Full Fury (20 page)

Myra
’s eyes were like steel.

‘
But there was a letter from Paul Hutchinson’s father,’ I told them. ‘It was stolen because it said something about the place the gun was found—yet in fact that was not the significant point in that letter. The important thing was that Hutchinson mentioned he’d found three shell cases in the cow byre.
Inside
, mind you. Now… Neville could, conceivably, have tossed the gun into the byre. But he couldn’t have tossed the shell cases. Quite simply, it means that those three shots, the three shots that must have been fired
after
Neville emptied Lovejoy’s gun, were fired from inside the byre, where the shell cases were ejected. Are you going to say that Neville, having exhausted one gun out there in the yard, would scramble over Paterson’s wounded body in order to fire three more from inside?’

It
was a quarter to two, and I was very tired. Nobody said anything. I kept hammering at Myra.

‘
I don’t think he ever found his own gun, Myra. You’d hidden it away, and I don’t reckon you’d have made a poor job of it. In the end he was on the borders of insanity. He went out with the gun he’d got from Lovejoy. You’d finally driven him to something definite. But don’t tell me you’d watch him leave, and not want to see him finish it. You hated Paterson by that time. You had to see it end. So you followed Neville to the farm, and you took along Neville’s own gun, just in case it didn’t end satisfactorily. You watched the hunt from the shadows, and when it got close you hid in the byre. So you were there when Neville emptied Lovejoy’s gun and ran off. Then three more shots were fired. Why, Myra? Because Neville was a lousy shot, and Paterson wasn’t dead?’

Myra
said heavily: ‘It became very heavy. I was wet and cold and tired.’

So
she was cold and tired! ‘And so immersed in yourself and your bloody rotten feud with Neville that you forgot Karen,’ I said. Forgot her? Damn it all, this was the first time she’d given her a thought. I saw the horror come to Myra’s eyes. ‘Karen was here in the house. She was a child, and she’d watched it happening in front of her. Do you think she didn’t see her father storm out of the house with that gun he’d got from Lovejoy? Don’t you imagine she’d have watched while you found the gun you’d so carefully hidden? And then what? Her little scared face at the window as you drove after her father, that’s what. So she
knew
. All this time she may have said nothing, but she’s known damn well who killed Andy Paterson. It’s a nice thing she’s lived with, that and her father’s hanging. I wonder if she’s really loved you, Myra! Maybe she’s just been tied to you by the shared secret.’

I
watched while they turned their heads slowly to face each other. I don’t know what it cost them. Then Karen collapsed, her hands over her face, and I felt like hell.

I
had to look at Finn, because I didn’t fancy the sight of Myra. ‘You knew?’

He
moved his tattered lips. It could have been yes.

‘B
ut you couldn’t leave it alone, could you? You couldn’t just sign me off and send me away.’ He gobbled something. ‘All right, you did what you could for Myra.’

I
looked at her. She seemed numb, reaching back to Neville. I flapped at my pockets, as though seeking a cigarette, got up casually and opened the box on his desk, and on the way back scooped the gun from Myra’s lap. She looked up at me. I think she was asking me for something, so I told her why I wasn’t going to deliver.

‘
There was a time when I thought you were working for Neville, keeping quiet about the fact that he owned a gun. But of course it was Myra you were thinking about, wasn’t it, Myra? But Neville must have known. As soon as there was mention of a second gun, he knew, because it had to be the one you’d hidden. He fought hard for himself, but for you too Myra. There came a point when he could have saved himself with a few minutes of conversation with Crowshaw. But he kept silent. And you say he was a coward! You should count yourself as proud to have known him.’

It
was the dull end of the night. I shrugged firmer into my jacket.

‘
And now… if you’ll excuse me.’

They
all looked at me. I said: ‘I’m getting married in a few hours, and there’s a lot to clear up.’ Then I picked up the phone and called Freer. Nobody moved. I laid the gun down on the table beside me.

‘M
allin,’ I said.

‘
Don’t you ever sleep?’

‘
I’m hoping to,’ I assured him. ‘You’ll have to get dressed. This matters.’

‘
It’s broken?’

‘
Wide open. Can you come to The Beeches? Get over here as fast as you can.’

He
was alert. ‘Important?’

‘
Yes. You’ll need some men and a couple of women officers. And a wagon. There’ll be three arrests.’

‘
Three?’

‘
When you’ve heard it all. Oh, and Freer…’

‘
Yes?’

‘
As a favour, make it fast, will you. I’m getting married in six hours’ time.’

As
he hung up he gave a laugh I didn’t like. Finn was making croaking noises of protest.

‘
Yes,’ I told him. ‘Three. Don’t think you’re getting out of it. There’s Troy down there in the car. You ordered that, Finn. You probably did it yourself, while the others held him. No, don’t say anything. He was the one who knew where the other Rover’s gone, and he was the one who tipped Karen about Lovejoy. But that wasn’t the worst. Oh no. He laid his hand on you, didn’t he?’

God,
I was tired. And there was half an hour before Freer could be expected to arrive. I filled the time by helping Finn a little. I helped him tell me where his cheque book lived. I helped him grab hold of a ball-point.

‘
Two hundred,’ I said, ‘should cover it. Two suits ruined, and a hell of a lot of mileage. Yes, two hundred.’

They
’re quite legal, I find, cheques with blood dripped on them. There could have been a tear on there, too. When Freer burst in, I was just through phoning Elsa.

‘
David?’

‘
It’s me, Elsa. Aren’t you in bed?’

‘
Are you all right?’

‘
It’s all over, love. You can rest now.’

‘
But are you all
right
?
’

‘
I may not look too good, but I’m whole. Elsa, I’ve got to ring off. I’ll see you later.’

‘
David, I love you,’ she said.

‘
You too,’ I mumbled, because three pairs of eyes were fastened on me, and they’d not want to hear about love.

Freer
did his best for me, but we couldn’t do it all at The Beeches. Nothing would do but all of us over at HQ, where I dictated a very long statement and had to sit for an eternity while somebody pecked it out on a typewriter in the back. Nobody was going to let me go on a honeymoon until it was all down on paper.

I
signed my name a number of times, shook hands with Freer, who hoped I’d be very happy, and got out of there in broad daylight. I was a hell of a way from my place.

I
made it in time for a bath, with my left arm in the air, and a shave and a scramble into the clothes I’d put out, just as Ted arrived with the taxi and my buttonhole in his fist.

‘
My God, you look rough,’ he said. Ted’s not as big as I am, but he makes up for it in intelligence. ‘Didn’t you get any sleep at all?’

I
told him I hadn’t. ‘I’ll make up for it tonight.’

‘
Good Lord!’ He looked at me, appalled. ‘We never did get time for that little chat, did we?’

If you enjoyed
Full Fury
you might be interested in
The Night She Died
by Roger Ormerod, also published by Endeavour Press.

Extract from
The Night She Died
by Roger Ormerod

CHAPTER
ONE

That morning I had taken our two boxers for a walk along the lane that fronts the house. It was early November, and too cold to allow them their more usual plunge into the Severn. But in any event, for ages there had been no otters around for them to play with. I blame it on pollution, surely a criminal act. But what could I do about it? Nothing.

Wrapped
in these thoughts, I plodded along. Ours is the only house along that lane, which eventually terminates at a derelict farmhouse, so that I had not anticipated strangers in the district. Friends would have phoned to warn us of their intention. But clearly, on our return, something had been registered by the dogs’ squat noses or floppy ears, as they ran ahead, pausing from time to time to look back and bark, and check that I was still there.

The
house is called The Beeches, from the row of splendid trees that runs past our drive and along the lane. I call it a drive, but in fact it is simply a large area of lightly gravelled earth. Nothing more than a parking patch, really. And now, as I turned into the gateless entrance, I saw that it was justifying its description, because a car was parked there, a Volkswagen Beetle. Black. And the visitor must have been inside the house, because there was nobody in the driver’s seat. At the sight of it, my memory stirred.

I
called Sheba and Jake to heel and fastened on their leads. You never know. They are not aggressive; rather, they are too friendly. But not everybody likes dogs, and their somewhat boisterous approach can be a little frightening to those who do not, and panic-stricken flaps of the arms are not likely to convey a friendly welcome. Indeed, this can be interpreted by the dogs as unprovoked assault. So…one lead in each hand and leaning back against their exuberance, I headed round the side to the kitchen door.

Mary
was waiting there for us. Clearly, therefore, she had felt it necessary to intercept me, and lay on a little background information.

‘
They’re in the sitting-room, Richard. I’ll look after the dogs, if you want to go right in,’ she said.

‘
It was a bit muddy, in places,’ I warned her.

‘
We’ll soon see to that.’

The
dogs had their own towels, and accepted hazards such as cleaning as being all part of the fun. But Mary could control them. She spoke their language. I took off their leads, and they stood there, panting, awaiting the game of trying to chew the towels to shreds to help along with the rubbing.

‘
It’s a woman, Richard.’ There was a hint of warning in Mary’s voice. ‘She says she knows you. Seemed a bit of a bossy type to me.’

‘
Name?’ I asked. ‘Did she tell you her name?’

‘
She asked for you as Mr Patton, but when I told her you were out with the dogs, and told her I’d fetch Amelia, she just said, “Yes. Do that.” And looked down her nose at me. But she didn’t tell me her name.’

Whoever
she was, she had not endeared herself to Mary. It is very easy to assume that she is our housekeeper, or a servant of some kind, whereas Mary had legally inherited a specific portion of the house in Amelia’s uncle’s will. She is now part of our family, an important part. To anyone who might suggest otherwise, my wife can return a cool and brisk response. As, too, can I.

‘
She didn’t say why she wanted to see me?’ I asked cautiously, and Mary shook her head. Too many people, knowing that I am a retired police detective inspector, take it for granted that I’m available as a private enquiry agent, who, not being recorded in the Yellow Pages, is not ‘official’, so will make no charge for his assistance. Fortunately, from having cultivated a low profile, I am now only rarely approached.

But,
on that morning, it seemed that I was about to be, and I could only hope that my assistance would be sought in something minor and not too physical. Advice, perhaps—something like that. I can be very free with advice.

I
kicked off my rubber boots and stepped into my house slippers, washed my hands under the kitchen tap, and used Sheba’s towel (after a bit of a struggle) on which to dry them. Then I relit my pipe, which had been lying cold in my jacket pocket, and headed for the sitting-room.

Others
might call it a drawing-room, or a lounge, but that room contained all the comfortable furniture, my collection of books on open shelves, the few pictures and ornaments Amelia and I have collected over the years, and the gas fire that pretends it’s a coal fire. A pleasant, cosy room, it was, in which to sit. So…it’s our sitting-room. And sitting in there at this time, my wife on the settee and our unexpected visitor in a winged armchair, were two women between whom the static electricity was crackling. The air was almost sufficiently charged to raise the hair on my neck.

Two
faces turned to me, one eagerly smiling, the other attempting to convey a warning. Amelia had, clearly, been given a hint or two as to the reason for this visit.

‘
Here he is now,’ said Amelia, a hint of relief in her voice.

‘
Yes, of course.’ Our visitor smiled. ‘I recognised him at once.’ Then she rose to her feet in one smooth, athletic unwinding, standing very nearly my own height, and presenting her right hand.

She
had known me at a glance, but of course she had expected me. She had come here (and how she had discovered my address I couldn’t guess) specifically to see me, and with a smile that went so far as to suggest that I was expected to be equally pleased by this approach. I took her hand because common courtesy demanded it, but my mind was scrambling for a recognition. A WPC I had known? No—she wasn’t that. And still her hand gripped mine, almost as though she had at last reached a haven, a safe and solid platform on which to place her explanation, the who and the why of her presence there.

Smiling
softly now, she said, ‘Connie Freeman.’

The
Christian name of Connie meant something to me, but I couldn’t focus on the surname. Then, suddenly, it was associated with violence, with a storm…with a murder.

Then
I remembered her, those mocking brown eyes prompting me, the tumble of black hair (now streaked with grey)—the challenge in her stance. She was perhaps a little heavier than I recalled, around the hips.

‘
Freeman?’ I asked. ‘You’ve reverted to your maiden name? You were—yes, that’s it. Connie Martin.’

‘
Harry divorced me.’

I
glanced at Amelia, then back again. ‘Could he do that?’ I asked, my knowledge of civil law being scanty. ‘After all, it was enforced separation.’

Connie
had been in prison. Was that grounds for divorce? Separation by bars!

She
smiled very thinly, glanced at Amelia, and back again. ‘I agreed. It saved trouble, and it suited me. I was happy to see the back of him, as you can well imagine. I could have petitioned for divorce, myself. After all, I had the solid grounds of his adultery, Mr Patton. I had that much.’

‘
That was never proved, Connie,’ I reminded her, using my persuasive voice, ‘and you know that very well. There was never any solid proof. Just his name and office phone number in Sylvia Thomas’s notebook. As it could have been quite innocently, when you come to think about it. After all, Harry’s work was all advisory—as an accountant. He could well have been doing nothing more guilty than trying to find her another home.’

‘
And her number in his!’ she burst out triumphantly. I had never thought of her as being very intelligent. ‘My man got that information for me.’

‘
The same reason applies,’ I pointed out.

‘
My man…’ But she didn’t pursue that. Her man! He had called himself a private investigation officer. It sounded good. But I had known, only too well—though I hadn’t mentioned it at the time—that he had been dismissed from the force for accepting bribes. Poor Connie had not had much in the way of solid support. But now that was not relevant to Connie’s obviously aggressive attitude.

‘
And you have to remember,’ I reminded her, ‘that the actual so-called adultery was never proved.’ In court, her barrister had tried to build up into a solid background the amount of information he’d accumulated in regard to Harry’s sexual activities, in the hope of proving extenuating circumstances, but it had not impressed the jury. It would, of course, have been relevant to any violence Connie might have inflicted on Harry, but was in no way a justification for the killing of his mistress—although it did indicate that Connie would have had a motive for attacking Sylvia.

At
the present time, though, I was concerned only with the fact that Connie was now divorced. She was now Connie Freeman.

It
was probably Connie’s attitude that brought Amelia to her feet. ‘Will somebody please tell me…’ she asked, her tone so cold that the two dogs, entering abruptly with Mary, stopped still in the doorway, making soft whining noises. Amelia leaned over to pull an ear or two, to relax them, when they came close enough, then she tossed her head.

‘…
tell me what you two are talking about. I’ve got a right to know.’ This was unusual from Amelia, who normally would prefer to remain in the background in circumstances such as this. But she was reacting to the words ‘mistress’ and ‘adultery’.

‘
Of course you have, my love,’ I agreed, wondering myself where we were heading. ‘The fact is that this visitor of ours, Connie Freeman, faced a court trial, and was found guilty of the murder of her husband’s mistress. That was eight years—’

‘
Ten,’ put in Connie Freeman. ‘Nearly ten years ago, Sylvia Thomas died. Nine years I’ve been in prison for it.’

‘
Oh dear,’ said Amelia, her tone indicating that, had I taken up with a mistress, she would probably have done the same thing. ‘And they sent you to prison for that?’

‘
They did. Your husband’s bumbling investigation did.’

‘
Richard!’ Amelia appealed, gripping for my arm and shaking it. ‘How could you?’

‘
Just doing my job, love,’ I assured her. ‘The evidence was overwhelming, and the court had all the facts and the details. In any event, the jury came up with a guilty verdict, and she was sent to prison.’

‘
How terrible!’ Amelia cried, shocked, gripping my arm even more tightly, as though I had been solely responsible for this unfair decision by jury and judge. ‘But somebody ought to
do
something. It’s not right! Her husband’s mistress! She deserved all she got.’

What
she, the mistress, had got had been a head bashed in with a conveniently placed rolling-pin, one of those old ones with a wooden rod through it and a handle at each end. The handles had been covered with flour. Whether this was the reason that the forensic squad failed to develop any prints, or whether it was because the assailant had been wearing gloves, we had not been able to decide.

Remembering
this, I grimaced at Amelia, who made a gesture of distaste, and asked, ‘So why is this woman here, Richard?’

‘
Suppose we ask her that,’ I said, and turned to face Connie Freeman again. ‘Why
are
you here, Connie?’

She
threw back her head, hair bobbing, registering righteous dignity. ‘Because you’re the one who knows all the facts. Oh…I’m sure you’ll tell me you were working under orders of a superintendent or somebody like that—some big-bug, anyway—who knew nothing about it. Only what was put down on paper for him to read. “Ah!” he’d say to himself. “It’s all too obvious. Connie Martin did this”—I was Martin then. “Better have her in and charge her.” And it would be one more file to put away. One more for his record.’

Her
voice had tailed off gradually, as though she had rehearsed this statement, over and over, until she had perfected it, every tone of righteous outrage and despair carefully honed to strike exactly the correct emotional impact, eventually to lure me into a position where I would find it impossible to reject what had to be an appeal to my conscience. She was relying on the assumption that I had a conscience, whereas police activities had always been unemotional, with no place for one’s personal feelings.

I
realised that I had to be wary, conceding as little as possible. The two women were now facing each other, sharing the opinion that men were hopeless when adultery entered into the situation.

‘
We’re not getting anywhere,’ I put in. ‘And you really know very little about police activities, Connie. The super wouldn’t make that decision. It would have to go to the legal experts, for them to decide whether we had a good, solid case. Or not. The Crown Prosecution Service, they call themselves, now. You can see—or at least I hope you can see—that I was a very small cog in all this. All I did was put in reports and statements, as and when required.’