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

by Roger Ormerod

  “Do you think it’s in writing?”

  “Then the name can be changed,” I pointed out. “I can suggest alternatives.”

  “What you say is objectionable. This is my honour you’re talking about.”

  “But honour is a personal thing, in the same way as pride. So it follows there can be no honour to your profession, which you claim is impersonal.”

  “You’re not to say that.”

  “I say what I like. You’re a disgusting old man, you and your fancy principles, which you twist to suit yourself.”

  “Get out of my room,” he shouted.

  “Not until I’ve finished.”

  “Get out!” he screamed, gesturing with the pistol. “Or I will finish it now.”

  “Not open to reason ... ” I was prepared to develop it, but Peter’s hand was at my elbow.

  “Come on,” he hissed.

  “I want to tell this wretched old man ... ”

  But the finger was white on the trigger. I know when I’m not wanted, so I shrugged, and allowed Peter to urge me into the corridor.

  When he turned to me he was sweating. Even in that poor light I could see he was sweating.

  “You should have let me deal with him,” he said. “God, Elsa, why did you have to go and rile him?”

  “Did you see any other way of getting out of there alive?”

  10

  “This boy-friend of yours is a fake,” I said to Frances. “He’s just one bundle of pretence.”

  “You’re not to say that. Daddy’s been saying things to you.”

  “No, this is personal.” I laughed, but she obviously wouldn’t know why. “Peter filled me with stories of his inverted philosophy, yet when I tried him with an example of it, all he could do was sweat.”

  This was in my bedroom, the following morning, and Frances had come in filled with distress and recrimination.

  “He exaggerates a little,” she said sullenly. “You don’t understand.”

  “He expected me to rely on his own standards of unreliability.”

  But she was close to tears. “You can talk. You’re no better.”

  “Oh ... oh!”

  “You come here,” she burst out, “lady bountiful with your seat on the board, and will your trouser suit do for our scruffy old provincial club, but when it comes down to it you plod around in the mud in wellies ... my wellies! ... and you — and you go to hotel rooms with Peter and pick locks, and ... and ... ”

  So that was it. I was just about to say I wouldn’t want him at any price, then realised it wouldn’t do.

  “I had no choice,” I said gently. “And really, he’s quite attractive.”

  She glowed. “Do you think so? Truly?”

  “Underneath it all, yes. And I can see why you love him,” I added with feeling. They were two for a pair.

  “Does it show?”

  “Quite as much as your claws.”

  Then she laughed, and we were friends again.

  By the time I got down to breakfast Ian had gone, and Peter had not made his usual appearance. I assumed this was because of his shame at having failed to steal the gun, and hoped he hadn’t had any more wonderful ideas. Seeing it was so early, though, I did manage to catch David at home before he left on his own case.

  We exchanged general words to indicate how much we were missing each other, and he added:

  “Should break this case today, love. Then I’ll be right over.”

  And yet I felt a strange possessiveness towards what I considered to be my case.

  “It’s all right, David. Not to worry.”

  “It must be interesting,” he said suspiciously.

  “Nothing in it for you, though.”

  For the first time I thought I understood the tenacity with which he approached his own cases. I’d always thought he was obsessed, but now I understood. I was digging my toes in, determined to bring it to a successful end.

  And, after all, no one but myself was considering the peculiar circumstance of why the guard had been dipped in the paint, and the even more peculiar one of why his nose had been wiped clean.

  David had sensed my interest. “There’s something you haven’t told me,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s a straightforward kidnap. I must go, David. So much to do.” After all, it was Friday, and Bernie Fitch was coming out.

  “I don’t like the sound of it.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” I promised. Then I made that silly kissing noise people do when the situation has become embarrassing, and hung up.

  There was, indeed, so much to do, and I drove fast to the factory, guessing that Ian would be there. I approached it by the back way, at gate No. 7, and there I had a little difficulty getting in.

  There were two television cameras set up, and a couple of TV vans blocking the entrance. Microphones were being waved, and a shouting, gesticulating group of men were swarming around. It seemed that unrest was growing.

  I drew up in the street and wound down my window. There was a half-hearted chanting in which I detected the words: ‘The right to work. The right to work.’ Then, as I watched, a tubby man in an expensive suit and a large moustache forced his way to the microphones. The cameras closed in.

  This, I recognised, was the Right Honourable Jim Slessinger, MP for the district.

  There were some jeers, and he waved his hand cheerfully.

  “In a serious situation such as we have here,” he said, “it’s clear that decisions have to be made and positive action taken. Speaking as I do ... as a representative ... ” Cheers drowned the next few words. “ ... and bring some attitude of common-sense to bear.”

  He beamed around and flicked the ends of his moustache. We were all right. Jim Slessinger was in control.

  Then the crowd cleared as he stalked off in the general direction they all indicated, and I was able to edge my car inside the grounds. The guard raised his hand and halted me.

  “Better not walk through the factory, miss. The lads are restless.”

  “Is there a way round?”

  There was. It took me, by the route Goodliffe had already driven me, to the offices, with only a few yards to walk to be right in the centre of it again.

  They were preparing £100,000 in one pound notes. I have never seen so much money collected together, and the nervousness it generated was apparent. Goodliffe’s room seemed full of guards. Lord Rosen was so still as he watched that I knew his muscles had locked with tension.

  They were packing it into two suitcases, each of which, I gathered, was going to weigh a little over a hundred-weight.

  McIntyre caught my eye. “Do you think you can manage these, Mrs. Mallin?” he asked sarcastically.

  “I’m quite sure I can’t. But then, I don’t suppose they’re asking for me to do it this time.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I guess it will have been another voice.”

  He glanced around the room, for help I think. There had been an opportunity to put me in my place, and I’d already been standing in it.

  Lord Rosen spoke stiffly. “They asked to speak to me. It was a difficult conversation.”

  “And who did they say should hand it over?” I asked.

  “It was very enigmatic. The exact words were: him in charge.”

  Then I understood his tenseness. To Lord Rosen, only one person could be considered as in charge. Lord Rosen. And he was terrified.

  I tried to put him out of his misery. “And has anyone told the one in charge? Chief Inspector Carefree,” I explained.

  Emotions struggled across his face, and then, strangely, he blushed. “He must be told.” The poor chap, it had to be agony either way. “I hadn’t realised,” he muttered to McIntyre.

  “No reason why you should,” McIntyre said, with his big bear comfort.

  I pushed my way out, intending to be the first to get to Ian. What Peter had said was not gaining impetus and meaning. In the doorway I had difficulty passin
g Slessinger on his way in. He was already taking charge before he’d even surveyed the situation.

  “We seem to have some trouble here, gentlemen.”

  And from the sound of it, we also had some on the factory floor. Goodliffe croaked: “My God, what’s happening out there?”

  What was happening was mostly noise at that time. They were boisterous, but not aggressive. After all, if you’re being paid for doing nothing you might as well ease the monotony of it by protesting. But the protest at not getting your extra price for doing nothing must not be too strong, otherwise you might succeed in your claim. In that case you’d reach the annoying position of finding yourself paid no more for it when you did commence to work.

  In such a delicate situation, there’s nothing much to do other than send for your General Secretary. But while they were waiting, there was a lot of noise. I eased round the edge of it and escaped past the cordoned paint-dip. There was no longer a policeman guarding it. There was nobody who’d want to touch it. Or get near it, really, considering the smell.

  I found Ian restlessly prowling the canal bank. They had just about finished dragging it. The water level was down a few feet, and was barely visible past the mounds of rusty steel along the embankment. There had been no success.

  “Have you seen all that money?” I asked.

  “They haven’t got it in the office!” he cried. “They’re asking for trouble.”

  “There is trouble,” I told him. “But in a different way. Ian, the kidnappers don’t want me to deal with the handover this time.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “They’ve asked for the top man.”

  “It’s a lot of money.”

  “So who are you going to send, Ian?” I taunted him.

  He shuffled his feet. “Obviously, I shall have to — ”

  “David said he might be able to get here.”

  “I hardly think your husband ... ” he began stiffly.

  “Or there’s George Coe, his partner. He really is big.”

  “I wish you’d leave this to me.”

  “You want a reliable man,” I went on. “But it’s got to be somebody they know is important enough.”

  “What are you trying to say, Elsa?”

  “Otherwise they might not be confident that it is £100,000. A man in charge of that amount should be a known and outstanding figure.”

  He drew himself up. “Are you trying to teach me how to conduct myself?”

  “Lord Rosen is here. He might be persuaded, if you’re careful. And Jim Slessinger. Everybody loves Jim. On the tele, he’s been.”

  “Two windbags,” he said with scorn.

  “And Masterson’s on his way.”

  “Who?”

  “The Trade Union chap. You know! I heard his name being bandied about, back there.”

  “My God!”

  “You’re getting surrounded by top brass, Ian. Don’t you think you ought to go and pay your respects?”

  He stared at me, and I looked back innocently. Ian was angry enough at his lack of success in finding the steel. Bruising his ego a little might well be the final thing necessary to boost him into action.

  “We’ll see about that,” he said, and he whirled on his heel.

  I followed him slowly. There was no need to take it too far. His impetus took him way ahead of me, and in any event I wasted a couple of minutes in the factory, dawdling on the edge of the mass of workers that surrounded a gesticulating man, who stood in their centre on what they called a skip.

  This, I guessed, was Masterson, a gangling mass of self-inflicted social wounds. He was busy telling his members what it was they’d asked him along to explain to him.

  “Basic right to a decent wage,” he cried. “Get to the bottom of this ... The dignity of the working man ... ”

  Then he climbed down, to a round of cheers, and forced his way, growling, through the press.

  I would not have thought, in the midst of his intensity of feeling, that he would have had eyes for me. But he headed straight for me and took my elbow.

  “Have we met?” he murmured. “So splendid to see that equality is reaching the heavier industries. Perhaps we could have lunch.”

  We went together to the offices, where I found that Ian had been organising things. On the way there he had collected three of his sergeants, and now the packed bags were firmly guarded in the larger room. Everybody was in that room, now, for the simple reason that there were so many people getting on in the excitement that Goodliffe’s room would not contain them. The usual five occupants were pressed back against the far window.

  Ian was taking charge.

  “There’s been some talk about who takes the money, and who decides who takes it,” he said, not playing about with politeness. “Let me explain that I make the decisions, and I make the arrangements. No,” he said to McIntyre, “there’s no room for argument. I know it’s your money, but it’s my responsibility, and I’m taking charge of it. There’s been a lot of dashing around and making decisions without my say-so. Such as agreeing to pay it in ones, of all things. And that is going to stop right now.”

  Lord Rosen eased himself forward. “I shall have to speak to your Chief Constable about your high-handed attitude.”

  “Commander, sir. Speak to him by all means. But keep from under my feet. Now ... ”

  He looked round until he was sure of their attention. He had it, completely and breathlessly.

  “There’s an aspect of this you’re all forgetting, or don’t know. It so happens that in this region, at this time, there is an international assassin. We happen to think that his presence here is connected with the money and the robbery. But until a few minutes ago I didn’t realise in what way.”

  Slessinger coughed. “I shall be asking questions in the House about this.”

  “There’s no question involved. This man’s come here to kill somebody. I couldn’t understand why he’d come here, because there’s not much in this district to attract the crowned heads. But now it’s getting clearer. What, in fact, has this business done? I’ll tell you. It’s brought into this area three most distinguished figures: a Member of Parliament, a leader of the Employer’s Federation, and the leader of the Trades Union Movement. It’s quite obvious that this was the intention, and that his target is one of you three.”

  “Now look here,” said Masterson, “we can soon get to the bottom of this. Let’s take a democratic vote.”

  “My advise to you all,” said Ian, “is to get as far away as possible, and as quickly as possible. Then I can get on with what I’m paid to do.”

  Which really spoilt what he had been building up, making it so clear that he was no more than a paid underling. But his point had been made. After a decent interval of five seconds there was a certain amount of looking at watches and observing that appointments elsewhere were overdue. Lord Rosen was sure that he was leaving things in capable hands. Slessinger recalled he was meeting the Mayor for cocktails. And Masterson mentioned a conference in some distant place.

  But Ian was not satisfied until he had them moving. He harried them like a rumbling Great Dane towards the gate, where their cars awaited them. But so were the TV cameras. Even the threat of a rifle bullet could not persuade these three past a camera and a microphone. Slessinger, the fleetest, got there first. He informed the world that he was hurrying to consult the Minister. He didn’t say whether he meant Industry or Defence. Masterson declared he was close to a final settlement. Lord Rosen fumed in the background, too small a stature to force his attention on the interviewer.

  “Excuse me, excuse me,” he demanded, his anger growing, pushing his way through the crowd.

  At last, panting, he reached the centre of interest. A flurry of microphones was thrust at him. He took a deep breath.

  “No comment,” he said with dignity.

  I stood with Ian, watching as they were driven away. It had reached just the moment when I could make my point.

  “Do y
ou really think,” I said, “that one of those three, any one, is big enough for Rimlock? They live on empty words and paltry clichés. They’re ridiculous and contemptible. You can’t imagine they’re important enough to be worth destroying.”

  He sighed. “No. But it got rid of them.”

  He’d rather undermined what I had to say. “But you, Ian, you matter. You do a noble job and you do it with all your heart. You matter.”

  “I see that,” he admitted.

  “So now you must accept that it’s you Rimlock’s after.”

  “I could stretch a point and agree with you.”

  “Then Ian ... ” And at last I could persuade him. “ ... you mustn’t give him the chance.”

  He smiled wearily. “Send someone bigger, eh? Someone who’d do it better?”

  “Somebody else.”

  “No Elsa. It’s my job. And anyway, you said he’s a poor, sad old man. Surely we can’t deprive him of one go at it. It could well be his last assignment. You never know, like a boxing champion, it might be the last one he fails on.”

  You couldn’t talk to him, just couldn’t. I walked away. I was so furious.

  11

  Peter found me at Ian’s, sitting alone in the house and sulking. Well, not exactly sulking, but certainly thinking, though with no useful result.

  Ian had quite firmly taken charge. The exchange was to be at eight that evening. (What time was the coming-out party?) And this time it was to be at an abandoned open-cast mining development. This would no doubt supply a large number of entrances and a sufficient area to make solitude available for the handover. Ian was busy marshalling his forces. He was confident.

  But what did he expect? There could be no more than a simple handover. There was no need for the theatricality of the open-cast setting. Any old café would have done. There was no expectation that Ian would get information as to where the steel was hidden. At best, that would come later, by phone. And there would be no hope of following their getaway car to its destination. If this were attempted, I wouldn’t have put it past them to stop and say: ‘If you don’t stop following me, I’ll call a policeman.’