Fusil, followed by Kerr, entered. “You’re still doing yourself well, then,” said Fusil and he didn’t try to hide his malicious pleasure.
*
Sharman sat on the far side of the table in the interview room. His blue eyes now reflected only harsh, animal cunning.
“Why were you going abroad?” asked Fusil.
“For a holiday, why else?”
“Why travel on false passports?”
“I obtained the passports to win a bet that you could always buy false ones if you wanted. I decided to use them on this trip to find out if anyone would ever suspect they were false.”
“You can hardly expect me to believe that load of nonsense.”
“Prove it’s a lie.”
Kerr, sitting to the right of the door and taking notes, looked quickly up at Fusil’s face. The D.I. was trying hard to keep his expression neutral, but was failing to conceal his growing frustration and anger.
Sharman took out his cigar case and helped himself to the last cigar. Somehow, he managed to make the ritual of cutting the end, striking the match and waiting for the flame to clear, and the lighting of the cigar, a declaration that he was far too big and clever ever to be seriously worried by a mere detective inspector on a small provincial force.
“Why go on acting the fool?” asked Fusil. “You know we’ve got you for the theft and selling of the whisky and the murder of Finnigan.”
“My dear inspector,” said Sharman, “whatever are you talking about?”
“You made contact with the chief steward on the Maltechara and bribed him to tell you when a load of whisky was due. You paid Stretley to hijack the lorry. When the lorry was left at the prearranged spot, you unloaded the whisky into another vehicle and drove off with it. You introduced roughly half of each load into your warehouse immediately — after you’d changed the labels — and the other half you stored in the two lockup garages in Bookers Road.
“Everything worked smoothly until the hijacking at the end of July. Finnigan decided to put the black on you and stayed behind to keep watch on the lorry. He surprised you and tried to blackmail you. To ensure your safety, you murdered him by drugging him and leaving him in the cellar of Verlay’s Wine Store, which you fired.”
“I admire your imagination, if nothing else,” said Sharman, in mocking tones. “Tell me, the chief steward of the ship you’ve just named — has he tried to say he identifies me?”
“He has identified you.”
Sharman smiled.
Fusil took out his pipe and began to scrape the bowl with the small blade of a penknife.
“And do the men you claim carried out the hijacking identify me?” asked Sharman.
“Yes,” snapped Fusil.
“As I’ve never met them in my life, this must take some doing.”
“Wriggle all you like, we’ve got you,” said Fusil roughly. “We can prove the route of the stolen whisky through your warehouse and the shops, we can prove Finnigan was in on the hijacking, we can…”
Sharman used his cigar as a pointer to underline his words. “I’m quite certain you’ll be able to prove nothing. It’s all lies.”
“Your books will give us plenty of proof.”
“D’you mean my accounts which you recently had checked and which were cleared?”
“At the time, we didn’t compare your monthly statements from MacLaren with their copies held by them.”
Sharman puffed at the cigar. He blew out the smoke in a fine jet. “It’s bad luck for you, but I happened to burn all the papers you’re talking about as they were cluttering up the office.”
Fusil spoke with heavy sarcasm. “No jury is going to miss the significance of that timing.”
“What significance is there in burning papers and old cheques which my accountants had seen and the police had examined and cleared?”
“MacLaren’s accounts will show the gaps when you didn’t buy any whisky from them — yet you kept on selling it in the shops. If you were honest, how come you were able to buy all the jewellery in your wife’s possession?”
“Have you overlooked the possibility that it was left to my wife by her aunt?”
“Give me the aunt’s name and the date of her death.” Fusil waited, then said: “To save you the trouble of thinking up any further lies, I’ll tell you how we work. We know the dates you drew money out of Barclays Bank in Ascrey Cross and we have the pieces of jewellery which are obviously good ones and therefore easily identifiable. Only jewellers in pretty big towns would sell jewellery of such quality. It won’t take very many enquiries to discover which jewellers sold the pieces and the dates of the sales. When the dates and the amounts are shown to coincide near enough with the amounts and dates of withdrawals from the bank, the set-up becomes obvious.”
When Sharman next spoke, he seemed a shade less confident. “The jewellery was bought with loans from the company.”
“The loans didn’t appear in the accounts.”
“I… I made certain they didn’t.”
“How?”
Sharman did not answer.
“How is it that the value of the stolen whisky corresponds with the two amounts paid into your bank each time?”
Sharman tapped the ash from his cigar with a gesture that betrayed nervousness.
“We’ve got you,” said Fusil, “tight and square.”
“You can’t prove anything. You haven’t any right to hold me now. I demand to see my solicitor.”
“You’re guilty of travelling on forged passports.”
“I’ve explained what happened.”
“You’re also guilty of attempting to smuggle currency out of the country.”
“No.”
“You withdrew just over a thousand quid from the bank this morning.”
“I gave that money to a friend.”
Fusil smiled wolfishly, his self-confidence fully restored. “Shall we rip your luggage apart and if we don’t find it start on your clothes? Do you particularly want to be subjected to the degradation of a close physical search? Wouldn’t you prefer to be sensible and tell me where you’ve hidden the money?”
Sharman stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray.
Fusil said: “You can start stripping while I give orders for your luggage to be searched.”
“The money’s sewn into my coat,” Sharman muttered.
*
Mrs. Sharman was both sullen and scornful. “Don’t be so soft,” she said.
Fusil studied her and wondered just who had provided the motivating force for their crimes. “I’m sorry you don’t like the news, but your husband has made a full confession.”
“Give over.”
“He’s admitted organising the hijacking, storing part of the whisky in the garages in Bookers Road, altering the numbers on the cheques, faking MacLaren’s monthly statements, banking the money in Ascrey Cross, buying your jewellery with this money, and killing Finnigan because he tried to put the black on both of you.”
“Your name ought to be Hans Bloody Christian Andersen.”
No one could call her the weaker sex, thought Fusil.
*
Kywood arrived at Sharman’s house just as the search was being concluded on Wednesday afternoon. He spoke to a P.C. who went upstairs and told Fusil the D.C.I. had arrived. Fusil, reluctantly, went downstairs.
“Have you found much?” asked Kywood.
“We’ve found nothing,” Fusil replied heavily.
Kywood chewed his lower lip for a few seconds. “Aren’t there any traces of barbiturates about the place?”
“No, none.”
“What about candles to give a comparison with the burnt wick?”
“Not a candle in the place.”
“Do they keep paraffin here?”
“No.”
“Goddamn it!” muttered Kywood. He was silent for a short while, then said: “Well, Bob, how’s it looking?”
“Not as bright as it could be,” admitted Fusil, “bu
t we’ve still got a very respectable case.”
“Have we?”
“Of course.”
“But as I understand it, they’ve admitted nothing and have burned all the papers. Doesn’t that leave us out on a limb? We make allegations about how the whisky was sold, they deny them. We can’t prove beyond all doubt that we’re right — especially when we checked and cleared all their books earlier on.”
Bitterly, Fusil remembered how Kywood had been so certain that the investigations into Sharman and Findren’s businesses were totally unnecessary that he had drastically restricted the time available to Inspector Melchett. If he hadn’t implanted his disbelief into Melchett’s mind, if Melchett had had more time, might not the fraud have been uncovered then — when all the proof of it was to hand?
“Well?” demanded Kywood.
“They can’t wriggle round the dates and amounts of money paid into the bank in Ascrey Cross under a false name.”
“You know as well as me that that sort of evidence doesn’t stand up when a good criminal lawyer starts playing around with it.” Kywood shook his head. “I’m telling you, Bob, unless you can find some definite evidence — good, physical evidence the jury can look at and understand — it’s going to be tricky going.” His voice gained a note of petulance. “I told you that you ought to have gone to Sharman’s office and grabbed all the firm’s books the moment we were certain, but you were too stubborn.”
Kywood, thought Fusil bitterly, had the very useful faculty of always being able to prove that it was the other bloke who was wrong.
Chapter 16
Kerr arrived at Helen’s house at a quarter to seven that evening. She kissed him on the cheek, then stepped back. “You look really tired, darling.”
“I am. But I’m also tough!” He grinned at her. “I’ll survive.”
In the sitting room, Mrs. Barley said: “Good Heavens, John, whatever’s the matter? You look completely worn out.”
“I am pretty tired, Mrs. Barley. We’ve been at it hard all day.”
“You mustn’t let them make you do so much,” said Helen, a note of asperity in her voice.
He smiled. “You’ve met my boss — he’s not the kind of man you argue with. He works himself until he’s ready to drop and expects everyone else to do the same.”
“I don’t care what he expects.”
Mr. Barley chuckled. “Come on, you two women, stop clucking. John’s all right. Hard work never killed anyone.”
“I’ll thank you to mind your own business,” said Mrs. Barley.
Mr. Barley winked at Kerr. “Like an old hen.”
“You’d be the first to complain if I didn’t fuss over you,” she said. She spoke to Kerr. “Sit down, John, and get warmed up: it’s a cold night. Here, Father, get out of that chair and let John have a warm.”
“Never allowed a moment’s peace, I’m not,” complained Mr. Barley, with mock indignation as he moved to the settee.
Kerr sat down and warmed his hands before the blazing coal fire. Helen stood by the armchair. “Can I get you something, John? How about some tea?”
“Tea!” exclaimed Mr. Barley scornfully. “D’you think a man who’s all clapped out from work wants a cup of tea — I’m telling you, he wants something a good bit stronger than that.”
“Then why don’t you give it to him,” said Mrs. Barley, “instead of just talking about it?”
Mr Barley stood up. “There’s a wee drop of whisky left or plenty of beer.”
“The beer will do fine…” began Kerr.
“You’ll have the whisky,” said Mrs. Barley, “because it’ll do you a world more good.”
“Mother, if he really prefers beer…” began Helen.
“He really prefers the whisky,” replied Mrs. Barley.
Kerr did not argue. There were times when Mrs. Barley could become a little bossy, but on this occasion she was quite right and it had only been politeness which had prompted him to ask for beer.
Mr. Barley left the room, returning shortly with the bottle of MacLaren whisky, two cans of beer, four glasses, and a jug of water. He and Helen had beer, his wife and Kerr had whisky. “There’s a dead man,” he said, as he put the bottle of whisky back on the tray.
“It’s your birthday soon, love,” said Mrs. Barley. “Maybe I’ll save a bit and buy you another bottle as your present.”
“It’s not worth it when the government makes it cost so much,” he protested, though without much force. He sat down and raised his glass. “Here’s good health to everyone.”
They drank.
“What’s so special about today to wear you right out?” asked Helen.
“I told you we arrested the Sharmans yesterday on the boat and brought them back here — we’ve been going hammer and tongs all today trying to tie up loose ends.”
“What kind of loose ends?” asked Mr. Barley.
“In a case like this, there’s always trouble over proof. You know, the courts demand absolute proof of everything the prosecution alleges. Well, it’s not always easy. Take this case. We know what the truth is, but finding the proof of it…” He became silent, suddenly realising how garrulous he was becoming over a case that was not yet closed.
“And you’re not having much luck?” asked Mr. Barley, showing the usual eagerness with which he followed Kerr’s cases.
“Things are a bit tricky,” he answered, with deliberate vagueness. He stared at a piece of burning coal which was giving off a blue flame. If, in any trial, the prosecution’s case was shown up by the defence to be weak on an important part, the jury’s sympathy swung round to the defence and they were inclined to seek an even higher degree of proof of the accused’s guilt than before. A good defence counsel would very soon pick holes in this case.
Where the hell was the proof that was needed to nail the Sharmans once and for all? Surely they couldn’t be as clever as they believed themselves. Fusil must crack the case. He was a real sharp, clever bastard and Sharman wasn’t in the same league.
Mrs. Barley stood up. “I’ll go and get supper. Helen, you can come and give me a hand.”
Helen drained her glass. “Coming, Mother,” she said dutifully. She rested her hand on Kerr’s shoulder in a gesture of warn intimacy, then followed her mother out of the room.
Mr. Barley began to talk enthusiastically about a friend of his who had spent the last six years building a model steam locomotive. Kerr allowed his mind to wander as he stared once more at the fire. Nobody was smarter than Fusil, certainly not a round-faced, smooth haired bloke with jeering blue eyes… “Good God!” he exclaimed suddenly.
“I don’t know that it’s all that unusual,” said Mr. Barley. “After all, a lot of people make models…”
“The whisky bottle.” Kerr jumped to his feet.
“Here, what’s up?” cried a thoroughly startled Mr. Barley.
Kerr didn’t bother to answer, but ran out of the room, across the hall, and into the kitchen. Mrs. Barley was by the stove and Helen was using a fork to work at something in a basin.
“Where’s that bottle of whisky you brought out on the tray?” he asked excitedly.
“What on earth?” said Mrs. Barley, flustered by his manner.
“Have you thrown it out?”
“Of course I have since it was empty.”
“Where’s the dustbin?”
“Outside, where it always is. But what d’you…” She stopped as he flung open the door and went out to the small paved area beyond.
He unclipped the lid of the plastic dustbin and picked up the bottle which was lying on top of the rubbish. Was Sharman’s gesture of contemptuous generosity going to fix him? Kerr telephoned Fusil’s house from the nearest callbox. He spoke to Mrs. Fusil who said her husband was still at the station. Kerr searched his pockets for another sixpence, found two, and called the police station. The duty sergeant said the D.I. had left an hour ago and he’d no idea where he was. No new crime had been reported.
Kerr lef
t the callbox and stood on the pavement in the fine drizzle that had started to fall. Fusil hadn’t suddenly been called out to a new crime, so why wasn’t he at home? Ten to one, because he was a man who didn’t know how to admit defeat, he was out at Sharman’s house, doggedly trying to uncover evidence of some significance.
Members of the C.I.D. were only allowed to claim taxi expenses in emergencies. This, Kerr decided, was an emergency. He used his last sixpence to telephone for a taxi.
The taxi drove him quickly across town to Sharman’s house, in the drive of which was parked the D.I.’s battered Vauxhall. Kerr paid the taxi, adding a tip which he considered very generous but the driver plainly didn’t, and then walked up to the front door. It was locked and he rang the bell.
Fusil was plainly surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?” he asked abruptly.
“I’ve brought this bottle.” Kerr held it up.
“I can see that,” replied Fusil, his voice a shade colder.
“It’s the one Sharman gave me at the warehouse.”
Fusil’s expression changed.
“D’you remember you asked to see inside one of the cases. He picked out a bottle and offered it to you and when you refused he threw it across to me. I’ll bet a fortune this is one of the stolen bottles and he was laughing himself sick because he was giving it to me and I was too dumb to know. If I’m right, the label’s been changed — he or his wife must have done the changing and a set of dabs could just be on the inside. I doubt he’d have been clever enough to think of that.”
“No,” said Fusil, “I doubt he would. Can you prove it’s the same bottle he gave you?”
“I passed it on to my future father-in-law the same day that we went to the warehouse.”
“And he’s only just finished it now?”
“Yes. He gave me and Mrs. Barley the last two tots tonight.”
“You’ve got a wonderful future father-in-law,” said Fusil. “Shove it in the back of my car. And handle it as if it were more precious than diamonds. When you’ve done that, come back in here.”
“I’d better get back to the house, sir. Supper was being cooked…”
“Haven’t you yet learned to stop thinking about your goddamn stomach?”
Guilt Without Proof (C.I.D. Room Book 4) Page 16