Call Back to Crime

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘Who the hell cares what he says?’ demanded Rowan.

  ‘I imagine Fusil, for one, since he’s got one black mark on his record already. . . .’

  The door was opened and Fusil stepped inside. He looked round. ‘What the hell is this . . . a goddamn tea party? Rowan, I told you to get those files. Welland, why aren’t you out at Bratby? Kerr, you’re supposed to be questioning that foreman of the road works again.’ He left, slamming the door behind him.

  Yarrow crossed to the cracked mirror and examined his reflection with satisfaction, slightly adjusted the set of his tie, then went out.

  Rowan picked up some files from his desk. ‘Why were we bothering to defend that sharp bastard? He’s more than capable of doing it himself.’

  They left the room in a group and Kerr was last. As he closed the door, they all heard the telephone ring. Rowan and Welland hurried on, fearing that the call could mean extra work. Kerr hesitated, but thought that with Fusil on the warpath it was stupid to take risks. He went back in.

  ‘County forensic lab here. Reference forty-five, stroke six. We’ve checked the handkerchief under ultra-violet light, but there are no laundry marks. The blood was human and type AB—no chance of determining the MN factor. The stains were engine oil and grease.’

  ‘Anything else that’ll help us?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  After thanking the other and replacing the receiver, Kerr stared down at his notes. Not much help there.

  The telephone rang again. ‘Dabs here. Reference two four stroke four. I’ve an identification for you on the dead man.’

  ‘That’s good! Who was he?’

  ‘Joseph Cannon, aged forty-eight, a string of petty convictions on the file. Last known address was Madders Avenue, Fortrow. Released from Fortrow jail a year back after serving eighteen months for mail robbery. Shall I tell Records you want the file?’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you would.’

  ‘Why not, I feel generous. I’m just off on holiday.’

  Life was all right for some, thought Kerr. He went along the corridor and into the D.I.’s room.

  Fusil was writing. After a while he looked up.

  ‘Two reports are just through from H.Q., sir.’ Kerr read out his notes.

  Fusil began to tap with his fingers on the desk. ‘It’s time we had a chat with Downring,’ he finally said. He pulled open the top right-hand drawer of his desk. ‘We’ll take these with us.’ He held up a six-inch-square plastic envelope in which were a number of red coloured strips of paper. ‘Baroni-sulphate paper.’ He put the envelope down. ‘The name of Cannon seems familiar. Did Dabs say what he’d been inside for last time?’

  Kerr re-read his notes. ‘I thought I’d mentioned it—a mail robbery.’

  Fusil said: ‘Of course!’ His voice quickened. ‘It’s beginning to tie together.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Downring called Philby over to help him bleed the brakes of an old and battered Morris. Reluctantly, Philby made his way through the confusion of vehicles, tools, bits and pieces, rags, and oil draining cans. ‘Pump the brakes slowly when I say.’ Downring had to shout to overcome the noise from above where three men were repairing the roof.

  ‘Don’t be long,’ said Philby.

  Downring bent down and worked on the brakes. As he replaced the drum on the front off-side hub and screwed in the retaining nuts, he saw a pair of legs immediately beside him. He looked up. Two men were there, one behind the other, and he instinctively and correctly identified them as detectives.

  ‘I’d like a word with you,’ said Fusil, raising his voice to overcome the clatter.

  Eventually, he scrambled to his feet. ‘You want me?’ he asked, futilely refusing to admit he knew who the other two were.

  ‘Hey!’ shouted Philby through the open window of the car, ‘are you finishing the job?’

  Downring shrugged his shoulders.

  Philby, looking uncertain, scrambled out of the car. After a quick glance at Fusil and Kerr, he left the shed.

  ‘Let’s go somewhere where it’s quieter,’ said Fusil. He turned and led the way out and down the slight slope to the Vauxhall.

  ‘What’s up, then?’ Downring asked in a challenging voice.

  ‘My name’s Detective Inspector Fusil and this is Detective Constable Kerr. We’re making certain enquiries and believe you may be able to help us,’ replied Fusil, using the time-honoured formula.

  ‘Enquiries about what?’

  ‘The attempted bank job over at Bratby Cross, early Friday morning. Do you mind if we drive to your house and have a talk about it?’

  Downring stared past the repair shed at the wooded countryside, which looked so quiet and beautiful in the sunshine. There was no way now of preventing Valerie from suffering.

  ‘Come on,’ snapped Fusil.

  Downring’s face set in an expression of sullen hate. He climbed into the back seat and Kerr sat beside him.

  Fusil backed the Vauxhall round on the courtyard. ‘Where is your home?’

  ‘Up the hill, last place on the left.’

  They breasted the slight hill. On their right was a butcher’s shop, with slaughter house by its side, on their left an open field in which had been dug the foundations of twenty-two new houses. They drove on and came to the last council house.

  Fusil parked the car. Downring led the way up the short path, unlocked the front door, and went in. Valerie came out of the kitchen.

  ‘I thought I heard you. What brings you back . . .’ Fusil stepped into the house, followed by Kerr. For a few seconds she stared at them in perplexity, then realised who they must be. She immediately became very frightened.

  Downring turned abruptly and went into the front room, where he stood before the empty fireplace. He was to remember the look in her eyes for a very long time.

  Fusil studied the room. It was clean and tidy, yet poorly furnished: even the television set was very ancient. He sat down. Often when the man he was questioning kept standing, he sat and made himself obviously comfortable as a means of setting up an air of relaxed superiority. He nodded at Kerr, who settled on another chair and took a notebook from his pocket. ‘You already know why we’re here,’ said Fusil, in a conversational tone of voice.

  Downring’s hands were clenched tight and jammed in his dirty overall pockets. The wild thought came to him that perhaps he could take them both on and smash them and so keep Valerie and Linda for just a little longer.

  ‘We’re making enquiries into the attempted bank robbery at Bratby Cross.’

  ‘I don’t know nothing about that. Since I came out of stir, I’ve been going dead straight.’

  ‘You took no part in the attempted robbery?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you handle or supply the explosive that was used?’

  ‘No.’ He knew with despair that he’d answered the question a shade too sharply.

  ‘Have you anything in this house that you might find difficult to explain to us how you came to have it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you’ll have no objection to our searching it?’

  ‘I’ll object,’ contradicted Downring bitterly, ‘but not because of what you’ll find.’

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘Because I don’t like people poking about in it any more than you would.’

  Fusil’s tone of voice remained almost affable. ‘Did you know Joseph Cannon?’

  Downring paused whilst he mentally braced himself for this new line of attack. ‘I’ve met him,’ he finally said.

  ‘When you were inside?’

  ‘What’s that matter?’

  ‘He’s dead. He was the man found on the new bypass.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘He was murdered.’

  ‘Are you asking me to order flowers?’

  ‘I think maybe you murdered him.’

  ‘Then you must be round the twist,’ Downring said hoarsely.

  ‘You shot him in th
e head, after he’d given you certain information.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘The constructional details of the bank vault and strong-room so that you knew which was the weakest point and so where to place the explosive charge. It’s information he got when he nicked some registered mail.’

  ‘Look, get this straight. I met him in the nick, but that was the limit. I didn’t ask him nothing, he didn’t tell me nothing, and I ain’t seen him since.’

  ‘You shot him to keep him quiet because he was a fool who was always liable to talk.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him!’ shouted Downring. He suddenly looked at the door and a twisted expression crossed his face. He struggled to regain his self-control. ‘Mr. Fusil, I’ve told you the truth.’

  ‘But someone shot him and buried him under the new road and his murder’s connected with the bank job.’

  ‘I saw that on the telly. The banger who set the putty made a right old balls-up. D’you think I’d have done that?’

  ‘Anyone can make a mistake.’

  ‘Not that big. The collar wasn’t laid straight—it was out of shape and uneven.’

  ‘You’re making yourself out quite an expert on what happened.’

  ‘I’ve got eyes.’

  ‘Did your eyes tell you what kind of explosive was used?’

  Downring spoke more slowly. ‘Some sort of plastic.’

  ‘TTX, maybe?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Have you had any around her recently?’

  ‘No.’

  Fusil took from his coat pocket the envelope in which were the red strips of paper. He held it up. ‘D’you know what this is?’

  Downring shook his head.

  ‘Baroni-sulphate sensitised paper. It turns green if it’s put near where TTX plastic has been—even days ago.’ His sharp gaze noted beads of sweat appear on Downring’s forehead. ‘I’d like to try this paper around the house. . . . And outside in the garden.’ He caught the signs of added tension in Downring: the sudden fidgeting of thumb and fore-finger. Fusil stood up. ‘We’ll try the garden first.’

  Slowly, shoulders slumped, Downring led them outside through the front doorway. Fusil looked briefly at the tiny lawn and flower bed, then went down the passage at the side of the house to the back garden. The rotting garden shed was the obvious place to start the search. He walked up the well-cut grass path and stepped inside, having to hunch his shoulders not to bang his head. He took a torch from his pocket and switched it on.

  A square of earth showed signs of recent disturbance. He opened the plastic envelope and took out one of the strips of red paper and laid this on top of the disturbed earth. Downring, head and shoulders inside, stared down. At first nothing happened, then the red changed to a faint yellowy green.

  Fusil picked up the strip and put it into an ordinary envelope. He pocketed the torch, stepped outside, and straightened up. ‘The experts have assured me the test is virtually infallible. No other known substance will change the colour of the paper to green.’

  Downring spoke despairingly. ‘I ain’t touched any.’

  Fusil stared at him for a few seconds. ‘We’ll search the house,’ he said finally.

  Valerie was in the hall. When she saw her husband’s face her own puckered up as if she were about to break down and cry.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Downring, but we have to search this house,’ said Fusil, with a sympathy that was obviously genuine.

  She spoke fiercely. ‘Why?’

  ‘We’re investigating an attempted bank robbery.’

  ‘Conrad didn’t have nothing to do with that. He was in the house all night.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can corroborate that?’

  ‘I’m telling you.’

  ‘Does that mean there is no one other than yourself?’

  She went over to her husband and gripped his right hand. ‘I swear he never went out.’

  ‘Which night are you talking about, Mrs. Downring?’

  She struggled to remember on which night the robbery had taken place, but her mind was so disturbed she failed. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

  ‘We’ll start upstairs,’ Fusil said, his voice gruff.

  ‘You’ve no warrant,’ muttered Downring.

  ‘That’s right, but I can get one here inside the hour.’ He waited, but when there was no further objection he went up the stairs, followed by Kerr.

  They entered the first of the two bedrooms. As downstairs, everything was clean and tidy but all the furniture and furnishings were of cheap quality. Fusil stood by the bed and when he saw Downring hadn’t followed them, he said: ‘Sometimes I feel a right heel.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Kerr.

  Fusil, regretting his momentary confidence because Kerr’s agreement had been a little too quick, snapped: ‘Start searching.’

  Kerr opened the tall, old-fashioned wardrobe, heavily stained on one side. On the front hanger was a well-worn sports coat in Harris tweed that was coloured brown with green flecks. ‘This looks like the coat, sir.’

  Fusil came round the bed and studied the coat. ‘Get him up here,’ he ordered.

  There was no need to call Downring: he stepped into the bedroom as Kerr turned round. Fusil took the coat from its hanger and held it out. ‘Is this yours?’ he asked Downring.

  ‘Yeah. So?’

  ‘Have you any objection to my taking a thread from it?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We found a thread of material at the bank and I want comparison tests made.’

  ‘You just can’t be so bloody soft as to think that if I’d done the job I’d’ve worn that jacket?’

  ‘The thread is similar in appearance.’

  Downring spoke in tones almost of bewilderment. ‘But can’t you see . . . I couldn’t.’

  It did seem incredible. Fusil examined the coat closely and could find no trace of the dust he would have expected if it had been worn in the bank’s vault after the explosion. He turned back the cuff of the jacket. At one point where the lining had come unstitched it was simple to tease loose a thread. He put this in one of the envelopes he always carried, wrote the date and place and added his initials.

  ‘Look . . .’ began Downring, then stopped.

  ‘We’ll take the coat with us,’ said Fusil. ‘Have you a handkerchief on you?’

  Downring hesitated, then pulled from his overall pocket an oil-stained handkerchief. Fusil examined it. ‘May I keep this?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A handkerchief of similar appearance was found outside the strong-room.’

  ‘Christ, man, you must think I’m still wet behind both ears! I wouldn’t leave no handkerchief around any job.’

  Fusil ignored the impassioned protest. ‘Do you know what blood group you are? The handkerchief was blood-stained.’

  Downring ran his tongue round his lips. He hesitated, crossed to the chest of drawers, took out a plastic wallet which contained a small card. ‘A.B.’

  ‘The same group.’

  ‘It don’t signify. I ain’t been bleeding.’

  Fusil visually examined his face and saw the healed injuries Downring had been seen to have at the first interview at the garage. Obviously, none of these had bled in the past forty-eight hours. ‘How did your face get hurt?’

  ‘Like I told one of you before. There was this bit of a fight I got into over a week ago.’

  ‘With Pat Dalby?’ asked Kerr.

  Downring stared into space, but could not quite hide his angry interest at hearing, for the first time, the probable name of one of his assailants.

  ‘What was the fight about?’ asked Fusil.

  ‘We’d both been drinking. It wasn’t over nothing in particular.’

  Fusil shrugged his shoulders impatiently at the stupid answer. ‘Will you strip, please. I want to see if you’ve any injuries on other parts of your body.’

  Downring realised it was in his own interests to undress and he did so. ‘Satisfied?’ he
demanded.

  ‘Yes.’

  As Downring dressed, Fusil and Kerr continued the search, but they found nothing more of any significance. When they went downstairs, Valerie was in the hall and she stepped very close to her husband.

  Fusil didn’t speak until he was driving back down the hill past the garage and approaching the left turn that would take them back to Fortrow. ‘What d’you make of it?’ he asked.

  Cars were parked by the general store and a lorry had come to a halt on the opposite side. The gap did not look wide enough for the Vauxhall, yet Fusil accelerated instead of braking. Kerr stared with horrified fascination and as they went through the gap he judged that there’d been no more than an inch between his side of the car and the lorry.

  ‘I said, what d’you make of it?’ repeated Fusil loudly.

  There should be special danger money for travelling with Fusil, thought Kerr. ‘He made quite a point. Could he ever have been fool enough to wear that coat when doing the job? Why wasn’t the coat dusty—we were told the air would have been filled with dust. Could he ever have left a handkerchief around? Where on his body did the blood come from if it was his?’

  ‘Yet he was seen with Hairy Al and he’s had TTX in the shed. He was in the nick along with Cannon, who stole the mail in which were the details of the bank vault and strong-room.’

  ‘It just doesn’t all add up.’

  Fusil suddenly swore, as he turned left at too great a speed. ‘He’s right, you know. Nothing in this division ever stays simple.’

  Not until satisfied they were not going to skid off the road did Kerr realise Fusil was referring to Detective Chief Inspector Kywood.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Back in the sitting-room, Valerie demanded wildly: ‘Tell me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ muttered Downring.

  She sat down on one of the well-worn armchairs. ‘Conrad, when we was getting married we promised there wouldn’t be no secrets.’

  ‘They came here because they didn’t know who else to question. I was in the nick for a blowing job so . . .’

  ‘Why won’t you be straight?’ She began to cry again, her body shaking.

  ‘Val . . . Val . . .’ He came forward and gripped her shoulder.