The Colour of Violence

by Jeffries, Roderic

  He hated to hear a woman swear. “I am very busy,” he said curtly.

  “Too busy to hear about Patricia?”

  He suddenly found himself short of breath. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s not at your place, is she? She came and spent part of Saturday with me.”

  He sweated profusely. What was she going to tell him? His hand, holding the telephone, shook. “Well?” His voice was croaky.

  “Whilst she was with me, June turned up.”

  “Who?”

  “June Havering. She was June Burn, before she got married.”

  “Who is this woman? Why can’t you tell me what happened?”

  “We were at school together and June and Pat were as thick as thieves. You know what I mean?”

  She’d managed to make even that sound obscene. “Go on,” he muttered.

  “June’s a grass widow for a month and has been motoring around the country and when she heard Pat was also a grass widow she suggested Pat went along with her for a while.”

  “Pat was not a grass widow,” he snapped.

  “She was on Saturday. So she went off in the early afternoon.”

  “Are you telling me she left with this woman on a motoring tour? But she knew perfectly well I was coming back today.”

  “What’s the matter? She’s not going to be away very long.”

  “She should have telephoned me. I gave her the number of my hotel.”

  “And have you get all pompous and tell her she couldn’t go?”

  He had never sworn at a woman, but he nearly swore at her then. “Where is she now? How can I get hold of her?”

  “You can’t. They can be anywhere between here and South Wales.”

  “I see. Thank you for telling me.” Not even now did he forget his manners “Goodbye.” He replaced the receiver.

  He stared down at the papers on his desk. To have acted like that was quite contrary to Patricia’s nature. Gould she really have just driven off, without any reference to him, knowing he’d be back on the Monday? Yet Hermione had said that’s what she’d done. And the alternative to believing Hermione’s story was…And as Armitage had foreseen, he was not prepared to consider the alternative, because to do so was to expose himself to the possibility of ridicule and hurt.

  He must make it quite clear to Patricia when she returned, he very deliberately and carefully thought, that her inconsiderate actions had been most thoughtless and caused him considerable distress.

  *

  Hermione said: “He swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker.”

  Armitage tried not to show the intensity of the relief he felt.

  “The man’s a bloody fool.”

  Strangely, Armitage felt sympathy for Dudley now.

  “So you can tell Pat she’s quite in the clear. And also tell her from me to worry about what she wants for a change, and not what other people want.”

  Armitage felt light-headed. The desperate gamble had paid off. Dudley was silenced and there would be no alarm over Patricia’s disappearance.

  CHAPTER XIV

  The council car-park in Ayrton Road — like all those in Ethington — worked on the honour system with a motorist expected to put a five-or a ten-pence piece in the ticket machine and then to display the ticket in the windscreen. Honour being a doubtful starter in the modern world, the council employed a full-time inspector to check up on all the cars in the car-parks and to note the numbers of cars showing no ticket or a ticket out of time. When a car was parked for several days a report was also put through to the police by the inspector because from time to time abandoned stolen cars were left in the car-parks.

  *

  Police Constable Steel, seconded to the C.I.D. for six months as aide, was imaginative, ambitious, and very eager to do sufficiently well to be selected for training and posting as detective constable. But to his chagrin, however, he seemed to be given little to do but routine, boring paperwork so that if the opportunity arose to do something more constructive he became very enthusiastic indeed.

  The report came through of a Morris 1300 which had been in the Ayrton Road car-park since Saturday evening. He checked the number with the latest lists of stolen cars and found it was not recorded, then went along to the D.I.’s room. French was out. Steel hesitated only briefly, took the bunch of British Leyland master keys from the small, old-fashioned safe, signed the notebook to say he’d taken them, and left the station to walk to Ayrton Road.

  The Morris had none of the possible signs of having been stolen for a joy-ride and then abandoned — dirty, slashed seats, broken instrument panel, stolen transistor. The doors were locked and he unlocked them, careful that in doing so he touched no surface that was capable of recording a fingerprint. Inside, he found no means of identification and nothing beyond a paper bag, bearing the name of Gwelf Supermarket. He opened the bag. There was a jar of baby beets, which he liked, and a slice of pressed beef, which he didn’t because it was all too frequently on the menu at the canteen. The pressed beef was clearly on the way to going bad. He replaced the bag, relocked the car, and returned to the station.

  French was back, in his office, and he listened with gentle cynicism to Steel’s report and wondered how much longer it would be before Steel ceased to see a criminal behind every lamp-post?

  “But the pressed beef, sir — going bad. That means someone was buying for a meal but got interrupted.”

  French scratched his ear. Someone had bought the food, presumably for consumption over the week-end, but instead of putting it in a fridge had left it in the car and the car in the car-park. By definition, that was to suggest something unusual had happened.

  “I think it ought to be checked,” said Steel.

  French finally nodded. For once there wasn’t much of importance in hand. That was, other than the still unsolved murder of Healey. And even Connell was beginning to accept the fact that with so few leads it was likely to remain unsolved.

  Steel went through to the C.I.D. general room, telephoned the vehicle department at county hall, and asked for a check-out on the car number he gave. Was it priority? He hesitated just long enough for the man on the other end of the line to say that it was much too late in the day to do anything now and would he please forward the request in writing on Form J62?

  Tomorrow, he thought, he’d ring again and since he’d speak to a different clerk he’d say at the beginning it was priority. He was young, but he was quick to learn.

  *

  Armitage awoke and stared up at the ceiling, vaguely outlined as the growing daylight reached through the curtains.

  Were they carrying out their promise and not harming Patricia? No one had the slightest idea she’d been kidnapped, not even her own husband. When would they come back? At the week-end? He hoped to God it would be then because Dudley would only keep quiet for a certain length of time. After that he’d have to begin to believe the worst.

  When he thought how close a thing it had been, keeping the news from Dudley, he felt slightly sick. Patricia’s life had rested on a very thin strand. But the strand had held and she was going to be safe. He repeated that as if it were a prayer. She was going to be safe.

  *

  French was silently swearing as he read a circular letter from county H.Q. when Steel came into his room. He dropped the offending circular on to the desk.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir, it’s about the car in Ayrton Road car-park.”

  French reached in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and then remembered he’d smoked his last cigarette twenty minutes ago. “Give me a fag, lad.”

  Steel passed across a pack of cigarettes. “I’ve learned it belongs to a Mrs. Broadbent who lives at Easthover House in Weldersham. The name seems vaguely familiar.”

  “It’d be a sight more familiar if you’d much to do with the courts. Her bastard of a husband springs more motorists — provided they can afford his fees — than the rest of the mouthpieces put together.” French spoke without much ranc
our. It was a lawyer’s job to get a guilty client brought in not guilty.

  “I telephoned the house and had a word with the daily woman. She says Mrs. Broadbent apparently unexpectedly went on a motoring holiday and left early Saturday afternoon. But according to the parking ticket in the car it was parked there at five-fifty-eight.”

  “What kind of motoring holiday since she didn’t go in her own car?”

  “The woman wasn’t very certain as she’d only heard it all from Mr. Broadbent, but Mrs. Broadbent was visiting a Miss Grant when an old school friend turned up and suggested the holiday and Mrs. Broadbent went off.”

  “Just like that?”

  “So the woman was told. Apparently, Mr. Broadbent went on and on about how much his wife had liked this person at school. She said it was a bit odd the way he talked because usually he doesn’t say much to her except good morning or goodbye.”

  “You seem to have got a good lot out of the woman.”

  Steel looked pleased.

  French picked up a pencil and began to doodle on the edge of the circular. “It probably doesn’t add up to a row of beans.”

  Steel spoke eagerly. “But there’s the meat, bought after she’s supposed to have gone on the holiday, the fact her husband is suddenly very talkative, the fact her trip was so unexpected.”

  French looked up. “So what are you suggesting?”

  Steel coloured, because he hadn’t the nerve to put into words the solution his mind had conceived.

  “You know,” said French quietly, “if I was asked to name the man least likely to bump off his wife, I’d start thinking of Dudley Broadbent.”

  Steel fidgeted with his coat. “But don’t you think it’s all a bit odd, sir?”

  French put down the pencil. If the wife had left in the afternoon how had she, assuming it was she, gone shopping in the car in the early evening? Why was the car left in the car-park? Why was the food left in the car? If her husband had been using the car, how had he got home? Why should he leave it in the car-park over the week-end?

  “Should I have a word with Mr. Broadbent?” asked Steel.

  “It’ll be better if I do.”

  Steel looked disappointed.

  “Listen, lad,” said French in kindly fashion, “in the little puddle of Ethington, Broadbent is a big frog. If you handled him as you did the last person I sent you to question, he’d have your guts for garters.”

  Steel looked annoyed and tried to explain how that had not been his fault, but French shut him up.

  *

  Broadbent’s secretary came in and said that Detective Inspector French would be very grateful if he might have a word. Broadbent looked at his watch. “All right. But tell the man I can’t give him much time.”

  He began to read through some papers and when the detective inspector came in he gave only the briefest of acknowledgements, then resumed reading. French showed no resentment at this incivility.

  Broadbent finally pushed the papers to one side. “Well — what is the trouble?”

  “As a matter of fact, sir, the person I really wanted to have a word with was Mrs. Broadbent, but I understand she’s not at home?”

  “How d’you know that?” Broadbent’s voice was sharp.

  “I phoned your house earlier and a woman told me.”

  “Why d’you want to speak to my wife?” Broadbent felt tension grip him, because he was certain he was going to learn something which at all costs he didn’t want to learn.

  “It’s in connexion with her car.”

  Broadbent relaxed, opened the heavily chased silver cigarette case on his desk, took from it a cigarette, and pushed it across. French got up and helped himself to a cigarette. He then flicked open his lighter for both of them, before resuming his seat. “There’s been a hit-and-run accident, which could prove fatal, and we’ve an eyewitness who says he identified the driver as Mrs. Broadbent.”

  “Preposterous rubbish!” snapped Broadbent. “When was this accident?”

  “Sunday morning, at ten thirty-four.”

  “At that time my wife was a great many miles from here.”

  “Of course, I know that if Mrs. Broadbent had unfortunately had an accident, she’d have instantly reported it, but I had to check.”

  “Naturally,” agreed Broadbent, but resentfully, as if it was so obvious that that check was totally unnecessary.

  “I think, though, I must get a formal statement from Mrs. Broadbent. You know how it is when you get so positive a witness statement? Perhaps you can tell me something — where was her car at the time of the accident?”

  “Sunday morning? At Miss Grant’s, I suppose.”

  “You suppose?”

  “Damn it, Inspector, what are you suggesting?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, sir.”

  “My wife was visiting Miss Grant when this old friend of hers arrived and suggested going for a short motoring holiday. I therefore logically presume the car’s at Miss Grant’s.”

  “Well, the quickest way to deal with the matter until your wife returns is to go and have a check on the car and see it’s undamaged…Will you give me Miss Grant’s address?”

  Broadbent said: “Broughton Hall, Madresfield.” French stood up. “Thanks very much and I’m sorry to have interrupted you…By the way, sir, do you like pressed beef and pickled baby beetroot?”

  Broadbent tried to understand the reason for the question. “Yes,” he said finally, “I like them very much.”

  *

  Hermione Grant was weeding a flower-bed, watched from a distance by a glowering gardener, when a battered Vauxhall drove in. A man, tallish, greying hair, a craggy-looking face, climbed out and spoke to her. “Miss Grant?”

  She studied him. “Yes?”

  “My name’s Detective Inspector French.”

  “What d’you want?”

  He was untroubled by her curtness. “Just to ask you a question or two.”

  She rubbed her hands together to knock off the earth on them and then led the way into the house, changing in the hall from gardening shoes into worn-out, slopping slippers. In the sitting-room she went straight over to the cocktail cabinet. “What d’you drink?” she demanded.

  “Have you a light ale?”

  “No. I don’t like the stuff: puts too much gas inside one.”

  There was a quick chuckle. “Then perhaps a Cinzano?”

  She poured out a large Cinzano and a whisky and soda, passed over the Cinzano, flopped down in one of the armchairs, and drank. “Well? What’s got you running here?”

  He told her about the hit-and-run accident and the eyewitness and how a quick check on Mrs. Broadbent’s car would make a liar out of the eyewitness.

  Hermione lit a cigarette. “All very interesting. But what’s it to do with me?”

  “I understood Mrs. Broadbent’s car was here?”

  “Understood it from whom? Why on earth should it be here?”

  “Didn’t she leave it here when she went off with an old school friend of hers, a Mrs. Havering?”

  Hermione drew on the cigarette as she tried, and failed, to see some way out of the situation. “All I know is, she said she’d like to go with June on the trip and she’d drive home to get some clothes and things. Surely her car’s at her place?”

  “Mr. Broadbent says not.”

  “Then obviously, for some reason, she left it somewhere else. Probably at a garage, for servicing.”

  “Which is her garage?”

  “How the hell should I know?” She drank quickly. The story which had been concocted to fool Dudley was proving, under sterner questioning, to be as full of holes as a colander.

  French said: “I think, the circumstances being what they are, the only thing to do is to get in touch with Mrs. Havering’s home and see if they’ve any idea where she is.”

  “I haven’t the address.”

  French showed only the mildest surprise. “That may not matter too much if she’s a member of an old gi
rls’ association. What’s the name of the school you all went to?”

  Hermione stubbed out the cigarette, stood up, and crossed to the cocktail cabinet to pour herself out another drink.

  *

  Armitage stared at Hermione and felt as if something were squeezing his guts with ice. That bloody car! How could he have forgotten it?

  “Has she had a car accident?” asked Hermione.

  “Of course not.” He crossed his sitting-room and stared down at the High Street, becoming busy as people returned home at the end of the working day. “It was just the detective playing a double game. Patricia left her car somewhere near here and the police are curious. They’ll have been to Dudley and he’ll have told them about the motoring holiday.”

  Hermione’s eyes were beady. “The car’s been parked near here ever since Saturday night?”

  “Well?” he replied shortly. He turned round.

  “So Patricia’s been here all the time?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  She spoke impatiently. “Come on, George, you can tell me the truth.”

  “I told you the truth. She left here on Sunday morning.”

  “You don’t think I’m going to believe that? Leave her car out in the open when she was going away for days? After being married to Dudley for God knows how many years?”

  “She was…too disturbed to think clearly.”

  She leaned forward. “Why won’t you tell me the truth?”

  “I am,” he said desperately. “She left here Sunday morning and went up to London by train.”

  She stared at him with an expression of growing anger, but he was too busy trying frantically to find a way out of the maze to notice it. After several seconds she stood up. “I’m not going to stay if you refuse to trust me,” she said petulantly.

  His relief at her going was all too obvious.

  “I’m very hurt. Very hurt, indeed, after all I’ve done for you.” She left, hurrying down the stairs and almost falling. She refused to say goodbye.

  CHAPTER XV

  The bell rang and Armitage went down the stairs to open the front door of the flat and he faced a man who smiled politely and spoke quietly and pleasantly. “My name’s Detective Inspector French.” He showed his warrant card. “Have you time for a quick word?”