The Twice Hanged Man: A Richard Clever Mystery

by Tessa Dale

  “Hold him up Constable Stanton,” DS Jones snapped. “We don’t want him to get hurt, at least not before we hand him over to DCI Clever and the man.”

  “Man? What man?” Jacko had a sick, burning taste in his throat. “Jesus, you can’t do this to me.”

  “We can, and we will,” Stan Stanton said. “The Man is what we call ’the last resort’, Jacko. Mess with us, and he will make you sing like a nightingale. Then I get to put what he leaves in a deep hole on the moors. Simple, and effective, Jacko. Welcome to your worst nightmare.”

  Dan Jones opened the door to the dingiest interview room in the station and thrust Jacko Ball down onto a rickety wooden chair.

  “Tell the Guv’nor what he wants,” Jones said as a parting shot, “and you might just survive the night.”

  “But I don’t know what he wants to know!” Jacko said, almost shouting in fear.

  “Me neither,” Detective Sergeant Jones replied with a small, manic chuckle. “Good luck, mate!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The single, low wattage bulb threw off the palest, yellow light imaginable, casting the oddest, creepiest shadows into every corner of the room. Jacko sat very still, wondering, after a while, what was going to happen next. He could not get the sergeant’s malevolent sounding chuckle out of his mind, and feared for his life.

  After a few more minutes had passed by, he considered the possibility that they had forgotten all about him, and he was just starting to unwind, when the door flew open. A smartly dressed detective came in, sat down opposite Jacko, and introduced himself as DCI Clever. The man was big, but in a less menacing way, and wore spectacles. Jacko had never seen a copper with glasses before, and allowed the fact to comfort him.

  In direct contrast to the two arresting officers, Richard Clever enquired after Jacko’s health, and comfort, before asking if he would like a cup of tea.

  “Yes, please,” Jacko replied, somewhat comforted.

  “Yes, I bet you would,” Clever said, and the door opened again. This time a huge man came in, clad in a blue boiler suit and wearing heavy black boots. Most terrifying of all was the lady’s silk stocking pulled down over his face. The effect was to make the newcomer look like his face had been squashed. The man lumbered across the room in near silence, finally taking up a position just out of Jacko’s line of sight.

  “Why am I here?”

  “To answer questions,” the DCI said, quite amicably. “Not ask them. Now, you own the Pigalle nightclub?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wrong.” The hitherto silent man took a step forward and growled. The DCI held up a restraining hand. “Not yet!”

  “But … but I do,” Jacko wailed, terrified by the silent man’s looming presence.

  “You are acting as a front man for someone else,” Richard Clever replied coldly. “I want you to tell me who that person is, Mr. Ball. Then I want to know who runs everything in Castleburgh. You will tell me a name.”

  “What name?”

  “Oh, dear.” Clever stood up, as if to leave. “See if you can extract a name from Mr. Ball for me, there’s a good chap.”

  “You aren’t after me,” Jacko reasoned, quickly. “You want some other bugger in the frame. Tell me who it is. Do you want Morant?”

  “You tell me, Jacko,” DCI Clever said. “Make it good, and I’ll see about that cup of tea. The alternative is too horrible to consider.”

  “This is some kind of nightmare,” Jacko Ball said. “You can’t go around kidnapping and murdering people.”

  “Why not? Your lot do. Now, give me the name.”

  “Vincent Morant. He is the big man in Castleburgh. He runs the drug dealing, prostitution and illegal gambling. I’m just his stooge. I swear, on my life, mate.”

  “Very well. I’ll send in someone to take your statement,” Richard Clever said. “Remember, the more dirt you can dish, the better. Even if it includes the Chief Constable and how thick they are with each other.”

  “They are? Er… I mean, yes, they are!”

  “Vinnie Morant and Alan Herbert are like two peas in the same pod.”

  “Herbert?” Jacko asked.

  “Alan Herbert … the Chief Constable,” the DCI reminded the leader of the West End Lads.

  “Yeah, of course he is. I remember now,” Jacko enthused. “A pair together, they are!”

  “That’s the spirit.” The DCI left, followed by his murderous henchman. Once outside the room, the fearsome figure pulled off his stocking mask, and took a deep breath.

  “I almost suffocated wearing that,” Stanton growled. “It’s a pity we can’t treat them all like that, Guv!”

  “It is all inadmissible in a court of law, I’m afraid,” Richard Clever told him. “Whatever he confesses to in that room, we have to disregard. As long as he swears Morant and Herbert are linked, I’ll be happy. Now, off with the boiler suit, and back to being a DC again. I want that statement on my desk inside the hour.”

  “Then what?” Dan Jones asked.

  “We follow orders. Jacko gets the fear of God put into him, and we put him on a train out of town. Then we look at what we have to work with.”

  “Jacko Ball’s word will never hold up against the Chief Constable, Guv.”

  “It doesn’t have to,” Clever explained. “We don’t use that bit yet. We arrest Vincent Morant when we are ready, citing the statement which will paint him blacker than black. Stanton will make sure there are enough facts to get Vinnie prison time. Armed with a warrant, I expect to find whatever Morant has on Herbert.”

  “Failing that?” Jones, ever the pessimist, asked.

  “Failing that, we do Morant for whatever we can, and get him a few years. We offer him a deal before sentencing. Give up the Chief Constable, and I have a word with the judge.”

  “It all sounds like we are flying by the seats of our pants, Guv. Lots of things could go wrong.”

  “In which case we settle for as much as we can get from the investigation,” Clever replied. “Getting at Herbert has to be a sideshow, Dan. The real business to hand is the murder of Peter Kerr, and was Peter Fornell hanged because of an injustice.”

  “We should call it a night once Jacko has spilled everything,” Jones said. “You must be exhausted. I know I am.”

  “We are undermanned,” the DCI agreed, “but I don’t know who else I can trust. There are plenty of people out there ready to jump on us if we slip up.”

  “Then let’s not slip up,” Dan Jones replied. “As for manpower, if we get desperate, I have a contact with the Coventry force who will send a few men to us.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Clever. “When the reckoning comes, I’m hoping that there are enough good, honest coppers, ready to stand up for law and order.”

  Detective Constable Stanton was surprised to discover that Jacko Ball was, to all intents and purposes, illiterate. He could read simple things, and, if pushed, could scrawl his signature across a page. It promised to be a long night.

  “Why don’t you dictate,” the DC said at last. “I’ll write it down, and you can sign it. Agreed?”

  “Whatever you like,” Jacko Ball replied. “Just don’t bring that big bastard back. I could smell death on him.”

  “Trust me, The Man will not come into this room as long as I’m here. Now, I need you to name names, and give me evidence.”

  “Fine. Everything is down to Vincent Morant. Him and that bigwig copper… Alan what’s his name…the Chief Constable. They are as thick as thieves.”

  “Because?” Stanton prompted.

  “I saw Morant give him an envelope full of money. In return, he kept you lot off our backs.”

  “And?”

  “And Morant runs an illegal roulette wheel at number sixteen, Whitehall Street. He also runs prostitutes out of the Flying Horse pub in Wheatley Crescent.”

  “Which is where you saw the Chief Constable with Morant?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. The copper was partyi
ng with the girls, and collecting his bung from Vinnie.”

  “Where does Vinnie Morant live?” Stanton asked. Jacko Ball stared at the young constable for a moment, then began to laugh.

  “If I’d known that,” he replied as soon as he could contain the laughter, “ I’d have burned the bloody place down weeks ago!”

  “I don’t believe half of what he’s told us, Guv,” Stanton reported to DCI Clever the following morning. “I’m sure he doesn’t work for Morant, but he knows enough to hurt him.”

  “Good. DS Jones will see Jacko onto a train to somewhere far away later.” Clever considered his options. The charade of the previous evening was far removed from his usual modus operandi and, being honest with himself, he was uncomfortable stepping outside the usual limits of the law. Tackling a Chief Constable, however, demanded some unusual moves.

  “Are we going to raid Vincent Morant’s places, Guv?” Stanton eagerly asked. It seemed the logical step to the young DC, but his DCI shook his head.

  “Not yet, constable,” Richard Clever said. “I want to know where he lays his head first. If he has something good on our Mr. Herbert, he’s most likely to keep it very close to his chest.”

  “Do you want me to track down Morant’s home address then, Guv?” Stanton asked.

  “I do, constable.” The DCI could sense one part of the investigation coming to a head, but was concerned about the most recent murder. Peter Fornell may well have been stitched up by others, but the evidence still pointed to him as being the murderer of his uncle. As to who killed Peter Kerr, and why, the matter was still far from resolved. Was Kerr dead because of Fornell, or had he stumbled across some criminal activity that doomed him? “Do it quietly though, Stanton. I don’t want Vincent Morant, or any of his crew, spooked before we are ready to make a move. Is that clearly understood?”

  “I’ll be as quiet as a mouse wearing carpet slippers, Guv,” the young DC replied. His first port of call, he knew, would be to the local council offices, where he would check the voters register for one V. Morant. Failing that, a call around to the Castleburgh Sorting Department of the General Post Office on Lee Street should solve the problem. After that, he might tackle the Inland Revenue boys, just in case Morant actually paid his taxes. Whichever way, DC Stan Stanton was determined come up with the goods. He simply could not let his Guv’nor down.

  A good showing in the current investigation would cement his place, not only in Castleburgh’s CID, but in Clever Dick’s own personal team. Being one of the DCI’s men meant you were one of the best detectives in the county, and that, eventually meant promotion to a good post.

  Sam Hurst was not only attractive, but also very smart, and the constable knew, in his heart, that she would only ever attach herself to a rising star. She seemed to like his attentions, but three stripes on his coat sleeve would not do any harm to his romantic prospects.

  Richard Clever smiled as his DC left the office. The man was keen, he thought, but was he bright enough. Searching out Vincent Morant’s den would be good practice for him. He sensed that he would race around to the local council offices, or tackle the labyrinthine corridors of the GPO.

  Crossing to his filing cabinet, the DCI took down the telephone directory and leafed through to the section containing every ‘M’ in town. R. Morant, Mrs. was listed half way down the page, together with a telephone number and an address.

  “Well, Vinnie,” Clever Dick muttered, jotting down the information “I wonder if you still live at home with your mum?”

  Detective Constable Stanton would wear away some shoe leather that morning, but it would help to hone his skills. Sometimes, in fact, most times, a little time thinking saves a lot of time pounding the pavement!

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dan Jones was worried. Four more days had passed since Jacko Ball’s abduction, and their investigation seemed to have ground to a halt. True, they were in a position to arrest Vincent Morant, and had enough on Chief Constable Herbert to cause a few shockwaves in the force, but otherwise, nothing very much was happening.

  His DCI seemed to be losing himself in a quagmire of fact and supposition, unable to extricate the truth, and something needed to be done about it. The sergeant had just decided to request a private chat with his boss, when he was beaten to it by a most unexpected visitor.

  “Is he in, Detective Sergeant Jones?” The light from the door was blotted out, and both Jones and Stanton did not, at first, recognize their caller. Then they both snapped to attention.

  “Chief Constable Herbert!” Jones said, trying to hide his surprise. The enemy had decided to ride into their very midst, or so it seemed. “Yes, sir. I’ll just let him…”

  “I’ll go straight in,” Herbert said, waving them back into their seats. “Carry on with your duties, lads. I’m hearing good things about you both.” He thrust DCI Clever’s door open, went inside, and closed it behind himself with some force.

  “This is a pleasant surprise, Chief Constable Herbert,” Richard Clever said, rising to his feet. “What can we do for you?”

  “You can stop all this damned silly cloak and dagger business for a start, Clever.” Alan Herbert removed his peaked cap, dropped it on the DCI’s desk, and sat down in the nearest empty chair. “I know about you snooping into my past career, and I’m not happy about it. Why are you trying to rake over old coals?”

  “I’m simply following a line of enquiry that came to light during my investigation of the Peter Kerr murder,” Clever said.

  “Come off it, man,” Herbert snapped at him. “There are coppers in this place still loyal to me. I knew about your little kidnap ploy within the day. Why I trusted that simpering idiot Donald Bronson, I don’t know. You achieved my aim for me though. Why was that, Chief Inspector?”

  “The West End Lads gang needed to be broken,” Clever responded, telling half of the truth. “With Jacko Ball gone, the rest will either fade away, or join your friend, Vincent Morant.”

  “Morant is no friend of mine,” Herbert replied. “Nor was his uncle. Black Archie Morant was a lowlife. Do you know why he reneged on his deal with Peter Fornell? I thought not. You think it was for money, don’t you?”

  “It crossed my mind, sir.”

  “Fornell and he were in it together.” The Chief Constable smiled at Clever’s ill-concealed reaction. “Fornell killed the Earl, and Morant was supposed to get him off. Then, a new will would be found, courtesy of one of Morant’s forger friends, and the fortune would be split. Something went wrong, and Morant let his pal swing. Peter Fornell did it, DCI Clever. Have a look at the evidence if you doubt me. I had him bang to rights.”

  “I’ve read the report, sir,” the DCI said.

  “I mean the physical evidence,” the Chief Constable told him. “It’s all still in our safe keeping. I’ll authorize full access for you. Check it out, then make your mind up.”

  “Do I sense a bargain in the offering?” Richard Clever was thinking on his feet, wondering what this new development really meant.

  “Not a bargain. A warning about trying to pin some spurious corruption tag on me. I’ll bury you, and your lads, under so much red tape, you’ll be on your pensions… if you keep your jobs that long. Drop it, Richard. Do us all a very big favour.”

  “I have two murder cases to solve.”

  “One. Fornell was guilty. As for who killed Peter Kerr, I suggest you try the simple approach.”

  “What do you know?” Clever asked.

  “Know? Nothing for a fact, but I can let you into a grubby little secret I uncovered twenty odd years ago. I kept it quiet for the sake of Lady Vancleur, the late Earl’s wife, and it didn’t affect my own investigation.”

  “Go on.”

  “A few weeks before the murder, Lady Vancleur dismissed all of her below stairs staff. She brought in her London housekeeper, a vinegary little woman, at short notice.”

  “Why?”

  “To get rid of one of the female staff,” Alan Herbert explained. “She
had heard a rumour that Peter Fornell, the Earl’s illegitimate son had been sleeping with one of them. In fact, he had slept with at least three of the girls.”

  “Where is this going?”

  “I thought you were the smart one,” Herbert sniggered. “One of them had a child by him. It was put away somewhere in the Midlands, by the Earl, I believe. Like father like son, I suppose. The child would have been about two years old when Fornell murdered the Earl.”

  “Without proof, all this is just a story,” Clever said, but his mind was already racing ahead. A twenty five year old abandoned child, returning to find his parents, and instead, finding out something which lead to his murder. It seemed plausible.

  “That’s right. If it helps, the mother of the child went a little bit loopy when he was taken off her. Then she was thrown out of work, and her boyfriend hanged. Imagine her surprise if her son turned up, years later. No telling what might have happened.”

  “I need a name.”

  “Will it keep you out of my business, Chief Inspector?”

  “I will take no further action against you,” Clever conceded, “providing your tale is true. The name please, sir?”

  Chief Constable Herbert retrieved his cap, placed it on his head and turned to leave. He paused at the door, hand on handle.

  “She was called Thrower,” he said. “Virginia Thrower.”

  Dan Jones and DC Stanton both stood as their commanding officer marched past them without so much as a nod of recognition, and the sergeant’s stomach clenched. He could sense that things were now on a tightrope, and it was going to be very difficult for them all to keep their balances. The next move now, was, almost certainly down to their DCI. Get it wrong, and they would all be plunged into the dark abyss.

  “Detective Constable Stanton!”

  “Yes, Guv?”

  “Where’s the report on your pram lady?” the DCI called. “I don’t recall having seen it.”

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t write one up. I thought …”

  “Well, stop thinking. I want a report on everything we do, look into, or hear. I can’t read your mind, and if that is the only repository for what I need to know, we are in deep trouble.”