The Second Jeopardy

by Roger Ormerod

  He reached behind him and lifted it on to his lap. The gun constituted most of the weight but only a small amount of the quantity. He took it out and slid it into his side pocket. ‘By heaven, you do carry around a load of stuff.’

  ‘A girl has to be prepared.’

  ‘It’s her bag, isn’t it? Angela’s.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’ The car did a little kink, although the road was straight.

  ‘It was in the photo I told you about.’

  ‘I gave it to her for her birthday. I carry it to remind me what I’m supposed to be trying to do.’ She paused. ‘The lighter was hers.’

  ‘The bag was on the back seat of her car, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes.’ She took a breath. Harry was carefully steering the conversation away from Cynthia. She said: ‘You’ve upset my father, Harry.’ And damn it, so was she.

  ‘I thought we got on fairly well.’ His voice was distant.

  ‘You’ve got him really worried about his roses.’ Which gave her a neat lead-in to the subject of Harry moving in to help.

  ‘No need. He’ll find I’m right. Remind him — Epsom salts. A handful round each rose. Why’re we going to see Cynth?’

  ‘Because she might be able to tell us some place Charlie might have gone that day.’ Damn him, he’d done it again. ‘Are you sure you’re safe with that gun?’

  ‘No. I know I’m not. But I know a feller, he’ll tell me what to do.’

  ‘If you’ll take my advice, you’ll sell it to him.’

  ‘I can’t do that. It’s yours. It was you took it from…’

  ‘Then sell it to him on commission,’ she said with a shade of impatience. ‘Ten per cent for you.’

  ‘Oh yes. Thanks. I could use it.’

  ‘What you need is steady work, Harry.’ Got to it at last.

  ‘Don’t we all?’

  ‘And what does that mean?’ she demanded. ‘If you’re referring to me… If you think I ought to be earning my keep instead of playing private detective…’

  He didn’t know how this had come about. ‘I didn’t mean you. Why’re we stopping here? Haven’t we seen enough of this damned lay-by?’

  ‘There would have been no need to stop, Harry,’ she said distinctly, carefully drawing on the handbrake with not one grate from its ratchet, ‘if you hadn’t wasted time talking about anything but what really matters. You don’t want to go to Cynthia’s again, do you? Shall I tell you something? Neither do I. But I know it’s necessary. You…all you think about…oh, Harry, I wanted all this settled between us before we got there.’

  He was sitting with his face set, staring straight ahead, shocked by her sudden outburst and not understanding, not knowing what to say. He realized that her thinking on this business had probably progressed much further than his own, but he could only wait and hear what she meant. He waited, but she didn’t enlighten him. She had reached back for her bag and was fumbling inside for her cigarettes and lighter. It was an ordinary one now, ordinary to her, but all the same, gold.

  ‘Get what settled?’ he was forced to say.

  ‘You and Cynthia,’ she said sharply, more angrily than she’d intended.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about there.’

  ‘Isn’t there? There have been hints, Harry. You…admire her. You can’t hide it. Damn it all, you nearly devoured each other.’

  ‘Why don’t you say it?’ He couldn’t look at her.

  ‘You’ve got to realize, Harry, that all I can go on is what people tell me: I have to assume I’m hearing the truth.’

  ‘Have I told you a lie?’

  ‘Ask yourself! How the hell can I know that?’

  ‘I thought…

  ‘Your thinking is biased, Harry. You can’t get round that.’

  ‘Because of Cynth? We were only friends.’

  ‘But good friends. Good enough, perhaps, for you to lie for her.’

  ‘What about? I don’t understand. I don’t remember any lies.’

  ‘If you thought, at the time it happened, that Cynthia had killed Angela, I believe you’d lie. And after all, who had the best motive? Angela was going off with Cynthia’s husband. And the killing… Harry, it was done with the stiletto heel of a woman’s shoe. That was the forensic evidence. The wound was exactly the right shape. They spoke about a thin skull, all medical language. But a woman could have done it. With her own shoe…’

  At last he turned to her. ‘I don’t know why you’re sayin’ this. Y’ said yourself…that shoe business was all complicated, and didn’t prove anything, anyway.’

  ‘I said it was perhaps important. But Harry…don’t look like that.’ She was finding she was beginning to read his expressions. ‘I’ve got to know. Be sure. The shoe business (as you call it) is complicated only if you’re telling the truth about them.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’ His voice sounded strange. ‘I never did understand women. Never will.’

  He jerked open the door and was ten yards away before she could run to his side and catch his arm, half shaking it in impatience with his anger, half hanging on to it in order to turn him to face her. He stopped, looking down at her. God, she thought, he’s a stranger.

  ‘Harry, please listen to me. If we assume Angela had her shoes, then it means nothing. By that, I mean it doesn’t point anywhere. Anybody could’ve killed her with one of them, and taken them both away, for some obscure reason. But if she didn’t have them…’

  ‘How would she get to the phone and back…’

  ‘I can cover that. Later. Listen, please. If we can assume she didn’t have her shoes, then it means she was killed by a woman, because men don’t normally come equipped with them.’

  ‘A woman? You mean Cynth? Why don’t you say so! Be honest.’

  She bit her lip. ‘Cynthia, then.’

  ‘I told y’,’ he said, his voice clipped. ‘Angela shouted after me for her shoes. I didn’t want ’em under my feet. So I chucked ’em.’

  ‘What if she didn’t see you do that?’

  ‘Would you miss it, if you’d yelled fer me to chuck ’em out?’

  ‘Perhaps you’d already gone out of sight. You turned…’

  ‘Left.’

  ‘You see? You could have been out of her sight.’

  ‘So that’d make it all right, huh? Harry makes a mistake, that’s just the ticket. Makes it fine. But tellin’ a lie…’

  ‘I meant…’

  ‘I threw ’em out. She saw it.’

  ‘You’re quite determined to cover for Cynthia, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m not covering. Tellin’ you the facts.’

  ‘This could’ve occurred to you. If you thought Cynthia had done it, you could well have invented the shoes. Can’t you see…it clouds the issue.’

  He stared into the distance. ‘Angela couldn’t ’ave walked to the phone without ’em.’

  ‘But what say,’ she told him with tense triumph, sensing a hint of withdrawal, ‘Cynthia did not stay at home, haunting the phone? What say she suspected something funny was going on and got worried, and toured the district in her little car…and came across Angela here, marooned and with no shoes, drove her to the phone box, suspected something, took her home — all sympathetic — for a cup of tea, got some of the story out of her, then drove her back here? And killed her here with one of her own stiletto heels. Eh, Harry? What d’you think?’

  He stared at her in wonder. ‘Oh, that’s just great. Got it all worked out. Just like the police…decide who’s done it then twist and turn and juggle every bleedin’ fact to make it fit. No mistakin’ who you got it all from…’

  ‘That’s a rotten thing to say.’

  ‘Why worry, if you’re gonna assume I’m always lyin’?’

  ‘Not lying, Harry. Mistaken.’

  He wiped his hand over his face. ‘And that’s what y’re takin’ to Cynth?’

  ‘With your help. If you will.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t miss this. But if you expect me to li
e to her and tell her that there were no shoes in the car…that’s out.’

  She looked up into his face for a moment, then she turned away angrily. He couldn’t know that it was with herself she was angry. Not another word, she told herself. Not one.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to lie to Cynthia,’ she threw over her shoulder.

  He very nearly said: if that’s your attitude, but choked it back in time. He couldn’t afford to let her out of his sight. When he fell into the car beside her, no other words occurred to him, nothing showed on his face.

  Silent, they drove away.

  Chapter Twelve

  This time they approached Charlie Braine’s place by the more conventional method of turning right at the crossroads and driving for two miles. It was a minor road. The village of Harley Green was so negligible that they drove through without noticing it. A farm separated the scattering of village from the small-holding Charlie had converted.

  The original five-barred gate was still hanging on its pins, but was now permanently open. It invited them into a yard with a surface of pounded earth. The bungalow sat back to the left, looking neglected behind a screen of blackberry bramble that had gone wild, and to the immediate left there was a crumbling hen house, which Harry remembered Cynth had used for that purpose. But the hens had become pets, and the venture had died of affection. Farther back and on the right was the spraying shed, looking like a young hangar, with its blank front and curved roof of corrugated iron.

  As they approached, a thrush-egg blue Police car pulled out of the yard. Virginia drew right over, one wheel up the bank, for it to get through. Its driver had clearly not even seen them.

  She coasted the Mercedes into the yard and parked it beside Cynthia’s hatchback.

  ‘Did you see who was driving that car?’ she asked.

  ‘Looked like Freda Graham.’

  ‘I wonder what’s up.’

  The bungalow’s front door was wide open. They approached it cautiously. Harry tapped gently, with his weight of fist rocking it.

  Cynthia’s voice came chokingly from the rear. ‘Get away from me, damn you.’

  The words were so similar to their previous welcome that it seemed a fair assumption they’d been intended for the same person.

  ‘It’s Harry, Cynth,’ called out Harry tentatively, but Virginia had detected the underlay in Cynthia’s voice and pushed him aside impatiently.

  He followed her along the passageway to the kitchen at the rear. Virginia had stopped in the doorway, and Harry stared over her shoulder.

  Cynthia was sitting at the table with an empty mug cupped in her palms, seeking comfort from its departed warmth. She turned at their entrance, lifting her distraught face to them. For a moment her puffed eyes, her slack cheeks and loose mouth, her tears, were still those of the recent encounter. Harry was shocked. She seemed so desperate and old.

  He would have gone forward, her name forming on his lips, but Virginia’s suspicions restrained him. She glanced quickly at him over her shoulder then went at once to Cynthia, swinging a chair with one hand as she went, sat beside her, put a hand on Cynthia’s wrist, and said: ‘What’s this? Trouble with the police?’

  Cynthia stared at the mug. Harry walked past them to look out of the window. From here, Cynth could have watched Harry’s arrival with every one of the stolen cars, bumping down from the hardcore of the old railway track. She must have known exactly what Charlie had been doing. She was probably still existing from the proceeds of that caper. Behind him there was a murmur of voices. He turned. Cynth had pushed the mug away from her and was sitting back.

  ‘I thought she’d come back.’ She put her fingers through her hair distractedly.

  ‘What’ve you been doing?’ Virginia asked gently. ‘A motoring offence? Speeding?’

  ‘She wasn’t on duty,’ Cynthia mumbled.

  ‘She was in uniform. She was in an official car.’

  ‘Heading back to the station to sign out. She called in. She’s always doing that.’ Cynthia gave a twist to her lips, which might have been a smile. Harry looked away. The flat, unemotional voice went on. ‘I’ll kill her one of these days.’

  Virginia glanced quickly at Harry, warning him. She already had an idea what was facing them. ‘It must be lonely for you here.’

  ‘I get by.’

  ‘She’d be an old friend, maybe, calling in for a chat?’

  Cynthia swirled her hair, her head coming up and awareness entering her eyes. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘What is it to you rather?’ Virginia said softly, praying for Harry to keep out of it.

  ‘I can live without it.’ Cynthia shrugged away her distress. Furtively she explored with a finger for tears remaining on her cheeks, to which colour was now returning. ‘What d’you want here, anyway?’ The abrupt aggression was feeble.

  And Harry, knowing Cynth, recognized how much this sudden attack, rising from distress, had cost her, and could suffer it no longer.

  ‘Come t’ see you’re all right, Cynth. I mean…how’re you managing? There can’t be much…’

  Cynthia looked at him with burning eyes. ‘We’re not all looking for handouts, Harry. So keep your big nose out of my affairs, if you don’t mind.’

  Virginia cut in quickly. ‘He was only being kind, Cynthia. Harry’s been worried about you.’

  ‘Then he’s taken a long while to show it. Four months he’s been out.’

  ‘I’m here now,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Sticking that nose in…’

  ‘We’re trying to help you.’

  ‘Oh great! That’s just fine. Help me how, if I might ask?’

  Virginia had found Harry impervious to eye signals. She turned a shoulder to him, and he stared out of the window in disgust.

  ‘We thought it might help if we could find out what happened to Charlie that day.’ But Cynthia shook her head. ‘We’ve already got a good idea why he didn’t return here afterwards…’

  ‘After what?’ Cynthia bent her head, looking sideways, only one eye visible and that shrouded by her hair. It created an impression of evil.

  ‘After the jewellery shop robbery, Cynthia. You know that. You know why he drove away from here in a two-coloured car. And after the bank robbery…’

  ‘He’d got nothing to do with that.’

  ‘I believe he had.’

  ‘Who cares what you believe?’

  ‘I believe he didn’t come back here because he was afraid to. It would’ve been the first place they’d look for him.’ She made a quick gesture of restraint to Harry. ‘By they, I mean the team that did the bank robbery. All the evidence we’re getting points to the fact that Charlie got hold of the bank robbery money, so he’d head for somewhere secret, where he could wash the paint off his car and disappear. What we don’t know is where he went.’

  Slowly Cynthia levered herself to her feet as though all the energy had been drained from her. She stood back from the table, her face expressionless. Her attitude bore the signs of a householder about to order out unwelcome visitors.

  ‘And?’ she snapped.

  ‘And I rather hoped you’d know such a place.’

  ‘If I did…why should I tell you?’

  ‘I’m not the police.’

  ‘What’s that got…’

  ‘If you tell me, I might be able to find out why Charlie didn’t come home. You naturally refuse to tell the police. That’s why Freda Graham keeps calling, isn’t it? You’re on her circuit. She comes, on instructions, to wear you down. Bit by bit.’

  And Cynthia, her mouth distorting, threw back her head and laughed, a choked parody of a laugh, so hollow and bitter that Harry took a pace forward. And stopped. It had ended as abruptly as it had begun, on a whimper, an indrawing of breath.

  Virginia sat unmoved, though one hand drew the shoulder bag closer to her slowly, as though she was about to jump up and run from the room. She waited until Cynthia was silent, then the fingers relaxed.

  It was a
n effort to stare into the withdrawn eyes and unstable face and keep all emotion from her voice.

  ‘But I was forgetting, Cynthia. You didn’t really expect Charlie to return here. You said it yourself. He didn’t say: see you. Silly of me, I forgot. But you knew there was something going on in the background. Another woman. And you weren’t going to wait around here doing nothing about it. So you got into your little car and went out looking.’

  ‘I told you….’

  ‘I remember what you told me. But I don’t believe you’d wait here so…so meekly. You went out and you discovered a young woman abandoned at a lay-by. Only two miles from here.’

  ‘What in God’s name are you talking about!’

  ‘And you found out she was the one your husband was supposed to be meeting.’

  ‘I told you I was here!’ Cynthia shouted.

  ‘Oh yes. You told us that. Waiting here in case Charlie phoned. Or somebody else did. It’s just not acceptable.’

  ‘I waited in that bloody yard out there!’ Cynthia flung out her arm.

  ‘Yes. You said. Two phones to listen out for. But I don’t believe you did that. It’s much more logical that you’d go out in the car…’

  ‘All afternoon I was out there.’

  ‘What were you wearing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To wait in the yard, you must have worn something.’

  Cynthia’s lips twitched. ‘Jeans and something, I expect. My raincoat. It looked like rain…’

  ‘It did rain,’ put in Harry. ‘Later.’

  ‘And your stilettos?’ Virginia knew it was ridiculous, but it had to be said.

  ‘I was wearing my wellies.’

  It was Harry who laughed, but he covered it with a cough.

  Virginia did not look at him. ‘But all the same, the police must believe you went out. You would be the obvious suspect.’

  ‘And why?’ Cynthia’s chin jerked in defiance. ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because the young woman who died was the one your husband intended to go away with.’

  Cynthia thrust herself away from the sink and finished up with both hands on the table, her face a foot from Virginia’s, her hair damp with sweat. ‘That’s a lie! That’s just a rotten lie!’