‘As soon as her medico gives the all-clear, she’s the top priority, sir. Meanwhile I thought I might as well stay up here and try to clear my backlog.’
‘If you find yourself with time on your hands that can easily be remedied,’ the A.C. assured him, buzzing for his secretary as an indication that the interview was at an end. ‘Press on, and keep motivated yourself,’ he added.
Pollard returned to his own room and took steps to contact Hildebrand Robinson by telephone. In due course he was located at his home in Blackheath and undertook to come up to the Yard in the afternoon and be briefed on the search required. This having been arranged, Pollard plunged into arrears of work connected with his recent cases.
Hildebrand Robinson was announced in the course of the afternoon. He was a tall man of sixty-five and broad to match, with a large sagging face suggestive of a bloodhound. Only his eyes, bright blue and intent, indicated his mental alertness and pertinacity. He had been a distinguished classics master at a public school, where his policy of completely ignoring any boy unwilling to work to capacity had invested membership of his classes with a recognised cachet. On learning that the admission of girls to the sixth form was being seriously considered by the school governors he had promptly resigned in his late fifties. He had already carried out some searches into records of various types for Scotland Yard, and was now considered to be on call. In the intervals he composed, for a learned monthly, crossword puzzles of such difficulty that the number of successful solutions received was regularly given, and seldom went into double figures. Pollard, who had worked with him on several occasions, had genuine respect for his ability and also liked him.
‘Well,’ the expert said, after a brief exchange of cordialities, ‘what’s on offer this time? Something to bite on, I hope.’
‘We’re interested,’ Pollard told him, ‘in a chap who went over to Canada in 1948 to a job, moved on into the U.S.A. in 1950, took U.S. nationality in 1951, and was accidentally killed in 1953. He had applied for a U.S. passport and been given one in the name of John Frederick Tuke, born in Longshire, England, in 1919. There is some reason to suppose that he may have got into Canada on a forged passport, and that his legal name wasn’t Tuke.’
‘Helpful, if true,’ Hildebrand Robinson commented, taking rapid notes. ‘Narrows the field. I’ll begin on the birth registrations for Longshire over the years from 1917 to 1924. If he acquired a forged passport or somebody else’s, the date of birth probably isn’t accurate. And if there’s no trace of his birth? It’s this case you’re on down at Littlechester, I take it?’
‘Yes. Edward Tuke, the chap who appears to have been manoeuvred on to a broken bridge by somebody who had previously yanked up a warning notice, was J.F. Tuke’s son, born in the U.S.A. in 1952. He worked for Integrated Oils and had been sent over to the London office in March on some assignment. He had an introduction to a Mr James Fordyce, a genealogist who lives in Woodcombe, a village in the Littlechester area, and went down to see him on April the twenty-third to talk to him about having his family history traced. Both his parents had died in the 1953 car crash. In the course of conversation he told Fordyce that his mother’s people, who had brought him up, were always very cagey about his father, and that he had wondered when he was older if his old man had had to clear out of the U.K. for some reason, and if, perhaps, he had been a deserter from the armed forces in World War Two.’
‘Quite a promising little job,’ Hildebrand Robinson said ironically, ‘especially if there is no record of the bloke ever having been born. However, there are the Services’ records if there’s anything in this deserter idea. Don’t expect an answer by return of post, though, will you? Any idea who eliminated young Tuke?’
‘Various ideas but no proof so far. That’s why we’ve called you in.’
Hildebrand Robinson grinned. ‘Flattery will get you nowhere. Is this all you want?’
‘No. In 1950 a young woman called Amaryllis Hartley was married to Rodney Kenway-Potter, probably in the summer. I don’t know for certain where the actual ceremony took place, but she lived in a place called Great Lockwood, near Worcester. See if she produced an infant before, or shortly after J.F. Tuke headed for Canada in 1948.’
Hildebrand Robinson raised an eyebrow. ‘To sport with Amaryllis in the shade...’ he murmured as he wrote.
‘One more thing. I suppose you often inspect the records at St Catherine’s House. Have you ever noticed either of these chaps working there?’ He passed over the photographs of James Fordyce and Rodney Kenway-Potter.
‘Definitely not the country gent type,’ Hildebrand replied after a careful scrutiny. ‘I’m not sure about the other one. Can’t be definite, though. Shall I try them out on some of the staff?’
‘Yes, do. It might be useful if anybody remembers what area they were looking up.’
‘Not a hope, I should say. Genealogy’s one of the in things, and people come and go all the time. However, I’ll have to go.’
‘Thanks awfully. And for coming along and taking on the job. I’ll hope to hear from you.’
Alone again Pollard found it difficult to concentrate on his backlog of paperwork. After a time he gave up the attempt and let his thoughts wander freely. He had a visual mind and a clear picture of Woodcombe took shape in it. The little River Honey made its way with tranquil persistence from Upper Bridge and the Littlechester road to Lower Bridge, beyond which it took a meandering course through meadows, east of the steeply rising slope of Manor Woods. Small though the Honey was, its course was attractively varied. Tranquil pools alternated with tiny rapids where it flowed over outcrops of hard rock, on one of which Edward Tuke had crashed to his death that April evening...
Like all woods the Manor Woods had a secretive quality, he thought, as he visualised them. A quality of hinting at hidden surprises, not always pleasant. The Manor itself was an agreeable one, an unassuming monument to eighteenth-century taste in its rose-red brick and perfect proportions. Deeper in the woods was that sinister survival of an earlier and less urbane civilisation: Old Grim. And somewhere in the sea of green was the tree from which a small boy living a life of secret fantasies had also fallen to his death...
In imagination Pollard left the woods by way of the path along the north bank of the river and paused at Bridge Cottage. In spite of all the convincing arguments against it he still felt occasional qualms about Leonard Bolling’s possible removal of the warning notice. Brushing aside the temptation to go over the evidence yet again, he moved on mentally across Lower Bridge to the village street and worked his way long it. Past the church, glancing up at the tower where the big breakthrough of eliminating the fans from the case had been so promising at the start. Past the Green Man and the down-to-earth Wonnacotts. Past the attractive period cottage, Yesterday, and its extraordinary owner who managed to combine a responsible job in the County Library Service and a positive obsession with the remote past. And next door, the last dwelling in the village: the rather discordant modern bungalow of the Fordyces, where a call would have to be made on returning to Woodcombe to conclude the series of interviews with all Edward Tuke’s known contacts.
That would be on Wednesday, Pollard thought, frowning. Uneasiness at the delay in getting on with the job once more made him feel restive. His hand began to move in the direction of the switch which would link him with one of the Yard’s telephone operators. Why not check the Wednesday appointment with Mrs Kenway-Potter by ringing St Kilda’s Nursing Home? He hesitated, and finally decided against the step. He had fixed things with her doctor before leaving Littlechester. If badgered, the medical profession was inclined to dig its toes in. And it wouldn’t be expedient to appear to be unduly interested in Mrs K-P at this stage.
With an all-out effort of willpower he brought himself back to the actual job in hand, and was genuinely immersed when Toye appeared after half an hour to compare notes on progress.
It was almost twenty-four hours later when, with a certain inner satisfaction at h
is own self-control, Pollard put his signature to the last of an interminable run of documents and asked to be put through to St Kilda’s Nursing Home, Littlechester.
In less than a minute the receptionist came on the line. He gave his name and asked if Matron could take a call. There was a short interval of silence interspersed with small clicks. He sat gently drumming with his fingers on the top of his desk.
‘Matron speaking, Superintendent Pollard.’
‘Good afternoon, Matron,’ he answered, with just the right nuance in his voice of one pillar of the establishment in communication with another. ‘I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time for you. I’m speaking from London, and just wanted to check with you that Mrs Kenway-Potter’s doctor is willing for me to see her tomorrow.’
There was a fractional silence, but long enough to convey surprise and for Pollard to sense that his previous uneasiness was returning in an acute form.
‘But Mrs Kenway-Potter isn’t with us any longer, Superintendent.’ The tone conveyed astonishment that he had not been informed. ‘She was so much better that Dr Hastings agreed that she could go home on Sunday evening as she was so keen to. I think it was her daughter’s visit on Saturday that speeded up her recovery. We were delighted, of course, although sorry to lose her.’
Years in the C.I.D. had made the judicious response almost automatic. ‘That’s excellent news, Matron,’ Pollard agreed. ‘It doesn’t matter in the least that somehow it didn’t get through to me. I’m coming down tomorrow in any case, and I’ll ring Mr Kenway-Potter at Woodcombe, and fix a time. So sorry to have bothered you unnecessarily.’
After a further exchange of courtesies he rang off. Simultaneously Toye, who had been following the conversation on an extension, came across the room with a list of telephone numbers taken from the file on the case. Their eyes met.
‘Skipped,’ Pollard said briefly, buzzing the Yard’s switchboard once again. ‘Get me Littlechester 59432. Top priority. And keep at it: it’s a big place with grounds.’
During the seemingly interminable wait that followed his thoughts rearranged themselves. ‘No,’ he said, ‘The Kenway-Potter type doesn’t skip. Too much to lose. But there’s something fishy going on. I swear…’
The receiver crackled.
‘Keep at it for another thirty seconds,’ he told the operator.
Toye nodded, signifying agreement on both counts.
‘All right, pack it in,’ Pollard said abruptly. ‘Now then, this is still top priority. A Mrs Boggis lives in a building that’s part of the Woodcombe Manor set-up which has the number you’ve been trying to get. She is on the phone and almost certainly has a separate number. Try to get her, will you?’
A longer silence followed.
‘I may have overreacted,’ Pollard admitted, ‘but I’ve been in a state of suppressed tiz about this damn case for the past forty-eight hours.’
Toye remarked that it had been getting under his own skin a bit, too.
At long last Pollard was told that he was through. An elderly voice painstakingly repeated a number and informed him that Mrs Boggis was speaking.
‘Good evening, Mrs Boggis,’ Pollard responded, with a relaxed normality which surprised himself. ‘This is Chief Superintendent Pollard. You remember my coming to see you last week, don’t you?’
‘Oh yes, sir. I remember.’
‘I want a word with Mr Kenway-Potter, but there’s no answer from the Manor — just the ringing tone. I wonder if you can tell me when he’s likely to be in?’
‘Oh, but he’s not there, sir. He went up to London Sunday evening on business. Something to do with the hotels the family owns.’
‘Did Mrs Kenway-Potter go with him?’ Pollard asked.
‘Not with him, she didn’t. Miss Amanda drove her up yesterday afternoon. She only came out of the nursing home on Sunday, you see. She’s wonderfully better, but they felt she ought to have a night’s rest before the drive.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Pollard agreed, restraining his impatience with a Herculean effort. ‘I expect you know where she and Mr Kenway-Potter are staying? I could contact him there.’
‘Yes, sir. If you’d kindly hold the line a minute I can give you the telephone number. They always leave it with me in case of an emergency, you see. They’re staying at one of the hotels. Not right in London, but outside, to be a bit more restful-like for Mrs Kenway-Potter. She felt a little change would do her good after her upset...’
‘Quite,’ Pollard said. Against a faint background of papers being turned over he ran his fingers through his hair and gave Toye a despairing glance.
‘This is the number, sir,’ Mrs Boggis came in at last, and dictated it slowly and carefully. He repeated it, thanked her, and was about to ring off when she spoke again. ‘If the matter isn’t urgent, sir, they’ll be back again on Wednesday.’
He thanked her again and hastily put down the receiver.
‘Could be in order,’ Toye propounded.
‘I know. But I’m not taking even a minimal chance. I’ll get on to K-P now, and have the hotel put under observation if they really are there. It’s essential not to put the wind up him. Do I sound just suitably efficient?’
‘I’d know something was up, but anybody not used to working with you day in and day out wouldn’t rumble it,’ Toye replied without hesitation.
Rodney Kenway-Potter was located without difficulty at a Surrey hotel.
‘Superintendent Pollard?’ There was slight surprise in his voice. ‘I hope you haven’t had any difficulty in running me to earth? My wife was well enough to leave the nursing home on Sunday afternoon, so as I had to come up on business she thought she’d like to come too for a short break.’
‘No, no problem, thanks,’ Pollard told him. ‘I got on to your Mrs Boggis. I just wanted to check that it would be in order for me to see Mrs Kenway-Potter briefly tomorrow. Dr Hastings mentioned Wednesday when I contacted him last Saturday.’
‘Perfectly in order. We’re driving home tomorrow morning. Would the afternoon do you? Say three o’clock?’
‘That fits in very well with my schedule. I’ll come along to Woodcombe Manor about three.’
‘Right. We’ll see you then. Goodbye.’
They rang off. Pollard sat frowning for a few moments. ‘I still think this trip was damned odd,’ he said. ‘I wonder if she insisted on discharging herself from St Kilda’s, and if so, why? Shall I try to get Dr Hastings? No, on the whole I think not. But I’m not taking any chances. We’ll have the hotel watched all night, and somebody tailing them tomorrow morning.’
These arrangements having been put in hand, and an early departure for Woodcombe on the next day fixed, there seemed no obstacle to going home for a domestic evening. Pollard headed for Wimbledon with a feeling that his recent apprehensions about the Kenway-Potters had probably been misplaced, but that it was a relief to know that they were now in no position to give him the slip. The evening was dominated by the exciting news that his twin daughter Rose, aged nine, had won first prize in her age group in a national poster competition. Later, when the children had gone to bed, Pollard and Jane agreed that they had succeeded quite well in boosting Andrew’s self-esteem through a few subtle moves.
‘I don’t think he felt too outclassed,’ Jane said. ‘She’s really good, you know. He’ll have to learn to live with it.’
‘He’s more of an all-rounder,’ Pollard pointed out. ‘We’ll build on that. To use the ghastly jargon, he’s got to find and accept his identity.’
‘No inferiority complex, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Amen,’ Pollard agreed. ‘An I.C. can do the hell of a lot of damage, and not just to the chap who’s got it... I take it that there’s some beer in the fridge?’
At a few minutes past six on the following morning the bedside telephone suddenly clamoured stridently. In an instant reaction Pollard had seized the receiver and silenced the din before Jane was fully conscious.
‘Pollard here,’ he said, p
ossibilities already shaping in his mind as he spoke.
‘Detective Constable Hatherleigh speaking, sir. An urgent call has come through for you from Superintendent Newman of Littlechester.’
‘Go ahead.’ This was not what he had expected to hear in the moment of his waking.
‘At approximately 01.30 hours this morning a resident of Woodcombe saw flames emerging from a ground floor window of Bridge Cottage. About five minutes after a 999 call was put through to the Fire Service an explosion took place. All attempts to rescue the occupier, Mr Leonard Bolling, failed. Fire-fighting appliances from Wynford and Littlechester finally got the fire under control by 03.30 hours. The house was burnt out, and Mr Bolling’s body is believed to be in the wreckage which, will be searched as soon as conditions permit. A preliminary police investigation suggests that the cause of the fire was arson. End of message.’
As he listened Pollard’s mind worked at two levels. An upper level registered the message while a second level assessed it and made decisions.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Contact Inspector Toye at his home. Pass on the message, and tell him we’ll leave from the Yard as near 7.30 a.m. as possible. Then get through to Littlechester, and tell them we should turn up at about ten. Got that?’
The gist of these orders having been repeated he put down the receiver, aware that Jane was already up. Her head came round the door as he flung back the bedclothes.
‘Breakfast’s ready as soon as you can make it,’ she said, and vanished again.
Over the years there had been not infrequent early morning calls and he had brought the technique of a lightning shave and shower and presentable dressing to a fine art. At this stage he never allowed himself to be slowed down by speculation but concentrated on going into action in the shortest possible time. Jane had perfected her own procedure. As he knotted his tie and ran downstairs he was greeted by the aroma of coffee and freshly-made toast. He slipped into a chair beside her at the kitchen table.
Troubled Waters Page 13
