A Spoonful of Luger (54 page)

“There,”
said
Bycroft.
“You
see.
Not
just
a
poor,
ignorant
bloke
in
the
background.”

“All
right,
Frank.
It’s
not
the
point.
We’ll
admit
that.”

“
We’ll
admit
it!
You’re
not
his
lawyer,
George.”

“I’m
all
he’s
got,”
I
shouted.
“Now
listen.
He
knew
the
stuff
got
pinched
on
Saturdays,
and
probably
that
Cleave
went
to
Wolverhampton
on
Fridays
to
fix
it
up,
having
obtained
another
log book
from
a
nearly-new
crash
job.
Right?”

“Right,”
agreed
Bycroft,
and
Sprague
said
something
about
hanging
round
there
getting
cold.

“So
when
Aanabelle
Lester
was
killed,
Randall
would
be
suspicious
about
that
alibi.
But
he
didn’t
know
.
As
he
said,
it
could
still
be
valid,
even
if
Cleave
did
know
Norman.
Randall
just
couldn’t
be
sure.”

“Yes,
yes,”
said
Bycroft,
waving
his
arm.
“But
when
his
own
child
went
missing — ”

“Yes,
then
what?
Randall
would
be
suspicious.
And
if
he’d
known
there
was
a
job
fixed
for
that
Saturday,
he’d
have
been
sure.
Because
then
he’d
have
known
Cleave
was
at
Wolverhampton
on
the
Friday
Dulcie
vanished,
and
he’d
know
about
the
road
diversion
which
would
bring
him
out
opposite
the
bus
stop.
He’d
have
known,
Frank,
from
the
fact
that
Cleave
would’ve
been
coming
back
from
Wolverhampton.”

“There
you
are
then.
More
motive.”

“But
he
didn’t
know.
Else
why
was
he
hanging
round
the
yard?
Frank,
he
was
uncertain.
Can’t
you
imagine
the
agony
he
was
in!
He
couldn’t
face
Cleave,
not
without
certainty.
And
the
only
thing
that’d
prove
it
was
if
a
fresh
car
had
come
in.
He
was
coming
down
here
to
check
it.”

Bycroft
looked
round
at
Sprague,
who
shrugged,
tilting
his
jaw.

“But
Norman
was
dead,”
I
reminded
them.
“Now,
if
Randall
had
known
that,
he
wouldn’t
have
needed
to
come
looking.
That
would
have
been
proof.
But
he
didn’t
know
Norman
had
crashed
the
Rover
on
the
way
here.
Randall
is
a
coward,
that’s
his
trouble.
He
was
frightened
to
approach
Cleave,
but
driving
him
was
his
missing
child,
who
might — just
might — be
still
alive.
And
he
needed
just
that
one
stimulus
to
force
him
to
it.
He
needed
to
know
that
Cleave
had
been
to
Wolverhampton.”

“Then
he
found
out,”
said
Bycroft
placidly.
“You’re
digging
his
grave,
George.”

“He
couldn’t
have
known.”

“Of
course
— ”

“Tony,”
I
said.
“Come
here
into
the light.”

His
face
was
hollowed
in
the
low-flung
light.
“I
dunno ... ”

“But
you
do,
Tony.
Think.”

“I
told
you
all
I
know.”

“Have
you
understood
what
I’ve been
saying?”

He
nodded.

“Yes,
you
would.
And
this
is
Mr Randall
we’re
talking
about.
Tony,
I’m asking
you
a
favour.”

“Don’t
come
to
me ... ”

“Oh
no,
it’s
no
good
looking
to
you for
help.
They
just
took
him
off
to hospital,
Tony.
Haven’t
you
got
one touch
of
feeling
for
anybody?”

“What
d’you
know
about
it?”
he
said angrily.

“You’ve
only
got
to
tell
the
inspector one
thing.
Did
Mr
Randall
know
the dates
of
the
car-thefts
before
they happened?”

“How’d
I
know
that?”

“Use
your
intelligence.
You
said
yourself
he
came
down
on
Mondays.
There
wasn’t
a
pinch
every
Saturday,
so ... ”
I
waited.
“Did
Randall
come
down
every
Monday,
Tony?”

“Well ...
yes ...
I
suppose
you
could
say
that.”

“Thank
you.
So
we
come
to
the
weekend
Dulcie
went
missing.
Could
he
have
known
of
Norman’s
death?”

“I
don’t
see ... ”

“You
don’t
see!”
I
sneered.

“I
was
going
to
say,”
he
shouted,
“I
didn’t
see
how
he
could.”

“Would
Cleave
have
told
him?”

“Dennis
never
told
nobody
anything.”

“And
Mike
wouldn’t
have
known.”

“Now
look
here,”
Bycroft
interrupted, “you’re
leading
— ”

“It
ain’t
a
bloody
court,”
I
snarled
at
him.
“It’s
a
leakin’
shed
and
it’s
cold,
and
I
want
to
go
home.
Listen
to
what
he
says,
for
Christ’s
sake.”
I
turned
back
to
Tony.
“So
maybe
you
told
him,
Tony.
You
were
the
only
one
who
knew
Norman
was
dead.”

He
shook
his
head.
“I
didn’t
tell
him.”

I
turned
back
to
Bycroft.
“So
you
see,
Randall
came
down
here
every
day,
to
see
if
something
had
come
in.
Because
then
he’d
have
known.
But
the
poor
sod
got
nowhere,
and
his
conscience
tortured
him,
and
in
the
end
it
was
too
late,
because
somebody
else
killed
Cleave,
and
all
he
could
do
was
wait.
And
then
we
found
the
child,
Frank,
and
he
knew
at
last
it
was
Cleave,
and
he
hadn’t
done
anything
about
it.
Are
you
surprised
he
tried
to
kill
himself?
It
wasn’t
for
having
killed
Cleave
—
it
was
for
having
failed
to.
Damn
it,
Frank,
the
self-condemnation
drove
him
to
it.”