Drink With The Devil

by David Woods

  A glance in the mirror revealed the two men running from the building towards their car, but Simpson drove as fast as his old car would allow, without any particular destination in mind just a desperate need to get away. He looked again in his mirror and saw the sleek red car several vehicles back on the narrow and twisting road, which prevented cars from overtaking. His heart thumped painfully in his chest as he racked his brains for inspiration and, when the road widened, he overtook the car in front, his speed increasing as he desperately looked for an escape. He rounded two tight bends, making the car’s bald tyres squeal, and a quick glance in his mirror revealed the pursuing car was out of sight. He took a sudden turn left, nearly turning the car over, and sped down a side street to turn into someone’s private drive.

  Screeching to a halt in front of a garage he slumped forward, resting his head on the steering wheel and clamping his hands over his ears. He closed his eyes and waited, panting as if he had just run ten miles, his temples were throbbing and his knees trembled as he pictured the men closing in. He stayed like this for five minutes to be shaken out of his visions of impending doom by a tap on the window.

  Slowly he looked up, expecting to see the face of his killer, but was surprised to see an old lady with a walking stick raised and ready to strike at the window again. He wound down the window and she frowned. “You can’t stay there, young man.”

  “Of course not Madam. I’m just going.” He deliberately took his time reversing and drove south, soon finding himself in Kingston, a place he had always liked. He told himself it would be handy to be near London, but far enough away to avoid those villains.

  He spent the afternoon looking for a flat, and found one which was just outside the town centre. It was sparsely furnished, smelt damp but was cheap and he told the agent his name was Norman Powell.

  * * *

  After being formally charged with murder, Jim was returned to the police cell. Now he had time to think. The cell reminded him of the long days and nights he spent in prison, trying to keep his mind active with plans for the future. But no such thoughts came to him now, just the mind-numbing fact that Rosie was dead and he could not even organise a decent funeral for her.

  All the next morning he was left alone to think about what could be done to extract himself from wrongful conviction. An almost cold lunch arrived at noon and when he looked at it he nearly wept, remembering Rosie’s superb cooking. He could not eat the food and the afternoon dragged on until he was summoned for more questions by Sergeant Pratt, who was sitting at the table again. Jim looked at the thin-faced, balding young officer and cringed, as he was the most abusive policeman he had ever met.

  Pratt spoke with venom. “Sit down , murderer, and I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing.” Jim said nothing but just looked on with a blank expression.

  “I’ve been studying the file on the Manor Farm murder.”

  Jim closed his eyes and groaned, knowing what was coming next.

  “You can groan, you bastard. I know you killed Sir William and his wife. And I’ll prove it.”

  Jim shook his head and stayed quiet.

  Pratt changed his tone and became more conciliatory. “Just think about it. You’re going down for murder anyway. Why not admit you killed them and save yourself further charges in the future?”

  Jim cleared his throat. “I haven’t murdered anyone.”

  Pratt stood up quickly, sending his chair crashing against the wall. Pointing at Jim with a quivering finger, he spoke in a high pitched tone, “You’re guilty and you know it. You may have fooled the other policemen, but not me.”

  Jim sat calmly looking down at the table. Pratt sat down and tried the soft approach again, alternating between a soft voice trying to coax a confession and a high pitched burst of accusations. Jim was getting used to this treatment and answered calmly any questions in his deep husky voice, and in an even tone. Pratt went through the events at Home Farm in minute detail, trying to trip Jim up, but he was unsuccessful, and stormed out of the room in desperation and rage. When he returned, having calmed down over a cup of tea, he started again with the same results, finally running out of questions and stuck for words.

  Jim could see he had run out of steam and said, “I want to see Inspector Green.”

  Pratt went red in the face and nearly screamed. “Chief Inspector Green hasn’t got time to see scum like you.”

  “Oh that’s a shame. Because I’ll only answer further questions from him.”

  “You murdering bastard. You’ll answer my questions or else.”

  “Or else what? Mr. Pratt.”

  “I’ll make sure you stay in prison until you rot.”

  Jim just sat and looked at the red-faced man, wondering why he was getting so worked up and why he was filled with so much hatred. He was taken back to his cell and left alone for two days without further questioning. He paced up and down like a caged animal, trying not to get too depressed, but it did not work and he began to believe the sergeant’s words about rotting in jail. On the third day alone, he was in a very low state when he was summoned to answer more questions.

  Sergeant Pratt sat grim faced with a file in front of him. He looked up at Jim’s pale face and hissed, “Come to your senses yet?”

  Jim sat down and gave the sergeant an expressionless glare, but said nothing.

  “I hoped your days of solitary confinement would have convinced you that I mean business.”

  Jim continued with his blank stare.

  “Not going to talk, eh? Well, I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing. Yesterday I visited your friend, Briggs ‘inside’ and he told me you were a member of his gang, who killed the Osbornes. And that bust-up you had on the building site was due to you being too greedy. You wanted more than your share of the Osborne jewellery proceeds and took it — hence the fight.”

  Jim just shook his head and swallowed hard.

  “Yes. You’re entitled to look worried. I’ve hit on the truth, haven’t I?”

  Jim was fed up with listening to false accusations. “I’ve never heard so much rubbish in all my life. Your imagination is unbelievable.”

  “Imagination, is it? Well, tell me where you got the money from to start Grainger Construction?”

  “Hard work. Something you wouldn’t know about.”

  “You cheeky bastard. I’ll make you eat those words. I’m going to prove that money was not earned, which will prove you were involved with Briggs. If I find the amount of money he says you stole from him was invested in your company, you’re as good as booked on two further charges of murder.” His mirthless laugh echoed around the brick walls as Jim looked even more downhearted.

  Jim was led back to his cell and collapsed on the hard bench, totally dejected and convinced he really would be in jail for the rest of his life. He was kept in solitary confinement for the next three days, his only contact with humanity being a grim-faced policeman shoving unappetising food at him from time to time, which he only picked at. His only contact with the outside world was through the small barred window high up in the wall and out of reach. He stood with his back against the steel door, watching grey clouds roll by, and the only sounds came from heavy lorries thundering by, vibrating the steel fittings on the cell door. This was a regular event and only served to remind him how unbearable the future would be, locked behind steel doors secured by faceless men in uniform.

  By the time four days had passed since the last interview with Pratt, Jim was longing just to walk up the stairs to the small room above for a change of scenery, and his wish was granted. Pratt was sitting at the table again with a smug look on his face. Jim sat down heavily and prepared to hear the worst.

  “Well, are you ready to be sensible and confess, or do I have to drag the truth from you?”

  Jim felt weak and did not have the energy to answer.

  “All right. I’ve really got you this time. I’ve studied your company records and cannot find the source of your start-up money — in fact when I add
ed up your purchases for the first couple of months, it came to about the same figure as Briggs told me you stole from him.”

  Jim buried his face in his hands and groaned.

  Pratt was ecstatic, laughing in a high pitched ear-splitting shriek. “I’ve got you, haven’t I? Now I want the truth.” He disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a large piece of paper and a uniformed officer to act as a witness.

  While he was gone Jim thought about the situation. It looked bleak, but Pratt did not really have any solid proof.

  Pratt sat down with a sickly grin on his face and whispered, “Right. Take your time and tell me the truth about the events at Manor Farm.”

  Jim cleared his throat and spoke clearly. “You haven’t got a shred of proof I was involved with the murder or burglary at Manor Farm. You’re just trying to con me into a confession.”

  Pratt leapt to his feet and reached across the table, grabbing Jim’s shirt with both hands. “You bastard. I’ll string you up myself.” The uniformed officer pulled Pratt away and marched him out of the room.

  Jim was left shocked at the outburst and wondered again why this man hated him so much. He sat alone for half an hour until an officer led him back downstairs to his cell, where he remained until the next morning.

  He had only just managed a piece of toast and cup of tea for breakfast before being led back to the interview room again. This time Pratt was joined by another C. I. D. officer. Jim looked into Pratt’s eyes, which were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face a sick-looking pasty colour. The questioning resumed, with Pratt applying the heavy-handed threats and accusations, whilst the other officer spoke in a soft manner.

  Jim said nothing, but just cupped his head in his hands and leant his elbows on the table, the sound of the voices droning on and on setting his fragile nerves on edge. He dearly wanted to get up and escape from the brain-washing, as the longer it went on the weaker he felt, becoming more and more convinced that what they were saying was true. When he closed his eyes for a moment, Pratt thought he was going to sleep and knocked his elbows off the table, making him slump forward. He sat up again and Pratt got very worked up, his face going red as he cursed and swore at his victim. By this time Jim had come to the end of his tether and held his hand up to admit his part in the crime at Manor Farm, just to stop the mental torture continuing.

  Chapter Twenty

  The newspapers reported that formal charges had been made against Jim Grainger, but then dropped the story in favour of a more sensational scandal involving the government.

  Garry searched the papers every day for more news but was disappointed. The news of Jim’s incarceration had diverted his attention from destructive thoughts to running Blakesbuild properly, and for days he worked long hours catching up with neglected paperwork, realising how close his obsession with Grainger’s downfall had brought the company to financial ruin. Some decisions he had made without proper consideration were potentially disastrous, but as usual he managed to scrape through and talk his way out of the problems. The experience had frightened him, and convinced him to be more careful in the future.

  After a week he was feeling more confident about the company’s prospects, and wondered in which direction to take the company that specialised in large civil engineering and local authority work. His thoughts turned to house building on a large scale; big developments of high quality up-market houses would be very profitable. Then suddenly he sat bolt upright — Grainger Construction — the company would be up for sale soon and was already in the house building market. Oh what a brilliant idea! I can destroy the name of Grainger Construction at the same time and call it Blakesbuild.

  He found Simpson’s report in his top drawer and studied its contents again, getting very excited as he read how quickly the company had grown. If it carried on at that pace it would soon be the biggest house builder in the country, he thought. After reading it again, he put the file in his briefcase and walked out, announcing he would be gone for a couple of hours.

  The building site was easy to find and, driving carefully through the muddy entrance, he parked outside a recently completed house, looking it over from the driver’s seat before driving on to the occupied houses. They looked very attractive and were a good advertisement for any company. He drove as far as possible around the site and noticed several gangs of men working hard on half-completed dwellings. The longer he studied the new development, the more he wanted to own it.

  Within half an hour he had seen enough, drove to the site office and strode into the office without knocking. Oliver was sitting at Jim’s desk, engrossed in a problem concerning a supplier’s invoice. He did not look up until he became aware of a man leaning over the desk staring at his paperwork.

  He recognised Garry instantly and growled, “What do you want, Osborne?” Garry was taken by surprise and took a second to realise who was addressing him.

  “Good God, it’s Smythe! When did they let you out?”

  “None of your business. I repeat, what do you want?”

  “Huh. So a murderer gets put away and another criminal takes over!”

  “State your business or get out.”

  “Are you running this company?”

  “Temporarily, yes.”

  “Right. You’ll no doubt have to sell up now that Grainger’s inside again?”

  Oliver stood up slowly and spoke clearly. “Jim Grainger hasn’t been convicted and I don’t think he ever will be. He’ll be back here running his company as soon as the truth emerges.

  “The truth is he’s a murderer and should be strung up.”

  “Go away, Osborne, and play stockbrokers. Perhaps you’ll find someone else’s life to destroy, like you did mine.”

  “You deserved all you got.” Garry scowled as he walked out, almost running to his car, and drove off, sliding on the slippery surface. He felt angry and even more desperate to get hold of that company, if only to kick Smythe out and tear down the Grainger Construction sign, removing that horrible name from the face of the earth.

  By the time he had arrived at his office he had calmed down but could not get down to work, as his only thoughts were how to obtain that company. He realised that the direct approach would not work, so an intermediary had to be found. The obvious choice was a solicitor, but not one with divided loyalties like George Vine. He pondered the question for some time, before ringing a local one-man firm.

  Robert Webster was keen to work for Garry and started making enquiries straightaway. Garry got down to work again, confident that it would only be a matter of time before Grainger Construction would be up for sale, with Webster making an approach before other prospective buyers could find out and cause the price to increase.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jim was about to speak when Chief Inspector Green walked in. He looked straight at Sergeant Pratt. “Come to my office and bring the file on this case.” He turned and walked out, followed by Pratt and his colleague. Jim relaxed, clasping his head between his hands, trying to deaden the ringing sound in his ears.

  Half an hour later the chief inspector returned and sat opposite Jim, laying the file in front of him and looking stern. “Well, Jim. I didn’t think I’d come back from holiday and find you here again.”

  “I didn’t expect to be here.”

  “Sergeant Pratt brought me up to date with your case, and in particular the murder of Ken Bridger.”

  “Why is he trying to pin the Osborne murders on me?”

  “Because he thinks you did them. Forget about that for a minute and just tell me slowly your account of the Bridger case.”

  Jim explained in great detail the events on the night and the next few days, while the chief inspector just listened and made notes. He finished his story and then said, “There’s one thing I didn’t tell the sergeant. It may not be important.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Billy Bradford said a fat man turned up and asked questions a few days before the fire. The same man called at the
school site just before I started my own company, and I found I couldn’t get supplies. Billy took the car number and I put it in the top drawer of my desk.”

  “As you say, it may not be important, but worth checking.” The inspector sat back and stared at the ceiling for a minute, deep in thought, and then cleared his throat. “Well at the moment your position looks grim. The evidence Pratt has produced could convict you of murder.”

  “What hope have I got?”

  “Very little. However, I’m not entirely happy with all the evidence, and I feel a few more questions need to be asked.”

  “So you’re taking over the case?”

  “Yes. Now you must go back downstairs.”

  “Okay. I need a rest.”

  “Oh, by the way, I’m sorry about Rosie.”

  “I still can’t believe it. She was like a mother to me.”

  The next day passed slowly and he thought about the grilling Sergeant Pratt had given him, hoping it would not happen again. Each new sound of footsteps on the concrete floor worried him in case the mental torture was about to start again. Later in the afternoon he had a visitor, who noticed his worried look.

  The plain clothes woman officer smiled. “Don’t worry, I only want a sample of your hair.”

  “Help yourself.”

  She snipped a short piece off the back of his head. “That shouldn’t spoil your hair style.” Jim smiled for the first time since the fire. “Do you want it for your locket?”

  “No, but I might come back for another piece just for me.” They both laughed as she walked out.

  The next day Jim was summoned to the interview room yet again, dreading what would follow and feeling weak before he even got to the room. He sat down heavily, but his anguish was relieved when the chief inspector came in and sat down. He seemed cheerful.