Full Fury Page 9

  ‘Mallin?’ he said. ‘Yes, I remember.’

  There was nothing relaxed about him. He leaned forward in his chair like a cat about to strike, and waited, not prompting.

  ‘You’ll perhaps remember the Paterson murder?’ I asked. It wasn’t important to him, because he hadn’t been in charge. His eyes were steady. He said nothing.

  ‘You were a sergeant,’ I prodded him.

  His lips curled. ‘You’ve got a nice regard for rank.’

  ‘You were my hero.’

  Something dark stirred behind his eyes. ‘And you came back after twelve years to tell me so?’

  ‘To ask if you remember the Paterson murder.’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘At the time,’ I said, ‘I was a driver. But nothing important, like sergeant.’

  ‘You are now, then?’

  ‘Now I’m a private enquiry agent.’

  ‘Ah! Divorce and things like that.’

  ‘Not so far,’ I admitted. ‘Nothing worse than murder.’

  ‘Andrew Paterson’s murder? You’re a bit late for that.’

  ‘Something more recent. The murder of a young man, and his father’s suicide.’

  ‘I haven’t got much time.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about the father.’

  ‘And you think I’d know?’

  ‘You’ve got a good memory. That search,’ I said. ‘You’ll remember that first time we searched for the second gun. We didn’t find it.’

  He smiled. The corners of his mouth moved outwards but not upwards. It was painful to watch. ‘Yes, of course. You were in on that. As you say, you didn’t find it.’

  ‘I drew the pig sty.’

  ‘Very unfortunate.’

  ‘But who,’ I asked, ‘was Hutchinson?’

  I actually caught him unawares. There was not much to show but a flicker of the eyelashes, and the very slight pause before he said:

  ‘One of the men.’

  ‘On the first search?’

  ‘Yes.’ He was obviously back in his official shell.

  ‘Where on the first search?’

  It was probably unusual for him to be on the receiving end of questions. He didn’t like it. ‘The cow byre.’

  So I’d guessed right. ‘On his own?’

  ‘I decided it wasn’t too much for one man.’

  ‘So you blame yourself?’

  ‘For what?’ So polite—so deadly.

  ‘For putting him in there alone.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘But on the second search, that’s where it was. Maybe he missed it because it was all too much for him.’

  ‘I told you,’ he said calmly, ‘I’d decided it was not.’

  ‘Afterwards?’ I asked.

  ‘At the time.’

  ‘But afterwards, what happened,’ I insisted.

  I could see he wasn’t going to let me carry on much longer. Only by keeping the knife in and digging at him could I hope to get through to the end. Pride wouldn’t let him send me away.

  ‘To Hutchinson?’ He slightly lifted his shoulders. ‘He was dismissed.’

  Somehow I kept the incredulity from my voice. ‘For missing the gun?’

  ‘He didn’t find it, did he?’

  I slid on to another tack. ‘He wasn’t from HQ, was he?’

  ‘No. He was from one of the country beats.’

  ‘Or I’d have heard about it,’ I explained.

  He picked up a pencil and considered it with concentration. ‘It would hardly be your affair.’ He looked along it. Perhaps it was bent.

  ‘But somewhere along the line it’d be yours. The gun was missed, that first search. So somebody had to suffer.’

  ‘Mr Crowshaw would naturally have to put in a report. Really, Mallin…’

  It was the first crack; he was protesting.

  ‘And he’d pass it back to you. And you’d say you’d considered it wasn’t too much for one man. So back it went to Hutchinson. Then it stopped. Just a country copper. Nowhere for him to pass it. What did you say happened to him?’

  The skin was white around his nostrils. ‘He was dismissed.’

  ‘For missing the gun?’

  ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  I was upset. I admit it. ‘He committed suicide.’ My voice was too loud.

  ‘What’s the connection?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I shouted. ‘I don’t bloody-well know.’

  The smile creaked. ‘Then I suggest you go away and find out.’ Then at last he got round to it. ‘And now, I’m afraid, I’ll have to ask you to leave.’

  ‘I know—you’re very busy.’

  ‘As always.’

  I left him and his thin smile and went out to the Porsche. One or two of the boys were round it, a strange car in their car park. ‘This yours, Dave?’ I said it was. They nodded approval. ‘It’s what you get on this private enquiry racket,’ one of them commented. I told them it’s what you get for marrying a woman with money.

  So—back to Wolverhampton. Two-goes-at-a-job Mallin they call me. I had difficulty parking this time and had to walk half across town. They were pleased to see me at the coroner’s office, and I did what I should have done the first time. I read it all.

  Most of the meat came in Paul’s own evidence. He’d grown up with it. His father had been dismissed from the force six months after Neville Gaines was convicted. This father, you could get the picture, wasn’t a tough character by any means. No resilience. It had hit him low. He’d tried to build up a detective agency, but the people who’d go to an ex-cop who’d been thrown out would be apt to expect somebody not too honest. Or maybe he didn’t try hard enough. Anyway, it drifted on for two years, then Hutchinson was on the labour market again. A policeman doesn’t get any technical training that’s any use in a factory. He tried labouring. As I say, he wasn’t tough enough. One job drifted on to the next, with always the mounting feeling that his dismissal was haunting him, chasing him from one failure to the next.

  Paul had been about sixteen when his mother died. I got the impression she just gave up. Poppa Hutchinson dragged on. There were incidents. A fight or two—Hutchinson claiming somebody had sneered at him. Very soon it wasn’t just the lack of money that drove him—he and his son—from rented rooms to bed-sitters; there were neighbours in whom Hutchinson was certain to detect a knowledge of his past failings. Then they’d have to leave. Paul said in evidence that he was at seven schools in six years. But he’d been a brainy lad, and his ability had at last provided him with the means to make his own life, apart from his father.

  You could see, from Paul’s statement, that he had been very uneasy—even guilty—about leaving his father to carry on alone. But he’d had as much as he could handle. Towards the end Hutchinson was attempting to retain work at a factory as a nightwatchman. As his letter indicated, the last job didn’t go on for long, and it was all the man could take. His obsession had for some time been robbing him of sleep, and his doctor had had him on sedatives. Enough of these had been left to do the job.

  I handed all the stuff in and left. Oh—I got her name for you. Daphne. She said she was free that evening, and I told her I was getting married on Friday. She pointed out it was only Wednesday, so I got out of there fast.

  I was away from the kerb before I’d decided what to do. Birmingham, and a quiet evening with the tele? You’re joking. Shropshire and The Beeches—or to Elsa? I didn’t want to see anybody such as Elsa. Nobody I liked. I had a desire to meet somebody I could kick in the teeth. Yet it was too early for Finn at The Beeches.

  Paul Hutchinson had been killed for his father’s letter and to keep him quiet. Something he’d said or inferred had given somebody the wrong idea. He hadn’t got any intention of shaking-up that old case. Hadn’t he said something to Myra about where the second gun was found being important? It was—to Paul. Because it’d been found where his father had searched. No, he hadn’t been interested in who killed whom and why, all
he’d wanted was a way of getting back at Crowshaw, who’d had his father dismissed with a snap of the fingers, when the poor chap had really done his best.

  I’m an economical type myself. I hate waste. Paul’s death was waste. His father’s was waste.

  In the end I drove out and picked up the M6, and batted along there for an hour. It didn’t do me any good, but it warmed the engine.

  It wasn’t as dark as I’d have wished when I got to The Beeches. Half a mile short of the entrance I found a pull-off by a bridge and eased the car in there out of sight. Then I continued on foot. At that time of the evening the car park would be empty, and I didn’t want to dump the Porsche in the middle of a naked expanse of tarmac. On the way up the drive I kept well in under the trees. In the west the sky was still green and gold beneath a line of hard, purple cloud. The lights were dim in the ballroom and gaming room. I kept on straight up the side of the building, and round to the row of garages.

  The first four were still locked. There was nothing in any of the others. So much for all my crafty work. I was walking away, treading even and gentle to cut down the sound, when it occurred to me that there was something not quite right. I’m not the thinking sort; I go by impressions and instincts. This was an instinct. I stopped. I turned.

  I was standing exactly where I’d parked the Cambridge thirteen years before. Looking round, going by the glow left in the sky, I felt the feeling growing stronger. My memory is not for facts—I get mental pictures. Now I had a mental picture of how it had looked from the Cambridge, and something was different. After thirteen years, so what? I stood poised, and worried about it. Then I saw it.

  The row of garages presented the appearance of a long, low building with a row of double doors down the length. But why was there a high double door inset into the end of the building? That hadn’t been there before. I went to have a closer look. They were heavy doors, and there was a large padlock on them. The end garage therefore had two sets of doors, on adjacent walls.

  I went back to the Porsche, keeping on the grass. I dug it out with some difficulty, then drove openly up the drive and round to the parking lot. The floodlights weren’t on. I slid the car in against the far fence, next to the only other car there.

  When I got out I saw it was the dark grey Rover. Every thing was quiet, and by that time it was quite dark. One of these days I’ll buy myself a torch. What I could detect by touch and the flash of my lighter spark, the blustering wind taking the flame off before it caught, indicated that somebody had been doing some work on it. There was no abrasion along the offside bonnet. There didn’t seem to be any dent in the bumper.

  I went on into the club. Dead and empty. No Feeney at the door. In the ballroom a couple of women were polishing the floor. Low and discreet lights from the walls were the only illumination. The women spoke in echoes. I went on through the curtains.

  The bar was also dimly lit. No customers and no barman. The counter gleamed with polish. Behind it, Carter Finn and another man were standing with their backs to me, drinking scotch. A curtain makes very little sound opening. I allowed it to drift back into place with even less. Finn’s companion was a bull of a man, his glass tiny in a hairy great hand. I trod gently. The phone booth was the other end of the bar.

  ‘One seventy-five,’ said Finn.

  Bull-neck laughed. I’d know that bellowing, scornful low anywhere. ‘A quid.’

  I got opposite them, and smiled. ‘Use your phone?’ Then I sailed on past. The bull’s face was heavy and jowled, sideboards low and luxuriant. He looked startled.

  Inside the booth I found I hadn’t got the sort of change you feed them with. I went out again to see if Finn could split me a fifty. His friend was gone. It had been so fast that the only place I could imagine for him was crouching under the bar. You could tell Finn wasn’t pleased to see me. What’d he expect? You hire a private detective and he’s apt to drop in any time. He bashed a key on the cash register, and the drawer flew open.

  ‘What the hell you want round here?’

  ‘Reporting in… boss,’ I said blandly.

  He gave me change and watched me with controlled disgust. As I turned away: ‘Use the one in the office.’

  Which he’d got tapped? I leered at him. ‘No thank you. But I’ll put the call on your bill.’

  Freer was still at his office. ‘Oh, it’s you again.’

  ‘Listen, mate,’ I said. ‘I’m doing you a favour. Say the word, and I’ll ring off.’

  There was a minimal silence, then a shift in his tone when he got it out. ‘All right. Sorry. What’s up?’

  ‘I’m at The Beeches. Finn’s place. Know it?’

  ‘I know it.’ His voice was suddenly keen and sharp.

  ‘That hi-jacking case you’re on. Don’t tell me…’ He didn’t. ‘Was it whisky?’

  ‘How’d you guess?’

  ‘You’re always waiting to pounce,’ I complained. ‘What sort of wagon?’

  ‘An articulated,’ he said. ‘Loaded with the stuff.’

  ‘Which you haven’t found?’

  ‘The thing can’t have evaporated.’

  I turned and looked out of the narrow glass door. Finn wasn’t hovering. ‘There’s a row of garages here, the first four of them locked. There’s another double door at the end. If somebody knocked down three separating walls they could back an artic into there and lock it away.’

  ‘That’d be clever. This is a hunch, is it?’

  ‘It was. But I’ve just seen Busoni here.’

  We both knew Busoni very well. He operated from London, but spread his net wide. Busoni would buy anything from anybody, never asked a question, and had markets so hidden that not even Scotland Yard had managed to pin him down.

  ‘I’ll be right over,’ said Freer.

  ‘Better make it fast. Finn knows I’ve spotted Busoni.’

  We didn’t have time to say goodbye. The phone was dead in my hand. I went out to thank Finn for his accommodating attitude, but he wasn’t there. Nobody was there.

  Just at that time I had every intention of telling Finn that the investigation was a dud. Paul Hutchinson had been chasing a revenge campaign against Crowshaw. There was nothing in it for Finn or for Myra. I was getting married on Friday, and I’d had enough of it. That was what I was going to say. But he wasn’t there. So I couldn’t tell him, could I?

  I lit a cigarette and looked around. In the gaming room the wheels were tidily clad in green baize nightdresses, and the ghosts of happy losers laughed in the eerie silence. I could go over there and through the door into the hall and winkle out the Finns. But I didn’t. The scotch had gone from the bar, so I couldn’t help myself to a drink. I wandered out to the car park.

  The sun had called it a day and the black clouds had closed down on the horizon. The blustery wind was picking up cold. I threw away the cigarette and thought I’d do the same as the sun.

  One thing I hadn’t tried. I tried it. To my surprise the Rover’s door was open. I reached in. A box of paper handkerchiefs in the glove compartment. I fumbled behind it and my hand fell on a torch.

  I hadn’t been wrong. There was no dent in the bumper. The wing was perfect. It wasn’t just a fill-in and smooth-over, but looked like a new wing. Fast work, if that was the case. In the torchlight I couldn’t detect any variation in shade between the wing and the rest of the car. That’s where it usually shows; they never quite match the original colour. A complete re-spray? Surely not. Nobody could have done all that work in the time. I checked the number plates, and I’d got the right car. But on this one the tyres were Cinturatos. On the other they’d been Goodyears.

  There wouldn’t be any need to change the tyres, surely! I crouched down low, checking. No, they hadn’t changed the tyres, they’d changed the whole bloody car.

  Now, that really was smart work, and even faster than a re-spray would be. But somebody had gone out with clear instructions. A dark grey Rover 3 litre automatic, circa 1968. Get it, bring it in, switch the pla
tes. Hell, Finn had got some useful connections. And somewhere, deep in a desolate ravine or in somebody’s abandoned quarry, there’d be lying the burnt-out wreck of a dark grey Rover, now unrecognisable.

  Finn was good. He was very good.

  All I heard was the creak of leather as a shoe changed emphasis, and the soft hiss of something heavy moving through the air. I heard it because it finished up just above my right ear.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I lay still awhile after consciousness returned, and thought about it. Not that I gained anything, except perhaps the time to get scared.

  We were in a car. It was moving fast. There was a contented hum about the engine and a self-satisfied comfort in the upholstery that told me we were probably in the Rover. But there was a good chance I was on my way to join the other Rover, which might not yet be a burnt-out wreck. They probably wanted to make it look good with the burnt-out body of a driver inside.

  I eased open one eye and surveyed the possibilities. On one side of me was Troy, just about obscuring the nearside window. We were in the back, and on the other side of me was somebody else I couldn’t see, but could smell—aniseed. He was sucking aniseed sweets. Wedged between my thigh and Troy’s was the box of paper handkerchiefs. He dug into them from time to time. Troy had the sniffs. It was too late to hope it might develop into pneumonia. The driver was just a heavy bulk between me and the wheel. That made three of them. I couldn’t see much I could do with three.

  Troy took another paper handkerchief. The floor around his feet was scattered with them. Then suddenly he shone a pencil light in my eyes and caught me in the middle of a frown.

  ‘He’s with us,’ he told the other two.

  ‘You might at least chuck ‘em out of the window,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The handkerchiefs. It ain’t hygienic.’

  It struck him as funny. There were shaking movements from him, but no sound.

  ‘It wasn’t a good idea,’ I told him.

  The thing behind my right shoulder breathed aniseed all over me and grumbled: ‘Shut him up, for Chrissake.’ I’d know the voice again—and the breath.