Call Back to Crime

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘I’m not sure I follow that, sir.’

  ‘Let’s look at the whole set-up.’ He began to fiddle with his pipe. ‘The plan from the beginning was clever, but complicated. There was to be a bank robbery using information gained from the mail theft. But it was to be more than just a robbery, it was also intended to put the finger on a man who’d once blown safes but was now trying to go straight. They failed to frighten Downring into joining them for the actual robbery, but they did make him supply the explosive, which was enough. He was to be arrested on the planted evidence and then when he told the police all he knew—that the man who’d given him the money and collected the explosive stuttered and wore gold rings on his fingers—his evidence would produce an obviously false identification of Bullivant. When this was seen to be false, none of the rest of his story would be believed.

  ‘The first job failed. So a second one was set up as quickly as possible and since Downring was still at large they made him do the actual blowing this time. Once again, they fed him with a man he could identify from physical characteristics, but once again this was bound to be proved to be a false identification. Ironically, it’s the first failure which was due to Downring’s refusal to join in the actual job, which led to the need of a second one which may just give us a chance to help him.

  ‘Now look at the murder. Cannon wasn’t meant to be found, but if he was it could only add to Downring’s troubles since they’d been in jail at the same time—more especially in the same cell—so it was natural to assume that that was where and how Downring learned about the plans of the bank strong-rooms which showed where the weakest parts of the walls were.

  ‘Add up all that and what do we have? First, the man we’re after is clever, far-seeing, vindictive, and he hates Downring so much that he’s ready to go to endless trouble to fix him. Secondly, he’s had close contact with the prison over the years since he knows so much about the inmates.’

  ‘You’re putting your finger on a long-term prisoner who’s come out of the nick in the last eighteen months, sir. But Downring swears he knows no one who’d really have it in for him and surely he’d be able to name such a man if there were one?’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Then it seems . . . You mean, it’s got to be a prison officer?’ asked Kerr, in growing surprise.

  ‘I do. And we’re going to look at the history of every man on the staff from the governor, down.’ Fusil put his unlit pipe in his mouth.

  ‘There’s something wrong,’ said Kerr suddenly.

  ‘What?’ asked Fusil sharply.

  ‘You said Downring and Cannon had been in the same cell.’

  ‘That’s what you reported to me.’

  ‘But Downring himself told me he’d never been in the same cell with Cannon—that he’d rather be sent to chokey. Cannon was a homo.’

  Fusil took his pipe from his mouth. ‘Who told you they had?’

  Kerr thought back. ‘It must have been Turnball, when I went to his office that day asking about Cannon. He was quite chatty.’

  ‘Yet it’s quite unlike him to volunteer a single piece of information. . . . Come to think about it, it was Turnball from whom Cannon asked for help after the mail robbery.’ Fusil’s voice rose. ‘It’s been there for some time, staring us in the face! Even the motive for trying to fix Downring . . . Turnball himself told me how Downring had spurned, with a great deal of vigour, all his attempts to help and it was perfectly clear this rankled like hell. Fixing Downring was his way of getting his own back not only on Downring but on all the others who had only contempt for him. And then there was Downring’s marriage which was really happy right from the beginning, whereas Turnball’s wife had gone off with a discharged prisoner.’

  Kerr jumped to his feet. ‘Let’s take him.’

  Fusil swivelled round in his chair, stood up, and crossed to the glass-fronted bookcase. He brought back a thick textbook which he opened and read for some time. ‘It’s still not simple,’ he said finally.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Two reasons. One, by definition, Turnball is a very clever man. He’ll have made quite certain there’s no provable connection between him and Parkes, who isn’t talking in any case. Second, there’s the law.’ He tapped the opened textbook in front of him. ‘Duress is only an excuse for a crime committed when actual physical compulsion is used or directly available and it must be a fear of death, not merely of some lesser catastrophe such as having a house burned down. Unless Downring can prove he or his family was in actual physical danger of death he won’t be excused his part in the bank robberies. At best, the circumstances will serve in mitigation of sentence.’

  ‘You mean that even if we can prove exactly what happened, the court’s likely to convict and imprison him?’

  Fusil nodded. ‘He took a very active part in one robbery and assisted in another.’

  ‘In his shoes, what would you have done?’

  ‘What he did. That doesn’t alter the law, though.’

  Kerr remembered the expression in Valerie’s eyes. ‘We’ve got to do something,’ he said roughly. ‘To hell with the law books.’

  Fusil rubbed the bowl of the pipe against his cheek. He looked at Kerr as if he were trying to make up his mind about something really difficult. Eventually, he said: ‘Did Turnball strike you as someone who would stand up to physical violence?’

  ‘No, he certainly didn’t.’

  ‘Sometimes a man who can plot the most vicious crime against another without a qualm will fold up if only a tenth of that violence is applied to himself.’

  Kerr stared at Fusil with amazement. ‘Are you suggesting we go and . . .?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Fusil, ‘I’m not. No circumstances whatsoever can justify a police officer’s resorting to force.’

  That was a sentiment, thought Kerr, which might have come better from someone not as sharp as Fusil.

  ‘I shall arrest Downring tomorrow morning,’ said Fusil.

  Kerr finally understood. ‘Right, sir.’

  Fusil picked up a pencil and began to write as Kerr stood up. ‘Don’t forget that if it could be proved the threat to Mrs. Downring was very much more immediate than Downring has so far told us, there might be reason to suppose he would legally not be held liable under the doctrine of duress.’

  *

  Downring, his face tight with vicious anger, stood in the sitting-room of his house and faced Kerr. ‘You’re saying that that wet bastard is behind it all?’

  ‘Almost certainly, but we’ve no actual proof. What’s more, he’s so clever we’re unlikely to uncover any.’

  ‘Maybe you ain’t, but why ain’t you bloody well trying?’

  Valerie, in one of the armchairs, stared up at her husband as hope and fear chased each other through her mind.

  Kerr shrugged his shoulders. ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Something, that’s for sure, instead of standing there, doing nowt . . .’

  ‘If it were in your hands,’ broke in Kerr, ‘you’d probably be able to take effective action—like threaten him with physical violence because he’d probably crack and confess, not being a man with much backbone. But we’re policemen and not allowed to use those kinds of methods, even if he has frightened your wife and kid half silly.’

  It was several seconds before Downring understood. He hurried over to the door.

  ‘He lives at number six, Endicott Lane,’ said Kerr.

  Downring opened the door.

  ‘It’s quite cold tonight,’ went on Kerr, ‘so if you’re going out somewhere I’d wear gloves and something over the head, and perhaps a set of overalls that you don’t mind what happens to them. By the way, we thought we’d search his car tomorrow in case you’ve never told us the full story and he held your wife in it under the threat of death if you refused to blow the strong-room. We might find something in the car to prove she was there. It’s important because the law says an imminent fear of death is the only degree of duress that’ll excuse a crime.’<
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  Downring seemed about to speak, but after a few seconds he left. They heard him go upstairs and then move around the room immediately above, as if collecting several things together.

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  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The interview room was furnished with only the very bare necessities—one wooden table, four wooden chairs, and a printed list which detailed the rights of all persons being questioned.

  Fusil heard the clump of regulation boots and then the door was opened and Turnball came in, followed by a uniformed sergeant.

  Turnball seemed to have shrunk in size, so that suddenly he looked old, vulnerable, and insignificant. There was a square of sticking plaster on one cheek and one of his eyes had a bruise below it.

  Fusil cautioned Turnball, then opened the folder. ‘Do you understand that we’ve received anonymously a handwritten confession bearing your signature, saying that you planned the two recent bank raids, the unsuccessful one here in Fortrow and the successful one at Portesgate, and that you arranged the murder of a small-time criminal called Joseph Cannon?’

  The sergeant, now seated at the table, wrote quickly in his notebook.

  ‘Did you write this confession?’ asked Fusil.

  ‘Of course I did. And d’you know why?’ Turnball’s voice was high and thin and his highly agitated manner was very different from his normal one of faint, sardonic sanctimoniousness. ‘The man would’ve murdered me if I hadn’t. He forced me to write out all that nonsense after near killing me.’

  ‘Is it, in fact, nonsense? There are a number of facts given in this confession which suggest very strongly you know so much about the robberies and the murder you probably did organise them.’

  Turnball tried to speak more calmly. ‘The man dictated what to write. He’s the one who organised everything.’

  Fusil turned over a page in the folder. ‘Have you any idea who the intruder was?’

  ‘It was Downring.’

  ‘You recognised him? He wore no sort of mask?’

  ‘He had on a nylon stocking, but it had to be Downring.’

  ‘I don’t follow why this is so, unless all the facts set out here are correct and his family had been threatened at your orders to force him to help with the robberies?’

  Turnball didn’t try to answer. ‘I recognised him. A face isn’t everything. A man’s build, the way he walks . . . It was Downring. I’ll swear it in court.’

  ‘Then you’ll be proved wrong. You telephoned for help at a quarter to twelve last night. Between eleven last night and midnight, one of my detective constables was in Downring’s house, questioning him.’

  Turnball stared at Fusil. ‘He can’t have been.’

  ‘I have his signed statement here.’ Fusil tapped the folder.

  ‘He’s lying.’

  ‘He has two witnesses who testify to the truth of what he says.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr. and Mrs. Downring.’

  ‘But . . . They . . . What’s going on?’ cried Turnball wildly. ‘You’ve rigged this. It’s because you couldn’t get me any other way . . .’ Turnball suddenly stopped.

  ‘Get you for what?’ asked Fusil.

  Turnball looked wildly at the door.

  ‘Did you hold Mrs. Downring in your car as a hostage?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She testified you held her to force her husband into co-operating in robbing the bank.’

  ‘I’ve never met the woman. She’s never been in my car.’

  ‘Then how did her purse come to get wedged down the back seat of your Ford?’

  ‘It . . . it can’t have been.’

  ‘It was found there, just after you came to this station.’

  ‘Then it was planted.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Downring put it there after he’d beaten me up.’

  ‘Downring has an alibi.’

  ‘One of you planted it,’ shouted Turnball.

  The door opened and Braddon looked inside. When Fusil nodded he came in and put a revolver on the table, together with a sheet of paper.

  As Fusil read, Turnball stared at the revolver, his face expressing a raw terror.

  Fusil looked up. ‘In your confession you admitted supplying Parkes with a gun. After using it, Parkes returned it to you and you made a special journey down to the beach below Bassett Cliffs and threw it into the sea at the point where the water is known to deepen very quickly. I’ve had a team of police skin divers at work and they’ve discovered this at the point your evidence named.’

  ‘I know nothing about it.’

  ‘You know a great deal. Ballistic tests have just shown this is the gun which was used to murder Cannon.’

  Turnball shut his eyes.

  *

  Kywood’s forehead was beaded with sweat: his voice was strained. ‘You sent Downring to beat him up to make him confess.’

  Fusil went round his desk to his chair. ‘You’ve proof of your accusation, sir?’

  ‘I don’t need proof. Good God, it sticks out a mile!’ Kywood stared at him with a hatred that was tinged with fear and disbelief. If the truth ever came out, the scandal could easily blow him out of his job and lose him his pension. How could any man take such appalling risks for an ex-con who probably deserved another stretch in the nick? ‘Kerr’s in this with you,’ he said hoarsely. ‘You make a fine bloody pair.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, sir, Detective Constable Kerr has shown considerable initiative in this case. I shall be forwarding his name for a divisional recommendation.’

  Kywood sat down. He was caught. Create trouble and all that would happen would be he’d make a fool of himself because they’d covered their tracks far too skilfully. Yet they’d ignored the rules of law and procedure, knowingly connived in faking evidence, accepted a confession obtained by brutality . . . The fact that they’d made certain justice was done was to him of no account.

  *

  With the four of them in the front room of the Downrings’ house, there was hardly room for the proverbial cat even to enter. Downring poured out four very large whiskies and handed glasses to Helen, his wife, and Kerr. He raised his. ‘I ain’t much good at speaking,’ he said, ‘but . . . Well, if you knew how we feel . . .’

  ‘They know,’ said Valerie with certainty, as she looked at Helen.

  Kerr drank. It was a long time since he had found life so good.