A Spoonful of Luger (34 page)

The
tipping
was
allowed
to
continue,
after
a
new
area
had
been
laid
out.
The
JCB
came
round
the
back
lane
into
the
drive-in
at
the
bottom
level,
and
the
blue
uniforms
sprinkled
the
surface.
It would
soon
be
dark.
Tony
and
I
got
out
of
the
car.

“Lights,”
shouted
Bycroft.
“We’ll
need
more
light.”

They
already
had
lights
laid
on
for
work
after
dark,
but
they
were
only
concentrated
on
the
upper
edge.
Sprague
drafted
in
some
more,
and
a
gang
of
men
from
the
electricity
board
came
and
wired
them
in.
White
light
splashed
into
the
quarry.
Snow
was
drifting
through
the
glare.
Down
there
the
digger
snorted,
crouched
and
thrust
and
lifted
its
jaws,
swivelled,
and
dumped
its
load.
The
men
turned
it
over.
It
was
cold.
Sprague
went
down
with
the
others.

Very
soon
bits
of
cars
began
to
appear
in
the
grab.
They’d
dug
through
to
Cleave’s
rubbish.
Bycroft
lit
a
cigarette.
He
walked
a
few
paces
and
walked
back.
Shouting
voices
echoed
over
the
roar
of
the
diesel.

There
was
something
grey.
Upholstery,
I
thought.
Then,
clearly,
the
bonnet
of
a
blue
Austin
1800.
We
were
getting close.
There
was
a
flash
of
primrose.
The
front
wing
of
a
Rover
3500
is
distinctive.
Part
of
the
boot
followed.
The
digger
disgorged
a
mouthful.
A
seat,
a
black
upholstered
seat,
folded
forward,
enfolding
something
not
upholstery.
Down
below
they
levered
it
apart.
They
came
running
to
surround
it,
and
a
shout
choked
the
digger
down
to
a
snuffle
then
silence.
Sprague’s
face
was
a
white
disc
as
he
turned
it
up
to
us
and
his
voice
swung
round
the
steep
sides,
disembodied.

“We’ve
found
her
sir.
She’s
here.”

I
didn’t
see
that
there
was
any
point
in
hanging
around.
My
job
there
was
finished.
I
didn’t
intend
to
go
down
and
see.

Bycroft
turned
and
saw
me.
He
said
nothing,
and
we
stood
staring
at
each
other.
Then
he
stalked
past,
almost
shouldering
me
aside.

His
eyes
had
been
blazing
with
anger.

8

TONY
was
shaking,
wet
through
and
cold.
I
didn’t
feel
too
good
myself.
“I’ll
take
you
home.”

He
got
in
the
car
and
I
slid
in
beside
him.

“What’s
up
with
him?”
he
asked
fiercely.

“Bycroft?”
I
started
the
engine
with
a
little
trouble.
“It’s
the
bad
bit
of
a
copper’s
life.”

“All
the
same ... ”

“And
I
reckon
he’s
had
the
ballistics
report,”
I
said.
“You’ll
remember
what
I
told
you.”

That
kept
him
silent
all
the
way
home.
He
was
brooding
sullenly
about
keys
and
things,
but
he
didn’t
say
anything.
As
he
reached
for
the
door
catch
I
grabbed
his
arm.

“Tony ...
one
small
point ... ”

“Christ,
don’t
you
ever
give
up?”

“You
saw
it,
before
they
got
to
the
Rover,
bits
of
an
Austin
1800.
That
fits
with
the
other
log
book
in
the
deed
box.
Nobody’s
said
anything
about
that
log
book
yet.”

“You
done
your
job,”
he
said
savagely.
“You
found
Dulcie.
So
bugger
off
home,
old
man.”

“Just
leave
it
to
me
to
decide
when
my
job’s
finished.
The
blue
Austin,
Tony ... ”

“Right.
Right
then.
What’s
it
matter?
The
bits
for
the
other
log
book.
You
know
that.”

“But
Norman
wanted
a
key
to
that
box.
Then
he
got
killed,
so
he
never
got
round
to
using
it.
But
if
he
had,
would
that
log
book
still
have
been
there?”

“How
do
I
know
what
he
was
after?”

“You
seem
to
know
everything
else.”

He
moved
restlessly,
looked
down
at
my
fingers
round
his
arm,
and
tried
to
prise
them
open.
“You
big
ape ...
all
right.
It
was
a
job
supposed
to’ve
been
done
a
few
months
back. Dennis
had
got
hold
of
the
log
book,
so
Norm
picked
up
an
Austin
1800
in
Leicester.”

“A
Saturday
this
would
be?”

“It
was
always
Saturdays.
D’you
want
to
know
or
what?”

I
released
his
arm.
“You
tell
it,
Tony.”

He
shook
himself
like
a
dog
just
out
of
water.
“Norm
picked
up
the
car.
He
was
always
a
mad-head.
Dennis
could
never
keep
up
with
him
in
the
pick-up.
But
this
time
Norm
got
into
trouble.
Rushed
a
traffic
light,
knocked
down
a
bloke
on
a
pedestrian
crossing — the
poor
bleeder’s
got
a
broken
back — and
of
course
he
didn’t
dare
stop.
So
he
dumped
the
car
and
called
it
a
dead
loss.”
He
stopped.