Death of a Bovver Boy (12 page)

‘Of course you may never have heard the voice before. It might have been someone from a distance brought in.'

‘I suppose so. And yet there did seem something familiar about it.'

‘Anyway, it worked. You did what you were told and…'

‘What else could I do? You tell me that. I couldn't have done anything else.'

‘And as a result,' Carolus went on inexorably. ‘Young Carver was murdered.'

‘But I didn't mean him to be. Surely you believe that? I'd no idea they were up to anything like that.'

‘They?'

‘Whoever did it.'

‘Have you any suggestion?'

‘I suppose it could have been the lads I put on to it. They're quite capable of taking the money and doing him too.'

‘But you say you didn't go down to the cellar after they'd finished?'

‘I've told you I didn't. I'm sensitive to that sort of thing. I wouldn't have slept that night if I'd seen Dutch like he was.'

‘But I suppose you slept like a top knowing he was tied up?'

‘Of course I didn't. I didn't sleep a wink the whole night. But it would have been worse if I'd seen him.'

‘You don't seriously believe it was Des and Phil who killed him?'

‘I don't know. If you'd heard the way he was screaming you might have.'

‘Anyone else on your list of suspects?'

‘It could have been the other boys, the skinheads.'

‘What makes you think that?'

‘They're dead against the greasers, like Dutch.'

‘But to kill?'

‘It seems funny that he was carried out on the back of a motor-bike. They're the ones that use motor-bikes all the time.'

‘What happened to Dutch's clothes?'

‘I burned them, like the woman said.'

‘Where?'

‘In the furnace in the cellar.'

‘Thoroughly?'

‘I'll say. I didn't want any bits of his clobber found.'

‘It was all there?'

‘As far as I could see, yes. In a corner of the cellar.'

‘So how would you suppose he was taken away on the pillion of a motor-bike in public?'

‘They might have had other clothes, mightn't they?'

‘Yes. Who else do you suspect?'

‘It seems a bit funny to say so but both the boy's parents would have been glad to be rid of him. Or that's the impression I got.'

‘Yes. You've named everyone but yourself.'

‘Me?' shouted Swindleton. ‘You must be out of your mind. Me kill Dutch? He was my friend, I tell you. I wouldn't have…'

‘Touched a hair of his head? You arranged for it to be cut off. His hair, I mean.'

‘That was just part of what I thought was a scheme. Almost a joke. Can't you understand that? If I had known how it was to turn out I wouldn't have…'

‘Wouldn't have what?'

‘Well, got into it at all.'

‘You say you couldn't help it. You were forced to do what you did.'

‘You twist everything round. You don't know what it is to have done a bit of bird and have the Law watching you every minute of the day. I just haven't the strength to say no when I'm being threatened. Can't you understand that?'

‘I suppose so,' said Carolus. ‘It depends on how you're made.'

Carolus drove on in silence for a while then said—‘You know Swindleton, curiously enough I believe most of what you've said today. That is up to the point where Phil and Des left their friend tied up in the
cellar. After that about what happened I have an open mind.'

‘But surely you must have come to some conclusions from what I've told you?'

‘No. “Conclusions” is altogether the wrong word. I'm still fumbling about among guesses. I hoped what you told me would—I don't say decide anything—but at least enable me to cross out a few things that had been possibilities. Narrowed down the pursuit, that is. I thought I might be able to say “It wasn't
that.
And it certainly wasn't
that.”
But it's done nothing of the sort. All the possibilities are still there—as large as life. I have to go much farther before I can begin to decide.'

‘And you mean to do so. Why in hell do you want to bother yourself? The boy wasn't worth it.'

‘The boy? What's the boy to do with it? It's murder I'm interested in, not some scrubby little wretch of whom many people would say he deserved it.'

‘You mean you want to get someone into the nick for fifteen years?'

‘Not that exactly, either. I want to wipe the slate clean. I've been given this peculiar faculty of getting at the truth in a case like this and I daren't fail to use it. I mean that. I daren't turn my back on a problem. I don't suppose you can understand that, Swindleton.'

‘In a way perhaps I do. You mean it sort of comes natural to you? You do it just the same now as when there was the death penalty?'

‘That,' said Carolus, ‘made no difference at all. And now we'll drive back and I'll leave you at your infamous club.'

He did that.

Carolus phoned Grimsby to make an appointment.

‘At the station?' suggested Grimsby.

‘No. I don't think your Station Sergeant cares for me much. Why don't you come to my house?'

‘Because I'm sure your housekeeper doesn't care for me
at all,'
retorted Grimsby. ‘And that's putting it mildly. But I'll come. Be round in about fifteen minutes.'

When they had both relaxed over a drink Carolus asked, ‘Who's in charge over at Hartington?'

‘Uniformed branch, you mean? Inspector Goad.'

‘Approachable, would you say?'

‘He's all right. Why?'

‘I want to ask for something which he's pretty well bound to turn down, though he might come round to it later without telling me.'

‘Oh come on, Carolus. Drop the mystery.'

‘I want him to have a watch kept on the little girl, Liz Bodmin.'

This seemed to astound Grimsby. He remained quite silent then said—‘I thought she was out of it.'

Carolus went on as though he hadn't heard.

‘Not too obvious a watch but a pretty careful one. The child may be in danger.'

‘In
danger
?'

‘Yes. I may be wrong but I think your people ought to know.'

‘Why can't you give the details? It's rather a lot to expect of them to keep a watch on a child on your say-so, without giving any sort of reason.'

‘I know it is. That's why I asked you about Goad.'

Grimsby made a decision.

‘It'll be sticking my neck out but I'll do what I can. We'll go over and see Goad together.'

‘Now?' suggested Carolus.

‘Well if it's all that dangerous I suppose the sooner the better.'

It was late when they reached Hartington and at the police station they were told by a cheery and over-informative duty officer that Inspector Goad had gone home.

‘But you'll find him at his house in Newminster Road. Number 16 it is. He's probably just got down to his evening paper.'

‘Thanks,' said Grimsby.

‘Reads that every night regularly,' said the informative one. ‘Hasn't time to read a morning paper he says. We've been pretty busy lately.'

‘Have you?'

‘Yes. Small stuff. Lots of shoplifting we get round here.'

‘Break-ins?' asked Grimsby politely.

‘Not extra. A few elevenses.'

Carolus asked what the term implied.

‘Round about eleven o'clock in the morning when housewives are out shopping we get one or two of them going round pretending they're collecting or selling vacuum cleaners and that. They just try the door or look for a back window then see what there is
about. You'd be surprised what they pick up. One woman yelled the place down because they'd taken her husband's camera which had a film in it—pictures of their baby. You get all sorts,' he added as a philosophical end-piece.

‘Many car thefts?'

‘Very few, thank God. They're a bloody nuisance. We had one last night, funnily enough, or so the owner said. Little chap named Skilly. He rang up this morning to say he'd found it, just as though it was a lost pet.'

‘Perhaps it was,' said Grimsby. ‘Some owners fuss over their cars as though they were alive. We must be getting on, though. We've got to see the Inspector.'

That was an unfortunate remark because it set off a mass of repetition from the desk officer, how to find the house, the fact that Goad was a widower and would be on his own and so on. But at last they got away and found number 16 Newminster Road which turned out to be a tidy bungalow with a feature which always annoyed Carolus, a winding path up to the front door to make it appear as though the distance from the front gate was greater.

Inspector Goad, a grey-haired man of fifty-odd was alert-looking and spoke quickly. He invited them into the room where he had been sitting in a deep armchair with a tankard beside him. The evening paper, as the duty officer had predicted, lay beside his chair.

‘I can only offer you beer,' said Goad. Grimsby accepted at once and Carolus did so too.

‘Now what can I do for you, gentlemen?' asked Goad.

‘Mr Deene has something to ask you,' said Grimsby, then added—‘Between ourselves I may say that Mr
Deene has been of considerable help to me in that case over in my manor.'

‘The dead boy found in a ditch, you mean?'

‘Yes.'

Goad pulled at his pipe but said nothing for a moment.

‘Well, Mr Deene?' he asked at last.

‘This is very difficult,' Carolus admitted. ‘First of all I must admit, Inspector, that I'm a private individual. I haven't even got the pretence of a status in the case which an investigator employed by the family might have.'

‘That's good,' interjected Goad. ‘At least you admit it. You mean you're just inquisitive?'

‘That's it,' said Carolus. ‘Just inquisitive.'

‘Mr Deene has some reputation as a criminologist,' put in Grimsby.

‘I know that,' said Goad sharply. ‘I can read, you know. I've had a lot of entertainment out of reading detective novels, Mr Deene, from Sherlock Holmes onwards.'

‘Sherlock Holmes!' said Grimsby with the contempt of the present generation. ‘Conan Doyle wrote of the police as though they were a lot of stupid illiterates!'

‘Perhaps they were in those days,' said Inspector Goad. ‘And one or two of them aren't much better today.'

Grimsby accepted the reproof.

‘Whereas,' went on Goad, ‘I've never met a private investigator. Certainly not one who admits that it is no more than a hobby.'

‘Hobbies grow,' said Carolus. ‘They start small and gradually take over the whole mind.'

‘You specialize in murder?'

‘I
only
investigate murder.'

‘I should have thought that was something of a disability,' said Goad. ‘It's the variety of our work which gives us insight. And you need insight to understand a murderer.'

Carolus admitted it.

‘I gather yours is a more scholarly approach than ours. You wrote a book called
Who Killed William Rufus?
didn't you?'

‘Many years ago I did.'

‘Interesting,' said Goad. ‘Now what have you come to see me about?'

‘You'll think it's what is called a liberty,' said Carolus. ‘I've come to ask you to have a special watch kept on a little girl in Hartington.'

‘I suppose you don't want to explain?'

‘As far as I can, yes. I believe the child may be in danger. What I can't tell you, because I really don't know with any certainty, is the identity of the person from whom she may be in danger.'

‘That's
very
Holmes,' said Goad. ‘With a touch of the patronizing manner of Lord Peter Wimsey. You “don't know with any certainty”. No. But you've got a pretty good idea, haven't you Mr Deene?'

‘I must admit I have made some wild guesses.'

‘Oh come. I'm not going to press you. You've got your public to consider, haven't you? Revelation right at the end while the police are gasping with astonishment! I know. I know. But you shall have what you want because you don't come to me with a tale of “having reason to know that the child may be kidnapped at any minute”.'

‘If I had done that it would have been “murdered” not “kidnapped”,' said Carolus.

‘Oh it would? And you really think that?'

‘I think if it happened at all it would be murder.'

Goad was thoughtful.

‘How old is the child?'

‘About twelve.'

‘Moors stuff, eh?'

‘In a way, perhaps.'

Goad took up the phone. Carolus was amused to see that he had to dial the Station number, having no private line.

‘Is WPO Major there?' he asked, and when he was connected—‘Oh, Barbara. Could you come round for a few moments?'

The answer was audible to them all.

‘Rather!' said Barbara cheerily. ‘I'll hop on the bike and come round.'

She was, as old-fashioned story-tellers say, as good as her word. A motor-bike roared up to the gate and a hefty female figure came up to the front door in three paces, ignoring the squiggles of the path.

‘Yes, Chief?' the two heard her say, doubtless wringing Goad's hand.

Carolus prepared for his introduction. WPO Major gave her hearty handshake to each in turn. Then with her mighty legs far apart she prepared to listen to Goad.

‘What's the trouble?' she asked.

‘We want you to keep an eye on a child,' said Goad and Carolus was grateful for the tact of that ‘we'.

‘What sort of child?'

Carolus took it up.

‘A little schoolgirl named Liz Bodmin. Her mother's at work all day and hasn't much time for the child.'