Gently French (20 page)

‘No contact yet. Tell them to stay clear.’

Dutt spoke his piece and was grittily answered.

Not the chalet. The Bugatti passed that turning and rumbled on into Sallowes village. There it hesitated at a cross-roads, and eventually turned left. The signpost said: Ockley.

‘Check with the map.’

Dutt took a map from the glove-locker. The road we had joined was some sort of B road, but it was tracking purposefully across the open country. There were fast stretches, tempting Chelsea Joe to get the feel of a vintage sixty. My nose said we were pointing eastwards, and a church across the fields offered confirmation.

‘About six to Ockley, sir.’

‘Then?’

‘Ockley is on the main Norchester-Starmouth road. So he could go either way there, except it would be a roundabout way to Norchester.’

‘But it would be the direct way to Starmouth.’

‘Yes, sir. Couldn’t be more direct.’

‘What’s marked at Starmouth?’

Dutt peered at the map. ‘There’s an airfield and a roll-on, roll-off ferry to Rotterdam.’

‘A ferry!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Buzz control. We’ll have the patrols pick him up now.’

I closed on the Bugatti, which was whipping along at plus-sixty. I could perhaps have taken him, perhaps not: anyway, I decided not to try. Heroic measures make good film but tend to prejudice public safety. I needed only to keep my eye on him. The patrols would do the rest.

We reached Ockley, where Chelsea Joe had to halt at the main road junction. I looked round for the patrol cars, but apparently we had got there first. Joe surged off again; then, as I followed him, caught sight of the Capri in his mirror. Mimi’s scarfed head jerked round: her big eyes stared at me. Directly, the Bugatti began drawing away.

I cursed to myself and squeezed the Capri. I knew the stretch from Ockley to Starmouth. Dead level, it stretched across the marshes with only one bend in ten miles. The Bugatti could lose me by sheer horse-power if Chelsea Joe kept it booming. And there was a side-road, just one, where the main road made its bend.

‘Report in.’

We came out of the village trailing the Bugatti by a hundred yards. It doubled that distance in the next half-mile down the flat, pollard-willow-lined straight.

‘Two patrols heading this way from Starmouth, sir.’

‘Tell them to switch on lights and sirens.’

The Capri was revving its sophisticated heart out and still the Bugatti was growing smaller. It reached an almost-level bridge, where a dyke passed under: I saw daylight briefly beneath its four wheels. We hit the bridge and skipped too, and probably landed a lot lighter. But it made no odds: we were being distanced; Ettore was having the last laugh. Quarter of a mile had stretched into a half, and soon the half would be three-quarters.

‘Lights over there, sir.’

Away across the marsh were a pair of faintly sparking roof-lights. They were hurrying along on a diagonal towards the dog-leg bend, about a mile ahead.

‘What do you think they will do, sir?’

‘Get them a message. If chummie sees them he’ll take the side-road.’

‘He’s probably spotted them already, sir.’

‘Tell them just to haul up and make a block.’

I lost sight of them. Perhaps they had switched off their lights. But half a minute later it was academic. I saw Chelsea Joe’s brake-lights glow at the bend. Then he crossed the verge and hit a tree.

We screamed in from one direction and the patrol cars from the other. The Bugatti had bounced clear of the tree and slipped nose-down into a dyke. Chelsea Joe was still with it; he was flaked out over the big wheel. Mimi had landed in a thicket of bush-willow, from which, amazingly, she was beginning to crawl. She was nearest to the patrols, so we left her to them and went down to rescue Chelsea Joe.

He had got a cut forehead, which was bleeding prettily, but a quick check revealed no broken bones. He was out cold. We lifted him up the dyke-bank and stretched him gingerly on the verge. I felt a twinge of recognition as I stared down at the blood-smeared features: the good-looking lines of the nose and cheekbones, the primitive chin and the loose-lipped mouth. Dutt knelt to dab the gashed forehead, then gave a startled exclamation.

‘This is a wig, sir!’

He grabbed the black locks: they came away in his hand. Underneath was pale, golden-brown hair, cut medium-length, and short side-boards. Now I knew who he was.

‘Would you call that hair fair?’

Dutt gazed incredulously. ‘Holy Jesus! Could this be the original Peter Robinson?’

‘I think it could. And the driver of the Viva. Which is why we found it wiped clean.’

‘So Bilney was a con!’

‘Bilney was a mug. There’s not much doubt what brought him up here.’

I scrambled back down the bank to the tilted Bugatti and salvaged the black suitcase from the luggage-hold. It was locked, but there were tools handy and I burst the catches with a screwdriver. The suitcase was stuffed with bank-notes. Most of them were still in wrappers. Some were spotted with dark stains and stains had been scrubbed from the lining of the lid. I slammed the lid shut and returned to Dutt.

‘It’s all there in one parcel. And chummie’s tan is a home-grown product.’

Dutt nodded dully.

‘It’s Fring.’

A sharp cry behind us made us turn: Mimi was standing there between two patrolmen. Her eyes were fixed fascinatedly on Fring, who still lay senseless and lazily bleeding. She made a sudden move forward, but I got in front of her.

‘No. It is best that you don’t see him.’

‘But I must go to him!’

‘No. There is nothing you can do for him now.’

I drew her away to one of the patrol-cars. She wailed touchingly, but didn’t resist. Her Balmain suit was rent and muddy, but otherwise she appeared in fair fettle. I sat her in the rear of the car, which faced away from the crash, and went round to take a seat beside her.

‘Now, Madame Deslauriers, I need some answers. Fring’s troubles are settled, yours are just beginning.’

‘Oh Monsieur, you are heartless!’

‘The first question is this. Do I charge you as accessory to one or both killings?’

‘I, Monsieur!’ She jerked indignantly upright. ‘But I had nothing to do with either of them.’

‘It’s your choice,’ I shrugged. ‘But you had better explain. Because only you can help yourself now.’

Mimi, Madame Deslauriers, glared at me. ‘This is altogether too much! I am the person to whom all this is happening, and now you tell me that I am to blame?’

‘You sent Fring after Freddy.’

‘Oh, it isn’t true! Did I know that Jimmy was going to kill him?’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘No! I thought he would beat him up. Are you telling me now that Freddy didn’t deserve it?’

‘Was it Freddy who shopped them?’

‘Who else? It was how he planned to get rid of Jimmy. He couldn’t bear me loving Jimmy better than him. He wished to get rid of him, to close up business. And all that he boasted to me after the hold-up. Is it any wonder I helped Jimmy? But not if I knew he was going to kill him, oh no! You cannot blame me for that.’

‘Yet it didn’t seem to trouble you.’

‘What could I do? You would not expect me to shop Jimmy.’

‘And the second killing?’

‘Oh, Monsieur! Who asked the stupid Bilney to steal money? He was a burglar, a common thief. It was no matter what happened to him.’

‘So Fring caught him at it.’

‘Just so. He had found the money under the floorboard. He had his dirty fingers in it when Jimmy went in there. That is all there is about that.’

‘Which Fring explained when you phoned him.’

‘Yes, I rang to warn him about you.’

‘And you told him to get out, and to take Bilney’s car.’

‘Was it not right I should help to think for him?’ She sniffed feelingly. ‘And it was all going well. He had even succeeded in buying a passport. Oh, Monsieur, it is desolating. This is not how such a boy should have died.’

‘Look in the mirror,’ I said.

She stared at me suspiciously before craning her head to look. What she saw was James Fring being helped into an ambulance by SJAB men. Mimi exploded. I took a fist in the mouth, then she kicked me and went for the door. No use: I’d bolted the child-lock. Mimi roared at the top of her lungs.

‘Pig! Pig! Pig!’

‘Cool down,’ I said. ‘We’ll convict him anyway.’

‘You have tricked me. Oh, I hate you! I wish that you were dead too.’

‘But you are going to give me a statement.’

‘No – never!’

I nodded. ‘Yes, I think you will. You being such a sensible, logical Frenchwoman. And after all, you’re not very much in love with Fring.’

She spoke rapid, idiomatic French.

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘This is why you will. I am going to charge you in any case, but if you give me the statement the charge will be accessory after the fact. That is not so serious, and with a clever counsel you will probably get off with a suspended sentence. But if I have to charge you as an accessory before and after the fact, then you will be in the same boat as Fring. That will mean a life-sentence. You will be over forty when they let you out of Holloway.’

‘I tell you, never!’

‘Think about it, Mimi. Make your gesture but pull the chain.’

She spat at me, but missed. We sat gazing into each other’s eyes.

Rigby House, Norwich,

November 1971–March 1972