Murder for Money Read online

  The dining-room was small, the tablecloths were white and clean, the menu was simple but good. Crow decided it would do. He told Wilson so, over coffee.

  ‘I thought it would,’ Wilson said. ‘Joe Bembridge is an old friend and he runs a good hostelry. And he’ll leave us well alone. There’s three rooms top of the landing we can use as an HQ when we’re not wanting the station facilities. I’ve got the papers up there.’

  Crow sipped his coffee, held the cup between long, predatory fingers.

  ‘You can let me have the details now. I’ll see the papers later.’

  Wilson nodded, pushed his chair back from the table and folded his arms. His broad face was slightly flushed: Crow had seen red wine do that for him before. It did not affect his mental capacities.

  ‘The dead man was called Charles Rutland. Thirty-six years old, five feet eight inches, slimly built, about ten stone in weight, dark curly hair, blue eyes.’

  ‘Sounds like a passport description.’

  ‘Some of it is. We found his passport in his wallet inside a travelling case. He’s done a bit of globe-trotting: most recently, West Germany.’

  ‘In what capacity?’

  Wilson frowned slightly. ‘I wondered whether you might have heard of him. He writes for Scathe magazine.’

  For a moment Crow had thought the frown was for his lack of perspicacity in not knowing the name Rutland; now he realized Wilson was simply showing his customary displeasure at anything concerned with leftwing activity, radicalism, pornography or overt sex.

  ‘Scathe magazine,’ Crow murmured.

  ‘You’ll know the magazine, sir,’ Wilson said stiffly. ‘Rubbish.’

  Crow knew it all right. It had arisen during the satirical boom in the fifties, but it had pursued a different course than its contemporaries. It had not sought to lampoon; rather, it had set out to make as much money out of sensationalism as it possibly could. In general, it had steered clear of important people who could have hurt it — at least, unless it was pretty certain of its facts. There had been three lawsuits in its first five years, and several near misses. Two police investigations had been mounted but they had been abortive: Scathe sailed close to the wind but employed excellent company lawyers and existed this side of libel. Of recent years it had started to take itself a little more seriously — aiming shafts at political figures, but even so the mixture was largely as before: political dirt, sexual titillation, veiled insult, the knowing finger along the nose.

  As Wilson had said — rubbish, but nasty too.

  ‘I’ve carried out checks with the local police and they tell me Rutland rented a bungalow at Earston a month or so back. It looks as though he felt like escaping from London from time to time.’

  ‘Odd,’ Crow said. ‘I mean, a man who travels around a great deal, renting a place in Yorkshire. You’d have thought he’d have settled for something more exotic.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, sir,’ Wilson said, and looked Crow in the eye. Crow smiled.

  ‘All right. Go on.’

  ‘As far as I can make out, Rutland came up here, looked around for a suitable place, rented the bungalow and then moved in. He must have been taking some leave, for he spent quite a bit of time around here. He had no car but he hired one to take him around — I’ve not been able to speak to the driver because he’s off on a fishing holiday in the Lake District and no one seems to know where he went, exactly. He’s expected back end of the week. One thing seems fairly clear — Rutland certainly took in some countryside in his hired car.’

  Crow finished his coffee and pushed the cup away. ‘Tell me about the killing.’

  ‘Rutland was lying in the hall of the bungalow. As far as I can make out he’d answered the door and been attacked immediately. His face is badly marked, nose broken and so on, but he was killed by the blows struck to the top of his head. Forensic have a bloodstained poker — it looks like the murder weapon.’

  ‘Did Rutland put up much of a struggle?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’ Wilson hesitated doubtfully. ‘Maybe it happened too quickly for him to defend himself — he couldn’t even have raised his hands. He must have been knocked backwards before he could do a thing. There’s not much by way of signs of a struggle in that hall.’

  ‘We’ll take a look in the morning,’ Crow said. ‘Right now I’ll have a look at the notes you’ve produced, and then it’ll be an early night. It could be the last one we’ll have for a while.’

  * * *

  The bungalow was unassuming, grey stone, crouched at the far end of Earston village and shadowed by the looming hill beyond. The village itself was little more than a huddle of terraced cottages, once used by the mill workers down at the bottom of the hill. The chimneys were quiet now, the mill derelict, and the cottages had not yet been caught up by the desire for country residences by the middle-class members of the town areas. Crow doubted whether they would be — except for Charles Rutland. The valley looked bleak and desolate to him. He felt a stranger here.

  The police constable on duty in the weed-ridden front garden saluted him as he made his way towards the door. Inside the bungalow, Wilson introduced him to Detective-Sergeant Jones, the liaison officer. He was a sallow, dark-haired man who was unduly polite, almost to the edge of servility. Perhaps this was the first time he’d worked with Murder Squad people.

  The man who came out of the sitting-room was introduced as Dr Frust. He was small, dapper in a check shirt and bright bow-tie, and his eyes twinkled behind pince-nez glasses. There was something irrepressibly cheerful in his manner: Crow had seen it before among Home Office pathologists. He suspected it was a defence mechanism against horror.

  ‘I’ve just been carrying out some further checks in the sitting-room,’ Frust said. ‘And I had a look around the fireplace. I’d wondered about it, you see. The killer would hardly have wanted to be seen walking the streets with a poker, would he? Come here.’

  He beckoned, and Crow followed him into the sitting-room. It was about fifteen feet long, with an old sash window at the far end. The fireplace to which Frust pointed was as old as the window: the whole place needed considerable modernization. Crow couldn’t imagine why Rutland would have wanted to rent it. Frust was standing near the dead coal fire.

  ‘You see? There’s a stand here — no poker, just a dustpan and brush. But that’s where the poker came from. And Rutland was murdered in the hall.’

  ‘No sign of a struggle in here?’ Crow asked sharply. Frust and Wilson answered together, in the negative, and Frust chuckled.

  ‘Deduction’s not strictly my business, I just deal in facts, but I never could resist hypotheses. If you want my view, this is how it went: Rutland was sitting there — see his glass, placed on the table? He was having a drink — brandy — when the bell went. He put down the drink, walked out, opened the front door and-wham !’

  Frust readjusted his glasses and grinned.

  ‘I’ve had a quick look at the body and Rutland took quite a beating around the face. A few kicks in the ribs too, I suspect — I think there may be fractures of the rib cage. But after all this when Rutland was lying there in the hallway, the killer took second wind, came in here, looked around for a suitable weapon, picked up the poker and beat Rutland’s head in. Just like that.’

  ‘Messy,’ Crow said grimly.

  ‘Very. But deliberate.’

  ‘You can’t say exactly when all this took place ?’

  Frust blinked. ‘Oh, give us time, Chief Inspector. It’s too early yet. We took some rectal readings but they’re hardly accurate—’

  ‘Give me a rough estimate.’

  ‘It’ll be very rough.’ Frust said, frowning. ‘But I’d say all this happened pretty late at night — maybe even during the early hours of the morning.’

  ‘A late caller.’ Crow said. ‘Anything else you can give us so far?’

  Frust grinned delightedly. ‘There’s a general routine about these investigations, as you know, and it’ll take us some litt
le time to sort out time of death, cause of death and so on. But I’ve got one assistant down at the lab who’s rather kinky about one aspect of all cadavers. He enjoys his work, so I let him indulge himself immediately Rutland came in on the blood wagon.’

  ‘So?’

  Frust’s grin widened. ‘He tells me Charles Rutland probably had sexual intercourse not too long before he died.’

  ‘How long?’ Crow asked sharply.

  Frust spread his hands wide.

  ‘Can’t tell that, until we work out the time of death. But I’ll be in touch. Nice to meet you.’

  Wilson’s mouth was rather stiff. Crow took the official photographs of the dead man from his briefcase and studied them in relation to the dark marks on the hall carpet.

  ‘Sex . . . and Scathe magazine. That’ll do to start with.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Crow put the photograph back in the briefcase and looked at Wilson. ‘Personal life and business life, the old story, Wilson. In this case, you take one, I’ll take the other. You’re the local man, you talk the lingo. I want you to go through this bungalow with a fine toothcomb, get anything you can on Charles Rutland. And I want you to conduct the local enquiries: I want to know what Rutland’s been up to here on his vacation, if that’s what it was. I want to know where he’s been going and who he’s been going with. It may be you’ll be able to turn up some local gossip about a woman he’s been seeing. If he has had sexual intercourse recently I want you to find his partner. We’ll have questions to ask of her.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And I think I’d better talk to the owner of the bungalow too. He’s a local man, lives in Batley. He may be able to throw some light on Rutland’s activities.’

  Crow nodded, satisfied. ‘Good. I’ll want to have a good look around here and then I’m going along to see the Chief Constable, make sure everything’s smooth on the liaison front. I’ll also want to put out a statement to the Press before they start hounding us. I’ll be at the hotel this evening and we can have another talk after dinner, but then I’ll be leaving you to get on with investigating Rutland’s movements in Yorkshire,’

  He walked away towards the bedroom. Over his shoulder he said, ‘I’ll be off to London in the morning. I want to have a talk with Scathe magazine.’

  Chapter 3

  Earl Robson set great store by appearance.

  He sat in his office at Scathe magazine dressed in his grey suit, grey suede shoes, grey silk shirt and grey-pink tie but he knew he was not a grey person: his handsome tan, black hair and white teeth backed up a confidence of manner that told the world he was a success at forty and liked it. He used his face and his slim figure the way an actor would, always conscious of angles, always aware of an audience, always controlled in his attitudes. He had piercing blue eyes and heavy eyebrows: he could bring thunderclouds to his features with the latter, lightning with the former.

  At this moment his eyebrows were faintly surprised, his eyes sardonic, as he observed the man seated in front of him.

  Tall, over six feet; hairless skull and bushy eyebrows; an expensive suit whose cut could not conceal the awkward gangling nature of the body that inhabited it; thin bony wrists and long fingers like talons.

  Decidedly unprepossessing, and therefore not a man of account.

  ‘I suppose,’ he said coolly, ‘you’ve come on account of Charlie Rutland.’

  Detective Chief Inspector Crow’s eyes were calm.

  He nodded slowly. ‘That’s right. You’ve heard about it then?’

  Robson managed a sneer without detracting overmuch from his good looks. ‘It was in the newspapers yesterday. Battered to death, I understand.’

  ‘You don’t seem unduly concerned about it.’

  ‘My dear man,’ Robson drawled as he picked up a gold-topped pencil from the broad desk and began to play with it, ‘is there any reason why I should be over-concerned?’

  ‘Rutland was an employee of yours.’

  ‘And a good one. Oh, I’ll admit that quite freely. Charlie Rutland was one of our best men — but that isn’t to say we haven’t got others, and there are plenty of men only too eager to step into his shoes. You see, Inspector, Scathe magazine is a profitable journal, it pays high fees and demands good copy. We can replace Rutland easily enough.’

  ‘You surprise me. I thought good journalists were difficult to find.’ Crow said mildly.

  ‘Ah, but in our kind of journalism—’ Robson stopped suddenly. He was vaguely aware that he had been caught in a corner and he didn’t like it. He showed no sign of being ruffled, however. ‘Let’s just say we can replace him. Now then . . . I’m not at all sure that I’ll be able to help you in your enquiries into his death.’

  ‘There are a number of questions I’d like to ask you, nevertheless. First of all, I understand Rutland was on leave — did he often spend his leave in Yorkshire?’

  Robson tossed the pencil languidly upon the desk and watched it roll. ‘Leave? I don’t know where you got that idea.’

  ‘You mean he was working up there?’

  ‘I imagine so, yes.’

  Crow raised his bushy eyebrows. His voice was very quiet. Robson had noticed this with many men who came into his office: he had a presence, an appearance of aristocratic ennui that unsettled people. He cultivated it. It would account for this policeman’s quietness.

  ‘You imagine so, Mr Robson?’

  ‘Well, let me put it like this. Rutland was a good man. He’s been on the magazine for some years. I could tru— I knew he’d bring up the goods if given his head. So, when he went off to the wilds of Yorkshire that was all right by me. He was working on a story—’

  ‘What story?’

  Robson did not care for interruptions. He raised an eyebrow and sniffed. ‘You should know better than that, Inspector. Journalists don’t discuss stories or sources.’

  ‘No? They sometimes get sent to prison if they won’t.’ Crow said with the hint of a smile. Robson decided the smile denoted nervousness. He made no reply and after a moment Crow said, ‘Tell me about Rutland.’

  Robson shrugged indifferently. ‘I told you, he was a good journalist. He came up with very printable material. He had a nose for a . . .’ He almost said ‘scandal’. He changed it smoothly. ‘For a good story.’

  ‘Could you let me see some of his stories of recent months?’

  ‘Our library is at your disposal.’

  ‘I suppose these stories he wrote, they could make him enemies?’

  Earl Robson exposed his teeth in a warm smile at the underestimation the policeman displayed. The warmth of his smile found no reflection in his eyes. ‘Enemies! My dear man, to put it in the vernacular, he had more enemies than we’ve had hot dinners. Let me say this about Charlie Rutland: he made enemies with the good copy he produced, but he made almost as many enemies among the people he met. Charlie Rutland,’ he added feelingly, ‘was a right bastard.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You name it.’

  Crow shrugged and contemplated his hands. ‘Perhaps you could give me some names?’

  Robson swung his chair from side to side in an easy, soothing motion. He smiled again, half closed his eyes and ticked off the names on his fingers. ‘Edwards, Holmes, Dick Shaw, Phil Peters, Dawnay, Acton and Squires, Sims — will they do for a start?’

  Crow was staring at him impassively. For a moment, Robson wondered whether he had summed up the man wrongly, but Robson was not accustomed to making such admissions to himself.

  ‘You’re on a very long trail, Inspector, believe me.’

  ‘It may be that I could find a few short cuts.’ Crow replied. His tone remained quiet as he added, ‘For instance, the name Earl Robson was not among those you mentioned.’

  Robson’s chair stopped swinging. He glared at the skeletal figure of the policeman sitting upright in the chair facing him. Could the man have already made enquiries? Could he already know about Rutland and Sandra?

  ‘I don’t think I cared for th
at remark.’ he said, letting the steel slip into his voice. Crow was, surprisingly, unmoved.

  ‘And I don’t care about your feelings, Mr Robson. I’m here to ask questions. You said Rutland made enemies easily, and you spoke with feeling. Were you one of his enemies?’

  ‘I was his employer.’

  ‘That’s no answer to the question.’

  ‘I . . .’ Robson began to move his chair again but the smooth rhythm had gone. He watched the policeman, and thought back over the months. He had been divorced almost a year ago; Sandra had returned three months ago; there was no official connection between Rutland and Sandra, so Crow could know nothing. He shook his head, positively and confidently.

  ‘I was Rutland’s employer. I will be completely frank and say I didn’t like him, but I didn’t have to — it was his copy I was interested in. As managing editor and proprietor of Scathe I could afford to ignore his insolence, crudity, ill manners and bad taste, just as long as he brought in his stories. Equally, I can afford to ignore his death. It doesn’t touch me.’

  ‘A death can touch us all, Mr Robson.’ Crow leaned forward, linked his long fingers, right hand to left. ‘Let’s get back to the Yorkshire story.’

  ‘I told you, I—’

  ‘No, you didn’t tell me. So I’m asking again.’ Surprise touched Robson. He tried to smile but was conscious of its stiffness. This man touched him with ice, and few had been able to do that.

  ‘I . . . I can’t have made myself clear. Rutland was a law unto himself. He went to Yorkshire, told me he was on a story. I don’t know what it was. It certainly might have been about something that could have led to his death, but I don’t know.’

  ‘What story was he working on previously?’

  ‘I really can’t go ahead and—’

  ‘Robson.’ Crow’s voice had changed; the mildness had faded, it was still quiet but it held hints of menace. ‘I’m beginning to feel you’re wasting my time. I haven’t time to waste. This is a murder investigation. Give me your assistance. If you don’t, I’ll do more than demand it. I’ll take it.’