Banker's Draft Page 2

  Some whispering came from behind him which resulted in a snigger.

  ‘What, Constable Spekes, do you find funny?’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge, but I can’t help seeing the alleged knives in ‘er neck, and unless she were very inventive, I can’t see any alleged alleging at all.’

  ‘Spekes, everything is alleged until we know different. Now get your pencil out and start writing. You can write, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  The young feelers indulged in some more whispering as MacGillicudy waited. ‘Are we ready now, Spekes?’

  There was a stamp, a little groan of pain, and then some shuffling. A pencil finally appeared.

  ‘Am now, Sarge, carry on; I’m all ears.’

  ‘Right,’ and he rubbed his hands together. ‘To the left of the door and in front of the open filing cabinet is lying prone a female body, in her neck appear to be two knives. Blood is on the rug and on the floor. There is a footprint in blood heading to the door. To the right of the door is a desk, and on that desk I can see a lamp, an open ledger, and some papers. Are you getting everything, Spekes?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘Er… Sarge?’

  MacGilliudy emitted a deep sigh. ‘What is it Constable Popham?’

  ‘Mr Goup says he wants to throw up, he ain’t looking too good, you know.’

  ‘Well, could you ask Mr Goup to kindly go and puke somewhere else, this is a crime scene and I don’t want any extras.’

  A retching noise entered the sergeant’s ears.

  ‘Sorry, Sarge, too late.’

  MacGillicudy closed his eyes as the odour wafted beneath his nose. ‘Thank you, Popham, I think I can tell that now.’

  Some hurried footsteps came up the stairs and a breathless constable stuck his head around the outer office door. ‘Message from the Captain, Sarge; he says you ain’t to touch or do anything. He wants you to seal up the building and wait for Cornwallis to come. He says he’s sorry but the order comes from above.’

  ‘What?’ bellowed MacGillicudy, his anger exploding like a volcano. ‘What the hell does the Captain mean by handing a perfectly good murder over to someone like Cornwallis?’

  ‘You’ll have to speak to the Captain, Sarge; I’m just telling you what he said.’ The constable hadn’t ventured any further than the door and he could see the three others begin to edge away from the puce looking sergeant as he struggled to contain himself.

  *

  The eatery and the noodle shop were beginning to do a brisk business as the afternoon moved on to evening. The piazza had filled up and the buzz of conversations echoed around as people began to meet up to eat, drink, and catch up on the day’s news. Big George had taken a rest from pedalling and sat with his friend, a panda called Mike, enjoying a cool glass of Bamboo Soda.

  Frankie leant back and slid over a piece of paper with an address written in black ink. ‘Go ‘round there tomorrow, George, he said he might have some work for you. Won’t pay much, but if you do a good job, there might be more.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Kandalwick.’ The slow voice had a bass resonance. ‘Rats is it?’

  ‘Rats it is. All you can eat and pay to go with it; what more could a bear ask?’

  ‘You’re good to me, Mr Kandalwick; I won’t let you down. Be ‘round there first thing in the morning.’

  ‘That’s my bear.’

  Frankie turned his attention back to Cornwallis, though Cornwallis’ attention was at that moment drawn elsewhere. A man had appeared wearing a black stove pipe hat and a duck arse jacket. Knee breeches and gaiters finished the ensemble.

  ‘Feeler on the prowl, Frankie; now, who do you suppose he’s after?’ Cornwallis pointed to the little alley off to the side of the Duke; the officer seemed to be studying the little square as though looking for something or someone.

  Frankie narrowed his eyes in the dim light as the oil lamps had yet to be lit. ‘Looks like old Wiggins to me.’

  Wiggins nodded to himself as he spied Cornwallis and Frankie; he shrugged and then strode purposefully over.

  ‘Mr Cornwallis, Frankie,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘Captain Bough sent me to find yer.’ He rummaged in his pocket and brought out a neatly folded piece of paper. ‘I’ve got to give you this.’ He handed the note over to Cornwallis and then stood and cast his experienced eyes around the square, looking for anything that might be amiss. He might have been old and well past his prime but he had been a constable for twenty six years and he could smell a wrong ‘un from half a mile away.

  Cornwallis carefully unfolded the note and began to read. Halfway through he raised an eyebrow and then glanced at Frankie; he smiled a little as he carried on before breaking into a wide grin. He re-folded the note and placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  ‘Well?’ enquired Frankie, curious as to what the note said.

  ‘Well, indeed,’ smiled a satisfied Cornwallis, ‘I am pleased to announce that we now have some gainful employment.’ He patted the note in his pocket. ‘When you eventually finish that drink of yours, then our friendly neighbourhood constable will guide us to our house of mysteries.’

  Frankie drained his glass in one, wiped his arm across his mouth and banged the glass back down on the table. ‘Then what are we waiting for? You can tell me all about it on the way.’

  *

  A crowd had gathered at Greenwalsh Avenue and Constable Wiggins had to force a path through for Cornwallis and Frankie; word had gone around quicker than a fly on acid, and those assembled waited eagerly for any juicy gossip that could be quickly turned into a free pint.

  Sergeant MacGillicudy waited on the staircase, far from happy. His flamboyant side whiskers seemed to bristle and his nose twitched as he spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Evening to you, Cornwallis. I’m not best pleased about this and I’ll have you know I will be speaking to the Captain.’ He stood straight as a ramrod and directed his address to just above Cornwallis’ head. It took an effort to get the words out, but he felt he put enough contempt into them to make his point.

  ‘Sergeant,’ acknowledged Cornwallis, and then grinned. ‘I have a note here from your Captain, and he has assured me you will do your utmost to help us with this enquiry. He even says that you yourself are to make yourself available and are now, if fact, to function under my direction. So Sergeant, how do you feel about calling me Sir?’ Cornwallis felt that he had evened up the score and now watched MacGillicudy twitch as he digested the information. He actually liked the man, they had even shared a drink or two in the past and he understood how the sergeant felt; to solve the murder would have been a feather in his cap if he could have rooted out the perpetrator: but for some reason Bough had given it over to him, so the question went through his mind, why? He knew that MacGillicudy was nobody’s fool, and as feelers went, he was one of the best. Given time he would probably solve it, but it had fallen into his lap and he couldn’t help thinking that there was more to this than met the eye — and he hadn’t even seen the body yet.

  Cornwallis stepped over the pile of vomit and then studied the scene from the doorway, allowing all the little details to burn into his memory. Frankie stood behind and peered over his shoulder.

  ‘Hmmm,’ contemplated Cornwallis aloud. ‘Is that boot print one of yours, Jethro?’

  ‘You know me better than that, Jack,’ replied MacGillicudy, insulted. ‘No one’s been in yet, except maybe Mr Goup. He found her and it’s his office. A Miss Knutt, he says, his cleaner.’

  ‘Is he still here?’

  ‘Downstairs, back office. Though he ain’t feeling too good at the moment.’

  ‘Frankie, would you go and have a quick word with Mr Goup and see whether he came in and what he did while he was here. I’ll come and speak to him when I’m done.’

  Frankie turned away and went downstairs; Cornwallis could hear him muttering to himself and grandmother and eggs featured prominently.

  ‘Right, Sergeant,’ said Cornwallis, rubbing his hands. ‘I want
you to get an artist up here and get this lot pictured. A close up of the boot print and the body if you please. Now, let’s see what’s in the cabinet.’ He stepped into the room, and careful to avoid the blood, tip-toed over to the cabinet. He leant over the deceased and looked inside.

  If he expected to see anything interesting then at first he felt disappointed. There were files, lots of files, all in alphabetical order, rows and rows of them. The only interesting thing, he supposed, was that someone had left the file open on the letter D. He peered closer and began to read down the list. His first impressions were wrong, some of the names, cross referenced to another number, he supposed to another file, were very interesting indeed. Turning his attention to Miss Knutt, he stepped back and knelt down. The blood had turned a nice deep colour now, having spent too long away from the nice warm insides of the deceased. The knives were quite ornate with ivory handles and he supposed thin blades, making an aesthetically pleasing arrangement with the V of the handles beneath the round grey bun of hair on the back of Miss Knutt’s head. He glanced along the length of the body and found nothing out of the ordinary. Standing up, he began to look around the rest of the room, then over to the desk and looked in the ledger, again names, but this time with appointments, a diary in fact. He read down the list for that day.

  ‘Sergeant, would you care to start organising your men. I want that crowd out there spoken to and could you go around all the buildings in the street; see if anyone saw or heard anything, who came in, and who went out. You know the sort of thing we need.’ There were just too many people to question; he and Frankie couldn’t deal with it all, and he could always go and re-interview should anything of any substance crop up.

  MacGillicudy sighed, but though tempted, knew better than to make life difficult. He nodded and then disappeared down the stairs.

  Cornwallis tapped his finger against the last name in the diary as he thought. Mr Morris Bezell and it concerned his tax demand. He thought a little more as something niggled there, something not quite right. He tapped again as if the act would force his mind to clarity.

  As he thought, Frankie returned from speaking to Mr Goup; he still had a smile on his face as he had seen the melee outside as Sergeant MacGillicudy and his constables got to work. ‘He didn’t go into the room,’ he informed Cornwallis, ‘he just puked on the landing and ran. Though he did say that the knives were his and that they had been on the table; used ‘em for opening his letters, he said. Miss Knutt had only worked for him for a few days as his normal cleaner had gone off to visit some relative: just a temporary replacement, so he doesn’t know much about her. The other partners are dead, so Mr Goup is the only one left.’

  Cornwallis looked up as Frankie disturbed his thoughts. ‘So we know the boot print must have come from our friend, but why kill an innocent cleaner?’

  ‘Was she innocent though?’ replied Frankie, raising his eyebrows in question. ‘You can’t tell these days; don’t you remember Ethel Pinns?’

  Cornwallis winced; he did, but thankfully, that case hadn’t involved him as the repercussions were widely felt. Ethel Pinns had been secretary of the knitting circle as well as chair of two charities. She had been rich, but nobody thought to wonder how. Unbeknownst to anyone, she ran two brothels, a protection racket, and operated as the biggest loan shark in Gornstock. Eighty three years old and she had been operating beneath the law for sixty two of them. A mass resignation in the Assembly followed her arrest; eighteen members were tied up with Ethel Pinns and her operation. ‘Such a trusting fellow you are, Frankie, I bet your mother’s proud of you.’

  Frankie grinned. ‘Of course she is; I’m the only one in the family who never got caught.’

  ‘I caught you.’

  ‘Yes, but you ain’t the feelers, so it don’t count.’

  Cornwallis shook his head slowly in defeat; to Frankie that logic was fool-proof. He turned his attention back to the diary; something still niggled there, but it wouldn’t quite click into place. He pulled out a notebook and copied out all the day’s appointments, then walked over to the cabinet and listed all the names and references that showed there. He flipped through the files again, and once done, closed his book and slipped it back into his jacket pocket before stepping back and scanning the scene once more. ‘I think you might be right, Frankie. Our Miss Knutt had been looking for something, and someone didn’t want her to find it. You can see specks of blood on the cabinet and on the inside of the drawer, but not on the files themselves. She had a file open and was reading it when it happened, otherwise there would be blood all over the files. She’s lying in front of the cabinet with the knives in the back of the neck, so she must have been bending over the drawer when the assailant struck. I think somebody panicked when they saw her looking at something she shouldn’t. Mr Goup has got a few things to tell us; he’s an accountant, so one thing’s for certain, he’s not above bending the law.’

  The last of the light began to disappear so Cornwallis lit the oil lamp on the desk; it spluttered as it caught, so he turned the wick down a little as the smoke rose, blackening the glass. A weak illumination filled the room as he pursed his lips in thought; Frankie stood at the door with his hands deep in his pockets, tapping impatiently with his foot.

  ‘You all done now?’ asked Frankie, eager to get back to the pub. ‘We can have another quick word with the accountant and then get straight back down to the Stoat to chew things over. MacGillicudy can wait for the picture-man.’

  Cornwallis suddenly grinned to himself, he hadn’t heard a word Frankie had said. ‘Mr Morris Bezel, Mr M Bezel. Embezzle! Clever, but no banana.’

  Frankie stopped tapping his foot and looked confused. ‘Er?’

  ‘The last entry in the diary, Frankie,’ explained Cornwallis patiently, ‘an appointment with a Mr Morris Bezel. I knew there was something wrong with it. It’s someone’s little joke, and if we find out whose, then we may have our man. Let’s find where the rest of the files are and then go and see if Jethro has come up with anything.’

  The main files were easy to find. They were in the back room and stacked in cabinets from floor to ceiling, but there were too many to go through now; they would just have to wait until they had a good few months to spare.

  MacGillicudy hadn’t had any luck at all. Nobody had seen anything, or more to the point, nobody had seen anything that they were prepared to talk about. He shook his head as he turned to Cornwallis standing at the door. ‘Nobody noticed a thing, they say. Look at the street: a coffee shop just over there, a fruit and veg’ man over there, a lawyer next door, and a funeral parlour next to that. At the top of the street, there’s a tavern, and fancy shops all along the road and they’re all telling me they saw nothing, zilch, bugger all. I don’t believe them: somebody saw something somewhere.’

  ‘I’m sure someone did,’ replied Cornwallis. ‘But we both know how things stand. Nobody wants a reputation as a grass and end up like our corpse upstairs. Perhaps a few quiet words might elicit a better response.’ It looked like Frankie would have to speak to people and that was going to take time; but at least he could probably persuade someone to talk, as Frankie asked in a way that the feelers couldn’t, well, not in front of an audience, that is. ‘Is the artist on the way?’ he asked, in the hope that something might actually go right.

  ‘Should be here soon,’ answered MacGillicudy dejectedly. ‘I sent Dewdrop. At least that’s something he can do without cocking it up too much. Jack, this force is going to the dogs. Look at what I have to work with nowadays; snot nosed pimply arsed little shits most of ‘em, and they still need their mothers to wipe their bottoms for them. The Captain tells me that’s the type of recruit we need, young, keen, and no experience, so that we can teach them how to be proper feelers: and I have to put up with the little bastards. Give me someone who has been around the block a few times I say, someone who knows the ways of the world, someone I can turn into a proper feeler.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree with you more, Jeth
ro,’ replied Cornwallis with a grin, ‘but times change, and we have to change with them. You could always come and work for me if it’s getting too much for you.’

  MacGillicudy narrowed his eyes. ‘Jack, you can just stick that idea where the sun don’t shine.’

  ‘Always the diplomat, Jethro, always the diplomat.’

  Cornwallis and Frankie left MacGillicudy to finish and headed back into the building to speak to Mr Goup. Frankie led the way down the dark passage to the back office where a thin beam of light crept beneath a door. Frankie banged once and flung open the door, and then stared in disbelief. Cornwallis pushed past him and stopped just as abruptly. The room was empty; Mr Goup had gone.

  ‘You sure this is the right room, Frankie?’ asked Cornwallis, a little bemused, ‘as there seems to be a distinct lack of people in here.’

  ‘The sod’s run,’ responded Frankie, hurrying over to the still open window. ‘The little shit has upped and legged it.’

  Cornwallis had to agree. It seemed as if the accountant had totted up the figures and come to a total he didn’t like, that is, all the answers came back to him. ‘Your friendly Mr Goup, deciding that discretion being the better part of valour, has vacated the premises. I reckon he was in this right up to his balance sheets. Have a look to see if you can see where he went, but I think he’s long gone now.’

  Frankie disappeared out of the window and into the dark back yard outside. His eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the change in light as straight away he clattered into the bin. The resultant crash echoing away into the distance as the lid hit the ground and rolled away, which startled the cat, in the process of rooting out rats, which lived amongst the scraps left by the humans. The cat took umbrage and attacked Frankie with sharp razor-like claws, hissing menacingly, as though Frankie had no right to be there amongst all the carnage outside in the dark; it was a feline world and the cat took exception to the interloper trying to take the food from its mouth. Frankie slipped on something soft and squelchy and fell backwards into rubbish stacked against the back wall; he kicked out his leg and connected to the cat which screamed as it flew through the air. Frankie scrambled back to his feet and lashed out again, a box went flying, and the rat, between his foot and the box, exploded in a shower of blood and guts. Frankie’s language, which in normality was coarse, rose to a totally new level. The cat crept back and Frankie saw the slit eyes reflecting in the pale moonlight. He reached forward, grabbed the cat around the throat and pulled it towards him. ‘Where did he go?’ he hissed menacingly. ‘We’re with the Police.’