Dangerous in Love - Dangerous Davies 02 (7 page)

'Not at all,' said the big woman. 'We are part of a larger European operation, you understand. This place is for distribution only.'

He saw she was frowning through the glass of the door at Kitty who was tethered outside. 'What is that?' she demanded. 'That dog?'

'Oh,' apologized Davies. 'It's mine.'

'What a gross thing. It is so big
’
she said.

'Gross,' agreed Davies.

Davies was certain he had seen Mr Adrian Shurrock, of Shurrock Industrial Clocks, in different surroundings.

The wispy young man agreed. 'I do amateur dramatics,' he said.

Davies sat in the office. On the desk stood half a dozen time-pieces. 'What's this one for?' he asked, picking up a dial in a brass housing.

The man looked confused. 'It is a bit of a secret,' he said. 'But as you're the police
...'

'Don't tell me,' said Davies, holding up his hand. 'I couldn't bear the responsibility.' He opened his notebook and unnecessarily referred to it. 'There was a man drowned in the canal on the night of October 6th, and we're just trying to work out how he came to get in there,' he said. 'Was there anybody on these premises that night?'

'I thought that was all over,' said Shurrock. 'There was an inquest.'

Davies said uncomfortably: These things sometimes drag on, you know.'

'Oh, I imagine. And you want to know if there was anybody here who might have seen something. Well, we do have security.'

'I suppose,' suggested Davies, picking up the brass-bound dial again, 'that clocks like these could be used for timing devices. For bombs, maybe.'

Shurrock appeared shocked and shook his head. 'We keep all our sensitive time-pieces at our other premises in Maidenhead. These would be a bit big and clumsy for that sort of thing. But we do employ a security company — Keystone

Davies recited: '.
..
Keystone Security, Edgware Mews, London, Wl.'

That's them. We share the service with the other businesses on this industrial estate. They patrol all the time. Or they're supposed to.'

Davies closed his notebook. Shurrock looked relieved that he was going. He accompanied him to the main door. 'Is that your dog?' the young man asked.

'Yes. His name's Kitty.'

'He's ever so big, isn't he
’
said the young man.

They shook hands. After Mrs Harrer's big paw, the young man's grip was damp and limp. 'You've never had a break-in here, have you?' Davies asked, as he was about to untether Kitty.

'Oh no. Never,' said Shurrock. 'Thank goodness.'

That night when he returned to the railway-arch garage to feed the dog and put it to bed, there was a scrawled note fixed under the windscreen wiper of the Vanguard. It read: 'Be at 143a, Maida Crescent, tonight for a surprise. Come alone.' It was signed: 'A well-wisher.'

He did not like scrawled notes fixed to windscreens any more than he liked keeping solitary appointments with persons unknown. In the past he had been set upon and half murdered. As a precaution he left the address with Mod and went alone on the bus.

It was in Maida Vale, a half-oval of Victorian villas ripe for developers. Some already had a grid of scaffolding and notice-boards. One of those being gutted was number 143, a threatening place, caged in iron, dark and windowless. He was not going in there.

As he searched for an annexe or separate entrance marked 143a, he was startled by organ music and a burst of choral singing. Next along the crescent was the lit and open door of a church hall. The voices rose strongly. He moved cautiously towards them. You never knew with religion. He did not want to end up being baptized. There was an iron gate, on it the number 143a. He stepped towards the reassuring doorway.

There was a lobby and beyond this a further pair of doors, these closed. The singing ceased and was replaced by brisk applause. The doors half opened and the lively face of a silver-haired woman emerged. 'Late!' she admonished. 'You're quite late.'

'Oh, sorry,' mumbled Davies. 'I didn't know.'

She pushed the door and let herself out. 'It's fifty pence,' she announced, producing a coil of tickets. He fumbled for the money and took the ticket. 'Quickly now,' she warned. 'You'll have to sit at the back. It's jam-packed.'

As if released by his push on the door, there came a sudden burst of voices. He hesitated but then went in with the door lady behind him, nudging him in the small of the back. He sat on a chair immediately inside and looked over the heads towards the platform at the far end. The choir was ranged in a semi-circle: men in bow ties, ladies in long black dresses. At one side was a small orchestra with a stumpy conductor standing on a box. Davies looked about him.
Who wanted to meet him here? On
e of the singers stepped forward and with a full, lovely contralto began to sing:

He shall feed His flock Like a shepherd
...

It was Jemma.

Davies felt his mouth fall open and he sat back, his eyes riveted. She looked so magnificent in her long black dress, her neck and face warm in the lights. A deep smile snaked across his tired face.

'So. You were surprised?'

'As much as I've ever been.'

She put her thickly coated arm in his as they walked towards the bus stop. 'It's so angelic,' she said. Softly she began to sing again: 'He shall feed His flock
...'

Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum-tum
’
mumbled Davies.

'You didn't bring your car. Dangerous? Mine wouldn't start.'

'Nor mine. Kitty wouldn't let me get in,' admitted Davies. 'He's in a bad mood. I took him down by the canal this afternoon and he's tired.'

They had reached the bus stop. It had begun to rain gently and darkly. No one else was at the stop. They stood below the shelter. 'You're still on the trail then?' she said. 'Lofty.'

He shrugged. 'It niggles me. I talk to people, like I did this afternoon in those industrial units
...
I just wanted to know if anybody had seen anything
...
I
talk to them and I
know
sometimes they're lying. I can
see
they are. But about what? Anything almost. People are always lying, especially to the police.' Traffic was sizzling by. The yellow lights of a bus materialized in the distant drizzle.

'Everyone's got a past
’
she pointed out. 'Lofty was no different.' She still had her warm arm in his. The bus splashed alongside the kerb. They boarded it and went to the seats at the front, on the top deck. Apart from two chewing girls in the rear seat, there was no one else.

The conductor appeared, an Indian, not pleased at having to traipse to the front of the bus. 'Sorry, mate
’
said Davies. 'I like pretending I'm the driver.' He made a mime of turning a steering wheel. The man smiled dispiritedly.

When he had gone, Davies said: 'There's one basic thing that doesn't make sense. How that old man came to go into the canal, at the particular place he did, and take the ruddy pram with him.'

'Where's the pram now?' she asked.

'In my garage.'

She stood up. 'Next stop,' she said. 'D'you want to come home? I'll make some coffee.' He was still sitting.

'Is Edie still with you?' he inquired defensively as they went down the bus stairs.

'She's gone
’
said Jemma. 'Poor woman. You should try some compassion. It doesn't cost anything.'

Edie had certainly gone but her place had, to Davies's deep disappointment, been taken by an old man who sat in the same chair and scratched.

'I didn't realize he was coming here tonight
’
Jemma explained. Her eyes came up with a suspicion of an apology. 'Betty, one of the other social workers, must have brought him around after I'd left. I understood he wasn't going to be homeless until tomorrow.'

'Why,' asked Davies moodily, 'didn't Betty take him home with
her?'

'Betty's got problems at home,' said Jemma, going into the kitchen. 'Social workers frequently have problems.'

Davies followed her to the kitchen door. It was a small space and he stood close to her. 'I can believe that
’
he said. He turned to study the old man who was busy scratching his chest but then changed his attack to his legs and after that, with a reach like a spider, over his shoulder to his back. 'He's quiet anyway,' he observed. 'Just the sound of his fingernails.'

'You're a very hard man,' she said quietly. 'Life's full of people who need help.'

From behind he put his arm around her waist. 'I'm one of them
’
he said. He eased his chin forward, touched her neck with it and then kissed her on the cheek. She eased her cheek more firmly against his mouth. 'You're a funny old-fashioned thing, Dangerous,' she said. There was a ring at the doorbell. Davies's face drooped. 'It's probably a few lepers
’
he sighed.

She went out and returned with Mod, who appeared pleased. 'Tracked you down,' he beamed.

Davies regarded him irritably. 'So you have
’
he agreed. 'Did you get lonely?'

Mod sat in the remaining armchair and agreed to join them for coffee. 'What's wrong with him?' he inquired, looking at the scratching man.

'He itches
’
sighed Davies. 'All over. What brings you here?'

'A splendid bit of deduction. I sometimes think I'm a better detective than you.' 'Who isn't?' shrugged Davies. 'I decided to come after you
’
said Mod. 'I thought you might be walking into one of your customary traps, be beaten up, maimed, killed. I just missed you at the church hall. I just missed the bus too.' He looked smug.

'All right,' said Davies. 'Tell us.'

'I had a phone call tonight. I've been making inquiries, as you say, and I've found Lofty Brock's old commanding officer from the prison camp. And his sergeant major.'

5

Both Davies and Mod were parochial men, rarely straying from their gritty patch of north-west London, and the long journey to Yorkshire was an adventure. There was, even before they embarked, the uncertainty of whether the Vauxhall Vanguard would get there. It was like an elderly elephant, large, ragged and impressive, but for many years untried over distance.

The garage mechanic was dubious. 'It could crumble,' he said. 'If I were you, Dangerous, I'd leave well alone.'

A further problem was Kitty. 'You'll have to come with us,' Davies informed the dog as he wiped its eyes. 'Yorkshire - where the terriers come from. You could do with a bit of fresh air.'

They set out at dawn, a measly sky moping on the house-tops. Early people, almost senseless at bus stops, eyed them as they drove off to the north.

Mod had armed himself with facts about their route, filleting through the library guidebooks and marking the information on cards. As they drove up the motorway, he read aloud: 'St Albans. Cathedral city. Hertfordshire. Population - 52,470. Early closing -
Thursday. Named after Alban, the first English martyr.' Kitty had begun howling at the unaccustomed duration of the journey and the unfamiliar scenery, but he had now settled into a tangled pile and was snoring in the wrecked rear seat.

The car was coughing at intervals but otherwise behaving well. Davies kept it below forty miles an hour, steadfastly in the middle lane of the motorway, provoking a series of horn blasts and signs from antagonized drivers.

They stopped at a service area to let the car simmer down, have a cup of coffee and walk Kitty on his rope through the surrounding ornamental copse.

It took them all day and half the next to reach Topling-on-the-Moor. They stayed overnight at a bed-and-breakfast house in Derbyshire, with Kitty sleeping in the car.

As they journeyed, the dog began to take an increasing interest in the wide white flocks of moorland sheep. He pressed his massive head against the car window and sounded grunts which became growls and finally howls.

'Stop him for God's sake!' shouted Mod, covering his ears.

'How? I can't stop him,' bellowed Davies. 'He's never seen sheep.'

Kitty had to be released from the car at intervals and eventually, at a bleak and misty place, with no livestock in view, they stopped.

'Now don't go far,' warned Davies, getting out of his car and opening the dog's door. 'You'll be falling down a hole.'

Kitty projected his hairy bulk from the back seat and with a manic barking pounded over the nearest brown hill, disappearing from their view. 'Kitty! Kitty!' shouted Davies hopelessly.

To his astonishment the dog at once reappeared, heading in their direction at speed. Behind him came a dirty white cavalry charge of fierce sheep, led by a rampant ram, head down.

'Let's go,' said Mod. He jumped into the front seat and slammed the door. Davies bellowed: 'Run!' at the dog and threw open the rear door. Kitty came down the slope at a gallop, and flung himself heavily into the back of the car. Davies slammed the door and ran for the driving seat. He started the engine, making the snorting ram and the sheep swerve. As the Vanguard roared away, they ran beside it. Gradually, they dropped back and Davies saw them in the driving mirror, grouped in the road, glowering. Kitty looked up and barked defiantly from the rear window.