Brought in Dead

CHAPTER 7

When Monica Grey opened her door and found Duncan Craig standing there, she tried to close it quickly, but he was inside before she could stop him.

She backed away, her throat going dry, and he shook his head slowly. “I’m not going to hurt you, I’m not going to harm you in any way. Just sit down like a good girl and listen to me.”

Suddenly she was no longer afraid. In fact for some strange reason she felt like crying and she did as she was told and slumped down on the bed.

“You lied at the inquest, didn’t you?”

“I had to. God knows what would have happened to me if I hadn’t done as I was told.”

“Then your original statement to Sergeant Miller was true? It was Max Vernon who first gave my daughter heroin?”

“It had to be him,” she said. “It couldn’t have been anyone else.”

“And Vernon who continued to supply her.”

She nodded. “One of his little sidelines.”

“You know a great deal about him, don’t you?”

“Plenty,” she said, “but you needn’t think I’m going to sing out in open court for you or anyone else.”

“You won’t have to. Have you got a passport?”

She nodded. “Somewhere around the place. Why?”

He took a large buff envelope from his inside breast pocket. “You’ll find traveller’s cheques in here for one thousand pounds plus a ticket on the four-thirty flight to London Airport.”

“And just how long do you think it would take Max Vernon to catch up with me?”

“At least a couple of days. Long enough for you to complete any formalities, have any necessary inoculations and so on. You’ll find another plane ticket in the envelope — a first-class single to Sydney. You could be on your way by Wednesday.”

“You mean Sydney, Australia?”

“That’s right. You’ll also find a letter to a business friend of mine out there. He’ll fix you up with a job and help you get started. You’ll be all right. He owes me a favour.”

Her eyes were shining and the lines had been wiped clean from her forehead. Colonel Craig laid the envelope down on the bed beside her.

“In return I want you to tell me everything there is to know about Max Vernon.”

She didn’t hesitate. “It’s a deal. You talk and I’ll pack.”

“They tell me he was the brains behind one or two big jobs in the London area. The Knavesmire Airport bullion robbery for instance. Has he pulled anything like that up here?”

“Not as far as I know, but I think there’s something in the wind. There’s been some funny customers in and out of the place lately.”

“What about the Flamingo? Is the game honest?”

“It has to be.” She pulled a suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe. “It caters for the most exclusive clientele in town.”

“You wouldn’t have a key to the place by any chance?”

“Sure — to the back door.” She opened her handbag, produced a Yale key and threw it across. “My pleasure.”

“What other little enterprises does Vernon operate?”

“There’s the betting shops.”

“I’m looking for something rather more illegal.”

“That’s easy. He runs a cut liquor still up the York Road. Gibson’s Furniture Factory it says outside, but it’s a front. Supplies clubs all over the north.”

“Where does the liquor come from in the first place?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Some from long distance lorries that took the wrong turning. Some they make on the premises. He’s got money tied up in that place.”

“But more still in the Flamingo?”

She fastened the lid on one suitcase and took down another. “Better than a hundred thousand. Without the Flamingo he’s nothing. He had to take what he could get when he sold up in London. They say he dropped a bundle.”

“And what about the betting shops?”

“He operates them on a day-to-day basis using the cash from the previous night’s take at the Flamingo. He still hasn’t got on his feet up here yet.”

“So everything revolves around the Flamingo.”

“I suppose you could say that.” She frowned suddenly. “What are you getting at?”

“Never you mind, you’ve got other things to think about now.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll have to get moving. We’ve got exactly half an hour to get you to the airport.”

The Bull & Bell Yard was not far from the market, a dirty and sunless cobbled alley named after the public house which had stood there for more than two hundred years. Beside the entrance to the snug stood several overflowing dustbins and cardboard boxes and packing cases were thrown together in an untidy heap.

It was raining slightly and an old man squatted against the wall, a bottle of beer in one hand, a sandwich in the other. He wore an ancient army greatcoat and his hair and beard were long and matted.

The door opened and a barman appeared in the entrance, a bucket in one hand. He was a large, hefty young man in a white apron with long dark sideburns and a cold, rather dangerous face. He emptied the bucket of slops across the cobbles and looked down at the old man in disgust.

“You still here, Sailor? Christ Jesus, I don’t know how you can stand it.”

“Go on, Harry,” the old man said hoarsely. “Ain’t doing any ’arm, am I?”

The barman went back inside and Sailor raised the bottle of beer to his lips. He lowered it slowly, his mouth gaping in amazement. The man who stood facing him had the most extraordinary eyes the Sailor had ever seen, quite dark and completely expressionless. He wore a three-quarter length British warm, a bowler hat and carried a tightly rolled umbrella.

His hand disappeared into a pocket and came out holding a pound note. “Do you know Mr. Vernon?” he said. “Mr. Max Vernon?” Sailor nodded. “Is he inside?”

“In the snug, governor.”

The man in the bowler hat dropped the pound note into his lap. “I’m very much obliged to you,” he said and went inside.

Sailor waited for no more than a moment and then he scrambled to his feet, pushed open the door an inch or two and peered in.

The Bull & Bell did ninety-five per cent of its trade in the evenings, which was why Max Vernon preferred to patronise it in the afternoon. For one thing it meant that he could have the snug to himself, which was handy for business of a certain kind.

He sat on a stool at the bar finishing a roast beef sandwich, a pint of bitter at his elbow, and Carver and Stratton lounged on the window seat chatting idly.

It was Carver who first noticed Craig standing in the doorway. “Christ Almighty,” he said and then there was a long silence.

Craig moved into the snug and paused against the bar three or four feet away from Vernon. “There you are, Vernon. You know you’re a damned difficult fellow to run down. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I’m in the telephone book, colonel,” Vernon said calmly.

“Ah, but that wouldn’t have suited my purpose at all, I’m afraid,” Craig said. “What I was hoping for was a private chat — just the two of us.”

He glanced at Carver and Stratton and Vernon shrugged. “There’s nothing you can say to me that these two can’t hear.”

“Suit yourself.” Craig took a cigarette from a pigskin case and lit it carefully. “I expect you’ll be wondering why Monica Grey didn’t turn up for work last night. She gave me a message for you.”

“Did she now?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to manage without her in future.” Craig blew smoke up towards the ceiling in a long streamer. “Actually I had a very informative chat with her after which I put her on a plane with a first-class ticket to somewhere so far away that she can forget she ever knew a man called Max Vernon.”

“What is this?” Vernon said. “A declaration of war?”

“To the knife,” Craig said pleasantly. “First of all I’m going to destroy the things that are important to you, Vernon. After that, and only when I’m ready, I’m going to destroy you.”

Stratton took a sudden step forward and Vernon raised his hand quickly. “Stay where you are!” He looked Craig up and down and shook his head slowly. “It’s been tried, colonel. It’s been tried by the best in the business and they all ended up flat on their faces.”

“But you did have to get out of London in rather a hurry.”

“So what — I’ll be up there on top again. I’m on my way now. I’ll run this town before I’m finished.”

“The great Max Vernon,” Craig said. “He always gets what he wants.”

“That’s it.”

“Including my daughter.”

“Including your daughter. She saw things my way by the time I was through with her.”

For the first time, Craig’s iron composure cracked and his hand tightened around the handle of his umbrella. He half raised it as if to strike, but quickly regained control.

“Thank you for saying that, Vernon. You’ve made it a lot easier for me.”

Vernon’s easy smile vanished in an instant. “You know something, you remind me of my old colonel. I couldn’t stand him either. Harry!” he called. “Get in here!”

Harry came in from the other bar drying a pewter tankard. “Yes, Mr. Vernon?”

Vernon nodded towards Craig and picked up his newspaper. “Get rid of him.”

“Certainly, Mr. Vernon.” Harry lifted the bar flap and moved out. “Right, on your way, mate.”

“I’ll go when I’m ready,” Craig said pleasantly.

Harry’s right hand fastened on Craig’s collar and they went through the door with a rush to a chorus of laughter from Stratton and Carver. As the door to the alley burst open, Sailor ducked behind a packing case and waited.

Harry was grinning widely, an arm around Craig’s throat. “We don’t like fancy sods like you coming around here annoying the customers.” He didn’t get the chance to say anything else. Craig’s right elbow swung back sharply connecting just beneath the ribs and, as Harry swung back gasping, he pivoted on one foot.

“You should never let anyone get that close. They haven’t been teaching you properly.”

Harry gave a cry of rage and sprang forward, his right fist swinging in a tremendous punch. Craig grabbed for the wrist with both hands and twisted it round and up so that he held him in a Japanese shoulder lock. Harry cried out in agony and still keeping that terrible hold in position, Craig ran him head-first into the stack of packing cases. As he bent down to retrieve his umbrella, Vernon appeared in the doorway, Carver and Stratton crowding behind him. Craig nodded briefly. “I’ll be in touch, Vernon,” he said and walked briskly away.

It was perhaps ten minutes later that the ’phone rang on Nick Miller’s desk in the main C.I.D. room. He picked up the receiver at once and a familiar voice roughened by years of drink and disease sounded in his ear.

“That you, Sergeant Miller? This is Sailor — Sailor Hagen. I’m ringing from a call box in City Square. I’ve got something good for you. What’s it worth?”

“Depends what it’s about,” Miller said.

“The bloke who took over Harry Faulkner’s place, the Flamingo. Max Vernon.”

Miller was already on his feet. “I’ll meet you by the fountain in five minutes,” he said and hung up.

When Miller was shown in, Vernon was in the main casino looking over arrangements for the evening opening. “You’re getting to be a permanent fixture around here,” he said.

“You can cut out the funny stuff,” Miller told him. “What happened at the Bull & Bell?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Duncan Craig visited you there no more than an hour ago. As I understand it, he threatened to kill you.”

Vernon leaned against the edge of the roulette table and laughed gently. “Someone’s been pulling your leg, old man.”

“This is serious, Vernon,” Miller said. “I don’t give a damn what happens to you, but I do care what happens to Duncan Craig.”

Vernon shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned the whole thing’s over and done with.” He glanced at his watch. “They’re burying his daughter at St. Gemma’s Church at four o’clock. I sent a wreath. Could I do more than that?”

“You did what?” Miller said incredulously.

Vernon smiled blandly. “One does have to do the right thing on these occasions.”

When Miller’s hands came out of their pockets, they were both tightly clenched. For a long, long moment he stood there fighting the impulse to knock Vernon’s teeth down his throat and then he swung on his heel and walked rapidly towards the exit. Behind him, Vernon started to laugh gently.

It was raining quite hard when Miller drove up to St. Gemma’s. He parked the Cooper in the main road and went in through the side gate and along a narrow path lined with poplars leading to the cemetery.

He could hear Father Ryan’s voice as he went forward and then he saw them. There were no more than half a dozen people grouped around the open grave and the old priest’s voice sounded brave and strong as the rain fell on his bare head.

Miller moved off the path and stood behind a large marble tomb and after a while, Father Ryan finished and the group broke up. Harriet Craig was crying steadily and moved away in company with Jenny, the young maid, and Father Ryan followed them. Craig was left standing on his own beside the grave and Miller went forward slowly.

“It wouldn’t work,” he said softly. “It wouldn’t bring Joanna back.”

Craig turned to face him. “What are you, a mind reader or something?”

“I know what happened at the Bull & Bell this afternoon.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“That’s what Vernon said when I called on him. But someone dislocated Harry Parson’s shoulder and broke his nose. Who the hell was that? Mr. Nobody?”

Craig looked down into the open grave. “She was a nice kid, sergeant. A lot of dreams gone up in smoke there.”

“I’m sorry about the wreath,” Miller said.

Craig turned, frowning. “What wreath?”

“The wreath Vernon sent. God knows where he gets his gall from.”

“I’m happy to say you’ve been misinformed,” Duncan Craig said. “We’ve certainly received no wreath from Max Vernon.” As the rain increased into a solid downpour he turned up his collar. “You must excuse me now, but Harriet’s taken this afternoon rather hard. I’d like to get her home as soon as possible.”

“Of course. If there’s anything I can do…”

“I don’t think so.” Craig smiled briefly, shook hands and walked briskly away.

Miller watched him until he had disappeared round the side of the church and then he turned and went back to his car.

It was just after ten on the following morning and Max Vernon was having a late breakfast at a small table in front of the fire when there was a knock on the door and Carver came in.

“Now what?” Vernon demanded irritably.

Carver held up a large and very beautiful wreath of white lilies without a word.

“What is it, for God’s sake?”

“It’s the wreath you told me to get for the Craig girl’s funeral. The one I had delivered yesterday. The porter’s just found it pinned to the private door in the alley.”

“Has he now?” Vernon said softly.

“But that’s not all, Max,” Carver said. “This came with it.”

Vernon took the small pasteboard card that Carver offered and held it up to the light. It was edged in black and the inscription was simple and to the point. In memory of Maxwell Vernon. 1929–1967. R.I.P.