A Cotswolds Murder

by Roy Lewis

  ‘We might also try Sam Dixon,’ Crow said thoughtfully. ‘If we assume he did blow the generator, he might have seen Samson enter the lane a couple of minutes later.’

  ‘Right. It’s now ten-fifteen. As he comes down the site Samson sees Keene returning to his van. Samson continues the quarrel with Lindop, who is still excited after the Keene struggle and takes a swing at him. Samson picks up the crowbar and bashes him, just once. He’s big enough and stupid enough and dangerous enough to do it. Maybe he just stands there a moment. Maybe he doesn’t realize Lindop is dying. But there’s just the chance he went into the van and looked for Lindop’s deposit — the money he believed that Lindop had. It wasn’t there, but Samson discovered where it was. He found the number of the hotel deposit box. So, within ten minutes, about ten thirty-three, he ups and aways from there, hurries up the lane, passes Ruby in the car and goes to Hartley’s bungalow. He stays there until eleven-fifty, by which time the site is crawling with people, and then he returns, innocence itself. Next morning he meets his gipsy friends, gets one of them to collect the money from the hotel and another to fix him an alibi for the night of the murder, and there it is. But we’ve got him because we can prove he left that site at ten thirty- five and returned just over an hour later. And that is in direct contradiction to his own statement, made the night of the murder.’

  Crow nodded thoughtfully. ‘It looks not bad, not bad at all. But there’s still some corroborative evidence needed—’

  ‘We’re working on it.’

  ‘And there are still a few avenues we haven’t explored completely.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘First of all, we know there was someone else involved in Lindop’s and Samson’s schemes.’

  Stafford pulled a face. ‘We know he exists — we have Hartley’s statement and Ruby Sanders’s statement to vouch for that. But we don’t know who he is. I don’t think it matters too much; after all, if we can prove that Samson killed Lindop it doesn’t matter too much if we ever find the identity of the other member of the group.’

  ‘Except that he might supply evidence that puts a different complexion on things,’ Crow said. ‘What if it turned out to be Sam Dixon, for instance? It might be he who killed Lindop in that case, after blowing the generator, and after seeing first Keene and then Samson quarrel with Lindop.’

  ‘There wouldn’t have been time for that, sir.’

  ‘Hmmm . . . Yes, and that’s something else that bothers me. Time.’ He hesitated for a moment, while the unbidden recollection fluttered at the back of his mind again, only to dance once more out of reach. He sighed. ‘You know, this time thing is a problem. It’s all so . . . hurried. I mean, look at your sketched timetable. Everything of importance seems to have happened within a period of thirty minutes, but look at the coming and going that went on in that time! Everyone regarded the site as all but deserted, and yet there’s Keene, and Ruby, and Lindop himself, and Samson — and maybe Dixon too — all buzzing about on the site. Yet only one person, really, gets observed: Samson, by Ruby. You see what I mean?’

  Stafford nodded. ‘I do, but they are individual movements. And thirty seconds, a minute or so, is enough for one person to take the stage and never see the other actor go to the wings.’

  Crow smiled. ‘It’s getting like that, though, George. A game. An act. Villain enters left and all that.’

  ‘It’s all possible,’ Stafford said, a little stiffly.

  ‘I agree. As it’s also possible that Forsyth might have got angry enough to kill Lindop, though we can’t tie a visit to the site that evening to him.’ He thrust out his pendulous lower lip and considered the matter for a moment. ‘And one of the lynch-pins is Ruby Sanders. The blow that struck down our friend Lindop could have been wielded by Ruby. It didn’t take much force to kill Lindop.’

  ‘But she wouldn’t have had time to do him in,’ Stafford protested. ‘She left the salesman only after she saw Samson go to Hartley’s bungalow. And by that time it’s probable that Lindop had already been struck down.’

  ‘I take the point. Even so, I think we still need corroborative evidence,’ Crow said.

  ‘We’ve had a couple of men going over Samson’s van. With luck we’ll find something there.’

  Crow grunted non-committally. ‘There’s still one person we haven’t mentioned as a possibility.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Andrew Keene.’

  George Stafford inclined his head on one side like a wise sheepdog observing a recalcitrant ram. ‘Not overlooked. But discounted, I think.’

  ‘Tell me why?’

  ‘Well, reading between the lines as much as anything, and chatting with people on the site, I get the general picture of Andrew Keene as pretty much a quiet character with a wife who’d like to wear the pants, at least. She’s been dissatisfied, certainly. But when you come down to it, though he had that flare-up at work and clobbered that driver, it doesn’t look as though he was committed in the same way when he went after Lindop. I mean, what was it all about? A receipt for the sale of the van. Sure, Sara Keene was anxious and she needled him into going to have it out with Lindop, but I think Andrew Keene had to stoke up the fires of resentment even to go there to the van. And even if he had had a couple of drinks, he wasn’t stoked up enough — not enough to commit murder.’

  ‘They had a struggle.’

  ‘But there were no marks on Lindop, and Keene’s story is he got bundled out of the van.’

  ‘Couldn’t that humiliation have been enough to stir him?’ Crow asked.

  ‘He’d have been more likely to have gone stumbling off into the darkness to be by himself, in my estimation,’ Stafford replied seriously. ‘Except that he had a pregnant wife back at his van — and when he got back she started into labour. No, I think Keene is telling us the truth and besides, there’s a hell of a lot running against Hogarth Samson right now.’

  ‘Maybe too much.’

  ‘I don’t mind, as long as it’s enough for the beaks.’

  John Crow stretched, in a vain effort to ease the ache in his back. He rose stiffly. ‘All right, I’ll go along with that summary for the time being. So let’s get ourselves organized. You’ve got to continue the check on the gipsies to see if we can find Samson’s friend — and maybe Samson himself — and if we can also get Samson’s alibi broken and find the man who took out Lindop’s deposit we’ll really be in luck. As for me, I’m getting out for a while.’

  ‘Where can I contact you, if I need to?’

  Crow stood upright and flexed the muscles in his back. With luck, they’d ease his discs back into place and get rid of this pain. Otherwise, maybe the car seat would do it, even if the physiotherapist told him he was merely storing up trouble for himself. ‘I’m taking the squad car. No driver necessary. While you continue with the gipsies and forensic I’m going up to Foxholes Quarry again. If I can persuade Sam Dixon to trust me, maybe he’ll come up with something. Apart from him, there’s young Keene. We had one chat and he opened up. Maybe he’ll do it again.’

  ‘What are you hoping he’ll come up with?’ Stafford asked.

  ‘He might have seen Samson coming on the site. He wouldn’t necessarily have told us — after all, he’s not given Sam Dixon away even though he must know we’ll probably be able to show it was Dixon who blew that generator. You might wonder why he’d protect Samson, but it’s not that. I think Andrew Keene is a peculiarly loyal person. He doesn’t know Samson killed Lindop; even if he saw Samson there that night, unless he actually had incriminating evidence against the man he wouldn’t talk. But it could be enough for us to proceed. If I can get him to talk.’

  ‘He might also have seen Sam Dixon.’

  ‘There is that possibility. But we’ll check. Right, I’ll see you later.’

  Stafford nodded, a little glumly. He was probably somewhat fed-up at the thought that he would be staying in the office while Crow was out and about. Crow was affected by a momentary stab of sympathy, but it was overri
dden by a more physical stab of pain in his back. He headed for the door.

  The phone rang.

  Stafford reached for it. He picked it up, listened for a moment, then turned his head towards Crow.

  ‘It’s for you.’

  Crow came back, took the phone from Stafford.

  ‘Chief Inspector Crow.’

  ‘Ah . . . this is Honey Lindop.’

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Well . . . I’m not sure. It’s just that I . . .’ There was a pause. John Crow caught Stafford’s glance. The hell with it, he thought. John Crow might be in charge of this murder investigation, but George Stafford was a man better equipped to deal with women like Honey Lindop.

  ‘Mrs Lindop — look, I’m sorry, but I’m just on the way out. Perhaps you’d like to have a chat with my colleague Inspector Stafford.’

  He handed the phone over. Wordlessly, Stafford took it. He listened, then frowned, raised his eyebrows. ‘She hung up,’ he said plaintively. Crow’s back twinged and he walked out of the office and into the Broadway. The sky wanted to pour rain down on him, but held it back sullenly.

  * * *

  Colonel Hodges, the quarry manager, was ex-Eton, ex-Hussars, and a whisky and cigars man who had known several of the top brass at New Scotland Yard when he had spent some time in the Ministry of Defence in the fifties. He told John Crow all about it and asked questions, some pertinent, some impertinent, about the Lindop investigation, the birch, capital punishment and didn’t John Crow think the answer to it all was conscription? Crow was glad to make his escape to seek out Sam Dixon.

  Not that the interview was productive. Sam Dixon was a close-mouthed Cotsaller who didn’t like detectives from London and made no secret of the fact. He admitted nothing. When Crow hinted at the reasons behind his wife leaving him he said it was his own business; when Crow was more direct and suggested the breakdown of the marriage had been the result of her liaison with Chuck Lindop, Dixon just stared at him wordlessly, neither admitting nor denying the fact. And it was the same story with the dynamite.

  Sam Dixon listened while Crow suggested that Dixon had nothing to fear if only he would tell the truth. He had taken the dynamite from the stores, hadn’t he? He had intended getting revenge on Lindop by blowing up the generator and causing him inconvenience? If Dixon would admit it, the whole matter could be dealt with quietly and with no fuss — for John Crow had more important fish to fry.

  ‘The important thing, Mr Dixon, is that I should know what you saw that night. That generator went up just after ten. What I want to know — need to know — is whether you saw anyone else in the lane about that time, either coming or going.’

  Sam Dixon was unmoved. ‘How could I,’ he asked, ‘if I wasn’t even there?’

  * * *

  The minutes ticked away and John Crow sat there, saying little, while Andrew’s nervous system began to feel the strain. The early questions Crow had asked had been about Sam Dixon again, and Andrew had pattered out the same answers he had given previously: dynamite had been taken, but he had no idea by whom, and he certainly was not able to confirm that it had been Sam Dixon who took it. Crow’s lugubrious face had seemed to lengthen, and the deep-set eyes had become ever unhappier, but Andrew couldn’t help that. Sam Dixon was not a friend of his, but he and Sam had one thing in common: they had both been wronged by Chuck Lindop, and Andrew was not prepared to give away Sam’s secret. At least Sam had had the guts to take a stand — he had stolen the dynamite, blown that generator, and for that he had to be admired. So Andrew was not the man to give him away.

  ‘One thing puzzles me,’ Crow was saying as he leaned forward, bony elbows resting on packing case still unopened. ‘We’ve been sifting through the statements — you know, Andrew, on a case like this there are literally hundreds, if not thousands of statements we have to go through, and the idea is to pick out those items which agree or conflict one with another and which are important to the investigation. In this case, the statements we’ve taken, they all agree more or less on events and places and times — with one exception. But that exception causes problems. It’s just that you don’t mention having seen anyone on the site.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Well, times are so crucial, of course, and it’s possible that the very moment when the murderer came on the site you were already back in your van. You say in your statement that you struggled with Lindop, he threw you out and you went back to your van, where you stayed until Ruby Sanders arrived. So I suppose you could have just missed Hoagy Samson.’

  ‘Samson?’ Andrew’s mouth was dry and his voice came out as a croak. ‘He didn’t come to the site until later, around midnight I think, when everyone was milling around.’

  Crow nodded. ‘That’s the supposition we’ve been working on. Until we started checking statements. And it’s led to us putting out a call for Hogarth Samson, suspicion of murder, although the official statement will be he’s needed to help us in our enquiries.’

  ‘Suspicion of murder?’ Andrew’s armpits were cold with perspiration. ‘But why should you think Samson killed Lindop?’

  Crow held up a bony finger and inspected it gloomily. ‘They quarrelled in Stowford.’ He raised a second finger. ‘They were involved in criminal activity and fell out over it.’ A third finger flicked out. ‘He was on the site much earlier than midnight—’

  ‘But that’s not so!’ Andrew hesitated, confused. ‘I mean, I’d have seen him if he’d come on, surely—’

  ‘You went back to your van,’ Crow interrupted. ‘But think back to your phone call to the hospital. Was there anything unusual in your visit to Hartley’s bungalow?’

  Andrew shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘When you got to the bungalow, was there anything odd in Hartley’s behaviour? Did he seem nervous, tense, anything like that?’

  ‘I can’t really say . . .’ Andrew frowned, bit his lip as he thought back to that night. It had been a confused time, a frightened time, and he could not remember too clearly. But Hartley had seemed odd . . .’He didn’t really want to let me in, I remember that. I mean, he didn’t try to stop me, but he seemed sort of reluctant.’

  ‘And when you were inside the bungalow?’

  ‘Yes . . . When I’d finished the call, I . . . well, I didn’t really want to go back to the site. It’s not something I can explain too well, but Sara was crying there and Ruby was looking after her and I was sort of in the way, you know what I mean? So I didn’t want to go back, not straight away, and if Hartley had offered me a drink I’d have welcomed it. But he didn’t. He just stood there. It was as though he wanted me to go.’

  Crow’s eyes were sad. ‘Anything more than just wanting you to go, Andrew?’

  ‘More?’

  ‘Did you get the impression he was not alone?’

  Andrew ran a dry tongue over dry lips. ‘I . . . I can’t be sure. He did seem nervous, and he stood against the door to the living-room as though he was barring it—’

  ‘Yes,’ Crow nodded. ‘That’s just what he was doing. He didn’t want you to know that Lindop’s murderer was in there. He was hiding him — though maybe he didn’t know at that point of time that the man was a murderer.’

  ‘You . . . you mean—’

  ‘Hoagy Samson. After you left Lindop, Samson killed him. Ruby saw him leave the site and go to Hartley’s bungalow. Hartley has told us Samson came there. Your remarks confirm things a little more. It gives us enough — and we’ve got a call out for him now.’ The deep-set eyes bored into Andrew, making him feel that his very thoughts were being subjected to a searching analysis. ‘Is there anything you want to add, Andrew?’

  ‘I . . . I can’t believe that Mr Samson—’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well . . . I don’t know . . . I mean, I didn’t see him on the site and I was the only person . . .’ His voice died away as Crow waited. He couldn’t get out the words he should have said, and his
mind was full of the dark images of that terrible night when the ache still stirred in his groin and the cold iron was in his hand and Chuck Lindop was turning to look at him.

  ‘We’re pretty sure it was Samson,’ Crow said quietly. ‘And when we find him, we’ll get the story we want.’

  Crow waited a little while as though still hoping Andrew would speak but there was nothing Andrew could say. He sat there dumbly, until at last Crow rose, nodded goodbye and headed for the door. Only when the silence of the storeroom rushed in on him did Andrew start up. He almost ran to the door and stared wildly out to the road when Crow was about to get into the squad car. He wanted to call out, tell Crow he was making a mistake, but the words choked in his throat. It was something he could not do; the police wouldn’t make such a mistake; Samson wouldn’t be held responsible . . .

  Crow was in the car, apparently listening to the car radio. He was sitting there, his bald head cocked on one side, like a great black bird of prey, waiting to hurtle out of the sky on its victim. Yet Andrew knew he wasn’t really like that. His voice could be gentle, his eyes calm and sympathetic . . .

  ‘Andrew!’ Crow had replaced the microphone and was leaning out of the car, beckoning. Andrew jerked spasmodically like a puppet in the hands of an inexperienced master, and then he walked towards the car. Crow looked up at him. His eyes seemed black and snapping. ‘Andrew — you know where Horse Bottom Quarry is?’

  His tone was harsh and peremptory. Andrew nodded. ‘Yes. It’s deserted now and—’