High Water (1959) (25 page)

Vivian found that he was trembling. This was the moment for extreme caution. Laidlaw had deliberately excited and unnerved him before asking for a statement. He knew full well that if Vivian lied in one story, it would be extremely unlikely that he could conceal it in another, at a later time.

‘Mason killed him.’ His voice was quiet but firm. ‘He was doing a two-way trade. Drugs into the country and forged money out, so that he was paying his way, and getting rid of the money at the same time. He used the travel bureau as a complete cover.’

‘Where did he get the forged money?’

‘Jensen had some plates.’ He faltered. ‘He was a famous engraver in Denmark. He had been doing it for the Germans. They forced him,’ he added defensively.

‘Hmm, no one was forcing him this time, I imagine.’ The detective’s face was expressionless.

Vivian shrugged wearily. ‘He didn’t know about the drug part of it though. When he did find out he decided to wind up the whole business, he’d intended to for some time. He’d been afraid Karen, his niece, would find out.’

‘She knew nothing at all about it?’

‘Nothing.’ He leaned forward, his eyes desperate. ‘Mason killed him to get the plates. He couldn’t find them, so he kidnapped the girl to force me to get them for him. I took half of them to an agreed place, and Mason told us he was going to get rid of both of us and make it look as if it was an accident. As if it happened while I was running off with the niece,’ he ended hoarsely.

‘How did you know where these plates were? And how did you happen to find them, if Mason, who I understand is a co-director of the firm, could not?’

‘Jensen managed to leave a message for me before he died.’

A flicker of interest darted across the detective’s eyes. ‘Where is it? What did it say?’

‘It was a picture of where he’d hidden the plates. A drawing,’ he added.

‘You’ve lost it?’

‘Yes.’ It sounded flat and final. ‘You don’t believe a word of it, do you? But when Karen gets hold of Lang they’ll tell you the same story.’

‘Have you got all that?’ Laidlaw glanced at the watchful Arnold.

‘Good. Now let’s get on a bit. You mentioned Lang, he’s the manager of the firm. What’s he got to do with it?’

‘I told him about the murder and the kidnapping.’

‘When?’ The word was sharp, like a thin knife.

‘This morning, when he came down to my boat.’

The two pink crabs rose violently from their resting
place
and slapped down hard on Laidlaw’s knees. He leaned forward, his eyes blazing.

‘You’re lying!’ His lip curled in contempt. ‘How d’you suppose I got on to the Murder Squad? By sitting on my arse listening to fairy stories?’ He dropped his voice to a low, menacing purr. ‘Firstly, you killed him because of what I just explained. Next, the girl followed you in her car. You didn’t expect that, so you had to kidnap her, to keep her mouth shut!’

‘What are you saying?’ Vivian’s face drained of colour.

‘Her car was seen shortly before the time given by Dr. Mortimer as the time Jensen was killed! Mason was in Ramsgate at that time. I have already seen him, and I’ve checked his alibi. He was, in fact, having a Turkish bath!’ He smiled thinly. ‘As for Mr. Lang, I understand he’s on holiday, on a boat of some sort. I don’t know quite where at the moment, but I do know he was not aboard your boat today, and’—he paused, his face grim—‘he’s not there now! My men have checked!’

It was like a savage blow at the heart, knocking him speechless and numbing his senses into a whirl of incredulity. Vivian felt a cold numbness creeping up his spine as he struggled with his spinning mind, and he shook his head as if to clear himself from the mist which brought a smarting to his eyes.

Not there. Karen was not there. The words hammered at his brain. He was alone, helpless and shattered by the detective’s ruthless attack.

Then, like a blinding light, it came to him, and he found he was shaking with shock, and the torture of his realization. He had sent Karen to Lang! Lang! Lang! The name echoed around the trapped confines of his mind. The inspector had said Lang was on holiday, on a boat. He remembered the yaching clothes Lang had been wearing.
Who
else had known about Jensen’s death, about the broken glass in the desk drawer? Who, in fact, was the only other person who had the opportunity, the motive, and God, what a motive! His head swam. The others in the room sat silent, watching him like fascinated cats by an injured mouse.

‘Lang!’ The name exploded from his lips, and he stared at them wildly. ‘It was Lang!’

‘So it’s someone else now?’ Laidlaw’s small teeth bared in a mock grin. ‘You just can’t take it, can you?’

‘For God’s sake! Can’t you understand? I’ve sent her to certain death!’ He was shouting wildly. ‘Unless we can get to her now!’

He jumped to his feet, but as he moved two arms, like bands of steel, pinioned his arms from behind.

‘It’s my unofficial opinion,’ Laidlaw’s eyes were like two pools of brown fire, ‘that you’ve killed the girl too already! But we’ll find out!’ He turned to the doctor. ‘Have a look at that cut on his head. It’s probably where Jensen hit him before he died.’

His whole expression was filled with cold contempt. ‘I’m glad I do this job sometimes. Even if it’s just to catch up with swine like you!’

LONG AFTER THEY
had locked him in the small, white-tiled cell, Vivian stood stock-still, his muscles stiff and his brain frozen into immobility. At first his ears had strained after the heavy, retreating footsteps, but as the silence closed in on him, so too the gleaming walls seemed to move inwards, mocking him, so that he involuntarily stepped back, pressing his back against the studded door.

He was conscious of his own heavy breathing, and he found himself listening to its irregular, panting beat, unable as yet to take in and appreciate his surroundings.

The cell measured about eight feet by ten, and was brightly lit, more by the harsh glare of the electric light than by the feeble rays of fading daylight, which were reluctantly allowed to filter through a massive window made entirely of glass bricks and which was placed high up, next to the ceiling.

The cold, unyielding touch of the door seemed to bring him to his senses, and as he pressed the palms of his hands against it he felt a wave of helpless revulsion run through him, bringing his body out in a fresh, icy sweat.

For the very first time in his life he felt completely broken. In the past he had shied from a steady, routine life, in house or office, and always returned to his first love, the sea, with its constant movement and many kinds of freedom. Now, as he felt the great pressure of the walls, as
they
strained inwards, he felt a surge of sudden terror, mingled with the frantic desire to scream, and kick out at the impassive door, which was keeping him from his most precious possession.

When the convulsion had passed he lowered his head weakly against the well-worn metal, smoothed by countless prisoners, who had stood, and hoped, and cursed, in this self-same spot. He found comfort from its touch, and he stared blindly down at the concrete floor, trying desperately to project his mind and soul out and beyond the confines of the police-station, back in time, to the moment he had gone into the café. When he had made some sort of plan, when he had felt that a new future was at last possible.

Even as he tried to think, the voices came flooding back, blotting out all other thoughts in a mental sandstorm, choking his brain with their cruel insistence. And all the time, the loudest voice of all shouted Lang! Lang! Lang! until his eyes smarted with tears of frustration and mad fury.

After the chief inspector had finished his cross-examination, he had handed Vivian over to the other detectives, and had watched him contemptuously while they searched and finger-printed him. At the memory, Vivian glanced at his fingers, which still showed the signs of the finger-print ink.

‘You’ll be taken to court tomorrow,’ Laidlaw had announced coldly. ‘You’ll be formally charged then. You can rest assured that you’ll be remanded for a couple of weeks after that, so that I can complete my inquiries.’

‘For the last time, aren’t you going to look for the girl?’ Vivian felt he wanted to fling himself at the other man. ‘D’you think I’d have walked into this place and given myself up if I’d really done a murder, and if I’d known Karen’s in danger?’

Laidlaw watched him through narrowed eyes. ‘As I said, all inquiries will be made. But not into a trumped-up yarn like that!’

Something had snapped inside him, and in the red haze which swam about him, he couldn’t see Laidlaw, only Felix Lang’s smiling face, and he thought he heard his smooth voice. ‘Well, old boy, it’s nice to be working with someone I can trust!’

He couldn’t remember much about the short journey to the cells. He had vague impressions of a policeman searching through a large bunch of keys, and of the old station sergeant dropping his eyes as they had marched past, gripping his arms. A thin, cracked voice, raised in some obscure song, had stopped as if to listen, as they had arrived breathless outside the cell. This cell. It must have been some drunk, already locked up for the night.

What did it matter now what happened to him? He had failed her again. Karen. Karen looking up at him in the bus, her eyes grave. ‘It is you who needs to be careful.’ Her words rang and echoed around his skull.

He couldn’t even remember how long he’d been in the cell, or even in the police-station. Several times he had glanced automatically at his wrist, only to be confronted with a band of pale skin where his watch had once been. They had even removed that when they had searched him.

The scarf around his throat tickled his chin and he pulled it off, running it through his hands, remembering how she had looked that first time on
Seafox
, when she had found him holding this very one. He suddenly flung himself face down on the bed, trying to shut out the light, and trying to hold on to the picture of her face. It was useless. All the time he saw Lang, and heard only his mocking laugh.

Occasionally, a fresh realization stabbed his aching mind.
No
wonder Morrie and Cooper hadn’t worried about being followed. They
knew
they were being followed. By the faithful Lang, who was making sure that no one else was following to see his ‘friend’ being led docilely to his own funeral.

Escape. He stared round his little prison. Escape. The very word, let alone the idea, seemed ridiculous. The men who designed and built such places left nothing to chance.

He tried to think of what Laidlaw had said.

Going to court in the morning, wherever that was. Going further and further away from Karen. Being cheated of one last chance of saving her.

He faced the blank, tiled bricks of the wall. Stop fooling yourself! Stop thinking that you’re in control of the situation! Can’t you see that there
is
no last chance? He shook to his torrent of silent rebukes.

The more he thought, the more simple it became. It seemed impossible he had not suspected it from the beginning.

Lang had used him ruthlessly from the very start. It hurt him so much to believe it, that his racing mind tried to find a small loophole, but all the time he knew there was none.

Lang had wanted those plates, and all that went with them. When Mason had told him about the drugs being thrown overboard, and of Vivian’s impending visit to Jensen, Lang must have raced straight round to the old man’s house, to make some sort of bargain, but when Jensen had told him that he had already spoken to Vivian and his niece on the telephone, and that they were on their way up to see him, Lang must have realized that unless he could get the plates there and then, his dreams would be shattered.

Vivian twisted his hands in agony. He could well imagine
Lang
losing his temper, as he had seen him do often enough during the war. He probably started to threaten Jensen, only to be told that the plates were in Vivian’s possession anyway. Having given himself away, and to no purpose, Lang must have acted instantly. Vivian saw in his mind’s eye, the desperate Lang, telephoning Mason, and giving his terse instructions. Like giving orders at sea. Get the girl. Jensen knows too much now. He has to be taken care of. Taken care of. Like Patterson had been. And how well I played my part for them thought Vivian wretchedly.

No doubt Lang had waited until he knew Vivian was well on the way to the house, and then he too had gone back, probably on the excuse to renew his pleas, or threats. Jensen must have seen the real danger too late, as he doodled calmly on his drawing-board, while his once trusted friend and saviour had circled behind him. Only the staring travel posters had been silent witnesses to the savage drama of man’s greed.

The more he thought, the clearer it became, like a bad film slowly developing in the tray. Only Lang could have thought calmly of what was to be done next. Karen’s car to be driven near the house, where it was well known. Vivian’s behaviour, blinded to everything but Karen’s safety. The bait, the catch, and the execution.

Once he had believed that the pair of them had been disposed of, he must have started the ball rolling with the police.

For a brief moment there was a small flicker of hope, and he tensed his body forward on the edge of the bed. Lang must have got a terrible shock when Cooper reported their escape. He fell back, weak and deflated. What did it matter? The story still fitted. The fact that he was in the cell, was living proof. Lang, wherever he was, knew that
the
only key to the real story was Karen. And he, Vivian, had sent her straight to his grasp.

It seemed obvious that the police would only be interested in the murder. They probably considered the case closed already. And later, at the trial, how would his word stand against the evidence of Lang and Mason? He sweated when he thought of how the police case would stand.

He could almost see the brief smiles on the lips of the jury, the contempt in Mason’s eyes. And Lang! He doubled his fists helplessly. He’d just shrug his shoulders and say, ‘Well, old boy, you’ve got to look after Number One!’