Body of a Girl

by Michael Gilbert

  “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Prior. “I’ll do my best.” As she talked a thick skin of milk formed over two untasted cups of coffee.

  John Anderson said, “We were on target there, all right. His old company commander identified Jack Bull.”

  “A bullseye in fact,” said Morrissey. He was given to making bad puns when he was pleased.

  “And guess who was sitting right next to him?”

  “You tell me. I can see you’re happy about it.”

  “It was Paul Crow.”

  “Ah,” said Morrissey softly. “Yes. That explains a lot, doesn’t it? Dear old Paul. We knew he had a service background, but we could never trace it. What name was he using?”

  “Barker. Ron Barker.”

  Morrissey had unlocked the steel filing cabinet behind him and was looking through a bulging cardboard folder. “You’ve asked the army to send us copies of everything they’ve got?”

  “They’re sending a messenger down with it. I picked up something else this morning. It came from Ernie Milton. He says that the field squad is being mobilised, for action this evening, he thinks. And outside London. Mo Fenton would be in charge.”

  “Ernie’s information is usually reliable.” Morrissey was rummaging through the contents of the folder, which seemed to contain a large assortment of typewritten documents, photographs, blue and buff forms and newspaper clippings. “It was Ernie who put us on to Stoneferry in the first place, I seem to remember.” He found the paper he was looking for. “Getting on for a year ago.”

  “That is so,” said Anderson. He repressed a sigh. Every time Morrissey looked through one of his files it took him ten minutes to put it together again in proper chronological order. “It looks as if that fly you cast over Pugh has been snapped up. Incidentally, if tonight’s party is not a success, he’ll be in trouble himself.”

  “Pugh’s troubles are over,” said Morrissey. “He was picked up this morning on the Great West Road. He’d been run over by a very heavy lorry. More than once. It was lucky they found some papers in his pocket. They confirmed the identification from finger-prints. There wasn’t a lot of his face left.”

  Mercer called on Mr. Weatherman that afternoon. Knowing the ways of solicitors he had telephoned first, and been given a grudging appointment for three o’clock. When he arrived at the office in Fore Street, the receptionist apologised for keeping him waiting. She said confidingly, “Mr. Weatherman’s busy with Mrs. Hall. She’s our head cashier. There’s been some muddle over accounts. Papers getting lost. You know how these things happen.”

  Mercer said he knew how those things happened.

  It was nearly half-past three when a buzzer sounded, and he was invited to go up. He met Mrs. Hall coming down. She was frowning, and there was a slight flush over her prominent cheek-bones. She recognised Mercer, and gave him a smile.

  Mr. Weatherman apologised briefly for keeping Mercer waiting and motioned him to a chair. This, Mercer noticed, was placed directly in front of the desk which stood in the bay window. The effect of this was that Mr. Weatherman could study his face, whilst his own remained obscure. He said, “I gather you’ve been dealing with an office crisis.”

  Mr. Weatherman said, “A minor one. Some accountancy records seem to have gone astray. I’m sure Mrs. Hall will be able to deal with it.”

  “Yes indeed. I remember you telling me what an efficient person she was.”

  “Quite so. Now what can I do for you, Inspector?” (He didn’t actually add, “I’m a very busy man.”)

  Mercer smiled politely. He said, “It’s strange how many of the jobs in offices, which used to be male preserves, are now carried out by women.”

  Mr. Weatherman said nothing, and his expression was hidden. But Mercer saw that he had raised his chin very slightly and seemed to be busy rearranging the pencils on his desk. He went on, at the same leisurely pace. “I believe I am right in saying that towards the end of her time here, your litigation department was practically run by Miss Dyson.”

  “Until his retirement, and death last year, the litigation department of this firm was run by Mr. Pollock.”

  Mr. Weatherman’s voice was cold.

  “He was, I believe, over seventy. It would have been natural for him to have passed on a good deal of the responsibility to a younger colleague.”

  “Do you mind telling me exactly what you want, Inspector?”

  If Mercer noted the icy hostility in Mr. Weatherman’s voice he was apparently unperturbed by it. He continued in the same unhurried way. “What I want is what policemen are always eager to have. Information.”

  Mr. Weatherman had nothing to say to this.

  “I understand that a conference took place here in connection with the Prior Garage case. Mr. Pollock was not present, but no doubt he was—ah—controlling matters from the background. But Miss Dyson was at the meeting and she made a suggestion. She suggested that, possibly, the whole matter had been rigged. That it was a put-up job. I don’t know if she went as far as to suggest who had rigged the job, but there was one obvious candidate, the owner of the only remaining garage in Stoneferry, Mr. Bull.”

  Mr. Weatherman was now not only silent. He was completely motionless. He had slightly turned his head and Mercer had the impression of a black profile against the grey of the window.

  “I understand, however, that this suggestion of Miss Dyson’s did not find favour with you, and was not followed up. Is that so?”

  Mr. Weatherman said, “Your ignorance of the law seems to be equalled only by your gaucheness. You must be aware that I am quite unable, even if I wished, to answer questions about my clients’ affairs.”

  “It wasn’t really their affairs I was asking about,” said Mercer mildly. “It was your own reactions. Did it never occur to you to wonder why Miss Dyson made such a suggestion? And, if it was based on information, how she had got that information?” He paused, and added, “Of course, Mr. Bull was your client too, wasn’t he?”

  “I am not without influence in this town,” said Mr. Weatherman. “Unless you leave this office at once, I shall telephone Superintendent Clark.”

  “You can do better than that,” said Mercer. “Why not ring up the Chairman of Magistrates, Murray Talbot. You act for him, too, I believe.”

  Massey had not found the watching easy. There was, on this occasion, no conveniently vacant building over the way. His own aged sports car would, he realised, be too conspicuous. In the end he had parked it round the corner, and managed to keep the tobacconist’s shop under observation by making occasional trips on foot down the road.

  Mercer had arrived at dusk. Fortunately he arrived when Massey was at the far end of the road. He had stayed in the shop for about fifteen minutes. As soon as he had driven off, Massey had moved in.

  The proprietor was behind the counter, sorting out a late batch of evening papers. Massey saw a man in early middle age, with a brown and cheerful face. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to show a pair of thick forearms, with an army badge tattooed on each. He said, “And what can I do for you, sir?”

  Massey had been considering his tactics. He was, he knew, on delicate ground. He had decided to be official, but friendly.

  He produced his warrant card, and said, “I’m a police officer. It’s been reported to us that the man who has just left is in the habit of coming here regularly, in the evenings. You understand that you’re under no obligation to answer any questions, but if you can help us, and trouble does arise, we can probably help you.”

  Massey was rather pleased with this speech. He had, he thought, put the situation neatly. The proprietor seemed to be weighing things up. He said, “From what he told me, the other gentleman is a police officer too.”

  “That’s correct. But I’m afraid that proceedings are pending against him. Disciplinary proceedings, you understand. These things happen from time to time. Mostly they’re kept very quiet.”

  “Yes, I understand that,” said the proprietor.

  “And t
he names of people who help us can usually be kept out of the record altogether.”

  The proprietor said, “Ah.” He appeared to be arriving at some sort of decision. Massey prayed that no one would come into the shop.

  “You understand, I only did it to oblige.”

  “Did what?”

  “Took in letters for him. And let him use my telephone. Little things like that.”

  “Nothing else?”

  The man hesitated. Massey noticed his glance shifting towards the old iron safe, under the shelf behind the counter. He had an inspiration.

  “You didn’t look after anything for him, did you?”

  “Well, yes,” said the man. “There was a package. He said he didn’t quite trust the people he was staying with, you see.”

  “Did you know what was in it?”

  “I never asked. Why should I?”

  “Of course not. Could I see it?”

  “I couldn’t let you do that. Not without his permission.”

  “I only want to look at it. I’m not going to take it away.”

  The proprietor hesitated. Then he opened a drawer and took out a ring of keys. With the largest of them he unlocked the safe, and after what seemed to Massey to be interminable deliberation drew out a sealed manilla envelope and laid it on the counter.

  Massey picked it up.

  “I don’t think you ought to open it. Not without him being here,” said the proprietor anxiously.

  “That’s all right,” said Massey. He ripped open the flap. A wad of new one-pound notes slid out onto the counter.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Murray Talbot. “You’ve got it both ways. First, we know from Derek Robbins that three deposits of fifty pounds each have been made in Mercer’s bank account. And the first one was made the morning after he’d spent the evening talking to Jack Bull at that public house.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now we know that he’s got at least one other cache that he visits secretly.”

  “I suppose I shall have to make an official report.”

  “You’d be failing in your duty if you didn’t,” said Murray Talbot. He said it with considerable satisfaction.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “What the hell’s up with everyone this morning,” said Gwilliam.

  Prothero said, “In what way?”

  “When I came in, when Tovey-luvvy saw me, he had a grin all over his stupid face. Like he’d won the Treble Chance or something.”

  “Funny you should say that,” said Prothero. “I got the same idea. Nothing pleases the blue-bottles like when we’re in a right mess up here. What do you think?”

  Sergeant Gwilliam lowered his massive form onto a small chair, which squeaked in protest, and disposed himself to consider the matter. He said, “Bob Clark’s got his knife into the skipper. But there’s nothing new about that. They’ve been cat and dog ever since he arrived.”

  “Nor the skipper doesn’t strain a gut trying to be matey, neither.”

  “He’s not too easy to get on with,” agreed Gwilliam. “I grant you that.”

  “And Bob’s getting old. He’s got an eye on that sunny day when they hand him his first pension cheque, and he can stay in bed as long as he likes next morning. You know why our crime figures are so low? For the last few years, if there’s been any doubt, Bob’s idea has been, don’t count it as a crime. That way, he’s got a nice quiet little manor. Then Mercer comes along, and bingo! Before he knows where he is, he’s up shit creek without a paddle. You’ve got to be sorry for the old sod, really. Did you see this? It was in the papers last night.”

  It was an imaginative effort by the cartoonist. It showed Sowthistle, with a black patch over one eye and a cocked hat on his head, booting a black-coated civil servant carrying a briefcase labelled ‘Ministry of Interference’ off the deck of his barge and into the river. The caption underneath said, ‘The Nelson Spirit’.

  “It beats me,” said Gwilliam. “Here’s this old toe-rag, living in a pigsty, making money by flogging dirt, pissed as a newt most days by lunch-time, and the way people carry on about him he might be St. George for Merry England.”

  “Here comes the boy scout,” said Prothero. “Maybe he can tell us what’s up.”

  Detective Massey was looking serious. He said, “What’s up about what?”

  “Taffy and me both got the idea that our chums in blue were sitting downstairs rubbing their hands together like they’d heard we’d dropped a great big clanger, what about it?”

  “I did hear,” said Massey, “off the record, that Mercer was in some sort of trouble.”

  The other two looked at him.

  “You never really hit it off with the skipper, did you?” said Gwilliam.

  “He’s been picking on me ever since he got here,” said Massey. “Not that it signifies. Because he’s on his way out.”

  “Then you do know something,” said Prothero.

  “Out with it, laddie,” said Gwilliam.

  “Well—” Massey stopped as the door opened and Mercer came in. He stood for a moment, viewing his three subordinates. All had fallen strangely silent and seemed to be absorbed in their work. Mercer grinned. Then he tiptoed across the room to his desk, humming the opening bars of the Funeral March. Lowering his voice almost to a whisper, he said, “Who are we in mourning for, eh?”

  Gwilliam said, “We heard Bob died—of laughing. He saw that cartoon in the papers last night.”

  “That,” said Mercer. “I saw it. Not very funny really. Did you get what I wanted in Slough, Taffy?”

  “I’m not sure if it’s what you wanted, but I got something.” Gwilliam unrolled the map on the table. “There’s not a lot of places in that area would be open at nine o’clock at night. There’s two pubs and one drink shop with a late licence, but I don’t suppose Johnno went all that way to fetch back a bottle of booze, do you?”

  Mercer shook his head.

  “Then there’s a working men’s club. On the corner there. That was open. All the other side of the street is offices and such like. All tight shut.”

  “And that block along the other side?”

  “That’s the Southern Counties Safe Deposit.”

  “Which was also shut?”

  “Yes and no. You couldn’t get in, but there was a night safe. If you had anything to deposit, you labelled it and pushed it down the slot, and the management would look after it for you until you could stow it away in your box, I imagine.”

  Mercer said, “That’d be the sort of arrangement.” He swung round on Massey. “When you were watching that night, did you get the number of the car? The last one that came in before Johnno shut up shop.”

  “No. I’m afraid I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was watching Johnno. Not the customers.”

  “You’ve forgotten the rules, lad. When on observation, never assume what’s important and what isn’t. Write it all down. Didn’t they teach you that?”

  “I suppose so,” muttered Massey. He didn’t look up from the form he was filling in. Mercer watched him for a few seconds in silence, then said to Gwilliam, “If anyone should want me – by any chance – I’m going over to Slough. I should be back in about an hour.”

  “There’s a message from Brattle at the boat-house. You could look him up on your way.”

  “All right,” said Mercer. “I’ll do that too. Let’s say an hour and a quarter.” He moved out, and closed the door softly.

  “He knows,” said Prothero.

  “And he doesn’t care,” said Gwilliam.

  Massey said nothing. He seemed to have got the form wrong. He tore it up and dropped the pieces in the wastepaper basket.

  Mr. Brattle was sitting on an old chair, outside his boat-house. He waved a hand at Mercer, who took it as an invitation to make himself at home, and squatted on top of an upturned dinghy.

  “I found something out for you, son,” he said. “It’s probably not important, but you never can tel
l. I once read in a book that when you’re investigating a crime, any little detail can be the vital link in the chain.”

  “I must introduce you to Detective Massey,” said Mercer. “You could teach him a thing or two.”

  “I do a lot of reading, in the winter, when I’ve got the boats cleaned up and put away. I don’t care for this modern stuff.”

  “I don’t read a lot myself,” said Mercer.

  It was a perfect autumn day. The sunlight was gilding the leaves of the poplars, already yellowed by the turn of the year.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing.” Mr. Brattle gazed fondly at the river. Scarcely a breath of wind troubled the smooth brown surface of the water which slid past at their feet. The river was so low that the sluice gate had been shut and the roar of the weir had sunk to a distant mumbling. A family of swans advanced in line astern along the far bank. The father and mother were followed by four bobbity cygnets. They had lost their brown baby plumage and were beginning to have the look of youngsters sneering at the apron strings. Fifty yards away, on their side of the river, a solitary fisherman reeled in his line, jerked the red float upstream and let it go. The silence was so complete that they could hear the ‘plop’ of the float as it hit the water.

  “Eighteen eighty-seven,” said Mr. Brattle. “The year of the old Queen’s Golden Jubilee. That was when my grandfather opened this boat-house. The girls used to wear bustles and carry parasols and the men wore straw hats. Do you remember that book about the three men who took a trip on the river with a dog? It was well known in its day.”

  Mercer racked his brain but could recall no such book. He realised it was going to spoil Mr. Brattle’s story if he said so, and nodded his head.

  “The man who wrote it used to hire his boat from my grandfather. Very humorous, so I’m told. When my grandfather died, my father took over. Then me. I had the one son, but he was killed in the war.”

  Mercer looked at the old man, and decided that he wasn’t asking for sympathy. He was stating facts.

  “Even if he had come back, I don’t know that he’d have fancied this job. He’d got ambitions.”