Body of a Girl (23 page)

Mercer said, “Break down the door.” He had to shout above the reverberation of the shot which had deafened them.

Gwilliam jumped down, motioned Prothero to stand aside, and swung the sole of his foot, once, twice, three times against the door, below the handle. The door was a solid piece of wood, but the repeated drive was too much for the lock, which came away with a crack. The three men tumbled into the room.

The noise which had puzzled them was explained. Mr. Nevinson had been lashed to a chair with electric flex. He was sobbing gently. His right ear was a mess of charred and bloodstained skin and flesh.

“For God's sake,” said Mercer. “Get him untied and see if you can do something for him.” He moved across to the door in the panelling, stepping over Bull's body as he did so. The door was ajar. Still holding his gun he edged it open with his foot, and looked in. The steel grille was open, too. There was no sign of it being forced. That made it certain they had Beale.

A sound from the passage made him jump round. It was the Chief Constable who came in, followed by a middle-aged man who looked like a soldier in plain clothes. They stared down at the body of Bull, sprawled on the carpet, and then at Gwilliam who was trying, unsuccessfully, to force some brandy from a flask down Mr. Nevinson's throat. The room reeked of blood, exploded cordite, and the sickly smell of burned flesh.

The Chief Constable said, “We've found their cars. And we've cleaned up their supports. The ones that hadn't had time to run away. I'm sorry about Superintendent Clark.”

Mercer said, “Is he—?”

“Yes. He's dead.” He was looking steadily at Mercer when he spoke. “That makes one on each side, Inspector. I'd like it to stop there if possible.”

Mercer said, thickly, “It may not be possible.”

“What's your plan now?”

“If they hadn't got Beale and Constable Pike with them, I'd go straight down and rush them. If they've got their minds on the job they're doing down there, we might jump them without too much trouble.”

“Won't they have heard the shot?”

“I rather doubt it,” said Mercer. “There are two floors between us. And if they did hear it, they could have assumed it was their own side giving covering fire.”

The Chief Constable said, “What do you think, Colonel?”

The Colonel said, “I don't think we've got any weapons which would be effective against the sort of construction there is in this building. Might the best plan be to cut off the electricity and rush them in the dark?”

“I'm afraid it might provoke just the sort of blood-bath I'm anxious to avoid. What do you think, Inspector?”

The scar on Mercer's face showed like a red slash. He said, “I don't think they'd put up much of a fight. I'm for trying it.”

“Starve them out or rush them,” said the Colonel. “I can't see any other way.”

Sergeant Gwilliam said, “Excuse me, sir. But I think this gentleman has something he wants to say.”

They all turned to look at Mr. Nevinson. He was a pathetic parody of his important and orderly self, but a light was observable in his eyes. He said, speaking very slowly, “I told you, Inspector. You remember. In case of fire.”

“Of course,” said Mercer. “Where are they?”

“Cupboard in the corner.”

Mercer raced across and opened it. Inside were two heavy brass wheels, each with a metal tag attached. A chain through the spokes was padlocked. There was a key in a circular glass case inside the door. Mercer poked the barrel of his pistol through the glass, picked out the key, opened the padlock and slid off the chain.

Then he examined the tags. The left-hand one said ‘Shutters'. Mercer rotated it as far as it would go.

The Chief Constable said, “You seem to know what you're doing. But perhaps you would explain.”

“This wheel shuts off the air-intake into the cellars. They are now sealed.”

“You think shortage of air will drive them out?”

“I expect it would,” said Mercer. “In time. But this will bring them up a damned sight quicker.” He indicated the second wheel. “This one opens the water-jacket. It's a fire precaution. It will fill both cellars to the top in five minutes. I suggest we flood the bottom cellar first. We could then tell them that unless they came out,
with
their hostages intact, we propose to fill the top cellar too.”

“Do you know,” said the Chief Constable, “I think that's an extremely sound idea. Start turning.”

One by one they came up. Constable Pike first, his face drained and white and the blood still welling from a bruise on his forehead, supported by Beale, unharmed and surprisingly cheerful; followed by six of the Crows, soaked, sullen, contemptuous, aggressive, impassive. Last of all came Mo Fenton. He had taken off his coat to work on the door of the strong-room, and lost it in the first inrush of the water. His shirtsleeves were rolled above his elbows, showing his great forearms covered with reddish-grey hair.

“I've special instructions from Commander Laidlaw about this man, sir,” said Mercer. “I'm to talk to him alone.”

“Better search him first,” said the Chief Constable. There was no weapon on him. Mercer led the way to a room opposite, turned on the light, and shut the door behind them.

“I know what you want,” said Mo. “You want Paul Crow. And I can give him to you. But first, I want to know what I get out of it?”

Mercer was standing beside him. His shoulders were slouched, he had his right hand in his jacket pocket and he looked relaxed and a bit tired.

“We're not interested in Paul Crow any more,” he said. “After tonight, he's a dead duck. He's not only lost his best men, and most of his money—he's lost his magic. People won't believe in him any more. Very soon, someone will decide to take his crown away. They'll take it with a sawn-off double-barrelled shot-gun at close range.”

“You could be right,” said Mo. “If you don't want Paul, what do you want?”

“You,” said Mercer. His right hand came out of his pocket. Mo saw the glint of steel and ducked too late. The armoured knuckles caught him full in the middle of the face.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“I knocked out three teeth, split both lips, broke his nose and fractured his cheekbone in two places. And I've never felt happier about anything in my life.”

“You got into a lot of trouble over it,” said Venetia.

“Of course I did. They couldn't possibly overlook it. That's why I'm going back to the Middle East. Bahrain this time.” Mercer grinned reminiscently. “Defence counsel tried to make capital out of it on behalf of his poor, ill-treated client. When the jury heard that Mo had burned off Nevinson's ear with a cigarette lighter, trying to extract from him a master key which didn't exist, they somehow lost interest in
his
little troubles.”

“Keep out here,” said Venetia. “If you get too close to the bank you'll lose your pole in the mud.”

She was sprawled on the cushions of the punt, trailing one brown hand in the water, and watching Mercer, who was punting with considerable skill and assurance.

“All the same,” she said, “it was silly to hit him. He was bound to get a long sentence, on account of the Superintendent being killed.”

“You wouldn't understand,” said Mercer. He rubbed one finger down the scarred side of his face. “How do you think I got this?”

“I've often wondered.”

“Mo did it. Whilst two of his men held me. For various reasons there wasn't much I could do about it at the time. But I couldn't let him get away with it. It would have been bad for morale.”

“I don't suppose his morale will be up to much for the next fourteen years.”

“I wasn't thinking of his morale. I was thinking of mine. All the same, the biggest kick I got out of the whole trial was seeing Weatherman go down for seven years.”

“He wasn't a very nice person,” agreed Venetia. “A good lawyer, though.”

“Will the firm survive?”

“I think so. Willoughby's having to work really hard for the first time in his life.”

“It'll do him a power of good.”

“They've lost a lot of clients, of course. But they've got quite a few new ones. People will always go to a solicitor if they think he can fiddle their taxes for them.”

They slid on in silence for a few minutes. It was early summer and there were no other boats on the river.

Mercer said, “I meant to congratulate you on Robert.”

“Thank you.”

“Just the right husband for you. Clean-living, upright and industrious.”

“Now you're being beastly.”

“No. I mean it. Did you tell him about us?”

“Naturally. I didn't want him to imagine I was entirely inexperienced.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Oh!' “

Mercer laughed so much he nearly dropped the punt pole.

Venetia said, “I suppose, when you get to Bahrain you'll turn Mohammedan, and have four wives.”

“It would be nice in some ways. But terribly expensive.”

“As I probably shan't see you again, there's one thing I wanted to ask you.” Having said this, Venetia was silent for so long that Mercer said, “I can't bear the suspense. What is it?”

“It's impertinent. And nothing to do with me. But
why
did you shoot Jack Bull?”

“He'd have shot me if I hadn't.”

“Couldn't you have disabled him?”

“It's only in cowboy films that the sheriff shoots the gun out of the bad man's hand.”

“I think you're ducking the question.”

“Yes,” said Mercer. “I'm ducking the question.” He rested on the pole for a moment, holding the boat into the current, and staring back into the past; only six months gone, but already a world away. “I think,” he said, “that I shot him because I realised that prison would kill him, but it would take a lot longer to do it. You can't think out elaborate reasons when you've only got a split second to make up your mind. But I think that's why I shot him.”

“You were fond of him?”

“Yes. I liked him a lot. We were the same sort of people, really. We had the same sort of outlook on life. But he made a mistake. When he came back from the war, with one arm and not much money, he decided to go against the herd. It was a perfectly conscious decision. And it was a mistake.”

“How do you know all this?”

“He told me about it, one evening when we were drinking together. He didn't put it in so many words, but I knew exactly what he meant, because I very nearly did the same thing myself, once.”

“And why didn't you?”

“I worked out that it was easier, and a lot safer, to go along with the herd and take up any easy pickings on the way.”

“You make it sound as if the only difference between honesty and dishonesty is the safety factor.”

“You could be right.”

“I think it's a disgusting philosophy,” said Venetia. “Bull was a crook. And his friends were crooks. He swindled old ladies. And he was a murderer. Wasn't he?”

They were up with Westhaugh Island now and they could see the spit of gravel where the body of Maureen Dyson had been laid.

“Yes,” said Mercer. “He certainly killed Maureen Dyson. Who was a most unpleasant little girl and no loss to the community. I doubt if we should have been able to prove it. Although I think there
was
a witness, who either saw him digging the grave the night before, or saw him putting Maureen into it.”

“I suppose that was Sowthistle?”

“I think so. It would account for all the muddled stories he told. I don't think he'd have made a very convincing prosecution witness, though. He was scared stiff of Bull.”

“Do you think Bull killed Sweetie, too?”

“No. I'm quite certain that was an accident.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because he was very fond of her.”

“You can't know that.”

“If he hadn't been fond of her, do you think he'd have made a will leaving her everything he'd got?”

“Did he do that? I didn't know.”

“They found it when they were searching through Weatherman's papers. He made it four years ago. What's more he didn't change it after she was dead.”

“Is it a lot?”

“When the garage has been sold up, and everything got in, it will come to about forty thousand pounds, and unless they can prove that any of it came from his dealings with the Crows – which I don't think they can – I suppose it will all go to Sweetie's next of kin.”

“Who is?”

“Her father.”

“Sowthistle?”

“That's right.”

“What on earth will Sowthistle do with forty thousand pounds?” said Venetia.

“The imagination,” said Mercer, “absolutely boggles.”

All Series titles can be read in order, or randomly as standalone novels

Inspector Hazlerigg

1. Close Quarters 
   (1947)
   
2. They Never Looked Inside 
   (alt: He Didn't Mind Danger) (1948)
   
3. The Doors Open 
   (1949)
   
4. Smallbone Deceased 
   (1950)
   
5. Death has Deep Roots 
   (1951)
   
6. Fear To Tread 
   (in part)(1953)
   
7. The Young Petrella 
   (included) (short stories)(1988)
   
8. The Man Who Hated Banks and Other Mysteries
   (included) (short stories)(1997)
   

 

Patrick Petrella

1. Blood and Judgement 
   (1959)
   
2. Amateur in Violence
   (included) (short stories) (1973)
   
3. Petrella at Q 
   (short stories) (1977)
   
4. The Young Petrella 
   (short stories) (1988)
   
5. Roller Coaster 
   (1993)
   
6. The Man Who Hated Banks and Other Mysteries
   (included) (short stories) (1997)
   

 

Luke Pagan

1. Ring of Terror 
   (1995)
   
2. Into Battle 
   (1997)
   
3. Over and Out 
   (1998)
   

 

Calder & Behrens

1. Game Without Rules 
   (short stories) (1967)
   
2. Mr. Calder and Mr. Behrens 
   (short stories) (1982)
   

 

Non-Series

1. Death in Captivity 
   (alt: The Danger Within) (1952)
   
2. Sky High 
   (alt: The Country House Burglar) (1955)
   
3. Be Shot for Sixpence 
   (1956)
   
4. After the Fine Weather 
   (1963)
   
5. The Crack in the Teacup 
   (1966)
   
6. The Dust and the Heat 
   (alt: Overdrive) (1967)
   
7. The Etruscan Net 
   (alt: The Family Tomb) (1969)
   
8. Stay of Execution and Other Stories
   (short stories) (1971)
   
9. The Body of a Girl 
   (1972)
   
10. The Ninety-Second Tiger 
    (1973)
    
11. Flash Point 
    (1974)
    
12. The Night of the Twelfth 
    (1976)
    
13. The Empty House 
    (1979)
    
14. The Killing of Katie Steelstock 
    (alt: Death of a Favourite Girl) (1980)
    
15. The Final Throw 
    (alt: End Game) (1982)
    
16. The Black Seraphim 
    (1984)
    
17. The Long Journey Home 
    (1985)
    
18. Trouble 
    (1987)
    
19. Paint, Gold, and Blood 
    (1989)
    
20. Anything for a Quiet Life 
    (short stories) (1990)
    
21. The Queen against Karl Mullen 
    (1992)
    

 

Published by House of Stratus

	After The Fine Weather When Laura Hart travels to Austria to visit her brother, vice-consul of Lienz in the Tyrol, she briefly meets an American who warns her of the mounting political tension. Neo-Nazis are stirring trouble in the province, and xenophobia is rife between the Austrians who control the area and the Italian locals. Then Laura experiences the troubles first-hand, a shocking incident that suggests Hofrat Humbold, leader of the Lienz government is using some heavy-handed tactics. Somewhat unsurprisingly, he is unwilling to let one little English girl destroy his plans for the largest Nazi move since the war, and Laura makes a dangerous enemy.
Â	Â
	Anything For A Quiet Life Jonas Pickett, lawyer and commissioner of oaths is nearing retirement, but still has lots of energy. However, he leaves the pressure of a London practice behind to set up a new modest office in a quiet seaside resort. He soon finds that he is overwhelmed with clients and some of them involve him in very odd and sometimes dangerous cases. This collection of inter-linked stories tells how these are brought to a conclusion; ranging from an incredible courtroom drama involving a gipsy queen to terrorist thugs who make their demands at gunpoint.
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	Be Shot For Sixpence A gripping spy thriller with a deserved reputation. Philip sees an announcement in The Times from an old school friend who has instructed the newspaper to publish only if they don't hear from him. This sets a trail running through Europe, with much of the action taking place on the Austro-Hungarian border. The Kremlin, defectors, agitators and the People's Court set the background to a very realistic story that could well have happened …
Â	Â
	The Black Seraphim James Scotland, a young pathologist, decides on a quiet holiday in Melchester, but amid the cathedral town's quiet medieval atmosphere, he finds a hornet's nest of church politics, town and country rivalries, and murder. He is called upon to investigate and finds that some very curious alliances between the church, state and business exist. With modern forensic pathology he unravels the unvarnished truth about Melchester, but not before a spot of unexpected romance intervenes.
Â	Â
	Blood & Judgement When the wife of a recently escaped prisoner is found murdered and partially buried near a reservoir, Patrick Petrella, a Metropolitan Police Inspector, is called in. Suspicion falls on the escaped convict, but what could have been his motive? Petrella meets resistance from top detectives at the Yard who would prefer to keep the inspector out of the limelight, but he is determined to solve the mystery with or without their approval.
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	The Body Of A Girl Detective Chief Inspector Mercer is called to the scene when a skeleton of a girl is found on Westlaugh Island in the upper reaches of the River Thames. What appears to be a straightforward and routine investigation, however, leads to unexpected events and a string of unlikely characters, including a lawyer and a one armed garage proprietor. Nothing seems to fit together and it seems the sleepy town holds many secrets. The finale involves two nights of dramatic violence and it isn't until this stage is reached that the twisted truth finally emerges.
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	Close Quarters It has been more than a year since Cannon Whyte fell 103 feet from the cathedral gallery, yet unease still casts a shadow over the peaceful lives of the Close's inhabitants. In an apparently separate incident, head verger Appledown is being persecuted: a spate of anonymous letters and random acts of vandalism imply that he is inefficient and immoral. But then the notes turn threatening, and when Appledown is found dead, Inspector Hazlerigg is called in. Investigations suggest that someone directly connected to the cathedral is responsible, and it is up to Hazlerigg to get to the heart of the corruption.
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	The Crack In The Teacup Barhaven is on the south coast within commuting distance from London. It is, however, a fairly sleepy place and it seems incredulous that it could be the kind of town where the local councillors could manage to line their own pockets. However, there is something odd about the borough engineers behaviour, and it seems strange that the owner of the local amusement park is unknown, and the Town Clerk himself is acting peculiarly. Enter a young lawyer, who finds himself at the centre of a major campaign against racketeering. The public and the press become involved and it ends with a twist that is totally unexpected.
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	Death Has Deep Roots This is a detective and trial story with a complicated plot that will grip the reader. Victoria Lamartine is on trial for the murder of her supposed lover, whom she is accused of having stabbed. There are only five suspects including Lamartine. But evidence that doesn't fit the police theory of the crime has been ignored, whilst all of the damming evidence is presented in isolation. Intriguingly, whilst the murder was committed in England, all of the suspects somehow have a past connection with France and its wartime underground. However, there now appears to be links to gold smuggling and it is not immediately clear how all of the different pieces of evidence fit together. As always, Gilbert neatly takes the reader to a satisfying final twist and conclusion.