Shelf Life

by Douglas Clark

  Reed grimaced. “So we have to concentrate on finding the source of the gold—the means by which Boyce was murdered—before we can turn to thinking of who had the opportunity and motive?”

  “Right, lad,” said Green. “And as that seems to be the first priority, it is only fair to say that we should have concentrated on that today. Unlike Haywood, we’d prefer to put first things first, however unlikely.”

  “You’re saying that we’ve wasted today?”

  “No,” said Masters before Green could reply. “We haven’t wasted today, but we haven’t exactly rooted up any trees.”

  “So what do we do now, Chief?”

  “Have dinner,” said Green. Having disposed of Reed, he turned to Masters. “Would you like me to tackle them? I’ll probably get more out of them than you.”

  “Yes, please. Take Berger.”

  “To do what?” asked Berger. “What the devil are we talking about?”

  Green shook his head sadly. “After all this time, and you’ve still not learned to mind read.” Before Berger could intervene, he went on: “We’re going to find those other two young yobs and ask them a few questions.”

  “And about time, too.”

  “You think so?” asked Masters mildly.

  “Yes, Chief. I’d have talked to them first thing this morning.”

  “And asked them what?”

  “Where they’d all been after leaving the magistrates’ court.”

  “And what answer would you have expected to get?”

  “How do I know, Chief? But something.”

  “You’re sure? What if they said they’d been nowhere except into a pizza parlour and then the pub? What good would that have done you?”

  “Well, Chief . . .”

  “Feel for the bedpost, lad,” advised Green. “By waiting for Haywood’s report, we know that Boyce drank a full bottle of vin blanc. It’s not the sort of stuff a character like him buys for himself. And, as various little things like the bottle stopper suggest the wine was home-made, we are left wondering which amateur vintner brewed the stuff and then, having done so, gave a bottle to Boyce.”

  “Nobody would give him it, judging by what we’ve heard,” said Berger. “People just don’t show generosity to young tearaways like him.”

  “Quite. So where and how did he get the wine—seeing we reckon he didn’t buy it and he wasn’t given it?”

  “He nicked it, of course.”

  “Of course? And when did you reach that decision?”

  “After the Professor told us . . .”

  “Not this morning?”

  “No.”

  “But you think that this morning we should have sought out Boyce’s two pals—pals who went everywhere with him—and asked them where they went on Tuesday? You were actually proposing to ask two youths who, a few hours before, had been up in front of the magistrates where they had been? I suppose you think they would have confessed that they had accompanied their pal on a break-in where he had stolen a bottle of wine? Just like that? They would have confessed and put themselves straight in the nick for a double sentence apiece?”

  “Well, no. But they seemed the obvious people to approach first.”

  “So His Nibs and I were wrong to decide against doing just that when we discussed it last night?”

  “Not as it’s turned out, you weren’t, because now you’ve got a lot of ammunition to use. You know most of the story. They’ll think you know it all and . . .”

  “And what?”

  “They’ll cave in.”

  “Let’s hope so. Now, whose round is it?”

  “Yours. What are you going to be doing, Chief, while the D.C.I. and I are seeing these yobbos?”

  Masters smiled. “You should be able to guess.”

  “Should I?” Berger’s face advertised his concentration. “Oh, I get you. If I thought his boy friends should be seen first, then his girlfriend should have been next on the list.”

  “Quite right.”

  “But what do you hope to get there, Chief?”

  “Probably nothing. But I might be able to mend a few fences.”

  “In that case,” said Green, “we ought to be fortifying ourselves with a few piles of food.”

  “Steaks?” asked Reed. “You know, STAKES?”

  “Pick at a few bits and pieces?”

  “Shovel it in, you mean.”

  “Enough,” said Masters. “Let’s have dinner now, so that we can get some work done afterwards.”

  Chapter Six

  Masters and Reed decided to walk to Watson’s house, leaving the car free for Green and Berger who would have the less precise job of tracking down Lawson and Mobb.

  Before he set out, Masters phoned his wife. Masters had great regard for Wanda’s commonsense and wisdom over matters such as the one he was about to take in hand.

  After she had been given a brief outline of the problem, Wanda said: “It will all depend on the girlie’s state of mind, George. Nobody should try to force her to come to any particular decision. If she’s sensible, she’ll work it out for herself. Only if she asks for help should it be given, but make sure she realises that the help is there should she feel the need to ask for it.”

  “She’s only seventeen, poppet.”

  “I know it sounds pathetic, George, but even at that age she will have at least the beginnings of the feelings of a mature woman. Her mind may still be immature. You can guide the latter if needs be. On no account must you try to tamper with the former.”

  “Understood.”

  “I’m sure you’ll deal with it very successfully, but I can’t quite see why you should concern yourself. You’re there to investigate a murder, not to do social work.”

  “The need may not arise for me to do anything. But Tom Watson is a decent chap and just the sort of paternal sergeant the force needs and the public needs. I’d like to help him if I can.”

  “He isn’t the first decent man whose teenage daughter has gone off the rails. We women do it quite a lot. Remember, I’m not entirely without experience myself.”

  “So I’m to steer clear?”

  “I didn’t say that. But please use a great deal of caution otherwise you could do more harm than good.”

  “I’ll tread warily.”

  “And, George . . .”

  “Yes, poppet?”

  “If there’s anything I can do . . .”

  “Practically, you mean?”

  “That, of course. But I also meant . . . well, I know one or two people in the adoption world.”

  “Thank you. We’ll see how it goes.”

  *

  “How are we going to find Lawson and Mobb?” demanded Berger as he and Green left the dinner table. “They could be anywhere.”

  “Use your loaf, lad,” grunted Green. “Young Sutcliffe has been keeping an eye on them these last few weeks. Get on to the blower. Ask the nick for his home number and ask him for likely places and how to get to them. If he offers to guide us, accept, but don’t put the idea into his head—much. Do that while I go get myself some more fags and be down at the car with the answers in ten minutes’ time.”

  The outcome of Berger’s conversations was that within twenty minutes they were waiting outside the police station for Constable Sutcliffe. He joined them there, dressed in slacks and a modern shirt which had no collar and reminded Green of the workmen of his day who wore just such items, but usually with a front collar stud to fasten the gaping neck.

  Sutcliffe suggested that the best idea in his opinion was to call at the homes of the two youths to make sure they were out and about. If no definite news of their whereabouts was forthcoming from either of these sources, then he, Sutcliffe, was pretty sure he could track them down at one of their haunts. The suggestion appealed to Green, who sat back in his usual seat, lit a cigarette, and appeared to take no further interest in the search.

  However, when the car reached Mobb’s home, it was Green who knocked on the door. The house
was one of a terrace built in the early fifties. As they were situated on a slight rise, no two were on the same level. There was a difference of about a foot in the roof levels as they climbed the hill. They had obviously been thrown up in a hurry with little thought and less taste.

  “Mr Mobb?”

  The man was dressed as if he fully intended stepping out for what was left of the evening.

  “Yes?”

  “I would like to speak to your son, Ted.”

  “Well you can’t. For one thing he isn’t here, and for another I don’t let strange . . .”

  “Police,” said Green forcefully. “Scotland Yard, to be more precise. So stop the fond father act and tell me where the lad is.”

  “Scotland Yard? What’s Ted done?”

  “Done? You knew he was up in court on Tuesday, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “You also know that Norman Boyce who was charged with him has since died, don’t you?”

  “I knew he’d been murdered, probably by you lot.”

  “Murdered is right. But don’t you think a lad whose pal gets murdered should be questioned by police?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then why the panic? Why ask me what he’s done?”

  “Because I don’t want my lad to die mysteriously in a police cell.”

  “He won’t see a police cell if you tell me where I can find him to ask him some questions. But if I don’t find him I’ll have him brought in.”

  “I don’t know where he is.”

  “What about his mother? Does she know?”

  “She’s out at bingo.”

  “I see. Now, Mr Mobb, I’ll give you a word of advice. It strikes me you let young Ted do much as he likes.”

  “He’s over eighteen.”

  “Right, and I don’t suggest you keep him at home like a child, but take a bit of interest in him and what he does. Believe you me, mate, it’ll save you and your missus a lot of aggro in the future.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Now don’t get me wrong about this, but your Ted got off very lightly for a chap who’s done a break-in. Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, there have been a lot of other break-ins round here that the local cops haven’t managed to get a line on yet. But if they do, and your lad was in on any of those, he’ll be for the high jump.” He held up his hand to stop Mobb interrupting. “Conversely, if there are any more in the future—well, you know how it is—the local cops now reckon they know where to look. So your Ted’s in a tricky situation if he puts a foot wrong. So take an interest, mate. At least ask him where he’s going at night. Even if he doesn’t tell you the truth you’ll be showing him you know he exists.”

  “You’ve no right . . .”

  “I’ve every right, Mr Mobb. In fact, I could insist on coming in and turning your house over.”

  “What for?”

  “We’re looking for a few things we know about and probably a few we don’t. Murder cases play hell with the lives of those involved.”

  “But my lad isn’t involved.”

  “How do you know? Have you asked him?”

  “No.”

  “Are you a betting man, Mr Mobb?”

  “Now and again. Why?”

  “Would you like to put a fiver on your Ted not knowing something he hasn’t told you about this case? Or make it a tenner, if you like.”

  Mobb opened his mouth and closed it again without replying. Green said: “Well, we’re off to find him. Do you want to be there when we talk to him?”

  “I can’t, can I? I said I’d have ajar with this bloke tonight.”

  “I hope you enjoy it, Mr Mobb.”

  When Green rejoined the car, Sutcliffe said: “You don’t half talk to them, Mr Green.”

  “You heard?”

  “At a distance of about six feet?” asked Berger. “We got it all.” He turned to Sutcliffe. “Which way?”

  “Lawson’s mother is a widow,” said Sutcliffe. “I’ve never spoken to her, but I hear she’s a decent-living woman.”

  So Green was surprised when the door of the council flat opened and a woman of no more than forty, dressed in clean, well-pressed slacks and striped open-neck shirt replied, in answer to his question, that she was Mrs Lawson.

  “Eric is beyond me,” she said. “I go out to work, you see. I’ve got a good job in an office, with a good boss. I need it, to keep us going. But I’m not here in the daytime, and Eric is. He’s out of work with too much time on his hands. If he’d met decent lads since he finished school he’d be decent himself. As it is, he met two undesirables and he’s gone the wrong way.”

  “Not a strong character then, your Eric?”

  “As weak as water, really. He’s more frightened of his pals than he is of me. My fault, I suppose. I lost his father when he was very small and I probably didn’t give him the necessary amount of backbone.”

  Green shrugged. “It’s been tough on you, and tough on the lad.”

  “Thanks for appreciating that. I suppose you want to question him about this Boyce business?”

  “Yes. Has he said anything about it?”

  “He hasn’t even mentioned it.”

  “I see. When we see him we’ll try not to be too hard on him.”

  “Is he involved in some way?”

  “Not with the murder itself maybe, but he may be able to tell us Boyce’s movements. You can be present when we speak to him if you like.”

  “Do you think I’d better be there? What I mean is, I ought to be there, but won’t he be less inhibited if I’m not there?”

  “Search me, love. But I’ll tell you what. If I reckon he’ll be better with you holding his hand, I’ll get in touch and you can come running.”

  “Thank you. That seems the best arrangement.”

  “And you don’t know where he is?”

  “I did ask him where he was going.”

  “But all he said was, ‘Out’. Is that it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Sutcliffe led them to a youth club, a billiards hall and then to a public house, at all of which he made brief enquiries. Then finally they pulled up at a brightly lit pin-ball machine arcade. Sutcliffe disappeared inside and returned within a minute.

  “They’re here, sir.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Mobb is playing a table. Lawson’s watching.”

  “We can’t talk in there. The noise would drown a couple of dozen panotropes.”

  “Shall I go in and get them, sir?”

  Never one to ask others to tackle what he was unprepared to do himself, Green got heavily from the car. “Not you, lad. You’re not supposed to be involved in this. Just point them out to us and then sit in the car.”

  Sutcliffe led the way through the wide doorway and chose an alley between two rows of machines. The pin-tables were ranked against the back wall. “The two playing the third table from the left, sir. Mobb’s the one playing, with his back to us.”

  “Thanks.”

  Berger followed Green. There were not many customers and, as far as Berger could tell, their progress was unremarked, though they were an unlikely couple for such a place.

  “Ted and Eric, isn’t it?” said Green, coming up quietly behind the unsuspecting Mobb.

  “Who wants to know?” asked Mobb, looking round.

  “We already know, lad,” said Green. “You look a bit like your dad. But he’s better washed.”

  “Listen, grandad . . .”

  “Ted!” warned Lawson.

  “No, you listen,” said Berger, big, young and strong. “Listen and listen hard. You’re talking to a Detective Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard, sonny, and that spells trouble for anybody who’s sassy and uncooperative, particularly young tearaways who are known house-breakers. So let’s watch it, shall we?”

  “Cops! You’re all alike.”

  “No, lad,” said Green. “We’re not. For instance, if we’d
been here you’d have been inside now for those first four or five jobs you pulled. You may think you fooled the local cops, but not us. And now we’ve got you for the last one.”

  “What last one?”

  “The one where your pal Boyce nicked the bottle of vino, chummy.”

  “It wasn’t us . . .” began Lawson.

  “Can it, Eric.”

  “Don’t worry, son,” replied Green. “We’ve got it all. And we’re going to be rather hard on you two for telling a lot of lies to that reporter. Policemen don’t like yobs who tell lies about them. So now you know the score.”

  “You’ve no evidence.”

  “Oh, I reckon we can get it. We’ve only got to give your boots to the scientists. They’ll tell us lots of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Fine bits of glass embedded in the soles. Wine stains on the plastic. It’s easy these days.”

  Green seemed to have found the key. Mobb said: “It hadn’t anything to do with us. Norm did it all himself.”

  “Blaming it on the dead lad, are you?”

  “It’s true.”

  “Right, come along, we want to talk to you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” said Mobb belligerently. “You haven’t got a warrant to arrest me.”

  “Quite right,” said Green. “I haven’t got one. But you’re making the same mistake lots of others like you make when you think a copper can’t feel your collar unless he’s got a warrant to wave in your face. I can take you in now.”

  “You haven’t got a charge.”

  “Oh, yes, I have, lad. One you won’t like.”

  “What?”

  “Suspicion of murder.”

  “I haven’t murdered anybody.”

  “I hope not. I just said suspicion of murder. And take it from me, boy, if I deliver you to the Colesworth nick, the fuzz there will make absolutely sure you two spend the night banged up in the cell where your pal died two nights ago. That’ll be their idea of a joke.”

  Lawson, who had been very quiet, now asked: “When you said you wanted to talk to us, sir, did that mean you weren’t going to arrest us?”

  “That’s exactly what I meant, only your pal here seems intent on making it hard for himself—and you!”

  “Suspicion of murder!” sneered Mobb. “No way!”