by Carola Dunn
Megan went out, closing the shop door behind her against the cold wind. In the back of the car, Ken was still lounging, reading reports by the light of a torch, but he had the window open in spite of the breeze, so she knew he’d been listening in case she ran into trouble. It was getting dark. Most of the street lamps were smashed, or simply not working.
He rolled up the window as, with a shiver, she returned to the driving seat.
“Well?”
“Positive identification. But no name, neither his nor his friends, and he doesn’t know where he’s been squatting.”
“Better than nothing. At least we know where to start looking. Anything else?”
She relayed her interview with Bradshaw, rant and all. “And that’s about it. It sounds as if he was checking for news of the robbery, doesn’t it? But how was he involved? He certainly doesn’t sound like—and didn’t looked like—the sort anyone in their right mind would entrust with the proceeds of a major heist.”
“My guess is he was the bully-boys’ get-away driver, and somehow he got-away with the loot.”
“But someone else had to be in it, too, someone who knew Aunt Nell’s car and the shop.”
“Who’s either the murderer, or told the bully-boys where to look for him.”
“He might have been forced to tell.”
“He might. And he could well be dead, too. Come on, let’s hit the pub.”
She reached for the keys, then paused. “Just a minute. Something Bradshaw said . . . No, it wasn’t what he said, it was the way he said it. ‘Go home to mummy,’ in a mincing voice.”
“Putting on an upper-class accent?”
“No, not exactly. Not as posh as yours, anyway. More middle-class.”
“A lot of these kids are not yobbos, they’re runaways.”
“What on earth do they live on?”
It was a rhetorical question, but he answered it. “The dole. Odd jobs, off the books. Begging, and a bit of theft, though most aren’t serious thieves. They don’t want to draw our attention. In London, the cleaner ones, those with any talent, do a bit of busking, but I don’t know if that’s on the cards down here. Then there’s often a few quid now and then from ‘mummy,’ that she’s saved from housekeeping on the sly. Some are just rebels, but some are escaping pretty nasty home situations. A lot of the girls end up on the game, and some of the boys, too.”
Megan wished she hadn’t asked. “You should be a social worker,” she said.
“Not bloody likely. But I don’t go out of my way to harass them. Come on, we’d better get over to the pub.”
The Sailors’ Rest was not far away but appeared slightly less run-down than the tobacconist’s. At least, a lively noise came from inside when they pulled up in front.
“Friday night. I don’t think you should go in here on your own,” Ken said, “but I don’t like to—”
“Look, there’s a car-park sign. Pointing round the back.”
The sign was faded almost to illegibility. “All right, we’ll give it a try,” he agreed, his voice full of doubt.
No car much wider than the Mini could have squeezed through along the side of the building. They emerged in a tiny yard, enclosed by the pub on one side and walls on the other three. Double gates in the back wall suggested an alley, no doubt used for lorries unloading. The headlights gleamed on a padlock. Theirs was the only vehicle present. The only light was a low-wattage bulb over a door with another faded sign reading BAR. Beside it an arrow pointed to GENTS.
“Looks safe enough. All the same, we don’t want some half-pissed lout looking for valuables mucking about with these reports. You’d better park in the darkest corner, farthest from the door and the loo.”
“None of it’s exactly floodlit.” Megan pulled the car into the far corner. They got out and locked the doors.
“We’ll walk round to the front,” Ken said. “Better not give anyone even a hint that there may be something worth nicking out here.”
Inside, they discovered that much of the noise came from a dart game in progress. Megan was relieved to see three women among the cheering onlookers. Even now, in this day and age, there were pubs where female intruders were bitterly resented. On the other hand, nor was it the sort of pub where strangers are welcomed. As the door clunked to behind them, everyone not totally absorbed in the game turned and looked at them.
Neither of them was dressed to fit into this milieu. Megan was certain a good proportion of the clientele guessed they were police. She didn’t exactly feel threatened, but she was glad Ken was with her.
Not turning a hair, he walked straight towards the bar, so she followed. A large man who was sitting on a stool, talking to the barman, stood up and moved as if to block Ken’s path. The barman leant over and put a hand on his arm, saying something in a soft voice. The man scowled, picked up his pint, and moved away. He was in fact no taller than Ken, broader but middle-aged and out of shape. Megan glanced around and noticed that almost everyone in the room was middle-aged or older . . . except for a group over in the far corner.
The light over there was dim in contrast to the brightness over the bar and the dart players, but they looked young. And unkempt. Very like the dead youth.
Megan turned to draw Ken’s attention to the young people. She touched his sleeve, but he was focussed on the barman.
“Mr Redditch?”
“That’s me.”
Ken put his hand in his breast pocket to retrieve his warrant card, but Redditch said in a fierce whisper, “No need to wave it around in here. You come about that lad that was murdered?”
“That’s right. I’ve got a much better photo than was in the paper to show you.”
“Order summat, and slip it to me with the cash.”
“Half of cider, Autumn Gold if you’ve got it, and a pint of bitter.”
Megan couldn’t decide whether she was pleased or annoyed that he’d remembered what she preferred to drink in pubs. In some odd way it felt like an intrusion. It was none of his business anymore.
“I’ll pay for my own.”
“Don’t be silly.” He had already laid a pound note and the photo on a dry spot on the bar. “Expenses.”
“Ken, those people over there . . .” She swung round as she spoke, to point them out to him. They were gone. “Hell! That’s where the back door is. Shall I go after them?”
“Who?”
“A bunch of scruffy kids. Just the sort we’re looking for.” She took a step in the direction of the back door.
“Out the front. You stay here.” As he spoke he was running to the street entrance.
“Hoy!” Redditch set two tankards on the counter with a thump that sloshed liquid over the side. “Your pal want the info or not?”
“Yes. He’ll be back shortly, but in the meantime you can tell me.”
“You a ’tec, too? No, don’t bother with that,” he added hastily as Megan reached for her card. “The boy came in here a couple of times, with friends.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Nah.”
“You didn’t check his age?”
The barman shrugged. “I ask. They tell me they don’t have a student card or a driving licence, what can I do? He said he was over eighteen, so I served him.”
Underage drinking in Bristol was none of her business, especially as she needed his cooperation. “Those young people who were over there when we came in, have you seen him with them?”
Another shrug. “Couldn’t say. They’re all much alike. Him I remember ’cause he was kind of cocky, full of himself.”
Ken returned. “Too late. It’s pitch dark out there.” He took a deep swig of his beer. “I think I saw a couple disappearing round a corner but there’s no sense following them. They’ll have gone to earth by now. This area is a warren and they know it. We don’t. What’s the story?”
“Mr Redditch recognises the victim but can’t tell us much about him. He says he was the cocky type.”
“Yea
h, and he had a nasty look in his eye, like, when I asked his age. I wouldn’t’ve wanted to cross that one.”
“What about the rest of his crowd?” Ken asked.
“Mellow—isn’t that the word they use these days? It’s that muck they smoke does it, I reckon. No get-up-and-go.”
“Unfortunately,” Ken pointed out, “they got up and went. You have any idea where they’re hanging out at present?”
“Not a clue. They don’t come in here often, them just now or others like ’em, and when they do they’re not chatty. And that’s about all I can tell you,” he said pointedly, with a sweep of his cloth across the bar. “I got other customers to see to.”
Ken thanked him. They finished their drinks and went out the back way to the car. As far as they could tell by torchlight, it was undamaged by the departing young people.
They got in, Ken in the front passenger seat.
“A nasty look in his eye,” he reflected. “That’s something to think about.”
“I’m glad Aunt Nell wasn’t at home that evening. Where to now?”
“The hotel.” The Bristol police had booked them a couple of rooms at a modest place near the nick. Ken waited until Megan had negotiated the tricky exit from the so-called car park before he said casually, “You know, we could save your department some money by sharing a room.”
“Not bloody likely!” Megan was furious. It was typical of him to assume he could waltz into her bed after waltzing out of her life without a backward glance. If only he’d stop thinking with his gonads . . . But saying so would just provoke a lecture on her out-of-date ideas of morality. They were hers, and it would be a cold day in hell before she changed them to suit him, even if she could make herself believe he would thereafter cleave only to her. Which she couldn’t.
She drove in stony silence to the hotel.
TWENTY
As Megan parked the car, Ken said, “Sorry. You know, we ought to discuss what we’ve found out and what to do next. I’ll buy you a decent dinner. Not on expenses.”
“I have to ring the guv’nor.”
“So do I. Let’s sign into our rooms first. Then I’ll phone the Yard to report and to find out whether the jeweller has positively identified the stuff as his. If he says it’s not—not likely but always possible—I’ll be off your case, and you’ll want to tell DI Scumble.”
“That’s a point. I’ll wait till we know.”
“And dinner afterwards?”
“Yes. Thanks. But I didn’t bring anything special to change into. Just my overnight bag. And I’m not sure what’s in that. I don’t exactly need it often in Cornwall, not like you Yard types.”
“You can borrow my toothpaste, but not my toothbrush. What you’re wearing looks fine to me. I’ll ask the receptionist for suggestions. Let’s go.”
The hotel served breakfasts but not dinners, so the plump blond receptionist was quite happy to recommend a couple of restaurants nearby that were “nice” but didn’t expect their customers to dress up.
Megan eyed the very public telephone next to the stairs. It was not the sort of hotel that has a phone in every bedroom. “We’d better make our calls from the nick,” she suggested to Ken.
“Definitely.”
“It’s only a couple of minutes walk, I think. Let’s drop off our bags and go over.”
She had spoken in a low voice, but the girl overheard. “You’re with the police, aren’t you?” she asked. “They booked for you.”
“From Scotland Yard.” Ken showed her his card.
Her eyes rounded. “Gosh, fab! Wait till I tell Mum we had Scotland Yard detectives staying in the hotel. You’re a detective, too, Miss—” She glanced at the register. “—Pencarrow?”
“Yes.” Megan didn’t think it necessary to specify that she was merely from Cornwall.
“Fab! If there’s anything you need, just let me know. I think there’s a magnifying glass in the manager’s office.”
“Don’t tell anyone who we are,” Ken told her solemnly.
“Not even Mum?” she asked, disappointed.
“Oh, I think you can tell your mother,” said Megan, “but not until after we leave, all right?”
“All right! Fab!”
They went up the stairs. On the landing, they exchanged a look, said together, “Fab!” and burst out laughing.
Megan’s room was small but adequate, the mattress sagging a bit but not lumpy. The wash-basin had running hot water that was really hot, and the bathroom and loo were nearly opposite, not hidden away down miles of corridors. Unpacking her night things, she discovered her toothpaste in her sponge bag and was glad she wouldn’t have to borrow Ken’s—or more likely do without. Underneath was a clean pale blue blouse that was not too creased. She hung it over the basin while she washed, in the hope that the creases would be diminished by the steam.
. . . Well, it was worth a try. She hadn’t time for a nice hot steamy bath. When she put the blouse on, it didn’t look too bad with the dark green suit, which would definitely have to go to the cleaners next week.
She brushed her hair and was applying her usual peach-coloured lipstick when Ken knocked on her door.
“Coming!” she called, annoyed to find she was looking forward to having dinner with him.
He had taken off his tie and changed from his dark suit into a tweed jacket and fawn slacks. A sudden thought struck her.
“Why did you bring your overnight bag?” she asked accusingly. “You were supposed to collect the jewels and go back to London.”
He grinned. “As a matter of fact, my super and yours had already had a confab before I left town. But yours had to consult your CC, and he didn’t want to alert DI Scumble to the possibility of working with the Yard in time for him to think up objections. I rather think Scumble won the second round, though, shipping me off to Bristol.”
“He may be a misogynistic pain in the neck, but he’s not stupid. I knew he was planning something tricky. He got both of us out of his hair in one swell foop.”
“I hope he’s pleased with the result. Let’s go and report.”
“I just hope he doesn’t want us to do a house-to-house down by the docks.”
“Horrors! We’d better be extra charming to the Bristol people and with any luck they’ll agree to send uniforms.”
It was a pleasant evening. The wind had died down and the air was balmy. On the way to the Bristol nick they passed both the recommended restaurants and both looked “nice.” One was Italian, the other Indian.
“Which do you prefer?”
Megan picked Indian. “One thing I do miss in our rural fastness is a choice of restaurants.”
“Pasties or fish and chips?” Ken said sympathetically.
“Not quite that bad! Even Port Mabyn has Chinese, and we have an Italian place in Launceston. Your choice of spaghetti bolognese or ravioli. Oh, and minestrone, of course. I have to admit that my mother makes a better spaghetti bolognese.”
“Your parents live in Cornwall too, don’t they, as well as your aunt? I had forgotten.”
“Yes, near Falmouth. It’s quite a trek on our roads, but I get down there once a month or so. Here we are.”
They were accommodated with a small office containing a desk, a file cabinet, two chairs, and a telephone. Ken sat down behind the desk, pulled the phone to him, and dialled the Yard.
Megan didn’t listen as he talked his way towards whomever he was supposed to report to. She was too busy reading over her notes and preparing her own report in her mind. Then his exasperated tone broke through her absorption.
“What the hell d’you mean, ‘something’s happened’?”
She couldn’t hear the person on the other end.
Then Ken said, “All right, all right, so no one told you and no one left a message for me. Get me a typist and I’ll dictate my report.” He put his hand over the receiver and hissed at Megan’s enquiring look, “ ‘Something’s happened’! Apparently only God and my guv’nor know what, and
the guv’nor’s gone home to bed. Do not suggest that we try . . . Yes, Faraday here. Ready?”
His report was admirably concise yet complete. Megan took it down word for word in shorthand. Unless DI Scumble was still at the station and wanted to discuss what to do next, she would just repeat Ken’s account.
Ken hung up. “At least my guv’nor left word he’d be in tomorrow and I should ring at nine. Your turn.” He shoved the phone across the desk.
Megan had even less luck. She spoke to the desk sergeant in Launceston, who told her he was the only copper in the station. He had no idea when DI Scumble would be in on Saturday morning, if at all. He would leave a message for the inspector to ring DS Pencarrow at Bristol HQ.
“But if he gets in before nine, to try my hotel first, please. Number?” she mouthed at Ken, and was impressed when he knew it. She passed it on to Sergeant Welham. “And please tell him—”
“Keep it short, Pencarrow. I’m expecting another call.”
“Tell him the victim was definitely seen in Bristol but we haven’t got a name or address yet.” So much for her planned miracle of comprehensive conciseness. She hung up.
“Another misogynist?” Ken asked.
“Welham? Not really. The bastard is just as bloody-minded with everyone. Including the public we’re supposed to serve.”
“That’s why they put that sort on the desk, didn’t you realise? Keeps away all but the most determined of the public.”
“Most of ours are all right, actually.”
“Call it a wild generalisation. Well, we’ve done what we can to appease our lords and masters. Let’s go and eat.”
Over an excellent meal, they discussed how they might set about finding the people who had known the victim, if they were required to do so. Their dispiriting conclusion was that it would take a large number of officers to draw a net around the entire area.
“CaRaDoC’s not going to supply them,” Megan said with certainty.
“Nor’s the Yard. Caradoc?”
“Constabulary of the Royal Duchy of Cornwall.”
“I can see why you shorten it!”
“Caradoc was a Celtic prince. I think he fought the Romans. He was Welsh, strictly speaking, but all us Celts have to stick together. Onen hag oll is Cornwall’s motto. Kernow’s, I should say.”
