The Second Jeopardy

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The Second Jeopardy Page 22

by Roger Ormerod


  ‘And he accepted that? Good Lord! You know damned well I can’t use members of the force for private…’

  ‘I know it. He doesn’t. They all think the police are corrupt, and wouldn’t hesitate to use public funds for their own purposes. Isn’t that right, Harry?’

  Two pairs of eyes clamped on his. He’d wanted her to look directly at him, but not so fiercely, not so demandingly. ‘Well…I’m not in his league…but the general idea is that a lot of money sorta leaks into private pockets. Mind you, I, personally…’

  ‘There you are then,’ said Virginia with satisfaction, beaming suddenly at her father.

  ‘What, exactly, had you in mind?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘You still have the money and the paint cans…’

  He nodded. ‘Evidence.’

  ‘Then I want you to find an old car, any old wreck, and put the cans, with the actual money sealed inside, into that car, and one dark night have it secretly run down the ramp into the quarry.’

  ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘In the meantime I’ll see him again and lay it on. I’ll persuade him he must come himself to meet me there and collect it.’

  ‘Now hold on!’

  She waved him to silence. ‘It will be perfectly safe. Harry will be with me.’

  Harry stared beyond her at Brent and managed a sickly smile.

  ‘And then,’ she said, ‘a few days later you mount a large and showy operation with frogmen and cranes and whatever, to drag it out again. He’ll be there, be sure of that. I have it firmly planted in his mind that I’d just as soon keep the money myself as exchange it for his diamond. And when it’s been rescued, and standing there on the top, your kind superintendent will salute and take his men away, and leave me in possession. O’Loughlin will creep out. I’ll let him open the cans himself, feel the money, then your second team of men will close in…and we’ll have him!’

  Her face was now alive, her eyes dancing.

  Brent patted his upper lip with the handkerchief from his breast pocket. ‘I’m using a lot of resources on this, apparently.’

  ‘But it’ll be the first time you’ve had him away from his little island, and he’ll actually be receiving and handling the genuine stolen money. It’s lovely. And with my evidence and Harry’s, he’ll go down for ever.’

  Brent got to his feet. Harry thought he was about to walk away, but he was still not treating it as a serious possibility, so that he could smile down at her. ‘I think you’d find it would come under the heading of entrapment. The DPP would throw it out.’

  ‘Entrapment, father, as you very well know, consists of persuading someone into committing a crime, and then stepping in.’

  ‘All the same…’

  ‘And in any event, it would be my trap. Mine!’ she said with fierce possessiveness.

  ‘Really, Virginia, you go too far.’ He stared down at her with concern. ‘And you think he’d admit to the murder of Charles Braine, once we had him inside?’

  ‘Of course not. It wasn’t him.’

  ‘I suppose you know who it was, then?’

  She nodded. ‘I know.’

  He was still very grave, then he turned away and began to walk towards the house.

  ‘You might at least discuss it with the Chief Constable,’ she called after him.

  He stopped and turned. ‘I was just about to phone him, my dear.’ Then, solemnly, he winked at Harry.

  Again she called him to a halt. ‘And father — do make sure your second team don’t pounce until after he’s handed me the diamond.’

  The corner of Brent’s mouth twitched, then he was allowed to proceed to the house. Harry and Virginia looked at each other, and burst into laughter.

  ‘Will he do it?’ Harry asked.

  ‘They really want O’Loughlin. I think he will.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ He tilted his head. ‘That isn’t all of it, is it?’

  ‘You tell me,’ she teased.

  ‘He knows O’Loughlin’ll never forget you. He knows you won’t be safe till he’s inside.’

  She tapped his wrist. ‘Clever Harry. I’m counting on it.’

  He was still eyeing her suspiciously. ‘Why didn’t he ask you for a name when you said you knew who’d killed Charlie?’

  ‘Because he knew I had to tell Martin first. It was part of the agreement, before I contacted you. If it succeeded — if we succeeded, Harry, you and I — then Martin would know first. Come on, we’ll go and tell him.’

  The Mercedes was waiting on the drive. He said: ‘Just like that? Not even a tararfernow to your old man?’

  ‘He’ll know, and it’s only fifty miles. I’ll drive.’

  When they were eventually settled on the motorway, heading north, he said: ‘And I haven’t succeeded in anything. I still don’t know who did Charlie.’

  ‘Just think about it, Harry.’

  ‘Hmm!’ He opened his mouth, and closed it. Martin had to be the first to know. Two miles later he ventured: ‘And who the hell’s Martin?’

  ‘My husband, Harry. My husband.’

  Which kept him silent for the rest of the journey.

  It was a country mansion set in rolling countryside, unobtrusive and secluded. The gate pillars carried no gates, simply a brass plaque with the words: Marston House. The oval of parking space lay at the foot of seven wide steps, and was flanked by massive cedars. In the distance, water twinkled between trees. A dog barked round the back of the building. A gardener was clipping a bay hedge back to its perfection as a peacock. A peacock strutted, contemptuous of the result.

  She led the way in. The lobby was simple, and had been originally the hall. Now it held, to one side, a desk. No one was sitting at it, but a bell invited a visitor’s palm. Visitors were rare. There was little for them to visit. Harry worried about the ring of his heels on the patterned stone floor.

  The woman who appeared through a side door knew Virginia at once. ‘Mrs Reed…we weren’t expecting you. Never mind. I’ll see how he is, if you’d like…’ She waved vaguely towards two easy chairs that flanked a huge fireplace, now cold and occupied by an artistic crumple of red and black tissue paper, representing a fire. A symbol, Harry decided. The house was so silent that the fireplace contained as much life. They sat one on each side of it, facing each other.

  ‘I owe you an explanation, Harry,’ she said, her hands nervous on her shoulder bag. ‘I told you a direct lie. I’m not going to apologize, because I think you’ll understand. I am the daughter of Oliver Brent, but I’m married to Martin Reed. Angela Reed was my step-daughter. I thought that if I told you that, it would weaken my case. People don’t accept that any affection exists in that relationship, so I was afraid you’d query my motives.’ She paused, but he said nothing. She moved her shoulders, and went on.

  ‘Martin was a solicitor. Still is a solicitor, I suppose. When Angela was killed he took it badly. Blast, that’s a stupid thing to say. We both took it, because we had to take it, and it hurt. I loved her, Harry. People said we were alike, but I couldn’t see that. She was a rebel, full of life and romanticism, and brought up in such a way that she didn’t know what the world was like outside. We could hardly have been more different, but we understood each other.’

  Harry smiled gravely. The knobbles round his mouth moved. ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘Martin was very sensible. He let her work it out of her system…that sort of thing. She had a generous allowance, so we thought she couldn’t come to much harm. The harm she came to could hardly have been more tragic. Martin was…somebody might have stamped on him. When you were found not guilty, it was the final blow. I told him it couldn’t be you, but you know about a solicitor’s mind everything has to be set out in phrases that allow for only one meaning. There were no words I could find that gave any meaning to Angela’s death. So one night he took the car out and drove into a tree at eighty, they reckoned. Perhaps his mind wasn’t on his driving. He suffered terrible injuries to the face and he
ad, and…and as far as anybody can tell his mind is a complete blank.’

  Harry moved restlessly. The voice in which she was telling it was one he had not heard before. He would have liked to wait in the car, where her other voice had been.

  ‘I come here,’ she said softly, ‘and talk to him. I don’t know if he hears. Then one day I risked something. You…you can’t talk to nothing, on and on, without wanting to…well, shock, I suppose. I promised him I’d find the person who killed Angela, and see that the penalty was paid. And Harry, I thought I saw something — oh, deep down in his eyes. An understanding, I suppose. And of course, doing it was for me too, Harry. You must understand that.’

  It seemed to Harry that it was imperative he should understand, and that she should be assured of it.

  ‘Yeah, sure. Well…you would.’

  She reached over and patted his hand. ‘I want you to say nothing, Harry. Whatever I tell him, you’ll not say a word. Promise?’

  ‘Promise,’ he said, raising his head as the receptionist came down the stairs again.

  ‘He’s in the sun lounge, Mrs Reed. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The stairs were dark oak with a hundred years of patina, the corridors panelled, the carpets soft. It was simply an old house, splendidly preserved, but with no evidence of its institutional purpose, until Virginia opened a door and they entered a room with new oak strip flooring and plain colour-washed walls, a few soft chairs, and three silent, empty shells of people. Only the ceiling had escaped. It was still heavily moulded and decorative, still lived.

  ‘Why, hello Jessie. And how are you today? Mr Thomas! I haven’t seen you for ages.’

  Neither responded to Virginia’s greeting. This had been her cheerful voice, the one she was polishing to present to her husband. It shone.

  A nurse was standing at the far end of the run of high windows, behind an easy chair. She moved forward.

  ‘Here’s your wife to see you, Mr Reed.’ Then, in the same tone: ‘No change, I’m afraid. I’ll leave you with him now.’

  Harry watched her go, young and attractive, efficiency in every movement of her limbs. How can they work here? he wondered. And not go insane.

  Virginia was standing, looking down at her husband with a smile. ‘Pull up a couple of chairs, Harry,’ she said, not looking round.

  Martin Reed did not turn his head. He was sitting with his knees together and raised, his left hand lax on the chair’s arm, the other spread on his chest. He had been a fine man, Harry could tell, tall and distinguished, though now the clothes were empty on him, his collar gaping at a gaunt neck. His moustache was trimmed, and his face so clean and shining that it did not seem to be flesh at all. Then Harry realized that he was looking at a reconstruction of a face.

  As they took their seats, Virginia said: ‘I am going to tell you what happened that day, Martin, and what has happened since, so that you’ll understand. This is my good friend Harry, who’s been helping me. Without Harry, I would never have got to the truth.’

  She then went on to tell him what she thought to be the truth. Her voice was steady, not a monotone but enlivened by emphasis and modulation. She did not take her eyes from his face, which registered nothing. The hand at his chest might simply have fallen there by accident. He did not move it, even by so much as an inch.

  When she had laid on the background, had detailed her and Harry’s adventures with O’Loughlin, and the Freda-Cynthia relationship, she finished:

  ‘So you see, Martin, the police believe O’Loughlin had Charlie killed because he double-crossed him over the money, but I can’t believe his men would have killed him and then missed the money in the paint cans. The police also believe Freda Graham killed both Angela and Cynthia. I do not believe this to be true. I’ll tell you what I think happened.’

  Martin Reed stared at her and through her. He was looking at her face only because she had placed her chair so that he would be doing so.

  ‘Angela and Charlie were intending to go away together. He hadn’t told his wife about this plan, naturally, and he hoped if all went well that he’d have the haul from the bank robbery, and what he could get from the stuff from the jeweller’s shop, to give them a good start. Angela…well, you know Angela…it was just another adventure that may or may not have come off, so she said nothing to Vic Fletcher, though they’d been living together as man and wife for six months. She was leaving it open so that she could return if it all went wrong. Now…there are two strange circumstances about Angela’s movements that day, after Harry left her at the lay-by. One: she made a phone call — actually made it, otherwise she wouldn’t have used the money. And two: she became apparently invisible.’

  Harry cleared his throat, but she touched his knee and he was silent.

  ‘Freda Graham said she didn’t see Angela when she drove to pick her up. This isn’t remarkable. Angela, as you know, was basically a law-abiding citizen, though she was doing her best to get out of the habit.’ She smiled, and one of Martin’s fingers moved. When she went on, her voice was uncertain. ‘The first thing she did — and this would be instinct — was to dial 999 and report her car stolen. She was told to stay where she was. At that point she would realize she had made a mistake. She was now going to get herself tied up with police procedures, when she ought to be trying to reach Charlie. It’s obvious where their meeting place was…the derelict petrol station, where Charlie was intending to clean his car back to plain black.’

  Harry realized that she was laying this out as simply and plainly as possible, as a solicitor would appreciate.

  ‘So what would she do? She would hide, of course. There were hedges. There was a gate only a few yards from the lay-by. She could hide there and wait. Later, Cynthia drove there, and said she saw nothing. Angela was hiding. She was obviously waiting for a specific car to come for her, a black Escort XR3, as Charlie would have told her, which she’d last seen as a red and green one. And she’d be waiting for it because she’d phoned to say where she was. But at the time she phoned, Charlie could not possibly have reached his car wash. So…the very fact that she was hiding means that she had left a message.’

  Harry stirred again. She did not even notice, being so concentrated on what she was saying.

  ‘Charlie Braine was obviously a clever man, having made his plans so carefully. He had water laid on…in fact, it’s still connected. He would have had to have electricity connected, to power the car wash. He wouldn’t forget to have a phone installed. For emergencies. As Angela’s was — an emergency. She knew where to phone. She did so. And waited. But it meant that Charlie must have had one more person involved in his scheme, somebody he was paying for the simple duty of sitting by the phone in case, and probably to report that everything was quiet before Charlie drove to the car wash. The tragic thing about it is that, during the time she was waiting — nearly two hours — Charlie probably drove past her twice in the car, still in its red and green state, the first time taking the road to the abandoned brick-works. I wonder whether she thought he was taking the back way home, back to his wife. In any event, he’d be past before she could get out on the road. And later, when he’d switched the money to his paint cans, he might simply have turned right, and she’d get no more than a flicker of colour. She was hiding. Waiting for the car to park in the lay-by. As a black one.’

  She looked abruptly away from Martin’s eyes, as though she had become hypnotized by them. Quickly, she fumbled in her bag and found her brown cigarettes, lit one, and turned her head to blow smoke away from Martin’s eyes.

  ‘Having worked that out,’ she continued, more relaxed now that she could distract her attention to the cigarette from time to time, ‘it seemed clear to me who was the person waiting at the phone for messages. In practice, he confirmed my guess himself. Just consider the facts surrounding Charlie’s death. He should have arrived at the car wash with the money in the back of his car, in canvas bags. It was not there…it was
in paint cans in the boot. The murderer missed that, possibly because of panic, possibly because he assumed the cans were full of paint. For whatever reason, he believed the money had changed hands, and later, when there had been time for thought, it must have seemed that the only person it could have been passed to was Harry, who had probably hidden it himself.’

  A tear appeared in the corner of Martin’s left eye. Perhaps this was normal, thought Harry, because Virginia reached a tissue from the box beside him and wiped it away gently.

  ‘But Harry went out of circulation for four years, so he wasn’t around to ask. By that time, my dear, everybody assumed O’Loughlin had the money, or, because Charlie had disappeared, that he’d got the money with him. Only the murderer would believe that Harry had the money hidden somewhere, knowing that Charlie hadn’t taken it somewhere, and knowing that O’Loughlin hadn’t been involved with Charlie’s death. It was Vic Fletcher himself who told me he was after the money, and it had been Fletcher who’d been haunting Harry, pretending he believed Harry had killed Angela. He was hoping Harry’s nerve would break and he’d go for the hidden money, and make a run for it.’

  On his knees, Harry’s fingers closed to fists. He said nothing. She stubbed out her cigarette and went on: ‘If you consider Fletcher in that context, it all falls into place. To Charlie, he was a man he’d paid in the past for stolen vehicle documents, so he was a man he’d possibly use as a contact, to sit over the phone at the petrol station. Not a man he’d confide in, to whom he’d mention the name of the woman he was intending to go away with. And Angela, it’s obvious she couldn’t have told Charlie that the man she was living with was Fletcher. It only needed one spark for the situation to explode, and that spark was her phone call to the petrol station. She was speaking to Fletcher. Perhaps she didn’t recognize his voice in that setting. Perhaps he recognized hers, and disguised his own. In any event, she told him, without realizing, that she was the woman Charlie was intending to go away with. And she told him exactly where she was waiting.’

 

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