Dead Man Walking

by J F Straker

  “Did you tell them the money was there?”

  “Of course not. I’m not that stupid.”

  “But don’t you see?” Now he was really frightened. “When they collected the cash out at the chapel I told them they’d got the lot. I thought they had. So what must they think when two days later they find more money hidden in the house?”

  “That you’re still trying to outsmart them,” Johnny said, rubbing it in. “That isn’t going to make them trust you, is it?”

  They were both too dismayed to answer. He took advantage of their silence to tell them what they must do. With the police already at the farm, he said, it could be only a matter of time before they found their way below. They had to buy that time.

  “How?” asked Sinclair.

  “It’s three against three, isn’t it? All right, so one of us is a woman,” he added, as the other started to protest. “But they won’t be expecting trouble. If we can catch them on the hop — well, at least it gives us a chance.”

  He looked hopefully from one to the other for approval. Sinclair gave a cautious nod. But the woman had had time to recover. She took her hand from her chin, slapped it on her knee, and sat up.

  “And what if we fail?” she said harshly. “That’ll do us a power of good, won’t it? Don’t listen to him, Mark. Can’t you see he’s just trying to use us? Why should we risk our necks to save his?”

  Sinclair removed his spectacles and massaged tired eyes with the tips of his fingers.

  “I don’t know,” he said wearily. “I just don’t know.”

  Johnny and the woman spoke simultaneously, each desperate to persuade. Simultaneously they stopped. Footsteps sounded outside, a key turned in the lock. All three were on their feet when the door opened and Cooper came in, followed by the two guards. Johnny was behind the table. He had started to move round it when he saw the gun in Cooper’s hand, and stopped.

  “Very sensible,” Cooper said, and patted the gun. “You can’t argue with this, eh? We don’t carry them as a rule. But with a lively character like yourself —” He shrugged, and looked from one to the other of the Sinclairs. “And don’t you two try stepping out of line either. It could be dangerous. Very.”

  “What now?” Johnny asked. “I presume this isn’t a social call.”

  Cooper grinned.

  “Too true. This, Sergeant, is the pay-off.”

  SATURDAY

  1

  “We call it a well,” Cooper said. “Not that we know there’s water down there. Could be anything; it’s as near to bottomless as makes no odds. I’m told you can drop a body down and not hear it land. I’ve never tried it myself — bodies aren’t that easily come by — but I’ve always fancied having a go.” He grinned evilly at Johnny. “This looks like being my opportunity, eh?”

  They were grouped near the large hole that Johnny had discovered earlier. Cooper’s words implied that for him, if not for the others, it held an unpleasant significance, and he stood with knees pressed together to keep them from trembling. Despite that illogical belief in his indestructibility he was afraid, but he would not let Cooper see his fear. The gloating look on Cooper’s red face served only to intensify his hatred of the man.

  “With me as the fall guy, I suppose,” he said.

  “Fall guy, eh?” Cooper laughed. “Yes, I like that. It’s neat. For a copper, Inch, you have quite a sense of humour.”

  Johnny caught Sinclair’s eye. It seemed to him that there was both dread and pity in it: pity for him, dread that Johnny might have been right and his wife wrong, that the well held significance for him and Beryl also. If I start something, Johnny thought, will he co-operate? And if he does, which way will the woman jump?

  “You’re a fool, Cooper, if you think I bluff that easily,” he said. “We both know that the police are still up top — Gislap would have been down otherwise — and although this place may be difficult to find, they’ll find it eventually.” A puzzled look on the face of one of the guards fed his hope. “And we know what will happen to you and your chums if they find you here and me down there.” Significantly he fingered his throat. “Stop kidding, Cooper. You’re not that crazy.”

  Cooper smiled. “If I’m a fool, Inch, you’re a bigger one. It’s precisely because your friends are up there that we have to dispose of you. We can’t let you go, and we can’t keep you here indefinitely. What other solution is there?” He prodded Johnny in the back, pushing him towards the well. “Down there, laddie, lies not only death, but obliteration. If the police should ever get around to finding this place — which they won’t — they certainly won’t find you. It’ll be as if you had never existed.” He grinned. “Think of that on your way down. There’ll be time.”

  Johnny shuddered. Fighting his fear, he said, “You say the nicest things.”

  “That’s the journalist in me.”

  The two guards lounged in the centre of the chamber, arms limp by their sides, unshaven faces impassive. Johnny looked at the Sinclairs. They stood close together, as if subconsciously seeking comfort, their backs to the wall. Yet the woman did not appear to need comfort; a faint puckering of her forehead hinted at anxiety, but her eyes were curious rather than frightened. It was the man who looked afraid. He had removed his spectacles, and blinked continuously as though suffering from a tic; his body sagged rather than leaned against the wall. Johnny hoped that fear would not paralyse him when the time came for action.

  “Do you shoot me first, or do I go down whole?” he asked.

  “Shoot you? My dear fellow!” Cooper’s eyebrows lifted in mock horror. “That would be murder!”

  “Sorry. I spoke without thinking.”

  “Quite. However, don’t let’s be hasty. Before we deal with you I have something to settle with our friends the Sinclairs.”

  Incredibly, Beryl managed a twisted smile.

  “Such as what?” she asked, and dug her husband in the ribs.

  “Such as money, Mrs Sinclair. A little matter of twenty-three thousand pounds, or thereabouts: Jess Wheeler’s share of that naughty little venture he and your husband embarked on with Goodwin.” The badinage slipped from Cooper’s voice. “We want it, Mrs Sinclair. We want it bad. What’s more, we mean to have it.”

  Sinclair did not get the message. He said weakly, “I know. But I’m afraid we can’t help you. I did what I could.”

  Coldly and logically, Cooper explained. Wheeler had told them that the money was hidden in the kennels, and they had believed him. It was the obvious place. They had released Sinclair to collect it, and some twenty-four hours later he had reported that it was not there. They believed that too. What they did not believe was his assurance that he had no knowledge of what had become of it. “We took your share, so you decided to reimburse yourself with Wheeler’s. That’s what happened, isn’t it? You helped yourself before Brown arrived.”

  “Of course I didn’t!” Sinclair came away from the wall, angry as well as frightened. “You think I’d do a damn’ fool thing like that?”

  “If you thought you could get away with it — yes, I do. Just as you and your friends thought you could get away with that bank job. And the three thousand quid you hid in the house. And warning Goodwin to get the hell out, despite our instruction to do no such thing. You’re a double-crosser, Sinclair. A natural born double-crosser.” Cooper sucked his lower lip. “It’s a nasty characteristic, that. Could have nasty consequences.”

  “But you’re wrong, damn it!” Sinclair protested. “All right, so we did the bank. But not the rest. I didn’t warn Goodwin. The only reason I went to see him was to tell him I was keeping the van. And when I said that all our share of the cash was buried in the chapel I thought it was. I didn’t know Beryl had taken some. She only told me tonight. As for Wheeler’s share —” He shook his head vehemently. “I’ve no more idea than you what’s become of that. Maybe Jess lied when he said it was in the kennels; maybe he hid it elsewhere. All I know is, I didn’t take it. And that’s the truth.”


  “Is it hell! It’s a bloody lie, that’s what it is.” Cooper’s tone was menacing. “You’ve got just one minute to come up with a nice, genuine second thought. After that —” He sighed gustily. “Well, it’ll be just too bad for you, man.”

  “But I don’t know, I tell you!” Sinclair was almost frothing at the mouth in his desperate need to convince, his rage at the other’s scepticism. “Can’t you get that into your thick skull, damn it? I — just — don’t — know.”

  He had taken another step away from the wall. Now he was only a few feet from his tormentor. Johnny willed him to go further, to attack. If Cooper really believed that Sinclair knew the whereabouts of Wheeler’s hoard, then Sinclair was safe. Cooper would not shoot until he had the information he needed. And Johnny was closer to Cooper than were the guards. Provided he moved fast it should be possible to wrest the gun from Cooper while the latter was grappling with Sinclair and before the guards could intervene.

  But Sinclair did not attack. There were beads of sweat on his round face as he glared helplessly at Cooper, fists clenching and unclenching.

  “Like I said, that’s just too bad.” Cooper gave a quick glance in Johnny’s direction, saw that he had not moved, and nodded to the guards. “Well, we’ll see if you love money more than you love your missus. Drop her down the well, boys.”

  It was the obvious way to squeeze Sinclair, yet it took Johnny by surprise. It took them all by surprise. The uneasy smile that had waxed and waned on Beryl Sinclair’s face froze into a toothy grimace that stretched the skin taut over the cheek-bones. She uttered no sound. But her body went rigid. She rocked slightly on her heels and slumped stiffly against the wall.

  The guards caught Sinclair before he could reach Cooper.

  He kicked and struggled as they held him, words tumbling from his mouth in an unintelligible stream of vituperation. Too late, Johnny came alive. As he moved, Cooper swung to face him, a finger on the trigger.

  “Don’t try it, Inch,” he snapped. “Not unless you prefer it this way. It’s your choice.”

  Johnny halted. He didn’t want it either way. One of the guards left the wildly struggling Sinclair and moved to the woman. At the feel of his hand on her arm she went berserk. Kicking, twisting, her free hand smashing into the man’s face, he had a job to hold her.

  Johnny looked at the gun in Cooper’s hand; it had begun to mesmerize him. One quick lunge, and he could knock it away. But Cooper was watching him closely, and at that range Cooper could not miss. Just one moment of distraction was all he needed. Just one brief moment when Cooper’s eyes would flicker away and ...

  “What’s going on?” a voice demanded imperiously. “Who are these people, Cooper? What are they doing here?”

  The drama in which they were engaged had so engrossed all six that none had noticed the gap appear in the wall as the door behind them slid open, or the woman who emerged from it. Wearing a dark cape over a black Lurex trouser suit, the trousers tucked into high leather boots and the gold threads glinting faintly in the poor light, she stood regarding them, one hand on hip, the other gripping a torch. There was a look of angry bewilderment on her face.

  Sinclair took no notice; he was struggling to get at Cooper. But the guards heard her. Grappling with their prisoners, they turned to look, startled by the unexpected interruption. So did Cooper. So, too, did Johnny. He had seen her only once before, but there was no mistaking that tiny figure, or the finely chiselled features beneath the piled auburn air.

  It was Lucinda Bollender.

  2

  Sunk deep in an armchair, Sherrey rubbed his tired eyes and yawned until it seemed that his jaws must crack. Then, as the carriage clock on the mantelpiece struck the half-hour, he snapped his mouth shut, blinked the water from his eyes, stifled another yawn, and sat up. Everything that could be done had been done; now it was time to get out. They had searched the house from attic to cellars, they had searched the outbuildings; so far as darkness would allow they had even searched the land itself. The result had been completely negative. Only that footprint in the kitchen to suggest that Johnny Inch’s nose had smelled something nasty at the farm, but nothing to show that his nose had been right.

  Confronted with the footprint, Gislap had not denied that Johnny might have visited the farm. A plain-clothes officer had called earlier that evening, he said, to get his bearings. Gislap had indicated his position on a local map, and after studying it the officer had thanked him and left, making no mention of his destination. When Sherrey had suggested he was pushing the lost wayfarer act too hard, Gislap had retorted, with apparent sincerity, that lost wayfarers were the norm rather than the unusual. The lanes around those parts were numerous and winding, with high hedges and few signposts. It was easy for a stranger to lose his way. By night it was almost impossible not to.

  Cole had confirmed this. The chief inspector had been shocked and distressed by the ruthless thoroughness of the search, and it was obvious that he accepted Gislap’s explanations without reserve. It was Cole, Sherrey suspected, who had hinted to the farmer that it might be wise to telephone his solicitor; if Gislap had thought of it himself he would have telephoned earlier. Sherrey conceded that this was a point in the man’s favour. As a crook Gislap would probably be in the big time, and in the superintendent’s experience most of the big boys had a tame mouthpiece ready to appear at the first hint of trouble. Perhaps, never having been in trouble before, he was not well versed in the procedure.

  The solicitor had not yet arrived. Angry at his tardiness, Gislap was on the phone now, ringing for the second time. Sherrey suspected that the anger was superficial, displayed for his benefit. With the search and the inquisition over, dragging a solicitor from his bed in the middle of the night seemed unnecessarily drastic. What could the man do now that would not keep till the morrow?

  Gislap put down the receiver.

  “That was his wife,” he said. “He’s on his way.” He stood over Sherrey, slippered feet well apart. “You’re going to regret this, Superintendent. I’ll see he throws the whole damned book at you.”

  Sherrey shrugged. He was too tired to care.

  “The search was with your permission, sir. We’ve done nothing irregular.”

  “You don’t call it irregular to keep innocent citizens from their beds until God knows what hour, to intrude on their privacy, to turn the whole damned farm upside down?” Even in his weariness Sherrey felt that the man was continuing the act. Or was his apparent anger an expression of relief at having emerged unsullied? “You asked to have a look round, and on Harry Cole’s advice I agreed — against my better judgment, I may say. But I didn’t anticipate you giving the place the works.”

  Sherrey had not anticipated it either. He had intended only a cursory inspection. It was Johnny’s footprint that had triggered off the full-scale search.

  “Your exact words, sir, were, ‘Go ahead. Turn the bloody place inside out’.”

  “And that’s just what you’ve done, by God!”

  But the reminder had taken the steam out of his attack, and he sat down and lit a cigar.

  There were only the two of them in the room. Mrs Gislap had retired, Cole was rounding up his men preparatory to returning to the station. Nicodemus had vanished on a final snoop; like the superintendent, he was convinced that Gislap was a liar and as crooked as they come, that if Johnny wasn’t on the premises — and both were now convinced that he was not — then Gislap had had a hand in his disappearance. But conviction was not enough. With the slight evidence available, they needed more than that to squat on Gislap’s doorstep indefinitely.

  Gislap puffed at his cigar, belching smoke. It seemed to absorb some of his anger, for he sounded more curious than angry when he said presently, “What is it with you, Superintendent? I don’t get you at all. How could a presumably sane man see this place as the hide-out for a gang of crooks?”

  Sherrey was filling his pipe. He took his time in answering. “Who said anything abou
t a gang, Mr Gislap?”

  “One of you did, or how did I get the notion?” Gislap was not disconcerted for long. “That young sergeant you’ve mislaid. Did you think I’d kidnapped him, or something?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Murdered him, perhaps?”

  “That’s possible too.”

  “You really work at it, don’t you? I think you fellows must develop some sort of kink. You get so you can’t recognize innocence when you see it. Well, Duffy’ll cure you of that.” A meaner note had crept into his tone. Sherrey suspected he had remembered his former anger and was flogging it back to life. “When Duffy gets his teeth into a case he really worries. And this one is right up his street. By the time he’s through, Superintendent, you’ll regret you ever heard of Elmstead.” There were voices in the hall, the loud baritone of Nicodemus almost drowning the prim, precise utterance of Chief Inspector Cole. Gislap frowned. “And no more favours for Harry Cole. From now on he can damned well buy his Christmas turkey.”

  “I take it that Duffy is your solicitor.”

  “You mean you don’t know him?” He sounded surprised.

  “I’ve heard the name. We haven’t met.” Outwardly unperturbed, Sherrey stood up and returned the pipe to his pocket. “And I’m afraid I can’t stay to meet him now. But he’ll know where to find me if he wants me.”

  “He’ll want you, Superintendent.”

  Cole stood in the doorway. Tired, his boots and trousers grey with mud, he looked the picture of unwilling officialdom.

  “We’re ready, sir,” he said stiffly, avoiding Gislap’s eyes.

  The farmer watched them go, slamming the front door behind them in a final gesture of angry defiance. As the superintendent’s car followed Cole’s down the drive Nicodemus said, “Bit of a bum steer, that, sir. Do you think he’ll cause trouble?”

  “He may try. Depends on how confident he feels.” Sherrey’s tone was curt. In Gislap’s presence he had kept control of his temper. It was a relief to let it rip. “But if that bastard thinks he’s seen the last of us he’s got it coming. I don’t know what Johnny was doing there, but I’m damned sure he wasn’t asking his way.” It was a measure of his anxiety at Johnny’s disappearance that he used the Christian name. “He wouldn’t try the back door if he were. No. Right or wrong, he thought he was on to something.”