Call Back to Crime Page 2

  After his first cup of coffee some of the day’s problems came flooding into his mind. Would they be able to identify the woman who’d been burned to death in Acton Road: was the fire accidental? A young girl of fifteen had died from a bodged abortion. Where had she gone and who was the abortionist? Why hadn’t she had a legal one?

  ‘Here you are,’ said Josephine, as she placed in front of him two eggs, two rashers of bacon, and a piece of fried bread.

  He looked up at the electric wall clock. ‘Where’s Tim?’

  ‘Still in bed. It’s Saturday and no school.’

  He’d forgotten.

  After breakfast and a very hurried look at the newly delivered newspaper he left the house and drove in his tatty Vauxhall Victor the mile to eastern division H.Q., where he parked the car in his reserved bay in the courtyard.

  In his room a fresh pile of papers, circulars, memoranda, crime reports, and mail was in his intray. He filled his pipe with tobacco and lit it, leafed through the crime reports of the past fifteen hours. He paid most interest to the fourth one. A man had been found injured by a pub called the Wayfarer’s Halt, which was just inside the borough boundaries. Dalby had been taken to hospital and the initial report from them listed heavy bruising and torn cheek, but no fractures. Attached to the report was a note that Dalby was a muscle man, working on a freelance basis, with several convictions. Fusil drew on his pipe. A drunken brawl or the first obvious signs of gang warfare?

  The telephone rang. It was Detective Chief Inspector Kywood. ‘’Morning, Bob. It’s a lousy day after all the nice weather, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s that all right, sir.’ Fusil gloomily waited for the bad news that Kywood’s ebullient manner suggested was to come.

  ‘Bob, you know you’re always moaning at being short-handed?’

  ‘Yes.’ Was he now to lose one of his D.C.s?

  ‘I’ve arranged a posting for you. That ought to help out, shouldn’t it?’

  Fusil was astonished at this unexpected news. ‘It should do, yes,’ he replied finally.

  ‘I must say,’ complained Kywood, ‘you don’t sound as grateful as I expected.’

  ‘I’m delighted by the news.’

  ‘Good, good. The D.C.’s name is Roger Yarrow and he’ll be reporting to you as soon as he can make it.’

  That’s real friendly of him, thought Fusil.

  ‘He’s not married, so he’ll live in the hostel—tell them to expect him. I promised Mr. Menton we’d keep a fatherly eye on him.’ Kywood rang off.

  What in the hell was going on? wondered Fusil. Why should Detective Chief Superintendent Menton —a thin, sarcastic, cold fish of a man—be interested in D.C. Yarrow? He telephoned county H.Q. and spoke to the chief inspector in administration.

  ‘Hullo, Bob, it’s a long time since I’ve heard from you. So how are things in your parish?’

  ‘Much the same as usual,’ replied Fusil. ‘The lowest crime rate and the highest clear-up rate in the county.’

  The chief inspector chuckled. ‘You haven’t changed . . . Well, what can I do for you?’

  ‘You can tell me why Menton has a particular interest in D.C. Yarrow?’

  There was a short pause. ‘Then you didn’t know that Yarrow is Menton’s nephew?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll give you some invaluable advice. Steer well clear.’

  ‘I can’t. He’s been posted to my division.’

  There was a quick laugh. ‘Then that makes you the most popular man in the force! Every division in county has been doing its damndest not to have to take him on. . . . Know something, Bob? It’s odd you should accept a bloke without checking. You’re getting too trusting in your old age.’

  Fusil was never happy at being laughed at. ‘I didn’t goddamn well have anything to do with it. Kywood’s just phoned to give me the finalised news.’

  The chief inspector laughed again. ‘Come to think of it, it’s got its humorous side—you being stuck with Yarrow. I wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall around your place.’

  Fusil stared at the top of the desk. What a hell of a way to start a morning.

  *

  Valerie Downring looked across the kitchen table at her husband and her lined face was filled with worry and fear. ‘Please, Conrad, tell me what happened?’

  ‘I have,’ he answered sullenly.

  ‘But it can’t’ve been just a pub-do. You’d never be daft enough to get mixed up in such a thing.’

  ‘Well, I was.’

  She sat down on one of the wooden chairs. His face was badly bruised and there was sticking plaster over a nasty gash by the side of his mouth. When he’d taken off his pyjamas she’d noticed the heavy, ugly bruising down his right side.

  ‘I must be getting,’ he muttered. ‘Where’s me grub?’

  ‘On the side.’

  He crossed to the working surface by the stained, chipped sink and picked up a parcel of sandwiches and the vacuum flask filled with tea.

  ‘Conrad . . .’ she began.

  He kissed her. ‘There ain’t nothing to worry about, love,’ he said. Then he left the kitchen by the back door.

  A little later she heard the pick-up start and drive off. Linda, her six-year-old daughter, and one of the next-door children ran into the kitchen, helped themselves to a drink of water, and ran out again, giggling at something secret.

  She lit a cigarette. What had happened? This was the first time he’d ever been secretive and it frightened her. What kind of fight had there been, who with, why? It made her feel guilty, but she could not stop wondering if he was getting mixed up with his old bunch again.

  She shivered, although the kitchen was warm because of the ancient but still efficient Rayburn stove. She loved him as much now as the day he’d married her, even more—if that were possible—because of the way in which he’d never said or done anything to suggest for one second that Linda wasn’t his daughter: Linda had come to accept him as her father.

  She went to pour herself out another cup of tea, but found only the dregs in the teapot. She leaned back. It had been a miracle. She’d been right at the end of her tether, alone in a town in which there seemed to be not one single person who could be bothered to know her, a growing child to bring up, no job, and only national assistance to live on. Then she’d met Conrad.

  Conrad was all she’d ever wanted, he was the man she’d dreamed about when young and waiting for a knight in shining armour. That he’d recently been in prison was of no account. She’d always treated that fact as casually as if he’d been in hospital for a tonsillectomy. . . . Always, that was, until now.

  In God’s name why wouldn’t he tell her what had happened the previous night? Before he’d gone out he’d said he was just having a jar or two with an old friend. When he’d come home he’d been bleeding and in considerable pain and she’d become almost hysterical from fear because if he died she would want to die.

  She stubbed out the cigarette, which she’d hardly smoked, and she told herself she was being a fool in letting her imagination run riot. No man liked to admit he’d made a right Charlie of himself, and soon, perhaps when he came back that evening, he’d tell her what really had happened. A couple of pints too much and he became argumentative.

  She stood up. Time to walk along to the shops and buy the grub for the week-end. Shopping, as inflation roared, was becoming more and more difficult because as a garage mechanic Conrad wasn’t paid well, but she didn’t care. She’d have lived on dried bread and water if he’d been around to share it with her.

  She checked in the cracked mirror by the side of the sink to see if she looked all right to go out. Her face, she decided without really caring, was becoming more and more lined. Her brown eyes gazed back at her and she remembered how Conrad had so often told her that it was useless lying to him because her eyes were too honest and gave everything away: as if she’d ever lie to him.

  She turned away and patted down the dress around her stomach. Her figure wa
s gradually becoming too plump. She’d talked about going on a diet, but Conrad had said to hell with that because he liked to have something to get hold of. . . .

  Chapter Three

  Like most people, Kerr disliked visiting hospitals, yet there was one recompense. Some of the nurses could be worth a second look.

  The C.I.D. Hillman was in the courtyard behind the station and he drove it out on to the road, heading north towards the hospital. He crossed the high street just past the jeweller’s where he and Helen had seen an engagement ring on sale for a thousand pounds. It was astonishing to think there were people who could afford to pay that much for a ring. Money assumed a new importance with impending marriage. He had the promise of a police house by a definite date and Helen was busy deciding how she was going to furnish it, a far more expensive task than he had ever believed possible. Still, at least they’d be able to afford a bed.

  Fortrow General Hospital was on a small hill. There were several buildings of different ages and styles, ringed to the south by large Victorian houses, most of which belonged to the hospital and were staff houses. He parked the Hillman, entered the main block, then climbed up the stairs to the men’s surgical ward. The sister turned out to be at least forty-five and on his way to the small amenity ward, where she said Dalby was, he passed a nurse who looked so severe that not even he could imagine her in a seductive role.

  Dalby had a bandage on one hand, a thick plaster along his cheek, and every movement seemed to give him pain. He immediately identified Kerr as a detective and stared at him with open hatred.

  ‘How’s things?’ asked Kerr cheerfully.

  ‘I’ll soon be around.’

  ‘But never the same man again? There must have been a lot of ’em to take you so badly?’

  Dalby fidgeted with the bedclothes.

  Kerr wondered why Dalby was not running true to pattern and claiming it had taken at least a dozen blokes to wreck him. Perhaps Dalby had come up against someone who really was tough? ‘I suppose it wasn’t just one bloke who did all this to you?’

  ‘Give over,’ said Dalby contemptuously, but could not quite conceal his angry embarrassment.

  ‘So what’s his name? Superman?’

  Dalby spoke quickly. ‘I got into an argument outside the pub with some blokes over the ’orses and one of ’em did me with a cosh.’

  Kerr lit a cigarette. ‘That’s the same story as you gave before.’

  ‘I’m telling you . . .’

  ‘What really happened? Were you paid to work over a mug and he turned out to be no mug?’

  ‘They got me with a cosh.’

  ‘When you, all innocent like, weren’t looking? How many were in your mob?’

  ‘There was just me.’

  ‘You never move around on your own. Since you usually work with a couple of others, we’ll say there were three of you. So one bloke took all three of you?’

  ‘I ain’t got to listen to you. . . .’

  ‘No one’s stopping you from leaving,’ said Kerr cheerfully.

  Dalby swore angrily, went to turn away, then grabbed his side as pain sliced through it.

  ‘Who was he?’ asked Kerr. ‘A mug who’s been backing the horses for more than he can pay? Did Old Isaacs send you?’

  ‘Do me a favour and get.’

  ‘The last time you were nicked you’d been working for Tall Johnny. Maybe he was shouting the bill?’

  ‘Call yourself a split? Tall Johnny’s inside on a fiver.’

  ‘And I never knew that. Life’s getting difficult for you blokes and no mistake.’

  A nurse came to the door of the cubicle, saw Kerr, and left. Even she, he thought, had looked like someone’s maiden aunt—this was no place for a man to be ill. He continued the questioning, but rather carelessly, because he was convinced this was just a routine case, notable only for the fact that the victim had turned out to be a lot tougher than the men who had set out to beat him up.

  *

  Detective Sergeant Braddon was solidly built but awkwardly shaped, and ready-made clothes—which were all he could afford—never fitted him. There was something of a tired bloodhound about his face and because he spoke slowly people who made snap judgements often made the mistake of thinking he was something of a fool.

  He settled himself more comfortably on the cloth-covered settee. ‘So you saw Mrs. Selby quite often, Miss Johnson?’

  ‘At least twice a week.’ Miss Johnson was a small, tiny-featured woman, who was forever doing something with her hands, as if unable to keep them still. ‘Laura was very lonely and I was one of the few people she saw. It’s all very sad.’

  ‘Very,’ agreed Braddon. He noted that she appeared to be more curious than saddened.

  ‘She was so unhappy.’ Miss Johnson adjusted the lace cover over the arm of her chair, picked up her knitting and soon had the needles clacking.

  She reminded Braddon of a bird, pattering across a lawn and pecking for worms. ‘Why was she so unhappy?’ he asked.

  ‘Then you don’t know?’

  ‘We don’t know anything, yet,’ he answered inaccurately.

  ‘My dear father always used to say that when a person was dead . . . But I’m sure you ought to know.’ She lowered her voice. ‘She drank. Sometimes she became quite . . .’

  ‘Unladylike?’ suggested Braddon.

  She nodded several times. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t really her fault. If only Percy had had some—well, some warmth of character. Then, she’d never have needed to drink so.’

  ‘Did they get on well together?’ asked Braddon casually.

  ‘They never had rows, not real rows. But when she was in a state, and needed a warm shoulder to rest her head on, Percy wouldn’t or didn’t know how to offer his. Laura needed a lot of sympathy and understanding and Percy never could give her either. Still, she ought to have been able to judge what kind of a man he was when she first met him—I did.’ Her voice suddenly held a sharp note. She stopped knitting for a moment and looked at Braddon. ‘When’s Percy returning?’

  ‘I’m not certain whether we’ve yet been able to get in touch with him. During the week he’s been in Italy and he left very early this morning to drive to Nice where he’s due on Monday.’

  ‘I wonder how he’ll take the news?’ Her face expressed even greater curiosity.

  Braddon said: ‘When did you last see Mrs. Selby?’

  She was clearly disappointed he didn’t answer her question. ‘On Thursday. We had lunch together, here.’

  ‘How was she?’

  ‘Quite as usual. She’d obviously been drinking, but not as much as sometimes.’

  ‘Did she talk about her husband at all?’

  ‘I can’t remember, but I don’t expect so—she seldom did. I think in a way she’d always been ashamed that she couldn’t respond. You see, she didn’t like the earthiness of sex.’

  ‘Oh!’ mumbled Braddon, who’d never expected her to talk so bluntly on such a subject.

  The needles clacked on. ‘Some women are easily upset and made frigid by a thoughtless, selfish man.’

  ‘Did she say he complained about that side of their life a lot?’

  ‘She wouldn’t have told me if he had, but I don’t suppose he did.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ asked Braddon, who was fascinated by this small, bird-like, unpredictable woman.

  ‘He never said what he really meant. He’s got a mean mouth.’

  ‘Despite all their differences, though, you think they got along together without too much difficulty?’

  ‘They led some sort of life when they were together. Poor Laura, she was so immaturely emotional. She kept believing everything would be much better the next time Percy was home, but, of course, it never was. Then when he went away again she’d become utterly depressed and return to her drinking and living on those wretched pills the doctor would keep giving her.’

  ‘How would you reckon Mr. Selby viewed the marriage?’

  She snif
fed. ‘As he viewed anything else. What could he get out of it?’

  ‘He must have been disappointed, then?’

  ‘Only to a certain degree. After all, she was always there when he came back from abroad, trying to please him and cooking all the special food he liked so much.’

  Why did Miss Johnson hate him so? wondered Braddon. Had he been rude to her because of the friendship with his wife? ‘Getting back to Thursday, she’d nothing special to tell you?’

  ‘We just talked. Some of the time she was complaining she still couldn’t find her electric clock anywhere. I told her, she’d such an untidy nature it was a wonder to me she sometimes could find herself.’

  Braddon closed his notebook. ‘Thanks very much for all your help, Miss Johnson.’

  She studied him. ‘D’you think the fire wasn’t an accident?’

  ‘We’ve no reason at all for supposing that.’

  ‘Then why are you asking so many questions about her and Percy?’

  ‘It’s only routine. We always check up on the facts when there’s been an unfortunate death like this one.’

  She clearly didn’t believe him.

  *

  Fusil left his car and walked along the pavement to number fifteen, Acton Road. It was surprising how little outside evidence there now was of the fatal fire: the left-hand bay window lacked all glass and wooden framing and above it the bricks were blackened, the right-hand window had broken panes and there was some smoke blackening above, but that was all. He was not surprised. Experience had taught him that death was seldom marked by outward signs of significance, which could be a very disheartening thought.

  Inside, there was considerable destruction, and when he went into the sitting-room, where three policemen in overalls searched the rubble, he could look up through the gutted bedroom at the roof, where joists had been badly damaged.

  He spoke to the nearest P.C. ‘How’s it going?’

  The P.C. straightened up and pressed one hand against the small of his back. ‘Nothing, sir,’ he said, a trace of resentment in his voice.

  The job was dirty and laborious and they reckoned they were wasting their time, thought Fusil, but years ago he’d learned that no detective could ever be too painstaking. In any case, they were from the uniform branch. ‘Keep looking.’