Despite the Evidence Read online

  ‘I sleep.’

  ‘The knife was never yours. Thomas pulled it and tried to stab you and the point sliced along your belt and then across your arm.’

  Holmqvist was motionless. Kerr replaced the money in the wallet, the wallet in the coat, and the coat in the locker. At the moment he’d no possible authority for holding the money. Even if he had, and took it back to the station for further checking, it was obvious they’d learn nothing.

  He left the bed and went over to the ward sister, who was sitting at a desk in the centre of the ward and writing up notes. ‘When was the last visiting time?’ he asked. She wasn’t a bad looker: get her out of that stiff uniform and into something . . .

  ‘The hours are printed very clearly downstairs,’ she snapped.

  She wasn’t receiving his appreciation in the same way she’d received Holmqvist’s. Yet he normally never failed to delight. Hell, he must be getting too long in the tooth! ‘This is a police enquiry.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to do about that?’ she demanded.

  ‘Just tell me when the last visiting hours were and save my worn-out legs having to go downstairs.’

  She hesitated, then spoke sulkily. ‘From eleven to twelve this morning.’

  ‘Were you on duty in this ward during that time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see who visited Holmqvist?’

  ‘I’m much too busy to worry about who visits who — especially men like him.’

  ‘A woman spoke to him. Did you see her?’

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Try harder.’

  ‘Then maybe it was the woman I saw coming away from his direction. She was no better than she looked, that’s for sure.’

  ‘D’you mean she was a tart?’

  ‘I wouldn’t use such a word.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s the politest I know.’

  ‘I can believe that.’

  ‘O.K., so I’ve a crude mind. Can you describe this woman?’

  ‘Interested?’

  She was a bitch, thought Kerr. ‘Only in a professional sense, love.’

  ‘She was very made up. Someone like you might even call her good-looking. Her dress was obviously expensive and much too good for her.’

  Kerr grinned. Jealousy was rearing its ugly head. ‘Did you see the colour of her hair or eyes, the kind of nose, and so on?’

  ‘She had red hair, but I was far too busy to notice anything else.’

  He had been asking questions more from a sense of routine than because he thought her description could possibly help in identifying the person who seemingly had bribed Holmqvist to alter his evidence, but at the mention of red hair he immediately thought of Paula Stokes.

  *

  The bartender in the Green Man was positive that Thomas had not pulled out a knife to start the fight. The knife had belonged to Holmqvist and fallen to the floor by accident. Thomas had picked it up, and Holmqvist, in hitting Thomas, had cut his arm on the knife. A bribe? The bartender’s voice rose. He’d sue for slander anyone who accused him of taking a bribe.

  *

  Fusil listened to Kerr’s report and then swore with feeling. ‘Why couldn’t you have either uncovered a lot more or a lot less?’ he demanded.

  ‘I did what I could, sir.’

  ‘And that badly,’ snapped Fusil ungenerously. He crossed to his chair behind the desk and slumped down in it. It had started as an ordinary affray in the dock area, the kind of incident that was reported at least fifty times a year. But now, thanks to Kerr, it seemed the Swede with the unpronounceable name had been bribed to change his evidence and the person behind the bribe could be Tarbard.

  Tarbard was haunting them. If a man stepped off the pavement, tripped, and broke his ankle, within twenty-four hours it was a thousand to one someone would turn up something to suggest Tarbard had pushed him. ‘Goddamn it, that nurse’s description would fit any red head in Fortrow.’

  ‘She was described as looking like a tart, sir.’

  ‘All that means is she was better turned out than the nurse can afford to be.’ Fusil picked up a brass paper-knife and twisted it round in his long, shapely fingers. ‘The nurse didn’t even see this red-head speak to Holmqvist?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And you haven’t an atom of proof that even if she did, she gave him the hundred quid?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Or that the money was a bribe?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Goddamn it, it’s nothing but “No, sir”.’ Fusil dropped the paper-knife with a clatter and picked up the records file on Thomas. ‘Have you read this?’ He pushed it across his desk.

  Kerr looked quickly through the photographs, biography, and list of previous convictions. Thomas had led an apparently honest life until he was twenty-four, serving at sea as a wireless operator, then he’d come ashore and started a radio and TV business with a friend. The business had begun to fail and Thomas had resorted to fraud to try to save it. Eventually found out, the lenient judge had put him on probation. Thomas must have taken this leniency as a sign that crime did pay because within the next ten years he’d been convicted of three fairly serious crimes and was suspected of having taken part in several more.

  When Kerr looked up, Fusil said: ‘Is there anything there to hint at the possibility of any sort of tie-up with Tarbard?’

  ‘Not on the face of it, sir.’

  ‘Was he ever in the same jail at the same time?’

  Kerr checked back on the list of previous convictions. ‘There’s no overlap here. Thomas has done all his bird up north: Tarbard was in nick down south.’

  ‘So what possible connection can there be?’

  ‘The obvious one — that Thomas is needed for the job they’re going to do. And since Tarbard’s gone to the trouble and risk of bribing Holmqvist, he must be getting ready to do the job soon.’

  Fusil picked up the paper-knife again. ‘I heard from a reliable source that he’s selling the club and the deal’s either completed or about to be.’

  ‘Then that proves it,’ said Kerr excitedly.

  ‘Proves? It proves nothing.’ He turned the knife round and round. ‘Maybe I can hold Thomas until we can discover something more definite.’ He didn’t sound as if he believed this was really possible. ‘You must have thought about it? What do you reckon the big job could be?’

  Kerr shook his head. ‘It could be so many things. Maybe a bank.’

  ‘And maybe it’s nothing.’

  *

  Kywood usually visited both divisions at least once every week-end, not because of a keen sense of duty but because he was always scared that something big might break and put him in a tricky position without his knowing about it.

  He sat in front of Fusil’s desk and drank the coffee the cadet had a few minutes before brought up on a battered wooden tray. ‘Things aren’t too bright in this division at the moment, Bob.’

  Fusil stuffed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.

  ‘You haven’t come to any further conclusions concerning Aspinall’s death?’

  ‘How can I?’ asked Fusil. ‘You know the facts as well as I do. The pathologist can’t say for certain whether the crack to the back of the skull was given before the cliff fall, although he thinks it probably was. That leaves us without knowing whether we’re dealing with murder, suicide, or accident. The London police still haven’t come up with anything useful, though I’ve been on to ’em again and again.’

  ‘But have you attempted to find out what Aspinall was doing down here, in Fortrow?’

  Fusil sighed. ‘Yes, sir . . . without any success.’ He struck a match and sucked flame into the pipe.

  ‘On top of that case, Quenton and Cantor are still free from the prison break and you haven’t been able to arrest Hagan or Uden.’

  ‘We ought to get them sooner or later.’

  Kywood’s voice sharpened. ‘I’m very concerned with the bad publicity the force is getting.
What about that ridiculous story that you were hunting vampires?’

  ‘You can hardly blame me for that. It wasn’t I who ordered the stakes.’

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Kywood stood up. ‘I’m not satisfied, Bob. You’ve got dozens of unsolved crimes in this division and yet all you seem to be able to do is point to evidence that wouldn’t hang a cat and claim it proves Tarbard is mixed up in every one of them.’

  Fusil’s pipe had already gone out. He separated the stem and blew down it. A wad of goo came out.

  Kywood fidgeted with his thick lower lip as he waited for Fusil to say something. When the silence continued, he stepped forward to the desk. ‘All right, let’s see the Crime Book.’

  Fusil passed it across to him.

  ‘This knifing down at the docks — looks straightforward. Is it all wrapped up?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ Kywood thrust forward his heavy chin. ‘You’re not going to try and pull Tarbard into this as well, I hope?’

  Fusil drew in a deep breath before he spoke.

  Chapter Nineteen

  No one could miss the approach of Christmas. Even beyond the main shopping area the roads were unusually packed with traffic, the pavements seethed with people, shop windows were decorated with holly, cotton wool, paper stars, and other traditional decorations, toy Father Christmases were all over the place, and people were exhorted to buy, buy, buy: the occasional church also reminded those who bothered to look that Christmas was coming.

  As the bus came to a stop, halting behind a long line of vehicles which was waiting to pass the traffic lights, Kerr stared down at the throng of people and felt very unChristmasy. The bus trip should have taken half an hour to get to the top of Helen’s road, but it had already taken that long and still there were two miles to go. Would he ever arrive in time for tea?

  The traffic jerked forward. The bus ground on in low gear, the whole body vibrating. When within fifty yards of the lights, they changed to red. The bus stopped behind a Mini. Kerr lit a cigarette. Perhaps Mrs. Barley had baked some scones. Nothing could beat a crisp, light, home-made scone, its inside golden with melted butter. Mr. Barley, unfortunately, liked them very much. Would he hog the lot?

  The lights changed to green, but a car trying to turn right snarled up the traffic so effectively that the bus was not able to move more than ten yards before the lights changed back to red.

  At this rate, thought Kerr gloomily, he’d be lucky to make supper. A fitting end to a lousy day. He watched a blonde walk along the pavement, a shopping basket in her right hand. She disappeared in the crowds. She’d undoubtedly make someone very happy tonight. Just about where he’d lost sight of her was a cinema. Above the grandiose canopy, relic of a happier time, was a large sign in red and blue lettering on a white background saying that bingo was played on Monday, Thursday, and Friday evenings, and Tuesday, Wednesday, and Saturday afternoons. Films were shown on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Saturday evenings. Something about part of those sequences seemed to have a familiar ring, but he couldn’t place what. Certainly he’d never played bingo.

  The bus moved on, passed the lights, reached the end of the road and turned right, leaving behind the shops. Within a quarter of a mile it was passing through roads that were wholly residential.

  The sequence of days kept niggling his mind. He began to repeat them, in a primitive rhythm, and irritatingly couldn’t stop when this bored him. What the hell was the significance? He and Helen sometimes went to the flics, but then it was to one of the main cinemas which still showed films every day.

  He tapped the ash from his cigarette and suddenly realised that although he had hardly smoked, it was three parts burned away. What a waste! And all because his mind couldn’t get away from Monday, Thursday, Friday . . . Monday, Thursday, Friday . . .

  He was one stop short of Helen’s road when the answer suddenly came to him. The thefts at the Glazebrook factory had taken place on those days — the days at which bingo was played in the evenings at the cinema. What was more, that cinema hadn’t been all that far from the factory.

  He left the bus and began to walk down Prior Lane, then halted close by a street light. Hadn’t someone at the factory made some mention of bingo? He shook his head. What if they had?

  He continued and came to the white painted gate of No. 16. It squealed slightly as he opened it. A further thought struck him and he stood still, holding the gate open against the spring. When he’d been young, he’d read the Sherlock Holmes stories over and over again and one of the incidents that had always remained in his mind was the dog that didn’t bark. A negative could be every bit as important as a positive and he realised he’d been faced by a vital negative in the Glazebrook factory case and yet had entirely missed seeing it. Williams hadn’t created hell the second time the works manager had insisted on examining the hands of all the workers.

  He went through the gateway and let the gate slam shut behind him, walked up the path, and rang the bell. When Helen opened the front door he said: ‘I’ve got to rush off, darling. Shan’t be long.’

  ‘But we’ve kept tea specially waiting for you.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to skip it.’

  ‘John — are you all right?’ She was frowning.

  ‘Never felt better,’ he answered.

  *

  Tarbard, together with Paula, sat at the table which had been reserved for him and watched the cabaret. The girl with a mole on her left breast came close to the table and waggled everything she’d got. She was very crude, he thought scornfully: she made it far too clear that the day he got fed up with Paula, she’d be waiting. She hadn’t the sense to realise he disliked crudity. He sipped the champagne.

  Paula poured herself out another full glass of cognac from the bottle she’d ordered the waiter to leave on the table. She was looking angry and sulky because of the girl with the mole: she was ever ready to betray and therefore ever ready to be betrayed. He smiled to himself. When he sent her packing she’d believe herself betrayed and would never understand that her successful rival had been wealth and not another woman.

  The club was now sold. His net profit was a shade over eight thousand pounds. No one else in his family could have carried out such a successful business deal — they’d have lost eight thousand, not made it. The buyers, two Italians and a Greek, had tried to force the price down, but he’d judged their limit with unerring accuracy.

  The eight thousand was no more than a flea bite. He was about to make a fortune. For eighteen months, from the time of the first two-line announcement in the newspapers, he’d planned and worked and now, despite major set-backs, he was ready. The collection of modern jewellery was insured for two and a half million pounds: the intrinsic value of the diamonds alone was over one million. Soon he’d have his hill to stand on and from which he’d survey his land.

  The cabaret finished and the main lights were switched on. The murmur of conversation rose, waiters scurried between the tables, the wine waiter tried to be in five places at once, and two couples rose to leave.

  ‘Let’s get moving,’ said Paula.

  ‘Not yet,’ he answered.

  ‘What’s the point in staying?’

  ‘I want to.’ He noticed the sullen lines deepen about her mouth. She finished her drink and refilled the glass. The bottle, full when brought to the table, was now half-empty. Perhaps she thought that what he really wanted was to see the second half of the cabaret and the girl with the mole again.

  The wine waiter came up to the table and, with a flourish, emptied the bottle of champagne into Tarbard’s glass. The waiter asked if there was anything else he’d like — another bottle of champagne, some more cognac, a cigar . . .? Tarbard ordered him away with a flick of the finger. He liked deference, but not servility. He twisted the stem of the glass round in his fingers. Three days to becoming a millionaire and the police without a single clue as to what was go
ing on under their very noses.

  *

  Williams lived in a small modern bungalow on the east side of an estate. He switched on the porch light and opened the front door. When he saw Kerr he was first surprised, then angry. ‘What the bleeding ’ell do you want?’ His nasal voice became shrill. Because he was much shorter than Kerr, and was close to him, he had to look upwards which brought his pointed chin up at even more of an angle.

  ‘D’you mind if I come in, Mr. Williams?’

  ‘I do, and that’s straight. A bloke’s a right to privacy and I’m not standing by and letting you——’

  Kerr quietly interrupted him. ‘Shall I go back to the station for a search warrant, then?’

  Williams seemed physically to shrink until he became just a little man who was worried sick.

  Kerr stepped inside and closed the door. The hall was newly decorated and simply but effectively furnished: the wooden floor was so highly polished that it reflected walls and ceiling in some detail.

  Williams slid his tongue round his lips. ‘What d’you want?’ he muttered, pathetically trying to make out he didn’t know.

  ‘May I have a word with your wife?’

  ‘She ain’t in.’

  ‘When will she be returning?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  As if to mock his words, there was a strident call from the sitting-room. ‘Who’s that? If it’s Mary, tell her to come on in and don’t keep her out there in the cold.’

  ‘Is she your wife?’ asked Kerr.

  Dumbly, Williams nodded. He turned, and with slumped shoulders led the way into the sitting-room. Mrs. Williams was sitting in front of a well-banked-up fire, knitting. She was a shade plump, wore severe spectacles, and had a thin, straight mouth. Her general expression suggested it was a long time since she had found much right with the world. She studied Kerr, still knitting rapidly. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, no trace of welcome in her voice.

  ‘Detective Constable Kerr of the borough C.I.D.’

  She looked past him at her husband and her look said that there stood one of the world’s fools.