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

by Roderic Jeffries

  The garden was untended, a chaos of overgrown lawn and weed-infested beds. At the back of the house there were three windows upstairs, two windows and a half-glass door downstairs, and a flat roofed eight foot extension built out. One of the upstairs windows was open.

  He pulled the nylon stocking over his head. The back door was locked, the key was in the lock inside, and his skeleton keys would not move it. He switched on the torch — most of the bowl was covered with sticking plaster to cut down the size of the beam — and checked the catches of the windows, but he could reach none of them with the long strip of plastic. He crossed the flagstones to the extension which was, he guessed, a larder and perhaps a store room. On the side facing inwards there was a window, three feet by two, shut but offering a convenient point of entry. Again, he tried to work the plastic between window and frame to release the catch, again he failed. Only brute force remained. He coated the glass with adhesive, pressed the mutton cloth on to the adhesive and then, with a silent prayer, hit the glass hard with the hammer.

  The glass broke, but did not shatter because it was held by adhesive and cloth. He worked the cloth loose, which pulled free much of the glass, and then levered out the remaining slithers.

  Using the torch, he was able to confirm he’d broken into the larder: the top shelf, just below the window, was empty except for two piles of plates on the far side. He passed his bag through, reached up and took a grip on the flat roof, then hauled himself up and pushed his legs through the window. From there, it was a case of wriggle like hell while discovering a whole new set of muscles before finally getting through and safely down on to the floor.

  The kitchen was in a mess, which suggested no women were in the house. There were dirty cutlery and china on the single wooden draining board, together with three bottles of ketchup, one of chutney, and one of mustard, all with filthy necks, and half a dozen empty beer bottles.

  He walked through the kitchen into the hall. An old lag, an ancient and rather unsuccessful burglar, whom he’d arrested twice had on the second occasion become very talkative. “When you’re in an ’ouse, guv, walk like you was going through a bleeding minefield. Never move your weight forward until you knows what’s goin’ to ’appen: down on the ’eel and then slowly lower your foot.”

  The stairs were to the right of the oblong hall and there were two rooms to the left. The rooms, dining room and lounge, were empty. He climbed the stairs, very slowly, and was shocked when halfway up to hear a noise that he first identified as someone rushing out to meet him. During the next few seconds, he realised he’d heard only a mouse scampering around somewhere above.

  The landing was L-shaped. The first door was open and one quick check showed this was a bathroom. He moved along the carpeted floor, thankful for the thick pile of the carpet. His old burglar had also said: “Sleeping people makes a lot of noise, guv. You’d never credit it, not unless you’ve stood outside and listened. Like an ’erd of bleeding elephants. I listens at every door for a real good time and if I don’t ’ears nothing I opens it a little — turn the ’andle to full tension, push a bit, wait, push a bit more. I listens again. And if I still don’t ’ear nothing, then that room’s empty. And if the door creaks, guv, I just takes things a bit slower. There ain’t a creak you can’t win by going slowly.”

  He listened at the second door for a long time, heard nothing, turned the handle to full tension and pushed very slowly until it was fractionally open. After a while, he heard the rustle of sheets and a quick, smothered snort.

  He moved on to the second door to the right. All was quiet, all remained quiet, and the room proved to be empty. The only room to the left was clearly occupied.

  Which of the two sleepers was the more likely to be Faraday? The odds must surely be that he considered himself to be the more important of the two men in the house and therefore would have appropriated the better bedroom. The bedroom facing the road, being the larger, was probably the better of the two occupied ones.

  He returned to the first bedroom, fully opened the door, held the cosh in his right hand and the torch in his left. He approached the bed and when his left leg brushed into it he transferred his torch to the right hand and felt round the bed in order to be able to position himself.

  Returning the torch to his left hand, he switched it on. The man, eyes closed but beginning to flicker, was in his middle twenties, sleek, and hard. Rowan shone the torch directly at his right eye and as the man awakened, but while his mind was still misty from sleep, whispered in urgent tones: “Sit up. Quick.”

  The man, reacting automatically to the order, sat up. Rowan slammed down the cosh, on the back of the head and just above the beginning of the neck. With a small grunt and a whoosh of expelled breath, the man collapsed.

  Rowan switched on the bedside lamp. He gagged the man, rolled him over, tied his two wrists together behind his back with string, and his two ankles to his wrists so that he was doubled up in reverse.

  Rowan left that room and went into the other occupied bedroom. Either Faraday, identified by the scar to the side of his mouth, had been about to wake or Rowan had inadvertently awakened him a little earlier because when the torch was switched on he took alarm immediately. He rolled to one side, trying to free himself from the bedclothes as he did so, and shouted: “Jim… Jim.”

  Rowan waited until Faraday was just making the floor and then he slammed down the cosh. His aim was not perfect, striking the head too far up, but Faraday lost all momentum and sagged back on to the bed. Rowan hit him a second time and he was knocked unconscious.

  Working quickly, Rowan spread-eagled Faraday across the bed in X formation, using string to secure a limb to each corner of the single bed: as a final precaution, he made a running bowline and put this round Faraday’s neck and tied the other end to the metal grilled bed-head. Then he sat down on the chair and waited.

  Faraday recovered consciousness and the first thing he did was to try to move his head. The string tightened and started to choke him. He gagged and seemed about to vomit, despite the choking noose, but did not actually do so. Rowan released the pressure on the noose. Faraday tried to move his limbs, only to learn they were secured. He relaxed, as if he had reconciled himself to his predicament, and then he exerted all his considerable strength in an attempt to break free. Inevitably, he began to strangle and was forced to desist. Rowan again loosened the noose. Faraday drew air down into his straining lungs.

  “I’ve come for some information,” said Rowan.

  Faraday answered with a flood of obscenity.

  “I want the name of the boss of the mob, where he’s living, and who’s in the house or flat with him.”

  “You’re round the twist,” sneered Faraday.

  “You’re going to have to tell me, so…”

  “Drop dead, you stupid bastard.”

  Rowan looked at his watch. “It’s early. There’s a long time to go for the night.”

  “You sound like a B movie.”

  Rowan stood up and picked up a pair of pants from the small pile of clothing on a second chair. “Open your mouth.”

  Faraday kept his mouth closed. He was hit on the side of the head and as he involuntarily gasped with pain. Rowan jammed the pants into his mouth and then secured these in position with a handkerchief.

  Rowan brought out the knife from the bag and pressed the catch so that the five inch blade flicked out with a harsh snap of metal. Faraday looked at the knife and, despite all his courage, he began to sweat.

  “I don’t want to hurt you more than necessary,” said Rowan, “so when you’re ready to talk, nod your head.”

  Like any other policeman, Rowan hated violence as much because of its fearful and lasting consequences as because of its immediate nature. Yet now he had no compunction in using it. Only violence would make this man talk. But ordinary, crude violence would perhaps not be effective: it had to be a violence that shocked Faraday and terrified him because he had not previously envisaged such enormous
, inhuman brutality. Rowan brought the blade down and Faraday tensed and closed his eyes. Rowan slit up the pyjama trousers. “I’m going to castrate you.”

  After a moment of stunned incomprehension, Faraday tried to fling himself off the bed. The noose dragged him down into brief unconsciousness and when he painfully struggled back into consciousness he found he had achieved nothing.

  “I’ll do it slowly,” said Rowan, “to give you plenty of time to talk. But if you decide to keep silent, you’ll be a soprano by morning. And inside a few months you’ll be fat as well as squeaky and one of the biggest jokes for miles.” He moved into position and began to cut and there was a thin trickle of blood.

  Faraday writhed, but the only effect of this was to half strangle himself and to make the knife bite deeper than Rowan had for the moment intended. Faraday jerked from pain, then nodded his head as far as he could.

  Rowan put the knife down on the bed and released the gag.

  “Harry,” said Faraday, speaking hoarsely, his face rolling with sweat. “Harry Chambers.”

  “Where’s he live?”

  “Twenty-four, Brunswick Road.”

  “Who’s with him?”

  “A couple of blokes. And there’s usually a woman. He’s mad keen on women even though he’s getting on.”

  “What d’you mean by getting on?”

  “He won’t ever see fifty again.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Six feet tall, big, and with a chunky kind of a face.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Scouseland. He was running a mob up there and things got too hot, so he came down south.”

  “What colour are his eyes?”

  “Jesus! Why? They’re blue.”

  “Has he done time?”

  “Some. I don’t know exact.”

  “Have you done time?”

  “I’ve had one spell.”

  “Where?”

  “At the palace.”

  Rowan sat down on the chair.

  Faraday tried to keep silent, knowing it showed a weakness to speak now, but in the end he had to say: “I’ve told the lot. So what d’you want?”

  “Just waiting,” replied Rowan, and he began to speak about nothing in particular.

  Faraday kept looking quickly and nervously at Rowan, desperately trying to make out why Rowan was talking as he was. Then Rowan stopped and they heard a car draw up to a stop and a door bang. From the look on Faraday’s face, he wildly imagined this was a rescue, but footsteps on the pavement clearly went away from the house.

  “What colour are his eyes?” asked Rowan suddenly, using repetition of questions to check the veracity of the answers he’d been given — the standard move of any interrogating detective.

  Faraday tried to remember what he’d said. “Blue.”

  “How tall is he?”

  “Six foot.”

  “What kind of face has he got?”

  “It’s… it’s…” Perspiration once more slid down Faraday’s face. “Square.”

  “Where’s he live?”

  “Berwick… Brunswick Road.”

  “What number?”

  Faraday said fourteen, knowing with hopeless certainty that he’d got the number wrong.

  Rowan picked up the gag. “Open your mouth.” Faraday shouted once, before the cosh slammed him into unconsciousness. When he came to, he was gagged and the pain in his head was making it difficult for him to see properly.

  He felt the sting of the knife, which turned into a burning pain, and in his imagination he was already half gelded and only seconds were left before he ceased to be a man. Wildly, he nodded his head. The gag was removed.

  “It’s Ed Murphy,” he said.

  Murphy, thought Rowan. It was a name he’d come across not so long ago. Then he remembered. Ed Murphy was one of the names on a list circulated by the Regional Crime Squad who had been asking for information on the present whereabouts of certain named big operators.

  “Where’s he living?”

  “Tranmere House, Ashdowne Road.”

  “Tell me the set-up.”

  Faraday described Ed Murphy, the routine of the house, and the organisation.

  Rowan, satisfied he’d at last heard the truth, re-gagged Faraday. He checked nothing incriminating was lying around and left.

  Chapter 16

  It was ten past six in the morning and the birds were singing as if in some sweeping Wagnerian climax. A very light breeze swayed the leaves of the trees and the sun was sending shadows across the lawns and orderly flower beds.

  Murphy, in pyjamas and dressing-gown, turned round and only someone who knew him really well would have noticed the tension that lay behind his mask of calmness.

  Goater said, in his beery voice: “That’s the story, Ed. Straight. I woke up and this bloke was there and ’e belted me cruel. When I came round, I was tied like a bleeding parcel and it took hours to get free and get Pete free.”

  Murphy went over to the mantelpiece of the sitting room, opened a silver cigarette case, and lit a cigarette. One of the Pakistanis came into the room with a tray on which were three cups of coffee: he carried it round for each man to help himself. Murphy noticed how eagerly Faraday drank. The Pakistani left.

  Murphy spoke to Faraday. “This bloke must surely have given you an idea who he was working for?”

  “He never let on, Ed,” replied Faraday, speaking with great earnestness, “not even when I tried to find out if he was from a different mob, or what.” He had thought a lot before coming back here. Common sense had suggested he vanish, since one way or another Murphy might learn the truth. But he had become so used to the feel of heavy money, to buying whatever he wanted when he wanted it, to being a big wheel in a big organisation, that he couldn’t and wouldn’t listen to common sense. He persuaded himself that he was clever enough to lie successfully.

  “And all he wanted out of you was to know my name?”

  “That’s right. And when I told him Harry Chambers and described Harry, he was satisfied.”

  Murphy suddenly laughed. “You know, Pete, I like that! Using Harry’s name.”

  “I thought you’d appreciate it, Ed.”

  They’d buried Harry Chambers some six months before, in a small wood in Hertfordshire.

  Murphy said: “It was neat.”

  “I wasn’t grassing, whatever.”

  “I know that… You’ll have to lie low for a bit, though, until we trace out this joker.”

  “Sure. I thought if I took off and lost myself in the Smoke until you’ve planted him.”

  “That’s about right.” Murphy finally decided Faraday had betrayed them, under the threat of being castrated. “You stay here until this afternoon and then Nath will drive you up to the Smoke. We’ll keep in touch and as soon as it’s safe, you’ll come on back down.” He turned and spoke to Goater. “Take off out of the house you were in and move in with Bill and Andy.” His voice remained easy, untroubled, but he didn’t like things one little bit because nothing added up. A rival mob wouldn’t have started to move in like this, nor have used only one man if they had. In any case, he’d have had word long before this that someone was trying to muscle in. So why only one man, who had wanted to know the identity of the boss? If, as at the moment seemed likely, it was a one-man band, then the best way of landing that man was to carry on as if nothing had raised any alarm. After all, if Faraday had not been so greedy he’d have had the sense to take off without telling anyone why. Goater would have followed him. So this unknown man might well be fool enough to try to break into Tranmere House and they’d have him, to work on him until he told them what his angle was. Murphy’s voice was crisp: “Pete, you take off upstairs, now, and stay in a bedroom until we get the transport organised. Jim, you move house.”

  Goater left, clearly relieved at the way things had gone. Faraday said, even more relieved than Goater: “Ed, that bloke never doubted it was Harry at the top.”

  “Sure. You di
d a good job.”

  “I reckoned it was better to tell him something he’d swallow.”

  “Yeah. Or lose your most precious possessions? Quit worrying, Pete, you did dead right. I’d have acted the same.”

  Reassured, Faraday waited whilst a Pakistani was called to the room by a ring of the bell. Murphy gave a brief order and the Pakistani led Faraday out of the room.

  After Faraday had been gone a few moments, Murphy telephoned Jarrold. “Titch, we’ve got trouble. Get ready for a run.”

  He replaced the receiver. Tonight, he thought, switching his mind, the house must be apparently totally unguarded, so that it was inconceivable any alarm had been given. Even a window or two left open. Then if the man came, he’d have no hesitation in entering…

  *

  Detective Chief Inspector Weir was very polite. “You’re quite certain, Mrs. Rowan, you’ve no objection to furnishing us with all these financial details?”

  She looked across at him, then at his detective sergeant, a desiccated looking individual. “Have I much option?” she asked bitterly.

  “It’s very much in your own interests, you realise?”

  “I know it is, since everything we own has been bought with money we’ve earned,” she said fiercely.

  He nodded. “I’m sure it is, but unfortunately it’s my duty just to check. I think that by far the easiest solution, again if you agree, is to get your bank or banks to let us look through your bank statements for the past couple of years. If there are any queries, we can ask you just to identify the various sums paid in and then everything will be cleared up in one go.”

  “We have one joint account at our bank and I have a separate account. The only other money we have is in a building society. I suppose you want to see the pass book of that?”

  “I will need to, yes.”