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

by Roderic Jeffries

  “Kerr, as soon as you’ve redone that form, go down to the property room and find out what in the hell’s happened to the two silver candlesticks. And get this room tidied up.” Braddon left and slammed the door shut.

  “He’s a proper ray of sunshine,” muttered Kerr dejectedly.

  “Life’s been hell,” replied Welland. “Just mention the name of Holdman and everyone foams at the mouth.”

  “Haven’t they found that bloke yet?”

  “There hasn’t been sight or sound of him. The old man’s been kicking up hell. I tell you, if you want to stay sane, put in for a transfer immediately.”

  Rowan and Welland left and Kerr crossed over to his table and found on it the offending T fourteen form. After reading through it four times and finding nothing wrong, he discovered on the fifth attempt that his only mistake had been that the date was a year out. Couldn’t someone just have altered the last figure, he wondered bitterly as his head began to pound still harder.

  The form rewritten, with the correct date, he went down to the property room where he searched amongst the jumbled collection of recovered stolen property for two silver candlesticks. He failed to find them. He spoke to the duty sergeant and was told that they had been taken away a week ago by a county detective who had signed for them. It was not, decided Kerr, his day. Feeling that a cup of coffee was the only chance of bringing life back to himself, he sneaked down to the canteen. The woman serving behind the counter took pity on him and gave him a couple of aspirins.

  The coffee and the aspirins revived him somewhat and as he smoked a cigarette he thought about the armoured truck case. The facts said that Holdman had to be the murderer of Glenton and Weston, yet Fusil was convinced Holdman was dead — certainly no trace of him had been found despite the public appeals — and, having seen the wife, he, Kerr, agreed. But if Holdman wasn’t the murderer… A stray memory came to him and although it wasn’t clear, something told him it was important. It was to do with Detective Sergeant Ambleside…

  “Kerr.”

  Fusil’s sudden, loud voice startled him and his head began to thump once more. “Sir?”

  Fusil stood by the table. “Are you still on holiday?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then what are you doing down here in the canteen at this hour?”

  “Thinking, sir.”

  “Don’t be insolent.”

  “I’m not, sir. Half a memory about the armoured truck case came to me upstairs and I couldn’t dredge up the other half. It’s an odd thing, but coffee always seems to help my memory so I came down and had a cup. It’s helped.”

  Fusil studied Kerr. “You,” he said, and there was a trace of something in his voice that could have been reluctant admiration, “are one of the most bare-faced liars I know. You sneaked down here for a coffee because you were on the booze last night and your head’s banging away like a battleship. I’ll tell you something. I’m going to get a coffee and come back to this table and listen to your memory — if it’s not worth listening to, I’ll have you on every dirty night job from now until Christmas.”

  The D.I. got his cup of coffee and returned to the table. He sat down, stirred his coffee and drank a couple of mouthfuls, took out his pipe, and snapped: “Well?”

  “It’s when I was up at Cressfield, sir. Sergeant Ambleside mentioned something which didn’t seem to be of any significance then, but it’s suddenly come to me that it might be now. He told me that the car Glenton crashed in was checked for prints and that it must have been wiped clear because the only ones in it were his.”

  Fusil added another spoonful of sugar to his coffee. He lit his pipe with movements so slow that it was obvious he was not thinking about what he was doing. “There weren’t any other prints anywhere?”

  “That’s what he said, sir.”

  “Are you absolutely certain of this?”

  “Not absolutely, no.”

  “Go and ring Ambleside. If he’s not handy, tell them it’s very urgent.”

  Kerr left the canteen and went up to the general room. He telephoned Cressfield and by good fortune the detective sergeant was in his room. He confirmed that the facts were as Kerr had remembered them.

  “Right,” snapped Fusil, after Kerr had reported to him back in the canteen. He stood up.

  “D’you think, sir…?”

  “Right now, I’m just thinking.” Fusil walked over to the canteen stairs. Kerr followed him.

  *

  Kywood would have been a first-class detective had he served under someone who possessed the imagination and individuality that he lacked. As chief detective inspector of the borough police force, however, he was a man out of his depth and too proud, or too stupid, to admit the fact even to himself. When he entered Fusil’s room that morning, he began to huff and to puff, demanding that Fusil close the armoured truck job since everything was crystal clear.

  Fusil said, “No, sir.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you, Bob.”

  “A new piece of evidence has come in.”

  “What’s that? New evidence? Why haven’t I heard about it before?”

  “It’s only just in.”

  Kywood muttered something and sat down.

  “When Glenton’s crashed car was checked for fingerprints at Cressfield station, there weren’t any but his own.”

  “So?”

  “Doesn’t that suggest something?”

  “No.”

  “Not even when you consider that this was the legit car so that neither he nor anyone else would have worried about leaving prints?”

  “Get to the point, man,” said an irritated Kywood.

  “The point is, there were no other prints.”

  “What’s that to do with anything? Really, Bob…”

  “All the other prints had been wiped clear.”

  “So they were wiped clear. I cannot see…”

  “And it must have been wiped clear to cover up the fact that there weren’t any prints.”

  Kywood looked angrily bewildered.

  “Holdman’s prints should have been there, though — he couldn’t have been in the car for that length of journey without leaving prints somewhere, since this was the legit car and he wouldn’t have been wearing gloves if there were no special need to do so.”

  “All right, so he wasn’t in the car. When Glenton parked the Austin and changed to the Ford, Holdman went off on his own.”

  “Then who was in the car with Glenton and murdered him?”

  “There’s no real proof he was murdered.”

  “How did he get so tight if he was on his own? — there wasn’t the time for him to have stopped off and swallowed all that alcohol. Someone else had to be driving, whilst he drank, encouraging him to get as tight as a tick. Someone else had to be there to take the money which was Glenton’s share — sixty-five thousand quid.”

  “But you’ve just said Holdman wasn’t there,” cried Kywood.

  “Holdman wasn’t. But the sixth member of the mob was.”

  Chapter 14

  Kywood stood up and stalked over to the window. He stared out at the wet courtyard and the rain that was streaming down from the leaden sky. He swung round. “God knows why you insist on being like this. Isn’t life difficult enough without adding to it? Remember the facts of the case, man, and stop trying to be too damn’ clever. There were five villains in the mob: five, not four, not six, not sixty — five. Riley told us that. We know it for absolute fact.”

  “There were not five, there were six.”

  Kywood smashed his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “Have you gone completely crazy?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then let’s try countin’ ’em, as if we were back in kindergarten. Glenton, Riley, Croft, Weston, and Holdman. Do they add up to five, or don’t they?”

  “They do.”

  “Riley described the robbery from start to finish. There were the five of ’em at all the briefings. He to
ld us that he and Croft drove in the breakdown truck and Glenton, Weston, and Holdman were in the Jaguar. They carried out the robbery. Riley didn’t see any sixth man and he was there so, goddamn it, he should know.”

  “There has to be a sixth man.”

  Kywood returned to his chair and slumped down into it. He stared at Fusil with an open dislike.

  “Do you remember the odd things that worried me?” asked Fusil.

  “You’re always bloody worrying.”

  “They seemed to break the rhythm of the crime.”

  “Rhythm of the crime!” muttered Kywood, with heavy sarcasm.

  “Why was Holdman ever brought into the mob? He was a punk villain, only good for hitting old ladies over the head and stealing their sixpences. We know that Croft, Weston, and Riley objected to Holdman being in the mob because they could be absolutely certain there wasn’t any room for punks. So why did Glenton bring him in?”

  “Because he was the son of an old friend.”

  “It was because he was twenty-eight, about five feet ten inches tall, and had false teeth.”

  Kywood began to chew his bottom lip in a childish fit of anger.

  “Why, with a job that demanded weeks of careful observation and planning by one or more villains, was it that not a single one of our informers uncovered an outside villain in the area?”

  “Because your informers aren’t any good.”

  “Because the outside villain wasn’t a villain… Why was the money split up before the villains left the woods when this was one of their most dangerous moments and they’d want to scatter as quickly as possible?”

  “Obviously because no one man could be trusted to go off with the lot and then turn up again for the split.”

  “Why was no attempt made to murder Croft and Riley?”

  “What the hell does that matter?”

  “It was because they were either married or living with a woman and therefore not to be easily got on their own that Friday night.”

  “But Holdman was married.”

  “Exactly.”

  Kywood stood up, rammed his hands in his pockets, and began to pace the floor in front of the desk. “Have you finished yet?”

  “Not quite. Why was Glenton’s Ford wiped clear of prints?”

  “We’ve been all over that. It was wiped clear to hide the fact Holdman had been in it.”

  “The car was cleaned up to hide the fact that Holdman hadn’t been in it.”

  “Now have you finished?” shouted Kywood.

  “There’s one last question. How is it that apparently Holdman has to be the murderer, yet Holdman has almost certainly been murdered: how is it that only five villains were in the mob and took part in the robbery, yet there has to be a sixth one?”

  Kywood suddenly stopped pacing the floor. His angry expression was replaced by one of baffled enquiry that, in turn, gave way to one of astonishment.

  Fusil packed his pipe with tobacco, struck a match, and sucked flame down into the bowl.

  “A guard!” said Kywood.

  “A guard,” agreed Fusil. He took the pipe out of his mouth and held it in his right hand. “Holdman was the sacrificial victim, brought in to give the sixth man cover. Holdman was carefully chosen — a punk, not very bright, the right height, near enough to the right age, and using false teeth.”

  “The sixth man had been planning the robbery for years. He adopted a new identity, applied to become a guard with the security company and was taken on. He carried out all his duties as conscientiously as he could whilst he learned all the routes, the details of the defences of the armoured trucks, and the times when really large amounts of money were drawn.

  “Once he knew which lot of money he’d go for, he recruited his team, doing this through the front man, Glenton. Glenton was clever, brutal, and a real villain, but he wasn’t in the same class as the other: from the beginning to end, he never suspected that he, too, had been marked down as a victim because he would be the only man who’d know the truth.

  “The robbery was cleverly carried out, successful because the villains concentrated on the one weakness in the truck’s defences, the air inlet. Once in the woods, the back doors were burned open and the two guards held up at the point of the gun whilst the money was unloaded. Holdman was ordered into the truck to help Glenton with the murder of the guards and being a punk who was trying to prove himself fit for the big league, he didn’t dare refuse even though the idea possibly made his guts heave. Croft, Riley, and Weston went to their car. Glenton shot Holdman and afterwards one of the guards — or maybe the second guard did the shooting. The guard stripped off his uniform and dressed Holdman in it, then pulled out Holdman’s teeth and substituted his own plates. He and Glenton piled Holdman’s clothes and all the equipment in a heap, used magnesium and petrol to create a fire that would consume the bodies certainly to a point beyond any facial recognition, and left.

  “They drove to the road in front of the Railton woman’s house and changed cars, to continue north. At some stage, the guard persuaded Glenton to have a drink to celebrate — having already laid on a supply of booze — and before long Glenton was sozzled. The guard stopped the car, collected the money, poured more drink down Glenton’s throat, and let the car run downhill so that it ended up by falling over the cliff.

  “The guard was greedy. He had Glenton’s share of the robbery and he had Holdman’s, but he wanted more if he could get it. He knew Weston was a morose character who lived on his own and he hurried back to lay his hands on Weston’s thirteen thousand. He almost certainly hoped to make this death look an accident, but something went wrong and he had to use a knife. Croft and Riley lived with women and it would not be easy to get them on their own and the risk of something going wrong and so exposing himself wasn’t worth their twenty-six thousand, so he contented himself with the ninety-one thousand he now had and just quietly disappeared — with every reason to believe that even if the Police discovered that Glenton and his mob had carried out the robbery and the murders, they would never dream that behind this truth lay more truth, that behind the boss lay the real boss.”

  Kywood slowly walked over to the chair and sat. He smoothed down his sleek black hair. “Then one of the guards…” He stopped.

  “One of the two guards is not dead and is the sixth man. We know that one of the bodies in the truck had suffered a fractured leg — Locksley had fractured his leg. Locksley had lived with his widowed mother in Fortrow all his life. So that leaves Blether.”

  Kywood, unable to keep still, once more stood up. “And if we hadn’t noticed certain discrepancies in the facts, if we hadn’t gone on asking questions… We could have gone on and on searching for Holdman and when we couldn’t find him we’d have closed the case.”

  Kywood, thought Fusil sourly, had more nerve than the devil himself.

  Already, it was ‘we’ who had solved everything.

  “Who is Blether?” asked Kywood suddenly.

  Fusil shook his head. “We don’t know.”

  “But we must.”

  “We only know him as George Blether, widower.”

  “Then… But…” Kywood looked hopelessly at Fusil.

  Fusil took time over re-lighting his pipe. He puffed out dense clouds of acrid smoke. “He has to be a villain, of course.”

  “It takes a hell of a lot of crime to turn out a man as clever, as vicious, as Blether.”

  “We can certainly get a description of him.”

  “Description, yes, but I’ll bet nothing more. And we all know how useless descriptions can be.”

  “An identi-kit picture?”

  “We can try and send the results to Records to see if they can turn up anything useful, but identi-kit pictures haven’t proved very effective, have they? In any case, Blether must have made certain subtle alterations to his appearance whilst he was Blether. A man’s only got to part his hair differently, wear a pair of badly fitting dentures, and he can look quite different to a picture. He ha
d a moustache — that’ll have come off.”

  “Fingerprints, then?”

  “I’ve sent blokes to his old digs and to the security company’s offices to try for prints, but there can’t be much hope after all this time.”

  “If he’s a villain his dabs will be in the files.”

  “Of course,” replied Fusil, with a twisted smile. “But until we find a set, that piece of knowledge doesn’t really help us.”

  Kywood moved his chair forward until he could rest his elbows on the desk. “You realise just what you’re saying, Bob? You’re saying that we’re dealing with a man who’s appeared from nowhere and has disappeared back to nowhere. So what are we going to do?”

  “If we don’t turn up a set of dabs, I don’t know,” replied Fusil.

  Kywood once more stood up. He walked over to the window and stared out at the rain, now easing slightly. “What the hell is the chief constable going to say to all this?”

  “Quite a bit, if you ever manage to get him to understand everything.”

  Kywood whirled round. “What d’you mean by that?”

  “Nothing special.”

  “He’s a very intelligent man.”

  “Intelligent, clever, resourceful, competent, and charming.”

  “Goddamn it, why do you always have to complicate everything?” moaned Kywood. He left.

  Fusil leaned back in his chair until he could put his feet up on the desk. Kywood had been so quick to claim a share in uncovering the truth that he’d been damned if he was going to point out that there was just one lead to the identity of the man who had been George Blether for three years. If this lead proved fruitful, it was going to be Bob Fusil who reaped the credit.

  Chapter 15

  Mrs. Sparrow looked up at Kerr and Detective Constable Walsh and an expression of doubt covered her small, chirpy face. “You want to search for fingerprints of poor Mr. Blether?”

  “That’s right,” said Kerr, wondering whether his headache had finally gone or just temporarily ducked out of sight.

  “But why?”

  “It’s only routine. I promise you we won’t cause any trouble.”