Another Man's Poison

by J F Straker

  ‘That’s pretty good, Simon,’ Robin said, pleasantly surprised. Imaginative thinking was not something he would have associated with Simon. ‘That should get us off the hook. But there’s still Rowson. I wish there was some way we could fix the swine.’

  Simon had flushed, happy at the praise. ‘You think he’ll get away with it?’

  ‘Without evidence he will. And bombs don’t leave much evidence.’

  ‘Well, that’s not your problem,’ Simon said cheerfully. ‘That’s for the police. They’ll dig up something, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Wasn’t it his problem? Robin wondered. Technically, no, perhaps. But the more he thought about it — and for the rest of the day he thought about it a lot — the more it seemed to him that he could not tamely abandon it. Since the birth of Karen’s child all his venom had been directed against the rapist. But was not Rowson also guilty on that count? He might have been — might still be — unaware of the rape, but by organising the kidnapping he had made it possible. And now — murder. Simon could be right, the police might ‘dig up’ something. But also they might not. And to accept that possibility when he was convinced that the man was guilty — Hell! Robin thought, I’ve got to do something.

  ‘What did you say to Rowson when you returned the key of the Anson building?’ he asked Simon when they met for a pre-lunch drink the next morning. He had not told Karen they were meeting. It might reawaken fears she thought to have lost.

  ‘I didn’t see him. But I told his assistant that my friend had decided on another property. Why?’

  ‘I want you to give him a ring and ask if the building is still available. Which it almost certainly will be. Tell him the previous deal has fallen through, and can he meet you and your friend there for a further inspection.’

  Simon looked doubtful. ‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of putting the screws on him.’

  ‘Not physically. I just want to get him talking. And I’m hoping to get it on tape.’

  Simon didn’t like it and said so. If Rowson were guilty of murder they would have to beat him halfway to death before he’d talk — after which they would probably end up like Gatesby. And if by chance he happened to be innocent he could have the law on them. ‘It just isn’t on, Robin,’ he said. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘You’re not listening,’ Robin said. ‘I told you, there’ll be no violence. Just talk.’

  Incredulous, Simon stared at him. ‘You think you can talk him into a confession? Come off it, Robin!’

  Robin pointed at the other’s glass. ‘Finish that and come outside,’ he said.

  They went out and sat in the Rolls. Robin took a small tape-recorder from his pocket. ‘Listen,’ he said.

  The tape-recorder started to run. Then came Robin’s voice.

  ‘When did you shack up with Jonno Gatesby?’

  ‘End of February, it’d be.’

  Simon started. That was Gatesby’s Janet, the girl they had heard talking to Derek.

  ‘Were you in love with him?’

  A laugh. ‘He had money, didn’t he? Lots of it. And he liked spending it. He took me places. Not just here, but all over. You know — Spain, them islands. And he bought me things too. See this?’

  ‘Very nice. Where did he get the money?’

  ‘He said a man paid him to snatch the wife of some writer or other.’

  ‘Did he snatch her?’

  ‘Yes. They kept her two days, Jonno said. Him and a woman.’

  ‘And the man who arranged it? Did he tell you his name?’

  ‘Yes. Rowson, he said it was. But he said I was never to tell anyone. He said things happened to people what grassed on this Rowson man.’

  ‘Like it happened to him, eh?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘So why are you telling me?’

  ‘Cos I’m leaving, aren’t I? Clearing out.’

  ‘What else did Gatesby tell you?’

  ‘You’d be surprised, man.’

  ‘Okay, surprise me.’

  ‘Oh, no! Not now, anyways. Later, maybe, when —’

  Robin switched off the recorder. ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘But that’s terrific!’ Simon said. ‘How on earth did you get it?’

  ‘I paid her a visit. This morning. Plus a sizable sum of money.’

  ‘Have the police heard it?’

  ‘No. Nor will they.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘Because it’s a fake,’ Robin said. ‘Gatesby told her nothing. I wrote it all out, went through it with her several times until it sounded natural and then taped it. But I promised her the police would never get to hear it and that after it had done its job with Rowson I’d destroy it.’

  ‘Wasn’t she afraid of what Rowson might do?’

  ‘She’s leaving town. That bit was true. And I dare say two thousand quid boosted her courage considerably.’

  ‘Two thousand? Phew!’ Simon was impressed. ‘You really want that bastard, don’t you?’

  He wanted justice, Robin said, that was all. True, the tape made no reference to Gatesby’s murder — that would have overgilded the lily, for Rowson would know that if Gatesby had had even an inkling that his life was in danger he would have got the hell out — but there was at least a hint of further revelations to come. ‘There won’t be any, of course,’ he said. ‘The girl knows nothing. Anyway, she’s gone. I’ve no idea where, although I expect the police are keeping an eye on her. But there’s enough on that tape to make Rowson sweat, and I’m hoping that while he’s sweating he may be indiscreet.’

  What if Rowson refused to meet them? Simon asked. What if one of his toughs came with him? What if...? Leave it, Robin said impatiently, they would tackle the ‘ifs’ and the ‘buts’ as and when they arose. ‘We’ll just play it by ear,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’re right, maybe he won’t come. But I think he will. He’ll be curious to know what we’re up to. Besides, what has he got to lose? As he sees it, nothing.’ He pocketed the tape-recorder. ‘Anyway, it’s worth a try. Are you on?’

  ‘Of course,’ Simon said.

  Much to his surprise, Rowson accepted the invitation, although he gave it considerable thought first. Yes, he said, three-thirty that afternoon would suit, although it would leave very little daylight for the inspection. Why not make it earlier? Three-thirty, Simon said, was the earliest his friend could manage, and rang off to avoid further argument. ‘He’s suspicious,’ he said. ‘I could tell. I wonder why he agreed.’

  ‘Of course he’s suspicious. He knows we’re up to something. But, like I said, he’s also curious. He wants to know what.’

  ‘Maybe. All the same, I can’t help feeling he’s got a trick up his sleeve. It’s too damned easy.’

  ‘You want to back out?’

  No, Simon said, he didn’t want to back out.

  Rowson’s office was on the west side of town, a good fifteen minutes’ drive away from Canal Street. They decided to watch him leave, give him five minutes’ start and then follow; this should ensure he would already be in the building when they arrived and avoid a possible confrontation on the street. But it was Rowson’s assistant, not Rowson, who left the building at just after ten minutes past three and drove away eastward. They waited to see if Rowson would follow. Ten minutes later they knew he wouldn’t.

  ‘What’s he playing at?’ Simon said. ‘Why send his assistant?’

  ‘He’s boxing clever. Or thinks he is. But it makes no difference to us. They’re not together, and that’s what matters. We’ll tackle him in his office. It might even be an improvement on the factory. There could be incriminating documents.’

  ‘Surely not.’

  ‘Well, you never know. Come on. Let’s get up there before his assistant returns.’

  The door to the outer office was closed. They went in quietly and shut and locked the door behind them. The door to the inner office was ajar and they were startled to hear Rowson’s voice. Had he a visitor? Then there was a silence before Rowson spoke again
, and they crept across the room to listen, realising he was speaking on the telephone.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Rowson said. ‘Wally told me. But I’ve been busy and... Of course. You think I’d be talking if... That’s right. They rang lunchtime, wanted me to meet them at the factory... Like hell I did! I sent Wally, just to see what they were playing at... No, of course not. Not unless they started something, I told him... Yes, I know you did. But they were on to him, they could have... No, it wasn’t. I couldn’t bloody risk it. Not with Jonno. Twist his arm and he’d cough his guts up... No, no way. You know me. Alec Rowson don’t make that sort of mistake. I got a bomber up from the smoke. It give me the trots, waiting — they could have got to him first, couldn’t they? — but I wasn’t risking a local job... Hell, no! You don’t have to worry about... Yes... Yes, I know... All right, so you don’t bloody like it! But what the hell did you think...’ Rowson’s tone had grown sharper. ‘No, you listen! The snatch was your idea, Mr Beck. Any comeback, and it’s you as well as me that gets it. And that’s a promise!’

  There was a faint ‘ping’ as the receiver was replaced. Horrified, Robin stared incredulously at Simon. Then he turned and almost ran from the room.

  Seventeen

  ‘It wasn’t quite like that,’ Martin said. ‘It was my idea, certainly, but I took no part in the actual kidnapping. I left that to Rowson. But I warned him that if any harm came to Karen I’d break his bloody neck.’ He scowled. ‘It might have been better if I had. Him and that sodding black bastard.’

  ‘But why, Martin?’ Robin said. ‘In God’s name, man, what made you do it?’

  ‘The money, of course. What else?’

  Robin stared at him in sick bewilderment. Although nearly four hours had passed since he had left Rowson’s office he was still too shocked to make sense of what he had heard. It was horrible, incredible, that Martin could so grossly have betrayed their friendship. Sitting alone in the Rolls or wandering aimlessly about the town or drinking in pubs, he had sought without success to find some touch of sanity, and hence of comfort, in what Martin had done. Finally, aware that if there were an answer only Martin could supply it, he had telephoned Karen to warn her he might be late and had parked the Rolls outside Martin’s flat and sat waiting for Martin to come home. He thought Karen had sounded nervous. Perhaps something in his voice had alarmed her. Or was it her fear of being alone in the house at night? Yet distressed for her as he was he could not go home until he had seen Martin. It’s just something I have to finish, he had told her, and it may take longer than I expected. Why not get Mrs Huntsman or Edith to keep you company?

  The waiting had not been long. I have to talk to you, he had told Martin; and Martin, aware from his tone and his expression that this was serious, had led the way up to the flat with no more than an affirmative nod. In near silence he had listened to Robin’s accusation, his long, bony face a grim mask, the fingers of both hands beating a rapid tattoo.

  ‘But I’d have helped if you were in difficulties,’ Robin said now. ‘You must have known that.’

  Oh, yes, Martin said, replenishing his glass — Robin had refused a drink — he had certainly known that. He had had vast experience of Robin’s generosity. Until Robin’s arrival for the television programme, he said, he had been reconciled to life on a detective sergeant’s pay, but Robin’s bountiful use of his wealth had introduced him to a way of life which he might have dreamed of occasionally but had never thought to experience. ‘Expensive meals in expensive restaurants, the best seats at concerts and theatres, fishing in the finest waters, a holiday in the West Indies, gifts galore — you name it, you paid for it,’ Martin said. ‘You just about swamped me with your bloody money and your bloody generosity.’

  ‘But we were friends, dammit!’ Robin exclaimed. ‘Why shouldn’t I spend money on you? I didn’t miss it and it gave me pleasure. You too, I thought. You certainly never protested.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t protest,’ Martin said scornfully. ‘I loved it, you fool. I wallowed in it. And the more I got the more I wanted. Only I wanted to be able to provide it from my own resources, not from bloody charity.’

  ‘It wasn’t charity. It —’

  ‘Of course it was charity! And it made me sick with envy. There was I, slaving away for anything up to twenty-four hours a day on a DS’s pay, living in a poky little flat, driving a battered old banger — and there you were, up at the Hall — which, incidentally, I’d found for you — with a Rolls and a Porsche and a beautiful young wife, and a secretary available whenever you felt like doing a spot of work — and money just about pouring out of your ears.’ Martin paused for breath. ‘Do you wonder it made me feel bitter?’

  Robin shook his head. Martin was exaggerating. The flat was fine for a bachelor and he had kept his old Humber because he liked it. True, he helped to support his parents — his father, crippled with rheumatism, had had to leave his job at the garage — but a detective sergeant’s pay must be in the region of eight to ten thousand. Not exactly chicken-feed. Martin couldn’t be broke on that.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do. Envious, yes. But why bitter?’ Wearily he shook his head. ‘I’d expect a friend to be pleased at my success and happy to help me enjoy it. It never occurred to me you might hate it.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t hate it. Nor you. I just grew to hate what it was doing to me.’ Martin drank deep. ‘When we were kids it was I who called the tune. Remember? Not now, though. Now it’s you and your damned money, and if you thought that what was fine for you was fine for me you got it wrong, pal. It wasn’t. It was bloody poison.’ He gave a sound halfway between a laugh and a snort. ‘They say one man’s meat can be another man’s poison. Well, so it bloody can. And to cap it all you pinched my girl.’

  ‘Oh, come off it!’ Robin said heatedly. It seemed that from being the accuser he was rapidly becoming the accused. ‘That’s not fair, dammit! I checked with you first, didn’t I? You’ll be telling me next you were in love with her, that renouncing her was a noble gesture on your part.’

  ‘I don’t know about noble,’ Martin said. ‘But it was certainly a wrench. Maybe I wasn’t as crazy about her as you seem to be — I’m not the emotional type, I suppose — but she was definitely special. Very special. I liked her a lot.’

  Robin tried to recall what Karen had told him about her association with Martin. They had met when Martin arrived at her flat to investigate a burglary, and she had accepted his invitation to dinner largely out of gratitude for his considerate help; and having quarrelled with her current boyfriend she had continued to go out with him. He was a good dancer, Karen had said, and he could be interesting about his job, but so far as she was concerned that was all he had going for him. Though he had never been her lover she had sensed that he could be possessive, and she had been careful to conceal the fact that she had occasionally dated other men.

  ‘Why did you let her go, then?’ he asked.

  ‘What else could I do?’ Martin snapped. ‘You could give her the moon if she wanted it. I couldn’t compete with that. Besides, she was in love with you. She wasn’t with me.’ He poured himself a generous whisky. ‘I’m a realist, Robin. I preferred to bow out rather than be told to get lost. But it was one hell of a slap to my ego, believe you me. You definitely owed me for that.’

  Robin frowned. Was it his pride rather than his heart that had been wounded?

  ‘And kidnapping her was a way of getting your own back, was it?’

  ‘Of course not! I told you, I was in it for the money.’

  Robin wondered if that was entirely true. At the time of his engagement to Karen he had had the uncomfortable thought that until his own appearance on the scene Martin might have had hopes of winning the girl for himself. The thought had faded with time. But had Martin’s resentment at being ousted by his friend continued to linger? Despite his denial, might it not have been at least a contributory factor?

  ‘I wanted the sort of life you’d been giving me,’ Martin went on. ‘On
ly I wanted it under my own steam, not as a hand-out. So I had to have money. Lots of money. A nice fat sum that had nothing to do with work.’ He shrugged. ‘All right, so it wasn’t a friendly act. But it was the only option that offered, and I didn’t reckon on her coming to any harm. And the ransom was peanuts to you. I think I even hoped it might make our relationship easier. Put us on a more equal footing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call a quarter of a million peanuts,’ Robin said. ‘I’d call it a hell of a lot of bread, even in these inflationary times. And you can cut the hypocrisy. I don’t suppose this was your first venture into crime.’

  Not counting one or two small sweeteners, Martin said, it was. He couldn’t say exactly when the idea had occurred to him, but the more he considered it the more promising it seemed. Rowson had at first been reluctant to cooperate; but he had been having a bad patch financially and cash was short, and an assurance that the police would not be involved, that the Grangers would shrink from any publicity, had finally persuaded him. ‘They’ll pay up and forget, I told him,’ Martin said. ‘Definitely no aggro.’

  ‘You couldn’t be sure of that.’

  ‘I could, you know. I know Karen and I know you.’

  He had left all the arrangements to Rowson, Martin said, stipulating only that Karen should not be harmed in any way and that she should have a woman constantly in attendance. ‘I told him which evening you would be in London and how you signalled your return, and left him to get on with it. I didn’t want to know where she was to be held or who would be holding her. It seemed safer that way.’

  Robin shook his head. Searching his memory in the hours of bewilderment after leaving Rowson’s office he had realised that had he ever thought to suspect Martin the evidence for suspicion had been there. Not only was Martin one of the few people who knew of his signal with the car’s headlights and had known he would be late home that night; he was also one of the few — and not necessarily the same few — who knew the ex-directory telephone number the kidnappers had used when making their demands. There had been his advice not to let the police know why Robin needed to contact him, when at that stage there had been no thought of barring them from the hunt, and his promise that they would ‘have her back tomorrow’ — a promise only one of the kidnappers could have kept. Both factors were significant in retrospect, if not at the time. And later there were the indications that he had come into money: the new car, dining his girlfriend at Giovanni’s, the improvements to the flat. Significant too, perhaps, had been his request for Polly, rather than a colleague, to witness his signature. No doubt the document was connected with some form of investment which would have aroused suspicion in a colleague.