The Dead Side of the Mike
Page 15
‘On the road to Sutton we go.’
‘This is rather fun, Charles. Like a treasure hunt.’
‘If my theory’s right, the treasure at the end of the trail is a meeting with murder.’
‘And now it’s time for another number from Joy’s lovely selection. This one’s a – oh, just a minute, my producer has just handed me a piece of paper from the BBC Motoring Unit. I’d better tell you all about this. Troubles, I’m afraid, for those of you travelling on the M23 motorway, where it meets the M26 at Merstham. There are roadworks on the spaghetti junction there where the two motorways come together, so drive with special care as you approach the area. Okay, got that, all you late-night drivers? Watch out on the M23 Motorway at Merstham – my, what a lot of Ms! That’s the M23. Now on with the next bloom from Joy’s fragrant bouquet – it’s Ol’ Blue Eyes himself, Frank Sinatra, from the film ‘The Joker is Wild” – “All the Way”.’
‘Hmm. I don’t get much from that. Maybe it’s in the lyric again.
‘Oh, Charles, really. It’s perfectly obvious. We go on from Sutton till we get to the M23 and then we follow it “all the way”.
‘You’re rather good at this, Frances.’
‘Well, that’s the end of the motorway and Mrs Carter doesn’t seem to have had any of her bouquet for some time.’
‘No, what do you reckon we do, Charles?’
‘Well, the road goes straight on.’
‘Yes, maybe we drive on till the next instruction comes. If we’ve overshot anything, we can wind the tape back and go on.’
‘Yes, we can, but the bloke for whom the trail was originally devised couldn’t.’
‘No.’
‘Mmm, nice. Some time since we’ve had one of Joy’s excellent selection of numbers, but now we come back with another from the Bouquet, a change of mood and style. It’s also an answer to all those people who keep writing to me saying I never play enough military-band music. It’s the Regimental Band of the Grenadier Guards, with that rousing march by Sousa – “Hands Across the Sea”.’
‘That doesn’t give me much, I’m afraid.’
‘Nor me, Charles.’
‘Shall I spool it back and see if there’s something we missed?’
‘No, not for a minute. Let’s just think . . .’
‘Sea. Across the Sea? We aren’t expected to cross the Channel, are we?’
‘We’re heading in the right direction. But no, that’s impossible. The whole programme only lasts two hours and we’ve already had the tape running an hour and a quarter.’
They listened in silence to the Grenadier Guards. ‘No lyrics to help us either,’ observed Charles.
‘No. Perhaps we should stop and –’
‘Look! That signpost. “Handcross” – that must be it.’
‘Handcross – Hands Across? I don’t think much of that.’
‘You got any better suggestions?’
‘No.’
‘I think this must be wrong, Charles.’
‘I don’t know. We won’t know till we get the next bit of the bouquet.’
‘Stirring sounds there from the Grenadier Guards. Just one of the fine pieces of music chosen by Mrs Joy Carter of Cockfosters, whose Bouquet you are hearing tonight on the Dave Sheridan Late Night Show. And I’m sorry Joy, I forgot to say, but my producer’s just pointed out to me that there was a dedication to go with that particular number. It was specially for Joy’s brother, Reg Crabtree, who’s a great lover of military bands. And Reg hails from Lower Beeding in Sussex. Hope you liked the music, Reg.
‘Well, we’ll be having more of Joy’s Bouquet very shortly, but right now it’s time to get the telephones busy with our Ten for a Tune Competition . . .”
‘Lower Beeding?’
‘I’ve never heard of it. I don’t know this part of Sussex very well.’
‘Nor me. I suppose, this being such a new car, you aren’t kitted out with such things as maps.’
‘No, I am extremely efficient. I have the AA Great Britain Road Map. I was given it as a present when I got the car.’
‘Who gave it to you?’ Charles felt a sharp pang of jealousy. He tried never to think of the almost certain fact that there were other men in Frances’s life, but occasionally he couldn’t avoid it.
She smiled, perhaps flattered by his transparency. ‘Someone from School.’ An enigmatic pause. ‘Molly Hughes – do you remember her?’
‘Ah. No, I don’t think so.’
Frances was already poring over the map, reverting automatically to the old marital role of navigator.
‘I say, do you want to drive yet? That was meant to be the aim of the exercise.’
‘No, no, I’m far too excited. I’ll drive on the way back. Here it is! Lower Beeding. Very near Handcross.’
‘On we go.’
‘More now from Joy’s selection of music – and my, what variety she’s giving us tonight – and with this one I must complete Joy’s message to her brother Reg Crabtree. Apparently it’s Reg’s birthday tomorrow, and what Joy says is – obviously some sort of family joke here – “Don’t go past the pub, Reg.” I’m sure you won’t Reg, I’m sure you’ll be in there tomorrow for a few beers to celebrate your birthday. Joy doesn’t say how old you are, Reg – discreet lady – but she does say that the next piece of music she’d like to hear is a lovely number from Judy Collins’ album “Recollections”, and it’s called “Turn, Turn, Turn”.’
‘Blimey, I’ve no idea what all that means.’
‘Well, this is Lower Beeding. The sign said so.’
‘Yes. There doesn’t seem to be much to it. Some big estate by the looks of it up there.’
‘Leonardslee it said on the gate.’
‘Then a couple of houses, what’s that? ah, a post office, a pub . . .’
‘Stop, Charles.’
‘What?’
‘“Don’t go past the pub, Reg.”’
‘Of course. We have gone past it. Sorry. I’ll have to turn when these cars have gone.’
‘And look, Charles. The pub’s called “The Crabtree”.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘So what do we do – go inside?’
‘Yes, I could use a drink anyway. Oh no, just a minute, no we don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘The Dave Sheridan Late Night Show starts at ten at night. We’re over an hour and a half into the tape. The pub would be shut when Danny Klinger got here – if he ever did.’
‘Then what do we do? It said don’t go past the pub.’
‘No. There was a little lane leading off just before it.’
‘So?’
‘So, Frances, what we have to do is turn down that little lane. Turn, turn, turn.’
The lane, which started off metalled and residential, narrowed, and the houses gave way to woods on one side and fields on the other. It narrowed again as it started a steep descent.
‘I can’t believe this leads anywhere, Charles.’
‘Well, I reckon it must be right. We just go along it as far as we can. Or until we get another order.’
The tape was playing Johnny Mathis, but the introduction had not said it was part of the Bouquet. At the foot of its descent, the road came to a narrow bridge over a stream. The metalled surface gave way beyond it to a muddy farm track, rutted by the heavy wheels of tractors.
‘I’m afraid that lot wouldn’t do your beautiful yellow bodywork much good, Frances.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. We can’t stop now.’
But the bodywork was saved by the ending of the Johnny Mathis record. Charles let the engine idle while they listened to the next link.
‘Hmm, Mr Mathis there. Ooh, that voice, always makes me think of black coffee and cream. Well, time’s ticking past, the witching hour approaches, and we come to the last blossom in Mrs Joy Carter’s Bouquet. And she’s chosen us a lovely rousing pub song as her final contribution. Before we play it, I’d like to thank Joy for her beautiful bouquet and
to assure her that soon winging its way towards her will be, courtesy of the Beeb, a huge bouquet of red roses. And if any of you out there would like to have your musical bouquet featured on the programme, just drop a line to me, Dave Sheridan at . . .’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake get on with it!’
‘. . . so we come to Joy’s last piece of music. As I said, a great favourite, this, in the pubs and clubs, so sit back and enjoy Kim Cordell singing, from the LP aptly entitled “A Pub, A Pint and a Song” – “Nellie Dean”!’
‘Couldn’t be clearer.’ Charles pointed out of the window at a dilapidated and overgrown wooden shed which slumped by the side of the bridge. As he did so, he softly joined in the lyric:
‘There’s an old mill by the stream, Nellie Dean. . . .’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘I think I get out and have a look inside the old mill by the stream.’
‘Do be careful.’ It was said as a reflex, a flash of concern to match his earlier flash of jealousy. There was still a lot left in their relationship.
‘How do you undo these bloody seat belts?’ Charles ruptured the mood.
Frances released them both and they got out of the car.
Maybe the building had once been a mill. Its position was right, projecting over the stream, where a pool formed at the foot of a waterfall. But if it had been a mill, it had lost many of its mill-like appendages. There was nothing connecting it to the water, no signs of an axle on which a mill wheel could turn. It was just a rickety old shed, supported on wooden brackets out over the water. There was a drop of some twenty feet to a clay-beige pool below, from which the rusted hump of a fridge and the pointed frame of a dead bicycle poked.
By daylight it just looked decrepit and dingy. After dark, as Danny Klinger must have seen it, it would have had an air of menace.
But what had Danny Klinger seen when he got there? More important, who had he seen when he got there? Maybe it was Keith Nicholls. Maybe his murderer.
Or perhaps the rendezvous was never kept. If Keith had been at Broadcasting House, feeding clues to the unwitting Dave Sheridan, possibly even organising his wife’s death, then he couldn’t have got to the old mill before Klinger.
Charles decided to leave further conjecture until he had found out what the shed had to offer.
As he approached the door, which slouched from one hinge, he decided that it would probably have nothing to offer. Whatever confrontation had taken place there twenty-five days before, it was unlikely to have left any trace. Words of passion or confession, like all words, vanish as they are spoken. A forensic scientist might be able to prove the presence of individuals in a given place at a given time, but, without the premeditated fixing of recording apparatus, no one could know what they said there.
So Charles went into the shed expecting nothing. He felt hungry. That pub, the Crabtree, had looked rather nice. Maybe they could get some lunch there. A couple of pints, bread and cheese, a pie maybe.
The shed was damp and suddenly dark after the brightness of the sun. It was a minute or two before he could see anything. When he did, it was the usual detritus of such uninhabited places – unwholesome-looking scraps of paper, a couple of beer cans, a broken bottle, a shrivelled condom . . . Ugh, to think that anyone would choose this damp, urine-scented hole to make love in.
Everything had been there a long time. There was nothing that looked out of place, no clue, nothing. Oh well, the treasure hunt had been fun. Deep down he had known that there wasn’t going to be any treasure. Maybe there had been some on the night that Andrea Gower died, but by now someone else had come and claimed it.
‘Are you all right in there?’ Frances’s voice sounded distant and still flatteringly tinged with anxiety.
‘Yes, there’s nothing here. Let’s go and get some lunch at the pub. I’ll just have one more look and . . .’
His eyes swept round cursorily. They snagged on something on a crossbeam by the window. He hadn’t noticed it before, because the colour of its brown paper wrapping was so close to that of the woodwork.
A parcel. About twelve inches square. Wrapped in brown paper, neatly sellotaped.
That hadn’t been there a long time. Only about twenty-five days, Charles reckoned.
Maybe Danny Klinger hadn’t come to the old mill to meet someone. Maybe his role had just been that of a delivery boy.
Charles stepped forward across the wooden floor towards the window. He reached out to the parcel.
As he did so, he heard the creak and split of wood. At the same time the floor beneath him tipped crazily. The sound of the waterfall increased as if at the turn of a switch.
He saw the water, saw the timbers of the shed wall only inches from his face. He flung out his arms towards a crosspiece, but was too late to reach it as the weight of his body bore him down.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FRANCES GOT HER driving practice; Charles was too shaken and, after four restorative pints in the Crabtree, too drunk, to be safely in charge of a car.
He had been lucky. The fall into the water had only jolted and bruised him. There was a slight scrape on one shin, where it had met the dead bicycle, but nothing worse. Frances thought he ought to go to hospital and get a tetanus jab, because the water in the stream had looked pretty noxious, but Charles said he’d be okay and promised to go to his doctor in town if he had any trouble from the wound. (He omitted to mention that he wasn’t registered with a doctor in town or anywhere else; since he’d left Frances, he’d never got round to it; she had always dealt with that sort of domestic detail.)
Before adjourning to the Crabtree (where he had sat, soggy and clay-streaked, attracting conjecture but no comment from the phlegmatic regulars), he had had a good look round the shed. And, in spite of his discomfort, what he found there excited him.
For the first time, he had proof that his suspicions were justified. Here was definite evidence that the deaths of Andrea Gower and Danny Klinger were connected. Not quite enough to prove that Keith Nicholls was responsible for both of them, but at least a starting point, from which a case could be built.
Because closer examination of the shed made it quite clear that it had been booby-trapped. The wood of the floorboards was splitting and rotten, but would probably still have been strong enough to support a man’s weight. What ensured that they didn’t was the neat line of saw marks through them at the point where they joined the far wall. New saw-marks, too. There were traces of sawdust and the sheared wood had not yet had time to discolour, still revealing a yellow core.
The booby-trap had been designed for Danny Klinger. As Charles’s survival had proved, it wasn’t an infallible murder method, but Charles had been lucky. He had been there in the daylight. In the darkness, that sudden descent would have been infinitely more dangerous. Nor would Klinger have had Frances on hand to pull him up the steep bank of the stream. And in his customary state of inebriation, he would have been less capable of saving himself. At midnight in such a deserted spot, he would have had no chance of summoning help by shouting. No, it wasn’t an infallible murder method, but Charles reckoned Klinger would have been lucky to survive it.
Or maybe Keith’s plan was just to immobilise his quarry and then arrive in person later and finish him off.
Whatever had been intended, it was clear that it had failed. Klinger had either not reached the end of the treasure hunt or, once there, had become suspicious and not entered the shed. The fact that the brown paper parcel was still there suggested the former was more likely.
The parcel was the most baffling element in the whole set-up. Once he had recovered from the shock of his fall and confirmed the sabotage of the floorboards, Charles set about recovering it. Frances held him round the waist (with frequent admonitions that he should be careful), as he groped for the package with two sticks.
It was difficult. He didn’t want to knock it off its perch and send it down to the soaking he had just received. He wanted the contents intact.
Obviously the contents were related to some sort of crime or there was no point in the whole elaborate charade of secrecy. But what crime? Transferring loot from a robbery seemed a possibility. But the fact that Klinger was American limited what that loot could be. He was going to have problems getting stolen jewellery or family silver through customs. Pictures might be easier, and the shape of the package fitted that conjecture. But most likely of all was drugs. That sorted well with Keith’s Alternative Society image and the connection of both parties with the pop music business.
As Charles finally got a grip with his long chop-sticks and lifted the parcel, its lightness also supported that explanation. Gingerly, he lifted it over the void to safety.
They sat on the grass outside the shed to examine their treasure. Charles reached to slit the Sellotape.
‘Of course,’ Frances cautioned, ‘that might be part of the booby-trap too.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A bomb, maybe.’ He hesitated.
‘To make assurance doubly sure,’ Frances continued.
‘Oh, come on. It’s not heavy enough for a bomb. There can’t be any metal parts in there.’
‘Plastic explosives?’ Frances murmured.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. If he was out to blow Klinger up, then why bother to saw through the floorboards? No, I’d stake my life that this isn’t a bomb.’
‘Apposite last words, Charles,’ murmured Frances.
He slit the Sellotape carefully with his fingernail and opened the parcel.
Inside were about a dozen sheets of corrugated cardboard, each some twelve inches square.
They were silent as he inspected his find. Each sheet was identical. There was nothing written on any of them. Charles raised them in turn to the light and looked along their corrugations. ‘See right through. There doesn’t seem to be anything in there.’