In the centre of the crate was a metal box, thirty inches long, eighteen inches wide, and eighteen inches deep. The assistant buyer picked this up, it weighed just over fifty pounds, and carried it across to a table. He took a key from his pocket, unlocked the box, and lifted the lid. Expecting to see gold charms, packed between layers of plastic foam, he saw instead some bricks and pieces of bricks, wedged in position with crumpled-up brown paper.
3
Kerr looked at the clock on the mantelpiece over the fireplace, in the grate of which were six silver-painted fir cones. Every summer, his mother put silver-painted fir cones into that grate.
‘You’ll be late if you’re not careful,’ said his father.
‘Have you got everything?’ asked his mother anxiously.
‘I’m fine.’ He smiled. His mother was far from convinced that he was yet old enough to look after himself in the outside world. Given the chance, she would almost certainly go to the police hostel to check that the bed had been made with aired sheets.
‘It’s been good having you home,’ said his father, almost shyly.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t finish the back garden.’
‘More important things to do, eh?’
His mother spoke quickly. ‘She’s a nice girl, John. A very nice girl.’
Nice, thought Kerr, meant different things to different people. Helen was undoubtedly nice, meaning well brought up, and he was very fond of her, but there were times — like the other night — when he would have wished her less ‘nice’. A bloke was only young once and whilst he was still young he wanted to spread himself a little. Helen was old-fashioned in that way.
‘We hope you’ll bring her again,’ said his mother firmly. ‘You could do a lot worse.’
‘I’m still due a few years of freedom.’
‘Your father and me was married before we were your age.’
Kerr said nothing. He envied them their complete happiness but, irrationally, saw it as something constricting. Did they know that life existed beyond themselves? In time, he’d marry and settle down and if the girl was Helen so much the better: but right now, he wanted to collect a few memories.
The clock in the hall chimed. Kerr looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.
‘This one’s right,’ said his father. ‘T’other needs something done to it.’
‘Still?’
‘Can’t get no one proper to do these old clocks.’
They dwelt in the present, thought Kerr, but certainly lived in the past. The house was without running hot water or flush lavatory and the rent was eight and fourpence a week. They had lived there for forty years and saw nothing wrong in being without running hot water or flush lavatory. Sometimes he wondered if they’d still touch their forelocks if the squire rode by. He’d touch his forelock to no one and when he had a house of his own it would have hot running water, flush lavatory, and the telly.
They heard a car draw up outside.
‘Here he is,’ said his father. ‘Got enough money?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘He’s pricey.’
‘It’s O.K., thanks.’ They thought he was wasting a great deal of money by taking the local taxi to the station. At his age, they’d have walked the two and a half miles, with a couple of suitcases, and thought nothing of it.
He kissed his mother, said good-bye to his father, and left. At the station, there was a five-minutes’ wait and he bought a paperback because the cover was of a very shapely nude. When the train came in he found an empty compartment and sat down in the far corner seat, facing the engine. He lit a cigarette and thought about his move to Fortrow. People said Fusil was a sharp bastard, who ate junior detectives for breakfast. Still, he told himself, even if Fusil turned out to be as bad as his reputation, Fortrow should be a more interesting place to serve in than anywhere in G Division whose biggest town was a one-horse place where life hadn’t yet begun. Helen worked in Fortrow and so he’d always have one shoulder to go and lay his head on.
The train pulled out of the station and quickly gathered speed. He read the book and discovered that the contents did not live up to the cover, a fact which left him dissatisfied and bored. It was with relief that he put down the book on arriving at Fortrow Central Station, forty-five minutes later.
He took a taxi from the station to divisional headquarters. He was spending money, but that was what money was for. His parents had saved all their working lives — a miracle, considering how low their income — and now inflation had made their savings almost valueless. Hadn’t someone once said, eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die?
He went into the general information room, put his bags on the floor, and spoke to the duty sergeant. Then he went along the passage, up the stairs, and along another passage to the end door. He knocked and went in.
‘Detective Constable Kerr, sir. Here are my R.S. forms.’ He handed the D.I. the two envelopes, one of which was sealed and contained all his half-yearly promotion reports right back to the time he had been sworn in as a P.C.
Fusil took the envelopes and said nothing.
Don’t push out too many welcome mats, thought Kerr. He studied the D.I. The man looked hard and smooth, just as reputation said.
‘You’ve no experience as detective constable?’ said Fusil abruptly.
‘I’ve only just been confirmed in the rank, sir. But I did six months as aide.’
‘Naturally.’ The D.I. pushed the envelopes to one side of his desk.
You’re full of fun, thought Kerr. The kind of bloke who reckoned the greatest joy in life was to make others miserable. They said he’d been scratching promotion to detective chief inspector until his last big case went sour on him. If it hadn’t gone sour, there might have been someone else in command of Eastern Division now.
‘You’re replacing a first-class man,’ said Fusil.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Kerr, wondering if he were meant to salaam at the news.
‘See Sergeant Braddon and tell him to start you off. We’re short-staffed, so get your feet under the table smartly.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The C.I.D. car is to be used only when strictly necessary. Normally you’ll take public transport. If it’s an emergency, you’ll use a taxi, but only if it’s an emergency. Is that quite clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘One last thing. We work as a team here: a team that doesn’t spend all day worrying about tea breaks.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘All right.’
Kerr left the room and after closing the door he stood in the passage. Apparently, a day in which he worked only twenty-three hours would be treated as a rest day! The door on the other side of the passage opened and a redhead, carrying some papers, came out of the room. She was attractive in a loud, brassy way and her figure was full and obvious. She swept past Kerr as if unaware he was there. He watched her go along the passage to the stairs and whistled under his breath. Eastern Division wasn’t all gloom and hard work, then.
*
The D.I.’s claim that the C.I.D. was a team which didn’t worry about tea breaks was soon seen by Kerr to be a very true one. After reporting to the detective sergeant — a reasonable bloke, if rather sad looking — he had hoped to be allowed to find the hostel and spend the rest of the day acclimatising himself. Instead of which, he was taken into the empty general room, C.I.D., shown the table that was his desk, and immediately given the address of a paint factory which had suffered a burglary the night before.
He asked the desk sergeant, below, the quickest way to get to the paint factory and the other said to take a taxi. Kerr mentioned that the D.I. had been most insistent that taxis were only for emergencies. The duty sergeant’s comment was that life was one long emergency interspersed with crises.
The paint factory, reached by a 41a bus, was on the north eastern outskirts of town. The two buildings were old and grimy and the safe in which the money had been kept appeared to be even older than the bui
ldings. Kerr spoke to the detective sergeant who was treating the safe and all other working surfaces for finger-prints, checked that the right photographs had been taken, and then made enquiries to find out the address of the night watchman. Kerr had to catch another bus and walk half a mile. The sun was very hot and the walk soon made him sweat so that his imagination conjured up a beach, a cool, dreamy sea, and an even cooler drink in a frosted glass. Eventually, he found the watchman’s house and spoke to the man, who apparently had heard nothing and seen nothing.
Kerr returned to the police station and went up to the detective sergeant’s room, which was empty. On the desk were two photographs, one of a plumpish, middle-aged woman and the other of two children. Kerr pictured Braddon’s home life as coat off and braces showing, a pint of bitter, the telly, and a weekly session at Bingo. It was a life familiar to so many. He hoped it would not become familiar to him for years. He wanted fun from life. A tall blonde, an Aston Martin, a wallet bursting at the seams, excitement. A Bond existence, living dangerously. He put his hand in his coat pocket, with forefinger extended…and faced the squat, slit-eyed Mongolian, who was standing behind the stripped blonde and about to torture her with sadistic fury. The Mongolian’s slit eyes seemed to burn with an inner, evil fire… Braddon came into the room.
The two men stared at each other. Kerr took his hand out of his pocket.
Braddon, whose face resembled a tired bloodhound’s, took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. ‘Wind?’
‘Sort of, Skipper.’
‘Take a stomach powder. I get wind: feel like a ruddy barrage balloon sometimes. A powder does the trick.’ He offered a cigarette and then went round his desk and sat down. ‘Finished out at the paint factory?’
Kerr was about to answer when the internal telephone rang once. Braddon lifted the receiver, listened, spoke shortly, and replaced the receiver. ‘That was the D.I., wanting to know if you’d got lost.’
‘Me?’
‘He says he sent you out a couple of days ago to see a man about a peter job and no one’s heard from you since.’
‘I’ve been three hours at the most, Skipper, and half that time’s been spent in buses.’
‘Why didn’t you use the C.I.D. car? It was free.’
‘The D.I. told me to use public transport unless the end of the world was around.’
‘Use the car next time.’
Kerr hesitated, then said: ‘Is he as sharp as he acts?’
‘The D.I.? He’s all right, just provided.’
‘Just provided what?’
‘You can work miracles to order.’ Braddon leaned back in his chair. ‘He’s a good D.I., Kerr, so don’t make any mistakes on that score. Another thing, he’ll defend his own blokes through thick and thin — you know, kind of regimental spirit.’
‘All very feudal.’
Braddon spoke good-humouredly. ‘Just remember the world was turning before you were a twinkle in your old man’s eye — and for my money it was a better place. Not everything new is worth a fortune.’
‘No, Skipper.’
Braddon grinned and flicked ash from his cigarette into an ash-tray. ‘Getting back to the D.I., if you do your best and it’s good enough, you’ll find he’s O.K. Anyway, cut along now and see him about the paint factory job.’
Kerr turned and walked over to the door.
‘Don’t go in there smoking,’ said Braddon.
‘Against the regimental custom?’
Braddon laughed and suddenly his bloodhound’s face looked almost cheerful.
Kerr went along to the D.I.’s room. Fusil asked for the report and Kerr gave it, as concisely as the training college had taught him to do.
‘Was the night watchman awake during the night or asleep?’ asked Fusil.
‘He swears he was awake, sir, but for my money he was snoring most of the time.’
‘Could he have been careful to look in the opposite direction? Is he known in Records?’
‘I…I haven’t checked with them yet, sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve only just returned to the station, sir.’
‘What’s the use of reporting before you’ve carried out the elementary routine enquiries? Even a newly appointed detective constable ought to know that much.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Immediate court-martial, bugles blowing, swords reversed, epaulets slashed off…
‘What?’ demanded Fusil.
‘Nothing, sir.’
Fusil stared hard at him. ‘All right,’ he said, after a while.
Kerr left. Once outside, he looked at his watch. It was just after six o’clock. Was this knocking-off time, or were noses to the grindstones at least until midnight? A friend of his had a cousin who was said to be some dish. She worked at the TV studios in Fortrow. The sooner he discovered just how much of a dish she was, the sooner life would become amusing.
Back in his office, Fusil cleaned out his pipe into the overflowing ash-tray. He yawned, looked at his watch, and remembered he’d promised to be home at six-thirty. It was already a quarter to seven. Josephine, who was one of the few people in the world whom he really wanted and tried to please, would soon begin to get annoyed.
The telephone rang. He cursed, wondered whether to ignore the call, but did not. Detective Chief Inspector Kywood spoke to him.
‘A report’s just through from Australia, Bob. The Sandstream’s discharging in Sydney and there’s a load of special cargo, including gold charms — those things women dangle round their wrists. One lot of charms has been nicked and the container was full of nothing but bits of brick and brown paper. The Sydney police swear the theft couldn’t be their side.’
‘I’d do the same in their shoes — it saves them an investigation. What’s the gold worth?’
‘The charms are valued at fifteen thousand quid. They weighed around twenty-two pounds and melted down the gold’s worth about five thousand. The boat sailed from berth twelve, New Dock, in your territory. The charms come from Whitehaven, Cumberland, and were sent down by road, under special guard. I’ll get the full report round to you right away. The marine superintendent is Captain Leery.’
Kywood rang off. Fusil yawned, stretched his arms, and stood up. He’d have to telephone Josephine and explain that, despite all promises, he was not going to be back anywhere near the time he had promised. From a tactful point of view, however, it would be as well not to go on to suggest exactly how late he was likely to be.
4
Kerr’s bed at the police hostel, a five-storey building of slab concrete and glass, was much too comfortable at seven o’clock in the morning. Knowing he should get up immediately, he lay where he was and thought about the telephone call he had made last night to Judy Anderson, his friend’s cousin. She had sounded cool and smooth. He pictured her… She was svelte, beautiful, poised, but icy. Icy until the right man came along to melt her into scorching tempestuousness…
It was a quarter past seven and he was John Kerr, detective constable. He put on a dressing-gown and went along the passage to the bathroom where he had a quick shower.
Breakfast, served cafeteria style, was a filling, if not very tasty, meal. The coffee was peculiar. After finishing his first cigarette of the day, he left and went out to the bus stop, where he met a man who’d been at training college at the same time as he.
The fourpenny bus ride took just over five minutes. The journey was through a mixed residential and shopping area in which the houses were almost all semi-detached and ugly because of their characterless similarity, and the shops catered for people who were not very concerned with quality.
The bus stopped within fifty yards of the police station. When he reached the general room, C.I.D., he met his fellow detective constable for the first time.
The other introduced himself. ‘Fred Rowan. The sarge says you’ve just made the grade of detective constable?’
‘That’s right. My pips are bright and shining.’
‘Pips?’
> ‘On my epaulets.’
‘What are you talking about?’ muttered Rowan, a tall man, with dark red hair and a long, narrow face in which a slightly twisted mouth added to a general expression of discontent.
‘The skipper said the D.I. thought of the division as a regiment…’ Kerr stopped trying to explain.
Rowan shrugged his shoulders. ‘You can do the stolen articles lists from now on.’
Kerr was silent. Rowan might be the senior detective constable by a couple of years or so, but that wasn’t going to give him the right to issue orders left, right, and centre.
Rowan left the room. Kerr sat down and stared at the empty surface of the table that was his desk. Judy Anderson had promised to go dancing with him, so he must find out where in Fortrow a bloke could have a drink, a meal, and go dancing, and yet not spend a fortune. A detective constable’s pay hardly put him in the Getty class. He and Helen usually went Dutch, but it was very bad policy to ask a svelte, pulchritudinous brunette to pay for herself the first time of taking her out. Money was a hell of a thing.
The telephone on Rowan’s desk rang. He went across and answered it and Fusil wanted to know who was in the room. When told that only Kerr was, he sounded as if he’d just heard bad news, but he still asked to see Kerr.
Kerr went into the D.I.’s room. Fusil pushed a foolscap sheet of paper across his desk. ‘There’s a report on a gold theft. Read it, then go and see Captain Leery, the marine superintendent of the Sand Steamship Company. He’s expecting someone.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Don’t forget to find out what all the security arrangements were. Try and do a better job than last time.’
Kerr left and went downstairs. He was crossing the courtyard at the back, used as the car-park, when he met Braddon. ‘Sarge, I’m booked for seeing Captain Leery, Sand Steamship. Where are the dock offices?’
‘Opposite Firbank Docks — near this end of the old docks.’
‘Can I use the C.I.D. car?’
Braddon jerked his thumb in the direction of a fawn-coloured Hillman. ‘Help yourself. If it doesn’t work, kick the right-hand front tyre. That sometimes makes a difference.’
The C.I.D Room Page 2
