Arthurs' Night (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 6) Page 9

  The keeper shook his head. ‘I didn’t even know she had a brother. She never mentioned him. She had a lot of men friends, of course, we knew that. She used to joke about them. ‘I’m going out with the Horse tonight, Johnny,’ she would say — she had animal nicknames for them all, we never knew their real names — ‘That means a right blow-out. He eats like one.’ Or ‘All right if I leave a bit early? I’m meeting the Bear, and he growls something horrible if he’s kept waiting.’ But she never spoke about her family. Nothing private like.’

  ‘What was her nickname for you? Or shouldn’t I ask?’

  ‘She didn’t have one, sir. They were just for the men she went out with. To protect them like. Protect their reputations, I mean; some of them were married, you see. But using nicknames — well, that meant she could joke about them as much as she liked, and us none the wiser.’

  Connor nodded. Light was beginning to dawn. He had been searching for surnames or Christian names to put to the initials in Becky’s diary when perhaps he should have been looking for nicknames. Animal nicknames. She had been as discreet in her diary as in her chatter at the Zoo, although it seemed unnecessary when neither of her parents could read. Perhaps discretion had become a habit, or perhaps the nicknames were more real to her than the real. And had his memory not been at fault he might have reached that conclusion earlier. She had talked enough about animals and nicknames while they were together in the cellar bar.

  Yet did the discovery really lighten his task? Didn’t it simply stretch the possibilities? There would be many more species of animals in the Zoo than there had been men in Becky’s life. One might eventually be able to fill the list of the latter, but how did one know what animal represented which man? What had influenced her choice? Character — appearance — habits? Without that knowledge the diary became useless.

  ‘Did any of her men friends visit her here?’ he asked.

  Exton shrugged. ‘The visitors used to chat her up, of course, but I wouldn’t know if any of them were friends. There was one gentleman called for her once or twice, but he didn’t come into the Zoo. Waited for her outside the exit.’

  ‘What was his nickname?’

  ‘I don’t know as I recall her giving him one. I don’t think she liked him much. She didn’t talk about him like she did the others. Unless he was one of the others — if you see what I mean.’

  Connor wasn’t sure that he did. ‘Could you describe him?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir. I only saw him the once, and that was just the back of his head as they drove off. But he had a green Volkswagen. One of those beetles. I remember that.’

  And that was over six years ago, Connor thought. Whoever he was he’d have changed his car by now.

  ‘Tell me — what animal names begin with G?’ he asked. Lofthouse was G. If he could fix that he might at least have some idea how Becky had chosen her nicknames. ‘I can think of goat and giraffe, but there must be others.’

  The keeper stared at him. ‘That’s an odd question, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is. But I’d like to know.’

  ‘Well, there’s the gnu and the gorilla. And the gazelles, of course. That’s about all we have here.’

  Connor got directions where to find the animals and set off to look for them. He dismissed the goats immediately, hesitated over Waller’s gazelles — the long thin neck was right for Lofthouse — and dismissed them as soon as he saw the giraffes. It was not just the height and the long neck; it was the thin lips and the soft brown eyes and the long lashes, and the stately way they moved. G was for giraffe. Which meant that Becky had chosen it on appearance. Did the same go for H and B?

  He lunched in the open-air café in Northropp’s new shopping centre. He didn’t expect the food to be exciting and it wasn’t, but he lunched there because he wanted to give the centre the once-over. Northropp and his architect had done a sound job, he decided; from necessity it had had to be functional, but it was also aesthetically pleasing. He had thought, way back, that Northropp was too small a man to tackle such a project. It seemed he had been mistaken.

  Depression came with the sweet. Not because the sweet was particularly poor, but because reflection over the soup and the entrée had shown him how impossible the task he had set himself had become. All he had to go on was Becky’s diary, which seemed to suggest that the unknown B was the prime suspect. That could be wrong; it could be Ronald Main or H or any other of the men the initials of whose nicknames appeared in the diary. But suppose it were right? Suppose even that he could identify B? How did he prove that B was the killer? There was the assumption of blackmail; but it was no more than an assumption, for that too could not be proved. And to make accusations unsupported by evidence could result only in a libel suit and heavy punitive damages.

  Which left him with Brummit. Later he was to think that had it not been for Brummit he might have abandoned his quest and left Felborough forthwith. To establish his innocence had been the obvious way to deflate Brummit, but as Connor saw it now there was perhaps another way. He was convinced that Brummit had lied when he had said in court that his acquaintance with Becky had been limited to that one brief encounter by the roadside. Why else the pause before answering? Why else the furtive look Connor had thought to see on his face? And if Brummit had lied it was because there had been something between him and Becky which he needed desperately to hide; no one, least of all a superintendent of police, would lightly commit perjury. Nor would a responsible officer have neglected to instigate a thorough investigation into the dead woman’s background before making an arrest. Not unless he was afraid of what such an investigation might uncover and make public.

  So what was this something? Connor thought he knew. The diary suggested that Becky had been blackmailed into sex with H. ‘H stopped me when I left, says he knows about Ron but will take no action if I’m willing.’ Why ‘will take no action?’ Why not ‘won’t inform the police?’ Because, as Connor saw it, H was the police. H could stand for hog, and a hog was a pig, and a pig was a policeman; and to Connor a policeman meant Brummit. Brummit had a wife who was a total cripple, and at fifty-odd he was still young enough to need a woman occasionally. So where did he look? A man of his unprepossessing appearance would repulse rather than attract a woman — hence Becky’s ‘Foul!’ Wasn’t someone like Becky the obvious choice? H had to be Brummit.

  He could prove it no more than he could prove his own innocence. But Brummit wouldn’t know that. Mention of Becky’s diary — a reference to her brother — subtle hints of further revelations — that should make Brummit sweat. And a frightened man, even a frightened policeman, could sometimes be harried into panic. Even if Brummit kept his cool it would be a consolation to know that he was likely to be missing a lot of sleep.

  Brummit’s car was again parked outside the house; either he was taking time off or he was still at lunch. Connor considered whether to ring the bell or wait for him to come out, and decided that a confrontation in the street would maybe have the greater impact. The house was Brummit’s ground; there he could blow his top and whatever was said would be heard only by his wife and daughter. In the street he would need to be more circumspect, for anxiety at Connor’s accusations would be augmented by fear that they might be overheard by a passer-by.

  It was two-fifteen when Brummit came out. He gave Connor a casual glance and walked round to the front of the car. Angry at being ignored, Connor was about to call his name when Brummit, a hand on the door-handle, turned and looked again. Then he slammed the door shut and crossed the street, his bandy legs giving him a rolling gait.

  ‘You were here the day before yesterday,’ he said. ‘I saw you. Who are you? What do you want?’

  ‘A word,’ Connor said.

  ‘With me? You know who I am?’

  ‘Yes. You’re Vincent George Makepeace Brummit, Detective Superintendent.’ Connor forced a smile. ‘How come the Makepeace bit? A trifle pompous, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ah! A funny guy, eh?’
Brummit’s head jerked forward accusingly. ‘Out with it, then. What is it you want?’

  ‘I’m a journalist,’ Connor said. ‘The name’s Mallorie. James Mallorie. I’m here to interview you.’

  ‘Mallorie?’ Brummit shook his head. ‘Never heard of you. Anyway, I don’t give interviews in the street. Make an appointment to see me at the station.’

  He was moving away when Connor said, ‘Six years ago a man named Connor was convicted of the manslaughter of Rebecca Main. You were the arresting officer. Remember?’

  Brummit paused. Then he turned. ‘Of course. What of it?’

  ‘You arrested the wrong man.’

  ‘Oh? Who says so?’

  ‘I do,’ Connor said. ‘What’s more, I’m collecting the evidence to prove it.’

  Brummit frowned. Momentarily he seemed uncertain how to proceed. Then he said curtly, ‘I’m on my way to the station now. You had better come with me.’

  ‘I have a car,’ Connor said.

  ‘Follow me, then.’

  Connor followed. The police station was modern and centrally situated. They went down a wide corridor past rooms noisy with the chatter of typewriters to the superintendent’s office. It was large and airy, with comfortable chairs and unobtrusive equipment and picture windows that overlooked the High Street. Several framed photographs stood on the wide desk. A pile of papers in the in-tray suggested that the superintendent was a busy man.

  Brummit seated himself in a swivel chair and leaned forward to plant his elbows on the desk.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s have it. What is this evidence you claim to have found?’

  ‘I don’t,’ Connor said. ‘I said I was collecting it.’

  Brummit’s face went a shade redder. ‘Then why the hell are you wasting my time, dammit?’

  ‘It won’t be wasted,’ Connor told him. ‘You see, the evidence I have in mind stems largely from Rebecca Main’s diary.’ He saw Brummit start and smiled thinly. ‘Ah! You didn’t know about the diary, did you? But you should have done. You would have done, too, if you had carried out a more thorough investigation instead of nicking the first poor bastard who offered.’

  Heat had crept into his tone as he finished. Brummit’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘I know you, dammit! Your name isn’t Mallorie and you’re not a journalist. You’re Connor, aren’t you? James Connor, the man who killed the Main woman.’

  ‘Correction,’ Connor said. ‘The man who didn’t kill her.’ It did not perturb him that his identity was out. He would probably have revealed it himself before the interview was over; it would give him more satisfaction to speak as Connor than as Mallorie. As Mallorie he would have had to conceal his enmity. As Connor he could give it a free rein. ‘You railroaded me, Brummit, and you know it.’

  ‘Superintendent,’ Brummit snapped. ‘Listen, Connor. I’m used to your sort. You’re not the first convicted criminal to want to get his own back on release. Bums like you, they’re two a penny. Some have even threatened to do me. But I’m still here, and I intend to stay here. So whatever it was you had in mind, forget it.’ He reached for the in-tray. ‘Now get out before I lose my temper.’

  ‘You don’t want to hear about the diary?’

  ‘I do not. If there is a diary, which I doubt. On your way, Connor. I’m busy.’

  ‘A pity,’ Connor said. Strange, he thought — I’d forgotten how his ears stick out. And I thought I could forget nothing! ‘It’s very explicit. Indiscreet, really. Did you know you figure in it? Among others, of course.’

  ‘Now I know you’re lying.’ Brummit glared at him. ‘I didn’t even know the woman.’

  ‘No? She knew you. Perhaps you knew her brother better? Ron — the one who deserted. It’s all there in the diary. How she helped him and bribed others to keep their mouths shut.’ Connor sighed dramatically. ‘Fascinating stuff!’

  He felt a thrill of exultation as he saw Brummit wince. Now he knew. Brummit was H and Brummit was worried. More than worried — scared. He was wondering just how much Becky had confided in her diary and how Connor intended to use it.

  Brummit was quick to recover. ‘I knew neither the woman nor her brother,’ he said. His tone had changed. Now it was almost conciliatory. ‘However, that’s by the way. If there really is a diary and it contains information which might interest the police you had better let me see it.’

  Connor laughed. ‘Be your age, Brummit. I’m not that big a mug.’

  ‘No? Withholding evidence is a serious offence. Come on, man. Hand it over.’

  ‘Oh, I will, Brummit, I will. But not to you. You’re involved, you see, so it wouldn’t be ethical. No — someone with influence, I think. The Chief Constable, say, or a town councillor. Or the Press, perhaps.’ Connor tapped the desk. ‘Knock on wood, Makepeace. You’ll need all the luck that’s going before I’m through with you.’

  He felt good as he left the station. The lunchtime blues had vanished and he decided to take time off from his quest and drive out to the country. He was still acutely aware that the odds against being able to prove his innocence were long; but walking on the moors, with the sun on his face and a soft breeze at his back, failure to do so no longer seemed quite so disastrous. After all, who cared if he were innocent or guilty? What difference would it make to his life? No doubt the knowledge that the world owed him a reckoning would continue to rankle, and although some employers might jib at his criminal record, others would not. First class salesmen were always in demand, and it wasn’t as if he had cooked the books or nicked the petty cash. A job might take time but he would get one eventually. In the meantime — well, he was fit and healthy and on the right side of forty, he was a free man without ties and with money in the bank. After six years of hell a few months of La Dolce Vita would not come amiss.

  He was in a mood for company at dinner that evening; but Henry Woolmer was the only person he cared to invite, and with Woolmer still away on holiday he ate alone. Mostly he reflected on his encounter with Brummit, gloating on the memory of his enemy’s obvious disquiet. Brummit could not know how discreetly Becky had confided in her diary. From now on he would be on tenterhooks, fearful of what Connor’s next move might be; every ring of the telephone, every summons to the presence of a superior, would be envisaged as the prelude to disaster. And I’ll see it stays that way, Connor thought. Even if the search for Becky’s killer comes to an early full stop I’ll hang around for at least a week or two. What’s more, I’ll make sure he knows I’m around. I’ll have to leave eventually, of course; funds won’t permit an indefinite stay. But before I go I’ll let him know I’ve sent the diary to the Chief Constable. It’s possible the Chief will consider the evidence insufficient to warrant a full investigation — though he’ll be raking muck under the carpet if he does. But even if Brummit isn’t sacked or demoted he must surely be suspect. He’ll never make Chief Superintendent, that’s for sure.

  There was a fair crowd in the cellar bar that evening, but apart from a small, bespectacled man whom Connor thought to have seen before and a couple of unescorted girls who looked promising, he saw no one to interest him. When one of the girls smiled at him he was tempted to respond. Memory of Becky restrained him. He had picked up girls in the past and no doubt he would in the future. But not now. And certainly not there.

  ‘How’s it going, Mr. Mallorie?’ Harry asked.

  ‘So-so,’ Connor said. ‘Incidentally, I spent yesterday afternoon looking through back numbers of the Gazette. I see you had another murder here that summer. A Mr. McGuppy. Only the police never got off the ground with that one, did they?’

  ‘Didn’t they? No, that’s right. They didn’t.’ Harry shook his head. ‘There was a lot of talk about that, I remember. People seemed to think the police were falling down on the job.’

  ‘Oh? What else do you remember?’

  ‘Not much. It didn’t affect me, you see. Not like Becky. I didn’t know Mr. McGuppy, he wasn’t one of my customers.
If you’re interested you want to ask Mr. Draper. That’s him down there.’ Harry indicated the man whom Connor had thought to recognise. ‘The one in glasses. He lived in the same street. I’ve heard him talk about it.’

  ‘Draper, eh? Didn’t you say he was in here with Becky the night she was killed?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Him and Mr. Grant.’ Harry grinned. ‘He left early, I remember. So did Mr. Grant, come to that. But Mr. Draper, he always leaves early. He gets a wigging from his missus if he’s late for his meal. Or that’s what he says.’ Inconsequentially he added. ‘His name’s Martin, but everyone calls him Charlie.’

  Draper was on his own. Connor saw how his gaze kept wandering to the two girls and, recalling the man’s former interest in Becky, he wondered how significant that might be. Becky had repulsed him, and the two girls showed no sign of responding to his smiles; and a man of Draper’s age — not far short of sixty, Connor thought — with an unfulfilled sexual urge could be a potential rapist. Except that Draper didn’t look the part. He was small and of poor physique and, as Connor remembered, of a cheerful disposition. Nevertheless the possibility that here was a new line of inquiry to be explored excited him, and when an opportunity offered he introduced himself to Draper and explained his interest in Becky’s death and how chance had brought McGuppy’s murder to his notice. Draper seemed to welcome his approach; Connor suspected he could be a bore and was unused to being drawn into conversation. Yes, Draper said, he had known the McGuppies. His house was in Manor Road, on the corner of the junction with Charles Street. The McGuppies had lived opposite.

  ‘Doesn’t Mrs. McGuppy still live there?’ Connor asked.

  ‘She died about two years ago,’ Draper said. ‘The present occupants are a young couple named Venables.’

  Harry was leaning over the bar. ‘Seven-thirty, Mr. Draper,’ he said. ‘You’re cutting it fine.’

  Draper beamed at him. ‘Thanks, Harry,’ he said. ‘But I’m off the hook tonight. The wife’s gone to a meeting. Won’t be back till ten-ish.’