by Gil North
“If I cause trouble—”
“What’s he going to think about you if you don’t go to him first?”
Cluff walked with his head down and his shoulders hunched, keeping a straight course. The people he met moved aside to let him pass.
He hadn’t lived so long in Gunnarshaw without having a good idea of which of its three banks to go into. A door opposite to him across the floor as he entered was lettered “Manager.” He spoke to a cashier behind a grille on his left. The cashier disappeared round a wooden screen hiding the pedestrian activities of the bank. Spurning a chair, Cluff perched on a table, turning the pages of a pamphlet he took from the top of a pile of pamphlets, about facilities for loans to farmers.
The door of the Manager’s office opened. The Manager’s bald head craned forward. He peered nearsightedly through thick spectacles, fixing Cluff’s position. He beckoned and Cluff told Clive to stay where he was.
“What can I do for you, Sergeant?” the Manager asked.
“These,” Cluff replied and laid on the Manager’s desk the bundle of notes from Jane Trundle’s handbag.
“It’s hardly regular,” the Manager said doubtfully.
“I wouldn’t ask without a good reason.”
“As it’s you,” the Manager agreed.
“They’re new. They’re new issue.”
The Manager picked them up to confirm for himself what Cluff said. He offered, without inquiring the precise nature of Cluff’s visit, “I might be able to help. To the extent at least of tracing their first withdrawal.” He was a very correct man. “Within limits,” he made it clear. “If they came from us.”
“They did,” Cluff said, hoping it was true.
“Then we’ll know the cashier. But it’s not often a customer withdraws in hundreds at a time. We do much of our business over the counter in small transactions, five pounds here, ten there.” He warmed to his subject. “It’s not easy to let you know who gets each separate pound note. If they’d been of higher denominations now. Our system—”
“Do your best,” Cluff both interrupted and urged.
A little regretful the Manager pushed the button of a bell on the side of his desk. He issued detailed and lengthy instructions to the clerk who appeared immediately.
They chatted, Cluff’s brief, monosyllabic answers soon exhausting the subject of murder. The Manager asked after Cluff’s relations and reminisced about an older generation of Cluffs. The writing of a local history ought to have been well within his capacity.
The clerk returned, accompanied by the Chief Cashier. The Chief Cashier laid a sheet of paper on the Manager’s desk. It contained a list of names with pencilled figures beside each one. The Chief Cashier and the Manager held a whispered consultation. The Manager dismissed the Cashier with a curt word of thanks.
The Manager, not without a sense of atmosphere, leaned back in his chair, postponing elucidation. Cluff, knowing his man, didn’t hurry him. The Manager surrendered first. He pushed the paper at Cluff and stared over the rims of his glasses, which had slipped down to the tip of his nose. “That’s the best we can do, Sergeant,” he said, smug with achievement.
Cluff glanced at the paper. He pushed it back to the Manager. The Manager took it up and tore it in half. He arranged the halves together and divided the result. He proceeded in a similar fashion until the task was beyond the strength of his fingers and allowed the confetti he had made to trickle downwards into his waste-paper basket. He remarked, “If it had been anyone but you I’d have required an authority.”
“Nothing of this will come out.”
“Exactly.”
How much did it mean, Greensleeve’s name amongst a dozen names?
Clive barked a greeting as he came with Cluff out of the bank. A despondent Barker put out a hand to stroke the dog. “I’d forgotten about you,” Cluff said.
“The Inspector wanted me to see Carter.”
“You didn’t?”
Barker shook his head.
“Why should you?” Cluff asked. He added, “Why shouldn’t you?”
The moors rose high above the roofs of the buildings about them. They could see the houses of an estate climbing the slopes, a witness in a way to Greensleeve’s energy and ambition, each house identical with its neighbour, identically painted by council law, dogs not permitted by order of Greensleeve, gardens to be kept clean and tidy, lodgers prohibited. They deserved what they got, the people who lived there. What had happened to Englishmen?
The estate was like a scar on the side of the moor, red brick not grey stone, its roofs tiled not slated, the petty result of petty men’s imaginings. A brown knife-cut above the estate disappeared into a plantation of pines, coming into view again at right-angles to its original course where the trees ceased, threading the flank of the moor just below its crest, where the moor and the sky joined.
“It’s a long time since I was up there,” Cluff said.
“You can get a car as far as the trees,” Barker told him.
“This weather, or in summer?”
“Farther in summer.”
Cluff stared, deep in thought.
Barker said, “I’m surprised he risked it.”
“Are you sure he did?”
“But aren’t you?”
“I’m not sure of anything,” Cluff replied. “What did she get out for? What was she doing up there with him, instead of Carter? If she was up there. If he was up there.”
Barker suggested, “A gesture? A dramatic gesture?”
“It began in the shop,” Cluff thought aloud. “It continued when she took Carter’s arm and walked away with him. But why meet him again and leave him again?” He admitted, “You could be right. I can see her doing that. Opening the car door, stepping out, pretending to ignore the rain, the place they were in—‘Very well. If that’s how it’s going to be, I’ll walk back.’”
“She wouldn’t have done.”
“No. She wouldn’t have done. But she could make a man think so.” Cluff struck the pavement with his stick. “He wouldn’t kill her,” he said.
“I can’t imagine it either. Not a public figure like him.”
“I mean Carter, not Greensleeve.”
Cluff turned in his tracks. He crossed the road, trailed by Barker and Clive, both Barker and Clive feeling neglected and out of touch with the Sergeant. He walked faster than Barker, with an unusual distaste for the streets, making for the police-station not because it attracted him, but because it provided the most immediate refuge. He yearned for solitude, to be alone not so that he could think but to vegetate peacefully, emptying his mind, waiting for the blank to be filled again by the due process of growth.
His hopes proved vain. The door of his office was closing when Barker and Clive, outdistanced, came into the police-station. The constable on the desk, doing Barker’s old job, was on his feet, harassed. He complained to Barker, “I tried to tell him. C.I.D. Headquarters wants him to call. He wouldn’t stop to listen.”
“Give them a ring and put them through,” Barker said. He opened Cluff’s door and let himself and the dog in. He informed Cluff, “The Superintendent’s coming on the line.”
The Sergeant muttered inaudibly. Clive went to lie in his customary position. Barker, not dismissed, shut the door and went to stand by the window.
Cluff told the receiver, “It’s me.”
“I’ve been trying to get you,” Patterson’s voice replied.
“I’ll send a report when I’m ready.”
“You’ve put me in a spot.”
Cluff snorted: “Greensleeve?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the complaint?”
“Searching his place without a warrant.”
“He’s exaggerating.”
“He’s got influence. The papers pay attention to him.”
“They should. He owns a majority of shares in the local weekly.”
“It won’t do, Caleb.”
“He’s taking it hard.”
“He’s that kind of man. Touchy about his rights.”
“He’s no need to be. He doesn’t show any consideration in his dealings with others.”
“Why, Caleb?”
“She worked for him.”
“He’s nothing to do with it, surely.”
“I’m sick of hearing that. Are you putting him on a pedestal too, and bowing down to worship him?”
The telephone remained silent. Finally it said, “He’s old enough to be her father.”
Cluff said bitterly, “Has he got you mesmerized as well?”
“It’s tricky,” Patterson warned.
“If you’re not satisfied—”
Patterson ignored Cluff’s remark.
The Sergeant said, “He knows something.”
“What evidence have you got?”
“It’s true all the same.”
Each of them waited, one at either end of the line, for the other to speak. Patterson realized that he would wait for ever if he left it to Cluff to break the silence. The Superintendent chose his words carefully: “You were out when I rang earlier. Mole answered the phone.”
Cluff knew what was coming.
Patterson continued, “He made out a pretty good case against a man called Carter.”
“He would.”
“It held water.”
“He doesn’t know Carter.”
After a long pause Patterson asked, “What am I to do about Greensleeve?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not as easy as that.”
“You can leave it till tomorrow.”
“I see.”
Cluff put the receiver down, ignoring “Caleb! Caleb, are you there?” as he settled it on its cradle.
Barker swung round from the window as Mole came in. Mole halted just inside the doorway and looked about him very deliberately, pretending not to see Cluff. When his eyes fell on the Sergeant he simulated astonishment.
The Inspector said, “He’s here.” His announcement misfired. Neither Cluff nor Barker rose to the bait. Mole had to explain, his moment gone, “Carter.”
“So you sent for him?”
“I thought Barker was attending to that.”
Cluff’s fist crashed on to the table: “What do you want to interfere for?”
Mole began to warn, “Just a—,” grateful to be interrupted by the entry of a wild-looking Carter. A constable behind Carter grabbed at Carter’s sleeve and the youth still eluded him. Mole stepped aside, ready to defend himself if need be. Carter dashed past him for Cluff. “I couldn’t stop—” the constable was panting in pursuit.
Cluff ordered, “Leave him alone,” and halted Carter with a single look. The constable retreated to the outer office.
Mole, advancing again, demanded, “Are you satisfied? If Barker didn’t fetch him he’s come of his own free will.”
Carter stared at his scarf, rescued from the floor last night and left on Cluff’s desk. His breath smelt of beer and his eyes were red and swollen. Barker slid a chair behind his knees. Carter’s knees bent and he sat down suddenly. Cluff got up and came round the table to stand beside him.
“I killed her,” Carter said.
“If you want to commit suicide don’t ask me to help you. Throw yourself under a train or jump in the canal,” Cluff retorted.
Cluff rooted in the confusion on his table. He stuck Carter’s letter into Carter’s face. “You wouldn’t dare. A fourteen-year-old girl might have written it. Not a man.”
Carter groaned.
“What did you quarrel about?”
“I loved her.”
“The more fool you.”
Mole interrupted, “Did you give her the baby?”
Barker fought with the screaming youth. “Liar!” Carter yelled, trying to get at Mole. “Liar! Liar! Liar!” He strained against Barker’s hold.
Cluff said, “That won’t help you, Jack.”
Carter’s frenzy ebbed. He looked at Cluff, pleading for the truth. He saw the truth in Cluff’s face. Tears began to roll down his cheeks and a speck of blood appeared on his lower lip where he had bitten it.
Carter flung at them, “I don’t care. I’d still have married her.”
Cluff returned to his chair behind the table: “I believe you would.”
Mole opened his mouth, saw Cluff glaring at him, and shut it again. Barker leaned forward, poised on the balls of his feet, ready for action if Carter moved.
Carter moaned, “If only she’d told me.”
He waited in vain for support.
“I didn’t know,” Carter said through his tears. “Really, I didn’t.”
The room stayed quiet.
“I had to talk to her,” Carter continued, the silence too much for him. “It was the first time she’d spoken to me for months—”
Seconds passed before Cluff returned, “You said everything in your letter.”
Carter’s head hung. Carter said, “I thought—When she came out of the shop—When she came up to me—I was glad—”
“Why did you take her home?”
“She wanted to. I waited for her. She promised—”
“You believed her?”
“I haven’t got a car,” Carter whispered. “Not so much as a bicycle. It was raining. That’s why I took her into the café—” He was looking at the scarf. “It didn’t matter what she said. She couldn’t help it. If I’d known—.”
“You followed her.”
“I had to.”
“Where?”
“The High Street.”
“And then?”
“The chemist—Greensleeve—the man she works for—going into the Town Hall. She went in after him.”
“And you?”
“I waited.”
“The time?”
“About half-past seven.”
Barker interrupted, “It’s in the post-mortem report. Well after nine the surgeon says. Perhaps nearer ten.”
Carter added, in despair, “She didn’t come out.”
“The back door,” Barker said. “Opposite to where she was found.”
“Go on,” Cluff murmured.
“I can’t!”
Mole dared, in a low voice, “A likely story!” Barker moved back to the window, careless of what might happen to Mole. Carter drooped, exhausted, drained of emotion.
“I walked,” Carter said. His eyes wandered to each of them in turn. They didn’t ask him where. His lips parted in the beginning of a smile. “Isn’t that what you expect me to say? No one saw me. I don’t know where I went. When I got home they’d all gone to bed.”
“Why not?” Cluff agreed. “A night like that. After being with her in the café.”
“You don’t believe me,” Carter said. “It’s all lies. I’ve no witnesses.”
“Why haven’t you cautioned him?” Mole objected to Cluff.
Cluff picked up the scarf. He handed it to Carter: “It’s yours.” Carter’s hand reached for it slowly.
“Have you had anything to eat?” Cluff asked. He continued, “That place you were in two nights ago—”
“No—”
“The girl there’s worried about you. Tell her, from me—”
He watched Carter turn slowly round. Carter stumbled, like a sleepwalker, for the door, the end of the scarf in his hand trailing on the floor.
Barker stared at the rain, which was beginning to fall heavily, running in rivulets down the window panes. Mole struggled for control, breathing quickly. The Inspector moved abruptly in Carter’s wake. He slammed Cluff’s door so hard that Barker thought he’d
splintered the wood.
“A boy like that,” Cluff said, shaking his head. His eyes met Barker’s. He got up and motioned Barker to follow him.
Barker stood back, uneasy, looking up and down the High Street. Cluff tried the nearside front door of Greensleeve’s car, parked on the setts in front of the chemist’s shop. The door opened. Cluff remarked, “He wouldn’t believe anyone in Gunnarshaw would steal a car belonging to him.” He thrust his head and shoulders inside and ran his fingers over the floor-mats. He felt down the sides of the seats. Barker whispered a warning. A hand seized the Sergeant from behind. Clive growled menacingly.
Cluff jerked his shoulders, freeing himself. He straightened unhurriedly. “Don’t do that,” he told Greensleeve. “I’m stronger than you are.”
“First my shop,” Greensleeve stuttered. “Now my car!”
“You know why.”
“You’re a fool.”
“I’m not frightened of you,” Cluff said, taking Greensleeve’s arm. “Patterson’s forty miles away. I’ve nothing to lose. I’d as soon be out of the police force as in it.”
“Let me go!”
“Where were you the night before last?”
“If it’s the last thing I do—”
“Don’t tempt me!”
“You’ll regret this for the rest of your days.”
“Shall we try it?”
Greensleeve’s manner changed: “What’s come over you, Sergeant?”
“There’s nothing to stop me taking you to the station.”
“People are looking at us.”
“Let them!”
“Please. Come inside. Can’t we discuss this calmly?”
“Well?”
“If you must know—at a council meeting.”
“She knew where to find you.”
“You’re wrong!”
“Where did she wait for you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your memory’s not that short.”
Greensleeve pulled himself free: “Very well. They were there.”
“I know.”
“She’s dead. Isn’t that enough? She worked for me for four years.” He paused. “I won’t be the one to put a noose round Carter’s neck.”
Cluff started to walk away, towards the corner by the church. Greensleeve turned to Barker with a look of appeal. Barker dropped his eyes and went past Greensleeve, after Cluff.