Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 148, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 900 & 901, September/October 2016
- Автор: Дивер Джеффри, Эллин Стенли
- Год: 2016
- Язык: английский
- Год: Penny Publications
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 148, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 900 & 901, September/October 2016». Краткое содержание книги:
“No. But they’d keep a low profile, wouldn’t they?”
“And this is all you know?”
“Yes. A couple of days ago, for a moment, I thought Max was going to confide in me about a problem of some sort, get something off his chest. Not a medical problem. But he drew back from the brink, and I couldn’t get another word out of him. Yes, I think something was worrying him.”
“And you think it had something to do with his murder?”
“Stands to reason, doesn’t it? People with a lot to lose. Shady businessmen. Criminals. Maybe Max had been skimming or fiddling the books somehow? Maybe he wouldn’t do what they wanted him to do. Maybe he was going to blow the whistle on someone. All I know is that he was more than usually edgy. These past few weeks, Max Belling was a worried man, Chief Inspector, a worried man. Now I must get back.”
Banks watched Oliver Cruickshank stride back to the pub and carried on towards the village hall. The doctor had certainly given him plenty to think about. Dodgy bedfellows in high finance wouldn’t think twice about teaching someone like Max Belling a lesson. Who knew where they got the money that needed laundering in the first place? Drugs came to mind. And people-trafficking. Gun running. Prostitution. Protection rackets. All the old standbys, and probably a few new ones, or at least modern variations. All worth killing for as far as those profiting from them were concerned.
It was time to start looking into Max Belling’s financial activities.
“I couldn’t find anything in our files to indicate that Max Belling was connected with money laundering or offshore banking,” said Winsome over a late lunch with Banks and Annie in The Unicorn that afternoon. “I’ve talked with DI MacDonald in Criminal Intelligence too, and she came up with nothing. But, of course, it’s hardly the sort of thing you advertise, is it, and I haven’t had a chance to dig very deeply yet. Anyway, I’ve been in touch with the Met, and someone’s working it from their end.”
“Keep digging,” said Banks. “If there’s anything in it, something is bound to turn up.” He cut a chunk off his Cumberland sausage and washed it down with beer.
“I was in Belling’s house this morning when the CSIs worked on it,” said Annie, “and it was pretty clean. If he was killed there, someone did a good cleanup job. The search team did find quite a lot of cash, though — over three grand — and they’ve taken his files and computers. The forensic accountants are on it now, so they might be able to tell us something soon.”
Banks pushed his plate away and finished his beer. “It’s a very bold and dramatic statement, this murder, don’t you think?” he said. “Someone not only kills a man but takes the time to remove his eyes, ears, and tongue, then risks driving him to the village green and putting him in the stocks.”
“Not much of a risk in the middle of the night,” said Annie. “Not in a sleepy old village like Fortford.”
“Even so,” said Banks. “The killer was lucky. Someone could have seen something. Out of a window, say. Or a drunk on his way home. Kids out late. It’s only not too much of a risk if you really feel you have to do it. So what we need to ask ourselves is, why did our killer feel he had to mutilate the body and put it on display in a public place?”
“A warning to others,” Annie said.
“That’s a good point,” said Banks. “But a warning to whom? About what?”
“It’s a bit odd, don’t you think?” Winsome asked Banks in the village hall the following morning. “I thought I’d spend a minute or two checking on the previous PCSO, Nick Vauxhall. He’s only been dead for six months. I thought maybe the cycling accident was just a bit fishy, given what happened yesterday. Two suspicious deaths in such a short time in the same small village. Anyway, I had a look at the reports and there wasn’t much of an investigation. It happened up Buttertubs way last winter. Poor weather conditions, they said. Sudden mist, slippery road surface, low visibility, blah blah blah. One of the investigating officers noticed some skid marks on the road, but they were never traced to anyone.”
Banks rested the backs of his thighs against the edge of Winsome’s desk. “Hit and run?”
“That’s what I’m thinking, guv. And six months isn’t very long. If Max Belling was involved with some dodgy business recently, the odds are he was involved as far back as then too.”
“So you’re thinking, what if Nick Vauxhall had his suspicions and mentioned them to the wrong people?”
“Well, yes, guv. It’s a possibility, isn’t it? Only PCSOs don’t investigate crimes.”
Banks smiled. Police Community Support Officers did almost the same jobs as regular police officers, but with fewer powers, and they were often sneered at by the public, called “Blunkett’s Bobbies,” after the Home Secretary who instituted them, or “plastic policemen” by the less polite. “You don’t think a keen PCSO mightn’t just have a go?” Banks said. “Try and prove he’s as good as us? Come off it, Winsome, they’re all Sam Spades at heart.”
Winsome laughed. “I suppose so.”
“Gareth Young doesn’t seem to know anything about Belling’s financial doings,” said Banks, “but why would he? Belling would hardly tell him. Did he have a family, this Nick Vauxhall?”
“Wife. Widow now.”
“Give me her address. I’ll go have a chat with her.”
The drive down to Hawes was spectacular, the rolling landscape of Wensleydale spread out before him beyond the meandering river as far as the next steeply rising valley side, all so lush and green, with the greyish limestone scars of the high dale-sides shining almost silver in the sun. Banks played Brahms’ clarinet quintet and opened the car windows rather than using the air conditioning. Wafts of warm air buffeted him, carrying the scents of hay, freshly mown grass, honeysuckle, and wild garlic. Sheep and cattle grazed lazily in fields carpeted with gold and purple wildflowers. Curlews circled on the heights, pewits flew up from their ground nests at the sound of the car, and wagtails twitched in the roadside hedges behind drystone walls.
Hawes was already chockablock with tourists, as Banks had expected, many of them there to visit the famous Wensleydale Creamery, where the cheese was made, up the hill towards Gayle. Banks found a car park on the high street, opposite The Board pub, and walked back past the food and souvenir shops, turning left onto the narrow, winding street where Mandy Vauxhall now lived.
She had a small terrace house on the slope down to the main road. Her little front garden was beautifully kept, bees humming around the fuchsia and foxgloves. She answered his knock, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and asked him to come in. The window was open to the scents and sounds of the garden and street. The living room was tiny but not cluttered with furniture. Banks sat in the small armchair Mandy offered him as she went to make tea. He wasn’t quite sure what he expected to find out from her, but it was worth a try. Winsome was right about Nick Vauxhall’s death being suspicious.
Mandy came back with a tray of tea and Fox’s custard creams. She was younger than Banks had expected, a very attractive woman in her thirties, with short, layered auburn hair above loam-brown eyes, a small, slightly retroussé nose, generous mouth, and a figure that spoke of regular workouts at the gym. Far too young and lovely to be a widow.
“What can I do for you, Chief Inspector,” she said, pouring the tea.
“Alan, please,” said Banks.
She nodded. “If you like. I suppose I must have got used to the police formality over the years with Nick.”
“It’s Nick I want to talk to you about, if that’s all right?”
Mandy leaned back and crossed her long legs. Banks had a feeling that the room, the house, was too small for her, but he imagined it was all she could afford. A PCSO widow’s pension can’t have been very much.