Murder for Money Read online

  It was an empty threat, it was no threat, there was nothing a policeman could do to Earl Robson, but Robson felt the blood draining from under his tan, felt it physically like a weakening of strength.

  ‘I’m telling you the truth. I know nothing about the Yorkshire thing. His previous story . . . it wasn’t finished.’

  ‘The German story?’

  Robson’s eyes widened as he stared at Crow in surprise. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘His passport.’

  Robson was annoyed with himself as he caught the contempt in Crow’s tone.

  ‘He’s recently come back from West Germany. I presume he was chasing up some story. What was it?’

  Earl Robson hesitated. This was a line he didn’t want followed: an early investigation by Crow could well damage the chances of the Berlin story.

  ‘He went to a trade fair in Berlin.’ The words came out in spite of himself. ‘He picked up a story while he was there and stayed on to follow it up.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. That’s all there is to it. He came back, told me the story wasn’t on. So we killed it. Then a few days later he went off to Yorkshire.’

  ‘What was the story in Berlin?’

  Robson waved his hands helplessly. ‘It was killed, I tell you. There’s no point—’

  ‘Robson, I’ll decide whether it has point or not. I want to know. Who was involved?’

  His bushy eyebrows were frowning; his thin lips set firmly. Robson reached for a cigarette out of the gold-topped box that matched the pencil, and lit the cigarette with a gold lighter. His hand did not shake.

  ‘I can’t tell you very much about it. Over the phone Rutland said he had a story about a German businessman that needed following up. I gave him the go ahead, expenses and so on. But it all died when—’

  ‘Names, Mr Robson.’

  Unhappily, Robson said, ‘Gunther. Conrad Gunther. I don’t know that—’

  ‘Tell me about him. Mr Robson.’

  ‘I tell you, I don’t know that there’s a great deal I can produce for you. We did some checking of our own, of course — as soon as Rutland phoned with the name, we set our home-based people on it. But we didn’t come up with much.’

  ‘What did you come up with?’

  Robson swung the chair slightly so that the afternoon sunshine touched his cheek, gave it colour and relieved it of its bloodlessness. ‘Not a great deal. Conrad Gunther was born in Germany in 1915. He served in North Africa during the Second World War in the Panzer Corps. When the war was over, he went back to Germany for a few years but soon took the opportunity to leave. He travelled for a while but eventually ended up in South America. His solid war record found favour with German expatriates there — some of whom, no doubt, were ex-Nazis, though he is clearly not of that ilk — and he did well. He married the daughter of a diamond merchant in 1951, and he adopted a child two years later, a boy. Using capital left to his wife. he started a machine tools company which expanded with great speed. A successful businessman himself, he soon decided to go into consultancy. His machine tools factories he placed under a holding company, and he started his consultancy in South America, later South Africa and eventually Europe. He has done well, and continues to do well.’

  He did not meet Crow’s glance as the inspector asked quietly, ‘So what was Rutland’s interest in Gunther? He was hardly about to write of him in glowing terms. Was he going to suggest a Nazi background for him?’

  Robson shook his head firmly.

  ‘No chance of that. Conrad Gunther’s record is impeccable. He was a soldier, not a Nazi; he had much in common with Rommel.’

  ‘So what would have been Rutland’s angle?’

  Robson shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘You have to realize, Inspector, in this game we work on whispers, rumour, even half-truths, which suddenly blossom into information that is . . . something of a sensation. Rutland . . . he felt that he could make use of a topical article on Gunther. You see, shortly, Gunther is coming to this country. It’s said he will be talking about establishing a London HQ for his consultancy firm now that we are moving into Europe. He wants to forge links on that, and on machine tools in addition. You’re aware, of course, that our machine tools industry is not in the healthiest of states. Gunther would be helping at top executive and Government level to right the matter. But Rutland—’ he scratched his cheek nervously—’ Rutland thought we might embarrass Gunther, and the Government.’

  ‘How?’

  Robson did not reply immediately. He kept his eyes fixed on his desk. His mind was spinning, casting a web ahead, as he calculated chances and pressures and time. Gunther would be in England within ten days.

  ‘I told you Gunther had set up in South Africa,’ he said harshly. ‘Well, Rutland had it on the grapevine that Gunther had used his agency there as a cover. He was carrying out trade agreements with Rhodesia. We felt that if we could prove this before Gunther arrived, we’d cause something of a sensation. You know — Government taking advice from an ex-enemy and a sanctions-breaker. It could have caused a flurry.’

  There was a short silence. Crow sat still, watching Earl Robson’s face.

  ‘Is that the whole story?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  At least, it’s all you’re going to bloody well get, Earl Robson thought viciously to himself.

  * * *

  When Crow had gone, Robson walked across to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a stiff whisky. He sipped it, staring into the mirror on the far wall. The colour had returned to his cheeks now, and his confidence had returned. No damned policeman was going to get the better of Earl Robson.

  He took a stiff swallow and returned to his desk. He switched the intercom and called his secretary.

  ‘I want Charlie Rutland’s files brought up here immediately.’

  They arrived ten minutes later. Over his second whisky Robson ploughed through them until he found the one he wanted. The file on Conrad Gunther.

  If they moved quickly enough on this one, if someone else — young Grant perhaps — could dig up what Charlie suspected, they could still make it big — even tie in hints about Rutland’s death.

  He put down the file and walked across the room to the mirror. He stared at his reflection. There was a yellowish tinge about the whites of his eyes, as though he was suffering from some internal complaint. Or maybe it was nervousness. This story on Conrad Gunther —

  The door whispered open behind him.

  Robson spun on his heel, stupefied. No one came in here unannounced, his secretary vetted everyone first, and he opened his mouth in protest, but the man who had entered forestalled him.

  ‘Good afternoon. I won’t keep you long.’

  He was young and tall and he moved with a slim, powerful grace. His fair hair was cut shorter than was the fashion among young men. There was a Slavic touch about his features and his eyes were pale blue, narrow, cold as the eyes of a snake. He was smiling, but his face was still and the smile meant nothing, formal as a stranger’s handshake.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Robson demanded.

  ‘My name is Dance.’

  Incredibly, Robson saw him walk towards the desk. He glanced at the files spread out there and he picked up the one Robson had been studying. He turned to Robson, still smiling.

  ‘I’ve come to collect these papers.’

  Robson took a step forward, fluttered ineffectual hands in protest.

  ‘But you can’t come in here and—’

  ‘I’ve come to collect these papers.’ the stranger repeated, and the smile faded as his voice changed, took on an edge of menace. ‘And to kill your story on Conrad Gunther.’

  Chapter 4

  Crow returned to Leeds on the morning train. The same policeman was on duty in the forecourt. Crow wondered whether he ever did anything else.

  The police driver took him expertly through the morning traffic to the station headquarters. Wilson was waiting in the room set aside for them. H
e got straight down to business as soon as Crow arrived.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Rutland’s landlord. Not much he could tell me. He didn’t like Rutland, though, and was a bit querulous about the suspicion that Rutland was subletting, of all things.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It seems that shortly after Rutland took the bungalow the landlord was in the area and thought he saw someone go into the place. It wasn’t Rutland and the landlord was a bit annoyed. He says it’s clear enough from the lease that no subletting is allowed without his permission—’

  ‘Was it a man or woman he saw going in?’

  ‘A man. Apparently he went to the bungalow and knocked the door but got no answer. He didn’t have the keys on him so he left it then. But he complained to Rutland who denied he had a sublet — just said he’d allowed a friend to leave some fishing tackle there.’

  Crow frowned.

  ‘A friend? Any record of Rutland having a friend around here?’

  ‘Can’t trace anyone. So, either the landlord was mistaken, or Rutland was lying . . . but subletting! Hardly in Rutland’s line, I would have thought.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree. Anything else?’

  Wilson nodded and pointed to a sheaf of papers on the desk. ‘I instigated a thorough check with a number of the local men, and I soon came up with a few statements that have proved useful. Rutland visited a pub called the Three Bells during the last few weeks before he died. A couple of times he went there and back by taxi — other times he used the bus. The statements there on the desk are from a number of men who used the pub themselves, a taxi driver, and a couple of women who live near the Three Bells.’

  ‘So what was the attraction of the Three Bells?’

  Wilson’s face was passive. ‘The statements suggest it was a woman, the wife of the licensee.’

  ‘And you think it’s the woman?’

  ‘If one can believe rumour.’

  Crow grunted and reached for the statements. He read through them quickly. They displayed envy, malice, inquisitiveness in the affairs of other people. They amounted to little that was positive, but much that was customarily used by the police. It was a distasteful way of going about things, prying into people’s lives by questioning their neighbours, but it had to be done. It was part of the job. Crow didn’t like it. These would have to be followed up.

  ‘Has anything come through from Dr Frust at forensic yet?’ he asked, replacing the statements on the desk.

  ‘Nothing so far. I’ve asked Detective-Sergeant Jones to call at the lab this afternoon and try to get them to hurry things along so we have an approximate time of death and so on. Frust did ring this morning before you came in and confirmed that the blood and hair on the poker is Rutland’s and it is the murder weapon, but there was nothing by way of fingerprints that could be identifiable.’

  Crow grimaced his dissatisfaction. ‘Well, we’ll need time of death before we can start pressing to conclusions on this,’ he said, tapping the bunch of statements.

  ‘I thought a preliminary interview might be useful, sir . . .’

  ‘You’ve got the woman here?’

  She had been waiting for an hour.

  She was a big blonde woman with bedraggled eyes and a body that had seen good days and perhaps better nights. She was in her early thirties, but her flesh was beginning to spread, jowls had started to appear in her jawline and she sat heavy and solid in the chair. She was not unattractive; there was an overt sexuality about her, an animal warmth that would call many men and probably had. Crow preferred more subtle attractions, but he had no doubt that in a bar-room this woman would have had her fair share of attention. Her eyes brightened as she looked at him, walking into the room, as though she could hardly believe what she saw. Then the realization of his position rippled a nervous shudder through her and she looked away again.

  Crow sat down, Wilson remained near the door.

  ‘Mrs Doris Orchard?’

  ‘That’s me.’ she said, and made it sound defensive. Her voice had a throaty quality, sex or cigarette smoke, Crow couldn’t decide.

  ‘Do you know why you’ve been asked to come here?’

  ‘No one told me nothing.’ Sex. The throatiness had disappeared as sullenness intervened. It would come back.

  ‘We want to have a talk with you about Charles Rutland.’

  ‘Charlie—’ Her mouth suddenly seemed ugly and tortured, as though she felt she didn’t deserve her lot. ‘I don’t know nothing about that business.’

  ‘You knew Rutland?’

  ‘Of course. He used to come in the Three Bells for a drink. Started coming a month, six weeks back.’

  ‘Did you get to know him very well?’

  ‘I have a giggle and a chat with all the fellers who come in the bar.’ she said swiftly, with the urgency of a woman seeking to forestall a question she didn’t want to answer. ‘It’s good for trade, makes them think they’re all Casanovas, that sort of thing. It doesn’t mean anything, though. Bert—’

  She stopped talking as quickly as she had started.

  She stared at the floor. Her blonde hair was piled high, in a beehive hairdo. Stray pieces straggled away, and Crow could see her make-up had been carelessly applied this morning. Doris Orchard had things on her mind.

  ‘What were you doing the night Rutland died?’

  Crow asked quietly.

  ‘Working in the bar as usual.’

  ‘Did you see Rutland in the bar that night?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  But people always remembered seeing a person in such circumstances. Crow didn’t say it, but it hung in the silence between them.

  ‘We’ve got witnesses who say he was in the Three Bells on Friday night, Mrs Orchard.’

  ‘Then I suppose he was there,’ she said snappily. ‘Friday, yes, he was there, I remember now, he was in the bar where I was serving and he was a bit cheeky, sort of familiar, you know, and I had to tell him not to take—’

  ‘As far as I hear,’ Crow interrupted, ‘he was always rather familiar with you.’

  The rhythm of her breathing changed. There was a hardness about her eyes as she looked at Crow. She tried to smile but its brilliance was forced.

  ‘I told you, with all the men, I’m—’

  ‘That’s not the way we hear it,’ Wilson interrupted. Crow leaned back in his chair and shook his head sympathetically.

  ‘This isn’t an attempt to trap you into admissions, Mrs Orchard. We have a number of statements here which say that you and Rutland were more than friendly. He was seen leaving the Three Bells several times, late at night, after closing time, when your husband was downstairs and you were not. We’re not concerned about the situation over and above this one question: was Charles Rutland with you on the night he died?’

  Doris Orchard shook her head vehemently. Then she sat, waiting. Crow and Wilson said nothing. She shifted in her chair and the silence deepened around her. She looked up, glancing from Crow to Wilson, and her eyes were dead. Slowly the colour ebbed from her face until her features seemed carved from chalk, highlighted by smeared lipstick and dark eye-shadow.

  ‘The hell with it,’ she said dully. ‘Yes. He was with me.’

  ‘There is medical evidence to suggest he had sexual intercourse that evening.’

  ‘Yes. I said it. He was with me.’

  Crow leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘Perhaps you’d tell me about it — how long he’s been coming to you, your husband’s reaction—’

  ‘Bert isn’t my husband,’ she said with a sudden tartness. ‘I never been married, and Bert’s got a wife in Southampton, he hasn’t seen her in years. We been living together for five years, and at the Three Bells for three.’ She paused and life flickered deeply in her eyes as though she were looking inward for the past. ‘He had a pub in Birmingham and I worked in the bar. We decided to shack up together and he got the Three Bells.’

  ‘And Rutland?’ Crow prompted gently.


  Doris Orchard shrugged indifferently. ‘He showed up at the Three Bells a couple of months ago. Used to come in for a drink on a Friday, gave me the eye, chatted me up in the bar. He was interested. In the end, he used to visit me. He came about six or seven times in all.’

  She anticipated Crow’s next question. ‘Bert wasn’t bothered. You got to understand how it is. Bert and me are living together, but that don’t give us any rights over each other. If he wants another woman, that’s up to him. I don’t think he does, actually, but that’s up to him.’ She hesitated, and defiance crept into her voice. ‘Me, I’m different. I like men and Charlie Rutland showed he wanted me, so . . . And he was generous.’

  ‘He gave you money?’

  She bridled at the surprise in Crow’s tone. ‘It wasn’t straight like that. He didn’t have to give me money, but he chose to. It was a gift. That was all right by me. And Bert didn’t mind, you understand that? He didn’t care. It was all right by him. It was our arrangement.’

  She lapsed into sudden silence and sat there, breathing heavily as though she had run a race. Her face was still white.

  Crow was puzzled. Doris Orchard had made her admissions under very little pressure from him, and they were admissions a woman would not enjoy making. Yet he felt she was not telling him everything: she was giving, in an attempt to display candour, but it was a candour that concealed something else.

  ‘Bert Orchard wasn’t at the Three Bells?’ he asked, looking towards the impassive Wilson.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘He went off to London yesterday,’ Doris said hurriedly. ‘Bert has to do all the buying for the pub, you know, cigarettes, cigars, crisps and all that. We been a bit fed up with the contracts some of the reps fixed for us, so Bert went down to sort things out.’

  ‘That shouldn’t take him long.’

  ‘He’s going to stay on for a week or so, take a holiday,’ she said. ‘Long time since he took a holiday. He’s going to take a rest.’