He looked at me, taking it in. Then he shook his head. “I can’t help it. That’s how it was.”
“Tony!”
He looked at his hands and mumbled something. I slapped my palm on the table and he looked up angrily.
“I was confused,” he said.
I glanced round, but nobody had left the door open. It wasn’t a draught down my spine.
“I’ll get you another coffee,” I offered. I just had to have time.
I knew only too well what he meant. In a thousand interrogations I’d encountered the same thing. You got them so confused that their brains couldn’t come up with any more lies. All they had left was the desperate truth, however stupid and illogical it might sound.
Not simply a coffee, but also a chocolate biscuit. Tony simply loved the silver paper.
“So you told the truth,” I agreed. “There’ll be no confirmation, you realize that.”
“Can’t help it.”
“Which means Bycroft will be back.” And would just about tear him apart.
“All right ... all right,” he said aggressively. “So I’ll think up a lie that’ll convince him. That what you want?”
I said nothing.
“Is that what you came for?” he demanded. “Perhaps you’ve got a nice solid lie all ready for me to tell him.”
I took a grip on my nerves. Side issues later.
“No, Tony. I came to ask you one small point. We all know that Dennis Cleave collected log books from crashed cars, and Norman or his brother Mike pinched cars to link with the log books. But — what happened to the old wrecks? Cleave wouldn’t let ’em hang around the yard. That’d be too dangerous. He’d dump them, Tony. Just tell me where.”
It wasn’t a butterfly after all. It was a praying mantis. Tony brushed it off the table angrily.
“Loaded the bits up,” he said. “All the bits anybody could recognize. In his pick-up. Then he’d drive ‘em out to the town dump.” He glanced at me. “At night. They’d get covered up the next day.”
“Where’s the nearest phone?”
“What’s up?”
“You’ve been very helpful. We may even forgive you the rest some day.”
I left him, or rather tried to leave him, but he was hovering around the box when I made the call to Bycroft, great fluffy flakes of snow settling on his shoulders, his cold fingers stuck in those awkward little pockets they put in the fronts of jeans. Bycroft took a bit of persuading, but in the end saw he had no alternative but to try it.
“What’ve you got?” Tony asked, hurrying to keep up with me.
“Maybe Dulcie.” I opened up the car. Tony banged on the other window until I let him in. “It’s not for you.”
He slumped down in the seat. “D’you know where the dump is?”
“No.”
“Well then.”
He directed me there, and we waited in the car. Sprague must have done some smart work on the phone before they left the office, but all the same the operation took some time to lay on. Squad cars began to arrive, stood parked, their drivers pacing, slapping their palms, whispering in groups. Then we were all waiting for the JCB to arrive from the hire firm, with Sprague and Bycroft standing lonely together, staring down into the task ahead.
It had been some sort of a quarry before they began filling it in with refuse. No doubt they’d build a shopping complex on the site when they’d finished. There was a drive in from the road, leading onto a U-road all round the circumference of the top edge. Tippers were driving in all the while, backing up, dumping their loads over the edge. It had to be organized, otherwise they’d be backing onto a collapsing surface, and the tipping locations had to be strictly regulated. Bycroft had had the present tipping stopped, and wagons began to pile up in a long queue. Then, after consultation with the foreman, it was decided where tipping had been permitted on the Friday before last. Of course, Cleave, if he’d tipped here on that night, would have been alone in the dark with only his lights for company, so could have dumped anywhere. But latticed metal created a running surface to the edge, so probably he’d have played safe and complied with the indicated position. We hoped.
The tipping was allowed to continue, after a new area had been laid out. The JCB came round the back lane into the drive-in at the bottom level, and the blue uniforms sprinkled the surface. It would soon be dark. Tony and I got out of the car.
“Lights,” shouted Bycroft. “We’ll need more light.”
They already had lights laid on for work after dark, but they were only concentrated on the upper edge. Sprague drafted in some more, and a gang of men from the electricity board came and wired them in. White light splashed into the quarry. Snow was drifting through the glare. Down there the digger snorted, crouched and thrust and lifted its jaws, swivelled, and dumped its load. The men turned it over. It was cold. Sprague went down with the others.
Very soon bits of cars began to appear in the grab. They’d dug through to Cleave’s rubbish. Bycroft lit a cigarette. He walked a few paces and walked back. Shouting voices echoed over the roar of the diesel.
There was something grey. Upholstery, I thought. Then, clearly, the bonnet of a blue Austin 1800. We were getting close. There was a flash of primrose. The front wing of a Rover 3500 is distinctive. Part of the boot followed. The digger disgorged a mouthful. A seat, a black upholstered seat, folded forward, enfolding something not upholstery. Down below they levered it apart. They came running to surround it, and a shout choked the digger down to a snuffle then silence. Sprague’s face was a white disc as he turned it up to us and his voice swung round the steep sides, disembodied.
“We’ve found her sir. She’s here.”
I didn’t see that there was any point in hanging around. My job there was finished. I didn’t intend to go down and see.
Bycroft turned and saw me. He said nothing, and we stood staring at each other. Then he stalked past, almost shouldering me aside.
His eyes had been blazing with anger.
8
TONY was shaking, wet through and cold. I didn’t feel too good myself. “I’ll take you home.”
He got in the car and I slid in beside him.
“What’s up with him?” he asked fiercely.
“Bycroft?” I started the engine with a little trouble. “It’s the bad bit of a copper’s life.”
“All the same ... ”
“And I reckon he’s had the ballistics report,” I said. “You’ll remember what I told you.”
That kept him silent all the way home. He was brooding sullenly about keys and things, but he didn’t say anything. As he reached for the door catch I grabbed his arm.
“Tony ... one small point ... ”
“Christ, don’t you ever give up?”
“You saw it, before they got to the Rover, bits of an Austin 1800. That fits with the other log book in the deed box. Nobody’s said anything about that log book yet.”
“You done your job,” he said savagely. “You found Dulcie. So bugger off home, old man.”
“Just leave it to me to decide when my job’s finished. The blue Austin, Tony ... ”
“Right. Right then. What’s it matter? The bits for the other log book. You know that.”
“But Norman wanted a key to that box. Then he got killed, so he never got round to using it. But if he had, would that log book still have been there?”
“How do I know what he was after?”
“You seem to know everything else.”
He moved restlessly, looked down at my fingers round his arm, and tried to prise them open. “You big ape ... all right. It was a job supposed to’ve been done a few months back. Dennis had got hold of the log book, so Norm picked up an Austin 1800 in Leicester.”
“A Saturday this would be?”
“It was always Saturdays. D’you want to know or what?”
I released his arm. “You tell it, Tony.”
He shook himself like a dog just out of water. “Norm picked up the
car. He was always a mad-head. Dennis could never keep up with him in the pick-up. But this time Norm got into trouble. Rushed a traffic light, knocked down a bloke on a pedestrian crossing — the poor bleeder’s got a broken back — and of course he didn’t dare stop. So he dumped the car and called it a dead loss.” He stopped.
“And?”
“Norm wanted Dennis to burn the log book. Didn’t want anything left around to connect up, ’cause of course the police were after him. But Dennis held on to it.”
“Why?” Even though I guessed.
“Reckon it gave him something to use against Norm, just supposing he needed it.”
“So you guessed what Norman was after?”
“Yes, of course,” he said, eager to agree now he’d got it out. “So how could that Inspector say I could think Norm was going to kill Dennis?”
“Especially if it was Dennis had the gun,” I said easily.
“Sure.”
“But somebody turned the bungalow upside down. They found something. That something could have been Cleave’s gun.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. You finished?” he demanded. “Can I go in now and get a bath?”
“Not quite, Tony. What time did you usually finish at the yard?”
“Time? Six-ish, I suppose.”
“Fridays?”
He was silent a moment, but he soon got it. “You mean a week ago last Friday?”
“The evening Dulcie disappeared, yes. We reckon he picked her up about six. It looks like he came back to the yard with her ... ”
“Not with her he didn’t,” said Tony angrily. “You don’t think I’d ... ” He was abruptly silent.
“I don’t think you’d have done anything different from what any other person would have done. You’d have gone for him. But she wasn’t with him, you say. So you stayed late?”
“Yes.”
“How late?”
“Seven. After.”
“Waiting for him?”
“Not exactly. I’m bloody frozen.”
“You mean you were watching for him — where he wouldn’t see you?”
“What’s so terrible about that? There’s plenty of places you can hide.”
“But why would you want to hide?”
“Will you lay off me!” Then he realized I was going to persist. “I told you — I wanted to know if anything else was coming in. I was short of cash!” he shouted.
“Very well, Tony. You stayed late on that evening, and he hadn’t got her with him. Yet some way or other he got her down to the town dump ... ”
It all came out in a rush. Tony had had enough, and he was anxious to get it all done with.
“He came back, with nothing on the tow, and started to clear out the pickup. The inside. You know. I thought he was crazy. Then he loaded up a lot of stuff on the back.”
“Bits of blue Austin and primrose Rover?”
“That sorta thing.”
I sighed. It was clear that Cleave had left Dulcie’s body somewhere, and then realized he’d better do something to hide it, and to cover up. He knew the police would be down on him like a swarm of bees, and he wouldn’t be able to count on Norman for an alibi this time. In fact, he might even have realized that he was in danger from Norman on this murder, because he had exposed his hand on the Annabelle killing, and Norman would balk at the coincidence of another. But on the Friday, all he could think about was that the child’s body had to be taken to where it was unlikely to be found, and the pick-up had to be cleaned of all possible traces.
“You’d better get inside,” I said, and he pounced his hand on the door catch.
I watched him enter the house, then backed into his drive, and drove to the nearest phone box.
“Are you on my panel?” asked Dr Forrester.
“You’re the only doctor I know, and it may just be that you’re treating Mrs Randall.”
“I am.” His voice was sharp. “What about it?”
“Then perhaps you’d better get down there. I’m on my way, myself. We’ve found Dulcie, and of course she’s dead.”
He cut off sharply, and I took it easy to the Randall’s half hoping he would beat me to it. But I was first. I parked outside and Forrester was two minutes later. We went in together.
Two cars outside had warned them. They were in the lounge and Mrs Randall needed only one glance at our faces. She screamed and fainted, and Forrester went quickly to her.
“Where?” said Randall. “Where’ve they taken her?”
So I had to hang around and stall him off, because they’d need time to tidy up the body, otherwise Randall would never recover. I was sick with anger and helplessness, and a choking feeling of inadequacy. I told you, I should never have come.
“Can I use your phone?” said Forrester urgently.
But in the end, Sprague arrived, with his official report and an invitation for Randall to go down for the formal identification. It was I who let him in.
“Right on the job,” he said sarcastically. “You’ve done well.”
“I do what I can. Go easy with him, Sprague. He’s bad.”
Sprague considered, as though wondering what I might mean by going easy.
“It was nice to have known you.” He turned away.
“I’ll see you again,” I said. It held him. He looked back. “He’s had his ballistics report?” I asked.
There was slight shock in his eyes. He frowned. “One gun — that gun. Does that make you happy?”
“Not happy. It makes it difficult.”
“But not for you. Take my advice, collect your fee, and get going.”
“I haven’t earned it yet.”
“Then get going without it.”
Notwithstanding the fact that Sprague’s attitude was a strong temptation to stay, I decided it was time I left. I slipped out, not trying to speak to Randall. Then I drove away.
Nobody had said anything about handing in the car.
There was a distinct likelihood that Bycroft would be at his office. I didn’t ask if he was, just went straight up. He was alone, an empty space in front of him on the desk, as though he’d pushed it all aside in despair.
“Just what I needed,” he said sourly. “Come to say goodbye?”
“It’s not finished.”
“For you it is.”
“I heard you’ve got the ballistics report, Frank. I did warn you — ”
“Don’t come here with your lecturing!” he shouted.
“But it leaves you with only one answer, and it’s worrying me.”
He glared at me, then gestured with resignation. “Sit down, damn it, you fill the office.” Then, when I did, he stood up himself and began to pace around, waving a cigarette and scattering ash all over me.
“What answer?”
“That Tony Finch was lying about how he got the key for Norman Lyle.”
“Why you should want to believe Finch is lying, I don’t know,” he said. “And I don’t think I want to know. But — for your information — he wasn’t.”
I didn’t want to believe it — but what else was there?
“Frank, just you think about it. Somebody, somehow, got a third key made. Probably from the duplicate, because Cleave’s own key never left his possession.”
He stopped pacing, smiled thinly, and sat down again. “Do you imagine I haven’t thought it through — and through? And I keep getting the same answer. It only leaves Mike. Mike the obvious suspect. I’ve had him here for hours, tried everything on him, and got nothing! Somebody searched the bungalow and found the gun. Mike, you’d think. But Mike’s been talking as hard as he can go. He says — admits — that Norman gave Dennis Cleave the alibi for Annabelle’s murder, and gave it falsely. On that Friday, two years ago, Cleave left there early enough to have picked her up on the way back, but Norman agreed to swear to a later time. They didn’t believe he’d done it, and it was important to them that we shouldn’t become too interested in him.”
All this I’d gues
sed. “But then Dulcie died, and Cleave had been to Wolverhampton again that Friday, and it was too much for them to swallow?”
He laughed mirthlessly. “They’re not the sort to go along with murder, especially child murder. And Cleave turned up the next day to drive Norman over to Nottingham, and even before they left the Lyles’ he’d started hinting about another alibi.”
“But surely not, Frank. How could he work another alibi with the same man?”
“Then perhaps not an alibi. But he’d want them to agree to say nothing, at least. He was hinting at something, anyway, and at the time Mike says he didn’t know what it was. He knew later, of course. But anyway, Mike says Norman and Cleave were arguing when they left, and Dennis would have a long drive to persuade Norman in. Maybe he didn’t persuade him. More than likely Norman told him to go to hell, perhaps not even then realizing what had happened on the previous evening.”
He was silent, picked up a ball-point, and played with it.
“But Cleave had two murders on his hands,” I said. “And he’d got one false alibi, and in a day or two, he knew, the Lyles would guess what had happened. Perhaps he’d taken his gun along, anticipating he’d have to do something about it. Then, on the way back, he did do something about it.”
Bycroft shrugged. “We’ll never prove anything, but that could have been a gunshot wound along the side of Norman’s head. And of course, there’d then be Mike and Rose to be dealt with ... ”
“If he’d got round to it.”
“So you can see why Mike’s the obvious suspect for Cleave’s murder. He’d realize the position, head out for Cleave’s place, hunt out the gun ... ” Bycroft lifted his palms, and slapped them back onto the desk. “Except that he didn’t know his brother was dead. He didn’t know it when you went there. It was obviously a shock to him when we took him to the morgue. George, he didn’t know Norman was dead!” His voice was rising.
A Spoonful of Luger Page 8