Lying there, trying to steady his still-shaking limbs, he suddenly remembered the small fortune locked in the safe under the carpet in the bedroom.
Screw it. He wasn’t going to crawl back and get it now while the police were around. He’d have to wait until they’d made themselves scarce.
As it was, he could hear that bloody bulldozer, evidently still with the gate attached by the hook and chain to a large section of the front wall since it seemed to be trying to get rid of these encumbrances and, by the sound of scraping metal, not succeeding.
Exhausted and stunned at the destruction of his home, Albert Ponson passed out.
Chapter 20
In front of what had been the bungalow, the police had been joined by the superintendent who was considering the consequences to his career of what could only be called a total catastrophe.
‘You bloody moron,’ he shouted at the chief inspector. ‘I asked you to arrest this Ponson crook, not knock his blasted house to the ground. You’ve almost certainly killed the bastard. You wouldn’t have made a competent parking attendant let alone a kindergarten crossing keeper. The front-page headlines of every paper in the country are going to blazon this little lot out. POLICE TERRORISTS BLOW HOUSE UP and WHO NEEDS TERRORISTS WHEN WE’VE GOT THE SECURITY POLICE ? As sure as hell I’ll lose my job. Well, letme tell you this: when I go, you’re going a fucking sight further down.’
‘But how were we to know he’d got an armour-plated bungalow? The old bird, his sister, said her son was in there to protect the lad from his father and that she’d heard gunshots. We had to get in.’
The superintendent looked insanely round.
‘Are you telling me she was married to her brother? That’s incest, that is.’
‘No, she’s married to a bank manager in Croydon who’s gone off his rocker and tried to kill his son with a carving knife. She said we had to get him out of his uncle’s house.’
‘What? Before he killed him too?’ asked the superintendent.
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Instead of which he left you to do it for him by bringing the place down. And where is this Mrs Ponson now?’
‘Well, inside too, I suppose.’
‘You mean she heard gunshots and her son being killed and –’
‘No, sir. Her name is Mrs Wiley. She’s down at Accident and Emergency.’
‘Reverse that order of words, Chief Inspector. Emergency and Accident. In fact, cut out the Accident altogether. This was deliberate and you’re responsible. Wait till we’ve an inquest and after that the trial and see what the verdict is.’
He turned and was about to get as far away as quickly as possible when the chief inspector stopped him.
‘Hadn’t you better question Mrs Wiley first, sir?’
The superintendent turned and tried vainly to remember who Mrs Wiley was. He was feeling even madder now.
‘Is she still alive? I thought you said her husband tried to kill her with a carving knife.’
‘Not her. Her son. Mr Wiley is a bank manager. He took a carving knife and –’
‘Oh yes, I remember now. She brought him up to this wrecked bungalow to have him shot by the bigamist husband she’d married before the bank manager. All right, we’ll go and see her. I don’t believe I’ve ever met a bigamist before.’
The chief inspector kept his mouth shut. He was wondering if the superintendent had been drinking, and he was wishing he could have a stiff whisky himself.
Chapter 21
Waking in London following yet another self-indulgent evening, Horace wasn’t feeling too well, not least because he’d woken to discover that he’d overslept and the tramp steamer had long since left on its voyage.
After a minimal lunch he finally felt able to leave the hotel and, realising that buying another ticket at the same travel agency might make even the dozy clerk there suspicious, he took a taxi to the most lawless part of London, near Docklands.
Deciding that he needed to better cover his tracks, he chose
Screw it. He wasn’t going to crawl back and get it now while the police were around. He’d have to wait until they’d made themselves scarce.
As it was, he could hear that bloody bulldozer, evidently still with the gate attached by the hook and chain to a large section of the front wall since it seemed to be trying to get rid of these encumbrances and, by the sound of scraping metal, not succeeding.
Exhausted and stunned at the destruction of his home, Albert Ponson passed out.
Chapter 20
In front of what had been the bungalow, the police had been joined by the superintendent who was considering the consequences to his career of what could only be called a total catastrophe.
‘You bloody moron,’ he shouted at the chief inspector. ‘I asked you to arrest this Ponson crook, not knock his blasted house to the ground. You’ve almost certainly killed the bastard. You wouldn’t have made a competent parking attendant let alone a kindergarten crossing keeper. The front-page headlines of every paper in the country are going to blazon this little lot out. POLICE TERRORISTS BLOW HOUSE UP and WHO NEEDS TERRORISTS WHEN WE’VE GOT THE SECURITY POLICE ? As sure as hell I’ll lose my job. Well, letme tell you this: when I go, you’re going a fucking sight further down.’
‘But how were we to know he’d got an armour-plated bungalow? The old bird, his sister, said her son was in there to protect the lad from his father and that she’d heard gunshots. We had to get in.’
The superintendent looked insanely round.
‘Are you telling me she was married to her brother? That’s incest, that is.’
‘No, she’s married to a bank manager in Croydon who’s gone off his rocker and tried to kill his son with a carving knife. She said we had to get him out of his uncle’s house.’
‘What? Before he killed him too?’ asked the superintendent.
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Instead of which he left you to do it for him by bringing the place down. And where is this Mrs Ponson now?’
‘Well, inside too, I suppose.’
‘You mean she heard gunshots and her son being killed and –’
‘No, sir. Her name is Mrs Wiley. She’s down at Accident and Emergency.’
‘Reverse that order of words, Chief Inspector. Emergency and Accident. In fact, cut out the Accident altogether. This was deliberate and you’re responsible. Wait till we’ve an inquest and after that the trial and see what the verdict is.’
He turned and was about to get as far away as quickly as possible when the chief inspector stopped him.
‘Hadn’t you better question Mrs Wiley first, sir?’
The superintendent turned and tried vainly to remember who Mrs Wiley was. He was feeling even madder now.
‘Is she still alive? I thought you said her husband tried to kill her with a carving knife.’
‘Not her. Her son. Mr Wiley is a bank manager. He took a carving knife and –’
‘Oh yes, I remember now. She brought him up to this wrecked bungalow to have him shot by the bigamist husband she’d married before the bank manager. All right, we’ll go and see her. I don’t believe I’ve ever met a bigamist before.’
The chief inspector kept his mouth shut. He was wondering if the superintendent had been drinking, and he was wishing he could have a stiff whisky himself.
Chapter 21
Waking in London following yet another self-indulgent evening, Horace wasn’t feeling too well, not least because he’d woken to discover that he’d overslept and the tramp steamer had long since left on its voyage.
After a minimal lunch he finally felt able to leave the hotel and, realising that buying another ticket at the same travel agency might make even the dozy clerk there suspicious, he took a taxi to the most lawless part of London, near Docklands.
Deciding that he needed to better cover his tracks, he chose