The Key to the Case Read online

  I was now left with a problem. As a conscientious officer of the law, as I still was, my clear duty was to hand the burglary tools over to the police. But Ronnie was already loaded with trouble, and wouldn’t in any event be able to use them for a long, long while. Not only that, but the same conscientious ex-copper would have a problem explaining an illegal search. So he put them back.

  I left, and closed the door behind me. Then I opened it again, having noticed that I’d been in there for three-quarters of an hour. They ought to know something at the hospital by now, I thought, so I looked up the hospital number and dialled it. They had put him in a ward: Slater Ward. I spoke to a crisp woman who told me there was now no danger, that he’d lost a lot of blood, and yes, I could see him this evening. Was I a relative? No, I assured her.

  I hung up and phoned Mary at home. No reason why Ronnie shouldn’t pay for it. Yes, she had heard from Amelia, who had seen one of the girls, the youngest, and had been about to set off to find the other two. It was all right, I had to assume, if she had Poppy with her, and no, there’d been no mention of having acquired an extra dog. I hung up, vaguely disappointed.

  It was not until I stood beside my car and looked back that I realized what a strange lack of neighbourly interest there had been. You would have thought the building was unoccupied apart from Ronnie. There were curtains at nearly every window, but I’d seen no one and heard no one. Perhaps the general philosophy was to keep your door locked and your head down.

  Shrugging, I got in the Stag and drove away, turning back on my earlier direction at an island. Where to now? Better try the Major, I supposed, though I couldn’t work up any degree of interest, as I was already fairly certain I could prove Ronnie’s innocence regarding the burglary and attack. It would, though, be better to make certain, and cover the proof from both ends—where he hadn’t been as well as where he had.

  The Major, living only about a mile from Aces High, was about the same distance from the centre of the town. Yet these two districts in no way resembled each other, Milo living in faded splendour, the Major tucked away discreetly in a cul-de-sac that most people never noticed existed. Avenues of modern bungalows have sprouted in that area in the past few years, each with a fair bit of land. Here and there are minor contrasts, where older residences are still firmly resisting destruction. There are even half a dozen half-timbered properties. But there is no shopping area. You can find a medical centre, though, with six doctors, then have to travel a mile to get a prescription filled. It is from here, beside the surgery, that the cul-de-sac runs, and at the end of this is a circle of trimmed grass surrounded by six two-storey Regency homes, quietly distancing themselves from the world spinning past. The Major owned one of these.

  He was at home, a short, broad-shouldered, red-faced man, now defaced by a bulge on one side of his jaw and the remains of stitches where the skin had been reassembled. My understanding was that his jaw had been broken. An exaggeration. Skin had been broken, but no bone.

  In his porch I introduced myself. On behalf, I said, of Ronnie Cope.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he said heartily, barely hampered by his jaw. ‘How about a bit of tiffin?’ He didn’t offer his hand, presumably because it had been trodden on.

  ‘Certainly,’ I agreed. ‘I’ve always wanted to know what it is.’

  ‘Me too.’ He poked my shoulder. ‘It’s a joke, see. What people expect a major to say. A joke.’

  ‘Yes,’ I assured him. ‘A joke.’

  ‘A bit early for whisky, but I’ve got some sherry.’

  He had it, and he’d been sampling it, and I was sure he’d be able to recommend it. ‘In here, old son,’ he said, pushing open a door.

  The room was also what one would expect of a retired major, living...alone? With a housekeeper? It was irrelevant. The furnishings created a blurred impression of exotic foreign lands, a splendid rug from the Orient, and an inlaid table that could have come from anywhere east of Suez. There was a hookah beside a high-backed chair that was very like one of ours at home, which we’d bought in a store in Wolverhampton. He obviously used the chair, probably not the hookah. On the far side of it was a low gate-legged table bearing a decanter and his glass, so he was certainly using the chair. Facing it at an angle was a lumpy low-backed easy chair, in which was sitting a lumpy, broad-shouldered, ginger-haired and fierce-eyed man. He, at least, was a local product. Slowly he was easing himself to his feet. The Major was delighted with the situation.

  ‘There’s one here already,’ he told me.

  ‘Rawston,’ the man introduced himself, sticking out his hand but barely lifting himself from the chair. ‘Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘I’m—’

  ‘I heard. Richard Patton.’ His voice was a low growl. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He didn’t sound pleased.

  So Ken had given it another thought. The sergeant wouldn’t be happy at being instructed to take another look at a case he already considered to be sound. Certainly not on the initiative of a certain Richard Patton.

  ‘Here,’ said the Major. ‘Sit here. This’ll do.’ He was dragging across a high-backed chair for me. Rawston released my hand. He had not been too severe with it. His eyes had already told me a lot. Not animosity, I thought. Interest, rather.

  Neither of us would wish to sit. It’s psychological. But we had no choice. The Major fussed around offering sherry, which we both declined. I sat, and listened myself into the situation.

  They had been going through it again, this time in more detail, from the time the Major had heard a sound. That, to start with, wasn’t like Ronnie, who moved like a gentle draught. The Major had brought down with him in one hand his walking stick, and in the other his service revolver. Unloaded. ‘I never had any cartridges for it. Never fired it in my whole career.’ Ronnie had been standing by a window, the vase in his hands, examining it in the light from the rather fancy streetlamp outside. ‘That one there.’ The Major hadn’t known how to tackle it. He had cleared his throat, Ronnie had turned round and thrown the vase at his face. ‘Smashed it,’ said the Major mournfully. ‘Got that in Singapore. Chinese or something.’

  I eased myself to my feet and went to the window to get a better impression of how it must have been. The streetlamp was set just inside the edge of the circular green, but directly opposite the window. ‘Orange?’ I asked.

  ‘What? What d’you say? The streetlamp? No, it’s a nasty blue-white. Hate it, I do. Hate it.’ He was standing behind me.

  ‘And you were where? When you politely cleared your throat, where were you standing?’

  ‘Oh, here. Where I am now.’

  On the floor behind me there was a thick, hairy animal skin, probably a mohair from some exotic zone.

  ‘The vase...did it break on your chin, or on impact with the floor? The rug, rather.’

  ‘Oh no,’ he said heartily proud of the exploit. ‘That was me, waving the revolver. Hit the vase as it was coming at me. Shattered the thing. I hated it anyway.’

  ‘So what hit your chin?’

  ‘The gun. It sort of bounced back. Then he ran for it and I got my feet all mixed up with the stick. No good at that sort of thing, that’s the trouble.’ He looked round, spotted his half-full sherry glass, and went to complete the task he was best at. ‘Caught my hand in the door,’ he muttered over his shoulder.

  Sergeant Rawston was now standing beside me. ‘Not exactly the same story?’ I asked.

  ‘It keeps changing. But Mr Patton, it’s still aggravated burglary, just the throwing of the vase.’ There was a bite in his voice. He was reluctant to abandon his opposition to my presence and to my activities.

  ‘He turned round,’ I said. ‘With the vase in his hands he turned, and then his face would be in shadow. What about that?’

  ‘Major Farrington picked out a coloured photo in our villain’s snapshot book. Big ears, he said, and the black hair.’

  ‘Ronnie’s hair’s light brown.’

  ‘Ronnie operates in a black
beret, you know that, Mr Patton. I found a shot of him in the same beret. That settled it. That’s him, said our helpful Major.’

  But uncertainty had crept into his voice, though he was in no way convinced. It had been Ronnie Cope’s MO.

  ‘Which window?’ I asked.

  ‘The kitchen.’

  I went over and disturbed the Major in his contemplation of his glass, and asked whether I might examine his kitchen window. ‘Help yourself, dear boy.’ He looked at me sightlessly.

  Rawston took me through. It was obvious here that the Major lived alone. The kitchen, though an integral part of the house structure, had been modernized without restraint. His wife’s kitchen? He was perhaps a widower, maybe not too long ago. It would explain the sherry, later in the day to become whisky. Certainly, his cooking was almost as basic as Ronnie’s. A saucepan and a plate provided most of his equipment. A quick peek into his fridge and his deep freezer indicated a taste in boil-in-the-bag dinners. His coffee percolator was a top model but had seen no use recently. Chicken Supreme with rice, and a glass of whisky, that would be his dinner.

  It’s here,’ said Rawston. I joined him at the window, which had a wooden frame with small panes, and a plain old-fashioned hand latch with above it, now, a quarter-inch hole drilled through the frame.

  ‘Ronnie’s style,’ Rawston said softly.

  But the small hand-drill I’d seen in Ronnie’s equipment had a chuck too small to take a quarter-inch drill. I said nothing, but considered the back door, which shared the framing of the window. It had an ancient but strong deadlock, the key in the lock. The bolts at the top and bottom were drawn back, had rusted into solidity, and had been painted over to complete the sealing process. Only the lock was in use. The door was at that time locked, so I unlocked it. The key rotated smoothly.

  Rawston grumbled, ‘I know what you’re going to say.’

  ‘Better than that—I can demonstrate it.’

  I put my hand in my pocket and produced the pliers. Rawston stared at them, raised his head, and narrowed his eyes at me.

  ‘In possession of an instrument designed to perpetrate illegal entry into enclosed premises, Mr Patton.’

  ‘The pliers aren’t mine. Ronnie’s.’

  ‘You stole them?’

  ‘Yes. Any questions?’

  He considered this. His hand rasped his chin, the day’s growth as ginger as his hair. ‘Can’t think of any.’

  ‘Right. Good. Lock the door after me, Sergeant.’ I went outside and closed the door. The Major’s rear garden was a disgrace. I heard the lock go over and tried the door. It was firm.

  Peering into the keyhole, I could just detect the sixteenth of an inch of the key-shank protruding this side of the lock. I hadn’t Ronnie’s experience, but discovered I could feel the jaws of the pliers on to the stem. I gripped hard. There wasn’t much metal to seize on to, and it was a matter of using strength but at the same time being gentle with it. Slowly, smoothly, the key turned. I opened the door, grinning at the sergeant.

  I held up the pliers. ‘With these to hand, would Ronnie have troubled to drill the door-frame?’

  He turned away.

  We said our goodbyes to the Major. He raised his glass to us, his eyes bright. ‘Come again. Any time.’

  The poor devil was gradually going crazy with loneliness.

  Out on the front step I asked, ‘Your car or mine?’

  ‘Yours. It’s nearer. Now that’s the car for a detective sergeant!’

  He walked round it a few times. I lifted the bonnet and showed him the engine. His car, I saw, was also a Triumph, a 2000 model. But mine had had an engine transplant. He was intrigued. I had the hood tucked away for the winter, and the hardtop on. He was interested in the fastenings, at the windscreen and inside at the rear. We got inside and I lit my pipe.

  ‘Ready to drop charges, Sergeant?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  He considered this suggestion for a long while, then he made up his mind.

  ‘It’s not for me to decide, but I’ll have a word with Mr Latchett. You haven’t convinced me, and I’ll tell you that. Doubts, that’s all you’ve got to offer. Nobody can stop you if you want to feed your information to his solicitor. They can use it in defence, and good luck to them.’

  ‘You’d be sorry to lose him, Sergeant, and you know it.’

  He wouldn’t agree with that but he admitted, ‘I’ve got worse villains to keep me busy. Robbery with violence is growing. And I’m wasting my time over a natural loser like Ronnie Cope!’

  ‘At the moment he’s definitely on the losing side. He’s in Wolverhampton Royal with a slashed face and a knife wound in his side. A bit of personal trouble, I reckon. I was a witness.’

  ‘Well now!’ He twisted in the seat so that he could get a good look at me. ‘Sure it wasn’t you, having a go at him?’

  ‘Why would I...oh, I see. A joke. My sense of humour’s tired, that’s the trouble. It was another chap, about Ronnie’s age, driving a red van.’

  ‘Red van?’ He was instantly alert.

  ‘It means something?’

  He gave that a little thought. ‘Means a lot, putting two and two together. And now you mention a van...Listen, I was out Darnley way on another case. Where Ronnie’s cottage is.’

  ‘Where he used to be. I found him living in a high-rise flat at Willenhall. That was where this knife attack took place.’

  ‘Ah yes! I was wondering. The cottage had been empty, see. I thought for a while I’d got rid of him, off my patch, but wherever he lives he’s still been operating around here. He’d travel a hundred miles just to give me a headache. Anyway, I was saying, I was out Darnley way, this was when he was still living there. Oh...it’d be about April, May perhaps. I dropped into the White Hart for a pint and a bit of ear-wigging, and the talk was all about Ronnie’s mate. Mate, I thought? What’s this, then? What sort of mate—man or woman? Could be either.’

  ‘Too true.’

  ‘Anyway, I walked out to the end of the village, and up that bit of lane...’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘And there was a van there, on the patch of rough ground at the side of the cottage. I mean, Ronnie’d always used a car. Nothing big for Ronnie. Portable and valuable, that was what he always lifted. So I thought perhaps it was a man mate, and they were working together and using the van for furniture and the like. The antiques market. You get me?’

  ‘Clearly. What sort of van?’

  ‘Red. One of those Post Office things, sold cheap when they start to pack in. You know. It’d been painted over. You could still see the old lettering showing through. Royal Mail. Get what I mean?’

  ‘I can see it in my mind’s eye,’ I assured him.

  ‘Yeah. Well. Good news, this was, ’cause there’d been no sign of Ronnie’s work around here for a couple of months or so. You can see what I reckoned. They were operating together over the border, I thought, in Wales. Which suited me just fine. You’ll understand. If they picked him up, they could do his statements in Welsh, and he wouldn’t know what he was signing.’

  ‘I understand completely. If it’d been me, I’d have gone back a month later—’

  ‘Oh, I did, I did.’ He seemed eager now. We were of a like mind. ‘No van there. No Ronnie visible, either. But there were new curtains at the windows, striped red and yellow, bright things, for him. You remember those old grey things, do you?’

  ‘They were brown in my day, but going off.’

  He nodded. ‘So I said to myself—a woman mate after all. Which was interesting, when you think about it. I mean, you’d never seen Ronnie with a woman...now had you?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘There you are then. So I dropped into the White Hart again and had a ploughman’s and a pint, and the talk was all about Ronnie’s woman. A kind of a laugh, it was. You could tell, they’d all thought the same, that our Ronnie was a bit of a neuter. At very best. But he’d been in the bar with her a dozen times, and by all accounts she
was a right little raver. Wish I’d seen her.’

  I could have told him what she looked like, which was very attractive. But that wasn’t all that mattered, and I didn’t think Ronnie would fall for outward appearances. She must have had something special that he detected, something that chimed when he touched the right button, something that set him tingling in response.

  ‘But there he’d been—the word was—showing off, and at the drooling, sloppy stage. All the pet names. Petal, Jewel, Precious. Not taking his eyes off her and with a daft smile all over his face. Our Ronnie! He’d got it real proper, Ronnie had. P’raps he’d never tried it before with a woman. D’you think?’

  ‘I’ve never really been interested in Ronnie’s sex life,’ I murmured.

  Ronnie and the grand passion! It was difficult to envisage. Ronnie smiling gently while his Precious captivated the bar with her luscious smile or her endearing laugh. Ronnie taking her arm to conduct her graciously across a crowded street, or placidly content as she spent a half hour choosing a racy set of underwear. Or Ronnie travelling a hundred miles to the Duchess of Thingie’s because Precious had indicated a preference for emeralds on her birthday. Or Ronnie sweeping her up in his arms and flinging her on to the four-poster at the Queen’s Arms in Bath, tearing from her that same set of emeralds the Duchess was never to wear again, along with the underwear that he’d taken so much time to help her choose. The imagination boggled as they say.