‘So long as that’s all,’ she grinned.
Despite Sheila’s best efforts I woke in the small hours and lay thinking about Alan Walton’s case. Maybe there was a pattern involving Saffary and his unholy chums. My thoughts got scribbled on the bedside pad:
*
How did Glenys come to give her information to Saffary & Co?
Why did they deaf Miss Callington as a witness?
Why did they let Hughes go?
Why didn’t they arrest Simpson when they arrested the other three? Was Simpson killed? Was he left at large to be killed? If so, why?
*
All of which brought me back round to:
*
Who in the Central Midlands police was prepared to lie to the Court of Appeal to cover something up and what were they covering?
*
Which was quite enough to put me back into an uneasy sleep.
I had a look at the note in the morning. It looked a bit over the top. It implied that someone in the police had set Simpson up to be killed and that the force had covered that up.
I bumped into John Parry in the Magistrates’ Court and persuaded him to join me in the Rendezvous Café afterwards.
Settled to tea and buttered Chelseas, I told him about my session with Walton and the idea that Simpson was murdered. It didn’t seem to disturb him greatly.
‘Is that a real possibility?’ I asked.
‘Anything’s possible, bach,’ he said, munching steadily. ‘But if he was topped the same way that Cook was, then Doc Macintyre would have spotted it. If you want to really upset the old boy, ask him.’
I nodded. Suggesting to the Scots pathologist that he’d overlooked a murder sounded like a recipe for causing another one. Nevertheless, I might have to risk it.
‘You agreed with me’, I said, ‘that the letter to the Court of Appeal clearly meant that the force has got something to hide in this case. Right?’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now you’re going to ask if I think that someone in the force set Simpson up to be killed and someone else covered it up with that letter. I’ve told you before, boyo — don’t confuse conspiracy with cock-up. Even if — and that’s a bloody big if — Simpson was murdered that wasn’t the reason for the letter. If Hawkins and his mates killed Simpson, they could hardly go to headquarters and say, “Look, there’s a bit of a problem about this Walton appeal, ‘cause we stiffed a bloke in that case and we’d be grateful if you’d get it shoved out of court for us.” Well, could they?’
‘No, I suppose not, but — ‘
‘But nothing! The letter was because someone at HQ knows or strongly suspects that Hawkins and pals were up to their usual tricks, being a bit over-imaginative about confessions and things, and they don’t want any more bad publicity. That’s all.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ I said, reluctantly. ‘What about them, though?’
‘Who?’
‘Hawkins and Watters and Saffary. What sort of blokes are they?’
‘Hawkins is the dead sort. He was a flash bastard — sharp dresser, loud mouth, always after the women, probably took backhanders, stop at nothing to get a result. Watters is a creepy character — dead eyes, pale face, never raises his voice, always very precise. Underneath it he’s a sadist. Saffary you know — thick as a pig, pure Ulster proddy bigot, hates lefties, gays, blacks, Catholics, Jews, Welshmen and you.’
‘Why did he hate Simpson, then?’
‘Who says he did?’
‘Let’s just suppose that Simpson was killed and that Hawkins and pals knew about it. There must have been a motive for them to turn a blind eye.’
He stared for a moment. ‘Not far to look for a motive with them three — they had motives for being bent coming out of all nine orifices. Hawkins, it’d be women or money or promotion. Watters, it’d be promotion, revenge or the sheer pleasure of nastiness. Saffary, it’d be religion, race, politics, promotion or revenge.’
I chuckled. ‘What’s funny?’ he asked.
‘It seems ironic,’ I said. ‘Billy Simpson was well into revenge. Always believed in getting his own back. He was going to fix Glenys’s boyfriend when he died.’
‘Then maybe that’s it. Perhaps it’s got nothing to do with the Mantons job.’
‘I thought you once said you didn’t believe in coincidence. Get back to revenge, John. Did Simpson ever cross any of Hawkins’ team up at all?’
He shook his head. ‘Not that I know of, but that means nothing. I’ve told you, I always tried to keep well upwind of their operations in case the smell stuck to me.’
‘Could you find out?’
‘Hardly, boyo. Saffary’s the only one I see and he doesn’t trust me an inch because I eat buttered Chelseas in low cafés with lefty solicitors. Which reminds me that there’s just time for you to buy me another.’
I summoned the faithful Ruby with more supplies. Parry’s broad face turned thoughtful as he chewed.
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘if anything, I have a feeling that it was Walton that Saffary had a thing about.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I told you. He and his cronies had a booze-up to celebrate the appeal being thrown out. Saffary seemed particularly pleased that it was Walton.’
‘So what did Walton do to him? Apart from hanging about with trade unionists?’
‘I don’t know, boyo. I don’t know.’
Not much result for the price of six Chelseas and four mugs of tea.
25.
Sheila had taken a day off from grubbing in libraries and archives and was supposed to be at home, analysing the results, but when I arrived she had the Walton file spread all over my desk.
‘That’, I said sternly, ‘is a confidential file.’
‘If you’re going to drag me into Wormwood Scrubs by passing me off as your clerk, mate, you can stand back while I do a little clerking. I got bored with transportation records and thought I’d take a squid at Walton’s file to see if anything smelt funny.’
‘Be my guest,’ I said, dropping into a chair. ‘But if you stood that file at the end of the garden you could smell it from here. Everything about it stinks.’
She got up and stood behind me, her arms around my shoulders and her breasts pressed into my back. Her tongue slid into my ear.
‘Tea or coffee or whisky or what?’ she enquired.
‘How about “what”?’ I suggested.
‘Later.’ she said. ‘For now it’s drinks, then dinner.’
Over a large Talisker I told her about my chat with John Parry.
‘Are you going to ask the Doc?’ she said.
I nodded. ‘I’ll have to. Now that Alan Walton has raised the point I’ve got to check it out. I can’t say I relish the prospect, though.’
‘Let me do it,’ she said. ‘Invite him to dinner tomorrow night and let me practise my feminine arts on him.’
That sounded sensible and I agreed. ‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘Was there anything in the file that set off your female intuition?’
She scowled. ‘Don’t knock intuition, cobber. Sherlock Holmes said that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusions of an analytical reasoner — so there!’
‘I apologise. What would Sherlock have made of the Walton case?’
‘He might have shot more cocaine than you’re swallowing whisky,’ she said, ‘but I think he’d agree with me about one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The curious conduct of Desmond Murphy.’
‘Who the blazes is Desmond Murphy?’
‘He is — or was — the Mantons security manager. There are two very funny things about him. Firstly — he always sent three vans to Belston and varied the pick-up schedules for security reasons. But one of those three vehicles always made the Bellsich pick-up and always passed through Belstone Lane to get there. Isn’t that peculiar?’
I nodded. ‘So anyone who wanted to rob one of the Mantons vans could easily fin
d out that one of them always passed down Belstone Lane about the same time on Saturday evening. The time would vary a bit, depending on the stops it had made in Belston and traffic and so on, but if someone sat on the Bellsich roundabout for a few Saturday evenings they would be able to work out the time bracket. Not bad, Sherlock. You’re not just a pretty face.’
‘Say that again and you’ll be back in hospital, mate. Seriously, though, it is strange, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but the failure of almost all security systems is caused by people getting into lazy, careless habits. Perhaps that’s all that Murphy did. He’s an ex-copper, isn’t he? They’re not trained to think logically, you know.’
‘Maybe so,’ she said, ‘but I give you my second point — I draw your attention to the behaviour of Mr Murphy on the evening of the crime.’
‘But — let me see — Murphy was out that evening, carrying out routine checking on the Belston vans, right? He waited at Mantons in Belsich for van number 3 to arrive.’
‘Right,’ she said, ‘and when it didn’t, what did he do?’
‘He went home.’
‘Precisely, Watson. He was out checking that everything was apples with the Belston pick-ups according to him. Then one of them goes wrong — goes missing, in fact — and what does he do? He buggers off home, that’s what! Logic says that when that van was so late at Bellsich he should have driven back along its route to see whether it had blown a tyre or its crew were in a boozer or what, but he didn’t.’
It made a nasty kind of sense and I groaned. ‘So maybe it wasn’t the Payday Gang, it wasn’t the Trumans, it wasn’t Billy Simpson and his pals. It was an inside job — is that what you’re saying?’
‘Not really. It might still have been one of the three favourites, but Murphy may have been in on it. Why don’t you send Claude along to put the frighteners on him?’
‘He’s not going to confess,’ I said, ‘even to the frightfulness of Claude.’
‘Maybe not,’ she said, ‘but it might stir up some activity.’
‘The last time we stirred up some activity, Banjo Cook ended up dead and I ended up in hospital.’
Famous last words.
26.
Sheila set up the trap for Doc Macintyre. It wasn’t difficult. He lives with a housekeeper even uglier and more curmudgeonly than himself whose cooking he curses daily. An offer of a decent meal would take him anywhere.
She invited my assistant Alasdair to join us. ‘He’s the excuse,’ she explained. ‘You’re going to discuss Walton’s case with Alasdair and Billy Simpson’s mysterious death is just going to pop up naturally.’
‘Oh, of course,’ I said. ‘Whereabouts in the menu would you like the late Mr Simpson? With the soup, or later?’
She scowled, fetchingly. ‘Just apply yourself to being a good host and helping our guests to enjoy my excellent cooking. After that, you can break out the Talisker and start talking shop but follow my lead, don’t blow it and upset the Doc.’
She was evidently well in command, so I confined my activities to fetching and carrying.
Alasdair arrived a little early with a couple of bottles. His taste in wines is good and seems to fit with his expensive, twenties-style suits, his languid drawl and his outmoded upper middle class slang. Only his hand-rolled cigarettes break the pattern. They’d go better with meths or Red Biddy.
‘Not knowing what’s on the jolly old menu,’ he said, ‘I brought a bottle of each, red and white. What are we having?’
‘Braised kangaroo pouch,’ Sheila said straight-faced.
Alasdair plays tennis — of course. He returned the shot effortlessly. ‘Top hole!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve never tried kangaroo, but it’s sort of pinkish meat, isn’t it? Should go nicely with the Oxford Landing red, that’s from down under too.’
Sheila conceded. ‘Get him primed,’ she ordered, ‘before Mac gets here. I’m off to change.’
Minutes later the old pathologist arrived with a bottle of Laphroaig which seemed like a good way of getting us all primed.
When the summons to eat came I was astonished to see Sheila in a dress. She’s normally a slacks or jeans person and she hadn’t worn a dress since Christmas. Now a cunningly designed red outfit was brightening her ash-blonde hair, making her eyes sparkle and doing quite a lot to display her figure. She was evidently determined to take every kind of advantage of Doc Macintyre and it worked. He was kissing her hand before we reached the table.
Something Indonesian with lots of nuts in it and a dessert created from fruits I didn’t know you could buy in Britain put us all in a good mood. Afterwards, in the sitting-room, we broke out the Talisker and Alasdair rolled one of his filthy fags, sucking it into reeking life before taking up his cue.
‘How’s the Walton case going?’ he asked.
‘Walton?’ said Mac. ‘Anything I’m involved in?’ He was hoping for an opportunity to regale us with his ghoulish stories.
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Though you PM’d a bloke called Banjo Cook who was supposed to have hanged himself.’
‘Aye, that’s right,’ he said. ‘Murdered, then hung up. Very silly and obvious. Who’s Walton?’
Which gave me the perfect excuse to outline the case and my fruitless and confusing enquiries. Mac interjected an occasional question, Alasdair sat silently, sipping his whisky, puffing his cigarette and letting his astonishing memory take hold of the facts.
I told the story more or less chronologically which left Walton’s assertions about Billy Simpson’s death to the end.
Mac narrowed his eyes across his glass. ‘And this Simpson was supposed to have hanged himself?’
‘Yes,’ I said, nervously.
Sheila moved in swiftly. ‘That’s pretty unlikely, isn’t it, Doc? You said that killing Banjo Cook and hanging him up was silly and obvious.’
‘Oh aye,’ he said. ‘There’s a world of difference between hanging a dead body and hanging a live one. No pathologist could miss it. Even a police doctor shouldn’t miss it.’
He paused, and I could see a glimmer of suspicion pass across his face. Drunk or sober, Doc Macintyre was still one of the most astute people I knew.
‘Did you say that this Billy Simpson was a Belston man?’ he demanded.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Then he must have been one of my customers,’ he said slowly. ‘You arenae suggesting that I couldnae tell the difference? Are ye?’
There was a distinct truculence in his manner now.
‘Of course not, Mac,’ I said. ‘That’s why I can’t believe Walton.’
He subsided, partially mollified, and took a long swallow of whisky. Then he looked up.
‘It was a gey while ago, didn’t you say? When did Simpson die?’
‘About twelve years ago,’ I said.
He laughed aloud. ‘Well, that buggers your argument, laddie. I wasnae in Belston then!’
The relief around the room could be felt. ‘Then who would have PM’d Simpson?’ asked Sheila.
‘Old Gaythorne and he was a feckless old bugger who just did what the police told him.’
He launched into a tale about his predecessor examining the body of a girl found dead on a piece of waste ground after leaving a party with a man.
‘There was evidence of recent sexual intercourse and the coppers were looking for rape and murder, but Gaythorne said it was vagal inhibition.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Sheila.
‘It’s a rare form of sudden death caused by inhibition of the vagus nerve. It sometimes happens to women who get over-excited in sexual intercourse. It’s more common in Scotland than anywhere else.’
We laughed, obediently. He deserved applause after the way we’d tried to set him up.
‘I thought you said that Gaythorne did as he was told?’ Alasdair said.
‘Oh, aye,’ Mac said. ‘The detective in charge picked Gaythorne up by his lapels — right there, in his own mortuary — and held him up against the wall. “That girl
was raped and strangled,” he said. “You hear me? She was raped and strangled.” ’
‘And what did Gaythorne do?’ I asked.
‘He gave evidence against the girl’s boyfriend, that’s what he did, and the boy got life for murder. Ask John Parry if ye dinna believe me. He was one of the coppers in the case.’
There was silence for minutes. Macintyre broke it. ‘So Alan Walton might be right, Chris. If someone wanted to cover up the murder of Billy Simpson, Gaythorne was just the fella to do it.’
‘But,’ said Alasdair, ‘to persuade your predecessor to falsify his report it would have to have been a police cover-up, isn’t that right?’
Mac nodded and Alasdair smiled. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a pattern, Chris. The police fail to catch the robbers, then they charge the Truman chappies and fail to convict them, then they lay a charge against the Payday Gang and fail to get a conviction on that, then the lovely and malicious Glenys surfaces and they arrest her husband’s pals, but they fail to arrest him and he dies so they can’t convict him. Then they let Hughes go without any effort and finally they frame Walton and Grady.’
‘And the pattern is … ?’ I said.
‘Deliberate failure, governor. They didn’t want to catch the right chappies so they kept going through the motions. Then they put an end to it — with Glenys’s assistance — by tidily framing two chaps they didn’t like.’
‘But why did Glenys have her sudden attack of morality?’ I asked.
‘Can’t say,’ he replied. ‘I think the coppers set her up to do it. For some reason it was necessary to put an end to the matter, so they used her to knock it on the head. Two chaps in quod for ever — end of Belstone Lane story.’
‘And why did Simpson die?’ asked Macintyre.
‘Because they daren’t risk putting him on trial. He must have known something about the real situation. Nor could they risk him being at large when Walton and his chum were tried in case Billy’s famous sense of humour and his desire for revenge led him to tell what he knew.’
Around the room heads were nodding thoughtfully. Mine was one of them.
‘Then where do we go from here?’ I asked.
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