Betrayed by Death Page 3

  An hour later, after Timothy had finally gone to bed, Fusil yawned, then said: “D’you feel like a nightcap for once, Jo?”

  “I’d love one if you’re going to have one.”

  “As of this moment, I’m going to have two.”

  An expression of worry crossed her face. “Are you very tired?”

  “Tired enough, but it’s frustration I’m really suffering from.” He went over to the small table, near the bookcase, on which was a bottle of whisky and two glasses. “Driving back with Tim tonight I kept thinking about the ninth boy. The ninth, and we’re no nearer identifying the murderer than we were at the beginning. Goddam it, why aren’t we?”

  “All right. Why aren’t you?”

  “Because there’s not been a single solid lead for us to work on. The witnesses aren’t certain enough to be certain of anything: not one body found: every known sex pervert questioned and able to alibi himself: a thousand and one calls from the public, but not one of them solid: nothing from any informer, yet when kids are attacked there’s usually not a villain alive who won’t inform.”

  He added water to the whiskies and carried the glasses over, handing one to her. “Nobody can live in a vacuum. There’s always someone else who knows something of what he’s doing. So there has to be someone who knows, or ought to know, who this bastard is, yet there’s not been a whisper. Who could protect a man, knowing he’s murdered nine boys?”

  “No mother,” she answered harshly.

  He drank.

  She patted the settee. “Come and sit down next to me, Bob.”

  He sat. She put her free hand on his leg in a gesture of caring sympathy. “I hate seeing you so terribly tired and worried. You’ve been looking almost ill. You must learn to ease up sometimes.”

  “I can’t ease up when there’s something like this.”

  “You must. Not even you can work twenty-four hours a day, day after day, and get away with it.”

  He said nothing.

  “D’you remember,” she said, in a suddenly softened voice, “how when we were almost engaged we used to sit together on the settee and hold hands when my parents weren’t looking?”

  “That dates us. These days, the youngsters don’t give a damn who sees them doing what.”

  “But it was more fun when we were young.”

  “More fun for who?”

  “Trust a man to ask that! More fun for all of us because we had to wait for what we wanted. These days the youngsters get everything too easily and so they don’t value anything. Put your arm round me, Bob.”

  He set his glass down on the small piecrust table and put his arm round her.

  She said: “You can kiss me. There’s no one going to interrupt us.”

  He did not move.

  “For God’s sake!”

  He started. “What’s up? Sorry, love, but I was thinking.”

  “Not what you thought about when we were almost engaged, that’s for certain!” Her brief annoyance gave way to amusement. “Just for the reference book, I suggested you might like to kiss me.”

  He kissed her. But even now his mind was not on what he was doing because he’d finally remembered what had teased his brain that morning. On Wednesday night when Mark Bourg had disappeared there’d been a large theft of antique silver and porcelain from a country house in Evedale: on the night Alec Cousin had disappeared there had been a similar robbery. Hell! he thought. How could he have imagined there was the slightest importance in so meaningless a coincidence?

  Chapter Four

  In the morning Kerr arrived late at the station — a not unusual occurrence — so after parking the Mini he left his mackintosh in the car even though there was a moderate, damping drizzle. Should he meet either Fusil or Campson on his way to the general room then, without a mackintosh, it should be possible to give the impression that he was engaged on some urgent errand rather than just arriving.

  Pascoe, Bressett, and Smith were in the general room. Pascoe looked with exaggerated care at his watch. “You’re early. Only quarter of an hour late.”

  “I’ve been talking for the best part of twenty minutes with the sarge,” replied Kerr, a broad grin on his face.

  “I’ll bet he’d be surprised to hear that. Come on, we’d better get moving.” Pascoe was a swarthy man, of Italian descent, with — according to himself — an irresistible attraction for women. “You and me have seven witness statements to collect.”

  “Just what I was looking forward to,” said Kerr lugubriously. Of all their outside jobs, the gathering of witness statements could be the most frustrating.

  Smith said: “If you’re that fed up, change jobs.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “T thirty-fours.” He picked up a number of fools-cap-sized forms.

  Kerr grinned. “Enjoy yourself. And remember, the sarge doesn’t like mistypes.”

  “What he doesn’t like and what he gets are two very different things. If they want perfect typing, why don’t they employ some typists?”

  Kerr crossed to his table to check what papers had been put on it. There was an internal memorandum to the effect that if all ranks wanted the games committee to be able to function properly they must pay their subscriptions as soon as they fell due and a circular letter offering him an encyclopedia at two-thirds the normal price if he ordered now. He scrumpled up both pieces of paper into a ball and threw this at the wastepaper basket: it missed and dropped against a pile of C.R.O. files which should have been returned to county H.Q. the previous day.

  “Come on,” said Pascoe impatiently. “The sooner we get started, the sooner we get finished.”

  “An optimist! I’ve got to have a quick word with the old man first. I had the whisper last night that Bill Moody did the bank job.”

  Bressett spoke for the first time. “That could be good — Perry’s heard Moody’s been seen with a couple of heavies.”

  “Any names?”

  “No, none.”

  He left and walked along the corridor, past the detective sergeant’s room, to the D.I.’s. Fusil was speaking over the phone, but he ended the call soon after Kerr entered. “Well?” he asked curtly, as he shuffled through the papers immediately in front of himself. “Where the hell’s the woman put it?”

  “I had the whisper through last night that Bill Moody pulled the bank job, sir.”

  Fusil gave up the attempt to find what he was looking for and leaned back in his chair. “How d’you rate your informant?”

  “He’s pretty reliable.”

  “I see. Welland came in earlier and said Moody’s been seen around with a couple of imported heavies.”

  Kerr nodded. “So I hear.”

  “What’s Moody’s form?”

  “I can’t say off-hand.”

  Fusil picked up the receiver of the second phone on his desk, dialled two numbers, and was immediately through to C.R.O. at county H.Q. “D.I., here, K div. Give me a verbal on William Moody . . . I don’t give a damn how busy you are. I want it now, not next week.” For a moment his expression was hard, almost cruel. He had never learned to brook delay nor, for that matter, to use a degree of tact to surmount such delay. “All right. Ring back the moment you can.” He replaced the receiver. “As soon as they come back, take someone with you and question Moody.”

  Pascoe, Kerr thought with satisfaction, was going to have to collect all those witness statements on his own.

  *

  There were two telephone calls for Fusil, one immediately following the other.

  “C.R.O., sir. You’ve just put in a request for a verbal on William Moody, haven’t you?”

  “Over half an hour ago.”

  “I’m afraid we’re very busy.”

  “Then let’s make things easier for you and forgo the excuses.”

  The sergeant’s tone became very official. “William Moody, aged thirty-two. First charged with theft when he was fifteen. Three sentences since then. Last inside six years ago, on a minor charg
e because the major one of armed robbery came unstuck on a technicality. Since he’s come out he’s been clear as far as we know. He’s a clever worker, a good organizer, and prepared to use whatever degree of violence is necessary. He’s married with one kid, and according to the records sticks to the family. His last known address was Beech Tops, Chapel Road, Dritlington.”

  Fusil wrote. “O.K. Send the file along right away.”

  He replaced the receiver. The telephone rang.

  “Ballistics here. Re Barclays Bank, Wallace Street. We’ve checked out the gun as far as we can. It’s a twelve bore, double barrel, box lock, non-ejector, Remington, model fifteen B. The serial number had been filed out, but we’ve managed to raise the latent impression: three two four six R five seven. Records show that this gun was one of thirteen stolen from Blade and Co, gunsmiths, in Barstone, on the fourteenth of November, last year. Eighteen inches had been sawn off the barrels and just over six inches off the stock. We’ve had it checked for prints, but no luck there. And that’s the lot, I’m afraid.”

  Fusil thanked the other, then rang off. He stared at his notes. That the gun had been stolen from Barstone added a little weight to the possibility that the job had been organized by a local villain: but only a very little.

  *

  Moody lived on the northern edge of the suburb of Dritlington, in an area where detached houses with all the unimaginative but solid qualities of the prosperous bourgeoisie were beginning to give way to the larger, more flamboyant, and pretentious residences of the wealthy.

  He was over six feet in height, yet did not immediately impress an observer as being tall because he was so solidly built. He had a square face, heavily featured and becoming almost craggy about his wide mouth and chin. Normally, he was very self-possessed: only when his quick temper was aroused, or he was threatened, did it become evident that he was also ruthless.

  He leaned against the elaborate marble mantelpiece in the large sitting-room. “Me?”

  “That’s right,” said Kerr, from the depths of one of the luxurious armchairs.

  “You surprise me.”

  “Like hell!” said Smith. He was always far too ready openly to resent wealth in the hands of known villains. He’d been brought up by bigoted foster parents who’d beaten into him the precept that honesty always paid: he could never forgive them for so self-evident a lie.

  Moody stood upright and smiled his amusement at Smith’s tactlessness. “How about a drink at this stage?”

  There was a rule which clearly laid down that a detective should never accept the offer of a drink from anyone he had cause to suspect of having committed a crime. A few detectives observed this rule. Kerr, however, asked for a gin and tonic and Smith chose a beer. Moody crossed to a large, beautifully inlaid cocktail cabinet and poured out the drinks. He handed these to them, gave himself a whisky and ginger, then returned to stand in front of the fireplace.

  “The snatch was just after eleven Tuesday morning,” said Kerr.

  Moody drank, then said: “I saw something about it on the local news the other evening.”

  “Three blokes inside and one outside in a white Rover. We had some good descriptions from the eye-witnesses. One of them is you, right down to the missing tip of the finger.”

  Moody looked down at the middle finger of his left hand which lacked the top joint. “Took that off when I was a youngster, doing what I’d been told not to.” He crossed to a low coffee-table on which was a large silver cigar-box, put down his glass and opened the lid of the box. “Either of you smoke cigars?”

  “Only at Christmas-time,” said Kerr. Smith, with deliberate churlishness, took a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket.

  Moody picked out two cigars in metal cases and handed one to Kerr. “Keep it in the dry and it’ll be good for next Christmas.”

  He picked up his glass, returned to where he had been standing and put the glass down on the mantelpiece. He unscrewed the metal case and slid out the cigar, then used a cutter to cut the end. His every action was designed to show he was at ease and completely untroubled by the detectives’ accusations. He struck a match, waited until the flame had settled and lit the end of the cigar. He drew on it, exhaled the smoke slowly. “One of the few small luxuries I allow myself.”

  Kerr looked round the room, making it very clear that he was roughly estimating how much it must have cost to buy the large Chinese carpet, the very luxurious suite of settee and three armchairs, the matched display cabinets in which was kept a superb collection of toy soldiers, the cocktail cabinet, the music centre, the large T.V. . . .

  “I’ve had the luck to make some good investments,” said Moody. “My last was into B.P. at under three-fifty and out at four hundred and eighty.”

  “I hope you paid all the taxes?”

  “Of course. What d’you take me for?”

  “A loud-mouth,” said Smith.

  Moody looked at him, and just for a moment his expression of easy insouciance gave way to one of sharp anger.

  “We looked up your record before we came along,” said Kerr.

  “Was it instructive?”

  “The last time you were inside it was for armed robbery — even if it wasn’t called that because of a legal technicality. Seems to be a favourite of yours.”

  “We all like doing what we do best,” Moody mocked.

  “Care to tell us where you were Tuesday morning?”

  “I don’t think I would. But if it will help to clear up any misunderstanding, I suppose I’d better. I drove over to Keighley-on-Sea to visit a couple of old friends.”

  “Business friends, no doubt?”

  Moody laughed. “One-track mind. Personal friends, whom I’ve known for a long, long time.”

  “What’s their name?”

  “I’d prefer it if they weren’t troubled.”

  “You’re a great optimist, if you’re nothing else,” sneered Smith.

  Moody drank, then replaced the glass on the mantelpiece, next to a handsomely framed photograph which showed a woman with her arm around a boy. “Mr and Mrs Roger Cairns,” he said, with sharp disdain.

  “When did you get to their place?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Something after ten, I suppose.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “It was late — after four. Agatha insisted on me staying to lunch. Matter of fact, I forgot to ring here to tell my wife I wouldn’t be back and that dropped me straight into the dog-house.”

  “Did you see anyone else while you were with the Cairns?”

  “Another friend of theirs called in for a bit — can’t remember his name.”

  “What’s the address of the house?”

  He drew on the cigar, let the smoke stream slowly out of his nostrils. “Janos, Beach Road. They renamed the house after a friend, a Hungarian who escaped during the uprising. He got knocked down by a bus and killed in Oxford Street a couple of years later. As Roger’s so fond of saying, if your name’s written down, you’re not going to escape however much you try.”

  “You could have a think about that,” said Smith.

  Moody ignored him.

  “I don’t suppose you’d mind if we had a quick shufty round here?” said Kerr.

  “If you’ve a search warrant, it doesn’t matter what I mind.”

  “We haven’t.”

  “Then no shufty.” He spoke ironically. “It’s not that I’m worried, of course, but it might get the wife upset. Ladies think a lot of their privacy.”

  “Oh, well!” Kerr shrugged his shoulders. He stood. Smith remained seated for a while, his expression angry, as if he were going to pursue the matter of a search, then he abruptly stood.

  “Sorry I can’t help you,” said Moody.

  “You will,” replied Smith.

  Chapter Five

  A bell sounded and slowly the boys began to drift back into the school buildings, through one of four doorways. Thompson’s gaze followed a boy, whose face was round and
rather flaccid, until the boy disappeared.

  He walked on, making for the public library and the nearby supermarket. His mother wanted three new romances — it was becoming difficult to find ones she had not read — a packet of back bacon, half a pound of lard, and a large packet of cornflakes.

  As he approached a sports shop, a woman and a boy came out. The woman was beautifully dressed, with immaculate taste and a rare sense of colour, and she was made up with a skill which concealed the skill. Three men near-by stared at her. The boy was dressed in a grey suit which was somewhat creased. He was compactly built and his movements had the easy fluidity of an older person: his expression was one of boredom rather than anything else. Thompson stared at him.

  Mother and son crossed the pavement to a Daimler, parked on double solid lines. A chauffeur, dressed in a light grey suit, opened the rear door for the mother and the front passenger door for the son.

  Thompson walked on. In his mind, he saw the boy crossing the school playground, the boy walking to the Daimler. His thoughts were bitter. At the beginning, his mind had been free of all torments for months afterwards, but then that period had become less and less: it was now only two days since he’d picked up Mark.

  Somehow, he must learn to control his mind because then he would be able to control his actions. But even as he swore to himself that he would, part of his mind accepted that he was already breathlessly wondering how soon . . .

  *

  Keighley lay on the north side of the river and was an ancient town, dating back to a Saxon settlement, which still possessed considerable charm. Keighley-on-Sea lay on the south side of the river and was a largely unplanned bungalow development which, if it had any at all, possessed only the charm of endless variety — most of the wooden bungalows had been erected between the two World Wars.

  Cairns’s bungalow consisted of three box-shaped buildings joined together in stepped fashion, and the largest of these, which fronted the pebbled beach, had built into its eastern side an old railway carriage. One almost expected the nine-fifteen to come steaming out.