Wendy telephoned the police station as soon as she reached home on Sunday evening. Detective Inspector Thomas was there, and she was put through to him.
He listened without interruption while she explained about the toy pistol. Then he said he would come to fetch her and take her back to her friend’s house; he wanted to see the weapon.
Wendy expected a police car to arrive outside the house, but Thomas came in an ordinary black Cortina.
‘I should have rung you from Ella’s,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if the delay’s going to make a difference. But it seemed so silly! He can’t have used a toy gun.’
‘He could have,’ said Thomas. ‘Don’t worry, a few hours won’t matter very much. It’s not as if you thought you’d seen our actual villain.’
‘How are you getting on?’ Wendy asked.
‘To be truthful, it’s gone completely cold on us,’ said Thomas. ‘He can’t have picked up another car after he dumped the Renault – there wasn’t one stolen anywhere near that area on Wednesday. He must have left another car near the spot where he left the Renault. He probably meant, originally, to run round to it, trusting to the start he had to get away before anyone rushed after him. A young, fit chap, I guess.’
‘And he saw the Renault and took it on the spur of the moment?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he leave anything in the Renault – fingerprints?’
‘No prints – remember the gloves? But we found a wisp of hair that may have come from the beard. That’s being tested. We may be able to discover who made it, and from that it’s sometimes possible to trace retailers. If a grown man bought a false beard and a toy pistol in the same shop recently, someone may remember.’
‘But they could have been bought anywhere in the country,’ said Wendy. ‘And not in the same shop at all – and not recently.’
‘Exactly,’ said Thomas.
‘Goodness, what a job,’ said Wendy.
‘I mean to get him,’ said Thomas. ‘He knocked that woman down and it’s no thanks to him she isn’t dead,’ he added as they turned in at the gate of Ella’s cottage.
Ella was extremely surprised to see Wendy back again. The boys were now in bed, but Ella produced the two pistols.
‘This is the one.’ Wendy pointed it out.
‘It came from cereal carton tops,’ said Ella promptly. ‘Gavin saved them up. We got heartily sick of the stuff, to tell you the truth, by the time he’d enough.’
‘I’ll have to take it away, I’m afraid,’ said Thomas. He pulled three pound notes out of his wallet. ‘Will that be enough to get him another? I don’t suppose the offer’s still on or that you want to save up all over again. What cereal was it? Do you remember?’
‘I’ll never forget,’ said Ella, and told him.
‘Will you pretend to Gavin that it’s had some sort of accident?’ asked Thomas. ‘If you tell him the truth he may let it out and we don’t want our villain to know we’ve identified the weapon until we’re good and ready.’
Ella sighed.
‘I expect I can think of something,’ she said.
As they drove back to Blewton, Wendy asked Thomas if he had any children.
‘Two boys much the ages of your friend’s kids,’ said Thomas.
‘So that’s how you know about the importance of toy pistols?’
‘That, and having had one myself at around eight or nine,’ said Thomas.
Wendy supposed there was some sort of fund to reimburse Thomas.
‘I don’t see my boys all that often,’ Thomas added. ‘I’m divorced. Their mother has married again and she lives near Cambridge.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Wendy.
‘It’s hard on a woman, being married to a copper,’ said Thomas. ‘She’s left alone a lot.’
‘I suppose so.’ Thomas certainly seemed to work all round the clock.
On the way home he took her round to the police station where he played her a tape recording of a gruff voice inquiring about Mrs Helen Jordan.
‘Was that the same voice as the one you heard in the bank?’ he asked.
‘Well, I couldn’t swear to it,’ said Wendy cautiously. ‘It sounds a bit odd because of the telephone. But it was very like that.’
‘He’s been ringing up every day,’ said Thomas. ‘We’re not letting it be known that Mrs Jordan wasn’t badly hurt at all.’
‘Can you trace the calls?’
‘We haven’t yet. He uses a telephone box, and he’s so quick.’
‘At least he’s got some sort of conscience,’ Wendy said.
‘He’s worried about himself – what he could be in for, if she’d died,’ said Thomas.
He drove her home and dropped her at her door. As she walked upstairs she wondered if he would be going back to the police station again, or if he would be going home, wherever home was now for Detective Inspector Thomas.
10
On Monday Nigel West, the manager at the bank, was back from his Majorcan holiday. He had enjoyed a week of bracing sea air and strong winds, not the sunny warmth he had expected; but the food and drink, and the long nights with Susan, had fortified him for what he would find on his return. He did not, however, expect to learn that his bank had been raided the moment his back was turned.
He spent an hour on Monday morning hearing full reports from everyone about what had happened, and then he had a conference with Philip Grigson, his chief clerk, and with Robbie, in view of his experience.
No more could have been done by anyone, he decided. Inevitably, there was a delay because the alarm had to be relayed to the police by the security system, but a car had arrived eight minutes after the robber left.
‘Well, lightning never strikes the same place twice,’ said Robbie. ‘I expect we’ll be safe enough here now.’
Nigel frowned at him.
‘Not at all,’ he said sharply. ‘If other thieves learn whoever did this has got away with it, they may try us.’ He twiddled the ballpoint pen he held. ‘I’ll get on to the police – make sure they really are trying to catch this rogue.’
‘I’m sure they are,’ said Philip. ‘But he left no clues.’
‘You can’t be sure,’ said Nigel. ‘In their eyes, three thousand odd pounds is chicken-feed. They’re probably not bothering too much. It would be a different matter if the haul had been bigger.’
‘I don’t think the police reason like that,’ said Robbie. ‘It’s all crime to them.’
‘Well, everyone seems to have behaved very well,’ allowed Nigel, dismissing them.
Later, he sent for Wendy. She looked none the worse for her adventure; in fact, he thought she looked particularly well this morning. It was lucky that one of the younger, less calm girls, had not been the victim of the hold-up.
Wendy did not tell him about the pistol. She was not sure if Detective Inspector Thomas meant its identification to become public knowledge.
Robbie had noticed Wendy’s bright look that morning. He felt bright himself, in spite of – perhaps because of-everything. It was a pity that his and Wendy’s lunch hours were staggered, so that he could not invite her to the Copper Kettle, but then if they had not been staggered, she would not have been at the counter during the raid, and he would not have taken her home afterwards. He had brought no sandwiches this morning; there had been no roast to cut for them, and the cheese had run out as he had not shopped on Saturday. He went into the supermarket and bought some more before he had lunch at the Copper Kettle.
Over lamb chops with peas, Robbie finished the Daily Telegraph crossword. Then he went for his usual stroll. It was a fine day, though the wind was cold. Daffodils in the recreation ground were in bud, and two boys, truants from school, were riding skateboards down a path. Robbie thought it looked fun; he would have liked to try it himself. More of that sort of activity for young people and there would be less spare energy for mugging old ladies, he felt. At last, staring at a clump of yellow crocuses, he faced what he had tried to dodge a
ll morning: the fact of the woman lying injured in hospital; that morning on the telephone he had been told that her condition was still the same. If she died, he would have killed her, however much of an accident it was.
Wendy went home from the bank alone that evening. They had arranged to meet at the trattoria where they had dined before; then, it was implicit, they would go back to her room.
Robbie shaved and changed his shirt in the men’s room at the Royal Hotel, then waited in the lounge until it was time to walk round to the restaurant. As he left the hotel, a thickset man with brown hair entered; unknown to Robbie, he was Helen Jordan’s husband.
Robbie telephoned the hospital again on the way to the trattoria. The message was still the same.
Wendy told him about the toy pistol, while they ate their gnocchi.
‘So the robber wasn’t a hardened criminal, then,’ said Robbie.
‘You can’t say that, Robbie,’ Wendy answered. ‘He meant me – whoever he pointed it at – to think it was real. It’s a crime to do that.’
‘How are the police getting on?’ Robbie asked. He would not let himself be dismayed by the coincidence which had led Wendy to recognize the pistol. The cereal packet manufacturers were very unlikely to keep a record of where they sent such things.
‘I don’t think they’ve got anywhere,’ said Wendy. ‘There’s nothing to go on. He was certainly clever.’
‘If that woman dies –’ Robbie said.
‘She won’t,’ Wendy cut in. ‘She’s not at all badly hurt, luckily. She was concussed, and has some broken ribs and bruises, but it isn’t serious. They’ll be letting her out of hospital soon. But they’re keeping it quiet because someone’s been ringing up the hospital twice a day to ask about her. He uses a gruff sort of voice – they’ve recorded him making his calls and they’ve tried to trace where they come from, but he uses a call box and it’s all too quick. The police played the recording to me yesterday to see if I recognized the voice.’
‘And did you?’ Robbie hoped his voice stayed calm and steady.
‘It sounded the same. I couldn’t swear, of course, but it was just like the robber’s.’
Robbie did not speak for a few seconds. The woman would not die, but if Wendy had not told him this he would have gone on telephoning, and he might have been caught.
‘They’ll get him,’ he said at last.
‘I hope they do,’ said Wendy. ‘But I’m not sure that they will. They won’t be able to keep Mrs Jordan in hospital much longer, and they’ll never be able to let her go without the press finding out. He’ll stop ringing then, and that’s all they’ve got to go on. They did find a hair from the false beard in the Renault, and they may be able to trace the makers, but the chance of finding out who bought it is pretty slim.’
‘He might do another raid,’ said Robbie, nonchalantly.
That night was even better than their first. Robbie did not get home until two in the morning. If he kept these late hours up, some neighbour would notice even if Isabel never heard the car, and she would feel gravely insulted if she knew what was happening. But he didn’t care about that. He was going to leave her. When the move to the new house was due, Robbie would find himself a flat somewhere – in Blewton, perhaps, nearer to Wendy.
A nice girl like Wendy must want to be married, he thought. Would she consider him? If he didn’t rush her, she might, he dreamed.
The thought that the police had recorded his telephone calls to the hospital was frightening. He knew from his intensive viewing of television that there were all sorts of sophisticated methods for discovering where calls came from. Thank goodness the woman was all right, but even so she had been hurt and there was no escaping the blame for that.
He must get rid of the money. It was the only way to wipe the slate clean. He couldn’t ask Wendy, or if she would not have him, some other woman, to share any sort of life with him if this was in the background. He had never intended to take it; he still did not understand what had happened that day to make him go through with the escapade.
On Tuesday morning he took his carrier bags out of the cupboard where he had locked them after the robbery. He checked his disguise. Everything was there.
That evening there was a choral group meeting. Robbie had joined it three years before rather by chance. A former colleague of his from the Harbington branch of the bank had handled arrangements for the booking of the town hall for a concert in aid of the hospital, and then fallen ill. He had asked Robbie to take over the business. Joining the choir in the Crown after the concert, Robbie had envied their camaraderie as they drank beer or cider, port or sherry, according to taste, all laughing and joking. Out in the cold himself, he was drawn to the warmth of others more secure. The suggestion that he should join the singers was made frivolously at first; Robbie did not think he had enough of a voice, though as a boy he had enjoyed singing at school and had learned to read music. Then he thought how scornful Isabel would be; she lacked all musical sense. But if he were to be accepted, it would give him another excuse for evading her, and though she might mock, he could count it an achievement. He decided to audition, and sang ‘A wandering minstrel I’ from The Mikado, with great feeling if some inaccuracy; he floundered somewhat over the scales and vocal exercises also demanded of him, but had demonstrated his ability to hold a tune and was enrolled. He had improved since then and now he enjoyed the sessions, letting his own voice fuse with those around him, losing himself in the melody.
But that Tuesday evening the two hours of the meeting seemed long, and it was hard to concentrate on The Desert Song, excerpts from which were to be given at a charity musical evening, and a French folk song being ambitiously introduced into the repertoire by the choirmaster, who taught music at Harbington’s comprehensive school. The group was in some demand to provide light entertainment by those organizing community events in the area.
Robbie made his one drink last a long time at the Crown, but that was normal; he was often teased for his abstemiousness. At last he felt that he could leave, a little earlier than usual, but not a lot; he must not act in any sort of unexpected way. He got into his car in the hotel yard and drove, not home, but to Overtown, thirty miles away. Outside the town he turned off the main road into a lane and there, in the darkness, he put on his disguise: the beard, the wig, the cap and the raincoat. He slipped the dark glasses into his pocket to be worn later as he could not drive in the dark wearing them. Then he went on into the town. It was late, and there was no one about though the street lights were on and some of the shops were illuminated. Robbie knew that his bank’s branch was in a quiet part of the main street, between an estate agent’s office and a doctor’s surgery, and he drove past it into a side road where he left the car among some others which seemed to be parked for the night. He put on the dark glasses and the gloves from the car’s locker, and picked up the carrier containing the money from under the passenger’s seat where it had spent the evening; then he walked quickly back to the bank where he thrust the carrier through the letter-box. It had a wide opening, but even so it was quite difficult to flatten the banknote bundles out, through the plastic, and force it through. Without a key, he could not use the night safe. The job done, he walked on past the bank and was soon lost in the shadows of another side street. He walked fast, back to the car, completing a circle.
He felt a great sense of relief at having returned the money. The newspaper reports had mentioned the use of a blue carrier bag by the thief, so no Sherlock Holmes would be needed to deduce whence it came.
The crime he had committed was now expunged.
When told what had been received with the mail on Wednesday, the manager of the Overtown branch of the bank first of all telephoned Nigel West at Blewton.
‘We think we’ve got your stolen money,’ he said. ‘Haven’t counted it, in case of prints, but it looks as if it’s all there. In a blue carrier.’
‘Good God,’ exclaimed Nigel.
‘We’d better get on to
the police. I haven’t rung ours yet, but I think we’d better get someone here pretty soon.’
‘So do I,’ said Nigel. ‘You ring yours and I’ll get hold of the local inspector who’s on the case. Well, would you believe it?’
The two managers exclaimed a little more and decided that they would not tell head office until the police had been, then rang off.
Nigel West immediately telephoned Blewton Central where he spoke to Detective Inspector Thomas, who said he would send a man to Overtown to liaise with the local officers.
Rum, he thought, and pondered Wendy’s theory of remorse. But chummy had stopped calling the hospital; there had been no telephone inquiry about Mrs Jordan for twenty-four hours. There was no point in keeping quiet any longer; Thomas rang up the hospital and said they might issue a bulletin if they wished. Newspaper references to the robbery had ceased as no more had happened to fan interest in it. Some mention of Mrs Jordan might spark off a new reaction, and if the news of the money’s return was given to the press it might turn out that someone had seen the mystery depositor.
So far, the lab had not been able to trace the makers of the false beard worn by the raider, but when the stolen money was returned, Detective Inspector Thomas started inquiries at shops within a radius of thirty miles which sold such things. If that yielded nothing, he would extend the range, and by then the lab might have been able to be more precise. Few records were kept of such over the counter dealings, but an assistant somewhere might remember the transaction they were after. This was where luck came in, added to the painstaking work of sifting and sorting information. It turned out that false beards were bought fairly frequently for amateur theatricals.
Briscoe returned from Overtown with the news that a wisp of thread had adhered to the carrier bag holding the money; it was brown fibre, and could be from the carpet of a car. There was also a little dust. The samples had gone off to the lab.
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