Late Delivery, page 11
‘Better in some ways, certainly. But the police do the organising. Half a dozen men, say, can search a mile of ditch more effectively if they’re organised in a pattern of work.’
‘True enough, sir. I was glad to see some of my old friends leading the search. I’ve got mixed feelings about leaving the Force, always will have, I suppose.’
‘Were you able to have a word with Mr Small?’
‘Yes, sir, I was, and I was thinking of giving you a ring this afternoon. Trouble is that I don’t know whether what he had to say means anything.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Well, I took your advice, sir, and when he was in the bar last night I began chatting about the two crimes, and saying how sharply I remembered being called to the Post Office murder. He said that he would never forget that morning, that it still gave him nightmares, and sometimes he had to take sleeping pills. I asked him what he remembered most about the time when he was waiting for the police to come. You’re quite right, sir, he did go to the door to look out, several times. And he did see a car parked a couple of hundred yards along the road – it was your bit about the sunlight glinting on it that made him remember that, sir.’
‘There’s nothing about the parked car in his statement.’
‘He didn’t think anything of it, sir, and until I talked to him yesterday he hadn’t said anything about it to anybody. He certainly said nothing to me when I questioned him.’
‘Does he recall what sort of car it was?’
‘He thinks it may have been a Fiat, but it was some way off. He does remember the colour, green, because the sunlight lit it up.’
‘Did you see any car when you got there?’
‘No, sir, or we’d certainly have investigated it. There was nothing anywhere near the Post Office when we arrived, and it was only a few minutes after he’d made his 999 call. It must have been some chance driver, who’d stopped for a minute, maybe to light a cigarette.’
‘Maybe. I wish we’d known about it at the time.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but we didn’t, because Bert Small didn’t tell us. And it isn’t the car that seems most interesting in what he told me last night. I don’t even know if it’s real. He says he’s still haunted by a smell.’
‘Does he mean the smell of blood?’
‘No, sir. I used the wrong word. I should have said scent. He says that as soon as he got over the first shock of discovery he noticed a rather beautiful smell, a sort of fragrance. Mrs Denny used to sell small bottles of scent – the Post Office still does – and his first thought was that one of them must have been knocked over and broken. He looked around while he was waiting for us, but couldn’t see any broken bottle, and a bunch of them on a shelf behind the counter all seemed to be intact. Then he remembered that his daughter – he’s got a teenage daughter – used Mrs Denny’s scent, and it wasn’t that smell at all. Martha tells me that Mrs Denny scent isn’t really very good scent, but some of the village girls like it. Bert Small doesn’t know what he smelt, but it still upsets him because it seemed so wrong to have a nice smell round that dreadful mess in the Post Office.’
‘Did you smell anything when you got there?’
‘No, sir, but then we wouldn’t. We were busy, the door was wide open, and there were people coming and going all the time, doctor, ambulance men, photographers. And there was that trail of blood outside the shop to be followed up.’
‘I can understand that. What do you think he smelt?’
‘If you ask me, nothing, sir. I think it’s just imagination. I’m only reporting it because you told me to report anything he might remember.’
VII
A Green Fiat
PIET FOUND Mr Evans of the Post Office waiting for him. ‘I’m glad you got back, because I’ve got to go in a few minutes,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to come without notice, but I spent the morning with the stamp printers, and they have remembered something that happened last year, though whether it means anything or not, I don’t know. On the face of things it shouldn’t.’
‘We can’t tell what anything means at the moment. The important thing is to have facts, whether they are relevant or not.’
‘Yes, that’s why I came to see you straightaway. Are you familiar with the process of stamp printing?’
‘Not in any detail. Essentially, I suppose, it’s much the same as any other form of high-grade printing.’
‘Near enough, though there are one or two special techniques. The machines are fed from paper on a reel, which passes over inked plates to produce the printed stamps. The stamps are printed on a sheet, and the perforations that separate stamp from stamp are cut by a toothed roller during the process. It is the perforation system that concerns us at the moment. Stamp paper is of high quality, and strong, but you will understand that with machines working at high speed it happens occasionally that something may break. Since the paper is security paper with secret marks in it, any paper break during printing has to be recorded. There was an occasion in August last year when the toothed roller making perforations jammed, and a section of the printing paper was torn. The machine was stopped, the toothed roller that had caused the trouble replaced. The press was then re-threaded with fresh paper from the reel, everything checked, and the machine started up again. The whole incident took about ten minutes, and was regarded as a minor matter. But it was duly recorded by the foreman.’
‘What happened to the damaged paper?’
‘Any security paper that becomes unfit for use is put in a locked room for later examination. It may sometimes happen that there is a defect in the paper itself, in which case the papermakers are called in and the cause of the defect established so that it can be put right, and any batches of paper with a similar defect that may have been sent out, recalled. In this case there was nothing wrong with the paper, which had torn because the perforating roller jammed. Any piece of security paper that is too small for use has to be burned. This was a small section, partly damaged, not more than a yard or two. The paper is expensive and waste is kept to a minimum. When the roller jammed, the machine was stopped at once and only just enough paper cut from the reel to allow for re-threading. The managing director is sure that the damaged piece of paper was duly burned, but records of such destruction are not kept in the machine room log, and he hasn’t had time to find out precisely what was done. He has promised to get all the information today, and has invited me to lunch tomorrow to discuss it with him.’
‘When the printing process was interrupted by the perforating roller, could a few stamps have been printed with the head reversed?’
‘Impossible. The plates were not affected – it was only the paper feed.’
‘Would it be difficult for you to let me join your lunch tomorrow?’
Mr Evans considered this. ‘Gavin Ross is a good chap, and I’ve known him for years,’ he said. ‘Also, he gets a large part of his business from the Post Office. I could ring him up easily enough, and I’m sure he’d invite you to lunch. But wouldn’t it be rather awkward? So far you’ve asked me to keep the police out of the affair, and it would seem a bit odd for a very top policeman suddenly to appear on the scene.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of being a policeman. I wondered if I could be a member of your staff.’
‘Proud to have you. You’d have to be fairly senior, though – you look senior.’
‘I feel old and worried. I don’t mind what you call me, as long as I have a chance of talking informally to that managing director.’
‘OK. Let’s take it as fixed up. You can be head of Post Office Internal Security – it had better not be stamps, or he’d have met you before, or at least heard of you. Internal staff are anonymous to the outside world. What’s your name?’
‘Peter will do, because it is my name, though I spell it the Dutch way, and if you call me Peter it will be familiar. I suppose I need a surname. What about Devonshire? It’s near enough to Deventer to be covered up if you forget, or anything.’
‘I shan’t forget. I’m due at his office at 12.30 – it’s a couple of miles from Stadhampton, on the Oxford side. There is a nice pub at Stadhampton called The Old Castle. Say we meet in the bar there at noon, and then we can go on together. The works are only about five minutes by car from the pub, so we shall have a bit of flexibility if either of us is late. Now I really must go. I don’t know what is happening to your routine work while all this is going on, but mine is getting into a worse and worse mess.’
*
So was Piet’s, but that was where Grahame Stevenson came in. He might not approve of Piet’s methods, but he was loyal and hardworking, and could stand in for Piet on most of the committees that tend to fill – would fill if he let them – a Chief Constable’s day. That was why Piet had taken him into his confidence. He was not in Piet’s class as a detective, but at routine administration he was probably better. And now, when things were pushed on to him, he understood why.
When Mr Evans had gone, Piet rang through to Simon Begbroke and asked him to look in.
‘I don’t know that we’re getting anywhere,’ Simon said, ‘but we’re combing the countryside pretty thoroughly. I’m on your side in feeling that we must do it, but it’s a fairly hopeless task. Still, it’s early days yet.’
‘I’ve got a particular job for you, Simon,’ Piet said, ‘and as far as you can I’d like you to handle it yourself.’ He told him about the green Fiat that may have been near the Post Office on the morning of the murder. ‘We ought to have known about that car from the start, but we didn’t – another bad slip-up. Whether it’s possible to find out anything about it now I don’t know; certainly it will be difficult, but at least we can have a go.’
‘It may not be as difficult as all that,’ Simon said optimistically. ‘It may be a car that’s often in the village, may even belong to the village. If not, it’s still not hopeless. People nowadays remember cars more than they remember people. I’ll have to use staff for some of the routine work though, getting on to garages to find out who services a green Fiat, that sort of thing.’
‘Of course you must use staff. I meant that I wanted you to be personally in charge of the inquiry.’
‘That’s nice of you, Chief, after our performance in the original investigation.’
‘Come off it, Simon. I’m just as much to blame as you are. Everyone is to blame, because we accepted the evidence as it was thrown at us.’
*
Piet arrived at The Old Castle at Stadhampton with two minutes in hand, to find that Mr Evans had equally played for safety in order to be punctual. So they had time for a drink before setting off for the printing works. ‘Gavin Ross was perfectly happy that you should come along for lunch,’ Evans said. ‘He tells me that he has got the whole record of that paper from the time of the mishap to the time of destruction by burning, so it looks as if there’s not much progress to be made in that direction.’
This was a disappointment to Piet, who had been half-hoping that somehow the printing fault would explain the reversed-head stamp. Lunch at the printing works now seemed a waste of time, but having come so far he felt that he had to go through with it. Mr Evans, who had never believed that such a stamp could be printed by error, was philosophical. ‘Anyway, we shall get a decent lunch,’ he said. ‘Gavin’s firm is distinctly prosperous, and he’s got a private dining room with a girl superintendent who’s a damned good cook. Of course, he prints stamps and banknotes for a number of foreign Governments, so he wants to entertain prospective customers in style.’
*
Piet and Evans decided to keep their own cars so that they could leave at different times if necessary. Evans piloted Piet the short distance to the printing works, where they parked in a well-signposted Visitors’ Car Park. The buildings were new, an office block surrounded by lawns and flower beds, and the printing works, a separate building, also pleasantly set in well kept grass. Everything looked prosperous.
The firm had not only a private dining room for the managing director but a small suite of private rooms, where other directors and senior staff could entertain customers. Piet and Evans were expected, and conducted by a charming receptionist to Mr Ross’s room. Mr Ross himself was not there, but another girl was putting the finishing touches to a bowl of flowers on a table laid for three. She was clearly in charge of things. ‘Mr Ross will be along in a minute. Meanwhile, can I get you a drink? We can offer most things, I think.’ Piet accepted a Scotch, and Evans a dry sherry.
Having served the drinks the girl went out, and Piet stood by a big picture window that took up most of the outside wall. The distant view was of gently rising Oxfordshire countryside, but the foreground, below the window, was another car park. It was fairly full. ‘Staff car park, I expect,’ Evans said. ‘Rather sensibly they’ve put the visitors’ car park to the front of the building.’
Piet glanced at the cars without much interest, reflecting on the changes in society which have given typists their own cars – changes which made it possible to have such a printing works in lovely countryside, and more or less compelled people to have cars to get to it. Minis and Fords seemed to dominate the car park, with a fair number of Japanese vehicles, and a sprinkling of other makes. It was a common enough picture. Suddenly he noticed one car in particular. It was undoubtedly a Fiat, and it was green. Unhappily, the car parked beside it obscured the number.
Piet pulled himself up sharply. Even if Bert Small’s recollection was accurate, and he had glimpsed the car rather than looked at it, there was not a scrap of evidence that it had anything to do with the Post Office murder. There must be thousands of green Fiats. And if there was no evidence that Bert Small’s green Fiat was of the least significance, there was even less likelihood that a green Fiat parked near Stadhampton was remotely connected with the case. But the printing works did come into it, though how it was impossible yet to see. A green Fiat outside the printing works was a fact – not necessarily a relevant fact, but still a fact. He must get its number and discover whose car it was.
Could it wait until after lunch? It was in the staff car park and presumably belonged to someone working for the firm, and not likely to be driven away before five o’clock or so. Yes, but suppose it belonged to some salesman who might be going off at any minute? Piet couldn’t bear it; he had to get the number.
‘Damn,’ he said to Evans. ‘I’ve left my handkerchief in my car. Hold the fort if Mr Ross comes, while I slip down and get it.’
For appearance sake he duly went to his own car parked in front of the building, then, screened by the other cars in the visitors’ car park he nipped round the building to the staff park. The green Fiat was still there. It was OUD 1750S. He wrote the number in his notebook as he walked back to the dining room. He had been gone approximately three minutes. Mr Ross was not yet there.
‘Find it all right?’ Evans asked sympathetically.
‘Yes, thanks. I feel undressed without a handkerchief. I used it to wipe a speck of grit or something from my eye while I was driving and stupidly left it on the seat.’
*
Mr Ross turned up a moment or so after Piet got back. ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,’ he said, ‘but really it was on your business. The reason why I couldn’t give you all the dates and times about that waste paper yesterday is that we have the auditors in, and all our security record files have gone to them. It is part of the financial audit because a figure has to be set on the value – in this case a nominal value – on any special paper or partly printed material of importance that may have to be destroyed. The man who is working on this particular file was away yesterday because he had to give evidence in a motoring case. It was one of those maddening things where cases that are down for hearing in the morning don’t in fact come up until the afternoon. This case was then adjourned until today, and our poor auditor has only just got back. I waited for him so that I could bring you the record book. I have it here. This is the relevant entry.’
He handed Evans an impressive leather-bound book, opened at a page numbered 103. Evans showed the page to Piet, who read
August 17. Four yards eleven inches of security stamp paper damaged by faulty perforating roller. Destroyed by burning in the presence of Rebecca Ernestine Wells.
There followed the signature of R. E. Wells.
‘Who is Miss or Mrs Wells?’ Piet asked.
‘She is Miss Wells, and my secretary – a truly marvellous secretary, too. We have a special incinerator for burning important material, and normally I should have witnessed the destruction myself. But there are degrees of security, and in a case like this where only a small amount of damaged paper is involved it is reasonable for Becky to do it for me. I had to go to London on that day. I came here first thing to do letters, and I asked Becky to see to the destruction of the paper. If it had been damaged banknotes it would have been another matter. In such cases destruction has to be witnessed by two directors. We’ve been in business for over seventy years, and I don’t think our security system has ever failed. So you see, gentlemen, wherever your extraordinary stamp came from, it couldn’t have been anything to do with us.’
‘The incident with the perforating roller occurred on August 15, but the damaged paper wasn’t disposed of until the 17th. Is such a delay usual?’ Evans asked.
‘Yes. In fact it is inevitable. Damaged stock, as you know, is taken out of the machine room and locked in the security office. It has to stay there for a bit in case any tests need to be made. In this case the foreman was satisfied that there was no fault in the paper. One of the reasons why I asked Becky to look after the destruction was to get rid of it. You saw the machine room log yesterday – four yards eleven inches of damaged paper cut from the reel and put in the security office. You’ve seen the end of the matter today – four yards eleven inches of paper duly burned. Everything tallies. And now I think we can wind up our part in the affair by having some lunch.’
