‘It’s all right. I came by car and it’s below.’
Fusil crossed to the door, opened it, and escorted Selby to the head of the stairs where he shook hands and said good-bye. Then he went along the corridor to the C.I.D. general room. Rowan was putting on his mackintosh and Kerr was sitting on the edge of his table.
‘Is it knocking-off time, then?’ demanded Fusil.
Officially it was, but they didn’t answer him.
Fusil looked at Kerr and pointed at a pile of cardboard boxes. ‘What the hell are they doing here?’
Rowan, seeing the D.I.’s attention was concentrated on Kerr, hurriedly left.
‘They were brought in from the Mackeson case,’ replied Kerr.
‘Why aren’t they in the property room?’
‘We’re listing the boxes by their marks before we put them down there, sir, in case the marks are at all important.’
He was lying, thought Fusil, but one had to admit that he was quick. ‘You can give me a copy of the list in the morning.’
‘Of course, sir. I was going to.’
Fusil almost smiled. ‘D’you know the offices of the Abbott’s Insurance Company in Broad Street?’
‘Not off-hand.’
‘Get down there and make enquiries about the insurances Selby had, covering himself and his wife. Find out which bank Selby used and obtain copies of his statements over the past year.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Kerr looked at the clock. ‘I don’t suppose the office will be open this late since most people have finished work some time ago. . . .’
‘You can go there right away, then, and find out if you’re right.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The bastard never gave an inch, thought Kerr.
The door opened and Yarrow came in, and both Fusil and Kerr looked at him with a dislike which each tried to hide. ‘I’ve just been along to your room, sir,’ he said to Fusil. ‘The identification of Mrs. Selby as the dead woman is all tied up.’ He spoke with respectful certainty, as if only a fool would question his statement.
Fusil was no fool, but he questioned it. ‘Is one allowed to know on what evidence?’
‘Her dentist confirms from her teeth that there can’t be any doubt.’
‘There’s always room for doubt.’
‘Not in this case,’ contradicted the other, politely. ‘One second molar had been gold-capped, one canine had been extracted, three premolars had been stopped, and the top back third molar, which was impacted, but had not erupted, had been twice X-rayed.
‘Mr. Tractor said there was no chance of another patient having a similar set of teeth.’ He waited. but nothing was said. ‘I learned that his Christian name was Xerxes. Rather amusing, isn’t it?’ When he saw there was no change in Fusil’s expression he smiled briefly in a manner that was irritating without being insolent. ‘If there’s nothing else, sir, I’d like to get down to the hostel to settle in?’
Fusil briefly nodded.
‘Good night, sir. Good night, Johnny.’ Yarrow left.
Fusil stared at the closed door. ‘And what is so goddamn funny about having Xerxes for a Christian name? His second one is Eustace, so he’s nothing to shout about.’
‘I think he was referring to X Tractor, for the name of a dentist.’
Fusil swore. He looked at the clock, then at Kerr. ‘I don’t suppose you’d really have bothered to go to the insurance offices,’ he said wearily. ‘Come and have a jar up the road.’
He was almost looking old, thought Kerr.
Chapter Seven
In the kitchen, Valerie pulled out the tray from under the grill. ‘Ready,’ she called out.
Linda, who had been painting on the table, turned round. ‘Can I finish this, Mum?’
‘No. I want the table cleared right away.’ She tried to sound strict, but failed. A woman of deep and warm emotions, she remembered her past unhappiness so clearly that she was unwilling to cause her daughter the slightest distress, even over so small a matter as this.
Downring entered the kitchen, still flushed from his hot bath. ‘Something smells good!’ He bent down and saw the steaks. ‘Hey! Who’s won the pools?’
She looked at him with a trace of uncertainty. ‘Just for once, I thought . . . I know how much you go for steak.’
He put his arm round her waist and kissed her neck. ‘So you went mad!’
She smiled, relieved he didn’t care that for once she’d been extravagant. ‘Sit down, love, and I’ll put the grub on the table. There’s some chips as well.’
While he waited, he chatted to Linda about her painting. Although he seldom thought of her as other than his own daughter, there were occasions when he wondered how it was that so strong a bond of love had been built up between himself and another man’s child? Usually he concluded that it was because each of them needed, in a special degree, to be wanted.
His steak was tough, but he told her it was as tender as a virgin’s tits—a comparison that made her giggle and then look quickly at Linda. Afterwards she served him chocolate blancmange.
He finished the blancmange and pushed the plate to the centre of the table. ‘I’m just going out for a bit.’
She stared at him. ‘I thought you wanted special to see that programme on the telly?’
‘I feel like a bit of fresh air.’
She looked away and there was a slight twist to her mouth as suddenly she lost her gaiety.
He tried to sound casual. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘It don’t matter.’
She was hurt and suspicious and he hated upsetting her like this, but he had no option if he were to save her far greater distress. Trying to act as if he had noticed nothing unusual about her manner. he said good-bye and left.
The pick-up was reluctant to start and he swore—you could always tell a mechanic’s car because it was so badly looked after. He thought about Smokey Hutchins. Smokey was born lazy, loud-mouthed, efficient only at lorry hoisting, yet last week he’d been driving in Fortrow in a new V12 Jaguar.
The pick-up started. He drove through the village, turned left down the short hill, and continued along to the cross-roads which marked another but very much smaller village. A little further on were the outskirts of Fortrow.
The Oak was in Bratby Cross, a sleazy suburb where the failures, the indigent, the petty criminals, and the villains, lived. The pub was a square, ugly building, badly in need of decorating, on one corner of cross-roads. The landlord was large and tough and known for a tight mouth, so that although the law was often in the place, they never learned anything from him.
Downring went into the public bar and ordered a half-pint of bitter. The barmaid—very old mutton dressed as very young lamb—served him, then moved down the counter to some men who were shouting for more brandies. Downring drank and checked on the people present: Cade was over in the corner, seated at one of the small round tables. Downring pushed his way through the crowd to the table and sat down.
Hairy Al Cade—disease had stripped every body hair from him—was a small, simian man, with overlong arms, one shattered leg, and a face that was pitted and blackened from the premature explosion which had ended his career.
‘’Evenin’,’ said Downring.
Cade waited. People said he was so lazy even talking was mostly too much of an effort.
Downring offered a pack of cigarettes. ‘How’s life?’
‘It don’t change.’ Cade finished his drink.
Downring reached across the table and picked up Cade’s glass. ‘Same again?’
‘It’s a double whisky.’
He bought a whisky at the bar. Back at the table, he said: ‘I want some putty and a couple of detonators.’
‘You’re asking!’
One of the things the Army had taught him was how to use explosives and in particular the new family of plastic explosives which had certain characteristics invaluable to villains.
Cade ran his hand over his smooth, bald head. ‘How much?’
‘T
wo pounds of TTX.’
‘There ain’t that much around.’
Downring finished his beer. Cade said: ‘If I was to find some, it’d cost you a grand.’
Downring smiled.
Cade spoke with sudden emotion. ‘I’m telling you, it’s real difficult.’
‘Two centuries and that’s all.’
Settlement was finally fixed at four hundred pounds, with delivery the next night. Downring said he was off and left. His last impression of Cade was of two beady eyes bright with inquisitive interest.
Chapter Eight
On Tuesday there was a welcome return of the sun and with the east wind having died away the day was warm by nine o’clock.
In his office Fusil sorted through the mail, the crime reports, the inter-departmental and inter-force memoranda, and the many forms waiting for his signature, he initialled the duty and incidents book for the previous day and checked the warrants book and the leave rota, and finally went down to make his daily report to the divisional superintendent, Passmore. On his return to his room, Welland came in.
‘I’ve had a long chat with the garage owner, sir, and he says . . .’
‘Have he and the garage got names?’ interrupted Fusil.
‘Edward Philby and the place is called Entington Garage,’ said Welland, with undiminished cheerfulness. ‘He confirms there’ve been no previous threats of any kind and he’s no idea why anyone should set fire to the place.’
‘Is it insured?’
‘Yes, and he sounds as if he’s hoping to do well out of it.’
But surely not well enough, thought Fusil, to justify his having set the fire himself? ‘What’s he say about Downring?’
Welland pulled out his notebook and flicked it open. ‘He took Downring on about a year ago. Says he only did it as a public-spirited kind of a bloke, but I talked with one or two of the locals and they say the garage was in real trouble because Philby’s only interested in women and when the last mechanic left it looked as if the place might close down. Downring’s good at his job, though, and now the place is booming.’
‘Does Philby suspect some form of thieving that the fire might have been trying to cover up?’
‘Nothing like that. His only gripe is that Downring’s too independent in manner.’
There was no sign of any connection between Downring and the garage fire and yet if an ex-con was around when trouble started . . . ‘Have you gained any ideas of your own?’
‘Nothing special, sir.’
Perhaps it had been too much to expect the amiable, beer-drinking, rugger-playing Welland to have an idea of his own, thought Fusil uncharitably. ‘All right.’
Welland left. Fusil lit his pipe. Most irritatingly, two simple cases were worrying him and he couldn’t really be certain why. Mrs. Selby seemed to have died an accidental death: the fire in Entington Garage seemed to have been no more than a piece of stupid vandalism. And yet . . .
The telephone rang. Kywood wanted to know whether Yarrow had reported for duty and how was he settling down? Fusil said that D.C. Yarrow was making himself at home.
*
Kerr went on to Brook Street and the offices of the Abbott’s Insurance Company. The branch manager was middle-aged, slow-speaking, and he had a slight stoop: he looked as if he found life a very serious thing indeed. ‘I’ve checked up and Mrs. Selby had a straightforward endowment policy, for the same amount as her husband but with a slightly lesser premium. I’ve asked for her file. I saw in the papers she’d died in the fire: very distressing.’
But not quite so distressing, thought Kerr, as if the policy hadn’t been cancelled and the company had had to pay out?
There was a knock on the door and a girl in her late teens brought in a file. She was physically attractive in a ripe manner and when she leaned forward slightly to put the file on the desk it was interesting to see how high up her shapely thighs her short skirt rode. On the way back to the door, she looked at him with interest. A stroll in the woods with her, he thought, would lead to more than hay-fever. . . . Normally able to control the passion that smouldered within her, the sight of him had blown all self-control to shreds. She was his, utterly and completely. His touch was like a transfer of fire. His lips were an explosion. She was desperate, tormented, overwhelmed. . . . The manager coughed and Kerr unwillingly returned to the office that smelled vaguely of hair cream.
The manager had picked up a document. ‘The policy was for three thousand pounds, with profits, maturing when she reached the age of sixty. When Mr. Selby talked about cancelling and taking the surrender value I naturally tried to dissuade him, but he was adamant that he could not afford both policies and his was the more important to keep up so that his wife received something if he died suddenly.’
‘How long had it been running?’
‘Twelve years.’
‘How much was each premium?’
‘A hundred and thirty-five pounds.’
‘When did he actually cancel the policy?’
‘On the eighth of January.’
It all seemed straightforward enough, decided Kerr. Selby had taken on more insurance than he could finally carry—because she spent so much on drink—and had done the only possible thing. Because of this, there was no financial motive for the murder of Mrs. Selby.
He replaced his notebook in his pocket and stood up. ‘Thanks a lot for all your help.’
The manager spoke stuffily. ‘I trust you’ll keep the facts I’ve given you completely confidential?’
‘Not a whisper to anyone,’ replied Kerr.
On the way out, he saw the secretary as she leaned right over to put something into the bottom drawer of a cabinet. He began to whistle. He might be an engaged man, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate feminine beauty—though not in any lascivious sense, of course.
Previous telephone enquiries had discovered that the Selbys banked at the Dritlington branch of the Midland and a bus dropped him within walking distance of it. At the enquiries counter, fronted with plate glass and a speaking grill, a severe woman, black hair drawn tightly back into a bun, came and asked what Kerr wanted, then went over to a door with a spy-hole through which she looked. She returned and said the manager’s visitor was on the point of leaving, so he’d be free very shortly. Kerr spent the next five minutes reading two pamphlets which told him how best to invest all the money he hadn’t got.
The manager was relatively young, very smooth, and a shade belligerent. ‘Of course, you’ve no right to this information without an order,’ he said.
‘That’s true, but . . .’
‘And so I don’t see why I should give it to you.’
‘If it’s done quietly and discreetly, and no harm to anyone, there’s no adverse publicity for your client . . . or you,’ replied Kerr, remembering Fusil’s dictum that the good detective made certain he was always polite, tactful, and armed with something heavy.
The manager hummed and hawed, but finally used the internal telephone to ask for details of Selby’s accounts. There were two, a joint one with his wife and a number two in his own name only. In neither had there often been less than a couple of hundred pounds: in early January there had been over five hundred in the number two and three hundred in the joint.
Kerr, a frown on his forehead, studied the figures. ‘He’s certainly not what you’d call hard up.’ He looked across. ‘Wouldn’t you have expected him with this sort of money around to keep up an insurance on his wife that cost a hundred and thirty-five a year? Yet in January he cancelled it and lost out on the surrender value.’
The manager showed some interest. ‘Is that what happened?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What was the capital sum?’
‘Three thousand.’
‘Oh! Not so very much, then.’
If the manager really thought three thousand, with profits, was mere pocket money, thought Kerr, his second name must be Rothschild. ‘But isn’t it odd he didn’t continue
it?’
The manager shrugged his shoulders. ‘Obviously, he never sought expert advice.’
Kerr made a note of the outstanding balances over the months from October to March, then passed the statements back. He thanked the manager for his help, left the bank, and returned to the pavement and the sunshine. His stomach gurgled rapidly and a check on the time confirmed it was after twelve o’clock so he found a café with a menu that appeared both appetising and reasonably cheap. He ate sausages, tomatoes, bacon, egg, and chips, and thought about his honeymoon. The question of where to go was one of the very few over which he and Helen disagreed, at times with no little heat. He plumped for romance. Tunisia on a package tour: palm trees, camels, oases, Tuaregs, veiled women. She was practical. A week at an English seaside resort would be less costly and would leave more money for carpets, bedclothes, and cutlery. He sighed. Somewhere far to the south the wind came across the hot sands, men carried curved Jambiyas at their belts, rode racing camels, and stole their women, flinging them over their shoulders and galloping off into the setting sun . . .
*
Kywood was all smiles when things were going well, but as bitchy as hell when they weren’t. He leaned forward in the chair, in front of Fusil’s desk, and said belligerently: ‘You told me both cases were completely straightforward.’
‘I know,’ replied Fusil wearily.
‘But now you’re telling me they’re not.’
‘That’s not exactly what I said, sir.’
‘It’s exactly what you mean.’ Kywood sucked on his lower lip as he rubbed his strong, square chin. ‘I’ve known more D.I.s than I can count on my fingers, but there hasn’t been one of ’em can hold a candle to you for getting hold of a straightforward case and tying it up into so many goddamn knots that a tribe of monkeys couldn’t do any worse.’
‘The facts . . .’
‘Facts! If you stuck to them, I wouldn’t get so many ulcers. Just stop and look at the facts, then. A woman dies in a fire when her husband was six hundred miles away and hadn’t set foot in England for over six weeks. So the facts say that her husband couldn’t have had anything to do with her death, which in any case the facts say was accidental. But you don’t like accepting facts. You look around and eventually discover that in January Selby let the insurance on his wife lapse. To me, that’s the clincher—not that I needed one. If a bloke’s going to murder his wife and she has a life insurance, he’s going to do it while it’s still in force so that he stands to gain something. The very fact that he cancelled the policy confirms he must be in the clear.’
Call Back to Crime Page 5