Murder for Money Read online

  MURDER FOR MONEY

  A gripping crime mystery full of twists

  (Inspector John Crow Book 4)

  ROY LEWIS

  Revised edition 2018

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  FIRST PUBLISHED AS “BLOOD MONEY” IN 1973

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Roy Lewis to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  We hate typos too but sometimes they slip through. Please send any errors you find to [email protected]

  We’ll get them fixed ASAP. We’re very grateful to eagle-eyed readers who take the time to contact us.

  ©Roy Lewis

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  THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.

  NOTE TO THE READER

  Please note this book is set in the late 1960s/early 70s in England, a time before mobile phones and DNA testing, and when social attitudes were very different.

  CONTENTS

  NOTE TO THE READER

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  INSPECTOR JOHN CROW SERIES

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  Glossary of English Slang for US readers

  Chapter 1

  The crowd in the public bar was usual for a Friday night. Charlie Rutland finished his drink, wiped a hand across his mouth and made his way out of the bar.

  He walked into the narrow passageway and the handle of the door marked PRIVATE squealed as he turned it. The room beyond was cold and dark, and Rutland’s nose wrinkled in distaste as he caught the odours of stale food from the kitchen beyond. He hurried through to the stairway and climbed quickly to the floor above. His step was soft as he walked along the landing. Too heavy a tread made the lights above the bar shiver and Bert would be down there.

  He opened the door of the spare room, crossed its cold darkness to the electric fire and depressed a switch. The bars glowed, emitting a strengthening heat, and Charlie sat on the edge of the bed.

  He stared at the fire and chuckled. Whisky warmed his veins and exultation still bubbled in his blood. He sat and waited and the minutes slipped past: he had time on his hands and nothing better to do until the early hours of the morning. He waited for Doris and soon she came.

  She entered the room, closed the door behind her and stood staring at him in the dimness. He could smell the sourness of her perfume, defeated by hours behind the bar, and it made him feel irritated, and yet excited too. He moved freely in Europe and he had met many women, but not this kind. She was easy, she was earthy, she was big — and Charlie Rutland normally went for the small, controlled, sophisticated woman who could be bought by dinner or a drink.

  Doris was different. She gave enthusiastically, and without control. She disgusted him in a way, and he expressed his disgust by leaving money for her, each time. Yet he was back here again, tonight. Previously it had arisen out of boredom and preoccupation with other important matters. She provided him with release from sexual tensions with no cloying pretences demanded. Tonight . . . it was different. It would be the last time, for his period in Yorkshire was almost over.

  ‘You went too far tonight, Charlie.’

  Her tone was reproving as she stepped forward, shaking her blonde head. When he said nothing she went on. ‘I don’t mind a joke, but some of the cracks you made down there, they could make Bert suspicious—’

  ‘Bert knows,’ Charlie said flatly. ‘He doesn’t exactly know—’

  Charlie Rutland looked up at Doris and sneered. She was a heavily built woman, as tall as he was. She possessed none of the qualities he normally sought in a woman, but somehow she had been fitting to these weeks, grovelling around, digging, searching among the dingy towns and the dales of Yorkshire.

  ‘Of course he knows. I leave the bar, you leave the bar. He’d be blind if he didn’t notice after these weeks. And where does he think the money comes from, for God’s sake? I don’t know what sort of arrangement you two have between you, but don’t try to tell me he doesn’t know that I’ve been laying you.’

  ‘Charlie, that’s enough!’ Doris looked large and menacing in the faint light. ‘All right, so he . . . guesses, but what we got between us is nothing to do with it. Guessing . . . and knowin’, they’re different, and some of the remarks you made tonight was shovin’ it down his throat.’

  Charlie laughed, rose and stood grinning at her silently. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you tonight, Charlie. You’re wound up tight, seems to me—’

  ‘It’s victory,’ he said, and reached for her. ‘And how better to celebrate the brink of victory than to sleep with a big, easy whore—’

  Doris swung at him quickly but he shoved her from him.

  Doris staggered back on her high heels, teetered crazily until she fetched up against the wall with a breathless thump. Her mouth fell open and her heel struck the electric fire: it sparkled crazily, crackled, and then, after a moment’s stupefied silence, Doris squealed low and came forward, lunging. She missed completely with her right hand, but her left took Charlie across the cheekbone. He staggered back, raised his arms as Doris swung two-handed at his head, raging, cuffing him, pounding at him. The breath whistled from her mouth, her splendid breasts rose and fell, and the rhythm of her attack slowed, grew less regular as her wind and inclination lessened.

  Charlie was laughing. His arms were up, his hands protecting his face and he was laughing uncontrollably. Doris realized he was almost hysterical. Her attack had only caused him amusement, and yet what he was saying over and over seemed to bear no relation to her, or her reaction. She stopped suddenly, and turned away, in anger and resentment.

  Charlie stopped laughing immediately. He reached for her, grabbed her, and though she struggled for a moment it was a token only, for though resentment forced her to show unwillingness, this was not the first time for them and she knew his hands and his body.

  Soon, in the darkness, she was knowing them again. And yet it was not like other times, it was different.

  Charlie was more violent, uncontrolled, and she felt as though all the pent-up fires of a long abstinence were blazing at her. He was shuddering, but there was a maniac laughter still bubbling in his chest and she felt a stranger to him. He had always enjoyed the animal, mother warmth of her body, the size and spread of her limbs, and his small frame had clung to hers on occasions . . . but not tonight. This time he used her, hard, cruel, unpleasant. She knew there never had been affection: this was little more than business and pleasure mixed. Tonight, she sensed the viciousness of a man tasting a new success.

  When he cooled in sexual exhaustion she lay still, unsatisfied, a little afraid. When he left the bed and dressed he said nothing. He left the money as usual, on the dressing table near the window. And when he had gone she felt cold, and miserable and angry.

  This had been bad.

  * * *

  Bert came up at 2 a.m.

  He put on the bedside light, bending over her t
o do it, and wide-awake still, she smelt the fetid, beery breath. Through half-lidded eyes she watched him remove his shirt and vest: thickly muscled shoulders ran down to a heavy waist. Bert grinned at himself, admiring his body. ‘Not bad, hey, Doris? In spite of the beer it’s still all there, isn’t it? More than you can say for some of them pansies in the bar.’

  He finished undressing. His legs were thin, heavily veined.

  ‘Boxers’ legs,’ he said admiringly. He stood upright, six inches taller than Charlie, heavy, muscled, tough. ‘Look out, woman, I’m comin’ for yer.’

  Petulantly, Doris shrugged deeper under the bedclothes.

  ‘Not tonight, Bert, for God’s sake. And cover yourself up, you look ridiculous.’

  It was a mistake, she knew it as soon as she said it, but it had come out because of Charlie and his attitude tonight, and his contempt and the way he had used her. When Bert replied his voice was steady, but there was a cold edge to it. ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Bert, I didn’t mean that, it’s just with the bar and everything I’m tired. Let’s give it a miss tonight.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Doris was in no mood for questions. ‘What the hell do you think happened? Nothing. The money’s over there, so why don’t you just come to bed and go to sleep? Do you have to prove yourself all the time?’

  Bert clenched his fists. ‘I don’t have to prove nothing. I’m twice that pansy’s age and twice the man too. He never could satisfy you, you know that, not the way I do.’

  The silence was ugly. Doris lay stiff in the bed, suddenly frightened.

  ‘Come to bed, Bert.’ she whispered.

  He stood still, naked, ludicrous, furious. ‘You been lying to me?’

  The shadows of resentment left by Charlie Rutland suddenly took form and substance, and almost without thinking Doris leaned up in bed and screamed at Bert.

  ‘Lying, hell! Get to bed and stop prancing like a stud racehorse! I’m sick of your thundering at me every time he’s been here. It’s the only time you want to do it — what’s the matter, you need Charlie Rutland to get you working? Can’t you grind yourself up to it unless you know he’s been with me first? What happens down in the bar — do you picture him up here, and does that make you want me, afterwards? Prove yourself, to me? You’ve nothing to prove — you never were any damned good and you’ve got worse as you’ve got older! You always had the inclination but the flesh was never strong, was it?’

  Bert swore at her. He swore loudly and profanely.

  Then he advanced towards the bed. ‘I’ll damn well show you.’ he said.

  * * *

  When the perspiration had turned to ice along his back he shivered. He lay quiet for a while; Doris’s reluctant body still lay, unmoving, under his. There was contempt in her stiffness. He felt beaten, humiliated.

  He could not hide the querulousness in his tone. ‘You always said he was no good. You always said I was better, I was the best. You always said—’

  His voice trailed away, gone like his strength. He had known about Charlie, they had laughed at his open interest in Doris, and Bert had not objected too much to Charlie Rutland coming up here. Doris was a woman who needed men, he knew that, but he had always thought . . . she had always said . . .

  Her heavy body stirred angrily.

  ‘All right, you big oaf. You can get off now. You’re not going to make it, so call it a night.’

  He lurched away from her, rolled to the edge of the bed. The night air seared his heated chest with a cold edge. The strength had drained from him in his desperation but that had been a sexual strength; now, hate was building up a knot of power inside him that demanded expression. Slowly he climbed from her and sat on the edge of the bed, his head lowered like a spent bull.

  ‘Now you know, don’t you,’ Doris said spitefully. Bert ignored her. He stood up, breathed deeply, expanded his broad chest. He reached for his clothes. She watched him dress.

  ‘Where the hell are you going?’ she asked.

  Bert made no reply. He finished dressing and headed for the door. Doris sat up in bed and screamed at him. ‘I asked you a question!’

  Bert turned to look at her. His face was stiff and he found difficulty in getting out the words.

  ‘I’ll kill him,’ he said. ‘I will. I’ll kill the bastard.’

  * * *

  It was about three in the morning. Sleep was still far from Charlie Rutland. He sat in the chair and the glass of brandy glowed in his hand. It tasted like triumph in his mouth and he liked the taste, he savoured it, for just when disaster had seemed to overtake him and all the planning had been for nothing, he’d found the jackpot again, the end of the rainbow.

  Time had moved slowly tonight. He had gone to the Three Bells, taken a few drinks, caught Doris’s glance and thought — why not, it’ll pass the time. A big easy whore, one he needn’t court or think about when he had other, more serious matters on his mind. But they were resolved now, and he’d told Doris, shown her what he really thought of her tonight. She’d served a purpose. Now he was leaving Yorkshire he could return to the kind of women that really interested him. Doris . . . an experience, big, spreading, but ultimately distasteful.

  Soon, in the morning, he’d be going south. Ideas and plans began to tumble over themselves in his head like eager puppies. He finished his brandy, rose to pour another, and the doorbell buzzed, then buzzed again.

  Charlie Rutland paused, then with a confident air he walked towards the front door of the bungalow. He fumbled with the catch, and briefly he wondered just how much money there would be, in the end. Then he flung open the door, his lips framing a greeting.

  He caught one quick glimpse of the dark shape before his nose cracked and splintered and the blood gushed over his flowered shirt. He fell backwards and something heavy struck his ribs, sending the breath rushing out of his lungs. He tried to scream in pain and fear but there was only silence.

  And then the silence was without end.

  Chapter 2

  There was a Pakistani ticket collector on duty at the barrier on Leeds railway station when Detective Chief Inspector John Crow left the train. He flickered an interested glance at Crow as he passed through the barrier. Crow wore no hat and his domed skull drew the man’s attention; his deep-set eyes and curved, jutting nose held the man’s curiosity; and Crow had no doubt that as he walked away across the echoing hallway his height and general scrawniness would retain the man’s interest until he had vanished from sight.

  ‘There’s one thing, John,’ Martha sometimes said, ‘people don’t forget you easily.’

  She meant he was often remembered for his kindness to old folk in the area where they lived, and for the quiet warmth of his personality, but he was not blind to the effect his physical appearance could have on those he faced for the first time.

  The ticket collector would remember him all right. Detective-Inspector Wilson was standing beside the car in the forecourt. A uniformed constable hovered uneasily nearby, one eye on the limited waiting sign. As Crow came across, Wilson gave him a tight little smile and nodded. They hadn’t seen each other for three months: they’d been on different cases, miles apart. The demands of the Murder Squad could do that.

  ‘They didn’t tell me you were assigned to this investigation,’ Crow said.

  ‘I arrived this morning, sir. I was on leave in Harrogate — so I was on hand. I’ve fixed us up with rooms at a hotel at Backchapel — I know the owner and he can offer us all the facilities we need. It’s only seven miles from the scene of crime too, and I thought you’d prefer HQ there, rather than in town,’

  He opened the car door and took Crow’s luggage from him, placed it in the boot and slid behind the wheel.

  With a wave to the now happier constable, he turned the car and headed for City Square. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Dinner’s at eight. The scene of crime unit has been out at the murdered man’s bungalow all day, forensic have been there too, the l
iaison officer will be calling to pick us up in the morning — his name’s Jones — I’ve been in touch with the Yard for a dossier and I’ve cleared things with the Chief Constable. So—’

  ‘So there’s no need for me to turn out until morning?’

  Wilson ducked his head slightly and pulled the car into the traffic heading for Huddersfield. ‘I thought I could let you have all the details I’ve gleaned so far over dinner this evening. I’ve got some papers—’

  ‘You’ve had a busy day,’ Crow said.

  Wilson changed lanes, pulled ahead of a sedate Morris, changed lanes again. He knew the road well.

  ‘It’s a home patch,’ he said. ‘I spent eight years in the Bradford force before I joined the Mets, and there are still a few people I know. Moreover, a Bradford accent can work wonders among the lads. Makes them realize even Murder Squad people are still folk.’

  Crow smiled. He had worked with Wilson for several years. He knew him for a taciturn, dependable man, relatively short of speech and enthusiasm, occasionally right-wing in his attitudes, rarely excited, never ebullient.

  Being in Leeds and working in Yorkshire seemed to be bringing him as near to ebullience as he could possibly be. And it was obviously having its effect upon his work rate.

  They left Leeds and crossed the motorway, then swung left into a long hill-road that looped above huddled grey stone houses shouldering their way down the slopes in long terraces. The late sun dipped over the hill before they reached the top, and the distant moors had a purple tinge in the fading light. A long bank of cloud caught the dying rays and transmuted them into wisps of gold.

  The white-painted, decaying sign said Backchapel.

  * * *

  From the window of his room Crow could see a stream tumbling whitely in the gathering darkness, falling to the iron bridge that led down to the town. The hotel stood perched at the north end of Backchapel: its spacious car park told of its popularity as a pub, its select room decked in red and blue and gold showed it catered for the expensive gin and whisky trade, and the muted sounds of the juke box in the back room illustrated the proprietor’s wisdom in segregating the young from the regular.