Hostage to Death

by Roderic Jeffries

  “That’s Olive,” said Young. “She makes old men young and young men frantic. So how frantic are you?”

  Smart alecky bastard, thought Rook, as he sat down on the edge of the desk. “How’s the work coming along in the bank job?”

  “One of the girls is typing out my report now. I was going to bring it along as soon as it’s ready.”

  “Let’s have a quick summary. Have you got anywhere?”

  “The pattern’s the same for the three of them. They all live in houses which were bought on money borrowed from the bank… By the way, did you know they still get a mortgage at a rate well below the commercial one?”

  “Some people are born lucky.”

  “They run tired cars, their tired wives dress at Marks and Sparks, they drink beer when they can afford it and water when they can’t, and if any of ’em’s got three hundred thousand tucked away, he hasn’t yet started to use it.”

  Rook swore to himself. Careful cross-checking had shown that only Steen had really been in a position to switch the contents of the suitcase (assuming it had been switched), but Seebring and Hodges had been working in the strong-room when on their own so that the possibility of their having done the job together had to be remembered. Since none of their bank statements had shown any significant variation from normal (apart from Steen’s overdrafts) and there were no obvious signs of sudden affluence, each man would have to be interviewed in his own home. And if that proved negative… Then it must seem likely that the contents of the suitcase had not been switched, that the murder of Dutch Keen was unexplainable, that there was little hope of recovering the stolen money. His future, thought Rook, was beginning to look as if it would remain bitched up.

  *

  Early Thursday evening Steen was in the sitting room, watching the news on the television, when he heard a car drive in. He stood up and crossed to look through the window and he saw a grey Marina.

  Penelope, who was upstairs, called out: “Who’s that, Bill? It isn’t Noreen, is it? I promised to go to one of her awful coffee parties this morning and clean forgot all about it. If it is her, you’ll have to help me.”

  “I’m just on my way out for a long, long walk.”

  “Coward!”

  He saw two men climb out of the car and recognised them as they approached the corner of the house. He felt as if someone had dropped a couple of hundredweight of ice into his stomach. True, the detectives had recently been to the bank and spoken to Wraight, but everyone had assumed that this had been a purely routine visit, probably the last they would make. Yet now… Why should they come to the house? How could this be routine?

  “Bill, it’s two men, not Noreen.”

  “They’re the detectives.” He heard the front gate squeak open, then seconds later squeak shut. He wanted to run and hide.

  There was a knock on the front door.

  “Bill, aren’t you going to see what they want?”

  He went into the hall and opened the inner door to the porch.

  Rook said: “Evening, Mr Steen. Sorry to disturb you like this, but I had to come along and check up on one or two things. You know Detective Sergeant Young, of course?”

  Young nodded.

  “Come in,” said Steen.

  They entered and Rook looked up at the apex of the hall. “What a wonderful old house! It’s my wife’s ambition to live in a house like this, all beams and old plaster — someone once told me the old plaster used to be made up of straw, mud, and dung. Could that be right?”

  Rook’s manner was so easy and friendly that Steen became certain his sudden fear had been totally unnecessary: yet again, a guilty conscience had distorted events. “I’ve always understood that those were some of the ingredients. This house isn’t nearly as old as its name suggests, but we’ve got bits of wall still of the old plaster and that’s certainly got straw in it.”

  Penelope appeared at the head of the stairs and came down.

  Steen introduced her to the detectives.

  “I’ve just been admiring your house,” said Rook, “and telling your husband that it’s my wife’s ambition to live in one like it.”

  “We like it very much, even if it does cost so much in upkeep.” She smiled a trifle shyly because what she was about to say often, she felt certain, sounded like nonsense to insensitive people. “But it’s so wonderful to know one’s living in a little bit of history.” She smiled again. “My only trouble is, I get my history so wrong. I became all excited when I thought I’d discovered a priest’s hole up in the attic, behind the central chimney-stack — then I checked up on dates. But at least there’ve been two hundred years of people living in it and although I don’t suppose any of them ever did anything famous, they’ve been part of the country… Would you like to look over it? I’m afraid it’s a bit untidy in Bill’s studio, but I never go and clean up in there.”

  “I’d love to look around, Mrs Steen.” He half turned. “I didn’t know you painted, Mr Steen.”

  “Only in a small and very amateur way.”

  “Not so small and not so very amateur,” she said stoutly. “And it’s going to become in a big professional way when we’re living in Mallorca.”

  Rook could not contain his surprise.

  She noticed his expression, but misinterpreted it. “We hate the thought of leaving this house, of course. If only we could pick it up and drop it down over there. But then perhaps the sun would dry everything right out and it would fall down… Come on upstairs.”

  They went upstairs, in single file. As they entered the main bedroom, Rook said casually: “When did you decide to move?”

  She seemed not to have heard the question. “D’you see the way the beams go in the corner over there? I always called them dragon beams until we had a friend to stay who claimed to know a lot about old houses and he told us that dragon beams were much older and these could only have been put in as imitation. Now I call them dragonet beams.”

  Rook laughed politely. Young looked bored.

  Steen hastened to explain their coming move. “A bit over a month ago a long lost uncle wrote from Mallorca and asked me to go over there and see him. We got on rather well together and he told me that as he was very ill and I was his only blood relative, he was going to leave me his property. If he does, we’re going to try living out there to see if the island helps Penelope’s asthma and bronchitis.”

  “And Bill’s going to paint lots of pictures and make a fortune,” she added.

  “I’m sorry to hear you have asthma and bronchitis so badly,” said Rook. “I certainly hope the move does you a world of good.”

  “It’s still a case of if we make the move,” said Steen hurriedly. “You know what elderly relatives are like — one day you’re the heir, the next the cat’s home is.”

  “So I’ve often been told. But as far as I’m concerned, if I’ve a relative who could leave me anything but debts, I’ve never heard about him.”

  “It’ll probably turn out to be the cat’s home in our case,” said Penelope, “and we’ll continue living here. I’ll just have to tell myself even harder not to be so silly as to get worked up over anything.” She walked back to the door. “Come on through to the studio, but don’t forget that I warned you it may be terribly untidy.”

  They saw the rest of the house and Rook was lavish with his praise, some of which was genuine.

  In the sitting room, after he had poured out four beers, Steen said, in tones more challenging than he had intended: “You want to question me?”

  Rook shook his head. “I didn’t say question you — that’s all very formal. All I want to do is check up on a few details.” He leaned back in the armchair and crossed his legs with every appearance of being completely at ease. “I’d like to go over that Friday again… I know you’ve repeated the facts until you’re sick and tired of them, but there could just be something small you’ve forgotten which might give us a new lead… I’ll be frank, if we don’t get a new lead, we’ll have had it.
”

  “You won’t be able to trace the men or the money?”

  “I’d say that eventually we’ll get the men, but by then the money will all have gone.”

  “Surely it’ll take them ages and ages to spend that fortune?” asked Penelope.

  “Not really, Mrs Steen, because it’s not as simple as perhaps it appears. They’ve three hundred thousand, less what it cost them to fix the prison break, but everyone knows they’ve got it. Anyone who’s hiding them is going to grab as big a piece of that cake as possible, anyone who knows where they are is going to put the screws on them… There is no honour among thieves when there’s money around: it’s every man for himself and let the devil cut the throat of the last one.”

  “How horrible. I mean, if there were honour there’d at least be something worthwhile about them.”

  “I’d not go that far. Still, it makes our job a lot simpler to have things as they are… Now, Mr Steen, if you’d go over all the details again?”

  Three-quarters of an hour later, the detectives left. Penelope said: “What nice people, Bill. Not at all like I imagined a detective was.”

  Had Rook’s surprise at the news of their coming move developed into suspicion? Not, Steen told himself, if one judged by his attitude throughout their visit. But was it safe to accept that at face value? To hell with the questions. The detectives could never uncover the truth.

  *

  They drove back through the lanes towards Scranton Cross.

  “If he swiped the loot he hasn’t spent any of it on the house,” said Young, with some scorn. “The telly was black-and-white and that carpet in the main upstairs bedroom was worn right through in the centre.”

  One day — perhaps — Young would discover that there were more important things in life than coloured television and new carpets, thought Rook briefly. “But he has found a long-lost uncle who’s decided to leave him a house.”

  “You reckon there can be anything in that?”

  Rook drove carefully around a corner. “When I checked his bank statement I discovered he’d been given two overdrafts. I spoke to Wraight about them. That first overdraft was dated after the bank raid, something like a month ago.”

  “I don’t see how that can be anything but a coincidence.”

  “I don’t like coincidences which are too convenient. And another thing. It’s been difficult to visualise someone of Steen’s character and background suddenly becoming a thief. But if he needs the money to buy his wife’s health… He’s the kind of bloke who’d sacrifice his code of honour for her.”

  “Code of honour?” repeated Young jeeringly.

  Something you wouldn’t understand, thought Rook.

  Young waited, then said: “It ought to be easy enough to check on the uncle.”

  “I reckon. So as soon as we get back to the station, start checking.”

  Young was silent for a few seconds, then he said: “Fancy retiring to Mallorca. From all accounts, you might as well choose Blackpool.”

  *

  Hazel met Drude at the small coffee bar just behind the high street which she had, in her over-romantic mind, come to think of as ‘their’ coffee bar.

  “Hullo, darling,” she said, as she sat down on the bench seat. “I’m not late, am I? Mr Queen wanted two letters done just as I was getting ready to leave.”

  He stirred his coffee and felt sorry for himself because he liked women to be smart and sophisticated.

  “Mr Queen’s always doing that sort of thing. Glenda refuses to work for him, but she’s been with the force so long that she can get away with it. If I did that I’m sure they’d fire me. Still, I suppose he’s not really too bad. At least he doesn’t stand by the stairs like one of the P.C.s and try to look up people’s skirts.” She giggled. “I make certain I keep near the wall, I can tell you.” She put her hand on his arm. “There’s only one person allowed to do anything like that,” she whispered.

  He managed to conceal his contempt.

  “Love, could we go to the flics tonight? There’s a lovely picture on. Afterwards, we could go back home for some supper and you could see Mum and Dad. I so want you to meet them.”

  Hard-boiled eggs and pickled onions with Mum in her curlers and Dad in his pink braces. “I’ve a better idea. We’ll go to Francisco where there’s a dance on.”

  She usually didn’t argue with him because he became so annoyed, but now she said: “I can’t. I mean, not in this dress. I’ve been wearing it all day…”

  “Looks all right to me.” He realised he ought to appear more loving. “I mean, it suits you and makes you look like a million dollars, so who’s going to worry?”

  The waitress, looking nearly as tired as she felt, came across and took Hazel’s order.

  He offered Hazel a cigarette. “How’s the work going, love, apart from the stupid bastard who made you late?”

  “It’s all right, but the real trouble is there’s enough to do to keep six of us busy and with June on holiday there’s only us three.”

  “Are you still working on the bank robbery?”

  “Every now and then there’s a report comes through — there was one the other day as a matter of fact. But I’ll tell you something!” She giggled. “I had to type out a report today that made me blush and it’s not as if I don’t know what goes on, having worked there for a couple of years now. You’d never believe…”

  “What kind of report came through, then?”

  “I’m telling you, love.”

  “I mean over the bank raid.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “It was from Mr Young… Mary went out with him one evening and she said she spent most of it trying to make him keep his hands to himself.”

  “Have they found the gunmen at last?”

  “No, they don’t know where they are. Sergeant Young’s been checking up on three of the bank staff for something or other.”

  “How d’you mean, checking up?”

  “What cars they’ve got, whether they’ve bought expensive things recently — all that sort of thing.”

  “Had any of ’em?”

  “No. They all sounded as dull as they come.” She gazed lovingly at him. “Not all special, like you and me.”

  “I’ve a pal called Lever what works in the bank. Were they checking up on him? Be a lark if they was.”

  “Lever? No. They were called Seebring, Hodges, and Steen. I knew a chap called Hodges once and you’ll never believe this, he used to…”

  Chapter 16

  Young yawned as he walked along the corridor to Rook’s office. It had been a bitch of a day, mostly spent on the telephone. The D.I. was out. Young went round behind the desk and looked at all the files which had collected on it. Rook was ignoring the routine work and spending most of his time trying to trace the money from the bank job in a frantic effort to regain some credibility as a detective suitable for promotion. Sheer waste of time, thought Young. He wrote on the pad which was kept on the desk for messages. George Steen had had two sons, Silas George and Brian Harold. Silas had been born on the fifteenth of August, seventy-three years before, Brian on the twenty-first of December, sixty-six years before. Brian had died at the age of sixty-two, his wife one year later, leaving as sole issue William George. No death certificate had ever been issued for Silas George.

  Old George Steen had lived in Bristowe, twelve miles from Scranton Cross, in a house now demolished. One person had been traced who remembered the family and although, his recollections were very vague he said he remembered there’d been some sort of scandal over the elder son who’d left home.

  So much for the D.I.’s too-convenient coincidence, thought Young, as he finished writing.

  *

  Thomas lay on the bed and cursed the world. For well over a month now he’d been jailed up in the house, leaving it only twice, once to murder Keen, once to release his body. Ginger, Alf, and Flash, had become so bloody minded it was becoming increasingly difficult to prevent their fighting over t
he most absurd grievances. And the police, if Paul were to be believed, weren’t getting anywhere.

  Money would soon get tight. Goddamn it, he thought, something had to break soon. Eventually the splits must get something right. Why couldn’t they find out which of the bank staff had made the switch?

  *

  The letter arrived on the seventeenth of September, a Friday. When he came down from the bedroom and unlocked the inner door, Steen saw it on the sill of the porch which was where the postman always left the mail.

  He opened the letter. It was written on headed paper. Cifret — in good English in which only a few words were misused — said that he was sorry to have to give the sad news that Señor Silas Steen had died. Mercifully, he had not suffered too much. Under his will, now being forwarded to Madrid, he left his house, its contents, and the land, together with all his capital, to his nephew, William Steen. There would, of course, be inheritance taxes to be paid (not too severe since Señor Steen was a fairly close relative) but the capital available would certainly be sufficient to meet these and there should be a reasonable sum left over. If Señor William Steen could visit the island soon it would be of great assistance since he was needed to sign certain documents.

  Steen went up to their bedroom and handed Penelope the letter. “It’s from Mallorca, darling. Uncle Silas has died. He’s left everything to me.”

  She stared at the envelope, then at him. “Is that… Is it quite certain you get the house?”

  “Read what the solicitor says.”

  She withdrew the letter and read it. She looked up. “So it’s actually happened. Bill, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

  “I’d try laughing because that’s less likely to bring on an attack of asthma.”

  She came forward and held him tightly as she kissed him. “It’s a dream that’s really coming true and I don’t know I can believe it. Maybe I’ll never have to go into hospital again feeling as if I’m going to choke to death, or have adrenalin injections which are like liquid fire… Oh, Bill, I feel quite tight! Don’t go to work today. I’ll ring up and tell them you’re not well. I must talk and talk. All these weeks I’ve been bottling things up because there was always the chance it might not happen. Now it’s happened and if I don’t talk, I’ll explode. How am I going to learn to get my Spanish straightened out so that when I ask for butter I don’t get raspberry jam? What clothes am I going to need? Does it get cold in winter? When are we off?”