The Players And The Game

by Julian Symons

  ‘I think you’ve got something. Though what was to stop him doing some more digging and making a proper job of it the second time? Odd, isn’t it?’

  Paterson had run out of ideas.

  Otterley had done the pm on the French girl, which for the most part confirmed what they already knew. The fragments adhering to her hair and body were concrete mixed with earth and sand. The only fresh point of interest was the likelihood that the girl had had sexual intercourse shortly before her death. When Plender rang to report what he had found, Paling exploded with irritation.

  ‘He smelt trouble and he’s on the run. If we’d taken him a few hours earlier –’

  Hazleton looked up from the pm details. ‘He just might have gone to the place he said he was going, Grattingham Manor.’ He gave the number to the girl on the improvised switchboard. ‘Ask for Mr Lawrence. Don’t say who’s calling.’

  When he put down the telephone five minutes later he refrained from looking at his superior. ‘He’s there. Stayed the night at some pub in the village, came early this morning. I’ve asked Lawrence to let us know if he makes any attempt to leave.’

  ‘It’s no more than a two-hour drive. I’ll take him myself.’ Paling felt that his nerves this morning would not stand a session with the Chief Constable.

  ‘It’s Tubby Mouncer’s patch and he used to be a mate of mine. Shall I have a word with him?’

  Paling agreed. Protocol must be observed. He listened without pleasure to the DCI’s hearty conversation with Detective Chief Inspector Mouncer, of the Hampshire CID, who promised to be at Grattingham Manor in person, and then got away. As he went down the lane, accompanied by Brill and a driver, he passed Sir Felton’s Jaguar.

  An elegant young man named Gray had arrived. He was talking to Sturtevant-Evans.

  ‘When were you up?’

  ‘Sixty-three. At the House. And you?’

  ‘New College. You must know old Puffy Spokes.’

  ‘Of course. And that ghastly little Cockney who used to go round with him.’ Sturtevant-Evans squeaked, in a caricature of a Cockney accent, ‘“Ow’s it goin’, then, mate?” What was his name?’

  ‘What was his name? Barber?’

  ‘No, some other pleb occupation. Taylor?’

  Paul Vane threw back his head and closed his eyes. He could feel his left arm twitching. The voices went on, chattering like birds. He felt his arm move, apparently of its own volition, so that it was raised like a semaphore. When he opened his eyes the arm lay harmlessly on his chair. He got to his feet and walked hurriedly out of the room. The door opened and closed after him. It was Madeley.

  ‘There’s another sitting-room, you know.’ He led the way across the hall. This second sitting-room had magazines on tables and in racks, like a blend of a doctor’s waiting-room and a public library. Madeley sat in an armchair beside Paul Vane. ‘I gather you don’t care for those university types. I don’t get on with them myself. I’m not English, you know, I was brought up in the Welsh valleys. Can you tell the accent? I’ve tried to get rid of it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have known.’

  ‘It’s good of you to say so. The English don’t like the Welsh, you know. It’s held me back. What’s your trouble?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ He shrank away slightly. Madeley leaned closer.

  ‘We’re all here because there’s something wrong with us. I’ll tell you what it is with me. I’m production manager at Swan Building, that’s an important job, mind. I’ve got two of these university types to deal with now. They despise me, I can tell it.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re here?’

  ‘They say the production graph’s been falling,’ Madeley said darkly. ‘They talk about loss of concentration. It’s an excuse. What about you?’

  ‘I’m just here for a refresher course. New techniques of handling people, motivational research, that kind of thing.’

  ‘They tell you that. You’ll find there’s more to it, there’s something hidden.’

  The door opened, and Lawrence’s well-brushed head appeared round it. He said with relief, ‘There you are. Getting together, fine. Another couple of guests here–’

  Vane brushed past him without speaking, and ran up the wide staircase. Lawrence stood at the bottom of it until he heard a door close.

  In the bedroom Paul Vane took out a writing-pad from his suitcase, sat at a desk looking out on to the old stables converted into garages, with beyond them the dripping trees, and began to write.

  Brill had heard about Paling’s weakness, or perhaps it was strength, for theorising about a case, and was prepared to play up to it. ‘You’re sure about Vane, then, sir? There’s no doubt he’s chummy?’

  Paling disliked these colloquial expressions, but at the same time welcomed the chance to test again the links in the chain that bound Vane to the murders. There was his background as a sex offender, although one never actually charged, and the conjectural impotence which often marked sex killers. And then there was the evidence, the use of his typewriter, his behaviour on Friday night, and of course the fact that Anne Marie’s body had been in his cellar.

  ‘It’s not watertight, mind you. But it’s good enough to charge him. I don’t doubt we shall find traces of concrete in his car boot.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course we haven’t found any link between him and the sex mag or the woman who ran it. Or the woman he mentioned in that letter.’

  ‘It’s perfectly possible, Sergeant, and I think likely, that the woman in the letter doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Chummy was on his owneo.’

  ‘Vane operated alone, yes.’

  ‘And when you say the body was in his cellar, sir, it wasn’t his own cellar then. What I mean is, he hadn’t moved in when the French girl was killed. Why should he plant a body in what was going to be his own cellar, why not get rid of it at once?’

  ‘That’s something we can’t know. My guess would be that he kept it there because he didn’t want it to be found at all. I’ve made a study of this sort of killer, and they often do keep bodies around. Think of Christie, think of Crippen. Then when things got too hot Vane decided to dump it.’

  Brill did not carry the argument beyond this point, for fear of upsetting his superior. His own belief was that Vane had done it, but that the case against him was full of holes.

  Monday, twelve-thirty hours. Plender had the file of the case, or rather the cases, in the middle of his desk, and a tray of coffee and sandwiches on the left-hand side. The file went back to the beginning, the disappearance of Anne Marie, and included everything, interviews, reports of conversations, phoney confessions, everything that had happened up to Sunday night. He ate and drank as he went systematically through the file to find what it was that made his memory itch.

  Monday, twelve-thirty hours. They had met Tubby Mouncer, who was naturally enough the kind of big jolly man that Paling most disliked, at County HQ. Paling filled him in on the details as they drove out to Grattingham Manor. Protocol, again, demanded that the local force should be present at the arrest.

  The door of the Manor opened almost before they had drawn up their cars. Jay Burns Lawrence welcomed them into the hall.

  ‘I suppose there’s no use in saying I hope it isn’t serious, because if it wasn’t you wouldn’t be here. But I know you’ll be as discreet as possible. I thought Vane seemed a little distracted, I must say.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘In his room. Shall I call him?’

  ‘Not yet. First of all we want to see his car.’

  Paul Vane had finished his writing long ago. He had been sitting holding his head in both hands, and staring out at the rain. He watched the three men picking their way across the puddles in the courtyard, get to his car where it stood under cover, and lift the boot. One of the men took out a torch and shone it inside the boot, another went around and opened the car door.

  Paul Vane folded the pages he had written, added two sentences, put them in an envelope, c
arefully gummed it down at the back, wrote three words on the front. Then he got up from the writing-table.

  It did not need a microscope to see the traces of dirt and concrete in the boot. There was a smell like that of rotting vegetables. A torn piece of sacking, that looked as if it would match the sacking beside the body, had caught on a screw. There were what might have been fragments of decayed flesh. They looked inside the car for bloodstains or other marks which might indicate that one or more of the girls had been in it, but they found nothing. Mouncer raised his eyebrows and Paling nodded.

  Lawrence was waiting in the hall, a little anxious. He started to say something. Mouncer patted him on the shoulder.

  ‘Just you don’t worry, lad, and nobody’ll get hurt. Which is his room?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’ As they went up the staircase two men came out of another room into the hall, and stared at them with frank curiosity. ‘Do please be discreet.’

  ‘The sooner we start the sooner we’ll be away. This one, is it?’ Mouncer turned the handle gently, knocked. There was no reply. Paling whispered to Lawrence, ‘Call him.’

  Lawrence said in a shaky voice, ‘Could I have a word with you, Paul?’ Silence.

  Mouncer said to Lawrence, ‘Have you got a key?’ He did not bother to keep his voice down.

  ‘In the office downstairs. But if there’s a key inside you can’t–’

  ‘We’ll manage. Get it.’

  When Lawrence came back, Mouncer took the key, dropped to his knees and fiddled with the lock. There was the sound of the key inside dropping to the floor. He put in the other key and turned it. The door opened. They went in.

  The room was empty, or it appeared empty. It was Brill who saw the figure hanging behind the door, its face red, and swollen like that of a sufferer from bad toothache, a gaudy tie making a noose around the neck. They got him to the floor, took off the tie, Mouncer and Brill began to work on him. Paling stood aside with a look of distaste. Jay Burns Lawrence said ‘Good God,’ and kept repeating it.

  ‘Shut the door,’ Paling said.

  Lawrence shut the door. He continued to stare at the body on the floor, shaking his head like a swimmer coming up after a dive. ‘Hanged himself. I’d never have believed it.’

  ‘Don’t stand there, man. Ring for a doctor.’

  Lawrence went out, still shaking his head. Paling went to the window, looked out. ‘He saw us by the car.’ He picked up the envelope, which was addressed ‘To the police’, opened it.

  Brill said, ‘No good,’ and rested back on his heels. Mouncer still worked away. Paling read what Vane had written.

  I am writing this because in these last three months, since we moved to Rawley, my life has been ruined. Alice has left me. I have been sent to this extraordinary house on a kind of schoolboy training course, and I know that when I return Hartford is going to get me sacked. The police obviously suspect me of murder. My life as I know it is at an end. Can I start a new one? I don’t think so.

  But I want to put the record straight. I did one stupid thing, and I lied to the police, but I have committed no crime. Somebody has been persecuting me.

  I now put down all I know about the Allbright case. (I suppose you might call it a statement for the police, but I shall probably never give it to them, I shall probably tear it up.) I told the absolute truth in my first statement. I hardly knew Louise Allbright. I took her home and kissed her, nothing more. When the police found out about the other girls they suspected me, but they were wrong. I know nothing about the letter done on my typewriter. I cannot explain it. I told the absolute truth about everything.

  Until Friday night.

  On Friday I came home, and Alice had gone. I had some drinks, went over the house and down into the cellar to see if she had taken her suitcases. She had. There was a space where they had stood, and the concrete there was cracked and broken. There was also a bad smell. I pushed away some of the broken concrete and found a body.

  Who was it, how long had it been there, how did it get there? I have no idea. But I was frightened. I felt that I must get rid of it. I was being watched, there was a police car outside. I thought they would come in, find this body, and arrest me.

  I got a spade, dug it out – the grave was very shallow, and the concreting over had been badly done. I put it in the car boot, with a sack over it and some clothes which were in the grave. I went to Green Common, parked there, put it down covered with the sacking, and covered it with leaves and branches.

  It was a woman. I had nothing to do with her death.

  So far she has not been found, but of course she will be, very soon. Then they will ask more questions. I can’t stand that.

  Why has this happened to me?

  Paul Vane

  At the bottom a few more words were scrawled:

  The police are here now, looking at the car. I can’t go through any more.

  Mouncer stood up, wiped his forehead. ‘He’s had his last meal, that’s for sure. Got a nice little confession there, to make it all neat?’

  ‘No confession.’

  ‘But he did it all right. Or why string himself up? Nice tie too.’

  Paling looked down at the figure on the floor. ‘I don’t know.’

  Brill looked down too. ‘It’s one way of solving your problems,’ he said.

  Monday, twelve-thirty hours. Bob Lowson beamed at Brian Hartford.

  ‘Sit down, Brian. Glad you could spare a minute. I thought you’d like to know that Joey Fiddick is out. The group’s no longer interested. Or rather, we’ve done a deal with them by which we get access to American outlets. We’re going into the States in a big way. It’s going to cost money, mind you, but it’s a good deal. It’s not what you had in mind.’

  Denial would have been pointless. ‘No.’

  ‘It brings your position into question.’ Hartford thought he knew what was coming, but he was wrong. On the principle that a victor can afford to make concessions, Lowson suggested a shift and extension of Hartford’s empire, to include overall control of the new American set-up. He accepted immediately.

  Sometimes it is a good idea to crush rebels, but often it is better to buy them. Bob Lowson was so pleased with himself that he rang and made an appointment with Dr Winstanley.

  Monday, fourteen-thirty hours. Hazleton entered Plender’s office, slammed the door behind him. He looked as dangerous as a wild boar. ‘You’ve heard?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Vane saw them looking at his car, hanged himself. Shouldn’t happen, that kind of thing. Bloody stupid.’

  ‘He did it?’ Plender sounded disappointed.

  ‘He left a statement, admitted nothing except getting rid of the French girl’s body. Says he found her in the cellar and got the wind up.’ He noticed the pile of papers in front of the sergeant. ‘What the hell have you got there?’

  ‘It’s the file. I knew there was some word or phrase I’d read which meant something, it had been used by somebody in the case before.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Plender swallowed before he spoke. Hazleton realised that he was very excited. ‘Brill put in a very full report of your interview with Alberta Norman. Here’s one thing she said about this Alastair she talked about. “He was a layabout. And a pinchfist too.” Did she say that?’

  ‘Very likely. Why?’

  ‘It’s an unusual word, “pinchfist”, don’t you agree?’

  ‘What of it, Plender? It’s quite probable she invented this Alastair man as a cover up for something else. Come to the point, if there is one.’

  ‘Here’s a report I made on the questioning of a woman named Joan Brown. When I asked her why she left her job, she said the man was an old pinchfist.’ He pointed out the line. ‘Isn’t it remarkable that she should use the same word? What did this Norman woman look like, sir? No, let me tell you. Five-two or -three, rather dumpy, high forehead, nose with a bit of a droop at the tip–’ he sketched it – ‘rat
her thick legs, rather big feet.’

  ‘That nose is right. And you mean the frizzy hair and the make-up and glasses–’

  ‘Plain glass in them. Those were the things she could alter. The nose she couldn’t. I wish I hadn’t been off that afternoon. I’d have recognised her.’

  Hazleton took the sheet on which Plender had put down his interview with Joan Brown, and read it. He remained unexcited. ‘It sounds as though you may be right. Does it help? Joan Brown disappeared and turned up again, but what then?’

  You’ll see in this report she says she’d gone to her parents. I didn’t ring them then because there seemed no point. I called them today, talked to them both. Her mother said Joan came home in a state of collapse, screaming and crying that she’d done something terrible. Within a week she’d got over it and they started having rows, which I gather was as usual. The rows went on till she upped and left. She’d never got on with her parents since she was twelve and stopped going to church. They’re both strict Methodists, they spout hell fire and damnation even down the phone.’

  ‘Have they heard of her since?’

  ‘Yes. In the last month they’ve had two registered envelopes, each with fifty quid in it. No letter inside, just a note that said “Love, Joan”. Another thing. When she was fourteen she got into trouble. She caught a dog, tied it up, cut it all over till it bled to death.’ Hazleton stared at him. ‘She got very unpopular in the district after that, left as soon as she was out of school. They’ve only seen her occasionally since then.’

  ‘You think she took part in killing the French girl, got frightened and ran home, then decided she liked it and came back.’

  ‘It makes sense, sir, doesn’t it? Especially when you think about the dog.’

  Hazleton agreed. ‘It makes sense. It’s all theory, mind you. The DCS would love it.’

  Plender coughed apologetically. ‘That’s not all, sir.’

  ‘More theories? You don’t want to do too much fancy thinking, Harry. Gives you piles, keeping your arse glued too long to a chair.’