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

  He sat down in the Fiat, started the engine, and backed out into the sunshine.

  The near-side headlamp was undamaged. He visually checked the paintwork around the headlamp, looking at it from different angles, and eventually became certain he could trace out where a skilful repaint job had been done. He bent and looked under the mudguard and here, because the dirt and grease had been cleaned before the repair had been carried out, the boundaries of that repair were obvious. He used his penknife to take a slither of paint from the top of the mudguard, behind the repair area: this he put into another plastic bag.

  He released the bonnet catch, lifted the bonnet until it locked in its upright position, and on top of the radiator saw a garage service label. Titchbourne Garage. It was one of the largest, and was probably the best, in the city. Why had they not reported the damaged car, following the police request?

  He looked along the length of the car, first from the front, then from the rear, seeking any scratch or indentation which could have been caused by a part of the bicycle scraping along the car. There was none.

  The tyres were Michelin X, their number 135 SR 13 ZX. The pattern of the tread was typical, but he still sketched it. The tyres were nearly new.

  He returned the Fiat into the garage. Kywood had said, “…when you find the car had nothing to do with the accident…” Right now, it didn’t look as if it were going to be quite like that.

  Chapter 6

  The foreman of Titchbourne Garage was a small prune of a man with long, thin fingers which were seldom still: for much of the time he was talking to Fusil he was fiddling with a piece of cotton waste.

  “Did you carry out repairs on Mrs Grant’s car just over a week ago?” Fusil asked him, as they stood in his office which was built in one corner of the main garage space.

  “I reckon we’ve done something to it recent, but I can’t remember what. That is, if you’re talking about the Mrs Grant what’s wife of the chief constable?”

  “That’s the lady.”

  “Hang on and I’ll check.” He turned and because his office was so small he was able to reach over to a filing cabinet and pull open the top drawer. “I always keep my own records. It ain’t a bit of good relying on the front office these days. Those chits of girls don’t know anything… Here we are.” He pulled out a card. “Friday the thirteenth — and what a Friday the thirteenth that was! My brother’s widow came to stay for the weekend and she’s still with us… Headlamp and bashing-out job. I remember. Mrs Grant came in and said she needed the job done immediate. I tried to tell her we’d enough work in hand for twice the staff, but she’s not the kind of woman to worry about a thing like that. And me — I’m all for a quiet life.”

  “So you kept quiet and did the repair, double quick sharp?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How extensive was the damage?”

  The foreman looked curiously at Fusil, then back at his card. “Someone had stuffed the front of the car into a wall. The bumper was buckled, the headlamp broken, the bonnet and wing dented… Nothing desperate, but it needed a new lamp unit and bumper and took a lot of tapping out.”

  “D’you remember being asked to notify us of any repairs to a near-side headlamp on a small car, maybe white, maybe hatchback?”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t think you told us about this one?”

  “When it belongs to the chief constable’s missus?”

  “We’d still have liked to hear about it.”

  “Are you saying this was the car in the hit-and-run?”

  Fusil shook his head. “No, I’m not. But we have to eliminate every car which comes within the description; if we’d known about this earlier, we could’ve eliminated it earlier.”

  The foreman spoke shrewdly. “But if you didn’t know about it, you didn’t know it needed eliminating”.

  Fusil smiled. “All right… now give me a few more details. D’you think the car hit something big?” The foreman’s curiosity became greater, but he contented himself with answering the question. “She told me it went into the garage. Her son was driving and his foot caught on the torn rubber mat they’d put in to protect the floor and he jammed the accelerator down by mistake.”

  “Was anything extraneous found around the damage site — bits of brick, maybe?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I gave the job of stripping out and getting ready for the panel bashing to Bert.”

  “Would you like to ask him what he came across?”

  The foreman left. Fusil stared through the fixed glass window and he watched a mechanic working on a very large and luxurious Fiat coupe. So some people still had money!

  The foreman returned. “It’s like you suggested. There were bits of brick. Nothing else.”

  “Thanks a lot… By the way, was there any damage anywhere else? Along the side, maybe?” The foreman picked up the card from the desk and re-read it. “There wasn’t anything else needed doing, except to replace a brake light that was on the blink.”

  “Would the broken headlamp still be around?”

  “All the junk is chucked out at the back. An old Steptoe picks it over and then the council carts off what’s left — if it ain’t too big.”

  “Does that mean it’s probably gone?”

  “More than likely.”

  “Will you have a look later on, just in case? Give me a ring if you should find it… I’ll be off, then. Thanks for your help.”

  The foreman stuck his right thumb into the breast pocket of his overalls and drummed his fingers. “You’re real interested, when all you’re after is eliminating?”

  Fusil smiled. “Know something? That kind of thought needs to be kept under wraps. What would Mrs Grant say if she heard you’d been talking around?”

  “Me, talking? I can’t even remember what you were on about just now.”

  *

  The Parsons lived in The Pines, a semi-detached house in the suburb of Ascrey Cross. The exterior was painted in two shades of olive green and the hall in two shades of brown, darkening an already dark space. The sitting room was over-furnished with settee, chairs, display cabinet, bookcases, stools, poufs, and occasional chairs, and as Fusil threaded his way between the settee, a coffee table, and a pouf covered with Egyptian motifs, he wondered where the guests fitted in if there were more than two of them.

  As Fusil sat. Parsons, his round face lined with worry, said: “You’ll have to understand, Mr Fusil, it was a terrible shock. Molly hasn’t got over it yet.”

  “Of course it was and I’m very sorry to have to bring it up again, but we want to nail the driver.”

  “And I hope you succeed,” she said, speaking with sharp vehemence. “I keep seeing that poor man being knocked off his bicycle. You’d’ve thought the driver would stop. But to drive on, just not caring… Suppose there’d been no one behind and the poor man had just lay there?”

  “Well there was someone, Molly — us,” said her husband reassuringly. He spoke to Fusil. “What I want to say is that Molly and me don’t really remember anything much about the car. We didn’t take any notice of it before the accident and afterwards we were too shocked to think straight.”

  “But you did well in remembering part of the registration number. D’you know, I reckon you took in a lot more of what happened than you think you did.” Fusil had the ability to instil into a witness a measure of self-confidence. “I’ve brought along a number of photos,” he tapped one of the two brown envelopes on his lap, “and they’re of the backs of cars of different makes. You look through them and tell me which one most seems like the car in the accident. I’ve also written out fifty car registration numbers: tell me if any of them strikes you as familiar.”

  Mrs Parsons with some confidence picked out the photograph of a Fiat 127, but failed to identify a registration number. Mr Parsons failed to identify either car or number.

  *

  Kywood was waiting in Fusil’s office. The room was warm, but not really warm enough t
o account for the beads of sweat on his forehead and face which made his skin appear to be oily. “So there you are! I’ve been waiting around for hours to see you. No one seemed to know where you were.”

  “Sorry about that,” said Fusil, as he crossed to his desk. “I’ve been checking up on the car.”

  “You’ve cleared it, of course?” Kywood didn’t wait for an answer. “God knows what got into the old man. I’ll bet he didn’t fuss so much when he was in the army… Still, he does have a tougher P.R. job to do here,” he added hastily, not wanting to seem to be criticising his superior too sharply. “I’ll go back and tell him to stop fussing, his wife’s car is in the clear.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t do that.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “As of this moment, that car could very well have been the hit-and-run vehicle.” Fusil briefly reported on the evidence.

  Kywood stared at the D.I. “Are you just being bloody difficult, or are you set on causing trouble?”

  “Neither.”

  “Then how do you make out that the car isn’t in the clear when it’s obvious even to a first-day police cadet that it bashed into the garage and not the cyclist?”

  “First off, times slot in, including taking the car in for repairs on the thirteenth. Then if you’ve got a bust headlamp from knocking over a cyclist and want to hide the fact, one of the easiest ways is to drive the car into something else and cause even greater damage.”

  “Have you any proof that’s what happened?”

  “None. But when I asked the chief constable whether he’d been driving the car that Thursday night, he refused to answer me.”

  “You probably asked in an insolent manner,” said Kywood weakly.

  Fusil ignored the comment.

  “All right, so you intend to keep checking. What are you going to do now?”

  “Send the paint samples for comparison tests and, depending on the results, question the chief constable and his family.”

  Kywood fiddled with his lip and swore.

  *

  It was the following Tuesday before one of the civilian scientists phoned Fusil.

  The scientist said: “The smear of paint taken from the brickwork is similar to the control sample, but we would need a larger sample to give a positive identification. The crime sample is similar in composition to the control sample. I’ve been on to the manufacturer’s representative in the U.K. and he confirms that there is a long run of cars to every paint mix: he couldn’t give an exact figure, but was certain it ran into dozens and dozens. There was little or no wear to the external coat on either sample: unfortunately, the crime sample did not include the primer and undercoats which often offer positive identification. So the best we can say is that the crime sample could have come from the vehicle off which the control sample was taken.”

  “I was hoping for a bit more than that,” said Fusil.

  The scientist laughed. “Show me one of you blokes who doesn’t expect more than we can offer!”

  Fusil thanked the other and rang off. So, there was no proof that the crime vehicle had been the Grants’ Fiat, yet on the physical evidence available it was possible: the fact that the chief constable had refused to say whether he had been driving the car Thursday night surely turned that possibility into a probability.

  He phoned borough H.Q. and spoke to the chief constable. “Fusil here, sir. Regarding the investigation you ordered. My preliminary enquiries are completed and I would now like to question the parties concerned.”

  “Very well. Shall we say Friday morning, ten o’clock, at my house?” He replaced the receiver.

  Fusil leaned back in his chair. Poor old bastard, he thought, and it was the first time he ever remembered feeling sorry for the chief constable.

  *

  Grant looked across the sitting room and for the first time noticed the new, glossy book on Eastern art on the low, glass-topped table. Diana had obviously bought it that day and from the look of the cover it must have cost at least ten pounds. His gaze moved upwards. There was a programme of pop music on the large television set. Very short-skirted girls gyrated to the cacophonous noise. Dancing? Dancing should be graceful, like the waltz, the foxtrot, or the quick step. His gaze moved right. Duncan was intently watching the programme. He was sprawled sideways in the chair and his right leg hung over the arm and beat time to the music. Sometimes, he wondered if Duncan really were his son, although it needed a pretty vast stretch of the imagination to picture Diana willingly indulging in sex. He had seriously tried to understand Duncan, to appreciate his view-points in life and be tolerant when they differed from his own, but he had always failed. He could understand the young man who cried out against privilege and wealth, who demanded change and struggled to bring about that change, but he could not understand a young man who cried out against privilege yet demanded its benefits, who despised wealth yet contrived to enjoy its trappings. Nor could he understand a son who seldom showed the slightest respect for his father. His gaze moved left. Diana. Sixty, looking fifty-five. But everything stayed fresher when well chilled.

  “Duncan,” he said, “do you mind turning off the television for a moment?”

  Duncan turned and looked at him with sulky annoyance.

  “There’s something I want to say and I can’t say it with this row going on.”

  “Big roll of drums: bugles!” said Duncan. He was half an inch shorter than his father and very slim: his face held more of his father’s features than his mother’s, although he had inherited some of her lines of pride. He had grown a beard which was in need of trimming and his hair was down almost to his shoulders. He wore a dirty T-shirt, patched jeans, and sandals.

  Duncan made no move, so Grant stood up, crossed to the set and switched it off. He stood with his back to it and clasped his hands behind himself: in his lightweight check suit, semi-stiff collar, and regimental tie, he looked the epitome of a retired colonel.

  “How would you like it if I bust up one of your ridiculous war films?” asked Duncan resentfully.

  “Thomas,” said Diana, “do you think you could possibly make your pronouncement and then switch on the television again so that we can watch the programme?”

  “Detective Inspector Fusil telephoned me earlier on. I’ve asked him to come here Friday morning at ten in order to question the three of us.”

  “Question us about what?” asked Duncan.

  “The hit-and-run case which took place on the twelfth.”

  “Well, I shan’t be here. I’ve a very important lecture and I’m not missing that for any half-baked fuzz.”

  “I’ve asked you before not to refer to the police in that term,” snapped Grant and there was now a note in his voice which temporarily subdued even Duncan.

  “Look, Pop, I was out in the car. Right? But I didn’t hit anyone or anything and so there can’t be any point…”

  “It will be best if you wait to explain the circumstances to Mr Fusil.”

  “Is that all?” asked Diana. “Do you think Duncan and I might now be allowed to watch the programme again?”

  Later that night, when they were up in their bedroom and Grant had changed into his pyjamas but was not yet in bed, Diana said: “I had no idea you were still behaving so ridiculously.”

  “Ridiculously? A man was knocked down by a car which didn’t stop…”

  “For heaven’s sake, Thomas, spare me the details. I’ve heard them so often, I know them off by heart.”

  “The crime has to be fully investigated.”

  “Because you want to hurt Duncan.”

  “Good God! Not that again. I may not always understand him, but it’s wicked to suggest I want to hurt him.”

  “The trouble’s obvious. He doesn’t spend all day saying yes, sir, no, sir, to you: he doesn’t want to join the army and go off killing people.”

  “I’ve never tried to influence him to join the army.”

  “Only because even you have to admit he’s far t
oo intelligent to waste his time like that. But you try to hurt him by humiliating him whenever you can.”

  “Humiliate? You really are talking nonsense. I’ve a duty towards justice…”

  “And that’s a thousand times more important than your duty towards your own family?”

  It was a question he had deliberately avoided from the beginning. When a man owed two duties totally opposed to each other, which did he honour, which did he betray?

  She could see he was suddenly no longer sure of the rightness of what he was doing. Her tone of voice became more cutting. “You could have forgotten the matter when first I asked you to — but no, you had to huff and puff and talk about being like Caesar’s wife. You couldn’t think beyond your pride in being a man who was completely honourable… You’re not concerned with justice. You’re only interested in yourself and hurting Duncan. If anything happens to him, I shall never forgive you.” She picked up her nightdress and went into the dressing room. She had never changed in front of him.

  Chapter 7

  “Would you prefer to question each of us separately?” asked Grant.

  “I think that would be best, sir,” answered Fusil.

  “Very well. We can use my study.” Grant led the way out of the sitting room and across the wide hall.

  The study was a much cosier room than the one they had just left. Here there was no brittle smartness, no attempt to be contemporary. The furniture was worn, the desk had on it several small mementoes which plainly came from army life, the large, glass-fronted bookcase contained such a variety of books, many with torn or missing jackets, that it was clear these were ones which were read and enjoyed, not collected for effect.