by Tessa Dale
“You are a mine of information,” Thompson told the sergeant. “We have a description of our man being wired over shortly. I’d like you to take a drive over to this place and see if it rings any bells.”
“That’s a pretty long shot, if you don’t mind me saying so, Sir.”
“I know, sergeant. That’s why I’m sending you, and not one of my detectives.” the DI said. “I don’t want to waste my chaps’ time.”
Sergeant Kitteridge was on the road to Dudley before it occurred to him that the Detective Inspector had been rather rude about his abilities. He sighed and unwrapped the parcel of cold mutton sandwiches his wife had made up for him that morning. Why was it, he wondered as he bit into the salty feast, that CID and the Flying Squad held themselves in such high regard?
After all, the Detective Inspector had not known the background to the Gunpowder Plot, or the house where the plotters made their last, desperate stand. It was up to Kitteridge to drag all the way over to Dudley and conduct what was, in all probability, a wild goose chase.
He parked the police patrol car right by the big house’s front entrance, and retrieved his helmet from the rear seat. A large, hand painted sign propped up by the door declared the house to be open to the general public, for the admission price of two shillings and sixpence.
Kitteridge put his helmet on, securing the strap tightly under his chin, and climbed the front steps. A middle aged couple in the portico moved to one side, allowing him to advance into the main hall. There was an oak desk just inside the entrance, occupied by a heavy, square jawed woman in tweeds, who could have been anything from forty to sixty years old. She held out a hand, palm upwards.
“Two and sixpence.”
“Police,” Kitteridge said, quite superfluously.
“No discounts, I’m afraid,“ she replied. “Unless you are a party of six or more.“
“You don’t understand, Madam,“ Kitteridge said, drawing himself up to his full six feet three inches. “I am making enquiries into the whereabouts of a man purporting to be called Catesby.”
“You’ve just missed him, sergeant… by about three centuries,” the woman replied, smiling at his discomfort. “Have you a photograph?”
“No. My chap assumed the name Catesby, and my Inspector wondered if it was because he had some sort of a connection with the house.”
“We have several thousand visitors every season, sergeant,” the woman said. “If your inspector’s theory is correct, it could be he was a casual visitor, or even someone who had seen the name in a history book.”
“I fully understand, madam,” Kitteridge responded. “But, as the poet said… ours not to reason why… ours but to do as we’re told. My chap was about five feet eleven inches tall, with wavy dark hair, and even features. He had a small…”
“A small mole.. Just about here,” the woman concluded, pointing to her left cheek. “That sounds like Peter Kerr. He was our tour guide until last month. Then he packed his bags and left, without even giving us notice. The owners were livid with him, but he said that something to do with his family demanded his presence elsewhere. I liked Peter, very much. Is he in trouble?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” the sergeant told her. “Did he leave anything behind?”
“Nothing,” the woman said. “He packed, and left. Perhaps you’d like a copy of the guide to the house? Peter was with us three years, and his photograph is in the latest print. That is how sure we were that he was going to stay around.”
The sergeant took a copy of the glossy guide, made his excuses, and set off on the long drive back to Coventry. He doubted that he would receive any thanks for his efforts, but it was a source of great pleasure to him that he had achieved something that CID could not. Peter Catesby now had a face… and a genuine name. It would be up to CID to discover exactly who Peter Kerr had been.
Bob Thompson stared at the picture of the open faced young man and shook his head. It hardly seemed credible that, in the space of a few hours, his CID team, with the help of the station’s most avid quiz and puzzle solver, had done the seemingly impossible.
He wrote up a brief report of what had been discovered, and wired it over to Castleburgh CID, adding a codicil stating that Dan Jones owed him a pint, and that they would continue the search to find where Peter Kerr called home, unless advised otherwise.
Dan Jones received the information early the next morning and, abandoning his first cup of tea of the day, went in search of his Guv’nor. First thing usually saw him bent over the morning crossword in his office, and this morning was no exception.
“Ah, Dan. Nine down… ‘what the criminal did with his sword’. What do you reckon?”
“Felon, Guv.”
“That’s right. A pithy clue, considering our occupation. What is it you want?”
“We’ve found our victim, Guv,” the sergeant told him. “This just came in for me.” He handed the sheet of information over.
“That was quick work,” DCI Clever said. “It’s funny how the mind works in these matters. I once had to arrest a man who had killed a friend in a drunken brawl. He fled to hide in his friend’s home village, and even adopted the dead man’s name.”
“Let’s hope that Kerr is his real name, this time,” said Jones.
“That would help,” his DCI replied. “Have you noticed anything odd about all this name changing?”
“I assume it’s because he wanted to keep his identity from someone.”
“Yes, quite so, but with each alias he has retained the given name, Peter,” Clever explained. “That indicates to me that it is his actual name. We all respond to our first names without a second’s thought. He kept to Peter because it was easier.”
“Then his real name is Peter,” Jones said.
“Yes, as was the man he was fixating on, Peter Fornell.”
“What does that tell us, Guv?”
“Nothing as of yet,” Clever conceded, “but we must still bear it in mind. What have you given to DC Stanton?”
“I’ve detailed him to canvass the area around the house our man was staying in,” Jones reported. “He’s trying to find out if anyone noticed Peter, or spoke to him. It occurs to me that, if he was investigating something, he would have to ask questions.”
“That should keep him busy for a few hours,” Clever said, getting to his feet. “How do you fancy coming along to the mortuary with me? McFarland will be finishing up soon, and we can get a first hand report from him.”
“Post mortems are one of my favourite things, Guv,” the sergeant said, sarcastically. “Delving around inside what used to be a living man must rank as the most disgusting job around.”
“I’d keep that opinion to yourself, Dan,” Clever replied. “We do want the professor on our side. Besides, the dead can tell a good forensic surgeon so much.”
“I’m sure. Just so long as he doesn’t have body parts lying all over the place,” Jones said. “Before McFarland, and his predecessor, we had a mortuary attendant called Shadwell. He used to eat his lunch whilst moving the bodies around. Now, he was a really creepy chap.”
“I never had the pleasure,” the DCI commented as they left the station. “I hope he found his true calling after he left us.”
“He runs the ice cream parlour in the high street these days,” Jones said, straight faced. “I suppose he couldn’t work without a refrigerator!”
Chapter Nine
The post mortem procedure can, if carried out with skill, be of great help to any police investigation. Neil McFarland, one of a new, more sophisticated breed of forensic scientist, recognised this, and would follow every avenue in search of the truth.
He had been appalled, as a young medical student, and then a junior doctor, to see the level of reverence afforded to old school professors like the renowned Bernard Spilsbury. Such was the man’s malignant influence, that he only had to offer an opinion, often unsupported by scientific evidence, for it to become accepted by the court as an irrefutab
le fact.
McFarland intended being an altogether different style of forensic scientist. He would be thorough, presenting only provable facts to the investigating officers, and he would avoid sweeping generalisations that often led the police up blind alleys.
Because of this commendable attitude, he was unable to offer very much to DCI Clever when he came calling on him, later that morning. He had conducted the post mortem, stitched up the deceased and was half way through dictating his findings to the efficient Miss Marshall, when his visitors arrived.
“You were spot on about the cause of death,” McFarland said. “Choked to death, from behind, then strung up later to make it look like suicide.”
“Definitely murder then?” Jones said.
“No doubt. Other than that, the victim was in good health.”
“What about his belongings?” Clever asked. “I take it there was nothing there to give us a clue as to what he was up to”
“Nothing. It was as if he’d deliberately concealed his identity,” McFarland told them. “There were no name tags in his clothing, and it was all mass produced. His teeth were in exceptionally good condition, with just one filling. I took his fingerprints and sent a set over to your office. They should be on your desk by the time you get back.”
“What about his killers?” Clever asked. “Can you give me any idea what they might be like?”
“That would be supposition, Richard,” McFarland said, as if scolding a naughty child. “I will not make wild guesses. From the level of violence employed, I can say you are looking for a fairly strong person.”
“Tall, fat thin, male, female?” Jones pressed.
“I have no forensic evidence to support anything of the sort,” the professor reiterated. “What if I said you needed to look for a very big, left handed man with an eye patch, and you took me at my word? You would spend days looking in the wrong direction. No, you must accept what I can verify.”
“We do,” Clever said. “It’s just that we are like a blindfolded man at the moment. Can I have his personal effects?”
“Yes, I’ve finished with them.” The professor fetched a large brown paper sack and placed it on the bench in front of the two policemen. Dan Jones rummaged amongst the clothes and came out with an old leather wallet. He opened it and checked each compartment.
“The money is in a separate bag,” McFarland explained. “It’s all listed here… do you see?”
“Yes sir, I do,” Jones said, holding the open wallet out towards his Guv’nor. “One wallet, leather, empty. Bearing a set of initials, burned into the inside flap. PK, I believe.”
“Peter Kerr,” Clever said, taking the wallet. “Well spotted Dan. At least we now know our chap’s real name. Get back onto your pal in Coventry and ask him to follow up. Peter Kerr worked, paid taxes, bought things, and lived somewhere. I want to know as much about him as a friend would.”
“Yes, Guv.”
“I should have noticed that,” McFarland said.
“Don’t worry about it, Neil,” Clever said, lightly. “It means you are fallible, which gives me hope when we have that chess evening.”
“Do I detect a sense of humour?”
“I’m working on it,” Richard Clever replied. “Evidently it makes me a more rounded person … if I can raise a smile now and then.”
“But you think social interaction interferes with your thought processes?” McFarland diagnosed.
“That about sums it up,” Clever responded. “How can you get to the truth if you are worried in case you offend someone’s sensibilities? No, I prefer a structured approach by my officers, whilst I concentrate my mind on the subtler intricacies of an involved investigation.”
“And have you come up with any answers yet, Richard?” the forensic scientist asked.
“No, not yet, but I have a few very good questions.”
The confirmation that Peter Kerr was the victim’s real name added impetus to the investigation, with Dan Jones spending his time between calling Coventry CID, and chasing DC Stanton down to Records, to look for anything they had on the man.
“If he had so much as a fine for dodging a bus fare, I want to know about it, Stanton. Then check every local directory you can lay your hands on. Kerr isn’t that common a name, and he might have a few relatives in our area.”
“Yes, Sarge. Do you want me to pay them a visit?” Stanton’s enthusiasm for the task was increased by the knowledge that it might allow him some time off the leash; time he could use contriving to meet up with Sam Hurst again. Since their first meeting he had been quite smitten with the girl, and wanted to develop the friendship into something stronger.
“It won’t do any harm,” Jones replied. “Although I suspect the key to Mr. Kerr lies within the Midlands Division’s patch. My old partner will dig something up, I’m sure.”
Dan Jones’ optimism was not misplaced and, less than a half hour later, information started coming in over the station’s recently installed teleprinter. The machine could convert communications onto a tape, and transmit urgent information to similar, linked machines across England, at the rate of sixty six words a minute.
Unfortunately for the Castleburgh investigating team, the information supplied, though accurate, failed to move them on in any way.
The Coventry police had quickly established that Peter James Kerr had, until recently, lived at an address in Stoke, with his mother. It was discovered that he had attended a local school, and led a quiet, event free life until a month ago.
At that time Peter Kerr, still single, and living at home, had lost his mother to lung cancer. He had arranged her funeral, given notice to his landlord, quit his long term job, and left the area. The only thing in common with Peter Fornell was a certain circumstance of birth.
Upon obtaining Peter Kerr’s birth certificate, it was noted that in the box reserved for the father’s name was one, sad word: unknown.
“How can so much information be so unhelpful?” DCI Clever commented when handed the report. “They share nothing but a first name, and illegitimacy. I was hoping for more, I must admit.”
“I have Detective Constable Stanton running down any possible relations of Kerr’s in the Castleburgh district,” Jones offered. “You never know, Guv, he might turn up an old uncle, or a cousin who knew what was going on.”
“Keep him at it, Dan,” Clever said. “I think it’s time we started to probe into the Fornell case a little more. I know it was a long time back, but there are still people around who were involved at the time.”
“Like our Chief Constable, Guv?”
“We’ll give him a wide berth,” said Clever. “No, I was thinking about the principal witnesses. The Earl of Castleburgh had a business partner who knew Peter Fornell, and testified against him. Then there was the wife, his housekeeper, and a fellow called Morant, originally down as a defence witness.”
“Black Archie Morant?”
“You know of him, Dan?”
“In a roundabout way, Guv,” Jones explained. “I transferred from the Lancashire Constabulary in ‘twenty nine, just in time for his funeral. He was a well known character in these parts, running a local point to point racecourse, and a couple of illegal gambling dens. How does he fit into things?”
“Peter Fornell claimed to have spoken to Archie Morant after leaving his father’s place,” Clever told him. “He was called as a witness, but proved to be rather vague as to exactly when they met. Fornell lost his temper, and threatened Morant in open court.”
“Black Archie Morant was not a pleasant sort, Guv,” Jones said. “I don’t understand why he’d offer himself up as a witness, then fudge his evidence.”
“What if it suited Morant to let Fornell hang?” Clever replied.
“That sounds dangerously like guesswork, Guv.”
“Let’s call it rather a consideration of circumstances, based on what we now know. Peter Kerr was investigating the Peter Fornell case, and someone silenced him. This points to there b
eing some doubt as to Fornell’s guilt. Morant was called to provide Fornell’s alibi, and attended willingly. Then, he suddenly decides he can’t remember meeting Fornell on that particular night.”
“You think he was got at?” Jones rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You think Fornell was framed, and Morant was bribed to change his story.”
“I put it forward as a possibility,” Clever replied. “Against that, we have the testimony of the housekeeper, who claimed to hear ‘raised voices’, and a business man who said Fornell was not to be included in any new will. Look at it like that, and Peter Fornell was hanged on some pretty flimsy evidence. I’m surprised our Chief Constable, even as an ambitious detective inspector, took things at face value so readily.”
“Please, Guv, leave him out of it,” Jones pleaded. “I suggest we concentrate on Black Archie Morant.”
“You say he’s dead.”
“Yes, but his business carried on. His right hand man was a nephew, called Vincent Morant. Vincent still runs the money lending business, as well as most of the gambling dens in Castleburgh. He might have something to say about his uncle’s involvement.”
“Do you have an address?” Clever asked.
“Oh, yes. Vinnie is well known to us. He’s not as bright as his dear old uncle, but he‘s managed to keep his police record unblemished. I’ll ring down for a car.”
Vinnie Morant was, as DS Jones observed, not the man his uncle was. Despite inheriting a tidy little criminal empire on Black Archie’s death, he had struggled to hold it together. His current headache was being caused by a number of young tearaways who went around calling themselves the West End Lads. They were nibbling away at the fringes of his various business ventures, and had set up a nightclub, without his permission.
It was well known that any new venture had to receive his approval, in return for which, Vinnie was paid a percentage of the profits. The West End Lads had spurned his offer of protection, even setting up their own, rival racket. Many small businesses, having become used to Morant’s modest demands, were now being pressed to accept West End Lads ‘protection’ too. Something had to give, and it would not be Vinnie Morant.
