“Are there any books at all?”
“I keep a private cash record. For my own use.”
“In what form?”
“In an ordinary cash book. There are three or four of them, covering the last few years.”
“Where?”
“In my safe.”
“Who has a key?”
“I’ve got one. Rainey’s got the other.”
“Are you sure you can trust him? The last time he was round here, I thought he was going to pieces.”
“I don’t trust him. But he won’t step out of line. I could send him to gaol longer than he could send me.”
“All the same, I think those books had better go. Take them out of the safe, and put them in a cupboard, along with any other records. Then organise an accidental fire.”
Bull looked thoughtful. He said, “I could do that, I suppose. But I’ll tell you something. A book’s a bloody difficult thing to burn.”
“You don’t have to destroy the books,” said Weatherman impatiently. “All you need is a convincing fire. Then we tell the Revenue the books have been destroyed. Produce a few ashes. The onus will be on them to prove you’re lying. They’ll have a job to do that.”
When Bull got back to the garage he found three customers waiting impatiently, and served them himself. He remembered that it was Johnno’s afternoon off. As he crossed the yard he could hear the sound of someone working in the repair shed at the back, but the yard itself was deserted. He picked up a big handful of oily cotton-waste and walked across to the wooden annexe at the far end of the shed which Rainey used as an office.
The cashier was there. He was lying back in his chair, his mouth wide open, snoring. His face was red and sweating, and the small room stank of whisky.
Bull stood looking down at him, smiling. It would serve him right, he thought, if he organised the fire and left Rainey in the middle of it. Then a further thought occurred to him. If the cashier had come back, demonstrably drunk, after lunch, wasn’t it very plausible that he should have started the fire. He could easily have kicked over the single-bar electric fire. It was a rickety affair, and he had warned him more than once to be careful of it. With a little care and scene-setting it could be made to look very convincing. He, Bull, coming back would find the office ablaze, would dash gallantly in, and secure considerable kudos for rescuing his sottish cashier. But by that time the fire would be too well away to stop.
There was a small wooden cupboard, which was used for stationery. The incriminating records could go in there, with the door wide open, as it would be, of course, if Rainey was working on them.
Bull moved softly across to the safe in the corner, unlocked it, and swung back the door. After that he stood, for a full ten seconds, staring into the interior. Then he stepped back and started to search the room. There were very few places to look. He already knew the truth.
He grabbed Rainey by the hair, and banged his head down onto the table. Then he took him by the collar and shook him. When he was certain that he was awake he said, “What the hell have you done with the cash books?”
Rainey stared at him. A bruise was forming on his forehead with a trickle of blood in the middle of it and tears were running down his cheeks, but the drink was temporarily out of him.
He said, “Last time I used them, I put them back in the safe.”
“They’re not there. Who’s had your key?”
“My key?” He clapped his hand to his pocket, but it was shaking so much that it took several attempts to find what he wanted. Then he drew out a ring of keys.
“It’s still there,” he said.
“Of course it’s there,” snarled Bull. “I didn’t imagine you’d swallowed it. Who have you lent it to?”
“No one. I haven’t lent it to anyone.”
“Have you been out and left the safe open?”
Rainey was trying to think. He said, “Yesterday evening. I slipped out for ten minutes. To buy some cigarettes.”
“And left the safe open?”
“Yes.” Seeing the look on Bull’s face, he added hastily, “But it was all right. Vikki was here.”
Bull hit him. It was a wicked, swinging punch, intended to hurt. It caught Rainey under the heart, and put him flat on his back, where he lay moaning and gasping. Then he rolled onto his side and was sick.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was a quarter to six before Mercer, having concluded his business with the well-known Mr. Michael Robertson, finally got back to Stoneferry.
The fine weather of the morning had given way to cloud. It looked as though they would have rain before midnight.
He drove straight out to Mr. Moxon’s shop, going openly and without any of the precautions he had observed on his earlier visits.
Mr. Moxon said, “They told me you might be looking in. I got a message for you. Two messages actually. I wrote them down just as they came.”
He passed across two pages torn from a note pad. The first was headed, “Time of message, 11.35 Hrs.” Mr. Moxon had been a signaller in an artillery regiment and preserved his orderly habits. “May and June withdrawn at 20.00 Hrs. last night. July standing by. Message ends.”
The second sheet, headed “15.15 Hrs.” said, “July will give the red light by telephone for tonight.”
Mercer read them, folded them up, and put them in his wallet. He said, “If there’s any money for me, I’d better have it.”
Mr. Moxon opened his safe, and produced a manilla envelope. It was open at one end and the sight of it seemed to put him in mind of something.
He said, “That young feller you said might be looking in, he looked in.”
“I suppose it was him opened this envelope.”
“That’s a fact. I told him he wasn’t to, but he did.”
“He’s a headstrong lad,” said Mercer. He was counting the money.
“He had a warrant card. I suppose he was a policeman.”
“He thinks he is,” said Mercer. “By the way, he didn’t help himself to any, did he?”
“Certainly not. I watched him close.”
“No. It’s all right. I thought there was one missing. Two notes got stuck together.” He peeled one off and handed it across. “That’s this week’s rent. There may not be any more. But thanks for what you’ve done, Albert. By the way, I’d better take that other parcel you’ve been looking after.”
Mr. Moxon produced, from under the counter, a white cardboard shoe-box, tied with string. From the way he handled it, it was fairly heavy. Mercer said, “Well, thanks again,” and went out into the street, dumped the box in the back of his car and drove off. There seemed to be no watchers. He had not expected any.
He parked his car carefully in the small yard behind the station, facing outwards. Medmenham’s car was the only one there. Then he walked into the station, said, “Good evening,” to Station Sergeant Rix, who nodded but did not reply, and went upstairs. Prothero was alone in the C.I.D. room, drawing a careful plan of an accident which had taken place the day before. Mercer said, “Hullo, Len. Any excitements while I’ve been gone?”
“Quiet as a dean’s dinner party,” said Prothero. “The old man went up to London early this afternoon. He hasn’t come back yet, as far as I know.”
“His car’s not in the yard,” agreed Mercer. He dumped the shoe-box on the table. “Since no one seems to want me, I think I’ll go and get myself a drink. Who’s on duty tonight?”
“Tom’s on divisional call. He’s getting his supper. He’ll be back here at seven. Is something up?”
Mercer said, “What makes you think that?”
“There’s a sort of atmosphere about the place. I don’t get it.”
“What you want to do,” said Mercer seriously, “is go home and get a good night’s sleep.”
The public bar of The Angler’s Rest was empty except for two old regulars, who were sitting in the corner watching their first pints of the evening as though they might vanish if they took their eyes
off them. Mercer ordered himself a double whisky and carried it through to the private bar. This was empty. The landlord had just lit the fire, which was crackling into a blaze. Mercer took a quick pull at his drink, put it on the table, lowered himself into a chair and stretched his feet towards the warmth. The only noise was the ticking of the clock in its mahogany case next to the stuffed pike. Mercer’s big frame sank lower into the chair. A small coal fell from the fire and tinkled against the iron guard.
It was black night, and he was walking down a street. The streetlamps were few and a long way apart. The shadows between them were full of shapes. Shapes which moved and shifted but made no sound. All that he could hear was the noise of his own footsteps rapping on the pavement. They kept time disconcertingly with the beating of his own heart. He woke with a start, to find someone standing over him.
It took him a moment to realise that it was Willoughby Slade, that Willoughby was at least half sober, and very angry.
He said, “What the hell have you done with my sister?”
Mercer blinked, and looked at the clock. It showed twenty-five to nine. “Good God!” he said, “I must have been asleep for over an hour.”
“Stop fooling about,” said Willoughby. “I want to know where Venetia is.”
“Search me,” said Mercer. And, as Willoughby took a step closer, “Why should you think I’d done anything with her?”
“Because, as you bloody well know, and as everyone in this town bloody well knows by now, she’s been out with you almost every bloody evening for the last week, and it’s bloody well got to stop.”
Mercer shifted in his chair so that the palm of his right hand was on the floor and most of his weight was taken on his stiff right arm. He said, “She’s over the age of consent. She’s a girl. I’m a chap. Someone ought to explain the system to you. It’s fun when you get the hang of it.”
As Willoughby swung at him, Mercer rolled out of the chair, pivoting on his right arm. The blow caught him on the shoulder and did no harm and the chair got in the way of any second blow. By the time Willoughby had got round it, Mercer was on his feet. Willoughby came in using his fists like a public school boxing champion. Mercer did a half knees bend, after the style of a Russian dancer, shot out his left leg, and kicked Willoughby hard on the ankle bone. Willoughby got his legs crossed, and fell over, hitting the back of his head on the table and toppling Mercer’s almost untouched glass of whisky.
Mercer leaned forward, rescued the whisky, picked the boy up by the lapels of his coat, and slung him into the chair. He then pulled his head back by the hair, held the drink to his lips, said, “Open your mouth,” and tipped it down his throat.
Willoughby spluttered, and sat up. He was still dazed.
Mercer said, “Never box against someone who knows how to fight. Now just listen to me. I don’t know where your sister is. I haven’t seen her this evening. She’s probably home by now. Keep her there. That’s not advice, it’s an order. Keep her home tonight, and stay with her.”
When he got back to the station he found Tom Rye in the C.I.D. room. Tom said, “There’s been a message for you. I couldn’t make out who it was from. Sounded like July. Do you know a Mr. July?”
“I might do. What was the message?”
“He just said that nothing had started yet, but you were to stand by. Does that make sense?”
“Sort of,” said Mercer.
He was untying the string round the shoe-box and now took out what looked like a pair of climber’s shoes. They were made of heavy leather with rubber studs underneath.
“You planning to play football?”
“Party games.”
“Don’t you think you might let me in on this?”
Mercer considered the matter seriously. Then he said, “I’d like to, Tom. If I let anyone in on it, you’d be first choice. The fact is, I’m expecting an invitation to a party. It’s the sort of party where steel toe-caps are going to be more use than a white tie and tails. If I could bring a guest, I’d bring you like a shot, but tonight is strictly by invitation only.”
Rye said, “You’re a close-mouthed bastard. I suppose one day we’re going to find out what all this is about. By the way, Bob’s back.”
“Did he come down here?”
“No. He seems to have gone straight home.”
“Any messages for the troops?”
“He said he’d see you in the morning.”
It was past ten o’clock when the telephone rang. Rye took the call. He said, “It’s your friend July again. He thinks you ought to be moving.”
“Tell him I’m on my way,” said Mercer. He went down the back stairs to the courtyard, climbed into his car, and switched on the ignition. The heavy shoes were going to make driving difficult, and he was experimenting cautiously with the clutch when he realised that he was not alone in the car.
An arm slid softly round his neck from behind, and Venetia said, “It’s been a long wait, Bill, but here you are at last.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” said Mercer.
“Waiting for you.”
“Why here, for God’s sake?”
“I went to the pub. Willoughby was propping up the public bar. He’d have seen me if I’d gone in.”
“Would that have mattered?”
“He’s been in such a foul temper about us. He’d have made a row.”
“He did,” said Mercer. “Look Venetia, you’ve got to get out and go and stay home. Right now.”
“That’s a nice way to talk. I should have thought the least you could do was drive me there.”
Mercer looked down at his watch. He said, “I haven’t got time. Don’t argue. Do what I say. Just this once.”
“I’m damned if I will. I’ve been waiting for an hour. My feet are blocks of ice. You can drive me home and keep your next girlfriend waiting for five minutes.”
“It isn’t a girl. It’s a job.”
“I should have thought it was the same thing with you.”
“Do you want me to throw you out?”
“If you touch me, I’m going to scream. And I warn you. I can scream. I’ve won prizes for it.”
“All right,” said Mercer, in tones of sudden cold anger. “You can come to the party. Only don’t sit in the back. Come in front with me.”
“Oh, yes,” said Venetia, “and when I get out, you’ll drive off and leave me.”
“Then climb over the bloody seat.”
As he spoke, Mercer was engaging gear. He nosed the car out into the High Street. Venetia settled in the seat beside him, and slid an arm through his.
“That’s better, Bill,” she said.
“There’s one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“When the party starts, you do exactly what I tell you. And keep on doing it.”
“Certainly, your majesty. Where are we going? And what sort of party is it?”
“It’s at my house. It’s a sort of house-warming. Fasten your seat belt.”
“It’s not worth it for such a short trip.”
Mercer brought the car to a halt, and said, in the same cold, serious voice, “You’re breaking the rules already. On this party you’re to do what I tell you, remember? If you don’t, I really am going to throw you out.”
Venetia looked at him. She was still angry, but a less comfortable feeling was beginning to take over. She said. “All right, Bill. If that’s one of the rules.” She fastened the seat belt. “Aren’t you going to use yours?”
“As it happens,” said Mercer, “in my case, mobility is more important than security.”
As he pulled away from the kerb he leaned across her, and pressed a switch on the dashboard. A blue light showed, and began to flicker, on-off-on-off in regular rhythm.
“What’s that?” she said.
Mercer said nothing. The glow from the dashboard light was playing tricks with his expression. There was nothing comfortable in it.
As they passed under the railway arch, Mercer flicked on his headlights, and flicked them off again quickly when he saw that there was no one there.
Cray Avenue was a cul-de-sac, with a short side road at its far end which ran back to the railway embankment and stopped there. As he turned into the Avenue, Mercer flicked on his lights again. There were three men waiting on the pavement in front of his house. No car visible. He guessed it was tucked away round the corner at the end.
He said to Venetia, “Hold tight. Here it comes,” swung the car across the road and up onto the pavement, stood on the brakes, and cut the engine. Then he opened the off-side door, squeezed through it, and slammed it shut. He was now standing in the sharp angle made by the car and the garden wall.
There was a moment of complete silence. Then the three men came across the road. The leader was a big man with a nose like the prow of a ship. His silvery-grey hair was smoothly brushed. Grizzled sideboards came down almost to the angle of his chin. There were tufts of hair on his high-coloured cheeks. The dignified, almost benevolent face sat oddly on an anthropoid body. The arms were unnaturally long, and the large hands hung almost level with his knees as he walked.
He said, “It looks as if these people have had a bit of trouble with their car. Better help them out, Sam.”
Mercer said nothing.
Sam said, “Perhaps he doesn’t want to be helped.” He was working his way round to the back of the car, where there was a narrow gap between it and the wall. The third man, who was smaller than the other two and had red hair and a face like a sick fox, moved to the left, but was blocked by the bonnet of the car.
The big man said, “Have him out, lads.”
Sam came in through the gap. Mercer, with one hand on the top of the low garden wall, kicked him hard on the knee. Venetia heard the knee-cap go with a crack. Pivoting on the wall, Mercer turned in time to meet sick fox who had hurled himself across the bonnet of the car. Mercer caught his hair with his left hand and hit him with his gloved right hand, holding him and pulling him onto the punches. Then he let him go and he tumbled back onto the roadway.
Mercer said, “Are you coming in yourself, Mo, or do you leave all the fighting to the boys?”
Body of a Girl Page 20