“I think I will,” said Bethancourt, a little apologetically. “I’m done in, I’m afraid. Besides, I need to smoke—I haven’t had nearly enough cigarettes in the past four hours.”
“Take yourself off then,” said Gibbons. “I’ll probably fall asleep again soon anyhow. Ring me when you wake up in the morning.”
“Will do,” said Bethancourt, regaining his feet with an effort. “Come along, Cerberus. Good night, Jack.”
But Gibbons did not fall asleep once Bethancourt had gone, though he turned off the light and arranged himself as comfortably as possible. Instead he lay staring out into the darkness, watching the pattern the streetlights outside made on the wall, and thinking over everything.
As Bethancourt and Gibbons wished each other a good night, Carmichael was standing in a chill wind on Hampstead Heath. The SOCKOs had brought out powerful flood lamps and were busy examining the ground beneath the trees where the rifleman had stood. Others were shooting laser beams through the darkness to estimate the trajectory of the bullets. They had dug two of them out of the trees on the farther side, but the third was proving elusive. The two trajectories they had thus far traced, however, went more or less through the spot where Bethancourt and James had been standing, leaving little doubt as to the shooter’s target.
Why, was a harder question. Both James and Bethancourt claimed to know nothing that could possibly give anyone a motive for doing away with them. And if James was innocent of stealing the Haverford jewels, it was difficult to see a motive. On the other hand, if James were in possession of the jewels it was a very different story. Carmichael’s eyes narrowed as he contemplated this possibility.
His mobile rang and he answered it quickly.
“Public relations has got their statement ready for the ten o’clock news,” reported Inspector Davies. “And the communications center has already brought the fellow up on CCTV. Nothing good enough for an ID yet, but they’re working on it.”
“Good work,” said Carmichael. “We ought to get something out of that. What about the rifle?”
“It’s registered to a Gerald McSweeney,” answered Davies. “Address in Mayfair. Sergeant O’Leary has gone off with a couple of uniforms to make inquiries.”
“It’ll be a miracle if we can clear it up that quickly,” said Carmichael.
Davies agreed. “I’m afraid so,” he said, “but it had to be followed up.”
“Yes, of course,” said Carmichael. “Well, I’m nearly finished up here, as soon as they come up with the third damn bullet. There’s no doubt who our lad was shooting at.”
“I didn’t think there would be,” responded Davies glumly. “I’ve never seen such a case, sir. I keep wondering what we’ll have next: Bombs? Perhaps a grenade launcher?”
“At least no one got hurt this time,” said Carmichael. “All right, Inspector. Ring me if you find out anything more.”
“Will do, sir,” said Davies, and rang off.
Davies was right, of course, reflected Carmichael. It was incredible to have a crime committed with an untraceable handgun, and then to have the culprit commit a second crime with a registered hunting rifle.
“Chief Inspector,” someone called, and Carmichael turned to see Vivian Entwhistle, Colin James’s secretary, coming toward him across the green. She had arrived at James’s house earlier, at about the same time as O’Leary and Lemmy had turned up with the witness statements, and had at once begun to shower James with silent criticism. Carmichael had quite liked her.
“Yes, Miss Entwhistle?” he said once she came up beside him. “Do you have something for me?”
“I believe I do,” she answered, proffering a large manila envelope. “In there,” she continued, “are several threatening letters Mr. James has been receiving over the past few months. The first one I opened and handled, but the rest I have worn gloves while inspecting, and have placed them into individual plastic bags at once.”
Carmichael frowned as he took the envelope and peeked into it. “This should have been reported at once,” he said.
“I know,” Vivian replied. “Mr. James refused to let me contact the police on the grounds that the letters were merely cranks. I disagreed with him, but I am in his employ and did not feel I could override his decision. So I merely kept the letters. When you read them, I think you’ll see why I was alarmed.”
“Do they threaten anything specific?” asked Carmichael.
“No.” Vivian shook her head. “They accuse Mr. James of harming the letter writer’s loved ones, and two of them accuse him of murder. They promise retribution, but do not specify what form it will take.”
Carmichael nodded, and tucked the envelope securely under his arm. “Thank you for coming to me with this, Miss Entwhistle,” he said. “I’ll read them as soon as I’m done here, and then give them to the forensics team to work on. This may prove very helpful indeed.”
“You’re welcome,” Vivian replied, and then, wishing him a good night, she retreated back the way she had come while Carmichael watched her go and wondered, if this was all a plot of James’s, whether she was in on it or not.
“Got it, sir,” called one of the SOCKOs, and Carmichael turned in that direction. The officer was crouching down on the ground some ten or fifteen yards beyond the bush Bethancourt and James had taken shelter behind. Carmichael moved to join him.
“This one came pretty close,” he said as Carmichael came up. He nodded at the bush. “It must have been the last shot he fired. If he hadn’t been letting the barrel jerk up as he squeezed the trigger, he might have got them.”
Carmichael shuddered at the idea.
“Not very used to rifles, then, you think?” he asked.
“Oh, he’d probably been shooting before,” replied the SOCKO. “Either he’s just really rotten at it, or he’d never used this particular gun before. At least, that’s my guess right now.”
Carmichael nodded, thanked the man, and began to trudge back to the car park. It was going to be a long night, and he didn’t see any chance of illumination at the end of it.
Upon arriving back at his flat, Bethancourt went at once to turn on the taps in the bath and then poured himself a whisky to drink while he waited for the tub to fill up. It was absolute luxury to lower himself into the steaming water and feel the cold and dirt seep away. He very nearly fell asleep on the spot.
He felt much better when he emerged nearly an hour later wrapped in a warm dressing gown and feeling distinctly peckish. Rummaging in the refrigerator he found some cold mutton and cheese, which he wolfed down on the spot. Then he made himself a fresh cup of coffee, added a healthy dollop of Irish whisky to it, and toddled off to bed with a book.
And yet even once he was all settled in, his mind kept reverting to the events of the day. Something James had said nagged at the back of his tired mind, but he could not quite bring it into focus.
“There’s really no point in thinking about it now,” he told himself firmly. “You’re in no shape to devise any kind of reasonable theory.”
That settled, he fixed his focus firmly on his book, which he had chosen specifically for its mindless entertainment value. But somehow the adventures of Captain Alatriste failed to capture his attention, partially because the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose were his second pair, and not quite as comfortable as the damaged ones, but mostly because his mind refused to let go of the problem at hand.
The thing about the original burglary that bothered him now was the timing. He had always assumed that Miranda Haverford’s obituary had been the precipitating factor in the robbery—someone had seen it and taken advantage of the empty house. But an unscrupulous private collector would already have known of the jewels; any collector, unscrupulous or not, would have. So why had he waited to have them stolen? There was not, really, that much difference between an empty house and one tenanted by two very elderly women.
“I suppose,” said Bethancourt dubiously, “that even criminals have their finer feelings. P
erhaps this one didn’t want to deprive Miranda of the pleasure of her jewels and thoughtfully waited until after she was dead to take them.”
It did not seem a very likely explanation. Which left him with Colin James as the culprit.
“And he’s already in Carmichael’s sights,” he told himself, “and the chief inspector hardly needs your help nailing a criminal.”
He returned firmly to Captain Alatriste. But he found himself reading the same paragraph over and over again while his brain toyed with other explanations, most of them too fantastic to waste time thinking about. And then the remark James had made about the Golconda diamond brooch at last came back to him.
And suddenly a new possibility opened up. Bethancourt dropped his book and sat bolt upright in astonishment at the simplicity of this idea.
“Why, of course,” he murmured. “That would explain everything—but how to confirm it?”
He dropped back on the bed and reached for his cigarettes. If his theory was right, there was someone out there who knew the truth, but he had no idea of how to find them. Mr. Grenshaw, the solicitor, would have been the logical person to have included in the secret, but Bethancourt was certain he knew nothing more than he had already told them. Was there anyone else Miranda Haverford might have trusted? What about the elderly gentleman whom she had named executor of her estate?
“He’s worth a try,” said Bethancourt. “I can’t think of anyone else there could be. And even if he knows nothing, maybe he’ll have more suggestions. I’ll talk to him in the morning.”
And with that settled, he stabbed out his cigarette and fell asleep almost at once.
22
A Place For Lemmy
Carmichael was back at the Yard by half six the next morning, in time to receive the first responses to the morning news. They had pulled a good likeness of their rifleman from the CCTV footage the night before, but it had been too late to get the image out to the public. It had also been too late to do much about finding Gerald McSweeney, the owner of the rifle. There had been no one at home at his London house, and his neighbors had only known that the McSweeneys had gone away for the weekend to visit family “somewhere up north.”
The shooting on Hampstead Heath had engendered a general public outcry, and the Yard’s public relations department was swamped with calls not only from concerned Londoners, but also from Whitehall. The first message Carmichael received was that he was expected to appear in Detective Superintendent Lumsden’s office at nine o’clock to provide an explanation of events. Carmichael really did not know what he could say; he would be pleased to get an explanation himself.
“I think I’ve found the McSweeneys,” O’Leary reported at about eight. “The family owns a hunting lodge up in Scotland, and most of the family still lives up there in the area. Shall I contact the local police up there to go have a word with them?”
“Good work, Sergeant,” said Carmichael. “Yes, get on to them, would you? I don’t expect,” he added forlornly with a glance at the clock, “they’ll be likely to be back to us before nine.”
“No, sir,” said O’Leary sympathetically. “But you can always say we’ve got inquiries pending.”
Carmichael sighed. “I’ll have to, won’t I?” he growled.
Before O’Leary could reply, the phone rang and Carmichael reached to answer it, motioning O’Leary to stay.
“Is that Detective Chief Inspector Carmichael?” asked a male voice with a distinct north London accent. “My mates said to ring you. I’m Herbert Cannon.”
The name did not register with Carmichael, and his brows rose.
“Did they now?” he said.
“That’s right,” the man answered. “Everyone’s saying you want to know about a fare I had last Tuesday night.”
The light dawned. “You’re the second taxi driver!” exclaimed Carmichael, feeling rather as if he had just hit the jackpot. His grip on the telephone receiver tightened. “Yes, I do very much want to talk to you. Can you come by Scotland Yard?”
“I can as soon as I get my rig out,” answered Cannon. “It’ll take me forty-five minutes or so. What do I do once I get there?”
“Just ask for me,” replied Carmichael. “I’ll come straight down and meet you. Thank you very much, Mr. Cannon, for coming forward.”
He met O’Leary’s eyes as he rang off.
“The taxi driver who had the man Gibbons was following?” asked O’Leary eagerly.
Carmichael nodded. “If we’re very, very lucky,” he said softly, “he’ll have a description of the fellow. Here, go make your call to Scotland, O’Leary. Then come back here and we’ll talk to Mr. Cannon together.”
O’Leary rose with alacrity. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Thank you, sir,” he added, pausing as he turned for the door. “I do appreciate your including me.”
Carmichael waved him away, brushing away the thanks.
In the end, he summoned Lemmy back from the video room as well, armed with several different and yet uniformly poor pictures of the man who had taken the cab in front of Gibbons’s.
Herbert Cannon, when he appeared, was a solid citizen with a prominent nose who clearly wanted to get this business over with.
“I’ve looked up the fare in my logbook,” he said, “and written down the details for you here. See? I picked up this young fellow in the queue at Waterloo station and let him off at East Street and Walworth.”
“Excellent,” said Carmichael, taking the paper the driver offered. “Very organized of you, Mr. Cannon. Do you remember the young man at all?”
“Well, I been thinking about that,” said Cannon, “and I think I do, for all it was a week ago. I remember the Tuesday night well enough, and I’m thinking the fare I took to Waterloo in the first place was that very disagreeable gentleman who wanted me to hurry so he didn’t miss his train, but then barely gave me any money above the fare. Because I remember being worried that there’d already be too many taxis in the queue there, and thinking it was a lot of trouble to go through for a bloke as didn’t appreciate it. But the queue wasn’t crowded as it turned out.”
It was rather a pity, thought Carmichael, that they weren’t interested in the disagreeable gentleman—there was no doubt Cannon remembered all about that fare. But he smiled, held onto his hopes with both hands, and asked, “And that was where you picked up the young man I want to know about?”
“That’s right,” said Cannon. “Pleasant fellow, as I recall. Was asking me about the Walworth neighborhood, about the shops and the kinds of fares I picked up there. Gave me a decent tip for the ride, though nothing special. Still, it was a short run.”
“Did he say anything about a friend in the taxi behind yours? That the friend would be following you?”
Cannon frowned. “No,” he answered. “But this young fellow, he didn’t have any luggage or such—there was plenty of room for a friend if he’d had one with him.”
“I see,” said Carmichael neutrally. “Now, do remember anything about his appearance? You’ve said he was a young man.”
“Oh, yes.” Cannon nodded. “He wasn’t above thirty—I’d put him in his mid-twenties, myself. Not too tall, and solid-built. He had short hair—brown, it was. And he had a dark jacket on—a nice warm one it looked. I’m not sure what else he was wearing. Oh, and I think he had some freckles.”
Carmichael and O’Leary exchanged disbelieving looks. They were staggered by the detail of this description—it was far better than they had ever dared to hope for.
Unexpectedly, Lemmy spoke up.
“Was he wearing a cap?” he asked.
Cannon scowled at him. “Of course not,” he said. “How could I see he wore his hair short if he’d had a cap on?”
Lemmy shook his head.
“It’s not our bloke, sir,” he said to Carmichael, crushing all Carmichael’s elation in a single sentence. “Here, you can see in this picture. The man was definitely wearing a cap.”
He passed the photo over, an
d Cannon craned his neck to see it.
“There he is, right there,” he said indignantly, stabbing his finger down on the photograph. “Not a bloody cap in sight.”
He glared at Lemmy.
“Oh, my God,” said Carmichael, staring down at the picture.
“But that’s Jack, isn’t it?” said O’Leary, peering over his shoulder.
Lemmy looked confused.
“Is this one here your taxi, sir?” asked Carmichael, turning the picture round on his desk so Cannon could view it more easily.
“That’s right,” said Cannon. “The second one in line, that’s my rig. And right there’s my passenger, just bending to tell me where he wants to go.”
“Oh,” said Lemmy, enlightened. “Sergeant Gibbons was in your taxi, not the other driver’s.”
Carmichael turned to O’Leary. “Go find that other driver,” he ordered.
O’Leary, already out of his seat, nodded silently and was out the door in an instant.
Lemmy was shuffling through the other photographs he had brought along.
“Sir,” he said, “I’m pretty sure there’s some good footage of the taxi behind Mr. Cannon’s, but not in this batch. If I could just go back to the video room, I’m sure I could have it for you shortly.”
“Go, go,” said Carmichael, and then he turned back to his witness.
“Mr. Cannon,” he said, “I can’t thank you enough for coming forward. Your evidence has been of the utmost help—in fact, without it I dare say we might not have solved the case at all.”
Cannon looked gratified. “Just doing my duty,” he said gruffly.
“Now then,” continued Carmichael, “if you could recall any of the particulars of your conversation with this passenger …”
After days of digging and coming up with nothing, the flood gates had opened and information was pouring down on Carmichael from every possible source. He was late getting to the superintendent’s office, but at least the sudden influx of evidence made the interview a mercifully brief one. And his various subordinates were lined up waiting for him when he emerged, all holding a different piece of the puzzle.
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