Authors: R. D. Wingfield
"The Denton Senior Citizens' Club. I go there a couple of days a week for a game of draughts and me dinner."
"Do you know anyone there?"
"An old boy called Maggs, that's all. I play draughts with him . . . Why?"
Frost tapped the envelope. "Whoever sent this money knew your middle name and your address. You're not yet in the phone book or on the voting register, so how did they get it?"
Daniels shrugged. "I expect they got it from somewhere."
"Yes, I expect they did," said Frost. "I hadn't thought of that." His trouser legs were scorching from the heat of the fire so he moved the chair even further back, then fumbled for a cigarette, but decided against it. Only two left in the packet and the old sod might expect to be offered one. "You haven't joined any other clubs, have you—clubs you'd rather not talk about?"
The old man scowled at him angrily. "What the hell do you mean?"
"Strip clubs . . . blue film clubs?"
"That's a flaming insult."
"Whoever sent the money must have got your full name and address from somewhere, Mr. Daniels, and a strip club would be the sort of place they might frequent."
"Well, it ain't the bloody place I frequent." Daniels couldn't tell Frost any more about the gunman than the brief description he had already given, so the inspector took his leave.
After the sauna bath atmosphere of the old man's room, the freezing cold air outside hit him like a plunge in icy water. He hurried to the car and tried unsuccessfully to get the heater to work. The interior still held the smell of stale spirits and vomit after his previous night's escapade with Morgan but there was no way he was going to open the window to let fresh air in. He wound his scarf tighter and was half-way back to the station when he stopped. A thought had struck him. He wondered if the other old boy—the one who was shot and had his car pinched—had also received money from the robbers. He was keeping quiet about it if he had. He radioed the station for the name and address. "And get someone to check the membership lists of all the strip clubs and so on to see if Daniels is on them." The old boy may have denied it, but best to make certain. He swung the car round and made for the other shotgun victim's house.
Mrs. Redwood, thin and frail and in her seventies, peered nervously at the warrant card.
"Inspector Frost? Where's that nice young lady?"
"She's off sick. Just a quickie. Have you had any money sent to you in the post?"
She blinked. "Money? No—why?"
"The gentleman who was shot had some money sent to him by the gunman."
"Well, they didn't send us any and we wouldn't have kept it if they did. It wasn't their money, it was stolen."
"If you do receive anything, please let us know."
"How's your husband?"
"In pain, but recovering. Did you want to see him?"
"No thanks," said Frost hurriedly. He'd had enough of old boys with their legs bandaged for one day.
PC Collier was waiting for him in his office. He had drawn a blank with the various Denton clubs he had phoned. Frost plonked in the chair and scratched his chin. "So where did they get his name and address from?"
"The milkman? The newsagent?" suggested Collier. A firm headshake from Frost. "The milkman or the newsagent don't bother taking down your middle name." He drummed his fingers on the desk then pulled the note sent to Daniels from his pocket and read it aloud. " 'We didn't mean anyone to get hurt.' It doesn't add up."
"I don't follow," said Collier.
"They say they didn't mean anyone to get hurt, yet they shoot the other old sod in the legs and pinch his car. They meant to hurt him all right, but didn't send him any money."
"Probably don't know his address," said Collier. "If they found Daniels' address, they could find his bloody address." Frost stared up at the ceiling. Something was nagging away at the back of his brain . . . He dug deeply into his memory, then snapped his fingers. "Cordwell—the bloke who owns the mini-mart, didn't he prosecute some old age pensioner recently—caught her shoplifting? There was a stink about it in the paper."
"That's right," nodded Collier. "Old dear got fined £200 . . . Not her first offence."
"I think her name was Maggs, son. Check it for me. It's important."
As he waited for Collier, he rummaged through his in-tray, discarding all memos he didn't have time or the patience to deal with—mostly memos from Mullett starting with 'May I remind you . . .' or 'When may I expect . . . ?' That chore done, he stared out of the window. Barely three o'clock and already starting to get dark with a thick mist descending again. The search parties wouldn't be able to work for much longer. Had Hanlon searched the hospital grounds again yet? He looked up as Collier returned. "You're right, Inspector. Mrs. Ruby Maggs."
Frost interlaced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair, beaming with delight. "And Maggs is the old boy Daniels plays draughts with at the geriatrics' club. He'd know Daniels' address and he'd have a lovely grudge to bear against Cordwell who owns the mini-mart."
"You're not suggesting Maggs was the bloke with the shotgun?" asked Collier. "The man whose car they pinched said he was a lot younger."
"Maggs could have a son, or a grandson, and got them to do it for him." Once Frost had a theory he was reluctant to let it go. He snatched his scarf from the peg. He was feeling pleased with himself. Great to have this all tied up for Liz Maud when she returned. "Come on, son, let's go."
It took some time for Maggs to open the door. His laboured breathing and cries of "I'm coming, I'm coming"seemed to go on for ever as he creaked his way up the passage. The front door opened to reveal a man in his late seventies, gasping for breath and leaning heavily on a stick. He was surprised to see Frost. "I thought you were the District Nurse."
"People often mistake me," said Frost. He showed his warrant card. "A couple of words, if you don't mind."
Mrs. Maggs, looking even frailer than her husband, was huddled in a chair by the fire. "Police?" she gasped in alarm, holding a heavily veined hand to her mouth. "We're sending the money off for the fine today. I'm sorry it's taken so long, but—"
"
It's nothing to do with that, Mrs. Maggs," cut in Frost. "It's about that robbery at the mini-mart."
Husband and wife looked at each other. "We read about that, didn't we, dear?" she said.
"Yes," agreed Maggs. "Gave me the biggest laugh I've had for ages. That sod Cordwell deserved to be robbed." He held his wife's hand and squeezed it tight. "Pity they didn't take more."
"It was a friend of yours who was shot, Mr. Maggs," Frost told him. "Mr. Daniels."
Maggs frowned. "Who's Daniels?"
"Your draughts-playing friend."
"Oh—you mean Bert? I never knew his second name. Oh dear. I never knew it was him." He shook his head in dismay. "How is he?"
"Not too badly hurt." Frost heaved himself out of the chair. This was a waste of time. Maggs seemed genuine in not knowing Daniels' full name. Another theory flushed down the pan. "I won't bother you any more, Mr. Maggs." And then he saw it. Behind the clock on the mantelpiece, a large brown envelope, the name and address handwritten in block capitals. He leaned over and pulled it out. Yes, identical to the one received by Daniels. It was empty.
Grunting with pain, Maggs rose and snatched it from him. "That's personal!"
"Where's the money?" asked Frost.
Mrs. Maggs, visibly distressed, was staring open-mouthed at her husband whose hand was shaking vigorously, bidding her to keep quiet. "What money?"
"Was there a note with it?"
"We know nothing about no note. This is private, none of your business."
Frost looked at them both. The man defiant, the woman close to tears. No point in bullying them into an admission. It was obvious they too had been sent part of the robbery money and he now had a bloody good idea who had sent it. He buttoned up his mac. "All right, Mr. Maggs. I might need to talk to you again . . . but in the meantime, don't spend any of the money you didn't receive."
Collier drove him to the Redwoods' house where Mrs. Redwood seemed surprised to see him back so soon. "A couple of points I should have cleared earlier, Mrs. Redwood. Can I come in?"
Her husband, wearing a dressing-gown over pyjamas, sat in the living-room, his bandaged leg up on a stool. Frost declined the offer of a cup of tea. He smiled sympathetically. "How are you feeling, Mr. Redwood?"
His wife answered for him. "He's still in a lot of pain but he's healing slowly."
"Good," said Frost.
Redwood eased his leg to a more comfortable position. "Are you any closer to catching the swines that did it?"
"Very close," Frost told him. "In fact, we hope to make an arrest today—which is why I'm here." He was studying the old man's face and noticed the slight start his words had produced.
"That's good news, Inspector," said the wife, putting an arm round the old man's shoulders.
"How's Mr. Daniels?" asked Redwood.
"Not too bad," said Frost. "Good job you had the gun pointing down."
The man's head snapped up. "Me?"
"Did I say 'you'?" said Frost, sounding surprised he could make such a stupid mistake. "I meant the armed robber." He shook his head in annoyance with himself. "I've so many things running through my mind, I get confused. They sent him money, did you know?"
"You told my wife earlier."
"Did they send you any?"
"No—and if they did I wouldn't have accepted it."
"Mr. Daniels is not going to accept it either. They also sent a wad of money to a bloke called Maggs. He goes to your Senior Citizens' Club, doesn't he?"
"The name rings a vague bell." Redwood was no longer looking up at Frost.
Frost scratched his chin. "I wonder why they didn't send you any? You suffered more than Daniels . . . they nicked your car as well."
Redwood shrugged and shook his head. "No idea."
Frost dragged a chair over and sat next to the old man, giving him one of his disarming smiles. "You couldn't post it to yourself, I suppose. What did you do with the rest of the money?"
Redwood dropped his gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled.
But his wife could stand the strain no longer. "For God's sake tell him . . . he knows anyway." She broke down and sobbed.
Redwood took her hand and held it tightly, then raised his eyes to Frost. "It all went wrong," he told the inspector. "Fire the gun up in the ceiling to frighten the life out of them, grab the money and run. It should have been all over in seconds. But Daniels had to act the bloody hero and grabs for the gun. I never meant the damn thing to go off . . . he got half the pellets in his leg, I got the rest in mine."
"How did you know the security cameras weren't working that night?"
Redwood gawped, wide-eyed with dismay. "Not working? You mean you didn't have our car on video?"
"We had sod all on video. Are you saying you didn't know it was out of action?"
"I didn't even know they had security cameras until we were driving away and my wife spotted them." He gave an apologetic smile. "I suppose we're not really cut out for this sort of thing."
"I've known it done better," said Frost. "What have you done with the money?"
"We sent it anonymously to charities. We didn't want it."
Frost frowned. "Then why the hell did you pinch it in the first place?"
"That damn man Cordwell who runs the supermarket chain, he's raking in millions and he take people like poor old Mrs. Maggs to court for stealing; couple of packets of biscuits. There was another old dear a few months ago. Rather than face the disgrace of going to court, she took an overdose. We were angry. We wanted to make him pay."
"Cordwell wouldn't have felt a bloody thing," said Frost, "and he would have got all the money bags from his insurance company anyway. Bastards like him always win. What happened after you drove away?"
"It was all panic. Connie told me we were on that damn security camera . . . paint from the carrier bag all over the seat, shotgun pellets in my leg and I was terrified I might have killed Mr. Daniels." His face screwed up at the pain of the recollection. "It was Connie's idea that we made up the story about the car being hijacked and the man shooting at me. She left me in the woods while she went off to hide the car, then she phoned the police."
"You say you sent the bulk of the money off to charities?"
"Yes. Connie parcelled it up and sent it anonymously."