“The car was passing through Halerton village at seven-fifty-one on Thursday, the twelfth of May.”
“I suppose,” said Fusil slowly, “it would be ridiculous to ask him if he’s quite positive about the time and the date?”
“Yes, sir. Quite ridiculous.”
*
Grant was obviously delighted to see Fusil. He smiled broadly as he opened the front door of his house. “Come on in. It’s a long time since I’ve seen anyone from the force. I thought Kywood might be along to have a word, but… Been far too busy, of course,” he said, suddenly clipping his words.
He led the way into the sitting room. His wife, reading a magazine, was sitting in one of the armchairs. “Diana, you remember Robert Fusil?”
She stared at Fusil with cold dislike. “I am hardly likely to have forgotten him.”
“He’s come to have a drink and a chat.”
She stood up. “I remember I have some work to do in the kitchen.”
“You…” Grant became silent. He watched her walk out of the room. “Sorry about that,” he said unhappily.
“Don’t worry, sir. It’s quite understandable she should feel like that.”
“The trouble is, Duncan’s always been…” He sighed. “Well, what will you have? I’ve whisky, gin, brandy and rum, but I’ve none of those sweet aperitifs people seem to want these days. Only a dark sherry, if you’d rather.”
“May I have a whisky, please?”
“Soda or water?”
“Water.”
“I once served with a colonel who came from a place called Achnasheen. He would never add soda to whisky for anyone — called it the height of Sassenach ignorance. Caught myself thinking like that the other day.” He laughed, but his laughter held a sad note. He went over to the cocktail cabinet and poured out two drinks.
He stood with his back to the fireplace. “It’s a bad show about the force. Of course, those who say James got anything out of it are talking like bloody idiots. He’s as straight as a lance. Damn shame he let himself get forced into a corner like that, but then we’ve all got our blind spots. I once had a second lieutenant… But you don’t want to hear me rambling on and on about my army days. Trouble is, I loved ’em.”
“I suppose it was a good life in peacetime?”
“Wartime too, for some of us. There’s something about sharing a common danger and fighting for what one believes in…” He coughed. “You’ve caught me on a bad day. Fusil. Well, how’s the amalgamation coming along?”
“Slowly. I’m practically disappearing under all the bumf that’s flooding in from county.”
“It’s always the same — nothing can happen without paperwork… So how’s eastern division these days? Have you…?” Grant cleared his throat. “Have you been able to take the Evans case any further?”
“Yes, sir. By pure luck. Because of the coming amalgamation, we’ve had a small influx of county men and one of ’em learned about our interest in a white hatchback back in May. He was on duty in Halerton on the twelfth and saw one with a defective brake light go through. He noted the registration number.”
“Was it Diana’s car?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he see who was driving it?”
“Not well enough to identify the person, but he’s certain it was a man.”
“So now you can prove the car was on the road at what time?”
“Seven-fifty-one in the evening.”
Grant walked across the room and poured himself out another whisky and Fusil was reminded of the way in which Middleton had poured himself out several drinks in quick succession when he’d faced grave trouble.
“What do you intend to do now?” asked Grant.
“With your permission, sir, interview your son again.”
“You don’t need my permission for that.”
“No. But asking for it is the least, and the most, I can do for you.”
“Thank you,” said Grant simply. He drank. “Diana will never understand me when I say this, but I’m thankful you have this proof.” He stared into the far distance. “Some men need to be taught they have to live with their own actions.”
“Is your son in?”
“No.” Grant looked at his watch. “But he will probably be back shortly. Perhaps you’d like to go through to the study and wait for him there? Will you take another drink with you?”
“No, thanks.”
They went into the study and, after telling Fusil to make himself comfortable, Grant left.
Fusil picked up a slim book which had been lying on the desk and found it was a privately printed history of the 16th Gurkha Rifles, Indian Army. The index listed the name of Grant. He turned to page one hundred and four. The regiment had been defending a hill against the Japanese in the Burmese jungle, after a long action as a flying column behind the lines. The battle had been fierce and bloody. The descriptive writing was stilted, yet in a way this made the scene all the more vivid for him…
A car drove into the garage. After a pause the front door was opened and Grant said something to the newcomer, who replied in a sharp, panicky voice.
When they came into the study. Grant was looking old and tired. “I shall return to the other room,” he said to Fusil. “Will you please see me before you leave?”
“Of course, sir.”
When the door was closed, Fusil sat down behind the desk. He said: “I’m going to question you about the evening of the twelfth of May.”
Duncan slumped down in a chair and scratched at his straggly beard.
“Where did you go in your mother’s car on the evening of the twelfth?”
“I was in this house from seven onwards.”
“You were not.”
“I’m telling you…”
“And I’m telling you that at seven-fifty-one you drove through the village of Halerton.”
“That’s fuzz-talk.”
“The number of the car was taken by a P.C.”
Duncan said: “I wasn’t in it.”
“It was either you or your father.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“I’ve been wondering just how low you could crawl. Now I know.” Fusil picked up the book from the desk. “Have you read this? The story of your father’s regiment.”
“I’ve more important things to read than that.”
“It describes how he won his D.S.O.”
“So what am I supposed to do? Cheer?”
“While I’ve been waiting, I’ve been wondering how a man so brave could father an arrant coward.” Fusil spoke with an easy pleasantness which made his words all the more insulting. “Not that that matters.
“Shall I explain things to you in their simplest terms? I can now prove that your mother’s car, with only one brake light working, was on the road at seven-fifty-one in Halerton and that it was driven by a man. Halerton lies to the north-east of Fortrow and Angel’s Discothèque is in a fairly direct line with it and your house. I have a witness who is reasonably certain he saw you at the disco. I have the evidence of the two eyewitnesses that the crime car was probably a white hatchback, registration letters PU M or N, with only one brake light working. Paint found on the bicycle is exactly similar to paint from your mother’s car and a tyre print matches. Your mother’s car suffered damage to its nearside wing including a broken headlamp: a piece of headlamp glass was found at the accident scene… A jury is usually fairly commonsensical and on that evidence they’re going to hold that it was your mother’s car which was involved in the accident. Unless a third man can be produced who admits to driving the car on that night, they will go on to accept that the driver was either you or your father. Your father will deny it was he and because he is the kind of man he is, his denial will be believed. Similarly, yours will not. So you’ll be highlighted as someone who not only tried to escape all responsibility for the accident, you even were willing to let your father take the blame… Nobody will be able to mistake you for a man after that.”
Duncan stayed sullenly silent.
“I’m going to read you something.” Fusil picked up the book and opened it at page one hundred and four. “‘These seriously wounded troops now lay between the opposing forces, cut off from either by intensive fire. Major Grant called for volunteers and then led them into no-man’s-land. It was observed that the Japanese tried in every possible way to prevent the rescue, but five wounded Gurkhas were brought back at the cost of one killed and two wounded amongst the rescuers. Eyewitnesses spoke of the fiercest curtain of fire from hand weapons, grenades, mortars, and light artillery, experienced to date…’” Fusil looked up. “I don’t suppose you have ever talked to your father about that?”
There was no answer.
“Perhaps you even find something stupid in the picture of a man ready to sacrifice his own life to save others? …I’ll tell you something, Duncan. When I first served under your father I thought him a real old Colonel Blimp. Since then, I’ve learned better. But even if he were a Colonel Blimp, I’d rather have dealings with a dozen like him than with one up-to-date, with-it, hep student.”
“You don’t understand.”
“You couldn’t be more right.”
“But I…” He stopped, looked beseechingly at Fusil and saw only contempt, then stared down at the floor. “What…” he began. He tried again. “What’ll happen if I make it clear Father wasn’t driving the car?”
“I suppose a good defence counsel might be able to salvage something and make some sort of plea in mitigation of sentence.”
Duncan stood up, walked over to the window, and stared out at the garden. His voice was low and hoarse. “I bought a large piece of joy cake at the disco — my mother had given me a larger allowance than usual for the month. Like a bloody fool, I ate some there.
“I thought I was all right. You’ve got to understand that I’d never have left otherwise. I thought I was all right. Then when I was driving, suddenly I became insulated from reality and distances became all mixed up. I saw the cyclist, but it was just as if nothing could stop us colliding… The moment it happened, things were normal and I was scared silly. I drove like hell so that no one could identify the car and when I got back here I went up the back stairs so that Father shouldn’t hear me. Mother did, though, and she wanted to know what was wrong… That was stupid of me, really. He’d never have guessed I’d been on joy cake. Because I’m a Grant, he thinks I… What’s it matter what he thinks?”
You’ll never appreciate that, thought Fusil. “What about the damage to the wing?”
“Next morning I went down to look at the car and saw the headlamp glass was bust. I knew enough about police work to know that if they ever saw the damage they’d start asking questions. So I backed the car out of the garage and drove it into one of the pillars. That way I reckoned no one could ever prove anything.”
“Who sold you the marijuana cake?”
“The bloke you made me look at in the morgue…” His voice became high. “Christ! His face. I can’t forget it.”
“How did you know he was selling?”
“A friend told me he was there and the quality was really good and the price low.”
“When did he start selling at the disco?”
“I don’t know. I’d only bought once before from him.”
“Have you any of the marijuana cake left?”
Duncan hesitated, then said: “No.”
“Get it.”
“I said…”
“I heard you. Now get it.”
Duncan shuffled out of the room. When he returned, he handed Fusil a small, ragged-edged block of marijuana cake which was in a plastic bag.
Fusil opened the bag and slid the cake into his left hand. Its consistency was rough, flaky in parts, and through it ran different shades of brown: the feel was oily, the scent sweet and spicy. He turned the cake over and saw a very irregularly shaped piece of waxed paper which had become pressed into the cake. He peeled this off and when he held it up he could make out some printing in small black letters in two lines. In the first line was occo, in the second es. Initially, he could make nothing of them. He carefully replaced the paper and dropped the marijuana back into the bag.
“What… what happens now?” asked Duncan.
“I’ll take you back to the station where you’ll be charged.”
“What are you going to tell my father?”
“For his sake. I’ll say you voluntarily admitted everything.”
“I’d… I’d rather not be there when you tell him. I swear I won’t try to run.” He seemed quite unaware of the fact that Fusil didn’t credit him with enough courage to run anywhere.
Fusil left and crossed the hall to the sitting room. Diana Grant was seated in one chair and her husband in another and they had the look of people who could find absolutely nothing to say to each other.
Fusil spoke to Grant. “Your son has told me he was driving the car which was in collision with Evans and his bicycle. At the time, your son was under the influence of marijuana.”
“No!” she cried furiously. “You’ve tricked him. You’ve threatened him…”
“Mrs Grant, he made the admission quite voluntarily. He’s realised that he must accept the consequences of what he did.”
Grant cleared his throat noisily. “I’m glad he’s found the courage in the end.”
“You fool!” she shouted.
Chapter 18
Kerr drove down to the old docks, parked at the edge of a cargo shed, and walked into the nearby wharfinger’s office, a wooden building with shingle roof. Three typists worked in the first room and he explained to the nearest one what he wanted. After a short while he was shown into a second room in which were two desks, mountains of papers and files, and three telephones which seemed to be in almost constant use. The man at the left-hand desk was tall and fat, the man at the right-hand one was short and thin. The long and the short of it, thought Kerr. “Morning. Sorry to bother you, but we’ve a small problem you may be able to help us on.”
“Thank God it’s only a small one!” said the tall man, and he laughed.
“Small or easy. I’d have said we’d enough of our own…” A telephone rang to interrupt the short man’s complaint.
“Are you any good at crosswords?”
“I can’t polish off the Sunday Times in five minutes, if that’s what you mean.”
“Our problem is a scrap of paper that’s been irregularly torn and on which are two rows of letters we can’t make head or tail of. We wondered if you might be able to sort ’em out.”
“We’ll have a try, of course, but why come to us?”
“We’re pretty certain the goods came through the docks and this paper was part of the wrapping.”
“It would help to know what the cargo was?”
“Marijuana, in the form of spice cake.” Kerr passed across a sheet of typing paper on which had been typed the letters as they were on the original waxed paper.
“Marijuana, eh? No wonder you’re asking questions.” The tall man read the letters, his forehead puckered as if he should have been wearing glasses. “Occo and es. Sounds like a music-hall act. You know the kind of thing — the talented troupers from Taunton. Isn’t there anything else you can give us that might help solve the riddle?”
“I’ve told you as much as we know.”
“Now I understand why you were on about crosswords! Occo and es… Have you met my occo… No, it was oppo, wasn’t it? I’ve often wondered where it came from.”
The small man put his hand over the telephone receiver. “I’ve told you a dozen times. Opposite. Your opposite number.”
The tall man winked at Kerr. “He’s the bloke you really need on this. Knows all the answers.” He laughed loudly, put the paper down on the desk. “I’m sorry, but as far as I’m concerned it’s double Dutch with a bit of Chinese thrown in to confuse.”
“Will you ask around and if you get any answers let me know at the station?”
Kerr left and instead of walking straight to his car went round to the quayside where a cargo of butter and cheese was being discharged from a large frozen-food ship. She’d come from Australia. In his imagination he saw golden beaches, surf, kangaroos, koalas…
Back at the station, Fusil asked him: “Were they able to tell you?”
“No, sir, they’d no idea. But they’ve promised to keep their thinking caps on and to ask around.”
“Did you send the marijuana off to the lab for analysis?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Kerr immediately. He must, he thought, remember to do that as soon as he got back to the general room.
*
Kerr was laboriously typing out a T20 report when the phone rang.
“Hullo,” said the caller. “I’m ringing up over the brain teaser you left us. That one about occo and es. Well, a bloke I tried it on came up with a suggestion. Occo is part of Morocco, es is the end of dates. ’Course, it depends exactly how the lines on your bit of paper were spaced: on a packet, they’d all be centred. Is that any good to you?”
“I’d say it could be the answer to our dreams. The bloke’s a genius.”
There was another laugh. “Not him. He was a tallyman, but he couldn’t count beyond ten so they put him on a fork truck. Now he just smashes up the cargo instead of miscounting it.”
Kerr listened to a joke which had been well worn when he’d been at school, then he thanked the other and rang off. He went along to the D.I.’s room. Fusil was out. Kerr wrote down on the pad: ‘Wharfinger suggests Morocco dates.’
*
Fusil entered his room, yawned, ran his fingers through his hair and then looked at the several hairs which had come out by their roots. How long before he was bald?
He read Kerr’s note. Morocco. A hell of a lot of marijuana came from there. Dates. Why not? Dates were a normal product of Morocco.
The Hendlesham Haulage company had said that it was virtually impossible to list every delivery Andy Finch had made in the past year. Yet surely they could trace out any consignments of Moroccan dates that Finch had picked up at the docks?
Murder is Suspected (C.I.D. Room Book 10) Page 13