Hostage to Death Read online

  Superior Chief Baldo was a small, bouncy man, balding and yet with a luxuriant moustache. He shook hands vigorously and said twice, in passable English, that he was honoured to be meeting a distinguished detective from the world famous Scotland Yard. Rook tried to explain the difference between the Metropolitan and county police forces, but gave up when Baldo said yes he understood and for a third time spoke glowingly of the world-wide reputation of Scotland Yard.

  Coffee was brought to them. Prison coffee was never good, Baldo said, but usually it was hot and on a day inspired by the devil it was good to drink something hot. Was it raining in England? Rook said it had been early that morning. Baldo talked about a visit he had made to England five years before in July when it had rained on every day — it was no wonder the English were such great eaters of roast beef.

  Twenty minutes later, when Rook was feeling so tired that he kept half nodding off, Baldo finally said that they would now interview the prisoner. They left the administrative building and crossed through the rain to the nearest cell-block. On the ground floor, close by one of the watch points manned by an armed guard, was the interview room. Baldo called out an order to the guard before they entered and they had been seated only a couple of minutes when Thomas, handcuffed, was brought in. Baldo spoke in Spanish and the guard left: they heard him take up position outside.

  “You’ll remember me. I’m Detective Inspector Rook,” said Rook.

  Thomas smiled crookedly. “And there was me thinking you was Santa Claus, come with a pardon.”

  “You’re aware that in the flat you were renting in Estopella the police found a large sum of money and that the numbers of the twenty pound notes show these came from the bank in Scranton Cross where you were arrested?”

  “I’m dead ignorant. I don’t know nothing.”

  “The prisoner will be polite and show respect,” said Balbo sharply.

  Thomas looked at him with open hatred.

  “How did you get that money out of the bank?” asked Rook.

  Thomas stared through the barred window at the cheerless scene beyond. Nothing would be more satisfying than to shop Steen, to send him to the nick. But for Steen, he’d not have ended up in Estopella and met that bitch Veronica who’d got tight enough to lift a hundred in twenties and change them openly at a bank in her own name… But to shop Steen was to tell the splits that the money had not been in the suitcase Dutch Keen had withdrawn from the bank and when they knew that they would know the motive for Dutch’s torture and murder. The bank job and the jail break were good for fifteen years, the sentences to run concurrently, but Dutch’s murder was a cert for a lifer — with no remission.

  He spoke in a toneless voice. “I did a deal with Dutch.”

  “When? You were locked up in the bank until we grabbed you.”

  “I reckoned you’d have a tap on the phone so I sent a note out with the bloke who skipped the bank. This bloke’s a bit dumb and he’s easy to pressure, so he never thought of opening the note to see what it was about.”

  “And what was it about?”

  “I asked Dutch if he wanted one grand for the job, or preferred the sound of twenty. He always was a greedy bastard. So he agreed to do the switch.”

  “You decided to swindle your own mob?”

  “Why get excited? I’m not a boy scout.”

  “You’re certainly not that,” said Rook, with grim contempt. “How did he work it?”

  “Dead easy. I’d stowed some sealing-wax and twine from the strong-room under the money. Dutch picked up the suitcase and took off. He used a hot knife to slice through the seals, leaving the impression, cut the twine, took out the money, repacked the case with papers, tied it up like it was, put a bit of sealing-wax on each knot and stuck the tops of the old seals back on. Then he handed the case over. No one noticed nothing when we opened up — they was all too eager to get a look at the money to check the seals that closely.”

  “So Dutch had two hundred and seventy-five thousand?”

  “S’right.”

  “And he got a rush of blood to the head and took off, meaning to leave you in the cold? You had other ideas and grabbed hold of him, put the screws on, and forced him to tell you where the money was?”

  “Give over. D’you think me mug enough to tell you all this if that’s the way it went? Knowing I’d be for a murder rap?”

  “What then?”

  “I don’t know for certain, any more ’n you — and you’re the clever one. But I can guess. He must’ve shouted loud and clear, mustn’t he, about being rich and having twenty grand? Someone got a liking for that twenty grand and screwed the information out of him.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m no grasser.”

  “But you swindled your own mob.”

  “Yeah. But that was between friends, wasn’t it?”

  *

  One of the first things Rook did on his return to Scranton Cross was to telephone the county liaison officer.

  “Look, Cyril,” said the other wearily, “I’ve been on to Spain so often I’m beginning to speak Spanish. Un vino tinto, pronto. They’re always very polite and promise to initiate the investigations immediately, but…”

  “It’s all right, you can cancel the request.”

  “That’s great! That’s dead lovely! I spend days pleading, begging, cajoling, trying to blast some life into them and you…”

  Rook ceased to listen. He wondered how the chief constable regarded the bank job now that so much of the money had been recovered?

  *

  An early, moist spring had brought out the wild flowers in profusion on the mountains and plain of Mallorca and everywhere there was colour.

  Careless of all the beauty, Steen drove down to Puerto Llueyo and parked in front of a newsagent. He went inside and the woman behind the counter smiled at him and searched for his paper among the pile reserved for foreign residents. She handed it to him and he paid her thirty pesetas. He couldn’t really afford that much, especially when the pound was suffering a very bad attack of hiccups, but he had to know what was happening back in England.

  In the car he skimmed the front page, then turned over to the second and immediately saw a poor photograph of Thomas. A pulse in his throat began to hammer. For some reason beyond guessing at, Thomas had not yet told the police the full truth, but if his trial had started then the truth must come out. Steen, not yet reading the text, lowered the paper and looked along the short stretch of road to the harbour. Yachts rode at their berths and behind them, on the far side of the bay, the mountains rose up into the blue sky: a scene of beauty. His mind travelled. Penelope had had only one severe attack of asthma and bronchitis during the winter, an attack that had been controlled solely by antibiotics. No hospitalisation. But now what? Accepting the need to face facts, he’d tried to persuade her to stay on the island for as long as the money lasted after he’d been extradited back to England, but she’d refused to consider the idea. The prison would have visiting hours and unless she were too ill she would be there… He looked away from the harbour and back at the paper. He read, at first not really understanding because he was not concentrating. Then, a sentence jerked his attention and he went back to the beginning of the article and re-read it and finally understood that at the trail Thomas had lied to the police about what had happened to the money in the suitcase in the bank.

  He dropped the paper on to the steering wheel and once more stared out at the harbour. He wanted to shout with joy, to laugh without restraint, but being English he merely put the paper on the other seat, started the engine, and drove away from the kerb. He decided to buy a bottle of champagne at the supermarket so that he and Penelope could drink a toast. To Val Thomas who in the final event had done all he could to make amends for the pain and suffering he had caused in the past.

  Thomas would have been sourly amused by that.

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