SHELF LIFE
A Masters and Green Mystery
Douglas Clark
© Douglas Clark 1982
Douglas Clark has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1982 by Victor Gollancz Ltd.
This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
For Meriel
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter One
Sergeant Tom Watson, standing behind the desk in Colesworth police station, looked up with a growl of wrath. “Watch it, Sutcliffe.”
Constable Sutcliffe had slung his cheese-cutter uniform cap on to the counter so violently that it had skidded along the smooth surface, past the ledger Watson had been working on, and had then continued until fetched up by a telephone which had uttered a ping of protest against such treatment.
“Sorry, Sarge. It’s just . . .” Sutcliffe didn’t finish. He was obviously too put-out to describe his frustration in words.
“What’s got your rag out?” asked Watson, recognising his subordinate’s plight.
“Those bloody magistrates, Sarge. Lot of do-gooding old women, they are. No wonder there’s so much crime with a load of old cagmags like that on the bench.”
“You haven’t put your foot in it again, have you? Not with Inspector Snell prosecuting?”
“No, Sarge.”
“What, then?”
“Those three young villains, Boyce, Lawson and Mobb . . .”
“What about them?”
“They’ve only let them off.”
“What did you expect, lad? It’s their first crime.”
“Detected, Sarge, maybe. But look!”
“I’ve no need to look, Sutcliffe. I know. They’ve broken into at least five houses in the last month. It became a local scandal because the coppers couldn’t nick ’em. Then, when we do nab them, they’re let off by a lot of old fuddies who pat them on the head and tell them not to do it again. But that’s life, lad. It’s produced a society that favours villains and disheartens eager young coppers like you just when you feel you’ve done a good job of work. That’s what you thought, isn’t it, when you ran in that bunch of young tearaways that’s just been let off?”
“It makes me sick, Sarge. I got ’em red-handed. I’d seen what they’d done to those other houses. Urinated on the carpets, smeared the walls, smashed furniture and fittings—just for the hell of it.”
“I know, lad, but you stopped them from doing it in that last house, didn’t you? So you couldn’t tell all that to the court.”
“Well . . .”
“Pity you didn’t let ’em get on with it before you nabbed ’em. Then you’d have had something to tell the magistrates.”
Sutcliffe waved his arms in protest. “We’re supposed to prevent crime, Sarge.”
“You’ll learn, lad. You know, I know, and Inspector Snell knows those three pulled those other jobs. It was because we all knew that—but had no proof—that you were told off to keep an eye on them. So you caught them at the fifth time of asking. But you weren’t allowed to tell the court all that. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”
“That’s my point, Sarge. The inspector laid the law down. Wouldn’t let me even hint at the other jobs.”
“He daren’t, lad. Those three had a smart-arse lawyer there to see you didn’t. He’d have had you and Inspector Snell by the short and curlies if you’d as much as opened your mouth to breathe a word about the previous break-ins. It isn’t justice, lad, but it’s the law. And the sooner you learn the difference, the sooner you’ll learn to let yobbos like that do a bit of damage before running them in. Then you’ll have a case.”
“They’d still have got away as first offenders.”
“True. But they’d have got a suspended sentence and if they’d put a foot wrong after that they’d have been properly on the hook.”
This did little to comfort Sutcliffe. “Pity they didn’t vandalise one of those magistrates’ homes,” he muttered.
“The result would still have been the same, lad. Any magistrate who’d been on the receiving end wouldn’t be allowed to sit when the case came up. I don’t have to tell you that.”
“I know, Sarge. But surely all those J.P.s—if one of their mates had been done—would gun for three yobbos like Boyce, Lawson and Mobb.”
“Grow up, Sutcliffe,” growled Watson. “You’ve still got a lot to learn about life if you think that. Take Miss Foulger, for instance . . .”
“She was Chairman this morning.”
“Aye! Well she’d laugh herself sick in private if old Mrs Hargreaves was vandalised—and vice versa. And some of the men are no better. There’s as much jealousy and umptiness among that lot as anywhere else in Colesworth. One half of ’em would let off anybody who did down somebody in the other half.”
“Is that really true, Sarge? I mean . . .”
“Take my word for it, lad. And take your cap as well. Get off home to that little missus of yours, not forgetting that I had to rearrange your duties because you had to go to court. You’re on tonight. Only half-shift if you’re lucky. If not . . .” The sergeant shrugged. “Trouble is, we don’t know what to expect these days—or nights.”
Sutcliffe put on his cap. Anger appeared to have given way to resignation. Watson seemed to sense it. He said: “Don’t let it stop you keeping an eye open for any more tricks those three may get up to—or anybody like them.”
“Fat lot of good that will do, Sarge.”
“Be off, lad. Go straight home and forget it.”
“Can’t go straight home, more’s the pity.”
“And why not?”
“Got to do some shopping.”
“What’s up? Wife not well?”
“A bit off colour. She went to the doctor. He’s given her a prescription, but I’ve got to go right over to Park Street to get it made up.”
“Of course. I was forgetting. Old Stanmore in the High Street’s packing it in, isn’t he?”
“He’s not all that old, Sarge. Leastways he’s not retiring age yet, but he told me he’d been losing money for some years now, so he’s closing. He tried to sell the business, but nobody would take it on.”
“I’m not surprised. I read only the other day that we’re losing chemists’ shops at a rate of over two hundred a year. The chains are taking over. When did old Stanmore actually jack it in?”
“Last Saturday. He’d sold most of his stock—drugs and whatnot—to other chemists before then. I saw him yesterday. He’s cleaning the place out this week, then he hopes to let it.”
“Who to?”
“He says there’s an estate agent interested but they don’t want to pay a good rent. I told him to sell it to a Building Society. They’ve got more branches round here than investors.”
Watson shook his head. Whether it was to disagree or merely to express dismay at the state the country was coming to was not clear, but Sutcliffe took it as a general sign of approval for his own wisdom. He, in turn, grimaced to show his appreciation of such approbation and moved away to leave the station by the back door.
*
After the case in which Constable Sutcliffe had been concerned that morning, the magistrates dealt with two motoring offences and then were faced with hearing the case against Joe Howlett, tramp, of no known address except the great outdoors with occasional sojourns in one or other of H.M. prisons.
Despite the wide choice open to him, Howlett seemed to have a preference for Cole
sworth jail. It was comparatively small as prisons go, and never used for housing hard cases except, possibly, for a few days on remand. It was a friendly lock-up and suited Joe admirably whenever he felt in need of hospitality.
The Colesworth police had gently hauled Howlett in front of the bench at regular intervals over the years—always at the prisoner’s own request. There was a set pattern. The old tramp would make a minor nuisance of himself until the police were obliged to take him in. He seemed to have a mind quite fertile in devising new forms of more or less harmless misdemeanour. This time he had held up the traffic in the road, just where it joined the south side of the Colesworth market place, by the simple expedient of doing a shuffle-dance in the middle of the not over-wide carriageway. The dance itself was performed in aged gumboots and—despite the summer weather—an old, torn, drab grey overcoat. Attached to strings round Joe’s waist had been various badly-tied parcels and a couple of fire-blackened cans. He believed in carrying with him all his worldly goods which included a walking-stick with which he did a lot of the work that drew the crowd that was eventually to block both pavements.
So the police took him to court, but for Howlett the appearance was a disaster.
Miss Foulger, the Chairman of the bench, eyed him severely. As soon as the preliminary formalities were over and Joe had followed his usual custom of pleading guilty, Miss Foulger addressed him. Her tone was hard and matched her personality. She was overpoweringly masculine both in dress and demeanour. Despite the heat she was wearing what she called a costume, a jacket and skirt which had, nevertheless, been tailor-made out of men’s suiting. Her hair was thick, pepper-and-salt grey and distinctly reminiscent of the bobbing and shingling era. She wore rimless spectacles with a black safety cord dangling from the earpieces.
“Howlett,” she said severely, her well-fleshed face set as rigidly as a papier-mâché horror mask, “you have appeared in this court on more than a dozen previous occasions. The police officers who have had to deal with you have never wanted to bring you here but it is their opinion—and ours—that you have deliberately set out to oblige them to do so. I see from your records that you have always pleaded guilty, which attitude suggests to us that your sole intention on every occasion has been to secure for yourself a minor prison sentence for reasons known only to yourself.
“We have been playing your game too long, Howlett,” she continued grimly. “We have invariably provided you with that which you sought. Now it is going to stop. The cost of keeping a man in prison is enormous. The taxpayers have been footing the bill for your penal sabbaticals long enough.
“This time you are not going to be sent to prison. You are going to be released. Let it be a warning to you. The next time you oblige the police to arrest you, you will be sentenced to work.
“Yes, to work, Howlett. That will not suit you, will it? You will be given community work to do. Digging and weeding in parks and gardens under close supervision.” She put her hands together on the desk before her—large hands, lumpy with arthritis—and entwined her misshapen fingers. “There are many worthy citizens in Colesworth who, because of age or infirmity, need help such as you could give and for which they have already paid in supporting you in your years of idleness and misdemeanour.”
She glanced sideways, first to Mrs Hargreaves on her right and then to the male member of the bench on her left. The whispered consultation was short and the conclusion unanimous, as indicated by the nodding of heads and grimaces of obvious displeasure with the disreputable figure before them.
“Why should you wish to go to prison, Howlett?” asked Mrs Hargreaves querulously. “I can understand you wishing to go there in the winter months, but not in the summer.”
Joe Howlett mumbled some reply which was so lost in his matted beard that it was indecipherable to the magistrates.
“What did he say?”
The Clerk of the Court, somewhat nearer Howlett, looked up. “The prisoner replied, Your Worship, that everybody else takes a holiday in summer, so why shouldn’t he?”
Mrs Hargreaves sniffed audibly, but had no retort to this except to label it as impertinence.
“No summer holiday for you, Howlett,” said Miss Foulger firmly. “You will leave the court now. And don’t forget that if you ever come back it will result in a long stint of back-breaking work.”
The Clerk of the Court rose to formalise the decision of the bench.
*
“You heard what the lady said, Joe.” Inspector Snell was more kindly than Miss Foulger as he stopped to speak to the tramp in the corridor outside the courtroom.
Howlett looked at him and replied: “Miserable old bitch.”
“Hold it, Joe. It’s your own fault for saying what you did. Why didn’t you tell them you never try to get picked up unless you’re out of food and flat broke? Why not tell them you’ve never claimed the dole or social security?”
Howlett snarled through his beard: “They’re not worth talking to, Mr Snell. You know that. Look at them this morning. Letting off them three as had been caught to rights with enough mischief—nasty mischief—behind ’em to send a dozen other men inside for life.”
“What do you know about them, Joe?” asked Snell quietly.
“There’s not much goes on round here I don’t know about, Mr Snell, as you well know.”
“You’re an old peeping-Tom, Joe.”
“I keep my eyes open. An’ just for nothing, Mr Snell, I reckon you ought to tell your Sergeant Watson—the one who’s always on the desk in the nick . . .”
“Tell him what, Joe?”
“To watch out for that girl of his. She’s keeping bad company.”
“Pamela Watson is?”
Howlett nodded. “If that’s her name, yes. Down in Burner’s Wood with bad company.”
The wood Howlett was referring to was more like a young forest and had, at one time, been the centre of the local charcoal-making industry—hence its name. It was dense with every type of timber, but still dotted with clearings where the fires had been made. Snell knew that Howlett spent much of his time there where some sort of shelter was easy to erect with plenty of material to hand and—very important to Howlett—where isolation and privacy were virtually assured.
“What’s the name of this bad company?” demanded Snell who, before his promotion, had been a close colleague of Tom Watson and knew how much the sergeant doted on his teenage daughter. It would hurt Watson to think that the girl was running wild with undesirable characters.
“Come on, Joe, who with?”
“Seeing it’s you, Mr Snell, and I’ve no quarrel with the cops . . .”
“I’m waiting.”
“The three you had in court this morning.”
Snell stared for a moment. Then—
“You’re sure, Joe?” he asked quietly.
“Sometimes there’s another girl with them. I’ve heard them call her Rosie Somebody-or-other.”
Snell nodded. He knew Rosie. Rosie Sewell, a fast bit of goods. He hadn’t known till now that she was a friend of Pam Watson’s. He’d ask the sergeant if the two girls were pals. It would be a check on Joe’s story.
“What do they get up to?” asked the inspector.
“Down to, you mean,” retorted Howlett. “Actually I’m too shy to tell you.” Snell had the impression that the tramp leered behind his beard. “But I will tell you this. The plastic groundsheet they hid away in a tree, where they thought it would be safe, came in mighty handy for the roof of my shelter.”
“You’ve always sworn you don’t nick things, Joe.”
“Neither do I. But findings keepings. I don’t nick and I don’t drink. You know that, Mr Snell.”
“I know it, Joe, otherwise I wouldn’t give you this.” The inspector drew a pound note from his hip pocket.
“There’s no need, Mr Snell. I’ll get by.”
“You haven’t got anything to eat, have you?”
“I’ll get some scraps at the chip shop.”
<
br /> “Take this. I’ll get it back at the nick—from the fund.”
Howlett accepted the note and shuffled off. Snell turned to re-enter the courtroom but was buttonholed by the reporter from the local rag.
“Your constable was a bit put out this morning when those three youths got off scot-free.”
“Wouldn’t you have been a bit cross, Mr Bennett, if you’d got a scoop and somebody in authority—your editor—had killed it?”
“I get the analogy, Inspector. In those circumstances I reckon I would use language as strong as your young man did especially if, as I’ve heard, those three are the people who’ve been breaking into houses and vandalising them.”
“Mr Bennett,” said Snell, “you didn’t hear that from my constable, and you won’t hear it from me.”
“No, of course not. But a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse. If what I heard were to be true, for instance, the Gazette would stop asking why the police are doing nothing about these crimes—after we were given the nod that the locals had caught the villains but the bench had let them off, that is.”
“Nothing doing, Mr Bennett. Sorry.”
“Have it your way, Inspector.”
“Sorry,” said Snell again and turned away to re-enter the courtroom where he had more cases coming up.
*
Howlett’s first place of call after leaving Snell had to be the police station where the bits and pieces of his so-called possessions would be awaiting collection.
“I heard you were out,” said Sergeant Watson. “What kept you? Saying thank you to their worships, were you?”
Howlett asked: “Can I have my belongings?”
“That’s what you call them, is it? Belongings? They’re ready for you.” He turned the book round on the desk. “You’ll have to sign for them to say you got them back safely. Two tin cans, rusty, one with wire loop. Two tobacco tins, one containing eight non-safety matches, fourteen safety matches and the striking side of one safety matchbox. The other containing cigarette papers, dog ends, and a pinch of tobacco. Other items—one hank of twisted paper string, a broken penknife . . .”
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