Moat Hall lay in a fold of the hills perhaps a mile from the A.1. ‘Was he always alone when you saw him at the house?’ Burden asked.
‘Once he had a couple of chaps with him. Not quite up to his class I thought.’
‘Tell me, were you taken all over the house and grounds to make your survey or whatever you do?’
‘Certainly. It was all quite above board – none too clean, but that’s by the way. Mr McCloy gave me a free hand to go where I chose, bar the two big outhouses. They were used for stores he said, so there was no point in me looking. The doors were padlocked anyway and I got what I wanted for my purpose from looking at the outside.’
‘No stray lorries knocking about, I daresay?’
‘None that I saw.’
‘But there might have been in the outhouses?’
‘There might at that,’ said the agent doubtfully. ‘One of them’s near as big as a hangar.’
‘So I noticed.’ And Burden thanked him grimly. He was almost certain that he had found him, that he could say, ‘Our McCloy was here,’ and yet what had he achieved but dredge up a tiny segment of McCloy’s life? The man had been here and had gone. All they could do now was to turn Moat Hall upside down in the forlorn hope something remained in the near-derelict place to hint at its erstwhile owner’s present refuge.
‘Are you going to charge me with murdering him?’ Cullam said hollowly.
‘You and McCloy and maybe a couple of others when you’ve told us who they are. Conspiracy to murder, the charge’ll be. Not that it makes much difference.’
‘But I’ve got five kids!’
‘Paternity never kept anyone out of jail yet, Cullam. Come now, you wouldn’t want to go inside alone, would you? You wouldn’t want to think of McCloy laughing, going scotfree, while you’re doing fifteen years? It’ll be the same sentence for him, you know. He doesn’t get off any lighter just because he only told you to kill Hatton.’
‘He never did,’ Cullam said wildly. ‘How many times do I have to tell you I don’t know this McCloy?’
‘A good many times before I’d believe you. Why would you kill Hatton on your own? You don’t have to kill a man because he’s got more money and a nicer home than you have.’
‘I didn’t kill him!’ Cullam’s voice came dangerously near a sob.
Wexford switched off the light and for a moment the room seemed very dark. Then, as his eyes grew accustomed, he saw that it was no darker than on any summer evening after heavy rain. The light had a cold bluish tinge and the air was cooler too. He opened the window and a light fresh breeze clutched at the curtains. Down below on the forecourt the tub flowers had been flattened into a sodden pink mush.
‘Listen, Cullam,’ he said, ‘you were there. You left the bridge ten minutes before Hatton started. It was twenty to eleven when you said goodbye to Hatton and Pertwee and even walking none too fast you should have been indoors at home by eleven. But you didn’t get in till a quarter past. The following morning you washed the shirt you’d been wearing, the pullover and the trousers. You knew a river stone had been used to kill Hatton and today you, who get twenty pounds a week and never have a penny to bless yourself with, spent a hundred and twenty quid on luxury equipment. Explain it away, Cullam, explain it away. The storm’s blowing over and you’ve nothing to worry about except fifteen years inside.’
Cullam opened his big ill-made hands, clenched them and leant forward. The sweat had dried on his face. He seemed to be having difficulty in controlling the muscles which worked in his forehead and at the corners of his mouth. Wexford waited patiently, for he guessed that for a moment the man was totally unable to speak. Terror had dried and paralysed his vocal chords. He waited patiently, but without a vestige of sympathy.
‘The hundred quid and his pay packet,’ Cullam said at last. His tone was hoarse and terrified. ‘I… I took it off his body.’
Chapter 12
‘What did he want it for, Charlie-bloody-Hatton? I’ve been in his place, I’ve seen what he’d got. You ever seen his wife, have you? Got up like a tart with her new frocks and her jewellery and all that muck on her face, and not a bleeding thing to do all day long but watch that colour telly and ring up her pals. They hadn’t got no kids, yelling and nagging at you the minute you get in, crawling all over you in the night because they’re cutting their bloody teeth. You want to know when my missus last had a new frock? You want to know when we last had a night out? The answer’s never, not since the first baby come. My missus has to buy the kids’ clothes down at the jumble sale and if she wants a pair of nylons they come off the Green Shield stamps. Bloody marvellous, isn’t it? Lilian Hatton’s got more coats than a perishing film star but she has to go and spend thirty quid on a new outfit for Pertwee’s wedding. A hundred pounds? She wouldn’t even miss it. She could use it for spills to light her fags.’
The flood-gates had opened and now Cullam, the reticent, the truculent, was speaking without restraint and from a full heart. Wexford was listening with concentration, but he did not appear to be listening at all. If Cullam had been in a fit state to observe behaviour he might have thought the chief inspector bored or preoccupied. But Cullam only wanted to talk. He was indifferent to listeners. All he required was the luxury of silence and a nearly empty room.
‘I could have stuck it all,’ he said, ‘but for the bragging. “Put it away, Maurice,” he’d say. “Your need’s greater than mine,” and then he’d tell me about the new necklace he’d bought for his missus. “Plenty more where that came from,” he’d say. Christ, and I can’t find the money to buy my kids new shoes! Two kids I’d got when I’d been married as long as Hatton. Is it fair? Is it right? You tell me.’
‘I’ve listened to the party political broadcast,’ said Wexford. ‘I don’t give a damn for your envy. Envy like yours is a hell of a good motive for murder.’
‘Yeah? ‘What would I get for killing him? I wasn’t in his will. I’ve told you what I did. I took the money off his body. Five kids I’ve got and the milkman don’t come till eleven in the morning. You ever tried keeping milk for five kids with out a fridge in a heatwave?’ He paused and with a shifty, fidgety look, said, ‘D’you know what Hatton’d have done that Saturday if he hadn’t been killed? Wedding first, Pertwee’s wedding, and Hatton all got up in a topper with his tarty wife. Round the shops afterwards, not to buy anything, just to fritter. Charlie told me it wasn’t nothing for them to get through twenty nicker poking about in the shops. Bottle of wine here, some muck for her face there. Then they’d have some more booze at the Olive, have dinner. Off to the pictures in the evening and in the best seats. Bit of a contrast from me, isn’t it? If I want to relax I go out in the garden, anywhere to get away from the kids’ bawling.’
‘Are you a Catholic, Cullam?’
That surprised him. He had perhaps been expecting a tougher comment and he hunched his shoulders, muttering suspiciously, ‘I haven’t got no religion.’
‘Don’t give me that stuff about children then. Nobody makes you have children. Ever heard of the pill? My God, they knew how to plan families twenty years, thirty years before you were born.’ Wexford’s voice grew hard as he warmed to a favourite theme. ‘Having kids is a privilege, a joy, or it should be, and, by God, I’ll get the County down on you if I see you strike that boy of yours on the head again! You’re a bloody animal, Cullam, without an animal’s… Oh! what’s the use? What the hell are you doing anyway, cluttering up my office, wasting my time? Cut the sob stuff and tell me what happened that night. What happened when you left Hatton and Pertwee at the bridge?’
Stamford had promised to give Burden all the help they could and they were as good as their word. A sergeant and a constable went back with him to Moat Hall and the locks on the two outhouses were forced.