‘This isn’t going to help us much,’ said Campson.
‘No, Sarge.’
‘We’ve got somehow to find out what he’s been up to and who he’s been mixing with. Start off by seeing what his wife can tell us.’
‘But her present whereabouts isn’t known . . .’
‘I can read,’ cut in Campson curtly. ‘But that’s just what Records say and half the time they’re too lazy to check out everything. Get on to the last address, find out where they were married, question relatives. . . . Someone will know where she’s living now. Have you questioned them at the bed-sittery to discover his recent background?’
Bressett wondered whether to point out that Mickey was presumed to have no known relatives, then wisely decided not to. ‘No, Sarge.’
‘Why the hell not? Do I have to tell you everything you have to do and precisely how to do it?’
‘There just hasn’t been time. . . .’
‘There’s always time.’
Bressett made no answer. There was something of the bully in the detective sergeant and Bressett was not a man to stand up for himself against rank.
‘All right. Get moving.’
Bressett returned to the games room. Smith was sitting behind his desk and smoking. He was thirty-four and looked more: many would describe his face as the kind from whom one would try not to buy a used car. ‘Still rushing around?’ he said. ‘It’s got like a bloody madhouse these last few days.’ He had a very slight impediment of speech and slurred an occasional word. ‘If I could work a transfer back to my old div I’d be off like a shot.’ He was as cynically unambitious as Bressett was naively ambitious. He tried to slide through each day without exerting himself overmuch, either physically or mentally.
Bressett went over to one of the book cases and picked out from it a London telephone directory.
‘The old man’s like a bear with two sore heads. Why doesn’t someone tell him there’s no bonus for collecting a throm from overwork? My last D.I. had the right idea: don’t kill yourself working, it only makes the pension fund smile.’
Bressett checked the number he wanted and dialled it. He asked for details of the marriage between Albert Mickey and Ada Partridge which had taken place eighteen years before. He apologized and said he didn’t know either the exact date of the marriage or where the ceremony had taken place. ‘You must reckon we’ve nothing much to do,’ said the other man, with sarcastic bad temper.
*
Kerr entered the courtyard at the back of the station as Fusil came out of the building, so he hurried to make it clear he was not over an hour late in reporting for work. ‘’Morning, sir. I’m just back from questioning Hanna, the assistant manager at the bank.’
‘Well?’ Fusil’s manner became curt whenever the pressure was really on: he could not be bothered to waste time on merely being polite.
‘I’m sure there’s something there, but so far I can’t pin it down. He’s scared, but not scared of talking about the robbery.’
‘Has he altered any of his answers?’
‘They’re exactly the same as they were.’
A swirl of wind swept across the courtyard to flap the collar of Fusil’s mackintosh against his cheek. ‘We’ve ten times too much work in hand to spend time following up a doubtful lead in a dying case. But . . .’ He was like a terrier ordered to drop a rat, but trying to get in one last shake.
‘I’d say that Hanna will break if only we keep up the pressure. If I went and saw him in his own house and very obviously looked around . . .’
‘I thought you were going to see him in his own place last night, not at the bank this morning?’
Kerr cursed his own over-confidence. Those had, of course, been Fusil’s orders. ‘I decided that it might pressure him more if I altered the venue to the bank.’
Fusil looked at him with sharp, sardonic disbelief. He then said evenly: ‘I see.’ It was not the first time since the amalgamation that he had relaxed his normal hard standards when dealing with one of the D.C.s who’d been in the borough force: strangely, considering his character, he allowed them a small licence he refused others. ‘Then this evening you can carry out my original suggestion. In the meantime, get hold of someone from Vehicles and drive out to Steerforth Road. A car was burned out in a garage in what was probably arson. Usual enquiries.’
They parted. Fusil went over to his car and Kerr entered the building and continued through to the front room where he spoke to the duty sergeant. ‘Sarge, I need help from someone in Vehicles.’
‘Sorry, lad, everyone’s working himself into the ground.’
‘It’s for Mr Fusil.’
The sergeant morosely studied Kerr.
‘And he said it’s top priority.’
He turned. ‘Reg, you’d better put a call out for Andy to come to the front. We can spare him a bit more easily than anyone else.’
Ten minutes later, Kerr and P.C. Croft left the station in the C.I.D. Hillman, a car which had earned, but not yet been given, its retirement.
In Steerforth Road, a P.C., regulation mackintosh and helmet giving him some protection from the rain, stood watch over the lock-up garages, keeping away the few curious sightseers.
‘Hullo, here come the brains,’ he said, glad to have someone to talk to.
‘Not forgetting the brawn!’ Croft jerked his thumb in the direction of Kerr.
‘And every joke guaranteed a dried-up chestnut,’ said Kerr cheerfully. ‘How about getting cracking, Andy, and finding out those numbers?’
‘I’ll need your help.’
‘What? Me get my hands dirty? You’re on your own, boy.’
‘Bloody pansy.’ Croft turned and brought out from the back of the Hillman a pair of grubby overalls which he pulled on over his uniform. He changed his shoes for wellingtons and then carried a torch into the blackened and stinking garage.
Kerr spoke to the P.C. ‘Have you any idea who owns the car?’
‘It’s a bloke called Huggins who lives in number fifty-seven. You ought to have heard him going on about this fire – you’d have thought it was a Rolls gone west, not a Vauxhall . . . Here, you’ve nothing to do. Cover me whilst I nip into the car for a drag – haven’t had the chance of a smoke since I came on duty.’
‘Hang on a sec. The door of the garage is open – have you any idea how it was when the firemen got here?’
‘A couple of feet off the ground, almost certainly to feed air to the fire. Now for God’s sake stop asking questions and let me get on kissing terms with a fag.’ He hurried across to the Hillman.
Kerr walked over to the garage. The roll-up-and-over door, now raised six feet, was blackened and at one point the metal had begun to melt from the heat of the fire. The lock was intact and it was obviously of good quality.
He turned his back on the car and stared out at the rain. He normally brought a light-hearted approach to his work not only because that was his nature, but also because it provided some measure of defence against the sordid, often frightening aspects of the work. But there were cases, and this was one of them, where he could no longer remain light-hearted. It was all too easy to imagine the holocaust. A crowded store, to which Helen had by chance gone shopping, the explosion followed by a violent fire which cut off all exits. . . .
‘We’re in luck,’ called out Croft, ‘so start writing.’ He waited until Kerr was ready. ‘Two two four six one nine MR.’
‘What’s that – the engine or the chassis number?’
‘Engine. I’m not going to get the chassis number if I spend the next twelve hours poking around the wreck. So now let’s get the hell out of here. The place is beginning to give me the willies.’
So Croft also was suffering from a too-active imagination, thought Kerr.
They left the garage and the P.C. climbed out of the car and met them in the middle of the road, just before the lock-up garages. ‘I’ll tell you one thing for free – it’s warmer out of this flamin’ wet. . . . D’you find
what you were after?’
‘We got half of it and that’ll be enough,’ replied Kerr. ‘I’m on my way now to have a word with the owner.’
‘Don’t be surprised if he breaks down and weeps on your shoulder.’
To someone who failed to appreciate the mental stress of their work, their frequent facetiousness in matters that were serious and potentially of great danger could be both perplexing and irritating.
Huggins was a small, fat man, who spoke nineteen to the dozen. ‘That car was in perfect condition. No question. I polished it every Sunday morning: if it was fine I did it outside, if it was wet in the garage. Smartest car in the road, no argument. And serviced exactly as the book says. What’s more, there was over two hundred quid’s worth of extras on it. And now? A wreck. Just a wreck.’
‘But I suppose it was insured?’ asked Kerr.
‘Yes. But tell me this – are they going to pay me for all the work I did? Are they going to say it was the smartest car in the road with two hundred quids’ worth of extras, so give the man a proper deal? Not them! Insurance companies are all the same. Grab your money, but never pay out properly.’
‘As a matter of interest, how much was it insured for?’
‘Twelve hundred quid and worth double. Think twelve hundred quid is going to buy a car as good? You’ve got to be joking! Why didn’t the fireraisers choose the end garage, that’s what I’m asking? The car there doesn’t even get washed down.’
‘Why d’you talk about fireraisers in the plural?’
‘There were two of them, weren’t there?’
‘How can you be certain of that?’
‘Old Ma Nesbitt said. Knows everything, does that old bitch!’
‘But how could she possibly know?’
‘She saw ’em. And what did she do about it? I’ll tell you. She did sweet Fanny Adams, but just went back to bed, or whatever. And never heard the fire engine. Dumb old cluck.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Next door.’ He pointed. ‘I’ll tell you, there’s no one can move without her peering round the curtain to see what’s up.’
You never knew how a case was going to twist and turn, thought Kerr. ‘May I have a look at your car papers, now, please?’
The registered number of the engine corresponded with the number Croft had discovered: there had not been a substitution of cars. ‘One last thing – can you remember if you locked the garage last night?’
‘Of course I locked it. D’you think I’d leave my car there for anyone to pinch? Not that locking up has done me any good, has it?’
Kerr commiserated with the small, fat man once more, then left the house and walked along the short path to the gate. As he stepped on to the pavement, Croft hurried up to him. ‘Come on, let’s move. I’ve got to be at the station . . .’
‘You’ll have to hang on until I’ve had a word with the old biddy who lives next door.’
‘Just take your time and don’t bother about anyone else,’ said Croft bad-temperedly.
The front door of number fifty-five was opened before Kerr could press the bell-push.
‘I saw you coming up the path,’ said Mrs Nesbitt. She was a thin, shapeless woman who wore even more shapeless clothes. Her face was long and narrow and above a pronouncedly hooked nose were a pair of sharp, beady, brown eyes. ‘You’re one of the policemen, aren’t you? You went into the garage just now.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What’s that? You need to speak up a little. Everyone mumbles these days.’
She was deaf, but not prepared to admit that fact.
She showed him into a darkly furnished sitting-room which was scrupulously clean but had the dead atmosphere of not having been used in years. Shouting, he asked her if she’d seen anything in the early hours of the morning which might have to do with the fire in the garage?
She nodded and smiled, an expression which transformed her face and made it lively. ‘I don’t sleep much these nights: just a little doze and I wake up. Sometimes I read, sometimes I remember. When you get old, you know, you do a lot of remembering. I’m lucky, I’ve got lovely memories.’
Because of what Huggins had said and her appearance, he had initially identified her as the traditional elderly busybody who kept watch from behind lace curtains on everything that went on outside. But he now saw that she was a woman who had had the courage to come completely to terms with lonely old age and whose interest in other people was not of a mean, inquisitive nature, but was the warm interest of someone who still liked people even if they no longer liked her.
She sat on the large wing chair, her thin, parchment-like hands carefully folded in her lap. ‘I woke up early this morning and I was thirsty so I decided to make myself a cup of tea – I have a little gas ring in the spare bedroom which saves me having to come downstairs. While I was waiting for the kettle to boil I looked out at the road because it’s so interesting, even when it’s empty – my husband always used to say that he’d only to see a ship and he’d imagine himself sailing away in it and when I look at the road I imagine myself going for a ride.’ For a moment, her expression saddened: it had obviously been a long time since anyone had offered to take her for a drive. ‘Well, I saw a car come along and go to the garages. Two men got out and opened the middle one, on the left. One of them went inside.’
‘Have you any idea what sort of time this was?’
‘It must have been after two o’clock because it was just before two when I decided I’d make myself the tea.’
‘Were you able to see what kind of car it was?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know any of the cars these days.’
‘Did you notice the registration number?’
‘I didn’t think there was any reason for trying to see what it was. I just thought these people must be friends of Mr Huggins, putting something in his garage for him.’
‘What colour was the car?’
‘I believe . . . I believe it was dark blue, but I wouldn’t like you to think that I’m at all certain of that.’
‘Could you describe the two men?’
‘They were too far away. And when my kettle boiled I made the tea and I didn’t bother about them any more. I’m so sorry.’
‘There’s no need to be. You’ve been a great help.’
‘Have I? I’m so glad.’
‘Tell me – do you know when the fire actually started?’
‘I haven’t any idea. I went to my bedroom which is at the back of the house and although I woke up again I didn’t bother to make any more tea so I didn’t go back into the spare bedroom. When it was light I got up and came downstairs and saw all the people in the street and then I went out and asked what was happening and tried to tell Mr Huggins about the men and his garage, but he was very upset and called me . . . Well, some not very nice names!’
‘I expect he was terribly upset over his car, Mrs Nesbitt.’
‘I’m sure he was, poor man.’ Her tone of voice became frosty. ‘But when I was young a gentleman never spoke to a lady as he did.’
She began to tell him what life had once been like for her. She was interrupted by the ringing of the front door bell. Kerr opened the door and Croft impatiently demanded to know whether Kerr was spending the rest of the day there.
Kerr said good-bye to Mrs Nesbitt after promising to call back some time and see her again.
*
‘It’s Durnton, here, forensic lab. Reference Albert Mickey. The deceased had a blood-alcohol level of just under point four per cent. In popular terms that means he was probably just this side of being dead drunk: certainly he’d have been incapable of rational behaviour.
‘We’ve checked the cord and can’t really tell you anything fresh. It’s a nice bit of manilla – don’t often see that these days – but there’s nothing peculiar about it: find us the length it was cut from, though, and we should be able to match it up. The knot used to form the loop was a running bowline which
might suggest a sea background, but that’s obviously open to doubt and anyway not worth much in a port. The fibres have been laid upwards for a short length and because of the way they lie in relation to the way in which the rope was fixed we can confirm that a heavy weight was hauled up over a rigid surface.
‘Scrapings taken from the fingernails show no human detritus amongst the general muck so it’s safe to say that he didn’t claw anyone. . . . And that’s about all we have for you there.
‘Reference the two letters in the fire/ransom case. The same typewriter was used for both of them and it was an Olympia. We’ll be able to identify the machine if you bring us in one for comparison tests. The paper is manufactured by one of the very large firms and is distributed all over the country. No individual characteristics in either sheet. The envelopes are, so far, unidentified, of poor quality. There’s nothing to tell you about the postmarks, except that they haven’t been tampered with.’
*
Police, both uniform and C.I.D., in Fortrow and Newcastle continued to question wholesale and retail chemists and firms handling chemicals to see if they could trace unusual sales of sulphuric acid or potassium chlorate. It was a thankless task.
Chapter Eleven
The conference room at county H.Q. was an elegant rectangular room with arched windows and a doorway leading out on to a balcony with intricate wrought-ironwork. There were two fireplaces, one at either end, with carved wooden mantelpieces: neither was ever used because of the amount of fuel which would have been needed.
The oval table, reproduction Regency, was large, yet in this room it appeared only of medium size. The chief constable sat at the head, near to one of the wall radiators which were hopefully believed adequately to heat the room. He was a handsome man, in his early fifties, who always dressed very smartly. His manner was courteous unless he was dealing with a fool and then it became peremptory.
He addressed Fusil, who was standing half-way along the right-hand side of the oval table. ‘Boiling it all down, what you’re saying is that you’re more than ever convinced that we’re dealing with villains, not terrorists?’
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