One Deathless Hour (David Mallin Detective series Book 16)

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘He’s a shooter, is he?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Then she gave me a strange, self-critical grimace. ‘That was where I met him, at one of those championship meetings. I was there with my former husband.’

  So she hadn’t missed the reference to Watling and guessed I’d come from Abbott. She waited for my reaction.

  ‘And who won?’

  ‘Why, Charles of course. It’s one thing he can do — target shooting. He excels at it.’

  ‘He owns guns?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Which he took with him on Tuesday night?’

  She cocked her head at me. ‘You’re cute. Yes, he took his gun-case. I don’t know if there were any guns in it. Probably not. He’d have had his pyjamas in it.’

  ‘Would he need them?’

  ‘He’d hardly need his guns to entertain his mistress.’

  ‘His pyjamas, I meant.’

  ‘Oh, good for you. A glimmer of humour.’

  ‘But I’m not amused that you obviously haven’t checked. Your husband leaves, ostensibly for an evening’s shooting, and doesn’t return. But you fail to check the obvious — whether he took guns or pyjamas.’

  ‘I knew where he’d gone. You can be very severe, George.’

  ‘How did you know?’ I grinned to underline the severity.

  ‘That Tuesday — four days ago — I followed him.’ Now there was pain in her eyes. ‘If he hadn’t been so secretive about it! Sanctimonious as you please when it came to me, when that’s just a bit of fun. But underhanded himself. This time, I thought, I’d throw it at him. In his face. Oh, I can be angry! I was, that night. I followed him — my Mini happened to start. Of course, I knew where he was heading, so I managed to catch him up. And then … you know that multi-storey along Riches Street … ’

  ‘I’m a stranger to your town.’

  ‘Well, he drove into that. I couldn’t understand it.’

  ‘What car is this?’

  ‘His Cortina. Nearly new. A light blue one.’

  So he ran a nearly-new car, when she, who was obviously the salary-earner around there, had a Mini that was difficult to start.

  ‘Into the multi-storey,’ I said. ‘And then?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to do. By that time I was feeling pretty sick with myself. I knew where she lived. I didn’t want to meet her. It was … well, you said it yourself … it was sordid. But for you it’s impersonal. For me it wasn’t. I was spying on my husband. I felt rotten about it. And so I parked outside and in a few minutes he came walking out and didn’t see me at all. I just couldn’t go on with it. I let him walk away and drove back here. Or at least, I did until the Mini broke down. I had to walk from the main road and they towed it in next day.’

  ‘And it still isn’t right?’ I’d seen somebody working on it.

  ‘One of my week-end students is a mechanic. They’re very kind.’

  Oh, they would be. She’d give them that smile. She did it to me and I crumpled.

  ‘But you haven’t given me her address,’ I reminded her.

  ‘Her name’s Marilyn Trask. And she’s in a block of flats called Marston Grange, number sixteen.’

  ‘You know this and you’ve never been there?’

  ‘I don’t think I want to meet her. What could I say? These young people laugh at our old-fashioned ideas of morality.’ She pouted. She might have been thirty-two. ‘They’re always so young.’

  ‘You’ve kept a check?’

  At that she reacted rather sharply. ‘Yes, I’ve been keeping a check. Isn’t that naughty of me!’

  ‘Why should he have walked from the car-park? I suppose he’d normally drive straight for the flat? There’d be somewhere to park.’

  ‘Now it’s you being naughty. I said I hadn’t followed him before.’

  ‘But you’d know if he was walking in the right direction.’

  ‘He turned the opposite way, if you really want to know. I saw him go down Railway Drive.’

  Had there been a railway station at Watling? I didn’t remember one — and the dead man had been carrying nothing but car-keys.

  ‘Still with his gun-case?’

  ‘Yes.’ She seemed disappointed in me.

  ‘Then he could have been going to a shooting competition?’

  ‘They’re usually on Saturdays. This was a Tuesday.’

  It occurred to me that she’d been remarkably incurious. I’d have kept on his tail. But I didn’t take that up.

  We were silent for a couple of minutes, then she spoke gravely.

  ‘You’ll be going there?’

  ‘I think I must.’

  ‘But you’ll be back?’

  ‘To tell you what I find, you mean? It might not be anything you’d want to hear.’ I shook my head. ‘I’ll book a room in town.’

  ‘I’ll have one ready for you here.’ The warmth had crept back into her voice. I wondered whose room.

  ‘You want to know, is that it?’

  She gave a small gurgle of amusement. ‘I want you to give a talk for me. Go on, there’s a dear. I can find you a spare half hour in the morning.’

  ‘I’m not a talker,’ I protested.

  ‘They’ll love it. A real private eye. Not too bleak, though. There must have been lighter moments.’

  Like when they threw me downstairs and I broke my leg? Such as when I got my blasted hand caught in that door? ‘I don’t expect I’ll have the time.’

  She put a hand on mine. ‘But come back, George.’

  She’d sown seeds of longing. A lecturer! George Coe! Go on, George, be a devil.

  ‘If you’ll promise me one thing, I’ll talk for half an hour.’

  ‘Anything.’ Her chin was in her palms, her eyes huge.

  ‘Let me have a go at that gong.’

  She laughed, lowering her eyes for a moment, reaching up one finger to poke her glasses back again. ‘Then you’ll have to come back.We only do it at one o’clock and at seven.’

  I’ve always wanted a bash at the timpany in a symphony orchestra. Sheer, bloody-minded aggression, I decided, driving back to town.

  I found Marston Grange easily enough, because the actual Grange was famous. Marston had been a mill-owner of vast wealth and had built a huge house in large grounds with a high wall. The house itself still stood, but was now the offices of a civil engineering company. They had thrown up three high-risers in their grounds, Marston Towers, Rise and Court. In the first two sixteens lived elderly couples, but No. 16 at the Court was more promising, as I drew no response when I pressed the button.

  He had perhaps been meeting Marilyn Trask at the station. I tried the button again. The floor was quiet. Outside, the sun was very low, flushing red through the window at the end of the corridor. There were two flats to each floor. I thought of asking next door, but tried, first, what a good detective always does. The door opened at a touch.

  It was unlikely they’d go away together and leave the door unlocked. I slid inside. There was no hall. The door opened directly onto a small landing, then there were three steps down to the floor of a wide, L-shaped room. I could see that at the other end the L was a small dining-recess. There was a telephone on a table to my right, with a small pad beside it. The low, orange light threw deep purple shadows across the floor. The room was hot. There was a smell I knew and wanted to retreat from.

  I took the steps down. I was moving very carefully, trying not to disturb even a mote of dust. His gun-case I found at once. There was a low table just to the left of the three stairs, on it his case, open. It was a simple affair, apparently home-made from three-ply, inside it a clutter of rags, cartridge-boxes, but no pistol. It was not partitioned, as you’d expect of a marksman with a consideration for his valuable weapons. I passed it by. There was no smell of burnt powder in the room, only of corruption.

  I found her in the far leg of the L. As I’d guessed, this was a dining-recess. She was down beside the table, which had been thrust aside, as though she’d been leaning
against it. She was lying face up. There was no deciding whether she’d been beautiful, but her hair was a fine brunette, too long by modern styles. She was dressed in green slacks and a patterned blouse and wore no jewellery that I could detect. The hole in her blouse, just beneath her left breast, looked too small to be anything but a .22. She had bled a lot. That meant considerable destruction at the exit point, but I didn’t touch her to check.

  Now the light was dying rapidly, and I had no intention of using a light-switch. So I had to move fast. A shoulder to the door on my left swung it open into a modern, fully fitted kitchen. Somebody had been preparing food. A tossed salad. It was no longer crisp. The two pieces of steak, ready on a plate for the grill, were becoming dark and unwholesome. There was a hand cloth on the table, tossed down as though the preparer had been interrupted by the doorbell. Perhaps Colmore had forgotten his key. If it had been him.

  I wandered out of there. I had seen no sign of the weapon so far, nothing on the floor anywhere near her body. Now there was very little light. I hurried. Although it was unlikely he’d have had pyjamas in that oily case, I went to have a quick look in the bedroom. It opened from one end of the entrance balcony. Her pyjamas, yes. I held my breath, in case I wafted them from the bed. No sign of his. I went back for one quick look at that gun-case.

  Now that it was darker, I saw at once the tiny red light across the room. It was the indicator lamp on one of those music centres. Looking closer, I saw that the dial was illuminated. It was tuned to Radio 1, if that meant anything. Yes, it might have done. The sound volume was turned right down, as though it had interfered with a session of talk, of argument — of raised voices. I touched nothing.

  I’d left it a bit too late and had to use my lighter to examine the gun-case. I had hoped I might discover a weapon under the rags, even a small one, but no. A box of cartridges was open, some spilled. He used long rifle .22s, which was unusual for target use. The marksmen usually prefer the lower-powered shorts, sacrificing the minimal gain in accuracy of the higher velocities for a decrease in recoil. Perhaps he had a strong wrist.

  Then I discovered the contents of his pockets, which I’d previously missed because the case lid had been opened over them. I investigated gently, using a pencil to open the wallet and my nails to extract the two credit cards in the name of Charles N. Colmore. A few letters, their envelopes grubby, were addressed to him. A ballpoint pen, a lighter with his initials engraved on it and a set of keys. Car-keys and other Yale types. That was strange, come to think of it.

  By that time it was too dark to go any further. I had seen no ejected cartridge-case, but it could have been picked up. Or the weapon could have been a revolver.

  I opened the door into the corridor and someone had put on the lights out there. It angled in and across the note-pad beside the telephone. I paused and bent. On it had been pencilled a five-figure number: 21212.

  I closed the door gently behind me, using only the tip of my forefinger in the letter-flap. I turned.

  A woman stood at the door of the next flat, staring with the blank, ingrained curiosity of the lonely. She’d have been in her sixties. Her hair was an orange mass. Her lips were tight.

  ‘It’s no good ringing. She must be away.’

  There could have been no more than a second in it. She had sighted me the moment after I’d finished closing the door.

  ‘Then why’d she advertise her telly?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘Oh …’ She fluttered her hand at me and moved closer. Her face was eager for conversation. I could hear her own set from the flat behind her. ‘Oh … they take ages to get the adverts into our local paper. If you’re from out of town … ’ She tailed it off on a questing note, the probing of the inveterate gossip. I was silent. ‘As much as a week,’ she amplified.

  ‘Ah!’ I nodded. ‘That explains it. I phoned Monday and she said she was advertising it.’

  ‘She was here Tuesday. I spoke to her.’

  ‘Tuesday evening?’

  She nodded eagerly. ‘The evening her tall gentleman friend calls. Such a pleasant man. He always wishes me a good evening.’

  ‘If he happens to see you.’ I smiled. How could I suggest that she made damn sure he did? ‘Every Tuesday,’ I murmured.

  ‘My bingo evening,’ she told me eagerly. ‘I always seem to meet him in the corridor.’

  ‘Last Tuesday, too?’

  And then she frowned. ‘He was a little later than usual. You could always reckon on a quarter to eight … ’

  ‘I’m sure you could.’

  ‘But I was out of the building and it was as near to eight — well, I thought I’d be missing the first call — so near to eight when the taxi came and he got out.’

  She was almost breathless with excitement, patting at me, her eyes bright.

  ‘It’s these surprises that make life so interesting.’

  ‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘He normally comes in his car.’

  Poor dear, she was in for more excitement than she’d bargained for.

  ‘Can’t be many taxis in this town.’

  ‘It was from that firm beginning with A … ’ She touched her lips. ‘Oh dear, and they always bring me home — nobody’s safe on the streets these days … oh yes, Albion. That’s it.’

  ‘Saturday nights are the worst. On the streets.’

  ‘Oh yes. But we’re quiet out here. You must take care of yourself, though. They can be very rough.’ She cocked her head. ‘If you’re going into town … ’

  Yes, I was, to the police-station. They can be rougher there. ‘And I’ll have to dash,’ I said. ‘Sorry to have taken your time.’

  ‘Oh no! It’s been a pleasure. Any time.’ She dimpled. I almost kissed her cheek, but fell back on a smile and left.

  It now seemed to me to be a reasonable assumption that the dead man at Watling was Charles Colmore. The empty pockets that end and the contents this end seemed to confirm that, as did the recurrence of .22 target pistols both ends. But Colmore had changed his habitual method of travel that evening. He had left his car in the multistorey car-park and walked into Railway Drive, where he’d have found not only a railway station, but also a taxi-rank. So he’d taken a taxi to the flat, arriving with his gun-case … And there the theorizing became stuck.

  It was reasonable to suppose he’d take an empty gun-case from home, if only to fool his wife. But in that event there’d have been no point in opening it when he got to the flat. He might open it to take a gun from it. And then kill his mistress?

  At that point I was running into fantasy. Why draw attention to his arrival if he intended murder? But perhaps it hadn’t been intended. A quarrel — the radio had been turned down — and a violent impulse. That would explain the leaving of his case behind — panic. It would explain the leaving of the door unlatched. But not the unloading of his pockets! Not his appearance at Watling to see Abbott — seeking help perhaps — when Abbott hated him and had no doubt never disguised the fact.

  It did not explain, either, how he came to be shot in Watling a bare hour after arrival at the flat in Bentley, when it had taken me over the hour to do the trip. Mind you, I hadn’t been pushing it.

  I drove slowly towards town. When the traffic began to thicken, I realized that I should have decided, first, where I was supposed to be heading. But sometimes providence lends a hand. It got me boxed in behind one of those Austin taxis, which they’re now painting maroon. The illuminated sign on the roof indicated the phone number: 21212. Ever tried getting past a taxi in heavy traffic? He didn’t like it and gave me a blast on his horn when I cut him off as he was about to overtake a bus. But I made it. Backwards in the rear-vision mirror, the same roof sign read: ALBION.

  Next step, a phone-booth. Not easy in town. I saw a pair in the square, spent ten minutes finding somewhere to park, another ten walking back and a further ten waiting for two chatterers to finish. I’ll swear they were speaking to each other, because they rang off together and walked away together. I called
21212.

  ‘Yes sir? A taxi? Where are you?’

  ‘Where are you? Your offices.’

  ‘We’re in Duke Street, if it matters.’

  It did. I hung up. I overtook the two chatterers, young girls with doll faces. I asked them for directions to Duke St. They told me, but different routes. I thanked them, dug out the car and drove there, using parts of both.

  Duke Street was about ready for demolishing, in fact half of it had been. Albion Taxis were using a stretch of derelict land, with a wooden portable building in the corner, the whole enclosed with a mesh fence. Their radio mast reached up into the purple night. I knocked and entered.

  A man was operating the radio, with headphones and a mike, a huge map on the wall in front of him and a quartet of phones and a note-pad at his right hand. There was no counter. They did not expect visitors. I had to raise my voice. He turned. His headphones had only one earpiece.

  ‘Can I have a word?’

  ‘You must be joking, mate.’

  His ear-piece buzzed and he returned to his work, recording movements on his map with apparently magnetic markers. A phone rang. A girl entered from a tiny recess at the rear, carrying two steaming mugs, her jeans creaking. She answered the phone, one eye on me, said something to the man and replaced it.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘What you want, mister?’

  ‘I want information.’

  ‘We’m too busy,’ she said at once, looking scared.

  She had a seat in front of the telephones. She took over the job with the markers. I shouted: ‘Then who?’

  ‘Better see Colin. The boss. In The Crown, next door.’

  I found The Crown. It seemed to be demolishing itself. The noise dislodged the bricks, one by one. The smoke supported the roof. I fought my way to the bar and asked for Colin. He was a stringy, morose man in his thirties, already nursing an ulcer. I flashed him the back of my credit card and said:

  ‘Police. I could do with a word.’

  ‘What we done now?’

  ‘Nothing. I want information.’

  ‘Then ask.’ He’d been drinking steadily for some time and was long past any volition to discontinue.