Full Fury

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘Then why don’t you say what you mean?’ said Myra with pained indignation.

  ‘I was close behind him,’ I explained. ‘Not close enough to save him—but close.’

  Troy would have reported that I had been examining the Rover. I was playing a pretty game, tossing live coals from hand to hand, and hoping to keep them moving so fast I didn’t get burned. Finn was no man you could bluff. He came straight out with it.

  ‘How close?’

  ‘Close enough to reach his car before the wheels stopped spinning.’ I took a sip of my drink, the edge of the bar boring into my back. ‘When I got to him the car was already on fire. Just starting.’ Karen turned away. Myra’s eyes were huge. ‘The door was jammed. I couldn’t get him out of the window. The whole thing just went up like a bomb.’

  I lifted my left arm, letting them see the scorched sleeve. Myra shot a glance of entreaty at Finn, who responded, and said it for her. ‘Was he alive?’

  ‘I don’t know. Unconscious, I think.’

  Karen sat down suddenly. She spoke in a tiny voice. ‘Carter will you get me a drink?’

  He turned on her with anger, but what he saw in her face restrained him. ‘Of course.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Myra?’

  I moved away to let him get on with it. Myra came towards me. ‘You must have had an exhausting evening,’ she said with sympathy. ‘Don’t you want to sit down?’

  ‘It’s all right, thank you.’

  Finn spoke from the bar. ‘Then you must have been mighty close, to get to him that quickly.’

  ‘Chasing him,’ I explained. ‘Trying to catch him before he got home. I wasn’t sure where to find his place.’

  I allowed a little silence to build up, but nobody told me where to find it, and in the end Karen broke in.

  ‘But you didn’t quite catch him?’

  She had been distressed in the car, ending up furious. I’d managed to shake her then. Now she was poised, her eyes more to her mother’s distress than to her own. She accepted a drink from Finn, and he smiled as he handed it to her. He was taunting her about something, a private joke perhaps.

  ‘I was about two hundred yards behind,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t see what happened. Just ran out of road, I suppose.’

  ‘Distressing for you,’ murmured Myra.

  ‘I was a bit upset.’

  Karen stirred. ‘I think you’re as unfeeling as a rock.’

  ‘Upset at losing a client,’ I explained. They stared at me. I expounded on it. ‘He was still my client, you see. Whatever other people might slide in about their personal little wishes and dislikes, Paul was the boss, because he was paying me. Or at least, would’ve been, if we’d got round to it. As it turned out, he owed me for a day’s work and expenses. Come to think of it, it’s his fault this suit’s had it. He owes me for that, too. Of course I’m upset. It’s time and money down the drain.’

  I looked at them blandly. A small curl of disgust began to distort Karen’s mouth, and she drank quickly. Myra put her hand to her mouth, bewildered. Finn smiled. Finn knew what I was saying. All right, he’d pick it up, play with it.

  ‘It’ll teach you to vet your clients in future.’

  ‘How could I check he was going to die?’

  ‘Ask for an advance.’

  I grinned at him. ‘You’re very generous with advice.’

  ‘You were chasing him?’ said Karen suddenly, angrily.

  ‘Wanted to catch him,’ I tossed at her, not looking round.

  She ignored the look Finn gave her. I’d got her caught up in it. ‘Before he got home?’ she insisted. ‘Why was it so important to speak to him?’

  ‘Maybe he’d got his cheque book on him,’ I said. ‘Who knows! The damned thing would be ashes now.’

  Myra took a step forward. ‘Karen!’

  But Karen’s eyes were bright. ‘He’s not answering.’

  ‘If I’d caught him,’ I said, ‘I’d have told him I was throwing the case up. If he’d had his cheque book we could have finished it there and then.’

  I’d built round to it, got her poised for it, and got absolutely nothing from it. Karen nodded. Lowered her head, rather. Myra looked in exasperation to Finn, who gave a short bark of cold laughter at my failure to strike sparks.

  ‘If you’d caught him,’ he said, ‘he wouldn’t have died.’

  ‘Yes. Then perhaps I ought to take the blame.’ I finished my drink. ‘I’m having to take a lot for no return.’

  Then, having thoroughly established the background to my integrity, I waited to see what would happen.

  Without a word being said, they went into intense conference, and came up with a mutual disagreement. Myra and her husband looked at each other. She may have shaken her head; there was no mistaking the smile he gave her when he took her empty glass. It was the smile of a man who is hurting his wife, and enjoying it. Karen kept her eyes on her mother, entreating her, but Myra was afraid of something. Perhaps of Finn. At one moment Karen moved as though impelled to go to her mother, but a quick raising of the eyebrows held her. Finn saw it, and smiled.

  ‘It’s a pity you’ve got to drop it, Mallin,’ he said.

  ‘There’s nothing in it for Mrs Finn.’

  ‘Can you be sure?’ she pleaded.

  ‘Sleeping dogs, you know.’

  ‘But surely, if Paul thought there was something…’ She was the pitiful widow, now, suffering for her hanged husband.

  ‘What d’you want me to say?’ I demanded. ‘There’s nothing worth considering. Is that what you want to hear?’

  ‘I’m not wanting,’ she pleaded, overdoing it a bit.

  Karen turned to her. ‘Do be sensible, mother.’

  Myra looked at me, asking for guidance. ‘I feel that Neville might wish it.’

  ‘Mother!’ Karen cried.

  ‘If there’s any small avenue to be explored…’

  ‘You’re not thinking of me,’ said Karen passionately. ‘He was my father, and I’ve had enough of it. Enough!’

  It was all most beautifully done. They had a perfect affinity, those two women. Myra could not decently abandon the project at the first chance. She must protest; she must be forced to give way. She gave me the slightest moue of protest, raising her eyebrows for me to appreciate her gentle pleading.

  ‘But perhaps we could see that Mr Mallin isn’t out of pocket.’

  He had been waiting for it placidly. He could complete the thing with a shrug and a small cheque, and everybody would be happy. But Finn knew and I knew that I had seen the car, and whatever emotions the ladies might toss around, Finn knew it all came down to business. He was not sure he dared to buy me off—or in fact could afford it.

  ‘I’ve already told him he wouldn’t lose by it,’ he said.

  ‘Well then,’ murmured Myra contentedly.

  ‘So you could say I’m his client,’ he went on. He smiled at me, like a snake uncoiling. ‘Couldn’t you?’ And when I inclined my head he raised his glass to Myra. ‘In which event I think he’d better go on with it for a while.’

  Outrage forced Myra away from the fireplace. She could not have understood his reasons; to her it had to be personal. Karen reached up quickly and put her hand on her mother’s arm.

  ‘There’s things we should know,’ Finn said. ‘Things that might be expensive to find out.’

  I got the point. ‘And tedious.’

  But Myra was beyond control. ‘Carter, what are you saying?’

  The brooch stood between them. To Myra he was being perversely obstructive, in continuation of some dispute that had raged between them.

  ‘Keep out of this,’ he said sharply.

  ‘Out of it? But it’s mine! It’s my affair!’

  ‘Sit down,’ he told her, ‘and shut up.’

  Karen was on her feet, her face flushed. ‘How dare you!’ She flung her arm back wildly. ‘This is our business, Carter.’

  ‘You tell her to shut up—’

  He made no attempt now to restr
ain himself. He turned on her with fury. ‘Keep out of this.’

  Then for a moment hatred out of all reason flared between them. She made an effort and found some reserve of dignity, and lowered herself back into her chair. She sneered in my direction. ‘Give him some money and send him away.’

  ‘If he gives me some money,’ I said politely, ‘I’ll stay.’

  Myra spoke distantly and with complete control. ‘Carter, I don’t think you appreciate how much you’re interfering.’

  ‘But I do, Myra. I happen to think Mr Mallin should go on with it. In fact, I insist on it.’

  Then Myra turned away. She walked back to the bar, picked up the brooch, and held it against her dress.

  ‘I’m not sure it looked its best,’ she observed. ‘I shall try it with another dress.’ And with calm dignity she turned and headed towards the far door.

  ‘Myra!’ he snapped. If he’d used that tone on me I’d have flinched. She kept straight on. She opened the door. She went out.

  ‘Carter,’ said Karen happily, ‘you’re a fool.’

  The scene had cost him a lot—I saw it in his face. But he didn’t intend to lose on the investment. He looked at me. There was bleak intention in his eyes.

  ‘But we understand each other?’

  I understood very well indeed. Played right, it could make me a small fortune.

  ‘I’m beginning to,’ I assured him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I was still understanding him right out into the corridor. Troy wasn’t there. By the time I reached the balcony it occurred to me that possibly Finn was being quite subtle. He had married this thing, and it wasn’t the same as a clean gang killing. It would have been too damned personal for him, the Gaines thing, and he’d feel uneasy until it was completely buried, way down deep. Look how he’d had Karen adopt his name. Maybe that had been more than the dissolution of the surname Gaines. So now, maybe, he was searching for something more positive to erase the name from the records.

  Troy was standing in the hall, his back to me, his feet slightly spread. I made no sound, I thought. I went in quietly and got a foot on the hall parquet before I discovered what he was doing.

  He was practising his left-handed draw. With one clean movement he whirled on the ball of his left foot, his right foot spread behind. He was perfectly poised. The muzzle of the thirty-eight was steady on a point between my eyes.

  ‘Bang, bang, bang,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll do somebody some harm with that,’ I told him.

  Then he laughed, a grating sound, and tossed the gun at me. I caught it in front of my face. It was plastic.

  I smiled admiringly, and wondered where he kept his real one. Probably in his belt, just over his left hip. His jacket lapels were cut low, bowed gracefully over his chest, so that he could get in fast with his right hand. The jacket was a beautiful piece of tailoring.

  ‘You’re good,’ I said, and gave him back his toy.

  We walked together back to my car, and seeing he was in a good mood I asked him about the brooch. ‘Who’s Carl?’

  I felt him shrug in the darkness. ‘Comes here regular. Sits there in a rotten old smoking jacket, throwing the cash around. Something big in Brummagem.’

  He knew what I was reaching for. I prompted him.

  ‘Been giving Myra presents, has he?’

  ‘Only one. He could afford it.’

  We were out in front, looking in on the action through the tall windows. There was still plenty going on.

  ‘Won it?’ I guessed.

  ‘One big bang.’ Then he unbent. He’d got a story, and people love telling stories. And Troy was bored.

  It’d been a month before. Myra was doing her circulating act, and was in the gaming room. She was standing at Carl’s shoulder, lending decoration to the roulette table, one hand on his arm. ‘Seventeen, darling,’ she said, because Carl hadn’t been having the luck, so Carl put a hundred on seventeen, and Myra clapped her hands when it came up. Carl was reaching out to rake in the winnings when she said leave it on darling. She hadn’t meant the hundred, she’d meant the lot. That meant a delay while they fetched Finn, because they had a hundred maximum stake rule. Carl wanted to put a clear thousand on seventeen. You could just see it, Finn using his shiny smile, and Myra challenging him from Carl’s shoulder. He’d agreed. The thousand went on seventeen. Of course, the odds on seventeen coming up again are just the same as for any other number, but they’re a superstitious lot, the gaming crowd. Everybody went tense. And seventeen came up.

  ‘He lost a lot later in the evening,’ said Troy, ‘but he carried home quite a wad. Nineteen thousand.’

  So he’d bought Myra a diamond and turquoise brooch—with Finn’s money. And Finn was obviously delighted!

  Troy leaned on the car while I got in. He was very close to being friendly—something he’d have to watch.

  ‘The boss don’t like anybody paying too much attention to Myra,’ he said, as though it was a warning.

  I drove away. Nobody had to worry. Myra wasn’t my type.

  I got in around three. I hadn’t eaten for about twelve hours, and there wasn’t much in the cupboard, but I put it all together in a pan and fried it up, and had it with a can of beer. Then I fell into bed.

  At eleven in the morning I went down to the hall and phoned Elsa. I hadn’t shaved, but I didn’t reckon she’d notice.

  ‘David, where have you been?’

  ‘I went to a club. Remember?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to reach you.’

  Had she? There weren’t any messages. ‘I’m sorry. Something cropped up, has it?’

  ‘How can you be so casual? How can you, David?’

  I didn’t know how I managed it. So I said nothing.

  ‘Have you got it arranged with your brother?’

  Ted was going to be best man. I said it was fixed.

  ‘Have you phoned to check?’

  ‘Elsa, he isn’t coming down till Thursday.’

  ‘Still—you ought to check. And the taxis…’

  I’d seen to the taxis.

  There was no mention of my ridiculous bout of temper. I needn’t have tried three times to force myself to the phone.

  ‘Shall you be over?’ she asked.

  I hadn’t planned anything yet. ‘I’ll be over.’

  ‘When? I’ll need to know.’

  Lord—when? There were other things. ‘Say about four?’ Hell I’d never fit-in the solicitor now.

  ‘Don’t be late,’ she said. ‘Love.’

  I told a dead phone I loved it, because she’d hung up. Then I called the Shropshire County Police and asked for Crowshaw. What I hadn’t expected was that he’d retired. ‘Where can I find him?’ They asked me to wait. They came back.

  He lived, they said, at West Lees Farm.

  I was half-way back up the stairs before it hit me. West Lees Farm had been Andy Paterson’s place, and it was there that Neville Gaines had shot him to death.

  Well at least I knew where to find it.

  I cleaned up and had a bit of lunch across the way. It was raining again, so I threw my rubber boots into the car in case the farm hadn’t improved since I saw it last.

  West Lees Farm is only eight miles from The Beeches. It lies in the arms of the Brown Glees, an ugly old place high above the road, visible a mile away but not easy to locate from the road because a rise in the ground hides it from its gateway. Nothing was changed. I remembered the gate set back from the road in the thorn hedge. There was a pull-off, where you could park while you unfastened the gate. I parked and unfastened it. Just here Neville Gaines had left his Morris Minor. We had found an oil drip from his leaking differential. We had also found oil in the glove compartment of his car, where one of the thirty-eight Colt automatics had lain during the run over.

  The drive was straight, a broken tarmac road, flat at first across fields that would probably flood, then rising past the bailiff’s cottage to the farmhouse, peeling white and starkly ble
ak. It was set back behind a row of lurching trees as a windbreak. The drive swung round, then through to the yard.

  I had seen no sign of stock. The bare, red mud was still there, but controlled. I decided I’d manage in shoes. There was a Land Rover parked over against the house, and something else darkly tucked into what had been a barn. I knew my way. Over in the corner was a wicket gate. Before I reached it, Crowshaw appeared along the side of the house.

  Twelve years had done terrible things to Crowshaw. When I’d known him he’d have been around fifty, a stern and greying man with a small moustache. But now his shoulders were bent and he’d lost a lot of weight. The moustache had gone, leaving a rather deep upper lip, and his lower lip had sunk in. He was gaunt, and now his hair was completely white. A pair of grey slacks hung emptily about his legs and he had on a green roll-top sweater. Only his eyes were the same, greeny-brown, observant, and direct.

  ‘My name’s Mallin, sir,’ I said. ‘You probably don’t remember me…’

  ‘Of course I do.’ Heavy veins lined his hand. ‘You used to drive for me.’

  ‘I drove you up here, that day.’

  ‘I remember.’

  He led the way round the side. There had been work done on the landscaping that Andy Paterson had commenced. A terrace and then ordered lawns fell to the orchard, beyond which the Clees rose in sombre greys and greens, the pines like a fine saw-edge against the sky.

  Paterson had been one of those bluff types that slap you on the shoulder and make bleating noises when they laugh. But he’d been a big, handsome man, and was a generous host. The impression we’d obtained was of a man scrabbling at the edges of county society, with some pretensions of sharpening up the place, possibly to the point of hunting parties. In the meantime he’d had a herd of Jerseys, and the closest he’d got to the hunt was the set of prints on the walls of his living-room.

  When we got inside I saw that Crowshaw had kept the prints. But not the Jerseys, apparently.