Fusil reached across and picked up the papers. He leafed through them.
Melchett continued to speak in his dry, somewhat toneless voice. “We were obviously looking for discrepancies in stocks or sales figures. We carried out a full stocktaking both at the warehouse and each of the seven shops, taking a number of test counts ourselves. We found virtually no discrepancies whatsoever.”
“What precisely does ‘virtually’ mean?”
“If half a dozen bottles are recorded as smashed, we accept the figure. If our count is half a dozen bottles out on the books, we don’t consider that to be of any significance.”
“Wasn’t there even a hint of unexplained numbers?”
Melchett shook his head as he passed two sheets of foolscap paper across the desk. “I made up a brief abstract to show you the position. You’ll see that the number of bottles of MacLaren whisky and the number of bottles of all descriptions sold and the numbers now in stock agree with those in stock two and a half years ago added to all deliveries since then — as recorded by invoices and suppliers’ monthly statements.”
Figures in quantities always gave Fusil mental indigestion, but Melchett had laid out the figures in a manner that enabled him to follow them without trouble.
“All the accounts are in order,” continued Melchett. “The right amounts of money for the stocks received have in every case been remitted from the shops to the warehouse. Cheques paid out from the warehouse to suppliers agree with the accounts due for goods supplied. Bank balances are correct. All cleared cheques match cheque stubs and account books.”
“Aren’t there any discrepancies?”
“There are only a very few small cheques from the parent company which have not been paid in by the payee — but in any major audit there are always some small cheques that don’t, for one reason or another, get put through. I’ve prepared another summary for you.” He passed across three more sheets of foolscap paper.
This time, Fusil found the figures much less easy to follow. He parked the papers to one side. “And it was the same with Findren?”
“Exactly the same, except that Findren was quite unpleasant and far less cooperative than Sharman.”
Fusil slumped back in his chair. “Is there any way of selling whisky through a shop and yet not showing it in the books?”
“It becomes a question of quantity. I suppose any shopkeeper can slip some sales through without their being recorded, but we’re dealing with thousands of bottles here. No, this number could not be ‘lost’. The sales in all the shops show an evenness which is only disturbed by the Christmas trade. In any case, the total yearly sale of any one branch of Sharman of MacLaren whisky is less than the number of bottles of stolen whisky.”
“Couldn’t the shops be passing off the sales of whisky under the guise of gin, for instance?”
Melchett still spoke patiently. “I mentioned that we checked the sales and stocks of all the liquor handled. There’s not the slightest chance the whisky is being sold as something else.”
Fusil went to speak, then checked himself.
“To sum up,” said Melchett, “we’ve found nothing suspicious in the accounts or stocks of either of the two firms.”
“But the facts all say the whisky has to be sold here.” Fusil spoke with angry petulance.
Melchett shook his head. “Unless there’s another large firm whose business we haven’t checked, it isn’t.”
“These were the only two that could have handled the quantities involved.”
“Then I’m sorry, but that’s it.” Melchett looked at his watch. “Is there any chance of a car to run us down to the station? We could just catch the twelve o’clock to London.”
“I’ll take you.”
“I don’t want to bother you.”
“I’ll have to carry on from there to report to the D.C.I.,” said Fusil.
Melchett spoke sympathetically. “I hope things aren’t going to be too rough for you.”
*
Kywood, seated behind his desk, looked up. “You realise, of course, precisely what this means?”
“Naturally,” replied Fusil.
“I don’t want to labour the point, Bob, but I think you ought to appreciate the full seriousness of the position as it directly affects you.”
Kywood, thought Fusil, provided the perfect picture of a smooth bastard of a hypocrite in full action.
“You decided to ignore, or maybe it would be fairer to say overrule, my strong advice not to call in the Fraud Squad. You said that they would inevitably turn up the sale of the stolen whisky, which discovery must identify the centre-man, who had to be the murderer of Finnigan. It hasn’t worked out like that, has it?”
“Obviously not.”
Kywood’s patient expression suggested that he fully understood the other’s belligerence and could even make allowances for it. “The evidence now is that the stolen whisky could not have been sold in Fortrow. This means the centre-man does not live here and there’s no proof that Finnigan was murdered.”
“None of that necessarily follows.”
“On the contrary, by your own logic it does.”
“Look here, sir, just because…”
“Bob, face the facts. You’re in a spot and the sooner you realise that, the sooner we can try and find some way of getting you out of it.”
“I’ve done no more than my duty.”
“Your duty was to examine all aspects of the case before coming to any final decisions. In the case of the Fraud Squad…”
“I wasn’t bloody well not going to call them in because of some dirty local politics.”
Kywood rested his elbows on the desk and pressed together the tips of the fingers of both hands. “Rightly or wrongly, a man is judged by results. If the best intentions end in the worst results, it’s only the results that count.” He looked down at the desk, then up again. “It’s most unfortunate, but you’ve been in serious trouble before, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I know that trouble only came about because you were too keen to arrest a guilty man — but the chief constable is a pragmatist.”
“Can’t he see a doctor?”
Kywood’s voice sharpened. “That sort of attitude doesn’t help.”
What the hell could help, wondered Fusil with bitter anger? He’d staked everything on an event which had not come to pass. Kywood would always manage to slide out of trouble, so he was left in the sucker’s seat. The moral was very clear. Learn to be a politician.
Chapter 11
Throughout the latter half of August and the whole of September, the weather remained wet and windy. Then, in the middle of October, long after the last of the holidaymakers had gone from the coastal resorts and the sandy beaches had once more become havens of solitude, there was an Indian summer with warm and sunny days.
Contrary to the normal pattern, crime continued at a level as high as during the mid-summer. In the one week, there were a series of fights in the dock area, some said of racial origin, which culminated in a near-riot in which three men were stabbed, one was slashed close to death with a broken bottle, and at least a score of people received minor injuries. Television showed scenes of the final fight and concentrated on shots of the police defending themselves, which they presented as more evidence of police brutality. There was a bank raid in which a cashier was violently bludgeoned and twenty thousand pounds were stolen: the members of the gang went uncaught. A well-known woman died from an illegal abortion and the man concerned could not be traced. The Fortrow Gazette had a leading article, misinformed and badly written, questioning the efficiency of the borough police and pointing out that not even the theft of the whisky had been solved or the death of the man in Verlays Wine Store cleared up.
Fusil, true to character, met the mounting criticism by trying to drive himself and his men still harder than before. Determined to arrest those most concerned in the brutal fight, he gave orders that the inhabitants of every house in the
immediate area and the crew of every ship in port should be interrogated.
Braddon tried to object. “Look, sir,” he said reasonably, “it’s just not on.”
“What’s not on?” replied Fusil.
“To question all these people, if we don’t have anyone else to give us a hand. We’re tied up in those other cases as it is. Why can’t we ask for help from the county force?”
“You know as well as me. That would give the county force the excuse to say we can’t cope.”
“It’s true.”
“We have to hide the fact,” snapped Fusil.
Braddon returned to the general room. “Everything stands,” he said. “You do the job as ordered, and without help.”
“It’s impossible,” muttered Rowan.
“All right. Do the impossible.”
“But, Sarge…”
“There’s no arguing. Get out and get started.”
Rowan and Welland left the room, but Kerr remained.
“Sarge, today’s Saturday,” said Kerr.
“Is that supposed to be news?”
“It’s my weekend off.”
“That’s good. That means you’re free to give us a hand, doesn’t it?”
“I’ve arranged to go out this afternoon with my fiancée. I promised her…”
“Then this will give her the chance to discover you’re a liar. Get moving.”
Kerr left the general room and went down to the courtyard. He arrived outside just in time to see the C.I.D. Hillman drive out. Friends! He thought bitterly.
A bus took him down town to Dock Road and he entered the docks through number 5 gate. The first ship he boarded was an old, ugly, dirty freighter, flying a Panamanian flag, whose decks were littered with the filthy rubbish of a dock stay. The chief officer spoke a fractured English which became positively shattered when Kerr asked if any members of the crew were known to have been in the fight or bore any signs of personal injury. From the chief officer’s cabin, he went below two decks to the crew’s quarters. He spoke to a greaser, in oil-stained string vest and cotton trousers, who spoke fluent, if heavily accented, English. According to the greaser, every member of the crew had been aboard on Wednesday evening. He was a liar, thought Kerr dispassionately, but how in the hell was he ever to prove it?
In the course of the next hour, he visited a refrigerated ship unloading carcasses of mutton and crates of butter and a mixed cargo ship that was loading crates and bags of chemical. The crew of the last vessel had all signed on as she was due to sail in two days and meals were being served aboard. Kerr was sharply reminded how hungry he was when he went into the galley. He commented on that fact to the cook and was very fortunate that the other, untypically, was good natured and generous. He served Kerr a huge portion of steak and kidney pie and afterwards offered apple tart.
When Kerr walked down the gangway, he was fairly certain he had eaten too much. Perhaps, he thought, he should have refused that second helping of apple tart but it really had been delicious. He went to the end of the berth and began to walk along the main dock road and had just crossed the railway lines when there was the tooting of a car’s horn. Welland, at the wheel of the C.I.D. Hillman, came alongside and braked to a halt. “Have you had any luck?” asked Welland.
“I’ve just had a damned good lunch.”
“I’m talking about the job.”
Kerr shrugged his shoulders. “What do you think? No one saw anything, heard anything, or knows anything.”
“And even if anyone did, he’s not going to be fool enough to say so.” Welland spoke with unusual pessimism since even his buoyant nature was not proof against working on and on at a job which had such little chance of being successful. “What a lousy way to spend a Saturday afternoon.”
Kerr leaned against the driving door. “It was meant to be my weekend off and I’d promised to go up into the Keighley Hills with Helen. She loves it up there says that when we win the pools, that’s where we’ll go to live. She hasn’t got a phone at home so I can’t ring up to say what’s happened — she’s always getting on to me for not letting her know when I can’t turn up as I said I would.”
“You’ll cop it, then, and no mistake.”
“That’s for sure,” said Kerr gloomily. He stared resentfully at the bonnet of the Hillman and was just thinking that the patch of rust was growing in size when his mind was suddenly excited by an idea. “Parry — how long d’you reckon it’s going to take us to cover all the ships and dockside houses?”
“All weekend. Maybe longer.”
“Then no one can say a quick couple of hours is vital. Be a pal and let me have the car for a short time.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Nip off to Helen and explain what’s happened. And maybe just go for a quick drive into the hills.”
“You must be nuts. If old Fusil caught you doing that, he’d rip your liver out and fry it in front of your eyes.”
“He’ll never know. In any case, we’re wasting our time here. Be a real sport.”
“You can’t be serious?”
“Look, what harm can it do? Come to that, I’ll keep going a bit longer tonight and make up my time. What could be more honest than that?” He opened the driving door.
Welland hesitated and then stepped out on to the road. “You’re being a right mug,” he said seriously. “No fooling, if you get caught you’re liable to be chopped out of the force.”
Kerr sat back behind the wheel. “How’s anyone going to know? Fusil’s back at the station and staying there, Braddon said he wasn’t coming down this way until late afternoon. Even if someone starts shouting for me, with all the ships to choose from, they’ll never be able to prove I’m not around. In any case, it’s my weekend off.”
“Don’t you think…” began Welland.
“I’m off.” Kerr engaged first gear and accelerated away. One small part of his mind was trying to tell him that what he was doing was stupid, and he wanted to stifle such a thought before it had time to dissuade him.
At the gates, a dock policeman waved him to a stop. “Come on, mate, you know you don’t just drive straight through. What’s the hurry?”
“I’m trying to rush two thousand fags and a keg of brandy through,” said Kerr.
“Now just you…”
“Keep your shirt on.” Kerr showed his warrant card.
“You blokes from the borough force are real bright and breezy, aren’t you?” muttered the policeman, ill-temperedly.
Kerr drove out. His conscience became more active, but he assured himself that if this had been an important case he would never have dreamed of sloping off. This investigation, occasioned really by the T.V. coverage, was doomed to failure as anyone with an ounce of common sense could see. His temporary absence couldn’t possibly have any effect.
He told Helen he would have to get back fairly smartly because a lot of work had come in suddenly, but Fusil had said he could be away for a couple of hours.
Keighley Hills possessed a rolling beauty that had somehow almost escaped being built on: only one line of super-pylons and one tall T.V. relay mast broke their skyline. Woods dotted their crowns and often reached down into the valleys, while in the valleys were farms whose houses and outbuildings were centuries old and had become part of the landscape. From the southernmost hills, there were views across to the sea.
The sunshine still held enough warmth for Helen and Kerr to spread out a rug to sit on whilst they had tea.
“John, you’re hardly eating,” she said suddenly. “Is something wrong with you?”
“I’m as fit as a fiddle.”
“But there’s apricot jam in that sandwich — I thought you loved it?”
“I do. But… Well as a matter of fact, I had rather an enormous lunch.”
“When you knew we were having tea together?”
“I didn’t… I mean I…” He stopped when he saw she was smiling, enjoying the pleasant intimacy of pulling his leg.
“When did I last tell you that you were lovely?” he asked softly.
“Not for ages and ages.”
He took hold of her hand. “Why are you going to marry me, darling?”
“I can’t think,” she said contentedly, as she leaned against him.
“Is it because I’m so handsome and witty?”
“John Kerr, you know just what I think of you when you get smug and self-satisfied like that!” She sat upright. “Come on, eat up that sandwich.”
“Yes, ma’am. Tell me, are you going to order me around all the time when we’re married?”
“Of course. But you won’t realise it.”
“Fred says that’s the way all women work.”
“He would, if you mean Fred Rowan. D’you know, John, I always feel sorry for him — but I just can’t get to like him.” She stared out to sea, a greenish blue and divided into two by a shaft of sunlight.
“You do know he leads a hell of a life? He’s never certain what his wife’s up to.”
“Why isn’t he?” She suddenly spoke with urgency. “How can a marriage reach such a state? He and his wife must have trusted each other absolutely when they got married.”
“I don’t know,” he said slowly and thoughtfully. “These things just seem to happen. I got called last week to a house in which a woman had been so badly beaten up by her husband she had to go off to hospital. The odd thing is, she wouldn’t tell me anything when I wanted a statement.”
“She was still a wife.” Helen seemed to shiver. “Let’s change the subject. I hate talking about the miserable things in life.” She poured him out a cup of tea from a Thermos flask and added milk from a bottle. “When are we going to get married?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“What’s so silly about that?” he protested.
Guilt Without Proof (C.I.D. Room Book 4) Page 10
