by J F Straker
‘A large sum, yes. But not exactly how large. They couldn’t have known what the haul would be, or that Collier would take it home with him. At least, I wouldn’t have thought they could. So they probably went for a nice round figure and happened to get lucky. But they must have known the job was on, and that puzzles me. I mean—well, how?’
‘Careless talk,’ Kaufman said. ‘It happens.’
Fox looked at his watch. ‘What else, George? Or is that as far as you go?’
‘Well, I think the three thugs Collier claims to have hired as a bodyguard were in fact the rest of the gang, down for the carve-up. That would explain why they were careless enough to leave their prints on the glasses. They had come on what they saw as a private visit. It wouldn’t occur to them that their presence might be investigated by the police.’
‘It should have done,’ Kaufman said. ‘There’d been a kidnapping.’
‘They may have doubted that,’ Grover said. ‘It must have seemed a pretty tall story. They probably thought Collier was trying to con them out of their share.’ His normally melancholy expression lightened in a smile. ‘That wouldn’t make for a very friendly gathering, would it? Hence the blood, perhaps.’
‘Mrs Collier’s body should have convinced them.’
‘They didn’t see it. Not according to Collier. He says they didn’t go into the house, and for once he is probably telling the truth.’ Grover finished his brandy and shook his head as Fox raised the decanter invitingly. ‘No, thank you, sir.’ Fox was Ernest in private but not with a junior officer present. ‘And if they thought they’d been conned it could have been one of the gang who broke into Pinewood last night.’
‘Looking for the money, eh?’ Kaufman said.
‘No,’ Fox said firmly. ‘That’s most unlikely. By then they would have learned through the media that Mrs Collier’s body had been found. That would have told them Collier hadn’t lied.’
Not about the kidnapping, perhaps,’ Grover said. ‘But they may have suspected he lied about handing over the money, either in whole or in part.’
‘Perhaps,’ Fox said. ‘Anyway, it’s an interesting theory, George, but that’s all it is, eh? Just a theory. You haven’t a shred of real evidence to support it. Mind you, I’m not knocking it. It’s plausible—very. Plausible enough to keep a watchful eye on the gentleman. But until we get something more concrete—’
He shrugged and left it at that.
‘How about tapping his phone, sir?’ Kaufman asked.
‘No chance, Derek. The Home Office wouldn’t wear it.’
I’ll certainly keep an eye on him, Grover thought. I’ll have him under surveillance twenty-four hours a day. I want to know who visits him, where he goes and who he sees. If there’s anything to find—and I’m damned sure there is I’ll find it.
They turned to other matters. It was after midnight when Grover and Kaufman left. ‘I’ll drop you off at Arabella’s party, shall I?’ Grover said, unlocking his car. ‘Where is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ Kaufman said.
‘Don’t know? But she gave you the address. I saw her write it down.’
‘Yes.’ Kaufman grinned. ‘Unfortunately I seem to have mislaid it.’
‘Most unfortunate,’ Grover agreed. ‘And I’ve no doubt your memory is equally at fault.’
‘It’s always been weak on addresses,’ Kaufman said. ‘However, no sense in crying over spilt milk. I’ll just have to go home. Nothing else for it. But I’ll walk, thanks. I need the exercise. So do you, George, come to that.’
‘At this hour?’ Grover said. ‘All I need is bed.’
He was tired, but not too tired to spend a short while with Castor and Pollux before retiring. Others might say that cats were self-sufficient, that they didn’t need human companionship. Grover disagreed. It sometimes worried him that Castor and Pollux were left so much on their own.
That night he overslept. Derek Kaufman was waiting for him when he reached his office next morning.
‘You were right last night when you said Collier was involved in the Westonbury bank job,’ Kaufman said.
‘I know. But thanks for the confidence.’
‘Not confidence, George,’ Kaufman said. ‘Knowledge. There’s a memo on your desk. Apparently casts of footprints taken from the field next to Pinewood tally with some found in the backyard of the bank.’ He grinned. ‘Do you reckon that’s concrete enough for the Gaffer?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Grover said. ‘But it’s concrete enough for me.’
15
Apart from its name and its situation there was nothing particularly attractive about Lower Riverside Cottage. Built of brick some twenty years previously, it was little more than a two-storeyed rectangular box with a separate garage and an outhouse intended as a coal bunker but now filled with junk. The small garden, running to seed after several months without a tenant, was so overgrown that lawn and flower-beds and vegetable patch had merged into a sea of weed through which the gravel path ran like a Moses parting from front gate to front door. Ivy and other creepers had done something to soften the brickwork (‘Why the hell couldn’t they have used stone?’ Luke Osman had exclaimed on his first visit) but nothing could completely hide its ugliness. But then no consideration of beauty or charm had influenced its owner-builder. A fanatical fisherman, he had been motivated only by the fact that the site bordered one of the finest trout rivers in the south of England, and that fishing rights went with the site. He did not, however, profit much from its acquisition. Little more than a year after he had moved in he was dead of a brain tumour, and his heir, a younger brother, had no interest whatever in the river and had leased the cottage furnished to successive tenants prepared to pay handsomely for the fishing.
Andrew Osman was his latest tenant.
Most of the ground floor was taken up by the living-room, long, wide and high ceilinged, with steps at the western end leading up to a small kitchen-diner and the back door; on the first floor were three small bedrooms and a bathroom and lavatory. The house was isolated and on higher ground than most of the surrounding terrain, and the view to the north was of the river and the scattered woodland beyond. To the south was flat open pasture, through which the road to Loxford village ran parallel to the river. The cottage was some two hundred yards from the road; and although the latter was bordered by hedges for much of its length, the connecting track was not. This latter fact, together with the absence of neighbours, reconciled Luke Osman to the lack of comfort provided by the sparse and utilitarian furnishing inside the cottage. It would be difficult for anyone to approach unseen, at least by day. And although he was not expecting unwelcome visitors it was comforting to have this feeling of security.
He had it now as his car bumped down the track in the late afternoon in the pouring rain. He had gone to London by train, mainly to arrange the disposal of the ransom money, but also to collect his Austin. Not only was the Austin less ostentatious than Andrew’s Lotus, it was also a relic of their smuggling days and was fitted with hidden storage compartments which had so far managed to escape the notice of inquisitive customs officers. It was not their intention to smuggle any of the ransom money abroad—discovery could result in additional charges of kidnapping and murder—but the means was there if circumstances forced them to do so.
He parked the car in the field beside the gate and ran down the path to the cottage. ‘Talk about weather!’ he grumbled, as Andrew opened the door to him. ‘What a filthy day!’
‘We’ve got something else to talk about,’ Andrew said. ‘The police were here.’
‘The police?’ Luke unbuttoned his jacket and shook the raindrops from it. ‘Not about the woman, surely?’
‘Yes.’
‘But that’s impossible! There’s no way they can know we’re involved.’
‘There is and they do,’ Andrew said. ‘They even have a photograph.’
‘What photograph?’
‘One Gail took at the races last week. Several o
f us went—remember?’ Luke nodded, wiping the rain from his face with a handkerchief. ‘Well, Gail took this photograph. And we were in it.’
‘You were. Not me. I was watching from the side-lines.’
‘That’s what you thought,’ Andrew told him. ‘But you were wrong. Somehow or other you managed to get yourself into the picture. Though God knows how you could have been so damned careless.’
Luke sat down. He had gone to the races separately from his brother, and on the course the two had treated each other as strangers. He had gone because he had never previously set eyes on the woman they planned to kidnap, and since he and not Andrew was to do the actual snatch he had wanted to ensure that he snatched the right woman. He remembered her taking photographs by the grandstand, but he had believed himself too far from the rest of the party to be included.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘So they have a photograph. But there must be scores of other people in the picture. Why should the police be particularly interested in us?’
‘Not us,’ Andrew said. ‘You.’
‘Me?’ Luke frowned. ‘You’d better tell me exactly what happened.’
They had called at the cottage just after five o’clock, Andrew said: two young constables, one of them a detective named Robins. Robins had shown him the photograph and had asked if he recognised any of the people in it. ‘I named a few of them—not you, of course—and then Robins said, “How about this chap?” and pointed to you. I didn’t know what to say. I realised it could be a trap, that they knew you were my brother. Someone could have told them.’
‘Who?’
‘How should I know who? But they’d obviously been flashing the photograph around.’
‘So what? No one within miles of this place—or of Hickworth or Foresters either, for that matter—knows me. Let alone that we’re related.’ Luke got up to pour himself a drink. ‘Anyway, what did you say?’
‘I chanced my arm and said I didn’t know you.’ Andrew slid a hand round the inside of his collar. ‘But I was sweating blood you might return while they were still here.’
‘Hm! Did you get the impression they were more interested in me than in the others?’
Andrew frowned, considering. ‘I think they were. I could be wrong, of course. But you were the only one they singled out.’
‘But why me, dammit?’ Luke kicked petulantly at a pouffe as he returned to his chair. ‘There’s no one who could conceivably connect me with the kidnapping. Not a bloody soul. Except Clarence, of course; he’ll know by now what Foresters was all about. But we can rule him out. If Clarence had talked the police would know my name, they wouldn’t be hawking the photograph around, trying to identify me. Besides, how would he get to see the bloody thing? So where—‘ He sat up sharply. ‘Jesus! The estate agent!’
‘Who?’
‘The estate agent. The chap who fixed us up with Foresters. The police must have shown him the photograph and he picked me out as Salmon. Only they’d know I wouldn’t be foolish enough to give my real name.’ Luke whistled softly. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘You think that’s it?’ Andrew asked anxiously.
‘I’m sure that’s it. What else is there?’
‘But what could have prompted them to show him that particular photograph? Gail was a fanatic with a camera, she was always clicking away. Out of the hundreds of photographs she must have taken, why would they choose the only one in which you happen to appear?’
‘I don’t suppose they did. They probably showed him the lot.’
‘But that means they think Gail was kidnapped by someone she knew. She wouldn’t have photographed a stranger. What could make them think that?’
‘Maybe they didn’t. Maybe it was just a chance thing. I don’t know, do I? Anyway, what does it matter what they think? They have a photograph of one of us. That’s what matters.’
‘They have a photograph of both of us, if they only knew it,’ Andrew said.
They discussed their position as they prepared and ate their evening meal. As Luke saw it, the danger was not immediate. It would become immediate only when the police could put his real name to the photograph, and flashing it around in the district would not enable them to do that. They would have to go further afield to find someone who would recognise him as himself and not as Salmon. Once they had the name Osman they would come hotfoot to the cottage. But that wouldn’t happen overnight. It could take days, and by then he and Andrew would be gone. ‘The question is, do we go tomorrow and hope to smuggle the money through customs, as we’ve done in the past, or do we take a chance and hang on here until the financial arrangements are complete?’
‘Smuggle? You mean, go abroad?’
‘Where else?’ Luke helped himself to salad, his appetite returning with his confidence. ‘The Continent first, and then somewhere where there’s no extradition treaty. South America, probably.’
‘Damn!’ Andrew said. ‘It’s all gone sour, hasn’t it? We believed the kidnapping could never be traced to us, that we could continue to live our normal lives. We never expected we might have to disappear.’
‘We didn’t expect it, no. But it was always on the cards. Why else would I have gone to such trouble to chase up the necessary contacts? Anyway, what’s wrong with South America?’
‘Nothing, I suppose. It’s just that—‘ Andrew looked up sharply. ‘We can get the money there, can’t we? If we don’t take it with us, I mean.’
His brother looked pained. ‘I’m not a complete idiot, Andrew. Of course we can get it. With the right contacts one can arrange practically anything. I thought I’d explained that.’
Andrew shrugged. He had left that side of the venture to Luke. ‘I guess I didn’t take it in,’ he said. ‘How long will it take to fix it?’
‘A day if I’m lucky. More if I’m not.’
‘How much will it cost?’
‘Enough. But we won’t starve for a year or two.’
They took their coffee into the living-room. With the heavy clouds and the rain the night had come early, and the curtains were already drawn across the windows. There was not a great deal of wind, but an occasional gust sent raindrops pattering against the glass panes.
‘How much grace have we got?’ Andrew asked, sipping Drambuie. His brother preferred brandy, but he had a fondness for the sweeter liqueurs. ‘That’s the question, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Luke said. ‘That’s the question. But there’s no definite answer. So either way it’s a gamble.’
He picked up the evening paper he had brought from Town, searching it for any reference to the kidnapping. It had ceased to be front page news, and as he turned the pages Andrew said, ‘What if they release it to the Press?’
‘Release what?’
‘That photograph. It could be in tomorrow’s papers. Tonight’s, even, or on the box. That wouldn’t give us even a day’s grace, would it? Someone’s bound to recognise you. Fred Lee, for instance, or—oh lots of people.’
Luke put down the paper. It was a disturbing possibility, and he wondered why he had not considered it before. He had an idea that the police were reluctant to publish photographs of wanted criminals—something to do with confusing identification—but it happened, and it could happen now. There was no photograph in his copy of the paper, but it might well appear in a later edition or in a television news programme. For all they knew it might have appeared already. In which case freedom could be limited to hours. Or less.
He swallowed his brandy and stood up. ‘That settles it,’ he said. ‘You’re right, Andrew. The odds are against us if we stay. So we’ll go.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight. And the sooner the better.’
As Luke had said, although they had not expected such an emergency to arise they had taken certain precautions against it. Each had a false passport, with non-dated passages booked for themselves and the Austin on both the Dover-Calais and Newhaven-Dieppe ferries. The plan was to take the two cars to London, garage the Lotus, and d
rive down to Dover or Newhaven in the Austin to catch the first available ferry. It was not a fool proof plan, he knew that. But then it had been made without knowledge of the exigencies that might force them to adopt it.
They stowed the money away in the Austin and packed their bags. That done, they had a final whisky to fortify themselves against the rain and whatever might lie in store. It was a twelve-year-old malt whisky, and Luke put down the half empty bottle with regret. ‘I could use another,’ he said, ‘but I won’t. A breathalyser now could be the end. And for Christ’s sake don’t get done for speeding, Andrew. The way you—’
A knock on the front door stopped him. It was a light, almost tentative knock, lacking the imperious authority they might expect from the police. Nevertheless it scared them.
‘Do we answer it?’ Andrew asked. The door led directly into the living-room, and although it was unlikely they could be overheard he spoke in a whisper. ‘They must know we’re here. The lights would tell them that. And the car.’
‘Wait,’ Luke said. ‘He may go away.’ They waited. The knock came again louder, but still with a hint of apology about it. The brothers looked at each other and then at the door, but neither moved. Presently the flap of the letter-box was lifted and a male voice called loudly, ‘Anybody in? I need to get to a phone. My car’s packed up.’
Luke hesitated. Then he switched on the outside light and peered out through a gap in the curtains. As far as he could see the man outside the door was a stranger and alone. His head was bowed and the collar of his jacket turned up against the rain, so that it was impossible to see his face. But there was nothing about him that was familiar.
‘We’d better let him in,’ he said. ‘He looks okay. The sooner we’re shot of him the sooner we’ll be off.’
Andrew looked apprehensive. ‘You’re sure he’s not the law?’
‘No. But if he is—well, he won’t go away, will he? So what’s the odds?’ Luke nodded at the door. ‘Go on, let him in.’
Andrew drew back the bolts and opened the door. As Luke had supposed, the man was a stranger; about his own height, but bulkier. Rain dripped from the peak of his cap, his lightweight suit was soaking wet. But despite the dampness he grinned at them cheerfully.