Kywood was well built, sleek of features, with a strong chin that was an incorrect guide to his character. He was a man whose moods were conditioned almost wholly by the pressures on him, so that he would support his subordinates unless and until to continue to do so might jeopardise his own position. “’Morning, Bob,” he said, in a jovial voice.
Fusil answered, then added: “I’m just off to the P.M.”
“That’s all right, I shan’t keep you a moment. I thought it better to come and have a word with you, though, instead of trying to talk over the phone. There’s a bit of a problem cropped up.”
Kywood pulled up a chair and sat down.
He offered a pack of cigarettes, though well aware that Fusil rarely smoked anything but a pipe, then lit one. “I had the chief constable on the telephone to me late last night, Bob. After he’d had dinner with Mr. Findren.”
“Who?”
“Findren. The owner of the wine shop in the High Street — the place that used to supply the wines when George the Fifth stayed at Colnway Court. Findren had a moan.”
“What about?”
“Surely you can imagine? You must know what’s going on in your own department?”
“I usually have a good idea,” said Fusil tightly.
“One of your men went into Findren’s yesterday and asked them whether they’d bought any stolen whisky.”
“What’s so odd about that? I’ve had all pubs and bottle stores questioned.”
“Can’t you see that Findren was naturally upset that a detective should go into his store and ask such a question?”
“He shouldn’t be so touchy.”
Kywood looked angry, but his tone of voice remained pleasant. “Findren wouldn’t buy stolen whisky. They’re not that kind of place.”
“You know as well as I do that in this sort of investigation all possible sources of information are questioned — whether or not they’ve served all the crowned heads of England since Magna Carta.”
“Didn’t you have a word with the Excise officer first?”
“Of course.”
“What did he say?”
“He’d never met any irregularities at Findren, or anywhere else that I’m becoming interested in.”
“Wasn’t that good enough for you?” Kywood spoke earnestly. “Bob, I know it was only keenness made you do this, but you must learn that there are other considerations. The higher you rise in the force, the more you have to watch them. Did you realise that Findren is on the watch committee?”
“Is he?” said Fusil, with patent lack of interest.
Kywood’s voice sharpened. “He’s a very influential man on it, what’s more — chairman of the finance sub-committee. Now I know in theory that sort of thing shouldn’t make any real difference, but the hard facts of life are that it does, especially with a small borough force like ours.”
“It’s not going to stop me carrying out my duties as a policeman,” said Fusil obstinately.
Kywood stood up and walked over to the window. He stared out at the depressing row of condemned Victorian houses. “You never take the trouble to be practical.” He swung round. “Now just what was the point of going into a place like that and asking questions which were bound to upset people?”
“It was my duty…”
“It was your duty to use common-sense. As the chief constable said to me, what made you send a man in there to ask that sort of question when it’s the one place in Fortrow you can guarantee is clean?”
“How can you guarantee that? Findren could have turned crooked.”
“And the chief constable might have opened up a brothel,” said Kywood heavily. “Bob,” he continued, trying to sound like an uncle gently admonishing his favourite nephew, “in a small force like ours, duty and tact have to go hand-in-hand. If you want to get on, don’t forget that.”
Fusil said nothing. Kywood hesitated, then left.
Nothing so quickly angered Fusil as the intrusion of local politics into police work and this was one of the reasons why he was so in favour of the abolition of small, local forces. In Fortrow, council members seemed to think the police force was ‘theirs’, an employee to be rapped over the knuckles if it did anything they didn’t like. The relationship between the public and any police force was a strange one — the public paid for and instructed the police to guard them, yet had to stand correction from them, and at all costs the police had to remain independent of the same public who paid their wages. Kywood would be better employed telling Findren that, he thought bitterly.
He left the police station and drove to the mortuary which was near the docks. The pathologist observed that Fusil was late and pointed out the obvious, that the post-mortem had started. Fusil apologised, though not with the best of grace, and he then crossed to the far wall and leaned against it, in company with the forensic scientist.
The pathologist worked quickly and deftly, all the time dictating notes to his secretary, and only paused when he wanted Detective Walsh to take a photograph. He had almost finished, when he spoke to Fusil. “I presume you would like fingerprints?”
“If that’s possible, sir?”
“The fingers are badly burned on both hands, but the thumb and forefinger of the left hand were tucked under the body and haven’t suffered quite such extensive damage. I may be able to get enough skin for prints from these two.”
The pathologist used a small scalpel to strip off the burned skin from the print area of the thumb and forefinger and he carefully inserted these strips of skin into two tubes filled with formaldehyde solution. The tubes were labelled by the exhibits officer, who packed them in a special box and handed them on to Detective Sergeant Walsh.
The pathologist spoke pontifically. “You’ll find, Sergeant, that the papillary ridges have been destroyed on the outer surface.”
“Yes, sir,” said Walsh. He disliked the pathologist, but managed to mask this fact.
“However, you’ll be able to ascertain them from the inner surfaces.”
“Yes, sir,” said Walsh for the second time.
The pathologist handed the scalpel to his assistant and stripped off rubber apron and gloves. He crossed to the cracked washbasin.
Fusil went up to him. “Can you give me a very quick run-down on anything you’ve discovered, sir?”
“You people are always in such a hurry.” The pathologist filled the basin with warm water. He soaped his hands. “I found no cause of death other than by burning. The man was in his early twenties and in good physical condition except for a congenital abnormality in his right hip and a degenerated liver.”
“What visible effect would the hip have had?”
“I’m just about to tell you,” he snapped. “The abnormality wasn’t sufficient to hinder him greatly and at its worst probably did no more than make certain movements of his right leg slightly un-rhythmical. The liver was not yet sufficiently degenerated for him to have been aware of the condition. There were no signs of wounds, nor were any bones broken.”
“If he didn’t fall and break a leg, what stopped him escaping from the fire?” said Fusil, speaking more to himself than to the other. He stared at the body, now being sewn up by the assistant. How had the man come to die in the cellar?
*
The assistant at the county forensic laboratory examined the several pieces of charred wood which had been sent to Barstone from Fortrow. He carefully smelled them but could only catch the scent of charred wood. He chewed a piece of bread to clear his mouth, then wiped another piece of bread along the wood and chewed that, but again his only impression was one of charred wood.
From one of the wall cupboards, he took a wide-mouthed glass beaker, into which he put the pieces of charred wood. He covered the beaker, put it in a bowl of water, and heated the water until the thermometer recorded sixty-five degrees centigrade. He removed the beaker, opened it, and smelled the air inside. Faint, but quite unmistakable, was the oily smell of paraffin.
*
&
nbsp; Kerr kicked back his chair in the general room and stood up. “This is driving me nuts.”
Welland, working at his desk, looked up. “What’s up with you, then?”
“D’you see that thundering great pile of shipping lists? The old man dumped them on me and told me to check through ’em and report back in half an hour’s time.”
“That’s what I call being an optimist!” Welland grinned.
“I tell you what, Perry…” began Kerr.
“The answer is ‘No’. I can’t give you a hand.”
“Have you forgotten that only the other day I spent hours and hours helping you?”
“And have you forgotten you only did that because the Sarge ordered you to?” Welland sat back in his chair, which creaked. “I’ll tell you something. Your Helen is a very brave little lady. If I were her, I wouldn’t take you on.”
“And if she was you, I wouldn’t ask you,” retorted Kerr.
Welland laughed boisterously.
“How about some coffee?” suggested Kerr.
“Sure. If you’ve got any.”
“It’s about your turn to find the tin.”
“Where would I get that sort of money from?” He wagged a large finger at Kerr. “Don’t you worry. Once you’re married, your pockets won’t know what the chink of silver is any more.”
Kerr stared at him. “And you’re the one who’s always said how wonderful marriage is and I ought to get in on the act.”
“Nothing like seeing someone else fall into the same trouble to ease one’s pains.” Welland again laughed boisterously.
Kerr boiled the electric kettle and made two cups of instant coffee. He and Welland each smoked with the coffee, then they returned to their work. Kerr once more struggled to list all the ships which had been in port for a period of fourteen days before and after each of the previous whisky robberies and for fourteen days prior to the present one. The D.I. had suggested it wasn’t much of a job. The D.I. was dead wrong. Every ship in the world seemed to have been visiting Fortrow. He, Kerr, had once been told that a detective’s work was ninety per cent hard slog and ten per cent detection: the proportions were wrong — they should have been ninety-nine and one.
He finished the task at half past twelve and when he checked each list against the others he discovered there was just one ship which had been in port on each occasion.
He lit another cigarette. It seemed that Fusil had known a thing or two after all — it must surely be more than a coincidence that this ship was always in port at the relevant time. He leaned back in the chair. There was something to be said for serving under a smooth, hard, sharp bastard like Fusil. For one thing, you learned the value of intelligent imagination.
When the cigarette was finished, he went through to Fusil’s room but found it empty, so left a note to say what he had discovered. That done, he went down to the canteen, hoping Fusil would not return until he’d eaten.
*
Braddon liked life just the way it was. Other men might grow ulcers worrying about their promotion chances and fretting for success, but he just wanted things to continue as they were.
He stood at the long, scarred wooden counter of the Jack of Hearts and ordered another coffee. The café was no Ritz. The walls were dirty, the vinyl on the floor was worn out, the tables and chairs were badly battered from use, paper tablecloths were seldom provided, the ketchup bottles had thick rims of dried-up ketchup around their caps, and the menu was chalked up on a slate behind the counter. However, the prices were cheap, helpings large, and the food good. Open eighteen hours a day, there were seldom less than half the tables occupied.
Maddocks, the owner of the café, whose small, pinched face was badly scarred from childhood acne, brought him the coffee he’d ordered. Maddocks turned to leave, obviously eager to do so.
“Hang on,” said Braddon.
Maddocks hesitated. Some of his customers would not like to see him talking to a detective. “I’m busy,” he muttered.
“You’re not that busy,” replied Braddon, good humouredly. He put three spoonfuls in the coffee.
“Look, Mister, one of your blokes ’as seen me. I told ’im all I knows.”
“Perry’s a nice lad, isn’t he: Not been with us all that long.” Braddon rubbed the tip of his nose. He often had a sleepy look about him, as if having difficulty in keeping his eyes open. “He’s still a little bit too trusting.”
Maddocks polished a glass with a wet and dirty cloth. A truck driver came up to the counter, shouted a ribald greeting, and ordered bangers, chips, and three eggs sunny-side up from the teenage girl behind the counter who was usually ready to supplement her wages when off duty.
“Perry told me you said you’d heard nothing.” Braddon looked at Maddocks over the top of the cup. “I reckon you’ll have heard something interesting by now.”
“I don’t know nothing about that hijacking, Mister. You can search all you like and you won’t find no nicked whisky round ’ere. Look, I’ve got work to do and it ain’t good for trade, you being ’ere.”
“D’you think people know I’m a detective?”
Maddocks looked quickly at Braddon to see if the detective was laughing: when he saw the glimmer of a smile in the other’s bloodhound-like face, his expression became gloomy.
Braddon lit a cigarette. “If I was to get some news on this nicking, I likely wouldn’t be back at all times of the day and night, disturbing trade.”
Maddocks shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of tired defeat. “I don’t know much,” he said, in a whining voice.
“Let’s hope it’s enough.”
Maddocks leaned forward and lowered his voice, although there was no one within earshot. “I ’eard a bloke was outside in ’is cab with a judy ’e’d picked up along the road — not in ’ere, mind. ’E saw ’em arrive in the van. Can’t tell you no more than that.”
“This bloke’s name?”
“O’Farrell.”
“Where does he live?”
“Can’t rightly say, but ’e works for the millers in south Fortrow — that place by the central railway station. Drives their bulk tanker.”
Braddon finished his coffee. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s very civil of you. I must drop in again some time.” He smiled when he saw the other’s expression, which appealed to his simple sense of humour.
He drove back to Fortrow along the main road and then cut through a succession of side streets in order to avoid the centre of the town. The mill was very large, brick built, grimy with age, and it had a succession of descending roof lines which marked out the various additions that had been made over the years. There were two separate office buildings and a woman in the first of these gave him the information he wanted. O’Farrell lived in Bratby Cross. She checked a list and said he might still be around the mill because he was due to deliver a load of flour to one of the few remaining independent bakeries in the district.
He walked round the mill and found a bulk tanker on the far side which had just taken on its load of flour. O’Farrell was about to climb up into the cab. Braddon introduced himself.
“What’s up, then?” demanded O’Farrell, a little uneasily. He was a man of ordinary build, with the kind of grey anonymity that would hide him in any crowd.
“I’d like a word about Monday afternoon. You were in the park at the Jack of Hearts, weren’t you?”
“So what if I was? I’m allowed to stop off for a cup of tea. The boss knows all about it.”
“No one’s getting at you for that. I’m only interested in what you saw of the whisky being hijacked?”
“’Ere, ’ow did you know…?”
“Does it matter?” said Braddon flatly.
“It’s just… Look, I didn’t see much.”
“How come?”
“I weren’t taking that much notice.”
“Because of the woman you’d got with you?”
O’Farrell looke
d at him in obvious consternation.
“Married and worried the missus will get to hear?” diagnosed Braddon. “Not from me, she won’t, not since you’re going to help all you can.”
O’Farrell licked his thin lips. “I wasn’t…” He stopped.
“I don’t suppose you were,” said Braddon. He looked up at the cab of the tanker. “Be a bit tricky in there, wouldn’t it?”
“Gawd!” exclaimed O’Farrell. Haltingly, he told Braddon what he had seen. The van had come in, gone right round, then come back through the first entrance and stopped by the lorry. Two men in mechanics’ overalls had climbed out and gone to the lorry and he’d naturally assumed they were mechanics doing a job and because he was busy… that was to say… They’d just driven the truck out and the van had followed it.
“None of this seemed at all odd to you?” asked Braddon.
O’Farrell fidgeted with a screw valve on the tanker. “Mister, when a repair van comes along…”
“It obviously wasn’t much of a repair they had to make if they were able to drive the lorry off almost immediately?”
“I didn’t think like that.”
He hadn’t been in a fit state to think, decided Braddon. “What did you notice about the men?”
“They were just men.”
“Yeah, I know. But were they tall, short, fat, thin: Did you see their faces?”
“They were too far away for that. Anyway, they were wearing hats.”
“Was there anything at all about them that you did notice? How did they walk? Did they talk to each other and could you hear their voices? How old were they?”
O’Farrell began to chew his lower lip. “One of ’em did walk a bit oddly, come to mention it.”
“How d’you mean, oddly?”
“I don’t rightly know.”
Normally phlegmatic, Braddon suffered a desire to seize O’Farrell by the collar and shake him. “Are you saying he limped?”
“Not exactly limped, but it was as if one of ’is legs was stiff. Yeah, that’s it. A stiff leg.”
When Braddon left and returned to the car, his face accurately expressed his despondency. The lead had seemed so promising, yet now it had virtually petered out.
Guilt Without Proof (C.I.D. Room Book 4) Page 5
