Charters and Caldicott

by Stella Bingham

  ‘Must have flown through the air while they were struggling.’

  ‘Very likely.’ Snow took an envelope from Caldicott’s desk, dropped the button into it and held out the flap to Tipper. ‘Just lick that, would you? It still doesn’t make sense but I’ll tell you what, Sergeant Tipper. We’ve nabbed him.’

  Margaret deposited Charters and Caldicott at a sprawling, concrete, neon-lit hotel that might have sprung up as a conference venue on any ringroad of any town. As they checked in, they noted with distaste the muzak, the garish furnishing and the lop-sided noticeboard directing computer games salesmen to the Oak Suite and meat traders’ reception guests to the Princess Room. The hotel operated a do-it­yourself system of customer service and Charters and Caldicott had to carry their own suitcases, bought and filled with socks, shaving-soap and other emergency rations, on the journey north. While they waited for the lift to take them to their anonymous rooms, they looked down at the matching cases at their feet, then at each other. Uncertainly, they switched the cases over.

  Two substantial figures seated in the lobby had noted their arrival. When the lift doors had closed on Charters and Caldicott, one of Josh Darrell’s minders put down his newspaper and headed for the house phones.

  After enduring a Surf ’n Turf dinner in the Cape Cod Restaurant, Charters and Caldicott decided to call it a day. Five minutes later, Charters, fuming with impatience as he waited for someone to answer his phone call to reception, turned to find Caldicott had come into his room. ‘Why can’t I get room service?’

  ‘Did you dial 526?’

  ‘I haven’t dialled anything.’

  ‘Then you won’t get room service.’ Charters began to dial. ‘And that gets you a recorded message advising that for the convenience of guests there isn’t any room service at this hour, but for your further convenience please make use of your mini-bar.’

  Charters banged down the phone. ‘What the blazes is a mini-bar.’

  ‘This contraption,’ said Caldicott, opening the door. ‘Mine’s empty so I thought I’d join you for a nightcap.’

  Charters relaxed a little. ‘Large brandy and soda for me, if you please, old fellow.’ Caldicott held up a miniature bottle of brandy daintily. ‘Confounded place. And have you seen the size of the soap tablets they give you? It’s more like Lilliput.’

  ‘Well, what’s our programme for tomorrow, old man?’ asked Caldicott, mixing Charters’ drink on the plastic oak­finish desk-cum-dressing table.

  ‘Play commences at eleven-thirty. Norton and West presumably start business at nine. I propose we get there on the dot.’

  ‘Yes, but what do we do when we get there?’

  ‘Only one thing to do. Re-introduce ourselves to Gordon Wrigley and hope to bluff him into telling us what we want to know. Whatever that may be.’

  ‘When we did that before, at Josh Darrell’s house-party, we made complete twerps of ourselves.’ Caldicott passed Charters his drink.

  ‘Yes, well this time better leave the talking to me. No offence, old fellow.’

  ‘None taken,’ said Caldicott huffily, peering into the mini­bar. ‘However, there’s no reason to suppose your wits are sharper than – I say! I’ve given you the only brandy!’

  ‘Chin chin,’ said Charters, downing it in one.

  Charters and Caldicott fiddled uncomfortably with their shirt collars as they picked their way between stacks of lemonade crates. Caldicott glanced up and drew Charters’ attention to a large sign that read, ‘Norton and West Mineral Waters. Mfrs of Birdade. “First for Thirst since 1891”.’ A grimace of acute embarrassment crossed their faces as they remembered their previous encounter with Gordon Wrigley. It seemed he didn’t need a slogan after all.

  The factory’s enquiry office housed a commissionaire doing his football pools and a receptionist chatting to a friend on the switchboard. Neither paid any attention to Charters and Caldicott.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t mind, Sharon, but I don’t even like fried bread,’ the receptionist was saying. ‘All right, so you don’t expect a cordon blue meal when there’s only the one gas ring, but you’d think he’d’ve made some kind of effort, wouldn’t you? So I said, ooh, for goodness sake, Brian, where’s your tin-opener?’ Charters had had enough of this. He banged peremptorily on the old-fashioned bell. ‘Just a minute, Sharon. Can I help you?’

  ‘Mr Caldicott and Mr Charters to see Mr Wrigley.’

  ‘Did you have an appointment?’

  ‘I think he’ll see us. We met at a house party.’

  ‘Mr Who, did you say?’

  ‘Caldicott and Charters.’

  ‘Charters and Caldicott,’ said Caldicott.

  ‘Sharon. There’s a Mr Charters and a Mr Caldicott to see Mr Wrigley… no, but they say they know him – they met at a party.’ The receptionist turned back to Charters and Caldicott. ‘She’s just off to see if he’s in.’

  ‘Damned uncomfortable, these ready-made shirts, don’t you find, Caldicott?’ said Charters, tugging at his collar. The receptionist glanced up curiously from painting her nails.

  ‘Yes. It could be that they have different sizes in the North,’ said Caldicott, running his fingers inside the collar of his own shirt, as if to take up the slack.

  ‘Very likely. This sixteen-and-a-half collar feels like a fifteen-and-a-half.’

  ‘My fifteen-and-a-half feels like a sixteen-and-a-half.’

  The switchboard buzzed. ‘Yes, Sharon? And you don’t know when he’ll be back?… All right – oh, and I’ll tell you the rest of the saga at lunchtime.’ The receptionist glanced up to relay the information that Mr Wrigley was down in London at the present.

  ‘We may as well go to the fountainhead, since we’re here, Caldicott,’ said Charters. ‘Mr Norton or Mr West?’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr West’s dead at the moment. And I don’t think Mr Norton’ll see you, if you don’t have an appointment.’

  ‘We’ll leave that to the judgement of others, shall we?’

  The receptionist sighed and plugged into another extension. ‘Debra? No, dead loss – I might as well have stayed in and washed my hair. I’ll tell you the gory details later. Listen, there’s two gentlemen asking for Mr Norton. Mr Charters and Mr Caldicott.’ She turned to Charters. ‘Could you give me some idea of what it’s in connection with?’

  ‘It’s a private matter.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Caldicott. ‘Say it’s to do with the affairs of the late Colonel Beevers of Hong Kong.’

  ‘They say it’s about a Colonel Beevers from Hong Kong. I don’t know, Debra, do I?’ The receptionist lowered her voice. ‘No, definitely not reps. She’s seeing if he’ll see you,’ she said to Charters and Caldicott.

  ‘I have a question for you, Caldicott,’ said Charters as they waited.

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘What colour’s your toothbrush?’

  ‘My bathroom toothbrush or my travelling toothbrush?’

  ‘The toothbrush you acquired last evening along with shirt, socks, etc.’

  ‘Oh that toothbrush. Green.’

  ‘I thought as much. That green toothbrush is mine, Caldicott. Yours is red.’

  Caldicott stared at him. ‘I do believe you’re right, Charters. You realise what we’ve done, don’t you? We’ve got one another’s suitcases.’

  ‘Hence this wretched fifteen-and-a-half collar. You would insist on changing the suitcases round, Caldicott – the fact is that they were right in the first place. We’ll have to go back to the hotel and change.’

  ‘And miss the first overs? Can’t we do it somewhere else, old man?’

  ‘I move with the times as much as the next man, Caldicott, but unlike some cricket supporters I draw the line at removing my shirt outside the pavilion at Old Trafford.’

  The switchboard came to life again. ‘Yes, Debra? Really? Wonders will never cease. Mr Norton will see you now. Stanley,’ the receptionist called to the commissionaire, ‘could you take these two gentlemen to the boardroom?’
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  Surprised at the success of their manoeuvre, Charters and Caldicott followed Stanley upstairs and along a covered foot­bridge that linked two factory buildings. A row of windows gave out onto a cobbled courtyard and as they passed one of them, Caldicott murmured, ‘Hello,’ and nudged Charters. Josh Darrell’s Jaguar and his minders were waiting in the yard below. As the pair looked down, Darrell himself came out of the directors’ entrance and headed briskly for the car.

  ‘Now what in the name of thunder is Josh Darrell doing here?’ said Caldicott.

  ‘Having an audience with Gordon Wrigley, I imagine.’

  ‘Unlikely, old man.’

  ‘Come, Caldicott – you don’t really believe that yarn about Wrigley being in London, do you?’

  ‘Not for a minute. Equally I find it hard to swallow that a little fish like Wrigley wouldn’t have come out to see a big fish like Darrell into his car instead of glowering down at him from that office window as if hoping looks could kill.’ Charters followed Caldicott’s glance across and saw Wrigley standing at a window opposite, wearing just such an expression. As they watched, he raised a hand to his chin. One of the cuff buttons on his blazer was missing.

  The panelled boardroom was lined with portraits of bearded directors from the past. Charters and Caldicott made a tour of them while they waited for Norton. ‘Who does that remind you of?’ asked Caldicott, pausing in front of one.

  ‘W.G. Grace, of course. I wonder who’ll win the toss?’

  They’d just reached the portrait of the present managing director, Jacob Norton, every inch the Yorkshire industrialist, when the doors of the boardroom were pushed open and a young nurse wheeled in the man himself: an old, haggard-looking travesty of the portrait.

  Norton dismissed his nurse brusquely. ‘Buzz off – I’ll ring when I want you. And shut them doors – this is private business.’

  Charters and Caldicott introduced themselves. ‘Good of you to see us, Mr Norton,’ said Caldicott, getting the interview off to a civilised start.

  Norton stared at them. ‘Bloody hell. Have they put the retirement age up, or what?’

  Norton’s opening gambit threw them off balance. ‘Come again?’ said Caldicott blankly.

  ‘I say I thought they’d have pensioned you off – CID, Special Branch or whatever you call yourselves.’

  The penny dropped. Caldicott would have set the record straight but Charters interrupted him with uncharacteristic foolhardiness. ‘Seniority is not an asset to be discarded lightly, Mr Norton, as you yourself would agree,’ he said smoothly.

  ‘Oh, aye, there’s nobody can tell me when to retire. I’ll go when I’m good and ready. Well, do I get cautioned or what?’

  To Caldicott’s dismay, Charters continued with this dangerous deception. ‘We’d just like to ask you a few informal questions, Mr Norton. No need for your notebook.’

  Caldicott glowered at being cast in the Tipper role.

  ‘Ask all the questions you please. Whether you get any answers or not, we’ll have to see.’

  ‘Now, you know why we’re here, of course?’

  ‘I’ve a good idea. You’ll never prove owt.’

  Charters knew a promising lead when he saw one, and gave Caldicott a smug glance. ‘You think not?’

  ‘Not while I’m alive. After I’m dead’s another matter – but there’d be no point then, would there? You can’t prosecute a corpse.’

  Caldicott decided to join in the game of bluff, a move which filled Charters, in his turn, with misgiving. ‘Perhaps not, Mr Norton – but there are others involved in the business, aren’t there?’

  ‘Not criminally, there aren’t,’ said Norton sharply. ‘Now you keep my family out of this, do you hear?’

  Charters raised an eyebrow at Caldicott. ‘We’ll do our best to accommodate you, Mr Norton, but you must do your best to help us. Now, given anything to charity lately?’

  Norton laughed bitterly. ‘That’s not where it’s all gone – unless you call my bookmakers charity.’

  ‘I see,’ said Charters, baffled.

  ‘When were you last in Hong Kong, Mr Norton?’ asked Caldicott cunningly.

  Norton looked down at his blanket-covered legs. ‘Me? Don’t talk so daft.’

  ‘Someone representing your company, then. Gordon Wrigley, perhaps?’

  ‘Never mind Hong Kong and never mind Gordon Wrigley. I’ve told you – I won’t have my family involved.’

  ‘Family?’ asked Charters.

  ‘I suppose you’d call him that. He is my son-in-law, after all. Though it’s not him I’m worried about.’

  Caldicott, all at sea, broke with custom and tried the straightforward approach. ‘Who are you worried about?’

  ‘Who do you think? Not you two, I can tell you that much.’

  Charters stepped in. ‘We’re not here to cause anxiety, Mr Norton. We’re here to clear up certain matters.’

  ‘Well you seem to be going a funny way about it. My secretary said you mentioned this Colonel Beevers chap. What’s it got to do with him?’

  ‘Do you know he’s dead?’ Caldicott asked.

  ”Course I know he’s dead. He died while our Gordon was out there, didn’t he?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Caldicott.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Charters.

  Neither had the slightest idea what he was talking about.

  ‘What are you two looking at me like that for, the pair of you? Do you really think I sent Gordon Wrigley all that way to commit a murder – just to keep this business quiet?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Caldicott cautiously.

  ‘Pigs might fly – that’s possible. Any road, it wasn’t Beevers I should have been worried about – it was who Beevers was dealing with this end. So why didn’t I just send my son-in­law down to London to bump off Josh Darrell and save myself the air fares?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ said Charters, reminded, for some reason, of being lost in a real old London pea-souper.

  ‘I wish I had done now, after what’s happened,’ Norton fretted. ‘But I’ll tell you why, if you want to know.’ He groped under his blanket and brought out a bottle of pills. ‘You see these? Twelve of these with a glass of whisky and I’m a dead body. That’s my way out if it comes to it.’

  Charters was heartily sick of corpses. ‘There’s no need for melodramatic gestures, Mr Norton. Just answer our questions frankly and there’s no reason why what you tell us should go beyond this room.’

  Norton couldn’t believe his ears. ‘You what?’

  Caldicott tried to save the situation. ‘What my colleague means is that you won’t be involved. In – er – subsequent proceedings.’

  ‘I won’t be involved?’

  ‘Firm promise.’

  ‘Then what are you doing here?’

  Caldicott looked at Charters. ‘Never mind that for the present, Mr Norton,’ said Charters uneasily. ‘Just put your cards on the table, there’s a good chap.’

  ‘I’ll put my cards on the table when you produce a warrant to see them. Well, have you got a warrant?’

  ‘Er, not at the moment, no,’ said Caldicott.

  ‘Have you got anything to prove you are who you say you are?’ Charters and Caldicott coughed awkwardly. ‘Or any identity at all? Come on, I’m waiting.’

  Caldicott shuffled forward sheepishly. ‘My card.’ Charters also presented his.

  ‘I bloody thought so! You’re no more police than I’m King Kong.’ He spun his chair round and wheeled himself furiously towards the bell push in the wall.

  ‘Cast your mind back, Mr Norton. We never claimed to be policemen.’

  ‘A misunderstanding, Mr Norton,’ said Charters.

  ‘Pure assumption on your part.’

  Norton’s nurse raced into the boardroom and whisked him out, just in time to save him from bursting a blood vessel.

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘This really is absurd, old man,’ said Caldicott as the pair strode purposefully through the lobby of t
heir hotel. ‘It isn’t as if wearing the wrong shirts would cripple us for life.’

  ‘It would spoil my day, Caldicott. Besides which, it’s extremely bad for the circulation and furthermore we look ridiculous.’

  ‘We could take our ties off.’

  Charters stepped into the lift. ‘Caldicott, I have not gone open-necked to a cricket match since I was at prep school. I don’t propose to relax my standards now – even if we are in the North.’ He jabbed irritably at the lift button. Before the doors could close completely, two enormous hams of hands came between them and forced them open again. Josh Darrell’s minders joined them in the lift. Deaf to all pleas and protests, they bundled them out at a strange floor, frog­marched them ignominiously down the corridor and propelled them through a door.

  Darrell looked round as they entered, waved to them and carried on with his phone call. Charters and Caldicott, ruffled and furious, straightened their ties and flexed twisted wrists while Darrell read out some rigmarole of a formula. ‘Does that sound like a beverage to you or does it sound like a bomb?’ he finished, pocketing his notes. ‘I guess it’s this synthesised burdock ingredient that’s been eluding us. Listen, I have a meeting right now. We’ll talk later.’ Darrell hung up and, ever the polite host, gave Charters and Caldicott his full attention. ‘Good of you to drop by, May I offer you something? Coffee?’

  Caldicott bristled with rage. ‘You may offer us, Darrell, an explanation.’

  ‘It’s gone beyond that, Caldicott,’ said Charters. ‘An action for heavy damages may lie. I don’t know whether you know anything about English civil law, Darrell, but wrongful imprisonment is a very serious matter.’

  The television was on in the corner. Darrell turned the sound down before saying. ‘Maybe we’ll settle out of court. I don’t aim to keep you long, gentlemen.’

  ‘I should jolly hope not. We have a most important engagement,’ said Caldicott.

  ‘You’ve just come back from one. Your busy morning.’