by Tessa Dale
The
Twice
Hanged
Man
A Richard Clever Mystery
by
Tessa Dale
Chapter One
It was, Detective Chief Inspector Richard Clever decided, a most beautiful morning for a murder investigation. The sky was blue, and crystal clear, and the ground had that dusty hard dryness common during a warm July.
“I thought it was just Ted play acting around, at first,” Harry Lord was explaining to DCI Clever’s sergeant, Dan Jones. “He often bunks off after his last run. He has this lass who lives in Burnham Mead. She sounds like a bit of a tart. Her old man works regular night shifts at the foundry.”
“You rang her?” the DCI said, interrupting Jones.
“No fear,” Harry Lord replied. “I drove over to see why the bus wasn’t in the garage this morning, but he hadn’t been there all night. Her husband was in, sleeping upstairs, so she was keen to get rid of me. That’s when I called you fellows. Who, in his right mind, would steal a single decker cream and green bus?”
The situation was a little more serious than the bus’s owner realized. The local station had taken the report seriously, and sent out a squad car to investigate. The black Austin Seven patrol car had retraced the bus’s last journey, finally coming to a stop where wide, burnt rubber tracks signified a very quick stop.
Constable Stanton had checked the immediate area, and radioed in the moment he found the coagulating pool of blood. It was clear that a violent incident had occurred a few minutes from the end of the last run.
The driver, Ted Newby had, for some reason, slammed on his breaks. Someone had been badly hurt, and the bus spirited away into the night. The DCI had examined the pool of blood and estimated it to be several pints.
“If he’s not dead now, he soon will be,” He muttered to himself. Constable Stanton watched the big, bespectacled man, as he knelt over the sticky gore, and tried to imagine what could have happened to the last bus to Castleburgh.
“Don’t strain your brain,” Sergeant Jones said, noticing his constable’s perplexed frown. “The DCI loves these sort of things. He’ll have it sorted out in no time at all.”
“Is it right that they call him Clever Dick?” the constable asked, almost before he realised the insubordinate words were out of his mouth.
“Only behind his back,” the sergeant said, and laughed.
“Something funny, Sergeant?”
“No sir,” Dan Jones said. “Young Stanton was just wondering how you make a ten ton bus disappear.”
“More like four tons, I think.That’s because he doesn’t have all the facts,” Clever told them. “Once we have all the facts, we can understand what the real problem is. First things first though, Sergeant Jones. Get hold of Inspector Gibson, over at Castleburgh, and have him organize an immediate search. A hundred yards out on either side of the road for a mile in each direction. Tell him we are looking for any off the road tire impressions, or skid marks made by other vehicles.”
“Yes sir.”
“And have a couple of men go over to the bus company’s depot. We’ve only Mr. Lord’s word for it that the bus never made it back.”
“But what about the blood, sir?” Constable Stanton asked.
“It might not even be human,” Richard Clever replied. “The driver might have hit a badger, or a small deer. Hence the search. If we find a dead or wounded animal, we can scale the investigation down from a possible murder to a hit and run offence.”
“Not to mention the theft of a bus,” Sergeant Jones said.
“We have no proof that the bus was stolen,” Richard Clever replied. He waved a hand towards the expanse of moorland on either side of the narrow road. “It might have been driven away by Ted Newby. I want some solid facts before I go any further. For instance, does Newby live alone? Have we checked to see he isn’t tucked up in his own bed? Facts, Sergeant. Give me facts!”
“It might be an insurance scam, sir,” Constable Stanton said, chancing being cut down to size. “I imagine a bus would be insured for quite a bit.”
“Very good, Stanton,” Clever told him. “Follow that line up yourself. The owner should be able to help you out with the details.”
“I can’t sir,” Stanton replied. “I’m on traffic duty this week. My sergeant would skin me alive if I go off without his permission.”
“It is much better to seek forgiveness, than to ask permission.” DCI Clever beckoned Dan Jones over. “I want young Stanton seconded to this investigation, Dan. My responsibility. Have him get into plain clothes and get on with what I told him to do.”
“Yes, Guv,” Jones said. “Anything else?”
“I don’t think so,” Clever replied. “Stanton will check the insurance angle, forensics will let us know if the blood is human, and the search should turn something up. What about the passengers?”
“I’m on to that, Guv. I’ll find out how many set off, and who they were. A local bus service like this usually has a local clientele. I only need one name, and that will lead me to the rest, with luck.”
“Good luck often seems to increase, the harder one works,” Clever said. “I will be back at HQ with a pot of black coffee, and my thinking cap on. Carry on.”
“Yes, Guv.” Dan Jones would have resented any other senior officer admitting that he was going to put his feet up and drink coffee, but he knew Richard Clever meant what he said. He would pour himself a cup of thick, treacle like coffee, and put his feet up on his desk. Then, he would close his eyes, and exclude the rest of the world, until he had worked his way through the current puzzle.
Clever Dick was, Jones, thought, a very apt nickname for his Chief Inspector. The man had a mind like a labyrinth, and could disappear inside himself for hours, only to emerge with some overlooked fact, or tiny piece of missed evidence that would break the case.
So, DS Jones put up with his DCI’s bluntness and lack of social graces, and shared in the glory. He was an ambitious man, and did not want to remain a sergeant all his life. Working with Clever Dick was a sure way to make Inspector before he was thirty. Besides, he concluded, he actually liked the man.
The way he cut through red tape and made things work for him was truly remarkable. No other DCI would have dared to move a young constable from traffic duty to the detective branch, but Richard Clever was unique. By the time someone thought to complain, young Stanton would have done a good job, deserving of the sideways move.
Clever would have been surprised had he realised that Dan Jones liked him. He was almost incapable of making friends, failing to see the use of it. Colleagues were better in his book. You had to be nice to friends, and the DCI wasn’t sure how to go about that. He had been raised in an upper middle class environment, spent his formative years in a minor Public School, and his later years cocooned in the insular world of a good university.
There had been moments in his life when his barriers might have crumbled. Notably when he was introduced to eligible young women by his worried mother. She knew her son would never be complete without the support, and love, of a nice wife. Over the years, Clever had almost fallen in love with several girls, only to shy away when they expected him to reveal his inner emotions.
The brutal fact was, Richard Clever did not possess those sort of feelings. He reduced everything down to facts, and anything that did not fit into his scheme of things was discarded. Had he not become a policeman, it was quite possible that the DCI would have been attracted to a life of crime.
In fact, Richard Clever would have made an excellent master criminal. That he had chosen to devote his life to the law was due entirel
y to his personal preference for an enigma. The smart criminal set the puzzle, so knew the solution in advance. Clever enjoyed solving the seemingly insolvable, and the only way to do that was to work on the side of good.
As he sipped his coffee and studied the inside of his own eyelids, it occurred to the DCI that the bus was actually a red herring. Whoever had taken the bus had done so because they had no other choice. From there it was plain to see that the bus driver’s disappearance was also a false path.
“Ignore the bus, and ignore the driver,” Clever muttered, “and what do we have left?”
There would be no ransom demand for the bus driver, nor would there be a complicated insurance fraud to unravel. It all came down to money, Clever thought. A simple theft that went wrong because of something unexpected happening.
The DCI ran through a couple of scenarios in his mind, and smiled at the simplicity of it all. The bus would be found, as would the driver, whether alive or dead, and what seemed at first to be a mystery would be seen for what it was.
“A mess, perpetrated by idiots,” Clever mumbled. “Damn me, but this coffee is delicious!”
Chapter Two
Detective Constable Stanton brushed a speck of imaginary dust from his lapel and placed his new, soft Fedora, squarely on his head. He studied himself in the full length mirror and nodded his approval at the tough looking young man who stared back. Regular sporting activities had provided him with physical strength, but now, as the newest addition to Castleburgh’s CID, his brain would prove to be of much more use.
He had telephoned the bus depot, and made an appointment to see the Company Secretary, who, the owner assured him, was the one to see regarding anything to do with finances and insurance. It was disquieting to find that Sam Hurst was, in fact, a woman. Not only a woman, but a young, rather attractive one too.
“Close your mouth, Constable,” she said, gesturing for him to take a seat. “It is nineteen thirty five, after all. They even let us women vote now.”
“Sorry, Miss Hurst,” DC Stanton replied. “Was it that obvious? NO disrespect, but I expected some crusty old fellow in a frock coat.”
“My predecessor was,” Sam Hurst told him. “Harry Lord found out he was a little too good at creative accounting. I was promoted, because Harry thought I had an honest face. What can I do for you?”
“It’s a minor matter,” Stanton replied. “We were wondering about your missing bus, and whether it was insured.”
“The entire fleet are,” Sam Hurst told him. “Mr. Lord has thirty six vehicles, and they are all fully insured against accidental damage, fire and theft.”
“As if anyone would steal a burning bus,” Stanton said, smiling to indicate he was joking.
“You can’t beat the old ones, can you?” Sam Hurst said, forcing a crooked smile. “Unfortunately, until you find the bus, I don’t know what to claim for. Then, of course, there is the driver to consider. Is he a victim, or a thief? Do we need to compensate him, or have him prosecuted. What can you tell me?”
“Nothing, officially,” Stanton replied. “The bus is missing, and so is the driver. We can’t say, at this stage, exactly what happened.”
“I see. But you think we might be trying to swindle our insurance company?”
“I didn’t say that,” the DC protested. “We have to check every line of enquiry though. You must see that.”
“Of course. Let me put your mind at ease, Detective Constable Stanton. Even if it is written off, we only stand to make enough to replace the vehicle, like for like. Hardly a master plan to defraud, is it?”
“You might collect the money, and sell the bus down south.”
“What a good idea,” Sam said chuckling, “but not my style.”
“That’s good to hear, Miss Hurst,” Stanton said. “You wouldn’t suit handcuffs.”
“Goodness me, two jokes in one grilling,” Sam Hurst responded. “I thought you detectives were supposed to be thick eared and granite jawed.”
“I’ve only been a plain clothes officer for two hours,” Stanton confessed. “I’ll need time to toughen up.”
“I hope not,” The Company Secretary replied. “I rather like your softer approach, although your tie is really quite appalling. Was it a present from your mother, or is it you who has no taste?”
“All my own doing, I’m afraid.”
“Never mind. Have you had lunch yet?”
“Er… no. I came straight here.”
“Excellent. You can take me across the road to the Trafalgar, and buy me a cheese sandwich. They don’t let unaccompanied young ladies in alone.”
“That is their loss, Miss Hurst.”
“Call me Sam. Let me get my handbag, Detective Stanton.”
“Stanton will be just fine.”
“My God, you must have a terrible first name!”
“No, I just don’t like it much.”
“Cyril?”
“No.”
“Cedric?”
“Do you want that sandwich, or not?”
“Ethelred?”
“You know, I might just use those cuffs after all.”
“Relax, I’ll get it eventually.”
“Stanley,” Stanton confessed, to end the agony. “Now, can we go?”
“Stan Stanton? Goodness, but your parents really do lack imagination.”
“They are both dead.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be so cruel. Stanton is fine with me.”
“Good. By the way, I lied. My parents are both alive, and my mother chose this tie.”
“Just for that, you can buy me a drink too.”
“Do I detect alcohol on your breath, Detective Constable Stanton?” DCI Clever said, sniffing audibly at the air.
“Bitter Shandy, Sir,” Stanton reported. “I took one of the bus company officials out for lunch. I thought they might let something important slip.”
“Really? Let me guess. Aged about twenty five or twenty six, with nice legs, and long, red hair.” the DCI smiled at Stanton’s surprised look. “Why would any healthy young man want to take a stuffy business type to lunch? Answer; she is an attractive female. As for the red hair, you need to brush your shoulder and left sleeve off. The young lady is shedding and… I perceive, a natural red head.”
“It was part of the investigation, Sir,” Stanton replied. “The insurance angle is a no go, but it seems that the owner, Mr. Lord is adept at making enemies.”
“How so?”
“He has a quick temper. Sam says he’s lost a half dozen employees because of it.”
“I don’t suppose you have any names,” Clever asked.
Stanton took out his pocket book and turned to the relevant page. He placed it on the desk in front of his superior. Clever glanced at the names, and handed it back.
“Shall I make you a copy, Sir.”
“No need,” Clever told him. “I’ve memorised the list. It’s a little trick I learned from an Indian student at university. He could memorise an entire book, and declaim from any point you cared to choose. Quite a party trick.”
“Very useful, I imagine,” Stanton replied. “Shall I see if any of them have form?”
“Form?”
“Previous convictions, Sir.”
“I see. Form, as in an allusion to horse racing. A neat little phrase, Detective Constable. Yes, please do. It might be of use.”
Dan Jones returned a few minutes later, the possessor of a complete list of the missing bus’s final passengers. He chalked the seven names up on a blackboard fixed to one of the office’s walls.
“This is the definitive list,” he told them. “Two couples, the Sinnotts and the Welbys. Then we have Janice Walters, Peter Cain and Alec Monroe. They all boarded in Carlisle, and nobody got on later. It was the last bus.”
“Do we know the order they got off in?” DCI Clever asked.
“We do,” Jones replied. “There are six stops on the route, each about a mile apart. Mr and Mrs Welby left th
e bus after two stops, and Alec Monroe left at the next one. Janice Walters was dozing, but woke up just as the bus set off from the next halt. She looked around, thinking she’d overshot her stop, but realised she hadn’t. Peter Cain was gone. She was next off, and the bus was empty, apart from her and the driver.”
“How do we know she got off?” the DCI asked.
“I confirmed it with her dad. He’s the strict sort, and was waiting for her to come in. The bus stops a hundred yards from her door, and she was in a minute after being dropped off. So, the driver carried on, with an empty bus, until he stopped on the moors.”
“I don’t understand why he’d stop,” Stanton said. “It’s after eleven at night, and he’s alone. The only thing that would make him stop and get out of his cab would be a bad accident, or something blocking the road.”
“You are thinking about this too hard,” Clever told him. “If we accept that a crime has taken place, we must define what that crime was. Are we talking about some elaborate plot to steal a bus and kidnap a man, or is it a simpler thing?”
“Like what, Guv?” Dan Jones asked.
“Like theft,” Clever replied. “The driver had the day’s takings with him. This is the busiest day of the week, so he might have had anything up to twenty or thirty pounds with him.”
“But why steal the bus?”
“To hide the real crime, or because leaving it behind would tell us something the perpetrator wanted to hide.” The DCI studied the list of passengers. “Do we know any of these people?”
“I have come across Cain before,” Jones said. “He’s a seventeen year old with a liking for petty theft. He and his cousin John Tubbs were picked up shop lifting about six months ago. I gave them an official caution and sent them home for their dads to sort out.”
“That is interesting,” Clever said, smiling. He closed his eyes and mentally reviewed the list Stanton had shown him a few minutes earlier. “John Tubbs was a mechanic, working for the bus company. The boss picked a fight with him, and gave him his cards a couple of months ago.”