The evidence given them by June Ingles had sent the detectives to her house. For her own safety, they’d left her at the police station. While Keedy knocked on the door, Marmion moved to the front window and looked in. One glance was enough to tell him that Ingles was in difficulties.
There was a lengthy delay, then the door was opened by a stranger.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked, politely.
‘We’ve come to see Mr Ingles,’ said Marmion.
‘He’s not available at the moment, I’m afraid. We’re in the middle of a business discussion.’
‘And do your business discussions always involve physical assault?’
‘I really don’t know what you mean.’
Marmion looked him in the eye. ‘I saw you with your hand around Mr Ingles’s throat.’
The man laughed. ‘Oh, that was all in fun.’
‘I’d like to hear Mr Ingles confirm that, sir.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Inspector Marmion from Scotland Yard and this is Sergeant Keedy.’ He indicated his companion. ‘We’re investigating a murder that occurred at a public house in Hayes. Mr Ingles’s daughter was one of the victims.’
‘Yes,’ said the man with apparent sympathy. ‘I was sorry to hear about that. In fact, I was just offering my condolences to him. I came here to discuss the sale of his house. He and his wife have decided to move.’
‘That’s not what Mrs Ingles told us,’ said Keedy, looking him up and down. ‘Her husband is planning to sell the house against her will.’
‘Might we have your name, sir?’ asked Marmion.
‘Yes, of course,’ replied the other, reaching inside his coat. ‘I’ll give you my business card.’ But what he pulled out was a gun that he pointed menacingly at them. ‘Out of my way,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t give me an excuse to kill you because I’d be happy to take it.’
They backed away so that he could hurry past them to his car. He got in, gave them a wave then drove off. They were after him at once. Running to their own vehicle, they leapt in and slammed the door behind them. The driver needed no instruction. He set off at once.
As they picked up speed, Marmion and Keedy realised that their quarry answered the description they’d been given of Florrie Duncan’s alleged admirer. He was dark, handsome, wearing a moustache and approximately the right age. Also, the car they were following was the latest Daimler. While the police vehicle was older and less flashy, it had an expert driver at the wheel. Even though the Daimler turned corners without warning, it could not shake off the pursuit. Every move was matched by the police car, dodging oncoming vehicles, braking wildly and even mounting the pavement on occasion. After a hectic chase through Hayes itself, they accelerated past the munitions factory and on into open country. The Daimler was fast but the police car nevertheless slowly began to overhaul it.
‘What do you want me to do, sir?’ asked the driver.
‘Stop him,’ said Marmion.
‘It could cause a lot of damage, sir.’
‘I don’t care two hoots.’
‘Superintendent Chatfield will care a lot and I’ll be answerable to him.’
‘You can leave Chat to me,’ said Marmion, determinedly. ‘That man is a suspect. Whatever you have to do, just do it.’
Relieved of responsibility for any damage to the vehicle, the driver took it up to its full speed. Ordinarily, the Daimler would have been too swift to catch but there was extra power under the bonnet of the police car. It surged forward and was about to draw level when a lorry came round the bend directly ahead and sounded its horn angrily. The police car had to drop back to avoid a collision. As he shot past, the driver of the lorry waved a fist. Marmion was more interested in the man behind the wheel of the Daimler. If he had a gun, they needed to neutralise its danger somehow. There was no point in stopping his car when he had a weapon to hand.
‘Force him off the road,’ he urged.
‘Yes, Inspector.’
‘Make him crash the car.’
The driver accelerated once again, caught up with the Daimler, waited for the right moment, then moved alongside it and slowly edged in front of it. Waving the gun with one hand, the man couldn’t fire accurately because he needed to keep his eyes on the road ahead. When he did pull the trigger, the bullet went harmlessly past the other car. A second shot was equally wide of the mark. As they approached another bend at top speed, the man needed both hands to keep his vehicle on the road. The police car suddenly cut across the Daimler at an angle, forcing it to veer sharply to the left to avoid a collision. Both cars were going far too fast to negotiate the bend safely. The police car went into a skid, turning round and round in circles on screeching tyres until it landed up on a grass verge, facing the wrong way. The Daimler had fared far worse, leaving the road and bouncing off a tree before careering uncontrollably along the verge, then plunging into a ditch.
Keedy was out of the police car before it actually came to a halt. Running across to the Daimler, he saw that the driver had been thrown forward at the moment of impact and had smashed through the windscreen. Rivulets of blood ran down his face and he was clearly dazed. Before the man could even think of using his gun, Keedy yanked open the door, pulled him out, then seized the weapon from his hand. He tossed it to Marmion who’d now come to help him. Danger was past. The man revived enough to offer some token resistance but Keedy quickly overpowered him and snapped handcuffs onto his wrists. Stuck at an acute angle in the ditch, the Daimler was badly damaged. One of its wheels had come off and there was a huge dent in its bodywork. The windscreen had been shattered.
The man was absolutely horrified at the state of his vehicle.
‘Look what you made me do!’ he howled. ‘My car is ruined.’
‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said Marmion, pulling out a handkerchief to stem the blood on the other’s face. ‘You won’t need a car where you’re going.’
Ellen Marmion could not have been happier. They were all together for once. Her daughter helped to prepare the meal and set out the cutlery beforehand. Harvey Marmion was home early and he brought Joe Keedy with him. Since Paul Marmion would soon be joining them on leave, they had a cause for celebration. While Ellen was simply glad that the investigation was finally over, Alice hunted for details.
‘What was his name?’
‘Eddie Gregg,’ said her father. ‘And I was right about him being a local man. Gregg was born and bred here. In younger days, he’d drunk at the Golden Goose. He was as ruthless as he was cunning. When he came out of the army, he worked at a gambling club and gradually took it over.’
‘He had a nose for people’s weaknesses,’ explained Keedy. ‘Once he’d identified a target, he simply reeled them in. Brian Ingles is a case in point. He was given blandishments at first — free drinks, discounts on meals — and, of course, he was allowed to win small amounts until he was addicted to the card table. Gregg could then begin fleecing him.’
‘What a horrible man!’ exclaimed Ellen.
‘You don’t know half of it.’
‘I’m not sure that I want to know.’
‘The full story will be in the papers, love,’ said Marmion, taking a long sip of his beer. ‘Gregg had two strings to his bow. He was a crooked club owner who made sure that he always won in the end and, when his customers ran out of money, he loaned them more so that they could go on playing in the vain hope that they could recoup their losses. They’d usually had a fair bit to drink before they signed a contract for the loan and didn’t realise that they’d be charged exorbitant rates of interest.’
‘He was a shark,’ said Keedy. ‘He ate his victims alive.’
‘When that bomb went off, Ingles thought Gregg had planted it because he’d threatened to kill Florrie if Ingles didn’t pay off his debt. But then,’ Marmion went on, ‘we named Herbert Wylie as our main suspect. Ingles must have danced with joy at that point because he thought it proved that Gregg was not the bomber, after all. He knows better now.’