Death On a Sunday Morning (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 8)

by J F Straker

  ‘Thanks.’ He moved into the room and took off his cap, scattering raindrops as he shook it. ‘What a night, eh? Mind if I use your phone? The bloody car’s blown a gasket or something. Dead as a dodo.’

  Luke pointed to the telephone. ‘Help yourself.’

  The man half turned and reached into an inside pocket—and suddenly the room was full of men. They came hurtling through the open doorway: three of them, with staves in their hands. Taken completely by surprise, Andrew went down without a fight, felled by a blow from the leader, a large man in jeans and a leather jacket. Luke looked for a way of escape, and saw none. He was in a dead end. The men were between him and the kitchen and the back door, and with Andrew unconscious on the floor the odds were four to one, too heavy to accept. They were all watching to see what he would do, and concealing his fear he sank into an armchair and took out his cigar case.

  ‘I don’t know who all you gentlemen are,’ he said, his voice steady. ‘Or what you want—except that it certainly isn’t the telephone. But you might at least shut the door. The carpet’s getting wet.’

  ‘Shut the door, Griff,’ the smallest of the four said.

  Luke paused in lighting his cigar. Everything had happened so quickly that he had only a blurred impression of the newcomers. Now he looked at them more closely. The man to whom Andrew had opened the door was presumably Griff, since he was now shutting it. Two other men, both big and one heavily bearded, stood facing him a few yards away; the bearded man was the one who had led the charge, the other wore a dark blue suit, his shirt unbuttoned at the neck. But it was the one who had spoken who took most of Luke’s attention. He wore a short raincoat with the collar turned up; the brim of his mackintosh hat was pulled down, hiding the upper part of his face. But Luke did not have to see him to recognise him. This was a voice he knew.

  ‘Well, well, well!’ he said, and swore as the match burnt his fingers. ‘Clarence, eh? You know, it never occurred to me it might be you. Not even when the roughhouse started.’ He shook his head. ‘I suppose I should have guessed; not quite the style of the Law, was it? Well, what can we do for you, Clarence? As if I didn’t know!’

  Clarence ignored him. ‘The mouth is Luke Osman,’ he told his companions. ‘The other’s his brother. And if you’ve never met a couple of two-timing bastards you’ve met them now.’ He took off his hat and flung it away. ‘Come on, tie ‘em up.’

  ‘Easy now, Clarence,’ Luke protested. From beyond the men he heard Andrew groan, saw him start to lever himself up from the floor. Griff planted a foot on his chest and pushed him down. ‘Let’s be civilised, eh? No need to go that far. I admit we were thinking of leaving. But I imagine that wouldn’t suit your plans, so we’ll stay.’

  ‘Too bloody right you’ll stay,’ Clarence said. ‘But we’ve things to do, Luke boy, and we’ll do ‘em quicker if we don’t have to keep an eye on you two bastards. Tie him up, Ben. And you, Wally. Griff and me’ll do the other.’

  Wally and Ben produced cord from their pockets. As they advanced on him Luke wanted to lash out at them with his feet. But he knew that obedience to the urge would result in pain and possible injury, and although he had never shirked a fight when the odds were even he saw no sense in submitting to pain with little chance of dishing it out. But when, after tying his ankles, Wally grabbed an arm, he protested loudly. How the hell could he smoke a cigar with his wrists tied? Wally’s answer was to snatch the cigar from his mouth, place it carefully in an ashtray, and hold his wrists while Ben tied them behind his back. Then he picked up the cigar, put it to his lips, and drew on it. Leaning forward, he blew smoke into Luke’s face.

  ‘That’s all the smoke you’re getting, mate,’ he said. And coughed, spraying spittle.

  Luke drew back his head in disgust. ‘I don’t really take to your friends, Clarence,’ he said. ‘This one is sadly lacking in manners.’

  Clarence did not answer. He and Griff were dragging Andrew, now bound like his brother, towards an armchair. They practically flung him into it. Andrew looked bewildered, dazed by the rapidity and force of events. He had not spoken since the men had come.

  Clarence left him and came over to Luke. ‘Where’s the money?’ he demanded.

  ‘All over the place,’ Luke told him. ‘Banks, Trusts, investments—you name them, they’ve got it. We’ve spread it around, Clarence, allowed it to breed. More profitable than hiding it under the bed.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ Clarence said. ‘You haven’t had time to do all that. It’s here, isn’t it? So suppose you tell us where, eh? I mean, if me and the boys have to search the place it’s not going to look quite so tidy when we’ve finished.’

  Luke shrugged. ‘I believe you, Clarence. Your friends are obviously not house trained. But I just can’t help you, I’m afraid. Except for the odd hundred or two the money has all been safely deposited elsewhere.’

  ‘What’s with this Clarence lark?’ Griff asked.

  ‘It’s a nickname they give me.’ Clarence’s tone was brusque. ‘They think it’s kind of funny. Only they’re not laughing now.’ He kicked Luke hard on the ankle. ‘Eh, Luke boy?’

  Luke winced. The kick had landed on bone, sending a sharp spasm of pain up his leg.

  ‘If you want to search the place, go ahead, damn you!’ he snapped. ‘And then get the hell out.’

  Clarence grinned, clearly delighted at having made him lose his cool.

  ‘Not without the necessary, Luke boy,’ he said. ‘That’s what we’ve come for and that’s what we’re taking. So if you want us out smartish you’d best tell us where it is, eh?’ Luke scowled at him without reply. Clarence turned to Andrew. ‘How about you, Whiskers? It’s your pad, ain’t it? You want it took apart?’

  Restored to full consciousness, Andrew glared at him. As with his brother, it had never occurred to him that the despised Clarence might catch up with them. That he should do so so soon and in such formidable strength filled him with fury. Quick to anger, lacking Luke’s coolness in adversity, he would have attacked all four, regardless of the odds, had he been free to do so.

  ‘Get stuffed, damn you!’ he shouted.

  Before Clarence could comment the telephone rang. Startled, the men turned to stare at it.

  ‘Do we answer it?’ Griff asked. ‘Or do we let it ring?’

  Clarence scowled at the instrument. Then he grabbed the lead and ripped it from the box.

  ‘Screw the bloody thing!’ he said. ‘And screw them two bastards. The money’s here. All we got to do is find it.’

  16

  For the next two days Collier stayed at home. Or what had once been home; now it was merely somewhere to eat and sleep, a place of emptiness. Someday soon he would get rid of it, find something smaller, maybe a flat in Town. It would seem a betrayal to part with something that had meant so much to Gail, but without her he could not continue to live in it, it would be a constant and too poignant reminder of how happy the last few years had been and how empty would be the years that lay ahead. Better to make the break. He had thought he could not live without her, and he thought that still. He would continue to exist. But existence wasn’t living, and existence was all the murderer had left him.

  The two days dragged slowly by. He had never been much of a reader and television bored him, and for much of the time he sat immersed in memories of the past, or wandered about the house and grounds formulating vague plans to hunt down the killer and gloating over the details of what he would do to the man when he found him. He knew that the plans might never materialise, that if the killer was to be brought to book it was more likely to be by the police than by himself. But a mental picture of the man in the dock could not provide the same morbid satisfaction as the imaginary feel of his fingers closing relentlessly round the man’s throat.

  He ate a little of what Mrs Wise put before him, although he got no pleasure from it, and slept fitfully in one of the spare bedrooms. Every so often he puzzled over Monday night’s intruder. Before that fateful weekend
he would have given the incident little thought; houses such as Pinewood were favourite targets for burglars, and the man had taken nothing. Now, with his mind possessed by Gail’s death, it seemed to him that the two events had to be connected. He wanted them to be connected, for then it was possible that a solution to the break-in could provide a lead to the killer. So who was the intruder and why had he come? Was it Jock or Terry, suspicious of his statement that he had handed the kidnappers the entire haul from the bank and intending to discover for themselves whether any of it remained? They had known he was spending the night in Town, and it was only nine-thirty when he had parted from them outside Bunny’s flat. They would have had plenty of time to drive down to Hickworth by midnight. so, for that matter, would Bunny. Bunny would have been bruised and sore from the treatment he had received, but he would have been capable of driving. Yet if Jock or Terry or Bunny had gained entry to the house and none of the three would have found much difficulty in opening the French windows—he would not have let the unexpected arrival of Mrs Wise deflect him from his purpose. And what on earth could he have wanted with Gail’s telephone directory? What could anyone have wanted?

  More than once he took the directory from the drawer to study the names on the page indexed ‘0’. There were eleven names in all, but although he considered each name long and carefully he could single out none as possessing any particular significance. They were the names of people he had met or knew by repute: friends of Gail and therefore presumably above suspicion. Or so he would have supposed had it not been for the kidnapper’s knowledge of the bed-stead. Yet if one of those eleven people was a kidnapper—or someone connected with the kidnapping—how was his or her identity to be uncovered? No use to question them; the guilty would lie and the innocent be mystified. And how to tell truth from lies without even a suspicion of which was which?

  It was after dinner on the second day that he had the idea of considering the names from a different angle. Gail’s directory gave only their telephone numbers. Perhaps if the names were linked to addresses, if he knew where their owners lived, they might assume greater individuality. It was even possible that the address could be more significant than the name. A forlorn hope, he knew that. But even a forlorn hope was better than no hope at all, if only because it substituted action for brooding, and he took the official directories from the drawer and looked up the addresses of the eleven names. Six were listed in one or other of the two local directories, three in a London Directory. They gave him nothing, and he considered the two names he had been unable to find: Jane Overton and Andrew Osman. To the best of his knowledge he had never met Jane Overton; but he knew that she had shared a flat with Gail before her marriage, and the dialling code indicated that she now lived in Manchester. Jane Overton, Collier decided, was almost certainly out. But Osman had a cottage on the river at Loxford, Collier had been there once with Gail; and Loxford was local, so why wasn’t the man listed in the local directory? That puzzled him—until he remembered that Osman only rented the cottage, which meant that the number would be shown against the owner’s name, whatever that might be. Was that why the intruder had needed to consult Gail’s directory—to discover Andrew Osman’s telephone number? If so, the need must indeed have been pressing to warrant such drastic measures. Yet how could he have known that Gail kept a personal telephone directory, or that Osman’s number was in it? Had he seen it on a previous visit to the house? And if he had, did that imply that he too was one of Gail’s so-called friends? Or had it simply been guesswork? Had the intruder seen Gail in Osman’s company and assumed that, like most telephone subscribers, she had kept a personal directory and that Osman’s name was likely to be in it?

  Or was he chasing a red herring? Collier wondered. He had looked for something that might single out one name from the others and it seemed that he had found it. But did it mean anything? Was there in fact no connection between Osman and the intruder—or, for that matter, between the intruder and Gail’s death? Was the connection only in his mind, because he had willed it there?

  He considered what he knew of Osman. A good-looking man, very upper class, and obviously attracted to Gail. And a keen fisherman. That was why he had persuaded Collier and Gail to visit him: to try their skill with a rod. Collier had found it a rather unattractive sport, perhaps because the day had been wet and he had caught nothing but a chill. Gail had enjoyed herself, however, and Collier had an idea she had repeated the visit. But then Osman had been an attentive mentor and host, and it could have been the flattering attention rather than the actual fishing that had pleased her. Of one thing Collier was reasonably certain, however. It was just possible that Osman might have conceived a romantic notion to kidnap Gail, but he would certainly never have killed her. And a further thought. If the intruder had been trying to find Osman’s number it suggested that the two were not well acquainted. Which again suggested that if the intruder was one of the kidnappers,

  Osman was not. So again where, if at all, did he fit in?

  If there was an answer to that question, Collier decided, it would best be found by talking to the man, and with no clear idea what he would say he lifted the receiver and dialled Osman’s number. For a few seconds he listened to the ‘brrr-brrr’ at the other end of the line; then the ringing tone ceased, to be replaced by a steady high-pitched note. Collier replaced the receiver and dialled again. This time he got the steady note at once, and again when he tried a third time. Exasperated, he got through to the operator. I’m sorry, the operator told him after an interval, the number seems to be unobtainable.

  Collier put down the telephone. This was something that would not keep. The query was there and it had to be answered—tonight, not tomorrow and if it could not be answered over the telephone it must be answered in person. Provided he could find the cottage in the dark he should be there well before ten.

  The rain was still sleeting down but, impatient to be gone, he did not pause to put on a raincoat. Aware only that here at last was action after so much inactivity, he spun the Rover out of the drive and accelerated towards Hickworth. Crouched over the wheel as he peered through the semi-circle of windscreen cleared by the wiper, he did not notice the car that came out from the shadow of a clump of trees and followed down the lane at a discreet distance.

  17

  ‘We’ve got to be careful,’ Clarence said. ‘There’s this letter, see, the one I told you about. If they croak it goes to the Law. So we keep them alive. But a bit of damage, now—well, that’s different. They wouldn’t put the Law on me for that, would they? Because they know bloody well that if they did I’d shop ‘em.’ He kicked Andrew on the ankle. ‘Eh, Whiskers? And it wouldn’t be just for the snatch, would it? I mean, there’s murder too, isn’t there?’ He stroked the back of his head, smoothing down the straggling locks. ‘That’s nasty, that is. Very nasty.’

  Andrew glared at him. ‘You should know,’ he said. ‘You’re the expert. Anyway, you’re talking balls. I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘No? Luke boy, was it? Still, that makes you an accessory, don’t it? So be sensible, Whiskers. Tell us where you’ve hid the money.’

  ‘You heard,’ Andrew said. ‘It isn’t here.’

  The floor was littered with the contents of the suitcases. Drawers and cupboards had been ransacked, cushions ripped open, the carpet lifted, before the men moved on to search the rest of the cottage. Listening to the shattering of china and glass and the crash of overturned furniture it had seemed to Andrew that they were being needlessly and wantonly destructive. Not that he cared about the damage; he had rented the cottage furnished and what happened to the contents did not concern him. But he saw it as ominously indicative of the treatment to be expected when the men returned empty handed. He and Luke had talked little during their absence, except to curse the disastrous turn of events and reflect on what might have been had they not stayed for that final drink. There was nothing they could say, nothing they could do, to extricate themselves from their predicament.
Neither had mentioned the thought that was in both their minds: how much pain and punishment could they take before one of them broke and revealed that the money was hidden in the Austin? And because each of them knew that the break must come eventually, that Clarence and his companions would not cease the treatment until it did and that there was a limit to the amount of pain a man could stand, there was also a second thought. If there was nothing to be gained from defiance, why be defiant? Why not talk now and save themselves the pain. Only pride forbade it. How strong was pride?

  Clarence shook his head. ‘Stupid,’ he said. ‘Very stupid. I mean you two bastards are going to get hurt. Hurt bad. My friends here, they don’t mess about, they’ve had this sort of caper before. They’re professionals, see? Connoisseurs, you might say.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Luke said. His back ached. His wrists were tied behind him and he could not relax his body against the chair. ‘Did they help you settle with Charlie Keen? Or was Charlie all yours?’

  ‘Charlie was different,’ Clarence said. ‘Charlie was going to cough. The trouble with you and Whiskers, Luke boy, is that you won’t. Or you think you won’t. But you will. You’ll cough so loud and so fast you’ll be right out of breath. Know what I mean?’

  ‘I do indeed. Which prompts me to ask a question. Before, as you say, I’m right out of breath.’

  ‘Sure.’ Clarence watched Ben pour four liberal measures of whisky, and took the glass he was handed. ‘Shoot, Luke boy.’

  ‘How did you manage to get this address?’

  ‘The bloke where you live—porter, ain’t he? He told me.’

  ‘He couldn’t,’ Luke said. ‘He doesn’t know it.’