Murder is Suspected (C.I.D. Room Book 10) Page 3

  “I’m afraid something turned up to change my mind.”

  His tone of voice worried her. “What?”

  He didn’t answer her, but crossed the large hall and went into the dining room. He put the folder down on the table, turned, and looked at the three cut-glass decanters on the sideboard. “Will you have a whisky?”

  “All right,” she answered, as if she didn’t care one way or the other.

  He opened the right-hand door of the sideboard and brought out glasses, poured out two strong whiskies. He went through to the kitchen for ice. When he returned, he saw her expression had become sharper. He sighed, as he added ice and water. He handed her a glass.

  She pulled out a chair from under the highly polished, oval table and sat down. “Well? Are you ready to tell me what the great big secret is?”

  He walked the length of the dining room, past the two oil paintings which were the only things she had inherited on the death of her mother, and stared through the window at the wide sweep of lawn, the weed-free rose beds, and the beech, oak, and sycamore trees which were clumped together to form a ‘wild’ patch at the far end. He turned, walked back to where he had been before.

  “For goodness’ sake, stop pacing,” she said sharply.

  “I’m sorry,” he answered automatically. It was another habit of his which so annoyed her. He took a slim cigarette case from his pocket and lit a cigarette. Within seconds, he was tapping the cigarette over an ashtray.

  “Tom, will you please stop that.”

  He fidgeted with the folder. “This came along today for putting into cold storage.” He smoked. “A hit-and-run case. An old man on a bicycle was knocked off and quite badly injured.”

  “How is that important?”

  “We’ve failed to identify either the car or the driver.” He again tapped the cigarette. The car was a small saloon, perhaps hatchback, white. Its registration letters were PU M or N. It probably had one brake light broken. The accident took place at ten-forty-seven on the twelfth.”

  He waited, but she said nothing. “Duncan was out in your car that night,” he said finally.

  She drank.

  “And he damaged it.”

  She spoke with cold scorn. “You know perfectly well that he ran into the side of the garage the next morning because his foot slipped on the torn matting.”

  “I also know that when I briefly thought about it afterwards I was a bit surprised I hadn’t noticed the damage when I drove the Rover out of the garage on the Friday.”

  “You’re not very good at noticing things.”

  He finished his drink and poured himself out another. “Where is he?”

  “At college, of course. It’s a weekday.”

  “That’s no guarantee he’s there.” The moment he had spoken, he wished he hadn’t.

  “I wonder why you ever had a son since you refuse to believe anything he does is right or anything he says is true.”

  “I’m merely pointing out that he doesn’t always go to college when…”

  “What you’re really saying is that because you never miss an opportunity to think the worst about Duncan you’re eager to believe he was the driver in that accident.”

  That was ridiculous. He didn’t dislike Duncan, he just couldn’t understand him. “The circumstances being what they are, Duncan’s obviously got to get the car officially cleared.”

  “What circumstances are you talking about now?” Ash from the cigarette suddenly tumbled down his coat.

  “I suppose,” she said, with tired patience, “it would be a waste of time asking you not to make such a mess of your clothes?”

  He brushed his coat.

  “What are the circumstances?” she repeated.

  “The car that knocked the old man down was white, your Fiat’s white. It might have been a hatchback: yours is. It’s registration letters were PU M or N: your Fiat is PUN. One of the stop lights might not have been working: I pointed out to you the day before that the Fiat’s wasn’t. The headlamp was broken: the Fiat’s was… Can’t you see, Diana, that just in the normal course of events any car whose description fits that of the hit-and-run vehicle so closely has to be checked out by the police?”

  “And can’t you see that if Duncan had had any sort of an accident he would have mentioned it?”

  “He might have told you. I very much doubt he would have told me.”

  She finished her drink, stood up. “Since you’ve come back I suppose I must cook a meal.”

  “When Duncan came back that night he was tight.”

  “He was not,” she said sharply. “And how would you know, one way or the other? You were snoring away in bed.”

  He shook his head. “I may have been asleep before, but you woke me when you got out of bed. I heard him talking to you in the passage. He was in a terrible state.”

  “He was not in the slightest degree drunk.”

  “He’s got to have that car checked out by the police.”

  When she became angry her lips tightened and tilted further downwards and she looked almost ugly. “You’re being ridiculous and pompous. Solely because you’re chief constable…”

  “I have to be like Caesar’s wife.”

  She knew that there were certain areas in life in which he would never give way to her, no matter what the pressure. She tried to become far more conciliatory. “Tom, you said the case was finished with, so what is the point of going on like this?”

  “I said it had been put into cold storage: that means the file’s placed on one side, along with others. Any of those cases will be reopened on fresh evidence. If one of my officers learns about a white hatchback, registration letters PUN, which suffered a broken headlamp and had a defective stop light, he will immediately call for the appropriate file and will reopen the case to the extent of checking out that car.”

  “And when he’s convinced the car had nothing to do with the accident?”

  “Then the file goes back into cold storage.”

  “Duncan did not have an accident in my car and therefore there’s no need to waste everybody’s time by going through all that rigmarole.”

  “I’m afraid there is.”

  Her tone of voice became icier. “He was not driving the car which had that accident. But if he had been, would you really go out of your way to make certain he was sent to prison, knowing that if you’d kept quiet nothing would have happened to him?”

  “Your car must be cleared by the police,” he said stubbornly.

  Chapter 5

  Fusil awoke and reached across the bed for Josephine: she was not there. He opened his eyes, noted the strength of daylight which filtered through the curtains and he looked at his watch. “Bloody hell!” he said and scrambled out of bed.

  Josephine was in the kitchen, dishing fried eggs and bacon. “I heard you on the move, so I started breakfast.”

  “I haven’t time…”

  “You’ve plenty of time. Bob, and you’re not leaving this house until you’ve eaten. You didn’t get back here until after half past two and so if anyone doesn’t like your being late at work for once, they can lump it.”

  He grinned as he sat. Her independent attitude would have greatly upset Kywood, who was always more worried about the form than the substance of the job. He pulled the Daily Express across the table.

  “Tim wanted to know if you’ll go and watch his cricket match on Friday afternoon. I said you would unless there’s an emergency blows up. Don’t forget.”

  “I’m not certain”

  “But I am. You haven’t watched any of the matches so far this year and he wants to make a good score when you’re there… Since he collected a duck last time, perhaps it’s as well you couldn’t make it in the end.” She smiled. “But do go on Friday and if he reaches double figures tell him he’s another Larwood.”

  “Larwood was a bowler, love.”

  “Oh, well, it’s the thought which counts! The main thing is, go and watch him. O.K.?” She put the
bacon and eggs in front of him, ruffled his hair with a quick, loving gesture and returned to the stove for coffee.

  He skimmed through the headlines as he ate quickly. He had a second cup of coffee, then stood. “I’d better run. See you tonight.” He kissed her.

  “Try to make it a bit earlier, eh? You’re late so often I’m beginning to wonder if you’ve got a blonde tucked away.”

  “Two, for the sake of variety.”

  “Just so long as there are more than one, I’m not worried.” She smiled and her dark brown eyes were warm with affection. Friends were sometimes discreetly surprised that there was so little real friction between them since each had a very strong character and was sharply opinionated, but both had learned early on in their marriage to make this a source of strength, not weakness.

  He left the kitchen and went through the hall, out of the front door and round to the garage. His Austin Allegro, recently bought second-hand because the Vauxhall had virtually reached the end of its working life, started immediately and he backed out, then swung into Cromwell Road.

  Eastern division H.Q. was in Tidemouth Road. The original building was vaguely Georgian in style and tacked on to this were the various wings which had been added from time to time as the force had expanded. For years the police had been asking for a new, purpose-built H.Q., for years the watch and finance committees had been saying that that was impossible.

  Fusil went in through the main entrance, past the front desk, and along the passage, off which were the two interview rooms and the stolen property room. He climbed the stairs, two at a time, and looked into the C.I.D. general room. It was empty of persons, but filled with the usual confusion of working life: C.R.O. files, portrait book of local thieves, Police Gazettes, orders, D.C.s’ Duty Book, C.I.D. night-duty list, Houses Searched book, crime digest, photos, Identikit photographs of wanted men, Prisoners’ Antecedents book, personal messages…

  He continued to his own room. It was reasonably sized, but it had the strange property of maintaining an air of decay no matter what was done to brighten it up. An air not helped by the photograph of some past and long-forgotten detective inspector who had a chilly expression of doom and gloom and a down-curving moustache — but tradition said that if ever that photograph were removed bad luck would strike the present incumbent, and Fusil, despite all protestations to the contrary, was slightly superstitious.

  He sat down. On his desk were letters, opened and sorted by Miss Wagner, several files, a précis of the night’s crime, half a dozen forms which needed signing, three requests from other forces for witness statements, and two notes in green ink in Miss Wagner’s copperplate handwriting. The first said: ‘Mr Kywood would like Mr Fusil to ring him as soon as possible.’ It was timed at 9.05. The second said: ‘Mr Kywood wants Mr Fusil to ring him immediately.’ It was timed at 9.24.

  There was a quick knock on the door and Miss Wagner half entered the room. “Mr Fusil, Mr Kywood has just rung a third time and I was going to put a note on your desk if you weren’t here.” She flapped a sheet of paper. No one could ever have mistaken her for anybody but a middle-aged spinster: she dressed, looked, and spoke like one.

  “What’s the message this time? Mr Kywood wants Mr Fusil to ring him bloody sharp?”

  She sighed, not offended — as she would have been had anyone else spoken like that — merely resigned. “I should ring him right away if I were you, Mr Fusil. Mr Kywood sounds as if he’s becoming rather impatient.”

  He reached across to the telephone as she left. Something big had obviously broken and Kywood was panicking.

  The connection was made. “Fusil here, sir…”

  “Where in the devil have you been all morning?”

  “I slept late because I was out on a case until after half past two this morning.”

  “Well, get over here right away.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “For God’s sake stop arguing and get over.” Kywood cut the connection.

  Had someone assassinated the mayor? wondered Fusil, though without any real hope.

  *

  Kywood paced the length of his office. He stopped, turned, and said: “It’s a pure bastard!”

  Fusil, who was sitting in front of the desk, said: “If you could tell me what’s happened, sir?”

  Kywood crossed to his desk and sat down. “Mr Grant called me into his room first thing this morning.” He paused, reluctant to continue. He fiddled with his nose. “He says someone is to examine his wife’s car in connection with the Evans case. The final report reached him yesterday.”

  “Good God!”

  “Of course, it has to be a load of old cobblers… Just because his wife owns a small, white hatchback… The idea is quite ludicrous.”

  “Was it out on the road that night?”

  “He didn’t say. I suppose it must have been. But what if it was? So were thousands of others.”

  Fusil said: “On the face of things, he’s being very over-responsible. There must be something more to it, surely?”

  Kywood coughed. He fingered his thick lower lip as he looked quickly at Fusil. “He did say that one of the rear stop lights wasn’t working on the twelfth.” His rate of fiddling increased. “And the registration letters are PUN. And the nearside headlamp was smashed.” He let go of his lip. “But it’s ludicrous to believe… I suppose you realise what the consequences could be?”

  “Of course. If he was driving the car that was in the hit-and-run, he’ll have to be charged. If found guilty, he’ll probably be jailed because it’s odds on he was tight.”

  “And then?”

  Fusil shrugged his shoulders.

  “What’s going to happen to the force? He’s the chief constable. If he gets jailed for being drunkenly involved, there’ll be a stink which reaches all the way up to London. The Home Secretary’ll love that because it’s what they’ve all been waiting for, for years. He’ll have a bill ending the force through parliament so quickly the ink won’t have time to dry.”

  Fusil, whose mind was seldom attuned to the politics behind his job, finally understood what was really worrying the detective chief inspector. There was here a set of facts which potentially could arm those who wanted to abolish the borough force. If the chief constable could be publicly disgraced, the most fervent loyalists would no longer be able effectively to defend the existence of the independent and anachronistic borough force, born of, and nurtured on, Charles II’s royal charter. It would finally forcibly be amalgamated with the county force. And, more important, George Kywood would no longer have a position of power and authority.

  “So what do we do?”

  “Check out the car.”

  Kywood looked away from Fusil, his expression annoyed and irresolute. He fidgeted with his lip once more. “You’d better handle the matter personally. We don’t want any word of this leaking out.”

  “It’ll be difficult to stop that.”

  “It’s your job to prevent it. D’you understand? You’re to investigate this absolutely on your own and when you find his car had nothing to do with the accident you’re to report personally to me. And don’t let anyone else do the typing, or get the chance of looking at any of the papers.”

  “Very well. I’ll have to cross into western division’s territory. Do I check with them that it’s O.K.?”

  “You don’t say anything to anybody. If questions get asked, refer the person to me.” Kywood let go of his lip. “Bob, you do appreciate what’s at stake?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “Of course, Evans wasn’t killed. A bit knocked around, but the hospitals can work miracles these days. And he’ll be able to claim compensation from that special insurance fund. It’s not all that serious.”

  Fusil said nothing.

  Kywood flushed. “All right. You’ll treat this case as top priority and report personally to me.” He wished he knew what Fusil was thinking.

  *

  Fusil had once before been to the chief
constable’s house, when there’d been a cocktail party given by Grant to the senior officers of the force. He remembered the house as large and comfortable and Mrs Grant as poised, but cold.

  He entered the drive and parked to the right of the large turning circle, in the centre of which was a bed of annuals. The garden was beautifully tended and he saw an elderly man weeding one of the beds: he wondered if the gardener’s wages were paid by the chief constable or by the force? The force lacked money, but the people who so ardently supported its independence were the kind who would want the chief constable to put on a good show.

  As he crossed to the front door, set within an elaborate porch, it was opened. “Good of you to come so quickly,” said Grant, in his clipped voice.

  Fusil’s feelings towards the chief constable were in part contradictory. Given his vaguely left-inclined sentiments, it was inevitable that he should feel some scorn for the blimpish figure, yet because he did not deliberately blind himself to the truth he could appreciate that Grant was a man of robust practical outlook, that if he often spoke in the tones of the Indian army colonel his words made sense, and that if his values were old-fashioned they were honourable.

  “You know what I want, don’t you. Fusil? You’re to examine my wife’s car. Check it very thoroughly.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The chief constable stared at him, then nodded. “Yes — of course.” His tone turned the words into a compliment. “It’s in the garage now. I am going to H.Q. and will be leaving right away. When you’ve finished, will you remember to shut the garage doors, please.”

  “Right, sir. There’s just one question. Was the car out on Thursday evening and if it was, were you driving it?”

  The chief constable looked at him. “I would like the full report as soon as possible.” He stepped out of the porch, nodded, passed Fusil and walked to the garage. He unlocked the double doors and swung them back until they locked. He climbed into the Rover, started the engine, backed out, and drove off.

  Fusil pursed his lips in a silent whistle. Then, after a moment, he turned and crossed to the garage. The first thing he noticed was the brick pillar, which stood proud of the wall by about five inches, on which one of the doors was hung. The pillar, along with the rest of the interior of the garage, had been painted white. At a height of thirty inches — the same as that of the Fiat 127’s headlamps — the paint had been scraped and the brickwork underneath slightly crushed so that there was a red gash. He hunkered down to examine the damaged brickwork more closely and saw in it flakes of white which almost certainly were paint. Using a penknife, he scraped several flakes into a small plastic bag which he dropped into his right-hand coat pocket.