Five Dead Canaries

by Edward Marston

  ‘No,’ she said, stepping back out of his hold. ‘Everything has changed, Neil. I don’t want anything to do with you ever again. It was wrong of us and it was cruel to Shirley. She was your wife. You shouldn’t have come after me.’

  ‘I don’t remember you complaining,’ he said with rancour. ‘You were as willing as I was.’ Beresford’s tone became more conciliatory. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean that the way it sounds. Give it time, Maureen. Wait until all this goes away. If you read my letter, you know how I feel about you. We were meant to be together,’ he insisted. ‘Don’t worry about what happened in the past. Nobody will ever know about that.’

  Maureen glanced at the church. ‘Someone already does.’

  It took a cup of tea and several minutes before they could calm June Ingles down enough to get articulate information out of her. She seemed ready to lapse into hysteria at any moment. Marmion and Keedy were alone with her at the police station. With a combination of patience and understanding, they drew the story out of her.

  ‘What makes you think your husband is in trouble?’ asked Marmion, gently.

  ‘I listened,’ she replied. ‘Brian had two phone calls and started to behave wildly. He refused to tell me what was going on. So I listened, Inspector. When he made a phone call himself, I opened the door of the kitchen and eavesdropped.’ Tears welled up in her eyes again. ‘He was telling the estate agent to come to the house as soon as he could to give him a valuation. Why?’ she cried. ‘We love the house. It’s ideal for us. The other day, Brian said we wouldn’t have to move. All of a sudden, he’s putting the house on the market.’

  ‘Did you challenge him about it, Mrs Ingles?’ asked Keedy.

  ‘Yes, I did. It made me livid.’

  ‘What did your husband say?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him so angry,’ she replied. ‘When he realised that I’d been listening, he used the most disgusting language. And then he …’

  The memory was too fresh in her mind to bear repetition. June needed a few more minutes before she could go on. Marmion assured her that there was no hurry. Taking down her statement, Keedy was equally considerate. Both of them recognised the significance of what she was telling them. When she was ready to continue, she made a pathetic effort to put on a brave face.

  ‘What did your husband do, Mrs Ingles?’ prompted Marmion.

  ‘I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’ve always been so … contented together. Brian’s been a good husband,’ she declared, anxious to say something in his defence. ‘Some people might say that he spoilt me. And it meant so much to me, you see.’

  ‘What did?’

  ‘My jewellery – he demanded that I sold it at once.’

  They’d heard more than enough to be convinced that Ingles had been plunged into some sort of financial crisis. Petrified at the death of his daughter, he’d rallied soon after and regained something of his former swagger, but phone calls to the house had given him an edge of desperation. He was even about to sell off the jewellery he’d bought his wife throughout their marriage. The urgency of it all was frightening.

  ‘What did you say, Mrs Ingles?’ asked Keedy.

  ‘I refused,’ she replied. ‘I put my foot down and refused to hand over my jewellery. It was very precious to me – and I don’t mean in terms of its value.’

  ‘How did your husband react?’

  There was another strained silence as she fought to compose herself.

  ‘He hit me,’ she said, lower lip trembling. ‘Brian went berserk and slapped me across the face. He’s never done anything like that before. He wouldn’t have dared. Then, instead of apologising and trying to comfort me, he went charging off upstairs to grab my jewellery box. My husband’s lost control,’ she wailed, ‘and it’s all to do with those phone calls he took.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ asked Marmion.

  ‘He’s at home. Brian said that I had to leave for a couple of hours because he had an important business meeting. Just think of that,’ she said, eyes widening in despair. ‘We’ve been married for thirty years and I get thrown out of my own house. You’ve got to help me, Inspector. Since that bomb went off, I’ve been living with a madman.’

  Brian Ingles sat white-faced on the edge of an armchair in his living room. The man who stood over him was tall, lean, well featured and almost twenty years younger. Wearing an expensive suit, he fingered his moustache as he looked down at Ingles, relishing the power he had over him. He listened to a long list of promises from the other man.

  ‘It’s not enough,’ he said, coldly, ‘and it’s not soon enough.’

  ‘You have to give me more time,’ pleaded Ingles.

  ‘You’ve already had far too much time. Debts must be paid.’

  ‘And I’ll pay them in full if only you’ll bear with me for a while. It’s the worst possible moment. We’re in mourning for our daughter, for God’s sake! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’

  ‘It means a great deal.’

  ‘Then show some compassion.’

  ‘You exhausted my supply of that a long time ago.’ He took some sheets of paper from his inside pocket and held them up. ‘We have a contract. I expect it to be honoured.’

  ‘I did honour it,’ asserted Ingles. ‘I paid you thousands.’

  ‘All you were doing was to pay off some of the interest. You’re nowhere near settling the whole debt. The longer you delay, the higher the interest becomes,’ he went on with a taunting smirk. ‘You borrowed so much that the bank won’t give you any more credit. Find the money elsewhere. It will take more than this house and a jewellery box to get me off your back.’

  ‘You’re bleeding me dry, you bastard!’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to catch the gambling bug. When you risk your future on the turn of a card, you have to be ready to pay a high price. You’re a loser, Brian, a born loser. You’ve had such success at everything else in the past that you thought you couldn’t fail. But you did,’ said the man with grinning satisfaction. He stuffed the contract back into his pocket. ‘You failed and failed again. Failure costs money.’ His face hardened. ‘I warned you that I wasn’t a man to be trifled with. You pushed me to the limit.’

  ‘I thought it was someone else,’ said Ingles, head in his hands. ‘When I heard that they had a suspect, I really believed that the police knew who’d done it. It was such a relief. You hadn’t carried out your threat, after all.’

  ‘Yes, I had – I don’t make idle threats, Brian.’

  ‘I never thought you’d stoop to murder.’

  ‘Oh, I stooped much lower than that,’ said the other, exultantly. ‘When I was in the army, I learnt three vital lessons, you see. I learnt how to make an explosive device that went off when I wanted it to. I learnt how to play cards and win because there’s a lot of spare time when you’re a soldier. And – most important of all – I learnt that, when you’ve got hold of an enemy, you never let him go.’

  ‘I should have gone to the police at the very start.’

  ‘You signed a legal document. It’s binding.’

  Ingles tried to get up. ‘I’ll ring them now and tell them the truth.’

  ‘Sit down,’ ordered the man, pushing him back down. ‘You’re not stupid enough to get the coppers involved. It’s the one thing in your favour. You know what I’d do, Brian. Cross me and you won’t have a house left to sell.’ He looked around the room. ‘It will burn very nicely.’

  ‘You’ll never let us off the hook, will you?’

  ‘It’s where you deserve to be.’

  Ingles was horrified at his impotence in the face of his visitor. After luring him into a token friendship, the man had slowly stripped him of almost everything that he held dear and the worst of it was that Ingles could do nothing about it. Naked fear paralysed him. Even though the man had been responsible for the death of his daughter, Ingles felt powerless against him. It was almost as if he were hypnotised. ‘What did you mean?’
he asked, quietly. ‘When you said that you’d stooped lower, what did you mean? Wasn’t cold-blooded murder enough for you?’

  ‘I hate waste,’ said the man, airily. ‘Florrie was an attractive woman and she was feeling lonely. So I got to know her a little. We became friends. When I heard it was her birthday, I even drove her to the pub to make the arrangements. Florrie was going to tell them, you see. When we had the party, I was going to be unveiled as the best birthday present she’d ever had. But I disappointed her,’ he went on with a callous laugh. ‘I dropped her like a stone and let her go off with the rest of those doomed canaries.’

  Ingles sat forward. ‘You knew Florrie? You spent time with her?’

  ‘We did more than spend time, Brian. I’ll let you into a secret.’ The man leant forward to whisper. ‘You and June were about to become grandparents.’

  The horror of it all was too much to endure. When he realised what his tormentor had actually done, Ingles lost his fear and his inertia. The man had not only seduced Florrie then killed her in an explosion, he was glorying in villainy. Ingles’s rage surged and he leapt up to grapple with the visitor. The brawl was quickly over. The man was younger, stronger and far more accustomed to fighting. After subduing him with some heavy punches, he got a hand to his throat and held Ingles at arm’s length. He was about to administer further punishment when he heard a loud knock at the front door. Swinging round, he saw a face peering at him through the window.

  The evidence given them by June Ingles had sent the detectives to her house. For her own safety, they’d left her at the police station. While Keedy knocked on the door, Marmion moved to the front window and looked in. One glance was enough to tell him that Ingles was in difficulties.

  There was a lengthy delay, then the door was opened by a stranger.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, politely.

  ‘We’ve come to see Mr Ingles,’ said Marmion.

  ‘He’s not available at the moment, I’m afraid. We’re in the middle of a business discussion.’

  ‘And do your business discussions always involve physical assault?’

  ‘I really don’t know what you mean.’

  Marmion looked him in the eye. ‘I saw you with your hand around Mr Ingles’s throat.’

  The man laughed. ‘Oh, that was all in fun.’

  ‘I’d like to hear Mr Ingles confirm that, sir.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Inspector Marmion from Scotland Yard and this is Sergeant Keedy.’ He indicated his companion. ‘We’re investigating a murder that occurred at a public house in Hayes. Mr Ingles’s daughter was one of the victims.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the man with apparent sympathy. ‘I was sorry to hear about that. In fact, I was just offering my condolences to him. I came here to discuss the sale of his house. He and his wife have decided to move.’

  ‘That’s not what Mrs Ingles told us,’ said Keedy, looking him up and down. ‘Her husband is planning to sell the house against her will.’

  ‘Might we have your name, sir?’ asked Marmion.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ replied the other, reaching inside his coat. ‘I’ll give you my business card.’ But what he pulled out was a gun that he pointed menacingly at them. ‘Out of my way,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t give me an excuse to kill you because I’d be happy to take it.’

  They backed away so that he could hurry past them to his car. He got in, gave them a wave then drove off. They were after him at once. Running to their own vehicle, they leapt in and slammed the door behind them. The driver needed no instruction. He set off at once.

  As they picked up speed, Marmion and Keedy realised that their quarry answered the description they’d been given of Florrie Duncan’s alleged admirer. He was dark, handsome, wearing a moustache and approximately the right age. Also, the car they were following was the latest Daimler. While the police vehicle was older and less flashy, it had an expert driver at the wheel. Even though the Daimler turned corners without warning, it could not shake off the pursuit. Every move was matched by the police car, dodging oncoming vehicles, braking wildly and even mounting the pavement on occasion. After a hectic chase through Hayes itself, they accelerated past the munitions factory and on into open country. The Daimler was fast but the police car nevertheless slowly began to overhaul it.

  ‘What do you want me to do, sir?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Stop him,’ said Marmion.

  ‘It could cause a lot of damage, sir.’

  ‘I don’t care two hoots.’

  ‘Superintendent Chatfield will care a lot and I’ll be answerable to him.’

  ‘You can leave Chat to me,’ said Marmion, determinedly. ‘That man is a suspect. Whatever you have to do, just do it.’

  Relieved of responsibility for any damage to the vehicle, the driver took it up to its full speed. Ordinarily, the Daimler would have been too swift to catch but there was extra power under the bonnet of the police car. It surged forward and was about to draw level when a lorry came round the bend directly ahead and sounded its horn angrily. The police car had to drop back to avoid a collision. As he shot past, the driver of the lorry waved a fist. Marmion was more interested in the man behind the wheel of the Daimler. If he had a gun, they needed to neutralise its danger somehow. There was no point in stopping his car when he had a weapon to hand.

  ‘Force him off the road,’ he urged.

  ‘Yes, Inspector.’

  ‘Make him crash the car.’

  The driver accelerated once again, caught up with the Daimler, waited for the right moment, then moved alongside it and slowly edged in front of it. Waving the gun with one hand, the man couldn’t fire accurately because he needed to keep his eyes on the road ahead. When he did pull the trigger, the bullet went harmlessly past the other car. A second shot was equally wide of the mark. As they approached another bend at top speed, the man needed both hands to keep his vehicle on the road. The police car suddenly cut across the Daimler at an angle, forcing it to veer sharply to the left to avoid a collision. Both cars were going far too fast to negotiate the bend safely. The police car went into a skid, turning round and round in circles on screeching tyres until it landed up on a grass verge, facing the wrong way. The Daimler had fared far worse, leaving the road and bouncing off a tree before careering uncontrollably along the verge, then plunging into a ditch.

  Keedy was out of the police car before it actually came to a halt. Running across to the Daimler, he saw that the driver had been thrown forward at the moment of impact and had smashed through the windscreen. Rivulets of blood ran down his face and he was clearly dazed. Before the man could even think of using his gun, Keedy yanked open the door, pulled him out, then seized the weapon from his hand. He tossed it to Marmion who’d now come to help him. Danger was past. The man revived enough to offer some token resistance but Keedy quickly overpowered him and snapped handcuffs onto his wrists. Stuck at an acute angle in the ditch, the Daimler was badly damaged. One of its wheels had come off and there was a huge dent in its bodywork. The windscreen had been shattered.

  The man was absolutely horrified at the state of his vehicle.

  ‘Look what you made me do!’ he howled. ‘My car is ruined.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said Marmion, pulling out a handkerchief to stem the blood on the other’s face. ‘You won’t need a car where you’re going.’

  Ellen Marmion could not have been happier. They were all together for once. Her daughter helped to prepare the meal and set out the cutlery beforehand. Harvey Marmion was home early and he brought Joe Keedy with him. Since Paul Marmion would soon be joining them on leave, they had a cause for celebration. While Ellen was simply glad that the investigation was finally over, Alice hunted for details.

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Eddie Gregg,’ said her father. ‘And I was right about him being a local man. Gregg was born and bred here. In younger days, he’d drunk at the Golden Goose. He was as ruthless as he was cunning. When he came ou
t of the army, he worked at a gambling club and gradually took it over.’

  ‘He had a nose for people’s weaknesses,’ explained Keedy. ‘Once he’d identified a target, he simply reeled them in. Brian Ingles is a case in point. He was given blandishments at first – free drinks, discounts on meals – and, of course, he was allowed to win small amounts until he was addicted to the card table. Gregg could then begin fleecing him.’

  ‘What a horrible man!’ exclaimed Ellen.

  ‘You don’t know half of it.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I want to know.’

  ‘The full story will be in the papers, love,’ said Marmion, taking a long sip of his beer. ‘Gregg had two strings to his bow. He was a crooked club owner who made sure that he always won in the end and, when his customers ran out of money, he loaned them more so that they could go on playing in the vain hope that they could recoup their losses. They’d usually had a fair bit to drink before they signed a contract for the loan and didn’t realise that they’d be charged exorbitant rates of interest.’

  ‘He was a shark,’ said Keedy. ‘He ate his victims alive.’

  ‘When that bomb went off, Ingles thought Gregg had planted it because he’d threatened to kill Florrie if Ingles didn’t pay off his debt. But then,’ Marmion went on, ‘we named Herbert Wylie as our main suspect. Ingles must have danced with joy at that point because he thought it proved that Gregg was not the bomber, after all. He knows better now.’

  ‘The person I’m sorry for is Mrs Ingles,’ said Ellen. ‘Imagine how she’ll feel when she learns about the terrible mess her husband landed them in. Indirectly, he was responsible for the murder of their daughter.’

  ‘It will haunt him for the rest of his life,’ said Marmion.

  ‘Underneath her self-confidence,’ suggested Keedy, ‘Florrie Duncan must have been a vulnerable woman. She was lonely, widowed and she scared off most men. Then someone rolls up to pay court, tell her she’s wonderful and spend lots of money on her. Gregg was obviously a charmer when he wanted to be and he was wealthy. His car was expensive and the suit he was wearing made me green with envy.’