Sweet proved to be a choice between plums and a vaguely green custard and burned jam tart. ‘Make your mind up, then,’ snapped the woman behind the counter.
‘I think I’ll have some cheese and biscuits,’ he answered.
‘There isn’t any,’ she replied, in tones of satisfaction.
He returned to the table with a portion of burned jam tart. Marriage might mean curtailment of liberty, but it also meant at least one good meal a day. Helen wouldn’t even know how to make green custard.
When he returned upstairs to Records the sergeant pointed to two large piles of files. ‘There you are.’
‘All those blokes have got tips of fingers missing?’ asked Kerr, surprised and dismayed.
‘Like I said. Thousands.’ The sergeant blew his nose on a large red handkerchief.
There were two crude wooden tables by the window and Kerr, in three trips, carried the files over to one of them. He sighed as he took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. If there was one aspect of police work he really disliked, it was this kind of dreary routine.
‘There’s no smoking in here,’ snapped the sergeant.
There wouldn’t be, thought Kerr.
When he opened the forty-fifth file and saw the usual police photograph of a man in full face and in profile Kerr identified him immediately. His name was George Lowther and he was an ex-seaman who had turned to crime with obvious enthusiasm.
Chapter Seven
Tarbard drove in to the forecourt of Melstone Garage in the M.G.-B that he’d given Paula, but which he was now using because the Jensen was off the road. He parked by the side of the petrol pumps and crossed the dirty concrete to the repair shed. He walked carefully, trying to avoid dirtying his highly polished shoes.
Salisbury, welding up the wing of a very decrepit, rusting car, turned and looked over the face mask at Tarbard, then resumed work and the intense blue light cast shadows across the ceiling. Tarbard forced himself not to be annoyed by such surly behaviour. He waited patiently, looking more than usually smart amongst all the dirt and disorder.
Salisbury finally stood upright and put down the face mask on the car’s wing. He carried the electric leads and the welding rod across to the electric welder, which he switched off.
‘Afternoon,’ said Tarbard.
Salisbury mumbled a reply. He disliked Tarbard because of the other’s air of slick, smooth success, but much to his own annoyance lacked the nerve to be openly rude.
‘Has anyone from my insurance company been along yet?’ asked Tarbard.
‘No.’
‘Then I’ll have to jog them up. They said they’d send an engineer along because of the type and value of the car. They may want to take the Jensen to the main distributors in Fortrow for an official estimate.’
‘That’s up to them, ain’t it?’
Tarbard smiled, as if vaguely amused by such uncouthness. ‘I thought you might like to know what’s happening. You’ll put in your bill, of course.’ He took a gold cigarette case from his pocket. ‘D’you smoke?’ he asked, as he offered it.
‘I roll my own.’
He lit a cigarette. ‘Give me half a dozen gallons in the M.G., will you? And while you’re about it, check the pressure of the tyres. They look a bit down to me.’
Salisbury normally made people do their own tyres by handing them the air line with a gesture that made it clear he wasn’t going to wait on them, but he went out and did as he’d been asked.
‘Thanks,’ said Tarbard, as the last tyre was done.
Salisbury threw the air line to one side. He undid the petrol cap. ‘The cops were ’ere this morning.’
‘Really?’ Tarbard spoke very casually.
‘They was interested in the Jensen.’
‘I wonder why?’
‘They was looking for a hit-and-run car. Seems like they was wondering if it could be yours.’
‘The Jensen hit, but it certainly never ran anywhere afterwards.’
Salisbury appeared to be disappointed as he served the petrol — as if he had been hoping that Tarbard was in trouble.
Tarbard left the garage. He was a fast and skilful driver, though not as skilful as he believed himself because of his contemptuous disregard for others. The M.G. did not have the power of the Jensen, but he reached his house as quickly as he would have done in the Jensen because of the manœuvrability of the smaller car.
The house which he rented had been built eight years before, for a man with taste and money who had died suddenly and whose widow could not afford to continue to live there. It was completely modern in style yet had the same air of graciousness as a classical Georgian house. The garden was large, with sweeping lawns, many shaped flower beds, and a large number and variety of rhododendrons and azaleas which did well in the rather heavy soil. A full-time gardener was employed and he was helped by an elderly man who came in from the nearby village three mornings a week. Behind the house, beyond the main collection of rhododendrons, was a heated swimming pool. When Tarbard had money he spent it on luxurious living. This was yet one more way in which he differed from the rest of his family who were stupid enough to believe that the possession of wealth brought with it a responsibility towards others.
Paula was in the larger of the two sitting-rooms, watching the racing on colour television. She greeted him briefly and then looked back at the screen and the horses which were now under starter’s orders. Her expression was strained as if she had a fortune riding on one of the runners, but so far as he knew she never actually backed any. The race started. He smiled when she began to bump up and down on the settee from excitement as her chosen horse came to the front. One of her great attractions for him was the way in which she was able to enjoy things with an open wholeheartedness quite beyond most adults, who deliberately damped down their emotion. She’d cost him a small fortune since she’d been with him, but most of the time he didn’t begrudge it.
Her horse lost at the post. She swore, with a crudeness that was doubly offensive because it came from someone who appeared to be sleek and polished. ‘The bloody jockey pulled it,’ she ended. ‘I saw him.’
‘Write and complain to the Jockey Club,’ he suggested sarcastically.
‘I’m telling you, it happened.’ She left the settee and crossed to the television set which she switched off.
He liked the way she moved with lithe grace. Her dress hugged her body as she changed postures so that his attention was immediately caught. He’d been so right when he’d chosen her at the audition in the church hall: for some reason not really clear to anyone, the greater percentage of strippers were sexually frigid, at least with a man, but no one could say that about her.
She looked at him, then went over to the mobile cocktail cabinet and opened the top which, through counter-weights, brought up the rack of bottles. She poured herself out a large gin and small tonic. It was very obvious that she drank far too much, but he never bothered to check her. He’d soon have to get rid of her and what happened to her after that didn’t worry him.
She finished her drink and switched on the television again. She swore loudly when she discovered the horse-racing was over. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, a sullen expression of discontent on her face.
‘Nowhere.’ He crossed the room to stand with his back to the fireplace in which a small log fire was burning. The fire was totally unnecessary because the central heating was kept high, but he hated a blank fireplace. He’d never really admitted to himself that the reason for this was the memory he held of the fires in the enormous open fireplaces in the huge, rambling, draughty, uncomfortable, but very historic, house in which he’d been born.
‘I want to go out somewhere, Gerry,’ she protested. ‘You told me we were going down to the south of France for a few days.’ She returned to the settee.
‘I’m too busy right now.’
‘At least take me out to dinner.’
‘I can’t.’
‘But what are you doing?’
He stared at her with a sudden anger and she flinched, as if he had shaped up to strike her. Stupidly, she’d forgotten how wild he became if ever she tried to find out what he intended to do when he obviously didn’t want to tell her.
He lit a cigarette, vaguely amused by her fright.
She played with the empty glass, put it down on the small table by the side of the settee, looked quickly at him, began to fidget, and finally stood up and crossed to the cocktail cabinet to pour herself another drink.
He stared through the large picture windows at the garden. A watery sun was adding some cheer to the winter scene and he briefly noticed the feathery beauty of the smaller branches of an oak tree. The gardener was carefully forking horse dung into the shaped rose beds: nothing, he swore, matched horse dung for real roses. He was in his middle forties and appeared to be totally content to spend his life looking after someone else’s garden. Tarbard utterly failed to understand how anyone could go on and on doing a job that would never ever bring him within reach of even the smallest luxuries in life.
‘I’ll be going out soon,’ Tarbard said suddenly. ‘If you want a car, either ring up for a taxi if it’s a short journey or see if you can hire one from one of the firms in Fortrow.’
‘You won’t be away for long, will you?’ She spoke pleadingly.
She really did seem to hate the thought of his going away, but he couldn’t be certain she wasn’t putting on an act. ‘I don’t know. By the way, I want you to go down to the club tonight and have dinner there and do the same each night until a young detective called Kerr turns up. I’ve given orders everything is to be on the house for him. Your job is to make yourself pleasant and listen to all he says and remember it, especially the questions he asks you. Don’t tell him anything. If he has a woman with him, don’t get bitchy over her.’
‘I won’t,’ she promised. She finished her drink, put her glass down, and came across to him. She kissed him, murmured she wouldn’t know what to do without him, and used her hands to such good effect that he soon threw his cigarette into the fire and they went upstairs to their bedroom. She was very exciting.
Afterwards he lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling whilst she curled up against him. He thought how he’d been committed to further action the moment the surly ginger-haired Salisbury had told him the police had been examining the Jensen. The story about some hit-and-run case was too obviously moonshine. They’d been examining the Jensen to see if they could find anything to confirm or deny once and for all the story of the detective Kerr, who’d reported that the man he’d seen in the Jensen had not been Gervaise Tarbard.
Almost certainly, Kerr would be ordered to take advantage of the free dinner at the club — what policeman would have the imagination to realise that in apparently opening up his defences, Tarbard was really planning an attack? Kerr was bound to disclose how certain, or otherwise, he was. But, really, that wasn’t of much significance. His superiors wouldn’t be keen for him to produce proof of the reality of a second man in the car because this would be to set up a problem where at the moment one didn’t exist: therefore, if they were now presented with proof of the impossibility of Kerr’s evidence they would be eager to accept the logic of its impossibility.
*
Kerr went into Fusil’s office, but found it empty. He continued along the corridor to the general room and when abreast of the recreation room opposite, he heard the click-clack of a table tennis ball. It was the first time in weeks he’d known anyone to be in there. Who, he wondered enviously, could play table tennis at five o’clock in the afternoon without a thought to superiors?
The general room was empty and he sat down at his table and for once wondered why he stayed in the force? The hours were excessively long, the extra pay in lieu of overtime was not enough to keep him in cigarettes, a free weekend was a rarity, and the traditional discipline and manner in which he was treated were such that few men today would suffer it even for double the money. So just why had he every intention of staying on even when he was married and the money would necessarily be shorter? True, he liked the job, despite Fusil, but that couldn’t be the full answer, since there were undoubtedly other jobs that he would like doing almost as much that would pay a great deal better. No, it had to be the sense of deep satisfaction he often gained from doing a job he knew to be of real social significance. He grinned, almost embarrassed. Very soon, he’d start trying to save other people’s souls!
The telephone rang and the duty sergeant said that Detective Chief Inspector Kywood was on his way up and since Fusil was out who was in the department to receive his serene highness? ‘No one,’ replied Kerr. ‘I’m just visiting and don’t know anything about anything.’
‘That’s true for a start,’ replied the sergeant rudely. ‘You see him and soothe him down, or something. He looks squally.’
As Kerr stepped out into the corridor, Kywood appeared in segments as he climbed the stairs at the far end. First came his sleek black hair, carefully brushed to hide his baldness, then his rounded face with strong, square chin which provided so poor a guide of character, then his once well-built body which was beginning to sag with the years.
‘Where’s the D.I?’ demanded Kywood, as he cleared the last step.
‘I’m afraid I’ve only just returned——’ began Kerr.
‘Has he gone out to the Glazebrook factory?’
‘I couldn’t say——’
‘Where’s Sergeant Braddon?’
‘I don’t know——’
‘Goddamn it, is there anything you do know?’
Kerr tried to keep his expression neutral.
Kywood’s anger increased, because he felt uncertain what to do next and when uncertain he was always afraid of making himself look a bit of a fool. ‘Go and find someone who. . . .’ He stopped as he looked past Kerr. ‘So there you are!’ he said loudly.
Fusil appeared up the back stairs and walked down the corridor. ‘’Afternoon, sir,’ he said easily.
‘Why the hell does no one know where you are?’
Kerr was happy to see someone else getting the thick end of life, but from the look Fusil gave him he’d made his happiness a little too obvious.
‘The orders are to leave word in the book when and where you’re going and also to tell the duty sergeant. You ought to know that.’
‘Quite so, sir. But the only place I’ve been to recently is down to my car to get some papers from it.’
Kywood flushed. His belligerence grew. ‘What are you doing about the Glazebrook job?’
‘Carrying on investigations, sir.’
‘Have you been to the factory yourself?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Why not?’
Fusil struggled to keep his own hasty temper under control. ‘D.C. Kerr saw them on Tuesday and——’
Kywood spoke quickly. ‘Does that mean you haven’t even read the latest report?’
Fusil hesitated.
‘Didn’t I tell you to pay particular attention to the case, Bob? When I say a thing like that, I goddamn well mean it. Yet apparently you don’t——’
‘Shall we go into my room, sir,’ cut in Fusil, furious at being castigated in front of one of his own D.C.s.
Kywood marched on and into Fusil’s room.
Fusil spoke to Kerr. ‘What the hell are you doing, standing around? Haven’t you anything better to do?’
‘I’m just this moment back from H.Q., sir.’
‘Why? You should have returned hours ago.’
‘There were a tremendous number of files to check, sir. But in the end I identified him.’
‘Well? Is it a secret?’
Even a few words of praise, thought Kerr, would be like manna from heaven. ‘George Lowther, with plenty of form, including armed robbery. Would you like the file?’
Fusil spoke thoughtfully. ‘Bring it in later. Look — just how sure are you?’
‘I recognised the face immediately.’
/> ‘Has he any known contacts with Tarbard?’
‘None.’
Fusil turned to go into his room, paused, turned back and spoke in a lowered voice. ‘What’s the latest report from that blasted factory?’
‘I’ve no idea, sir. I haven’t seen one.’
‘Then why in the hell don’t you find out what it is and try to take an interest in your work?’ Fusil left and went into his room.
What a bastard! thought Kerr, almost with admiration.
In Fusil’s office, Kywood was at his most pompous. Why didn’t Fusil know about the latest theft? Where was the report, if he didn’t have it? Fusil searched amongst the papers on his desk and found that the new crime report had been put there in his short absence. No battle, said Kywood, could be fought without proper lines of communication: no commander could begin to command efficiently unless he made certain that messages . . .
In the end, Kywood returned to the matter in hand. ‘I told you, Bob, that this was politically a very delicate case. I asked you to attend to the matter as quickly as possible. So what happens? Another robbery this morning.’
‘It’s only two quid that was nicked. That hardly makes it a case to get excited about.’ Fusil went round the desk to his chair.
‘Like I said before . . .’
‘Especially when I think we’ve a really big case coming up to the boil,’ cut in Fusil.
Kywood chewed his upper lip. ‘How d’you mean?’ he demanded at last. He loathed the possibility of a really big case breaking which could turn the spotlight of publicity on him.
Fusil gave him the latest details in the Tarbard case.
Kywood fidgeted in his chair. ‘It’s all very vague. Kerr thinks the driver of the Jensen wasn’t Tarbard, thinks there was someone — Tarbard — behind him, who laid him out, thinks he’s identified Lowther. . . . Yet what have you got that’s concrete? Tarbard has a bit of form, but it’s for bad driving. That’s all. The identification of Lowther was made under the worst possible conditions and could be hopelessly wrong. Why should Tarbard be engaged in anything crook? That club of his is supposed to be a gold mine.’
Despite the Evidence Page 6