Call Back to Crime

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘Unless he reckoned that to do away with a financial motive was the best way of making it seem he must be in the clear.’

  Kywood stood up, kicked the chair aside, and paced the floor. ‘The man lets the policy lapse, you say that’s suspicious: he doesn’t let it lapse, you say that’s suspicious. Goddamn it, if Gabriel came down into this room and told you it was sunny, you’d look outside to see if it was raining.’

  Fusil fiddled with the pencil. ‘Why let the policy lapse when to do so cost him and he’d enough money to pay the premium? Doesn’t that suggest a man who sees a danger and gets rid of it—but by doing so inadvertently raises a new one?’

  Kywood returned to the chair and dropped heavily down on to it. ‘You’d complicate the twice times table. I’m telling you, Bob, there’s nothing in it.’

  Fusil was silent.

  ‘And then what about the garage fire?’ Kywood’s voice rose. ‘Someone smashes open a car’s petrol tank and sets fire to it. Stupid vandalism. It’s going on all the time.’

  ‘And it’s pure coincidence that Downring, who works there, is an ex-con?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would a vandal have belted Muller?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Fusil dropped the pencil and the noise somehow expressed his disagreement.

  ‘Bob,’ said Kywood, in a changed and pleasant voice, ‘I admire the way you try to make certain that nothing escapes you, but there have to be limits. I’m sure you’ll agree that we wouldn’t, for instance, want Menton to hear that we spend our time chasing shadows?’

  ‘Personally,’ snapped Fusil, ‘I don’t give a damn what stories Menton hears via that smooth bastard of a nephew of his.’

  Kywood was shocked by such forthrightness.

  *

  As soon as he had finished his late supper in the kitchen, Downring said: ‘I’ve got to go out for a bit.’

  Valerie’s mouth tightened and once again her expression became bitter and frightened. ‘Conrad, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘There ain’t nothing going on,’ he answered gruffly, sounding angry yet hating himself for the distress he was again causing her.

  ‘I know there is. You’re doing something wrong.’

  He tried to joke. ‘You reckon I’m meeting a blonde and having a few quick rolls behind the hedges?’

  ‘I wish it were just that. Are you . . .’ She whispered, as if afraid of being overheard. ‘Are you mixed up in something bad, Conrad? To try to get money for me and the kids. Straight, I don’t want that kind of money. . . .’ She broke down and began to cry.

  He came round the kitchen table and held her tightly to him: suffering hadn’t toughened her as it did so many. ‘It’s nothing like that,’ he lied.

  She turned until she could look up at him. Tears still spilled out of her wide, brown eyes. ‘Promise?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m trying to help an old friend.’

  It seemed the vague explanation satisfied her. ‘I’ve been so upset.’

  He kissed her. ‘There’s been no cause.’

  ‘Don’t be away very long.’

  ‘Not me. I’m too hungry tonight.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you have a second helping . . .’ She stopped. ‘You’ve got a one-track mind,’ she said contentedly.

  He kissed her again, said good-bye, and left. As he drove away from the house he swore, crudely and violently. In the past and before he’d met her he’d lied to enough women because that was life, but he’d never before lied to her and he hated himself for having done so now.

  The Oak in Bratby Cross was crowded and it was quite a time before he was served with half a pint of bitter. He lit a cigarette. Hairy Al Cade, his bald head glistening under the overhead light, caught his eye and nodded once. Downring went on drinking. Cade had insisted that this time they must not meet openly.

  At the far end of the bar an argument began between two men and two women. A drunk began to sing, wildly out of tune. Three men whom Downring knew to be in a heavy mob played poker dice and five-pound notes changed hands at every throw. A tart came in and bought herself a gin and looked around for custom. This was a familiar world to him, but one he had come to hate since being married.

  He finished his beer and left. In the car park to the right of the pub he leaned against the door of the pick-up and lit a cigarette. From a distance came the two-tone siren of an emergency vehicle in a hurry.

  ‘Got the folding?’

  He’d not heard Cade approach and the words startled him. He turned. ‘Four centuries in used oncers.’

  ‘Let’s see ’em.’

  ‘When I see the putty.’

  Cade came round the bonnet of the truck and put down on it a small parcel. Downring took two thick envelopes from his mackintosh pockets and handed them across. As Cade flicked through the used one-pound notes, Downring undid the parcel. The TTX plastic explosive looked like putty that was tinged pink and the characteristic smell of marzipan was strong. He pulled off a piece of the explosive and rubbed it between finger and thumb, and the texture, feeling oily, yet leaving behind no trace of oiliness, was right. Even though he had, in the Army and afterward when villaining, handled so much of it he was still fascinated by the fact that he could play with it, tease it with his fingers, throw it on the ground, stamp on it, all in absolute safety, yet should he introduce the smallest detonation it would explode with a force that would rip him apart. ‘Where are the detonators?’

  For the moment, Cade ignored the question as he carefully counted the notes. Finally satisfied, he reached into his coat pocket and very carefully brought out a plain envelope which he handed over.

  The detonators had been independently wrapped in tissue paper. Downring checked them. They were the right type and the red flecking along the length of fuse identified them as ten-second ones. ‘O.K.’

  Cade left, without a single word of good-bye.

  Downring drove back to Entington, but when two hundred yards from his house he switched off the engine and coasted on to the grass verge. He switched off the lights, climbed out, and closed the door of the cab very carefully.

  There was a path to the right of the house and he walked down this to the back garden. At the end was a wooden gardening shed, in the last stages of decay and yet still standing. The door had long since gone, and he stepped inside, instinctively ducking his head, although in the dark he could not see the lintel. To the right, at shoulder level, was a shelf on which was an untidy heap of cartons and parcels that contained the remains of fertilisers and weed killers and which had not been disturbed in years. He hid the detonators amongst the packets. The floor of the hut was earth. Using a fork, he dug a hole in the right-hand corner and buried the explosive there, afterwards tramping the earth flat again.

  When he left the shed a light was switched on in the kitchen and the shadow of Valerie crossed the curtained window. Whatever happened, no harm must ever come to her.

  Chapter Nine

  On Wednesday morning Fusil had just returned from an irritating interview when Yarrow came into his office.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Quite an Indian summer.’

  Fusil muttered some reply. The most infuriating thing about Yarrow was that he was efficient. Anyone as impressed by himself should have been incompetent through sheer self-satisfaction, but this just wasn’t the case. Further, he seemed able to judge the limits to which he could go with unerring accuracy—his manner was always just short of insolence. And, of course, peering over his shoulder like some fatal spectre was his uncle, Detective Superintendent Menton, who could pretty well make or break a mere detective inspector.

  ‘We’ve just received a report from the county lab on the fire at fifteen, Acton Road.’

  The royal ‘we’, thought Fusil, as if Yarrow were jointly in charge of the investigations.

  ‘There are no traces consistent with arson.’

  ‘No traces they could find.’

  Yarrow smiled briefly. �
��They said they’d send on a written report.’

  Fusil took his pipe from his pocket.

  ‘It would seem we can wrap everything up,’ said Yarrow.

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘You still think it might be a case of arson, sir?’ Yarrow’s voice expressed slight surprise.

  Fusil lit his pipe. Was Menton really to be feared? He sighed. Why try and hide from the truth? When applying to another force he would need references and if Menton leaned on Kywood the references would have to be written out on asbestos.

  ‘On the face of things,’ said Yarrow, ‘it just can’t be arson.’

  Fusil silently swore. Of course, Yarrow was right: common sense and logic both said it had been an accidental fire, leading to accidental death. So was he, Fusil, merely being pig-headed and refusing to accept the obvious because Yarrow so wholeheartedly accepted it? No, he assured himself, he had a feeling about the case which transcended common sense and logic. He looked up. ‘What’s your next job?’

  ‘I noticed some of the files were not up to date and . . .’

  ‘Get on down to the docks and see a Mrs. Petty at this address. . . .’ He handed over a slip of paper. ‘She’s reported her fifteen-year-old daughter’s missing—sounds as if she’s run off with a bloke.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Yarrow turned smartly and left.

  It was odd, thought Fusil as he puffed at his pipe, but not so long ago he would have said that an efficient, clever, conscientious D.C., who even voluntarily kept the files up to date, was just what he wanted in the division. But now he knew beyond doubt he’d far rather suffer a man like Kerr who was only efficient, clever, and conscientious, when he wasn’t thinking about women or food.

  *

  Downring drove along the narrow lane and the headlights picked out the T-junction ahead. He turned right. A mile further on, after the lane had twisted and turned so much all sense of direction was lost, he reached another T-junction and a much wider road. Turning left, he began the long but not very steep ascent into the hills at the back of Fortrow.

  The countryside on top of the hills was sparsely inhabited and was mainly agricultural, although there was some afforestation. Before he’d gone into the Army, he’d thought about farming as a job. Probably quite rightly, in view of his character, he’d decided against it.

  He reached a lay-by in which was parked a Ford Zephyr and drew in behind it. The Ford’s rear lights were switched on, then off. He picked up the parcel from the passenger seat, left the pick-up, and walked forward to the Zephyr.

  It was a moonless night and the man in the blacked-out Ford was only a formless shadow. ‘Have you go . . . go . . . got it?’ he asked.

  Downring passed the parcel across.

  ‘And the det . . . det . . . detonators?’

  Downring took an envelope from his coat pocket. ‘Two ten-second fuses, wrapped separately. The ten seconds run from the moment the fuse is lit, not from when you first see it’s alight. That can make up to a second’s difference.’

  The driver took the detonators. He switched on a small torch and looked inside the envelope, but made no move to unwrap the detonators. Downring noticed the three heavy gold signet rings on his fingers. ‘One thing’s real important. You’ve got to pack the putty absolutely evenly.’

  ‘Sure,’ muttered the other.

  ‘If you get the stuff uneven or don’t ram it right up against the surface you’re blowing, you’ll not punch an even hole.’

  ‘Sure,’ muttered the other, a second time.

  Downring stepped back and the Zephyr left, tyres scattering a quick hail of loose stones. He returned to the pick-up. He’d helped them, but by sticking out he’d avoided actually taking part in the robbery. He wondered what the job was? A jeweller’s, a bank, a post office. Would each man return home with fifty thousand for the job?

  Chapter Ten

  On Thursday evening Kerr arrived at Helen’s house at five-thirty. She had only just returned and had been hanging up her coat when he rang. ‘I never expected you so early,’ she said.

  He stepped inside and kissed her quickly on the cheek, knowing she disliked any greater display of emotion when others might be around. ‘It’s because the old man’s gone soft in the head. He sent me out this way to investigate a load of shoplifting.’

  ‘Why’s that make him stupid?’

  He grinned. ‘In the old days he’d never have sent me because he knows you live here. Being a suspicious kind of a basket, he’d have thought I might cut short the investigations to rush to see you.’

  ‘You really are terrible,’ she said, with a warmth that robbed her words of any criticism.

  ‘Life’s too short to work oneself to the bone every day of the week.’

  ‘I doubt we’ll ever see you with any of your bones actually sticking out!’ She tightened her arm against his for a few seconds, in a quick gesture of love, then stepped clear. ‘We’ll go and tell Mother you’re here so that she knows there’s an extra one for tea.’

  ‘I was wondering if she’d maybe made some scones?’ he asked hopefully.

  *

  The five men left the house in north-east Bratby Cross at 1 a.m. on Friday, two going out by the front door and three the back. They met two streets away, where they’d previously parked the two stolen cars.

  Parkes, who led the mob, and another man drove off in a Vauxhall and they used the so-called ring road to go down through South Flecton to the eastern part of Ribstone, which was a mixture of residential, industrial, and business areas. There was a large council car park, unattended after eight at night, in which were parked a number of lorries that had discharged their loads at the docks and weren’t returning home until the next day. Parkes drew into this. The top end of the car park backed on to a row of shops and to the left of these was a six-foot-high brick wall, with a set of thick wooden gates, which marked the back of the bank.

  Satisfied all was quiet, Parkes walked from the car diagonally towards the corner flower shop, next to the bank, that had a recessed doorway. He reached it and stepped into the shelter and as he pulled a nylon over his head he was joined by a second man who had a bunch of skeleton keys in his hand. The lock of the door was forced. Parkes opened the door, using a thin steel rod with rubber head to hold back the ‘pinger’ on top of it.

  They entered. During the next few minutes, the others joined them.

  At the back of the right-hand side of the shop was a door marked ‘Private’. Parkes tapped the shoulder of the man by his side and the other used his skeleton keys—looking like dentist’s probes—to force the door. No one spoke because each man knew exactly what he had to do.

  The stairs were carpeted. Parkes led the way up, carrying in his left hand a small torch whose bowl had been painted over until only a small spot of light escaped. When they reached the landing they waited. Enquiries and observations suggested the owner of the shop lived on her own, but there was always the chance that a friend had come to stay with her. One man used a small battery-operated microphone and amplifier to pick up through the doors sounds from each room to check how many were occupied. At the finish, he held up his gloved hand with one finger raised and pointed at the second of the doors.

  Three of them collected in front of the occupied room. Parkes gripped the door handle, turned it slowly and carefully until right back, and flung open the door.

  The torch showed the bed was against the far wall and the woman was lying on her side. She awoke as they reached the side of her bed. Shock held her quite motionless and she made no attempt to escape —not that any attempt could have succeeded. Gloved hands gripped her throat and pressed viciously. She opened her mouth in a frantic but vain attempt to draw air into her lungs, and a gag was thrust into her mouth. This was secured by a bond that was pulled so tight it forced back the corners of her mouth. The bedclothes were dragged back. Even at such a moment, modesty instinctively made her try to cover her nightdress with her hands, but these were seized, she was rolled ov
er on to her stomach, and her hands and legs were secured with thin string that bit into her flesh.

  They left the bedroom. Parkes shone his torch on the ceiling of the landing, but there was no trapdoor there. He motioned to another man who took a torch from his pocket, switched it on, and searched the other rooms. The trapdoor into the roof was in the bathroom.

  The building was two hundred years old. The roof was unlined and the small tiles were wooden pegged except in two areas where there had been repairs and galvanised nails had been used instead. The men worked carefully and skilfully at the far end of the attic by the dividing wall between that house and the next and after twenty minutes they had stripped a section of tiles. The joists, as was common in buildings of such age, were just wide enough for a normal-sized man to wriggle between them.

  Two men stood under the hole to help a third one reach through it to start stripping the roof beyond. His job was by far the most difficult so far because of the angle at which he had to work and by the time he’d finished he was shaking with fatigue.

  Three of them, Parkes leading, used a rope to help them climb from one attic to the other and all their movements had to be slow and deliberate, not only because of their own safety but also in order to avoid the slightest noise.

  They knew nothing about the bank manager’s flat above the bank or how many people were sleeping in it. The trapdoor in the loft, which was well covered with insulating pellets, was at the far end from where they’d forced an entry. The wood was badly worm-eaten and the hinges were rusty and obviously likely to squeal. They’d brought a small aerosol of oil with them and Parkes sprayed the hinges with this. When he lifted the trapdoor it came up with hardly any noise.