Fusil picked up his pipe and began to scrape out the bowl. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” Kywood’s beady eyes stared challengingly at Fusil.
“There’s something wrong.”
“Such as?”
“I’m not certain.”
Kywood spoke with tremendous joviality. “You’re a great one, Bob, for worrying. If there’s nothing actually wrong, you go out specially looking for trouble. Now just what in the wide world can be wrong here?”
“Holdman.”
“All right, he’s missing, but we’ll find him. And even if we don’t, that won’t boomerang back on to the Fortrow police. Holdman lives in someone else’s manor and so now it’s their problem.”
“Why was Holdman brought into the mob?”
“Why? Who the hell cares why?”
“I do.”
Kywood uncrossed his legs. “Goddamn it, Bob, sometimes I just don’t understand you.”
Fusil smiled wryly. “Sometimes, I don’t understand myself.”
“That news doesn’t help me. Here’s a case all tied up and ready to be tucked away and all you can do is worry, worry, worry. And you don’t even know what in the hell you’re really worrying about!”
“Holdman is a punk. So why was he brought into the mob?”
“How should I know? Who cares? Listen, Bob, I’ve been in the force a sight longer than you and I’m going to give you some good advice, so just sit back and swallow it. If things work out right, take ’em that way.”
“You don’t believe that the question needs answering?”
“I most certainly do not.”
“Well, I do.”
Kywood’s expression became petulantly angry. “You’re always making trouble.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Being sorry doesn’t help, does it? I told the chief constable that this case is all sewn up and I’m not going back to him to say that my D.I. wants to rip everything wide open because he’s got some worries which he doesn’t understand.”
Fusil filled his pipe with tobacco, carefully tamping it down. Kywood was a fool, but worse than that he believed expediency was more important than the truth.
Kywood spoke loudly. “What can it matter why Holdman was brought into the mob?”
“It’s a break in the rhythm — that means something’s wrong.”
Kywood mopped his face with a brightly coloured handkerchief. “There were five villains in the mob. Glenton and Weston are dead. Riley and Croft are under arrest or about to be arrested and both of them have unshakeable alibis for Friday evening and night. That leaves Holdman. That’s all. There’s no one else. Holdman drove off with Glenton and because of the time factor the murderer of Glenton has to be one of the villains.”
“I think Holdman’s been murdered.”
“You what?” Kywood’s voice rose.
“I think he’s been murdered by the murderer of Glenton and Weston.”
“But… but that’s impossible. Are you suggesting it’s Croft or Riley after all?”
“It can’t be either of them.”
“If a thing’s impossible, it’s bloody impossible.” He thumped the arm of his chair. “Why can’t you understand that simple fact?”
“I’m worried.”
“Worried — you’re plain daft.” Kywood thumped the chair again in angry exasperation. “Come on, now, tell me — how d’you know Holdman’s been murdered?”
“His wife hasn’t heard from him since Friday morning.”
“What’s so surprising about that?”
“She’s in love with him, in a way that makes it certain he’s equally in love with her. He’d know how frantic she’d be and no matter what happened he’d somehow get word back to her… If he could.”
“God preserve me!” moaned Kywood. “Here am I, with a D.I. who believes in love’s young dream! She may be dotty about him and he may spit on her. That happens, you know.”
“Not with the kind of love she has.”
“Then he’s keeping clear of her, knowing we’ll be watching.”
“He won’t know. No villain ever believes his plans can go wrong — if he did, he wouldn’t start the villaining. I tell you, if he were alive, he’d have got word to her.”
“He can love her like crazy,” shouted Kywood, “but he can’t have been murdered because there were only five villains.”
“It’s difficult.”
“It’s impossible.”
“It can’t be impossible even if it is.”
“If you go on like this, Bob, I’ll have to tell the chief constable that one of my D.I.s has gone right off his rocker. Why can’t you start using some common sense?”
At least, thought Fusil, their relationship was now back to normal.
Chapter 13
Friday morning was overcast, due to a huge bank of cloud that had rolled in from the east and was now covering half the south of England. Down in the docks, the runner of one of the shore cranes parted and a tray of boxes of butter fell thirty feet on to a stevedore. In one of the slum houses in Dock Road, a thirteen-year-old girl fell through some rotten banisters on to a stone floor and was taken to hospital in a critical condition. At the junction of West Hill Road and Beech Lane a car ran into a bus because the driver had turned to wave to a friend and the passenger, who had refused to wear the seat belt, was thrown through the windscreen: before she went through the windscreen, she was beautiful. In the General Hospital, three patients died from different causes, all within a quarter of an hour. In the town hall the mayor, ex-officio chairman of the watch committee, telephoned the chief constable and said that a most terrible thing had happened and the wife of a great friend of his had had her handbag stolen from her car.
*
Kerr drove the C.I.D. Hillman up to county police H.Q. in Destone. The main administrative block, with its two wings, was vaguely Georgian in style. Behind it, across the playing fields, were rows of police houses and to the left of it was a jumble of buildings that was the motoring school and Traffic H.Q. and the headquarters of the assistant chief constable (Western).
He entered the main building and went up to the third floor and Records, three interconnected rooms which housed a seemingly endless array of filing cabinets that contained the records of all villains convicted within county boundaries. There was direct communication between county Records and Records for the metropolitan area and this ensured a quick and efficient interchange of information.
Kerr asked for the file on Albert Holdman. The uniformed sergeant consulted the index and then left, returning shortly with the file for which Kerr — naturally — had to sign. Kerr checked that the official police photographs were inside, to the sergeant’s annoyance, thanked the other who didn’t reply, and left. Communications were in the same corridor and Kerr went in and handed the photograph of Holdman to a constable, who took it off for copying. Kerr signed the authorisation note for inserting the photo in the Gazette.
He returned to his car and drove back to Fortrow and as he passed the Anglican church in Bramwell Lane he saw the time was ten to one. Helen usually left her office at around one o’clock for lunch and it was well known that a visit to H.Q. could take a very long time.
He double-parked and when a traffic warden hurried up, flashed his warrant card. Defeated, the traffic warden slouched off. Kerr lit a cigarette. The previous evening Mr. Barley, in between lyrical descriptions of some long forgotten steam engine, had casually remarked what a nice young man Phineas was despite all his money. How could he be nice and rich?
Helen came down the steps of the office on to the pavement in company with a red-head whose face suggested she knew quite a bit about the world. Kerr tooted the car’s horn and Helen looked round, saw him, spoke to the red-head, and then made her way over to the Hillman. “How about lunch?” asked Kerr, through the opened window.
She hesitated.
“All right, forget it,” he muttered bad-temperedly.
&
nbsp; “It’s only that I was going to eat with Angela. But hang on, John, and I’ll see if she minds if I go with you.”
He flicked the ash off his cigarette. Today was pay day so he could afford to use the couple of pounds he had left. They could go to the Italian restaurant in Dritlington.
Helen returned and climbed into the car. “What a lovely surprise, John!”
“This seemed to be the only way of getting to see you.”
She smiled, a deep, contented smile that brought to her face a special warmth.
“I called in last night,” he said.
“So dad mentioned.”
“He couldn’t stop telling me what a nice bloke Phineas is.” Kerr started the engine, engaged first gear, and drew out into the stream of traffic.
“Phineas is rather a dear,” she agreed.
“It’s a hell of a name for a man.”
“He didn’t choose it! Anyway, I rather like it.”
“Makes me think of ballet skirts. Your dad says he’s rolling in the lolly?”
“He does seem to be quite well off.”
“I suppose he takes you to all the expensive places? He can afford to buy caviar and lobster and that sort of tack?”
“I’ve certainly never eaten caviar and I don’t suppose I ever will.”
“Where does he get all his money?”
“He works for it, like you do.”
“Only he gets a damn sight more than me.”
“That’s the way life goes.”
“Quite the little philosopher.”
“My, we are in a paddy today.”
“I just don’t happen to like…” He stopped. He threw the cigarette stub out of the window.
“John,” she said softly, “do you really think it makes a scrap of difference to me whether he earns a hundred times as much as you?”
“I don’t know. You seem to be going out with him a lot. You were with him last night, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then?”
“It was only because you hadn’t asked me out first. And don’t forget you’ve stood me up twice. A girl’s got to show a little independence.”
Kerr slowly smiled. Phineas might be lousy with money, but he wasn’t even going to make first base.
*
Fusil arrived home twenty minutes late for lunch. Josephine spoke as soon as he walked into the kitchen. “Bob — you’re being even more pig-headed than usual.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” he muttered.
“You’re working yourself to death. Why won’t you listen to me and try to ease up?”
He sat down, closed his eyes, and rubbed his forehead.
“Have you got a headache?”
“No.”
“You,” she snapped, “are a liar. You’re going to sleep this afternoon.”
“I can’t.”
“I don’t give a single two-penny damn what you can’t do. I’m telling you what you are going to do.”
“I told them at the station.”
“Damn the station.”
“What d’you think Kywood would say if he discovered I was in bed.”
“I’ll deal with that old fool if he shoves his nose around here.”
A sleep, decided Fusil, was the one thing in the world he most wanted. “I must get back.”
“You are not going back to the station this afternoon.” She busied herself with dishing the lunch.
Josephine was seldom in this kind of a mood, but experience had taught him it was wise to respect it.
She put the shoulder of lamb on the wooden carving board and placed that on the table. “What is it, Bob, that’s got you working yourself to death?” Her voice suddenly softened and she looked at him with deep affection and worry. She was warm, loyal, passionate and after 16 years of marriage she still felt shocked when he obviously wasn’t well.
He stood up and sharpened the carving knife on the steel. “According to some people, I’m being pig-headed, stubborn, and stupid.” He began to carve.
She smiled briefly. “You’re pig-headed and stubborn. You’re not stupid.”
“Then what would you call a man who says something happened, yet he knows all the facts prove it couldn’t have done because it’s quite impossible?”
“If the man’s anyone but my husband, he’s either a fool or simple.”
“And if it’s me?”
“You’ll have a very good reason.”
“That’s illogical.”
“Good.” She placed on the table the stainless steel dishes containing roast potatoes and peas.
“One man,” said Fusil slowly, “has to be the murderer. He can’t be the murderer. He has been murdered.”
She sat back. “It sounds rather like one of those brain teasers from the Sunday Times”
“It’s certainly a brain-teaser.”
“Then stop teasing your brain and forget it. Think of something entirely different. Leave your subconscious to come up with the answer.”
“You’ve far more faith in my subconscious than me.”
“That’s the way Uncle Robert writes his books.”
“Look what lousy books they are.”
She smiled. “What a pity he can’t hear you saying that: it might just dent his ego a little!”
*
Holdman’s official police photograph, full and side face and taken in a flat light so that little character survived, was printed in the Gazette. Newspapers were asked for their help and they printed a family photograph of Holdman (given by his wife — to use the police one would have been to suggest previous convictions). It made him look less cock-sure of himself than the official one, but more vicious.
The reports of Holdman’s whereabouts came flooding in. He was seen in Aberdeen, Dawlish Warren, Bristol, London, Southampton, Birmingham, Norwich, York, Cardiff, Londonderry, Kirkwall, Seascale, Lincoln, Edinburgh, Plymouth, St. Peter Port, Paisley, Aberystwyth, and a score of other places. Each report had to be investigated: each proved false.
Over a space of three days, the weather became much cooler as east winds kept piling up the clouds. Long, heavy, soaking rain fell from Dover across to Portsmouth and as far north as Birmingham. Shivering holidaymakers cursed the weather as heartily as others, a fortnight before, had praised it. Ice cream manufacturers cut back production, bingo halls boomed, and the crime figures did not rise as steeply as expected.
Even detectives had holidays. True, they were usually postponed due to ‘exceptional circumstances’, but eventually they had to be granted. After ten days’ postponement, Fusil reluctantly agreed that Kerr could go away for ten days.
He and Helen went to Jersey for a week. There, Kerr discovered she was a lot more passionate than he had believed possible, but that she was still old-fashioned enough to believe marriage came first. He surprised himself by being glad this was so.
On their return to England, Kerr went to stay with his parents for the final few days. They lived in an old cottage, whose rent was eight and four-pence, which had no running hot water or flush lavatory, and they were content to accept these conditions because the rent was so low. Kerr enjoyed his stay with them, finding himself more in sympathy with both of them than he had been for some time. They were unambitious, firmly rooted to the past and not particularly sympathetic to the present — but instead of this annoying him, he found himself wistfully thinking that not everyone was lucky enough to lead the tranquil and happy lives they had.
He returned to Fortrow on a Sunday evening. It was raining and the drive from Fortrow Central Station to the police hostel through the wet streets depressed him. At the hostel, he dumped his suitcase in his room, went down to the common room, and found a P.C. who was also bored with life. They went out on the beer. When they returned at eleven thirty it was still raining, but they were happy and singing ribald songs. The caretaker threatened to report them, so they told the caretaker where to go and what to do when he got there.
*
“Hullo, hullo!” boomed Welland. “Back from leave and can’t wait to start work.” He examined Kerr more closely. “You look as if you’ve been on the wallop since you left.”
“Only last night,” replied Kerr, as be hurriedly sat down.
“You couldn’t have got like that in one night.”
Kerr stared stonily at the floor. Rowan came into the room. His expression was bleak and he barely responded to Welland’s cheerful greeting. He sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette.
“Look at old John,” said Welland. “Two addled poached eggs for eyes, a tremble in every limb, and delirium tremens knocking on the door.”
Rowan took no notice.
Welland remained boisterously cheerful. “You’ve missed out, John. Since you’ve been away the atmosphere here’s been funereal. Fusil’s been bellowing like a wounded rhinoceros, the Sarge hasn’t smiled since he saw someone slip on a banana skin and break his neck, and old Fred here has been on to the undertakers to see when they’ve got time to handle him.”
“Belt up,” snapped Rowan.
“Remember, smile and the world smiles with you, cry and you cry alone.”
Rowan swore.
Braddon came into the room and it was perfectly obvious that his temper was nowhere near as equable as usual. “All right, let’s get some work done.”
“At the double, Sarge,” said Welland, still quite undismayed by everybody else’s misery.
“Kerr,” snapped Braddon, “you filled in a T fourteen form before you went on leave.”
“Did I, Sarge?”
“You filled it in wrongly.”
Good, thought Kerr.
“Do it again and do it right. Rowan, get out to Shelstone. Welland, there’s a breaking and entering just been reported at one of the warehouses on Firbank Docks — check on it.
Murder Among Thieves (C.I.D Room Book 3) Page 14