Killer in the Shade (6 page)

‘This is crazy,' he decided. ‘Carol's
uncle to have been at that house. He's dead!'

The last two words were spoken in a fading voice, like a protest known to hold little conviction.

‘You've thought of something, Mr Hackley?' Dick Temple asked quietly.

Rollo had indeed. He had thought of his uncle's having seen Carol in the front garden of Holly Lawn within a very short time of a murder having been committed in the house.

However, this was information he was not prepared to share with anyone at this stage. Thinking fast, he said, ‘I've thought of this. If that fingerprint is to be explained, the explanation might be found in Edgware.' He held up the letter that had been returned to him. ‘I'll try my luck there.'

He stood up preparatory to taking his departure, but was stopped when Temple said, ‘Sit down, Mr Hackley. I've something of my own to add.' When Rollo was back in his chair the ex-Yard man went on, while his partner leaned against the radiator and studied his finger
ends. ‘This agency still considers Miss Wilson a client. Because of this we shall continue to act in her interest. That's one thing. There's another. You take it, Tom.'

Moore dropped his hands and with the right beat a soft tattoo against the radiator pipes.

‘Because of another case we've been liaising with Bill Hazard, who is Superintendent Frank Drury's assistant.'

‘We've met,' Rollo said shortly.

Tom Moore smiled as though to himself. ‘I'm not surprised. Well, off the record we've been filling in some blank spaces of another of Drury's cases — these burglaries that have been occurring since the power workers' strike. Drury is convinced the stuff isn't being fenced. Sold out through an underworld middle man.'

‘I know what a fence is,' Rollo said, sounding somewhat impatient at this diversion.

Moore continued as though no comment had been made.

‘Drury's convinced the stuff is stolen
to return to the insurance companies. That way a crook would get a ready market, no questions asked, and the insurance companies wouldn't have to dig so deep into their pockets. It isn't legal, but it works. Now this is where we come into the deal. We've had several requests to handle the return of stolen jewellery. Drury has been kept informed, but we can't act against the interests of our clients, so long as what we're asked to do is within the law. As we deal with unnamed intermediaries we are in no position to provide names to Drury. Clues are different matters. If we came across any Drury would get them so long as they lead towards the gang setting up the thefts and not back to our clients.'

Moore stopped speaking, took out a packet of cigarettes and almost absently lit one with a gas-flame lighter. He shook the cigarette held between his fingers to emphasize his next words.

‘Drury is no slouch. I've got it from Bill Hazard, again off the record, that Drury considers there might have been a tie-up between the burglaries and jewel thefts
and the Croft Avenue killing. We've got a loose exchange working with Drury and Hazard. They keep us in the picture so that we might know a useful clue when we see it and can pass on the information. We don't move beyond an agreed line in acting for our clients. You follow?'

‘It sounds as though it could be complicated,' Rollo replied.

‘It could be if we weren't damned careful. That's why we work to keep it simple. The simpler the better. Now you've brought a complication. You must see that.'

Rollo looked at Temple, who said, ‘I can see a way of removing an obstacle Tom's found. When you follow up your fiancée's disappearance, if that's what it is, let Tom work with you. Start, say, tomorrow. You want to refer Dan Simpson to me, I'll be discreet about a story that might break. That okay with you, Mr Hackley?'

‘Why the delay?' Rollo asked.

Temple's quiet smile returned. ‘We have things to do, like checking who certain landlords are, and maybe comparing a
few details with Hazard, to make sure we're not fouling anything Drury's got working for him. In general, clear some ground.'

Rollo saw Tom Moore watching him with a speculative look, which the young man did not find encouraging. He thought the ex-Yard inspector looked upon him as someone interfering with professionals.

Well, maybe he was right. But he wasn't stepping aside to please Tom Moore.

‘Very well. Tomorrow, then. Where shall I meet you, Mr Moore?'

The answer came without hesitation. ‘Piccadilly Underground at half-past ten, foot of the steps leading to Piccadilly South Side.'

Three minutes later Rollo was on his way back to Fleet Street, feeling that he had accomplished very little save giving the Temple-Moore Inquiry Agency a better reason than they already had for snooping into Carol's background.

Just after lunch Joe Murphy came in with a piece about a mystery fingerprint
having been found at the house in Croft Avenue. There was no further development on the case that was official.

There was another power cut in the afternoon. It continued intermittently until eleven-thirty in the evening, by which time Rollo was in bed asleep. But he did not awake feeling refreshed. For no reason he could define he felt apprehensive. He put it down to the latest warning he had received from Dan Simpson about treading on Joe Murphy's broad Irish toes. That had been after the news editor had said he would phone Dick Temple.

Rollo thought about this as he shaved.

It was as though he was involved in a conspiracy and the number of conspirators was growing. It could be the reason for his apprehension, he decided, just before leaving to make rendezvous with one of them in Piccadilly Underground Station.

Rollo wasn't aware that Tom Moore had arrived until the one-time Yard detective inspector tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Nice to know someone who's punctual, Mr Hackley. We'll talk on the train.'

They secured a couple of seats with no immediate neighbours in a non-smoking compartment, and under the cover of the wheels' clacking sound the agency man opened up without delay.

‘Does the name Vince Pallard ring any bells?' he asked.

‘None. Should it?'

‘Depends where you've been. If you'd spent the last five years in the East End it might. On the other hand, if you went to the East End today the chances are you'd never hear it mentioned. He used to have a pub in Stepney but made most of his money, according to the kind of rumour that doesn't lie, from a betting shop he backed until the protection boys
forced him out. And that meant out of the East End. Still no ringing bells?'

‘Still none.'

Tom Moore felt for his cigarettes, remembered he was in a non-smoker, and put the packet back in his pocket.

‘I bet Joe Murphy's skull would be ringing,' he said, ‘which wouldn't necessarily be a good thing.' He looked at Rollo with his grey gaze, and the younger man saw that under the eyes the greyish tinge to the man's face was faintly speckled under the surface, as though a suntan had faded brokenly. In close-up Tom Moore's face reminded him of a thrush. ‘But now I'll set a bell ringing in your head. At the moment Vince is in Edgware. He's got another pub only it doesn't sound like one. He can even put up anyone who wants bed and breakfast. So it's more than an inn.'

‘The Burroughs Hotel,' said Rollo, this time looking at the other's face without seeing it.

‘In Newlyn Road East,' Moore added. ‘The Burroughs lies back from a crossroads
marked with traffic signals. Looks like Vince has something going for him and has made a good investment. Nice dining-room, three or four bars, a garden at the back for summer visitors, six or seven bedrooms, and a car-park that should pack in more than seventy with a squeeze. My notion is to be in the dining-room when the lunches start. That's about twelve-thirty. All right with you, Mr Hackley?'

‘Whatever you suggest, but frankly I'm more interested in this Vince Pallard.'

‘Reasonable. Well, I've brought along a couple of photos so you can take your time getting to know the faces.'

Moore took out a wallet and removed two photos that looked as though they were blow-ups from snapshots. He passed them face down to Rollo, who could see the Temple-Moore Inquiry Agency stamp in large purple letters on the back of each. He turned them over, and found himself staring at a broad face on surprisingly thin shoulders. The face was framed with protuberant ears and topped with a mop of unruly hair that straggled
down over the ears into untidy mutton-chop whiskers with a razor-trimmed line below the formidable lobes.

‘Vince. Not a beauty, is it?' Moore said, leaning closer. ‘The hair is red, going dirty grey, and it doesn't go with his sallow complexion. He even looks a crook. That might be why he's never done time. His looks keep him on his toes. But he's made enemies, though he'd never talk about them.'

He sat watching Rollo studying the face. When at last the younger man turned to the second photo Tom Moore gave him a quick look to catch the immediate reaction. He wasn't disappointed.

‘You've recognized him, I see,' he said. ‘Yes, that's friend Humphrey who's generally supposed to have cremated himself accidentally.'

Rollo was barely listening to the cynical words. He was studying the thin face with the close-together eyes and the long sideboards that all but covered the ears. The hair seemed to be dark. There was more of it round the mouth and framing
the rather sharp chin.

‘Looks like something Asiatic with those face whiskers,' Moore said, leaning close again. ‘But he was born in Brum and he's got the accent to prove it. Now look at the eyes. See how they're almost closed. Weak eyes. Usually wears dark glasses, as I believe Dick told you. But not in Yard mug shots.'

‘So that's where this came from,' Rollo said without taking his eyes from the photo.

‘You can deduce that, I'm not telling you,' Moore said carefully, retrieving the photos and putting them back in his wallet. ‘But we have our contacts and resources.'

‘So I'm learning. Why did Carol go to you?'

Tom Moore shifted in his seat as though not very comfortable. The train ran into a station and there was the noise of passengers entering and leaving before the train was again moving and the wheels covering the sound of carefully pitched voices.

‘You ask some damned awkward questions.'

But Rollo wasn't being put off. He said, ‘She must have heard of you from someone. She isn't the sort of girl who sticks pins in a list to find a winner at Epsom.'

The other man was silent so long that Rollo was beginning to think he wouldn't be answered. But suddenly Moore leaned towards him again and said, ‘I think Peggy gave her the clue to us. But don't ask me why. That would be too much.'

‘Very well. But who in God's name is Peggy?'

‘Margaret Wilson, her aunt. She was fool enough to marry a phoenix.'

‘Then you're convinced Peel isn't dead, that it was someone else who was burned in the flat?' Rollo said quickly.

‘Not quite so fast, Mr Hackley,' said the other. ‘I'm not convinced — no. Nor's Dick Temple, as I believe he's told you. But we're both open to be convinced, for what that's worth to you.
And there's no harm in a man talking to convince himself if he's got a good argument going for him. Is there?' he challenged.

Rollo looked at him, grinned, and shook his head.

‘You're beginning to give me an appetite and' — he looked at his watch — ‘it still isn't eleven o'clock. But tell me something. Why didn't we come by car?'

‘Cars can't go where we might want to,' Tom Moore told him, somewhat enigmatically.

Before turning into the Burroughs Hotel, which had a very colourful and involved coat of arms painted on a signboard in the space separating the car-park from the forecourt proper, Moore took his companion for a short bus ride and then they walked to Cotswold Crescent and halfway down passed what looked like a large double-fronted house but was really a group of four flats, two downstairs and two up, separated by a central entrance and staircase. The upstairs left-hand flat looked to
have been newly decorated inside and out and was unoccupied, for there was an estate agent's ‘To let' sign on two of the windows.

The estate agent's name was the same as that on the map Mellie Smallwood had produced when she called on him.

‘Where's Carol's aunt now?' Rollo asked.

‘My partner's working on it. That might be something Frank Drury would like to know — if he doesn't already. He and Hazard can be damned close when it suits them. But we can't do anything about it. They're in a position to make the rules, not us.'

By the time they reached the Burroughs Hotel it was nearly five and twenty past twelve. They walked into the large, light, and pleasantly airy saloon bar and Rollo ordered drinks. There were more than a dozen in the bar besides themselves and other customers were dropping in every few minutes. Most of the talk was about the strike of workers at power-generating plants. One or two were developing pet theories about the reported jewel raids
in the hours when London was virtually blacked out. In a couple of corners the inevitable latest pornographic joke was being passed on to alcoholic grunts of appreciation.

‘How about another?' asked Moore, pointing to Rollo's empty glass.

‘Upstairs when we've got a table. I saw the menu outside had a notice that the dining-room's upstairs.'

A breezy waitress with a fixed smile between her shoulder-length strands of straight hair offered them a table in an angle across from the door. She brought them the food and beer ordered, and they were halfway through a palatable meal that was not ruined with soggy vegetables when Rollo took the glass of beer from in front of his face and said to the man opposite, ‘Don't look round now, but unless that was a lousy photo you showed me, and it was of the wrong man, Humphrey Peel's just come in, dressed in hippie gear and wearing a pair of Hollywood-style sunglasses.'