He stopped abruptly and I ran into his shoulder. Suddenly, walking around a working bay that was shrouded with green canvas drapes, we had come into clear sight of this paint dip tank. Around it there ebbed and flowed the groups of men, works staff and police. A uniformed officer seemed to be in charge.
The tank itself must have been sunk six feet or so in the ground, because I discovered later that it was seven feet deep. The part I could see was simply a foot-high lip to a tank seven feet long by about four feet across. Red, pungent paint filled it to within six inches, and above it there was an electrically-operated crane on a swinging beam, presumably for lowering the finished axles into the paint.
That was what I thought it was at first, hanging there, a six foot rear axle. But then I saw it had an unsymmetrical shape, and that it seemed to wear a peaked cap. Also, it was not supported simply by the hook from the crane, but by a length of rope from the hook, the other end forming a noose which was tight around this person’s neck. With a dreadful lurching of the stomach, I realised that it was a person, but now, having been lowered in the paint — I could see where the paint line had reached to a point on the rope six inches above the cap — it hung like a petrified red pendant, utterly and shockingly dehumanised.
It was coated completely with red paint, now dry, the arms hanging at the sides, the drooping toes just below the surface of the liquid. Every portion of this pitiful creature was red, even, I saw with a catch in my throat, the gallantry medal I had pinned on his lapel that evening.
And then it became personal, because I knew him. This was the thin one who had met my gaze quizzically. I remembered his long, sharp nose ...
The most sickening aspect of the whole scene was that nose. It was not red. It was humanly pink. For some reason, probably revolting, someone must have leaned forward, as he was withdrawn from the paint, and wiped that nose clean.
“Peter ... ” I whispered, touching his arm.
Then the chattering movement was stilled by the abrupt impact of full-power loudspeakers, which bounced a message from the roof. It was almost unintelligible in the resonance.
“Will Mr. Goodliffe, please take a telephone call ... Will Mr. Goodliffe ... ”
I saw him then, detaching himself from a group with a frenzied bounce, his nerves jerking him like a puppet.
“That’s me. That’s me.”
And he hurried away from us into a dark, lowering office just the other side of the sunken loading bay.
I could not get away. There was nowhere I could go, and I was completely dependent. Goodliffe reappeared. His mouth was moving. He had to push the words around before the meaning became intelligible. As he spoke he rushed at people, appealing, tugging at their elbows.
“They’ve got our steel! Our special steel. It’s kidnapped. Our steel. They’re holding it for ransom!”
He was sobbing.
2
Not long after that, I began to lose my concentration. I suppose it was reaction from the shock, combined with an intense weariness, which had my head singing. But all in all the whole thing became one vast confusion, and I was soon unable to understand what was going on. I could not simply walk away from it. My car was somewhere in the grounds, but nobody wanted to direct me, and my friend Peter seemed to have disappeared.
In the wake of Goodliffe, we — the staff and I — had drifted across the empty factory to the Production Control offices, where Goodliffe had his own room, and where, it seemed, he could be distraught in comfort.
At someone’s desk in the main office I sat on a flimsy chair and tried to remain awake. There was a lot of dashing to and fro. From his own room, Goodliffe’s voice was raised. The words were not clear, but there was no doubt he was taking control, of others if not himself.
It appeared, at that stage, that he had decided we had got to pay the ransom. But it wasn’t his money he was talking about, and I wondered what the company accountant might have to say about it. What I couldn’t understand was that the ransom demanded for the return of the steel was £10,000. There were thirty-seven tons of it. (Or rather, tonnes, because it came from Sweden. More or less the same, I gathered, as a ton.) But the strange thing was that the value of that amount of steel was something under £8,000.
I tried to raise my voice in protest. Nobody heard. The office was one mad clamour of noise. Language which I could not understand, and which I hoped was technical, was hurled furiously around. I was close to weeping in frustration.
And then, into it, there entered a friendly face. Or at any rate, a face I knew. For a moment I could not put a name to him, but this was the chief inspector I’d seen out at the paint dip, though I had had no eyes for him at that time.
He was in uniform, which always helps to attract attention. He said: “What the hell’s going on?” with sufficient impatience to cut through the noise. And then he stood and waited calmly for the silence he plainly expected.
Then I placed him: Ian Carefree, a friend of David’s from his time in the Force, and I began to wonder whether David’s assessment of him had been correct. Brilliant, David had said, but lacking self-confidence. Carefree would sit in on high-level conferences and say nothing unless his opinion was requested. He was too much of a gentleman to be a policeman, David said. He cherished too much admiration for his superiors, and reserved none for himself.
There was nothing self-effacing about him at that moment. He was just plain furious.
“Where’s Goodliffe?” he demanded. “Where’s he hiding?”
And Goodliffe, perhaps attracted by the suspicious silence, put his head in from his door.
This was a long narrow office, and the two men were separated by its length. They conducted their conversation through and past the crowd between, but neither seemed to feel this a disadvantage.
“I hope you’ve finished out there,” said Goodliffe.
“Don’t be a fool. Of course I haven’t finished. I’ve cordoned off the paint dip area ... ”
Goodliffe gave a squark of dismay. “You can’t do that.”
“I’ve got a robbery and a murder here. That gives me the authority. Now what’s this about paying some ransom or other?”
Goodliffe flapped his arms. “What bloody choice have we got?”
“You can wait for us to trace it, and then you’ll get it back.”
“Trace it?” Goodliffe sneered. “They could’ve dumped it anywhere — ”
“Thirty-seven tons of it? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s a special order.”
“I don’t care what it is. I’m having no panic reactions.”
Goodliffe started to thrust his way down the room. Stumbling men mumbled apologies as he trod on them.
“You keep out of this,” he was spluttering. “You hear? This steel’s vital to us. We’re going to get it back if we have to pay — ”
“If necessary,” said Carefree, drawing himself up, “I’ll have you arrested for obstructing my enquiries. You pay that ransom, and they’ll scatter to the four corners. This is a gang job, and I want ’em. I want them and your blasted steel.”
“We’ll get the money together ... ”
“Doesn’t it matter to you that they’ve killed one of your men? You saw him ... hanging there.”
But Goodliffe was losing his last vestige of control. I did not realise, then, how important this was to him. It was a special order he had manoeuvred and pushed into being, organised, and on which he was staking his reputation. At that time he seemed insane.
“I’ll have you off the case,” he howled. “I’ll have you off the grounds. We’ll get the money, you see if we don’t.”
They were face to face, and suddenly I saw what David had meant. Carefree realised that Goodliffe had lost touch with reason, and was talking that way only from panic reaction. He was suddenly quiet and reassuring. They’re at a disadvantage, the understanding people.
“Perhaps we’ll talk about it later,” he said, like a parent placating a child.
But Goodliffe was a fool and failed to see he’d been offered a way out. “We’ll talk about it now.”
There was a silence. A few of the staff shuffled their feet in embarrassment. I said:
“Surely there’d have to be some discussion before any decisions are made. The money — ”
But Goodliffe whirled on me. His eyes were wild. I don’t think he saw me. I’ll assume that. He said something quite obscene.
I wasn’t standing for that. David would have squashed him. I stood up.
“I’ll expect an apology for that,” I said. “Tomorrow,” I added, being a bit heated myself and not realising how I was committing myself. “But now,” I told him, “I’m going to get some sleep, and the rest of you, if you’ve got any sense, will do the same.”
Then I recalled, in the inconvenient way your mind works, that after all it had been Goodliffe who had invited me home, and plainly that was now unthinkable. Nevertheless, I gathered my dignity together and made an exit, unfortunately through the nearest door, which led, not into a corridor, but into the staff toilet.
I retraced my steps. Nobody laughed. They watched me in silence. I was prepared to drive all the way home and back again the next day, if necessary. I headed towards Carefree, who took off his cap and rescued me. His other hand was clamped on Goodliffe’s shoulder.
“It’s Mrs. Mallin surely.”
So in fact I did get a few hours’ sleep that night, because I was too weary to recognise the trap he laid. Of course he remembered me, he said, and how was David, and could he arrange to take me to my hotel, and where was I staying in that case, so naturally I must stay with him. Or rather, at his house, because he could see no chance of getting home himself for hours ...
But not to worry. He would get Peter to take me. By that time he had ushered me out of that claustrophobic office and into the factory again. I needn’t have worried. They had taken down the pitiful body, and all that remained was a pool of light around the paint dip, and a rope cordoning it off. And that terrible smell of paint. I shall always associate it with death.
As we approached the area he raised his voice and bellowed: “Peter!” Then he seized my elbow and beamed down at me, and was very encouraging.
Peter Clarke appeared from the shadows. He was smiling again, but now, in the presence of Carefree, there was something different about it, challenging and at the same time defensive.
“I want you to take Mrs. Mallin to my place,” said Carefree. “Ask Frances to put her in the spare room — you know what to say. You always do.”
“It’ll be a pleasure.”
Carefree looked at him searchingly. “And no hanging around. You hear me?”
“Hear you, oh master.”
They seemed to nod to each other. There was a stream of understanding between them, but it held an undertone of aggressiveness. Carefree’s expression was firm and uncompromising, but he softened it for me.
“Frances will look after you,” he said.
Then he went about his duties, and I left with Peter. I was still uncertain about my reception by this Frances, who could well have been a man or a woman, but Peter was taking it in his stride. He was leading me back to where he had left his station wagon. With his usual ease he was chatting away as though the circumstances were completely normal.
“Have you there in ten minutes,” he said happily. “Tucked up and asleep in half an hour.”
I looked at him doubtfully. “Do you know the executive car park?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“My car’s there. I’ve got an overnight bag in it, and it’d be best if I followed you.”
“Anything you say. We are here only to serve.”
This was how I came to see gate No. 3, which was the one the dead guard had come from. I was too tired to be curious, but our route ran past it. Peter drove me straight through the factory grounds, down the road beside the Heavy Axle Case building, and then turned left past a serrated row of buildings where I think they made smaller axles. The operative gate was directly ahead of us.
The gate house was lighted but of course not manned. It stood beside the canal, which, just there, disappeared under the public street outside. It guarded a huge double gate of solid steel. The gate was closed. It was very rarely opened, I discovered later, because it led onto a street which had become minor when the by-pass had come into being. We turned right there, without stopping, and before I knew it we were out at the main complex of executive offices. My car was sitting snug and quiet. Peter got out to make clucking noises of appreciation, but then he got back into his own car and led the way.
I was surprised to find that within a mile of this industrialised zone there was a quiet backwater of dignified residences. I couldn’t see much of the area, because it was still dark, but we passed several tall blocks of flats, and rolled past an ancient and dignified park. We turned left. A new public house stood on one corner, a new public library on the other. Trees lined the pavements. Peter drew to a halt in the road, got out of his car, and ceremoniously waved me into a drive.
I eased the Dolomite up the tarmac slope and stopped in front of the door. Lights came on inside. This was a policeman’s house, where arrivals and departures might occur at any time. I was beginning to realise that around there the unusual was taken in the stride; the fantastic, I learned later, was accepted with an easy grace.
It was a solid, old detached house in a fair amount of frontage, cluttered with trees that could have done with a little discipline. But Carefree would not appreciate that. The porch was on the front corner, and as I lifted out my case the hall light came on and the door opened.
Frances was Carefree’s daughter. She had inherited from him something gay about the eyes and a sharp intelligence. She was still young enough to ask for answers from life, and optimistically expected them, but old enough not to ask them aloud. She was dark, with a high, broad forehead and a mouth that was mobile enough to encompass a whole range of emotions. There was challenge in her posture, acceptance in her easy smile. Her father must have been very proud.
“Peter?” she said in surprise, looking from one to the other of us. His eyebrows were very slightly raised. I’ll swear she was amused.
I realised abruptly that Frances was perhaps twelve years younger than myself, but that Peter was barely a year or two. It could have been embarrassing, but Peter was never easily disconcerted.
“This is Elsa Mallin,” he said. “A dear friend of your father’s Frances, and you’re to look after her. My fiancée,” he said proudly. “You’ll get along fine, I’m sure.”
And so, with a peculiarly old-fashioned half-bow, he left us, and indeed we did get along fine, this Frances and me, because it turned out that her father was a widower, and we both, at the same time, saw that this hospitable gesture had not been entirely unselfish. Frances would be a handful for any father. For Carefree she would have been quite uncontrollable. He’d need an older woman’s advice, perhaps. Someone who’d understand what the girl wanted from life. He was very naive, was Carefree. What she wanted she would take.
Frances laughed, and with the ease of modem youth expressed it openly. “Poor daddy’s quite lost, you know. He doesn’t know what to do about Peter.”
She dumped my bag in the hall. She was in a short housecoat and shorter nightie, and had quite obviously just got out of bed. But she showed no inclination to return to it.
“You’ll be dying for a cup of something,” she decided. “Come into the kitchen for a chat. It’s Mrs. Mallin, isn’t it?”
“Call me Elsa.” I was following her. “Why doesn’t he know what to do about Peter?”
“He says he’s not having me marry a crook.”
“And is he a crook?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Tea or coffee?”
3
Well, if poor daddy expected any help from me, he was due for a disappointment. I had already had enough to contend with, what with a robbery and a murder, and a mad W
orks Manager who wanted to pay £10,000 ransom for steel worth £8,000. But when I next saw him, Ian Carefree said nothing about help.
No meal is more intimate than breakfast. The barriers of convention have not yet been erected, and the intellect is not sharp enough to provide a barbed fence. I encountered Frances and her father without their defences. I was even treated to an early dose of Peter, who dropped in casually as though it was the usual thing. There was plenty of snap, crackle and pop, but as I’d had barely four hours of sleep, I was in no condition to appreciate it.
Ian had not been to bed. He had called in for a quick bath and shave and a clean shirt, and though, at that time, he had achieved none of these, he was still as crisply efficient as I had already found him to be. Peter was strangely quiet. He took his cues from Frances. But I think his repression was because of my presence, because he was in no way over-awed by Ian.
“About an hour,” Ian was saying. “That’s what the experts say — the fork-lift truck drivers, that is. It’d take an hour or so to load a trailer wagon with thirty-seven tons of steel. If the thing didn’t collapse under the weight.”
Peter leaned back in his chair. Coffee was slopping in his saucer. “Why assume the gang were experts?”
Ian refused to be shaken. “How long does it take to learn to use a fork-lift truck?” He was plodding through a huge mixed grill. “I tried one myself. Quite proficient after half an hour.”
Peter looked at him solemnly. “But you can’t assume they were near as intelligent as you.”
Ian went on as though Peter hadn’t spoken. “It wouldn’t have taken more than five of them. They wouldn’t have been able to load at the top end, where the steel was stacked, because that roller door was in sight of No. 7 gate. So it was natural to take it down to the normal loading bay next to the paint dip.”
I couldn’t help joining in. “But that’s in sight of No. 3 gate.”
He raised his eyes and considered me with approval. “Of course it is, my dear. But it’s a distance away, and there’re two overhead cranes partly blocking the view, and a cloud of steam from the Motor Frame building. Oh yes, it’d be natural for them to load there.”
A Dip Into Murder (David Mallin Detective series Book 10) Page 2