Dread and Water

by Douglas Clark

  Toinquet stared in amazement. “We sell fags here, in the mess.”

  “Only at the bar,” growled Green. “And that isn’t open at nine in the morning.”

  “Oh!” It seemed Toinquet was not wholly convinced by the account. Green, switched-on enough to hoist inboard any oddity, immediately began to wonder why the Security man should disbelieve a perfectly innocent explanation. Was it just the natural nosiness demanded by his job, or was Toinquet intent on keeping abreast of every move made by the Yard men for some more personal reason? The thought was filed away in Green’s prodigious memory to be answered later.

  “Grab some of these lists,” the DI said to Hill. “We’ve some comparing to do.”

  “Right.” Hill turned to Toinquet. “By the way, I’ve left the car outside here. Is that all right for a bit?”

  “If you haven’t blocked the entrance or pinched the Director’s place.”

  The two detectives got down to a murmured comparison of the lists, with Hill acting as note-taker. The job took more than three-quarters of an hour. When they were finished, Green said: “Right, Widow. Questions when you’re ready.”

  Toinquet put his pen down.

  “First off,” said Green, “the people who were present on all the three fatal occasions. Crombie. Who’s he?”

  “Junior staff. Biological Sciences. Group Eight. Unmarried. Mountaineer. Keen.”

  “Banes?”

  “Pal of Crombie. Also unmarried. Chemist. Group Four. Not so keen, but a climber. Usually accompanies Crombie.”

  “Winter? He’s Doctor Winter, I suppose?”

  “That’s right. Secretary of the club. Runs the show. He’s a walker. Head of Group Six.”

  “Clay?”

  “Dorothy Clay. Deputy leader of Group Six. She tags along after Winter. Looks after him like a baby in his office and thinks she has to do it outside, too.”

  “You mean she goes for him in a big way?” asked Hill.

  Toinquet stroked his chin. “Well, now, what do I say to that? She’s no oil painting and no chicken. She’s a bit mannish herself and yet I’d have said her one aim in life was to find a chap mug enough to take her on. But she tries too hard, if you get me. So I reckon she’s settled for second best until a better opportunity crops up. Winter’s a decent old stick and lets her wet-nurse him, but he’s a married man.”

  “OK,” said Green. “So we’ve got her background. But this chap Winter. He’s a married man, you say, but he seems to be away every week-end. That doesn’t add up. Where does he live?”

  “In quarters here. His wife’s in Dorset.”

  “He never sees her?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “You’re supposed to know everything.”

  “When he goes on leave. He gets six weeks a year.”

  “So, he either doesn’t like his missus, or he does like Doctor Clay. Does she live in, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they ever bunk up together?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “How? Do you keep a watch on their rooms? How far apart are they?”

  “Practically next door to each other.”

  “So you wouldn’t know if either of them went in for a bit of night hiking, would you?”

  “It’s … it’s unthinkable,” said Toinquet.

  “Not if what you’ve told us about her is true. She’s after a man—any man. You’ve said so. She’s latched on to a grass widower in the next bedroom. To me that adds up to a bit of hoop-lah on occasions.”

  Toinquet grew very red in the face. “I know them,” he said angrily.

  “OK, mate, keep your shirt on,” said Green blithely. “I’ll take your word for it that human nature’s different in Pottersby from anywhere else. So we’ll push on to somebody else.”

  “Who?”

  “A character called Bullock.”

  “What about him?”

  “Is he still here? If so, who is he? What is he?”

  “Long-haired type. Forty odd. Unmarried. Lives in. Got a bit of private money. Chief Statistician.”

  “He used to be a great week-ender at one time. He went on every trip except two for over a year. Then a few months ago he stopped and hasn’t been since. I wonder why? Has he got a woman around?”

  “Alec Bullock? He’s got an E type and flashes around a bit. My guess is he’s not a womaniser—I mean, he’s forty, can afford to marry and hasn’t—so if he fancies a bit on the side I reckon he goes further afield. Probably up to the smoke.”

  “You’re suggesting he flits about a bit. This total stoppage of climbing seems to indicate he’s got a steady alternative.”

  “Not a woman. Not Alec. He’s never far away at week-ends. Boozing perhaps. That’s more likely.”

  “You’re sure? It looked at one time as though he was a pretty keen walker or climber.”

  “He was. Mountaineer. Dead keen.”

  “But you’d not noticed that he’d chucked it recently?”

  “I’ll confess I hadn’t. I’d realised he wasn’t going quite so often, of course, but … look, Greeny, I haven’t been through those lists for some time. Until this blew up, there wasn’t any need.”

  “No? Well, you’re the Security king. But a cut-off as sharp as that might mean something.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Don’t bother on our account. We’re more interested in having a word with Crombie, Banes, Winter and Clay and the other characters who went along for the ride on one or other of the three occasions and probably witnessed the falls. Your lists don’t show which were non-climbers and non-walkers.”

  Toinquet was getting irritable. It was fairly obvious to Hill that Green—in accordance with his previously announced intentions—was needling the Security man purposely. Hill couldn’t decide quite why Green thought it was necessary, even if the two old colleagues had never got on well together. Toinquet’s air of infallibility was irritating, but certainly not enough to give Green grounds for suspecting that Toinquet knew more about the tragedies than he was disclosing. If Green was right, thought Hill, it would be a pretty turn-up for the book because—as they had argued last night—knowledge of that description in a Security man could only mean implication; and implication in a crime such as this which, Hill was convinced, was most likely to be the work of only one man, would indicate sole guilt.

  “That’s easy enough,” snapped Toinquet. “Here, hand me the lists. By now it should have occurred to you that usually the same number go each week because …”

  “Because the coach is a thirty-two seater,” said Green blithely, “and if they can fill all the seats it comes cheaper. But on nine occasions in the last thirteen and a half months they have had less than the maximum—dropping as low as twenty-seven in the middle of last January.”

  “The super-cargo on the days you are interested in is …” Toinquet turned the pages rapidly. “Silk’s day … Doctor and Mrs Newmills. He’s a bug-hunter and his wife’s an artist, not employed at the Centre. She goes along to sketch sometimes. Then there was young Overton who’s no longer with us. He’s teaching somewhere. Miss Pewsey, Miss Horsely and Mrs Longworth. They’re all junior scientists although Miss Pewsey is now Mrs Lydney. Lydney himself is one of the Materials Research Group. He’s a physical metallurgist.”

  “That the lot?”

  “No. Doctor and Mrs Roslin. He’s a physicist. Lord knows what she is. Runs the local Girl Guides, I believe.”

  “So she’d take to the great outdoors like a duck to water. What about her husband?”

  “Amateur photographer. He’d have spent the week-end trying to get the best light and shade view of Ullswater, I suppose.”

  “Thanks. Any more? No? What about Redruth’s day?”

  “Miss Horsley and Mrs Longworth again. You’ll see there isn’t a Mister Longworth. She’s a divorcée of about thirty-eight. She and Horsley go alon
g for the laughs and do the cooking. Along with them was Trott who’s busy on energy release and heat transfer at the moment—in the same group as Lydney. And that’s all. And then this last week-end there was an Applied Mathematician from the Engineering Group—Morrison. Higham, a physicist. They’re both fishermen actually. Swinton and Mrs Swinton. He’s Admin staff—straight civil servant. She’s not employed here. Sergeant Hill will probably have seen her if he went to the paper shop in Pottersby.…”

  “The fat, fair one, or the thin dark one?” asked Hill calmly, not prepared to be caught out by this oblique question.

  “She’s darkish,” admitted Toinquet. “She works mornings in the shop. And that’s the lot.”

  “Thanks. Got all those, Sergeant?”

  “Every blessed one, sir. The kooloo.”

  “Good.” Green got to his feet. “Thanks, Widow. I’ll try not to worry you again. It’s going to take me and the sarn’t here quite a time seeing these people.…”

  “What? All of them?”

  “Why not? That’s what we’re here for.”

  “And the best of British! Let me know what you find out. I’ll be interested to know if you get anything I haven’t got.”

  “Sure?” asked Green, choosing a cigarette carefully from the new packet.

  “Of course I’m sure. What the hell do you think I am? I want to know if I’m missing something, and I want anything you get for my files.”

  “Right, Widow, start writing. Doctor Alec Bullock stopped climbing because he had a dizzy spell on a mountain and the experience frightened him so much he decided to jack it in.”

  “Ah! Well at any rate I knew it wasn’t on account of a woman.”

  Green paid no attention to the interruption. “And since then, he has amused himself at week-ends with Mrs Mailer, widow of the dead man.”

  “What? You’re raving, Greeny. Mrs Mailer’s a lush bit, but she’s classy and particular.”

  “In that case, I wonder what Bullock was doing in her bed yesterday when she got the news that her husband had fallen off a mountain?”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  At least this time Green had no doubts that Toinquet was telling the truth. His well-shaved, florid face showed all the classic signs of incredulity, together with dismay. It caused Green to wonder even more about his former colleague. The incredulity he could understand. Toinquet had, over the years, obviously made his own assessment of each of the boffins in the Centre. He had mentally catalogued each as being of a certain type. With justification and, probably, a fair amount of success. To find certain of his flock acting out of the characters he had assigned to them could be cause for disbelief. To hear of this alleged stepping out of character from people who had arrived in the Centre less than twenty-four hours before could be a further cause for scepticism. All this Green could accept. In Toinquet’s shoes he would have felt the same doubts. Would even have scoffed at the idea. But dismay! That was something different. Capable, Green knew of two interpretations. Dismay at having failed to realise that Bullock and Mrs Mailer were having an affair or—and this is what interested Green most—or perhaps dismay that the Yard team had discovered this fact. A fact that could prove inconvenient for Toinquet?

  Swiftly, Green considered this. If the last point were true, it would have to mean that Toinquet was aware of the liaison, otherwise he could not be dismayed by its discovery. And, Green thought, Toinquet’s surprise at the news had been genuine enough. So probably the dismay was only that occasioned by a large hole in his security net being pointed out to a man who prided himself inordinately on the completeness of his grasp of what went on in his preserve. Green sighed mentally at not being able to claim another nail for Toinquet’s coffin.

  Surprised by the momentary pause, Hill looked at Green who nodded to him, then turned to Toinquet. “As well as getting the DI some fags this morning, I called on Mrs Mailer.”

  “I still don’t believe it. I’ll go and ask Bullock now.”

  “Where will you find him?”

  “In the Statistics Office, upstairs.”

  Green said slowly: “You’re up to something, Widow. You knew Sarn’t Hill had gone out. But you didn’t know Bullock had. That means your guards don’t normally report traffic at the gate to you as a routine. But they have been told to report our movements. Why? What’s so interesting about our comings and goings?”

  Toinquet tried bluster.

  “Everybody who’s not a regular employee at the Centre is reported.”

  “Direct to you? At the time? Wherever you are? Come off it, Widow. We’re worrying you, matey. You’re hiding something.”

  Nobody spoke after this. Toinquet was not even struggling for words in which to reply. The silence began to make Hill feel uncomfortable. At last Green struck a match for his unlit cigarette and flicked the dead stalk expertly at Toinquet’s waste bin before sauntering out of the office.

  Brant said: “I’ve been hanging about waiting for you.”

  Cynthia Dexter, wearing green slacks and a rust-red roll-neck sweater, with a white lab coat over her arm, smiled warmly. “I’m flattered. But you could have come to my room and knocked. Or don’t policemen enter girls’ bedrooms without warrants?”

  “Invitation’s enough. But what I wanted to talk about has nothing to do with you as a prospective suspect, so I wouldn’t treat you as one.”

  “That’s sweet of you. By the way, as you were so gallant as to escort me to supper last night, can I return the compliment tonight and invite you to join me at The Bull in Pottersby for dinner?”

  Brant grinned. “You certainly can, Doctor.”

  “Good. I’m walking across to my lab. Can we talk as we go?”

  Brant fell in beside her. She said: “You were very prompt with your acceptance. No question of asking your Superintendent first. Does that mean you’ve been assigned to me for some reason? Or is your time always your own on murder enquiries?”

  Brant reddened. “You’re a sharp one, Doctor. Yes! I have been assigned to you.”

  “Again I’m flattered.”

  “For ten minutes only …”

  “Now you’re spoiling it.”

  “Just long enough to ask you if you’ve remembered anything more about that bet you thought Doctor Silk had made.”

  “Actually, I have been thinking about it.”

  “And?”

  “I’m not usually undecided about things, but I don’t know whether to be pleased or sorry I mentioned that bet.”

  “Why?”

  “I should be pleased at the thought of helping you. But when I wondered why you were so interested last night, it hit me like a brick that the first thought that entered your head was that if you could find out who bet Stanley Silk he couldn’t climb that face alone, you would have identified the murderer. Do you deny that?”

  “What would be the use of denying anything to a woman with a mind like yours? As I said, you’re sharp.”

  “I’m being serious, Sergeant Brant. I should hate to be the one to point the finger of suspicion at one of my colleagues.”

  “Me, too—in your place. But there have been three deaths—among those same colleagues. Don’t you think it’s time they stopped?”

  “The climbing club is going into suspended animation. The committee took the decision last night. So the falls will stop.”

  “Will they? Falls from mountains, perhaps. But will the deaths stop? You don’t have to have a mountain handy in order to kill somebody.”

  They walked on in silence for a few moments.

  “You really think there could be others?”

  “I don’t want to frighten you. In fact, we can’t yet say for certain that there have been any murders …”

  “But you’re convinced there have been three.”

  “Successful attempts, yes.”

  She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him. “You mean there may have been others which didn’t come off?”

  “There ar
e … shall we say, indications.”

  “Oh, god!” She started to walk again slowly.

  “The truth is,” said Brant quietly, “that these things feed on themselves. Somebody thinks he’s got away with it. That makes him cocky. He thinks he can get away with it again and again and again. And after three successful tries he probably thinks …”

  “Please stop! I recognise the truth of what you’re saying, and your ten minutes are nearly up.”

  Brant took her by the arm and turned her to face him. She had tears in her eyes. He spoke gently. “The mention of ten minutes was merely to assure you I wasn’t going to tail you, keep an eye on you and generally make a nuisance of myself. It didn’t mean that I think I’m such a bloody good interrogator or so attractive personally that I can get any good-looking woman to give me anything I want inside ten minutes.”

  “No?”

  His voice gruffened. “Hell! We’re back thinking about the student’s-eye view of the fuzz.”

  She gave a thin wisp of a smile. Just enough to tremble her lips. “You’re not a very good detective, after all.”

  “And just what do you mean by that?”

  She began to walk again, in silence.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “And I’m wondering whether to answer it, or just to keep my big mouth shut.”

  Brant, walking beside her but looking straight ahead, replied: “It’s not nine o’clock in the morning yet. Hardly the time of day to say to a girl that she hasn’t got a big mouth to keep shut and to add that when she does open it she looks so kissable it just isn’t true. But I’m saying it now.”

  She made no reply.

  He looked down at her. “Well, what have you got to say to that?”

  She smiled up at him, her lips pursed exaggeratedly. After a moment she said: “I said nothing because I couldn’t be seen being kissed by a policeman in broad daylight in the middle of the Centre for all to see.”

  Brant blushed and grinned sheepishly. “Don’t give me ideas.”

  “I thought you already had them.” She took his arm. “I do want to help you, and I see the force of your argument. I racked my brain last night.”