Death in Cold Print

by John Creasey

  ‘I’ve met police surgeon pathologists before,’ Roger said, ‘and we’ve got enough on hand to keep us up half the night without crowding you.’ Then he made his gesture, turning to Tenterden and saying: ‘Arthur, we ought to go and see what’s turned up near the works. All right with you?’

  ‘Good idea,’ Tenterden said, and looked straight into Roger’s eyes as he went on: ‘Then we’d better eat. My wife’s expecting you and Brown to dinner. Hope you’ll come.’

  ‘Be glad to,’ Roger said.

  So the breach was repaired, temporarily at least.

  The situation outside the works hadn’t really changed, although new arc lights had been rigged up, there was a vivid concentration of white light around the spot where the car had been parked. A dozen more dots indicated places where articles had been found – including an old pipe, a rusty bicycle wheel which must have been under the hedge for months, cigarette cartons, a half-crown and a sixpence, an old table-knife with a burned handle, and a child’s shoe. These were all placed on pieces of brown paper, labelled, and fully described. Brown was looking tired. The young man on the diagram seemed eager to keep at it. Six men were searching farther away from the spot, and another team was working near the silo. Roger and Tenterden drove over to it, and as they drew up, Tenterden said: ‘We ought to be able to check if Blake’s footprints were at both places. If they weren’t it’ll be in his favour.’

  ‘He could have worn overshoes,’ Roger said, and grinned. ‘The biggest thing in his favour might be finding out about the other men, the men from the car. No doubt that his wife’s shoes made the heel marks by the hedge, so she came along the road on her bicycle, and then crossed to the other side of the hedge, and walked along wheeling the bicycle. There’s no trace of the machine yet, and there isn’t likely to be until morning. What we don’t know is whether she was attacked by one man or by three. And we don’t know whether one man or three broke into the works.’

  ‘Never likely to find out from the clues here,’ said Tenterden. ‘You serious about having everyone’s finger-prints taken?’

  ‘We can stall on that,’ Roger said.

  ‘Getting hungry?’ asked Tenterden slyly.

  ‘Famished – and I’ll bet Browny is.’

  Brown said heartily: ‘Believe me I am.’

  ‘If we’re going to give your wife catering problems—’ Roger began.

  ‘She’s used to big eaters,’ Tenterden said, and drove them to a small Georgian house, painted white and black, and looking beautiful in a terrace of houses all two hundred years or more old.

  Margaret Tenterden was a tall, slim woman, so expertly made-up that she seemed almost out of place in Corby. Her auburn hair was dressed in a fashion from Vogue, her skin had an artificially natural look, her eyes had a touch of eyeshadow, to heighten their deep and startling blueness, and she was wearing a sheath-like dress which would have done Knightsbridge and Mayfair justice. On the surface there was nothing amiss between Roger and Tenterden, and nothing spoiled a meal of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, with fruit salad and cream for dessert.

  ‘Now you can all go and puff smoke in the front room,’ she said. ‘Maude will help me wash up in the morning, Arthur. Then I’m going along to the Fête meeting – goodness knows what time I’ll be back.’

  In an L-shaped front room Tenterden produced fat cigars and a good brandy. Brown looked a little out of his depth, and Roger noted with appreciation how beautifully appointed and beautifully kept the room was. There was a Parker Knoll suite, of wine-red and gold, a faintly patterned wine-red carpet, gold-coloured curtains with deep pelmets against white-painted woodwork, small pieces of French and English Regency furniture. This not only spelt taste, it spelt money. And if he cared to see it that way, he was being softened up.

  The need now was to get rid of Brown, then have things out with Tenterden.

  The telephone bell rang near Tenterden, and he lifted the receiver.

  ‘Yes, speaking,’ he said. ‘Yes.’ He glanced at Roger and mouthed something which Roger didn’t catch. Then his expression changed, he reminded Roger vividly of his anger in the morgue – even the glitter was back in his eyes.

  ‘Hold on,’ he said, then stood up clumsily, stared down at Roger, and said: ‘Blake tried to kill himself. Jumped from a window at the hospital. Catching his clothes on a post saved him.’

  Tenterden stopped, but his eyes and his manner seemed to accuse: ‘That’s how far you goaded him.’

  Brown demanded urgently: ‘Is he hurt much?’

  ‘No,’ said Tenterden.

  ‘Looks as if he did the murders all right.’

  Tenterden said: ‘I always thought you chaps—’ and broke off.

  Brown looked bewildered.

  Roger said: ‘Is there anything else, Arthur?’

  ‘What else do you expect?’

  ‘I’d like to know if the missing bicycle’s been found, and if Blake’s footprints were found near the tyre prints and the bicycle,’ Roger said. ‘Browny, get over to the station, check on those two things and let me know the result, and check on Blake’s condition.’

  Brown stood up almost with alacrity.

  ‘Right,’ he said.

  ‘Glad I brought someone who’ll sacrifice comfort to duty,’ Roger said.

  Tenterden saw Brown to the front door, while Roger sipped his brandy, drew hard at his cigar, and found himself wondering where the money came from here – it certainly didn’t come from Tenterden’s salary, which wasn’t likely to be more than fifteen hundred a year. Had his wife money? He had to remember that one of the major influences on the investigation would be the local tradition, influences, and prejudices.

  Tenterden came back, as Roger stood up. They faced each other, as if sparring for an opening.

  Roger said: ‘You think I drove Blake to try to kill himself, Arthur; I think his wife did. If you’d wanted to protect anybody you wouldn’t have sent to the Yard so quickly, that makes me a bloody fool for asking who else you’re protecting. Right?’

  Tenterden’s big body seemed to relax.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Handsome words by Handsome West. Truth is, I think more of Charlie than any man I know. Always have. It dates back to school days. He once pulled me out of a flooded river.’ The Corby man paused, then went on deliberately: ‘This doesn’t mean I don’t think you were too tough on him, but you only set it off – Doris was his trouble. Whether he killed her or not, it’s going to be a big problem. Want all the background now?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Doris Blake was on the shelf when Charlie married her,’ Tenterden went on, as if really anxious to talk. ‘He’d been in love with her for years but hadn’t told anyone but a few of his close friends, including me. He and his first wife got along all right, but between you and me she had a hell of a temper – drank a bit in secret, too. Charlie took it as it came. He didn’t breathe a word to Doris Miller, as she was then. She worked on one of the binding machines, she’d been at the works since she left school – that’s fifteen years. It’s an old machine, always wanting a lot of engineering maintenance. That’s how they got to know each other, but according to my information, when Charlie popped the question a year after his first wife died, Doris was flabbergasted. She said yes pretty quick, though.

  ‘I never asked any questions, but I think Charlie treated her as if she was made of precious china,’ Tenterden went on. ‘Afraid to touch her—bit afraid that if he overdid bed life it would upset her. About three months ago, she started going to see Jensen at the works at night, instead of spending the evening with a friend. Two of our chaps reported it to me, and I had a word with Sydney Richardson. If he’d wanted it stopped, I’d have stopped it.’

  ‘So that’s why he was so shaken when he knew that Doris Blake was killed too,’ Roger remarked.

  ‘That’s it,’ agreed Tenterden. ‘Take it from me, he assumes that Charlie had a brainstorm.’

  ‘It’s still possible,’ Roger said
mildly. ‘Brief me about the other people concerned – for instance, Sydney Richardson and the other works bosses, will you? If Richardson didn’t mind Jensen and one of the employees having an affaire at the works by night it suggests a queer attitude on his part, doesn’t it?’ When Tenterden didn’t answer, Roger went on: ‘And Blake’s an old employee, almost a friend. Why should Richardson give tacit approval to Blake’s wife and Jensen using the works as a love nest?’

  ‘Not much you miss, Handsome, I must say,’ Tenterden said ruefully. ‘I don’t know, for certain. Sydney Richardson’s a bit unpredictable, very nervous type, and he makes a fetish of public relations with the workers. As a matter of fact, he’s never been quite the same since the big strike, a year or two back. He always believed that the manager-relationship here was so good that his people would defy the unions, but they didn’t. Since then he’s been edgy, trying to make sure that such a thing couldn’t happen again. There have been times when I’ve wondered whether Sydney R.’s lost his mental balance. Sometimes he behaves as if he’s a bit potty.’

  It would have been easy to say that this was obviously the heart of the matter; saying so wouldn’t help. Roger made himself speak briskly.

  ‘I get it. There was a big strike, and Richardson was naive enough to make himself believe that the workers here would defy their union, but they didn’t. Who led them out? If he’s gone mad, whom would he hate? Whom does he blame for the trouble?’ When Tenterden didn’t answer, Roger asked sharply: ‘Did Charlie Blake have anything to do with the strike? Was he against the management?’

  After a long pause, Tenterden said: ‘In a way, you could say he was. He was the one man who might have swayed the works, but he didn’t try. Richardson and Sir Lancelot Key himself tried to make him, but he said it wasn’t an issue for him or his union – he’s an engineer – and he wouldn’t interfere. Wouldn’t have made any difference if he had, but he didn’t even try. That upset Richardson and Key pretty badly. It may be why Richardson didn’t put a stop to Jensen having a visitor when he was on duty at night.’

  Before Roger could comment, the telephone bell rang again. Tenterden answered it, then said. ‘Hold on,’ and held out the receiver. ‘It’s Brown,’ he said.

  Roger said into the mouthpiece: ‘Yes, Browny?’

  Browny said: ‘They’ve found the bicycle under some loose hay near the silo, Handsome, and they’ve got a footprint from Charlie Blake near the broken glass – the glass was on top of it, so it’s not conclusive, but he could have hidden the bike all right.’

  Roger said: ‘Yes. Anything else?’

  ‘Owen and Arnold have finished their jobs,’ Brown said. ‘You ought to come and have a talk to them.’

  ‘Right away,’ said Roger.

  He told Tenterden, who made no comment, but said heavily: ‘We’d better be going, hadn’t we?’

  Doris Blake had died from manual strangulation; there was no contributory cause of death. Scratches on her shoes and bruises on her arms suggested that she had struggled, and had been dragged along the ground.

  Jensen had died from cerebral haemorrhage caused by at least four blows on the back of the head by a hammer or similar instrument.

  The only finger-prints on Doris Blake’s bicycle were her own and her husband’s. Two of Blake’s footprints were near the spot where the bicycle had fallen.

  A check of the tyres of all cars belonging to anyone who worked at the works showed that no such car had been parked near the works gates – that car must have belonged to someone outside the works staff.

  Charlie Blake was in a perfect position to make keys for the main gates of the works – one of his jobs was the cutting of keys for general works purposes.

  ‘We want everything checked and rechecked,’ Roger said to Tenterden. ‘If nothing else turns up by tomorrow midday we’ll have to charge Blake.’

  ‘I know,’ Tenterden said gruffly. ‘I suppose I always did. But that car—’

  His voice trailed off.

  ‘I have nothing to say,’ said Charlie Blake, in a low-pitched voice, when he was charged, ‘except that I know nothing about the murders.’

  Roger doubted whether even Tenterden was really convinced, but Brown certainly was. There was no better man to look after the collating of evidence, and Roger’s last lingering doubts about going to Bedford were removed when he heard that Richardson was going to London for the weekend.

  ‘Have the Yard keep an eye on him,’ Roger said, ‘and call me if anything turns up.’

  ‘Such as the men in that car?’ Brown was inclined to scoff. ‘You’re almost as anxious as our Arthur to see Blake in the clear.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Roger said. ‘I just want a nice clean job. Anything from Pratt and Asterley?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Brown, and looked thoughtful. ‘One thing would interest us, though, if this was a robbery or hold-up job. Richardson often gives work to old lags. He’s a big boy in the local Discharged Prisoners’ Aid Society. Pratt recognised a chap named Ragg who was sent down for race-course robberies a few years ago. He and two others, named Carter and Tate, worked the racecourses together. Carter and Tate got off, Ragg got two years.’

  ‘Recognition mutual?’ demanded Roger.

  ‘Shouldn’t think so. Pratt was in a Division at the time, not at the Yard.’

  ‘Hmm. Have him check all of Richardson’s ex-prisoners,’ Roger advised, ‘but don’t raise any scare. See if Tate and Carter are around, too.’

  ‘No need to raise a scare,’ Brown said comfortably. ‘We’ve got our man.’

  Chapter Nine

  Wilful Damage

  Driving alone had its drawbacks. The hedges slid by, traffic was thin on the country roads, and the sun wasn’t low enough in the west to dazzle. There was time for Roger to think, to let the facts slide through his mind.

  Half-way between Corby and Bedford, he was uneasy and even depressed. How right was Tenterden? How right had he himself been? If Blake had broken down into a confession it would have been sufficient justification, but all they had was a broken man and circumstantial evidence – and this news from the two Yard men at the works. One worker once convicted of robbery with violence was at Richardson and Key’s – and there might be others, for Richardson the jumpy and the nervous, the man who might have an unreasoning grudge against Blake, made a habit of employing old lags. Well, a lot of good men did that – as often as not it paid off. Now—well, there was the evidence of three men in a car near the gates, wasn’t there? Take that away and no one would have much doubt about Blake’s guilt.

  Roger was on the outskirts of Bedford when he decided to call Brown, drove to police headquarters, received a warm if startled welcome, arid at a quarter to seven was talking to Brown, who was still in his office at the Corby station.

  ‘Now what’s on your mind?’ demanded Brown.

  ‘Man named Ragg,’ Roger said.

  ‘And one named Tate, a third named Carter – all old lags, from the north-east,’ Brown retorted drily. ‘What about them?’

  ‘Check if one of them has a car with tyres size 5.50 x 15,’ Roger said, ‘and check their footprints. If they were by those gates we want a lot of questions answered.’

  ‘Still want to soft-pedal this angle?’

  ‘Yes,’ Roger said.

  He reached his brother-in-law’s home a little after seven o’clock, and as he pulled up outside, the door opened and his two sons, Martin-called-Scoopy and Richard called Richard, came hurrying out, delighted. For the first time, he forgot Corby. Janet was in the kitchen with her sister, and both were talking animatedly to a brother they had not seen for five years, and to his wife, a small, smiling, friendly woman from Kentucky. Twenty-seven relatives made the atmosphere of family union complete and boisterously happy. Thoughts of Blake, of his dead wife, of Jensen with his head smashed in, became shadowy things at the back of Roger’s mind. He wished he had done the finger-printing, though. It might have been superfluous, but it could als
o have established if an unauthorised person had been in that wages office on the night of Jensen’s murder. He was thinking of this when he was undressing in the small room allocated to him and Janet, at nearly one o’clock that morning. The bed was little more than a large single one, pushed into a corner. Janet sat up on the pillows, watched him, and, quite out of the blue, asked: ‘What’s worrying you, Roger?’

  ‘Who’s worrying?’ Roger demanded.

  ‘You know very well what I mean,’ Janet said. ‘Aren’t you satisfied that Blake’s the murderer? I heard about him being charged on the radio.’

  ‘Reason says he’s the boy,’ answered Roger with forced brightness. ‘I should really have laid on a big-scale fingerprinting job, but it would have taken a couple of days. I couldn’t have laid it on and then left it to the others, so I suppose the real truth is I told myself it would be a waste of time, and came here.’

  ‘Old Man Conscience after you again,’ Janet said lightly. ‘Is it too late to lay it on now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s about the first time in ten years you put off a police job for me,’ said Janet practically. ‘If you hadn’t managed to get here I’d have been on your conscience all right!’

  Roger forced a laugh, and slid into bed.

  Janet dropped off to sleep first, but Roger lay awake for some time. Janet was right from her point of view, but how wrong had he been? How much too eager to believe in Blake’s guilt? He kept picturing Blake throwing himself out of that window.

  In the next room the brother-in-law from Kentucky was snoring loudly. Downstairs, on a bed made up on the floor, the boys were sound asleep. A hundred miles away, in the remand cell, Blake would be restless. Not so far from Blake, Tenterden was in the twin bed next to his unexpectedly attractive wife. Matter-of-fact Brown was probably fully satisfied that there was nothing to worry about; he would be snoring. But if they had charged the wrong man the killer or killers were still at large. And if that was so, then Roger hadn’t any idea even about the motive for the crimes.