Body of a Girl

by Michael Gilbert

  “We might be onto something with that powder compact,” said Rye. “It came from Benson’s. It’s a stationer’s shop really. They stock a few fancy goods for the summer trade. Benson remembers the compacts, they were a bit more pricey than his usual line of stuff, and he was afraid he wasn’t going to get rid of them. There were only six all told. He’s busy turning up his records and trying to remember who bought them.”

  “Good,” said Mercer. “What’s the name of the local paper?”

  “The Stoneferry Times and Gazette. In South Street. Very sound for local digs, if that’s what you’re thinking of.”

  “That’s what I was thinking of,” agreed Mercer.

  The Gazette was a weekly paper. Its back numbers department produced copies of that year’s production. It was in the number which had come out in the last week of July that Mercer found an account of the Stoneferry Annual Regatta and Water Sports. The sun had shone throughout the day (“a change from the year before,” said the Gazette); and a large and appreciative crowd had watched the traditional aquatic contests and races, followed by a display of Life Saving by the Boy Scouts and Girl Guides. Which had saved which, Mercer wondered. Lower down the page, results were given. The double punting had been won, for the third year in succession, by Venetia and Willoughby Slade. They had also scored a second in the Fancy Dress Canoe Contest, and Venetia had won the Ladies Spring-board Free-style Diving.

  He thought about that athletic body dressed, he was sure, in the scantiest of permissible bathing costumes, running to the end of the spring-board, bouncing upwards in a perfect jack-knife, and straightening out to hit the water, one rigid line from finger tips to toes. He was still thinking about it when he got back to the station and found Rye talking to a worried man and a stout grey-haired woman.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Benson,” he said. “They recognised that compact. It’s some stock they had about three years ago.”

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Benson. “A traveller from Hollingsheds sold us six of them. I thought, at the time, they weren’t quite our line. But as a matter of fact, we sold three of them almost immediately to summer visitors. Then we never made another sale for twelve months or more. I remember saying to the wife, ‘We’ll never get our money back on those things—’ “

  “Which was nonsense,” said his wife placidly. “Because we sold two more that same summer. The last one never went. So I thought, as we’d got our money back on the other five, I’d use it myself.” She opened her bag and pulled out a compact. It was clearly twin to the one they had found. Mr. Benson pointed out the tiny mark which he had scratched inside the lid, an inverted ‘B’.

  “I do that with anything valuable,” said Mr. Benson. “In case there’s a question of identifying it afterwards.”

  “Quite right,” said Rye. “I only wish everyone was as methodical. Now about those other two—?”

  “They were cash sales, you understand, so there wouldn’t be any actual record. But one of them we can remember. It was Captain Barrington’s daughter, the older one who lives with him. The other one has quite gone out of my mind—”

  “Well it hasn’t gone out of mine,” said Mrs. Benson. “I recollected as we came along. We were going past the cinema, and that brought it back to me in a flash.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Benson. “You’re right. It was Mr. Skeffington.”

  “The cinema manager?”

  “That’s right. He’s a bachelor too, and I remember thinking, he must have bought that for one of the usherettes. A leaving present perhaps. It’s just the sort of thing he would do. He’s a very kindhearted man.”

  “Well, we can easily check up on those two,” said Rye. “I don’t suppose you can give us any lead to the earlier sales?”

  “I can tell you one thing,” said Mrs. Benson. “None of the women who bought the first three compacts would be seen dead carrying a handbag like that red plastic thing. They were ladies. Alligator or real leather was their style.”

  “We’ll check up on the two local ones first,” said Rye when he had got rid of the Bensons. “But you can bet your bottom dollar it won’t be either of them. Life isn’t like that. It’ll be one of the first three. She didn’t buy it for herself, she bought it for her daily, and when she gave it to her she said, ‘I got it at Stoneferry. Pretty little place on the river. You ought to run down there for a picnic one day.’ “

  “You’re probably right,” said Mercer. He looked in to report progress to Superintendent Clark, who said, “Good work. If we can identify the girl we’re more than halfway there.”

  As Mercer stepped out into the street he was reflecting that this common-sense diagnosis was probably correct. Where a woman was murdered it was nearly always her husband or her boyfriend who had done it. Once they identified the body, the field would narrow dramatically.

  The place he was making for was a Georgian house, converted into an office and wrecked in the process. The lower half of the bow windows on either side of the porch was obscured with the sort of wire netting which used to keep flies out of pantries before refrigerators were invented. The name ‘Weatherman’s’ was painted, in faded gold letters with curly corners, across the glass at the top, further blocking out the light of day from what must, originally, have been two pleasant rooms.

  The front hall was a reception office and a girl with a face like an intelligent Cairn terrier took his name, brightened perceptibly when she found out he was a policeman, and dialled a number on the internal telephone. It appeared that Mr. Weatherman was in, and that Mercer was lucky to catch him because he always went out to lunch early on Thursdays, it was his day for the Rotary Club.

  “I could show you up,” said the girl, shaking the hair out of her eyes, “but I’m not really supposed to leave the front office until Mrs. Hall gets back from lunch.”

  “Lend me a map and a compass,” said Mercer, “and I’ll probably make it.”

  The girl smiled, and said, “It’s not all that difficult. You go straight up the stairs, turn right, and Mr. Weatherman has the room on the right of the landing in front. The one on the left is Mr. Slade.”

  Mercer stopped for a moment, with one foot on the bottom stair. He said, “Would that by any chance be Willoughby Slade?”

  “That’s right,” said the girl. “Do you know him?”

  “By reputation,” said Mercer. “I gather he’s a very accomplished water-man.”

  “Oh, he is,” said the girl. “He’s very good at everything on the river.”

  Chatting up girls in punts, thought Mercer.

  “Tennis, too.” It was clear that Willoughby was the sun and the moon.

  Mercer’s first impression of Mr. Weatherman was a black coat and a pair of striped trousers. After that you saw a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, a Rotary Club badge and a platinum key chain. It was only when you looked very closely that you could see that there was anything human behind the façade at all. Eyes so pale that they were almost colourless, a beaky nose dominating a thin mouth. A shrewd operator, thought Mercer. The sort of man you might have looked to find in Norfolk Street or Bedford Row, but unexpected in a quiet backwater like Stoneferry. A pike in a trout stream.

  “And how can I help you, Inspector?”

  “I was told that you acted for Mr. Prior in the case which was brought against his garage some years ago.”

  “Would it be indiscreet to enquire who told you?”

  “Not at all. It was a client of yours. Name of Jack Bull. I ran into him last night.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Weatherman.

  Mercer could visualise Jack Bull getting his knuckles rapped next time he met his solicitor.

  “I should not normally discuss the affairs of a client with a third party. But I imagine you have a good and proper reason for your enquiry.”

  “I’ll be honest with you,” said Mercer. “I’ve no reason which would stand up to cross-examination. I was just following up a hunch.”

  “The matter can hardly b
e sub judice now. And in any event you could look it up in the files of our local paper. It was fully reported. I have no objection to giving you the facts as I remember them. I must put you right on one point, though. You said that the case was brought against the garage. Unfortunately that was not so. The case was brought against Mr. Prior personally.”

  “Because he wasn’t a limited company, you mean?”

  “That is so. And it was not for want of my advice on the perils of personal trading.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t.”

  “The case rested, at law, on the proposition that a man is responsible for the acts of his servants. That he must select employees of adequate skill, or supervise them with reasonable care.”

  “Which he failed to do.”

  “Completely, I’m afraid. The man who attended to Dr. Simpson’s car had been less than a month in the garage and there was no evidence, beyond his own say-so, that he was a trained mechanic at all.”

  “What was his name?”

  “The mechanic? I think it was Taylor. Some name like that. He disappeared on the day of the accident and hasn’t been heard of since.”

  “You tried to trace him?”

  “Certainly. But you will appreciate, Inspector, that a firm of solicitors has very little machinery for a search of that sort.”

  “The police could have helped.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Weatherman. “They could have helped.” The innuendo was so clear that Mercer started to say something, and then, meeting a glance from the lawyer’s eyes, changed his mind.

  “What happened to Prior?”

  “He sold his stock and premises. I believe he got quite a good price. Enough to clear his debts.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “After the case was over, I lost touch with him. I believe he left the district.”

  Mr. Weatherman’s eyes strayed towards the watch on his left wrist and Mercer said, “Well, I mustn’t keep you any more. Thank you very much.”

  When he reached the front hall the Cairn terrier had gone and the seat behind the reception desk was occupied by a grey-haired woman. Mrs. Hall, without doubt. She was talking to a young man, who looked up as Mercer went past.

  Chalk-stripe flannel suit, reversed calf shoes, white collar, regimental tie. A sun-tanned face and dancing blue eyes. The family resemblance was quite unmistakable.

  As Mercer went past, Mrs. Hall was saying, “I’m sorry, Mr. Slade, you’ll have to do your own shopping. I’ve got the books to write up before the auditors come in.”

  Mercer filed away the information that the two female members of Weatherman’s staff seemed to have different ideas about Willoughby Slade.

  Chapter Four

  Tom Rye had the operational part of the telephone balanced on his right shoulder, and held in position by his chin. It was an arrangement which left both hands free. With one of them he was scribbling something on a piece of paper, with the other he was squeezing mustard out of a plastic container onto an open ham sandwich.

  “Fine,” he said. “That’s good. The skipper’s just turned up. I’ll tell him. Better hang on. He’ll probably want to come over himself.” He rang off and said, “That was Len. He’s over at the cinema. Old Skeffington bought that compact all right. But he didn’t buy it for one of the usherettes. No sir! He bought it for Sweetie Sowthistle.”

  Sergeant Gwilliam, who was typing a report, using one finger of each hand, gave a long low whistle. Mercer looked blank. Tom Rye said what sounded like “Eez-oh-ow-is-orter”. He then swallowed the large chunk of bread and ham which was obstructing him, apologised, and said, “What I said was, she’s old Sowthistle’s daughter. He’s quite a local character. He lives in a barge on Easthaugh Island. That’s about a quarter of a mile downstream from where they found the body.”

  “Then we’d better have a word with his daughter quick.”

  “There’s an objection to that. She disappeared. When was it Taffy?”

  “More than two years ago,” said Sergeant Gwilliam.

  Mercer said, “Oh, I see. More than two years ago.” His heavy face was thoughtful. “Well it looks as though we might be able to short-circuit this one, doesn’t it.”

  “The only thing is,” said Rye, “that if you’re thinking that the next step will be to rope in Sweetie’s boyfriend of two years ago and put him through the pulper, you’re going to have your work cut out. She wasn’t much more than seventeen when she disappeared, but she’d been laid by half the males in Stoneferry.”

  “Quite a girl,” said Mercer.

  “She was a trollop,” said Sergeant Gwilliam. His upbringing had been Chapel, and strict.

  Mr. Skeffington turned out to be a smallish man with thick-lensed glasses and a mop of untidy hair. He greeted Mercer with a cheerful smile, and seemed unembarrassed by the circumstances which had brought him to the attention of the police.

  “That’s quite right,” he said. “I knew Sweetie. She applied for a job here once. I’d have liked to give it her, but I couldn’t see my way to doing it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I couldn’t have trusted her, Inspector. You know what a cinema’s like in the afternoon. Pitch dark. Practically no one there. You’d be surprised what we pick up in the back row of the stalls after the performance is over.”

  “You knew her yourself quite well?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You gave her this compact.”

  “I’m always giving things to girls. I’ve got a generous nature.”

  “Weren’t you overdoing it a bit, sir? I mean, if your acquaintance with her was confined to one occasion, when she asked for a job and you weren’t able to offer her one—”

  “That wasn’t the only time. I’d met her several times before that.”

  “Socially?”

  “You might call it socially I suppose,” said Mr. Skeffington blandly. “She was a very popular girl. Everyone liked Sweetie. Sad to think she should have ended like that.”

  “Ended like what, Mr. Skeffington?”

  “Murdered, Inspector. Murdered and buried on Westhaugh Island. At least, I think it must have been her, or you wouldn’t be asking me all these questions.”

  “We have reason to think that it might be,” said Mercer stiffly. He found Mr. Skeffington disconcerting. “When did you give her this compact?”

  “Your sergeant was asking me that. I was able to tell him almost exactly.” Mr. Skeffington consulted a desk diary. “It was in the third week of September, three years ago. One of the usherettes, a Miss Williams that was, had given in her notice to go and get married. I really bought the compact as a present for her. Then I found the other girls were collecting money for a fitted handbag and a compact and since there didn’t seem to be much point in giving her two compacts, I added my contribution to that, and kept the compact. Then Sweetie turned up asking for the job, and seeing that I had to disappoint her, I gave it to her.”

  “Do you give presents to all applicants for jobs that you have to refuse?”

  “Not to all girls, but Sweetie was an exception.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was sorry for her.”

  “Why particularly?”

  “It’s clear, Inspector,” said Mr. Skeffington, “that you’re new here. You’ve never met her father.”

  “He’s a filthy old sod,” said Rye. “Real name is Hedges. It was the boys who called him Sowthistle. It used to be a ‘dare’ among them to slip across to his island, crawl through the undergrowth, and peep in at one of the portholes to see what he was up to. You can imagine what sort of a kick they got out of doing that.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  “Nobody knows. He landed up here after the war, and took possession of that derelict barge. He fitted it up, after a fashion, and started to live there with a woman who was charitably referred to as his wife. She walked out on him when Sweetie was about ten. I don’t blame her. He used to beat her when he was
drunk and he was drunk pretty often.”

  “Why didn’t the authorities take the girl away from him?”

  “They tried to. Sowthistle kicked up a fuss. The great heart of the British public was stirred. A fund was got up. Counsel was briefed. It was in all the papers. Poor lonely old man, deserted by his wife! Now they try to rob him of his daughter!! His sole prop and stay!!! Yards of sentiment. Buckets of tears. Two years later she applied to us for protection. He’d tried to rape her.”

  “What did the great British public think of that?”

  “They didn’t want to hear about that bit. We put her into a local authority home at Slough and she stayed there until she was fourteen. Then she elected to go back and look after Dad. Maybe she thought she was old enough to manage him. Maybe she thought it was a good base of operations. She was quite a good-looking girl in a healthy, animal sort of way.”

  Mercer cocked an eye at him, and Rye had the grace to blush. “I wouldn’t have said no,” he agreed. “But I wasn’t her cup of tea. The men she went for were middle-aged men with money. When she disappeared we made a full list of ’em—just in case.”

  Rye extracted a paper from the file, and pushed it across. Mercer saw that there had originally been about twenty names on it, but a lot of them had been crossed through.

  “Died, or left the district,” said Rye. “Or we couldn’t prove they’d had anything to do with Sweetie at all. They were names other people had suggested, but they didn’t come to anything. You know how people talk.”

  “I know how people talk,” agreed Mercer. “Who are the ones that are left? Skeffington I know.”

  “Camberley, he’s a commercial gent. He was one of her regulars. Barrington’s a retired naval P.O. Got a houseboat downriver. Henniker’s a turf accountant. Jeejeeboy’s a Pakistani. He runs the restaurant next to the old bridge.”

  “No colour bar?”

  “Certainly not. One of her regular ex-boyfriends was a Chinaman.”

  “And what about this one?” said Mercer.

  It was the last name on the list.

  “Rainey. He works for Jack Bull. Keeps his books for him.”