“Only the impossibility. I just wish we could — I’ve never longed for anything so much.” She had a warm, loving nature that emotionally gave generously. Her loyalty to him would never waver. She was not beautiful in the conventional sense, yet her character was beautiful and he had had the luck and wit to discover this.
When he’d finished the tea, he had a quick look at his watch: twenty to four. Even if they left immediately, he wouldn’t be back at the docks by four o’clock. Suppose Fusil didn’t stay at the station, suppose Braddon decided to have an earlier look round the docks…
“Is it time we were moving?” she asked.
“I think perhaps we ought to.” He threw the dregs from the cup on to the grass, stood up, then held out his hand and helped her to her feet.
She packed the uneaten sandwiches, buns, and cake, and put them together with the Thermos and bottle of milk into the cane shopping basket.
Just before he started the engine, he said: “What’s the quickest way back? The way we came?”
“I’d have thought it would be quicker to cut over the hills and past the old quarry.”
He nodded. “I guess you’re right. Let’s give it a try, then.”
The way was a narrow lane that crossed the line of the hills, going up and down like a switchback. When clear it was the quicker route, but the narrowness of the lane meant that any traffic caused a hold-up. For a couple of minutes they were behind a heavy lorry that belched out clouds of black exhaust smoke, then they no sooner squeezed past than they came up to a tractor drawing a trailer-load of straw.
Kerr once again checked on the time. Just after four. Silently, he cursed — why did one always meet the slowest possible vehicles when one was in the most tearing hurry? Fusil was so flaming sharp he might well make a special, unscheduled trip down to the docks to see that the investigations were being properly carried out on this sunny Saturday afternoon. The D.I. had a habit of demolishing excuses, alibis, and protestations of innocence…
She interrupted his galloping thoughts. “You’re worried about something.” She turned until she could study his face.
“Only about how to get past this dozy tractor driver this side of Christmas.”
“I’m sure it’s more than that because you’ve been on edge from the moment you noticed the time when we were picnicking. Are you supposed to be here at all?”
“Of course I am,” he protested loudly. “It’s just that I told Fusil I’d be back as soon after four as possible.” How the hell had she hit on the truth? He wondered. What was it going to be like when they were married? If he sneaked away for a couple of pints with the boys, was she going to know all about it even before he lifted his elbow for the first time? He blew the car’s horn. The tractor and trailer did not deviate from their central course. Right now, Fusil might well be stamping up and down the docks, explaining in detail what he was going to do when he laid his hands on a certain D.C. A drumhead court-martial. The station P.C.s lined up in serried ranks. Truncheons reversed. A roll of drums. John Kerr led out under close escort. The lapels of his jacket torn off…
“Wake up,” she said. “You can get by now.”
He realised they had reached the crest of the hill and the lane had widened until he could get by. He dropped down into third and accelerated. After a while, the tired engine of the Hillman responded and they passed the trailer and tractor.
The lane began to wind downhill, between tree-covered banks, and at the foot of the hill they passed a dilapidated broken wooden notice which said Horniton Quarry was a hundred yards ahead. Someone had told him that the quarry had closed down five years ago, after keeping one family wealthy for over sixty-five years — some people had all the luck. The entrance on to the road was twenty feet wide, whilst set ten feet back were rusty metal gates and a chain-link fence that was half down. A car was parked in the gateway, bonnet outwards, and a man stood by the driving door. As the Hillman came abreast of the entrance, the man turned and Kerr caught a quick glimpse of his face.
Kerr drove round the next corner, then slowed down until the car was barely moving.
“Has something gone wrong with the car?” asked Helen.
“No,” he answered. “It’s just that I’m trying to work out who that bloke was by the car at the quarry. I’m sure his face was familiar, but I’m damned if I can put a name to it.”
“But what does it matter who he is? I thought you were in a hurry to get back? Look, John, if you’re not supposed to be here at all, it’s no good going along at this speed, is it?”
“I suppose you’re right,” he said. He changed gear, accelerated, changed into third and had almost reached a bend in the road when he suddenly braked so harshly that she was almost thrown against the dashboard. “Of course! It was Ginger Playford, that’s who it was!”
“Next time you’re going to stop like that, you might just give me warning,” she complained, with good reason.
“I’m sorry.” He spoke excitedly. “He’s one of the blokes who was mixed up in the hijacking of the whisky lorry. What the hell’s he doing parked back there in the quarry. And that looked like a Jaguar, pretty new.”
“Why can’t he have come out just for the ride? You must get back…”
“Villains like him don’t go for rides in the countryside. And why park in a disused quarry? And where would he have got a spanking Jaguar from if he hadn’t nicked it?”
“John…”
He interrupted her. “I’m going back to discover if he’s up to something.”
“Not on your own,” she cried.
“If he is on a job, he won’t stay around long enough for anyone else to get here in time to give me a hand.”
She wanted desperately to argue, to make him eschew taking such a risk, but knew she must say nothing. He had a duty to do. Therefore, she had a duty to let him do it, no matter how wild her thoughts.
He turned the car in two locks and drove back round the corner. They came in sight of the quarry entrance. The Jaguar was still parked, but Playford was now sitting behind the wheel. Kerr swung the Hillman into the entrance and stopped it so that the Jaguar was boxed-in. “Get behind the wheel,” he said tersely. “If there’s any trouble, drive like hell out of it and call for help.”
“John…”
“Just do that.”
He left the Hillman and walked towards the Jaguar. Playford’s expression made it quite clear that something was up.
There was the sound of feet, crunching on the gravel roadway that wound round to the right inside the quarry. Two men, wearing overalls and caps, came into view. When they saw him, they stopped suddenly. He identified one of them as Stretley, but did not know the other.
Playford slammed open the door of the Jaguar and scrambled out on to the roadway. “It’s a split,” he shouted wildly. He threw himself forward at Kerr. Kerr sidestepped and kicked out with his right foot: he caught Playford and sent him crashing to the ground.
Stretley and the third man came forward together. Kerr ducked one blow, but received another to the side of his neck. He hit Stretley across the face with the edge of his right hand. In the momentary pause that followed, he looked back at the Hillman and saw with violent despair that Helen was not driving off as he had told her to.
He used his fists, knees, feet, and even his teeth. In such a fight, the man who observed the Queensberry Rules was a dead duck. Fingers gripped his throat, trying to throttle him, digging brutally into his flesh, crushing shut his windpipe. He swung both hands up between the other’s arms and then outwards and forced the fingers away from his throat. In doing this, he’d left his stomach unprotected: a fist crashed into it, doubling him up. A boot thudded into the side of his right buttock and he fell. He rolled over. Another boot crashed down into the dirt, exactly where the centre of his head would have been. As he tried to come to his feet, they rushed him and bowled him over. He caught one leg and twisted and the man fell awkwardly to the ground, raising a puff of dust. A shoe raked his shoulder a
nd slid off to hit his head, momentarily sending his senses reeling. Despair washed across his mind. He hadn’t a chance. He tried again to get to his feet because if he stayed on the ground he was done for. He managed to reach a kneeling position before they hurled him back to the ground. He was kicked on the right kneecap and the pain was immediate and sickening. He rolled sideways, grabbed a leg, and bit into the flesh and there was a wild shout: another kick thudded into his side. He could feel the strength deserting him. In a strangely detached way, he knew his fight was nearly over. There was some fear within him, but there was also a bitter anger that his body should prove so weak.
In the car, Helen had watched the brutal, vicious struggle with such a sense of outraged shock that the reality of it was almost destroyed. But when she saw John on the ground, frantically trying to avoid being stamped and kicked to death, the ghastly reality of the scene abruptly became overwhelming. John had ordered her to drive off for help, but no help that she could summon would arrive in time to save him. She dreaded all violence, yet never hesitated. She grabbed the bottle of milk from the picnic basket, ran to the struggling bunch of men, and swung the bottle with all her strength. She had played hockey at school and still possessed a strong right arm. The bottle smashed across Stretley’s cheekbone and he screamed, like a wounded hare, then staggered away, hands clasped to his face. The bottle broke, spraying milk everywhere, and she was left with just the neck and a long triangle of glass. She stabbed at the nearest man with this and the glass sliced through his coat and shirt into the flesh of his right arm. As the pain flashed through his arm, he stared down at the torn and bloody coat in dazed surprise.
Kerr was not immediately aware of what had happened. All he knew was that suddenly he was faced by only one man. He brought up his knee and caught the other in the groin. Playford collapsed to the ground and began to retch.
Kerr struggled to his feet. He stared at Helen and saw the neck of the shattered bottle in her hand. For a few seconds she did not move, then she began to cry. By the time he had gathered her into his arms, she was sobbing so violently that her whole body shook.
The third man, right arm dripping blood, staggered across to the Jaguar and struggled to open the driving door, all his actions clumsy because he was having to use his left hand. Kerr released Helen and ran over to the Jaguar. The third man frantically shouted he wasn’t giving any more trouble. Kerr clubbed him with fist and boot, not really aware of what he was doing. He was suffering terror at the thought of what could have happened to Helen.
Chapter 12
Fusil looked away from the blackness of the night at his watch. The luminous hands showed it was after eight. He stared back into the night. A hundred yards nearer the empty corrugated-iron sheds of the quarry was the hijacked lorry and in position at strategic points around the lorry were Braddon, Welland, and five unformed P.C.s. Three patrol cars were standing by in a half-mile circle, ready to block off all exits to the lane outside.
For how much longer would there be any point to waiting? Surely, the centre-man would have intended to drive the lorry away as soon as Stretley and his mob had left? Probably, he’d been hidden in the vicinity and had seen or heard the fight and realised the job was blown, so had vanished. But, there was just the chance he had decided not to collect the lorry until much later — so therefore, the watch must continue.
Fusil took his empty pipe from his pocket and put it in his mouth. This time, they were really going to get somewhere. They’d landed Stretley, Playford, and a villain called Hobbs and these three were going to help prove that Detective Inspector Fusil had been right from the beginning.
It was strange how black night really was: living in a town one forgot. He shuffled his way over to the car and sat down in the driving seat. He closed the door carefully and there was only the smallest of clicks. He called up H.Q. on the radio and asked if there was any news on D.C. Kerr or Miss Barley? The duty inspector said that they had at last heard from Fortrow. D.C. Kerr had sustained heavy bruising, but no broken bones and no internal injuries. Miss Barley was suffering from shock, but nothing worse.
*
Fusil, sitting behind his desk, studied Kerr. The morning light was weak, because of the heavily overcast sky, but the bruise on Kerr’s cheek stood out sharply. “Where were you at four o’clock yesterday afternoon?” asked Fusil, his voice sharp.
Kerr stared at a fixed spot on the far wall. He heard the bells of Fortrow cathedral and it reminded him that today was Sunday. He rubbed his knee-cap, which still ached.
“Were you down at the docks?”
“No, sir.”
“Then where were you?”
“Having a picnic in the Keighley Hills, sir,” muttered Kerr reluctantly.
“You disobeyed orders and deserted your duties?”
“Yes.”
“You know the penalties of such incredible and utterly senseless action?”
Kerr did not answer.
Fusil began to fill his pipe with tobacco. “You’re a right lucky idiot,” he said conversationally, his voice no longer sharp. “Normally, you’d be returned to the uniform branch or be chucked out of the force for that sort of stupidity. As it is, I’m called on to congratulate you.”
Kerr relaxed.
“What’s more, I’d very much like the chance to tell Miss Barley exactly what I think of her pluck. D’you think she’s fit enough to join you in having a drink with my wife and me this evening?”
“I’m sure she is, sir,” said Kerr.
“That’s fixed, then. I’ll give you the time later.”
Kerr thought the interview was at an end and turned to go. Fusil spoke again. “Kerr, just remember one thing. Any man who deserts his job to go on a picnic is a goddamn fool, whatever the results.”
Kerr turned back and faced the desk. He spoke quietly. “If I hadn’t gone for that picnic, sir, we’d not have Stretley, Playford, Hobbs, and the whisky.”
“A moralist would no doubt be able to convince you of the falsity of the equation, I can’t. I’m just trying to drive it home into that thick head of yours that a bloke only has the luck to get away with what you have once in a lifetime.”
“I won’t forget that, sir.”
Fusil lit his pipe. Kerr had acted foolhardily, which was in character, but had got away with it because he was very lucky. If there was one factor which signalled out a man for success, it was luck. With luck, a man reached the top. Kerr had the ability, the intelligence, the persistence, to make the high ranks in the force: if luck stayed with him and age stripped away the foolhardiness, that’s where he’d end up.
Fusil stared at the smoke as it curled its way upwards, suddenly to be swirled apart by a draught. Could he consider himself lucky? Would it take him to the top ranks, where he so passionately longed to be? In the past, luck had occasionally deserted him: yet at other times it had stayed with him when he’d taken risks that would horrify many more conventionally minded members of the force.
The telephone rang. The police doctor, speaking from the general hospital, said that Stretley was now fit enough to be interrogated, but that the other two were still too ill. Fusil thanked the doctor and then asked if he could speak to the sergeant who, together with a P.C., was keeping watch on the three men. He told the sergeant to bring Stretley to the station and leave the P.C. on watch at the hospital.
As he replaced the receiver, Fusil recalled the last glimpse he had had of Hobbs last night. Hobbs had looked as if he’d been beaten up by an expert. Fusil hadn’t asked questions, but knew quite well what had happened. Kerr had been wild with fear of what might have happened to his fiancée and had worked out that fear on Hobbs. In similar circumstances he, Fusil, would have done the same thing. If any villain tried to harm Josephine, he’d kill the bastard.
Stretley was brought into the station at eleven-thirty and taken to one of the interview rooms. When his arrival was reported, Fusil picked up a folder from his desk and went down. He told the sergeant,
who had brought Stretley from the hospital, to leave. He wanted no witnesses from the uniformed branch present at this interview.
He sat down opposite Stretley at the scarred wooden table and opened the folder, took out several sheets of typewritten paper, and stacked them neatly on one side. He slid out a ballpoint pen from his inside coat pocket. Only then did he bother to look at Stretley.
Stretley’s left cheek was heavily dressed and a dark, angry bruise spread out from under the dressing to the base of his eye. Fusil spoke casually. “You know something? You ought to stay away from fighting women. Stick to punks in your own class.”
“That goddamn bitch near smashed my face up,” muttered Stretley.
“They tell me she has a fine right-arm action.”
Stretley cursed.
“Still, you’re better off than the other two. Hobbs is going to take a long time to get back to normal — broken bones and things — and Playford got belted so hard in his family jewels that he may never be the same man again.”
“The split was tryin’ to kill Joe,” said Stretley viciously. “Joe was shoutin’ ’e weren’t goin’ to do nothing, but the split went on and on.”
“My report says that Hobbs fought savagely to avoid arrest and my officer had the greatest difficulty in subduing him.”
“That’s a bleeding lie. Joe ’ad given up, but that bastard went on kicking and ’itting ’im. ’E was going to murder Joe.”
“How very dramatic,” said Fusil, in a bored voice. He turned over one of the sheets of paper. “Back at the end of July you, Playford, and Finnigan nicked a load of whisky from the lorry-park at the Jack of Hearts.”
“I ain’t nicked nothing.” Stretley assumed a look of studied blankness.
“You dressed as repair mechanics, broke into the cab of the lorry, and drove it off and up to the hills. You and Playford cleared off, but Finnigan stayed behind to try and put the black on the centre-man who came to collect the whisky.”
“You’re joking.”
“Since Finnigan acted so stupidly, how come you were given the job this time of nicking the lorry?”
Guilt Without Proof (C.I.D. Room Book 4) Page 11