Ralph chuckled. “Old Mrs Piers would be horrified at the thought.”
Sterne ate a spoonful of the sweet. “The orders came down from county HQ?”
“That’s what Jock said.”
“Wouldn’t that suggest something pretty serious?”
“Almost certainly, yes… I wonder if there’s a suggestion of corruption in the local division? But how in hell would a watch on May House help anyone investigate that?”
When Ralph had casually referred to what he’d heard earlier, Sterne’s first, panicky thought had been that the police were watching the Mercedes. Second thoughts had momentarily reassured him. Even if the police believed the Mercedes might have been brought into the country on false papers, they’d never have set up an elaborate, time-consuming, expensive watch on it: they’d have come and demanded to see the papers… Then fresh doubts began to worry him. Could this watch have anything to do with the fact that his dealings with the Mercedes had not turned out as he’d expected? Evans had told him he must make the journey as quickly as possible and the woman in Lençon had given him a tight schedule to keep, yet no one had contacted him at the motel in Newingreen or here, at Parsonage Farm…
“Is something wrong?” Ralph asked.
He shook his head and spoke as casually as he could. “Just wondering what it can all add up to?”
“Probably nothing. But if it does, we’ll learn in good time. There’s no such thing as a secret out here in the country.”
Soon afterwards, they cleared the table and packed the dirty plates and cutlery in the washing-up machine. That finished, Ralph and Sterne went through to the sitting room while Angela remained in the kitchen to make coffee. Lu stayed with her, hoping against hope for some titbits, and Penelope, for once obedient, went up to her bedroom to lie down on her bed and rest.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Ralph left to go into the library to do some work which had to be completed before Monday, and Sterne said he’d like to go for a walk, to counter the effects of the delicious lunch.
Ten minutes later he drew level with an old wooden bungalow, to which had been added a brick-built extension, and an elderly woman who had been weeding a flowerbed, came to her feet and said: “It’s Mr Angus, ain’t it?”
He went into the garden and spoke to Mrs Piers, eighty-one years old and sufficiently independent in manner to be considered either a character or rude. Certainly she was eccentric in that she still showed an old-fashioned degree of respect towards those she considered deserved it. He was always Mr Angus, his brother was always Mr Ralph.
They talked about her rheumatism, her nephews and nieces, and the local vicar who was so mistaken as to think that he’d communicate more easily with his parishioners if he sometimes wore an open-neck shirt…
There was a pause and Sterne said casually: “I hear someone’s moved into May House?”
“Who says? The board’s still showin’. Saw it meself this mornin’ when I was going to the village.” She still walked to the village and back at least three times a week and found nothing extraordinary in this.
“In that case, I expect the story’s wrong.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” She chuckled, had hastily to adjust her lower plate.
“You’ve not seen anyone over there?”
“Can’t see nothing now but the roof, what with the hedge being allowed to grow so high. Mind you, there ’as been cars driving up of a night. But that’ll be the youngsters. Always at it, they are, these days.” Was there a trace of regret for past opportunities denied in her voice.
“At what sort of times do the cars go up?”
“All times. I don’t sleep so well, so I ’ear ’em.”
“Would you say, very late?”
“Two, three, four — time don’t mean nothing when they’re young. Don’t mean nothing to you, I’ll be bound. ’Specially with them foreign girls. Seen a lot of ’em, I’ll lay.”
She was presuming that it was he who had done the laying. He hinted at many wild nights and she chuckled, and when he left her eyes were bright with memories.
He returned to the lane and continued on past a row of brick-built cottages to the Rackington/Bybrook road. Two hundred yards along to the right, set in an overgrown thorn hedge, was a gateway. The straining-post had rotted at ground level and the wooden five-bar gate, top rail broken, was resting on the ground. Beyond the gateway was an estate agent’s board, giving brief and optimistic details of the very desirable Edwardian family house.
From the gateway, only the slate roof of the house was visible. He walked along the drive which remained almost level for a while, then dropped quite sharply. The house came into view, segment by segment: square, box-shaped, with bow windows, it looked like some suburban refugee.
There was no sign of life. All the windows were closed and the garden was a riot of grass and weeds. The detached brick garage, with wooden doors, was shut. He remembered that Mrs Piers had said that she’d heard cars driving down here… The gravel surface in front of the garage was disturbed, as it would be if the garage had recently been used. He examined the doors. There was provision for securing them with an external padlock, but none was evident. He turned the handle and pulled and the door opened. Inside was a battered yellow Metro.
He closed the garage door and stared at the house once more, then beyond it. Because the land sloped all the way to the bottom lane, the drive and garage of Parsonage Farm were clearly visible, as was the Mercedes…
The front door of the house opened and a man stepped out under the small porch over which grew a pink Montana clematis. He was dressed in a lightweight sweater and jeans and there was a suggestion of hard watchfulness to his chunky face. “Wanting something, mate?”
“The house is for sale so I’m looking around.”
“Have you been on to the agents?”
“No.”
“Then you’d better do that. It’s viewing by appointment only.”
“The board didn’t say so.”
The man shrugged his shoulders.
Sterne saw that a second man was studying him from one of the upstairs windows. “It looks as if you’ve moved in — so is the place still for sale?”
“If you want to know anything, speak to the agents.”
“I suppose they do know you’re here?”
“That’s right.”
Sterne turned and walked back up the drive. An icy fear grew with every pace. Jock McCall had been only too right, the police were keeping watch from the house. And it was almost impossible to guess what they were interested in if it wasn’t the Mercedes parked outside the garage at Parsonage Farm.
Chapter 8
Angela was a person of routine so tea was served — barring earthquakes — at 5.45.
They had almost finished — Ralph had just been poured his second cup — when they heard a car drive in.
“I do hope that’s not Fiona, come to collect the jam. She’ll never leave,” said Angela, with the petulance of a woman whose days were planned and who disliked any unscheduled interruption.
Ralph ducked under the central, roughly shaped beam and crossed to the window. “Does she have a red car?”
“Hers is silver and Hugh’s is a hideous green.”
“Then it’s not Fiona… It’s a couple of men — don’t recognise them from here.”
“Perhaps they’ve come to eat,” said Penelope.
Angela’s expression suggested that if that were the case, their visitors would be disappointed.
Ralph went into the hall as the two men entered the garden and as they came up to the front door he recognised the younger. He opened the door and Lu, who’d followed him, began to yap. “Shut up,” he said. Since that had no effect, and Angela could not see him, he gently used the toe of his shoe to add emphasis to his command and with sulky ill-grace Lu became quiet. He opened the door. “’Evening, Meacher,” he said to the detective-sergeant, whom he’d met many times in the local magistrates’ c
ourts.
“’Evening, Mr Sterne. Sorry to bother you at this time of the evening, but we’d like a bit of a chat.”
“Come on in.” He stepped to one side and the two men entered.
“This is Detective-Superintendent Young.”
Ralph shook hands with the heavily built man, in his middle fifties, who had a round, full face with noticeably protruding ears. His manner was genial and open and with his country suit and well-coloured face he could have been a prosperous farmer. Yet, Ralph noted, there was a sense of reserve which suggested that behind his bluff friendliness there lay a shrewdness and, perhaps, even a hardness. He was not a man Ralph knew. “Are you from county HQ?”
“That’s right,” replied Young, in his deep, baritone voice. “So I grab every possible chance to come down to this part of the world. It’s still what I call real country and that’s getting rare.”
“And will get rarer with commuters flooding further and further out.” For years Ralph had fought against the urbanisation of the countryside, careless of the fact that it was a long-since lost cause. “So what’s brought you here? Some sort of problem?”
“In a way, but it really concerns your brother. Is he here now?”
“Angus? Yes, he’s here. What’s the trouble with him?”
“We’d like a word with him.”
“A word about what?”
Young did not answer.
Ralph said: “We might as well use the dining room: any minute now, television will be switched on for our daughter.”
“Billy the Brune?” asked Young.
“How’s that?”
“I have an idea that’s the cartoon which comes on this afternoon for the children. I always watch it if I have the chance.”
There was something faintly ludicrous in the thought of a man like Young watching so infantile a cartoon.
Ralph led the way through the hall and kitchen into the dining room. “The chairs are more comfortable than they look,” he said, indicating the heavy wooden priory chairs with solid backs and crossed legs secured with pegs. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Not for us, thanks,” answered Young.
Meacher looked sour.
Ralph left the dining room by way of the short passage and eased his way past the cocktail cabinet to enter the sitting room. Angela was packing the tray. “Your coffee’s there, on the table.”
“I won’t bother with it.”
“But you…”
“The two men are policemen and they’ve come to have a word with Angus.” He was watching his brother’s face as he spoke and the expression he saw there frightened him — he’d seen guilt too often not to recognise it.
“Policemen to see Angus?” said Angela, as she moved the plates to make room for the milk jug. “What on earth about?”
“They haven’t said.”
“It’s too late for that sort of thing. Tell them to come back some other time.”
He spoke quietly. “It’s probably better if we get it over and done with now.”
Penelope said loudly: “I want the television.”
“What… what are they after?” asked Sterne, all too conscious that his voice was higher pitched than usual.
“I’ve just said, I don’t know yet.”
Sterne struggled to reassure himself. From what Evans had said, the running of cars from Spain was a regular traffic, so surely the organisers had had considerable practice in supplying authentic-seeming papers? In that case, provided he could put up a casually detailed story, as an innocent would, he’d have every chance of bluffing his way out of trouble…
“Are you coming?” asked Ralph.
Angela looked up, not missing the suggestion of tension. “Darling, what is the matter?”
“I just want to get it over and done with, that’s all.”
As the two men left, Penelope demanded to know why she wasn’t being allowed to watch the television.
Sterne’s first judgement was that the older man was easy-going and the younger one was much harder and therefore the one to be wary of.
“Mr Angus Sterne? I’m Detective-Superintendent Young and my companion is Detective-Sergeant Meacher.” He did not come forward to shake hands.
Instead he sat and with that one action he took charge of the interview. He waited until Ralph and Sterne were seated, on the opposite side of the table, then said to Sterne: “Is that Mercedes in the drive yours?”
“Yes.”
“It does belong to you?”
“Yes.” Sterne was conscious of the quick look Ralph gave him — he remembered his saying that the car wasn’t his, he’d been asked to drive it back…
“How long have you owned it?”
“Not very long.”
“Where did you buy it?”
“In Cagnes.”
“Who did you buy it from?”
“A man called Pritchard.”
“Is he a friend?”
“Rather an acquaintance.”
“Why was he selling it?”
“He’d decided to live in France and reckoned it would obviously be much more suitable to run a left-hand drive car.”
“In what currency did you pay him?”
“Francs. I offered him dollars but he chose francs because he reckoned the dollar was about to slide a bit.”
“I imagine you’ve some kind of receipt to detail this sale?”
“In the glove locker, along with all the other relevant papers.”
Young turned to the detective-sergeant. “Let’s have the report.”
Meacher produced a folded sheet of paper and handed this over. Young put on a pair of spectacles and read. He looked up. “You returned to this country with the car last Sunday.”
“Monday,” corrected Ralph, with the sharpness of someone who knew the importance of making certain that even the least relevant detail was correct.
Young looked at Ralph over the tops of his spectacles. “Are you sure? My information is that it was Sunday, the fourteenth.” He turned to Sterne. “Which is correct?”
“Sunday,” muttered Sterne.
Young seemed unsurprised that Ralph should have made a mistake over the date of his brother’s return. “You arrived on the seven-thirty cross Channel ferry to find that a… What the hell’s the name of it?”
“A blanket search,” said Meacher.
“Yes, of course. I knew it was something to do with a bed, but could only think of counterpane… You arrived at Dover to find a blanket search was in progress. Your car and luggage were thoroughly checked. Was anything of an illegal nature found?”
“No,” replied Sterne, his confidence increasing because it seemed that Young was going to do all the questioning.
Young dropped the paper on to the table, removed the glasses but held them in his right hand. He studied Sterne. “During the search of your luggage you were observed to be in a nervous state. Why was that?”
“I wasn’t.”
“The observation is quite definite.”
Ralph said sharply: “That can be no more than an assumption.”
“Customs officers are trained to interpret the behaviour patterns of the people with whom they come in contact.”
“Nevertheless, without proof, they can only ever come to assumptions.”
“Perhaps we’re in danger of becoming tangled-up with the problems of semantics… I’ll try to put things in a different way.” He turned to Sterne. “Would you like to suggest why the Customs officer who searched your luggage should have become convinced that you had something to fear from that search?”
Ralph spoke immediately. “My brother can hardly illuminate the course of another man’s thoughts.”
“That isn’t exactly what I meant.”
“Perhaps. But it’s that that you asked him to do.”
Young shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve always liked to handle a case in the most discreet manner because in the long run that’s best for both sides. So right no
w I’m more concerned with discovering the truth than I am in making certain every question I put is exact, unambiguous, and admissible in a court of law… Perhaps it would be easier if I spoke to your brother on his own.”
“You may be prepared to ignore the rules governing the questioning of witnesses; I am not prepared to let you.”
“To ignore the rules… I don’t think I’ve been doing that.” He turned back to Sterne. “Do you have any objection to your car being searched again by us?”
Sterne had been expecting, and dreading, more questions concerning the purchase of the car so this question came as a relief. “No, of course not.”
“May we take it with us when we leave?”
Ralph said: “You have an authorisation for this action?”
“We have your brother’s agreement.”
“He did not understand the full implication of what he was agreeing to.”
Young, in the same easy tone, as if his patience were infinite, said to Sterne: “Are we likely to find anything of an illegal nature in or about your car?”
“No.”
“So you have no reason to fear our search?”
“None.”
Ralph said: “What do you expect to find?”
“I can’t answer that.” He held up his left hand. “Not because I’m refusing to, but because I just don’t know.”
“You’re obviously convinced that there is something to find.”
“The possibility is there, yes.”
“Merely because a Customs officer imagined my brother was nervous?”
“You may put it like that.”
“I can, and I’d be talking nonsense if I did. If the Customs had really thought that, they’d have taken the car apart then and there… Have you been keeping watch on this house and grounds from May House?”
“I’m sure you can answer your own question.”
“Why are you sure?”
“Your brother will have told you the answer.”
“He’s told me nothing. How could he?”
Young looked surprised. He put his spectacles back in their case.
Presumption of Guilt Page 6
