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  Welland spoke breezily. ‘There’s a preliminary report in from that village where there’s been a fire in the garage, sir.’

  It was typical of the other, thought Fusil, not to know the name of the village or the garage. He leaned back in his chair. ‘Well?’

  ‘Arson has been confirmed. The fire was started by smashing open the petrol tank of an Austin Maxi. The mechanic is a bloke called Conrad Downring, who’s an old lag.’

  ‘Do we know his history?’

  ‘He was sent down for two years after being found guilty of robbery. He’s an explosive expert—learned the trade when he was in the Army.’

  Fusil fiddled with a pencil. ‘Where was he at the time of the fire?’

  ‘He claims he was at home with his family, but there’s no outside corroboration.’

  It was obviously unlikely Downring would have set the fire, knowing how quickly his record would come to light. Yet whenever a crime and an exconvict came together, there always had to be the suspicion that there was a link between the two. ‘Have there been any threats against the owner of the garage?’ asked Fusil.

  ‘Mr. Philby says there’s been nothing like that and he can’t give any reason for the arson.’

  ‘How does he get on with Downring?’

  ‘There’s no information on that point, sir.’

  ‘All right. Get over to the place, have a chat with Philby and Downring, and talk to the villagers to see if anyone can help.’ He watched Welland leave. Provided a case called for no special degree of tact, intelligence, or imagination, Welland could be left to deal with it.

  Fusil emptied the in-tray and began to sort through the mass of papers, but almost immediately he was interrupted by a knock on the door. He swore. ‘Come in.’ A man in his late twenties entered and stood in front of the desk in a relaxed manner. He was smooth: his oiled black hair had not a strand out of place, his handsome face was tanned as if he were just back from safari, and his easy smile suggested a self-satisfied assurance. Fusil, who liked a man to have a few obvious warts, disliked the other on sight. ‘Well?’ he snapped.

  ‘Roger Yarrow, sir.’

  For a moment the name meant nothing to Fusil.

  ‘I’m joining your department, sir, as D.C.’ His tone of voice somehow managed to suggest that eastern division C.I.D. was being greatly honoured.

  Fusil stared resentfully at Yarrow, conscious that in failing to identify him immediately he had put himself at fault.

  ‘My uncle,’ said Yarrow, ‘told me I would gain a great deal of experience in this division.’

  It was quite impossible to justify such an accusation, but Fusil was certain that there had been an implied suggestion that any experience gained in a division commanded by him was bound to be of a somewhat dubious nature. He checked his immediate anger, knowing that for once he must dissimulate. One day—and this before very long—he was going to leave the Fortrow borough force either to apply for a position in a much larger force, where there’d be more room for promotion, or because county took over the borough force. In either case, Detective Chief Superintendent Menton could, directly or indirectly, play a large part in what sort of recommendations he took with him. Menton was this over-smooth D.C.’s uncle. Bloody politics, thought Fusil, even as he bitterly acknowledged the necessity to observe them.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘and have a fag. In a minute you can start out on some dental checking but for the moment we’ll have a chat about the division.’ He went to take a battered pack of cigarettes from his top drawer, where he kept them for visitors.

  Yarrow produced a silver cigarette case and then a matching silver gas lighter.

  Fusil began mentally to list all the dirtier jobs that needed doing.

  *

  Downring wriggled out from under the Mini and stood up. He brushed his cheek with the back of his hand and left a streak of oil. Philby threaded his way between the cars which had been packed back from the fire damaged area. ‘What’s the verdict, Conrad?’

  ‘The sub-frame’s rusted to powder.’

  ‘We’ll just have to weld in a new one, then.’ Philby wore white overalls that were only slightly dirty: he rubbed his plump chin with fleshy thumb and forefinger that were clean.

  ‘You quoted Maggis a tenner for the whole job.’

  Philby shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘All you wanted was to get the car in here.’

  ‘It’s quite impossible always to be accurate, you know that: these things turn up,’ he said, in his soft, flabby voice.

  He was a crook by instinct, thought Downring bitterly, knowing that money was very tight for Maggis.

  There was a call from the doorway of the garage and they turned. Brenda waved at them and Philby went over to her, then the two of them went into the bungalow. What the hell did women see in Philby? wondered Downring.

  He stared resentfully around the garage. When he’d started, taking the place of an incompetent mechanic who’d pinched a load of tools when he did a moonlight flit, the garage hadn’t taken in half the work it now did and Philby had moaned that it would have to close down. Yet now, because the work was conscientiously done, business was booming. Whenever Downring asked for a rise in his rock-bottom wage Philby prevaricated and said they’d have to wait and see that things were going to work out all right, then carefully reminded him that he’d been taken on when most people would have refused to have anything to do with him. If only to God he’d enough money to buy his own place. Inside two years he’d be able to afford to give Valerie a real life.

  The telephone rang and he edged his way past a Ford and answered it.

  ‘Now that sounds like old Banger.’

  Downring hunched his broad shoulders, as if he were faced with physical violence. ‘What d’you want?’ he demanded hoarsely.

  ‘They tell me you ’ad a fire last night? Nasty things, fires. Lucky it weren’t at your ’ome, with the missus inside.’

  Downring stared through the dirty window beyond the workbench at the pleasant view of rolling, wooded countryside. In his mind he saw his house on fire with the flames reaching out to engulf Valerie and Linda. . . . Prickles of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  ‘Are you still there, Banger-boy?’

  ‘Yes,’ he muttered hoarsely.

  ‘Think about it, eh? Then I’ll ’ave a word with you this evening over the phone.’ The connection was cut.

  He replaced the receiver, turned, and stared at the burned-out Maxi, the other fire-damaged cars, and the charred roof.

  They’d offered him money and he’d turned it down even though money could do so much for him: a million pounds wouldn’t have tempted him back to crime because of Valerie. They’d tried to beat him up to persuade him and had failed, so now they’d set fire to the garage as a warning. A beating-up was nothing, but a threat to Valerie and Linda was everything.

  He lit a cigarette and swore he wouldn’t give in to them, but part of his tormented mind told him that in reality he had to co-operate now, even if he tried to do no more than buy the explosive and show them how to use it.

  Chapter Six

  The office of the Society for the Help of Distressed Persons was in Peters Street, on the ground floor of a terraced house. It faced the high, dirt-stained brick wall which surrounded Fortrow Prison. Few members of the public knew of the existence of the society and even fewer were aware that ‘distressed persons’ was a euphemism for newly discharged prisoners, but amongst the prisoners in the jail, even those who were the most bitterly cynical, it was accepted as genuinely offering help, thanks to the man who worked there, George Turnball.

  Turnball was of medium height, balding, with a sharply defined, almost Jewy nose as the only outstanding and remembered feature of his face. His patience, in the face of the most open hostility and rudeness, was reputedly endless: prisoners sometimes, out of a sense of jeering curiosity, tried to make him lose his temper, but none ever seriously claimed to have succeeded. He was obviously a man
of education, yet somehow there was never any suggestion of condescension on his part towards the most uneducated. Even his wife’s running away with a newly discharged convict six years before had apparently not altered by a fraction the dedication with which he worked for the prisoners.

  The relationship between Turnball and the police was a delicate and largely undefined one which often gave the police cause for annoyance. He would help them when to do so was of obvious advantage to the prisoner concerned, he would help them if the prisoner agreed, but would tell them nothing—no matter what the circumstances—if to do so might be against the interests of a prisoner.

  Fusil parked his Vauxhall and walked along the pavement to the house in which was the office. On the right beyond the road was the prison wall. He was hardly conscious of it, caring little about the men inside: experience made him believe that punishment must be seen to be retributive if it was to be of any value and he had little time for the modern penologists who tended to ignore the plight of the victims, both actual and potential. He had no illusions about how thin was the division between civilised living and the anarchy that would reign if law and order ever became too weakened.

  On the outside door was a brass notice saying to ring and enter. Inside, was a small, oblong hall lit by an unshaded bulb, a flight of stairs to the left, an empty umbrella stand with one arm broken off, a couple of chairs, a table on which were some girlie magazines, a baize-covered notice-board, and two doors. The nearer one opened and Turnball looked out. ‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector!’ He did not sound very welcoming. ‘Come on in.’

  Fusil went in. He disliked Turnball for a reason that vaguely made him feel guilty—no honest man of education should put himself in a position where uneducated convicts could jeer and abuse him.

  ‘What’s it this time?’ asked Turnball, as he sat down behind the cheap and badly stained desk.

  ‘I’d like to know something about Conrad Downring.’

  ‘Why?’ Turnball’s sharp blue eyes studied Fusil. Around his mouth were lines of bitterness.

  ‘I’m trying to get an accurate picture of his background.’

  ‘You’ll have to be a lot more specific than that before I’ll tell you anything—if I can.’ Turnball rested his elbows on the desk and joined the tips of his fingers together.

  Tinged with Fusil’s dislike for Turnball was a grudging respect, ironically resting on much the same grounds, but after the first few minutes of every meeting Fusil’s overriding feeling was one of irritation. Turnball seemed to radiate a sense of sanctimoniousness, as if he spent much of his time congratulating himself on doing such good work. ‘There’s been a fire at the garage where he’s worked since soon after coming out of the nick. The fire was deliberate. We’ve no cause to connect him with the arson, but . . .’

  Turnball broke in. ‘But having given a dog a bad name, you’d like to hang him?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Fusil irritatedly. ‘I want to know if it’s likely he’s completely in the clear.’

  Turnball spoke sarcastically. ‘I’m glad to hear the police have become so constructive.’

  Fusil ignored the sarcasm. ‘He’s married and on the face of things is trying to go straight. If his history says that’s the truth, I want to leave him strictly alone.’

  Turnball took his elbows off the desk, turned, and pulled open the second drawer of a tall metal filing cabinet. He leafed through a number of cards until he found the one he wanted. This he read, then he returned it and carefully shut the drawer. He turned back. ‘I can place him now. He’s a large man with a look about him that he can be pretty wild at times?’

  Fusil was surprised at the tone of this description. ‘I haven’t yet met him.’

  ‘He was discharged from here over a year ago.’

  ‘Did you see him before he left?’

  ‘I try to see all of them.’

  ‘How did you find him?’

  Turnball hesitated. ‘Shall we settle for non-co-operative?’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘He was quite certain he didn’t need any help.’

  ‘You talk as if he were pretty forceful in his refusal?’

  Turnball didn’t answer, but whether he realised it or not, his silence was expressive.

  ‘Why didn’t he want your help?’ Fusil, rather small-mindedly, gained some pleasure from being able to ask the question.

  ‘It’s difficult to answer. He’s certainly very far from stupid. Pig-headedness, maybe, a determination to paddle his own canoe at all costs and regardless.’

  ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’

  ‘Eventually, but every man needs help at the beginning.’

  For the first time Fusil realised that under Turnball’s quiet calm there was room for resentment when his help was spurned. ‘Did he say anything about going straight?’

  ‘Not to me, but then our discussion was short.’

  ‘If he set out to go straight, d’you reckon he’d stick to it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not really able to answer that.’

  Fusil spoke challengingly. ‘Why are you hedging? D’you know something of importance that makes it unlikely?’

  Turnball slumped back in his chair and rubbed his large, angled nose. ‘I’m not going to comment on that.’

  ‘Did you know he was married?’

  ‘Yes. A woman with a young kid.’

  ‘Then the kid’s not his?’

  ‘Didn’t you realise that?’

  ‘I told you, I haven’t met him.’

  Turnball said: ‘I suppose she was glad to marry him, having a kid in tow.’

  There was more bitterness there, thought Fusil, which was hardly surprising in view of the way Turnball’s wife had left him and rushed off with someone else. ‘You seem to know a fair bit about him?’

  ‘I’ve various channels of communication.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Fusil stood up. ‘Thanks for your help.’ He looked with quick resentment at the filing cabinet behind Turnball. How many unsolved crimes might be cleared up if the police were allowed to check through the cards inside?

  There was the sharp clatter of the outside doorbell, followed by a thud as the door was slammed shut.

  ‘Another customer,’ said Turnball.

  Fusil was irritated at being termed a customer and even more irritated when he went into the hall and recognised Onden, a punk villain in his late fifties. When he saw the D.I., Onden stepped back in alarmed surprise.

  Back in his car, Fusil lit his pipe. The visit had yielded little definite except irritation, yet there had been an indication from Turnball, undoubtedly unintended, that Downring was tough and rough and that it would be no surprise to find him back on the villaining. Was he in some way connected with the fire? Or had that been nothing more than vandalism? Would vandals have coshed Muller? Vandals usually steered clear of any physical violence.

  He started the engine and drove through the back streets to the station, where he arrived a quarter of an hour late for his interview with Selby.

  Since this was not an interview that reasonably could be expected to lead to a charge, Fusil saw the other in his room. Selby was a small man, with neatly shaped head, a toothbrush moustache, one missing front tooth, a nervous quickness of manner, and—to Fusil, who was in a cynical frame of mind —all the airs of a man who tried to make out he was more important than he was. ‘Sorry to be late, Mr. Selby. Thanks very much for coming.’ He shook hands, pulled up one of the chairs for Selby, then went over to the electric fire and switched on the second bar.

  Selby was wearing a black tie with semi-stiff white collar and shirt. His grey suit was close-fitting and looked fairly expensive.

  ‘Have they told you the inquest will be held at the end of this week?’ asked Fusil quietly.

  Selby nodded.

  Fusil knew a strong sense of pity. The death of a wife must be a terrible shock whatever the state of the relationship and however much she drank. ‘Where were you when you received n
ews of your wife’s death?’

  ‘At Nice. The message was waiting for me.’ He spoke in a toneless voice.

  ‘Will you give me the name and address of your hotel in Milan?’

  ‘The Hotel Morandi. It’s in Via Cadlolo.’

  Fusil wrote. ‘Did you spend Friday night at the Hotel Morandi?’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  Was Selby sufficiently concerned with anything beyond his own emotions to appreciate the significance of the questions? ‘When did you leave on Saturday?’

  ‘I had an early breakfast and left at about . . . I suppose it was around nine o’clock.’

  ‘How long is it since you were last in England?’

  Selby hesitated, then searched in his pocket for a diary. ‘My memory suddenly seems rather bad . . .’ He flicked through the pages. ‘I flew to Frankfurt on the fifteenth of August, picked up the car there and drove down to Stuttgart on the Friday. Would you like my full itinerary?’

  ‘Perhaps you’d write it out afterwards and send it to me?’ The Italian police, thought Fusil, and the German police could check out the dates and places. ‘One last thing, Mr. Selby, and then I shan’t need to distress you any further. Had your wife many assets of her own?’

  He shook his head. ‘We are neither of us . . . She had practically nothing,’ he said, suddenly remembering the need for the past tense.

  ‘And there was no life insurance?’

  ‘I did have a policy on each of our lives, but I stopped hers at the beginning of this year.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I simply couldn’t afford both premiums because of the amount she . . . I’m afraid she drank rather heavily.’

  Fusil fiddled with a pencil. ‘Which firm was the insurance with?’

  ‘Abbott’s Insurance Company. I’ve always done all my insurance with the local office in Broad Street.’

  Fusil pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Once again, many thanks for coming along and for your help. Shall I get someone to run you home?’