The Superintendent appraised Richardson briefly, then nodded.
"You think you can make Mrs. Clark tell her husband to talk to us, Captain?"
Richardson could not help grinning. The difference between them was that the police only wanted old Charlie to admit he'd pulled the trigger, whereas Stocker wanted to know how Audley had taken it into his head to disappear. But obviously both of them were surprised and galled to come up against a pair of old countryfolk who were not overawed by the combined sight of the police and the Ministry of Defence.
David would have enjoyed that!
He shrugged. "It's possible, but I wouldn't bet on it. Just how much have you got so far?"
"Not much." The Superintendent admitted, turning towards dummy2
his subordinate. "You tell him, John."
"Not much indeed." Trenchcoat grinned back wryly at Richardson, as one journeyman to another. "And most of it comes from the constable here, Yates."
He paused. "Mrs. Clark woke him up about half-past one this morning. Said someone had broken in here, they'd seen a torch flashing, and Charlie had gone up—that's Mr. Clark—to stop 'em getting away. Yates came on straight up here with Mrs. Clark—she wouldn't stay behind. They found Clark sitting at the bottom of the stairs, and this other fella up on the landing. Charlie had stopped him right enough."
"But Charlie said something?"
"Aye. Not that it makes much sense. He said—at least Yates thinks he said—'Bloody Germans—shot at me.' And then his wife said 'Hold your tongue, Charlie.' And not a word we've had out of him since."
"Germans?"
"That's what Yates thought he said, but the old man was in quite a state so he may have misheard."
"On the contrary," Richardson shook his head. "I'd guess that was exactly what Charlie said."
"Indeed?" Trenchcoat looked interested. "He was in the war then?"
"He was in the army for about a year—he was invalided out after Dunkirk. From what David's told me I think he had a bad time during the retreat, but it wasn't a subject you could dummy2
get him to talk about— not that you could ever get him to talk about anything really. Only he certainly had it in for the Germans. . . . And is that all you got out of them?"
"The woman gave us Dr. Audley's address without us asking for it —she had it written on a piece of paper. She just said she wanted to talk to this solicitor of hers and she wouldn't talk to us."
A look of irritation passed across the Superintendent's face.
Glancing sidelong at Stacker, Richardson was rewarded with a similar expression. So that was the size of it: the shrewd old body had not just simply closed up on them—she had claimed her rights with the speed of an old lag! Small wonder the big shots were vexed as well as suspicious.
It occurred to him suddenly that some of that annoyance had been directed at Trenchcoat as well. That Stocker had not been wholly open with him was no surprise, of course; the detail about the solicitor merely confirmed what could be taken for granted. But obviously no one had thought to warn Trenchcoat. So—
"I was going to tell you about that, Peter," Stocker said. "You can see what it means."
"Yes, I can see how important it is to stop her blabbing to a solicitor," Richardson replied helpfully. He turned back quickly to Trenchcoat before anyone could change the action.
"What about the rest of it?"
"You mean the other man?"
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"The other man—" Richardson held his gaze to the exclusion of anyone else's warning expression. "—Yes. The other man."
Trenchcoat shrugged. "Apart from the imprint of his shoes in the flowerbed at the back where he jumped out of the window, we haven't got a thing on him. He must have beat it fast after Clark shot his mate, but he didn't leave his calling card anywhere."
So there'd been two of them, and the news—whatever the news was —was out. Two of them, and they hadn't bothered to tell him: his role was simply to soften up Mrs. Clark and then return to the joys of Dublin.
"Of course, we haven't asked round the village yet—"
Trenchcoat stopped abruptly, as though someone had pressed his switch.
"I think—" Stocker filled the break smoothly "—we'd better find out first whether you can open up Mrs. Clark before we tie up the loose ends for you, Peter."
"Right." Richardson spread an innocent glance around him; Stocker was playing it deadpan still, although Trenchcoat could not quite conceal his confusion any more than the Superintendent bothered to hide a suggestion of contempt at this turn of events. It was Oliver St. John Latimer's expression of suspicion which decided him on his course of action: the man was a slob, but not a foolish slob to be taken in by false innocence. The moment he got Stocker alone he would make one thing clear: that Richardson was a disciple of Audley's, and therefore not to be trusted. And Stocker dummy2
would believe him—now.
So there was nothing more to be gained by being a good little boy!
"Right," he repeated. "So what sort of deal do I make with her?"
"Deal?" The Superintendent frowned. "What do you mean—
deal?"
"Just that. She's not going to talk to me because I've got a kind face—she'll talk because when I offer her a bargain she'll know she can trust me to keep my side of it. And don't tell me you haven't tried that already."
"What sort of deal have you in mind, Captain Richardson?"
said the Superintendent cautiously.
"There's only one that'd do: let old Charlie off the hook."
"We'll promise to go easy on him."
"Easy on him? Christ—the poor old bastard hasn't committed a crime!"
"He's killed a man, Captain."
"In self-defence—and if he hadn't he'd be dead."
"It doesn't alter the case." The Superintendent shook his head. "But we'll go in and bat for him—that's the most I can do."
"Well, it's no damn good. It's the court appearance that'd break Charlie. But you aren't offering him anything he hasn't got already— there isn't a judge or a jury on God's earth dummy2
that'll touch him, and she knows that even if you don't. But the damage'll be done all the same —she knows that too."
"Then what exactly do you suggest?"
"We fake it up. The man fell down stairs and blew his own head off. I believe it's called 'misadventure'."
The Superintendent shook his head. "It can't be done, Captain."
"It's been done before."
"Not by us, it hasn't." The Superintendent looked hard at Stocker. "And we aren't starting now, that's final."
And that, also, was a mistake, thought Richardson happily: it was exactly the sort of challenge Stocker could not afford to overlook.
"Final?" Stacker's tone was deceptively gentle. "I wouldn't quite say that, Superintendent. It seems to me that we might manage something along those lines, you know."
"Indeed, sir?" The Superintendent said heavily. "Well, I'm afraid I can't agree with you there. You're asking me to break the law."
"To bend it, certainly. But not to pervert it. After all, since you've already agreed to—ah—bat for Clark the case would be little more than a formality, wouldn't it?"
"The law is the law, sir," the Superintendent intoned the ancient lie obstinately.
"I'm well aware of the law."
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The danger signal was lost on the Superintendent. "Of course, you can promise the woman anything you like, sir. As far as I'm concerned you're free to do whatever suits you."
Richardson opened his mouth to protest—the double-crossing sod! —and then closed it instantly as he saw the light in Stocker's eye. The Superintendent had made his final error.
"You are exactly right there," said Stocker icily. "I can promise her anything I like and I am free to do what suits me
—you are exactly right."
The Brigadier had come to the Department from a missile command, but before that he had been an artilleryman: the words were like ranging shots bracketing the Superintendent's position.