A Dip Into Murder (David Mallin Detective series Book 10)

by Roger Ormerod

  “Then I will drive you home. If you will guide me.”

  “I can guide you from Domino,” I said. I understood, then, why he had remained aloof at the club. The aloneness had stemmed from him. The fear was that he would meet his intended victim socially.

  I was glad of the rain. It had now become essential to my intention, as I’d lost his sympathy and would have to force the issue.

  He drove faster, even, than before. The rain had settled in. I prayed that Ian had returned home.

  The Datsun was parked in the driveway, my Dolomite and Peter’s station wagon too, and there was no alternative for Rimlock but to park in the street. The windscreen wipers were working hard at a losing battle. I sat tight and smiled at him, forcing his hand.

  He reached behind for his umbrella. “Dear lady ... ” But weakly. The umbrella was expensive, otherwise he might have surrendered it in his anxiety to be rid of me. He got out and went round and escorted me up the drive, and seemed about to turn and run as I reached the shelter of the porch.

  But of course Ian had been waiting for me, and he had the front door open before we reached it.

  He need only have held out his hand and trapped the old man in his own formality, then invited him in for a drink. That was all it needed. But he stood there like a fool, caught in the shock of self-criticism that he had allowed me to be with Rimlock at all, with Peter at his elbow. I thought for one moment that Peter might do it, but Peter was delighted by the situation, and refused to disturb it.

  I tried. Really I did. “This is ... ” But I heard the quick tap of Rimlock’s heels behind me as he escaped.

  Ian said: “Where have you been Elsa?” It was an echo of earlier greetings to a teenage daughter, with anxiety releasing into anger.

  7

  We were in the sitting room. Ian was restless, his eyes angry and hurt and his voice tightly controlled. My hair had been disturbed by the damp.

  “As though I haven’t got enough to contend with ... ”

  “I was trying to help,” I told him.

  “This has gone too far. I shall ring David, and ask him to fetch you home.”

  I was angry. “I’ll ring him myself. I’ll tell him that I need ... that we need him here.”

  “I should’ve bundled you off in the beginning,” he said savagely. “Women have no conception of what it’s all about.”

  “I’ll go and throw my things in my bag ... ”

  “No. Sit down.”

  “Are you holding me here?” I was trembling.

  “No.” He ran a hand over his hair. “No, I’m sorry, Elsa. I’ve been upset.”

  “You said I should leave.”

  He took a deep breath. “David would have every right to blame me if I let anything happen to you. That man you were with — ”

  “I know who he is. Rimlock. International assassin.”

  “And you went with him!”

  “He wanted to show me his gun.”

  Peter laughed. He had got one knee over the arm of an easy chair, one negligent hand running through Frances’s hair, where she sat at his feet.

  “Did you see it?” he asked with interest.

  “Yes.” I was short with him, and returned to Ian. “I wanted to find out one thing from Rimlock. Who his victim is to be.”

  “And he told you?” Ian scoffed at my enterprise.

  “No. But nevertheless I did find out.”

  “Who?” Another problem for Ian; full-scale protection to be laid on for whatever big-wig or celebrity it might be.

  “You, Ian.”

  But I’d sprung it on him too suddenly. I should have built him up to the idea, flattered his conceit and boosted his confidence, until he could face the possibility that he was important enough.

  “Nonsense,” he said briskly.

  “I can assure you, Ian ... ”

  “I can reel you off a list of the Presidents and Ambassadors and Party Chairmen ... Lord, Elsa, if that’s all you’ve come back with, it was hardly worth the worry and the risk.”

  “There was no danger. He’s a lonely old man, and long past his best.”

  Then strangely he looked hurt. You had to stroke that blasted ego of his with a feather. I was implying that Rimlock had come low enough to consider even a paltry chief inspector.

  “But deadly, still,” he said sternly. “Don’t ever forget that. Ever again,” he finished, the admonition final.

  And then he said stiffly: “I have to go and change. There’s work to be done.”

  “Tonight?”

  “We’re setting up floodlights. We’re going to drag the canal.” It was almost painful for him to offer me the information.

  “That would be convenient for Rimlock,” I pointed out. “You out in the open, caught in the floodlights, and he on one of those factory roofs ... ”

  “You’re being foolish, Elsa,” he snapped. He was quite annoyed.

  “Anyway, it’s pouring with rain.”

  “It’s a wet job, rain or not.”

  “You’re a heartless old slave-driver,” I said lightly, hoping to soften his mood. But it seemed to anger him.

  “Perhaps I haven’t driven hard enough. It’s a complete dead-end and I’ve got no clues at all, and I’m getting nowhere ... ” He waved his hand wearily. “I’ll have to get moving.”

  It was distressing to see the angry tension in him, and realise how deeply he was reaching down to produce the will to keep going. But from somewhere he must have found sufficient confidence to colour his reports, because Regional HQ had not sent a senior officer to take over.

  Because I couldn’t stand the strain in his eyes, I made a suggestion. “You could force the gang into showing you where it is.”

  “Could I?”

  “Well of course.” The idea grew in my mind as I was speaking. “In any other ransom situation — a child held, or a wife — it’s the usual thing to ask for proof that the hostage is really held. And that it’s alive.”

  “I hardly feel it’s appropriate,” said Ian coldly.

  “Not actually alive, perhaps. But Ian ... surely they’ll be in touch again.” He frowned, but I went on: “All you’ve got to do is demand to see a specimen of the steel, so that the factory laboratory can check its analysis. Then they’d be forced to visit where it’s hidden, and if it’s in the canal you’ll see where they dive ... ”

  He groaned. “God, Elsa, and with Peter here!”

  “It would amuse him, I think. Such things do.”

  Peter said: “I’d die laughing. But it wouldn’t work, you know. There was nothing special about that steel, only its size and shape. And you couldn’t expect to get a whole sheet of the stuff.”

  “It was an idea, that’s all.”

  “And a very good one, Elsa,” said Ian patronisingly. “But really, it’s too late for that. The handover is to be tomorrow night, and I rather think we’ve already had the last message from them.”

  For the first time that day he seemed to speak with authority, and he left us, on this note of confidence, in order to change. But as things turned out, it was not the last message. There was another one the following morning.

  I had gone to bed shortly after Ian left. Suddenly I seemed completely exhausted, and it was only when my head touched the pillow that I recalled I had threatened to phone David. It had been a promise to myself, really, but while I was wondering what I’d intended to ask him, I fell asleep.

  I was therefore late arriving at the office the following morning, or would have been if I’d been on the payroll. There had been an early start. Goodliffe’s office was full of people. I propped my umbrella in the corner.

  Four men sat at his desk, counting £1 notes. The surface was covered with them, and Goodliffe was saying irritably:

  “Why the devil did it have to be in ones?”

  He had a blank and stubborn look of rejection on his face. Obviously, Goodliffe still treasured the idea that the steel had not even arrived.

  Two of the
company’s police were standing at the door, watching the money. Their eyes were glazed. Three men I had not seen were by the window, sadly muttering to themselves. I recognised one of them as the company’s treasurer. He seemed to be in shock.

  Then Goodliffe saw me and raised his head, sticking out his inadequate chin at me. I saw he was about to say something offensive, so I cut in first in order to save him another apology. Goodliffe was obviously going to pieces.

  “I hope it isn’t going to be too heavy,” I said.

  “What?” Goodliffe demanded, looking round dazed.

  “Because I’ll have to carry it,” I explained. “They want me to do it. The robbers, the crooks.” I raised my voice, he was so slow. “The gang.”

  “There is no gang!”

  “Now, Harry ... ” said the treasurer warningly, and one of the guards said helpfully:

  “It seemed heavy to me, miss ... ma’am.”

  “I don’t expect to carry it far.” Then McIntyre arrived and came in without knocking, and stood like daddy bear just inside the door. He did not speak. There was a rustling of acknowledgement of his presence. McIntyre stood like a steaming volcano, and the peasants cowered before the impending explosion.

  Paper money was slapped together in piles, and rubber bands were snapped around them.

  “Mrs. Mallin,” said Goodliffe, sneering, “has said she will deliver it.”

  “No!” said McIntyre. It was one single snapped word.

  “It’s what she said.”

  “Two guards and yourself, Goodliffe. Police in reserve ... ”

  “It’s been arranged,” I explained. “They want me to do it. Perhaps they think they can handle a woman. People do, you know.”

  He looked at me, McIntyre, a friend who’d laughed with me across the board table, and he said:

  “Don’t be a damned fool.”

  Then he had the grace to lower his eyes. I was trapped in this by the danger to Ian. Perhaps there was distress in my voice.

  “The reason you don’t want me here is because I can’t match your noise and your hysteria. Very well ... do the damn job yourself.”

  It was at such an appropriate moment that the message I mentioned arrived. The phone rang. Goodliffe snatched at it like a lifeline.

  I watched the colour run from his face, and two pink patches flared on his cheek. “You can talk to me.” His voice was shaking. Then he listened again, and speechlessly held out the phone to McIntyre.

  McIntyre listened. Perhaps my taunt about hysteria had stiffened him. His voice was calm, although he answered only in monosyllables. He replaced the receiver slowly, looking at me.

  “The news spreads, it seems,” he said bitterly. “It was on the radio this morning, the BHV will be on stop if we can’t deliver on time. So our steel becomes more important — to BHV and to us. Twice as important. The price is now £20,000.”

  There was a squawk from Goodliffe. McIntyre marched to the door. “I’ll have to phone the bank manager.”

  One of his four counters raised his head, harassed. “But we can’t count another ten thousand!”

  McIntyre had the door open. He turned back, an ironic smile on his face. “Oh, and they insist it should be you, Mrs. Mallin.”

  I nodded. I felt no sense of triumph.

  “But it raises a problem for you,” he said complacently. “You alone, that person said. And £20,000 in one pound notes must weigh a good half hundredweight.”

  The three men from Finance darted after him, then there was a short silence as the door closed behind them. The guard at my elbow coughed gently.

  “He’s sure to be right, Mrs. Mallin.”

  It called, really, for a good exit line, but I couldn’t think of anything. “I’d better go and get into training,” I tried, but it was not a success. I smiled round and then, so as not to follow McIntyre too closely, I used the door into the main office.

  The long room was very quiet. The five men were bent over their desks, and there was the soft susurration of electronic calculators being prodded for answers. Seven other men, in various different colours of smocks and overalls, stood in a line just outside the door. Seeing me leave they fell upon the door, pounded it, and went in.

  Bill Rogers got to his feet. He was smiling, but I wasn’t keen on the smile. His mop of greying hair was uncombed.

  “The shop stewards,” he explained.

  “What do they want?”

  “It’s about their waiting time rate.” Then, seeing me frown, he explained: “They get 80% of their standard rate for the job they would have been doing if they’d been working.”

  “I don’t see ... ”

  “They want a better rate for waiting time on this job. More money for not doing this job than for the job they were not doing before.”

  “It sounds complicated.”

  “It’s money,” he said. “Money isn’t complicated. They’re talking about going on strike.”

  “How can they strike against not working?” I asked.

  “They could stage a sit-in.”

  “But they were sitting in when I went round last.”

  “That was in working time. No, they’d sit in when they were supposed to be home. It’s a very serious situation.”

  Poor Goodliffe, I thought, glancing at his door.

  Palfrey said: “I make it forty-nine point three.”

  And Newman protested: “I thought we were doing it metric. I’ve got it in kilos.”

  “How,” demanded Palfrey, with scorn, “can you have a metric pound note?”

  “Forty-nine point three what?” I demanded.

  Bill Rogers laughed. “Pounds, Mrs. Mallin. Pounds weight. We’ve just calculated the weight of £20,000 in ones.”

  I drew a deep breath. “How did you know about it?”

  “Thin door,” said Rogers.

  “And,” said Palfrey heavily, and with some triumph, “its cubic capacity will be fourteen hundred and twenty cubic inches — give or take.”

  “We miked one up,” said Newman.

  “Four thou,” explained Rogers, “allowing half a thou for dirt.”

  They all watched me attentively. The two silent ones were still plugging away passionately at their calculators.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  Then I fled. My haste drew new inventiveness in catcalls from the waiting men. I fled on past the still-cordoned paint-dip, out through the end door, and on to find Ian Carefree.

  He was standing moodily beside the canal, scorning any protection from the rain. I dripped my umbrella down his shoulder.

  “Ian,” I said, “how heavy would you say £20,000 would be?”

  “You mean ten.”

  “It’s gone up. You’re out of touch, Ian.”

  “They’re not going to pay!”

  “They are. We are. And I’m to handle the payment.”

  “I’m not having ... ” Then he caught my eye. Water ran in his ear. “We’ll see about that.” He looked away, then looked back. “It’s not in the canal.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “There’d be no room for it,” he said, gesturing in disgust.

  His men, clad in gum boots and capes, were hurling grappling irons out into the canal, and hauling in their finds. Already the bank was piled with ton upon ton of rusted and distorted steel.

  “It seems,” said Ian, “that it’s been the practice for untold years to dump all their errors into the water. It at least hid the faults, even though it didn’t explain them away. You couldn’t have got an old pram in there without it sticking up above the surface.”

  I touched his arm in sympathy. He was surely due for a break of some sort. Then, as I thought it, a shout went up from the far end of the canal, close to the guard house at No. 3 gate. An excited copper came waddling and slipping up the bank, waving something.

  I hadn’t exactly prayed for a miracle, but we’d got one. What the constable was waving was a large an
d rusty key. It had come up on the point of a grapnel. The rust was fresh.

  “Do you think ... ” Ian breathed.

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

  We hurried along to gate No. 3.

  The obvious thing was to ask the duty guard. He would recognise the key for what it was. But the guard was asleep. Ian shook his shoulder impatiently, and he fell off the chair.

  “I did hear,” I said, “that they’re having to work double shifts.”

  Ian said something angry, but the guard didn’t stir, so he went out and tried the key himself.

  The gate, I had been told, was very rarely used. It took all Ian’s strength to turn the key against the rust inside. But it was certainly the correct key. He came back thoughtfully. I was waiting inside, out of the rain.

  “Elsa, I haven’t had time to tell you, but I’ve had another report from the path lab. They tell me the guard was dead before he was lowered in the paint-dip, which was pretty obvious, anyway.”

  There was something bizarre about setting up a noose around a dead man’s neck. I didn’t say anything.

  “But he died of an overdose of chloral hydrate,” he went on. “That’s what they prescribe in a sleeping draught. The good old knock-out drops.”

  We both turned and looked at the sleeping guard. He was breathing heavily. Suddenly I didn’t like the sound of his breathing.

  “By God!” Ian whispered. He crossed quickly to the bench that they used as a table. On it was a gas ring and a kettle, an opened bottle of sterilised milk, a jar of instant coffee, and a Marvel tin being used for sugar. The tin’s lid was loose on the bench.

  Ian peered inside, popped his finger in, withdrew it, and touched it to his tongue. The coffee mug was nearly empty.

  “It comes as a white crystalline powder. Looks like sugar and tastes sweet. Slightly bitter, though. This is slightly bitter. Want to try it?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He reached for the phone and snapped instructions into it. He replaced it and looked at me.

  “The sugar was doped,” he said. “The intention was that the guard on duty on the night of the robbery would simply go unconscious. Then they’d have access to his key, for a quiet getaway through his gate. But perhaps he had a sweet tooth, and maybe they didn’t rightly know how much to put in. In any event, he got an overdose. But he was a quick-thinking man, Elsa. He helped foil a bank-roll attempt — remember? He must have realised what was happening to him, realised they were after the key, and had time to dispose of it. Where they’d never get it. In the canal.”