‘It’s priority.’
‘There’s never a call that isn’t. Everything’s got to be done yesterday. . . . Chummy’s name is Alfred Angels. He’s fifty-one, unmarried, and a bit soft upstairs. Eight convictions for piddling crimes, most of ’em served in Fortrow nick. Present address, Abbeyside Prison, where he’s doing time for car ringing.’
‘That’s not my bloke, Sarge. Like I said, he works for a big mob and is very active as of now.’
‘Then you’d better start asking someone what’s better informed than me,’ said the sergeant irritatedly. ‘He’s the only possible.’
‘Then maybe London . . .’
‘And I put a call through to them and they confirm. If you borough blokes think you’re so clever . . .’
Kerr politely thanked the sergeant, replaced the receiver, and lit a cigarette. Had Downring been lying, trying for the second time to make a false identification without checking up whether the person he was identifying was at liberty, or not?
Kerr recalled the terrible distress of Valerie and the way in which Downring had tried to comfort her and he again became certain that as a loving husband he could not have been lying. Then what was the score? The only answer obviously was that a member of the mob had been instructed to limp and he had been called Wings in order to create a false identification: in the same way that a stutter and gold rings on the fingers had been used to create a false identification of Bullivant. Someone had worked out how such false identifications, which the police would soon learn to be false, must confirm that Conrad Downring was lying. That someone had to be very clever, in a subtle, warped, and twisted way.
Who was the mob leader? How to identify him? Downring couldn’t help. The telephone messages had given nothing away, the meeting at the car before the first job had merely led to the false identification of Bullivant, the hours spent with the mob on the job at Portesgate had merely led to a false identification of Angels.
There had to be an answer if only he could pick it out: somewhere there must be a clue that would lead to the truth.
He remembered that Downring had said the leader of the mob was left handed and about his build. Could any sort of identification be made from just those two facts—plus the overriding one that the man was a real pro?
He telephoned Records. ‘Hullo, Sarge, it’s me again.’
‘Don’t you ever go home?’
‘D’you think you could make another quick search for us?’
‘Who said the last one was quick?’
‘You made it quick, Sarge.’
The sergeant swore. ‘What’s going on in Fortrow, then?’
‘Bags of crime. We want a real pro, about six foot tall, heavily built, broad-shouldered, plenty of experience, and left-handed.’
There was a pause. ‘You’re not going to try to call that a description?’
‘I’m afraid it’s all we’ve got, Sarge.’
‘Then it’s not on.’
‘Our chief constable said it would be difficult but that you were so efficient you’d probably succeed.’
There was another pause. ‘What job’s this connected with?’
‘The bank robbery at Portesgate.’
‘Then that’s county, not you in the borough.’
It was a point Kerr had overlooked. ‘I know, Sarge, and that’s why our chief constable had a word with the county assistant chief constable.’
‘I reckon you’re a liar,’ said the sergeant, but his voice lacked absolute conviction.
‘As soon as you like with the information,’ said Kerr breezily and rang off.
*
Fusil was reading a report handed in by Yarrow when Kerr entered his room.
‘I’d like a word with you if I may, sir?’
‘Is it important?’
‘I . . . I think so.’
Fusil studied Kerr far more closely. ‘Just what in the hell have you been up to?’ he demanded suddenly.
‘Nothing, really. It’s just that I . . .’ Kerr spoke with growing uneasiness. ‘I had a word with Downring and something he told me gave me an idea.’
Fusil pushed aside the report which listed a shop where Selby had bought a dozen foreign-made toy dolls which had been widely publicised as a dangerous fire risk. ‘Sit down.’ He waited until Kerr was seated. ‘Have you come in here to admit you’ve been to interview Downring, without any reference to me.’
‘In a way, sir.’
‘Then I can promise you one thing—this time you’ll learn the cost of acting like a fool.’
‘I believe I know who pulled the bank job, sir.’
Fusil stared at him, then slowly lit his pipe. Kerr’s ability to break all the rules and yet come up with the right answers confirmed his belief in the basic unjustness of the world. ‘Who?’
‘It’s one of four men: Corny Andrews, Owen Parkes, Bert Winslowe, or Jim Renwick. If we raid their places and give them a real going over, we’ll catch our man.’
Fusil spoke sarcastically. ‘First you told me you knew who pulled the job. Then you qualified that and said it was one of four men. Now you’re qualifying that again to say it might be one of four men and we might find the evidence to prove it.’
Kerr fiddled with one of the buttons of his coat.
‘What are their addresses?’
Kerr’s rate of fiddling increased. ‘As a matter of fact, sir, they’re all in county.’
‘So all you want me to do is stick my neck out and ask county to swear out four search warrants, knowing from the beginning that three must be wrong, and to ask them to mount four major raids just in case one of ’em produces some evidence which will help to prove an emotional theory of yours. Have you the slightest idea what would happen to me if all four raids proved abortive?’
‘Not exactly, sir, but . . .’
‘I’d be up the deep end, two foot under.’
‘But the evidence seems too clear to be ignored.’ Kerr told Fusil what it was.
Fusil’s pipe had gone out and he re-lit it. ‘You’ve worked damned hard,’ he said finally.
Kerr nodded.
‘Without any reference to me and to the total detriment of the work you should have been doing. Do I call that initiative or insubordination?’ Kerr opened his mouth to answer. ‘I’ll tell you. Everything depends on results.’
‘Then you are going to ask county to search?’
‘You haven’t really left me with much choice. But there’s one thing as certain as tomorrow’s debts. If the raids fail, you can start packing your bags.’
*
Fusil was summoned to Kywood’s office at eleven o’clock on Thursday morning.
‘Bob,’ said Kywood, his voice strained, ‘I’ve had Menton on the phone for over a quarter of an hour. Among other things, he wanted to know if we always raided dozens of homes purely on the off-chance of picking up some information.’
‘If he’s refusing, go over his head . . .’
‘I didn’t say he refused. He’s agreed, but made the operation entirely our responsibility even though they’ll carry out the searches.’
Fusil, who’d imagined Menton would object for as long as he possibly could, was astonished. Then he wondered if maybe Yarrow had passed the word to his uncle that Detective Inspector Fusil was eager to make a ripe berk of himself so why not let him in a blaze of publicity?
Kywood leaned forward and spoke in a pleading voice. ‘You are certain, Bob?’
‘Quite certain.’ Kywood, thought Fusil sarcastically, must be wishing his D.I. dead and buried. If there was anything he dreaded, it was being forced into a position where he would have to take part of the blame if things went wrong.
Kywood was still not satisfied. ‘The evidence doesn’t seem all that conclusive to me. This man Downring was obviously lying most of the time, so how can you accept anything at all that he says? Menton wanted to know why we hadn’t arrested him and I told him you were just waiting for the final reports from the lab. When will they b
e in?’
‘As a matter of fact, sir, they’re through. There’s positive identification of the dust, a positive Baroni test on the money, and the pick-up made the tyre mark in the lay-by.’
‘But that means you’ve all the proof you need to arrest Downring?’
‘In one way, yes.’
‘Then why the hell haven’t you?’
Fusil was uncertain how to answer that. To say it was because his D.C. saw things in an emotional light due to his forthcoming marriage was not going to make Kywood any happier.
*
The raids were timed for six o’clock in the evening. At Owen Parkes’s house, a detached one in northwest Barstone where he lived with his wife who was crippled from arthritis, they found ten thousand pounds in notes, some traceable, a few pieces of very beautiful French jewellery, and a pair of shoes with mud on the instep in which was embedded dust that later tests were to prove was exactly similar to the dust from the bank at Portesgate.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Kywood stepped over to the front of Fusil’s desk and offered a pack of cheroots. Fusil held up his pipe. Kywood took out a cheroot, lit it, and puffed away. ‘Damned good bit of work, Bob, and no one’s going to argue on that score. When Menton rang me and said they’d copped Parkes and by a stroke of luck discovered the names of the mob, I told him, Bob Fusil is one of the best D.I.s in the business.’
‘Did that provoke him to any comments?’ asked Fusil.
‘He’s a sour old bastard. Can’t get over his jealousy at the borough police turning up the bank robbers under his very nose in county territory. . . . D’you know why it all worked so smoothly, Bob?’
‘No,’ said Fusil, with interest.
Kywood jabbed the air with his cheroot. ‘It’s because you had the sense not to try to complicate everything the way you so often do. Like you tried to do with the Selby case before I stopped you.’
Fusil spoke quietly. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, that was murder after all.’
‘Eh? What’s that?’
‘Selby did murder his wife.’
Kywood stared at Fusil. ‘Is this for sure?’
‘We traced out the shops where he bought some very inflammable foreign-made dolls, a two-hundred-and-fifty-watt bulb and holder, six yards of electric cable, and a chiffon nightdress. When confronted with the evidence he panicked, broke down, and confessed to everything.’
Kywood chewed on his cheroot for a while. ‘It’s as I’ve always said, there are times when a good detective looks beyond the obvious. . . . But the bank job was straightforward and quite rightly you tackled it straightforwardly. The result? An open-and-shut case and all five villains in custody.’
‘To date, only four.’
‘They told me they’d grabbed three others besides Parkes. With Downring, that makes five.’
‘Downring isn’t under arrest yet. Detective Constable Kerr has persuaded me the case isn’t quite as straightforward as it might appear.’
Kywood’s face reddened. After a while he began to swear.
*
In the Downrings’ front room Kerr sat in one of the armchairs and stared at the fire.
Valerie spoke with despair. ‘But why ain’t it all over for Conrad?’
‘He’s told you, love,’ muttered Downring.
‘But I don’t understand. This man Parkes made you help by threatening to get me and Lindy.’
‘Parkes swears he didn’t make any threats,’ said Kerr. ‘He says your husband agreed to do the jobs for a thousand each time.’
‘You know that ain’t the truth.’
‘We know he handled the thousand pounds that was thrown away up in the hills, that he had dust from the bank in his hair, that he’d handled TTX. We know that just before the attempted robbery here in Fortrow he’d also handled TTX. Parkes and the other three have all sworn that your husband willingly took part in the robbery at Portesgate.’
‘But if he was forced to do it, that ain’t his fault.’
‘We’ve no proof he was forced, only his word.’
Kerr spoke to Downring. ‘Isn’t there anything more you can tell us?’
‘I’ve told you the lot,’ he replied bitterly.
‘Wasn’t there even the slightest hint of why you were forced into working for ’em and why they put the finger on you?’
Downring shook his head.
‘There has to be someone behind Parkes.’
‘What if there is? I don’t know nothing about him.’ Downring was showing signs of fear as he realised more and more clearly that Parkes’s arrest, far from helping him, put him in a worse position than before.
‘There’s no one in the past you’ve really stamped on?’
‘Ain’t I answered you a hundred times?’ Downring shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of hopeless, bitter defeat.
Kerr stared at the fire once more. His visit had proved useless.
*
There were strict rules governing the interrogation of accused persons in custody, but Fusil ignored them with a recklessness that surprised the local detective sergeant who was with him in one of the interview rooms in Barstone prison.
‘Who’s been giving the orders?’ demanded Fusil.
Parkes, seated on the other side of the table to Fusil, fingered his nose. His face was long and thin and in no way irregular, but because there was no hint of humanity in it most people found him ugly.
‘You haven’t the brains to have thought up the jobs,’ said Fusil.
Parkes’s lips tightened—he had a very quick and brutal temper. ‘Banger joined in for a grand each time.’
‘He supplied you with the explosive for the Fortrow job, but took no part in the actual attempted robbery.’
‘Then how come ’is ’andkerchief was laying around?’
‘Who told you we found one?’
Parkes spoke contemptuously. ‘D’you think we don’t ’ear things?’
‘Dalby nicked the handkerchief when he and two of his mob tried to give Downring a going over. You planted it in the bank, along with the thread from the coat.’
‘Give over.’
‘Which of you imitated Fingers Bullivant and then Wings Angels?’
Parkes didn’t answer.
‘Who’s the real boss?’
‘I gives the orders.’
‘Then you killed Joe Cannon?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Don’t try to tell me you don’t know.’
‘I don’t hear much, Mr. Fusil.’
‘A moment ago, you said you did.’
Parkes shrugged his shoulders.
‘Cannon was shot.’
‘Tough.’
‘To keep his mouth shut over the mail robbery of his—him being notably wide-mouthed.’
‘It pays to keep quiet, don’t it?’
‘If you keep silent on who’s behind you, you’ll have to take the full rap. Tell me who he is and things won’t be so difficult for you.’
Parkes laughed. ‘They ought to leave you to question the kids,’ he said jeeringly.
*
Fusil called Kerr into his office on Saturday morning at ten o’clock. He pointed at the chair in front of the desk, but said nothing and began to pace the floor. He stopped, in the middle of a splash of weak sunshine. ‘I’ve got to take him in,’ he said abruptly. ‘Mr. Menton’s in charge as it’s a county matter and he’s giving the orders.’
‘But we know Downring was forced into working for them. It isn’t right . . .’
‘We know, because we’re prepared to believe what Downring says. There’s no proof, though.’
‘He’s had it, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘And his wife?’
‘She’ll survive.’ Fusil’s words were cynical, but his tone of voice was not: he was only too aware of how much she’d suffer.
‘There must still be something we’ve missed,’ said Kerr, with angry desperation.
‘Name it.’
&
nbsp; ‘We know so much of the truth . . . And yet not enough.’
‘We cannot prove there is anyone behind Parkes and that’s what matters.’
‘There has to be. What’s more, there has to be a connecting thread running through all that’s happened.’
‘Possibly.’
‘I thought of such a thread last night . . .’ Kerr shrugged his shoulders. ‘But I can’t see that it’s of any real relevance. They’ve all been in Fortrow prison.’
Fusil sat down. ‘Who have?’
‘Downring, Cannon, Parkes, Bullivant, Angels.’
Fusil began to drum on the desk with his fingers. ‘Mobs tend to come from the same area: that means the members often end up in the same jail.’
Kerr immediately pointed out the obvious. ‘They weren’t a mob. Downring had to be forced in, Cannon was murdered, Bullivant and Angels were impersonated, and only Parkes actually was on the jobs.’
‘Then were they all in prison at the same time?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s something we’d better find out now.’ He picked up one of the telephones and dialled the prison, spoke to one of the assistant governors and asked for a check on when the five named men had been in Fortrow prison. There was a wait, during which Fusil’s rapidly growing impatience showed the tension within him, then the other came back on the line. Fusil wrote rapidly on a sheet of paper, thanked the speaker, and rang off. He looked up at Kerr. ‘They weren’t in prison together. Parkes was there at the same time as Bullivant, five years ago, Angels was on his own for six months after that, Downring and Cannon were sent down at different times but had one year where they overlapped.’
‘And yet they were all at the same prison.’
‘It could be pure coincidence.’
‘With that number of people?’
‘It’s possible,’ said Fusil, ‘but I don’t like it. I’d rather go along with a boozy old instructor I knew many years ago. “Too many coincidences”, he used to say, “give me the guts-ache.”’
‘But how does that work in here?’
‘Maybe . . . Maybe it helps us because it tells us there must be some significance in the fact the five men weren’t all in prison at the same time.’
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