‘Are you sure you want to be in the loop?’
‘Better in than out, I reckon.’
‘Then you have my word, Pete. You’re in.’
He paused to think about that, then said, ‘OK. So, here’s the thing. Adam made me an offer. Ten thousand quid, to be precise, cash in hand, if I’d tell anyone who wants to know that it was me who stole the records – and destroyed them.’
‘You?’
‘Acting, Adam suggested I say, on the instructions of a senior member of staff now pushing up the daisies. There are several to choose from. I’d say I was just following orders, without knowing why the orders had been given. This would’ve been years back, not long after the takeover, when I was only a dogsbody. It’d mean you could stop looking for the records and Doctor Whitworth would definitely have to make do without them. End of story.’
‘You think so?’
‘Well, it might work. It makes some kind of sense. It would explain what’s happened … without really explaining anything.’
‘And Adam thinks achieving that’s worth ten thousand pounds?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Why? I mean, why the hell should he care – to the extent of trying to bribe you?’
‘He said he was anxious Doctor Whitworth should complete her company history while his father was still alive and well enough to read it and that this would force her to get on with it.’
‘You believe that?’
‘Of course not. Adam the dutiful son? Do me a favour. He’s obviously lying. I let him think I believed him, though. I’d have been stupid not to.’
‘And what did you say to his offer?’
‘That I needed time to think about it. I pointed out I could get myself into hot water by doing what he wanted. Maybe even end up getting fired.’
‘And how did he respond to that?’
‘He said he’d make sure I wasn’t fired. And he gave me until Monday to mull it over. I got the feeling … he might go higher than ten thou if I pushed him.’
‘He must be desperate.’
‘That’s what I reckon. In fact, it’s the main reason I’m telling you any of this.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Ten thou – or more – in the back pocket’s not to be sniffed at, Jon. Don’t you think I’m tempted to take him up on his offer?’
Yes. I did. Between Adam and his girlfriend, there’d been a lot of tempting going on. ‘What stopped you?’
‘The question you asked a few minutes ago. Why? Why should Adam be two bits bothered about missing records, half of them dating from before he was born? It shouldn’t matter to him. But it does. Too much for me to overlook – whatever he’s willing to pay me. And besides … I don’t like him. I never have.’
I smiled. ‘What are you going to say to him on Monday, then?’
‘I’m hoping I won’t have to say anything to him. I’m hoping you and me will have figured out by then what he’s up to – what it is he’s trying to hide.’
‘You and me.’ It was an interesting choice of phrase. Pete evidently regarded us as a team. ‘Do you think Adam took the records?’ I asked.
‘Maybe.’
‘Why?’
Pete shrugged. ‘He might have been following orders. Like he wants me to say I was.’
‘Whose orders?’
‘I haven’t a clue. Have you?’
‘Not yet. Let’s hope Dick Trudgeon can supply one.’
‘Yeah. Let’s hope.’ Pete glanced at the clock behind the bar and drained his whisky. ‘And let’s hope that clock’s fast. Otherwise we’re keeping him waiting.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
DICK TRUDGEON WAS AN archetype of the policemen of our generation: tall, broad-shouldered and slowly spoken. He had white, crinkly hair and a large, crumpled nose that looked as if it had been broken by a Friday-night brawler many years in the past. His expression was a mixture of wariness and contentment. He had a seat by the front window of the Fountain and could, I realized, have seen us enter the Ship if he’d been there early enough, which the inroads he’d made into his pint of HSD suggested he might well have been.
I bought him another pint, and ten minutes of chitchat about our schooldays and subsequent careers carried us to a point where he evidently felt we should show our hand. ‘I’m sure Pete here didn’t go to all the bother of tracking me down just for the pleasure of a chinwag about old times,’ he said, eying me beadily.
‘You’re right, of course, Dick,’ I responded. ‘We’re actually hoping you’ll be able to help us clear up a minor mystery.’
‘Oh yes? And what might that be?’
What I told him was accurate as far as it went. Someone had removed from the IK archive all records relating to Wren & Co.’s dealing with his father’s haulage company and we wanted to know why.
His reaction was understandably sceptical. ‘Haven’t you boys got more urgent business to attend to?’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ Pete chimed in. ‘But our boss doesn’t like loose ends. And he pays the likes of us to tie them up for him.’
‘Your boss would be … Greville Lashley?’
‘The very same.’
‘Is he still in harness? He must be about the same age as my old dad. That’d put him in his nineties.’
‘He officially retired some years ago,’ I said. ‘But he continues to … take an interest.’
‘Good for him.’
‘What about your dad, Dick?’ Pete asked.
‘No longer with us. Nor is my brother, Mike. He was Dad’s number two in the business till it was sold to Wren’s. I was never on the payroll. Saw no future in it.’
‘Well, you judged that right,’ I said.
‘So I did, I suppose. But the Wren’s buy-out was a godsend. It funded Dad’s early retirement to Spain. And it set Mike up in a business of his own. It was a good deal for them. A very good deal.’
‘An A licence was a valuable commodity in those days,’ said Pete.
‘So I’m told.’ Trudgeon frowned thoughtfully. ‘Except that Wren’s were bought out themselves within a couple of years by CCC. So, it was money down the drain really, wasn’t it?’
‘I expect Mr Lashley hoped it would boost Wren’s profitability in the long run,’ I reasoned smilingly. ‘Unfortunately, there was no long run.’
‘That must have been how it was, yes.’ But Trudgeon’s tone suggested he was far from convinced. ‘Dad did well out of it, though. He always did well out of Wren’s. He used to say they were his best customers. Even before the buy-out.’
‘Really?’
Trudgeon nodded. ‘“Good payers; prompt payers”. That’s what he used to say about Wren’s. It was a catch-phrase of his. I was still living at home then. I remember Mike and him making a joke of it.’
‘A joke?’
‘They’d laugh about it. Mum and I couldn’t understand why it was so funny.’
‘I’m with you and your mum on that,’ said Pete.
‘How much did Wren’s pay for the business?’ I asked, looking across at Pete.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Info like that wasn’t doled out to the lower ranks. Dick?’
Trudgeon gave a shrug of his own. ‘I wasn’t told the exact figure. But you boys could find out if you wanted to, couldn’t you? Surely there’s a—’ He broke off.
‘A record of it somewhere?’ Pete grinned at me, even though there was nothing to grin about.
‘Have you any idea why someone would want to strip Wren’s files of paperwork relating to Trudgeon Haulage, Dick?’ I asked. It was time to pose the question directly.
He pondered his answer for a long time, then said, ‘Dad and Mike are both dead. I suppose it can’t do any harm to tell you.’ There was another lengthy pause. He drank some beer. He looked at each of us in turn. And then: ‘It’s strange you two digging this up after so long. I haven’t thought about it in donkey’s years. I wasn’t sure what to make of it at the time. To be honest
, I wasn’t too keen to get to the bottom of it. I’d only just started with the force. The last thing I needed was … dodgy dealing by members of my own family. So, I … turned a deaf ear.
‘A deaf ear to what, you’re wondering.’ He sighed. ‘Well, this would have been January or February of ’sixty-nine. I can’t remember more exactly than that. But it was certainly early in the year. A cold, wet weekday night. The kind of night when you did more standing in doorways than pounding the beat. St Austell was quiet as the grave. Until I heard the sound of glass being smashed down East Hill as I was walking along South Street. I stepped on it then and found this fellow, drunk as a lord, standing outside Wren’s old offices. They were still unoccupied after the takeover by CCC. He’d thrown an empty whisky bottle at one of the windows and broken it. There was quite a lot of glass about. He was swaying like a corn-stalk in the breeze and swearing like a trooper. Angry about something, but too far gone to make sense. I arrested him as drunk and disorderly and marched him off to the station.
‘It was as the sergeant was booking him that he caught my name. That really seemed to set him off. “I’ve done enough for your father and your brother over the years for you to overlook a bit of broken glass.” That kind of thing. I didn’t know what he was on about, though the sarge raised an eyebrow at me. He was still hollering when we put him in a cell for the night. By next morning, he’d quietened down. But he hadn’t forgotten me and mine. He said my brother would go bail for him. And damn me if he didn’t. Mike delivered the money straight after the magistrate had remanded him. I remember Mike told me to steer clear of the subject with Dad. “Least said, soonest mended,” was how he put it.’
‘You’re talking about Gordon Strake, aren’t you?’ Pete cut in. ‘I remember reading he’d been fined in the paper.’
‘That was his name, yes. Strake. A former sales rep for Wren’s. Given the boot for drunkenness, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Did you ever ask your brother what Strake had done for him and your father, Dick?’ I pressed.
He shook his head. ‘No. It sounded to me as if some form of corruption was involved. I really didn’t want to know. Mike told me he’d make sure Strake left town and I was … well, not happy, of course, but … relieved, I suppose … to leave it at that.’
‘And this … corruption … could be the reason the records were stolen?’
‘Well, it could be, couldn’t it? If I had to name a suspect, I’d go for Strake.’
‘Long dead, I’m afraid.’
‘Easy to blame, then. That should be good news for you boys. A neat explanation to serve up to your boss.’ Trudgeon squinted at me. ‘You don’t look very pleased about it, though.’
Trudgeon headed home not long after, claiming his supper would be spoiling. He thanked us for the beer and we thanked him for his frankness. Quite where his frankness had taken us was hard to say, however. Pete was gagging for a cigarette by then, so we stepped round to the harbour, where seagulls were feasting from discarded chip wrappers and the setting sun was casting a queasy light on the house fronts of the town.
‘It comes back to Strake,’ I mused as Pete greedily inhaled his first lungful of smoke. ‘It always seems to.’
‘You really think he stole the records?’ Pete asked through a spluttering cough.
‘I’d like to. It’d be … convenient. But I’m not sure. He didn’t know his way around the building, did he? And there were quite a few people who’d have recognized him and queried why he was there.’
‘I’ve meant to ask you before how you reckon he ended up getting himself murdered – in Naples, of all places. I was surprised when I heard that on the grapevine, I can tell you. You were there at the time, weren’t you?’
‘I was staying at the Villa Orchis on Capri. I wasn’t in Naples.’
‘Same neck of the woods, though. What d’you think took Strake there?’
‘If I had to guess, I’d say he was planning to touch Francis Wren for a loan, but he got into trouble – fatal trouble – before he had the chance.’
‘Well, that would be like him, I suppose. There’s no chance his murder’s connected to our little mystery, then?’
There was every chance, of course. I knew that. And so, I suspected, did Pete. ‘No way to tell,’ I said neutrally.
‘And forty years too late to ask Strake to explain himself.’
‘Yes. It is.’ As I spoke, a thought struck me. Maybe, by an indirect route, it wasn’t too late. ‘Hold on, though. There was a sister in Plymouth. She wrote to Lashley, notifying him of her brother’s death. Strake had been living with her prior to his trip to Italy. He must have gone there after Mike Trudgeon gave him his marching orders from St Austell.’
‘Got a name for this sister, have you? Or an address?’
‘No. But Lashley probably filed the letter in CCC’s personnel records.’
‘Meaning it wouldn’t be in the stuff that’s gone missing.’
‘Exactly.’
‘She could be dead herself, Jon. Or gaga in a home. Or Lashley might have thrown the letter away.’
‘Or she mightn’t be dead. Or gaga. And the letter might be in the file.’
‘Yeah.’ Pete drew on his cigarette. ‘We’d better check, hadn’t we?’
‘First thing in the morning?’
He nodded. ‘Bright and early.’
And early it certainly was when I drove into the virtually empty car park at IK (St Austell) the following morning. None of the few members of staff planning to spend part of their Saturday in the office had yet arrived, with one exception.
Pete was waiting for me by the main entrance, puffing on a cigarette. His red-rimmed eyes and grimacing expression suggested the whisky chasers had caught up with the pints of beer overnight and formed a head-splitting combination. He didn’t look to have shaved either. All in all, he wasn’t a pretty sight.
‘I hope this’ll be worth the effort,’ he growled as we went in.
‘So do I, Pete.’
‘We’ll have to go up to my office to get the keys for the CCC cages. Fortunately, that’s where the kettle is. I need a strong black coffee.’
‘Looking at you, I’d have to agree.’
‘Yeah, well, I haven’t had the benefit of a full English and a cafetière of the finest Colombian, have I?’
‘Chez Newlove doesn’t run to that?’
‘Take a guess.’
‘On the whole, I’d rather not.’
All I got by way of a response as he made a stumbling start on the stairs was a defiant V-sign.
Fifteen minutes later, we were in the basement, heading for the cage containing CCC records from the sixties and seventies, with Pete slurping coffee from a mug as we went.
The box-files looked the same as those used for Wren’s records, but we were confident we weren’t going to be confronted by sheet after sheet of blank paper, if only because Fay Whitworth had already examined them. And our confidence was rewarded. The records were intact.
Or so they appeared to be. But the personnel files contained no letter written to Lashley by Gordon Strake’s sister in the summer of 1969. We checked meticulously. It just wasn’t there. Pete unhelpfully repeated his suggestion that Lashley had thrown it away.
But he hadn’t. He just hadn’t passed it on to the personnel department. When we sifted through the files of the department he’d been responsible for at CCC, Logistics, there it was, with a note in his handwriting: No action required. An understandable statement – at the time.
I held the letter under the light to read, with Pete craning over my shoulder.
12 Gascoyne Terrace
Plymouth
Devon
18th July 1969
Dear Mr Lashley,
I am writing to tell you that my brother, Gordon Strake, died on the ninth of this month. As you were his employer at Walter Wren & Co., I thought you ought to know, because I remember he said he would be due a pension from the company. He lived here after leavi
ng St Austell earlier this year and remained a bachelor, so there will be no widow’s pension due either. If you need any more information, my telephone number is Plymouth 68115.
Yours sincerely,
Dora Strake
‘Do you think he rang her?’ Pete asked.
‘Probably not. But I’m going to ring her. Now.’
‘She wrote that more than forty years ago, Jon. What are the chances of her picking up the phone and saying, “Oh yes. That letter. Thanks for getting back to me”?’
‘Only one way to find out.’
‘As long as you’re prepared to be disappointed.’
‘I’m always prepared to be disappointed.’
According to Pete, Plymouth 68115 was sure to have acquired an extra digit since 1969, supposing it was still connected. He was right. And it was. The woman who answered sounded much younger than Dora Strake was bound to be. But my luck was in. She knew Dora.
‘We bought this house from her three years ago, when she moved into sheltered accommodation.’
‘Do you happen to know her address?’
‘Oh yes. We send her a card every Christmas.’
‘And a phone number?’
‘Yes. Do you want it?’
A few minutes later, I was talking to Dora herself. It had been almost too simple. But simplicity wasn’t going to carry me much further. Courteous though she was, Dora was also understandably puzzled.
‘You’re phoning about Gordon? My brother Gordon? And you used to work for Wren’s, you say?’
‘I know it’s all a long time ago, Miss Strake. But—’
‘A very long time.’
‘I knew your brother. Not well, but … our paths crossed. I’ve never quite understood the circumstances of his death. It happened in Naples, I believe.’
‘He was murdered, Mr Kellaway. The Italian police never discovered who’d killed him. Or why. It was dreadful. Just dreadful. He’s buried there, you know, in Naples. I sometimes wish …’ There was a silence. Then: ‘Never mind.’
‘Something’s happened, Miss Strake. Something that might – just might – help to explain what occurred in Naples.’
‘Really?’
‘I was wondering if perhaps we could meet.’
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