The Second Jeopardy

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘Hold it right there. Hey! You…you bloody bitch. You hear me? Turn round. You gotta watch this.’

  Slowly she moved. This was not on the programme. Theoretically, the watcher should not have revealed himself. It seemed that her body moved without any instructions from her brain. It was also unexpected that the watcher should have been Baldy. He had walked round the end of the office block, and twenty yards into the open. He had acquired another pistol, which he was holding steadily in both hands, and he seemed pleased with the situation.

  It had perhaps been a mistake to assume that Baldy’s connection with O’Loughlin had been severed. But he was not carrying the gun for self-protection. Every inch of his stance quivered with aggression.

  ‘Don’t do anything rash,’ she said. Even to herself her voice sounded strange. ‘O’Loughlin won’t be pleased if you harm me.’

  ‘Keep y’r hands away from your sides, Harry. Tha’s dead right. Couldn’t be better. Two shots, an’ you’re both down there, then y’r car after yer. Great, that. Who wants t’ go first?’

  Harry was feeling desperately for a firm grip beneath his feet, and failing. The only chance was to launch himself forward, fast and low. Even if he was hit, the impetus would carry him forward and take Baldy over. Then she’d have a chance. A small chance…if he could only dig a toe in! He was reaching back with his right leg, but there lay the fall-off. Nothing firm there…

  Baldy, whose leer was failing him, suddenly switched to a snarl. ‘Nobody takes a shooter off me.’

  Behind him, round the same edge of the same building, stepped Vic Fletcher. He, too, had his pistol, but to Harry it seemed he was moving too slowly, too casually. Unless, of course, he was Baldy’s back-up. Why didn’t he do something?

  Fletcher did something. He smiled. The gun was held loosely at his side, and he stopped moving, standing with his legs widely spread. Another clown playing a part, thought Harry. He thinks he’s on Main Street in Tucson.

  Baldy yelled: ‘Why don’tcha say somethin’?’

  ‘I’ll say it,’ put in Fletcher casually, though with a shake in his voice. He’d suddenly realized where he was and what he was doing. ‘Drop that gun, you bald ape.’

  Baldy whirled round and shouted: ‘Nobody tells me to drop…’

  Fletcher brought up his gun in a paroxysm of panic, his face twisted with sudden terror because Baldy should have dropped the gun and hadn’t. He fired twice, a nervous reaction in case the first one missed. It did not. Baldy collapsed on one knee as it hit him in the right leg. The second bullet Harry heard. He heard it go past his head just as he was about to take advantage of Baldy’s distraction. He took a half step back, with the leg on which he’d intended to throw his weight. The intention became fact. The weight was thrown too far back, the rear foot now on the slope. It slipped, he clawed wildly at the front wing of the car, said: ‘Yerrr…’ and slid down the ramp on his stomach, feet first, fingers and toes scrabbling for grip on a surface that was red-brown slime.

  At his cry, Virginia turned. ‘Harry!’ she screamed.

  He was slowing gradually, spreading himself flat, presenting every possible square inch of his bulk in contact with the surface.

  At last he stopped. His feet were a yard above the surface of the water. He stared up at her. She read his lips: ‘Can’t swim.’

  She turned quickly to Fletcher for his help. He had picked up Baldy’s new gun and reached back for a long throw, then it flew over her head and she heard it splash behind her. Baldy was trying to drag himself away with only one operative leg. The wound seemed to be in his hip. Fletcher walked up to him and stood with his pistol pointed at Baldy’s face. Baldy’s wild and furious eyes stared at him. Blood seeped through the fingers spread on his hip.

  ‘No!’ Virginia panted.

  Fletcher twisted his head, staring back at her with derision. ‘He called you names…’

  ‘Let him go. Harry’s…’

  ‘So’s he can have another go at yer?’

  ‘Let him go. Come and help me.’

  Fletcher straightened. He thrust the barrel of his gun in his waistband and stuck out his chest. ‘You heard the lady. Get moving while y’ got the chance.’ Then he watched as Baldy, impelled by the closeness of his own end, managed to force himself to his feet and hobble away round the corner of the building.

  Fletcher walked towards her. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’ He was locked in a mood that prevented him from inventing his own dialogue.

  She realized that he was so tense, so absorbed by the action, that he had little of his mind to spare for speech.

  ‘Harry’s down there!’

  He came up to the car and looked down. ‘So he is.’

  Harry was a little closer to the water. His face was expressionless. He was concentrating.

  ‘There’s rope in the back,’ she said.

  ‘Then get it,’ Fletcher advised. ‘You all right, Harry?’

  Harry said nothing. Inflating his chest in order to call out might upset the equilibrium.

  She whipped open the boot and fumbled with the rope, nearly dropping it, slammed down the lid, and ran to the edge.

  ‘I hope it’s long enough,’ said Fletcher.

  She tossed down one end. It fell over Harry’s face and lay down his back. He stared up at her in agony. It took her several seconds to realize his dilemma. If he lifted one hand to the rope he would lose his grip on the clay surface. First, the rope needed to be fixed.

  ‘Listen to me, Harry,’ she called. ‘Don’t even nod. We’ll get this end firm, and when it is I’ll shout. Then you can get a hold on it and we’ll pull you out.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Fletcher.

  ‘What?’ She whirled on him in angry disbelief.

  ‘You know what that bastard weighs? More than you’n me together. He’d drag us both in.’

  ‘You spineless…’ She bit her lip to silence. ‘We’ll tie it to the car. D’you hear that, Harry? We’ll tie it to the car, then I’ll tow you out.’

  ‘You’ll tie it to the car,’ said Fletcher. ‘You ain’t gettin’ me lyin’ there, that close to the edge.’

  For a moment she stared at him. Then, silently, she knelt down to survey the prospects.

  There was nothing at the nose of the car to which a rope could be fixed. The nearest usable point that she could see was the wishbone of the front suspension, which was guarded by the wheel. She could not get at it from the front, and from behind the front wheel the ground clearance was too small to allow her head and shoulders to intrude. There was nothing for it but to lie face down, wriggle forward with both arms extended, and feel for it.

  From that position, her face an inch from the ground and her fingers blindly fumbling the rope over something metal, she said:

  ‘I suppose that was you, following us?’

  ‘Following Baldy.’

  ‘For which, my thanks. Shout to Harry to hold on.’ She was panting with the effort, urgency tangling her fingers.

  ‘Hold on, Harry,’ he shouted.

  A knot, she told herself, form a knot. ‘Why…did you…follow?’ she gasped.

  ‘To see what was goin’ on, o’ course. Ain’t you done it yet?’

  Her fingers seemed to have lost all feeling. The knot eluded her, the rope end appearing to be alive. She had no more breath for words. Fletcher filled in the gaps for her.

  ‘Didn’ fool me. Oh, I could see what you were up to. Lookin’ down in the quarry to make it seem like the money’s there. Not likely. Harry wouldn’t do anythin’ stupid like that. But I’ve got it sorted out now. I wondered how it’d been done. They met here, didn’ they? Charlie an’ Harry. An’ switched the money. Oh…clever. Fooled everybody. O’Loughlin an’ me. But Harry didn’ dump it here, ’cause he’d never get it back. The point is, where did he hide it?’

  She was wriggling free, and turned her head to look up at him. He smiled down at her. She forced herself to her knees, then her feet. She was smeared all down her front
, clay on her face. She wiped her hands down her slacks.

  ‘So I was right,’ she said in contempt. Then she reached down and jerked on the rope, which seemed reasonably secure, and eased the spare over the edge. Leaning over, she wriggled it until it lay in a straight line beside Harry’s right hand.

  ‘It’s fastened to the car, Harry. You can grab hold of it now.’

  On this he seemed doubtful. From his position he could see the nose of the car protruding just beyond the edge of the ramp. He took a deep breath, and grabbed.

  The sudden weight on its nose provoked the car into movement. The front wheels slid three inches. They now rested just over the edge, and were about to angle down the slope.

  ‘Lie still!’ she shouted. ‘I’ll back the car out.’

  She ran to the car door, was about to jerk it open, hesitated, then took it very carefully, slid gingerly on to the seat, and left the door swinging.

  ‘Starting the engine, Harry,’ she shouted.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Fletcher. ‘You start the engine.’ He was round at the passenger’s side, that door open too, staring in. The gun was again in his hand. ‘But you ain’t goin’ anywhere.’

  She started the engine. Her foot was on the brake, her hand on the autochange lever. ‘I guessed,’ she told him. ‘It was the money all the while, wasn’t it? That was just a blind, pretending you wanted Harry to find out who did the murder. But you’re not worried about that. Oh, I grant you, it was all heavy passion at the time, but now it’s the money. Four years is too long for your sort of passion. Now take your hand off my car.’

  He stood where he was, nodding. ‘So right, so right! So now you’re gonna slip that lever into drive.’ He jerked the gun. ‘Into forward drive. Keep y’r foot on the brake. Well, just great. That’s real dandy. Now you shout to Harry and tell him you can pull him out if he says where he hid the money.’

  She stared straight ahead. She did not even shake her head. The single word was said crisply. ‘No.’

  ‘If I shoot you now, you won’t be able to stop it.’

  ‘And you’ll never know about the money.’

  ‘Shout to him, you bloody bitch!’

  ‘Do it yourself.’

  Fletcher turned his head. ‘You hearin’ this, Harry?’

  Harry’s choked voice came back. ‘Get stuffed.’

  Fletcher jerked back. ‘I ain’t foolin’. Ten seconds you got. Ten seconds, an’ I shoot your knee-cap off. Then it’ll come off the bloody brake.’

  She said nothing. She was now pushing on the brake pedal so heavily that her leg was shaking. The gun wavered. His face was crumpled with distress and strain.

  ‘I’m tellin’ you…’

  She said: ‘Get away from the car.’

  With a scream of fury he ran to the rear. She heard him crying out: ‘I’ll have y’rover. You hearin’ me? I’ll shove y’rover.’

  She jerked the lever into reverse and banged her foot hard down on the throttle. The tyres whined, and sprayed mud on the underside. For a second the car staggered, then the wide tyres dug in, and it shot backwards. There was a scream from behind, and she banged down on the brake, shot the lever into park, and dived out of the car.

  Fletcher was somewhere under the back axle, moaning and howling alternately. She ran to the edge. Harry was halfway up the slope, on his back now because the sudden jerk had twisted him. The rope had one wrist at an awkward angle. The other hand was flailing for a grip. She ran to the back of the car.

  ‘Fletcher…’

  ‘Get me outa here!’

  ‘I can’t.’

  He seemed to be mixed up between the rear suspension and the massive silencer box.

  ‘Ease it… Oh Jesus…ease it forward…’

  She went to the driver’s door and slowly climbed into the seat. She placed both hands on the wheel, one foot on the brake, and eased the lever into reverse, feeling the power going into the box. Then she sat. Her lips moved.

  ‘Gemme out!’ shouted Fletcher.

  Deliberately she lifted her foot from the brake and pressed down on the throttle. When his screams became too much to bear, she covered her ears with her hands and let it steer itself, until Harry’s head appeared, his shoulders, his knees.

  Then she stopped. She cut the engine. When Harry crawled forward and stood over her she was sobbing.

  ‘He’s…underneath, Harry.’

  Harry bent down and looked. He could feel the skin tight over his cheekbones. ‘He’s not moving.’

  She shook her head stubbornly and furiously, trying to free her brain. ‘His car. It’s somewhere. Find it. The phone.’

  He squeezed her shoulder and scrambled away, gradually forcing himself to a run.

  After a while she managed to light a cigarette. But she couldn’t climb out of the car.

  Harry was back before they heard the sirens. He stood beside the open door, and she fumbled her hand into his, where it was lost.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Oliver Brent pointed with the walking stick he used only when prowling his gardens.

  ‘It’s always been too wet down in that corner. There’s a stream, though you can’t see it from here. What d’you think about a water garden, Harry?’

  Harry glanced back the way they had come. Virginia was still sitting on the bench in the arbour. ‘Could be. We might even use the stream and make a decorative waterfall.’

  ‘Good idea. Here. Over here…I want you to look at my Michaelmas daisies. They look miserable to me.’

  ‘Probably need parting up. Did you get mildew?’

  They chatted on. There had been a complete tour of the gardens, which proved to be more extensive than Harry had expected. He had viewed the rooms above the garage that were to be his, had approved, and there’d been discussion on his salary.

  ‘Could give you an advance,’ Brent had murmured.

  During all this, until they had reached the bench, Virginia had accompanied them, but had remained silent. For three days she had been unresponsive, polite but distant. Brent had said nothing, but he was clearly worried. They strolled back to where she was seated. She did not turn her head. They took seats each side of her on the rustic bench.

  Brent said: ‘I always like to sit here. You can relax. The world’s out there somewhere…’

  ‘Have you decided about Freda Graham, father?’ Virginia interrupted.

  ‘She has been charged with the murders of Angela and Cynthia Braine. It now seems doubtful that she’ll be fit to plead, in which case it could never come to court.’

  She slapped both hands on her knees. ‘And Charlie Braine?’ There was barely civility in her tone.

  ‘O’Loughlin. His instructions.’ Brent’s voice was calm. She knew all this…but he was patient.

  ‘You’ll never get him for it, though.’

  ‘Regrettably, no.’

  ‘Because neither he nor his employees were involved, that’s why. Harry can confirm this. From our two conversations with him, it was quite clear he was in no way involved with Charlie Braine’s death.’

  Harry nodded. He wished she would turn and look at him, look him in the eyes and plead for help or something. He might not know how to handle it if she did, but he wished she would ask, and not try to bear all the misery herself. But at least he could nod and agree. ‘He was furious because it wasn’t him.’

  Brent stared at the rubber tip of his stick, tapped it against his shoe, then spoke carefully.

  ‘It’s possible he was too clever for both of you.’

  She was stirred to animation. ‘Maybe he was. But I’m certain of one thing. He wasn’t involved with Charlie’s death. As Harry said, he was furious he hadn’t been. We knew this before we even met him the second time.’

  ‘I cannot express my disapproval too strongly, Virginia. You should have turned and come away.’

  ‘No!’ she said. Her hair tossed as she jerked her head. ‘There was something else. I spent most of the second visit establishing a backgroun
d. For you, father, if you’ll use it.’

  Brent raised his eyebrows at Harry, who shook his head, implying he was going to say nothing.

  ‘I’ll be happy to listen,’ said Brent, turning back to her.

  ‘Well…thank you! Thank you for listening, anyway. The money, father, the money. During the first visit it was clear he wanted to get his hands on it. A matter of saving face. A question of his standing in the foul hierarchy of his profession, which is robbery with violence, if I’ve got to remind you…’

  ‘I am quite aware of the sort of scum we are talking about. Don’t shout, please.’

  ‘I was not shouting. I was not.’ She stopped, drew a deep breath, and went on more calmly. ‘He wanted that money, in the actual notes that were stolen. He wanted it in his hands, and I worked hard at planting in his mind various doubts about the reliability of his hired help, to get him round to the mental state where he really did mean his own hands. With a bit of luck I managed to use available background to persuade him I knew where that money now lies…at the bottom of a quarry at the old brickworks. It all fitted together neatly, so that he was convinced it was somewhere he couldn’t get at it and I could. Are you understanding this, father?’

  ‘Completely. Not happy, but understanding.’

  ‘I wondered why you hadn’t interrupted, that’s all. Where was I? Yes. We — Harry and I — made sure we were followed to that quarry, and by sheer luck we did find evidence that Charlie Braine had been there. But that’s not crucial. The point is that we were followed, by the one we knew as Baldy.’

  ‘From whom you’d taken the handgun?’

  ‘That one — yes. Baldy, who would no doubt return to tell O’Loughlin what he’d seen, and O’Loughlin would be completely convinced that the money was down in that quarry, inside a car and sealed in empty paint cans. He’s perfectly primed. You could have him, father, a present from me.’

  Brent tapped his pursed lips with the handle of his stick. ‘I begin not to like the sound of this.’

  ‘I’ve told him that he couldn’t lift that car, and he’ll realize that. Although the site’s isolated and derelict, it’d be too big an operation to do secretly. But I could do it. Officially. I told him that you would lay on a police team to drag out the car, which I would persuade you was a friend’s, and therefore of no official interest to you…’