A Spoonful of Luger (6 page)

“Well ... ”
he
said.
“We
seem
to
have
a
murder.”

I
had
been
looking
down
at
his
list,
reading
it
upside-down.
I
looked
up.
His
voice
had
been
strange.

He
got
up
and
marched
towards
his
coat,
and
thumped
his
hat
into
shape.

“You
might
as
well
come
along,”
he
told
me.
His
tone
suggested
he’d
be
happier
if
he
could
watch
me.

“Dulcie?”
I
said
dully.

He
stared
at
me.
“No.
Not
Dulcie.
It’s
a
man
called
Cleave.”

I
followed
him
out
of
the
door.
The
man
called
Dennis
Cleave
was
the
fourth
name
on
his
list
—
which
I
now
had
in
my
raincoat
pocket.

2

FROST,
I
thought,
there’d
be
a
frost
that
night.
It
was
already
sparkling
on
the
roof
of
Bycroft’s
Cortina.

He
drove
out
through
a
part
of
the
town
I
had
not
seen.
It
was
dreary,
a
ghost
town
in
the
drifting
mists,
whole
streets
with
mean-looking
shop
windows
boarded
or
blankly
vacant.
Here
and
there
the
odd
shopkeeper
was
hanging
on
miserably.
They
were
in
for
a
major
reconstruction.
An
element
of
humanity
had
died.

Bycroft
was
talking
all
the
way.
He
was
tense,
keyed-up,
his
nerves
talking
for
him.
A
murder
would
be
rare
in
this
town,
and
he
was
already
primed
for
the
discovery
of
Dulcie.
I
don’t
think
I
said
a
word.
The
notes
beneath
the
name
of
Dennis
Cleave
had
read:

Forty-two. Follows young women. No charges. Questioned re. Annabelle Lester. Alibi.

I
wondered
who
Annabelle
Lester
was,
and
wished
her
name
hadn’t
reminded
me
of
Anne.

We
came
to
a
large
island
and
crossed
the
by-pass.
Bycroft
said
they
were
going
to
stick
an
M
road
through
there
shortly,
and
seemed
to
think
he
was
already
on
it
because
he
was
driving
too
fast
for
my
liking.
Then
we
dived
down
a
side
road.
The
streetlamps
disappeared
and
were
replaced
by
infrequent
private
lights
on
the
forecourts
of
a
line
of
new
factories
on
the
right.
They
squatted
low
in
the
mist.
On
our
left
there
was
six
feet
of
chain-link
fencing,
beyond
it,
as
far
as
I
could
see
as
the
headlights
shot
across
it,
was
an
expanse
of
bleak,
seared
landscape.

Abruptly
he
swung
into
a
lane
on
the
right.
The
surface
was
unmade,
deep
holes
filled
with
water
disguising
their
depth.
Bycroft
was
trying
to
avoid
the
worst,
and
became
silent.
There
was
a sour
smell
in
the
air.

“There
it
is,”
he
said.

In
the
mist
ahead
there
was
a
glow
lifting
up
into
the
night.
As
we
came
nearer
I
saw
that
it
was
from
four
lamps
high
from
the
ground,
giving
the
peculiar
impression
that
we
were
diving
into
a
pit.
He
drew
up
beside
a
corrugated-iron
fence.
The
lamps
were
searchlights
suspended
twenty
feet
above
each
corner
of
an
extensive
yard,
their
beams
angled
inwards.
Just
beyond
us
there
was
a
double
gate,
wide
open,
and
beyond
the
gate
was
parked
a
white
police
patrol
car.
The
lane
seemed
to
end
there.

A
uniformed
officer
came
and
opened
Bycroft’s
door.

“He’s
in
his
office,
sir.”

We
got
out.
I
was
aware
of
the
quietness,
emphasized
by
the
distant
hum
of
traffic.
Just
inside
the
gate
was
waiting
the
other
officer,
and
standing
beside
him
either
a
long-haired
youth
or
a
slim
girl,
I
couldn’t
see
which
with
the
corner
light
angling
into
my
eyes.

It
was
a
car
breaker’s
yard.
The
fence
seemed
to
extend
all
around
the
four
sides
and
the
harsh
white
glare
covered
the
whole
area.
Piled
high
each
side
of
the
entrance
were
the
tangled
remains
of
a
thousand
cars,
rusting
and
unrecognizable
as
shapes.
They
made
cavernous
sides
to
a
twenty
foot
drive-in
of
slashed
mud,
but
further
back
they
fell
away,
and
the
ground
was
littered
with
the
shells
of
more
recent
discards,
distinguishable
at
least
as
vehicles.
Along
the
rear
right-hand
side
was
a
row
of
sheds,
which
seemed
to
have
been
constructed
from
portions
of
wagon
or
lorry,
and
in
the
far
left-hand
corner
there
was
a
low
building.
A
light
shone
from
one
of
its
windows.