by J F Straker
He could. Lucinda had said to leave it to her to discover what Goodwin had done with his share of the money, and, knowing how it was between them, that had seemed a sensible arrangement. Yet there was always the possibility that her infatuation would outweigh her loyalty to the Co-operative, and they had kept a check on Goodwin. When Karen Moore had told them he was planning to quit they had intensified the check. A friendly chat in the pub with Goodwin’s mechanic midday on Thursday, a few beers, and they had learned that when Mrs Bollender had telephoned the garage that morning the mechanic had told her, on instruction from Goodwin, that Goodwin had already left, although in fact he would not be leaving until the following day. It had therefore come as no surprise to Gislap when she had informed him a few hours later that she had had no luck with Goodwin, and that as she would be away for a few days the Co-operative should take over. She had believed her lover to be beyond their reach.
“Strange creatures, women,” Gislap remarked, almost chattily. “It didn’t seem to occur to her that if Charlie-boy had skipped with the money she had lost him for good. All she could think of was saving his blasted neck.”
The implication of premeditated killing was not lost on the two detectives.
Lucinda Bollender was already in the charge room when they left the cells. Nicodemus was with her, looking harassed; so was the policewoman who had accompanied him on the arrest. Her solicitor looked equally harassed. Perhaps he wondered why he was there, for it was his client who did the talking. She was quiet while the charge was read out to her, but erupted again immediately it was done: protesting, accusing, threatening, demanding, twisting the heavy rings on her fingers as she spoke, almond eyes darting venomously from one to the other of the men surrounding her. Her solicitor took Sherrey aside when he asked for bail; perhaps he feared the answer, and his client’s probable reaction to it. The superintendent surprised him. The charges were too serious for him to recommend bail, he said, but if the magistrate were prepared to grant it he would not oppose it. She must, of course, surrender her passport.
As they left for the hospital Johnny said quietly, “Does Miss Moore get bail, sir?”
The superintendent shrugged. “She’s made no application.” Johnny thought he knew why.
The bullet had done more than wound Dennis Cooper’s flesh; it had also incensed him, and he was eager to hit back at his former boss. Snug in his hospital bed, his large frame straining the buttons of his pyjamas, he looked and sounded a different man from the Cooper Johnny had known the night before. Now he was expansively friendly, and greeted Johnny with a sly smile.
“Lucky for you I got in the way of that bullet — eh, Sergeant?” he said. “Nicked me high in the thigh. But a little chap like you —” He whistled. “Could have been curtains.”
The implication that only a voluntary act of heroism on his part had saved Johnny from certain death was received by the detectives with blank stares.
He added only minor details to what they had learned from Gislap, but his interpretation of certain responsibilities differed. It was Gislap, he said, who had planned the assaults on the police, Gislap who had ordered that Johnny and the Sinclairs be confronted with the well. “There was no intention to use it, of course,” he added hastily. “Not on my part, anyway. Nor on Gislap’s either, I imagine.”
“Just a joke, eh?” Sherrey said.
“Well, no. Not exactly.” Cooper looked at Johnny, trying to divine his reaction. But Johnny’s gloom was too intense to feel anger at the man’s effrontery, and he stared back at him with indifference. “More like trying to scare them, really.”
“The way you tried to scare me with a bullet, eh?” Johnny said.
Cooper shifted uneasily in the bed. Then he forced a grin.
“You might say that,” he agreed. “I missed, didn’t I?”
He confirmed Gislap’s statement that Claire Gislap had not been a member of the Co-operative. That tallied with the records. Yet it had seemed to Sherrey impossible that she could have remained unaware of its activities, and he had charged her with aiding and abetting. Her solicitor, a local man hastily summoned on Duffy’s dismissal, and somewhat surprised to find himself involved in what promised to be a sensational trial, immediately applied for bail. It was as quickly granted.
News of the arrests had obviously spread by the time they returned to the hotel. Sherrey took one look at the crowded bar and lounge, and hustled his team upstairs. In his room he rang for sandwiches and beer, took off shoes and jacket and tie, and stretched out on the bed.
“Sit down and relax,” he said graciously. “Strip off if you feel like it; I reckon this has been quite a feather. And cheer up, Inch. You’re not the only man to be fooled by a pretty face. And there are just as many fish, remember.”
They sat down. But they did not strip, and Johnny could not relax. He thought of Karen in her cell, and felt a twinge of sorrow for her. Then he remembered how coolly she had arranged for him to be ‘done’, and anger returned. Both ways he felt miserable, and in no mood for the convivial evening that the Boozer seemed to have in mind. Yet he could not opt out of the conversation entirely, and he said presently, “I wonder why they recruited Lorna Ellingwood for the job of handling Wheeler and the others. It doesn’t seem to have required any peculiarly female talents.”
“Maybe they thought it might,” Sherrey said. “It was a rush job. They hadn’t got it cut and dried. But here’s an interesting point. She wasn’t your Dinah Willis. According to the Hull police, at the time Dinah Willis was perjuring herself in the witness-box, Miss Ellingwood was up in Yorkshire with her mother.”
“What’s interesting about that?” Nicodemus asked, draining his glass. He was not a keen beer-drinker; but with the Boozer standing treat this was an occasion, and he meant to get full value. “Just another of Johnny’s bloomers.”
“It is interesting, Nicodemus, because it was Inch’s ‘bloomer’ that made us suspect that Wheeler might be connected with the robbery. Otherwise his death would have been a matter solely for the local force. So where would we be now?” Nicodemus shrugged, and picked up a bottle. Sherrey nodded. “Sure. Help yourself. But the point is, we got a damned good lead based on a completely false premise.”
Nicodemus made no comment. He had had the unpleasant thought that the Boozer’s apparent generosity could be an illusion, that the beer was to be split three ways on their bills. He wouldn’t put it past the old bastard.
The manager came to apologize for his sister’s criminal activities, and to assure them that he had had absolutely no knowledge of what was going on. Absolutely none. “And Mrs Bollender, of all people! It’s incredible, quite incredible. Dennis Cooper, too. Why, I’ve known Dennis for years. What on earth can have possessed them?”
“Greed,” Sherry said. “Does your sister want bail?”
The manager shook his head. “I’ve already offered to stand surety, Superintendent, but she won’t hear of it.” He looked covertly at Johnny. “I think she’s ashamed to — well, to meet people.”
Johnny was on his second beer when a maid came to tell him that he was wanted on the telephone. A lady, she thought; she had not taken the message herself. Johnny hesitated, saw the look on the Boozer’s face, and stood up reluctantly. It could, of course, be his mother who was calling; she would have heard the news on the radio. But although he could not think what she might have to say to him, or he to her, he knew it would be Karen.
His throat was dry as he picked up the receiver.
“Johnny? This is Judith.”
“Who?” With his mind fixed on Karen the name did not immediately register.
“Judith. Judith Wheeler.”
“Oh!” Disappointment was mixed with relief. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch the name. How can I help you?”
“I wanted to talk to you. No, not over the telephone. I was hoping you might come over.”
“What — now?” He hoped the dismay in his voice was not too apparent. “Rather late, is
n’t it? It’s after ten. I might be able to manage tomorrow. Or is it urgent?”
“Oh, no. It’s not urgent.” He sensed her disappointment. Damn all women, he thought. “Tomorrow would do. I just thought —”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll come now.” He was not in the mood for Judith Wheeler, and never likely to be. But he was even less in a mood for the beery joviality of his colleagues. “Be with you in half an hour.”
Sherrey made no comment when he announced where he was going. Nicodemus began brightly, “Aha! Off with the old love —” and then, appreciating that this was tactless, shut up. The manager, when Johnny asked him to ring for a taxi, insisted on lending his car. Considering that it was Karen’s friends who had wrecked the Mule, he said, it was the least he could do.
She had been at pains to make the best of her appearance. Her hair had been newly permed and set, the grey jersey suit fitted snugly. She was shy with him at first, as though the two days during which she had not seen him had created a gulf which had to be bridged before their former intimacy, real to her if not to Johnny, could be restored. But despite his lack of response she was soon talking freely, and did not disguise her pleasure in his society. Satisfied that he was comfortable, with beer and cigarettes handy at his side, she sat near him on a leather pouffe and busied herself with mending a child’s jacket. It was a scene of quiet domesticity which she obviously enjoyed, but which Johnny viewed with increasing suspicion.
She had heard the news of the arrests over the radio, but, apart from a few exclamations of surprise at some of the names involved (Jess, she said, had bought manure from Frank Gislap), she was more interested in the probable effect on her visitor’s future movements. When would he be returning to London? Soon, Johnny said. And would he be coming back? Probably, he told her. Certainly for the assizes, if the trial were held there.
“We shall miss you,” she said. “Me and the children. It seems like we’ve known you much longer than just a week. You’ll come and see us whenever you’re this way, won’t you?”
It was easier to say yes than no, even though he knew it to be untrue. He said yes.
“Did you know Jess was buried this morning?” He nodded. “There were only a few mourners. Just his parents and a sister, and the man who worked for him, and two of our neighbours. I had half expected —” She sighed. “Sad, really, isn’t it?”
He agreed that it was. He knew what she had left unsaid: that she had half expected to see him at the funeral. He could not think why. He had never known her husband.
“I suppose Jess really did steal that money from the bank?” she said, after a silence in which her eyes kept darting from the mending to his face. “There isn’t any doubt?”
“None, I’m afraid. We haven’t found it yet, but we will.”
“Do you know how much?”
“We know how much was stolen. Your husband’s share would depend on how it was split. Probably an even three ways.”
“Three? There couldn’t have been more?” He shrugged. “Was Beryl Sinclair one of them? She and Jess were very well, friendly.”
“I’m afraid that’s something I can’t discuss. Sorry.”
“Of course. I shouldn’t have asked.” She put down the mending. “Now I’m going to make some coffee. Could you eat a sandwich? It won’t take a second.”
He declined the sandwich, but accepted the offer of coffee. The beer felt sour to his taste. While she was in the kitchen he lay back and relaxed, glad of the chance to close his eyes. He would not sleep much that night, he thought.
He was dozing off when he heard her voice. Abruptly he jerked himself awake.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t get to bed last night.”
“You poor man! Well, the coffee’ll help.”
He drank it black, with plenty of sugar, and wondered how soon he could decently take his leave. If his presence cheered her a little, well, he supposed he was glad. For himself this had been a black day, and the evening did nothing to lighten it.
“The children said you were up here yesterday afternoon.” She was back on the pouffe, but without the mending. “Why didn’t you come in? You know you’re always welcome.”
He told her the truth. There was no reason why he should not. “I hoped they wouldn’t give me away,” he said. “But they did, didn’t they?”
“I’m afraid so. Just as Mark was leaving.” She smiled. “Poor Mark. I could see he was upset, but I didn’t know why, of course. I thought it was all part of his disappointment.”
“Disappointment?”
“At not finding the money. I mean, he’d stood watching Mr Brown and the girl collect the dogs, itching to get at it but not daring to go too close (he was as scared of those dogs as I was); and as soon as they’d gone he rushed into the kennels and started to dig. In the right place, too. I know; I was watching from the window.” She was talking rapidly, warming to her story and clearly delighted at Johnny’s interest. “I couldn’t see his face when he realized the money had gone, but he was white as a sheet when he came back to the house. I felt quite sorry for him. I mean — well, he’d no right to the money, but it was still a terrible shock for the poor man. And he couldn’t explain, of course, when I asked him what was wrong.” She sighed. “I suppose I should have told him beforehand that he was wasting his time.”
Johnny was indeed interested. Misery and fatigue forgotten, he leaned forward, his eyes intent on hers.
“How did you know he was digging in the right place?” he asked quietly.
Her head jerked back to look at him.
“I didn’t. I mean I — well, he seemed to know where to dig.”
“And how did you know it was the money he was after?” Her eyes flickered and turned away. There was a pause before she answered.
“It was obvious, wasn’t it? What else could it have been?” He took a deep breath.
“Mrs Wheeler, I —”
“Judith,” she said. “Please!”
“All right. Judith. But listen. In no time at all I can have men up here with a search warrant. They’ll search the house and they’ll search the grounds, and, believe me, they know how to search. If the money is here they’ll find it, and you’ll be charged with stealing by finding and taking. Do you want that to happen?” She stared up at him wide-eyed, with no movement of lips or head to indicate an answer. “Because if not I suggest you tell me the truth. You knew Sinclair was wasting his time because you had already unearthed the money yourself. That’s so, isn’t it?”
She sat with her head buried in her hands. He thought she was crying. But although the eyes were red when eventually she looked at him, they were devoid of tears.
“So what?” The hint of defiance in her voice seemed alien to her. “Johnny, I —”
“So where is it now?”
She hesitated. Then — “In the garden,” she said flatly. “I buried it.”
He went with her to get it. It was buried in one of the beds, in which weeds were more prevalent than flowers, and by the light of her husband’s storm lantern he dug it up: a large metal box with a heavy padlock. But when he asked for the key she shook her head. She had been unable to find it, she said; it wasn’t on her husband’s key-ring, and none of the keys in the house seemed to fit.
“You tried to force it open, didn’t you?” Johnny said, examining the hasp.
“Yes.”
“Mind if I have a go?” Technically, he supposed, the box itself was hers.
She did not mind. He found a hacksaw in the shed, and while she held the lantern he set to work. It was tough going; the blade was blunt and the hasp thick. He was sweating by the time he had finished.
She gasped as he opened the lid. The money was stacked in bundles, neatly bound: five-pound, one-pound, ten-shilling notes. All used, all presumably untraceable.
“How much is it?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. But a hell of a lot.”
She gripped his arm. “It’s mine, Joh
nny. I didn’t steal it, I found it. Oh, I know it really belongs to the bank. But they wouldn’t miss it, would they? Not with all their millions. And think what I could do for the children. Take them away from here, send them to good schools, see them properly settled in life. Let me have it, Johnny. Please!”
“You know I can’t.”
“Some of it, then. A few thousands. You said yourself no-one can say how much there is.”
“I’m sorry. It’s impossible.”
She continued to plead as they went back to the house. Johnny was a sentimentalist at heart and fatigue weakened his resistance. Touched by her loneliness, her widowhood, her need, he said, “It’s no use, Judith. But I’ll see your name is put forward for a share of the reward. It may not be much, but it’ll help.”
“You’re sweet,” she said softly. “Thank you, Johnny.”
He was immediately embarrassed. “How did you know the money was there?” he asked. “Did your husband tell you?”
“Jess never told me anything. I didn’t even know there was any money until you told me Thursday evening. That set me thinking. If Jess had something to hide it wouldn’t be in the house, where I might find it. It had to be somewhere outside, and the obvious place was the kennels. It would be safe enough there.”
“We thought so, too,” Johnny said.
“Yes. I could see you did. Mark, too. I mean — well, his fixing with Mr Brown to buy the dogs, and the price they were paying — that wasn’t just being kind, was it? Then there was the light I’d seen Monday night — and I’ll swear there was someone around Tuesday night too, although I didn’t actually see anyone.” One down to us, Johnny thought. Not as inconspicuous as we’d supposed. “Anyway, it all added up to the kennels. So I decided to have a look.”
“I thought you were scared of the dogs.”
“I was. But there was some stuff in the shed Jess gave Jackson once, when he wanted to examine his throat. He got it from the vet. Some sort of drug to mix with their food. I gave them that.” She smiled. “I thought I’d overdone it, it acted so quickly. But they seemed all right the next day.”