Body of a Girl (19 page)

“Fireproof paint,” said Mr. Nevinson, “and the boxes themselves are waterproof. The floor you're standing on is steel lattice work. There's a sub-basement below this which holds the strong-rooms. The whole subterranean area is hermetically sealed and surrounded by a water-jacket. In the unlikely event of a fire starting down here, we would shutter off the air conditioning vents and flood the whole place, ceiling-high in five minutes. Just a matter of turning two wheels, in my office.”

“You mean that we're in a sealed box, surrounded by water?”

“That's right. It really is rather ingenious. The water-jacket stops anyone trying to tunnel in from outside. They could of course try getting through the ceiling, or the floor, but they are alternate steel and specially hardened concrete. I don't say they couldn't do it. Modern tools will cut anything. But it would take a very long time. This way.”

They went down the second flight of stairs into the sub-basement. This was arranged on a similar plan except that the doors were larger, and completely filled the central corridor.

“Twenty strong-rooms on each side. The two very large ones at the end are used by the banks. They are
much
more secure than their own.”

“And the smaller ones belong to private renters?”

“That's right.”

Mercer wondered which of the green-painted doors concealed Jack Bull's secrets. He would have liked to have asked, but felt that he had trespassed far enough on Mr. Nevinson's patience. They climbed back to his office.

“I take it there is another entrance?”

“Certainly. There is the main entrance to the vaults. That's the one the renters use. My head commissionaire, Sergeant Beale, has one key, I have another. To open it, you need to use both.”

“And this door?”

“The same. When it is finally shut for the night you need both our keys to open it.”

When Mercer got out into the street he made for the nearest telephone box and rang up Stoneferry Station. Tom Rye answered him.

Mercer said, “In case anyone is wondering where I am, tell them I've been having a conducted tour round a safe deposit. It took longer than I anticipated, but it was very interesting. I now propose to have some lunch. After lunch I've got a date with a Mr. Michael Robertson.”

Rye said, “O.K. There's no particular panic on here at the moment.” And then, “Did you say Michael Robertson?”

“That's right,” said Mercer. “Michael Robertson.”

Chapter Twenty

The early afternoon post delivered two trade catalogues and a small buff envelope to Bull's Garage. Jack Bull was alone in the office when they arrived. Vikki had telephoned to say that she was feeling under the weather and wouldn't be turning up for work that day.

Opening letters was one of the more difficult jobs for a one-armed man, but Bull managed it, as deftly as he had taught himself to get over most difficulties.

He read the catalogues first, marking one or two items that interested him. Then he opened the buff envelope.

Ten minutes later he was storming down the High Street and into Fore Street. The receptionist at Weatherman's said she wasn't sure if Mr. Weatherman was free. Had Mr. Bull an appointment?

“I haven't got an appointment,” said Bull. “But I'm going to see Mr. Weatherman even if it means turning out the person who's with him. Tell him that, will you?”

The receptionist was frightened. She found angry men alarming. She picked up the telephone, and said, as calmly as she could bring herself to do, “Oh, Mr. Weatherman, I have Mr. Bull here for you. He says it's
very
urgent.”

There was a slight pause, and then Mr. Weatherman's dry voice said, “If it's very urgent, of course I must see him. Ask him to come up.”

Mr. Weatherman smoothed out the buff-coloured letter which Bull had slammed down on his desk and read it through carefully. Then he adjusted his glasses and read it again.

He said, “This is very surprising.”

“Surprising,” said Bull, in a choked voice. “It's a bloody impertinence. What the hell does it mean?”

“It means that the Inland Revenue authorities have come to the conclusion, on the basis of certain evidence which has come into their possession, that you have been underestimating your taxable income for the last six years by approximately three thousand pounds a year. This is, they agree, only a rough estimate. They have accordingly raised a provisional assessment on you, to tax and surtax, based on a figure of eighteen thousand pounds. They invite your comments, and point out the procedure for appeal. I take it you have only just received this?”

“A quarter of an hour ago.”

“And that you haven't done anything about it?”

“Like hell I haven't. I rang up the Charlie whose reference is on that letter and told him he could stuff it up his arse.”

“I don't think that was wise,” said Mr. Weatherman.

“What do you mean, wise? What the hell did you expect me to do? Write him out a cheque for the full amount?”

“The procedures for appeal are well established.”

Bull, who had been standing, now sat down. He also lowered his voice. He said, “I think we'd better understand one another.
You
know perfectly well that I've been fiddling my tax returns for years. You've been helping me to do it. And taking a thick cut for your pains. So don't start talking about the procedure for appeals. If anything comes out, everything comes out. You're a professional man. You've got a bloody sight more to lose in this case than I have.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Certainly I'm threatening you. And when I said everything, I meant everything. Like that little job you did for me over Prior's Garage. I expect the Law Society would be interested to know that you acted for the poor old sod, but never told him you were taking money from me, under the counter, to make sure he went down.”

Mr. Weatherman's face had been a mottled red when Bull began speaking. By the time he finished it had lost most of its colour. He said, “If you were to say – anything like that – I'd take you through every court in the land for libel.”

“Even if I could prove it was true?”

“You couldn't.”

“I most certainly could. You remember that girl you had working here. Called Maureen Dyson. She was a smart operator. Did you know she'd tapped your office telephone? And not only tapped it, but recorded some of the interesting conversations we had. And taken a photocopy of that harmless little bit of paper you made me sign and locked away in your safe. Only like the stupid old berk you are, you left the key of the safe in your desk drawer. She had the whole thing lined up. She sent me copies of one or two of the transcriptions and documents. I've still got them. They're very convincing. There was just one thing I couldn't understand. Why the hell did she try it on me and not you. You'd have paid up. Wouldn't you? Wouldn't you?”

“Please keep your voice down. What did you do?”

“I told her to take a running jump at herself. The only person who could make trouble for
me
would be old Henry Prior, and I doubted if he'd have the guts. But you. It'd be different for you, wouldn't it? You'd be finished. You'd be struck off the whatsits. You'd be flat bust.
Why didn't she put the screws on you?
”

When Mr. Weatherman said nothing he added, thoughtfully, “Or did she?”

Mr. Weatherman's face was now an unhealthy greyish white. He said, in a voice which was a parody of his normal pedantic tones, “I can assure you that she never said a word to me about it. I can equally assure you that I shall never repeat a word of what you have just told me.”

“Right,” said Bull. “Now we understand each other. So perhaps we can get down to business. What does this letter mean? And what do we do about it?”

“It means that the Revenue have some evidence that you have been understating your income.” Mr. Weatherman was speaking slowly, drawing a breath after every few words, as though he had surfaced after an unexpectedly deep dive. “Very often they take this sort of action because a man is observed to be living beyond the income he has declared. That can hardly be the case here. You have a substantial income, and you have always behaved discreetly.”

“Right. So what do they mean by ‘evidence'?”

“It must, I think, be documentary evidence of some kind. I have all the papers here which deal with your declared income—”

“And I've got a few books and papers in my office,” said Bull with a grin, “which deal with my undeclared income.”

“They'd need a sight of both lots to bring a charge home.” Mr. Weatherman lifted the receiver on his internal telephone and dialled a number. “We'll go through our records here first. Oh, Miss Atkins, would you ask Mrs. Hall to bring up the folders containing Mr. Bull's tax returns. She's what? Oh, I see. Well then, perhaps you could bring them up yourself.” He replaced the receiver and said, “My invaluable Mrs. Hall is away sick this morning. It's the first day she's missed since she's been here. Never mind, Miss Atkins will produce them for us.”

But that, it appeared, was just what Miss Atkins could not do. When she appeared in the room three minutes later she was flustered, and empty-handed. She said, “I've looked in Mrs. Hall's filing cabinet, Mr. Weatherman. I know she kept Mr. Bull's tax returns and papers there, in two wallets, because she looked after them herself. They aren't there.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure, Mr. Weatherman. I know just where she kept them. I saw them there only last week. Do you think she might have taken them home to work on them? She did that sometimes.”

“It would be against our rules for any member of the staff to remove confidential papers from the office. However, it's a possibility I suppose. Have you her telephone number?”

Miss Atkins produced the number and Mr. Weatherman dialled it. They could hear the telephone ringing. It rang for a long time. Mr. Weatherman replaced the receiver. He said, “When Mrs. Hall informed the office that she was not coming in today, who took the message?”

“I did.”

“How did the message arrive?”

“She telephoned. Just after I got here. She said she had a bad migraine, was going to take a couple of pills and go to bed.”

“She has a small furnished flat, I believe.”

“That's right.”

“If the telephone is in the living room, and she is asleep – very fast asleep – in her bedroom, it is, I suppose, possible that she would not hear the telephone.”

“Would you like me to go round and make sure that she's all right?”

“I was just going to suggest it,” said Mr. Weatherman smoothly.

When Miss Atkins had taken herself off, Bull said, “What's she playing at? Don't tell me you've got
another
blackmailer on your staff.”

“I think it highly unlikely. Mrs. Hall is a most respectable and reliable sort of woman. But even if she has removed the taxation wallets with some ulterior motive it still makes little sense. It's true that there are working papers there, which we should not normally show to the Inspector. But to make anything out of them he would have to compare them with the records of actual receipts which you maintain.”

“And if my records didn't happen to be available—”

Mr. Weatherman considered the point. He had recovered his self-possession and now seemed to be the dominant partner. He said, “I don't think it would be convincing to say that there were
no
records. After all, we would have had to get the figures from you in the first place. And
all
businesses keep accounts. Cash receipts, expenditure, bank statements and that sort of thing.”

“My bank statements won't show them much. I encourage my customers to pay cash. Any spare cash goes into my safe deposit.”

“Are there any books at all?”

“I keep a private cash record. For my own use.”

“In what form?”

“In an ordinary cash book. There are three or four of them, covering the last few years.”

“Where?”

“In my safe.”

“Who has a key?”

“I've got one. Rainey's got the other.”

“Are you sure you can trust him? The last time he was round here, I thought he was going to pieces.”

“I don't trust him. But he won't step out of line. I could send him to gaol longer than he could send me.”

“All the same, I think those books had better go. Take them out of the safe, and put them in a cupboard, along with any other records. Then organise an accidental fire.”

Bull looked thoughtful. He said, “I could do that, I suppose. But I'll tell you something. A book's a bloody difficult thing to burn.”

“You don't have to destroy the books,” said Weatherman impatiently. “All you need is a convincing fire. Then we tell the Revenue the books have been destroyed. Produce a few ashes. The onus will be on them to prove you're lying. They'll have a job to do that.”

When Bull got back to the garage he found three customers waiting impatiently, and served them himself. He remembered that it was Johnno's afternoon off. As he crossed the yard he could hear the sound of someone working in the repair shed at the back, but the yard itself was deserted. He picked up a big handful of oily cotton-waste and walked across to the wooden annexe at the far end of the shed which Rainey used as an office.

The cashier was there. He was lying back in his chair, his mouth wide open, snoring. His face was red and sweating, and the small room stank of whisky.

Bull stood looking down at him, smiling. It would serve him right, he thought, if he organised the fire and left Rainey in the middle of it. Then a further thought occurred to him. If the cashier had come back, demonstrably drunk, after lunch, wasn't it very plausible that
he
should have started the fire. He could easily have kicked over the single-bar electric fire. It was a rickety affair, and he had warned him more than once to be careful of it. With a little care and scene-setting it could be made to look very convincing. He, Bull, coming back would find the office ablaze, would dash gallantly in, and secure considerable kudos for rescuing his sottish cashier. But by that time the fire would be too well away to stop.

There was a small wooden cupboard, which was used for stationery. The incriminating records could go in there, with the door wide open, as it would be, of course, if Rainey was working on them.

Bull moved softly across to the safe in the corner, unlocked it, and swung back the door. After that he stood, for a full ten seconds, staring into the interior. Then he stepped back and started to search the room. There were very few places to look. He already knew the truth.

He grabbed Rainey by the hair, and banged his head down onto the table. Then he took him by the collar and shook him. When he was certain that he was awake he said, “What the hell have you done with the cash books?”

Rainey stared at him. A bruise was forming on his forehead with a trickle of blood in the middle of it and tears were running down his cheeks, but the drink was temporarily out of him.

He said, “Last time I used them, I put them back in the safe.”

“They're not there. Who's had your key?”

“My key?” He clapped his hand to his pocket, but it was shaking so much that it took several attempts to find what he wanted. Then he drew out a ring of keys.

“It's still there,” he said.

“Of course it's there,” snarled Bull. “I didn't imagine you'd swallowed it. Who have you lent it to?”

“No one. I haven't lent it to anyone.”

“Have you been out and left the safe open?”

Rainey was trying to think. He said, “Yesterday evening. I slipped out for ten minutes. To buy some cigarettes.”

“And left the safe open?”

“Yes.” Seeing the look on Bull's face, he added hastily, “But it was all right. Vikki was here.”

Bull hit him. It was a wicked, swinging punch, intended to hurt. It caught Rainey under the heart, and put him flat on his back, where he lay moaning and gasping. Then he rolled onto his side and was sick.