Dishonour Among Thieves Page 2

  He could have driven the Vauxhall clean through the checkpoint if he had wanted to; there was only the policeman standing in the way. But it would have been a stupid thing to do. The car was his own; it had not been stolen and there were no bags of money in the boot. So he obeyed the signal and lowered the window.

  The constable was polite; he called Benton ‘sir’ and asked to see his driving-licence. He also asked Benton if the car was his own and what the number was. Benton told him. He asked if he might take a look in the boot, and Benton got out and opened it for him. Meanwhile the second policeman was dealing with a car that had come up behind the Vauxhall.

  ‘What’s it all about?’ Benton asked.

  ‘Just routine,’ the constable said.

  It was a routine which he himself carried out with no apparent enthusiasm; he seemed to expect to find nothing of interest and he did find nothing. If he had searched Benton he might have found a Beretta pistol, which would have been suspicious to say the least; but he had no reason to carry out any frisking and he did not. It was all over in a couple of minutes or so.

  The girl breathed a sigh of relief when they were on their way again. ‘Oh dear!’ she said. ‘I was sure he’d just take one look at us and know.’

  Benton laughed. ‘They’re not clairvoyant.’

  ‘Did I look guilty?’

  ‘Guilty as hell.’

  She squeezed his arm. ‘You’re a cool one, Tom. You didn’t bat an eyelid. You played it all like you were an honest law-abiding citizen.’

  ‘Basically, that’s what I am.’

  ‘You could have fooled me,’ she said.

  The ease with which they had passed through the checkpoint seemed to have given her a lift. She was bubbling over with relief and chattering away like a flock of starlings.

  Benton let her get on with it, though he guessed he could have put the damper on her spirits pretty smartly if he had told her what was going on in his mind; for he was reflecting that the security van and the dead bodies must have been discovered, and if the police were putting checks on the minor roads it was a dead certainty that they would have blocks on the major roads also.

  And maybe the Jaguar had run into one of them.

  But there was no point in making the girl unhappy, so he let her rattle on. She was still rattling on when, about an hour later, they came to the fringes of Greater London and were swallowed up in the anonymous mass of metropolitan traffic.

  ‘Ah!’ she breathed with a sigh of contentment. ‘Home at last.’

  2

  Molly

  She was still asleep when Benton woke in the morning. It was getting on for eight o’clock and there was enough light coming through the curtains for him to see her head on the pillow, turned away from him with the eyes closed and the lips just slightly parted. She was a genuine honey blonde and the hair was like gold thread; it made a perfect frame for the rather doll-like face which in sleep gave a spurious impression of childish innocence.

  The girl’s name was Jackie Fulton. She was twenty-five years old and she had been scraping a living by one means or another ever since she had had a final stand-up row with her father and mother and had left home at the age of eighteen. The family lived in Nottingham, but she had packed her bag and headed straight for London like a homing-pigeon. And she had never gone back.

  She had found life in London no bed of roses, but she was tougher than she looked and she had got by. She had had a variety of jobs, drifting from one to another. She had worked as a waitress and a barmaid, and for a time she had acted as receptionist at a rather seedy hotel.

  She had hung on to the fringes of the entertainment world and had been a go-go dancer and had done a spell with a kiss-a-gram firm until the firm had gone bankrupt still owing her money. She had acted as paid consort for visiting businessmen who wanted to relax in pleasant company after a hard day at the conference table, and some of them had been very generous.

  Yet if anyone had called her a prostitute she would have rejected the description with indignation. Going to bed with a few men and maybe accepting presents from them when they felt the urge to be generous hardly added up to being a common whore, did it? Not in her book anyway.

  It was Eddie Sangster who introduced her to Benton. He was not sure how Eddie had become acquainted with her, but it was of no consequence.

  ‘This is Jackie,’ Sangster said. ‘Jackie, I want you to meet my old pal, Tom Benton. Be nice to him. I’m sure you two will get along fine.’

  He had not been far wrong at that.

  Jackie seemed to take to him at once. ‘Hello, Tom,’ she said, and she gave him a lovely big smile. ‘Do you think we’ll get along fine?’

  ‘I see no reason why we shouldn’t,’ Benton said. He liked the look of the blonde and she seemed ready to be friendly. He wondered why Sangster should be so willing to hand her over to him, but Eddie had so many women on his list that he could afford to be generous.

  That had been the start of his relationship with Jackie Fulton and it had gone on from there. She was living in a one-bedroom flat over a greengrocer’s shop in Islington, and it was not long before he had moved in with her. It seemed the sensible thing to do; he had to live somewhere and she had no objections. In fact she was all in favour of it and had suggested it herself.

  Benton wondered whether she really had fallen in love with him; she kept telling him so and maybe it was the truth. When he told her he loved her too it was not quite the truth; he had to be honest with himself about that if not with her. He liked her well enough and he was quite happy to sleep with her; but love, that was something else again. For his part he was not entirely convinced there was any such thing, that it was not just some fanciful idea that women picked up from old Hollywood films and romantic novels.

  The flat was no great shakes, but the rents that were being demanded in London these days for any half decent accommodation were fantastically high, and even a dump like this was far from cheap. Jackie had been getting into arrears with her payments to the landlord before he had moved in, and apart from any other consideration she had been glad to have some help with the financial arrangements.

  So he had moved in and he was still there.

  He slid out of the bed and went to the dingy little bathroom and shaved. Then he went to the kitchenette and made a pot of tea.

  He switched on the transistor radio, keeping the volume low, and was just in time to catch an eight o’clock news bulletin. There was an item concerning the security van robbery in which two men had been shot dead. Apparently a burnt-out Jaguar, believed to have been the getaway car, had been discovered, but none of the robbers had been caught.

  Benton switched off the radio and poured two cups of tea. He took one into the bedroom and found Jackie still asleep. He wakened her by tapping on the cup with the teaspoon and she opened her eyes and looked up at him sleepily.

  ‘Oh, it’s you. What time is it?’

  ‘It’s after eight. I’ve just been listening to the news on Radio Four. The Jag has been found. It was burnt out.’

  The information brought her fully awake and she sat up in the bed. The duvet fell away from her shoulders to reveal the nudity of her upper body, but she made no move to cover herself. She just pushed her hair back with one hand and took the cup and saucer with the other. Her breasts were quite small and she would never have made the grade as a page three girl, but they were a nice shape and Benton liked them that way.

  ‘Oh God!’ she said. ‘Was anybody in it?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘And they haven’t caught anyone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, that’s something.’

  ‘Yes, it’s something.’

  She stirred her tea and took a sip from the cup. ‘Gus should never have killed those men. We could all be charged with murder. That’s the law, isn’t it?’

  ‘I believe it is.’

  ‘Damn him!’ she said, with sudden vindictiveness. ‘Dob was right;
he’s dropped us all in it. And if he’s caught he’ll talk, won’t he? He’ll drag us down with him, the rotten bastard.’

  ‘So we’ve got to hope he doesn’t get caught.’

  ‘I wish I’d never had anything to do with it. You said it would be a simple little job. Nothing to it, you said. You didn’t tell me anyone would get killed.’

  ‘I didn’t know, did I? I wasn’t expecting that any more than you were.’

  ‘You knew what he was like, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but – ’

  ‘So you should’ve guessed what he might do with that bloody gun. He’s a crazy bastard.’

  Benton could think of nothing to say to that. She was right, of course. He should have guessed what might happen; had guessed in fact, but had chosen to ignore the possibility. After all, he had taken part in other jobs with Houlder and nothing like this had ever happened; the worst any victim had ever got was a cracked skull or a broken arm. Houlder had never actually fired the gun before; he had just used it as a persuader. But perhaps it had been bound to happen sometime.

  He went back to the kitchenette and drank his tea. His neck felt stiff and he was far from happy. And that was putting it mildly.

  Sometimes he wondered how it was that he had allowed himself to be drawn into the criminal activities in which for the past two or three years he had been engaged. He did not come from the kind of background where law-breaking was common and even a customary way of life for many. He had been brought up on a farm, and as far as he could recall there had not been a single person among his immediate family and circle of acquaintances who had not been entirely honest.

  But somehow he had never fitted in, though for a time after leaving school he had worked on the farm, mainly because he could think of nothing else to do. His two older brothers, Dan and Arthur, were already helping their father run the place, and they really had no need for him. He had never got on well with them and they had no intention of making things comfortable for him; indeed they made no secret of the fact that they would be happy to see the back of him.

  ‘Why don’t you go and get yourself a different job?’ Dan said. ‘This farm ain’t big enough for all of us.’

  ‘You mean it’s just big enough for you and Arthur, but I’m one too many? Is that it?’

  ‘That’s about it,’ Dan said.

  And Arthur added with a sneer: ‘I suppose you’re counting on getting a share when the old man dies?’

  This remark angered Tom Benton; there was no reason why he should not have had a share of it, but he resented the insinuation that this was all he was hanging on for, waiting for his father to die so that he could grab anything that might be coming to him.

  ‘I don’t give a damn,’ he said, ‘whether I have a share or not.’

  ‘So why don’t you clear off then?’

  ‘That would please you, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Damn right, it would.’

  He guessed that one reason why Dan and Arthur disliked him was that he was better educated than they were; he had gone to grammar school but they had never had the brains to make any academic progress. Arthur was scarcely literate and Dan was not much better. So they would refer sneeringly to his book-learning, calling him ‘The Scholar’ and making snide remarks about his ability to do the rough manual jobs of the agricultural life.

  And yet he knew as well as they did that he was stronger than they were and could beat either of them if it came to a wrestling match or a plain stand-up fight. Which was maybe another reason for their dislike; for there had been a time when they had been able to give him a beating if ever he stepped out of line. They had been older and bigger than he was then, but as he grew to manhood the advantage had been lost and now they were wary of challenging him to a physical showdown for fear of losing. Book-learning or no book-learning, he knew how to look after himself in a brawl and the knowledge of this did no more to endear him to his brothers than the grammar school education.

  Not that this education had done much for him in the matter of earning a living; you could have a string of O-levels and maybe A-levels as well and still not be able to land a decent job. So in the end it had all come down to working on the farm and putting up with the taunts of Dan and Arthur.

  He was not sure whether his father wanted him there or not. The old man said very little; he tended to be a morose and taciturn person, especially since the death of Mrs Benton. Tom found it impossible to get through to him, to guess what was passing in that aging brain; he had been closer to his mother, but she was gone now and a woman from the village came in daily to do the cooking and the housework; a slatternly widow who ruined the food and failed to keep the place clean. Only Tom seemed to notice her shortcomings and he knew it was useless to complain; his father would never bother himself to make a change.

  And as things turned out it was the daughter of Mrs Secker who finally brought matters to a head.

  The girl, whose name was Molly, was between seventeen and eighteen years old and sometimes came to the farm to give her mother a bit of help in one way or another. She was a black-haired beauty with the look of a gipsy; a kind of village Carmen who had plenty of rustic Don Josés lusting after her and who delighted in leading them on.

  And one of these besotted young men was Tom Benton’s brother Dan.

  Dan made clumsy advances to her, but he lacked a fluent tongue and she treated him with mockery, driving him half mad with frustration. It amused her to toy with him; she would mimic the stammer that came into his speech when he tried to talk to her and laugh at his gauche attempts to play the suitor.

  Yet none of her mockery could put him off; the more she derided him, the more determined he became. He was a stubborn man, and once he had set his heart on anything he refused to give up striving for it, come what might.

  ‘I’ll have her yet,’ he confided to Arthur. ‘She’s a damned black-eyed minx, but I mean to have her and I will, see if I don’t.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ Arthur said. ‘She’s got a score of blokes in tow and she ain’t no good to nobody. Better give her up, Dan. She’d be naught but trouble if you got her.’

  ‘I don’t mind the trouble, just as long as I have her with it.’

  ‘Well, you please yourself,’ Arthur said. ‘But me, I wouldn’t touch her with a pitchfork.’

  ‘Don’t you give me any of that there squit. You’d take her like a shot if she gave you half a chance. But you better not try it because I’m the one as is going to have her. And when I do I’ll tame her, see if I don’t. She’ll have to mend her ways then.’

  ‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ Arthur said.

  The fact was that it was Dan’s young brother Tom whom Molly Secker really had her eye on. Whenever she came to the farm she did her best to put herself in his way and make him take notice of her.

  Not that he was at all reluctant to do so, and he was always willing to exchange a bit of friendly banter with her. He knew that this annoyed Dan, but he was not bothered about that; in fact he took pleasure in chatting up the girl his brother was so irresistibly attracted to, just for the hell of it.

  He was alone in the barn one day shifting some bales of straw when Molly walked in.

  ‘Why, hello, Tom,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you were in here.’

  He doubted whether she was telling the truth; there was no reason why she should have come into the barn if it had not been to find him. He took a long look at her. She was wearing a knitted jumper and a short skirt and she had a pair of legs that were calculated to catch the eye of any human male who happened to be in easy sight of them.

  At a range of no more than ten feet they certainly caught Tom Benton’s eye.

  ‘Hullo, Molly,’ he said. ‘You looking for something?’

  She struck a provocative pose, hand on hip. ‘Not something, Tom. Someone. You.’

  He grinned at her. ‘That’s what I thought. Well, now you’ve found me, what can I do for you?’

&
nbsp; She answered with another question. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Working. At least I was until you stopped me.’

  ‘Work’s no fun. Why don’t you give yourself a break sometimes? Enjoy yourself.’

  ‘What makes you think I don’t?’

  She began to move round the barn, swaying her hips, looking at things. The building was old, centuries old perhaps, and it had some massive oak beams supporting the roof. At one end were a few stalls with mangers which had been used for draught-horses in former times; but these had long gone out of use, though there were still some pieces of harness hanging on iron hooks, the leather dulled and cracked and the brasswork tarnished.

  ‘What’s up there?’ the girl asked.

  She was pointing to a floor above the horse stalls with a ladder leading up to it.

  ‘Only the hayloft.’

  ‘I’d like to see it.’

  ‘There’s nothing up there worth seeing. Just a bit of old hay.’

  ‘All the same, I’d like to go up and look.’ She had one hand on the ladder and was glancing at him.

  ‘If you want to go up there,’ he said, ‘I’m not stopping you.’

  She pouted. ‘Don’t be a pig, Tom. I want you to go first. I’m not sure the ladder is safe.’

  He gave a laugh. ‘So I’m to risk a broken leg for your benefit?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you won’t break a leg.’

  He could see that she meant to have her way and he decided to humour her. He walked over to the ladder and climbed to the loft. The girl followed him nimbly and they stood together on the rough boarded floor. There was, as he had said, nothing there but a heap of old hay, scenting the air with its peculiar sweetish odour. There were no windows up there, but little slivers of sunlight made their way between the pantiles on the roof and revealed the cobwebs festooning the rafters.

  ‘Satisfied now?’ he asked. ‘Interesting, isn’t it?’

  She ignored the question. She said: ‘Do you like me, Tom?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I like you, Molly?’