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

by Roderic Jeffries

  “I ain’t… I ain’t never ’eard of a bloke by that name,” croaked Riley.

  “Sure?”

  “Mister, I ain’t.”

  “Ever heard of Robert Glenton?”

  “No.”

  “Never worked with him?”

  “I said I don’t know ’im.”

  “He got pushed over a cliff in his car.” Fusil tamped the tobacco with his right forefinger. “I wonder if you’re the next?”

  Riley licked his lips again. He threw the cigarette into the grate and lit another. “No one ain’t going to pick on me.”

  “Don’t you think they might like your share of the robbery to go along with Glenton’s and Weston’s?”

  “What robbery? What share?”

  Fusil looked bored.

  “I’ve been goin’ straight,” said Riley. They once more became silent. Sweat began to roll down Fusil’s face and he mopped it with a handkerchief.

  After five minutes, Jones came into the room and shook his head. Fusil waited, his expression the same although a feeling of tension built up within him. Would Kerr find the evidence they so badly needed? A little later, he knew the answer was no, when Kerr came into the room.

  “’Ave you finished messin’ about?” asked Riley.

  “See what’s on him,” ordered Fusil.

  Riley did not argue. He stood up and allowed Kerr to search him. There was a wad of notes in the hip pocket of his trousers and this consisted of half-a-dozen five pound and fifteen one pound notes. Fusil checked the numbers against the list he had brought from Fortrow which gave the numbers of the stolen new five pound notes — the only ones the bank could give. One of the notes was identified.

  Fusil put the list down on his lap. He smiled. “Very careless. Fancy keeping some of the stolen money on you.”

  “I ain’t got nothing of the sort.” A tic began under Riley’s left eye.

  “One of these fivers came from the Fortrow pay-roll robbery — it’s part of the hundred and eighteen thousand quid that was nicked when the two guards were murdered.”

  “I didn’t ’ave nothing to do with that.”

  “This note says differently.” Fusil flicked the note between his fingers.

  “One note don’t prove nothing.” Riley was struggling to regain his composure. “I’ve been backing the ’orses and winning — that fiver must ’ave come from a bookie.”

  “Come off it. That story was first used back in the days of the highwaymen.”

  “Maybe, but you ain’t goin’ to prove otherwise with just one note.” Riley was no longer trying to give the impression of being slightly stupid.

  “D’you really think that’s all we’ve got?” Fusil sounded contemptuously amused.

  “’Ow should I know?”

  “We can prove you were around with Glenton, Weston, Croft, and Holdman.”

  Yet again, Riley was unable to conceal his emotions. “I ain’t never met any of ’em,” he said automatically.

  “And I suppose you never went to twenty-four, Challon Place?”

  “That’s right, I never did.”

  “And your dabs that are all over the house got put there by the fairies?”

  Riley hesitated. “You… you said Challon Place?”

  “Well, I didn’t say Buckingham Palace.”

  “It does seem kind of… I recollect now. Yes, I ’ave been there, but there weren’t any of them others around.”

  “Let’s hear your reason for going there.”

  “I thought I might buy the place, but didn’t like the neighbours.”

  “That feeling would have been mutual. Where were you Friday afternoon?”

  “’Ere.”

  “Go on and prove it.”

  “Ask me old woman.”

  “She’d tell me you’re an angel, complete with halo. Let’s hear where you were Friday night, after six?”

  “When?”

  “Why the surprise — can’t understand why I should be interested in what you did after the raid was over?”

  “It ain’t like that, Mister, I was ’ere.”

  “According to your wife again?”

  “She was ’ere, but so was a couple of me pals. We ’ad a right old booze up.”

  “Their names?”

  “Ted ’Olmes and Frank Broughton. Old Ted brought ’is bit of skirt with ‘im.”

  Fusil looked across at Jones, who nodded to show that these were names known to him. “You could buy their evidence with the kind of money you had, couldn’t you?” said Fusil harshly.

  “I wouldn’t do nothing like that. Straight, I wouldn’t.”

  “Did anyone else see you?”

  “There weren’t… That’s a lie. I went down to the boozer for a bottle or two.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Don’t rightly know, but it were getting dark.”

  “So which pub did you go to?”

  “The Duke’s ’Ead.”

  He would never make so definite a statement unless it were probably true, Fusil knew. Then if he had been in London at dusk, he could not be the murderer of Glenton — not that there was much doubt, considering his genuinely shocked surprise at news of Glenton’s death.

  The questioning continued, but each detective knew that not enough proof would be discovered to arrest Riley. There was no doubt Riley had been one of the villains, but to arrest him they needed that degree of proof which a court of law demanded. True, he had had one of the stolen notes in his possession, but he could have got hold of that by pure chance.

  His fingerprints had been found at the house in Challon Place but there could be no proof that they had been left there at the same time as all the others. There was only his wife to support his alibi for the afternoon, but until that could be proved false, it was an alibi… There had to be further evidence of his complicity — preferably the discovery of the rest of his share of the stolen money. But it wasn’t in the house, so where would it be? His kind were never stupid enough to use bank or post office accounts: the money would be very well hidden somewhere and what were the chances of discovering where? Even if Riley could be watched every second of the day from now on, which was virtually impossible, he would not be such a fool as to lead them to the hiding place.

  Fusil silently cursed. If only they’d had the luck to find more than one of the stolen notes, so that even the stupidest jury couldn’t believe his denials… If only he cracked when told of the murders of Glenton and Weston… A clock on the ugly sideboard struck nine. Riley said: “Was there anything more you wanted to know, Mister?” His beady eyes had become mocking. “I’d like to be able to ’elp, but there ain’t nothing more I can tell you.”

  Fusil stood up. “We’ll be back,” he said flatly.

  “I want me fiver.”

  “You can have a receipt.”

  Kerr wrote out the receipt. As he handed it to Riley, he thought of the trail of agony, death, and misery, that this man had helped to leave and he felt a primitive desire to smash up the other. Goddamn the law, he thought bitterly, for so often protecting the guilty.

  Fusil crossed to the door and opened it. “I wonder who’ll get you first,” he said. “Us — or the murderers?”

  Riley shook his head, as if this was nonsense. He showed no fear, but the tic under his eye beat more quickly. The detectives left the house and returned to their cars. As he pulled away from the pavement, following Jones’ Morris, Fusil swore, cursing the facts which had just denied them sufficient evidence.

  Croft lived in a large house in its own garden, near a church, which had plainly once been the vicarage. The neighbourhood was one of Victorian three storey houses, once owned by the almost wealthy, now all split up into flats.

  A woman answered their knock on the heavy wooden door. She was young, blonde, with a figure that curved in the right places, and only the hardness of her face prevented her being beautiful.

  “Is Croft in?” asked Fusil.

  She studied him
with open hatred as she immediately identified him as a police officer. “No.”

  “May we come in?”

  “Not bleeding likely.”

  Fusil handed her the search warrant and pushed open the door to step into the house. The hall was decorated and furnished expensively, in a riot of hard colours that argued with each other. He saw a leather settee by the telephone that could not possibly have left any change out of a hundred pounds.

  “Stirling,” she screamed, “come ’ere.”

  Croft rushed into the hall. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans and these were tight on him, emphasising the strength of his frame. “What d’you want?” he demanded violently.

  “We’ve come for a chat and to search the house,” replied Fusil.

  The woman stood close to Croft in an instinctive demand for protection. She handed him the search warrant and he briefly glanced at it.

  “Search him,” snapped Fusil.

  “You ain’t searching me.”

  Fusil smiled and there was a wolfish expression to that smile. “Good,” he said, and he obviously meant it.

  Croft hunched his shoulders and altered his balance to the balls of his feet.

  “Don’t be a fool, Stirling,” said the woman, fear making her voice shrill. “They want a carve-up.”

  She was dead right: Croft could see it in their eyes. They wanted the chance of a real rough house because there were three of them and only one of him. He relaxed.

  Jones searched him — a quick task since he was wearing so little. “In my manor,” said Jones, as he ran his hands down Croft’s trousers, “they’ve heard you’re tough. I can tell ’em, it’s only a rumour.”

  Croft ignored the detective sergeant. Superior forces had overpowered him, but they hadn’t in any way beaten him.

  Kerr and Jones searched the house, the other three went into the sitting room. This was like a psychedelic nightmare: colour had been used to jar the senses. Croft poured out two strong whiskies for himself and the woman and ignored Fusil. The D.I. lit his pipe and waited. How would the past vicars of the parish, he wondered vaguely, react to the fact that the vicarage had been invaded by evil?

  “Stayin’ long?” sneered Croft, breaking the silence.

  “Maybe,” replied Fusil. “I’m from Fortrow.”

  “So?”

  “That name doesn’t mean anything to you?”

  “No.” Croft poured himself out a second whisky.

  “Short memory?”

  “I ain’t got no memory for that place.”

  “You should have. You were there last Friday afternoon, along with Glenton, Riley, Weston, and Holdman.”

  Croft could not hide his shock. He stared with hatred at Fusil, clenched his fists, and seemed to be about to throw himself at the other when the woman urgently whispered something. He drained his glass. The interrogation lasted an hour. Fifteen minutes after it was over, Jones and Kerr came into the sitting room. They had found nothing.

  “Ring up the station,” ordered Fusil, “and ask ’em if they can send some men out to search the garden with a fine tooth-comb. Remind ’em they’ll need searchlights.

  Jones asked Croft if he could use the telephone. Croft didn’t answer so he went out and called up the divisional H.Q. on the phone in the hall.

  Fusil stood up and said that he was finished — for the moment. He was bitter and angry and could not hide the fact. The search had failed and the interrogation had failed and no one knew this better than Croft who had become cocky when it was clear the evidence was not strong. He’d been with his woman throughout Friday afternoon and a whole van load of cozzpots would never prove differently. Fortrow? Never been near the place. Robbery and murder? He wasn’t that kind of a bloke. Friday evening? He’d been to a pricey club in the West End with his woman and if the dumb coppers didn’t believe him they could ask the staff. His fingerprints at Challon Place? Sure, he’d been there some time, but he couldn’t remember when and certainly none of the others had been there. So Glenton and Weston had been murdered and he could be next on some list the cozzpots had dreamed up. Anyone could try croaking him, but they’d discover he wasn’t just going to lie down until it was all over.

  Fusil waited in the garden until the search was over. It proved useless. He led the way back to the cars, briefly said goodnight to Jones and didn’t bother to thank the other.

  Fusil drove out of London, losing his way again which infuriated him, especially as Kerr had suggested they take an alternative — and as it turned out, correct — road. Eventually, however, they reached the dual carriageway main road. “Give me a fag,” said Fusil, as he accelerated to seventy, ignoring the rattles of his old Victor which was really too tired for this speed.

  Surprised that the other was forsaking his pipe, even if driving, Kerr took a battered pack from his pocket and put a cigarette in Fusil’s mouth. He struck a match for both of them.

  “There’s something wrong,” said Fusil suddenly.

  “In what way, sir?” The only thing wrong, thought Kerr, was that it was long past midnight and he was dead tired.

  “With the case as a whole.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find the necessary proof.”

  “Don’t be such a goddamn fool.”

  Thanks a million, thought Kerr. You tried to cheer a bloke up and then got your head bitten off for your pains.

  “Use your brains, man.”

  Kerr made no answer.

  “How many men do we think took part in the robbery?”

  “Five, sir, if the fingerprints in the house are an accurate guide.”

  “We’ll accept they are. Five villains. Two have been murdered and the murderer must be one of the villains because of the time factor involved, so that leaves three. We’ve questioned two of these and they’ve given alibis for the times of the murders that will certainly prove good. Where does that leave us?”

  “With the fifth man as the murderer.”

  “And he’s Holdman, a small-time punk, never before in the big league, a loud mouth and nothing more. Where would he suddenly find the brains to think out the murders and the nerve and guts to commit ’em?”

  “Maybe Holdman’s not the punk everyone thinks him.”

  “Why was he ever in with this mob?”

  “Surely because they needed a fifth man.”

  “They were professionals. Professionals don’t take on a punk — and that’s how they’d view him.”

  “But they did take him on.”

  “Why? Why?” Fusil thumped the wheel in his exasperation. The car lurched across the road and he had hastily to haul it back on to course. “This case is giving me ulcers.”

  That’s nothing to what it’s doing to me, thought Kerr, as he let out his breath once satisfied they were not going to crash.

  They reached Fortrow at half past three and drove through the deserted streets to the station. Fusil parked his car in the courtyard. Kerr stepped out. “Goodnight, sir.”

  “Where d’you think you’re going?”

  “Back to the hostel, sir, for some sleep. It’s only last night that I…”

  “How many times have I told you that a case isn’t solved by working nine-to-five hours?”

  He should have joined the army, thought Kerr, as he trailed miserably up the stairs behind Fusil. At least then he could have written letters of complaint to his M.P. He yawned once, twice, then a third time, and waves of tiredness battered the back of his skull.

  Fusil switched on the lights in his room and went round his desk and slumped down into his chair. “We’ve got to have Holdman’s address. Why the hell are Records so long about it?”

  Kerr wondered if perhaps the blokes who worked there were allowed to sleep. Fusil jerked himself upright. “What’s this?” He picked up a sheet of paper from his blotter.

  Kerr yawned.

  “It’s a report from Braddon. They’ve traced the batch of oxygen bottles through to the customers they were originally delivered to. A ho
spital, two garages, and three factories.” Fusil’s voice grew angry. “And I’ll bet my year’s wages that those bottles have been sent back for refilling so many times it’s useless to think of tracing them any further.”

  “That’s good, sir.”

  “What?” snapped Fusil.

  “I… I was…”

  Fusil thumped his fist down on the desk. “You weren’t listening to a word I said.”

  Kerr yawned yet again and tried frantically to find something to say. “I wonder if one of the bottles went to the garage that Riley owns?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I… I was… Sir, do you remember Jones joking to Riley we’d come to see how his garage was making out? I suppose he runs one as his legit cover.”

  Fusil slumped in his chair. “Goddamn it, you’re showing signs of intelligence,” he said.

  Chapter 12

  Kerr awoke to find someone was rocking his shoulders. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

  “Come on, me sleeping beauty, rise and shine, show a leg,” said P.C. Mottram, with indecent cheerfulness.

  “Go and drown yourself,” muttered Kerr.

  The bed clothes were ripped off him.

  “What beautiful pyjamas! My dear, I do look divine in my night attire.”

  “Shove off, Sam.”

  “Your boss says you’ve got fifteen minutes in which to get down to the station.”

  Kerr groaned. “What’s got him shouting this early in the day?”

  It was not early, as he discovered, but after nine o’clock, and as a result he had to leave the hostel without eating any breakfast. On his arrival at the station, Fusil demanded to know why he was so late and then coldly dismissed as of no consequence whatsoever the excuse that Kerr had been late in bed. “Records,” snapped Fusil, “have at last come up with Holdman’s address. We’re going to see him — and thanks to you we’re already late.”

  They drove up towards London on the main road and turned off this at the foot of Chiltham Hill. A few miles further on, they drove into Rushington, a town of no distinction and no character, whose sole purpose was to serve as a dormitory to London.

  Holdman’s house was on a council estate, to the east of the town, and it was favoured in that it overlooked a large playing field instead of other houses. They had picked up a local D.C. and he directed them to number fifteen. Fusil led the way up the crazy-paving path and knocked on the front door. Mrs. Holdman opened the door and when Fusil introduced himself she drew in her breath sharply and put her hand to her mouth in an instinctive gesture of fear. She was a woman without any great physical charm, but she had two large brown eyes that held the soulful look of a hare and mirrored her emotions. Right now, she was terrified.