by M J Porter
“But, I can find the earliest editions, as requested. I’ve got them over here, on a trolley for you. I don’t know how much you need to see.”
Sam followed Harry to the far wall, where a sizeable golden lamp hung overhead, casting the trolley into a warm glow. O’Rourke sneezed abruptly, the sound echoing loudly.
“The damn dust, that’s the problem with the system,” Harry commented, shaking his head while wiping his hands down his jumper. It was not the first time he’d done so; that was patent from the grey patches already stuck to the wool.
“I’ve told them we need more boxes, sealed boxes, that all the dust will be a problem, but they don’t listen, or rather, they don’t have the time to listen. It’s exhausting for them trying to keep up with all the war news.”
Sam fumbled for his handkerchief and handed it to O’Rourke, who just about managed to catch another sneeze. Eyes running, she opened her mouth to speak, only for Harry to continue.
“Don’t apologise. I know how it can be. I sneeze all the time when I’m working in the archive. Ah, here we go. The first editions. What’s all this about, if you don’t mind me asking? We don’t normally have the police asking for old editions of the Picture Post, most unusual. Is there a crime in them?” His question ended with a flicker of intrigue in his voice.
“It’s to do with an old case. We’re chasing up some missing editions that our local library don’t have.”
“Of course, of course.” If Harry was disappointed not to be told more, he didn’t show it. Sam had the impression he almost expected to receive no explanation and was just trying on the off-chance.
“Well, I’ll leave you to have a look through them. There are some chairs,” and Harry peered along the line of trolleys, “over there,” he pointed. “If you need them. I’ll just go back to looking for that blasted photograph, and you can give me a shout if you have any questions or when you’re done.”
Without offering anything else, Harry disappeared back along the row of shelves. Sam was already reaching for the top magazine when he heard a soft sigh from O’Rourke. It seemed she’d found young Harry far too appealing.
“He’d drive you mad,” Sam offered softly. “Think of the mess in your house. You’d never be able to find anything.”
“I might not mind that,” O’Rourke stated boldly, no hint of embarrassment on her face, her lips curling up, a throaty chuckle leaving her lips.
“Well, I wish I was allowed such absentmindedness.”
“You’re a chief inspector. If you couldn’t keep a few files in order, I’d be worried,” O’Rourke hotly retorted while Sam laughed softly.
“Do we need the chairs?” he asked her.
“No, I’ve been sitting for hours. I could do with standing for a bit,” O’Rourke confirmed. “The walk from the station to here wasn’t long enough, even with that blasted cold wind.”
“Right then, let’s find what we need.”
O’Rourke reached for one of the magazines. She placed it on an empty trolley next to the one that held those Harry had pulled aside for them. Sam did the same to the other side, and for a long while, there was just the shush of the magazine pages falling one after another.
As soon as Sam found a custard advert, he lay the magazine down and reached for the next one, only to repeat the same process. To the side of him, O’Rourke mirrored his actions. Sam spared a thought for Harry. Would he be able to sort them back into the proper order? Or would this be it until they employed someone more able to keep order in the archive? He appreciated Elsie’s skills then, in Erdington Library. She might have looked a bit put out by their requests, but at least she’d been able to help them quickly and efficiently.
As he picked up the last magazine, Sam felt a flicker of unease. He’d not found what he was looking for, and neither had O’Rourke given any indication that she had. He didn’t want this to be a wasted journey. Maybe they should have just gone to Birmingham Library rather than coming all the way to Shoe Lane, London.
“There,” Sam broke the silence. “All done, and I found nothing. What about you?”
“Yes, all done, and I found a few, I think, here, I put them to one side.”
O’Rourke indicated what she’d found, and Sam turned to examine them.
The first advert was of a boy, on a pair of roller skates, one leg before the other, arms held to either side for balance. The face didn’t look familiar at all. The second was of another boy doing the long-jump. This one Sam certainly recognised. This then was the missing victim they’d been told about, Frederick Anderson from Conway. Now they had all ten of the reported cases in editions of the Picture Post, running from 1938 up to the latest edition.
It should probably have pleased him, but it didn’t. Here, before him, was the whole sorry mess, laid out, week by week, month by month, year by year, in almost piecemeal detail. He shuddered. Why had no one noticed? Why had these images only appeared now?
“That’s Frederick, I’m sure of it,” O’Rourke confirmed quietly.
So caught up in his thoughts, Sam didn’t realise that he’d re-joined them until Harry spoke.
“Very clever advertising,” he offered, pointing to the advert at the top of the pile. It was for custard but wasn’t one of the ones that interested them because it showed a much younger child in a high seat, hungrily scooping up custard, rosy-cheeked and filled with life. “They take great pride in being so innovative with their advertising. They spend a huge deal of money on selling their product, even now, during the war. They’ve taken out a multi-year contract with the advertising department. I know it makes their lives much easier because, with a customer like that, they can plan for the future rather than worry about the revenue falling because of the war effort and everything being so uncertain.”
“How much does it cost? To advertise like this?”
“Oh, hundreds of pounds a year. I think they get some sort of discount, but not much. I also know other companies are always trying to poach each other’s artists and advertising people. But, really, they’ve honed their concept now. I can’t see why they wouldn’t just continue to do the same thing. But, that’s why I don’t work in advertising.”
“The colours are striking,” O’Rourke offered, seemingly as an after-thought. Sam knew it was an attempt to keep the conversation with Harry going, see if there was anything further he could offer.
“Yes, they are. And the colours are essential. They draw the eye so that mothers who have only so many coupons in their ration book each year are still determined to give their children a treat of some good old custard. I’m certainly a fan of the stuff, not that I can eat it as often as I’d like. That said, I can’t see that it’s actually as good for you as these adverts imply. A bowlful of custard doesn’t make me want to run around or play football. It makes me want to sit before the fire with a cup of tea.” Harry laughed as he spoke, picking up yet another of the magazines and studying the advert inside.
“I do like this series, where the children are playing at being an adult or dressing up, you see, in this one he’s pretending to deliver the milk. They make me smile. Is this what you were looking for?” Now Ben’s forehead furrowed. “Adverts for custard?”
“Yes, it is,” Sam offered, in such a tone that Harry realised he wasn’t going to offer anything further.
“Strange,” Harry mused. “And not for any other manufacturer, just the custard people. Cor,” and here his eyes alight with delight, “I hope you’re not about to tell me that they make it with something disgusting, and this is you investigating them. There aren’t rats running around the factory or something, are there? Although, no, why would an advert show you that?”
Sam shook his head. He’d have liked to drop the conversation, but it seemed that wasn’t possible. Not when Harry was so intrigued.
“No, nothing like that. We just need to look at the adverts and the dates of the adverts. Have you made notes?” He directed this to O’Rourke, who was standing slightly too c
lose to Harry, her hands limp at her side.
“Oh no, not yet,” she floundered, reaching into her pocket to remove her notebook and pencil. “I’ll get onto it now, though, sorry,” she muttered, cheeks reddening at being reminded of the task at hand.
“I’ve never really understood the power of the advert,” Sam mused to Harry as he led him away from O’Rourke without the man seemingly aware.
“Well, I think some people have no interest in being convinced to buy something, but others do. The war has had a huge impact. People are just happy to get hold of anything they can. There’s no brand loyalty anymore, well, not according to the advertising department. In our weekly meetings, they’re always saying how busy they are. Companies that can afford to advertise are desperate to do so. If you have the stock, you need to make sure people hunger for you. If not, they’ll just buy any old thing. I know it’s causing plenty of problems. Not that it can be helped, of course.”
“You seem very well informed,” Sam observed.
“I’d like to work in the advertising department, so I pay attention to the meetings. It would be much more enjoyable than being stuck in here.” But before Sam could say more, Harry let out a delighted cry, reaching onto a shelf where a lone photograph lay, face upwards.
“Ha, I knew it was in here, somewhere. Although, well, how did it come to be here?” Sam had no answer for him, and by then, O’Rourke had returned to his side, and they made their farewells.
They’d made some progress, but Sam knew they should have gone straight to the source of the adverts, the custard factory, but still, at least they now had all the information at their fingertips and could justify involving the custard people.
As they stepped outside into the gusting wind, Sam pulled his collar up close to his neck, hand on his hat to prevent it from blowing away.
“I’ll find a phone; tell Smythe what we’ve found.”
O’Rourke nodded, and Sam didn’t miss that she kept glancing over her shoulder, no doubt hoping to catch sight of Harry again.
Stepping into the first red phone box he found, Sam connected with the exchange office and was quickly put through to Smythe by Williams.
“I’ll phone ahead tomorrow, speak to the Managing Director of the custard factory, ensure you have the access that you need.”
Sam was nodding as Smythe spoke.
“It’s not solved, though,” Sam felt compelled to caution, only for Smythe to grunt in agreement.
“No, it’s not, but it’s a damn sight closer than it ever has been. Well done. Well done. Now, get home safely. We’ll reconvene at the station at 8 am sharp. We’ll discuss what needs to be done and where we go from here.”
Chapter 12
Sam was back at the station by 7 am the following morning. He’d barely been able to sleep. He blamed the nap he’d taken on the train journey back to Birmingham and then the cold return journey on the number 64 tram from Steelhouse Lane to Erdington High Street. There’d been the hint of snow in the air, and it had taken him a good hour to warm up before the fire at home. His wife had eventually told him to get out of bed, her tone far from polite, her voice laced with fatigue. He’d been pleased to leave his bed.
Now, he made his way to the back room where all the cases were laid out, startled when he found Smythe already there.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” his superior smiled, the rare act startling the last of the fogginess from too little sleep, from Sam’s mind.
“No, not at all.”
“I’ve been examining the evidence you collected. It’s impressive. I’m still unsure how no one ever made the connection before, but we’ll not worry about that. Not now.”
“What do you suspect’s happened?” Sam had exhausted himself trying to decide what would occur when they spoke with the managing director at the custard factory.
“I can’t say for sure, not yet. I hope that we’ll find the artist because it has to be the artist, just sat there, and we can arrest him on the spot.”
Sam found himself nodding along with this idyllic vision of the future.
“Not that it’ll be that easy. I just can’t see it, not after all this time. But, well, I remain hopeful. We need to address the difference in time, as well. Why now?”
O’Rourke appeared in the doorway then, bringing with her three mugs of tea and making it clear that they’d all arrived at work well before the 8 am time Smythe had suggested.
“I suggest that instead of telephoning ahead, we just arrive at the factory. I don’t want the artist to have any time to make themselves scarce. We’ll leave at 8 am and hopefully make it there at about 9 am. It’s not that far from here. O’Rourke, you can drive us and also come inside and take notes for the Chief Inspector and I.” Smythe looked at the younger woman with encouragement. It would be her first major case. Sam was quietly pleased that Smythe hadn’t forgotten about her. After all, she’d been a tremendous help. Really, it was a shame that Hamish had returned to Inverness.
“Thank you, sir,” O’Rourke spoke reservedly, but Sam could tell she was excited and pleased to be included.
“Now, I’ll do the talking with the managing director, or company owner, whoever happens to be there. We can’t just arrest the artist, but we can certainly speak to them and see if we should be. I’ll leave that to you, Mason, and O’Rourke. You know the cases better than I do, but I’ll observe. We need to do this by the book and make sure that everything is done correctly. We’re not going to let a serial murderer escape our clutches again.” Smythe fixed Sam with his renowned steely stare, and Sam grunted his agreement as he turned to find the information he wanted to take with him.
Sam had no end of notes written down in his small notebook, but would they be enough?
“I don’t want to take the pencil drawings,” he confirmed eventually. “But I’ll take some of the magazines because I want to make sure we question the correct person. I’m sure they must employ more than one artist. How else would they have so many different adverts? They’re not all of children in this age group, some of them are mere babies, and some of them are of random items, such as teddy bears.”
Smythe didn’t seem to be listening; his attention focused on the large map on the wall, the ten locations pinpointing the potential cases that were linked to the murder of Robert McFarlane.
“Our perpetrator got around a great deal,” he mused. “I take it you have the dates and places in your notebook?”
“I do, sir, yes.”
“Then I think we’re ready. O’Rourke, go and get the car going. It’s been a bloody cold night, but at least the snow didn’t settle. The car might take some coaxing.”
“Sir,” and she rushed to leave, taking a swig from her tea mug before setting it on the table closest to the door.
“This could make my career,” Smythe mused, his hands one inside the other, thumbs rubbing over one another. Sam couldn’t fault him for seeing the opportunities such a discovery would present him with, but they had yet to find the actual murderer.
Sam drank his tea, enjoying the warmth and the sharpness of it. He needed to be alert when they got to the custard factory. Alert and prepared and ready for whatever might happen.
The journey seemed to take no time at all, as O’Rourke drove carefully to Digbeth, wary of places where the road had been diverted because there were still weeping gaps from the air raids, although there had been no actual sighting of an enemy plane since 23rd April that year. Sam, like others, found the waiting terrible. No one could quite believe it was all over, not while the war still raged, and yet, there had been nearly nine months without a single night disturbed by the sirens.
The factory building, when it came into view before them, was imposing. Sam thought he’d read somewhere that rationing had meant the factory simply couldn’t produce as much custard powder as expected. But, as he gazed at the tall, imposing four-story building that fronted the acres behind it, he thought it looked busy enough. People were hurrying in and out of the
doors.
“Park outside the front door,” Smythe instructed O’Rourke, before almost leaping from his seat at the front of the police car to get out first. A sense of anticipation thrummed through them all.
As Sam’s feet hit the wide pavement, he looked at the impressive brick building. Was it really possible that the answers were here? It was so close to home it felt wrong, as though it couldn’t be quite so simple, and yet he wasn’t going to deny what his wife had found and then what he and O’Rourke had gone on to discover.
Smythe strode to the front desk inside the wide doors, every inch the self-important police superintendent, dressed in his full regalia, black shoe heels sharp over the smooth floor. Already, the receptionist had noticed his approach, and she turned almost frightened eyes his way. Her face paled; her red lipstick was nearly so bright as to be blinding. She wore a beige coloured cardigan over a similarly covered dress, a small tie around her neck in a vivid orange colour. It didn’t quite match; even Sam could see that.
“Good morning. I’m here to see the managing director, Mr Owl.”
“Of, of course. Um,” she stuttered, her Black Country accent pronounced, before she recovered her poise. “Sorry, sir, do you have an appointment?” She tried again, her words more assured this time.
“I do not, no, but it is of the utmost importance. A police matter.”
“I’ll call his receptionist immediately. Please, take a seat,” and the young woman indicated a selection of chairs clustered around a small table.
“Very well,” Smythe agreed, managing to convey his unhappiness in just those two words.
Not that any of them sat in the offered seats. Instead, Smythe turned and glowered out of the wooden and glass doors facing the road while Sam found himself examining the ceiling high above his head. O’Rourke, in contrast, scooped to pick up a magazine from the table, and Sam noticed with a wry smirk that it was an old and well-thumbed copy of a Picture Post magazine.
