High Water (1959) (24 page)

Vivian’s head swam and his throat felt as dry as dust. In a semi-dazed state, he read the rest of the announcement, which included his own full description, as well as a smiling photograph of Karen. He tried to think back, remembering the broken glass from the window, that he had thrust into the desk drawer. His fingerprints were probably everywhere, he realized. He swore silently, remembering too what Mason had said, and how he had boasted of the success of their plan for laying Jensen’s murder at his door. There had been only one hitch so far, for by rights he and Karen should now be lying in the slime and mud at the bottom of the gravel pit. His thoughts crowded in on him and he stared blindly down at the newspaper, trembling with the fury of a trapped animal.

Almost without realizing it he jumped to his feet, and with the paper clenched in his hand, he blundered out of the café. For a moment he stood unsurely on the edge of the pavement and then, bracing his shoulders, he marched grimly across the road, and with his heart pounding, past the policeman, into the front office of the station.

If anything, his reception was one of anti-climax. The office was high and cool, its pale green, distempered walls covered with notices and bills, and the many bookshelves crammed with tall, dusty ledgers. There was a long, well-polished counter across the entrance, and in the centre of the room, a plump, elderly station-sergeant sat writing carefully in a heavily bound book, a thick briar pipe hanging from his mouth.

At the counter, a young constable, looking somehow strange without his helmet, was pouring tea into a succession of cups on a battered tin tray. He looked up briefly, and smiled cheerfully.

‘Shan’t keep you a minute, sir. Just dealing with an essential duty.’

God! If I don’t get this thing sorted out, I shall go raving mad! Vivian swayed on his feet and placed his hands flat on the counter to control himself. He cleared his throat, his firm chin jutting forward in a certain pathetic defiance.

‘I’m Philip Vivian,’ he announced flatly. ‘I understand you think I’ve done a murder!’

There was a hard chink as the spout of the teapot clattered against the cups, and a sharp intake of breath from the constable, who stared at Vivian, his eyes wild, and seemingly unable to release the metal pot from his grasp.

The sergeant put down his pen and with slow deliberation removed the pipe from his mouth. Vivian noted with surprise that the man’s eyes were china blue and unwavering.

‘Er, what’s that you were saying?’ he asked, his tone conversational. ‘Something about a murder, wasn’t it?’

‘I’m Vivian,’ he repeated it wearily. ‘It’s in the paper here.’ He planked it down on the counter.

The sergeant was on his feet, methodically buttoning his jacket. His eyes never left Vivian’s face, but his expression remained calm and unruffled.

‘I see,’ he said at length. ‘Well, perhaps you’d better come inside the counter here, so that I can have a look at you.’

Nobody moved as Vivian lifted the wooden flap and walked into the room, and stood quietly by the desk.

He was a good few inches taller than the old man, but the
sergeant
seemed to fill the room. He sensed the goggling stare of the constable who had at last succeeded in ridding himself of the teapot, and he observed that the other one, who had been standing by the door, was now inside, blocking the entrance.

‘Take a chair!’ The sergeant’s voice held a ring of authority. ‘And, Collins, finish pouring the tea. I’ve a feeling we’ll all be needing a cup.’ He turned to Vivian, and after a slow scrutiny, he perched himself on the edge of his desk. ‘You’re the man all right,’ he said slowly. ‘I think you’d better just sit here quietly while I get things organized.’

He pressed a button on the desk, and Vivian heard a door open behind him.

‘Tell Peters to get on to Information Room about, er,’ he glanced quickly at a pad of messages, ‘message number seven. Tell them we have man answering description in the station. All the usual to Chief Constable, and our own people. And make it snappy!’

‘Very good, Sergeant.’

The door closed, and seconds later Vivian heard the rattle of a teleprinter. He found that he was breathing heavily. It was all too calm and too normal.

The door opened from the street and his heart leapt, perhaps it was Karen already. But it was only a small man inquiring about a lost umbrella.

As he watched the slow, patient proceedings, the sergeant giving no hint that he was already dealing with a suspected murderer, Vivian heard the door open behind him again. This time, two men in civilian clothes walked into his vision.

One, a dark, thin-faced man, jerked his head. ‘Okay, upstairs, you!’

Vivian felt himself flushing. ‘Look, who the hell d’you
think
you’re talking to?’ he snapped. ‘I’ve come here of my own free will to explain what’s happened!’

‘Okay, okay, don’t get excited!’ The man was taken off his guard by this outburst. ‘Just come up to the C.I.D. office so that we can get the preliminaries over. The chief inspector from the Yard’ll be here to see you as soon as he gets the wire, and he’ll want all the loose ends cleared up.’

The other detective, a gaunt, ungainly figure, with a permanent blink in his left eye, grunted surlily. ‘And no tricks!’ he added unnecessarily.

Wearily, Vivian followed them to the C.I.D. office. A room crowded with desks, filing cabinets, and ash-trays. A room which spoke of constant and unceasing use.

‘Look,’ he said suddenly, ‘I’d rather not say anything until I can see this Chief Inspector Laidlaw. What I’ve got to say is big stuff, and I’ve just about had enough trouble lately to last me a lifetime!’

The two men exchanged glances.

‘Right,’ snapped the first detective. ‘Sit down there and we’ll get on with the job in hand.’

The door opened slightly and the station sergeant thrust his head into the room.

‘All right, gents?’ he grinned broadly, as if it was all one huge joke. ‘The chief’s on his way and so’s the tea! I see you were in the Navy?’ he asked, quite inconsequently.

‘Yes,’ replied Vivian, surprised.

‘My son was too. Went down on the old
Prince of Wales
.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes. Er, d’you take sugar?’

When he had gone, Vivian sat back and began to worry. Karen should be here by now. Something must have gone wrong. Perhaps Lang had found out about the allegation of murder and was getting legal aid, or perhaps he’d not
been
aboard
Seafox
when Karen got there. He cursed silently for not going with her.

The time passed, the tea was brought and consumed, without any further attempt at conversation, and all the while he writhed inwardly at the delay, and with the all-consuming desire to set the wheels in motion to place Mason in the position he now occupied himself.

Eventually, one of the detectives looked up from his desk, his head cocked. Below, some car doors slammed and the rumble of voices drifted up the stairs.

‘He’s here,’ he announced.

Vivian sighed deeply, not with tiredness, but with that odd, empty feeling that he had felt before going into a fight, or whilst awaiting the dentist’s chair.

Chief Inspector Bruce Laidlaw, followed by two other men, entered with a suddenness, and with such an air of brisk decisiveness, that the very room seemed to come alive with his presence.

Although above average height, his square, compact shoulders and short neck gave the impression of stockiness, a growing paunch beneath his neat, grey suit adding to the general appearance of heavy middle age. He swept a trim, green trilby from his head, and for a moment ran his stubby fingers through his cropped, greying hair. Then, for the first time, he let his eyes rest on Vivian. They were dark brown, and unlike the rest of his body, they held all the secrets of his immense vitality and energy, as in a few, quick glances, he took in the other man’s appearance, as if tabulating each small fact as it came to life.

Vivian began to stand up, but one pink hand waved him down again.

‘No, no, Mr. Vivian, you can remain seated. We have certain details to discuss.’

It was a quiet, even voice, with a small hint of harshness,
and
like many policemen’s it bore no trace of any particular accent.

He nodded to the two local detectives. ‘I’ll be taking an official statement shortly. In the meantime, you can wait in the other office.’

It was neither an order nor a request. It was a statement of fact. It revealed to Vivian the whole machinery of this man’s remarkable method of dealing with his job. He realized he was face to face with a professional policeman, a detective at the top of his already brilliant career. He sat now, facing Vivian, one leg crossed over the other, and his hands resting in his lap like two pink crabs. He had taken over. He asked for no help or guidance from anyone else. As if realizing this, the two local men left the room.

Laidlaw looked briefly at the other men. ‘This is Sergeant Arnold, my assistant, and this is Dr. Mortimer, who has also been assisting me.’

He waited while Vivian looked at each of the others in turn. The detective-sergeant, had he seen him in other surroundings, would have made him think of a professional athlete. Wide shoulders and slim hips, and with his dark hair lopped into a crew-cut. His cold eyes and thin mouth showed little mercy and no compassion.

The doctor, on the other hand, was a friendly looking, little man, in an ill-fitting, tweed suit, and he nodded at practically everything that Laidlaw said.

Altogether, he decided, they were a very ill-assorted trio.

Arnold walked quickly to a desk behind Vivian, drawing a notebook and pencil from his dark-blue suit.

‘Now we’re all settled, perhaps you’ll tell me, in your own words, why you killed Nils Jensen,’ said Laidlaw calmly.

It was like a sharp slap in the face, and Vivian had to hold on to himself to stop a wild flood of denials pouring
from
his lips. This was obviously to be the method of interrogation, he decided, so it must be taken carefully and warily.

‘I didn’t kill him. He was dead when I got there.’ It sounded weak and incomplete.

Laidlaw examined the toe of one well-polished shoe, his lips puckered into a small frown of concentration.

‘Start from the beginning. From the time you forced the window,’ he added.

Vivian began again. ‘I found him lying on the floor of the studio. He was already dead. I couldn’t have killed him. I was too fond of him!’

‘You knew him well, then?’

‘Yes. Both as my employer and as a friend. I——’

‘Yet you broke into his house? Hid the evidence of entry in the desk, and when you left you moved the body, packed some of the old man’s clothes and left before anyone should discover you. Right?’ The deep, liquid eyes rested on him steadily.

‘Of course I didn’t want anyone to know. His niece had been kidnapped, they threatened that if I went to the police about anything, she would be killed!’

The chief inspector’s eyebrows lifted very slightly. ‘So she was already kidnapped, then?’ He prompted. ‘And where is she now?’

‘She’s on my boat in Ramsgate harbour, and she’ll vouch for my innocence!’ he exploded angrily.

‘So she was there when you say you found the old man dead?’

‘No, she was—I mean, I don’t know where she was,’ Vivian stumbled.

‘Then there was the business of the typed note on Jensen’s desk. I suppose you did that to put off the discovery of the body long enough for you to make good your
somewhat
hasty departure, eh?’ He asked the question mildly, but there was scorn in his eyes.

‘I keep telling you,’ Vivian’s voice rose to a shout, ‘she’s safe on my boat, or she’s on her way here now, with some definite evidence!’

‘More evidence, is there?’ The voice hardened. ‘Now see here, Vivian, we’re wasting time, so I’ll tell you how I see it, then you can fill in the gaps afterwards. If there are any,’ he added meaningly.

He pulled a sheaf of papers from the inside of his jacket, and leaned back comfortably.

‘You worked for the deceased as a charter yachtsman, who apparently gave you the job because of your war record, and because you own a new boat. You were broke at the time, due to a bad season, and due to the high premiums you were paying off on the boat. I gather, however, that you got rather deeply involved in other directions.’ He paused, his eyes flickering up. ‘I am talking about smuggling!’ His face was hard, and Vivian felt himself sweating. ‘You must understand that I am fully aware of the actions of my colleagues in the Customs!’ He let the words sink in. ‘It appears, however, that Jensen got wind of your little game and got particularly upset, apparently because you had been getting rather close with his niece, for some reason or another!’

‘You hired a car, here in Ramsgate, from the Everest Garage, and you drove to Jensen’s house. I think that when you broke into the house you thought you’d made it look like a robbery. You knew that if Jensen talked to the police about you, and he intended to, if only to prevent you from marrying his niece, you were all washed up. So you surprised him in his studio and killed him with a heavy instrument, which we have not yet found! But we will, Mr. Vivian!’

His voice jumped from a calm softness to sudden snap. ‘I think you killed him to save your own, rotten skin!’

Vivian gripped the arms of his chair, his eyes gleaming fiercely. ‘It’s a damned lie!’ The words choked in his dry throat. ‘I tell you, he was dead when I got there!’

Dear God. Why doesn’t Karen come? His whole body felt soaked with sweat as he tried to marshal his thoughts.

The door clicked back and a head poked round the edge. Laidlaw lifted a questioning eyebrow, but the other man merely shook his head without speaking and shut the door. He turned his attention back to Vivian, his manner once more smooth and urbane.

‘Not a bad case, eh? Now perhaps you’d like to make a statement. We’ll take it down, naturally, but this is just an unofficial one. We can get it sorted out later.’ He nodded over Vivian’s shoulder and Sergeant Arnold lifted his notebook.