Hostage to Death

by Roderic Jeffries

  Steen turned to conceal his sudden panicky tension. “I’ll check,” he said, hoping his voice hadn’t sounded too croaky. He picked up the list of undamaged containers and appeared to study it. This was the last moment at which he could withdraw. If he said he couldn’t find the case, ‘Parsons’ would be asked to go away and return the next day. In the meantime, he could either ‘discover’ what had happened or switch the money back and await events… He put the paper down, turned, walked back along the shelves and searched until he found the brown suitcase. He picked it off the shelf.

  “Will you take it up?” asked Young.

  “Depends whether you want this job down here done in a hurry?”

  Young swore. Steen said: “Get him to sign for it if he’s taking it away, will you?” He handed over the book, opened at the last page of entries. “In that last column.”

  Young took the book in his left hand and picked up the suitcase with his right. “What the hell’s he got in here?” He readjusted his balance. “A bloody elephant shot on the banks of the Limpopo?” He left.

  *

  Keen parked the car and walked along to his digs — his walk was now far less purposeful and he no longer held himself so erect. He reached the brown-fronted house, climbed the three stone steps, and unlocked the front door. Inside, he went up to his room which was at the end of the passage on the first floor.

  Drude, who’d been pacing the floor and was up by the window, swung round.

  “There we are,” said Keen, with loud satisfaction as he put the suitcase down on the floor. “Just like picking cherries off a tree.”

  “The police…”

  “Couldn’t have been more helpful. Brought the case up to me, asked me to sign for it, and that was the beginning and end of everything.” He crossed to the built-in clothes cupboard, opened the right-hand door, reached down and brought out a bottle of whisky. “We’ll have a drink on it.” He put the bottle down on the table, went back to the cupboard for glasses. He poured out two drinks and handed one glass to Drude.

  “Let’s have some water,” said Drude curtly.

  “You’ll have to use the tap.”

  Drude, his expression contemptuous, went over to the cracked wash-hand-basin.

  Keen drank eagerly and emptied the glass. He looked at Drude, then poured himself out a second and larger drink. “Well — are you going to open up?” He tapped the suitcase with the toe of his shoe.

  “No.”

  “Why not? Surely you want to see…”

  “You’ve finished your job. Now forget it.”

  “All right. If that’s the way you feel…”

  “That’s the way.” Drude finished his whisky and put the glass down. He laid the suitcase flat to check the seals.

  “How about my grand?” said Keen.

  Satisfied the seals were intact, Drude took a bundle of notes from his pocket and threw it on to the unmade bed. “Open your mouth once on this, Dutch, and you’ll be feeding the rats.”

  “As if I’d be so bloody silly.” He looked at the bottle, then at Drude’s glass on the table. “Would you like another drink…?”

  “I wouldn’t. And nor would you.” Drude picked up the suitcase, not without a grunt of surprise at its weight, and left. He went down the stairs, out on to the pavement, and turned to go along to where he’d parked. How much was in the suitcase? Val had never given a figure, but it weighed enough for a million. If only he dared open it… But that would be to sign his own death warrant. That suitcase wasn’t going to be opened until everyone was there to see the seals were unbroken. Only in that way could they all be certain none of the others was twisting them.

  *

  At six-thirty Steen came through into the first half of the strong-room. Seebring, his eyes red, said: “Going to have a breather, then?”

  “I’m packing it in for the night.”

  “You’re what?” Seebring was uneasily surprised. “But the old man said we’d got to get the job done as quickly as possible.”

  “He’s going to be unlucky, isn’t he?”

  Seebring was envious of Steen’s declared independence, at the same time as he was vaguely hopeful that such independence would lead to trouble.

  Steen left after saying good night. Up top Young, standing near the outer doors, was talking to another man in civvies. When he saw Steen approach he cut short what he’d been saying and spoke to Steen. “Is it all finished, then?”

  “There’s a hell of a long way to go yet. But my wife’s in hospital and I’m going to visit her.”

  “Yeah, of course. Have you any idea how much longer you’ll be?”

  “It’ll take the whole of tomorrow morning at least just to sort out and list everything that’s loose.”

  “I told the old man it would be a lot longer job than he reckoned.”

  Steen nodded goodnight and went out. He crossed the road to the long island which separated the through one-way traffic from the loading and unloading traffic, waited for a break in the stream of cars, then continued over to the narrow passage which ran down the side of the cinema to the council carpark.

  To the north of Scranton Cross there were still a number of large Victorian and Edwardian houses, sturdy if not elegant, set in large gardens and clearly the homes of wealthy people. In the past, when he’d had occasion to drive past these houses, he’d thought how wonderful it must be to live in one of them since then money could not be one of the main problems in life. Now, he was potentially rich enough that money would no longer be a problem in his… except the problem of how to go about spending it. No matter what happened, he must move very slowly and exactly as he had planned.

  The hospital was set in well-tended grounds and he parked in front of a bed of roses, to remember that in his hurry he’d forgotten to bring any flowers for Penelope. He climbed out of the car, stared at a brilliant yellow bloom and wondered if he dared pick that and take it to her. There were few people in sight and all were busy about their own business. He leaned over and snapped off the stem with the bloom. When he straightened up he checked again, to discover he’d been unobserved. Only then did it strike him how ridiculous it was that he should be worried over being caught picking a single rose bloom when he was in the middle of stealing a fortune.

  Penelope had some colour back in her cheeks. He kissed her and for a brief moment — brief because she disliked any public display of sentiment — she put her right arm round him and hugged him. When she released him, he sat on the edge of the bed. “How are things now, darling?”

  “I’m a hundred times better, thanks to knowing that you are all right.” She had been studying his face and now she frowned. “But you look… Bill, are you all right?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “You look very tired… And something else.”

  “It’s all just tiredness. I’ve been back at the bank, clearing up some of the mess and trying to sort out what’s missing.”

  “Are you sure it’s not delayed shock?”

  He laughed. “Nothing so interesting! By the way, I’ve brought you this.” He handed her the yellow rosebud.

  She gave a quick exclamation of delight. “But how lovely! Where on earth’s it from? We’ve no rose like this in the garden.”

  “You force me to confess. I’ve just pinched it from near where I parked.”

  “Bill, you really are the limit sometimes! But it is lovely and I don’t suppose they’ll miss just one… I’ve some wonderful news. If I carry on as I am, I’ll be out on Monday.”

  “Terrific. Then you really are getting better?”

  “Didn’t I tell you I was?”

  “You did, but when it comes to your health you can be an awful liar.”

  She briefly rested her hand on his. “I hate being ill so often: it makes me feel a useless wife and certain you wish you’d married somebody nice and healthy.”

  “Shut up,” he said softly. After a pause, he asked her: “Everything ought to be more organised to
morrow, so is there anything you’d like me to bring? How about some fruit?”

  “Not unless you can find some really firm apples. But don’t get them if they’re too expensive — fruit can be a ridiculous price at this time of the year.”

  “If I see any I’ll get them before asking what they cost.”

  “Hang the expenses,” she said, with loving mockery.

  “Talking about expenses, that reminds me — do you remember my talking about Uncle Silas?”

  She thought back. “Wasn’t he your father’s brother who had a row with the family and left home, never to be heard of again?”

  “He got friendly with the family maid and when it became all too obvious that she wasn’t a maid any longer, my grandfather, who apparently was the epitome of the stem Victorian, kicked him out of house and home. He vanished and even when his parents died no one heard a word from him. Father always said he must be dead. Well, he wasn’t and isn’t. I’ve just had a letter from him.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “It was pretty short, considering all that’s happened, and very matter-of-fact, as if uncles often disappear for several dozen years. He said he’d finally settled down after wandering around the world because his health isn’t very good now. He’d read that both my parents had died and asked me to tell him how I was, together with news on one or two other people who I don’t know anything about.”

  “You must ask him along. The poor old boy is probably as lonely as hell and wants to talk to someone from the family, even if he never knew you.”

  “I’d get on to him right away if he lived in England, but he’s settled in Mallorca. And come to that, how do we know he’s lonely? He may have a wife and ten children along with him.”

  “Then he’d have mentioned them in his letter.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Anyone with ten children would surely not easily overlook them.”

  “Have you written back?”

  “Give me a chance. I only picked up the letter when I went back home after seeing you this morning.”

  “Don’t leave it for long — I’ll bet he’s waiting and waiting for an answer… Bill, if I do come back on Monday morning, I’m going to get you that special meal.”

  “I’ll be doing the cooking until…”

  “No, you won’t,” she said.

  He knew that no matter how weak she felt on Monday when she returned home she would cook because her will-power was so much stronger than her body. He thought of the money in the suitcase and knew he’d have done the same thing a dozen times over in order to buy her the health to match her spirit.

  Chapter 9

  Drude drove up the M1 to the Northampton junction and then cut across country to Meddlesham, reaching the outskirts of the town as dusk was melting into night. He lost himself once in the maze of back streets, but a man selling evening newspapers directed him to McIntosh Road, where he parked a little down from number four.

  Venables opened the front door. He was not as tall as Drude, or as broadly shouldered, yet there was something about the expression of his heavily lined, long face which made Drude immediately wary, almost apprehensive — a most unusual attitude for him.

  “Val told me to make contact,” said Drude.

  “Do I know Val?” Venables had a voice which was even in tone and almost devoid of inflexion.

  “Val Thomas.”

  Venables opened the door fully.

  They went into the sitting room in which a woman with tight curly blonde hair, wearing a dress with a neckline that plunged down out of its depth, was watching a large colour television set. She looked round at Drude with interest, then grimaced petulantly when Venables told her to clear out. She walked with swinging hips across the room and slammed the door shut after herself.

  “Well?” asked Venables, as he sat.

  Drude cleared his throat. “I was in the bank job with Val.” He expected Venables to show some surprise — even admiration — but Venables seemed indifferent to the news. “He and me fixed it for me to scramble out as one of the hostages so as I could contact you. He wants a job done and says there’s no one near your class for doing it.”

  Venables said: “What’s the job?”

  “Springing him and Ginger, Alf, and Flash, before the trial.”

  Venables took a cigar, in a metal container, from his pocket. He undid the lid, slid out the cigar, and cut the end with finickity care. He struck a match and waited until the head had ceased flaring, then lit the cigar. He drew on the cigar and savoured the rich smoke. “So why come to me?”

  “Val said you was the only one able to do it for sure.”

  “I’m flattered.” He sounded bored.

  “Are you on?”

  Venables rolled the cigar between thumb and forefinger and the smoke rose in lazy curves. “No.”

  Drude could not contain his astonishment. “But he said you’d do it.”

  “Then you’d best see him and tell him he was wrong.”

  “He’s offering five grand.”

  “Where would he get that sort of money, seein’ the splits would’ve skint him when they took him out of the bank?”

  Drude regained some of his self-confidence. Venables might act like he was bored, but he couldn’t close his ears to the sound of money. “I’ve got it, in folding.”

  “Five grand for springing four blokes? Great sense of humour, has Val.”

  The bargaining went on a long time and eventually Drude settled at seventeen thousand pounds for the job, expenses included, five thousand payable immediately.

  *

  Rook sat in the chair behind the manager’s desk and stared at the far wall. His eyelids dropped and his eyes ached as they struggled for the release of sleep. The picture on the wall, a reproduction of a Constable, grew a second and fuzzy image. His eyes shut and he enjoyed the peace of sleep for seconds, before his head jerked forward to wake him up. It was like being drunk without having had the pleasure of drinking, he thought bitterly.

  The door opened and Young, looking irritatingly fresh, entered. “They’ve finished counting the money and they’ve double-checked the totals.”

  Rook had to concentrate to make sense of the words. “Well?” he finally asked. “How much did that fly bastard take off with?”

  Young didn’t answer directly, but pulled a chair to himself and sat down. “Are you ready for the shock of the century?”

  “Let’s have the facts without the commentary.”

  Young smiled maliciously. “Three hundred thousand, half of it in tens.”

  Rook, suddenly fully awake, stared at him. “That’s got to be nonsense. We’re certain the villain who escaped wouldn’t have taken twenties, so the outside limit he could have had on him was around thirty thousand. We had that re-run of the TV tape and none of the males was carrying any sort of a bag… The bank clerks have made a balls-up.”

  “I told you, they ran a double check because I ordered it. Damn near had a mutiny on account of it. There’s three hundred thousand quid missing: fifty thou in twenties, a hundred and fifty thou in tens, and a hundred thou in fivers.”

  An old detective sergeant had once told Rook something which had stuck in his mind ever since because a basic fact of detection was buried under the glaring obviousness. “If a thing’s impossible, it can’t happen: if it’s happened, it wasn’t impossible.”

  He lit a cigarette. Could the escaped villain have somehow taken three hundred thousand with him? Money in quantity weighed surprisingly heavily and in any case that number of notes — in the tens of thousands — would have been far, far too bulky to hide about the person… But since the police had been in the bank from the end of the siege it was quite impossible… He forced himself, following the detective sergeant’s maxim, to turn things round. How had the money been lifted from the bank under the very noses of the police? After a while, his tired brain reached the only possible answer.

  He silently swore. Mellon would try to break him for this
.

  *

  Steen went to bed early and read for only a couple of minutes before the type became fuzzy. He switched off the light and was asleep before he had time to think about the extraordinary events of the day. He was in the middle of a dream, surrealistic in style, when something woke him. After a time he identified that something as a hammering on the front door.

  His mind woolly, he switched on the light. He crossed to the south facing, opened window and after moving the curtain aside he leaned out. “What the hell’s up?”

  “I was beginning to think I’d have to drop a bomb to wake you. Sorry to bother you, it’s Detective Sergeant Young.”

  “For God’s sake. I was fast asleep…”

  “I wouldn’t be here, Mr Steen, if it weren’t very urgent.”

  He returned to the bed to pick up his dressing-gown and abruptly his vague resentment gave way to a growing panic because he could only conceive that this middle of the night visit must herald his arrest.

  He went down the stairs into the triangular-shaped hall and switched on the light in the porch which enabled him to see the detective sergeant without being clearly seen himself. Young, carrying a plastic bag, was on his own.

  Would he have been, had he come to make an arrest? And hadn’t his manner been jovial rather than formal? Keep cool, Steen told himself. Take time to think over the answer to every question. He unlocked the front door and Young came through the porch to the hall.

  “I’m real sorry about this,” said Young breezily, “but my D.I.’s acting like he’s sitting on a volcano with the crater touching a soft spot. I told him you’d be very fast asleep after what you’ve been through, but all he said was… On second thoughts, I’ll forget what he said. Now, if we could just go somewhere and have a sit and a chat. I’ll explain what the panic is. By God, it’s hot tonight, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good for the breweries, I suppose.”

  It was a very crude hint, but nothing else would have registered right then. Steen said: “Would you like a cold beer?”