by J F Straker
‘Who said I was in the churchyard?’ Connor was surprised. He had given no details to the hotel manager.
‘Never mind that. What were you doing there?’
‘Getting mugged,’ Connor said. ‘I thought you knew.’
Brummit scowled. ‘I said to cut the funny stuff, Connor.’
‘Look, Brummit. Where I choose to walk of an evening is no damned business of yours. And let’s have less of the Connor, shall we? You have a loud voice, and the people here know me as Mallorie.’
‘I don’t buy aliases,’ Brummit said evenly. ‘Now, Thursday night. I am also told that you saw the face of one of your assailants. Did you?’
Connor’s bewilderment grew. He had mentioned that fact only to Alison Fitt and the Northropps, and Brummit would have had no reason to question any of them. Nor would they have volunteered the information. Unless ...
‘Do you know Alison Fitt?’ he asked.
‘Dr. Fitt?’ Brummit frowned. ‘Of course. She’s my wife’s doctor.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘This morning. Why?’
Connor nodded. The manager could not have reported the matter to the police until that morning, or Brummit would have been round before. No doubt the man had mentioned that Alison had dined with Connor the previous evening and Brummit, knowing he would get nothing from Connor, had decided to get it from her. He must have given the impression that he already had all the facts, leading the unsuspecting Alison to discuss the incident freely.
‘No matter,’ Connor said. ‘Yes, I saw one of them. But only briefly. You want a description?’
‘I want more than that,’ Brummit said. ‘I want you down at the nick to look through our mugshots. He was almost certainly a local villain.’
‘With such an efficient police force I’m surprised there are any still around,’ Connor said.
He wanted to refuse the request. But he was also curious. Once the crime had been reported Brummit had had no option but to act. But suppose Connor were able to identify his assailant? What then? With the antagonism that existed between them it would infuriate Brummit to have to exercise his powers on Connor’s behalf, perhaps even uncover something to his own detriment. The policeman in him would insist that he bring the criminal to justice, the man that he hush the matter up. It might be interesting to see whether the man or the policeman would prevail.
‘I’ll be along after lunch,’ Connor said.
It was nearly three o’clock when he walked into the police station. ‘The Superintendent had to go out,’ the desk sergeant told him. ‘Couldn’t wait. But Inspector Vaisey will see you.’ He turned to a young constable. ‘Take this gentleman along to the Inspector’s room.’
‘Vaisey?’ Connor said. ‘There used to be a sergeant here named Vaisey. The same, is it?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
As Connor entered the office Vaisey stood up and offered a hand in greeting. Taken aback by this unexpectedly friendly approach, Connor grasped it. The hand was large and damp, with podgy fingers.
‘A long time, Mr. Connor,’ Vaisey said. ‘Eight years, is it?’
‘Six.’
‘No hard feelings, I hope.’
‘Plenty,’ Connor said.
Vaisey smiled blandly. ‘Still maintaining your innocence, eh?’
‘And determined to prove it,’ Connor said. ‘Where are these mugshots you want me to look at?’
Vaisey produced a couple of albums. ‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘Study them carefully. If you can be sure, so much the better. If you have doubts —’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Well, we’ll check.’
Connor took his time. When finally he closed the second album he had found only two photographs that bore any resemblance to the face he had seen. Not much joy there, Vaisey said. One of the two was in Winston Gaol and the other had moved to London. ‘He could have returned, of course. But he’s unlikely to be your man. Mugging isn’t his scene. Or it wasn’t.’
‘Not mugging,’ Connor said. He was annoyed that Brummit looked like being let off the hook. ‘G.B.H. is the correct description, I believe. And intimidation. They informed me that a few bruises were nothing to what I could expect if I didn’t get the hell out.’
Vaisey removed the albums. Connor noticed that his fingernails were bitten almost to the quick.
‘Why should anyone want you out?’ he asked.
‘That’s obvious, isn’t it? Didn’t Brummit tell you about Becky Main’s diary?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, then. Someone’s getting jittery. And rightly so, I suspect.’
Vaisey considered him, scratching his cheek. Small hairs bristled in the disfiguring mole.
‘It’s become an obsession, hasn’t it?’
‘You’re bloody right it has!’
‘H’m! A pity. But try to see it our way. You were arrested and found guilty because all the available evidence pointed to your being guilty. Mind you —’
‘Not all the available evidence,’ Connor said. ‘You missed out on the diary. It was there and I found it. You lot didn’t. To put it mildly, that was bloody negligence.’
‘All right, so we missed out on the diary.’ Vaisey shrugged. ‘When you hold all the aces you don’t start searching the pack. However, as I was about to say, everyone makes the occasional mistake. Even policemen. Even the courts. In your case I don’t think we did, but no one’s infallible. You turn up something that says we were wrong and we’ll look into it. Until then you stay guilty. In my book, anyway.’
‘By which you mean you expect me to do your job for you,’ Connor said tartly.
‘No, Mr. Connor. As we see it, the job’s been done and we did it. We did it fairly and I think we did it competently. All right, so you disagree. You claim that this diary you say you’ve unearthed provides fresh evidence; but as you refuse to let us see it we can’t do much about it, can we? However, as I said — give us something that suggests there was a miscarriage of justice, and if it looks good we’ll put it to the D.P.P. It will be up to him to decide whether or not the case should be reopened. Otherwise —’ Another shrug. ‘Well, it stays closed, I’m afraid.’
‘Which means you sit on your fat bottoms and do nothing.’
‘Not quite.’ Vaisey smiled. He seemed impervious to insult. ‘We’ll be looking for your two villains. So how about a description?’
‘It was dark,’ Connor said crossly. ‘All I saw were two vague forms and a face.’
‘Well, do your best. Height, build, voice? Clothes, even? It all helps.’
As he walked to where he had parked the car Connor wondered about Vaisey. Because of Brummit he felt an antipathy towards the police in general and to the Felborough police in particular. But Vaisey — well, he didn’t like the man — too bland, too self-satisfied — but he had been civil enough and, considering the provocation Connor had given him, remarkably forbearing. Nor could he honestly be accused of having engineered Connor’s arrest; a sergeant at the time, he had been little more than the superintendent’s stooge. True, at no stage — not then, not now — had he varied from the Brummit line. But that was not surprising; on the evidence Brummit had produced a stooge could hardly do otherwise. One might argue that a man should make his own decisions, not accept those of another, no matter how senior, without question. But if Vaisey had done that he might still be a sergeant. No doubt he had had that in mind.
A uniformed policeman was standing by the parked car. ‘Is this your car, sir?’ he asked.
‘No.’ Connor inserted the key in the lock, childishly enjoying the man’s suspicion. ‘It’s on hire from Godman’s Garage.’
‘May I see your driving licence, please?’
Reaching for his wallet, Connor remembered that the licence was in his own name. Did that matter? Best not to take any chances.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got it on me.’
‘Your name and address, then, please.’
‘Jame
s Mallorie. I’m staying at the Malt House Hotel. But what’s all this about? I’m entitled to park here, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, sir. But the tyre on the near front wheel is badly worn. That’s an offence.’
It looked all right to Connor. ‘Are you booking me?’ he demanded.
‘Not this time. But get the garage to change it.’ The constable handed him a slip of yellow paper. ‘You are required to produce your licence and insurance certificate at the station within three days.’
To hell with all bluebottles, Connor thought as he drove away. Bloody officious bastards!
He had the tyre changed — the tread was worn, Lofthouse admitted, but not badly worn — and drove out to Beston village. Oakwood was a modern house of probably four or five bedrooms and standing in some two acres of ground; a pleasant house that merged with the village but not, in Connor’s opinion, the mansion that Alison Fitt had claimed. A notice board proclaimed that it was for sale, and Connor returned to Felborough to question the agent. The house had been empty for about two months, the agent told him, and the owner had recently reduced the price. No doubt he would be prepared to consider an offer. Connor explained that he was interested in the history of the house: who, for instance, were the builders? Northropp and Company, the agent said. ‘I believe Mr. Northropp intended it for his own use, but changed his mind. Actually the first owner was a Mr. Fitt, who used to be the planning officer here.’
‘Did you handle the sale?’
‘To Mr. Fitt? No, sir. I believe it was a private transaction.’
I bet it was, Connor thought. And probably for free.
Before returning to the hotel he visited Charlotte Evans. Her obvious pleasure at seeing him was gratifying, but his ego flopped when she explained the reason for it. She had a friend with her, she said, a Mrs. Ward, who had been secretary to the local branch of Friends of Variety for the past ten years. Mrs. Ward had been intrigued by his inquiries and had called in the hope of learning more, which made his visit particularly opportune. ‘Now I can leave Millicent to you,’ Mrs. Evans said happily. ‘You’re the horse’s mouth, Mr. Mallorie. I’m just the tip of the tail.’
Millicent Ward was an elderly woman with greying hair and a persistent manner. Over drinks Connor did his best to satisfy her curiosity without destroying his alias. He was beginning to regret the visit when Mrs. Evans, perhaps sensing his irritation, came to his rescue.
‘I would like to think that this is just a social call,’ she said. ‘But it isn’t, is it? How can we help you, Mr. Mallorie?’
Had Mrs. Ward not been present he would have said truthfully that he had hoped to mix business with the pleasure of seeing her again. Instead he said, ‘You told me that your brother managed to get only seven tickets that night, although you had asked for ten. How did you decide who should go?’
‘We drew lots,’ Mrs. Ward said.
‘No one got priority?’
‘Of course not. That would have been most improper.’
‘Elizabeth McGuppy did,’ Mrs. Evans said. ‘Alec asked that she should be included.’
‘Oh? Why?’
‘He said the friend who had got the tickets for him had made it a condition. Her husband was one of his employees.’
‘That would be George Fitt.’ Mrs. Ward nodded. ‘You’re right, Charlotte. I remember now.’ She looked at Connor. ‘Mr. Fitt worked for the Council. Elizabeth McGuppy’s husband was his chief clerk, or something.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr. Mallorie,’ Mrs. Evans said. ‘I should have mentioned that before, shouldn’t I? I just forgot, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ he said. ‘Six years is a long while to remember such a trifle.’
‘Trifle, Mr. Mallorie?’ Mrs. Ward’s tone was sharp. ‘From what Charlotte has told me I understood you to say that whoever killed Mr. McGuppy must have known that his wife would be out that evening. Well, George Fitt knew, didn’t he? I mean, he practically arranged it. And I always thought he was rather unstable. Marrying a girl young enough to be his daughter — and all that heavy drinking! It makes one wonder, doesn’t it?’
Connor refused to be drawn. ‘One mustn’t jump to unjustified conclusions,’ he said sententiously.
To him the conclusion was completely justified. The fact that George Fitt had arranged for Elizabeth McGuppy to be away that evening was just one more link in the chain of evidence against him. Unfortunately the chain lacked material support, it was all theory. Once more Connor regretted that Becky had been so cryptic in her diary. Names, instead of initials chosen more or less at random, would have provided a case against Fitt so strong that even Brummit could not deny it.
Draper was in the cellar bar that evening. The two men had not met since he had confided his indiscretion to Connor on the Wednesday evening, and he looked apprehensive as Connor approached. Not here, the look said, not in a crowded bar. Connor bought him a drink and calmed his fears by explaining that Becky wasn’t on the menu. He was anxious to get in touch with the late Mrs. McGuppy’s brother, he said; could Draper help? The brother’s name was Dowling, Draper said — the Christian name escaped him — and at the time of McGuppy’s death he had worked for Bronstone and Higgins, a firm of local solicitors. For all Draper knew he could still be there. If not — well, no doubt someone in the office could supply his address.
At six-thirty on a Saturday evening the solicitors’ offices would be closed. Reluctant to wait until the Monday, Connor checked with the telephone directory. Three Dowlings were listed, and he picked the right one first go. Yes, a quiet voice told him, Elizabeth McGuppy had been his sister; how did that concern the caller? Connor gave his name, explained that the matter was confidential, and asked if he might call round. Any time after eight, Dowling told him, he was just about to eat.
He lived in a small two-roomed flat above a greengrocer’s shop. A large, flabby-looking man, he was wearing an apron over shirt and trousers when he opened the door to Connor; being a bachelor, he explained apologetically, he had to do for himself. Connor had decided to vary his story; he was still a journalist, but now he was writing a series on unsolved murders, among which was listed that of Dowling’s late brother-in-law. He appreciated, he said, that Dowling was unlikely to possess information that had not been given to the police years ago, but what of the dead man himself? His shrewd gambling on the Stock Market, for instance, which had enabled him to retire early. When had he first started to take an interest in stocks and shares?
Dowling shook his head. ‘I don’t know, sir. Until he retired he never mentioned it. Not to me, anyway. And not to my sister. I’m sure of that; she would have told me if he had. We were twins, you see. Very close.’
‘He must have left her comfortably off, eh?’
‘That he did not. Just the house and a few hundred in the bank. By the time the funeral expenses and the outstanding bills had been settled there was precious little left. And I should know. I was his executor.’
‘So what happened to the fortune he made on the Stock Market?’
Dowling said he suspected that to be a myth. McGuppy’s bankbook had shown that after his retirement the sum of two hundred pounds had been credited monthly to his account. ‘I discovered it had been paid in by himself — in cash, Mr. Mallorie — but I’ve no idea how he came by it. It couldn’t have been from gambling or investment, though, could it? Not a regular sum like that.’
‘Unlikely,’ Connor said. ‘Did the payments cease with his death?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were the police informed?’
‘No.’ Dowling looked uncomfortable. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Mallorie that he was mixed up in something dishonest. Well, perhaps he was. I wouldn’t know. But telling the police — what good would that have done?’
‘It might have provided a lead to the killer.’
‘Not a hope, Mr. Mallorie. Like I said, Arnold banked the money himself. In cash. There was nothing to indicate the source.’
‘Noth
ing among his personal effects?’
‘No. I checked most carefully. That was why I decided to keep quiet. I wasn’t having Betty upset to no purpose. Arnold dead, herself practically penniless — she’d been through enough, hadn’t she? To have the police hinting he was some sort of criminal — I couldn’t do that to her, Mr. Mallorie.’
‘You never had second thoughts?’
‘Of course. But I always reached the same conclusion.’ There was a pause. ‘I hope you won’t find it necessary to mention this in the book. Betty’s dead but — well, there’s no sense in stirring up mud.’
‘I doubt if I’ll be mentioning anything,’ Connor said. ‘Not about your brother-in-law. Not unless I can dig up more than I have at present.’
‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the truth of it,’ Dowling said. ‘Not now. It’ll stay a mystery.’
Connor saw mystery only in the details. With both victim and murderer dead, no one could tell the exact course of events that had led to murder that August night six years ago. One could only surmise. He had supposed that, having first engineered Elizabeth McGuppy’s absence, George Fitt had gone to the house in Charles Street intent on murder. But it may not have been like that. Maybe it was McGuppy who had unwittingly provided the opportunity for murder by insisting that his wife be one of the theatre party — if Alison were right in thinking he disliked her father he would have found a spiteful pleasure in giving such an order — and Fitt had visited him merely to plead or protest. Then something had happened — a malicious taunt, a further turn of the screw — and in a sudden onset of uncontrollable fury Fitt had turned on his tormentor and had killed him.
And how about Becky? Had Fitt killed her too? Connor saw no reason to change his opinion that B was a double murderer; and the fact that Fitt as he remembered him bore no resemblance to any animal listed under B was probably because his knowledge of the man had been too brief. So why had he chosen that particular night? Presumably because Becky had raised her sights too high, and Susan’s inability — or reluctance — to attend the Arthurs’ Night dinner had provided him with the opportunity he sought. He could not have known that Connor would be taking the woman home — he had left the bar before Connor had begun to show an interest in her — but he had known that someone would. True, a dead man could not have searched Connor’s hotel room. Nor could he have organised the assault in the churchyard. But that was of little consequence. The first could have been the work of any one of Becky’s former lovers who had heard of the existence of the diary and wanted it suppressed. Ron Main was almost certainly responsible for the second.