Arthurs' Night (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 6)

by J F Straker

  ‘You need three sevens to be lucky?’

  ‘It trebles the luck, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not for me.’ She laughed. ‘I’m happy with just an eight.’

  ‘Why an eight?’

  ‘Why do you think, stupid? It’s brought me luck, that’s why.’

  They were out of the town now, and he put his foot down and drove fast, impatient to arrive. Under the caresses of her insistent hand the seven miles began to seem embarrassingly long, and when they turned off the main road into the narrow lane that led to her home he was twisting his body to escape the inevitable. It was with a feeling of relief that, at her direction, he pulled the car on to a patch of rough ground and cut the engine. Tall hedges lined the lane, and with the car lights switched off he could see little of the surroundings. There was no sign of a house.

  ‘This where you live?’ he asked.

  ‘Over there.’ She pointed east. ‘Other side of the wood.’

  He could see no wood. But as they pulled up he had noticed a wide gap in the hedge. Presumably it marked the entrance to a track that would lead to her home.

  ‘Lonely,’ he said.

  ‘Are you complaining?’

  ‘No, no. Suits me fine.’

  He lit a cigarette. He was in no hurry to possess her. Her ministrations during the journey had left him drained and weak and he needed time to recover. But Becky was impatient. Already she had arched her body and was sliding her pants down over her thighs.

  ‘Doesn’t the seat go back?’ she said huskily.

  He threw the cigarette away and reached for the lever. As the seat slid back her arms came round him and pulled him down. Mechanically he began to caress her, and presently her body was writhing under him and her tongue searching his mouth. But he was dismayed to find that desire had gone cold on him; and when, hot for fulfilment, she reached for him, he pulled himself away.

  For a brief moment she went tense. Then she shivered and her head jerked back.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she demanded.

  ‘Nothing’s the matter.’

  ‘There bloody is!’ He winced as she grabbed him. ‘I can tell, can’t I?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘It must be the whisky. And you rather overdid it on the journey.’

  ‘Christ! So it’s my fault, is it?’ She struggled to sit up. ‘You bloody wet! And to think I ditched Adam for you!’

  She erupted into a fierce outburst of abuse, uttering words that Connor had never before heard from a woman. At first he suffered her scorn in silence, shocked by his failure. It had happened to him before — it happened to most men, didn’t it? — but perhaps because of her unexpectedly violent reaction it seemed more shameful now than on previous occasions. Other women had managed to show sympathy in their disappointment. But as the verbal lashing continued dismay turned to anger. Who the hell did she think she was? He was damned if he was going to sit there and take it from a bloody whore. He shouted at her to shut up. Her response was a particularly obscene insult to his manhood, and he lost his temper and hit her across the cheek with a flat hand.

  ‘Get lost, you bitch!’ he shouted.

  That silenced her. Her tiny body rigid with rage, she glared at him, one hand feeling behind her for the door handle. Then the other hand reached out, and before he could grab her wrist her nails dug into his cheek and tore their way down.

  *

  ‘And that’s all that happened, is it?’ Brummit rasped. ‘No sex, no rough stuff?’ He shook his head in disbelief and looked at the sergeant. ‘Bloody marvellous, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s all,’ Connor said. He had omitted that final outburst of violence; it would be too damning an admission. But remembering it now it seemed to him that the eyes of all three policemen were fixed on the large piece of sticking plaster that hid the damage to his cheek, and involuntarily he put up a hand and touched it. The action seemed to demand an explanation, and he said nervously, ‘There’s nothing sinister about this, if that’s what you’re thinking. I cut myself shaving.’

  They made no comment. The sergeant was studying a map spread out on the table. Brummit put the flat of his hand on the map and twisted it round to face him.

  ‘This is an Ordnance Survey map of the area,’ he said. ‘Show us where you parked.’

  Connor found Felborough and ran a finger along the main road south. Several roads led off it to the east. ‘It was down one of these,’ he said. ‘I don’t know which. I’m not familiar with the district.’

  Brummit put a finger on the map. ‘That’s the Mains’ place,’ he said. ‘Woodside Cottage.’

  A dotted line from the cottage led through a wood to one of the lanes. ‘Then that must be where we parked,’ Connor said, pointing. ‘She mentioned a wood. And I remember this bend to the right about fifty yards ahead. Oh, yes. On the other side of the lane there was a sort of rough cart track that looked as if it led back to the main road.’ His finger moved. ‘That would be it.’

  ‘It leads to a derelict farmhouse,’ Brummit said. For a brief interval he studied Connor in silence. ‘So what did you do when she got out of the car? Turn round and drive home?’

  ‘Not immediately. I smoked a cigarette first.’

  ‘Why? You had a long drive ahead of you. Why hang about? Don’t you smoke while you’re driving?’

  ‘Not usually,’ Connor said. ‘Not in an open car. But it wasn’t only that. It had been a — well, a rather shattering experience. My nerves were a bit jangled. I needed to steady them.’

  ‘That I can believe,’ Brummit said.

  ‘Did you hear anything?’ the sergeant asked. His North Country accent was more marked than the Superintendent’s. ‘While you were waiting, I mean. Voices, footsteps — anything that might suggest someone else was about?’

  ‘I heard Becky’s footsteps, but that’s all. No voices.’

  ‘Did they cease abruptly, as if she had stopped? Or did they just fade?’

  ‘They faded, I think. I wasn’t really listening.’

  Brummit was back. ‘Did you leave the car at all?’

  ‘No.’

  He wondered later why he had lied about that. It wasn’t significant of any criminal act or intention. Yet at the time, confused by the interminable questions, it had seemed safer to lie. An admission that he had left the car would be seized on by Brummit as further evidence of guilt. So you followed her, did you? Brummit would say. Why? No, don’t tell me. You had forgotten to kiss her good-night!

  ‘So you sat there until you had finished your cigarette, and then drove home,’ Brummit said. ‘Is that what you’re telling us?’

  ‘Yes,’ Connor said. ‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you.’

  *

  She was out of the car and off into the night before he could stop her. Not that he wanted to stop her; he had meant it when he told her to get lost. Blood dripped from his cheek, and he put his head back and dabbed at it with his handkerchief. The bitch! he thought savagely. The goddamned lousy bitch! What an end to a promising evening. He lit a cigarette. It tasted foul, and after a few puffs he threw it away and stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. Presently he dozed.

  His bladder woke him. He got out of the car and crossed the few yards of rough ground to what he had thought was a hedge but was in fact a row of bushes; the hedge ended at the entrance to Becky’s track. He had started to relieve himself when he heard a car coming down the lane and saw the glow of its headlights beyond the bend. Instinctively he moved forward, seeking the shelter of the bushes. But instead of firm ground he trod only air, and he pitched forward and went staggering and finally tumbling down the bank, grabbing wildly at bushes as he went.

  He landed in a ditch. The ditch was dry, and he picked himself up and glared balefully at the bank. Winded but unhurt, he went back up the track to the car and examined himself in the light of the headlamps. There was dirt on his suit and the pocket of his jacket was torn. His left hand was scratched and prickled with blood
where he had snatched at a thorn bush. Talk about piling on the agony! he thought ruefully, as he wrapped the wounded hand in an already bloodied handkerchief.

  It was after four o’clock in the morning when he got home. To avoid waking Anne he did not switch on the bedroom light, intending to undress by the light from the landing. But Anne was already awake. He heard the rustle of sheets. Then the bedside light came on, and he read the expression on her face and knew that his tribulations for the night were not yet over.

  ‘You’re late,’ she accused. ‘Donald said you would be home around one o’clock.’

  ‘Donald was wrong, then, wasn’t he?’ Donald was Kessler. ‘When did he ring?’

  ‘About eight.’

  ‘That was before I spoke to him. He didn’t know I’d been delayed. Have you got my air ticket?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Heavens! You’ve cut your face. And just look at your suit! Did you have an accident? Is that what delayed you?’

  ‘I had an accident but it wasn’t in the car.’ He sat down to remove his shoes. ‘I fell down a bank.’

  ‘Oh! Drunk, I suppose.’ The sympathy that had crept into her voice vanished abruptly.

  ‘No.’ Why wasn’t she asleep? He was dog-tired; this was no time for a bloody argument. ‘I got out to have a pee and didn’t look where I was going.’ He stood up. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘You might consider giving me a kiss. You’ve been away four days.’

  He went over to the bed. Bed was where Anne was at her best. She wasn’t beautiful; her nose and her mouth were too big for her face, although her pale skin and dark eyes and long auburn hair made arresting contrasts. But she was marvellous in bed. It was that which had held their marriage together, for apart from their deep sexual needs they had little in common. He had not been faithful to her and he doubted if she had been faithful to him; with his long absences from home it had been inevitable that they should stray. But neither had as yet found a lover as satisfying as the other.

  As he bent to kiss her she pushed him away. ‘Ugh!’ she exclaimed, wrinkling her nose. ‘You stink of whisky. Whisky and cheap scent. You’ve been with a woman, haven’t you?’

  It wasn’t true as she meant it, but he did not bother to deny the accusation. Denial would lead to further argument and bickering.

  ‘Half the whores in Britain,’ he said. ‘Present company excepted, of course. Now, if you’ve no objection, I’ll take a quick bath and try for a few hours sleep. I’ve a heavy day ahead of me.’

  She refused to drive him to the airport the next morning. She had a hair appointment, she said, there wouldn’t be time; he had better call a taxi. He doubted her excuse — her refusal was more likely a hangover from their earlier quarrel — but he refrained from comment and rang for a taxi. He knew that the hangover could have been averted had he sought to bury the quarrel in their customary fashion; Anne could always be coerced into sex, even after their bitterest rows. The fact that he had turned his back on her in bed must have infuriated as well as soured her. That he had done so was not only because he was tired; the memory of his failure with Becky lingered, casting doubt on his virility. To have failed with Anne would have been the ultimate in humiliation. And not only for himself. Anne would have been humiliated too. She would have assumed that he had preferred to spend himself on another woman rather than return to her. Perhaps it was as well, he reflected as he waited for the taxi, that he was off to Holland. Maybe one of the beauties of the Zee Dijk could restore his confidence.

  Not until he was airborne did he remember that George Fitt would be expecting him to lunch.

  *

  Brummit was folding the map, taking care not to add to the creases. His back to Connor, he said, ‘By the way, Mr. Connor — when did you cut yourself shaving?’

  ‘Yesterday morning. In Holland.’

  ‘Really?’ Brummit turned. ‘Same place?’

  Connor was puzzled. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, Mr. Connor, that according to your wife you had a nasty graze on your left cheek when you returned home in the small hours of Thursday morning.’

  Connor was shocked. Shocked and frightened. It had not occurred to him that they might already have questioned Anne. According to O’Halloran they had told her only that they hoped for his assistance in certain inquiries; but Anne was no fool, she must have realised there was more to it than that. Had a lingering bitterness made her indiscreet? Certainly she would never knowingly have shopped him. But had she thoughtlessly volunteered information that she supposed might, at the very most, embarrass him?

  ‘She admitted it could possibly have been caused by a woman’s fingernails.’ Brummit was obviously enjoying himself. For the first time there was the hint of a smile on his ugly face. The smile gave Connor no joy. Brummit’s pleasure could mean only trouble for him. ‘She also mentioned that you had torn your jacket. All in all, she said, you looked quite a mess.’

  ‘I fell down a bank,’ Connor said. ‘Didn’t look where I was going.’

  ‘She said that too. Where did it happen?’

  ‘While I was parked. After Becky — Miss Main — had gone.’

  ‘But you told us you didn’t leave the car.’

  Despair made Connor angry. ‘I didn’t think you’d be interested in my natural functions,’ he snapped. ‘I got out to pee.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what we find to interest us, Mr. Connor,’ Brummit said. ‘At your house, now. There was the suit — your shoes — a bloodstained handkerchief —’

  ‘The blood was mine.’

  ‘Of course. Rebecca Main was strangled. And then there’s your car. Did you know you left the dead woman’s pants under the passenger seat? Very careless.’

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Connor shouted. ‘What right had you to search my house in my absence? Did you have a warrant?’

  ‘We had your wife’s permission,’ O’Halloran said. ‘Obtained, I admit, only after we had explained that we would apply for a warrant if she refused. Sensibly, she agreed.’

  Anger turned to bewilderment. Had Anne told them about the torn jacket and the scratches on his cheek before or after they had asked permission to make a search? Before, surely. That might at least excuse her indiscretion, although he found it hard to condone. It might even have sparked off the search. The fact that he had been with Becky that evening must automatically have put him high on the list of suspects (if indeed there was a list, Brummit’s attitude seemed to suggest he was a lone candidate) but it was possible that the purpose of their visit had been merely to question him. Whereas if she had told them after the request had been made she must have known ...

  Connor shuddered. No, he told himself fiercely, it was unthinkable. She couldn’t do it. Not Anne.

  ‘In answer to your question, Mr. Connor, I will remind you that this is an investigation into murder,’ Brummit said. The smile had gone. ‘And from where I stand you look like a prime suspect. So I must caution you that you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so but what you say may be put into writing and given in evidence.’ He turned to O’Halloran. ‘Fix that, will you?’

  O’Halloran nodded and left the room. Connor said desperately, ‘You’re wrong, Superintendent. I don’t care how it looks, I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘No?’ Brummit waited while the Inspector returned accompanied by a uniformed constable. Notebook at the ready, the constable settled himself on a chair. ‘You pick up a woman whose reputation for easy sex is known to you. You get her tanked up on gin or what have you —’

  ‘Whisky,’ Connor said.

  Brummit glared at him. ‘Whisky, then,’ he snapped. ‘After which you drive her home, expecting an easy lay. But for some reason she rejects you. That infuriates you — understandably, perhaps. You feel you’ve been cheated. So you start to get rough and —’

  ‘But I didn’t,’ Connor protested. ‘It wasn’t like that. It was she who wanted sex, not me.’

  ‘That doesn’
t sound very convincing, does it?’ O’Halloran said. ‘Are you telling us you weren’t interested?’

  ‘I was interested beforehand, yes. But when the time came I — well, I just couldn’t make it. Too much whisky, I suppose.’ He looked from one to the other, seeking hope. They gave him none. O’Halloran looked sad, Vaisey stared at him bleakly. Brummit’s eyes were cold. ‘And that’s the truth. I swear it.’

  ‘You know something, Connor? I don’t believe you.’ It was the first time Brummit had dropped the courtesy title. ‘In my opinion you tried to force her, and in the ensuing struggle — was that when she scratched your face? — you got your hands round her throat and strangled her. Unintentional, I dare say. But just as fatal.’

  ‘No, damn you, no!’ His inability to get through to them, to make them recognise the truth, infuriated Connor. ‘I didn’t try to force her and I didn’t kill her. All right, so I slapped her face. She was bloody rude, and I lost my temper and slapped her. But that’s all. She was perfectly all right when she left the car.’

  It was the silence that told him he had boobed. And Brummit’s expression. As if he had won a fortune on the pools and couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Ah!’ Brummit sighed. Now we really are getting somewhere. You admit you lost your temper, that there was a fight —’

  ‘Not a fight, damn you! She scratched my face and I hit — slapped her.’

  ‘In my book that’s a fight. And it ended in her death. A shock for you, that, finding yourself with a corpse on your hands. But it was dark, there was no one about. She was a small woman; easy to carry her to the bank and tip her over. Unfortunately for you you tipped yourself over too, didn’t you? Fell arse over tip with her and landed in the ditch.’ Brummit came closer, his head thrust forward menacingly. His breath on Connor’s face was foul. ‘You killed her, Connor. And I’ll bet my boots that’s how it happened.’

  Connor shook his head. He was filled with acute despair.

  ‘I didn’t kill her,’ he said wearily. ‘I swear I didn’t.’

  He was arrested and, after the caution had been repeated, he was taken to the charge room and formally charged with the murder of Rebecca Main.