‘All right. Here they are, whether you try to discredit them or not. I went in and upstairs and knocked on Lister’s door. He must have spotted me from the window, because he didn’t answer, although I kept on hammering.’
‘How do you know he was there?’
‘I could hear somebody inside.’
‘And then?’
‘I yelled through the letter box, and told the bloody little creep what I thought about him. Then all of a sudden I heard the ping noise some telephones make when you ring off. I felt sure he’d dialled 999. So I decided to beat it. I was hopping mad, I can tell you, but didn’t want to get mixed up with the police, with Lister gloating on the sideline.’
Pollard was briefly silent, remembering David Tresillian’s statement that the clock in Lister’s study had struck half past six shortly before the man hammering at the door gave up and left the house. He had himself noticed its incisive strike when Toye was setting the clock going. He brushed the matter aside. Everything that Mark Plowman had just said could be perfectly true, and he could still be guilty of Lister’s murder. What mattered was whether or not he had caught that seven o’clock train.
‘Where did you go when you left 7 Imperial Road?’ he asked.
‘To the station, of course, to get the next train back to London. I’d looked them up and thought I might catch the one at seven.’
‘Did you?’
‘Just. I wasn’t sure of the way and took a wrong turning.’ Pollard paused deliberately before his next question.
‘Do you really expect us to swallow this highly unconvincing story of yours, Mr Plowman?’
‘I thought you said you wanted the true facts? Well, you’ve got ’em. Not my fault if they don’t fit your book.’ Pollard tried a lightning diversion.
‘When you arrived at the house, did you look up at the windows of Bernard Lister’s flat?’
Mark Plowman stared at him in irritable astonishment.
‘What the hell — of course I did!’
‘Was there a light in the study or any other front room?’
‘I didn’t see one. But Lister was there. I tell you, I heard him skulking about, and then there was the telephone bell.’
‘Did you notice if the curtains were drawn?’
‘No. I mean, I could see they weren’t — if it matters.’
‘It matters quite a lot, Mr Plowman. Would Mr Lister have been in his flat with no lights and undrawn curtains after six on a mid-December evening? Far more likely that you hung about until he came home, followed him into his flat and assaulted him again, only this time with fatal results. You may not have meant to kill him, and were suddenly faced with an appalling problem. You knew the other tenants were away, and that Lister led a solitary life, and decided to leave his body in the flat till you had decided what to do next.’
Mark Plowman flung himself back in his chair.
‘You’re mad,’ he said at last. ‘I only just had time to get that train.’
‘What proof can you give us that you did, in fact, get it?’ Pollard asked coolly.
For the first time Mark Plowman looked cornered, and characteristically began to bulldoze his way out.
‘How the bloody hell can anyone be expected to prove he travelled on a particular train six months ago?’ he shouted. ‘Try proving I didn’t, and see how you get on. Of course it’s well known police bribe witnesses to get convictions. I suppose you’ll try that.’
Pollard remained unruffled.
‘If you caught that train as you claim to have done, why not help the course of justice by trying to remember something about your journey? Suppose we begin with your arrival at the station?’
By patient questioning he managed to elicit a few not particularly helpful facts embedded in the angry abuse of a man now becoming seriously worried. As luck would have it, the train had been half-empty, and Mark Plowman had been alone in a second-class smoker. He could not remember if a ticket inspector had come round. No, he hadn’t left the compartment, except to go along to the lavatory. There was a buffet car, but he hadn’t wanted to eat, and had a supply of cigarettes in his briefcase.
‘I was asleep half the time. It had been a hell of a day,’ he said.
A sort of alibi, Pollard wondered, on the assumption that you didn’t drop off to sleep if you’d just committed murder? Too subtle, he decided. Could anyone doze off like that after a killing? He soldiered on, and learnt that on arrival at Paddington, Mark Plowman claimed to have gone to the Refreshment Room, and had some beer and sandwiches, before taking the underground to Oxford Circus. Thereafter his statement was identical with his first one.
‘Everything that you have told us will be thoroughly investigated,’ Pollard told him. ‘And if you can remember anything more about this alleged journey, I strongly advise you to contact us immediately. In the meantime you will notify the police if you wish to leave Corbury, and must surrender your passport.’
He expected an outburst, but Mark Plowman groped in a drawer, and tossed the document across the desk where Toye calmly fielded it and checked its authenticity.
‘Once more I’d like to know how you suggest I got Lister’s body from Warhampton to Corbury?’ he enquired, unexpectedly taking refuge in sarcasm. ‘In my briefcase?’
‘On 19 December you made a trip to Corbury and back by car,’ Pollard stated.
‘Do you know what for?’
‘I do. To fetch your daughter.’
This time the outburst of anger had a quality of outrage which struck Pollard as genuine. It ended with a powerfully expressed wish to wring his bloody neck.
‘I merely stated a fact, Mr Plowman,’ he replied. ‘The implication you have been so quick to draw is all yours. Good morning.’
Once clear of the building he looked at Toye, and exhaled deeply.
‘Courtesy call on the Super, car to Warhampton, train home,’ he said. ‘I’m presenting myself before the A.C. sends for me: we’ve got to play for time. I’m damned if I’m going to let this case go by default. Let’s step on it: we may even get that seven o’clock train ourselves.’
Chapter 10
‘Intriguing build-up,’ commented Pollard’s Assistant Commissioner. ‘Out of the usual rim. I sometimes wonder if you get your fair share of the bloody, brief and boring cases.’ Pollard hastened to reassure him on this point.
‘Reverting to this Corbury business, sir,’ he went on, feeling his way gingerly, ‘at first all the sub-plots made it look much more involved than it really is. But it was soon obvious that the murderer had to be someone who had links with both Lister and Corbury; and because of the sort of hermit life Lister led outside his work, this seemed to boil down to the Plowmans. I’m prepared to rule out Mrs Mark Plowman and her daughter absolutely. Mrs Stanton could only be involved as an accessory to her husband — I don’t consider the question of collaboration with her brother arises. As I’ve explained, Gerald Stanton was in Warhampton on the day of Bernard Lister’s disappearance, but on his legitimate professional business at the Crown Court, and his time is accounted for almost to a minute. Even more important, we have not been able to discover any contacts between Lister and himself. This leaves us provisionally with Mark Plowman, with his long-standing violent antipathy to Lister, and his admitted behaviour towards him in November and December of last year. The case against him appears very strong, although I realise it isn’t complete yet.’ Pollard paused, feeling that he was getting the situation across rather skilfully, but immediately got a quizzical glance from the A.C.
‘All nicely in the bag, what?’ the latter remarked. ‘Except, of course, for disproving Plowman’s statement about getting clear of Warhampton on that seven o’clock train.’
‘I think it may take a little time, sir,’ Pollard replied, as confidently as he dared. ‘Inspector Longman’s got a strong team on it at this end, though, and the Warhampton CID are making enquiries at theirs.’
The A.C. tilted back his chair and gazed at the ceiling.
‘Come off it, Pollard,’ he said. ‘You know as well as I do that the chances of getting cast-iron evidence on Plowman’s return to London that night are about a thousand to one. It was six months ago. And obviously there’s no question of an arrest without it. Picture the Press and the mass media if we pulled in Plowman, and his defence rustled up a worthy type who swore that he was waiting outside the lavatory for him to come out, and noticed him specially because he looked like the wife’s brother. No, it’s not on. And we’ve got to be realistic. I’m sorry, as the case has attracted so much publicity, but there’s a limit to the time and manpower we can afford to spend on hunting for needles in haystacks. Take another week, and if nothing has turned up by the end of it, the affair’ll have to be shelved.’
‘I take your point, sir,’ Pollard replied in an expressionless voice.
‘Well, go ahead then.’
The A.C. reverted to a vertical position, a signal that the interview was at an end. He favoured Pollard with a lengthy stare, a perceptible glint of amusement in his eye.
‘You’re a damned lucky devil, you know,’ he added. ‘It wouldn’t altogether surprise me if you managed to pull something out of this apparent impasse.’
Pollard made his escape, irrationally heartened by this Parthian shot. Before going to lunch he rang Jane.
‘The car’s having another week’s trial, but looks like being taken off the job at the end of it. It can’t make the pace required.’
‘Any criticism of the way it’s been handled?’ she asked.
‘None. In fact, I got the impression that the driving had been well thought of.’
‘This,’ she replied bracingly, ‘is the thing,’ raising her voice against the high-pitched babble of the twins. ‘They’re raring for their meal: I’d better go. The mugs are a smash hit, by the way, featuring on every possible occasion.’
‘Good. Be seeing you at some unspecified hour.’
Within half an hour he was closeted with Toye and Longman.
‘We’ve got a week,’ he informed them. ‘Results by the end of it — or else. Any developments, Longman?’
As he listened Pollard marvelled as always at the exhaustive thoroughness with which a Yard investigation is conducted. He learnt that with the cooperation of British Rail, all staff concerned with passengers on trains leaving Warhampton for London from 7 p.m. onwards on 14 December were being identified for questioning. A similar enquiry was in hand about the staff of the Refreshment Room at Paddington, but subsequent changes here were slowing down progress.
Pollard groaned.
‘What about the Underground?’
‘Trouble there’s staff shortage and DIY,’ Longman replied. ‘Ruddy slot machines shoving tickets at you, instead of booking clerks, for one thing.’
‘There’d be a ticket collector at Oxford Circus,’ Toye said.
As the other two talked, Pollard’s vivid imagination conjured up travel on the Underground.
‘Hold on,’ he said suddenly. ‘How much do booking clerks and ticket inspectors take in passengers? Don’t they focus on the cash and the tickets? That’s what they’re concerned with. Not the passenger, unless he’s tight or something, or can’t produce a ticket. Are we concentrating too much on Plowman’s actual train travel?’
Longman was disposed to agree, and suggested switching some of his men to the Refreshment Room enquiry.
‘Then there’s the Hamilton Hotel,’ he said. ‘How about having a bash there yourself, sir?’
Pollard hesitated, aware of an In tray piled with paperwork relating to other cases. Longman had already been over the ground himself. The urge to lend a hand himself finally became overwhelming.
‘I don’t see myself picking up much in your wake, Longman,’ he said. ‘Still, we might go along, Toye. Sometimes the same question asked by somebody else does the trick.’
Toye remarked that Plowman had stayed at the place before, which ought to help.
‘True. Let’s have a look at the file.’
They mulled over Longman’s report. He had found the hotel on the small side and a bit old-fashioned, and deduced that its lease might be running out. Its charges were modest by current standards. The manager had been cooperative, and Longman had interviewed all members of staff who could have been in contact with Mark Plowman. None of them had any information to offer about the time he had come in on the night of 14 December.
‘I suppose,’ Pollard said, ‘we could get a list of all the guests staying there that night and have a bash at them ... Anyway, let’s go along. Be seeing you, Longman.’
Once again, the manager of the Hamilton was cooperative, and Pollard and Toye were handed over to the head receptionist, a competent woman called Fenwick, in her fifties. She undertook to have a list of the hotel guests of 14 December typed out while members of the staff were being interviewed. It was ready for them when they returned to the reception desk about an hour later, having learnt nothing fresh.
Miss Fenwick presented the list with an air of finality.
‘Thank you,’ Pollard said, without accepting it from her. ‘I’m sorry to take up more of your time, but now I’d like to run through these names with you. Nobody gets to know hotel guests like the receptionist. Can you think of any of these people likely to have been around, say from 10 p.m. onwards?’
She registered the implied compliment, but was dubious.
‘I might make a guess about some of our regulars. Families with children just broken up for Christmas, who’d have been to a show, perhaps. What is it, Sue?’ she asked, with an abrupt change of tone.
A girl had materialised at her elbow, thin to the point of emaciation and engulfed in a massive black sweater. A perky little face emerged from its polo collar, with sharp grey eyes accentuated by blue shadow, liberally applied.
‘It’s that Mr Plowman this gentleman’s asking about,’ she began.
Pollard cut in, anticipating a repressive comeback from Miss Fenwick.
‘Remembered something about him, Sue?’ he asked encouragingly.
‘She can’t possibly,’ snapped Miss Fenwick. ‘She only joined the staff in March.’
‘He’d lost some papers,’ the girl persisted. ‘I saw it in the Lost Property Book this morning, when I wrote up Mrs Potter’s pearl earring.’
‘What an excellent system you have, and how smart of Sue to notice the name,’ Pollard commented tactfully. ‘Perhaps we might have a look at the entry?’
In a flash a notebook was whisked from behind the black sweater and slapped down in front of him, open at the correct page.
‘15.12.72,’ Pollard read. ‘Mr M. Plowman, 4 Edge Crescent, Corbury. Foolscap envelope containing papers, addressed to self.’
‘What help you think this is going to be to Superintendent Pollard is more than I know,’ Miss Fenwick told her underling tartly. ‘Hurry up now, and get those letters finished.’
Receiving a smile from Pollard which was to feature in her daydreams for weeks to come, Sue departed, swaying at the hips.
‘Was this envelope found, and returned to Mr Plowman?’ Pollard asked.
‘Oh, no. That’s quite certain. It would have been signed off, with the date of despatch.’
Ten minutes later, Pollard was satisfied that short of contacting every one of the fifty odd guests on the list, he could get no help from this source. He thanked Miss Fenwick, and after arranging for Toye to return later and interview the night porter, they left the hotel.
Out of range of the entrance, they halted on the pavement.
‘I bet you’re on the same tack as I am,’ Pollard said.
‘That envelope?’ Toye hazarded.
‘Yeah. Plowman said he had a briefcase with him on the train, didn’t he? As he’d come direct from the meeting, he’d have had his agenda and whatever in it. And he implied that he’d opened the case to get out cigarettes.’
Toye nodded, and agreed cautiously that since the envelope hadn’t turned up in the hotel, it
could have fallen out of the briefcase in the train, and been overlooked by Plowman.
‘Well then,’ Pollard pursued, ‘isn’t there a possibility that it fetched up as lost property at Paddington?’
‘They don’t keep stuff beyond a month or two, as far as I know.’
‘For heaven’s sake! ’ Pollard retorted. ‘It isn’t the ruddy envelope we want, but the record of what train it came off. If it did.’
‘The lost property place’ll be shut by now. I could go along first thing in the morning,’ Toye suggested.
‘I know it’s about ten thousand to one against,’ Pollard admitted, ‘but there’s just a chance that a porter or cleaner or somebody handed it in, thinking there might be a reward. Better to go along than ring in: one’s less likely to be choked off by some dimwit. I’ll be down at the Yard, trying to clear some of my backlog. I’m dropping in now to size things up.’
The backlog of work on his other cases turned out to be extensive and comparatively urgent, and brought Pollard back to his desk at an early hour on the following morning. Numerous people wanted to see him, and he had little leisure in which to wonder if Toye could possibly be having any luck. When at last the familiar, serious face with its owl-like hornrims came round the door, he realised without need of speech that the lead had petered out.
‘Well, we didn’t expect our number to come up, did we?’ he said.
Unexpectedly Toye came towards him without speaking. Pollard stared at him.
‘What’s up?’
‘The envelope was passed in all right,’ Toye told him reluctantly. ‘Off the 7 p.m. train from Warhampton.’
‘Didn’t I tell you that you were a damned lucky devil, Pollard?’ the Assistant Commissioner commented. ‘And so you are, by God. Now then. Lister was murdered. Cut along, and either unearth a motive for that Stanton chap, or bust his alibi, or find somebody you’ve completely overlooked up to now. And step on it. The blasted papers are picking up the case again. I’m not actually setting a time limit on the enquiry now, as things have turned out.’
Buried in the Past Page 16
