The Best of British Crime omnibus (56 page)

A seemingly endless eightsome reel was being performed, expertly, by a troupe of swarthy young men in kilts, and lithe young women in white dresses with tartan sashes, all to the accompaniment of Scottish pipes.

‘Would you believe, the dancers are from Basingstoke, and the pipers from Milton Keynes? Rather incongruous but perfectly genuine,' said Molly as the two moved away.

‘More national barriers tumbling before the onward march of the European Market,' Treasure observed dourly. ‘They'll be offering haggis on the Champs-Élysées soon, I expect. And welcome to it. Sorry I was so late.'

‘Poor you.' She squeezed his arm. ‘You've worked the whole day.'

‘And not the only one. Though the City's pleasantly empty on Saturdays.'

‘Your dedicated secretary got here about an hour ago. She's over there somewhere, decked out like a mature Flora Macdonald, and dying to dance when the demonstration stuff is over. The McFees have been treating me like royalty. There aren't so many Closter people here. Not the ones I know, anyway.'

Treasure glanced about, failing to recognise anyone. ‘Miss Gaunt left the office around five,' he said. ‘It was the police who delayed me at the end. Detective Inspector Furlong turned up just as I was leaving. Wasn't awfully pleased. Can't blame him, I suppose. Except the case was as good as wrapped up for him.'

‘Had the Closter-Bennets' solicitor called the police?'

‘As promised. As soon as he had the confirmation that Barbara's plane had landed.'

‘And the solicitor told them she'd followed Jane to the flat on Wednesday?'

‘And confronted Dermot there.'

‘And that was all?'

‘That was the deal I made with Barbara. The police were also told that she went abroad yesterday afternoon and doesn't intend to return. Ever.'

‘And that was enough?'

‘Enough for them since to have released Jane.'

‘So they know Barbara did the murders?'

‘That circumstances indicate she did, yes. They still need to prove it if they want. But they've stopped treating other people as suspects.'

‘Even though there's been no actual confession? Not to them?'

‘That's true. But they now have the same evidence I had.'

‘Which wasn't much, you said.'

‘Because I had to bluff Barbara a good deal of the time. The only really damning fact was Bert Tanner seeing her in Chiswick.'

‘Which you dismissed at first?'

‘Only because Mrs Tanner said it was Giles Closter-Bennet he'd seen, not Barbara. And I knew he couldn't have. The Tanners had misunderstood each other. Anyway, the police now know Barbara was there. They also have the Closter-Bennet shotgun.'

‘Can they prove it was the gun that killed poor Stuart Bodlin?'

‘Not for certain, apparently. It seems that kind of identification works with a pistol or a rifle, but not a shotgun. Especially if the gun's been used again later.'

‘Do you suppose Barbara knew that? Purposely went rabbit shooting?'

‘It's possible. Even so, the police still have enough material to start building a case. And Barbara certainly knew that.'

‘You didn't tell Mr Furlong that she'd admitted anything more to you?'

‘No. That was also part of the deal.' His serious expression deepened. ‘I didn't see it as my task to send the guilty to jail. Only to keep the innocent out of it.'

‘And to lift the cloud from Closter Drug?'

‘That too, of course. The rest really is up to the police.'

‘They can extradite Barbara from Argentina can't they?'

‘They can try, but they'll have problems. Without a confession, and with a case still largely based on deduction. Most justice departments, including ours, need pretty strong indications of guilt before authorising an extradition. Remember, Barbara has dual nationality.'

‘Because her mother was Argentinian?'

‘That's right. Very well-to-do Argentinian. Barbara has a lot of influential connections out there.'

‘More than Scotland Yard perhaps. So what about Giles?'

‘The police have already had him in for questioning, and let him go again.'

‘But he won't be staying with the company?'

‘No. He gave me his resignation this morning.'

‘And you've settled the future of Closter Drug?'

‘Hardly that. But we've made some decisions today. I shan't be giving up the chairmanship, and Bob Larden will carry on as MD. We're going to oppose takeover bids from whatever quarter, unless someone offers a lot more than we think is the company's present worth. I have a solid group of institutional shareholders supporting that view. Effectively they make a majority.'

‘But you're still saying Closter Drug is going to be taken over by somebody? Eventually?'

‘That's up to the shareholders to decide. What's important immediately is for the company to get back its credibility. Its dignity, if you like.'

‘Which is why you didn't want a murder trial?'

‘Mmm. To further muddy the waters. Seromig is the key, of course. If we're first with a migraine cure the price of the company could double. Otherwise it'll still be valuable for its other interests, only it may not be able to develop them on its own. You're right, this is very peaceful,' he ended.

The two had wandered to a point on the river bank away from both the pavilion and the barbecue area, and where the music was very much only in the background. There was gentle activity on the water appropriate to the hour and the temperature. Two swans glided past parallel with the reedy bank where a family of ducks was exploring. Pleasure craft – crews idling, engines muted, lights diffused by the gloaming but reflected in the darkening water – were slipping past, making down river to Windsor or up it to Henley.

Molly was watching the ducks. ‘And as part of un-muddying the waters,' she said, ‘have the Closter-Bennets really given away their Closter shares to the Hackles?'

‘Yes. Giles transferred them into a trust for Rosemary and the two children this morning. The trust will be administered by the bank.'

‘And that was part of your deal with Barbara? For letting her fly away yesterday afternoon?'

‘It was the key part of the deal. I honestly believe it's the fairest outcome for the Hackles. Having Barbara Closter-Bennet tried and imprisoned would have provided nothing for those children.' He ruminated for several seconds. ‘It was a horse trade of a particularly uncomfortable kind, of course. I hope it proves the right decision.' But there was more heaviness than uncertainty in his voice. ‘Giles had to agree to the transfer, of course. The shares were in his name.'

‘Well that's to his credit.'

‘I thought so.' But the tone was less than magnanimous.

‘Will he join his wife in Buenos Aires?'

‘That's the intention. They'll have to rub along on what's left of her capital. The sale of the Later Burnlow house should fetch quite a bit, I suppose. But they won't be as comfortable as they were in this country.'

‘Well they don't deserve to be, either. She doesn't anyway.' Molly was deep down disquieted that justice hadn't been properly served. Like her husband, though, she saw what was happening as the best solution for the Hackle family – and one that would not have been achieved if Barbara Closter-Bennet had been brought to trial. ‘Of course, Barbara's certainly not in the clear. And she'll have to live with her conscience for the rest of her life,' Molly ruminated aloud.

‘I'm not sure she'll find that too hard,' Treasure commented. ‘Her crimes were motivated by ambition and revenge. And according to her own very twisted logic they were justified.'

‘The ambition being for herself?'

‘No, for Giles. And Closter Drug. The revenge was against her father. For failing her.'

‘And how does Giles feel about being married to a murderess?'

‘It's something he'll choose permanently to ignore, I should think. He's always been totally dependent on her. His only true career aspirations were the ones she forced on him. He'll be happy to drop out of the business scene now. He has no proper regard for his own industrial acumen – and that's an opinion he shares with many others, including me.' Treasure's tone had remained sombre.

Molly wrapped both arms around one of his and began steering him towards the bar. ‘So altogether you've made the best of an appalling situation.'

‘That's a charitable way of putting it.'

‘And you richly deserve a large Scotch. Followed by a slice of whatever it is they're roasting on that spit, before we recklessly plunge into a round of the Gay Gordons at … at nine forty.' Molly had checked the time and her programme.

Treasure sniffed, then stared around defensively. ‘I'm not sure that bagpipes don't sometimes give me migraine,' he said in an overly self-protecting way.

‘Good for trade,' his wife answered firmly, and with enthusiasm.

Discover
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Francis Henry Durbridge was an English playwright and author born in Hull. In 1938, he created the character Paul Temple for the BBC radio serial Send for Paul Temple.

A crime novelist and detective, the gentlemanly Temple solved numerous crimes with the help of Steve Trent, a Fleet Street journalist who later became his wife. The character proved enormously popular and appeared in 16 radio serials and later spawned a 64-part big-budget television series (1969–71) and radio productions, as well as a number of comic strips, four feature films and various foreign radio productions.

Francis Durbridge also had a successful career as a writer for the stage and screen. His most successful play, Suddenly at Home, ran in London's West End for over a year.

Douglas Croft parked his car in a side-street, checked the doors and boot to make sure he had locked them securely, then walked the fifty yards or so back to the Finchley Road. It was the morning rush-hour and traffic was streaming down from Swiss Cottage towards Lord's cricket ground about a quarter of a mile farther on.

Rather than move up the road to the pedestrian crossing, Douglas Croft chose his time and slipped across the road on a weaving course, rather like a centre forward cutting through the defences of an opposing team. He gained the footpath exactly opposite a shop window filled with sporting gear of every imaginable kind. Over the windows and entrance a sign proclaimed ‘Tom Dawson's Sportstore'.

The neon light which burned all night to illuminate any possible intruder for the benefit of the patrolling police was still burning. As Douglas inserted the second of the two keys which were needed to open the shop door he glanced up and saw a girl coming across the crowded pavement. He opened the door and waited for her to go in past him.

‘Morning, Liz. Did you see the guv'nor on Sports Profile last night?'

‘No.' Liz shook her head and paused, glancing at the montage of blown-up photographs which occupied the centre of the window display. They were action-shots of Tom Dawson in his hey-day, when in the space of a single year he had represented England at rugby football and cricket and had also been runner-up in the Amateur Golf Championship. ‘I didn't watch it last night. It's my practice night and I have a race next weekend. One hundred metres back-stroke.'

She moved on into the shop. Douglas closed the door and turned one of the keys on the inside. There were still ten minutes till opening time. He collected the letters from the box and followed Liz Mason towards the small glass-partitioned office at the back of the shop. Not for the first time he took pleasure in watching the lithe way her trim figure moved. At nineteen Liz was like a breath of fresh ozone miraculously surviving in the fumes and dust of London.

‘How did Mr. Dawson come over?' she asked over her shoulder. ‘Nervous was he?'

Douglas gave a short laugh. ‘Not him! What they call a strong screen image. He'll be getting his own show next.'

‘Heaven forbid!' Liz exclaimed with feeling. She took her light showerproof coat off and hung it on the back of the office door.

Douglas slapped the wad of letters down on the desk and moved towards the switches which turned on the main shop lights and the spot lights used for display purposes in the front window. They brought into sharp relief glittering rows of matched golf irons, racks of tapering, varnished skis, a cabinet of extremely expensive pullovers, anoraks and waterproof garments, complex sets of equipment for skin divers, a bookcase containing volumes on every aspect of sport from tiddly-winks to big-game hunting.

‘I had to laugh at one thing, though.' Subconsciously Douglas was smoothing his slightly wavy fair hair into better shape. The wind in the car had undone the careful attention he had given it before his mirror that morning. ‘When the interviewer described his son as “the tough little glamour boy of Scotland Yard”.'

‘What nonsense! Harry isn't tough – he's not as tough as his old man.'

Liz had let her voice rise. Douglas made a warning gesture with his finger, pointing towards the ceiling. A spiral staircase led out of the office to the flat above the shop, where Tom Dawson lived with his bachelor son.

‘Do you think they could have heard?' Liz whispered.

‘No. They keep the door of the box-room closed. But
I'll
be hearing from Mr. Tom Dawson if I don't get this mail sorted out before he comes down.'

If Douglas Croft could have seen through the ceiling of the shop into the flat above he would have realised that he had plenty of time in hand. Tom Dawson and his son were still sitting over breakfast in the dining area at one end of the large sitting-room.