Guilt Without Proof (C.I.D. Room Book 4) Read online

  Guilt Without Proof

  Roderic Jeffries

  © Roderic Jeffries 1970

  Roderic Jeffries has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1970 by John Long Limited.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 1

  The van, swaying quickly, overtook a saloon car halfway up the hill.

  “Steady it up, Ginger,” ordered Stretley. “Keep going like this and the pigs’ll have us for speeding.”

  “Stop sweating,” muttered Playford, the driver.

  Stretley, sitting athwartships on the floor of the compartment, spoke more harshly: “Slow down, I said.”

  Playford eased off the accelerator. “We ought’ve come up to the lorry.”

  Finnigan, in the passenger seat, laughed. “Maybe the driver’s got a hot judy waitin’ and ’as been burning up the roads.” There was a sharp blast of a car’s horn and a Jensen went past at well over the legal maximum.

  Finnigan whistled. “D’you see the judy in that car? There’s some ripe ’omework, and no mistake.” He had two topics of conversation: women and the dogs.

  They reached the brow of the hill and began the gentle descent. The road made a sharp right turn half a mile on and then ran straight up to the brow of a small rise. A lorry had just rounded the bend.

  “Is that our truck?” said Playford, his voice a shade louder.

  Neither of the other two answered. At this distance, it was impossible to identify the lorry.

  Finnigan began to whistle. He stopped in the middle of a bar. “Look, I say we wait on where we leave the truck and find out who collects it.”

  “No,” snapped Stretley.

  “That way, we makes ourselves some extra…”

  “We’re not staying,” shouted Stretley.

  Finnigan swore, but then suddenly grinned. He was good-looking in a wild, reckless way: it was easy to judge that he knew little self-control.

  It took them eight minutes to come up to the lorry and when they were within a hundred yards of it they could see the name on the canvas: ‘E. Phillpot & Co.’ It was not the one they were after. Playford accelerated and they overtook it.

  Stretley unwrapped a stick of chewing gum and put it in his mouth. He chewed rapidly. He was the oldest of the three and his square face was marked with vicious lines: he had served three terms of imprisonment for G.B.H. As they passed under a railway bridge, he said: “Fifteen miles to go.” His voice was worried. They should have come up to the lorry by Barstone bypass.

  There were roadworks just beyond Peston crossroads and the single-line traffic was controlled by portable traffic lights which were changing too rapidly to allow many vehicles through at any one time. The driver of a Mini ignored the red light and tried to force his way against the oncoming traffic. Immediately, there was a snarl-up that took several minutes to sort itself out. As they waited, Playford swore as he fidgeted with the wheel and Stretley kept looking at his watch: only Finnigan seemed careless of the delay.

  “I told you we should’ve moved earlier,” said Playford harshly.

  “We’ll get moving now,” snapped Stretley, as the car in front of them began to pull away.

  Playford let out the clutch too abruptly and the engine stalled.

  Finnigan laughed. “I’ll get out and put up the L-plates.”

  Playford for once said nothing. He was bigger and stronger than Finnigan, but would never willingly mix it with the other: Finnigan’s air of recklessness suggested that when really angered he could become almost berserk.

  They drove forward. Stretley looked at his watch again. They should have met up with the lorry long before now, which would have let them get to the café carpark first, but it now seemed almost certain they wouldn’t. Perhaps the lorry had even left the café and was in Fortrow. If so, they’d lost out on a thousand quid.

  The van began to sway again as Playford increased speed, but this time Stretley gave no order to slow down.

  “Maybe the dope was sour,” said Playford suddenly.

  “It’s been good before.”

  “There’s always a first time,” said Finnigan lightly.

  A white police patrol car passed in the opposite direction. Playford swore at it, with childish hatred and defiance. Then he floored the accelerator as he saw two lorries ahead. Bucking and swaying, the van came up to the lorries: neither was their quarry.

  Stretley lowered the window and spat out the chewing gum. Goddamn it, he thought, was this job really going to turn sour? He needed his share of that thousand and needed it bad: he owed a lot on the horses and if he didn’t pay soon, Lou was going to send someone to collect and the half-chivs would be out.

  “There’s the caff,” said Playford suddenly. He braked.

  The Jack of Hearts was one of the most popular of the many cafés on the London-Fortrow road and from early morning to late night its carpark was filled with lorries and the occasional car.

  “Drive in,” ordered Stretley.

  Playford put up the indicator arm and braked again. He pulled into the carpark and drove past an articulated lorry piled high with crates that were marked for Sydney, a bulk milk tanker, and a pantechnicon van. The free space curved round and Playford had begun to turn when Finnigan suddenly said: “There it is.”

  The lorry, medium-sized and obviously nearly new, was parked end on to the tumbledown post-and-rail fencing. On the tarpaulin which covered the load was printed the name, ‘MacLaren Distilleries, Machrihanish’.

  “Keep going,” said Stretley, as Playford braked almost to a stop.

  “But we…”

  “I said, keep going.” Stretley was determined to make quite certain there were no general security defences and that no tipoff had brought the police here to hide and wait.

  They completed the rough semi-circle to the road and the second entrance and Stretley had seen nothing remotely suspicious. “O. K.,” he said.

  Playford drove out of the entrance and along the road, past the crudely painted sign of a Jack of Hearts to the first entrance and he once more went into the carpark. They stopped in front of the lorry from Machrihanish.

  Each of them checked on the gloves he was wearing, making certain they were untorn even though each had satisfied himself on this point before beginning the journey and in any case the gloves were new. Finnigan and Stretley were wearing hats whose brims masked much of the upper parts of their heads and overalls that were dirty with grease and dirt and bore the legend ‘Dunlop’.

  Playford remained at the wheel of the van. He tried to act as if this job was as easy as lifting a packet of fags from a chain-store, but could not stop fiddling with the gear lever. Finnigan slid back his door and stepped out: Stretley, carrying a metal toolbox, scrambled over the seat and followed him. On each side of the van was a printed notice which said ‘Bowen and Co. Heavy transport repairs. Ring Fortrow 291698’.

  They approached the lorry’s cab from opposite sides. The driver might be inside. They were ready to use whatever force was necessary, but found the cab was empty.

  Stretley lay down on the ground on
his back and wriggled his way under the engine and cab. He switched on a small torch and used the beam to search for wires which would pin-point an alarm attached to the cab door, but there was none. He moved back and scrambled to his feet and nodded.

  Finnigan came round the front of the lorry to stand between him and the L-shaped café. Because of the closeness with which the vehicles were parked, they had a great deal of cover.

  Stretley took a bunch of keys from his pocket and tried them in turn. The last one fitted and released the door lock. He slid open the cab door and climbed up into the cab.

  There was an umbrella-type lock fixed to the steering wheel. “Cutters,” he said.

  Finnigan picked out a pair of very strong bolt cutters from the tool kit and handed them up. Stretley tried to cut through the metal upright, but could make little impression on the specially hardened steel, even when his muscles began to shake from the intensity of his effort. “Extension.”

  Finnigan passed up two extension arms that fitted on to the cutter. Stretley turned the cutter round until they could each apply force to one arm. Both knew how dangerous this moment was to them — no one seeing them could be fooled into believing they were just carrying out repairs. Gradually, the cutters bit through the upright, finishing with a sudden snap that caught them completely off balance and threw them into each other so that their heads clashed.

  Finnigan removed the extension arms and replaced them and the cutter in the tool kit. He then leaned into the cab and tried to give the impression of a mechanic hard at work. Stretley used his torch to check under the dashboard and found some wiring that had clearly been installed after the lorry was built. He cut the wiring, satisfied it fed an alarm. Finnigan stepped back.

  Stretley started the engine. The heavy diesel thumped into life. He backed and turned, a shade too sharply because the side of the lorry scraped along the cab of the articulated vehicle alongside. There was a muted screech of metal. He cursed, stopped the lorry, went forward and altered the lock, and then backed again. This time, all was clear.

  As he braked for the road, he looked in the large rear-view mirror. All seemed quiet and undisturbed. The van followed him smoothly, showing Playford was unworried. Stretley drew out into the road and turned left.

  A quarter of a mile along were crossroads and to the left was sign-posted the chest hospital, a jumble of buildings halfway up the hill and just visible from the road. Stretley turned into the side road and this soon became no more than a lane, so that the sides of the lorry were constantly battering against the overhanging trees. Twice, oncoming cars had to draw into shallow passing-points to enable the lorry to get by.

  At the top of the hill was a T-junction. He turned right and in half a mile came to a belt of trees. There was a natural layby and from this a rough track led into the woods. The track curled round out of sight of the road, then stopped abruptly against a wall of rioting brambles, bracken, weed grass, rosebay willowherb, and sapling growth. He switched off the engine and jumped down from the cab. As he began to walk back up the track, he saw Finnigan coming towards him. His expression became ugly.

  “Couldn’t’ve been neater,” said Finnigan.

  “Where are you going?” demanded Stretley roughly.

  “I told you — I’m staying around to find out the name of the bloke what’s making all the big folding money.”

  “Don’t be such a bloody fool.”

  “Listen, Abe, a thousand quid ain’t much between three. We could make…”

  “Get on back to the van.”

  “No,” said Finnigan and he smiled crookedly.

  Stretley swore, but recognised that unless he were to use force there was nothing he could do. He hesitated, then pushed roughly past the other.

  Chapter 2

  The candle slowly burned down. Wax overflowed and instead of being consumed by the flame it spilled out over the yellow-black powdery mixture so that for the moment the flame, which was reflected on all sides in quick stabs of light, could not reach the homemade gunpowder.

  On the stone floor lay a man. He was breathing heavily, almost snoring, and from time to time he jerked his hands and legs in involuntary movements. Once, he made a noise that was half moan, half sigh.

  The candle burned on, the flame wavering only slightly in the almost calm air. Some of the melted wax was burned away to leave the powder exposed. The flame seemed drawn towards the powder. There was a violent ball of fire which engulfed the candle and flashed out across the floor and up to the ceiling.

  The ceiling was wooden. No sooner had the fire touched it than the wooden joists and planks began to burn with an ever-increasing intensity. The temperature rose quickly. The man began to jerk violently, as if deep within his drugged mind there was responsive reasoning left which was trying to force him into some action to save his life. Sweat prickled his face and, until it was dried by the ever increasing heat, his wet skin glistened.

  His clothes smouldered, then caught fire. His hair shrivelled up. His limbs jerked wildly and a tormented groan came from between his drawn-back lips.

  *

  Kerr looked at his reflection in the mirror and grinned at himself. For all of twelve hours now, he’d been engaged. The feeling was far better than a night on the wallop — and, come to that, there was no hangover to mar the pleasure. He turned away from the mirror and became thoughtful. Engagements raised problems. He needed an engagement ring. Franks, in the High Street, had some magnificent diamond engagement rings there was usually one on display in a window, guarded by a fine steel grille… He walked in and spoke to the tailor’s dummy of an assistant in a lordly voice. The largest and best and to hell with the expense. The diamond he chose was the size of a pigeon’s egg. It dazzled with its brilliance. When he gave the ring to Helen, she could do nothing but stare at it with wild-eyed astonishment… He sighed. Engagement rings, even the most modest ones, called for money. He had a pound or two in the Post Office savings, four quid in his wallet, and a P.C. at the station who owed him ten bob. That lot put together wouldn’t buy a brass ring set with the tiniest zircon.

  His depression was transitory. Engagement rings apart, life was wonderful. He couldn’t think why he hadn’t become engaged before. A bachelor was a man only half living.

  He tied his tie, put on his coat and, whistling cheerfully, went down to the canteen. The hostel canteen was staffed by the same type of lady as the police station canteen — What d’you want, it’s all gone, there ain’t anything else, and I’m not working myself to the bone for no one. He asked for kippers, eggs, bacon, and liver, and was served with two tired eggs and one piece of frizzled bacon. He carried the tray over to a table at which sat a uniformed P.C.

  “’Morning, Cock,” he said, “lovely day!”

  The P.C. turned and looked out of the window. “Are you tight again? Can’t you see it’s raining?”

  “Is it?” Kerr shrugged his shoulders.

  “You’re a bright ray of sunshine. Doesn’t matter to you that I’ve got to patrol in the wet, does it?”

  “My heart bleeds for you.”

  “Just what the hell is up with you, John?”

  “I’m celebrating my coming release from meals in this flaming canteen.”

  The P.C. showed interest. “Don’t say you’re clearing out of the force, then? What are you going for? A job at one of the factories, thirty quid a week, and a nice strike every other month?”

  “Not me, chum. I’m getting married.”

  The P.C. laughed.

  “What’s so funny about that?”

  “You getting married? You’re the one who always said that any bloke with an ounce of sense had his cake and ate it and then moved on to find another slice.”

  “If ever you mature, you’ll learn there’s more to life than sex.”

  The P.C. pushed his plate to one side and stood up. “You can count me out if it means ending up like you.” He left.

  Kerr buttered a piece of toast, slid it under the
eggs, and ate. The eggs tasted as anaemic as they looked. When he was married to He++len, his fried eggs would be cooked to perfection and when he left the house to go to work he would receive a loving kiss instead of a glare of dislike from the old harridan behind the counter.

  He left the hostel at twenty past eight, totally unworried that he must arrive late at the station. To a newly engaged man, time was of small consequence. Detective Inspector Fusil disagreed on this point.

  “You’re late,” Fusil said, as Kerr reported to his office.

  “I had to wait a long time for the bus, sir.”

  “That’s your concern, not mine.” Fusil was lean and sharp looking and his appearance correctly mirrored his character. If keenness could be a fault, he suffered from it. He pulled a piece of paper across his desk and glanced down at it. “There was a fire in Verlay’s Wine Store in Chertain Road early this morning and the report’s come in that a body’s been found in the rubble. Get out there and see if this concerns us.” Fusil looked up. “And keep your mind on the job — not wherever it is you so often leave it.”

  Kerr left and went along to the C.I.D. general room to collect his mackintosh. He didn’t speak to Rowan, who sat at his desk typing, because the other was very plainly in one of his ill humours. Rowan, he thought, usually was.

  For once, the ancient C.I.D. Hillman was parked in the courtyard and Kerr opened the driving door and climbed inside. He switched on and pressed the starter and was surprised when the engine fired immediately. It might be raining, he thought, but this was one of those days when everything would go right. He drove out of the courtyard, but had to wait for the traffic to ease off before pulling out into the road. How cheaply could one buy a respectable engagement ring? And how could he have wasted so much precious money in the past on beer and skittles?

  The wine store in Chertain Road, a three-storey building sandwiched between an ironmongers and a greengrocers, looked strangely pathetic with windows gaping and brickwork blackened: good living had suddenly been scorched out of existence. He parked by the metal ‘Police No Parking’ sign, then pushed his way through a crowd of onlookers. The P.C. guarding the doorway jerked his thumb inside. “The stiff’s down below in the cellar,” he said crudely. “Watch how you go or you’ll make the second one.”