Call Back to Crime

by Roderic Jeffries

  They secured a thin, knotted rope and climbed down to find themselves on a landing. One of them used the microphone and amplifier to check the five doors around the L-shaped landing and finally he signalled that only one room was occupied.

  They broke into that room and secured the middle-aged man and his wife in the bed in the same way as they had the owner of the florist’s.

  They searched for and found a switchboard that controlled the alarm system in the bank below. Parkes switched off all the alarms, then went down the half-flight of front stairs to a locked door that gave access to the bank. He used a very delicate compass to check that no electricity was flowing anywhere round the door, indicating a further alarm system which did not pass through the switchboard. The lock of the door was forced in twenty seconds.

  Down below, in the main section of the bank, sufficient light came in through the large windows from the street lights to enable them to move around without much trouble. They found the door which gave access to the stairs to the vault just beyond the manager’s office and the lock of this was forced as easily as had been all the others.

  They returned to the loft and, with the help of the two who had remained in the florist’s, began to move the equipment. It took them twenty minutes and during this time the collar of TTX explosive which they had brought ready made up was dropped and one of them trod on it. When it was picked up no attempt was made to re-shape it.

  The vault, half of which was taken up by the strong-room, stored a number of old files and ledgers. The huge steel circular door of the strong-room, with steel surrounds, had a time lock and not even the latest cutting equipment, calling for an endless supply of oxygen, could have forced that in anything like the time that was available to them. Parkes ignored the door and with a tape measure carefully measured out the wall to the left, making a small pencilled cross.

  The collar of explosive was secured in a rough circle round the pencilled cross, but again no one bothered to re-shape the plastic where it had been trodden down or to check that the plastic was lying flush against the wall. Parkes inserted a detonator in the top of the explosive and then motioned to the others, who left.

  Upstairs, two of them took up positions by the windows to keep watch on the road. A patrolling constable came along, tried the outside door, and continued on. The road was once more empty and the signal was given and relayed down to the strong-room. Parkes struck a match and lit the fuse, then raced up the stairs, shut the door, and waited with the rest. They knew a stomach-churning tension. They accepted that the explosive had the seemingly strange property of seeking out the hardest route and so would blow inwards and not outwards, but all of a sudden they were not so convinced that Parkes was right when he claimed there would be no alarm. . . . The explosion might wake people in adjacent buildings, but inevitably when there was no further noise of any sort they would just go back to sleep because every human—especially in the middle of the night—preferred to believe all was well rather than that there was some sort of trouble he should concern himself with.

  There was an explosion, strangely muffled for men who had been expecting and dreading the crack of doom, the building shook once, and the door burst open. Dust billowed up from below.

  They waited, nerves so strained that they sweated freely and two of them suffered stomach cramps.

  There was no pounding of feet, no scream of high revving cars, no screech of brakes. They desperately wanted to get on with the job and leave, but Parkes held them there for a full half-hour before he gave the signal to move.

  Below, much of the dust created by the explosion had settled yet the air still held enough in suspension that it came through their nylons, caught in their throats, and made them cough. Parkes shone his torch on the wall, expecting to see a neat circular hole punched through the reinforced concrete and steel lining beyond and then cursed wildly. The hole was pear-shaped and even at the widest point was not big enough to let any of them squeeze through, nor, with the tools they’d brought and the time left, was there any chance of their enlarging it.

  Each of them in turn looked inside through the haze at the jumble of strong-boxes, covered with concrete dust, which assumed a greater and greater value with every second he stared wildly through the hole.

  They were reluctant to leave and finally admit defeat. It was as if they believed that time might suddenly work a miracle for them. Eventually, however, Parkes gave the order to go. He was the last out and just before leaving he chucked a blood-stained handkerchief and a short length of thread on to the floor.

  Chapter Eleven

  Fusil stood in the bank vault in front of the strong-room door and watched Detective Sergeant Walsh take the last photograph and then check for fingerprints, using light- and dark-coloured powders and a camel’s-hair brush.

  It had so nearly been a perfect job, he thought. If the explosion had gone right the gang would have been inside and away with, according to the chief clerk, something over two hundred and twenty thousand in notes, eight thousand in coins, and customers’ valuables worth an unknown amount.

  He took his empty pipe from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth, chewing on the stem. Braddon came past him and stood in the near corner as he began to draw a sketch of the scene. Fusil stared at the blood-stained handkerchief on the floor, close by the thread which looked as if it had come from a sports coat. Since both lay on top of dust—as well as having a light layer of dust on top—it was fairly obvious they had been left behind by the villains. This puzzled him. Villains with the skill to carry out such a raid as this one very seldom left any obvious traces behind. Another thing, what could have pulled out the thread and was it only pure coincidence it was close by the handkerchief?

  When Walsh had finished, Fusil and Braddon searched the whole area, painstakingly sifting through every square inch of dust, which kept them coughing and sneezing. Half-way through their search an army captain, very smart in his uniform, arrived. When he saw the nature of the hole, and even before he had begun a detailed examination of it, he said that the explosive used had been TTX plastic.

  When he’d finished below, Fusil went up to the flat where Kerr was talking to the manager and his wife in the sitting-room. Considering what they had been through they were surprisingly calm, but unfortunately there was little of any consequence they could tell the police. They had been fast asleep, then they had been awakened, gagged, and tied up. Their memories of the intruders were of vague, horrific shadows, faces flattened by the nylons into bestial shapes. Neither was certain what clothes the intruders had been wearing, nor whether they were tall, short, fat, or thin.

  Fusil sighed. ‘Thanks for your help—sorry to keep bothering you like this.’

  The manager gestured with his hands. ‘I’m afraid we’re not really being any use . . . But it all happened so suddenly. You just don’t expect that sort of thing and when it comes it’s such a shock.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Fusil. It was an odd insight into the wilful blindness of human nature that although similar crimes were reported in the papers day after day, there was never an innocent victim who previously had thought such a thing could ever happen to him. ‘Are you sure you’re both all right now?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ replied the manager’s wife, a plump, matronly woman with an equable temperament. ‘We’ve each had a good stiff whisky, even if it is rather early in the morning, and that’s worked wonders.’

  He wondered if either she or her husband would suffer the delayed reaction which so often hit people after an incident like this? Presumably, their doctor would be keeping an eye on them.

  Fusil and Kerr left the room and Fusil led the way to the steps by the trapdoor and up into the loft. He crossed to the hole in the roof and looked out at the similar hole in the roof of the next building. What local villains had the imagination and capability of launching such a job? Fusil ducked back inside the loft. ‘Check the tiles all round the holes for any traces.’

  Kerr had already
done so earlier, but he made no comment as he began a second search: as Fusil was so fond of saying, there were authenticated cases where a vital clue had not been found until a fifth or sixth search.

  There was a clumping noise from below and Welland’s large head appeared. ‘Mr. Kywood’s just arrived, sir, and is asking for you.’

  Fusil swore. He told Kerr to keep looking hard and left.

  After a short time Welland’s head appeared again above the level of the loft. ‘So how’s it going with you?’

  Kerr relaxed. ‘I’ll tell you. Yesterday I promised Helen I’d be off tomorrow afternoon and Sunday as it’s my week-end off and we’d no major crimes on the books.’

  ‘You were really asking for it!’

  ‘Yeah! Say, have you got a fag?’

  ‘Several, and I’m going to keep ’em.’

  ‘Give over, I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘That’s what you’ve been saying since last Christmas.’ Despite his words, Welland climbed the steps until he could hand over a pack of cigarettes. ‘Take one—and forget your brother in China! Have you seen Useless Eustace this morning?’

  ‘Not since first thing—why?’ answered Kerr. He took a cigarette out of the pack.

  Welland rested his elbows on the sides of the trapdoor. ‘It’s just occurred to me he’s not rushing around here, getting high blood pressure along with the rest of us.’

  Kerr sat down on one of the rough boards that ran along the centre of the loft. ‘He’s good at one thing—finding cushy jobs for himself.’

  Welland took back the cigarettes and lit one. ‘Know something? Ever since he joined, the Old Man’s been almost polite to the rest of us!’

  Kerr thought about that and realised it was true. ‘Maybe there’s something to be said for Eustace, after all.’

  ‘I used to know a good joke about Eustace, but I can’t remember how it went.’

  ‘If it’s from your rugger club, don’t bother.’

  Welland studied Kerr. ‘A hard game of rugger would do you a power of good.’

  ‘More like kill me,’ he replied.

  *

  As with most road schemes in the country, the extension of the Fortrow by-pass to improve the flow of traffic on to and off the existing road had been discussed for years before anything was actually done. Then in a sudden frenzy of activity the plans were passed with as little reference to the public’s wishes as possible and work began on the mile-long stretch by a large industrial estate. Progress was slow and considerable equipment was stolen from the site. A uniformed sergeant and a P.C. were talking to one of the foremen in connection with the theft of a pneumatic drill when a man, white with dust, came running up to the very roughly fenced compound where some of the equipment was kept. ‘’Ere, come quick. We’ve just been and found a body. We was digging where you said . . .’ He stopped to try to regain his breath as sweat ran down his cheeks.

  ‘Where’s this?’ demanded the sergeant.

  The man pointed to his right. Four hundred yards away, where the road was going to curve to the left, they could see several men: as they watched, others ran up.

  The sergeant led the way across the roughly graded earth whose surface was still loose enough to dust. He pushed his way through the men and stared down. A square of earth had been dug out and at the bottom of this hole was uncovered part of a man’s hand.

  The sergeant straightened up. ‘Will you all move back, please.’ When, reluctantly, they’d stepped back he knelt down. The palm of the hand was pointing away from him, so that the body—assuming one was attached to the hand—was probably stretched out underneath him. The state of decomposition made any snap judgement difficult, but the hand gave the impression of early middle age. He spoke to the P.C. ‘You’ve got your transceiver, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘Call the station and ask ’em to let the D.I. know immediately.’

  *

  Fusil watched the four diggers—Kerr, Welland, and two P.C.s—as they carefully dug down into the hard-packed clay. How recently was it that he’d told Kywood things were pretty quiet in eastern division?

  The diggers worked in silence. It was a dirty, disgusting job. Fusil watched and when the whole of the body had been uncovered, though not excavated, he called Walsh over to take more photographs.

  Fusil stared at the corpse, which must now be left until the arrival of the pathologist, who would decide how the final excavation should be made. Decomposition was patchy, almost arbitrary, and enough of the man’s face remained to confirm someone in his earlier middle age with a peaky face of little character. The clothes had suffered from rotting, but were clearly of poor quality.

  Fusil moved away, lit his pipe, and began to pace up and down as he impatiently waited for the pathologist. By nature incapable of waiting with phlegmatic patience for anything, he had so much work in hand that this unproductive wait was doubly infuriating.

  Twenty minutes after they’d stopped work, a large Austin drove up, bouncing on its springs and scattering loose earth out behind it. The pathologist, the same Irishman who had carried out the autopsy on Mrs. Selby, climbed out, followed by his secretary. After listening to Fusil’s report he went over and stared down at the body for a short time, then he said: ‘What have you done about arranging transport to the mortuary?’

  ‘Nothing yet, sir. I wanted to check with you.’

  ‘Then you can say we’ll be ready in roughly an hour’s time.’ He went back to the Austin and opened the boot. He put on green overalls, rubber gloves, and wellingtons.

  Kerr and Welland were detailed to help as much as they could, but most of the remaining work was done by the pathologist. Using a trowel, he carefully dug away the earth around the body, a small section at a time. Each scoopful of yellow-blue clay was examined closely, despite the obnoxious traces, and then set round the rim of the hole in line with where it had been.

  A plain blue van belonging to one of the local undertakers jolted up and parked next to the Austin. A man, wearing dark blue overalls, came across to find out how long it would be before the body was ready for moving. He then returned to the cab where he and the driver drank tea and smoked.

  Once the body was quite free, an oblong of stout canvas with rope handles along either side was slowly and carefully passed under it—a difficult and repugnant task. Taking care not to tread on the excavated chips of earth around the rim of the large hole, Kerr and the other three lifted out the canvas and put it down on the ground to the right.

  The pathologist examined the head more closely than before. ‘Shot, by the looks of things.’ He pointed to a shattered part of the skull behind the right ear.

  Fusil squatted down to stare at the wound. After a while he said: ‘Are you going to be able to get prints?’

  ‘I’d think we’d still be able to, but it all depends how much of the inner surface of the fingers remains.’ The pathologist stood up and stretched his back. ‘All right, you can take him off now. Will you ask the driver to tell the mortuary assistant that I’ll be along later today to do the P.M.’

  They carried the body over to the van and carefully hoisted the canvas stretcher into the back. The van drove off, followed soon by the pathologist’s Austin.

  Fusil called Kerr over. ‘See the whole area is cordoned off with rope and there’s to be a P.C. on duty to make certain no one comes near. Find out why this hole was being dug and question anyone who may know anything. I want a list of all the men, with their addresses, who’ve worked on the site over the past few weeks.’

  An easy order to give, thought Kerr, but a hell of one to execute. On a job like this, much of the labour was casual and for any one of a dozen reasons men either never gave addresses or else gave false ones.

  Kerr watched Fusil drive off, then looked at his watch and gloomily saw it was lunchtime. He went across to Welland. ‘The old man’s returned to the station, so grab a car and find the nearest pub. Buy a load of sandwiches and sausage rolls,
if they have ’em, or veal-and-ham pie if it’s got that crusty pastry.’

  Welland, boisterously cheerful even after disinterring a dead man, grinned. ‘If you were forced to give up either women or eating, you’d drop dead from frustration and starvation before you decided.’

  *

  Fusil was in his office dictating a preliminary report on the finding of the body to Miss Wagner—middle-aged, a spinster, believing him close to divine perfection—when the telephone rang. The caller was the inspector in London who acted as liaison officer with the metropolitan police for both county and borough forces. He reported that the Italian police confirmed Selby had been in the Hotel Morandi on the night of Friday, the twenty-second, and that registers of other hotels bore out his previous itinerary; the German police confirmed his movements in their country; the Austrian police had yet to reply.

  Fusil thanked the inspector and rang off. He finished dictating his report, asked Miss Wagner for two copies before dismissing her, then relaxed back in the chair. So Selby had been in Italy on the night of the fire, had been in the German and Italian hotels prior to that, and probably had been in the Austrian ones as well, thus confirming he had been on the Continent for the six weeks prior to the fire. Obviously, then, unless he’d caused the fire by remote control—no one else had any motive—he was not responsible for it and his wife’s death was accidental. . . . How could any form of remote control be made to work at a time when his wife was certain to be in bed and asleep in a drunk or drugged state, when he had not been near the house for six weeks? . . . Yet why had he let his wife’s insurance lapse when he had plenty of money in the bank to pay the premium? Fusil shrugged his shoulders. There were far more important matters in hand than worrying about a death which would have been listed as accidental before now except for his trifling and apparently unjustified doubts.