Call Back to Crime

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘Look at it the other way round, sir. If he was present, why was he wearing his ordinary coat—no villain would do that? And why wasn’t it filled with dust?’

  ‘Villains can do the stupidest things. Maybe he wore the coat, but took it off for the actual job.’

  ‘But the thread was down in the vault . . . I checked on something. He was wearing the coat the evening he returned home all battered. The odds must be that on that night he had a handkerchief on him that could easily have fallen out of one of his pockets and become stained with blood. The date he had his fight matches the date Pat Dalby was beaten up.’

  ‘What’s your end conclusion to all this?’

  ‘Well, I . . . I was wondering . . .’ Kerr showed an unusual hesitancy. ‘Is he being set up as a fall-guy?’

  Fusil shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who and why?’ he asked sceptically.

  Kerr made no answer.

  Fusil looked across his desk. ‘You don’t think Downring has been feeding his wife, trying to keep her calm and not realising she’d call you in?’

  ‘He told her the truth,’ said Kerr doggedly.

  Yarrow entered the room and walked past Kerr to hand Fusil a sheet of paper. ‘There’s a further report from the county lab, sir. It tells us that the crime thread of material is similar in all respects to the comparison thread.’

  Fusil tried to damp down his annoyance at Yarrow’s repeated use of the royal ‘we’ or ‘us’. He read through the report. ‘There’s also confirmation here of the complete lack of brick or concrete dust in the coat.’

  Yarrow spoke easily. ‘That’s obviously of no consequence in the light of the facts.’

  ‘But you don’t find this illogical?’

  ‘There always seem to be small illogicalities in a case until one can appreciate the full facts. You’ll see the handkerchief is the same, sir.’

  ‘Similar,’ corrected Fusil.

  ‘The material, the weave, and the stitching exactly match and the dirt and grease stains have the same composition. Surely that adds up to identification?’

  ‘Then in your view the evidence against Downring is complete?’

  ‘It must be.’

  Fusil tapped on the desk. ‘Downring’s no amateur. D’you think he’d leave a handkerchief around, in full view?’

  ‘It was left.’

  ‘And you can see no special significance in this?’

  ‘None, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps it was planted there?’

  Yarrow’s expression changed slightly and without making it too obvious he conveyed the suggestion that only an up-country detective could seriously consider such a possibility. Then he turned smartly and left.

  Fusil was well aware of the fact that he’d argued as he had largely because Yarrow had been so confidently positive.

  ‘He’s got to be wrong,’ said Kerr suddenly.

  ‘You told me Mrs. Downring was dead scared that her husband was out meeting the mob again—d’you gather they’re planning another job?’

  ‘I tried to find out, but she just didn’t know.’

  The telephone rang. Records told Fusil that the only man on the files to fit the description was Fingers Bullivant, released from Fortrow jail four years before, now serving a six-year sentence up north.

  Fusil replaced the receiver. ‘The description named Fingers Bullivant and no one else. Bullivant’s in jail. Seems like Downring was embroidering his story to give it veracity without bothering to check his facts.’

  Kerr stubbornly shook his head.

  ‘Go and see Pat Dalby and shake the truth of the fight out of him.’

  Kerr left.

  *

  It took Kerr the rest of the day to find Dalby. He’d walked out of the hospital after two days, refusing to stay any longer, and had given the staff no address while the address that Records gave proved to be a year out of date.

  After lunch, Kerr made the rounds of the billiard halls because Dalby was known to frequent them, but still met with no success so he took a bus to a house behind Old Dock Road that was run as a brothel mainly for the seamen. The middle aged woman who owned it helped the police as much as she dared in return for an unspoken agreement that the house would not be raided provided she maintained law and order. After some thought she suggested Dalby might be at Mick the Swede’s place. Kerr went to the betting shop and found Dalby in the back room, playing poker with three men.

  The other players stood up, not bothering to play out the hand in front of them. They pocketed their money. Dalby told them to hang on and forget the split, who was just leaving, but it was they who left. In the jungle it was each man for himself.

  Kerr sat down on one of the chairs and turned over the cards in front of him. ‘Three fours. What did you have?’ He leaned across the table to have a look. ‘A pair of aces. I’ve maybe just saved you a load of folding money?’

  ‘D’you think I’m stupid enough to bet real high on them?’ sneered Dalby.

  ‘You’re stupid, all right.’

  Dalby swore again.

  ‘I want some news,’ said Kerr. ‘All about the night you got beaten up.’

  ‘There was a row outside the pub over ’orses and three blokes did me.’

  ‘We’ve turned up an eye-witness.’

  Dalby sucked his thick lower lip and his heavy forehead creased in a scowl. ‘It were just an argument about ’orses.’

  ‘You reckon? I can take you for breach of the peace, drunk and disorderly, grievous bodily harm.’

  ‘It was me what got ’armed.’

  Kerr laughed. ‘He’s really tough.’

  ‘’Oo?’

  ‘Banger.’

  Dalby looked away.

  ‘Why were you trying to work over Banger?’

  ‘Banger was with us.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  Sensing that Kerr really knew very little, Dalby refused to say anything more and when threatened with arrest he jeeringly said to go ahead and see what the mouthpieces would make of that.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As Downring drove the pick-up along the lane, he remembered the look Valerie had given him as he left the bedroom. If he’d hit her viciously she could hardly have been more hurt.

  The headlights picked out a turning to the right and he went down this. A hundred yards along was the lay-by and a Ford Zephyr was parked in it. The brake lights of the Ford went on twice. He made certain his thin rubber gloves were undamaged—although he’d checked at the beginning of the drive —picked up the packet of TTX explosive, the detonators, and the rolled-up plastic collar, and left his pick-up to go to the Ford.

  They put a hood over his head before he climbed into the back of the car. Too concerned with all the misery he and Valerie were experiencing, he did not try to work out why they were so carefully concealing their identities.

  The journey was a long one and for him it was also hot and stuffy. When they finally arrived, most of the men left the car, but he was ordered to stay in it. There was a further wait.

  ‘O.K., Wings,’ said someone.

  ‘Get moving,’ ordered the man who’d stayed in the car with him.

  He climbed out of the car and was prodded across an uneven surface and through a gateway. He heard a door being shut. The hood was pulled off his head. A little light reached in from outside and he saw there were four men, each with a stocking over his face, and that they all stood in a small courtyard surrounded by a high brick wall.

  The leader went up to a door which led into the building and tried the handle with his left hand, then beckoned to another who used a set of skeleton keys to force the lock. They went inside.

  A very short passageway led into a large storage area with shelves all round which were filled with ironmonger’s goods. The leader used his masked torch to pick out the second of two doorways and crossed to it. Thinking all of them would follow, Downring made a move but the man who was acting as his guard angrily ordered him to sit down on the floor.
r />   There followed a long wait during which the muffled noises which reached them told Downring the men were cutting through a wall. At first he tried to talk with his guard, but the very occasional and monosyllabic answers soon stopped him and he leaned back against a pile of unwrapped cartons, closed his eyes, and tried not to think of what would happen to Valerie if anything went wrong.

  ‘Come on, Wings,’ said a hoarse voice.

  Downring’s guard stood up and impatiently motioned to him to do the same. The hole in the very thick wall was just wide enough to allow him to scramble through. When he stood upright again he found himself in the public area of a bank, facing the counters.

  One man was over by the windows, watching the road outside. The leader walked along to the counter marked ‘Enquiries’, lifted up the flap, opened the short door underneath, and motioned the others to follow him.

  The strong-room was in the vault at the bottom of stairs beyond the far doorway. The huge circular steel door, with massive time lock, was of the same make as the one in the bank the mob had tried to rob eleven days before.

  The leader used a tape-measure to mark a spot on the wall. He stepped back. ‘All right, Banger.’ His voice coarsened. ‘And if you don’t want to be staked out, make bleeding sure it works this time.’

  Downring checked the surface of the wall was as smooth as it looked by running his gloved hands over it, then he opened the parcel and took out the putty-like slab of TTX explosive, which soon filled the air with its characteristic scent of marzipan. He broke it up and rolled it out into strips which he packed into the plastic collar, making certain the thickness of the filled collar was even throughout. After a quarter of an hour one of the mob cursed him for wasting time, but was shut up with violent words.

  Downring stuck the collar to the wall with wide adhesive tape, fastening it at a great number of points so that the circle was as near perfect as he reckoned he could get it. He thumped the top of the collar gently but repeatedly, flattening the bearing surface on to the wall. Finally he was satisfied it was ready and he stuck a detonator through the collar into the TTX.

  Two of the men left and only Downring and the leader remained below. Above, one of the two stayed at the head of the stairs whilst the other joined the look-out at the window.

  After a short wait the signal came through that the road was clear. Downring struck a match, lit the fuse, and led the way up the stairs.

  The explosion was sharp, but short. The door at the head of the stairs, which had been locked, shook heavily, then all was silence.

  They waited. As the minutes passed the tension built up inside each of them until they sweated continuously and their hands shook.

  Finally, the order to move was given. They went below. The air was thick with dust, that made them choke, but they could see that a neat circular hole had been punched through the wall and the inner metal lining.

  Inside the strong-room they found the strong-boxes in which unissued money was kept, the bags of coins, and the packages and boxes belonging to customers. They forced the strong-boxes and emptied the notes into canvas sacks, took the bags containing fifty-pence coins but left the rest, and smashed open the customers’ property to take all the jewellery and a little of the silver. They had to make two journeys to carry their loot up top.

  Back in the ironmonger’s, the hood was replaced over Downring’s head just before he was given two heavy canvas sacks to carry. He walked out into the small courtyard, waited until told to move, then carried on to the car. When he sat down, sacks were loaded all around his feet, making the return journey even more uncomfortable than the previous one.

  The car stopped, but the engine kept running.

  ‘Get out,’ came the order.

  He climbed out of the car.

  ‘Here’s yours, Banger, for a right good job.’ Something was thrust into his hand and he heard the car drive off.

  He pulled the hood from his head and saw he’d been given a thick wad of mint ten-pound notes, about a thousand pounds. Having done the job, was there much logic in refusing the money? He pitched it into a bush, forcing himself to do this before his sense of greed became too great.

  In the cover of the pick-up he changed into a fresh set of clothes that he had left in the cab. Then he drove three miles to the council tip where fires burned night and day. He pitched all the clothes he had worn at the bank into one of the many open fires.

  Back home, he was not surprised to find Valerie wide awake. She stared at him, her soft brown eyes sick with fear. He sat down on the edge of the bed and caressed her neck with his fingers. ‘It’s all right,’ he said softly. ‘It’s all over and there wasn’t a breath of a panic. We’re safe.’

  She shut her eyes. How could she now confess that in a desperate attempt to help she had betrayed him to the police so that they must know he had been in on this bank robbery?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Fusil was in the superintendent’s room when the telephone rang and the report came through that a bank had been broken into in Portesgate and something over a hundred and fifty thousand pounds in cash had been stolen together with customers’ valuables of an as yet unknown amount.

  Fusil stood up.

  ‘D’you think it was the same mob?’ asked Passmore.

  ‘I’d given it ten to one.’

  ‘Then they’ll have probably used information gleaned from the survey reports in the stolen mail. Did you send out a warning to other banks that could be raided?’

  ‘No, sir, but only because I’ve been unable to discover what other banks were dealt with in the reports in that mail. I asked at the beginning for a list to be drawn up so that I could issue a warning, but no list came through.’

  ‘Then at least you’ve left yourself in the clear . . . Has Cannon’s death moved at all?’

  ‘Not really. He was shot with a three-eight at very close range, but that’s the lot for sure. Even the date of his death is mostly guesswork: the pathologist wouldn’t commit himself closer than about a month.’

  ‘But his murder is tied up with the attempted bank robbery here in Fortrow? And now the successful raid in Portesgate?’

  ‘That’s the way I read it, sir. Solve one and it may well wrap up the other.’

  ‘What’s your next move?’

  ‘Question Downring. I’ll bring him in if he hasn’t a cast-iron alibi.’

  Passmore nodded and said no more. Fusil left and returned upstairs, where he went into the general room and called Kerr out.

  ‘A bank’s been done up at Portesgate,’ he said abruptly. ‘The wall of the strong-room was blown.’

  Kerr fiddled with the lapel of his coat. ‘What . . . what are we going to do?’

  ‘See Downring, of course.’

  Kerr silently swore. How did a conscientious detective remain true both to his conscience and his job? Valerie Downring had called on him to help her in confidence, but because he had betrayed that confidence as a good detective should, the police could now be almost certain that her husband had taken part in the second bank raid.

  ‘Come on,’ said Fusil. He turned and led the way below and was half-way down the stairs when there was a call from above. They turned, looked up, and saw Yarrow.

  ‘A report’s just in from the village P.C. at Trescott, sir. A large number of mint ten-pound notes have been found in a bush close to a lay-by.’

  ‘Get out there. Check the numbers with the bank at Portesgate. See the notes are handled as little as possible.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Fusil continued down and out into the courtyard. The weather had changed abruptly and the wind had swung round to the east, bringing cold and a cloud-covered sky. Each of them regretted not having brought an overcoat or mackintosh and they hurried into the car.

  Downring saw them as they entered the repair shed at the garage. He seemed to flinch and just for a second his expression was panicky.

  The builders on the roof were making more noise than ever a
s they hammered home new sheets of corrugated iron and Fusil had to shout. ‘We’ll go to your place.’

  After a momentary hesitation, Downring crossed to Fusil’s Vauxhall. He climbed into the back seat and sat hunched in despair.

  When they entered the house, Valerie’s face expressed panic. She stared at her husband for a long time, then briefly looked at Kerr with such contempt that he felt six inches tall. ‘What d’you want now?’ she demanded, her voice high as she prepared to fight for her husband.

  ‘We’ve come to make a few enquiries in connection with last night’s bank robbery at Portesgate,’ said Fusil.

  ‘He had nothing to do with that.’

  ‘You know about it, then?’

  ‘It was on the wireless, wasn’t it?’ demanded Downring.

  ‘Not yet.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ asked Fusil.

  ‘Here,’ replied Downring.

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘He was here all night.’ she said.

  ‘I want to examine your clothes,’ said Fusil. He walked towards the stairs and so authoritative was his manner that neither Downring nor his wife made any objection.

  None of the clothes nor the shoes in the bedroom bore any signs of dust from the explosion at the bank.

  Fusil studied Downring and then asked: ‘D’you mind if I look at your hair?’

  Downring was suddenly uneasy. ‘There ain’t no cause.’

  Fusil motioned to Kerr and they stepped forward and closed on Downring. He pushed Valerie away from him, squared his shoulders, and seemed ready to fight, then suddenly he relaxed and it was clear he was not going to. Fusil ran a comb through his hair and brought to the surface several very small flakes of dust which he collected on a sheet of paper.

  ‘That comes from up the garage where they’ve been creating such a mess,’ said Downring hoarsely.