Death at Beacon Cottage

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘And no doubt you would be able to circumvent all these devices?’

  ‘Sure.’ Roddy spoke confidently, but in his heart he knew that, should the challenge actually arise, the odds would be heavily against success.

  ‘Excellent.’ El Dueño was rubbing his hands together; for the first time, the man smiled. There was something chilling about the way the lips drew apart and lifted at the comers, while the expression in the eyes did not alter.

  ‘This isn’t a trial you’re putting me through, is it?’ A wild notion had entered Roddy’s by now whisky-befuddled head that this might be some monstrous joke at his expense. Was this smooth-tongued despot with the humourless smile a sadistic megalomaniac, challenging him to pit his wits against impossible odds and preparing to exact some hideous penalty for an inevitable failure? His newly found confidence ebbed away and he gulped nervously at his drink.

  His host seemed to find the question amusing, but made no direct response. He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘I have something to show you.’ He crossed the room and pressed a switch. A section of panelling slid aside, revealing another room beyond. He beckoned. ‘Come and see my collection. You may recognise some of the canvasses.’

  They entered an enormous room whose whitewashed walls were hung with pictures. Roddy exclaimed in astonishment as his eyes fell on a Turner, a Degas, a Boudin and a Toulouse-Lautrec, each of which he instantly recognised as having been taken from one of the houses he and his accomplices had successfully raided. For a moment, he felt a sense of elation, swiftly followed by revulsion as, in a flash, he was brought face to face with a truth from which he had, ever since embarking on his adventures, been trying to hide. The means of acquiring such treasures could, in this as yet unidentified but obviously South American country, be amassed only from dealing in drugs on a massive scale. This man’s deadly trade spanned the globe with a web in which he himself was now inescapably enmeshed.

  ‘You appear surprised, my friend.’ The voice seemed to come from within his own head. He started, almost spilling the contents of his glass.

  ‘I had no idea—’ He almost choked on the words.

  ‘And a little angry, perhaps, at the thought of how comparatively little you were paid?’

  Roddy shook his head, momentarily speechless. How unimportant the money seemed now.

  ‘You were paid according to my instructions. You were at first, so to speak, on probation. Had things gone well at Bussell Manor, the price would have substantially improved. Crowson and Morris would similarly have benefited – how foolish they were to play such a childish trick and hope to get away with it.’

  Roddy blinked down into his glass. His brain was spinning and he decided that he had better not drink any more. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Are you saying that the stuff hadn’t been lifted by someone else after all – that they took it for themselves and tried to blame me?’

  ‘Oh, there’s no doubt that someone had been there before them. Who it was we don’t yet know – he will be found and deal with in due course.’ Again, there was the hint of menace that made Roddy shudder. ‘No, it seems that when they realised there would be no pay-out for them if they had nothing to hand over, they decided to take a few items for themselves and sell them independently. Unfortunately for them, they made the mistake of offering them to the gentleman who was expecting the main consignment. He, of course, reported to Wallis straight away, and Wallis took the necessary steps to ensure that such a mistake could never be repeated. He has, so to speak, terminated their contracts. Perhaps you would care to read about it.’

  The reptilian smile, the obvious euphemism left Roddy in no doubt of the price Crowson and Morris had paid for their indiscretion. Even before he saw the stark black headline, ‘Bodies Found in River’ and read the grim details on the printout that El Dueño took from a folder lying on the desk – the same folder in which Juan had brought Roddy the early reports of the robbery – he had guessed the sickening truth.

  ‘We shall, naturally, arrange replacements for them when necessary.’ El Dueño took the paper from Roddy’s shaking hand and carefully replaced it in the folder. ‘And in due course I shall have further orders for you, Señor Rodriguez. I am sure you will not be so foolish as to disregard them. Now, let us discuss some details.’ He led the way back through the concealed door, which closed silently behind them.

  Roddy returned to his chair on legs that shook and passed a dry tongue over dry lips. ‘What do you want of me?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘Merely to return to England and continue the excellent work you have been doing.’

  ‘You mean, open up more stately homes so that your boys can lift more pictures and objets d’art? How can I? I’m a wanted man – I’d be arrested the minute I reappeared.’

  ‘You underestimate our organisation. A little plastic surgery can work wonders and my friend Doctor Gundlach is a leading practitioner in the field. A new face, a new identity – you will be back in business in a very short time.’

  Roddy was overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness. He had been given no choice; his enforced departure from England had led to a form of captivity no less secure than if he had been arrested, tried, found guilty and sent to prison. For a few days he had allowed himself to enjoy the pampered lifestyle into which, willy-nilly, he had been tumbled. He had closed his mind to its source, blotted out all thoughts of the wretched victims who had paid for it in degradation and death. Now, with the realisation that his own escapades – undertaken at first out of sheer devilment and the desire for adventure – had contributed to that vast well of human misery, he felt sickened. And there was no way out; the trap had closed behind him. He had no alternative but to do whatever was required of him.

  El Dueño stood up and held out a hand; the interview was over. ‘I have arranged for a consultation tomorrow morning at Doctor Gundlach’s clinic,’ he said. ‘And in preparation for your new identity, you are to have some instruction in South American Spanish.’

  At last, Roddy found his voice. ‘What is my new identity?’ he faltered.

  ‘Your teacher will give you the fullest briefing. Her name is Consuela, and she is very, very beautiful. You will soon forget your English chica.’ The corners of the mouth lifted again and this time, for a split second, the smile crept into the eyes. The effect was almost satanic.

  Pepita! In his mental and emotional turmoil, Roddy had temporarily forgotten her. The mystery of the missing photograph flashed into his mind and he was on the point of demanding to know what had become of it, but something held him back. Other questions crowded into his thoughts as well – such as, for example, how his eventual disappearance would be accounted for – but this did not seem the time to ask them. In any case he had no doubt that this man, with his infinite cunning and a vast organisation at his disposal, would have taken every detail into consideration.

  On the way back to the villa, Juan, misunderstanding Roddy’s thinly concealed agitation, tried to reassure him. ‘You’ll be fine, amigo. Doctor Gundlach is the best and his clinic is the finest in South America. As for Consuela… hombre! Some men have all the luck!’ He put bunched fingers to his lips and made kissing noises.

  Roddy managed a wan smile. At least, that part of the adventure sounded promising. He badly needed a woman and, passionately as he loved Pepita, it was doubtful if he would ever see her again. With an effort, he thrust to the back of his mind the gnawing fear that she might be in deadly danger.

  Twelve

  On Wednesday morning, DI Castle was summoned to the office of Superintendent Sladden, who demanded to be brought up to date with recent developments. After giving an account of the discovery of the bodies of Crowson and Morris, their subsequent identification and the preliminary report of the forensic pathologist, Castle said, ‘I can’t help feeling, sir, that this latest development supports my feeling that there’s a very powerful organisation behind all this. It could be an elaborate money-launderin
g exercise serving a drugs syndicate.’

  Superintendent Sladden pondered the suggestion in silence. When a couple of minutes had passed and he had not spoken, DI Castle ventured to say, ‘I’ve been wondering, sir, whether it might be an idea to alert the Drugs Squad?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think we’ve reached that stage yet,’ said Sladden with a frown. ‘I’m sure we’re quite capable of conducting a murder enquiry without calling in outside help.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking so much about asking for their help, just to check whether they have any reason for being interested in Rodriguez.’

  ‘Ye…es, Rodriguez.’ Sladden sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘You aren’t suggesting he had a hand in these murders, are you?’ He permitted himself a fleeting, slightly patronising smile.

  ‘No sir, of course not, but surely you must agree that for all three suspects to be eliminated from the scene within what was probably a matter of hours – it has not, of course been possible to establish exactly when Crowson and Morris died, but the pathologist reckons the bodies were in the water for at least twenty-four hours before they were found – surely that has to be more than a coincidence?’

  ‘On the face of it, a connection seems a strong possibility,’ Sladden admitted, ‘but it still doesn’t prove that their deaths had anything to do with the Bussell Manor job, or any of the other jobs we’re talking about either. No,’ he jerked himself upright and began toying with his heavy onyx desk calendar, ‘I’m still not a hundred per cent convinced he’s our man – oh, I know on the face of it, he might seem to be the most likely candidate,’ he went on before Castle could protest, ‘in fact, you could say he’s the only candidate at the moment, but the evidence so far is purely circumstantial. A thread from a mass-produced garment, a thumbprint and a few grains of sand that a smart lawyer could easily convince a jury had perfectly innocent explanations – assuming, of course, that the case ever got to court…’

  ‘So why the disappearing trick?’ Castle asked, a little wearily. Having his theories shot down by the Super was becoming almost routine these days.

  ‘I assume you’re taking steps to establish whether this Dr Laben and his clinic really exists?’

  ‘Naturally, sir… but doesn’t it strike you as strange that no address was given and no indication of the source of the fax? Surely that proves something? Mr Tomas Rodriguez is seriously concerned for his cousin’s well-being.’

  ‘Perhaps the information was withheld at the patient’s own request. We don’t know what relations are between the two men… maybe Tomas has been over-protective in the past and his cousin didn’t want him fussing around.’ The Superintendent was obviously in no mood to be persuaded.

  Castle felt his patience wearing thin, but he managed to conceal his exasperation as he said, ‘You could be right, sir.’

  The admission was rewarded by a gracious smile. ‘I’m not trying to trash your ideas, Castle, just making sure you don’t lose sight of the fact that there’s often more than one explanation for something that at first seems blindingly obvious.’ Sladden put away in a drawer some papers lying on his desk and pressed a buzzer. It was a signal that the interview was at an end and Castle, feeling more than a little relieved, stood up. As he reached the door, the Superintendent said, with an almost avuncular smile, ‘Keep up the good work, Castle. You’ll keep me posted, won’t you?’

  ‘Naturally, sir.’

  Feeling thoroughly disgruntled, Castle returned to his office to find a message from Sukey. She had been called to check a burned-out car found on Crickley Hill. Destruction had been virtually complete, but the registration number was that of a van belonging to M. and T. Rodriguez Limited.

  ‘There’s got to be a link, Sook,’ said Jim, adding, ‘Cheers!’ as she handed him a glass and a can of beer. ‘Sladden’s right, I admit coincidences can sometimes blow an investigation off course, but there’s a whole string of them here, far too many to ignore.’

  ‘Mm, I think so too. What has he got to say about the connection between Rodriguez and the burned-out van?’

  ‘He doesn’t know about it yet. I’m saving it until forensics have gone over the wreck with a toothcomb.’

  ‘I doubt if they’ll find much, but you never know.’ Sukey ran water into the sink and began peeling potatoes. ‘Bangers and mash for supper tonight,’ she announced over her shoulder. ‘I hope that’s OK with you. It’s one of Gus’s favourites.’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  ‘Jim, why d’you suppose the Super was so reluctant for you to contact the Drugs Squad?’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy to explain – he doesn’t want the case taken out of his pudgy little hands. He’s coming up for retirement soon and no doubt he’d like to go out in a blaze of glory. Nailing the Phantom Robber would be just the thing to set the crown on a distinguished career.’

  Sukey chuckled. The Superintendent’s reputation was well known in the SOCOs’ department. ‘Wouldn’t it just!’ she said gleefully.

  The front door slammed and Fergus came bounding into the kitchen brandishing a copy of the previous evening’s edition of the Gloucester Gazette. ‘Jim, I was hoping you’d be here. Is it true these are two of the blokes you’ve been looking for in connection with the Bussell Manor job? Mum went all cagey on me… said the information hadn’t been officially released.’

  ‘You were just off to the youth club when the paper arrived and I was afraid you’d say something indiscreet, you were so full of how clever you’d been…’

  ‘Clever?’ queried Jim with an indulgent smile.

  ‘I said there’d be some bodies, didn’t I, Mum?’

  ‘You weren’t the only one.’ Jim’s smile faded. ‘It’s all turned very nasty.’

  ‘At least, you can be sure now that all three of them were in cahoots over the robbery,’ Fergus pointed out with an air of great wisdom.

  ‘I wish Superintendent Sladden shared that conviction,’ said Castle, a trifle sourly. ‘He’s got a thing about coincidences.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘He doesn’t trust them.’

  Fergus shrugged. Then his eye fell on the sausages that his mother was arranging on the grill and exclaimed, ‘Ooh, bangers! My favourite! Anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Not for the moment, thanks. Are you going out this evening?’

  ‘Just down to the club with Anita. How long will supper be?’

  ‘About half an hour.’

  ‘OK, I’ll go and have a shower.’

  Fergus clattered out of the kitchen and up the stairs, humming a snatch of the latest Michael Jackson hit. Jim finished his beer and got up to rinse his glass at the sink. ‘Don’t you want another?’ said Sukey in mild surprise.

  ‘Not just now, thanks.’ He came and stood beside her as she turned the sausages under the grill. ‘Sook, we have to talk.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘You know I said the other evening I was concerned for your safety. This latest turn of events has made me more uneasy than ever. There’s a ruthless machine grinding away out there—’

  ‘—looking for more victims? You make it sound like something out of a sci-fi movie,’ she teased him.

  ‘Be serious, Sook. Those two – Crowson and Morris – were pretty small fry in the set-up, but they might have given us valuable information if we’d been able to get our hands on them, so they had to be disposed of.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that, but I don’t see what that has to do with me. I don’t know anything—’

  ‘Of course you don’t, but whoever’s behind this thinks you’ve been having an affair with Roddy, remember? And to their way of thinking, you might well have picked up something that could give us a lead.’

  ‘How could I? Anyway, if Roddy’s out of the country he’s well out of your reach, so what have they got to worry about?’

  ‘We’ve no proof that he really has gone abroad. We’ve been making enquiries at all the ports and airports but we’ve d
rawn a blank everywhere. Not that that’s conclusive – there are ways and means, given the money and the organisation, of spiriting anyone away without leaving any traces.’

  ‘Are you saying the fax could be a hoax?’

  ‘Yes and no. We’ve established through contacts with the Swiss police that there is a real Doctor Laben and he does have a clinic – a very prestigious one patronised by the rich and famous – somewhere near Montreux. Only, the good doctor denies all knowledge of the fax, maintains he’s never heard of Rodriguez and says no patient suffering from nervous exhaustion has been admitted to his clinic within the past week.’ Jim turned away, picked up an apple from a bowl and began prowling round the kitchen, tossing it moodily into the air. ‘Whichever way we turn, we seem to run into the sand,’ he complained. ‘We’re making all the usual enquiries, but so far we haven’t turned up a single piece of information that might lead us to the killer – or killers – of Crowson and Morris.’

  ‘What about Donna? Hasn’t she been able to help?’

  ‘The poor woman’s pretty traumatised and we haven’t been able to interview her properly yet. One thing we’re looking at is whether any of her previous visits to her mother tie in with other jobs that we suspect them and Roddy of carrying out. Not that that would get us anywhere either.’ Jim dumped the apple back in the bowl and sat down again. ‘Let’s forget that for now and talk about you.’

  ‘Are you still suggesting I should go into hiding?’

  ‘I’d be a lot happier if you did – just until we get this lot cleared up.’

  ‘You’ve just said yourself that you haven’t got a single lead. It could be months… and in any case, if they thought I represented that much of a danger, surely they’d have made a move by now.’