A Spoonful of Luger (7 page)

We
moved
towards
the
light.
The
building
was
one
of
those
sectionalized
bungalows
you
put
up
wherever
you
fancy,
and
Cleave
had
fancied
the
rear
corner
of
his
yard.
But
the
white-painted
railings
around
the
front
looked
incongruous,
and
the
side
and back
windows
would
not
have
opened
because
they
rested
against
the
far
boundary
of
corrugated-iron.
Dirty
curtains
trailed
at
the
windows,
and
I
noticed
the
back
of
a
television
set
at
one
of
them.
The
lighted
room
was
the
nearest
end
one,
possibly
one
of
the
bedrooms,
which
Cleave
had
converted
for
use
as
an
office.
He
had
put
a
door
in
the
outer
wall.
It
was
swinging
open,
light
streaming
out
and
catching
a
column
of
mist.

“He’s
inside,”
said
one
of
the
men,
and
Bycroft
went
to
stand
in
the
doorway.
I
hung
back.
The
slim
youth
turned
out
to
be
a
boy
when
he
spoke.
Nineteen
or
so,
I
guessed.

“Christ,”
he
said.
“It’s
Dennis.”

We
were
standing
beside
a
battered
Ford
pick-up
with
a
towing
winch,
not
very
much
better
than
the
de-nuded
wrecks.
My
hand
was
on
the
radiator.
It
was
cold.

“You
found
him,
did
you?”

But
he
only
nodded.

“Where’s
Sprague?”
Bycroft
demanded impatiently,
and
I
moved
in
behind
him
to
have
a
look.
Bycroft
seemed
reluctant
to
proceed
without
his
sergeant.

Dennis
Cleave
lay
on
his
face
in
his
office.
He
was
dressed
in
oil-stained
jeans,
suede
shoes,
and
a
green
roll-top
sweater,
over
which
he
had
an
imitation
leather
jerkin.

“Stone
cold,”
said
one
of
the
patrol
car
men
from
my
shoulder.
“There’s
a
bullet
hole
in
his
back.”

Which
wasn’t
strictly
correct.
There
was
certainly
a
hole
in
the
back
of
his
jerkin,
but
it
was
a
plucked
one.
An
exit
wound.
I
couldn’t
be
certain,
but
it
looked
like
a
heart
shot.
There
wasn’t
too
much
blood.
The
sweater
would
have
soaked
it
up
inside.

I
was
looking
round
casually
for
the
cartridge
case,
because
the
penetration
suggested
an
automatic
pistol.
But
there
was
no
point
in
guessing,
and
I
wasn’t
very
interested
in
the
death
of
Dennis
Cleave,
anyway.
Whatever
the
gun
might
have
been
there
was
no
sign
of
it.

Then
there
was
a
noisy
parking
of
vehicles
out
in
the
lane.
I
looked
back.
An
ambulance
nosed
into
the
yard,
and
a
group
of
men
rushed
past
it.

Sprague,
as
I’d
guessed,
turned
out
to
be
the
detective
sergeant.
We
weren’t
introduced.
He
swept
in
with
his
squad
and
took
over,
so
efficiently
that
I
was
almost
sorry
for
Bycroft.
Yes,
Dr
Forrester
had
been
informed
and
was
on
his
way.
Dust
everything,
Charlie,
and
over
here
with
that
camera,
Geoff,
and
a
couple
from
over
there.
Sprague
was
good,
and
he
knew
it.

He
was
two
inches
taller
than
I
am,
and
slim
with
it,
but
his
face
was
very
full
around
the
jaw.
It
was
also
rather
battered,
one
cut
along
his
forehead
still
being
recent
enough
to
have
a
strip
of
plaster
on
it.
His
left
leg
seemed
stiff.
He
had
an
irritating
habit
of
moving
his
jaw
sideways
as
he
spoke,
chewing
the
words,
and
an
even
more
irritating
one
of
smiling
gently
as
he
listened,
as
though
he’d
heard
it
all
before
and
hadn’t
believed
it
the
first
time.

They
turned
the
body
over.
Cleave
had
a
round
face
and
a
moustache,
and
a
balding
patch
in
his
dark
hair.
The
point
of
entry
was
obvious,
and
there
was
an
extensive
spread
of
blood
into
the
sweater.
The
expression
on
his
face
was
more
of
surprise
than
fear.

“Went
right
through
him,”
said
Sprague.
“High
velocity
pistol,
must’ve
been.”
He
bent
close.
“There
don’t
seem
to
be
any
powder
burns.
I
think
we
can
forget
suicide.”
He
considered
it,
his
head
on
one
side.
“Shot
from
about
four
feet,”
he
said
with
confidence.

I
was
pleased
he
could
be
fallible.
No
burns
or
powder
marks
meant
the
range
had
been
more
than
two
feet
or
so.
But
beyond
that
you
can
only
guess,
because
bullet
velocity
doesn’t
fall
off
very
much
in
the
first
twenty
yards.
It
was
just
too
early
to
be
dogmatic.