Dead Letter Day (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 3)

by J F Straker

  ‘Owe it?’

  Owe it, she repeated firmly. She owed Obi her life. Some years back he had accompanied her and her parents on a pleasure trip up the Thames. Leaning on the rail of the steamer, she had foolishly reached out to grab at a passing gull, and had fallen overboard. Obi had jumped in after her, and had held her until both were rescued. ‘I’d have drowned otherwise,’ she said. ‘I can’t swim.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Johnny said. ‘We’ll find him for you.’

  She studied him as she sipped her beer. He didn’t look like an ex-policeman, she thought. For one thing, he was on the short side, not much taller than herself. And he had let his hair grow; not extravagantly long, but long enough. He didn’t dress like an ex-policeman, either: bright purple shirt, an enormous flowered tie bursting from a high collar, a draped velvet jacket. His face was considerably more freckled than her own, his nose equally snub. He was no Adonis, but he had an engaging grin and he looked wholesome. He could be fun, she thought.

  He walked with her as far as Bond Street. She worked in a Mayfair dress shop, she told him, a chic establishment, where the gowns were exclusive and expensive. It was the manageress, a Mrs Crowan, who had recommended his agency; did the name ring a bell? Johnny said it did. Mrs Crowan had asked them to trace a missing sister, and much to her pleased surprise they had succeeded in a matter of hours. He did not mention that success had been entirely due to luck.

  ‘You’d better give me your parents’ address,’ he said. ‘Maybe they can tell me a thing or two about Obi, something you’ve forgotten or didn’t know. We could do with a lead.’

  ‘No.’ She was back on the defensive. ‘I don’t want them bothered.’

  She’s a gorgeous chick, he thought, but she can be bloody frustrating. Somewhat curtly, he told her that if she wanted Obi found, and quickly, she would do better to co-operate than to start erecting barriers. She would have been little more than a child when Obi came to lodge at her house, he said. Obi could have mentioned things to her parents — about his work, his interests, his background — that he wouldn’t think of mentioning to her. It was worth investigating, wasn’t it?

  Grudgingly she agreed that it was, and gave him the address. ‘But you’re not to pester them,’ she said sternly. ‘No bullying them into talking if they don’t want to.’

  He grinned. ‘What do you think I am? A ruddy inquisitor?’

  She puzzled him. He could appreciate that she felt grateful to Obi. But what could she possibly do or have (other than what he had lecherously imagined in the pub, and it wouldn’t be that) that could be of value to an ex-con in his early fifties? In any case, why the secrecy? It didn’t add up.

  The Frazers lived in Balham, in a street of small semi-detached houses. Mrs Frazer was the only person at home, and Johnny saw at once where Polly got her looks. Her mother had the same blonde hair, but wore hers high on her head, and she had the same snub nose and dimpled chin. Even the freckles were there. She must have married young, he decided. She couldn’t be much over forty. If he hadn’t known, he’d have taken her for Polly’s sister.

  She had been half expecting him, she said, when he had introduced himself and explained the purpose of his visit. Polly had said she would give the agency all the relevant information, so there would be no need for them to bother her parents. ‘But I thought she was being a bit optimistic,’ Mrs Frazer said, sitting down. Her skirt was short, and displayed legs as slender and well-formed as her daughter’s. ‘It’s part of the job, isn’t it? Asking questions, I mean. And you’d want to ask them yourself, wouldn’t you? Getting the answers second-hand, well, it’s not the same thing, is it?’

  Johnny agreed that it was not.

  ‘No. Anyway, I quite like people calling. Makes a bit of company.’ She laughed. ‘There was a gentleman called this morning — a nice man, very polite — and when he mentioned Obi I immediately jumped to the conclusion that he’d come from your agency. I mean — well, I would, wouldn’t I, seeing as I was half expecting someone?’

  ‘Who was he?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘Oh, just a friend.’

  ‘Of Obi?’

  ‘Yes. He said he’d lost touch, and could I let him have Obi’s address. Well, I couldn’t, could I, seeing as I don’t know it?’

  Johnny was puzzled. An ex-con such as Obi Bullock wouldn’t have many friends of the calibre of Polly Frazer. It seemed a strange coincidence that two of them (Mrs Frazer had described her morning visitor as a ‘nice, polite gentleman’) had chosen the same day to start looking for him, and that at least one of the two was prepared to pay handsomely to find him. The girl had said her purpose was altruistic. Did that go for the man?

  Johnny’s last boss in the Force had described him as having a nose for obliquity, claiming that he could smell it as a mouse smells out cheese. Figuratively, his nose was twitching now. Intuition suggested that something odd was afoot. The suggestion was heightened by the girl’s secrecy. That was odd too. If there was nothing irregular in her purpose, why couldn’t she come out with it?

  Perhaps Mum would be more forthcoming.

  ‘Was that all he wanted?’ he asked. ‘Just the address?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘And when you said you hadn’t got it he left it at that? He didn’t try to pressure you in any way?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he wanted to know what we did with Obi’s mail.’

  ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘I said there hadn’t been any mail. Not since he left.’

  ‘And hasn’t there?’

  ‘No. No, of course not.’

  The slight hesitation, the faint tinge of colour in her cheeks, told him she was lying. That was something else she had in common with her daughter: they were both damn-awful liars. Taking a chance, he said, frowning, ‘But didn’t a letter come for him the other day? That’s what your daughter said. Or have I got it wrong?’

  She stared at him open-mouthed. Then she closed her mouth and nodded briskly.

  ‘Now isn’t that just like Polly! She insists that no-one, absolutely no-one, is to know about that letter — and then she goes and tells you. Really!’

  He smiled. ‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she? I’m working for her.’ He leaned forward. The room was small and over-furnished, crowding the chairs so that his face was close to hers. ‘One thing she didn’t tell me, though, was what was in the letter. She had to leave before we got around to it. Perhaps you’d fill me in, eh?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’ She blinked at him. ‘You’ll be seeing her again, won’t you?’

  ‘I imagine so. Why?’

  ‘It’s just that I’d rather she told you herself. I mean, she said not to discuss it. So, if you don’t mind —’

  ‘It can wait,’ he said. Push her too hard and she might clam up on him completely. But damn Polly Frazer and her blasted secrecy! He would have something to say about that when next they met. ‘This man who called this morning. Did he tell you his name?’

  She wrinkled her brow. ‘You know, I don’t think he did. He just said he was an old friend of Obi’s.’ The frown smoothed into a smile. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  He said he would. The embarrassing topic of the letter behind her, she relaxed.

  Over the teacups she talked freely about Obi. He had had a rough life, she thought, a rather hand-to-mouth existence. No family — he had been brought up in an orphanage — and precious few friends. Certainly none that had done him any good; they had given him more kicks than ha’pence, from what Obi had told her. No wonder the poor man had drifted into crime. But he had gone straight while he was with them, she was certain of that. There had never been any trouble, he had become almost one of the family. Which was why it seemed so strange that he hadn’t been back to see them. Hadn’t written, either. And he had been absolutely devoted to Polly; more like an uncle than a lodger. Had Polly told Mr Inch how Obi had once saved her life?
They had gone on this trip up the river, all four of them ...

  Johnny let her ramble on, hoping for something to latch on to. Nothing came. After his third cup of tea he gave up. It had been nice meeting her, he said, and thanks for the tea. But he would have to be going. Miss Frazer wasn’t paying him to chat up her Mum.

  She laughed. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t more helpful.’

  ‘Yes. Well, the ones without friends or family are always the hardest to trace. But we’ll keep trying.’

  ‘You could have a word with my husband,’ she said doubtfully. ‘He’s usually home by six-thirty, if you’d care to call back. But I don’t think —’

  ‘No. No, I won’t bother him, thanks,’ he said. ‘Unless — did your husband and Mr Bullock visit the local together sometimes?’ He grinned. ‘Men talk more freely after a few beers. I know I do.’

  She smiled back at him as she shook her head.

  ‘My husband’s not a drinking man, Mr Inch. Obi usually went down to the Oak before lunch of a Sunday, but he never managed to persuade my Tom to go with him. He’s practically teetotal, is Tom. I doubt if he’s ever been in a pub in his life.’

  ‘No? Well, it was just a thought.’

  The Oak was at the end of the street, a corner pub with a grim facade and nothing to attract passing custom other than the name of the brewers. It was closed now, between hours. But behind the frosted glass of the saloon bar a light burned, and Johnny crossed the road and tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it and went in.

  The man behind the counter stopped polishing a glass and stared at him.

  ‘We’re closed.’

  There was both pity and scorn in the bald statement. What have we here? it seemed to imply. A bloody greenhorn? Johnny grinned and nodded.

  ‘I know. But it’s information I’m after, not a drink.’

  ‘Oh? Such as what?’

  ‘I’m looking for a chap who used to come in here. Name of Bullock. Obadiah Bullock. Do you know him? He hasn’t been around lately, though. Must have left the district.’

  The man put down the glass. Scorn and pity were replaced by suspicion.

  ‘You the police?’

  There had been occasions in the past when Johnny had dreaded that question. Now he could take it in his stride.

  ‘Hell, no! Just a friend. He used to lodge down the road; but he’s moved on, and we’ve lost touch. Obi’s no letter writer.’

  The man nodded. ‘You can say that again. Five — six weeks ago he sent a couple of quid he owed me. But no letter. Just the money in an envelope.’

  ‘How did you know it was from him?’

  ‘There aren’t many owes me money. I see to that.’ He resumed his polishing. ‘But he’d used one of the firm’s envelopes, and when me and the missus were down that way — the next weekend, it was — we called in. The Saladin: it’s a sort of roadhouse, about five miles beyond Sevenoaks on the Dover Road. Big place. Wouldn’t suit me — too bloody posh. But Obi seems to like it. He’s working behind the bar.’

  Should he telephone the Saladin? Johnny wondered, as he travelled back to the office. Perhaps not. If Obi Bullock learned that someone was inquiring about him he might get jittery. Particularly if he had been up to his old tricks recently — and that, despite Mrs Frazer’s belief to the contrary, was more than possible. He might even quit. Besides, the girl had said to locate Obi, not to contact him. Better just give her the address and let her get on with it. Except that ...

  He went into a telephone kiosk and rang the dress shop. Miss Frazer was surprised and delighted at his success. She would make a note of the address, she said, and would he wait while she got a pencil. If he would send her his bill ...

  ‘Hold it,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a thought. You’ll want to meet him, won’t you, not write? So why don’t I drive you down there this evening? I’ll make myself scarce while you talk to Obi, and afterwards we can have dinner. How about it, eh?’

  There was a pause while she considered the proposal. Then, ‘There’s no need to put you to all that trouble,’ she said. ‘I could post it. I don’t actually have to see him. Just so long as he gets it.’

  ‘It might go astray. The post isn’t all that reliable.’ Didn’t she want to see him? Or was she considering the expense? ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with an evening out?’

  ‘Nothing, of course. All right, then. And thanks. Can you pick me up at home? I’ll have to change first.’

  ‘Any time you say.’

  ‘Around seven, then. And if you ever need a testimonial, Mr Inch, call on me. Mrs Crowan was right about your being a fast worker.’

  He assumed she was referring to his technique as an inquiry agent. He hoped that, if the evening went well, he might later have a chance to demonstrate his speed in quite a different capacity.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said modestly. ‘But thanks all the same.’

  2

  Johnny had bought Muffin the Mule from a friendly sports car enthusiast who had outgrown her. Basically a Ford Corsair with a hotted-up engine, the Mule had a sleek fibre-glass body enamelled in British racing green, and boasted the numerous gadgets and refinements dear to the enthusiast’s heart. She was not outstandingly fast, but she looked fast, and had good acceleration. The exhaust note was distinctive: the sound of liquid bubbling in a vat, magnified a hundredfold. It was perhaps the exhaust note that had alerted Miss Frazer to the imminence of his arrival, for she was waiting in the open doorway when he pulled up outside the house. He thought she looked slightly hostile as she came down the steps. But he could see no cause for hostility, and dismissed the look as a freak of light and shade. It was a dark night, and the nearest street lamp was some distance away.

  He helped her into the bucket seat. As he slid behind the wheel she said, ‘Doesn’t it have a hood?’

  ‘A hood?’ Johnny was surprised. It seemed an irrelevant question. ‘Yes, of course. Why?’

  ‘Couldn’t we have it up?’

  ‘But it’s not raining,’ he protested.

  ‘I know. But this is late October, and it’s bloody cold. I’m not dressed for an open car, I wasn’t expecting it. Do you want me to freeze to death?’

  Reluctantly, he put up the hood. He didn’t like driving with it up; the fabric had stretched and flapped noisily, drowning the exhilarating sound of the exhaust. Women are odd, he thought, as at her further request he fixed the sidescreens. Give them a chance to travel in something special, something out of the ordinary, and immediately they want to convert it into the humdrum box on wheels to which they are accustomed.

  There was little conversation on the journey. The flapping hood and side-screens drowned their voices as well as the exhaust, and Johnny needed all his attention for the road. He had not driven the Mule for some weeks — she was heavy on petrol, and he disliked exposing her to the danger of dents and scratches inherent in London traffic — and the battery was nearly flat. Whenever he slowed the lights dimmed. He hoped it would be easier on the homeward journey. There should be less traffic, he could keep the speed up. And by then there might be more life in the battery.

  The Saladin was a modern, one-storeyed building, with a long frontage and a scintillating display of lights to attract the passing motorist. As he waited in the wide vestibule while Miss Frazer deposited her coat and powdered her nose, Johnny wondered if he would recognize Bullock. He had spoken of him familiarly to Nicodemus and the Frazers, but in fact he had met him only once, when the man had been lodged in his nick a decade ago. Studying himself in one of the large gilt mirrors that lined the walls, he was sure that Bullock would not recognize him. Apart from the passage of time, there had been a considerable change from Inch the policeman to Inch the civilian.

  When Miss Frazer rejoined him they went into the saloon. It was a large room, and crowded with tables; Johnny estimated it could seat several hundred. But custom was slack that evening. There were plenty of vacant stools at the long bar, and through the glass partition at the far end he saw th
at the equally large dining-room was almost deserted. Male eyes followed the girl as Johnny led her to a table. Johnny could appreciate their interest. He saw, too, what she had meant about not being dressed for an open car. She was hardly dressed at all, he thought. The frock was cut low at the neck and high at the hem, the material diaphanous. Was it for his benefit, he wondered, or had he been wrong about her and Obi? Could be. Women got crushes on the most unlikely men.

  ‘Well?’ he asked, when she had had time to look around. ‘Do you see him?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘There’s probably another bar. Or maybe he’s in the restaurant.’

  ‘Or maybe it’s his night off. You didn’t happen to check, I suppose, when you booked a table?’

  The hostile note was back. Johnny said he hadn’t checked because he hadn’t booked. He didn’t bother to explain why; if Miss Frazer wanted to be difficult he could be difficult too. He beckoned a passing waiter and ordered drinks. When the man brought them he said, ‘We’re looking for a man named Obadiah Bullock. I was told he works here. Where can I find him?’

  The man placed the glasses on the table, and straightened. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t say.’

  Johnny put money on the tray, including what he considered to be a generous tip. ‘We’ve come down from London especially to see him,’ he said. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘I see. Well, maybe you’d best have a word with the manager, sir. Ask the receptionist — the young lady in the vestibule. She’ll direct you.’

  ‘Young lady’, Johnny thought, was a misnomer. The receptionist was a woman in early middle age, high breasted and high collared, with vivid auburn hair packed high and tight on her head. She was polite but indifferent. Johnny waited while she rang the manager, and then followed her frantically wiggling rump along a thickly carpeted corridor.

  ‘Mr Inch, sir,’ she announced, opening a door.

  The manager rose, motioned Johnny to a chair, and sat down. Johnny stated his business. The manager doodled on a pad.