Call Back to Crime Page 3

  One of the other two, middle-aged, close to retirement, and exercising the right of the old hand to be critical almost to the point of insubordination, said: ‘For what, sir?’

  ‘Anything you can find,’ snapped Fusil. He pointed. ‘What is that over there?’

  The P.C. looked round before he said: ‘D’you mean the electric storage heater?’

  ‘And what’s that over there?’

  ‘Another one, sir.’

  ‘Was one of ’em originally in the bedroom?’ They stared at him in hostile silence. ‘Hasn’t anyone told you that electrical apparatus can cause fires?’

  He heard the snide comment that so could hot air, but was unable to decide which of them had spoken. The fire officer’s report said the fire had had only one point of origin, but that it had been intense—though not intense enough to be labelled abnormal. Fires originally caused by cigarettes dropping on to bedclothes seldom built up to such an intensity before being discovered, electrical fires sometimes did. Irritably, he thought that the fire officer just wasn’t ready to give any opinion on how the fire had started. So was there now cause for the police to continue to be interested in the fire and death?

  The elderly P.C. came across with something in his hands. ‘I wondered if this is the kind of important thing you want us to look for?’ His face expressed only proper curiosity.

  Fusil identified a pair of fire tongs. He was not the man to suffer having the mickey taken out of him. ‘Just the thing. Make a sketch of where you found it, label it, and wrap it up securely. In your notes of the finding, record the fact that you’ve handled it unnecessarily. See the sketch and fully typed report are on my desk in the morning.’

  *

  Valerie Downring had inherited little from her mother other than the ability to be a good cook with simple and cheap ingredients, but this was an inheritance she treasured. Conrad appreciated good food. She took the lid off the earthenware pot. ‘It’s only stew,’ she said.

  Downring smiled. She might speak as if the meal would be a poor one, but her stews were delicious. She began to serve him and the rich smell immediately increased his hunger. He still found it incredible that when he’d come out of prison, bitter, ready to stay with crime and so abjure his future, he should have met her and so recovered a future. Even the timing had been little short of miraculous. Twelve days after leaving the overcrowded Fortrow jail, he’d been approached to join a mob for a big job. Twenty thousand a man, at the very least. He’d been going to join until he met her, then he’d refused because she had suddenly become all-important. A month later the news had come through of an attempt to break into the strong-room of jewellers in Keighley-on-Sea. All five members of the mob had been caught and the lowest sentence had been three years. But for her he’d have gone straight back to prison.

  She put the plate in front of him. ‘There’s plenty more for a second helping.’

  He knew he’d have to eat more to show real appreciation and please her, but wondered how he’d manage it: his plate was piled high.

  She served herself and sat down on the other side of the bare-topped wooden table. The house was poorly furnished because he refused to buy much on credit, but neither of them cared how worn were the carpets or how much stuffing oozed out of the sitting-room settee.

  ‘You’re late back,’ she said, in between mouthfuls.

  ‘We’d a car come in late what was in trouble and the bloke had to get back to London tonight. I stayed on to do the job.’

  ‘Then you make sure you get paid for it.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m telling you, Conrad, you make sure. That old bastard gets away with murder on account of you being too soft on demanding what’s your rights. You want paying for every second’s overtime you do.’

  ‘Sure.’ He smiled. Seldom able to fight her own battles because she was too soft-hearted, she ‘fought’ his with iron determination.

  The telephone rang.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ he said, as he stood up.

  He went out into the hall. The telephone was on the unpainted stand he’d made by the side of the stairs. Philby, the owner of the garage, paid for it in order that Downring could be called out at night for emergency repairs and not he. ‘Hullo,’ said Downring.

  ‘So ’ow’s life with you, Banger?’

  He gripped the receiver tighter. ‘Who’s that? What do you want?’

  ‘We’ll cut you in for a full share, Banger, not just a grand.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There could be ’alf a million at the share-out.’

  ‘Then share it out.’

  ‘Still acting soft? Or d’you think after last night you’re real strong? You ain’t, you know. You and your missus is real vulnerable.’

  He instinctively looked at the kitchen door, which, by pure chance, he’d closed behind him. His voice thickened. ‘You try anything on her and I’ll . . .’

  The other broke in. ‘You can’t do nothing.’ His voice was now vicious. ‘Just remember, Banger. There ain’t nothing what can’t ’appen to your missus or your kid if you stays stupid.’ The connection was cut.

  Downring replaced the receiver. He looked round the small, dingy hall. Valerie and Linda were so vulnerable. But if any mob thought they’d scare him into joining them they were twice round the twist. Gradually, he began to think about half a million pounds. There was always big talk, so maybe two hundred and fifty thousand was a more realistic figure. Split between four or five—after subtracting fifty grand for expenses—that was about forty thousand each. Even a quarter of that would make a whole change of life for Valerie and him. He could buy a garage and if he worked eighteen hours a day then he’d pocket eighteen hours’ money. He longed to take Valerie away from this dingy house, in a row of equally dingy houses, and to fill her life with some beauty. Ten thousand . . . forty thousand . . . He swore violently. Remember the other job which ‘couldn’t fail’ and the prison sentences the mob had collected. If he were ever sent back to jail, it would crucify Valerie.

  He went back into the kitchen.

  ‘Who was that?’ she asked. ‘You’ve been gone so long I shoved your plate in the oven.’

  ‘It was Bert—wanted a natter.’ He opened the oven door and used a piece of towel to pick out the plate.

  ‘D’you mean Bert Fellows?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sat down.

  ‘But Bert’s up north.’ Her voice suddenly became strained. ‘Jenny told me this morning.’

  He cursed himself for being so stupid.

  ‘Who was it really? Was . . . was it something to do with the fight you were in last night?’ Already her eyes were moist and the lines on her face had grouped together into an expression of dismay. ‘You ain’t . . .’ She stopped.

  He spoke harshly. ‘I’m not returning to thieving.’

  ‘Then what’s going on?’

  ‘Some bloody fools keep bothering me. Forget ’em.’

  She swallowed quickly as she studied his face for several seconds, then she looked away as her shoulders slumped. ‘Why won’t you tell me?’ she asked plaintively.

  Chapter Four

  On Sunday, a clear but cold day with an easterly wind robbing the sunshine of any warmth, Fusil arrived at the station at eleven o’clock. Dressed in a roll-neck sweater and old grey flannels, it was his firm intention to return home as soon as he’d checked the latest crime reports and had had a quick word with Rowan, the week-end duty C.I.D. officer. He was just about to call Rowan when the internal telephone rang. He picked up the receiver. ‘D.I.’

  ‘Desk here, sir. Detective Chief Inspector Kywood’s coming up to see you.’

  Fusil slammed the receiver back on its cradle. The desk sergeant was either a fool or bloody-minded. Why the hell hadn’t he said that only the duty man was on and so left Rowan to cope with Kywood? He looked at his watch.

  Kywood was his usual sleek self, black hair smarmed down, square, thrusting chin suggesting a man of character, his manner j
ovial. ‘’Morning, Bob. Tell you something, it’s nice to come here on a Sunday and find the captain at the helm.’

  ‘Have a seat, sir,’ said Fusil. Did the old fool think this was a square-rigger?

  Before sitting, Kywood brought a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered it. ‘But, of course, you don’t,’ he said, as he had said countless times in the past.

  Moodily, Fusil produced his pipe and tobacco pouch.

  Kywood sat back in the chair. ‘So how are things, Bob?’

  ‘Quiet.’

  ‘That’s just what I like to hear.’ He laughed. He had a booming laugh which suggested a man with a warm, boisterous, open-handed manner: his laugh was a liar.

  Fusil lit his pipe.

  ‘Have you made much progress with the woman who was burned to death Friday morning?’ asked Kywood.

  ‘The P.M.’s tomorrow. To date, it all looks straightforward. We’ve managed to contact the husband and he’s flying back from Nice late today. We can question him tomorrow.’

  Kywood spoke in a hearty manner. ‘I suppose you’ve checked what insurances were out on her life?’

  ‘Not yet. I decided to wait for the husband’s evidence.’

  He drew on his cigarette. ‘Anything more on that yobbo who got beaten up outside some pub?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Your first report suggested he was trying to work over someone?’

  Fusil shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not getting too excited over villains carving each other up.’

  Kywood looked annoyed but couldn’t quite think what to say. He disliked Fusil on several scores: the D.I. was too sharp which could always spell trouble for a D.C.I., he didn’t mind acting unconventionally, he disliked villains with a personal hate which was dangerous for everyone, and he didn’t take overmuch care to conceal his feelings—which at times seemed to border on contempt—for his superiors. ‘It’s nice to have things all quiet and uncomplicated for once, Bob.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Kywood laughed, uneasy because he felt he’d been manœuvred into a rather gauche position. ‘You know you’re a genius at complicating events!’

  ‘Only if, in fact, they are complicated.’

  Kywood stood up. ‘I’ll be getting along, then.’ He allowed his irritation to show. When he’d been a D.I. he’d taken damned good care to treat his D.C.I. with respect.

  *

  The garage in the village of Entington had never been modernised. There were three petrol pumps which often ran dry because Philby had forgotten to order fresh supplies and the repair shed was old, in parts decrepit. To the right was a small bungalow in which Philby lived together with whichever woman he was currently claiming to be his wife. Hours of opening were flexible and the villagers expected to be able to buy petrol at most times.

  A very rusty, beat-up Hillman drove into the darkened forecourt at seven-fifteen and parked in front of the pumps. Muller climbed out, looked at his watch in the light from the right-hand sidelight, and swore because it was a lot later than he’d thought.

  ‘Ted,’ he shouted. ‘Are you there to give us some petrol?’

  He checked on the bungalow and noticed for the first time it was in darkness. He was trying to work out whether he could carry on into Fortrow and get petrol there from one of the all-night garages when he thought he heard a noise from the repair shed. He reached into the car for a torch, switched it on, and walked up the slight incline to the repair shed. The small door was shut, but not locked.

  He opened the door, which squeaked loudly, and went in. The place was in darkness. ‘Ted,’ he shouted, although it was clear the place was empty.

  He heard a swishing sound and even as he tried to identify it there was an explosion to the side of his head which blasted him into unconsciousness.

  His senses returned slowly, so that when he first realised he was stretched out on the ground he didn’t really worry. Somewhere there was a flickering light. He began to puzzle over events, but when the ache in his head began it increased so rapidly and with such intensity that for quite a while he was worried about nothing else.

  Eventually he picked himself up into a sitting position. Once again the flickering light caught his attention and he saw the garage was on fire. He tried to struggle to his feet and the pain increased yet again, making him draw in his breath with a hiss. A stubborn man, as his wife would have confirmed, he forced himself on and eventually stood up.

  There was a telephone on the nearest workbench. Moving very slowly, wondering if the dampness about his neck was blood, he reached the phone. He dialled 999 and reported the fire.

  *

  Downring only heard about the fire as he was leaving the house, the last in a row of council houses, the next morning to go to work. A tractor, drawing a trailer that stank of slurry and dripped it to the road, braked to a stop. ‘What happened, then?’ shouted the driver.

  ‘What happened where?’ replied Downring.

  ‘You mean you haven’t heard?’

  Downring shook his head.

  ‘Old Muller got laid out at the garage and someone set fire to the place and they say it’s half burned down. One thing—Old Ted’ll be drawing his insurance now!’ The driver engaged third high, pushed up the accelerator lever and drove on, the trailer dropping pools of slurry.

  Downring climbed into the cab of the pick-up, which he parked on the grass verge, and drove off. He passed the playing field, village hut, fire station, and small private housing estate, to reach the garage. A patrol car was drawn up beyond the petrol pumps and he parked between that and the three used cars for sale. When he went into the shed he saw the fire had been towards the far end—an Austin Maxi, on which he’d been working the day before, was now nothing but scrap.

  A P.C. came over to question him. Instinctively, his face assumed the frozen, neutral expression which he had learned in jail where any more positive expression might upset a screw and lead to trouble.

  ‘So you work here,’ said the P.C., after Downring had identified himself. ‘Then maybe you’ll be able to help us?’

  Downring shook his head.

  ‘You weren’t anywhere around the place just after seven last night?’

  ‘I was at home.’

  ‘On your own, like?’

  ‘With my missus and the kid. What’s the matter—are you calling for an alibi?’

  ‘Give over, mate. I’m just asking questions.’

  Bitterly, Downring realised his manner was branding him an ex-con almost as surely as if he had told the other. He tried to sound relaxed. ‘Me and the wife watched the telly until after eleven and then we went to bed.’

  The P.C. wrote in his notebook, then looked at him. ‘Have you been working here for long?’

  ‘A year.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘I’ll give you three guesses.’

  ‘O.K.,’ said the P.C., as he finished writing and closed his notebook. ‘Stick around, won’t you.’

  ‘Sure. I’m not off round the world until tomorrow.’

  Downring threaded his way through the cars to the burned-out Maxi. Two other cars had been damaged, but were repairable, and one of the workbenches, together with the equipment which had been on it, had been destroyed; the roof, wooden joists with corrugated iron, was high, but the flames had reached up to char some of the joists, although none had burned right through.

  Philby saw him and came across. ‘It’s done thousands of quid’s worth of damage,’ he moaned. ‘I’m ruined.’

  Who was he trying to flannel? wondered Downring sarcastically. He’d been waiting for years to hit the insurance company. Then Downring’s thoughts became bitterly uneasy. What motive could there have been for the break-in and the arson other than to show Conrad Downring what would happen to his house and his wife should he be so stupidly stubborn as to go on refusing to co-operate?

  Chapter Five

  The pathologist, a small, lively Irishman, gave orders for one last X-
ray. The table was tilted and an X-ray was taken of the right-hand side of the woman’s head. He took swabs from the body and handed these to the exhibits officer who, helped by the forensic scientist, stored them in labelled test tubes.

  The X-rays were developed and they showed no unexpected injuries. Fusil was not surprised. All the facts of the case suggested accidental death. He watched the pathologist work with quick skill and he felt less revulsion than usual because burn damage had made the body seem less than human.

  There would almost certainly be traces of alcohol and barbiturates, he thought. If Mrs. Selby hadn’t been drunk and/or doped, presumably she’d have saved herself from this fire.

  The pathologist finished the examination and crossed to the sink where he was helped out of apron and gloves by the mortuary assistant. Fusil spoke to him as he was carefully washing his hands with the green antiseptic soap. ‘Is there anything you can tell me at this stage, sir?’

  The pathologist turned his head and looked up from under his bushy black eyebrows. ‘I found nothing inconsistent with straightforward burning to death. The skull’s intact, as are all throat bones and the rib-cage. As to identity, her right leg shows a healed fracture which matches the fracture in the old hospital X-rays. On top of that, a great deal of work has been done to her teeth and her dentist’s records will no doubt provide you with further confirmation. The dead woman was a heavy drinker and pathological changes have taken place. Beyond that, there’s nothing more I can usefully add. You’ll have my full report as soon as possible.’

  He was a strange man, thought Fusil. Very polite, yet quite determined to make no sort of personal contact with those he met at work. Still, perhaps even a Cheeryble would, if he spent his working life cutting up corpses, want to keep the rest of the living world at arm’s length.

  Fusil had a word with the scientist and with the exhibits officer, a P.C., then he left. Back in his office, he’d hardly sat down behind his desk when Welland came in. He studied Welland and wondered how anyone could find life so casual an affair? He even envied the other’s ability to be so unconcerned, but it was a false envy because he was a man with strong ambitions.