Charters and Caldicott (21 page)

‘I thought as much. That green toothbrush is mine, Caldicott. Yours is red.'

Caldicott stared at him. ‘I do believe you're right, Charters. You realise what we've done, don't you? We've got one another's suitcases.'

‘Hence this wretched fifteen-and-a-half collar. You would insist on changing the suitcases round, Caldicott – the fact is that they were right in the first place. We'll have to go back to the hotel and change.'

‘And miss the first overs? Can't we do it somewhere else, old man?'

‘I move with the times as much as the next man, Caldicott, but unlike some cricket supporters I draw the line at removing my shirt outside the pavilion at Old Trafford.'

The switchboard came to life again. ‘Yes, Debra? Really? Wonders will never cease. Mr Norton will see you now. Stanley,' the receptionist called to the commissionaire, ‘could you take these two gentlemen to the boardroom?'

Surprised at the success of their manoeuvre, Charters and Caldicott followed Stanley upstairs and along a covered foot­bridge that linked two factory buildings. A row of windows gave out onto a cobbled courtyard and as they passed one of them, Caldicott murmured, ‘Hello,' and nudged Charters. Josh Darrell's Jaguar and his minders were waiting in the yard below. As the pair looked down, Darrell himself came out of the directors' entrance and headed briskly for the car.

‘Now what in the name of thunder is Josh Darrell doing here?' said Caldicott.

‘Having an audience with Gordon Wrigley, I imagine.'

‘Unlikely, old man.'

‘Come, Caldicott – you don't really believe that yarn about Wrigley being in London, do you?'

‘Not for a minute. Equally I find it hard to swallow that a little fish like Wrigley wouldn't have come out to see a big fish like Darrell into his car instead of glowering down at him from that office window as if hoping looks could kill.' Charters followed Caldicott's glance across and saw Wrigley standing at a window opposite, wearing just such an expression. As they watched, he raised a hand to his chin. One of the cuff buttons on his blazer was missing.

The panelled boardroom was lined with portraits of bearded directors from the past. Charters and Caldicott made a tour of them while they waited for Norton. ‘Who does that remind you of?' asked Caldicott, pausing in front of one.

‘W.G. Grace, of course. I wonder who'll win the toss?'

They'd just reached the portrait of the present managing director, Jacob Norton, every inch the Yorkshire industrialist, when the doors of the boardroom were pushed open and a young nurse wheeled in the man himself: an old, haggard-looking travesty of the portrait.

Norton dismissed his nurse brusquely. ‘Buzz off – I'll ring when I want you. And shut them doors – this is private business.'

Charters and Caldicott introduced themselves. ‘Good of you to see us, Mr Norton,' said Caldicott, getting the interview off to a civilised start.

Norton stared at them. ‘Bloody hell. Have they put the retirement age up, or what?'

Norton's opening gambit threw them off balance. ‘Come again?' said Caldicott blankly.

‘I say I thought they'd have pensioned you off – CID, Special Branch or whatever you call yourselves.'

The penny dropped. Caldicott would have set the record straight but Charters interrupted him with uncharacteristic foolhardiness. ‘Seniority is not an asset to be discarded lightly, Mr Norton, as you yourself would agree,' he said smoothly.

‘Oh, aye, there's nobody can tell
me
when to retire. I'll go when I'm good and ready. Well, do I get cautioned or what?'

To Caldicott's dismay, Charters continued with this dangerous deception. ‘We'd just like to ask you a few informal questions, Mr Norton. No need for your notebook.'

Caldicott glowered at being cast in the Tipper role.

‘Ask all the questions you please. Whether you get any answers or not, we'll have to see.'

‘Now, you know why we're here, of course?'

‘I've a good idea. You'll never prove owt.'

Charters knew a promising lead when he saw one, and gave Caldicott a smug glance. ‘You think not?'

‘Not while I'm alive. After I'm dead's another matter – but there'd be no point then, would there? You can't prosecute a corpse.'

Caldicott decided to join in the game of bluff, a move which filled Charters, in his turn, with misgiving. ‘Perhaps not, Mr Norton – but there are others involved in the business, aren't there?'

‘Not criminally, there aren't,' said Norton sharply. ‘Now you keep my family out of this, do you hear?'

Charters raised an eyebrow at Caldicott. ‘We'll do our best to accommodate you, Mr Norton, but
you
must do your best to help
us
. Now, given anything to
charity
lately?'

Norton laughed bitterly. ‘That's not where it's all gone – unless you call my bookmakers charity.'

‘I see,' said Charters, baffled.

‘When were you last in Hong Kong, Mr Norton?' asked Caldicott cunningly.

Norton looked down at his blanket-covered legs. ‘Me? Don't talk so daft.'

‘Someone representing your company, then. Gordon Wrigley, perhaps?'

‘Never mind Hong Kong and never mind Gordon Wrigley. I've told you – I won't have my family involved.'

‘Family?' asked Charters.

‘I suppose you'd call him that. He is my son-in-law, after all. Though it's not him I'm worried about.'

Caldicott, all at sea, broke with custom and tried the straightforward approach. ‘Who
are
you worried about?'

‘Who do you think? Not you two, I can tell you that much.'

Charters stepped in. ‘We're not here to cause anxiety, Mr Norton. We're here to clear up certain matters.'

‘Well you seem to be going a funny way about it. My secretary said you mentioned this Colonel Beevers chap. What's it got to do with him?'

‘Do you know he's dead?' Caldicott asked.

”Course I know he's dead. He died while our Gordon was out there, didn't he?'

‘Quite,' said Caldicott.

‘Exactly,' said Charters.

Neither had the slightest idea what he was talking about.

‘What are you two looking at me like that for, the pair of you? Do you really think I sent Gordon Wrigley all that way to commit a murder – just to keep this business quiet?'

‘It's possible,' said Caldicott cautiously.

‘Pigs might fly – that's possible. Any road, it wasn't Beevers I should have been worried about – it was who Beevers was dealing with this end. So why didn't I just send my son-in­law down to London to bump off Josh Darrell and save myself the air fares?'

‘Why indeed?' said Charters, reminded, for some reason, of being lost in a real old London pea-souper.

‘I wish I
had
done now, after what's happened,' Norton fretted. ‘But I'll tell you why, if you want to know.' He groped under his blanket and brought out a bottle of pills. ‘You see these? Twelve of these with a glass of whisky and I'm a dead body.
That's
my way out if it comes to it.'

Charters was heartily sick of corpses. ‘There's no need for melodramatic gestures, Mr Norton. Just answer our questions frankly and there's no reason why what you tell us should go beyond this room.'

Norton couldn't believe his ears. ‘You what?'

Caldicott tried to save the situation. ‘What my colleague means is that you won't be involved. In – er – subsequent proceedings.'

‘I won't be involved?'

‘Firm promise.'

‘Then what are you
doing
here?'

Caldicott looked at Charters. ‘Never mind that for the present, Mr Norton,' said Charters uneasily. ‘Just put your cards on the table, there's a good chap.'

‘I'll put my cards on the table when you produce a warrant to see them. Well, have you got a warrant?'

‘Er, not at the moment, no,' said Caldicott.

‘Have you got
anything
to prove you are who you say you are?' Charters and Caldicott coughed awkwardly. ‘Or any identity at all? Come on, I'm waiting.'

Caldicott shuffled forward sheepishly. ‘My card.' Charters also presented his.

‘I bloody thought so! You're no more police than I'm King Kong.' He spun his chair round and wheeled himself furiously towards the bell push in the wall.

‘Cast your mind back, Mr Norton. We never
claimed
to be policemen.'

‘A misunderstanding, Mr Norton,' said Charters.

‘Pure assumption on your part.'

Norton's nurse raced into the boardroom and whisked him out, just in time to save him from bursting a blood vessel.

 

‘This really is absurd, old man,' said Caldicott as the pair strode purposefully through the lobby of their hotel. ‘It isn't as if wearing the wrong shirts would cripple us for life.'

‘It would spoil my day, Caldicott. Besides which, it's extremely bad for the circulation and furthermore we look ridiculous.'

‘We could take our ties off.'

Charters stepped into the lift. ‘Caldicott, I have not gone open-necked to a cricket match since I was at prep school. I don't propose to relax my standards now – even if we
are
in the North.' He jabbed irritably at the lift button. Before the doors could close completely, two enormous hams of hands came between them and forced them open again. Josh Darrell's minders joined them in the lift. Deaf to all pleas and protests, they bundled them out at a strange floor, frog­marched them ignominiously down the corridor and propelled them through a door.

Darrell looked round as they entered, waved to them and carried on with his phone call. Charters and Caldicott, ruffled and furious, straightened their ties and flexed twisted wrists while Darrell read out some rigmarole of a formula. ‘Does that sound like a beverage to you or does it sound like a bomb?' he finished, pocketing his notes. ‘I guess it's this synthesised burdock ingredient that's been eluding us. Listen, I have a meeting right now. We'll talk later.' Darrell hung up and, ever the polite host, gave Charters and Caldicott his full attention. ‘Good of you to drop by, May I offer you something? Coffee?'

Caldicott bristled with rage. ‘You may offer us, Darrell, an explanation.'

‘It's gone beyond that, Caldicott,' said Charters. ‘An action for heavy damages may lie. I don't know whether you know anything about English civil law, Darrell, but wrongful imprisonment is a very serious matter.'

The television was on in the corner. Darrell turned the sound down before saying. ‘Maybe we'll settle out of court. I don't aim to keep you long, gentlemen.'

‘I should jolly hope not. We have a most important engagement,' said Caldicott.

‘You've just come back from one. Your busy morning.'

Charters glowered. ‘Evidently you know we've been to see Jacob Norton.'

‘I was with him when you called.'

‘You may as well know, Darrell, that he made a full and frank confession.'

Darrell smiled. ‘I don't think so. I'll give you a piece of advice, Charters. Never play poker.'

His telephone rang again. While Darrell dealt with the call, Caldicott nudged the affronted Charters and nodded towards the silent television screen. The BBC had started its Test Match coverage. The pair edged closer and watched, riveted, the opening balls of the game.

‘Fine, send it up.' Darrell turned back to Charters and Caldicott. ‘How much did old Norton really tell you?'

‘Rather more than you think,' said Caldicott abstractedly, his eyes glued to the set.

‘You know he's been swindling his own company for years – playing the horses and rigging the books to cover his losses?'

‘We gathered something of the sort, yes,' said Charters, equally inattentive. ‘Run, man, run.'

‘How the hell he's gotten away with it I wish I knew – I'd sell the secret. His daughter's a major shareholder and
she
never guessed. Maybe having a crooked accountant for a son­in-law helped. I guess Wrigley fixed the books in exchange for a slice of the action. If young Wrigley hadn't confided in your buddy Jock Beevers about what was going on, the old man might have taken his secret to the grave as the saying is. But, he
did
tell Beevers and Beevers told me and I guess he told you so here we are.'

‘Here we are,' said C:aldicott, wincing at a dropped catch.

‘So, let's hear it.'

Caldicott brightened. ‘You'd like the sound up?'

‘It's your game I'm interested in, not Association cricket.' Charters rolled his eyes heavenward in horror at the gaffe.

‘I say, you could have waited till the end of the over,' Caldicott protested as Darrell switched the set off.

‘What was your pitch with the old man? Blackmail?'

‘Do we look like blackmailers?' Charters demanded, outraged.

‘Maybe a nicer word is persuasion. Now I know what
I
persuaded him to do. What I need you to tell me is what
you
persuaded him to do.'

Someone knocked at the door. Darrell checked through the security spyhole before opening it. A tiny page-boy, sweating under the weight of a two-dozen­bottle crate of Birdade, staggered in escorted by Darrell's minders. Darrell tipped the boy and dismissed him. ‘You fellows had better go and get yourselves something to eat. We'll be checking out in an hour.' The minders withdrew.

Darrell took a card out of the crate. ‘“With the compliments of Norton and West.” That's style. That – is – style. Jesus will you look at that? They don't even gift-wrap it. Not so much as a ribbon! I tell you, if I were a Jap I'd take this as an insult! My God, no wonder they never cracked the Far East.'