‘Lunch is ready,’ said Mary. ‘Would you like to give Amelia a shout, Richard?’
And she began putting out the place mats. I went outside and used my voice. She came. I shook my head. Say nothing. Let them have time to think.
We went inside. It smelt marvellous. Neither of our guests seemed prepared for further discussion. It would have been insulting to Mary, even more so than a mouthful of swearwords.
Afterwards, over coffee, Durrell took a firm grip on his pride and asked, ‘What do you actually know, as opposed to guess, about my case?’
‘Which case?’ I asked.
‘All three bloody cases,’ he said sourly. ‘They’re all mine.’
Mary and Amelia had taken their coffee, and the dogs, into the sitting-room. Durrell obviously felt more relaxed.
‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘If I leave out the guesswork, it would all sound a bit bare at this stage.’
‘You talk too much, Patton,’ he grumbled. ‘Just say it.’
‘Right. The Major Farrington case first. It was done by an ex-mate of Ronnie’s called Geoff Tomkins, partly to get back at him for having stolen away, lured, seduced...however you like to put it...seduced away his woman friend. Who happens to be the Ruby Carter who died from rape and murder.’
‘Are you serious?’ Durrell’s frown was like a ploughed field.
‘Very much so.’ I fetched the coffee flask and refilled our cups. ‘Geoff Tomkins, I believe...a guess, Mr Durrell...even suspected that Ronnie Cope had been responsible for Ruby’s death.’
‘Ridiculous!’
‘You obviously know Ronnie,’ I observed. ‘Inoffensive, you’d say. But there was a woman he’d really gone overboard for. Ruby, whom he called Jewel and Precious. He was so far gone that he left his cottage at Darnley and went to live with her at Willenhall, because she had a yen for the slag-heaps and the canal and the factory chimneys, alas now gone. Now...imagine that all this changed. Conjecture, Durrell, guesswork. What say that Ruby, back on her home ground and not far from Geoff’s original territory, felt other past yearnings reawakening. Perhaps she looked out over the ravished vistas and recalled the life of excitement she’d led with Geoff, their courting in the vicinity of the old red pool where the flower pot factory used to be, the moon on the clay-banks...’
‘Aw, for heaven’s sake, we don’t need your fancy words. Say it, man.’
‘I was just trying to stimulate your imagination, Durrell. You must admit that Ronnie, the quiet and correct gentleman crook, wouldn’t exactly be exciting as a lover. Now would he? Suppose Ruby brooded, on Geoff with all his glamour and his excitingly vicious response if anybody dirty-worded her, his flick-knife and his knuckleduster! She might have returned to him. We don’t know she didn’t. She died. Geoff might’ve blamed Ronnie for that. In any event, he tried to get back at him in some way or other. He’d worked with Ronnie. He faked the Major Farrington job as Ronnie’s, knowing Ronnie didn’t have any alibi for the night of November the 16th.’
Durrell nudged Rawston’s shoulder. ‘Can’t you just imagine him coming out with all that in court? Can’t you?’
‘It wouldn’t get a conviction,’ the sergeant agreed. ‘And anyway, this being my case we’re discussing, where was Ronnie Cope at the time?’ he asked me.
‘He was breaking into Milo Dettinger’s home, Aces High.’
‘What!’ Durrell almost jumped out of his chair.
‘You can understand why he didn’t claim it as an alibi,’ I said blandly.
‘But he...he...do you believe this?’ Durrell demanded.
‘Oh yes. His description was very graphic, and what details I already knew he confirmed.’
‘And what...’ Durrell’s fist was like a chunk of granite on the table. ‘What was he doing there?’
‘Milo owed him money. He was trying to recoup it.’
‘And did he?’ Rawston asked.
‘He said not.’
‘He would, wouldn’t he?’
‘True.’
‘Now wait. Wait,’ cried Durrell, feeling it running away from him. ‘Was he there when—’
‘When Milo returned home? No, not quite. He cleared off when Milo’s car turned into the drive. And no—he saw nothing and heard nothing relating to the suicide.’ This was shaving the truth a little I’ll admit. ‘But one point was interesting. I can’t make sense of it, but perhaps you can, Durrell. When Ronnie entered that house the back door wasn’t bolted. When he left, he couldn’t have bolted it behind him. Whereas you, Inspector, found it bolted when you arrived on the scene, I believe.’
His eyes darted at me. ‘I found it bolted.’
‘So I’ll have to see him again,’ I said, shrugging, making little of it.
‘I’ll do the seeing.’
‘But he wouldn’t say a word to you.’
‘Wanna bet?’ He looked eager for the encounter.
I couldn’t do anything to stop him, but Ronnie, if he’d left anything unsaid, wasn’t going to say it to a policeman. Not now. This was his alibi for the Farrington job, and he was going to hold on to it grimly. An alibi was a matter for the defence to present in court. It was his. Ronnie wouldn’t share it.
I got to my feet, stretching. ‘Anybody know where Geoff Tomkins lives? I believe it’s Darlaston, but I don’t know the address. Somebody ought to have a word with him.’
Rawston grinned at me. He knew I had no such intention, and that I was baiting his Inspector. Durrell swallowed it whole.
‘Now you just look here!’ A knobbly finger was pointed at my face, and his chair nearly fell over backwards as he clambered to his feet.
I smiled at him. ‘Or is that what you intended yourself, Inspector? But it’s not on your patch, you know. Don’t you wish you were a free agent?’
Rawston meticulously replaced his chair. ‘I’ve already covered it. The locals say they know him, and he’s not there. Geoff Tomkins had a two-room dump over a shop in Darlaston. He’s not there now, as I say. He was seen loading stuff into his van.’
‘And why wasn’t I told this, Sergeant?’ Durrell was coldly angry.
‘It’s in a report, sir, in your tray.’ Very formal, Rawston was, all of a sudden. ‘Mr Patton very kindly phoned in the man’s identity.’
‘But we know where to find him, don’t we?’ I asked, cooling things a little. ‘Let’s go and pick him up.’
‘Where?’ Durrell demanded.
‘Well...with Ronnie out of action, if I was Geoff Tomkins, I’d head for that cottage at Darnley. Don’t you think so, Sergeant?’
‘I was about to suggest it,’ said Rawston gravely.
By this time, Durrell realized we were ribbing him. We had had time to consider the possible actions of Geoff. The cottage was an obvious choice. Durrell glared from one to the other of us.
‘He wouldn’t have the key,’ was the only objection that occurred to him.
‘Would he need one?’ I asked. ‘And anyway, I’m sure he has. After all, he had a key to Ronnie’s flat. I saw him using it. Come on, let’s not waste time. I’ll just go and tell my wife. She may want to come along...’ I half turned away.
‘Now listen to me,’ Durrell said, in a heavy voice not intended to allow dispute. ‘What d’you think this is, a bloody circus? This is an official arrest. We’ve got him on criminal assault with a deadly weapon. Straight police work. Now you want to turn it into...for God’s sake, d’you expect her to sit on a gate and cheer for our side?’
‘She could guard the jackets.’
‘What?’
‘A joke, Inspector, a joke. I’ll just pop in and have a word.’
For a moment he glared at me. His teeth showed. ‘Oh to hell with you, Patton. Come on, Sergeant. Let’s get moving.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘before you go—does either of you know Ruby Carter’s next of kin? I mean, was she perhaps actually married to Geoff Tomkins?’
‘What the hell—’
Again Rawston interrupted. ‘Her mother and
father. They came to collect her personal effects, and the official release of her body.’
‘Come on, Sergeant!’
Rawston winked at me and turned to follow his Inspector. I shouted out, ‘I’ll catch you up.’
There was no reply. I went through to tell Amelia where I was going. She wasn’t pleased. ‘That unpleasant creature with the knife?’ But I assured her I would only stand and watch. When Geoff was firmly secured, I had a question to ask him. It was possibly an important question.
‘Promise me, then.’
I kissed the end of her nose. ‘Promise.’ And I genuinely intended to keep it.
I threw on my anorak, not that I needed it in the Stag, but because I had Ronnie’s magic pliers in one of the pockets and Ronnie’s keys in the other. He wouldn’t be needing them for a few days, and even when he could leave the hospital he might well find himself in a cell, for breaking and entering Aces High.
There was no need to hurry, as the Stag, with its superior road holding and more powerful engine, could easily overhaul the Triumph 2000, with its six-cylinder engine and built for comfort rather than speed. Besides, they weren’t going to find it simple to arrest Geoff Tomkins, and, as promised, I wanted to keep out of it. And watch.
Darnley was only fifteen miles from The Beeches, on the fast, open road from Bridgnorth and out through Aston Eyre. The afternoon was mild for December, the roads dry, but there wasn’t going to be much light left. Already, I could see ahead, the clouds were massing over the Welsh hills. After twenty minutes I spotted the Triumph 2000 ahead. Earlier than I’d expected, this was. They were possibly arguing as to the iniquity of my involvement, or maybe planning their strategy. This would be simple. Go in fast and hard. Strike first, apologize afterwards. Resisted arrest, in the report, would cover the damage.
I hung back, but knew that Rawston would have spotted me.
The village of Darnley is one of those collections of dwellings that has no apparent reason for its location just there. A few houses each side of the road, two of them thatched, a pub, the White Hart, a sub-Post Office, a small general store, and that was it. There was no significant road crossing, no river or stream with its bridge and its ancient water-mill, no remains of a castle suggesting a fortified position. It was simply there, one mile from the border with Wales. Drive that mile, and there’s that signboard: CROESO Y GYMRU. Welcome to Wales. On the other side of the road, there’s one facing the other way: WELCOME TO ENGLAND. Strange that, when you come to think about it. You’d expect the welcome to Wales to be in English, for the benefit of the British, and the one into England in Welsh, for the Welsh. CROESO I LOEGR, that would be. It was just a passing thought.
Thus pondering, I drove slowly along the almost deserted street and a quarter of a mile beyond, to the furthest dwelling: Clematis Cottage. This was Ronnie’s former residence.
There was a beaten patch of earth beside it, poached from the corner of a farmer’s field, and on it stood the red PO van, facing outwards. Parked across the entrance, blocking it, was Rawston’s Triumph 2000. This I considered to be a mistake. If Tomkins could get into his van and start it up, he would have a weight advantage, and be able to smash his way through the barrier, shoving the car aside and not improving its appearance at all.
I parked well out of the way, got out, and surveyed the prospects. The cottage had no distinction. It had a central front door, directly facing me, with a narrow hall inside, a room each side of that, and a kitchen at the rear. The building was old enough to have its toilet facility down the garden. Round at the back was the only operative door. I knew this from experience, and the clematis that had given the cottage its name was now a sprawling brown and impenetrable mass, completely blocking the front door and half of each window.
Casually, I strolled nearer. There were sounds from within, loud voices and coarse threats. I slid beside the van, on the driver’s side, and tried its door. At first I thought it was locked, then recalled these vans used sliding doors. I slid it open. The ignition key was in its lock, the bunch dangling from it. I extracted this, and tossed it in my hand. The van wasn’t going to do any moving for a while.
I took my time strolling back to my car, and stood there with the bunch dangling from my fingers. And waited. The Inspector and the sergeant were no doubt explaining to Geoff Tomkins that it was not a legal action to attack someone with a deadly weapon—to wit, one flick-knife—and that they had evidence relating to the burglary at Major Farrington’s that implicated him, and if Geoff didn’t mind they would like to talk to him quietly and persuasively. Or words to that effect, though less of them.
It was not my affair. I did not wish to become involved.
There was a sudden uprush of noise from the cottage, then there was a crash, and a small table came through one of the windows, taking frame and glass with it, and a hideous tangle of dead clematis. It was followed at once by a man who dived through the gap. I recognized the reefer jacket. It was Geoff, making a break for it. He scrambled up and ran towards his van. I jingled the keys to attract his attention. Too soon, as it turned out. I ought to have allowed him to discover their loss for himself. He glanced at me, took in the situation in a flash, and swerved towards me.
Vaguely, I was aware that somebody had attempted to emulate Geoff’s dive. I discovered later that it was Durrell, who managed to tear his trousers and put a gash down one leg. In any event, he stayed down, and the knife was suddenly in Geoff’s right hand, held low in the underhand grip he’d used for Ronnie.
I backed up. He came straight at me. It was the Stag he wanted, and I was in his way. My Stag!
‘Cer o’r ffordd, dwlbyn!’ he shouted. I hadn’t realized he had any Welsh in him, and I’m not well up on the language, but the general meaning was clear. He wanted me to stand back. The last word, dwlbyn, I knew. I resented being called thickie.
I wasn’t having that from any young lout, knife or not. He thought the blade lent his words emphasis. He was in full charge as Rawston came running round the side of the house. But Rawston was going to be too late.
I threw his own bunch of keys into Geoff’s face as a distraction. Then I feinted a left dive. It did what I wanted. His right hand swept sideways to follow my direction. I swung back, twisted on my right heel, and kicked him with my left toe to his knee. It didn’t do much, but it took his eyes from my face, and the blade dipped. Now he meant me serious harm; I’d hurt him. As his hand came down I caught the wrist, whipped round, got my other hand to his elbow, and did my best to break off part of his arm.
The knife tinkled at my feet as Rawston came in low from behind him, using unnecessary force, and nearly took me over with Geoff, who was suddenly howling on the ground. Between us, we’d dislocated his elbow. Durrell limped forward and demanded the first-aid box, and for a few minutes Rawston was busy. He said he didn’t know anything about dislocations, and Geoff would have to wait. He got a dressing on Durrell’s thigh—a bloody mess he made of it too—and used sticking plaster to bridge the tear in his trousers. I reached down and rescued Geoff’s set of keys.
‘A lot of use you were,’ Durrell grumbled at me. Ungratefully, I thought. I plucked a sprig of clematis from his hair.
I allowed them to leave first, with Geoff Tomkins handcuffed to the rear seat arm by the wrist of his less painful arm.
I was alone. The last light was dying from the sky, the sun dipping over the far Welsh hills, taking a last peep under the lowering clouds. It had occurred to me that the cottage had been left open, as Rawston hadn’t seemed interested in going back to lock it. This seemed a courteous thing to do, to secure it properly, though of course I couldn’t do much about the missing window.
Around at the rear it was much as I’d remembered. The back door was swinging open. I reached inside for the switch and put on the light. There was a key in the lock. I slipped it out. There were two keys on the one key-ring, and no tab. I put this meagre bunch into my pocket. Now I had three key-rings that were not my own.
>
While I was there, I decided to have a look round. That isn’t quite correct; I had decided to do so as I’d watched the Triumph 2000 drive away. As I had plenty of time, and was not likely to be interrupted, I made a thorough job of it.
There was, at once, evidence of a woman’s influence. There wasn’t much to be done with a cottage that had one living-room and one bedroom, but Ruby had done it. There were the striped curtains Rawston had mentioned, on the floor a fine-looking rug, too fine for that red-tiled surface, but no doubt the result of a casual thought of Ronnie’s at a time when he was in somebody else’s house. ‘Ruby would like that rug.’ Yes, not simply possible but very likely. The furniture was sparse, a wing-back easy chair, a table, a tall and narrow upright padded chair, on both of which she had put stretch covers. The fire-irons were brass, and polished. I moved across the hall into the bedroom, where women are apt to express themselves more freely. The bedcover was Welsh weave—not far to go to buy that. The rug here was deep-pile and positively luxurious. The oak wardrobe held, tight-packed, her clothes, and the labels indicated that no expense had been spared. A small, narrower tallboy held Ronnie’s. Ronnie had always been a neat dresser.
The Key to the Case Page 15