A Spoonful of Luger (22 page)

“Maybe
he
didn’t
know.”

“Of
course
he
knew.
You
heard
him:
he
went
down
there
to
see
if
anything
had
come
in.
Oh,
I’m
sure
he
did.
He
meant
come
in
for
spraying.
That
was
his
job.
By
heaven
— ”

“Never
mind
that
for
now.
Don’t
you
see,
Frank,
it
means
that
Mike
or
Norman
pinched
them,
and
Cleave
had
them
re-sprayed.
And
of
course,
Cleave
supplied
the
log
books.
More
than
likely
Cleave met
one
of
them
with
the
pick-up
and
took
him
to
some
selected
town.
It
was
Nottingham
last
Saturday,
a
week
back.”

And
still
Bycroft
wasn’t
pleased. “Oh
thank
you,
thank
you,”
he
said
sarcastically.

But
he
obviously
didn’t
get
the
important
point.
“And
if
Cleave
knew
Norman,
then
it
makes
nonsense
of
his
alibi
for
Annabelle
Lester’s
killing.”

“You
damn
fool,”
he
shouted.
“How
d’you
think
that
helps?
What
d’you
think
we’ve
been
looking
for
—
a
live
Dulcie
Randall?
You
know
we’re
not.
And
now
you
come
along
and
link
Cleave
in
with
Annabelle,
and
by
inference
with
Dulcie.
I’m
not
mentally
retarded,
George.
Where
d’you
think
we’ve
been
searching
for
Dulcie?
We’re
looking
in
the
place
Annabelle
was
found.
I
was
doing
all
right
without
your
help
— ”

“So
you’d
assume
he’d
dump
Dulcie
in
the
same
spot?
Never,
Frank.”

“Leave
me
to
make
the
decisions,
and
get
out
of
here.”

“And
Norman’s
been
missing
for
a
week,”
I
put
in
mildly,
just
trying
to
rescue
something.

“You
had
the
nerve
to
suggest
I
was
neglecting
the
Dulcie
search!
And
what’ve
you
been
doing?”
he
demanded.
“Up
to
your
old
tricks,
that’s
what,
pushing
around
the
toughies,
about
all
you’re
good
for.”

“The
log
books,”
I
said,
pushing
them
under
his
nose.

“I
know,
I
know.
Cleave
and
Norman
were
out
to
steal
a
car
to
fit
one
of
those
two
log
books.
That
was
the
Saturday
before
last.
And
Norman’s
missing,
so
something
happened ...
I
know
what
to
do,
thank
you.
Just
get
from
underfoot.”

He
snapped
a
switch
on
his
intercom,
said,
“get
Sprague,”
then
flicked
some
more
switches,
and
I
felt
the
building
quiver
with
the
activity
he
put
into
motion.

It
took
ten
minutes
of
routine
enquiry,
then
they’d
got
it.
A
Rover
3500
had
been
stolen
in
Nottingham
the
Saturday
before
last,
and
not
reported
found.
It
hadn’t
arrived
at
the
scrapyard,
according
to
Tony Finch,
but
there
was
a
burnt-out
wreck
reported
down
a
bank
between
Nottingham
and
here.
It
was
a
Rover
3500.
Body
of
driver
unidentified.
And
that,
too,
had
happened
on
the
Saturday
before
last.

It
neatly
covered
one
of
the
two
log
books
in
the
box.

Bycroft
and
Sprague
grabbed
their
coats
and
hats,
and
Bycroft
suddenly
realized
I
was
still
there.

“So
now
we
go
chasing
a
car-theft
racket,”
he
said
bitterly.
“Oh
lovely!
Trust
you
to
ball
things
up.”

Sprague
was
nodding,
nodding.
He
was
enjoying
this
bit.

I
had
to
get
out
of
Bycroft’s
office
while
he
locked
up,
had
to
follow
them
down
the
stairs
because
there
was
nothing
to
hang
around
for.
I
followed
them
into
the
yard
and
watched
them
climb
into
Bycroft’s
car.
I
was
standing
next
to
a
wrecked
police
car,
its
front
crushed
in
as
far
back
as
the
screen.
It
only
added
to
my
depression;
I
felt
as
crushed
as
the
car.
I
decided
I
ought to
drive
after
them,
but
there
didn’t
seem
much
point.

I
opened
the
Victor’s
door,
and
Anne
said, “I
remembered
the
car,
George.”

I
just
didn’t
have
time
to
adjust.
She
was
sitting
in
the
passenger’s
seat.
I
slid
in
beside
her
and
thought,
hell,
there’s
no
way
out.

“Recognised
it
here?”
This
was
the
Station
yard
—
private,
really.

She
gave
a
mischievous
smile
that
didn’t
seem
real.
“I
was
waiting
at
the
corner,
guessing
you’d
be
coming
here.”

“It’s
cold
work,
observation.”

“I
hadn’t
been
there
long
when
you
drove
in.”

“Was
there
something
— ”

I
had
been
going
to
suggest
something
she’d
thought
about
Dulcie,
but
she
cut
in
quickly.