A Spoonful of Luger (59 page)

Sprague
was
moving.
Bycroft
looked
across
at
him.

“You’ll
have
to
answer
for
it,
George.”

“I
had
to
know
that
Tony
had
told
a
lie
about
knowing
Norman
was
dead.
I
had
to
force
his
hand.”

“You’re
mad!
You
didn’t
have
to
do ...
that!”

“I
had
to,
Frank.”
I
could
hardly
speak.
“You
heard
what
Tony
said
a
minute
ago.
Cleave
was
putting
the
money
into
the
tea
tin.
He’d
been
out,
and
he
came
back
with
it.
He’d
received
it.
It
wasn’t
for
paying
out.
And
where
had
he
been,
last
Friday
afternoon,
when
he
came
back
towing nothing?
He’d
been
called
out
to
a
car
crash,
and
the
reason
he
didn’t
come
back
towing
the
wreck
was
because
it
was
a
police
car,
and
they
have
to
be
reported
on,
checked
and
crosschecked.
So
he
simply
towed
it
back
to
your
yard.
Frank,
I’m
guessing,
just
wild
guessing,
putting
two
and
two
together.
But
you
can
tell
me.
Am
I
right?”

Frank
spoke
in
a
strained
voice.
“Cleave
towed
the
car
back.”

“But
isn’t
that
strange,
Frank?
Why’d
he
go
out
after
a
car
that’d
only
just
been
crashed?
Nobody
parts
with
crashed
cars
till
they’ve
been
declared
a
write-off.
But
out
Cleave
went.
Why?
Because
Sprague
was
there,
waiting
for
him?
And
Cleave
came
back
with
money.
Frank,
for
Christ’s
sake,
it’s
obvious.
This
racket
wasn’t
run
by
Cleave.
It’d
need
more
brains
than
he’d
got.
And
he’d
never
get
away
with
it
without
some
sort
of
police
cover.
Frank,
it’s
got
to
mean
that
Sprague
was
running
it.”

Bycroft
whispered
something.

“And
Frank,
it
means
that
Sprague
must
have
known,
without
any
possible
doubt,
that
Cleave
had
killed
Dulcie
and
he
saw
him
last
Friday
and
simply
paid
him
off
for
a
previous
job.
I
didn’t
hit
him
hard
enough,
Frank.
Just
let
me
rest
a
few
minutes ... ”

Frank
said:
“I’m
going
to
the
office
to
phone.
George,
I’m
placing
Tony
in
your
custody.”

I
grinned
at
him
painfully,
and
Bycroft
walked
with
stiff
legs
round
Sprague,
avoiding
him
carefully.

“Tony,”
I
said,
“d’you
want
to
make
a
run
for
it?
There’s
a
car
out
there.”

“Where
would
I
go
to,
Mr
Coe?
No
thanks.
I’ll
go
to
trial.
I’ll
be
proud.”

It
seemed
a
long
while
before
I
could
walk
out
of
there.
The
ambulance
had
been
and
gone.
Bycroft
had
left
with
Tony,
and
gradually
the
voices
fell
away.
There
was
only
me,
in
an
empty
scrapyard.

My
brain
had
ceased
working.
I
went
for
the
car.

The
rain
was
easing.
I
walked
over
to
the
Saab.
My
legs
felt
weak.
Hell,
did
I
have
to
go
shaky
just
from
a
bit
of
a
beating-up?
Was
I
getting
that
old?
Then
I
recalled
my
youth,
and
I
understood.
I’d
always
felt
shaky
then,
when
I’d
been
nervous,
going
to
meet
my
girl.

Ten
years
had
rolled
away.

If you enjoyed reading
A Spoonful of Luger,
you might be interested in
Parting Shot,
also by Roger Ormerod.

Extract from
Parting Shot
by Roger Ormerod

Prologue

The cobbles were still slicked with rain, though it had stopped early in the evening. Wind was rattling round the van. Across the end of the alleyway the few pedestrians had been walking head down, not to be diverted, but by midnight nothing was moving. The van sat, apparently empty, and now part of the scenery. Paper had blown beneath its wheels and become trapped. The engine was cold, and one tyre was at half pressure.

At ten minutes past midnight the rear doors of the van opened and two men quietly lowered themselves to the cobbles. They were dressed in running shoes, dark slacks and black roll-neck sweaters. The woman who slid forward over the bench seat was slim, her face pale, and had her hair tied back beneath a dark blue headscarf. In all other ways she was dressed the same as the two men. She took her seat behind the wheel. The men did not speak to her, but moved away into the darkness, disappearing into a narrow opening between the tall buildings.

She sat. She waited. There was no tension on her features, because this would not need a fast getaway. The van had been chosen for its derelict and anonymous appearance, rather than for its speed.

Ten minutes later a dark green minivan drifted into the far end of the alleyway behind her. It lifted its wheels onto the pavement and nestled close into the shadows beneath the buildings. Its lights had been extinguished before it made the turn, and the woman did not notice it in the single rear-view mirror on the door of the van.

There was silence. A lone police patrol car drove past the far end of the alley, but without pause. The woman glanced at her watch, but the dial was not visible. She reached for a cigarette, then decided against it.

The two men had found the window. It had been left only fractionally open, and had been difficult to locate in the row of similar windows, some higher and some lower, all so deeply shadowed that it had required an overactivity of the torch to locate the correct one. Its use had probed at the nerves of the shorter of the men.

“There’s got to be alarms.”

The taller one was all confidence. “I told you,” he whispered. “In these places the security’s all for the daytime. They have to worry about armed idiots, when their stuff’s all out of the strongroom. At night the security’s concentrated on the strongroom door. Relax, Niels, and I’ll give you a shove up.”

Niels grumbled. The job was bigger than they’d ever tackled before. “We left the gun in the car.”