He said it sounded all right his end no pain at all — and I could tell he was pleased to hear he’d been correct.
“If you’ll only explain,” I said wearily.
“It seemed to me, this Ginger Dyke character, travelling around with the crane all the time and living in hotels if somebody wanted to find where he lived, it’d be a bit difficult. But Dyke, being what he is, well... they’d only have to drop the odd hint, say by phone, that his missus is having it off with somebody... and what’d happen?”
“Keep it short, George. I know what’d happen.”
“I’ll tell you. Dyke’d be off like a shot, as he would’ve been if I hadn’t laid hold of him. Then they’d only have to follow.”
“Yes George, I get it.”
Clare was standing there, offering me a glass of brandy. I mouthed that I’d meant it for her, and turned back to the phone.
“It didn’t work, George, because you’re so big and persuasive, but fortunately there was the wife, which meant following me instead of him. I’m only too aware of it.” In my self-absorption with personal worries, I had omitted my usual care with the rear-vision mirror. “I could kick myself. But why, George? Why’d he want to come here?”
“Dave,” he said chidingly. “You’re forgetting things. Lubin was talking to us about a case. We thought he meant our case, but what about the other one? The overnight case that Fred Wallach chucked in his van.”
“You thought of this all on your own?”
“I thought of Ginger driving it away, and Ginger taking the case home. But did he bring it back? No, he didn’t. That’s what they’ve been after.”
And got it, too, I’d bet. “Just a sec’.”
I put the phone down and shouted for Clare. “The overnight case. The one Ginger brought.”
“His name’s Walter. He threw it at me.”
“Where is it?”
Her eyes opened as she got the implication. She ran into the bedroom, then was back, all startled.
“It’s gone.”
“I’m sure it has. What was in it?”
“I don’t know. Clothes, I suppose. I didn’t look.”
I took up the phone again, and told George the news.
“Lord, Dave, I’d certainly have liked a look in there.”
“You think there’d be a gun, do you? A nice old rusty gun, that’s been lying in that cellar thirteen years — and hoping it’ll still fire, so that your lovely bolted cellar theory won’t go swilling down the drain. That’d be just fine. It’d about finish Dyke.”
“Come on, Dave, what about a bit of confidence. You know it couldn’t fire.”
“Perhaps it’s still attached to a nasty, withered hand.”
“Ever tried firing a rusty gun when it’s got somebody else’s hand gripping it?”
It was all he had in support of Dyke, that he could not have picked up that gun and fired it.
“You’re rooting for him, I’ll say that.” But Dyke was capable of it. Capable of anything.
“He’s our client, Dave.”
He hung up. Our client! I was expected to support him. Clare was watching me.
“You were talking about my husband,” she said flatly.
“The police think he did it.”
She looked beyond me, acceptance in her eyes. “I think he’s got the devil in him.”
Which was all very well, but had he got murder?
I said I ought to be going. She looked at me pitifully. “I don’t think I should have left him.”
“After what he said?”
“It’s just words. I’m frightened for him.”
“He’s safe with George.”
But he wasn’t. As I walked out to the car, Ken Duxford was just driving up.
“We’ve been having a few thoughts,” he said, “about an overnight case.”
“Everybody’s at it. You’re too late.”
I told him what had happened. Strangely, he seemed philosophical about it.
“As long as it was here,” he said. “That was what we wanted to know.”
“Helps you, does it?”
“I’ll just go in and have a word with her. Perhaps use her phone.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “You’re not having him in for questioning again?”
“They’ve probably picked him up by now.” He smiled. “When Randy gets my call, it won’t be for questioning, though. He’ll charge him.”
The rain was steady all the way back. It suited my mood. My head was aching. George was in the dining room.
“Have they arrested him?”
“How’d I know that?” he asked. “He went out as soon as you and Clare were gone.”
“Why’d you let him —”
“Perhaps he wanted to see you drive away, Dave. There was no point in going along with it any more. I suppose he’s been prowling the town ever since.”
“In this rain?”
“D’you think he’d notice it?”
In his tortured mind there’d be only one thought. “I suppose not. I’d better ring the Station.”
“Eat first,” he said. “Then we’ll drive down. Superintendents look better on a full stomach.”
Because of their rank, it’s not usually easy to see Superintendents. They’ve got a tendency to send for you, not the other way round. Besides, we weren’t solicitors, and had no legal standing when it came to representing our client. So I was rather surprised when the station sergeant put down the desk phone and said he’d see us in a few minutes.
George glanced at me significantly. The man wanted something. It was part of his meekness act; people were sorry for him and helped him out. He’d get a lot that way, always provided you could understand what he was getting at.
“Not sure of his ground,” said George softly, leaning forward on the bench with his elbows on his knees.
“Or not sure of ours.”
“Have we got any to stand on?”
“You say it was a bolted cellar, George. You’d better be able to convince him.”
He glanced at me, but had no time for further comment, because a constable came for us.
Meakin was in command behind a desk that would’ve suited a rear admiral. Perhaps its splendour helped his self-confidence. Everything in the room was tidy, nothing out of place; the signs of a man who fears that disorganisation might undermine him. I was beginning to wonder if it really was an act.
Duxford was seated to one side, thumbing through a notebook which he’d be certain to know off by heart. He didn’t look up.
“Thought you’d like to know that you can pack your bags and go home,” Meakin said, shuffling through his papers as though he’d need to sign a release.
“Has it finished?” I asked politely.
“He’s being formally charged.”
“May I ask — with what?”
“Why... the murder of Frederick Charles Wallach, of course.”
“No more?” I was trying not to sound sarcastic, you understand.
Meakin glanced at Duxford. “There’s no more, Sergeant? We’ve covered it, I think?”
Duxford did not answer.
George stirred. The chair he’d been given was too small. “We like to know how we stand. You could’ve been throwing in the murder of Marty Coleman, for all we knew.”
“Murder?” said Meakin mildly. “Was Coleman murdered? I’d assumed suicide.”
“So had we,” said George. “But we’ve got our reasons.”
I nearly said: you have, George, count me out, but I couldn’t count myself out. Meakin was looking puzzled. He did not respond.
George went on: “Though I don’t suppose you’d go for bolted cellar doors and things. Bolted on the inside, I mean.”
“Theories!” murmured Meakin. “We’ve examined the photographs. Correct me if I’m wrong, Sergeant, but didn’t we decide not to consider it as a serious issue?”
Duxford inclined his head. “You did, sir.”
“Ah, I was sure. I knew we�
�d given it some consideration.”
“That’s what I mean,” said George politely. “Here you’ve got lab evidence that the same gun killed two men.”
“Incontrovertible,” said Meakin, rolling it round his tongue.
Duxford murmured: “May I, sir?” And on Meakin’s grave inclination of the head he went on earnestly: “We’ve had half a dozen experts crosscheck this. Every last one will go into a witness box and swear that the same gun killed both men.”
“Thirteen years apart?” I jumped in. There had to be a hole in one theory or the other.
“As you say, thirteen years apart.”
I let George get on with it, knowing where it was going. “So that, if you’re not accepting any bolted-cellar ideas, then you’re assuming that the gun was taken away the first time and brought back the second.”
“Is that what I said?” enquired Meakin. “I don’t remember saying that.” He could see the trap George had laid.
“You implied it,” he said. “The same gun, firing twice at an interval of thirteen years, it must have been carried away and kept oiled and clean.”
“Nor did I say that. Sergeant, he’s putting words into my mouth.”
“Yes,” agreed Duxford severely. “You’re trying to get the super to admit that the murderer of Fred Wallach brought the gun there. But we’re not saying that.”
“Exactly.” Meakin had his finger-tips together and was nodding encouragingly.
“If you were,” said George, “you’d be saying that Marty Coleman was murdered by the same man. But you’re not saying that either.”
Meakin gazed at the ceiling. “Why is it,” he complained, “that this man can tell me so accurately not simply what I’m saying, but also what I’m not. It’s uncanny.”
“It’s because you believe that Coleman committed suicide,” I told him. “George is only being logical. Taking it to a conclusion.”
“Which is?”
“That Coleman locked himself in that cellar...”
“Something else I’m not saying,” complained Meakin.
“But thinking it,” I insisted. “So that the gun was not kept oiled and cleaned all these years. It’s been rusting away in that cellar. But nevertheless, you’re prepared to take a case to court in the face of that.”
“It would be submitted to the Director of Public Prosecutions.”
“And I,” said George forcefully, “would go into the box and swear it couldn’t have fired. I bet your six experts wouldn’t swear it could.”
“We expect to find the gun. Then we shall know.”
I was surprised that Meakin was succeeding so well in keeping his voice level. His eyes betrayed him, and it was an act, after all. He had been uncertain of his case, and had hoped we’d go along with him, perhaps supplying him with confirming evidence. But now he’d have to open up. He’d need to put his full case, if only to justify himself.
“Until then,” he said, “it’s all theory. We believe that Walter Dyke is an opportunist, that he went to that site, that night, at around midnight, with every intention of killing Wallach.”
“That was before he went home,” I protested. “He’d have no motive, at that time.”
“It’d been boiling up,” he said evenly. “The motive was already there. That he went along later and had a fight with his wife could be a follow-up of the emotional tension of the murder. Sergeant, why do you let me get sidetracked like this?”
“Sorry sir. You were saying he went to the site at midnight.”
“So I was. Or a little later. At that time Wallach had bolted himself in the shed, expecting trouble, but as we all know, that wouldn’t have stopped Dyke from lifting the whole thing to one side, shed and concrete slab together, in order to get at him. This we believe he did.”
“Hold on,” I said, getting a mental picture. “You’ve got Dyke in the cab of the crane, and Wallach with a clear run as soon as the shed comes away from the fence. Seems to me that Dyke couldn’t have got to him quick enough. Wallach would’ve made a bolt for it.”
Meakin frowned. “Dyke is the younger man, probably the faster. We assume he’d get him before he managed to get off the site. Possibly he threw a brick at him and knocked him out. Yes, there’s that,” he said with satisfaction. “In any event, I think we can assume that Wallach was unconscious, and that Dyke had uncovered the trapdoor.”
“Which,” said George — there was no stopping him, “he then levered open, in spite of the fact that Wallach was lying unconscious...”
“Maybe he thought Wallach was dead,” said Duxford, but Meakin’s sudden flick of the hand silenced him.
George noticed it. “If he thought Wallach was dead, he’d have turned and run. Or are you saying that he’d spot the cellar door and decide he’d found a good place to hide the body?”
“He has not revealed his thought processes,” said Meakin drily.
“Because, if he did think that,” plodded on George, delving into what he always scathingly called my understanding act, “if that was what he thought, and he did it, he’d simply stuff the body through the hole and put the shed back on top of it. There’d be no point in going down there himself. What d’you say, Dave?”
I’d have said the same, though maybe with less obvious scorn. I shrugged.
Meakin said: “Shall we say he did get inside, and there found the loot from the hold-up, and because Wallach had recovered he used the gun and shot him. And what better than the overnight case to use to take all the money away? To his own home, apparently an innocent visit, or rather, I’d say, covering his visit there with a row, so that no particular attention would be drawn to the case.”
“He did draw her attention to it,” I said. “He threw it at her.”
“Did he now! Make a note of that, Sergeant. There’s a touch of artistry, there.”
“And has he admitted all this?” asked George.
“Not in so many words.”
“In how many, then?”
“He’s not denied it.”
George glanced at me in disgust. It was a flabby and porous theory. Plausible is the word. It fell down utterly on one important point — whether or not that gun could have been picked up and fired.
Meakin smiled. “The presence of that overnight case at Dyke’s flat links him positively with that cellar.”
“Only if there was something in it other than clothes,” I said.
“Seeing that somebody went to some lengths to get the case, the inference is that there was more.”
“Such as — perhaps — a gun?” I asked.
“And a Welsh tweed bag of fivers.”
“Worthless ones.”
“Perhaps Dyke wouldn’t know that.”
“Lubin would.”
“Lubin?” he murmured. “What’s he got to do with it?”
“Who else?”
“It’s a bit vague to base a search warrant on,” he said mildly, and at last I thought I saw where he’d been heading. He had thrown it at us. Our client’s freedom depended on the contents of that bag. One way or the other. A search warrant was not on, but here were two tired and disillusioned detectives just hunting for trouble...
“We might as well go,” said George. He’d seen it too. His eyes were angry; he doesn’t like being led.
Meakin smiled as he watched us leave. I waited until we were outside, standing in the thin drizzle.
“You’re not really intending to try it?” I asked.
“You heard what he said.”
I wasn’t sure Dyke was worth it. Let him free to torture Clare again? I hated the idea.
But what I was doing — and I realised it only too well — was bitterly fighting a genuine sympathy for him. I felt for him. I could understand, now, how the thoughts would keep intruding, scratching your tender nerves and undermining your self-confidence, because they were doing it all the time to me. It had been a fight to concentrate on what Meakin was saying.
How far did I have to go for a cli
ent, when I believed in his guilt?
I said, angrily, the rain wet on my face: “You’ve got to be wrong, George. That cellar door couldn’t have been bolted inside.”
“You’re tired.”
I lifted my face. The rain was clean and sterile.
“Abandon your bolted cellar theory, and we might be able to show that Marty Coleman was murdered and the gun taken away. Then it could’ve been used again, but not by Dyke. He can only have been an opportunist, otherwise he doesn’t fit in. Let’s forget the bolted trapdoor, George.”
He laughed, blast him. “If the gun was taken away, then the money was, too, thirteen years ago. Come on, Dave, you’re slipping. If the loot just wasn’t there the other night, then what’s all this fuss about an overnight case?”
But I was aware that Meakin wanted that case desperately. He wasn’t expecting a bag full of old fivers inside it; that would simply be a bonus. What he expected, and what he had to have, was the gun that he thought Dyke had picked up and used, and which, if miracles were still around, might still prove to be capable of firing. He wanted us to get it for him. It’d be amusing if we produced the last vital bit of evidence against our own client.
“We’d be working for Meakin,” I said mildly.
“All right. But that’s only because you’ve got no faith, Dave. We could just as well be working for Dyke.”
“What do you suggest?” I asked, miserably aware of what it would be.
“Let’s go and see what’s in that case. We don’t have to tell Meakin, do we! Let’s go and take it from Lubin.”
He was loving it, blast him.
Ten
The way I saw it, we’d have no difficulty getting in. Out, probably. But not in.
“How come?” said George, pausing in the corridor.
“If you’ve gone to a lot of trouble getting hold of something that’s worthless, you’d have to be quite proud of it.”
“We’ll see.”
Greenbaum opened the door. He’d been practising, and looked even meaner.
“Come in,” Lubin shouted from somewhere inside. Probably he’d watched us approaching through his binoculars.
George smiled at Greenbaum as we edged past. “Nice action,” he said, and gave him back his gun.
Greenbaum, not waiting for any fourth rounds, tried to shoot George’s foot off.
The Weight of Evidence Page 10