She went over to the telephone, looked up the number of the bank, and dialled it. He studied the room. The furnishings were luxurious and the T.V. was colour. No ordinary detective constable could afford such things. But she’d said she made quite a bit more than Rowan and Weir was fully prepared to find that everything in the house had been bought with legitimate money. The odds were obviously shortening that the motive for Rowan’s betrayal — assuming he was the traitor — was not monetary.
She finished her telephone call and told him she’d instructed the bank to give him any records he asked for. He courteously thanked her. “And you’ve no idea where your husband is this morning, Mrs. Rowan?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“When he returns, ask him to get in touch with me, will you? I want a chat with him.” He stood up. “By the way, I’m sure we’d like to have a quick word with the people who give you modelling work. Would you draw up a list of their names and addresses and let me have it next time I call?”
“All right,” she answered dully.
He stood up. “Thanks very much for all your help, Mrs. Rowan.”
She suddenly spoke fiercely. “He’s honest. D’you understand, he’s honest.”
She hadn’t denied he’d been the traitor, he thought… Just insisted that he was honest. Confirmation that the motive had not been the usual one of money?
*
Rowan returned home at twelve-thirty and went into the sitting room. Heather told him about Weir’s visit and then asked him where he’d been that morning.
“Just wandering around thinking,” he answered, as he sat down. He recalled the scene he’d seen from his parked car. The expensive house, in a street of expensive houses, set in a large garden that was tended by a gardener who was probably full time. A Rover had been parked in front: a discreet middling expensive car. A coloured man had come out of the house and spoken to the gardener, but apart from them no one else had been around. Apparently, this was just the house of a wealthy and successful businessman and there wasn’t a hint of organised crime. But in the last few years the top villains had learned about the benefits of going legitimate. More than ever, appearances didn’t mean anything.
It wasn’t going to be a difficult house to break into, with so many windows and doors. In any case, when a villain turned legitimate, he often became astonishingly, comically, certain that the law would protect him every bit as effectively as it protected all the honest citizens: the metamorphosis of crime, a police wag had called it. So that Murphy — if he lived there — would more than likely have the same disbelief as any other person who lived in this expensive road that anyone would break into his house.
Any of the downstairs doors or windows would do and if the night was really warm one of them might even be left open. The staff probably consisted of more than just one coloured man, but they should pose no problems. And Murphy? The treatment which had broken Faraday would surely break Murphy, because apparently Murphy really liked women and a randy man in his fifties would do anything rather than be deprived for all time of his powers to enjoy sex…
“Fred!”
He was startled and even worried. “What’s the matter, love? What’s happened?”
Her expression was bitter, yet sadly loving. “Where have you been?”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“You’ve been sitting there, staring into space for five minutes at least. What are you doing, or thinking of doing, now? You told me you’d blackmailed a woman. So what’s next? I’m terrified by what you may be doing.”
“There’s no need to be,” he replied, trying to sound certain.
“I’m sure you’re lying. There’s every need, and you know it. Fred, whatever you’re doing, stop it. We can battle through. You said the detective chief inspector can’t uncover anything sinister in our bank accounts. If he finds you haven’t been receiving bribes, he’ll have to give up. If anyone then still thinks it was you, it doesn’t matter. They won’t be able to prove anything.”
“You could be right,” he answered. Didn’t she realise that the police wouldn’t be content with investigating just the one possible motive? If they decided money wasn’t the cause, they’d look for what was. They’d investigate everyone on the list she’d drawn up of people who’d given her work. Raymond wouldn’t fox even a C.I.D. aide for more than a few minutes, let alone a tough, experienced, and very clever D.C.I. Then they’d have the motive for the betrayal and after that it would be all over bar the shouting. Tonight could well be the last opportunity to recover the photographs and the parcel. But once those were in his possession everything was altered and Raymond’s story could be denied and the mob couldn’t prove him the traitor.
*
Jagannath Parasad, as always, obeyed his orders exactly. He carried the meal of chicken, roast potatoes, and green peas, together with a carafe of Beaune, on a silver tray up to Faraday’s bedroom.
Faraday, his mind in a turmoil of worry even though everything was going so smoothly, swung round from where he’d been standing at the window. “It’s taken you long enough to remember me.”
Parasad bowed his head, as if accepting the crude admonition. But his dark brown eyes were disturbingly bright as he stared at the Wilton carpet.
“My stomach’s been kissing my backbone for hours. What’s the matter? Don’t you blokes eat at civilised hours?”
Parasad put the tray on the small, glass-topped table, then looked up, his eyes now devoid of expression. “Is there anything more you would like?”
“Yeah. To know when I’m going up to London? Sitting about in this room is as bad as being locked up in the nick.”
“The car is ordered for four.”
“Then make certain it ain’t late.”
“It will not be, I assure you.”
“It’d better not be.”
“What would you like for a sweet? You may have trifle or strawberry shortcake, with whipped cream.”
“You can give me a bloody good dollop of each and don’t hold back on the cream. And don’t wait until tea-time to bring it up.”
Parasad left the room and went down to the kitchen, which was large and very luxuriously equipped. There, he had his own meal, similar to the one Faraday was eating, although he drank only water. When he’d finished, he crossed to the refrigerator and carefully — finding no source of macabre amusement in the care he was taking — put a large helping of the trifle on to one plate, a large helping of shortcake on to a second plate, and covered both sweets with cream. He put the plates on a tray, added two spoons and forks, and a brandy glass. Satisfied the tray was ready, he pulled open one of the drawers below the nearest working surface and from this took some thin cord, about seven feet long.
Nath Verna came into the kitchen through the back doorway. He looked briefly at the cord. “Are you ready?” he asked. Even when they were together, they seldom spoke at any length.
With typical thoroughness, Parasad spliced each end of the cord to prevent its becoming un-laid, although the chances of this happening in the next few minutes were negligible.
They went upstairs together, Parasad carrying the tray. Verna opened the door for him.
Faraday stared belligerently at them. That took you long enough, didn’t it? And why’s it need two of you to carry one tray? Too bloody lazy to bring it up on your own?” He sat in a high-backed chair, in front of the table.
“I have come about the car,” said Verna, as Parasad collected up the used plate, cutlery, glass, and now empty decanter.
Faraday said: “So what about the car? Just see it’s ready on time to get me up to the Smoke.”
“It will be waiting.”
Parasad was now behind Faraday. He put down the tray on the corner of the bed and made certain everything on it rattled slightly, to suggest he was busy.
“To which part of London do you wish to go?” asked Verna.
Parasad took the cord from his pocket, wound the ends round
his hands to leave a two foot six length in between. He visually checked that Verna was ready, then whipped the cord over Faraday’s head and jerked it tight around the neck.
Faraday clawed at the rope, desperate to drag air down into lungs which were already pumping. Verna took hold of his feet and lifted them up so that even more strain came on to Faraday’s neck.
When he was dead, they dropped him to the floor. Parasad unwound the cord and rubbed his hands which were banded, whilst Verna went out to get the plastic sheeting which was to be the first covering for the body.
*
The motor cruiser went up the starboard side of The Shallows at twenty knots. She turned, when the coast was fairly indistinct and certainly to any watcher ashore she was no more than a dot, and two men heaved the canvas bundle over the side. Half a hundredweight of pig iron had been tied to the body so it sank quite quickly.
Chapter 17
The M.V. Boswell was not a super tanker, but she was large enough to be economic and to have a draught that under certain tidal conditions necessitated her anchoring outside the River Fort until the tide was making strongly.
She had been anchored beyond The Shallows for three hours when the pilot said they could now get under way. The engine room were told by telephone the engines would be used in five minutes and the chief officer went for’d to the fo’c’s’le head and there, for two blasphemous minutes, waited for the carpenter.
“Where have you been, Chippy?” shouted the chief officer, when the latter finally arrived, together with a seaman.
“Doin’ something what couldn’t be rushed,” replied the carpenter, a fat, cheerful man who had seen too many chief officers come and go to be worried much by them.
The phone peeped and the chief officer answered the call. He turned. “Weigh anchor,” he ordered.
The carpenter turned the heavy electrical switch and the starboard windlass began slowly to revolve: the thick links of the anchor chain creaked and screeched as they settled under tension into the shaped beds of the drum, to drop from these down into the chain locker below.
After a time, the anchor chain hung straight up and down, showing the anchor was off the bottom. As the seaman continued to hose off the mud, the chief officer signalled to the bridge with his hands and he heard the tinkling of the engine room telegraph replying to the bridge order for slow ahead.
When the anchor rose out of the water, there was a large canvas package tied up in one of the flukes. The ship’s way was already creating a press of water and this caused the rope round the parcel to chafe on the fluke. The rope split, the package fell, and the canvas split open. There was just time for both the chief officer and the seaman, leaning over the rails, to see the body inside the plastic before it sank back to the sea bed.
*
Rowan surreptitiously — or so he thought — checked on the time: just after ten o’clock. One hour to his departure, four hours to breaking into Tranmere House.
“Fred,” said Heather, her voice more worried than ever, “you’ve got to tell me where you’re going.”
“I have told you — asking around, questioning informers I’ve had on the books.”
“Then why are you so jumpy?”
“You’re imagining things.”
She’d asked him the same question a quarter of an hour before and received the same answer: she’d disbelieved it then and she disbelieved it now. He was on edge and some sort of crisis faced him. She longed to hold him back because she knew instinctively he intended to do something really dangerous, yet she also knew that should she succeed in holding him back then disaster was inevitable for both of them.
The front door bell rang. “Who in the hell can that be?” muttered Rowan in annoyance. He stood up, went through to the hall, and opened the front door. Helen and Kerr stood there, arm-in-arm.
“Can we come in for a moment, Fred?” asked Helen. “We were just passing and wanted to say hey-hey. How’s Heather?”
Just passing? he thought. Or coming in to offer unspoken support because both of them, in different ways, were the kind of people who knew loyalty for their friends no matter what the circumstances. But they were threatening to upset his planned timing…
Heather hurried into the hall, having heard Helen’s voice, and welcomed them in with obvious pleasure. They went into the sitting room and Rowan poured out drinks for the four of them, whilst he watched the time and wondered how long they’d stay.
To begin with, conversation was general and without significance. How was Tracy? What a price food had reached and how was everyone to manage? Why couldn’t the politicians get together and really combat inflation instead of using it to play party politics? The latest film at the Central Cinema was virtually pornographic.
“Pretty disgusting,” said Kerr.
“You fraud,” laughed Helen, “you wanted to sit there and see all the hot bits through again.”
Useless Eustace Yarrow had tried to cheek Detective Chief Inspector Weir and he’d received a blasting that had quietened even him down. There was a rumour that the copper’s union was asking for more pay for all ranks below inspector to compensate for the ever-rising cost of living.
“What about the price of meat?” said Helen to Heather, returning to the subject of food.
“We’ve been so busy,” said Kerr to Rowan, “I didn’t even get time for cup of tea all afternoon.”
“Try telling that to someone who doesn’t know you,” replied Rowan, again sneaking a look at the time.
“No. I’m telling you, Fred, that’s straight. Two witness statements from blokes at opposite ends of the manor and one of ’em away from work, sick, according to his employers and as fit as a fiddle and at work according to his wife. A hit-and-run, with five witnesses and five different makes of car identified. A series of frauds on old-age pensioners and not a single lead on the rat of a bastard who’s doing ’em. And then, just as I was all set to return home to relax and recover, some flaming ship had to up anchor and pull up a corpse. The ship had its position charted exactly so we sent out our team of frogmen and they found the body inside half an hour. The bloke had been strangled and then tied up along with some pig iron. Only just been dropped there, apparently.”
“Any idea who he was?” asked Rowan.
“Not yet, but the Old Man reckons he may be mixed up with the new mob.”
“Why?” said Rowan sharply.
“You know him — never tells you what he’s thinking. But there were some interesting things. Over a hundred quid in his wallet and his clothes didn’t come from any multiple tailor, but he’d no letters, credit cards, driving licence, or any means of identification on him. We’ve sent his dabs off, of course, but you know what Dabs are like. No one there’ll die from overwork.”
“What’s he look like?”
“You mean, what did he look like before his face became pop-eyed?” Kerr grinned. As did most other policeman, he found the easiest way to counter the more morbid side of his work was to treat the details with an irreverent facetiousness that an outsider could readily find macabre. “Good looking, regular face, dark hair, tough, six foot tall.”
Rowan tried to speak casually. “Was there anything special about his mouth?”
“Special? Had he got three lips, or something? It was just… Come to remember, he’d a scar on the right-hand side of it.” Kerr stared hard at Rowan. “So how did you know that?”
“It’s just I saw a bloke around who made me think he was sharp and he’d a scar by his mouth — but I’ve no idea who he was.”
“Or why he should get himself strangled?”
“That’s right.”
Kerr’s disbelief was obvious — not unnaturally, since Rowan had been quite unable to hide his perturbation — but for once he was tactful enough not to comment and, indeed, he changed the conversation.
Ten minutes later, Helen said they must go and ten minutes after that she and Kerr prepared to leave. She slipped her hand into his in an uns
elfconscious gesture of love as they said goodbye in the hall.
Would they always find life happy ever after? wondered Rowan. Perhaps they were two people who might, for as long as this was ever possible, because Helen had a tremendous and willing capacity to give and Kerr could make light of anything. Rowan envied them with a sad bitterness.
When they’d gone and he’d shut the front door, he stood in the hall and desperately tried to think constructively. The murdered man was Faraday. He’d no doubts on that score, even if the identification was weak. Faraday had been a fool and instead of scarpering whilst he could, had tried to gloss over his squeal and Murphy hadn’t believed him. That meant Murphy knew he’d been betrayed. Then either he’d have left the house, vanishing to another bolt-hole or, far more likely, he’d have remained and set things up for what he must be certain was to follow. Rowan imagined himself breaking into the house apparently without having caused any alarm, only to discover his mistake when it was too late… The only way he’d ever leave Tranmere House would be feet first, his body battered and bloody because they’d have made him talk before they killed him. So he dare not try to break into Tranmere House.
If he didn’t break into Tranmere House, Weir was going to get hold of Raymond and learn the motive for Rowan’s betrayal. Pretty soon after that, Rowan would be named traitor and Murphy would see that the final incriminating evidence was released. Rowan could name Murphy boss of the organisation, but there was no proof and Murphy had already sewn up the town sufficiently to ride out any such accusation. So he, Rowan, had only one way to escape and that was exactly what it had been before, to break into Tranmere House. Which was no longer possible.
Heather, dirty glasses on a tray, came into the hall.
“It was wonderful of them to call in and show such friendship, wasn’t it?”
He nodded.
“Fred…” She suddenly stopped as she saw his expression. “What’s happened now?”
“I won’t be going out tonight.”
“Thank God! But why? Has something John told you altered your mind? Was it that man being murdered and dumped at sea?” Her lips began to tremble. “Fred, I don’t care how tough life gets just so long as no one has to come to tell me that you’ve been fished out of the water, dead.” She put down the tray, hurried to him, and gripped him tightly. “D’you understand? I don’t care. I’ll put up with anything.”
The Murder Line (C.I.D. Room Book 8) Page 15