Kerr, feeling mutinous, took the bottle out to the Vauxhall. When he returned to the hall, he found Fusil had not moved.
“I came back here,” said Fusil slowly, “trying to work out if there was anything more I could do. This place has been searched and nothing found, but you’ve just reminded me that Sharman wasn’t all that clever, after all. He’s maybe made other mistakes that haven’t yet been uncovered. You and I can carry out a second search and we’ll make certain we don’t leave a single piece of dust unturned.”
“Couldn’t you have a quick look for barbiturates…” began Kerr.
“We have.”
“Then perhaps if we found a candle we could send it to the lab tomorrow…”
“I’m not a goddamn idiot,” snapped Fusil. “I’ve covered all the obvious points.”
“Then don’t you think, sir, that it would be better to leave the search until daylight…”
“No.”
Dismally, Kerr remembered how close he had been to eating supper.
The search was utterly methodical and thorough and by the time they had finished the last of the five bedrooms, Kerr was so tired that he could think of nothing but bed — that was, until his stomach gurgled twice and he realised he could never sleep until he had eaten. Mrs. Barley was a first-class cook. Had she been preparing for supper one of her superb steak and kidney puddings with a gravy so rich that it was almost a meal in itself?
“We’d better move, I suppose,” said Fusil despondently.
“Yes, sir,” said Kerr enthusiastically.
“But, goddamn it, there must be something here.”
“There can’t be,” said Kerr hastily. “We’ve been over everything everywhere.”
Fusil hesitated, then led the way out of the room, down the stairs, and across the hall to the front door. He switched off the hall light and closed and locked the front door behind him.
The drizzle had increased and turned into rain. It was one of those nights when even a duck would have felt dismal.
“I was wondering…” began Kerr, then stopped.
“What?” asked Fusil, as he switched on a torch.
“I was wondering if you were going anywhere near Prior Lane on your way home, sir?”
“What is it — d’you want a lift?”
“If there’s one going.”
“All right. When we’ve finished.”
“Finished?” cried Kerr dismally.
“You don’t think we’re leaving until we’ve searched the garage, do you?”
Kerr’s stomach, as if in dire protest, gurgled again.
Fusil unlocked, the garage, stepped inside, and switched on the light. It was of large double size, nearly twenty feet square. Against the far wall was a work bench.
“You take that side,” ordered Fusil. “I’ll take this one. And check all the dirt and muck, don’t just look at it.”
Kerr slowly moved along the right-hand wall. He found a length of wood with which to search the considerable quantity of oily and greasy rubbish that littered the floor and work bench, but even so some of the muck got on to his hands. What a life! Half past ten at night and he was poking around in filth.
“By God!” shouted Fusil suddenly, his voice high with excitement. “Come on over here and have a look at this.”
Kerr hurried across the floor. Fusil had brushed off some dust that had lain on top of a thin layer of greasy dirt. The dirt had formed a mould and in it was a circular impression which had one segment cut off: along the straight line was a V-shaped mark. Kerr instantly recalled the base of the hydraulic jack that had been used to force open the steel bars of the cellar in which Finnigan had been burned to death.
“We’ve got him,” said Fusil triumphantly.
*
Fusil dropped Kerr outside Helen’s house and drove off. Kerr stood on the pavement and stared up and saw all the rooms were in darkness. Dismally, he turned and was about to begin the long walk home — all buses having stopped by now — when the hall light was switched on. He went up to the front door and knocked.
“Who’s that?” Helen called out.
“It’s me — John.”
She opened the door and he went in. “I thought I heard a car,” she said.
She was wearing a dressing gown over a flowered nightdress, which peeped demurely from underneath. “Mummy and Daddy have gone to bed, but Mummy said you were bound to come back for a meal. She’s left it warming in the oven for you.”
“She’s wonderful,” he said enthusiastically. “What’s on the menu? Her very special steak and kidney pie with all that lovely thick gravy?”
She laughed. “Good Heavens, no. Nothing like that tonight. Four fish-cakes and some mashed potato.”
He put his arm round her and felt the swell of her breast. A man couldn’t have everything, he thought philosophically.
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Guilt Without Proof (C.I.D. Room Book 4) Page 17