Murder is Suspected (C.I.D. Room Book 10) Read online

  “Hullo, Pete, how’s the world?” asked the forensic scientist.

  “Hasn’t changed much, worse luck,” Braddon replied. He had a slow speaking voice and that, taken in conjunction with his heavy, bulldog-looking face, sometimes misled people into believing he wasn’t very intelligent.

  “Stop the world, I want to change tracks, eh? Don’t we all, these days! …About the Evans case. Those slithers of glass almost certainly came from a car’s headlight, but we can’t say positively.”

  “If we find the broken headlight, will you be able to identify?”

  “Probably not. Now cars are using sealed-beam units it’s become bloody difficult to make a definite matching. The best we’ll be able to say is that the glass is exactly similar. The glass manufacturers have got so good at their job that there’s no readily discernible difference between one batch of glass and the next and you get a run of thousands of units all the same.”

  “What about the traces from the bicycle?”

  “There’s nothing there to cheer you up. The only traces of consequence are the flecks of paint and unfortunately we haven’t a scraping which goes right down to the primer, so we can’t give a complete build-up of the various coats which might offer a positive identification. We could have good luck with a spectrographic comparison, but…”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Not a damn thing. The bike just didn’t gouge out enough from the car for us to be able to help much. Your best bet is to hope that the car got more damaged than you reckon. It could have happened. It’s odd how often a much heavier vehicle does get bashed around.”

  “So far, we haven’t a single vehicle in our sights. The victim didn’t see it, the only eyewitnesses were too shocked to gain more than a general impression and they’re not even certain about the first three registration letters.” Braddon sighed. “Well, thanks for the call. I suppose you’ll be sending on a G report?”

  He said goodbye and replaced the receiver. It was a dead case, he thought. Even if they found the car, the driver would probably be a good enough liar to talk his way out of it.

  *

  The report on the tyre impression arrived by the afternoon post. The tyre had been a Michelin X 135 SR. It was impossible to say how worn the tread was, although the sharpness of the impression suggested a fairly new tyre. The impression displayed no special, significant characteristics.

  *

  Only Kerr was in the C.I.D. general room when he typed out the final report on the Evans case. He struck an M when he needed an N and swore, used a patch to erase the M and then promptly typed another one. If he’d wanted to become a typist, he thought resentfully, he’d have joined the civil service.

  He worked the space bar, indented for a new paragraph, and continued. “All possible enquiries have been made amongst garages and vehicle-repair shops and none have reported repairing the nearside front wing of a small, white saloon, possibly of hatchback styling. All sales of headlamp units since the twelfth of this month have been checked and accounted for.” He pulled the form free, together with two carbon copies, checked through the report, and signed all three copies as investigating officer.

  He carried that report, and two others, through to the D.I.’s office and, since Fusil was out, left them on the desk.

  Two hours later Fusil returned, hot and rather out of temper. When he saw the pile of reports on his desk — Kerr had not been the only one to leave some — he swore. All police officers hated paperwork, but he hated it more than most because he only felt he was really doing his job when he was out in the field.

  He sat down and read the reports, signing each one and the copies as detective in charge. When he’d finished, he pushed them to one side with an impatient gesture. Tomorrow morning, someone would take the top copies to borough H.Q. and hand them on to Detective Chief Inspector Kywood. Kywood would read them, initial them, and take them in to the chief constable. If the chief constable had any sense, he’d sling the bloody lot into the nearest wastepaper basket.

  Chapter 3

  Over the past thirty years, the Fortrow Borough Constabulary had become more and more of an anachronism since all other small forces had been amalgamated with larger ones until there were only county and metropolitan forces and there was even talk of the need for one national force. Fortrow Borough Constabulary owed its inception and its continued anachronistic existence to the vagaries of history. After the Civil War, Cromwell had divided up the country into twelve districts and placed each under a major-general, who was given a force of men drawn from the militia to help keep civil order. This force was nowhere more unpopular than in Fortrow and on one infamous day seven of the leading citizens were hanged on suspicion of their being in league with the dissenters. This led to an uprising which was put down with the utmost severity. Fortrow became known as Old Ironside’s leaky codpiece, a nickname that was said to cause him ‘great internal misery’.

  Charles II had not been on the throne for many weeks before he asked to meet the faithful, brave, and vigorous citizens of Fortrow and they, being quick-witted, presented themselves before the king and asked him to accept their humble gift of some moneys and swore eternal fidelity to the throne. Immensely gratified, he had drawn up a charter in which he promised Fortrow the right of self-government henceforth and ever more in so far as local matters were concerned.

  In 1835, when towns and cities were empowered to form their own police forces to try to stem the rising incidence of crime and rioting throughout the country, Fortrow formed the Fortrow Borough Constabulary but it was made quite clear that this was done under the powers of the royal charter, not under the act of 1835.

  Inspectors of Constabulary were appointed and they visited other forces to report to the Home Secretary on standards of efficiency, but no inspector was ever permitted officially to visit Fortrow. In 1888 small boroughs were compelled to merge their police forces with the county ones and Fortrow refused to be merged. Later, when other forces were receiving financial help from the government, an attempt was made to bring Fortrow into line by offering the town council a stick or a carrot — continue refusing to be merged and no grant would be made to the town, allow the merger and there would be a full grant to ease the financial burden on the town. The stick was scorned, the carrot rejected.

  In 1942 the Home Secretary was empowered to merge smaller forces within counties. This legislation was extended and made permanent in 1946. The Home Secretary of the day instructed his legal advisers to end the Fortrow Borough Constabulary, but to their sharp annoyance they found that only a special act of parliament, abrogating the royal charter, or a voluntary request for amalgamation from Fortrow, could have legal validity. An act of parliament was considered, but there were now currents of politics which confused the issue. The right of Fortrow to keep their borough force under the terms of the royal charter had become, in the eyes of many, to be the right of the individual to stand up against the state, to be a monarchist in a world increasingly republican. The politicians suddenly found that they could not force through the necessary legislation without putting themselves in the invidious position of being seen to wish to destroy royal history and personal freedom. (It was noted — of course — that if ever there were a major scandal within the force then the whole picture changed: politicians are very clever at overturning idols with feet of clay, whilst keeping their own feet firmly out of sight.)

  Not that everyone in Fortrow was happy with the situation. There were ratepayers who objected to the extra rates which had to be paid, serving officers who were bitter about their reduced chances of promotion in so small a force, and there were even people who merely wanted to sling mud in the eye of Charles II: but nothing had ever happened to bring all these objectors together.

  *

  Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Bodmin Grant, D.S.O., late of the 16th Gurkha Rifles, Indian Army, 6ft 1/2in. tall, sixty-three years of age and as slimly upright as when he had been twenty-three. Round face with slightly bulb
ous cheeks, a mottled complexion which suggested many chota-pegs, neatly clipped moustache, hard blue eyes, straight-lined eyebrows, greying hair receding, a sharp decisive voice, often pitched a shade too loudly: Colonel-Sahib from Poona?

  Grant often seemed to live in the past because he so obviously believed in the values which had then pertained, yet he was not automatically contemptuous of present-day values, unless these made for slackness of character. He believed in loyalty, truthfulness, service, and patriotism, but could understand the need for youth always to be revolting (he would laugh in staccato fashion at this simple play on words). He had accepted the post of chief constable of the Fortrow Constabulary not only because it offered continuing employment and eventually a second pension but also because it gave him the chance to go on serving. He had worked hard at learning how to become an efficient chief constable at a time when amateur chief constables were fast becoming history.

  If there were two ways of doing something and one might — within the force — reflect adversely in the eyes of those who mattered, he would sensibly choose the other way. Yet if ever he had to choose between supporting a man under his command and bucking the watch committee, he would buck the watch committee: to command was to give one’s loyalty, regardless of consequences.

  He liked the trappings of command, even though he had no need of them merely to support his own ego. His office was furnished in discreetly luxurious style: his desk was executive size, the blotter was of tooled leather, the silver cigar box was attractively engraved, the large, patterned carpet was of excellent quality. It was he who had insisted on the portraits and photographs of past chief constables being re-framed in matching frames.

  He arrived at the H.Q. building at eight-thirty each morning. At a quarter to nine, a P.C. brought him a cup of coffee with milk, but no sugar. At nine, Detective Chief Inspector Kywood reported to him.

  On Monday, the twenty-third, Kywood knocked on the door and entered the room. “Morning, sir.”

  “Morning, Kywood. Bit of a better day, eh?”

  “Looks like it, sir.” Kywood had been carrying a number of files and he now put them on the desk. “These are the usual weekend reports, sir.” The chief constable told him to sit and he brought up one of the Georgian-style chairs to the far side of the desk.

  “Has anything serious happened over the weekend?” the chief constable asked.

  “Just the usual run of trouble, except for an attempt by an armed man to break into a house in Dritlington last night. The wife — her husband’s abroad — scared him off with a dog.”

  “Can she identify the man?”

  “Almost certainly not. She was scared stiff and so what she remembers isn’t going to help us. The house is in a large garden and the neighbours didn’t know anything was going on.”

  “Every other villain seems to be arming himself these days. Where on earth is it all going to end?”

  It had obviously been a rhetorical question, but Kywood chose to answer it. “In very big trouble. I’m afraid, sir.”

  Grant nodded.

  “I’ve had a letter from county, sir. They’re again asking for extended statistics.” A petulant note crept into his voice. “We just can’t cope with giving them. I keep telling them that.”

  “Are you sure we can’t manage?”

  “Not unless we take men off other duties. Or employ more civilian workers.”

  Grant wouldn’t permit the first and couldn’t authorise the second. “Very well, I’ll write and say it’s impossible.”

  Kywood leaned forward and touched the files he had earlier placed on the desk. “These are the latest short reports, sir, along with the full reports on one or two cases which are going to have to be put on ice.” He paused, his strongly featured, square-chinned face falsely giving an impression of strength of character. “I’m afraid our clear-up rate appears to be slipping slightly.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s hard to be too precise. I’m certain it’s not a case of slackness — I’d naturally be on to that right away. It’s probably because we’ve been getting a disproportionate number of difficult cases all in at once. And then, of course, the volume of crime has risen steeply and we just can’t give the individual cases the time they need.”

  Grant looked across the desk. “Keep a very close eye on things.”

  Kywood waited, then raised several specific problems. These were dealt with by Grant in his usual brisk, no-nonsense manner. Three-quarters of an hour after the beginning of the meeting, Kywood left.

  Grant pulled the files across the desk and in turn opened them and read their contents. As a C.O. he had always demanded to know what was going on in all areas of his command and it was the same in the borough force. C.I.D. had to give him a report on every case they handled.

  He read about arson, assaults, muggings, thefts, vandalism, drunkenness… He sighed as he laid down one folder. These days passions were never checked, greed was never subdued, willpower was never exercised. Discipline, whether of oneself or others, had become a dirty word… He smiled. Only the Colonel Blimps of the world still believed in discipline!

  He lit a cigarette and within seconds tapped it, a habit which infuriated his wife because he did it time after time when it wasn’t necessary. He picked up the last folder. A hit-and-run case, unsolved despite all the work done on it. He’d read the short report some days back. A driver who hadn’t had the guts to stop after an accident and accept the responsibility for his own actions…

  As he read the full report, his expression of scorn slowly gave way to one of uneasiness, then to one of deep worry.

  Chapter 4

  When Grant had joined his first regiment, in Bahpur, Diana’s father had been the colonel. Colonel Savage had had three daughters, Rowena, Belinda, and Diana, and after Grant had been in Bahpur for a couple of weeks Mrs Savage had invited him to their home. None of the other officers warned him of the danger of accepting the invitation and because he had been so unworldly he had not foreseen it: he hadn’t been warned because there was a mess sweepstake on when Mrs Savage would finally lasso a husband for one of her daughters and he wasn’t worldly because his widowed mother had never been able to afford to send him out into the world. That invitation was followed by others and he spent many evenings in the company of Rowena, Belinda, and Diana. The inevitable happened. After dinner one evening, as they smoked and drank port after the ladies had retired, Colonel Savage said to him, with bluff good humour: “Well, young man. You’ve been visiting us long enough to have decided. Which one are you after?”

  A worldly man would have said that in the face of three such beautiful ladies it was impossible to choose but one, a braver man (socially) would have excused himself and fled. But Grant, emotionally trapped by a feeling that he must have given the impression he was courting one of the daughters or old Savage would never have asked such a question, and therefore shackled by the need to do his duty as an English gentleman, reflected that Rowena had very prominent teeth and Belinda possessed a most imperious manner and said that he was very fond of Diana.

  Diana had long known that life had badly cheated her. The daughter of the regimental colonel should lead a gay life before marrying a rich young subaltern, heir to an ancient barony. But as time had passed by without such dreams becoming reality hope had turned into a resentment which grew more bitter every time her mother upbraided her for failing to land a husband.

  She didn’t dislike Thomas Grant, but then neither did she love him. He wasn’t handsome, he had only his pay, and he was heir to nothing. But if she turned him down, how long might it be before the next offer of marriage?

  It was a full two years before Grant would admit to himself that the marriage had been a terrible mistake. He needed someone quiet and loving, able to understand his serious and dedicated character, but Diana was strident and demanding, forever resentful that he was not the rich, gay Lochinvar of her dreams. But even after he made such admission, his manner toward
s her never changed and it remained quiet, patient, and respectful. He was living by the precept which had always guided him — when a man had made his bed, he should uncomplainingly lie on it, however uncomfortable it proved to be.

  *

  Grant arrived home at twelve-forty-five. Their house — a police house — was in Pendleton Bray. Edwardian in period, more Victorian in style, it was large and set in a pleasant garden. On the open market, because it was in Pendleton Bray, it would have cost at least fifty thousand pounds. When he retired he and Diana were going to have to move. They’d saved some money — not much, because she believed they must maintain their ‘position’ — and inevitably their new house would be smaller and in a far less pleasant district. The change wouldn’t worry him: she didn’t let him forget what it would mean to her.

  He parked the Rover — a police car — outside the double garage, picked up the file, and went inside. “It’s me,” he called out, as he shut the front door behind himself.

  Diana came into the hall from the kitchen. She was a tall, well-built woman, who dressed with expensive taste. She had a long face, too narrow about the mouth, whose skin had been noticeably roughened by the years spent in India. Her lips were set in the downward tilt of someone permanently dissatisfied. She used a deal of make-up with skill and went to the hairdresser once a week where she favoured a bouffant style. “What on earth are you doing back here?” she asked, in tones of annoyance. “I asked you where you wanted to have lunch and you said at the canteen. I’ve nothing ready, so you’ll have to make do with something out of the deepfreeze.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  “Why can’t you decide exactly what you’re going to do and then stick to it?”