Murder Among Thieves (C.I.D Room Book 3)

by Roderic Jeffries

  Ambleside replaced the receiver, stood up, crossed to the opened window, lit a cigarette, and stared unseeingly at the tall block of flats on the far side of the road. So the drunken driver who’d crashed to his death over Pretley Pass was a real villain, over whom no one was going to weep any tears. But was there anything more to the facts than this? Robert Glenton had been a clever, brutal man, dedicated to proving that crime did pay — the kind of man who would plan a big job, such as a wages snatch of a hundred and eighteen thousand pounds. Ambleside’s mind recalled the singed shoulder on the dead man’s coat. The Fortrow mob had lit a hell of a fire in the armoured truck to burn away any possible clues and what was more likely than that one of them had been touched by this fire?

  He flicked the ash off the cigarette. To a detective, imagination was both an asset and a liability. It enabled him to visualise actual connections that might otherwise be missed, but it also suggested others that did not exist but to the proof of which it was easy to be misled into twisting the facts. A man, drunk, died in his car. He was a real villain. His clothes bore signs of fire. Was there any connection here with the Fortrow job, or only a wild flight of imagination?

  He asked the switchboard operator to check if the detective inspector was in the station.

  *

  Fusil was so preoccupied at lunch that it was obvious he had little idea of what he was eating. Since she had spent much of the morning cooking, Josephine was justifiably annoyed but she tried to keep her annoyance to herself and only occasionally spoke sharply to Timothy, their eleven-year-old son, who had chosen that day to be more than usually precocious.

  The sweet was chocolate mousse and whipped cream and the recipe for the mousse was a French one that called for a great deal of hard work. Fusil ate it with the same preoccupation, not even bothering to say how nice it was. Josephine’s patience at last became exhausted. “Bob,” she said sharply.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “D’you think you could tell me the next time you’re going to be tied up in a big case so that I can lay on stale ham sandwiches for lunch?”

  “Yes, dear,” he answered.

  “But Daddy doesn’t like stale ham sandwiches,” said Timothy, his mouth covered in chocolate. “You know that.”

  “I know lots of things,” replied Josephine.

  “What’s that, dear?” asked Fusil.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I thought you spoke?”

  “If I did, it would only have been to myself since no one else is bothering to listen.”

  Fusil suddenly realised that his wife was very angry and he was searching around for some words which might help to heal the breach when the telephone rang. He stood up with suspicious haste and left. Josephine sighed. She was very proud of her husband, but there were times when his total dedication to work made life very difficult.

  Out in the hall, Fusil picked up the telephone receiver. The call was from the duty inspector. News had just been received from the Cressfield police that a man who had died, drunk, in his car on Friday night and whose expensive coat was badly singed on one shoulder, had been identified as Robert Glenton, eight times convicted, last conviction for armed robbery.

  Fusil sat down on the pine stairs, still bright and shiny because the house was so new. There had been no money on Glenton and there was no direct connection between him and the pay-roll robbery, but his coat was singed and if he had driven away from Fortrow a little before half past four — the yellow Austin had first been noticed outside the woman’s house at half past — then he would have arrived at Cressfield at about the time of the crash.

  Someone, obviously, had to go up to Cressfield to speak to the police there and to examine the evidence to discover whether there definitely was, or was not, any link between Glenton and the robbery and murders. It ought really to be he, but there wasn’t a chance of that as he couldn’t be away from Fortrow. Did he send Braddon? Braddon was good at routine, but this almost certainly wasn’t going to be a question of mere routine: what might well be wanted was a bright flash of imagination… So did he send Kerr?

  His thoughts were interrupted. “What is it?” asked Josephine sharply.

  He looked up and was mildly astonished to see her standing in the doorway of the dining room. “That was the station.” He stood up. “I’ve got to be off.”

  “You promised me, Bob, you’d stay at home this afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t now. This could be the break that we’ve been waiting for.”

  She looked bitterly disappointed, but said nothing more.

  Fusil, unaware of how disappointed and worried she was, left the house and drove the short distance to the station. It was a frustrating drive. The hot sunshine had brought out the after-lunch traffic and it seemed everyone and his wife was heading to the beaches. What should have taken less than five minutes, took fifteen.

  At the station, he parked his car and went up to his room. His frustrations were not yet over. He telephoned the general room and there was no answer, nor was Braddon in. Fusil tried the canteen and some woman rudely said she didn’t know anything, it was Sunday afternoon, and she was off home. He tried the police hostel, but Kerr wasn’t there. Never ever around when goddamn wanted, thought Fusil, always goddamn around when not wanted.

  Braddon eventually came into the room and said that a report was through from Forensic. “Not much to go on, I’m afraid, sir, except for those marks on the oxygen bottle. They’ll post the full report on, as usual.”

  Fusil scanned the typewritten notes. At this stage, it was quite impossible to know whether the marks would be of any assistance. “Are you following them up?”

  “Yes, sir, as far as I can on a Sunday.”

  Everything stopped on a Sunday except crime, thought Fusil sourly. “Have you any idea where Kerr is?”

  “Visiting Blether’s and Fish’s homes, sir.”

  “Get hold of him as soon as you can. He’s to report to me and then take the next train up to London and Cressfield.” He briefly explained what had happened.

  *

  Kerr was the kind of realist who knew he had to eat to stay alive and therefore it was silly to turn down the offer of a good Sunday meal simply because it meant taking a couple of hours off instead of the officially allotted one hour. He had lunch at the Barley house and the meal was every bit as delicious as he had hoped. One of the foundations of a lasting marriage, he felt certain, was good cooking.

  He left there at half past two and drove in the C.I.D. Hillman to the house in which Blether had had digs. It was a small place, squat and ugly, but the paintwork was fresh and the small front garden was very neat and ablaze with colour.

  Mrs. Sparrow, owner of the house, was aptly named, being small, chirpy, and always on the bustle. She kept the interior of the place spotlessly clean, yet managed to do so without making it the kind of house where one feared to tread in case one left a speck of dirt behind.

  “Such a shock,” she said, in her thin, piping voice. “As I told the constable who came yesterday, it just doesn’t seem possible. What a terrible, terrible world it is now.”

  “It gets a bit grim at times,” replied Kerr, secretly amused by her.

  “He was such a nice man, so quiet and never any trouble. I used to be quite sorry when he went away at weekends to see his cousin and her family. And to think he went out of this door just after eight o’clock and I said, ‘Usual time this evening, Mr. Blether?’ and he said, ‘Yes,’ and then left and that’s the very last I saw of him. Why, when he was being shot I was peeling potatoes for his dinner — just think of that! My dear mother used to say, ‘Here today, gone tomorrow’, and there’s nothing truer than that, is there?”

  Eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we’ve had it, thought Kerr. He was swept by the thought of what a terrible thing it must be to be knocked off just before pay day so that one hadn’t spent the week’s wages. “D’you think I could have a look round his room?”


  “Of course you may. I’m in the middle of cleaning it because I’ve another gentleman who’s coming to stay with me. My dear husband left me this house and a little money, but with the prices of things as they are and with a government who thinks it’s wicked to own anything, I have to have a guest to help pay for things.”

  Talking all the time, she led the way up the staircase and into a bedroom. This was undergoing a tremendous spring cleaning. The bed had been stripped and the mattress was bare, the carpet was rolled up, the floorboards had been polished, the walls had been washed down, and the curtains were missing. There were some brass ornaments on the chest-of-drawers and these were gleaming from a recent polishing.

  “I asked that nice constable who came yesterday what to do with poor Mr. Blether’s clothes and things and he asked me to keep them here whilst the police tried to locate Mr. Blether’s nearest relative. I expect it’s his cousin.”

  “Do you happen to know where she lives?”

  “I don’t. He didn’t talk about her much, or her family.” Mrs. Sparrow looked momentarily aggrieved.

  “Has he left a lot of things?”

  “Not really. Just the clothes which I’ve put in the cupboard, his washing things, those books, and a few little knickknacks. He used to say that ever since his wife died he’d no time for possessions. I’ve cleaned everything up and I’m sure you’ll find it’s all in order.”

  He opened the squat cupboard and looked at the clothes: a dark blue suit, a sports jacket, two pairs of grey flannel trousers, a pair of old dungaree trousers, and a mackintosh, hung from the rail, while shirts, socks, underclothes, ties, and pyjamas, were neatly stacked on the shelves. On the floor of the cupboard were three pairs of shoes, two brown one black. Hardly the wardrobe of a man who had been spending more money than he earned.

  To the accompaniment of a never-ending and one-sided conversation, Kerr looked through the knickknacks. He was not in the least surprised when he discovered nothing at all of interest. Blether had obviously cut himself off entirely from his old life when his wife died and he had lived the life of a solitary man in Fortrow. His credit at the bank had stood at just over three hundred pounds and perhaps this money was the only thing of consequence he’d left behind him. It was quite a sobering thought, decided Kerr as he gave a last look round the room, that a man could die and be so totally extinguished by his death that nothing of him remained but a few worthless clothes and three hundred quid.

  It took Kerr a further quarter of an hour to leave the house and even then he had to cut short Mrs. Sparrow’s conversation. Blether had undoubtedly been well looked after by Mrs. Sparrow, but there must have been times when he’d wished she was not quite so overwhelmingly kindly.

  Kerr drove the two miles to Fish’s home. It was in a private estate and like all the others was detached and stood in a generous-sized garden. It seemed an expensive sort of a place for a man whose take-home pay very seldom exceeded twenty pounds a week.

  Mrs. Fish was middle-aged, pleasant looking if not particularly attractive, and beginning to become dumpy. She was having to cope with a situation that was taxing her to the limit. She spoke in a controlled manner, but her nervous tension was obvious. Her son, twenty, didn’t try to hide his bitter dislike, even hatred. Kerr was not surprised. Their grief at Fish’s serious condition should have been a private matter, yet the police were constantly worrying them as if insensible to such emotions.

  “He’s just the same,” she said, in answer to Kerr’s question, “and the hospital still won’t say how ill he really is. When we saw him last he was coughing all the time. It… it hurt to hear him.”

  “I do hope he soon gets better,” he said, only too aware of how useless his words really were. A detective soon learned one of the bitter truths of life — trouble came to people impartially, whether or not they deserved it.

  “Have you got the murderers?” demanded the son, speaking for the first time.

  “Not yet,” answered Kerr.

  “Taking your time, aren’t you? I suppose no one’s bothered that my dad gets gassed. He’s not important enough to worry about.”

  Kerr did not try to answer.

  She led the way into the sitting room and one of the first things Kerr noticed was a stereophonic radiogram that had obviously cost a lot of money.

  Mrs. Fish sat down in one of the armchairs and lit a cigarette with quick, nervous gestures. “What d’you want?”

  “We’re wondering if you’ve noticed anyone hanging around the house — you know, someone who might have been watching your husband’s movements?” Surely they’d realise that his real reason for coming was to poke and pry, thought Kerr, to look for the signs of money that would name her husband a traitor and a villain? But she showed no signs of suspecting anything. She said she’d noticed nothing and her husband hadn’t, or he’d have mentioned it to her.

  “You blokes aren’t going to get anywhere,” snapped the son. “You won’t never get anywhere because my dad isn’t important enough for you to worry about.”

  “Stop it, Fred,” said his mother weakly.

  “What’s that? Stop it? Don’t say nothing? That’s what’s rotting this country. If you’re one of the masses, you’re not supposed to criticise anything, even when it stinks. Dad gets gassed, bloody near killed, but I mustn’t criticise. I’m telling you…”

  “It’s not this gentleman’s fault, Fred.”

  “It’s never anyone’s fault.” The son swung round and went out, slamming the door shut behind him.

  “He’s upset,” said Mrs. Fish, as if this was not obvious.

  Kerr said he understood as he continued to make an inventory of the room-fitted carpet, curtains of obvious quality, a cocktail cabinet… Five minutes later he left and returned to the car. He checked on the time: just after four and therefore tea time. If he went back to Helen’s for a cup and a bite he hadn’t a chance of returning to the station much before half five and if anyone asked it would be a bit difficult to claim he’d been on the job ever since he’d left the station that morning. Very regretfully, he decided he’d have to return straight to the station.

  He had not been back two minutes when he was told to report to the D.I.

  “Pack your bags and get off to Cressfield,” ordered Fusil. “There’s a room reserved for you at the Coach Inn.”

  “But I…”

  “Contact Detective Sergeant Ambleside at the central police station. A man, drunk, had a car crash on Friday night and killed himself. His name was Glenton and he was a ripe villain: find out if he was mixed up with the job down here.”

  “What line do I take, sir, if there’s no definite evidence and the Cressfield police…?”

  “Just for once, use your initiative.”

  Charming, thought Kerr. “Sir, do we know…?”

  “We know nothing more than that his coat was singed and the crash fits in for time if he’d driven straight up from here.”

  “It sounds a bit of a long shot…”

  “I know what the hell it is,” retorted Fusil, cutting short the other for the fourth time. “Now get moving and watch that expense account. I’ll be checking it.”

  “I can assure you, sir, that there won’t be any need for that,” replied Kerr virtuously.

  Fusil’s anger increased. “What are you waiting for, then?”

  “I thought you’d like my report, sir. I’m just back from Fish and Blether’s places. Blether’s doesn’t show any signs of money, but Fish’s does. The house must have cost a pretty penny and the hall and sitting room have some pricey carpets and furniture. I reckon Fish has been spending quite a bit more than he’s been earning.”

  Fusil leaned back in his chair. “You’re quite observant.”

  Kerr nodded.

  “There’s just one thing wrong — you’re not very methodical. If you’d stopped to bother to read the available evidence, you’d have discovered that Fish had a reasonable win on the pools two years back and he bought the
house and furnished it on that money.”

  He ought, decided Kerr, to have gone to Helen’s for tea after all.

  *

  Plexford stood on the east bank of the river Craydon, a tributary of the Thames. The village consisted of half a dozen shops, two pubs, twenty old cottages most of which had been expensively modernised, and a number of new and sometimes large houses. The Craydon was a river that liked to loop and stretches of it resembled the convolutions of a snake in torment. It had a moderately fast-flowing current, but in some of the deeper loops there was such a spread of water that only the centre channel ran fast and the side waters were almost stagnant. In one such stretch of nearly still water, a body had been caught up under the trailing branches of a weeping willow tree. It lay with the face just under the water and the back supported by the mud — not until the sixth day would it, if left undisturbed, float. The man was Bill Weston and in death he looked even more surly than he had in life.

  Chapter 9

  That evening, Fusil returned home at half past nine. Josephine poured him out a stiff drink and then, after he had drunk it, she went through to dish supper in the kitchen. She was in the middle of doing this when there was a ring at the front door. The caller was Kywood, who was apparently quite insensible to the ill-timing of his intrusion.

  “Where are we getting?” demanded Kywood loudly. “That’s what I want to know — where are we getting?”

  Fusil cut a slice off his pork chop. He didn’t know where anyone else was getting, but he was getting so tired that an ache was spreading across his forehead.

  Josephine unwillingly decided she must show some hospitality and she offered Kywood coffee. He accepted.

  “Is this villain, Glenton, anything to do with the job?” he demanded.

  “We don’t yet know,” answered Fusil.

  “Then what are you doing about finding out?”

  “I’ve sent D.C. Kerr up to Cressfield.”

  “Kerr? Kerr? Why have you sent Kerr? Why not Braddon who’s reliable and got the experience?”