Off the Record (21 page)

Jack looked at Hector Ferguson. His mouth was trembling, he was twitching with nerves, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. ‘Why don’t we talk to Bill Rackham?’ he asked, his voice deliberately calm.

‘The
police
?’

‘Bill’s a policeman, Ferguson, but he’s also a good bloke.’

‘I’ve told you! You can sort it out, can’t you?’

‘Not by myself. You’ll have to come clean sometime.’

He was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Ferguson raised his head slowly. His skin seemed oddly mottled, then Jack worked out it was his freckles standing out against his unnaturally white face. He levered himself up from his chair and, walking very slowly, went to the window to see who was at the door. He shrank back, then stood, rigidly poised, the knuckles on his fists showing white.

There were footsteps in the hall as the parlourmaid went to answer the door. Bill Rackham. Jack recognized his voice.

‘It’s him,’ Ferguson muttered. Like someone who had forgotten how to walk, he stumbled into the hall.

Bill, who was standing on the doorstep, raised his hat as Ferguson appeared. ‘Ah, Mr Ferguson. If I could just have a word . . .’

With an explosion of movement, Ferguson hurtled forward. He thrust a hand on to Rackham’s chest, pushed him away, and shot down the steps. Taken completely by surprise, Bill staggered, missing his footing and fell to one side.

‘Ferguson!’ yelled Jack. ‘Come back!’ He shot after the running man seeing, as if in a blur, the startled faces of Bill and the parlourmaid. He took the steps in a single jump, his leg howling a protest.

Ferguson, running hard, nearly cannoned into a couple who were rounding the corner into Essex Gardens. It was Mrs Dunbar and Mr Bryce, arm in arm and heads together. Jack saw Mrs Dunbar’s mouth circle as Ferguson skidded to a halt before dodging round them. Behind him, Jack heard the thud of Rackham’s feet on the pavement. He ran forward desperately as the shrill note of Rackham’s police whistle bit through the air.

At the sound of the whistle, Ferguson stopped and glanced back in horror. Jack had nearly caught him when Bryce’s stick entangled in his legs, sending him sprawling. He scrambled furiously to his feet and lunged after Ferguson.

A police constable appeared at the end of the road in answer to the whistle. Ferguson swerved and ducked under the policeman’s arm as Jack reached out and grabbed his shoulder. Panic-stricken, Ferguson jabbed first his elbow then his fist into Jack’s face. In a blaze of pain, Jack fell back, as Bill, overtaking him, stuck his foot out, bringing Ferguson crashing to the ground. The constable’s hand descended, none too gently, on Ferguson’s collar, hauling him to his feet.

‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded. ‘Who blew that whistle?’

‘I did,’ said Rackham crisply. ‘Inspector Rackham of Scotland Yard. Well done, Constable.’ He turned to Jack who was holding a handkerchief to his face. ‘Are you all right? Good grief, you’re bleeding.’

‘He caught me a juicy one,’ said Jack in a muffled voice. ‘Strewth, it hurts.’ Ferguson, safe in the constable’s clutches, looked ashamed. ‘I’m sorry, Haldean,’ he said sullenly. ‘I didn’t mean to lash out, but when you grabbed hold of me I couldn’t help myself. What were you chasing me
for
?’

‘Because you were running away, you idiot.’

Mrs Dunbar and Mr Bryce arrived. ‘Why are you hounding my son?’ wailed Mrs Dunbar, hysterically. ‘This is
persecution
. Absolute persecution.’ She clutched at Mr Bryce’s arm again. ‘You tried to save him, Robert. Do something!’

Mr Bryce, swelling visibly, faced Rackham. ‘What is the meaning of this, sir!’

The constable majestically interposed, his hand still on Ferguson’s collar. ‘Do you wish to charge this man, sir?’ he said, addressing Rackham.

‘I wish to ask this man a few questions,’ said Rackham. ‘Questions appertaining to the making of a false statement.’ He glared at Mrs Dunbar who was muttering
persecution
in an undertone. ‘However, there very well could be another charge pending. I was subject to an unprovoked attack and as for you,’ he said, rounding on Bryce, ‘I saw you deliberately trip up Major Haldean while he was aiding the police in the execution of their duties. That, sir, is assault.’

There was a yelp from Mrs Dunbar. ‘No! Not you as well, Robert. I can’t bear it!’ She clutched at Mr Bryce. ‘You saved him, Robert! You saved my son.’

‘I think not, Madam,’ said Rackham coolly. ‘Mr Ferguson, I was going to ask you a few questions in your own house. I must now ask you to accompany me to Scotland Yard.’

Jack cut through Mrs Dunbar’s agonized wail of protest. ‘You need to go back to the house, Bill.’ He nodded towards Ferguson. ‘He’s got the key of Dunbar’s hotel room. It’s on the table in the drawing room.’

‘No’ shrieked Mrs Dunbar. ‘No! It isn’t true! You can’t have it! I won’t let you!’

‘For heaven’s sake, Mother,
shut up!
’ said Hector Ferguson wearily. Putting his hand to his mouth, he swayed momentarily. ‘Let’s get it over with, shall we? Oh, God, I feel sick. It’s been hell and I’ve been a fool. Mother, please, be quiet! I’ve been expecting this for ages.’

The constable dropped his hand and took out his notebook. ‘When apprehended, the suspect remarked, “I’ve been expecting this for ages,”’ he noted with grim satisfaction.

‘Oh, blimey,’ said Ferguson. He buried his head in his hands. ‘Go and get the key. It can’t make things any worse.’ He turned to Mrs Dunbar wearily. ‘I’m sorry, mother. I’m for it.’

‘It’s looking a bit grim for your pal, Ferguson,’ said Bill Rackham, smothering a yawn. He rubbed his eyes and, picking up his whisky, drank it appreciatively. ‘I’ve earned that. It’s been a long evening. For both of us, I’d say,’ he added. He had promised he would call in for a nightcap and bring Jack up to date and, although the clock was nudging half eleven, had been true to his word. ‘He’s safely tucked up for the night. It was a relief when he stopped talking. He rambled on and on about how much he hated Dunbar. At one point he seemed to be saying he
did
kill him but he finally decided he hadn’t. I’ll have to go through the case with the Chief tomorrow but I think he’ll be charged, all right.’

Jack reached for the tobacco jar and filled the bowl of his pipe. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. He was more or less bound to be arrested after making a break for it.’

‘Absolutely. How’s your nose, by the way?’

Jack grinned ruefully. ‘Sore. I can’t blame him for lashing out, though. He was pretty worked up. Besides that, he was a fair way to being bottled.’ He hesitated. ‘What’s your opinion?’

‘It’s not really a matter of my opinion, is it? I can’t smell out crooks like some sort of Witchfinder-General. My life might be a bit easier if I could. We got hold of Mrs Gledburn, the chambermaid from the Marchmont, by the way. She picked him out as the man she’d seen in the corridor. His alibi is a pack of lies from beginning to end. I’m sorry, Jack. I know he’s a pal, even if he did take a swing at you, but the case against him stacks up, you know. It’s a question of evidence.’

‘Yes, I was thinking about the evidence. We know he was on the spot. That’s not in any doubt, but what about the gun? Has he ever owned a gun?’

‘According to him, no. Apart from during the war, of course.’

‘That’s a definite enough statement. If you can disprove that, you’re in business.’

Rackham cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘And not otherwise?’

Jack sighed in exasperation. ‘You’ve got a case. You’ve got a damn good case. Given the amount of bouncers he’s told, I can’t see it going wrong. It’s just that I don’t know if it’s true. I don’t know if Ferguson is capable of planning a murder. I know he can go off at half cock, right enough,’ he added, touching his nose gingerly, ‘but the amount of deliberate planning this involves is something else. And, granted he
did
plan it, why should he lose his nerve so spectacularly?’

‘Because he was frightened.’

‘I suppose so. Oddly enough, I can see Mrs Dunbar planning it but not Ferguson.’

‘I’ll agree that Mrs Dunbar has a damn sight more to her than I gave her credit for. But if she’s guilty, she’d hardly let her son take the rap, would she? She thinks he’s guilty, I know. He told me as much. It’s a very good case. Jack. Don’t you think you might have got too tied up with how much planning was involved? You placed an awful lot of weight on the fact that no one heard the shot, but that could be sheer chance, you know?’

‘It seems pretty unlikely to me.’

‘Unlikely? Or impossible? Look, Ferguson hated his stepfather.’

‘With good cause.’

‘That doesn’t make it less likely, does it? From what he said, I think he had very good cause, but that’s the point. He told you he’d imagined killing him, didn’t he?’

‘As a kid, Bill. Be fair.’

‘And kids don’t grow up? He dwelt on it at some length when he was talking to me. I know he’d had one over the eight, but once he got launched on Dunbar, it was difficult to stop him. He could have bought a gun at any time. He doesn’t have to see off Dunbar at any particular time or in any particular place. All he has to do is want to kill him. You know that.’

Jack shifted uneasily in his chair. He did know that.

‘Then he hits the bullseye. Dunbar’s in London and his mother’s gearing up for a row. So kindly Hector Ferguson says he’s worried, says he wants to referee the match, and, if Dunbar had kept his appointment, that might have happened. But it didn’t. Instead he has the perfect opportunity to make his dream come true. I’m not saying he’s cold-blooded. I don’t think he is. He had enough sense left to try and make it look like suicide, but he made a pretty poor job of it.’

‘That all sounds horribly likely,’ said Jack unhappily. ‘The psychology makes sense, too. He gets what he thinks he wants, but falls to bits when he’s faced with reality. He told me after he knew Dunbar was dead, everyone could be happy again and they’re not, are they? The only thing I would say, is that he was prepared to let Gerry Carrington take the rap and that doesn’t square with what I know of him.’

‘He was frightened, Jack. You don’t know what he’d do.’

‘No,’ said Jack, in reluctant honesty. ‘I don’t. Poor old Ferguson. It doesn’t look good, does it?’

Inspector Rackham looked at the sandy-haired man standing by the desk. He was smartly dressed, his light summer coat unbuttoned to show a well-cut grey suit. He was, Rackham reckoned, in his late twenties or early thirties. A professional man, thought Rackham, perhaps a young doctor or an accountant. He seemed nervy and ill at ease, but that wasn’t particularly surprising. Most men felt a little uncertain of their ground on entering Scotland Yard. ‘Mr Ragnall?’ he asked, extending his hand, with a reassuring smile. ‘I’m Inspector Rackham. I gather you want to see me in connection with the Dunbar case.’

Hugo Ragnall relaxed. ‘That’s so, Inspector. Is there anywhere we can go to discuss the matter?’

Rackham ushered him into a small room with a table and chairs. Ragnall. The name rang a bell.

‘I am,’ said Ragnall, ‘secretary of the Otterbourne New Century Company.’

That was it! Rackham drew up a chair to the table, looking at Hugo Ragnall with sharpened interest. ‘You’re the man who gave evidence Mr Otterbourne had misappropriated the pension funds, aren’t you?’

Ragnall looked distressed. ‘That is so, Inspector. I might say that I took no pleasure from having to testify to that account, as I always had the greatest respect for Mr Otterbourne. However,’ he added with a shrug, ‘facts are facts, no matter how unpalatable they are.’

‘Exactly, sir,’ agreed Rackham.

‘Before I go any further, is it true that Mr Ferguson has been charged with the murder of his stepfather? The account in the newspaper wasn’t clear.’

‘He’s been arrested,’ said Rackham guardedly. ‘He hasn’t actually been charged yet.’

Ragnall seemed pleased. ‘Then perhaps I am in time, Inspector, to prevent a miscarriage of justice.’

Rackham frowned. ‘Could you explain what you mean, sir?’

‘Indeed.’ Ragnall cleared his throat. ‘As I said, I am secretary of Otterbourne’s. Incidentally, I may say that I am here with the full knowledge and support of Mr Stephen Lewis and his wife. Mrs Lewis is the proprietor of Otterbourne’s, although she takes no active part in the business.’ He cleared his throat once more. ‘There is no need, is there, to go through the reasons why Mr Lewis was unable to attend the meeting that should have occurred the day Mr Dunbar was – er – killed, is there?’

‘No, sir. I know he was unexpectedly called away to his uncle’s.’

Ragnall leaned forward. Rackham could sense his anxiety. ‘Mr Lewis was concerned about Mr Carrington. You know they are cousins?’ Rackham nodded. ‘Mr Carrington has an . . .’ he paused. ‘He has an uncertain temper and Mr Dunbar could be a difficult man.’

‘We know all about that, sir.’

Hugo Ragnall smiled suddenly. ‘Mr Lewis was, so to speak, on eggshells that Mr Carrington would completely lose his temper.’ He grew serious. ‘I may say that when it appeared Mr Carrington
had
lost his temper, uncontrollably, as you might say . . .’

‘You mean when it seemed Mr Carrington had murdered Mr Dunbar?’

Hugo Ragnall swallowed at this plain speaking. ‘Yes. It was a ghastly thing to have happened, but Mr Carrington had very good cause to resent Mr Dunbar. It all seemed cut and dried, Inspector. There didn’t really seem any reason to doubt it.’ Ragnall took a cigarette from the box on the table and struck a match. ‘I didn’t like it,’ he added. ‘Neither did Mr Lewis. You mustn’t think he wanted his cousin to be found guilty, whatever the true facts of the case may be.’

That, thought Rackham, was an interesting way of putting it. ‘The true facts, Mr Ragnall? Gerard Carrington’s innocence has been confirmed, you know.’ At least as far as the public are concerned, he added in the privacy of his own thoughts.