by John Creasey
Next moment a blow struck him behind the ear, and he fell flat again.
He held his breath, expecting the final killing blow – and then felt someone touch his shoulders and heard a man say: “Okay, mate, okay; take it easy!”
Peel sat up slowly.
“Now take it easy,” the man said urgently. He was a stocky little fellow, peering closely into Peel’s eyes. “You’re okay – take it easy. Don’t try to get up, just sit back a minute. They’re fetching you a pick-me-up. You’re okay.”
Peel licked his lips.
“That—man—”
“They’re after him, you’re okay.”
Two other men came out, and one of them had a flask of whisky.
A new, authoritative voice spoke.
“Don’t give him that, it’ll go to his head. Let me have a look at him.”
The newcomer was a small, middle-aged man, well-dressed, obviously a manager or one of the office staff. Peel sat obediently while the other examined his head, and it felt tender but not particularly painful. The man stepped back.
“Only a graze; perhaps a drink will do him good,” he conceded.
The whisky trickled down Peel’s throat, biting, welcome. He tried to stand up on his own, but couldn’t; the others helped him up. He stared over the wall. Three men, all van-drivers, were coming away from the railway sidings, talking to one another.
“Did they get him?” Peel muttered.
“No,” said the well-dressed man. “But the police will – don’t worry about that.” He frowned. “What was it all about?”
Peel told him.
If the local police were puzzled by Scotland Yard’s prompt interest in the body in the dump, they didn’t say so but welcomed Roger. A sergeant and a police-surgeon had arrived almost immediately. Seven or eight uniformed men were poking about the dump, the remains of the victim were placed side by side near the wall. Only a hand remained to be found – an arm with a badly charred and broken wrist had just come to light. So had the remnants of a pair of flannel trousers and two brown shoes, which had been surprisingly little damaged; there was even a trace of the printing inside the heel of the shoe, visible to the naked eye. It would be fairly easy to identify the clothes, although it would be a long time before the body itself could be identified.
Roger and the police-surgeon studied it.
“Youngish chap,” the police-surgeon said. “Height about five seven or eight, I’d say. You’ll trace him through his dentist, I expect. Can’t think of any other way.”
“Any idea how long he’s been here?” asked Roger.
“Hard to say. Know who you want, don’t you? Fire expert. Tell you more about it than I can,” said the police-surgeon. “When your photographers have finished, I’d send the remains to the Yard, if I were you. No point in leaving them somewhere locally, and I can get a dentist working at them early in the morning.”
“Tonight, please,” asked Roger.
“All right, all right,” grumbled the other.
Roger had a word with the local superintendent, whose men were still searching the smouldering rubbish, then turned towards the main factory buildings. As he drew near the platform, against which a dozen vans were backed, a man came out of a large office – a rather short, well-dressed man, accompanied by a foreman.
The well-dressed man saw Roger.
He drew back, knocking against his companion. It was a moment of shock, astonishment, alarm, and it seemed to Roger there was something else in his expression: fear. He didn’t move, even when the foreman spoke to him, and Roger vaulted up to the platform level. The colour was drained from the man’s face, and his hands were shaking.
“Mr Akerman – what’s up, sir?” That was the foreman.
Akerman pulled himself together and approached Roger.
“Who—who are you?” he asked, and his voice quivered a little.
“Chief Inspector West of New Scotland Yard,” Roger said brusquely. “Reason to be alarmed, sir?”
“Al—alarmed? Well, yes, in a way. It’s incredible. You’re the living image of him. You—but, of course, you know about him. I’m talking of Guy Randall.”
“Yes, I know about Randall,” said Roger heavily. He couldn’t make up his mind whether the likeness was the full explanation of Akerman’s manner. “Nasty business here, sir. Are you the—a manager?”
Akerman said: “Not here, I’m from the London offices. Francis Akerman, from the Buying Department. Er—yes, today’s is another nasty business. I’m glad the local police haven’t delayed sending for the Yard, we shall want to get to the bottom of it quickly.”
Roger said: “I hope we shall. Who is in charge?”
“Mr Emanuel,” said Akerman, and added hastily: “Mr Emanuel Perriman, that is – our managing-director. He will see you himself, I’m sure.”
“Thanks,” said Roger, “but I meant in charge of this department. I want to see the men who saw the attack on your warehouseman, please – what’s his name? Peel, I think.”
“The drivers have already been interviewed by the police,” complained Akerman.
“They’re still here, sir,” said the foreman.
“Oh, are they? Good. You look after the Chief Inspector, and I’ll tell Mr Emanuel that he’s here.”
Roger interviewed the van-drivers. None of them could describe Peel’s assailant, except to say that he had been dressed in dark-brown and wore a handkerchief mask. During these interviews the foreman was present, and Roger asked him if any of the regular workers were missing.
“I couldn’t say – it’s been such a messy afternoon,” said the foreman. “Tell you what might help, though – the time-cards.”
“How can they help?”
“Well, if it’s one of our staff, and that’s what you obviously think, he wouldn’t have clocked out, would he? The attacker just made off.”
“He could have slipped in at another entrance and clocked out,” said Roger. “But I’d like to find out who hasn’t.”
“Come along with me,” said the foreman.
He led the way to the time-keeping office, outside which were racks of cards. Most of the cards were in one large rack, but there were a dozen in another – and the foreman told him these people hadn’t clocked out; he himself was included. He ran through the names. Six were of women, who were working overtime in the wrapping shed. His made seven. He read out the other names aloud, and looked round the big shed, saying: “Danny’s here … Bob … Tim … Benny … h’mm, Relf, he—”
“Who?” exclaimed Roger.
“Relf – one of the porters, and he’s usually off on the tick,” said the foreman with a sniff. “Name’s familiar, is it?”
“It is rather. What’s this Relf like?”
“Big powerful chap. Can’t say I like him. General porter – odd-job man. He—”
The foreman broke off.
“Yes,” encouraged Roger.
“He does more work on the dump than anyone else.”
Roger said quietly: “I’ll check up on Relf. None of the staff is missing, I suppose, apart from him?”
“No, no one. Why?”
“There is a corpse,” Roger reminded him.
“Yes, yes. But it isn’t one of our men, I’m sure.”
“Noticed any strangers about here lately?” asked Roger.
The foreman said: “Well, there are always a few. Scrap merchants come up to see if we’ve anything for disposal. But—can’t say—wait a minute, though. There was one fellow who’s been more persistent than most of them. He said he was a scrap disposal merchant, and wanted to make an offer for everything we had. Been hanging about part of each day for the last week.”
“What was he like?”
“Not a bad chap. About medium height, I suppose, or a bit less; rather plump. Had dark hair, and always wore the same clothes.”
“And what were they like?”
“A black-and-white check sports coat and a pair of flannel trousers,” said the
foreman, and licked his lips again. “They—they found a black-and-white coat on the dump, didn’t they? Or what was left of it.”
Chapter Seventeen
Night Journeys
Everything pointed to the dead man being the newspaperman Clayton. And everything pointed to the missing Relf as Peel’s assailant, for one of the railwaymen in the siding said that he had seen Relf run away from the factory and get on a motorcycle. Relf’s address proved to be a rooming-house in the East End of London, and he wasn’t there when the police called. Roger arranged for the house to be watched and for Relf’s description to be circulated throughout the country. Then Akerman came for him – and with Akerman was Randall’s friend, Wilson.
“Second meeting,” Wilson said briefly. “I’m sorry about this – is it the same business?”
“It could be,” said Roger.
“We’ve just been talking about it,” said Akerman. “Mr Wilson has come to see the conditions in which our goods are wrapped and stored; it will give him a clearer idea of the requirements for our containers.”
“I mean to do a good job for Randall’s order,” said Wilson.
Roger nodded.
“But you mustn’t keep Mr Emanuel waiting,” said Akerman.
Roger wasn’t yet accustomed to the Perriman habit of calling their ‘family members’ by their Christian names, to distinguish one from another. There were Emanuel, Silas, and Matthew at Woodhall; Samuel and Joseph in London and a number of lesser Perrimans, the younger generation with more modern names. Mr Emanuel was the patriarch of the family which had established Perriman’s first retail shop fifty-one years ago. He received Roger in a small, cosy office. He had a mop of thick white hair which waved back from his forehead, a bushy moustache, red, healthy cheeks, and clear blue eyes.
He was distressed by what had happened. He wanted the police to understand that every facility would be granted to help them in their inquiries. The name of Perriman was an honoured one, almost a revered one, in commerce; such a scandal as this, such an unhappy event, would smear that good name. If in the event it proved that a member of the staff of Perriman’s was involved, then the police could be sure that it would shock everyone concerned.
A polite secretary led Roger out of the sanctum sanctorum.
By then an officer of the National Fire Service had arrived and was waiting near the dump for Roger. He said that there was a top layer of accumulated ash and debris which had been there, slowly increasing, for some weeks. In one part of the heap, however, there was evidence that this top layer had been removed and thrown to another place, and that a hole had been dug and filled with highly inflammable material. He suggested that the body had been put on top and the flames started. The blaze would be fairly brief – perhaps at its height for half an hour or so. The body would be badly burnt, enough to make it unrecognisable. Then it had been dismembered and dug in, and the top layer of ash and debris spread over it.
“What about the clothes?” asked Roger.
“He wasn’t wearing the coat or the trousers,” said the fire-expert.
The sifting of the dump would take all night and part of next day, but Roger was anxious to get it done as quickly as possible, and as anxious to stay on the spot as long as he could. The dispatch foreman stayed late and was a mine of information – he told Roger one thing which he hadn’t learned from Peel’s report. Twice a week, night journeys started from the factory. These were the middle-distance deliveries of goods to branches which could be reached after an all-night drive, so that the unloading could be done at the shops early next morning. About seventy vans were involved, and the journeys were made every Monday and every Thursday.
Tonight was Thursday.
Most of the vans were already loaded.
The journeys started at half-past eight, when the drivers and their mates gathered in the department, took their loading sheets and delivery notes and clocked out. Thirty seconds were allowed between the departure of each van; so the seventy were off in half an hour and five minutes – and at five past nine precisely, when it was dark outside, the last van rumbled off. Its driver was a lanky, cheerful fellow, and his mate a little Scotsman.
The last van out, as it happened, was the first to be held up.
Lanky Tim Holloway not only looked cheerful; he was an optimist by nature. Sandy McKay, sitting beside him, was of a dour and glum disposition. They were on a quiet stretch of road near Basingstoke when suddenly a figure loomed up in the headlights, a man who held his arms high above his head, and waved vigorously.
“Dinna take any risks,” said Sandy quickly. “’Tis against ordis to give lifts, Lanky.”
“Never said I was going to give no one a lift, did I?” demanded Lanky. “Like me ter run him over, would yer?” He pulled up slowly, and the headlights shone on a figure huddled up in the road. “Lumme! Someone been ‘urt.”
“I dinna like it,” muttered Sandy. “There’s been a lot of hold-ups, Lanky. Swerve, mon, and—”
But it was too late; Lanky had stopped just in front of the man who was lying in the road. The other man hurried to the cabin door. Lanky opened it and said: “Wot’s up, mate?”
“Just put your hands up, chum,” said the man by the door.
In the reflected light from the headlamps a gun showed clearly in his hand. Lanky gasped, Sandy swore. The ‘victim’ scrambled to his feet as Lanky and the Scotsman put up their hands.
“Now listen,” said Lanky earnestly if nervously. “You won’t come to no good doing a thing like this, mate.”
The ‘victim’ had opened Sandy’s door, and now stood back and ordered him to get out. Lanky was forced to climb down on the other side, and the man with the gun took them to the back of the van. The bar across the double doors was lowered and the doors opened, and the crew was made to climb inside. The armed man followed them. He hung a small, electric lamp on a nail on the side of the van, and sat on a carton of porridge oats. Lanky squatted on a side of bacon, and Sandy stood swaying from side to side, glowering in the gloom. The big van rolled slightly, and Lanky’s face began to work. Once they lurched heavily, throwing Sandy into their captor and making him bang his head against the side. For a split second the man’s attention was diverted and Sandy made a dive at him.
The man raised his right leg and kicked Sandy viciously in the groin. The little Scotsman squealed and sprawled over some cartons and fell, with cartons tumbling about him. He bent double, his breath coming in panting gasps.
The gun pointed straight at Lanky.
“Don’t try any tricks,” the hold-up man said.
His face was coated with grease-paint and he wore a big false moustache. His hat was pulled low over his eyes. The van swung towards the off side, and Lanky glanced about him nervously; then the van swung left – the driver had been swinging out to turn. They travelled along a rough road and then the van slowed down; stopped.
The gunman said, “Now get cracking. We want the bacon and bottled and canned fruits and jams. Bring it to the back of the van.”
Sandy gasped: “I wouldna help ye if—”
The gunman leaned forward and struck him across the face with the barrel of his gun. Lanky made an ineffectual swing at him, which wasn’t noticed. The door swung open, and the gunman jumped down and was joined by the driver. They lowered the tailboard with a crash, then put up the chains to make it secure. Under the threat of the gun, Lanky and the Scotsman, his face bleeding, shifted the food.
Another man joined the two outside. They lifted the cases, packages, and sides of bacon out of sight. At last the job was finished.
Lanky wiped the sweat off his forehead. Behind him, the van looked a shambles of cartons, split packages, and powders. There was a half-case of jam, most of the glass jars of which had been broken – the red jam spread over the floor like thick blood.
One of the hold-up men stood by the tailboard with his gun. Another jumped aboard and a cosh appeared in his hand. He raised it and the shiny leather glinted. La
nky struck at his hand but missed, and the cosh descended on his temple, knocking him sideways. It fell again on the nape of his neck, and he pitched forward, unconscious.
Sandy flung a jar of jam at his assailant.
The man dodged; the jam-jar smashed, another sticky mess appeared on the wall. The man with the cosh struck savagely – struck again when Sandy was unconscious, struck a third time until the man with the gun ordered: “Stop it – now get down.”
The assailant kicked Sandy’s unconscious figure, and then obeyed. The couple put up the tailboard, shut the doors and dropped the bar into position. Then they hurried to a small van, which was in front of the Perriman one, climbed in beside the driver who was already at the wheel, and drove off.
Eleven other vans were held up in much the same way; the same kind of food was taken.
The chief clerk of the Control Room was sitting at his desk, working on a mass of figures. It was four o’clock. His assistant was drawing on a big map, planning Monday’s schedules. What a life! Always the same! No excitement, not much fun. What a life! He …
Brrr-brrr! Brrr-brrr!
That was the telephone nearest him.
His assistant looked up.
“I’ll answer,” said the chief clerk, and took off the receiver. “Perriman’s Control Room.”
“Hold on, I’ll put you through,” a girl said.
“Percy!” A hoarse voice sounded on the line, and the clerk sensed the speaker’s tension.
“Who’s speaking?” he demanded.
“It’s Lanky – Percy, listen. We bin ‘eld up. Mac’s been knocked abaht somefink awful. I’m at an AA box, forced me aht of the lorry. I sent for the police. I’m near Basingstoke …”
The Wests were early risers; less by inclination, especially when Roger had been out late, than because the boys disturbed the morning peace from about seven o’clock. Or rather, Scoopy did – he was always the chief culprit. Roger, lying in his own bed, opened his eyes and saw sunlight flooding a corner of the room and heard Scoopy reciting in a sing-song voice, a dirge-like tune:
“Half a pound of tup’ney rice,
