by Roy Lewis
He shook his head slowly from side to side, as though regretting his own foolishness.
‘Maybe I should have up and left then, instead of staying around, but I told him, I was retired. So why couldn’t he leave me alone? But he didn’t. He called around again, very cool, but nasty. He gave it to me straight. He had no record, he said. No one would ever put Cobham Park on his back. But I was different. One word to the local coppers and they’d be down on my neck like a pack of hounds. They’ll never give you a moment’s peace again, he told me. They’ll be harrying you, dragging you in for questioning every time anything happens in the neighbourhood. They’ll make your life a misery, he said. But I still said I could face that. It was then that Chuck Lindop turned real ugly. He put it to me straight. He said he’d got another place cased and it was going to be a dawdle — to a man of my experience. It was Northleach Hall, and the end of the rainbow would be golden. I just laughed at him, you know, Mr Crow? Then he stood up and he grabbed me, lifted me off my feet.’
There was a hint of panic in Fred’s eyes even then as he told Crow about the incident.
‘He shoved his face into mine, Mr Crow, and his eyes was sort of glintin’ as red as that bloody hair of his. He looked kind of mad, you know what I mean? He said there wouldn’t be just the coppers to contend with, if I didn’t come in with him. He had oppoes in the village, and nights got dark, and a man with a dicky heart could easily get scared to death and find himself in a ditch one lonely night and no one the wiser. It was a promise, he said; if I didn’t tie in over Northleach Hall he’d shove me into hell and there wouldn’t be a mark on me. He scared me, Mr Crow, I don’t mind admitting it. He scared me stiff.’
‘So you agreed to go in with him?’
Fred Hartley Semmings nodded jerkily. ‘That’s right. I cased the place with him, agreed on the lift, but all the time I was scared. I was mad too, because he was forcing me to do something I knew I couldn’t or at least shouldn’t — do with my ticker. But you see how it was? Either way, I could be for the high jump!’
‘You could have gone to the police.’
‘Aw, come on, Mr Crow! All right, I did for Macmillan but that was different, and that was with you. And you wasn’t around here just then, and besides, if I’d gone to the inspector here, what would have happened? I had no proof Lindop did Cobham Park; it was my word against his about Northleach Hall; he had no record like me; I’d have to let on who I was and you both know what that would have meant; there would have been the chance I wouldn’t have been believed — and after all that, what would have happened? If Lindop stood up under questioning you’d have had to release him, and then one night I’d have been found under a hedge with a bloody terrified look on my face, cold as mutton on a Monday morning. It just wasn’t on, Mr Crow, it just wasn’t on.’
‘So you managed a compromise?’
‘That was it exactly! If I couldn’t go straight to the coppers there was one other way around it. If I did a bit of snouting, rang Stowford and told them that Northleach had been cased, there was the chance the heat would make Lindop have second thoughts about the job, maybe even drop the whole idea. All right, it was snouting, but what the hell? I was trying to save my skin, Mr Crow.’
‘Did it work?’
Fred’s mouth drooped. ‘Maybe. I’m not sure. I mean, it was pretty obvious he knew the police were on to something but he never let on he suspected I’d grassed. I’m pretty sure he hadn’t called it off, but he was getting edgy about it. So I made a second call, just to hurry things along, convince him it was a no go. That way maybe I’d get off the hook, if only for a while.’
‘And did that work? Did Lindop call it off?’
Fred’s face tightened and the panic came back into his eyes. ‘No, he didn’t call it off. It no longer became possible for him. He got topped . . . And maybe I’d have been glad about it, because it meant I would have been let off that bloody Northleach hook. But in fact, the way it worked out was worse . . . Mr Crow, you got to give me some assurances, right now. What I got to say, it’s got to give me the right to some protection. The fact is if I was scared by Chuck Lindop I’ve been more bloody scared since.’
‘Tell us, Fred,’ Crow had said softly.
‘Lindop could be rough; I could see that in his eyes, in the way that red hair flared when he got stroppy. But he always had a bit of calculation in him, you know? He was always weighing chances, and if the trouble wasn’t worth it he’d back off. But this other man he’s different. He’s thicker than Lindop ever was, but he’s meaner too. And he scares me. Crazy men, they always scare me.’
‘You’ve been threatened again?’
‘I was threatened the night Chuck Lindop got killed. It was the same old story — Northleach Hall was still on, and to hell with the risks. But that’s what I mean, you see — I was worse off. Now I had to contend with this crazy bastard!’
* * *
It was five-thirty by the time Crow was ready to leave his hotel. He had dismissed the driver, and took the squad car alone once more. There had been a great deal of sense in what Fred Hartley Semmings had stated: the word of an acknowledged burglar didn’t carry much weight. But John Crow had a good idea where he might be able to obtain some necessary corroboration.
He drove slowly to Lovesome Hill Caravan Park. A much clearer picture of the night’s events was now emerging. The statements of Andrew Keene, Sara Keene, Ruby Sanders, Forsyth and the others were now on file and the salient facts from each were locked away in his brain. As he drove he was able to sift through them again, going over facts, checking movements and times. It was all beginning to fit; he needed just a few more facts, and then the job would be done.
Yet there was still something fluttering away at the back of his mind, like a piece of paper caught on a bush on a windy day; he could see it, but he could not read it, and it bothered him. But it would become clearer — if he waited, didn’t agonize about it, it would come clearer. Woods and trees, as Martha said on such occasions, woods and trees, and matches. He didn’t know what she meant, but she said it with such a satisfied air that he never liked to ask her.
Crow reached the caravan park at five forty-five. He parked inside the gateway, and glanced briefly at the generator: they had wondered about that man Dixon, but the ways things were going now he doubted Dixon would be charged with much apart from malicious damage. He turned and walked down the site towards the trees. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement in one van down the site as he bore left towards the clump of trees.
He made his way into the wood. The undergrowth dragged at his legs, brambles and blackberry thickets pulled at him. He searched for a few minutes as the sunlight filtering through the branches above his head dappled the ground, and at last he found the area with the sadly small patch of freshly turned earth. He stood there, staring at it, waiting.
Within a few minutes he heard what he expected — someone walking into the wood behind him. He did not turn around, for he knew who it would be. The footsteps stopped behind him, some ten feet or more. Silence came back under the trees, except for an occasional scurrying sound as a blackbird threshed its way among low-lying branches and leaves.
‘What are you looking for?’ Ruby Sanders asked in a nervous voice.
John Crow turned his head slowly and looked at her. She was dressed soberly, for her: a plain white blouse with no frills, dark blue, tight trousers flared at the ankles. She wore no makeup and curiously enough it made her seem younger even though there were lines to be observed around her eyes. Perhaps it was not youth but an essential innocence that the makeup normally obscured; Crow could not be sure. But there was no mistaking the anxiety that shadowed her eyes and the nervousness that had brought her into the woods.
‘This is where you buried your dog, isn’t it?’ Crow asked.
‘Andrew . . . Andrew did it for me,’ she said nodding, her eyes bright with sudden tears.
‘You said Patch was knocked down by a car.’
Again she nodded. Crow watched her carefully. ‘Andrew didn’t see the dog. You had it in a box. He just buried the box.’
She made no reply, but the brightness of her eyes had gone again to be replaced by the anxiety. She ran a pink tongue over dry lips. ‘I’m just beginning to wonder whether there really is a dog in that box,’ Crow said.
Ruby Sanders was taken aback. She looked around her, her mouth opening and shutting in surprise. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
Crow turned away and looked at the patch of earth. ‘It’s just a supposition on my part. You see, I’ve spoken to Mrs Lindop, and I understand that Chuck Lindop had something deposited at a hotel not too far from here. Now someone emptied the deposit box immediately after Lindop’s death. It just occurred to me that with this box being buried—’
‘You must be mad!’
Crow looked at her dispassionately. ‘It’s just a hunch I had. You wouldn’t object to my getting some officers down to turn up the box, have a look inside it?’
Ruby’s face stiffened. The anxiety turned to panic and she looked down at the patch of earth as though it held unnamed terrors. ‘I . . . I don’t see why you want to . . . you can’t go turning . . .’
‘Why not?’ Crow asked quietly. ‘What objection could you possibly have? If there’s just the body of a dog in there, killed by a car, it’s a gruesome task for my men, but that shouldn’t worry you. Why do you object?’
Ruby began to shake. It was a combination of fear and distress. ‘I just don’t want you to . . . to open Patch’s grave. I swear to you that’s all there is in there — Patch. Nothing else.’
‘We’ll be careful,’ Crow said. ‘But we need to check.’
Ruby clenched her fist, looked over her shoulder back towards the site. ‘Please, don’t go digging him up. Leave him alone now, leave him alone. I promise you, it’s only Patch in there.’
‘I know it,’ Crow said soberly.
For a moment she hardly seemed to hear him, or if she did, was unable to comprehend his meaning. Then suddenly her head shot around and she glared at him. ‘You know it?’
Crow nodded. ‘I don’t really think there’s anything buried in there apart from the dog. But I wanted to see what your reaction would be if I suggested exhumation.’
‘I . . . I don’t understand.’
‘I think you do.’ Crow hesitated. ‘I wondered if you’d react violently to my suggestion. You did. It confirms in my mind a suspicion I’ve had. Tell me, Ruby, if my men dig in that grave and find Patch, will they find blood? Will they find a dog’s body squashed by the wheels of a car? Or will they find something else? Patch, unmarked perhaps, but with poison in his stomach? Or maybe not even that. More likely, perhaps, his head twisted at an odd angle. Is that what they’d find, Ruby?’
Ruby’s face was white. She rocked on her heels, staggered slightly, then turned and set off at a blind, desperate run back through the wood as though seeking escape from truths that faced her. Crow watched her go, a stumbling, frightened woman, suddenly very small and vulnerable, and very scared. She fought her way past the trees as though she expected them to grab at her, hold her back, and when she lurched into the camp site itself she almost fell. Then she was running back down towards her van, heedlessly, with her hands on her mouth. Unbalanced, she seemed to be waddling down across the turf, ungainly, her short legs splayed as she ran, her tight-trousered bottom absurd in its jouncing. She had lost all her sexuality, the picture she presented was a pathetic one. Crow felt sorry for her, and the knowledge that he was partly responsible for her distress and was now about to take advantage of it brought an ache that was almost physical inside him. It was a familiar enough feeling and one he should have got over years ago, but he knew he never would. And in his quieter moments he admitted to himself that if he ever did lose that feeling — compassion — he would want to be dead. More slowly than Ruby, he made his way out of the wood and walked down towards her caravan.
He tapped lightly on the door and entered even though she had not invited him in. She had been crying, but the tears had stopped. From time to time she gave a shudder, as though sobs came up from her chest, uncontrollable, but her features were a mask of indifference — the anxiety, the fear, the distress seemed to have gone. Crow knew it was only a mask. Underneath, Ruby Sanders would be feeling raw and exposed and scared. But also, perhaps, aware she was cornered.
‘Are you all right?’ Crow asked. ‘Well enough to talk to me, I mean?’
She did not look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the window, but she was seeing nothing external to herself. The images on her retinas were old images, dredged up from inside herself, and he suspected they would be older than her involvement with Chuck Lindop. But it was that which he wished to bring forward to her consciousness.
‘I’d better tell you what I know,’ he said regretfully, ‘so you can understand where we are. I already know a great deal about the last few months, and all I want from you is corroboration. I think I can find some up there in the woods but it wouldn’t be conclusive. But you can fix things for me, Ruby.’
He paused, but Ruby Sanders made no sign that she had ever heard him. After a moment John Crow went on, staring at his linked bony fingers. ‘We now have a statement from Fred Hartley, who’s been living up at the bungalow above the site. And it helps fill in the picture of Chuck Lindop, and a little more. What it amounts to is this. Lindop was a small-time, vicious womanizer who had ideas that he could haul himself up the criminal ladder by using information he had acquired about people. He could never see that he was a small man essentially; his ideas were grand. He was indulging in petty theft, working small fraudulent schemes to make a little money on the side, but he saw himself as having the ability to make a big pull — at Cobham Park.’
The images Ruby was seeing had begun to change. At his words, she was beginning to come alive again.
‘Lindop was pressing Fred Hartley to join him in the Cobham Park burglary. But he also told Hartley he had two other accomplices. One of these was not unlike Lindop himself. The other Hartley did not know. Fred Hartley took no part in Cobham Park and it was a fiasco. Lindop was angry so really put pressure on him. It ended — or should have ended — when Chuck Lindop died. But it didn’t. Instead, Hartley found himself still under pressure, and worse than before. Because Lindop’s accomplice came to him and said it was still on: he’d use the same lever on Hartley, and if he didn’t come in there’d be trouble. Not just exposure to the police, but real trouble. Physical trouble. For while Lindop may have been content with just threats, this man was different. He was violent by nature, stupid, unthinking, dangerous and violent. He scared Hartley to hell, and Hartley agreed to do it.’
Ruby was listening now. Her glance had moved away from the window and she was looking at Crow. The colour had begun to come back to her cheeks.
‘I’ve talked to your salesman, Glanville,’ Crow said. ‘Hartley tells me that he was pressured into agreeing to continue with Northleach Hall on the very night that Lindop died. And the man putting the pressure on knew Lindop was dead. Yet the time was still only about ten forty-five. Glanville tells me that you and he were snuggling down quite nicely until you suddenly cooled when someone passed you in the lane. Now then, Ruby, I think you saw the man in the lane, recognized him, got scared because you were in the car with Glanville and got the hell out of there as quickly as you could. I think you hurried back on to the site and joined the Keenes in their van. But later, when the questions arose in your mind, you were foolish, and you put them, out of your mind. The result was Patch died . . .’
She moved her lips, staring at Crow.
‘I want to know who that man in the lane was,’ Crow said fiercely. ‘I am pretty sure I know his name already, but I want to know. Who was he, and in which direction was he walking?’
She seemed almost relieved to whisper the name.
‘It was Hoagy. He was walking up the lane — away from the site.’
CHAPTER 6<
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She leaned her head back against the window. Her face was tired and resigned. She lifted a hand to her hair, touching it as though it were the one stable thing in her existence, and in a way it was, still stiff, unmoving, undisturbed by the running away and the terror and the death that swirled around her. Emotional stress, the death of her dog Patch, the murder of Chuck Lindop, it had all touched her, shaken her. But now it was over, Crow could see it in her resignation. She knew that Crow was reaching out to the truth — and she had less need to fear Hogarth Samson.
‘I never really liked him,’ she said. ‘Not even at the beginning. But it was a . . . delicate time for me, you know what I mean? I was feeling a bit raw, the way Chuck had thrown me over, and Hoagy was around. I mean, he was a big man, and he was interested in me at a time I was feeling low, and he was good in bed . . . So he moved in and took up where Chuck left off and that was okay for a while.’
She shook her head, staring out of the window fixedly as though looking for the reasons and the motivations out there in the trees where Patch lay buried. ‘But I never liked him. Chuck Lindop, now, he was rough, he could frighten you because he was hard and he was a bastard but there was a difference between him and Hoagy. There’d come a point when Chuck would weigh up the chances and say to hell with it, it’s not worth going on for the trouble it would cause. But Hoagy was never like that. He’s rough and he’s a bastard like Chuck but he never gives up. He ploughs on, unminding. Like you said, stupid, and dangerous.’
‘Why didn’t you get rid of him?’ Crow asked quietly.
Ruby lifted her shoulders in a deprecating gesture. ‘You just don’t know what it’s like. In this world, if you live alone with no one around, what choice do you have? I did try to break away from him, not long after we got started. I’d healed over Chuck, I’d had enough of Hoagy, and I picked up a barman in Stowford. Not because I was struck on him, just a way of getting adrift of Hoagy. I stayed the night with the feller — next evening, after stop tap, he was putting some crates out behind the pub and he got clobbered. Just a couple of blows, but it broke two ribs for him, and smashed in his nose, so he took the hint. So did I, at two o’clock the same morning.’