Dead Against the Lawyers

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘There’s never been nothing wrong with that,’ said Mrs Utley, in her harsh voice. ‘Been ringing all night. Never no time to see to the meal, there hasn’t been.’

  ‘It wasn’t working just now,’ said Charlotte hurriedly. ‘That’s why I had to go out and report it.’

  Mrs Utley stopped beating the cream. ‘Been going all the time. Someone ringed you whilst you was out, but wouldn’t say who she was.’

  ‘I tell you, it wasn’t working.’ Charlotte’s voice was high pitched.

  ‘What’s it matter?’ said Holter, as he picked up the glass filled with whisky and soda and handed it to his wife.

  Chapter Eight

  AFTER A LARGE breakfast, his wife did not believe in diets, Brock left home and drove through the back streets of Hertonhurst to the central police station. As he arrived, the superintendent was stepping out of his car. The superintendent, pedantic and cautious as ever, insisted on an immediate report and it was a quarter of an hour before Brock managed to escape and go to his own room. After shutting the door, he took off his coat. The weather had been so hot for so many days now that his mind seemed haunted by memories of a little cottage in the one part of Cornwall that trippers had not yet ruined.

  The report from ballistics was on his desk and he read it through. The revolver and its unusual action were described in great technical detail. It was confirmed that the bullet dug out of the bookcase had been fired from the .455 Webley in question.

  Brock leaned back in his chair. The trail of blood worried him. Why in the hell had the dead Corry been dragged from near the display cabinet to the desk? Every explanation that occurred to him proved, on examination, to be obviously defective. He shook his head and leaned forward and began to read through the mail. Requests for witness statements, circulars from HQ admonishing, advising, and correcting, lists of stolen cars and stolen property, lists from local magistrates’ courts detailing the days for hearings, advertising circulars, and finally one typewritten, anonymous letter.

  ‘Wot about Mrs Holter’s boy-friend and wot about Spender’s car accident? They ain’t so lily-white as they looks.’

  Brock lit a cigarette. The style of the letter suggested a writer who thought that mis-spellings and some fractured grammar automatically made the writer out to be an illiterate.

  *

  Alan Spender, looking because of his unlined face and tight curly hair younger than thirty-seven, parked his Rapier, locked it, walked to the end of the road and into the High Street. Outside chambers was one bored reporter who asked him if he knew what was going on and accepted, without any display of emotion, that he had no idea. He went through to the clerks’ room.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said Traynton.

  ‘ ’Morning, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘Lovely day for a holiday.’ Marriott admired Spender because he was successful.

  Spender took a brief out of his case and handed it to Traynton. ‘There you are, Josephus, all duly signed, sealed, and delivered.’

  ‘How did we do, sir?’

  ‘We were found guilty, fined fifty quid, and licence endorsed for a year. The police were definitely feeling slightly vindictive about their nice new car. My story was heartbreakingly sincere, but it suffered the disadvantage of being disbelieved.’

  ‘Mr Seabord was on the phone, sir,’ said Marriott, ‘and he ...’

  ‘I can inform Mr Spender of the substance of the communication,’ cut in Traynton loudly.

  ‘What the hell’s it matter who tells him?’

  Traynton sniffed loudly. ‘I hesitate to think about what will go on in these chambers once I have left them.’

  Spender grinned. ‘Never mind the internecine strife. What did the old crook, Seabord, want?’

  ‘He has briefed you in the High Court, sir,’ said Traynton. ‘A case of breach of contract.’

  ‘Good for him. His firm’s really been pulling their collective fingers out.’

  ‘I must admit there has been a satisfactory amount of work from them in the past year, sir. They used, of course, to brief Mr Pace until he took Silk. I hope that they now regard you as a suitable junior.’

  ‘Push up the fees, Josephus. Nothing under a hundred guineas.’ Spender sat down on Traynton’s desk. ‘What the hell’s got into chambers with Corry getting himself shot?’

  ‘A most unpleasant happening, sir,’ said Traynton.

  ‘Was he murdered?’

  ‘Unofficially, sir, I have been assured there is no doubt in the matter.’

  ‘Bloody good riddance,’ said Marriott.

  ‘Whilst I am still here, you will kindly refrain from such unnecessary comment,’ was Traynton’s inevitable reply.

  ‘Have the police made any progress?’ asked Spender.

  ‘I think not, sir, despite the attendance of a host of men. I know of nothing.’

  ‘If you don’t, nobody will.’

  Traynton looked pleased at such a compliment.

  Spender left the clerks’ room. Curious about the details of the murder, he went into Holter’s room. The only obvious signs of what had happened were the carpetless floor, the damaged bookcase, and the rough outline of a body in white tape near the desk.

  He stared at the tape. There lay Corry, so to speak, and that was an incredible fact.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said a deep voice from behind him. Startled, he turned to see two men had come into the room.

  ‘You must be Mr Spender?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Brock and this is Detective Constable Yawley. Would it be convenient to have a word or two with you?’

  ‘Sure. You’d better come into my room.’

  Once in Spender’s room and sitting down, Brock spoke. ‘One of my chaps saw you yesterday evening, of course, but I thought I ought to have a word with you myself. I gather you didn’t know the dead man at all well?’

  ‘He certainly wasn’t a bosom pal of mine. I used to meet him here from time to time when he came to see Resse and very occasionally he’d give me a brief marked as low as possible.’

  ‘Did you like what you knew about him?’

  Brock watched the lack of expression on Spender’s face and this confirmed his snap opinion that the other was a man who seldom, if ever, said all that he felt or thought.

  ‘He wasn’t a man one did like,’ said Spender, after a short pause.

  ‘So I’ve gathered. Everyone seems to have detested him.’

  ‘Always with reason, no doubt.’

  ‘Did you have a reason?’

  Spender continued to speak casually. ‘I? No. We’ve never really had much contact.’

  Brock spoke equally casually. ‘When was your car accident?’

  ‘Car accident?’

  ‘Haven’t you had one recently?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you quite certain?’

  ‘There’s no one can be more certain. Why?’

  ‘I had an anonymous letter this morning referring me to it.’

  Spender’s face at last showed signs of emotion. ‘What the hell? I haven’t done more than scrape a wing in the last ten years.’

  ‘May I see your driving licence?’

  Spender took out his wallet and passed it across. Brock checked that there were no endorsements and returned it. ‘You haven’t had an accident that hasn’t been reported?’

  ‘No. Look, just because some ...’

  ‘What garage do you go to, sir?’

  ‘The local village one. What are you going to do? Find out if I’m lying and whether they’ve tidied up torn wings or washed off any blood?’

  ‘We’ll be doing that, sir. We may not believe anonymous information, but we have to follow it up.’

  ‘No matter how ridiculous it is?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Is there supposed to be a connection between this accident that never was and the murder, then?’

  ‘The letter was suggesting that.’

  Spender
leaned back in his chair. ‘Something as farfetched as a concealed car accident, Corry the only witness, and my being blackmailed by him ever since?’

  ‘That’s quite an idea.’

  ‘And I might be telling it to you in order to make you think I must be innocent to do so?’

  ‘You could be. A quick look through your bank balances may tell us whether you are.’

  Spender took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered it. Brock accepted a cigarette, but Yawley refused with a gesture of repugnance.

  ‘There’s always a lot of dirty washing brought to light in a case like this, isn’t there?’ said Spender.

  ‘Quite often, yes, sir, but not merely because someone likes producing it.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting it was one of your pleasures.’ Spender drew on his cigarette. The smoke was caught by the breeze from the opened window and was quickly dispersed. ‘Corry never used anything but dirty linen.’

  Brock crossed his legs. ‘You told my chap that you didn’t get home Tuesday night until after seven?’

  ‘Does that leave me without an alibi?’

  Brock ignored the question. ‘You said you had a puncture on the way home which was what delayed you so much. I suppose you took the tyre to a garage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And they mended it?’

  For the first time, Spender’s voice expressed his growing uneasiness. ‘They checked everything, but said there wasn’t a puncture. The valve must have temporarily gone on the blink.’

  ‘Only temporarily?’

  ‘They couldn’t really find anything wrong with it, but they replaced it.’

  ‘And the tyre?’

  ‘Has been all right ever since. I suppose that all sounds like ... like so much nonsense?’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry, sir. I’ve heard much worse,’ replied Brock enigmatically. He stood up, thanked Spender, and left the room. Yawley followed him outside and closed the door. ‘Get on to the lab,’ said Brock, ‘and find out if they’ve analysed that powder yet? Tell ’em they’ve had enough time to make the stuff. In the meantime, I’m going into the clerks’ room.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Brock entered the clerks’ room. Only Marriott was there and he was typing. Brock, wondering if he were committing sacrilege, sat down in Traynton’s chair.

  Marriott stopped typing and leaned back. ‘How’s the case going?’ he asked.

  ‘As they all go. In fits and starts, two steps forwards and one backwards.’

  ‘It must have been someone from outside.’

  ‘Must it?’

  Marriott spoke quickly. ‘I was talking to a solicitor’s clerk and he says that Corry had a lot of shady clients for whom he did the kind of work he shouldn’t have done. One of ’em must have come and shot him.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ agreed Brock. ‘But can you suggest why this shady client should have bothered to come all the way to chambers, how he got in, and how Corry got in?’

  ‘It’s only a suggestion. I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Marriott hesitated and then resumed his typing. He completed one line and was half-way through the next one when he swore as he pressed the wrong key.

  ‘I must be putting you off,’ said Brock. ‘Tell you what, just help me for a few minutes and then I’ll leave you alone. Give me a check on the time you left chambers last night.’

  ‘I’ve already said half a dozen times. I caught my usual bus and walked straight back from the stop and if my parents hadn’t been out, they’d have told you just that.’

  ‘I was asking you about last night, not Tuesday night,’ said Brock patiently.

  ‘Last night?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter just now. Did you leave here early?’

  ‘Me? With Old Misery around?’

  ‘Who was here when you finally left?’

  ‘Well, there was Mr Resse and ... I don’t think there was anyone else.’

  ‘One more thing — how many typewriters are there around?’

  ‘Typewriters? The two in here and that’s all. Except for the portable that Mr Spender brings in sometimes.’

  As Brock stood up, he sighed. ‘God, it’s hot! Have you two pieces of typing paper I can have?’

  Marriott passed two sheets of paper over and watched as the detective inserted one of these in the free typewriter and typed rapidly. Then, at a polite request, he pulled out of the typewriter he had been using the draft statement of claim and stood to one side.

  Brock typed out a couple of lines with the second typewriter. He unwound the paper. ‘Thanks very much. Sorry to have disturbed your work.’

  ‘What’s it all in aid of?’

  ‘A simple little test.’

  ‘You all seem to be doing a hell of a lot of little tests.’

  ‘Now you know something about the work that goes into a case before it reaches court ... and some clever counsel does his damndest to rip it to shreds,’ replied Brock, showing considerable feeling.

  Brock left chambers five minutes later. He spoke to the sole waiting reporter and promised a news conference at six o’clock that evening, then went down to the street and climbed into his car which he had parked in front of the building, close to a no-parking sign.

  On arrival at the police station, he went into the general room and told the duty sergeant to get someone to take the samples of typewriting to Maidstone for expert comparison tests at HQ. The duty sergeant said no men were available, but the DI merely dropped a large envelope on -to the counter. After that, he walked to his room and as soon as he was inside he stripped off his coat, loosened his tie, and sat down.

  The telephone rang. The detective superintendent wanted to know how things were going. Brock said it had been confirmed that the locks of the two outside doors of chambers had not been forced, that of the suspects only Aiden and Joan Fleming had worthwhile alibis, that everybody in the world hated Corry, that an anonymous letter had been received, and that no further information had come in from the laboratories. The detective superintendent said it sounded as if little or no progress had been made. On that sour note, the telephone conversation ended.

  Reluctantly, Brock decided he must attempt to catch up with some of the routine work and he was in the middle of reading a report on a minor breaking and entering when the telephone rang again. He cursed as he picked up the receiver.

  ‘Inspector Brock,’ said the civilian telephonist who manned the switchboard during the day, ‘there’s a call I think you ought to deal with.’

  ‘Isn’t there anyone else around?’ he answered wearily.

  ‘It’s to do with the Corry case.’

  ‘All right.’ He lit a cigarette as he waited. The telephone clicked twice and a man said: ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Brock speaking.’

  ‘My name’s Ted Wallace. Look, I’ve been reading about the murder and there’s something you ought to hear about. My wife says it doesn’t mean nothing and I’m stupid to go on about it, but as I told her, she don’t know what’s important and what ain’t. Only the police know that.’

  ‘That’s quite right.’ The caller’s eager, self-assertive voice caused the DI, admittedly solely from bias, to imagine him to be small, belligerent, and as untrustworthy as a car salesman.

  ‘Well, it was like this. The bloke was killed on Tuesday, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘In that building in the High Street what’s between the optician’s and the post office? Looks like a private house with a bit of garden?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was going past there just before a quarter to seven.’ The caller waited as if this statement should have occasioned great surprise. After a while, he continued in disappointed tones. ‘I know what the time was because the church clock struck just afterwards and that ain’t never wrong, is it?’

  ‘I doubt
it.’

  ‘I saw a woman coming out of that house. Almost running, she was, looking like she was really terrified.’

  Brock discounted the description of her expression because most people had a too imaginative memory in a case like this, but there must have been some reason for the man’s noticing her. ‘What first made you look at her?’

  There was a salacious chuckle. ‘She was wearing one of them dresses.’

  ‘Topless?’ Even as he put the question, Brock thought how remote was the possibility of such a thing in a town of the stifling respectability of Hertonhurst.

  ‘No such luck. But it dipped down in the front as if it weren’t never going to stop. Made me think they was going to come popping out. But they didn’t.’

  ‘Can you describe the woman?’

  ‘I didn’t properly see her face on account of watching her dress,’ said Wallace, forgetting his earlier description of her look of terror. ‘She was come and gone so quickly.’

  ‘I can understand where your attention lay.’ Brock managed to sound heartily man-to-man.

  There was a snigger.

  ‘Any idea what colour her hair was?’ asked Brock.

  ‘She was a blonde.’

  ‘Was she wearing a lot of make-up?’

  ‘Well, I ... I think so.’

  Brock quickly made up his mind. ‘All right, Mr Wallace, let’s rest it there for a moment. You have a really good think and I’ll send an officer along to have a chat with you and get as good a description as you can give him. Would you like to see him at work or at your house?’

  ‘Don’t matter. I’m at the bakers in Satchell Street and my house is in Finsbury Terrace: number twelve. It’s painted red.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Brock wrote the information down on the pad in front of him. ‘By the way, any idea what colour the dress was?’

  ‘Pink. With her blonde hair it made me think of strawberries and cream.’

  After replacing the receiver, Brock stared down at the writing pad. If Wallace could not be more precise, his evidence would be useful but not conclusive. Brock wondered how best to obtain a photograph of Charlotte Holter for Wallace to see and he decided that the offices of Kent Life would probably be able to help: she was the type of woman who would frequently be photographed.