Betrayed by Death Page 11

  Menton might not have heard the denial. “You first tried to get Jones to incriminate himself by using a D.C. brought in from another division. But Jones was smart enough to know a split even if he’d never set eyes on him before. So that left you with only one way of breaking through his guard. To employ a villain. You, a detective inspector, used a villain to slip the spoon to Jones so that you’d be able to force him to tell you who’d sold him the silver plaque.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t give me that crap. You’ve never learned that police investigations have to observe the rules of justice or justice ceases to be. You think your job is just to catch criminals, period. It isn’t. It’s to catch criminals while observing all the conditions of your work.”

  “Suppose that’s absolutely correct,” said Fusil. “How far have the police managed to get in identifying the murderer while working within all the rules and regulations?”

  “That’s immaterial.”

  “Tell that to the parents of the kids who’ve gone missing. Tell that to the parents of the kids who’ll go missing if the murderer isn’t caught.”

  “We have to work legally.” For the first time there was a note of defence in Menton’s voice.

  “What does justice men if it doesn’t mean the protection of the innocent? What do the parents of any of those boys care about the rules of evidence which have been laid down by politicians who despise the victims or evolved by judges who’ve never seen crime in the raw, only whitewashed and sterile in court?”

  “Be quiet.”

  Fusil slumped back in his chair.

  Menton said harshly: “Do you admit passing the apostle spoon to a villain in order to entrap Jones?”

  “I do not.”

  “It is perfectly obvious that that’s what you did.”

  “Things are often obvious to a policeman, aren’t they, but until he can prove them in a court of law there’s nothing he can do about it.”

  Menton’s cheeks became mottled red. He ran the palm of his right hand over his sleek black hair. “You’re riding a tiger,” he said harshly.

  “I’d rather take that risk than stand about and do nothing whilst more kids disappear.”

  “A policeman —” He stopped, finally recognizing that neither of them would, or could, understand the other’s point of view. He spoke more calmly. “You’ll make a full report in writing, with particular reference to the fact that you twice withdrew articles from Property and failed to sign the book. You’ll submit the report to me within the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Of course.”

  Menton’s cheeks reddened again. In a subtle way, too subtle to allow him to express his angry resentment, Fusil had yet again shown his insolent contempt for orthodoxy and rules.

  *

  Fusil drove into the station courtyard and parked. As he climbed out of the car, he saw Kerr, clearly on his way home, about to get into a Mini. He called Kerr across. “I want a word with you inside.”

  Kerr said: “As a matter of fact, sir, I was just off.”

  “And now you’ve changed your mind.”

  Kerr was a good loser. He’d been leaving early — but with a very good excuse which regrettably had not been asked for — because he’d promised to take Helen to the cinema.

  They went into the building and up the back stairs to Fusil’s room. “Smoke if you want to,” said Fusil, as he sat. He brought out his pipe, checked on the state of the bowl, pulled open the right-hand top drawer of the desk and found a pen-knife which he used to scrape the bowl. “How’s Jones making out?”

  “He’s still ploughing his way through the mug shots, but there’s been no luck so far.”

  Fusil tapped the ask from his pipe into an ashtray. “I had Mr Menton here this afternoon.”

  “Yes, I saw him.”

  “He’s proved to be remarkably well informed about what goes on in this division.” He looked at Kerr. Kerr busied himself with lighting a cigarette. “He knew about the tea-pot, which I suppose isn’t very extraordinary. But he also reckoned he knew all about the tea-spoon, which is — who told him?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Crap!”

  “I still wouldn’t know.”

  Fusil packed the bowl of the pipe with tobacco. “I’ve always seen us in the C.I.D. as being a special, élite unit with our own loyalties. I’m old enough to value loyalty beyond most things. It seems someone else isn’t.”

  “People can panic.”

  “Over what?”

  “Over what the consequences might be.”

  “Might be? If you stopped to work out all the might-bes to life, you’d get so scared you’d cut your own throat to end it all.”

  “Some people do get that scared. They don’t cut their throats, though.”

  “No. They get on to their uncles. Did you tell Yarrow what happened?”

  “I’ve told nobody anything,” retorted Kerr sharply.

  “It wasn’t likely, but I had to ask.” Fusil smiled briefly, but warmly. “You think like me.”

  Kerr knew a warm pride.

  Fusil leaned back in his chair. “If Mr Menton finds the evidence he’s after, there’ll be an enquiry into my conduct. And it doesn’t matter what you or I call it, authority must call it totally wrong. You’ll have to tell the truth at the enquiry.”

  “What truth, sir?”

  “About the apostle spoon and the means I used to get it through to Jones.”

  “I don’t know anything about any spoon.”

  You couldn’t buy loyalty, Fusil thought: you could only thank God when it was offered to you.

  *

  Jones said wearily: “I’m beginning to see two of everything.”

  “Have another cup of char?” suggested the P.C., who sat in the interview room with him.

  “Not likely.” He slammed shut the big, square, cloth-bound book of photographs.

  The P.C. stood. “Ready for the next volume?”

  “I’ve had it.”

  “Only four more to look through.” The P.C. picked up the heavy book from the table and carried it across to a chair, on the seat of which were six similar ones. He then lifted up the top book from a second chair and put this on the table, in front of Jones. He opened the cover to show the first page in which were photographs of two men — each man seen right and left profile and full face — who were identified only by reference numbers. “There we are. Everyone one of ’em somebody’s Paul Newman.”

  Jones yawned, briefly studied the faces, turned the page. Fat men, thin men, happy men, sad men, handsome men, ugly men . . . “Here. I reckon that’s him,” he said suddenly.

  The P.C., who’d been lolling in a chair, his mind far away, jerked himself upright.

  Jones studied the three photographs. “He’s younger here. And — don’t quite know how to put it — not so knowing. But it’s him, near enough.”

  The P.C. wrote down the reference number.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In his office, Fusil put the internal telephone down. He checked on the time and saw to his surprise that it was just after nine, and then he stood and walked over to look out of the window: on the opposite side of the road the old Victorian houses were half in shadow because one of the street lights was not working. Jones had identified Miles Thompson, but the identification had not been as definite as it might have been. Records had just given a verbal on Thompson: minor offences — vandalism and thefts — when young, one theft of medium size seven years ago, then nothing. Vandalism often indicated a disturbed youth. Dr Kirstan had suggested it likely that the murderer had had a disturbed youth. Thompson had graduated from minor thefts to a medium-sized one: whoever had broken into the nine country houses had been an accomplished thief. (The tenth theft had failed, surely, because of mental turmoil, not incompetence?) So to judge from these facts, Thompson could well be the murderer. But on so few facts it was, if one observed precedents, irresponsible to come to any conclusion.

&
nbsp; It was quite clear, he knew, what he should do now. Phone Menton and report. It was equally clear how Menton would react to the news of the identification. The evidence was too slim for any immediate action concerning Thompson to be taken and therefore further enquiries must be made, because if Thompson were alerted to the fact that he was suspected before there was the evidence to arrest him, or reasonable expectation of immediately uncovering that evidence, he might cover his tracks so well that he never could be brought to justice. But all the time he had no idea he was suspected he was liable to set off once again in search of a victim.

  If he did know that he was under suspicion then undoubtedly he would initially be sufficiently scared not to dare to search for a fresh victim.

  From the police’s long-term point of view he must not be alerted; from any humane short-term view, he must be.

  Fusil lit his pipe. By taking the silver from Property, he had put his career at risk. If he now, without reporting to Menton, questioned Thompson and from that questioning learned nothing fresh, then Menton would do his damndest to bring his career to an end. Yet could he live with himself if a tenth boy disappeared because he had not acted, being too concerned with his own career?

  *

  North Moor Road, in South Farnleigh, was ineptly named — nothing could have been less like the clean space of a windswept moor than the curving road of huddled back-to-back houses: even at night, when shadows hid some of the scars, there was no missing the fact that this street had been born in poverty.

  Fusil braked his car to a stop. “You’ve got the picture? We take it fairly easily.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kerr wanted to suggest that Fusil took things very, very easily. But he said nothing, certain that any such suggestion from him would be met with angry scorn.

  They left the car and crossed the pavement. Fusil knocked on the recently painted front door. After a while, a woman inside called out: “Who is it?”

  “We’re police officers,” replied Fusil. “If you’d like, I’ll put my warrant card through the letter-box to prove my identity.”

  “What d’you want?”

  “May we come inside so that I can tell you?”

  They heard the snap of a lock being turned and the rasp of bolts being withdrawn. The door was opened. Quite independently, their first sight of Mrs Thompson reminded each of them of an elderly relative, survivor from a ladylike era.

  Fusil held out his warrant card, but she looked down at it too briefly to have read it even had she been wearing glasses. She said for the second time: “What is it you want?”

  “We’d like to have a word with your son, if he’s at home.”

  “He — he’s not in,” she said, desperately trying to lie convincingly.

  Fusil replaced his warrant card in its plastic container. There was a door to the right of the narrow passage, and from behind it came the sound of music. “Is he in there?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “May we go in?”

  A programme of dancing was on the television and the screen was filled with colour and swirling movement. Thompson, with the laziness of the pampered son, looked up as they entered, but did not rise to his feet. Mitzy, who was on his lap, began to bark.

  Silver grey and tan dog hairs, Fusil thought.

  “They’re police officers,” she said.

  Thompson was so shocked he looked almost stupid.

  “They want to speak to you.” Her voice became querulous. “They shouldn’t have come so late at night.”

  “D’you mind if we take our coats off and sit?” asked Fusil. He removed his short-length overcoat, folded it up, sat on the settee, and rested the coat on his knees. Kerr settled in one of the arm-chairs.

  “Perhaps we could have the television off?” suggested Fusil.

  Thompson weakly looked at his mother. She picked up the remote control and pressed the off button. The picture faded.

  “I wonder if you’d object very much, Mrs Thompson, if we spoke to your son on his own?”

  “Don’t go, Ma,” said Thompson wildly.

  She’d have stayed if it could have helped, but she was so scared for his sake that she was certain she’d betray him if she stayed. “I’ll make myself a cup of tea,” she said, in a small, tight voice. She left the room.

  Fusil studied Thompson for a while, letting the silence become more and more ominous. Then, finally, he said: “We’re making certain enquiries.”

  Thompson, his long, thin fingers moving jerkily, began to fondle Mitzy’s head.

  “They concern a series of robberies from country houses. That used to be your speciality, didn’t it?”

  “I’ve been going straight ever since I came out,” he said hoarsely.

  “I suppose you’ve got a job, then?”

  “Some — sometimes.”

  “What do you do when you are working?”

  “Clerking.”

  “From the look of the stuff in this room, it must be very well paid clerking.”

  “I don’t spend. No car, no pubs.”

  “And no lady friends?”

  The question might easily have been a completely casual one. Thompson was unable to accept it as such. “Of course I’ve got lady friends,” he said, with far too much emphasis.

  “But you’ve never married?”

  “I’ve got Ma to look after.”

  “Of course. To get back to these robberies. There’ve been nine successful and one unsuccessful.”

  Thompson’s fingers increased their rate of jerky movement.

  “The last, and unsuccessful, robbery was on the night of the fifteenth of last month: a Wednesday.”

  Kerr said: “Funny thing about that. The first nine were as neat as you like and then the tenth one was a right old b.u. I wonder what got him all confused?”

  They stared at Thompson as if expecting an answer. His gaze flicked from carpet to wall, wall to fire, fire to T.V. set, T.V. set to Mitzy.

  “Just as a matter of interest, where were you on the fifteenth?”

  “Here.” His voice changed pitch half-way through the word.

  “By that, you mean in this house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you in all night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Quite certain you never went out at all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there anyone who can corroborate that?”

  “Ma can.”

  “Your mother,” said Fusil, almost sadly. “You can stretch a mother’s loyalty, can’t you, but normally you can never quite snap it. Isn’t there anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a pity.”

  “I tell you, I was here.”

  “What time did your mother go to bed?” asked Kerr.

  “Same time as always.”

  “What is when?”

  “Around half ten.”

  “So she can’t say where you were after half ten?”

  “I was in bed.”

  Fusil said: “There was a robbery in a house in Cransham on the sixth of July of last year. Know anything about that?”

  “No.”

  “One of the things nicked was a small silver plaque, made by a seventeenth-century Dutchman. It’s tiny, but the experts say it’s worth seventy-five thousand. D’you know something about that?”

  “No.”

  “Ever met a bloke by the name of Roger Jones?” asked Kerr.

  Thompson lowered his head.

  “He says you sold him the plaque.”

  “I don’t know him. I’ve never sold him anything.”

  “Curious sort of thing to say if it’s not true,” commented Fusil.

  “Tell you another curious thing,” said Kerr, in the same easy voice. “The night the plaque was nicked in Cransham, a boy disappeared from Highford.”

  Thompson made a sound which resembled a whimper.

  “And even curiouser, each time one of the houses was done a boy went missing. Except on the twenty-secon
d of last month when a boy just missed being picked up: that was the night of the b.u. we were telling you about.”

  They watched him.

  Fusil spoke in the grave, confidential voice of a consultant. “We know the full score. How you nicked all that silver to cover up your real reason for going out — that if anyone saw you around they wouldn’t start putting two and two together. We also know that you can’t really help what you’ve done to all those boys — there’s just something inside your brain which you can’t control, isn’t there?”

  He shook his head violently.

  “Face facts — it’ll make everything so much easier for yourself. Until now you’ve had to live with this all on your own, but share it with us and we’ll help.”

  “No,” he shouted. “I don’t know anything. D’you hear? I haven’t touched any kids.”

  Fusil shrugged his shoulders. He spoke with seeming indifference. “Just as you like. Stand up.”

  “Why?”

  Fusil waited.

  Slowly, he picked up Mitzy and put her on the ground, then stood. Mitzy jumped back up on to the chair.

  “Put your arms out horizontally.”

  He stretched out his arms.

  Fusil stood and crossed to where Thompson was and reached out. Thompson flinched. Fusil pulled back the sleeves of his coat and shirt. There were no scars or scratches from defence wounds, of the kind often inflicted on the assailant in a sexual assault.

  “Strip,” ordered Fusil.

  “I won’t.”

  “Give him a hand.”

  Kerr had no time to move before Thompson — as if he feared immediate violence — began to undress with such speed that he became all fingers and thumbs, tugging wildly at buttons which refused to slip through their button-holes or at a zip which jammed. Finally, he stood naked in the middle of the carpet. His body was white and slack. It bore no signs of even the most trivial of injuries.

  “You can get dressed again,” said Fusil. “And when you’re ready, we’ll search the house.”

  Thompson turned away from them as he dressed: it was clear that he was now as much embarrassed as frightened.

  They left and went up the steep stairs, which were thickly carpeted. There was a minute landing, off which led two bedrooms and a tiny bathroom.