The Murder Line (C.I.D. Room Book 8)

by Roderic Jeffries

  She shook her head.

  “Who tried to persuade you to work for the new mob?”

  “Two blokes. Neither Vince nor I ever saw ’em before or after. They weren’t local, for sure.”

  Outsiders, brought in to do the groundwork so that if anything went wrong they could vanish. This mob really knew how to open up a territory, he thought.

  Chapter 5

  Jarrold arrived at Tranmere House at ten-thirty in the evening, parked his Ford Granada in the drive, and rang the front door bell. The door was opened by one of the Pakistanis after a check through the Judas hole.

  Jarrold said hullo and stepped into the hall. The Pakistani answered the greeting by nodding, then shut the door and fixed the chain.

  “Is Ed still up?” asked Jarrold.

  “He is engaged at the moment. Perhaps you will wait in the sitting room?”

  Not for the first time, Jarrold was intrigued by the musical English both Pakistanis spoke — when they bothered to speak. Their diction was accurate, their rhythm cultured.

  In the sitting room, the Pakistani asked him what he’d like to drink, poured out a whisky on the rocks, switched on the television, and left. Jarrold settled back on the settee and watched an old movie, not really enjoying it yet certain he’d a long wait ahead of him. A hundred to one, Ed was with a broad. One of Pete Faraday’s jobs was to make certain Murphy had a woman — smart, classy — whenever he called for one: which was frequently. Jarrold, who even in the secrecy of his own mind seldom criticised Murphy, saw this overwhelming liking for women in a man of forty-two as an uncharacteristic weakness.

  The film was over and the last programme of the night coming to an end when Murphy, wearing a Chinese embroidered dressing-gown over silk pyjamas, came downstairs. He looked tired and was, judging by the way he snapped off the television, in an irritable state. Yet when he spoke a brief greeting, his voice was as level as usual. He crossed to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself out a straight tonic to which he added a slice of lemon.

  “I thought you’d want to know right now, Ed, we may have made a contact.”

  Murphy sat down. “That’s great, Titch. I knew you’d come up with something.” He had the useful faculty of being able to make a little praise sound like a lot.

  “It’s a bit thin, like, but maybe it’ll stretch. There’s a photographer buys H from us — not much, but regular. One of his models is the wife of a local split and they’re always rowing because she’s making more than him and he thinks she’s battering it away with someone else. Raymond — that’s what this bloke calls himself — says the split and his missus must still be sweet on each other or they’d’ve broken up.” Jarrold gestured with his huge, plump hands which had such strength in them. “Like I said, Ed, it’s thin… But you get ideas.”

  It might not be all that thin, thought Murphy, his quick imagination seeing a possibility. “Do you know what kind of photos this Raymond takes of her?”

  “Some of ’em are modelling clothes and some of ’em are skin. But it ain’t ever porn.”

  Murphy gently massaged the lobe of his right ear. “How far will Raymond cooperate?”

  “All the way you want, Ed. He’s buying H, like I said, and we only need to threaten to cut him off. Anyway, he’s no hero. Put a couple of heavies in front of him and he’d lick your shoes if that’s what you wanted.”

  “I’ll think it out,” Murphy said.

  *

  Faraday had a very quick temper which when young he’d seldom bothered to check. But when he’d entered the world of villaining he’d quickly learned that he had to control it and now there was only one thing which normally set it alight — too much alcohol. It was his misfortune to have been drinking heavily — for the first time in two months — when Harps reported to him, late Thursday night. “Pete, we’ve a bit of trouble. One of the prossers is yelling for a larger share and some of the other blokes are startin’ to listen…”

  “And you don’t know what to do to make the stupid git shut up? Give the bastard a right belting,” shouted Faraday. He poured himself out another whisky.

  Harps was an ex-professional boxer who’d had too much courage and not enough sense to know when he was being out-boxed and therefore should hit the canvas. His face bore the scars of many fights and his intelligence suffered odd blocks, not always readily discernible. He didn’t try to discover what Faraday meant by a ‘right belting’, didn’t take into account the obvious degree of Faraday’s intoxication, but went out and down to the area round the old docks where he found Allen and beat the smaller man up with appalling thoroughness.

  Allen was taken unconscious to hospital and there an emergency operation was performed on him. The police were informed of the nature of his injuries and a P.C. went along to the hospital, but an overworked, harassed houseman said it would be a long time before Allen would be fit enough to make any kind of a statement.

  Harps reported to Faraday the next morning. “I done ’im, good and proper,” he said, with real pride.

  Faraday stared at him with bloodshot eyes. “You’ve done who?”

  “That bloke Steve Allen, what you ordered me to give a right belting to shut ’im up.”

  Faraday finally did remember. “You didn’t do him too hard?”

  Harps looked confused. “But, Pete, you said to give ’im a right belting.”

  “So what’s happened to him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Faraday swore. He lit a cigarette and then stubbed it out because it tasted like dirt. “Get out and find out how he is.” If Allen were too badly knocked around and Ed Murphy learned what had happened…

  *

  Fusil listened to Rowan’s report on his interview with Violet Carter. At the conclusion, he reached for his pipe and began to rub the bowl against the palm of his hand. It was, as Rowan said, more than ever evident that a big and skilful organisation had moved into Fortrow. “You think she’s telling the truth about not knowing who’s running the mob?” He tipped his chair back until it touched the wall and he rested his feet on the desk.

  Rowan, who sat in front of the desk, said: “I’m certain of it, sir.”

  Fusil picked up a battered tobacco pouch and began to pack his pipe. Organised crime on this scale was a fast growing octopus: let the tentacles get too big and tight a hold and there was no releasing them. So it had to be destroyed at the beginning. But how big had this organisation already grown? “Have you any ideas on the make-up of the mob?”

  “None to date,” replied Rowan. “I’ve tried all my usual sources and questioned several Toms who must know something, but no one’s talking.”

  It seemed the tentacles might already be getting too tight. Angrily, Fusil checked his thoughts. He’d tear the town apart, if necessary, to make certain they weren’t. He hated all criminals, but those who controlled big organisations he would have condemned even on suspicion because they were death to any community.

  “Are we going to get any sort of a lead from the murder?” Rowan asked.

  Fusil picked up a box of matches and struck one, sucked flame into his pipe. “It doesn’t look like it at the moment,” he said unwillingly. “We’ve interviewed dozens of people who live up in the hills, put out requests for motorists to contact us, and we’ve got nowhere. The lab’s come up with nothing fresh, the pathologist’s report remains negative…”

  The telephone rang with a report of an attempted robbery at a supermarket out in Dritlington: Fusil ordered the call to be transferred to Braddon who was having to cope initially with all the ‘regular’ crime.

  Fusil drew on his pipe and acrid smoke swirled upwards. “Sooner or later, someone will talk.” He tried to sound optimistic. “So you and Kerr get back out into the field and start asking questions again.”

  Rowan said nothing.

  “Lean on the prostitutes and shove their pimps around, stir things up by saying that when the town’s clear and we get back to the way things were, we’ll remem
ber who helped us and who didn’t.”

  “We’ll try it,” said Rowan. He’d already tried it, in slightly different form. The prostitutes and the pimps had contemptuously ignored his implied threat: they knew where their greater danger lay.

  “There’s something fresh turned up, just to add to all our troubles.” Fusil searched amongst the papers on his desk and found the one he wanted. “It seems certain the organisation’s working drugs and pushing through the Toms. West division picked up a man high on heroin and he’d bought it from a Tom.”

  “It could be a one-off job…” began Rowan.

  “But it isn’t,” snapped Fusil. “It’s the natural sequence of events.” He jerked himself to his feet and walked over to the window and looked across the road towards the row of small Victorian houses. “I’ve asked for a man from county to come in undercover to buy some H. If we can get hold of some and have it analysed we’ll know the source and then we’ll at least know something for sure.” He shrugged his shoulders, in an unusual gesture of despondency. “Though God knows, with a port the size we’ve got and a growing airport, the source won’t take us very far.” He turned and his voice was now once more brisk. “O.K. You and Kerr get out and dig and don’t stop digging until you find something.”

  Rowan stood up.

  The telephone rang again and when Rowan left Fusil was talking to Detective Chief Inspector Kywood.

  *

  Raymond — christened John Frank Smith — was a man of very great imagination and this could quite easily make him a coward although he was not a coward by nature. He liked Heather and found her very rewarding to work with, but when he was harshly threatened into entrapping her, he agreed to do as the men ordered because his imagination terrified him.

  He rang Heather up and said he had another assignment for her and would she be free on Saturday afternoon at three-thirty? Because the work was so urgent and notice so short, her fee would be twenty pounds more than usual. She agreed to come.

  At three on Saturday afternoon, Bert arrived at Raymond’s house. He was young, good-looking, arrogant, and strong. He made it immediately clear that he thought Raymond was a shrieking poofter, mocked the framed photograph which had won Raymond his first international prize, and then checked the time and said, with a yawn, he’d start getting ready. But he couldn’t quite hide his lascivious expectations.

  Raymond showed him where he was to wait, behind the opaque back-cloth, carefully prepared with a small eyehole cut out of it. Bert undressed, hiding his clothes where Raymond suggested, and went behind the back-cloth.

  *

  As Heather drove past the last row of shops before Raymond’s house, she wondered whether she’d been wise to accept this latest job? Already this month, she’d made a great deal of money: so much, in fact, that if Fred ever learned the figure he’d be filled with humiliated fury. If a wife was lucky enough to be able to earn money, why couldn’t her husband accept the fact with gratified pleasure? Most of this month’s money must go into her ‘secret’ bank account. Fred knew nothing about it. The money there was initially for emergencies. If Tracy fell desperately ill, if Fred was seriously injured, it could pay for the finest specialists in the country. If, pray God, no calamity took place, it could one day — when Fred could reconcile himself to its existence — be used to help buy them all the kind of house they really wanted.

  She reached the house and continued on for fifty yards to find a parking place by the kerb. She locked up the Mini and walked back down the pavement and when a man stared at her with sharp appreciation, she accepted his judgement with pleasure because she was no hypocrite.

  Raymond opened the door for her and when she entered he fussed nervously round her like a flustered mother hen. She thought little of this. His temperament was artistic and his manner varied illogically and rapidly.

  “It’s a commercial for a new perfume, darling, so we want you in the skin: as the advertising manager said to me — a truly ghastly man, breath smells of garlic and he doesn’t shave properly — a neat little bum sells anything these days. He wanted to send a team along, of course, but I told him I always work on my own when I can. Other people inhibit me so. They freeze me. And how are you? Everything all right? I do wish the sun would come back. Clouds make me feel so self-destructive and my blood becomes sour.”

  They walked down the corridor and turned right into what had originally been a very large kitchen. She saw the back-cloth and was vaguely surprised by it — normally, Raymond worked with light colours. He said they kept his soul from contemplating morbidity.

  “All right, darling?” he asked. He nervously rubbed his chin, then fiddled with his thick-lobed ear. “Just pop inside and change and then I want you leaning on the back of the chair — we’ll have the fan on to waft your hair around and create the movement of unseen forces which positively crowd you with desire for this beautiful new perfume…”

  She went into the cubicle and undressed, folding her underclothes on the chair and hanging up her dress. She left, wearing her shoes because she was uncertain whether, or not, he wanted her bare-footed. Two cameras were set on tripods and a third one was strung round his neck. He always had several cameras ready, although he might only use one of them.

  “Lean on the back of the chair, darling, arms folded on top, chin resting on arms, eyes misty. I want you totally irresistible. Every woman who sees the advert must know that two dabs of this perfume and she’s Cleopatra. Without, of course, that terrible, terrible high-brow.”

  She took up the pose.

  “Lovely, darling, enough to make me buy a gallon of the filthy stuff. But get your two lovely little nubs more forward so that all the dirty old men who look at the magazine will buy the stuff for their tired old wives and hope…”

  It was a strange pose, but then she didn’t question it on this account because in the past she had held poses she had considered strange, yet the resulting photographs had been strikingly original and eye-catching.

  “I’ll start the fan up now, darling, and blow your hair around. Perhaps I’ll blur everything a fraction so it’s all very dreamy.”

  He switched on the large pedestal fan and the blast of air riffled her auburn hair, making the ends snake across the tops of her shoulders.

  “Legs a bit further apart, darling, to lower that delicious plump little bottom of yours. Think romantic. Inhale pure idyllic love. Tristan, without all that beastly passion… Or am I confusing the relationship? Head pitched forward, left elbow down…”

  She was concentrating on holding the pose when, for no readily discernible reason, she was suddenly and overwhelmingly certain someone was behind her.

  Instinctively she turned and what she saw so shocked her that for a brief second she was unable to move. Then she lunged sideways and screamed.

  Bert cursed because she had moved just too soon.

  She ran into the cubicle, dragged her dress off the hanger, and pulled it on, careless about ripping off a button.

  “Don’t get so fussed,” said a coarse, angry voice. “I ain’t going to use an old bag like you.”

  She was trembling and her mind was so scrambled that all she could think was the ridiculous certainty that this had to be a wild, erotic nightmare. She heard a mumble of conversation, which was followed by the noise of a door’s slamming. The fan was switched off.

  “He’s gone,” said Raymond. His voice was low, barely audible.

  It belatedly began to dawn on her that the man had not been some wild, frantic sex maniac who’d broken into the house and crept up to rape her. Everything had been planned, right down to the electric fan, the noise of which had just been sufficient to mask the man’s approach.

  “Heather, he’s gone. You can come out.”

  She stood there, still trembling.

  Raymond did what he had never done before, he pulled back one of the curtains of the cubicle and looked in. “He’s gone,” he said, yet again. He looked terrible, a man who despised himself.
>
  “Why?” she demanded hoarsely.

  He shook his head.

  “Give me the film.”

  “He’s taken the camera,” he answered dully.

  She whispered: “What’s he going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied.

  *

  By a coincidence, at almost the same time a man was filming Brigadier Eric Row.

  Row, once the youngest brigadier in the British Army, retired when his father died, had a wife who’d always believed nature was evil since it had arranged that babies could only be conceived in a most disgusting manner. Of course, married to the eldest son of a county family, she had done her duty and submitted to being mated, but once a son had been born she had thankfully said goodbye to sex.

  The brigadier, a pleasant, cheerful, amusing man, thought sex was the best reason for living. He enjoyed it even more than shooting and after reading that game shooting was sexually orientated and motivated, his life was complete. He was good at sex, as befitted a man who took the trouble to study his subject exhaustively, and, being wealthy now the family estate was his, he bought his pleasures with care, appreciation, great frequency, and close attention to detail.

  The photographer, shooting with superfast film through a one-way mirror — no problems about relative intensity of light between the two rooms, the brigadier liked to see what was going on — silently whistled in admiration. The old boy was closing up on sixty, yet his vitality wouldn’t have disgraced a twenty-year-old rutting student. Was this what an army life did for one?

  *

  Heather stared at the television, but did not watch the programme. She heard a hushed patter of feet overhead, as Tracy went along to the bathroom, but did not bother to go upstairs just to check all was well as she would normally have done.

  She’d tried to persuade herself Raymond might have mixed up the filming, or that by some miracle the film would prove to be useless, or that in developing the shots would be ruined, but even as she’d conjured up these possibilities she’d known she was being stupid.