Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 1 21 страница

see? And now you tell me Charlie Hood’s spying for him!”

“That’s not what I said, exactly.”

“Near enough. Jesus, wait till I get my hands on Charlie.” He sat there redfaced

and puffed up, thick forearms resting on the table, big fists clenching and unclenching.

“I’m gonna kill the bastard!”

She’d created a monster. How could she bring him under control? Truth was,

she couldn’t. “I expect Mr. Hood had some perfectly innocent reason to see Mr. CavaFoul

Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 18

lier.” She couldn’t tell him what the salesman had said about rigged boat deals. Matters

were bad enough already.

“Cavalier approached me a few months ago. He seemed to know I was operating

on a shoestring and now I know how he found out. And ever since, that bastard

Hood’s been keeping him posted.”

He pulled out his cell phone and stabbed at the buttons. “I want to speak to

Cavalier. Uh.... Uh.... Well, tell him it’s important. It’s Red Duffy here; he’s got my

number. Oh, by the way, is Charlie there? Charlie Hood…? Just left, eh? Right.”

He slipped the phone back in his pocket. “Okay, Charlie my boyo,” he said

grimly. “You’ve got it coming.”

FRIDAY MORNING: AN UNSAVORY FRACAS

Dobbin was reporting on another trip to Victoria. “I showed everyone the photo on the

book cover,” she said, “and they all recognized the woman Sally who talked to them

about Slade’s financial jiggery-pokery. Sally was May Vinge.”

“Née Harper,” said Devoran.

“Right. The first couple of women were not very forthcoming. When the police

show you a photo, there’s a natural assumption that the photo’s subject has been up to

no good. And they didn’t want to shop Vinge. So I, uh, kind of implied that Vinge had

suddenly become a missing person about whom we were anxious because of the recent

spate of deaths. They talked freely after that.”

“My son would have implied the same thing,” Devoran said. “That’s a compliment,

by the way. So where does it leave us? We now know for certain that May

Vinge had good reason to hate Slade — perhaps a better reason than any of the other

Spoonerites. And as you told me yesterday, that wire ran back to her boat.”

“And she had no alibi for the first two murder attempts.”

“Yes, that’s rather odd, after she went to all the trouble to gather her Society

around her.”

“I expect she just happened to see the opportunities and made the most of

them. Or,” she added thoughtfully, “somebody else did.”

“Anyway,” Devoran said, “our next job will be a chat with Mrs. Vinge.”

“Are we talking about both murders?”

“I don’t know.” Decisions, decisions. A lot could depend on how the interview

was handled. “The forensic report came through on the blood on the rock, by the

way. It was Ferris’s. He went over the cliff just where Duffy said. But why did he land

so far out? I spoke to one of our experts at HQ about it and he reckoned Ferris must

have been running at top speed when he went over the edge. So basically he must have

killed himself. Why? He had no reason we know of. And anyway, nobody commits

suicide by running off the edge of a cliff. They jump, don’t they?”

“He might have been chased over the edge.”

“Maybe. My mother-in-law thinks Sturgess threw him over.”

“No way. Why would she think that?”

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 19

“He’s strongly built. That’s a good enough reason for her. And she can’t seem

to see that it doesn’t tie in with her theory that May Vinge killed Ferris. I must say, I

liked her Vinge theory much better. It had a bizarre ring of possibility.”

“You know, Eric,” Dobbin said thoughtfully, “the Spoonerites might be getting

together again this weekend. They’ll have a lot to talk about, I’m sure. We could catch

them all together maybe tomorrow night, before they’ve had a chance to get their story

straight.”

It sounded like an excellent idea. He’d been quailing somewhat at the thought

of interrogating the redoubtable May Vinge by herself. But with the other women there,

he could scatter his questions around, spot weak links and home in. Dobbin would be

present, of course. Between them they could tear the James Spooner Appreciation Society

limb from limb.

At that moment the phone rang.

“Eric? Where are you?” It was Inspector Lockhart.

“At home, Jim. I mean, that is, I was planning our next—”

“Never mind all that. Get down to Duffy’s Marina right away, will you? We’ve

had a 911 call from there, there’s some kind of a fracas. The guy sounded pretty agitated.

On your way, man!”

A career-long principle of Devoran’s was to dilute the urgency of any orders

from above before passing them on. Nine times out of ten the tone of the command

merely reflected the mood of the person giving it. And some people, Jim Lockhart for

one, seemed to experience an adrenaline rush with every snippet of incoming news.

Devoran, conversely, had never experienced an adrenaline rush in his life, to the best of

his memory.

He rose unhurriedly to his feet. “That was the Inspector, Dobbin. It seems

we’re needed down at the marina.”

The action had pretty well finished by the time they arrived at the marina office.

One of Duffy’s yard men was replacing an upturned chair. Red Duffy was gathering up

scattered papers from the floor. The normally dapper Charlie Hood lay slumped in a

corner, bleeding about the face and whimpering quietly.

“All right. What’s it all about?” Devoran asked.

“I pushed Charlie’s face in for him, that’s what,” Duffy snapped, twisting round

from his task and glaring up red-faced. “Conniving little bastard.”

“He tried to kill me,” Hood blubbered. “He went for me like a mad dog.”

“So are you making a formal complaint to the Sergeant?” Duffy demanded.

“No,” Hood mumbled.

“Because he had it coming, you see, Eric. It was justice. Not like what you get

in the Courts.”

Devoran wondered what he was supposed to do. He could ask Dobbin to

take statements. But one glance at his constable told him she was not going to be any

help. She was staring at Hood in horror, uttering squeaks of dismay. Then she hurried

to the man and started to pick him up, dabbing at his face with a tissue. Puzzled at her

display of compassion, he asked, “Who called me, then?”

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 19

“He did,” said Duffy, jerking a thumb at the yard man. “God knows why.

Anyway, there’s your murderer. You can’t beat the old-fashioned methods for getting

the truth out of a guy, eh? Still, I expect you know all about that.”

“Did you…? Was it…?” Dobbin gulped, apparently having difficulty constructing

a coherent sentence as she nursed Hood like a baby. “Did you attack him because

of what I told you?” she asked Duffy.

“Yeah, you’re goddamned right I did. It was what you said. It was enough to

put me on the track. I’ve had my suspicions for some time, mind.”

“Oh, my God.” Dobbin looked stricken. “This is all because of me, Eric. I accept

full responsibility.”

“I just wish somebody would tell me what’s going on,” he said.

Dobbin collected herself with an effort. “Mr. Duffy beat up Mr. Hood because I

told him Mr. Hood had been talking to Mr. Cavalier.”

“Talking?” Duffy shouted. “Reporting back, more like! Spying! And more

than that. I beat it out of him. This murdering bastard was responsible for everything

that happened to Slade’s boat. The falling over. The sinking. The explosion. He did it

all to give the marina a bad name so Cavalier could buy the place for a song.”

“Not the explosion,” Hood whimpered. “For God’s sake believe me! I never

blew up that boat! I loosened the ropes when she was on the ways, yes. I thought the

balk would jolt loose when the boat was rolled back onto the traverser, and she’d fall

into the well. Nobody would get hurt. Nobody’s allowed in the well when the

traverser’s in use. How was I to know that Slade would be so goddamned particular

that he’d want to take away the wedge and paint underneath. Only an idiot bothers

with that bit.”

“Tell him about the sinking, Charlie,” Duffy said coldly.

“Yeah, yeah, I sank the Ocean Dream. I put a temporary plug in the sea cock

and turned the valve on. I knew they’d get out all right. I mean, as soon as the water

reached them they’d wake up, wouldn’t they? The tide was low anyway. I never

locked them in. The hasp must have dropped by accident.”

“I make that two counts of attempted murder, Sergeant. Now, Charlie, tell the

nice man about the explosion.”

“That wasn’t me! I swear to God I had nothing to do with it!”

“Just you tell him,” Duffy said menacingly, advancing on Hood with bunched

fists, “before I knock that stupid head of yours clean off!”

“That’s enough!” Devoran shouted. “Constable, caution Mr. Hood. Mischief

will be enough to hold him for a while. We’ll leave the murder charge until later.”

“I didn’t murder anyone!” Hood cried. “I told you, I had nothing to do with the

explosion! I just meant to screw things up a bit.”

“Culpable homicide,” Devoran said firmly. “You should have thought of that

before, Mr. Hood. It’s murder if you do anything unlawfully that is likely to cause death,

and does in fact cause death. Causing the boat to fall over might have killed Mr. Slade,

but he was lucky that time. And he was lucky not to drown. The third time, his luck

ran out. That’s the way we see it.”

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 19

“No!” Hood shouted.

“It’s up to Crown Counsel whether they prosecute, not us,” Devoran pointed

out. “I’d say they have a good case.”

“And you made sure the media knew, every time. Just give me five minutes

alone with him,” Duffy pleaded.

As they loaded the cuffed and bleeding Hood into the car, Devoran felt no triumph.

Mysteries had been solved, yes, but not in a way he liked. He should have

reached this stage without the help of Duffy and his big fists. Had he been too narrow in

his outlook? Had he been concentrating too much on Slade and his financial machinations,

to the exclusion of all else? Where had he gone wrong?

“So how exactly did you trigger all this off, Dobbin?” he asked as they headed

for Peterville. “I’d really like to know.”

FRIDAY MORNING: A CHAT AT THE STATION

“I just want to be absolutely sure you had nothing to do with Hood’s injuries, Devoran,”

Inspector Lockhart said. “I don’t need to tell you how bad it looks, bringing in a suspect

covered in blood.” A sudden idea occurred to him. “It wasn’t that constable of

yours again, was it? Good grief, what an Amazon she is!”

Devoran looked aggrieved. “It was Duffy beat him up, like I said.”

“So why isn’t Hood preferring charges against him, for Chrissake?”

Lockhart didn’t really believe Devoran or Dobbin had been involved in any violence;

the emergency call to the station had made it clear the police were required to halt the

fracas, not to join in. Still, there had been a curious rumor from Noss Cove the other

day. Constable Dobbin had been seen attacking a man outside the mens’ washroom at

the Globe Inn. But there had been no official complaint. Probably just one of those bits

of gossip that arise out of nothing, in rural areas.

He allowed his thoughts to drift into idle speculation about Constable Dobbin.

Jesus, what a mountain of a woman! It would be like sleeping with a rhino. He

doubted that he would survive such an encounter, at his age. Still, it would be an interesting

way to bow out. A high note. And she did have a certain elephantine charm. He

became aware Devoran was speaking. He wished people wouldn’t do that when he

was thinking. “What was that again, man?”

“I said we have Hood’s statement now and he’s admitted the two earlier incidents.

Duffy will be one of our witnesses. Perhaps Hood’s hoping Duffy won’t be too

hard on him in the witness box. Little does he know.”

“Won’t Hood say his confession was obtained under duress? I mean, you have

considered that aspect, haven’t you?”

“We weren’t the ones applying the duress, Jim. And his statement was taken

later, here in the interview room with Duffy miles away.”

Lockhart still didn’t like it. It leaked like a sieve. “It’s dangerous, Devoran. It’s

dangerous. He might say we put Duffy up to it. And what about Slade’s death? I understand

you’re treating it as murder. Are you sure about this? I mean, the media alFoul

Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 19

ways get so interested when murder’s in the air. Wasn’t it a nice simple accident,

maybe?”

Devoran explained — not for the first time — about the sparking device and the

coil of wire the diver had subsequently found. “That makes it murder by my reckoning,

Jim.”

“OK. OK.” Lockhart’s earlier nostalgia for a good old-fashioned murder had

evaporated as the realities of the paperwork, and the media, and the inevitable criticism

from HQ came home to him. “And what about Ferris? You can’t tell me the two deaths

aren’t connected. Can we get Hood for both, maybe? That would be tidy.”

Now Devoran had retreated into some kind of shell, eyes glazing over. If it

hadn’t been for his brilliant work on the Spackman case, one could easily take him for

an incompetent fool. But on that evidence he was a very deep thinker. Appearances

can be deceptive. Lockhart awaited pearls of wisdom.

Devoran spoke. “I don’t know, Jim.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I’m not convinced Hood killed Slade. He’d need to have been hidden somewhere

on the dock with the sparking device when Ocean Dream blew. But he says he

shouted to Duffy immediately he saw the blast, when he was in the office and Duffy was

in the john. Duffy corroborates this, reluctantly, I might add. There’s no way Hood

could have triggered the explosion from the dock and got back to the office in that time.

That’s why we’re recommending mischief for the time being. I still think the killer was

someone connected with Slade’s financial dealings,” he said hesitantly. “Maybe the

James Spooner Society. They were all in the village on the weekend of Slade’s death.

And they all had better motives than Hood.”

“That would be untidy, Devoran. I like things tidy.”

“And as for Ferris, the lab say it was his blood on the rocks at the end of Waterside

Road. He could have been out jogging in the dark and lost his way. It happens.”

“Or he could have been pushed.”

“Well, yes. But reverting to Slade, my son says — uh, Constable Dobbin and I

are working on a theory based on the length of that wire. It’s long enough to reach to

Mrs. Vinge’s boat.”

This sounded more promising, although what did Devoran’s son have to do with

anything? “You’re interviewing this woman and her Spooner Society on that basis?”

“Absolutely,” Devoran said, suddenly brisk. “I’ve established they’ll all be in

Noss Cove by this evening. Three of them will be staying at Mrs. Vinge’s apartment

and one, Brenda Moore, has a reservation at the Globe. I intend to catch them all together

and interview them.”

It sounded alarmingly theatrical, like the classic unmasking scene in a detective

novel. Was Devoran some kind of a romantic? Had he really got a grip on the case, or

was he clutching at straws? “What does Constable Dobbin think about this?”

“Constable Dobbin is all for it, Jim.”

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 19

“Well… be careful, will you? I understand the Vinge woman has some local

influence.”

“Absolutely, Jim,” Devoran said again with that forced briskness. His manner

was worrying. Was Devoran a manic depressive?

FRIDAY EVENING: THE UNMASKING

The rain fell solidly and vertically, bouncing up from the concrete. In the darkness, the

steps up to May Vinge’s apartment were slippery and treacherous. Devoran had been

caught unawares by the weather and wasn’t wearing a hat or coat. This would place

him at an immediate disadvantage with Mrs. Vinge, allowing her the chance to fuss

kindly over him the way women always did, given half a chance. She’d take his jacket

and put it over the back of a chair before the electric fire. And how about a nice cup

of coffee to warm you up, Sergeant?

It would be very difficult to launch into a searching interrogation in such circumstances.

“That was Brenda Moore’s car down there, Eric,” murmured Dobbin. “She’ll

have brought the other two.”

So they were all present. He reached the top step and took a deep breath.

“This is it, then, Marsha.”

“It certainly is, Eric.”

“You have the warrant?”

“I got it this afternoon.”

“Well…. Like I said, this is it. Remember, we concentrate on the Slade killing

to start with. Ferris comes later.”

“I don’t think we should hang around here any longer, Eric. They’re probably

getting their story straight at this very moment.”

“Right, then.” He pushed the door bell. The murmur of voices from inside

ceased. He heard May Vinge’s voice clearly.

“Who the hell can that be?” The door opened. She showed no undue surprise

at the presence of the Law. “Oh, it’s you again, Sergeant. And Constable. What can I

do for you this evening?”

“We’d like to come in for a chat.” Butterflies were flapping away in his stomach.

His chest felt tight and his heart was thumping. Why was he always so nervous on

these occasions? It was Mrs. Vinge who should be nervous. But she looked perfectly

composed.

“It’s not very convenient. We’re in the middle of a meeting. Come back later,

why don’t you?”

“It has to be now,” Dobbin said firmly. Good old Dobbin.

“Oh…. Very well, if you must.”

They followed her into the apartment. The members of the James Spooner

Appreciation Society sat around the table: Brenda Moore looking annoyed, Anthea Lee

curious, and Janine Richards anxious. Perhaps she was a weak link.

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 19

Dobbin took the lead. “We have a warrant to search these premises,” she announced,

handing Mrs. Vinge the papers.

“What for, for God’s sake?” Mrs. Vinge tossed the warrant onto the table with

barely a glance and addressed her question to Devoran.

“Evidence relating to the murder of Lionel Slade.”

“Oh, that? Well, we were just about to have a little drinkie.” She strolled over

to the drinks cabinet. “What a shame you’re on duty, Sergeant! You can’t join us. But

feel free to look around. Really, you needn’t have bothered with the warrant. I know

how difficult they are to come by.”

Devoran found himself standing in the middle of the room while everything happened

around him. Mrs. Vinge was dodging past, carrying a tinkling tray holding a bottle

of gin, cans of tonic water, a dish with lime slices, and glasses. Constable Dobbin

was making her ponderous way to the bathroom; God knows what she expected to find

in there. The ladies had risen from the table and were scuttling about on little errands,

bringing appetizers from the kitchen, cards and score sheets from a cupboard, plates

and coasters, ashtrays and so on, meanwhile chattering busily.

They were making a farce out of the investigation. “Ahem!” he croaked.

“You spoke, Sergeant?”

“Listen, I’d like you to all sit down quietly while I ask a few questions. Is that

too much to ask, for heaven’s sake?”

“Fire away. We’re all ears.”

“OK. OK.” He leaned against the mantelpiece, collecting his thoughts. “We’ll

start with what we all know. Lionel Slade was a trickster who swindled you out of considerable

sums of money, all except Mrs. Vinge. In her case it was a relative of hers

who was swindled, as a result of which she committed suicide. You have my sympathy,

Mrs. Vinge. You all have my sympathy. But Slade was subsequently murdered. It

might be thought that you all have a motive for that murder. Am I right so far?”

“You’ve done your homework well, Sergeant,” Mrs. Vinge said. “It was my

sister who committed suicide. Have you recovered our money?”

“Well, as a matter of fact cash has been recovered, but that’s beside the point.”

“So far as we’re concerned, that’s the only point.”

Dobbin emerged from the bathroom, glanced at him and shook her head, then

entered the bedroom.

“My next question is,” he said, trying to stick to his script, “Did you have the

opportunity? So I’d like you all to tell me exactly where you were on the night of the,

uh—” The date escaped him. “The night before the death of Lionel Slade. That would

be the Saturday night a couple weeks ago. OK?”

“That’s easy, Sergeant,” Mrs. Vinge said. “We were all here playing cards.”

“I’d rather hear it from each of you, please.” By now he’d taken out his notebook.

It was difficult to write standing up. In fact he shouldn’t have been writing at all.

Dobbin should have been the one taking notes. But she was carrying out the search.

He was understaffed; the story of his career. He crossed the room and sat in an easy

chair near the window, the notebook on his knee. That was better. Now he stood

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 19

some chance of understanding what he’d written when the time came for transcribing it

all.

He listened patiently while each member of the James Spooner Appreciation

Society assured him that on Saturday night two weeks ago, she had been totally absorbed

in a discussion of the writings of the dead novelist, followed by a friendly game

of cards.

“Until what time?” he asked. By now Dobbin had finished in the bedroom and

was working her way through the living room, banging cupboard doors and distracting

him.

“Until midnight at least,” Mrs. Vinge said. “Then we broke up and went to

bed.”

“And I expect you’re prepared to testify that nobody left the apartment during

the night.”

“If anyone had left, one of us would have heard her. It’s a small apartment, as

you can see, Sergeant.”

“Why did you rent it? I understand you still own a house in Victoria.”

She smiled. “Change of scenery. I like it here. I have a nice part-time job. I

may even move here permanently. My Victoria house is rented out. Who knows? I’m

a free agent.”

“So nobody left the apartment,” He dragged it out, working up to the quick

pounce. “And yet I believe one of you slept at the Globe.”

Brenda Moore spoke up. “I did. There’s no secret about it. It’s crowded

here, I like it at the Globe and after a few hours of bridge and Spooner I need to get

away.”

The others chuckled indulgently. Dobbin approached, holding something small,

flat and shiny. “This thing. It wouldn’t be a key to the marina gate, would it?”

Mrs. Vinge glanced at it. “Yes. Funny-looking thing, isn’t it? I suppose it holds

some kind of electrical charge. You slide it into a slot and then you can turn the knob

and open the gate.”

“So you had the means to enter the marina on the night in question,” Dobbin

pursued.

“Any of us did, any night. We all know where the key is kept.”

Devoran noticed a quick exchange of glances among the Spoonerites. Was this

the start of a rift? Did they feel Mrs. Vinge was passing the buck, ever so slightly?

Dobbin dropped the key into a plastic bag. “We’ll keep it for a while, if you

don’t mind. Fingerprints.”

“It’ll have all our prints on it, I expect.”

“That’s all right, then. Now, if you’ll let me have the keys to your car, Mrs.

Moore….”

The woman shrugged. “If you like. I can’t think what you’re looking for,

though. It’s not as though Lionel Slade was bludgeoned to death with a wrench, is it?”

She dug through her purse and handed over a bunch of keys. “Anyway, does your

warrant cover my car?”

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 19

“No. But I can get another by Monday afternoon, if you don’t mind all waiting

around until then.”

“Oh, go ahead, for God’s sake. Let’s get this business over with, shall we? I

didn’t drive all the way from Victoria to be harassed by the police, I can tell you. Get

on with your story, Sergeant. You were talking about the marina gate.”

Dobbin left. He resumed. “So you see, ladies, I have one dead crook. And I

have four of you, each with a motive for murder, each with the opportunity, but each

providing alibis for one another. That forces me to look at the possibility of conspiracy.”

“Hold it, Sergeant!” Mrs. Vinge snapped. “That’s twice you’ve said we had a

motive for murder. Granted we had no love for Slade, but murder? You’ll have trouble

making that one stick.”

“Slade swindled you in Victoria. He moved to Noss Cove. You followed him

here. He was killed.”

“We’ve explained all that.”

“You’ve explained it in terms of coincidence and a joint alibi, and that’s not

good enough. And you haven’t explained why you didn’t come clean at the outset.

Why didn’t you tell me you were acquainted with Slade in Victoria? Why didn’t you

tell me he’d robbed you all?”

Mrs. Vinge smiled. “That would have been rather foolish, Sergeant. With Slade

dead, I mean. We’re not complete idiots.”

It was the moment to produce his trump card. Laying his briefcase on his knees

he unlatched it and produced the coil of the wire and the shorter length with the sparking

device attached, meanwhile watching their faces intently.

The result was reasonably satisfactory, but could not be classed as a triumph.

Certainly their eyes seemed to widen, and Janine Richards uttered a little gasp.

“Recognize this? The coil was found in the water near your boat, Mrs. Vinge.

And this,” he held up the shorter length, “is a sparking device found fused to the cabin

bulkhead of the Ocean Dream. It’s the murder weapon. By the way, I should mention

that this wire will reach from your boat exactly to the site of the explosion, Mrs. Vinge.”

But they recovered almost immediately. “That’s very interesting, Sergeant,”

May Vinge said, “but it hardly constitutes proof of guilt. It could be anyone’s wire. If

you’re hoping to shock us into some kind of impromptu confession, you’ll have to do

better than that. Because as I’ve told you before, we all have alibis for the night in

question.”

He regarded them glumly. This was the way of police work. They were not

going to break down and confess. Nobody ever did. Unless physically threatened by

Red Duffy. A feeling of futility came over him as he worked his way through a series of

dreary questions, noting down the answers as though they were of significance, aware

of a growing atmosphere of confidence in the room as the members of the James

Spooner Appreciation Society came to the realization that he had nothing on them.

But they could be wrong.

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 19

That all depended on a wild hunch arising out of a conversation with Red Duffy.

Murderers throw away murder weapons because they don’t want to be connected with

the terrible bloody immediacy of them. But would they throw away a weapon not so

immediate? A perfectly harmless and useful item that just happened to have been a link

in the chain leading up to the killing?

And the door opened.

Dobbin came in, wet from the rain, unusually pink-faced. She regarded him

with shining eyes, and his heart leaped. For just one moment she looked quite beautiful.

She said, “Here it is, Eric. It was in the trunk of Mrs. Moore’s car.”

She handed him a plastic bag containing a small pair of pliers about six inches

long, cheaply made, the kind of fairly useless item found in car tool kits.

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