Green understood. He’d fired sabot anti-tank shell in the latter years of the war. Hill didn’t. He said: ‘Could you explain a bit more, Chief?’
Masters said: ‘The calibre of the barrel is a quarter of an inch. So’s the head of the nail. So the nail will pass along the barrel quite easily. But the shank is narrower than the head, and so isn’t a tight fit in the barrel. Consequently, when you press a nail in, the shank may lie a bit askew in the barrel. If you were to fire like that, the nail would come out at an angle, and lord knows where it might not go. But with the washer to act as a spacing piece—centring piece would be a better term—the shank becomes the same calibre as the head, the nail goes home sweet and true, and comes out straight.’ He looked at Pieters. ‘Am I right?’
Pieters said: ‘That’s true enough. If you want a real washer you can get a washer holder for the gun, or even some pins with metal washers already attached like those red ones. But I didn’t want washers for this job. I wanted the nail heads driven right home, you see. Those red ones disintegrate on impact, mostly, an’ disappear without stopping the pins going right in.’
Masters said: ‘So here you used the quarter inch barrel and quarter inch cartridges?’
Pieters dipped into the bag again. This time he brought out four or five small round tins, two inches in diameter and less than an inch deep. Each had a different coloured label on the lid. He said: ‘Here y’are. Green—that’s weak. Yellow—where’s yellow?—that’s medium. Blue—strong. Red—very strong. And this black—that’s superpower. It’d drive a nail through from here to Australia.’
Masters took the tins and opened them. Cartridges—slightly stubbier than two-two’s, wadded and crimped. He said: ‘I think we’ve got it all.’ He picked up the gun and said: ‘What’s this called?’ He had his finger on a plate two inches square and half an inch thick, fixed at the business end of the barrel.
‘Safety shield,’ said Pieters. ‘You have to press that hard up against something before you can fire.’
Green said: ‘To cock it, you mean?’
Pieters nodded.
Masters said: ‘A hard push? How hard? Hard enough to bruise a man’s chest?’
Pieters said: ‘I reckon. But you’d best try it to make sure.’
Masters turned the pistol grip anti-clockwise, pulled it back, and opened the gun. He peered into the chamber. It was empty. He closed and locked it. Then he looked up at Hill and Brant.
Brant opened his jacket. ‘All right. I’ll buy it, Chief.’
‘Over by the wall.’
It took a lot of strength to force the shield back. If Brant had not had his back to the wall, Masters thought, he’d have staggered away. But trapped as he was, his chest provided a strong enough medium. When Masters lowered the cocked gun, Brant opened his shirt. The imprint of the shield was there. Red and square, and faintly angry. Masters stopped him from refastening the buttons, and kept his eye on the mark. It gradually lost shape and diffused. Green grunted: ‘Two minutes forty.’
> Masters said: ‘Thanks. I hope it didn’t hurt.’
‘Not so’s you’d notice, but you used a hell of a pressure.’
‘It needed it. You were like a sponge.’
Brant buttoned his shirt. Hill said: ‘Well, I’ll be off now. Back soon. Just taking Cora for a ride.’
Masters turned to Pieters. ‘Come and look at this nail.’ He led him over to the stained plank. As soon as he saw the out-of-place pin, the carpenter said: ‘That’s not one of mine. See? I always aim plumb for the middle of a brick. This one’s hit the mortar. Look at all these others.’ He started to cross the room.
Masters said: ‘We’ve already examined them all.’
Pieters said: ‘Now you’ve found all this out you’ll be thinking more than ever that I did old Gobby in.’
Masters said quietly: ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘We never think of a man as guilty until we’ve proved he is. We consider everybody, of course. And I’ve no doubt in my mind that the weapon used was your gun. But I’m so far from proving you guilty that when we’ve finished our talk you’ll be able to walk out of here a free man.’
Green snorted in disbelief. Pieters stared, openmouthed. Brant whistled between his teeth. Masters went on: ‘But before you go, I’d like you to do something for me.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Fire a nail through one of the other planks. Into a strip of mortar.’
Green burst out: ‘You’re not going to let him get his hands on that thing and load it, are you?’
‘Why not?’
Green set his mouth and turned away. Brant moved in unobtrusively behind Pieters. The gun was loaded, cocked and fired. The spent cartridge was ejected automatically. The report in the room was shattering. Pieters said: ‘And that was only a strong cartridge. Not very strong or super. I keep them for concrete.’
Masters said: ‘Somebody should have heard that on Sunday night.’ He stepped close to look at the nail. It was a replica of the others. He said to Pieters: ‘Thanks. I’m afraid I’ll have to hang on to your bolt setter.’
Pieters said: ‘And when do I get it back? I’ve a living to earn, you know.’
Green said: ‘We’ll get you one on hire.’
Masters asked: ‘Did you miss a cartridge on Monday?’
Pieters shook his head. ‘I’d only miss one from a new box.’
Green said: ‘And the murderer knew enough to pick up the spent cartridge. Very helpful.’
‘It certainly shows he knew what he was doing,’ Masters said.
‘I always pick them up. When you go on a training course by the makers, they tell you to.’
Masters nodded. He returned the gun to its box and said to Pieters: ‘When did you put these plates up?’
‘Them? Let me see now. Last week sometime. Yes. Thursday it ’ud be. Thursday morning, because I had a day and a half on the ceiling joists before the weekend.’
Masters said: ‘Thank you. Now, just one more job. I want that stained plank down and a two foot piece round that out-of-place nail sawing out. Without touching the nail at any time. Can you do it? It’s worth a quid for a good, quick job.’
Pieters and Brant selected the tools. Masters and Green wandered out of earshot. Masters spoke quietly for a few minutes, then Green said: ‘What? You want me to go to London tonight?’
‘Yes please. With Brant.’
‘I suppose you’re right. I’d better do it myself than phone through. And there’s roast lamb for dinner tonight. Gina told me.’
Masters said: ‘You can go after dinner. You won’t be able to do anything at that end till tomorrow morning.’
Green offered him a Kensitas. ‘Except deliver your bag of spuds, I suppose.’
Masters grinned. ‘I told you that would work out just fine, didn’t I?’
Green sneered. ‘You’ll be telling me next you’d got this job buttoned up yesterday.’ He didn’t sound too unbelieving. Whenever the job took a turn for the better, Green couldn’t help being as pleased as anybody else.
Chapter Seven
Pieters, sworn to secrecy, had gone. Hill had returned. Masters handed the two feet of planking to Green. ‘Ask forensic to let me have at least a preliminary verbal report on the nail by tomorrow. If you can get through your other business by lunchtime perhaps you’ll be able to bring both reports back with you in the afternoon.’
Green said: ‘Should do. I’ll stow this plank. We’ll go straight after dinner.’
Masters thought Green was setting too much store by a bit of roast lamb. ‘As you like. The roads will be clearer, later.’
Green pretended he hadn’t heard. They left the school and locked up behind them. Masters said: ‘I’m going to see Dr Frank Barnfelt.’
‘About little Cora, I suppose.’
‘I’d like to know if there’s anything can be done for her. I’ll be back for dinner.’
*
Dr Barnfelt saw him in the surgery after the last patient had gone. He said: ‘You want news of your protégée?’
‘If there is any.’
‘No promises. But I think between us—medicine and welfare—we may be able to do something. To rehabilitate her is probably the best way of describing it.’
‘Can you give me any details?’
‘No. For two reasons. One, I don’t know enough about her after only a very cursory examination, and two—you know—ethics.’
Masters grinned. ‘As long as there’s some chance.’
Barnfelt said seriously: ‘I will do my utmost to see that what can be done for her will be done. Immediately. You have my word for it.’
Masters said: ‘That’s no more than I expected. But it doesn’t mean I’m not grateful. I am. Very.’
Barnfelt gazed at him. Masters felt he was being analysed. Wondered what he had said that could be taken the wrong way. He could feel Barnfelt’s shrewdness. The eyes twinkling behind the pince-nez were sizing him up. Then Barnfelt said: ‘How is the investigation proceeding?’
‘Very well—I think. We’ve been here little more than forty-eight hours and we’ve turned up at least a dozen motives for murder. I’m afraid your vicar was a most unpopular and unsatisfactory person.’
‘His reputation was not good. I am only speaking from hearsay. I had very little to do with him. Nothing socially. But doctors are recipients of confidences and news, so they know most of what is afoot—particularly in a place as small as Rooksby. One thing, however, surprises me. You mentioned motive. My knowledge of the law is limited, but I thought that to prove motive was unnecessary.’
Masters smiled. ‘Limited knowledge? I’ve heard different.’
‘Checking up on me?’
‘On everybody. And you’re quite right. I’ve no need to prove motive, but experience has taught me that ferreting out a good, juicy motive not only helps an investigation, it helps with a jury, too.’
‘So you concentrate on motives?’
‘And opportunity, and feasibility, and credibility, and every other thing I can think of.’
Barnfelt placed the tips of his bony fingers together. ‘Does a superfluity of motives give you cause for complaint?’
‘None. No complaint at all.’ He grinned. ‘Except one.’
‘May I ask what it is?’
‘As it concerns you, yes. Your two-way radio is almost on top of my frequency.’
Barnfelt looked suddenly concerned. ‘But we have an allotted wave-length, and we’re crystal controlled, so it is impossible for us to wander off our own frequency on to somebody else’s.’
Masters said: ‘I’m pulling your leg. You haven’t inconvenienced us.’ He noticed that Barnfelt still seemed a little concerned. He felt pleased about it. He liked causing a flutter among the apparently unflappable. He wondered what reply Barnfelt would give. When it came, it was totally unexpected.
‘I must reduce power.’ Barnfelt was almost talking to himself. A savant considering a problem.
Masters said: ‘Y
ou mean you designed the radios yourself?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did. You see, the usual V.H.F. sets are so limited in range that they are practically useless if the stations are not intervisible. So I designed an ordinary H.F. set which was small enough for our purpose, but had the traditional range.’
‘Dry battery? Or do they use the car batteries?’
‘Neither. I designed a power take-off from the engine, and installed in the circuit a small twelve volt Aldis lamp dag. Do you know, we can operate even if the battery is right down, so long as the engine is running? All the cells are needed for is to iron out the surges in the power supply.’
‘At what range can you work?’
Barnfelt lost his eagerness. He looked down. ‘Oh, several miles. I don’t know exactly. It depends on conditions.’
Masters felt this was wrong. He thought a man as precise as this would know the answer to within a hundred yards. He didn’t pursue the matter. He said: ‘Interesting. You ought to patent it.’ He stood up. ‘Thank you for the news about Cora. I’ll not keep you any longer.’ At the door he stopped and asked: ‘How did the inquest go?’
‘We learned nothing new. My evidence was exactly as I gave it to you—without the suppositions, of course.’
*
Hill said: ‘She couldn’t have gone by train. Her landlady says she was surprised to see her before the arrival time. She also says she heard a car at the door, which didn’t sound like a taxi. And the ticket collectors neither remember Pamela arriving, nor did they take a ticket from Rooksby to Peterborough at the barrier on Sunday night.’ He looked across at Masters. ‘Is that what you wanted, Chief?’
They were all four in Masters’ room. Masters occupying the chair. Green astride the case stand. Hill and Brant perched on the bed. Masters had unearthed a new tin of Warlock Flake from his kit. The air was heavy with smoke.
Masters and Green Series Box Set Page 34