Late Delivery, page 10
‘That will be enough for analysis,’ Piet said. ‘I’ll make a quick sketch, but you’d better get a photographer out as soon as possible. I think that’s about all we can do here for the moment.’
‘Do you want to see the woman who called us?’ the inspector asked.
‘On the whole, I think better not. She’d only be alarmed, and we’ve got nothing more to tell her. You will have to get a statement from her, inspector, in as much detail as you can. Ask her if she knows where Sir Gordon normally went for his walks, if there’d been any phone calls, if he’s ever before gone off unexpectedly for the night, anything else you can think of. You might as well do that now, and let Chief Superintendent Begbroke have a copy as soon as possible. We’ll go back to Hungerford with Constable Bell and see about sending out a photographer. I don’t want to interfere with you, inspector, but the Special Branch is bothered in case there is some political motive behind Sir Gordon’s apparent disappearance, so we may have to be involved. Please don’t think that we’re getting in your hair, or showing any lack of confidence in you.’
‘Of course not, sir. You have the responsibility, and it’s right that you should be in charge. I can only say that we’ll do everything we can to help.’
‘I know you will. You get that statement from Mrs Morgan and we’ll take these apparent blood stains for analysis. They look like blood, but of course it may not be human blood. You might find out from Mrs Morgan if Sir Gordon went in for shooting and, if so, whether he was accustomed to wear this hat when going out shooting.’
*
Piet and Simon had gone to Hungerford in Begbroke’s car. As they drove away from the police station, Begbroke said, ‘If we lose our jobs over this, Chief, I reckon we should do pretty well on the stage. What’s the next move?’
‘I think we might go back to Netherwick and call on our old friend Sergeant Clifford. I could do with a drink, and maybe he can fix up a few sandwiches. He’d give us lunch, of course, but it would take too much time. Then I’d like to take your car back to HQ, leaving you to talk to the Postmaster. I don’t want to go there at the moment, because he may remember me as the artist chap who was painting pictures around the place. It was a splendid thought of Mrs Morgan’s to say that Sir Gordon had gone out to go to the Post Office. That gives us every reason for going there ourselves. I want you to find out from the Postmaster everything you can about his own movements on the night his aunt was killed. It’s a tough assignment, and I haven’t the least idea how you’ll go about it.’
‘I’ll manage,’ Begbroke said. ‘Do you want me to keep off the poker?’
‘I think so, yes. We have independent evidence from Sir Gordon that it was there, and the less said about it at the moment, the better. We’ll have a police hunt for it soon – or rather, for any heavy weapon which could have been used against Sir Gordon. I think we’ve just about time to get an announcement on the BBC’s one o’clock news.’
*
Sergeant Clifford was impressed and delighted. ‘Great honour for me – Chief Constable and head of the CID,’ he said. ‘Am I allowed to give you a drink now?’
‘No, sergeant, not yet,’ Piet said. ‘You’re still technically in the Force, and we may be needing you at Netherwick.’
‘I knew something was up, sir, but I don’t know what it is. You can’t keep anything secret in a village. A constable in uniform and three men who looked like police in plain clothes were seen poking about the bushes near the entrance to Sir Gordon Gregory’s house. People have been talking about it in the bar. I didn’t know that any of the men was you, sir. It must be pretty important if it brings you and the Chief Superintendent to Netherwick.’
‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t know about it – and we may need you unofficially to give a hand. Sir Gordon Gregory seems to have disappeared, and there are fears for his safety. One of these gangs of international terrorists seems to be turning its hand to the murder or kidnapping of men who were prominent in the old Colonial Services. A Belgian ex-official from the Congo was murdered the other day, and a Dutch officer who served in Java was shot and wounded; he managed to get away. So far we don’t know of any activities of the gang in Britain, but we’re naturally worried. As an ex-Governor of Moruga Sir Gordon would be a natural target.’
‘Lord, sir, I hope nothing has happened to the old boy. He’s a real gentleman, one of the old-fashioned sort. Comes into the pub for a drink, and is friendly to everyone. He does a lot of good in the village, too. What do you think can have happened to him?’
‘I don’t know. We found his hat and signs of a struggle in those bushes near his house this morning. I’m afraid it doesn’t look too good. We’re about to mount a full-scale police search. Have you a phone that I can use privately?’
‘Of course, sir, in my office.’
Piet rang his Public Relations division and the following announcement was the lead story on the one o’clock news.
‘North Wessex police are concerned for the safety of Sir Gordon Gregory, the last Governor of the former West Indian colony of Moruga, before it obtained independence. Sir Gordon, who is 76, retired from the Colonial service to live at Netherwick, a village nestling in the Berkshire downs. His housekeeper reported to the police this morning that Sir Gordon went out to walk to the village Post Office late yesterday afternoon, and apparently never returned. She was not greatly worried until this morning because Sir Gordon has many friends in the district, and she thought that he might have stayed to dinner with one of them. When she found that his bed had not been slept in, she called the police. The police have found signs of a struggle in some bushes near the entrance to Sir Gordon’s home and there are fears that he may be a victim of a terrorist attack directed against men once prominent in the old Colonial service . . .’
There followed a brief account of Sir Gordon’s career, and the news ended with an appeal:
‘that any member of the public who might have seen or heard anything that might have a bearing on Sir Gordon’s disappearance should get in touch at once with the nearest police station.’
*
The news was heard in the bar of the Golden Fleece. Piet and Simon had their sandwiches in Sergeant Clifford’s sitting room and while they were eating the sergeant came in. ‘Martha has taken over the bar for a bit while I have a word with you,’ he said. ‘The local people are very upset. They know that I’m an ex-policeman, and they’ve asked me how they can volunteer to help in a search for Sir Gordon.’
‘Tell them that we’ll be glad of their help, and that some uniformed officers will be coming out to organise a search this afternoon,’ Piet said. ‘Anyone with local knowledge who can spare the time will be most welcome. I’ll tell the officers to report to you here, and if you’ve got any volunteers they can join the search straightaway. Of course the main aim will be to get any line we can on what has happened to Sir Gordon himself – at the worst to find his body. But I don’t need to tell you that we are also looking for any heavy instrument, a hammer, or heavy stick, or even, perhaps, a poker, or something of that sort, which may have been used to injure him. I told you that we have found his hat. There are marks on it that look suspiciously like blood stains, and whatever was used to hit him may have marks of blood on it.’
‘I’ll be joining in myself, sir, and I know the sort of thing to look for.’
‘It could be anything, even a heavy stone. But there’s another job that I’d like you to tackle if you can.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Go back to the Post Office murder. There’s nothing to link Sir Gordon’s disappearance with that case, but it is just possible that someone was around then making some sort of reconnaissance for an attack on Sir Gordon, or there may have been strangers seen in the village at any time. Did you interview the man who found old Mrs Denny when he went into the shop to buy a newspaper?’
‘Yes, sir. That was Bert Small. He’s one of my customers, in the bar most evenings. He’s an electrical engineer, and he’s got a job as a technical representative for one of the big firms making farm machinery. He’s got a sizeable area to cover, and often makes an early start. That’s why he was in the shop early.’
‘Just the man who may have seen something suspicious, without realising it, at the time. I don’t want you to try to interview him officially – see if you can manage a casual chat. You can say that Sir Gordon Gregory’s disappearance takes your mind back to the Post Office murder. Does he have very vivid memories of that awful morning? It’s no use asking him what he remembers, because he’ll just remember what he said at the time. His statement just says that he went in to buy a paper, saw Mrs Denny lying in a pool of blood, realised she was dead, rang 999 from the Post Office phone, and stayed in the shop till the police came. But he must have done little things – I’d expect him to have gone to the door and looked out, for instance, to see if there was anyone about to help. Ask him if he did. If so, did he see anything at all, a car parked or disappearing, anything. It was a bright morning, I think. Say how often you notice the sun glinting on unexpected things when it’s low in the sky in the early morning – that may remind him of sunlight glinting on a car’s windscreen, or something. Memory’s a queer business. People may honestly think they don’t remember anything about some incident until something triggers their brain like a camera shutter, and they start seeing mental images of things that they may have thought they’d never seen.’
‘I’ll do what I can, sir, but I’m not in your class as a detective. And can any of this help to find Sir Gordon, do you think?’
‘Nonsense about the detective bit – you’ve long experience, a thorough mind and a good way with people. As for helping Sir Gordon – who knows? I can’t see how the cases can be connected, but when two serious crimes happen in one small village in six months you can’t help wondering if they may be related in some way. I don’t want to do anything to suggest reopening the Post Office case, because that might raise your Bella Marshall’s hopes, and start all sorts of rumours flying. But I do think it worth going back over some of the old ground, as tactfully and quietly as possible.’
‘I understand, sir. If I do get anything that I didn’t get from Bert Small before, who shall I report to?’
‘Ring me directly, and if I’m not there ring the Chief Superintendent. I’ll arrange for you to be put through at once to either of us if you ring.’
*
Back at headquarters, a worried Assistant Chief Constable was anxious to see Piet. ‘There’s all hell let loose – the Press Office phone never stops ringing, and we’re more or less besieged by reporters.’
‘Good,’ Piet said. ‘If you put on an act it might as well be a success.’
‘I don’t know what you mean by success. I hope you know what you’re doing. How on earth are you going to bring Sir Gordon back to life – and justify the appalling expense in money and manpower in looking for him?’
‘Let’s face that when it comes. What have you been doing, Grahame?’
‘Well, I obey orders. I’ve been talking to the Press, as you asked me, and they think we’re being very open and decent with them.’
‘We want their help. Already the one o’clock news on the BBC has produced offers of help in the search from most of the able-bodied men and women in Netherwick. I’m afraid they may upset Lord Martingale’s pheasants, but I’m sure his lordship would be on our side if he knew the truth of things.’
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t – not if his pheasants come into it! He’s been on the phone half a dozen times this autumn demanding police protection for his coverts. You escape him by getting him put through to me. I must say, Piet, that if your play-acting gets a bit of our own back on his lordship, it’s a point in your favour. By the way, the blood stains on the hat and bits of grass you sent in are human. I suppose you knew that.’
‘Yes, it’s my blood.’
*
Simon Begbroke was a long time in Netherwick. Piet stayed on at headquarters until he got back. ‘How did you get on?’ he asked.
Simon thought a bit before answering. ‘Hard to say. I had a long talk with the Postmaster – seems a decent enough chap. The post goes at 5.30 p.m. and he says that Sir Gordon came along most evenings around five o’clock, to post letters, and buy things in the shop. He didn’t come yesterday, but the Postmaster didn’t think anything of it, because he didn’t come every day. I said it seemed extraordinary that a quiet village like Netherwick should have two sensational crimes, and that got us talking about the Post Office murder. He didn’t seem on the defensive in any way, but he told me one thing that doesn’t seem to be in his statement. He said that the night before the murder his aunt rang him up and asked if he could come over, because there was something she wanted to discuss with him. As it happened he and his wife were going out that evening, and when he told his aunt this she said it didn’t matter, but would he come over when he could? He said that he had offered to come next day, and his aunt said that would do very well. But he never saw her again, because she was murdered in the morning. He said that he still felt unhappy about not seeing her when she wanted, but he didn’t know what she wanted, and she’d said that it could wait. I said that he could scarcely blame himself, and we parted on the best of terms. I don’t know what happened, but it’s a fact that I think ought to have come out before. I don’t want to blame Inspector Gray with hindsight, but I feel with you that there were a lot of questions that should have been pursued, but weren’t.’
‘It was all too obvious. There was that boy with a weapon and blood on his hands – why waste time by going into a lot of speculation?’
‘All right, but I can’t help feeling guilty, too. I’m head of the CID and I took everything reported to me at face value.’
‘So did I. And we don’t know that we were wrong. The curious affair of the stamp has made a mystery of everything that seemed straightforward, but we must guard against looking for mysteries that perhaps aren’t there. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it is the obvious that does happen. The stamp may have some quite ordinary explanation.’
‘That doesn’t seem very obvious, anyway.’
*
Piet wanted to try an experiment. He put on what he called his painting jacket, took his painting bag, and drove over to Netherwick. He didn’t set up his easel, but went to the Post Office, where Mr Grimshaw, the Postmaster, remembered him.
‘Glad to see you,’ Mr Grimshaw said. ‘The rector showed me that picture you did of the church. Really beautiful, it is. Wouldn’t mind one like that of our Post Office. Could you do it, and what would it cost?’
‘It would be better in summer when the climbing roses are out,’ Piet said. ‘Cost? I suppose about £50. For the picture, that is – if you wanted it framed the frame would be extra. Say £10 for the frame.’
‘Sixty quid seems a lot of money.’
‘Well, it’s quite a lot of work, and a lot of training. I spent five years at art school, evening classes after a day working as a clerk in an insurance office.’
‘Perhaps it’s not so much for these days. I’ll have to think about it, and talk it over with the wife. Will you be round here again?’
‘Oh, yes. I’m hoping to do a number of landscapes in this area, and I’ll certainly look in. Can’t say exactly when but within the next week or two.’
‘Good. What can I do for you now?’
‘I’d like some stamps for first class mail. Ten of them please.’
The Postmaster got his stamp book, a sort of folder with dividing pages, stamps of each value being kept together between two pages. He turned to the right section and tore off the stamps, closing the book after doing so. Piet felt in his pocket and produced a small bundle of letters and two pound notes. He’d deliberately asked for stamps that would require change. Putting the letters and the money on the counter, he said, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t seem to have any change.’
‘That’s all right, I’ve got plenty.’
Mr Grimshaw went to the till and came back with the change.
‘Thank you,’ Piet said. He picked up the coins and his letters, then looked rather worried. ‘I’m sure I had another letter. It doesn’t seem to be on the floor.’
Mr Grimshaw looked on the floor on his side of the counter. ‘Nothing here either,’ he said. ‘You must have put it back in your pocket with the others.’
Piet looked again. ‘No, it isn’t here,’ he said. ‘Could it possibly have got into your stamp book?’
‘Don’t see how it could. I’ll have a look if you like.’
He opened the book at the section for first class stamps. ‘Well I’m blowed,’ he said. ‘It is here after all.’
He gave the letter to Piet, who apologised for the trouble he’d caused, picked up his bag and went out.
*
As he was in Netherwick Piet decided to call on Sergeant Clifford. Village inns in this part of rural England open at ten o’clock in the morning, licensing hours which reflect the days when farm labourers started work at dawn, and were often ready for a snack brought from home and a pint of beer at the pub by ten o’clock. Nowadays people seldom want to drink so early, but in the country old habits die hard, and the law permits drinking from 10 a.m. until 2 p.m. instead of the more normal 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. in towns. The sergeant had just opened his bar, but there was no one in it. ‘Nor will there be for another hour or so,’ he said. ‘Seems a bit mad opening as early as this, but it gives us a better afternoon for ourselves, and I’m not sure that I’d want to change. Some licensees think that staying open until three would bring more trade, but others, and I think I’m one of them, prefer a longer afternoon off.’
The empty bar suited Piet. ‘How did you get on yesterday?’ he asked.
‘Well, there was a big turn out to help the police search the fields and woods. I’ve felt before when we’ve been searching for a missing person that looking in this sort of country is pretty hopeless, really, though of course it’s got to be done. There are so many miles of ditches, and hedgerows, and undergrowth in woods where a body might be that you’d need an army to search properly. But the lads are doing their best, and although perhaps I shouldn’t say it I’m not sure that the locals aren’t better at the job than the police.’
