by J F Straker
2
Colin Browne thumbed the notes slowly. There were dark stains under his eyes, and occasionally his shoulders jerked upward, as if a spasm of pain had hit him. But he went on thumbing, and presently he came to what he was seeking.
‘There!’ He abstracted a pound note and laid it on the counter. ‘See that mark? That’s mine. Which means it has definitely been through this branch.’ The thumbing continued. ‘Ah! There’s another. Of course, that’s not to say these are part of yesterday’s robbery. But it seems more than likely, doesn’t it?’
‘The wrappers aren’t yours?’ Johnny asked.
‘No. Nor Mansons’. Mansons use elastic bands.’ He examined a wrapper more closely. ‘I’d say these were homemade. A strip of brown paper wrapped round the notes and stuck with glue.’ Another spasm of pain hit him, and he flinched. ‘Am I allowed to ask how these came into your possession, Sergeant?’
‘You may ask, sir, but I’m not prepared to say.’ Johnny gathered up the notes. ‘There’s nothing else you can tell me?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, thanks, anyway. How’s the head?’
‘Sore. I didn’t get much sleep last night.’ Browne rested his forearms on the counter and leaned forward. ‘Look! There’s something that’s bothering me. I gather from the manager that your superintendent thinks Sergeant Nicodemus may be in league with the thieves. Is that right? I mean, does he really think that?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’ Johnny’s tone was curt. Why did the bloody manager have to gossip?
‘No. No, I suppose not. All the same, if there is any such suspicion, I’d like to assure you it’s completely unjustified. I know Humphrey Nicodemus too well to believe he would do anything dishonest.’
‘So do I, sir,’ Johnny said. A thought struck him. ‘You mean — you know him socially?’
‘Oh, yes. Known him for years. Our parents live in the same village. Branleigh: it’s in the New Forest. Mind you, I’m not saying we’re bosom pals, or anything like that. But we rub up against each other occasionally.’ Mr Browne paused. Customers were beginning to queue. Was there anything else, Sergeant? Did you wish to see the manager? He’s busy right now, but if you care to wait —’
‘No, thanks,’ Johnny said. ‘That’s the lot.’
He had arranged to meet Nicodemus for lunch at the Crocodile, a pub they both knew well. He arrived late (he had wanted to fit in the rest of the Minter gang first, though for all the good it did him he need not have bothered), and at first glance he thought it might be his lateness that was responsible for the gloom on Nicodemus’s handsome face. But no, it couldn’t be that. Nicodemus was a stickler for punctuality, but half an hour couldn’t sink his spirits that low.
‘What’s up?’ he asked, when Nicodemus had bought him a pint. ‘You look like a cow with sore udders.’
‘I feel like one.’ Nicodemus rocked his glass on the bar counter. He was drinking pink gin. ‘I’ve just had a polite note from the A.C. I’ve been suspended from duty.’
Johnny choked on a mouthful of bitter. ‘Suspended? Christ, you poor sod! But that means the Boozer must have reported you. Whose side is he on, dammit? He must know you’re innocent.’
‘If he does he’s keeping it a close secret. Anyway, he says he had no option. It’s in the book, he says.’ He lifted his glass, sipped, and put it down. ‘You know something? I feel sick.’
Johnny eyed him with compassion. ‘Sick in the head or sick in the guts?’
‘Both.’
‘You want out?’
‘Yes.’
They went into St James’s Park and walked by the lake. There were inquiries waiting to be made, but Johnny felt no compunction in postponing them. He supposed he must have known, if only subconsciously, that this could happen, but he had not thought it would. SIN was a team, the Boozer was one of them; he should have been for Knickers, not against him. Besides, there was no real justification for suspension. If every copper who was offered a bribe got himself suspended — well, half the bloody Force would be off duty.
He snatched at a late mosquito, and missed. ‘You were dead unlucky, of course,’ he said gloomily. ‘Being in the bank at the time, I mean. That two hundred nicker was the last straw.’
Not so much the money, Nicodemus said, as the accompanying note. The drunk had left the bank before the thieves arrived, yet the note made it clear that they knew of his visit. That, as Sherrey saw it, made the drunk an accomplice. And the implication of that, Sherrey had said, was unpleasantly obvious. Or did Nicodemus need to have it spelt out for him?
‘I said I didn’t.’ Nicodemus bent to retrieve a paper bag, and deposited it in a litter bin. He had a tidy mind. ‘Suspension means a reduction in pay, doesn’t it?’
‘Two-thirds.’ Johnny hadn’t appreciated the significance of the note. Put the way the Boozer had put it, he could see there might be some slight justification for the Boozer’s action. It didn’t necessarily imply he believed Knickers to be guilty. Just that he was playing safe. ‘Why? Feeling the pinch?’
‘Of course not.’
‘No? Well, why the need for an overdraft, then? Or am I being nosey?’
‘You’re being nosey. Sorry.’
‘That’s okay.’ Stubborn bastard, thought Johnny. ‘And talking of overdrafts I was at the bank this morning. The chief cashier says he’s a friend of yours. That right?’
‘Yes. That’s why I banked there. I thought a friend at court might be useful.’ Nicodemus kicked away a stone. ‘Why the hell did I bother?’
They walked for a while in silence. Johnny began to feel guilty. He was sorry for Knickers; but a bank had been robbed and he ought to be doing something about it, not be holding the hand of a disconsolate mate. He said cheerfully, ‘Well, where do we go from here? Anything I can do — short of hanging one on the Boozer’s hooter? That pal of yours — Devine, is it?’
‘Dassigne.’ Nicodemus spelt it out for him. ‘He’s Jill’s friend, not mine.’
‘Sounds French. Anyway, how about him? Want me to chat him up?’
‘I’m not sure. Except that — well, what did you think of that note I got? The one with the money. Didn’t it strike you as odd?’
‘Odd? How odd?’
‘The way it was written. A mixture of the literate and the illiterate, with a bit of thieves’ jargon thrown in.’
‘Really? I don’t remember. Have you still got it?’
‘Christ, no! It’s part of the evidence.’ Bitterness was back in his voice. ‘But I can repeat it for you, word for bloody word.’
‘Let’s have it, then.’
Nicodemus repeated it. ‘I see what you mean,’ Johnny said. After some thought he added, ‘I see what you’re getting at, too. The literate can sham illiteracy, but it doesn’t work the other way round. Check?’
‘Check. Which means it’s likely to have been someone like Paul. And as the Boozer said, his alibi doesn’t go all the way. Not as far as we know.’
‘If it is an alibi.’
‘Yes. Look, Johnny — have a word with Jill Summerbee, will you? Find out what happened yesterday after she and Paul dropped Carole in Grosvenor Place.’
‘Sure. Where’ll I find her?’
‘Go and see Carole. She’ll fix it. Only don’t mention this bloody suspension business. She’d blurt it out to the parents, and they’ve got —’ The little burst of enthusiasm faded. ‘Well, anyway, I don’t want them worried.’
Johnny nodded. The Boozer had said to get around, ask questions, chat up the squeakers, follow any lead that offered. Well, this one offered.
‘Leave it to me, cock,’ he said cheerfully. He had never met Carole Nicodemus. He hoped she’d prove to be a right dolly.
She wasn’t only a right dolly, she was a tiny dolly. To Johnny, who had recently seemed fated to meet girls taller than himself, this made her doubly attractive. She had sleek chestnut hair that curled outward on her shoulders, a small mouth and large laughing grey eyes,
and a figure that couldn’t have been more to Johnny’s liking had he designed it himself. How, he wondered, could a staid, pompous old git like Knickers have such a delectable dolly for a sister?
She lived in a basement flat in Eyton Place, just off the Cromwell Road. The sitting room was large and dark, with damp stains on the wallpaper and numerous cracks in the ceiling. Furniture was sparse, and looked as though it had been around for a long, long while. The Victorian sofa sagged in the middle, the ticking had come away from under the one armchair, the daybed sloped downward from the wall. There were more bare patches than pattern in the carpet. Johnny hardly noticed these shortcomings. He was concentrating on the girl.
He told her that he was anxious to contact the driver of a white Mercedes convertible which had been seen in the vicinity of a robbery the previous afternoon. According to her brother, a friend of hers, a Mr Paul Dassigne — all right, an acquaintance — owned a similar car. Could she let him have Mr Dassigne’s address?
She shook her head, chestnut hair swinging lazily. It reminded him of a television advertisement.
‘Sorry. No can do. I don’t have his telephone number either. Is this what Humphrey was on about yesterday?’
‘Yes. But he’s been switched to another job. I’ve taken over.’
‘And you think Paul did the robbery?’ She laughed. ‘You must be crazy.’
‘I didn’t say that,’ he reproved her. ‘You’re jumping to conclusions. But if he was in the neighbourhood he may be a valuable witness.’
‘He’d have reported it, wouldn’t he, if he’d seen anything?’
‘Not necessarily. He may not have realized its importance.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t help. Jill could, I suppose. She’s my flatmate.’ He was fascinated by the delicacy of her wrist as she looked at her watch. ‘She’s pretty irregular in her habits, but if there’s nothing doing elsewhere she should be home any minute now. Do you want to wait?’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘I wouldn’t suggest it if I did. Care for a drink? There’s only cheap sherry, I’m afraid.’
He didn’t like sherry, but yes, that would be fine, he said. She poured two glasses, handed one to him, and sank on to the daybed, tucking cushions around her to stop from slipping off. He found her easy to talk to — or to listen to, rather, for it was she who did most of the talking. She hopped from one topic to another — her brother, street demonstrations, TV, the theatre, his job, her job — she was secretary to an insurance company executive — and finally the flat. It was a bit sordid, wasn’t it? She’d only been there a few months; previously she’d lived in a hostel. But she’d met Jill at a party, and Jill had invited her to move in, and it had seemed like a good idea. They hadn’t bothered to do the place up; they were looking for something better. But flats weren’t easy to come by. Not in the right place and at the right rent.
‘How do you manage?’ she asked.
‘I’m in digs. I’m not all that sold on them, though. There are — well, complications.’
She didn’t inquire into the complications. ‘Humphrey’s in digs,’ she said. ‘They’re not bad. But then I expect you’ve seen them.’ She placed her empty glass on the floor and leaned back, tucking her legs under her and exposing a lot of thigh. ‘I wonder the two of you don’t get together. You could take a flat.’
Previously he would have shuddered at the suggestion. Working with Knickers was one thing, living with him would be quite another. They were poles apart in temperament, they’d rub each other raw. But if living with Knickers meant frequent visits from his sister —
‘It’s an idea,’ he said.
Some time later she said, ‘It’s nearly seven-thirty. You’ve had it, I’m afraid. Jill won’t be back now. Not till late.’
He had almost forgotten the purpose of his visit. He rose reluctantly.
‘I’d best be on my way, then. Maybe I’ll catch up with her tomorrow. Thanks for the entertainment. Oh — and thanks for the drink.’ It had looked and tasted like syrupy varnish. ‘Unless — well, it’s time for the nosebag. I suppose you wouldn’t care to eat with me?’
Still on the daybed, Carole considered him. He had untidy sandy-coloured hair with a quiff at the peak; his freckled face, snub-nosed and blue-eyed, looked engagingly honest. Her brother had implied that he changed his girl friends as regularly as he changed his linen, that he was impetuous and impatient and quick-tempered. Well, maybe he was. But what the hell? she thought. This was a date, not a wedding.
‘Nice man. I was praying you’d ask me.’ She slid off the daybed and stood up. ‘I’m broke, I’m famished, and there’s absolutely nothing in the fridge.’ Her shoes were off. She clutched his arm, hopping from one foot to the other as she put them on. ‘Do I come as I am? Or shall I change?’
She looks great as she is, he thought, and she’d look even greater dolled up. But that would necessitate taking her somewhere smart. He wasn’t sure he could afford it.
‘Let’s just go,’ he said. ‘I’m hungry too.’
It was at her suggestion that they went to the Chic Inn (‘Bring your Chick in, man. The eats are fab!’). It was handy, she said, the food was good and the prices were reasonable; she and Jill usually ate there when in funds. Tom Bass, the West Indian proprietor, had designed it originally to attract the youth of the district: there had been pop music over the loudspeaker, pop art on the walls (enormous triangular nudes in erotic poses, painted by a local artist), pop fare at pop prices. It hadn’t worked, though, Carole said. The teenagers had proved fickle, and Tom Bass had had to adjust to a wider and more varied clientele.
There were tables in the centre of the restaurant, booths along the sides. ‘I always try to sit here,’ Carole said, sliding into a corner booth. The benches were narrow, but covered with foam rubber and coloured cushions. ‘I like the waiter. He’s an absolute peach.’
Johnny slid on to the opposite bench. It would have been nice to sit next to her, to indulge in a little accidental thigh pressure. But then he wouldn’t have been able to study her so closely. ‘I see they’ve kept the nudes,’ he said, leaning his head against a large triangular bosom with large triangular nipples. ‘Can’t say I go for them, though. I prefer the curved variety.’
The waiter came. He was a big man, with large hands and feet and a round red face, and dirty blond hair that had apparently been unable to decide which way it wanted to grow. Brilliant white teeth bulged from his mouth when he smiled. And he smiled freely. Particularly at Carole.
‘I get the peach image,’ Johnny said, when the man had departed with their order. ‘That red dial of his looks positively over-ripe. What’s his name?’
‘Fred. Fred Potatoes.’
‘Eh?’
She laughed. ‘It’s a nickname.’
‘You surprise me. But — Potatoes! How come?’
He had acquired it, she said, shortly after he had started work at the restaurant. An over-dressed female with an affected voice had ordered ‘rump steak and frayed potatoes’, and Fred had mimicked the order to the proprietor. To Tom Bass, ‘frayed’ had sounded like ‘Fred’. And ‘Fred Potatoes’ had stuck.
‘He doesn’t seem to resent it,’ she said. ‘In fact, I think he rather likes it.’
She had a gay, lilting voice, and Johnny encouraged her to talk. Her home was in Hampshire (‘I know,’ Johnny said. ‘Branleigh, isn’t it?’); a lovely house, she said — not old, but full of character, and with a large garden. Unfortunately it wouldn’t be home for much longer. Most of her father’s capital had been invested in a construction company which had recently gone into liquidation, and her parents were looking for a smaller place. ‘Even then I don’t know how they’ll manage,’ she said. ‘They haven’t a bean, and Daddy’s more or less an invalid. He had a nervous breakdown after the crash.’
‘Grim,’ Johnny said. ‘I’m sorry. I really am.’
‘I know.’ She had been eating as heartily as she talked. Now her appetite w
aned. ‘The sad thing is, Daddy only put his money into the company because the managing director was a friend of his. He lived just down the road from us.’ She sighed. ‘It was doing so well, too.’
‘It was? So what happened?’
‘Roger Diamond, the managing director — well, Daddy says he must have been on the fiddle for years, only he was so clever about it that it wasn’t discovered until after he was dead. He was killed in a plane crash.’ She sipped her wine. ‘Crazy, isn’t it? I mean, if only that plane hadn’t crashed, then presumably Roger Diamond would still be fiddling and Daddy would still have his money and his health.’
‘How much did this chap Diamond take them for?’ he asked.
‘Over a hundred thousand pounds, Daddy said. Hallo! There’s Aaron Corby.’
A lean, hungry-looking man, with a slim moustache and watchful eyes, had come into the restaurant and was scanning the tables and booths. Presently he saw Carole and came over.
‘’Evening, miss. Has Mr Dassigne been in?’
‘Not since we’ve been here,’ she said. Johnny noticed she didn’t smile at him as she had at Fred.
‘Oh! Fred about?’
‘He’s in the kitchen.’
He stood irresolute, staring at Johnny. He had a long, pointed nose with nostrils that seemed to be continually working. Then Fred Potatoes came through the swing doors, and the man nodded at Carole, gave Johnny another look, and moved away.
‘Who’s he?’ Johnny asked.
‘Aaron Corby? Oh, he does odd jobs for Paul — I don’t know exactly what. Although sometimes he acts as Paul’s chauffeur. Paul doesn’t like driving. Not on long journeys.’ She frowned. ‘Personally, I can’t stand the man. I don’t know why — I just can’t. He gives me the shivers.’
‘He seems sensitive to smells,’ Johnny said. ‘Does he eat here regularly?’
‘Not eat. Mostly he just sits around drinking. There’s another man comes with him sometimes; I don’t know his name. I don’t like him either.’
‘Does he work for Paul too?’
‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t think so.’
‘Does Paul eat here?’