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

by Roger Ormerod

  No, there was nothing Ian could do. Even if he could arrange to have their vehicle followed, and with such secrecy that the followers were not discovered, it would still achieve nothing. As Peter had said, it was likely that they wouldn’t even know where the steel was hidden. Certainly, if they were holed-out, as the Westerns put it, in some lonely cottage, it was unlikely they’d have thirty-seven tons of steel hidden in the outside toilet.

  So I couldn’t see much coming from it, except a bullet for Ian.

  And Peter wasn’t much help, either.

  “I was rather hoping Frances would be here,” he said moodily, when I let him in.

  “She was on her way out when I arrived.”

  “Yes.” He followed me into the sitting room and stared at the fire. “We had a row.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He took me literally. “Not your fault.”

  But perhaps it was. “She seemed a bit upset this morning.”

  “Oh brother,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “Did we have a row!”

  “Anything specific?” In case I could help.

  “You know Frances. Or perhaps you don’t. But you can never accept what she says at face value.”

  “I understand what you mean. She said she was going to Birmingham.”

  “Shopping, I bet. Why do women let off steam by buying themselves clothes, I wonder.”

  “It’s a matter of self-confidence,” I told him. “She’s after a trouser suit, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  But he couldn’t be expected to understand the reference.

  “Blames me for her father, I reckon. Though she didn’t actually say so. But there were lots of congratulations for breaking what bit of connection I’d got with the gang. Kind of sarcastic. You can see what she was getting at, assuming she meant the opposite. I can understand that.”

  “You would, of course.”

  “She thinks I haven’t tried hard enough to help Ian. But you know I’ve tried.”

  “I know you’ve tried something, but I don’t know what.”

  “Now what does that mean? Hell, I’m getting tired of all the women turning against me.”

  “It’s just a thought,” I soothed him. “It occurred to me that all I know about you, and your connection with this affair, has come from you. You ask me to trust you ... you expect me to trust you ... ”

  “What is this!”

  “You’re proud of all these crooked connections of yours, that’s all. You always seem to know all about everything, but when it comes to it you’ve got no influence anywhere. You’re not helping, Peter. Ian doesn’t want you to help. I’m not sure he really needs it.” He looked hurt, but determined. “But I’ve got to try. Ian’s absolutely set on doing it himself. He even seemed to be pleased that Rimlock might be waiting for him. He’s got this Mini-buggy, or whatever it is, and he’s going to carry the cases of money in that. Like a little lorry, it is. Hell, I’ll have to think of something.” He glanced at me. “And Ian still seems to think I’m working for them. You did tell him it’d changed, I suppose?”

  “I don’t think I did, come to think of it.”

  He got to his feet restlessly. Suddenly he was excited. “Well then! Well ... ” he beamed at me. “Don’t you see, Elsa?”

  “I don’t, but I wish you wouldn’t smile like that.”

  “There could be a little something I could do. Just possibly.” Then, as though closing me from his thoughts, he changed the subject abruptly. “Did she say when she’d be back?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then perhaps, when she comes. I’ll have a surprise for her.” He looked round. “Well, must be off.”

  “Where?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Back to my place,” he said blandly. “Got to change. My best suit. A shave, a bath. You know.”

  And he went, leaving me more worried than when he’d arrived.

  It was as well I was there, because Ian returned for a meal, and without Frances he was helpless. He was restless and nervous, but I couldn’t blame him. What annoyed me was his blatant air of smugness. I was beginning to believe I preferred the original and more self-deprecating Ian.

  As it grew dark and the time for the next meeting approached, I came to the conclusion that it had all gone to his head. He seemed delighted to be a target.

  “Aren’t you going to change?” I said.

  “This is my uniform.”

  “But if Rimlock’s peering through his sights, he’ll be looking for a policeman. It’d be better not to look like one.”

  “I’m not going to hide in civilian clothes,” he said sharply, and then I knew, from the brittle pitch of his voice, that it was all a pose. Ian was afraid.

  “And what’s this about a buggy or something?” I demanded, and he was glad of a change of direction.

  “My own idea. I load the cases in the back, visible, you see, because the sides are so low. Then they’ll be able to see it’s there. I’ll be able to drive out into the centre of the open-cast site, and ... ” He seemed embarrassed. “Well ... it’s hardly fair to lumber somebody with two hundredweight of money, and the buggy only cost a hundred quid. I thought they could simply drive it away.”

  “Oh Ian, you really are the limit.”

  “Save those kind of awkward delays.”

  “Are you telling me that you want to cut short the time you’ll be out there, as a target?”

  He blinked. “If you like.”

  “But — you idiot! You’ll be left there, out in the open, all on your own ... ”

  “I suppose I shall.”

  “You’re overdoing it,” I shouted at him. “You don’t have to make an exhibition of being a target. You don’t have to flaunt yourself — ”

  He broke in angrily. “All right, so it’s obvious. I just don’t believe he’ll be there, that’s all. It’s ridiculous. Me!”

  “Oh Lord!” I said. I could have wept; all that work for nothing. Didn’t any of these people take a reasonable attitude to anything? My voice was breaking. “It’s more than that, and you know it. You’re using this buggy thing because it’ll need no physical effort at all to deliver the money. Don’t interrupt, damn you!” I snapped. “You’re saying — shouting it out — that I could have taken it, after all, but you’ve elected yourself. You don’t have to make yourself into a blasted hero!”

  “It’s not that.”

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  “Not laughing. I just do not accept that Rimlock is after me.”

  “Then there’s no possible reason why I shouldn’t do it, after all.”

  And then, abruptly, I recalled that he had been afraid. That had been real, I knew, because he had tried to hide it. Now, because I had turned his argument against him, he was quite violent.

  “You will not!”

  “You can have no objection!”

  “I’ll lock you in a cell first.”

  “You’ll have to drag me there.”

  He was suddenly gentle. “I want you at the site, Elsa. I’ll need somebody to drive the Datsun there, and bring me back. The money’s in the Datsun’s boot at the moment. But I will not have you in danger.”

  I could see no reason why he shouldn’t use one of his men to drive his car, but I shrugged. “Why should I help you with your stage effects?”

  He quite spoilt it. “Because I can’t spare anybody else.”

  “Sometimes,” I said, “I could kill you.”

  “It’s all laid on, Elsa,” he said with excitement. “There are so many people around that site that Rimlock wouldn’t stand a chance. I want to lure him out. And the buggy really is a buggy — it’s bugged with a bleeper. If they take it, we can keep a tag on it and follow them at a distance.” He grinned with horrible triumph. “They trapped themselves, you see, demanding the money in ones. Now it might even seem natural to present them with the Mini, and perhaps they won’t suspect.”

  “You are an underhanded cheat and a crook.”

 
; He kissed me on the forehead. “Shall we go?”

  He drove me in the Datsun to the station, where they’d left the Mini-buggy. It seemed very quiet, only the Station Sergeant keeping a discreet eye on the yard. That was in case somebody was in the Datsun at the time.

  “I hope you can lift it out,” I said.

  “Just about. Will you drive the Datsun or the buggy?”

  “The car.” Though in fact the headrests were too high for me.

  Then, as I followed him, I became nervously aware that I was driving along with a small fortune behind me. Ian drove wildly, but for only a hundred pounds he’d probably got one with faulty steering. I followed him, praying he would not crash. I did not know where the open-cast site was; nearly all the district seemed to be an open-cast something, with its wide, empty areas of mangled slag.

  We came to it down a long and pot-holed lane, now swimming with water although the rain had ceased. There was no sign of any police cars in support. The moon, trying its best with die scattering clouds, was the only light. Ian drew up, and I pulled to a halt beside him. We cut our lights.

  “Here?”

  It was completely desolate, a flattened and grey stretch of soggy land about a quarter of a mile in all directions. Around its boundaries, tossed there negligently because it did not have the charm of coal, was what had been the top layers of soil and shale, in awkward and undisciplined piles. It was like a sterile crater of some long-dead volcano, a lost valley in the moon.

  “We meet in the centre,” he said. “In ... ” He consulted his watch, shading it to encourage the luminous hands. “ ... five minutes.”

  And then I heard the hum of a car engine approaching. But it was from behind us! Ian whirled round with an angry exclamation. My own Dolomite bumped around the bend and stopped a yard short of my toe. Peter climbed out.

  “Sorry Elsa. But you left the keys in, and somebody let down all my tyres. Some kid ... or similar irresponsible person.”

  I turned to Ian. He recognised my suspicion.

  “Well all right!” he shouted. “I had a constable do it. I wanted to keep him out of this.”

  “How could I be out of this?” Peter complained. “You very nearly ruined the whole thing.” He made a gesture that embraced the three vehicles. “But the buggy’ll be useful. It’ll help me no end.”

  The moon came out fully for a few moments. Peter was after all wearing his best suit, a dark navy blue, with a dark tie.

  “What does this mean?” Ian demanded.

  “Oh come on, don’t be so damned slow. Why assume we’d come in at different sides? That’s just because the sheriff and the baddie always march down the main street from opposite ends. But in real life things aren’t that convenient, because there’s no director to organise the action. So all right, we both picked the same lane. What of it? It saves time. So let’s get on with the unloading.”

  And happily, as though that made it all clear, he sprang up — the odd couple of feet or so — into the back of the buggy.

  “You pass ’em up,” he said.

  Then I realised what he was attempting. Once the cases were loaded, he needed only climb down and slip behind the wheel, start the engine, and then, with a quick grab, he’d have Ian’s peaked cap off him, and he’d be away into the centre of the site. In the moonlight, and with the dark suit, he could be Ian Carefree, and make the rendezvous in the middle before Ian got his breath back.

  And it would have worked; it certainly deserved to, because Ian was unsuspecting. He’d really expected to meet Peter, anyway, his attempt to keep him out of it being only half-hearted. But just at that time the moon, though low, was fully exposed, and the night was still, and far over on the other side a dark vehicle nosed its way between two of the shadowed mounds, and thrummed its engine with impatience.

  “You young hound!” Ian snapped. “What’re you trying?”

  At that time he had the boot open and was just about to lift out the first case. Or try to. He whirled on Peter.

  “Get out of my bloody way,” he shouted.

  Peter took up a defensive attitude. “I’m not going to let you go out there.”

  “You’re not going to let me! Get down off the back of there, or I’ll throw you off.”

  Peter brandished his fists. “You do, and I’ll follow you. In the Datsun.” Then he was very serious, very supplicating. “You’ve got to have some way of getting away fast.”

  But Ian had passed the point of reason. “Are you going to move?”

  “Come and make me.”

  And Ian did. He put one hand on the buggy’s roof, and was up with a single leap. Peter hit him on the way up. This was definitely a mistake. If you’re going to hit a man like Ian, you have to make it once and for keeps. Peter was insufficiently vicious, and Ian barely slowed. In fact, it speeded him up. He straightened like an uncoiling spring, there was an unpleasant thud, then a crack, and Peter was lying flat on his back in the buggy.

  Ian wasted no more time. He did not dare to unload the cases now, in case Peter recovered and caused more obstruction. Abandoning the buggy he leapt into his Datsun and swung away, wheels spinning and the tail bucking, the open boot lid crashing up and down.

  From where I stood, Peter was no more than the tips of his feet and his nose, the moon slanting on them. And then I knew.

  I screamed; “Ian!” But it was too late. He was out and away with all our lovely money.

  I scrambled into the Dolomite. I know what it will do, and I made it do it. But the surface out on the flat was terrible, a kind of rutted mush that left the wheel flabby in my hands. I was shouting Ian’s name over and over, but the cars were getting closer, and I was still twenty yards away when they drew to a halt, almost bumper to bumper.

  Then, before Ian had his door open, his rear screen smashed, and I heard the whip-crack of a distant shot. I almost fell out of the Dolomite, but then I saw that Ian was out too, rolling in the sludge.

  He shouted: “Elsa, get down!”

  But he didn’t need to tell me. I crawled towards him as two men scrambled out of the black car. Then another shot cracked into the Datsun, and the two men fell on their faces.

  Ian dragged at my arm. “For God’s sake!”

  I gasped: “I know where the steel is, Ian. I know. You mustn’t let them get the money.”

  But Ian was wild with elation. “Elsa, he got the passenger headrest. The passenger one — don’t you see!”

  “He’s still shooting.”

  “He was after me. But he assumed I was important enough to be chauffeured. Me! Oh Lordy, Lordy!”

  “Ian, they’re getting the money. Don’t you understand?”

  The two men, nylon stockings over their heads — but 30 denier, which must have hampered them — were struggling with the cases. The firing had ceased, and Ian raised his head.

  “You’re under arrest,” he said.

  But they were too busy. The two together had managed to lift out one case. It thumped down and half disappeared beneath the surface. They fought with it. It made sucking noises, but would not move.

  Ian tapped them on the shoulders. “I am arresting you — ”

  They snarled, and abandoned the case, and ran to the black car, made wild whining noises with the spinning tyres, and finally spun about and were off. But Ian was laughing, his fists on his hips, watching them go.

  “Ian, you didn’t hear what I said. I know where they hid the steel.”

  “Lord, I hope you’re right,” he said. “Because otherwise we’re in a right mess.”

  12

  We descended on the factory in triumphant convoy, the Dolomite and eight police cars, rousing the night with their sirens and shaming the streetlamps with their winkers. Anyone who might wish to evade interview was firmly given the tip to go missing. But of course, the steel was calmly waiting.

  It had been necessary to abandon Ian’s Datsun. Thoughtlessly, two very big policemen had extracted the one case from the mud and replaced it i
n the boot, with the result that the Datsun had firmly dug itself in. So now the two cases of money were in the boot of the Dolomite. It gave a firm feeling, a comfortable solidity.

  Peter must have recovered quickly, because he had wisely disappeared by the time we had extricated ourselves from the open-cast site. He had taken the buggy. Rimlock and the two heavies had also escaped the net, which, when the activity began in the centre, had slipped a few meshes of security. Ian was going to have a few things to say about that at a later time, but at the moment he sat beside me in the Dolomite and told me to drive faster. With two police cars in front and six behind, the choice was not mine. I hoped they realised they were breaking a vast number of traffic regulations.

  “Work it out, Ian,” I said. “Twelve hundred sheets of steel, three foot six inches by a foot by half-an-inch.”

  “I’m not carrying my calculator, Elsa.”

  “But somebody was. Somebody worked it out very carefully.”

  We were both rather damp and messy, and the nylon cord upholstery would need attention. The inside was getting steamed-up. Ian too.

  “I always knew the most important thing was the death of the guard,” I told him.

  “It was straightforward enough,” he said impatiently. “He was drugged so that they could get his key to gate No. 3, only he foiled them in that. But he’d had too much of the chloral hydrate, and he died. So they dipped him. High spirits, Elsa.”

  “But we know — surely, Ian, you must know — that the people involved must have been Bernie’s old crowd. He’s due out. Today, Ian. But have you seen them? They’re hardly high-spirited. They’re not exactly teenage layabouts.”

  He was irritable. Perhaps it was reaction to Rimlock’s attempt. That first bullet had struck dead centre in the passenger’s headrest, and gone on to destroy part of the dash.

  “But they did wipe his nose,” he said. “That’s something that strikes me as a bit off-beat. Larky, you know.”

  “No. They didn’t wipe his nose. That’s the whole point. Remember — there was no paint in his nostrils, as there would have been if it had simply been wiped. I realised what it meant when I saw poor Peter ... ”

  “Poor Peter!” he snorted.