by Bruce, Leo
‘What exactly did it say?’
‘I was just going to start out for the office one morning from where I live when the phone rang. “This is a friend,” it said. Bloody nice sort of friend she turned out to be. I asked who was speaking but all she would say was “a friend”.
‘Then she said she wanted me to do a little job for her. It would be to my own advantage she said. I guessed what was coming then. She was going to put the blacks on. “I know enough about your business to be sure that you’ll do what I want.” I knew what that meant. But I didn’t say anything—just listened, trying to make out who it was. “There’s a boy round your place named Carver, isn’t there?” she asked. Again I didn’t answer but she knew without my saying anything. “I want him beaten up,” she said, and added “on Saturday night”. I tried to tell her he wasn’t a bad boy whatever he’d done but she didn’t seem interested. “Beaten up good and proper,” she said. “It needn’t kill the little brute, just teach him a lesson.” You wouldn’t have believed it was a woman at all the way she went on.’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t,’ said Carolus.
‘The voice was, anyway. Then she gave more details. She’d got it all worked out. It was to be done in my cellar under the club. She gave the time and everything. The boy was to be stripped off. I couldn’t believe my ears at that, from a woman, mind you. Why? I asked her. “Never mind why. You listen,” she said, and told me how his hair was to be cut off and burned with all his clothes. He was to be tied up and left there. Then what? I asked her, because I didn’t like the idea of young Carver in that condition in my cellar. “Leave the rest to us,” she said. “Only close up the club as soon as you can that night and then keep away from it. Leave the yard gate open, and the back door, and the door down to the cellar. That’s all.” I asked her how I was going to get anyone to rough-house Carver and she told me about the hundred nicker. “Only mind it all goes on the job,” she said. “Don’t try nibbling or you’ll have had it. Hand it over to those who do it—all the lot. You’ll get it through the post the day after tomorrow. Everything understood?”
‘I understood all right but it made me feel ill thinking about it. I never have liked violence and I could feel this was a wicked cruel bitch talking. Imagine a woman wanting that done! And the boy not seventeen!’
Carolus said nothing but drove on.
‘It’s a very strange story,’ he said. ‘But she’d picked the right man. You carried it out to the letter.’
‘I didn’t want to. I felt sick when I heard the poor little blighter’s screams coming up from the cellar. But what could I do? You hear a voice coming like that from nowhere on the telephone and it turns you up, I can tell you. I had to do what she said and I handed over every penny of the money.’
Swindleton sounded almost proud of that.
‘Did you see the two boys Phil and Des after they’d been to work on Dutch?’
Swindleton looked slyly at Carolus, perhaps wondering that he knew who had done the job for him.
‘Yes. I paid them off! Gave them every…’
‘You’ve already said that. And did you leave the club soon after they did?’
‘Yes.’
‘Without going down to the cellar?’
Swindleton looked desperate. ‘Yes! Yes! Of course. I couldn’t go down there after what I’d heard.’
‘Then what?’ asked Carolus.
He had reached exactly the place where Stick had found the body. He watched Swindleton closely but could see no trace of recognition in his face. Either he was a clever actor or he had not been here before.
‘Then what? As soon as I’d had my breakfast next morning I went round to the club. Gate into the yard closed, back door unlocked, cellar door unlocked and no sign of Carver. I thought I might find him upstairs on one of the settees, sleeping it off, poor little sod. But he was nowhere. Gone. Taken away. Then, in a couple of days I read about their finding his body, and saw the whole thing.’
‘Meanwhile you did not think of reporting what had happened to the police?’
Carolus could see the man stiffen in his seat. The word police had gone home like a shot.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t. If you knew the police like I do you wouldn’t be so keen to go running to them for every little thing.’
‘But this wasn’t a little thing, Swindleton, it was murder. With a bloody big M.’
‘I know that now, or I suppose I do, but how was I to know at the time? I thought it was like the woman said, just to beat him up and humiliate him.’
‘And now that you do know?’
‘I suppose it was all a plot. All worked out to bring me into it.’
‘Yes. But why? Why should anyone go to that trouble, or spend that money, simply to involve you?’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’
‘Do you recognize this place?’
For the first time Swindleton looked about him. Carolus was sure now that he wasn’t acting.
‘This place? You mean … this is where they found him?’
‘Just here.’
‘Never seen it before in my life. Never been along this road unless it was to run straight in to New-minster.’
‘Good. Now about the voice on the telephone. Working-class you said?’
‘Yes. Well you know what I mean.’
‘I do. Did it sound put on?’
‘Not a bit. Quite natural.’
‘And you still don’t recognize it?’
‘No. I’ve thought and thought…’
‘Let’s see what voices you know. Have you heard Carver’s mother speaking?’
‘Flo, you mean? It wasn’t her. I know her voice. Trying to be ritzy, isn’t it? No, it wasn’t her.’
‘What about Mrs Farnham?’
‘I know that, too. Couldn’t mistake it.’
‘What about the girls? What about June, for instance?’
‘She was about all the time.’
‘In the room?’
‘Well, not actually in the room. But round the club somewhere. It couldn’t have been her.’ ‘Or any of the younger girls?’ ‘No. I’d have known them.’ ‘Then Mrs Bodmin?’
‘I did just wonder once whether it could have been her. But she was very fond of Dutch. She wouldn’t have done all that to him.’
‘Of course you may never have heard the voice before. It might have been someone from a distance brought in.’
‘I suppose so. And yet there did seem something familiar about it.’
‘Anyway, it worked. You did what you were told and…’
‘What else could I do? You tell me that. I couldn’t have done anything else.’
‘And as a result,’ Carolus went on inexorably. ‘Young Carver was murdered.’
‘But I didn’t mean him to be. Surely you believe that? I’d no idea they were up to anything like that.’
‘They?’
‘Whoever did it.’
‘Have you any suggestion?’
‘I suppose it could have been the lads I put on to it. They’re quite capable of taking the money and doing him too.’
‘But you say you didn’t go down to the cellar after they’d finished?’
‘I’ve told you I didn’t. I’m sensitive to that sort of thing. I wouldn’t have slept that night if I’d seen Dutch like he was.’
‘But I suppose you slept like a top knowing he was tied up?’
‘Of course I didn’t. I didn’t sleep a wink the whole night. But it would have been worse if I’d seen him.’
‘You don’t seriously believe it was Des and Phil who killed him?’
‘I don’t know. If you’d heard the way he was screaming you might have.’
‘Anyone else on your list of suspects?’
‘It could have been the other boys, the skinheads.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘They’re dead against the greasers, like Dutch.’
‘But to kill?’
‘It se
ems funny that he was carried out on the back of a motor-bike. They’re the ones that use motor-bikes all the time.’
‘What happened to Dutch’s clothes?’
‘I burned them, like the woman said.’
‘Where?’
‘In the furnace in the cellar.’
‘Thoroughly?’
‘I’ll say. I didn’t want any bits of his clobber found.’
‘It was all there?’
‘As far as I could see, yes. In a corner of the cellar.’
‘So how would you suppose he was taken away on the pillion of a motor-bike in public?’
‘They might have had other clothes, mightn’t they?’
‘Yes. Who else do you suspect?’
‘It seems a bit funny to say so but both the boy’s parents would have been glad to be rid of him. Or that’s the impression I got.’
‘Yes. You’ve named everyone but yourself.’
‘Me?’ shouted Swindleton. ‘You must be out of your mind. Me kill Dutch? He was my friend, I tell you. I wouldn’t have…’
‘Touched a hair of his head? You arranged for it to be cut off. His hair, I mean.’
‘That was just part of what I thought was a scheme. Almost a joke. Can’t you understand that? If I had known how it was to turn out I wouldn’t have…’
‘Wouldn’t have what?’
‘Well, got into it at all.’
‘You say you couldn’t help it. You were forced to do what you did.’
‘You twist everything round. You don’t know what it is to have done a bit of bird and have the Law watching you every minute of the day. I just haven’t the strength to say no when I’m being threatened. Can’t you understand that?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Carolus. ‘It depends on how you’re made.’
Carolus drove on in silence for a while then said—‘You know Swindleton, curiously enough I believe most of what you’ve said today. That is up to the point where Phil and Des left their friend tied up in the cellar. After that about what happened I have an open mind.’
‘But surely you must have come to some conclusions from what I’ve told you?’
‘No. “Conclusions” is altogether the wrong word. I’m still fumbling about among guesses. I hoped what you told me would—I don’t say decide anything—but at least enable me to cross out a few things that had been possibilities. Narrowed down the pursuit, that is. I thought I might be able to say “It wasn’t that. And it certainly wasn’t that.” But it’s done nothing of the sort. All the possibilities are still there—as large as life. I have to go much farther before I can begin to decide.’
‘And you mean to do so. Why in hell do you want to bother yourself? The boy wasn’t worth it.’
‘The boy? What’s the boy to do with it? It’s murder I’m interested in, not some scrubby little wretch of whom many people would say he deserved it.’
‘You mean you want to get someone into the nick for fifteen years?’
‘Not that exactly, either. I want to wipe the slate clean. I’ve been given this peculiar faculty of getting at the truth in a case like this and I daren’t fail to use it. I mean that. I daren’t turn my back on a problem. I don’t suppose you can understand that, Swindleton.’
‘In a way perhaps I do. You mean it sort of comes natural to you? You do it just the same now as when there was the death penalty?’
‘That,’ said Carolus, ‘made no difference at all. And now we’ll drive back and I’ll leave you at your infamous club.’
He did that.
Chapter Eleven
Carolus phoned Grimsby to make an appointment.
‘At the station?’ suggested Grimsby.
‘No. I don’t think your Station Sergeant cares for me much. Why don’t you come to my house?’
‘Because I’m sure your housekeeper doesn’t care for me at all,’ retorted Grimsby. ‘And that’s putting it mildly. But I’ll come. Be round in about fifteen minutes.’
When they had both relaxed over a drink Carolus asked, ‘Who’s in charge over at Hartington?’
‘Uniformed branch, you mean? Inspector Goad.’
‘Approachable, would you say?’
‘He’s all right. Why?’
‘I want to ask for something which he’s pretty well bound to turn down, though he might come round to it later without telling me.’
‘Oh come on, Carolus. Drop the mystery.’
‘I want him to have a watch kept on the little girl, Liz Bodmin.’
This seemed to astound Grimsby. He remained quite silent then said—‘I thought she was out of it.’
Carolus went on as though he hadn’t heard.
‘Not too obvious a watch but a pretty careful one. The child may be in danger.’
‘In danger?’
‘Yes. I may be wrong but I think your people ought to know.’
‘Why can’t you give the details? It’s rather a lot to expect of them to keep a watch on a child on your say-so, without giving any sort of reason.’
‘I know it is. That’s why I asked you about Goad.’
Grimsby made a decision.
‘It’ll be sticking my neck out but I’ll do what I can. We’ll go over and see Goad together.’
‘Now?’ suggested Carolus.
‘Well if it’s all that dangerous I suppose the sooner the better.’
It was late when they reached Hartington and at the police station they were told by a cheery and over-informative duty officer that Inspector Goad had gone home.
‘But you’ll find him at his house in Newminster Road. Number 16 it is. He’s probably just got down to his evening paper.’
‘Thanks,’ said Grimsby.
‘Reads that every night regularly,’ said the informative one. ‘Hasn’t time to read a morning paper he says. We’ve been pretty busy lately.’
‘Have you?’
‘Yes. Small stuff. Lots of shoplifting we get round here.’
‘Break-ins?’ asked Grimsby politely.
‘Not extra. A few elevenses.’
Carolus asked what the term implied.
‘Round about eleven o’clock in the morning when housewives are out shopping we get one or two of them going round pretending they’re collecting or selling vacuum cleaners and that. They just try the door or look for a back window then see what there is about. You’d be surprised what they pick up. One woman yelled the place down because they’d taken her husband’s camera which had a film in it—pictures of their baby. You get all sorts,’ he added as a philosophical end-piece.
‘Many car thefts?’
‘Very few, thank God. They’re a bloody nuisance. We had one last night, funnily enough, or so the owner said. Little chap named Skilly. He rang up this morning to say he’d found it, just as though it was a lost pet.’
‘Perhaps it was,’ said Grimsby. ‘Some owners fuss over their cars as though they were alive. We must be getting on, though. We’ve got to see the Inspector.’
That was an unfortunate remark because it set off a mass of repetition from the desk officer, how to find the house, the fact that Goad was a widower and would be on his own and so on. But at last they got away and found number 16 Newminster Road which turned out to be a tidy bungalow with a feature which always annoyed Carolus, a winding path up to the front door to make it appear as though the distance from the front gate was greater.
Inspector Goad, a grey-haired man of fifty-odd was alert-looking and spoke quickly. He invited them into the room where he had been sitting in a deep armchair with a tankard beside him. The evening paper, as the duty officer had predicted, lay beside his chair.
‘I can only offer you beer,’ said Goad. Grimsby accepted at once and Carolus did so too.
‘Now what can I do for you, gentlemen?’ asked Goad.
‘Mr Deene has something to ask you,’ said Grimsby, then added—‘Between ourselves I may say that Mr Deene has been of considerable help to me in that case over in my manor.’
‘The dead boy found in a ditch, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
Goad pulled at his pipe but said nothing for a moment.
‘Well, Mr Deene?’ he asked at last.
‘This is very difficult,’ Carolus admitted. ‘First of all I must admit, Inspector, that I’m a private individual. I haven’t even got the pretence of a status in the case which an investigator employed by the family might have.’
‘That’s good,’ interjected Goad. ‘At least you admit it. You mean you’re just inquisitive?’
‘That’s it,’ said Carolus. ‘Just inquisitive.’
‘Mr Deene has some reputation as a criminologist,’ put in Grimsby.
‘I know that,’ said Goad sharply. ‘I can read, you know. I’ve had a lot of entertainment out of reading detective novels, Mr Deene, from Sherlock Holmes onwards.’
‘Sherlock Holmes!’ said Grimsby with the contempt of the present generation. ‘Conan Doyle wrote of the police as though they were a lot of stupid illiterates!’
‘Perhaps they were in those days,’ said Inspector Goad. ‘And one or two of them aren’t much better today.’
Grimsby accepted the reproof.
‘Whereas,’ went on Goad, ‘I’ve never met a private investigator. Certainly not one who admits that it is no more than a hobby.’
‘Hobbies grow,’ said Carolus. ‘They start small and gradually take over the whole mind.’
‘You specialize in murder?’
‘I only investigate murder.’
‘I should have thought that was something of a disability,’ said Goad. ‘It’s the variety of our work which gives us insight. And you need insight to understand a murderer.’
Carolus admitted it.
‘I gather yours is a more scholarly approach than ours. You wrote a book called Who Killed William Rufus? didn’t you?’
‘Many years ago I did.’
‘Interesting,’ said Goad. ‘Now what have you come to see me about?’
‘You’ll think it’s what is called a liberty,’ said Carolus. ‘I’ve come to ask you to have a special watch kept on a little girl in Hartington.’
‘I suppose you don’t want to explain?’
‘As far as I can, yes. I believe the child may be in danger. What I can’t tell you, because I really don’t know with any certainty, is the identity of the person from whom she may be in danger.’