John Creasey - Triumph For Inspector West

Roger said: “A police constable was cycling across the Common about the time of the incident.”

“A police constable. I see. Wasn’t it a remarkable coincidence that a constable should happen to be on the Common at the crucial time—unless, of course, he was patrolling in the course of his duty? Is that the explanation?”

“He was returning from duty,” said Roger, coldly.

“Did he actually see the car?”

The magistrate leaned forward. “The witness will be able to answer for himself, Mr Melville.”

“Of course, Your Worship, of course. I am considering only the precious time of the court,” said Melville smoothly. “Setting aside the question of the fortuitous advent of the policeman who—er—happened to be crossing the Common at this time, but did not see what occurred, did you find any other person who was near the scene at the time?”

“No,” answered Roger.

“Remarkable!” Melville actually allowed his voice to rise, and turned to the magistrate. “Your Worship, I think I should state at this juncture that there was an eyewitness of the unhappy occurrence. The police were unable to find the person, but the task presented no insuperable difficulty to the defence. I propose, with your permission, to call this witness, because I believe it can be proved that there is no case to answer.”

“I will hear the evidence for the prosecution, Mr Melville.”

“As you wish, Your Worship. I have no further questions to ask the witness.” Melville looked positively delighted, and Roger was quite sure what would happen now.

When Melville called Eve Franklin as the first witness for the defence, the court was hushed. And the witness did not disappoint. She wore a silk suit of navy blue, which would have been acceptable in any cathedral, but somehow made her figure a thing to marvel at. Her dark hair was a cluster of demure curls. Her face was pale, and she wore little makeup. Her voice was low-pitched, but she was completely self-assured.

She was sworn.

“Now, Miss Franklin,” said Melville, “I want you to understand that the court is interested only in your evidence. You must not speak of anything you did not actually see. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“You were on Clapham Common on the evening of October the 22nd—or, more accurately, the early morning of October the 23rd?”

“I was.”

“Were you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t that rather late for a young woman to be out alone?”

“I’m not so young.”

Someone tittered.

They’re going to believe her, Roger thought, and he felt an even greater tensing of his nerves. Here was a man he knew was guilty, about to get away with it again, unless the police solicitor could throw serious doubt on this girl’s evidence.

“I don’t think positive accuracy about your age is a matter of great importance to the court,” murmured Melville, suavely. “Will you object if I ask you what you were doing at that time?”

“I was walking home,” answered Eve.

“I see. There is no public transport at that time of night and you couldn’t get a taxi. Is that it?”

“The witness will give us all the relevant information,” interrupted the magistrate severely.

“I am sorry, Your Worship. I am anxious only to make this ordeal as bearable as possible for the witness. Why did you walk home, Miss Franklin?”

“Because I couldn’t get a taxi.”

“Why did you walk across the Common?”

“I often do. Some friends of mine live on the other side of the Common, you see.”

“Had you been with these friends that night?”

“Yes.”

“What time was it when you left?”

“About one o’clock.”

“Can you be more precise?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” answered Eve, apologetically.

“Perhaps it is immaterial,” conceded Melville. “Did you walk along the sidewalk or along the road?”

“I cut across the Common, on a path.”

“Did you see anything coming along the road?”

“I saw a big car,” answered Eve. “I don’t know what make it was; there wasn’t very much light. I know it was a light colour, though—white, I should say. Its headlights were on.”

She moistened her lips.

She’s lying, Roger thought, desperately, but they’ll believe her.

“Go on, please,” murmured Melville.

“Just as it turned a bend in the road, a man ran out from the bushes,” asserted the girl. She looked as if the moment of horror still affected her, the lying bitch! “He didn’t seem to look where he was going, just ran across the road. The car swerved, and I quite thought it would crash. I remember standing still and staring. I couldn’t even cry out.”

“We quite understand,” soothed Melville. “And what happened then?”

“I saw the man fall,” said Eve, simply. “He—he simple didn’t get up again.”

“Did the car stop?”

“It slowed down, then went on.”

If she was lying, would she admit a thing which didn’t show Raeburn up in a good light, even though it made her testimony seem still more reliable?

“I see,” said Melville, quite untroubled. “Now, you saw an accident, one of many sad fatalities which occur on the road, but you did not inform the police. Why was that ? “

“I—I was so frightened,” answered Eve, uneasily. “I could never stand the sight of blood; it always makes me faint. I just stood staring, not knowing what to do. Then a man came up on a bike—on a bicycle.”

“Did you see him?”

“Not very well,” said Eve. “He startled me, because I didn’t see him at first, his lamp was so dim. He got off his bike and bent over the man in the road. I went a little nearer, and saw he was a policeman. Obviously, there wasn’t any need for me, so I hurried away.” Her voice was hardly audible.

“You now know that you should have made yourself known, and told this policeman what you saw, don’t you?”

“Yes. I—I’m sorry, really. But I was so scared, and I didn’t want to become involved with the police.”

“I don’t think we should blame you for that,” murmured Melville, and flicked a glance at Roger. “What time did you arrive home?”

“Just before a quarter to two.”

“Do you live with your parents?”

“No, I’ve a flat.”

“Did you see anyone when you reached the flat?”

“No. No one was up in the other flats as far as I know. I’d a terrible headache, and took some aspirins, and went straight to bed. My head was still awful next morning, and I stayed in bed all day. It wa s horrible! I haven’t been really well since, but if I’d known how important it was I — I would have come forward, I mean that.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Melville, glancing at the magistrate. “I have no more questions to ask this witness, Your Worship.”

The Police Solicitor made the best of a bad job, but could not shake the girl’s evidence.

Two men and a girl were put into the box, and testified that Eve Franklin had been with them on the night in question until nearly one o’clock, but Melville still wasn’t finished.

“Your Worship,” he said, after the last witness had left the box, “I would venture now to make a statement which I hope you will agree is timely. It is evident that the accident was quite unavoidable. There remains, however, the charge that my client was drunk and incapable at the wheel of his car. I do not think that was the case. I intend to bring witnesses who will testify to his sobriety not only on that night, but at all times. He himself will tell you that he thought he had avoided the man who ran across the road, and

Melville poured ridicule on Dr Anstruther Breem’s evidence, and even shook the assurance of the mobile police who had found Raeburn near Roehampton.

An hour later, Raeburn was almost mobbed by sycophantic admirers when he left the court.

Roger opened the front door of the Bell Street house, stepped inside, and closed it quietly behind him. He stood still, listening. No sound came from the kitchen. Janet was probably out, and the boys not yet home, although it was nearly six.

He had come straight from Scotland Yard, after a gloomy post mortem with Turnbull and Chatworth. He decided to change into slacks, and turned to the stairs. As he put his foot on the bottom stair, the kitchen door opened, and Janet stepped out.

“Oh! Oh, darling, you seared me.”

“Sorry, sweet. Boys not back?”

“They’ve gone swimming.” Janet’s quick smile faded when she saw his expression. “He didn’t get off?”

“He’s as free as the air,” said Roger, bitterly. “I’m sick and tired of the whole damned business. The man’s so rotten that he stinks. I feel that if I even hear his name mentioned again, I’ll throw a fit.”

They stood staring at each other, until suddenly he grinned. “Sorry, sweet! No more hysterics. Any hope of an early supper? I didn’t get more than a sandwich at lunch.”

“I’ll have it ready by the time you’ve changed,” promised Janet. “Why don’t you have a drink first?”

A whisky-and-soda, sausages, eggs and chips, and a boisterous half hour with the two boys when they came in, damp-haired, bright-eyed, and ravenous, drove gloom away.

At nine o’clock Martin, called Scoopy, a massive fourteen, and Richard, called Richard, an average thirteen, came away from television, rubbing their eyes.

Janet said: “Bed now, boys, and don’t take all day to get ready.”

“No, Mum. I just want to ask Dad something.” Scoopy eyed his father, while Richard watched from the door; this was obviously a put-up job, probably schemed to win ten or fifteen minutes’ respite from bedtime. “I was reading about that man, Raeburn, who got off, Dad. Didn’t you think you’d got him?”

“I did,” answered Roger.

“What happened?”

“Either I’m a bad detective, or a witness lied.”

“You mean that Eve Franklin?”

“The pretty woman,” Richard put in.

“We were reading about it in the evening paper,” Scoopy explained. “Do you really think she lied?”

“Between these four walls, yes,” Roger said, “but if you breathe a word outside, I’ll never confide in you again. Now, off to bed!”

“I jolly well know one thing,” declared Richard, his blue eyes looking enormous, “you’re not a bad detective.”

“Come on, Fish, no need to say the obvious,” Scoopy said, and dragged his brother off.

Roger slept soundly, woke in a more cheerful mood, and was even prepared for a few knocks in the morning newspapers. Scoopy, five feet ten and absurdly powerful, bounded up the stairs with them, announcing: “You’re starred again in the Cry, Pop!”

A good photograph of himself stared up at Roger from the morning paper which Raeburn owned, but Roger was interested only in the caption:

CHIEF INSPECTOR WEST, THE YOUNGEST CI AT THE YARD, WHO WAS IN CHARGE OF THE CASE AGAINST MR PAUL RAEBURN.

The case had big headlines, and, as he read, a subheading caught his eye: WASTE OF PUBLIC MONEY.

Richard called out: “Have a game of darts, Scoop? Mum’s only just started cooking breakfast.”

“Do you more good to check your homework,” Scoopy said, but went off.

Roger read on: “Another important factor is the waste of public money. Had the police exerted themselves to find Miss Franklin, a case of such gravity would never have been brought. A man of exemplary character was pilloried in public because of an unavoidable accident. Even the charge of being drunk in control of a car was not established. Mr Raeburn will be a generous man if he does not sue the police for wrongful arrest.”