Late Delivery, page 17
‘Do you suppose the boy was mixed up in it? You didn’t actually ask him about stamps.’
‘No. In my interview with Eric Marshall I tried to stick to physical facts, like whether he recalled the shop doorbell ringing when he went into the Post Office. I didn’t want either to raise his hopes, or to give him ideas. It still seems to me in the highest degree unlikely that an eighteen-year-old West Indian garden boy could be involved in a highly sophisticated fraud over forged stamps. It’s possible, of course, but unlikely.’
‘There were no blood stains on the money found at his home. Assume he wrapped a handkerchief or something round the notes to protect them, do you think the stamps might have got covered in blood? He might have thought it best to destroy them.’
‘He might, but that is to assume that he knew about them. And how do you destroy a sheet of 199 stamps while running across Netherwick Green? Tear them up and throw them away? Yes, but the police were on his track within a few minutes, and I don’t believe that torn up stamps would not have been noticed. Burn them at home? His home was searched, remember, and although I’m far from satisfied about the degree of observation that went into the case, again I find it hard to believe that fresh ashes somewhere in his home would not have been noticed.’
‘I’m with you there – I was just putting up a theory. I agree with you that the stamp side of the business is hard to relate to a West Indian odd-job boy. But the murder is equally hard to relate to a young woman with an apparently blameless record.’
*
Neither feeling at all happy, they had to break off for a hurried meal before tackling the night watch on the Netherwick-Foldworth road. ‘How long do we keep this up?’ Simon asked. ‘Like everything else in the case it seems to get us nowhere.’
‘I don’t know,’ Piet said. ‘For tonight, at any rate, but the more time goes by without anyone’s hunting for the poker the more likely it seems that I’m plain wrong about it. In the light of any information that may come in tomorrow, we can discuss whether it’s worth going on with the night watch. Are you game for the first stint tonight?’
‘Yes, game enough. I only hope it’s worth doing.’
‘Then I’ll relieve you at 2 am.’
*
It was with a sickening sense of futility that Piet relieved Simon in the field behind the hedge. Simon was cheerful, but bored. ‘A couple of cars on their presumably lawful occasions – at any rate they didn’t stop,’ he said. ‘I’ve been trying to remember a poem I had to learn by heart and recite at the age of about ten. It was called “The Wreck of the Hesperus” and was about a crazy New England skipper who insisted on taking his small daughter for a winter trip. I got to the sixth verse,
Colder and louder blew the wind
A gale from the North East
The snow fell hissing on the brine
And the billows frothed like yeast.
I couldn’t do any more, except for one verse after the wreck
At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach
A fisherman stood aghast
To see the form of a maiden fair
Lashed close to a drifting mast.’
‘Longfellow,’ Piet said. ‘I had to learn it, too, but I can’t remember as much as you do.’
‘Well at least you remember Longfellow. I racked my brain to try to think who wrote the thing, and finally settled for Tennyson. It made the time pass, anyway.’
*
Reciting ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus’ in a field at two o’clock in the morning seemed to symbolise the sum total of police effort in the case. It was a calm night, with a clear sky and fine display of stars. Piet tried to see how many he could name, and was ashamed to find how few they were. ‘Why do we want to name the stars?’ he wondered.
At three o’clock he had a cup of soup from his flask. Half an hour later he saw through the hedge the lights of an approaching car. If the traffic committee ever wanted a census of night traffic on the Netherwick-Foldworth road, he and Simon could provide it. He wondered what this car was doing. A doctor on a night case? A late party-goer? It didn’t matter, anyway. Suddenly he stiffened into attention. The car had stopped. A moment later the lights were switched off.
The car was about fifty yards from the entrance to his field. Confident that he could not be seen, Piet went into the road. He saw a light there, but it was not coming from the car. It was somebody with a torch, who had got down into the ditch.
Tense with excitement, Piet walked towards the car. Whoever was in the ditch was a little behind the car, so that Piet’s approach was shielded by the car itself. As he got near to it he saw that it was a police car. Then he shone his own powerful torch into the ditch and said ‘What on earth are you doing?’
A man in the ditch directed his torch at him, and then gasped in surprise, ‘It’s the Chief!’
‘You’d better come out,’ Piet said.
Constable Reece, in uniform, climbed out of the ditch. ‘I’m on patrol, sir,’ he said. ‘I know that you’re looking for a poker that may have been used to attack Sir Gordon Gregory so for the past few nights I’ve been looking in likely places.’
‘How do you know it was a poker? Why is this a likely place? And why have you turned off the lights of the car?’
Constable Reece’s manner changed. ‘I might as well ask what you’re doing here at this time of night,’ he said. ‘You’d better be careful. I’ve got a gun – I always carry one on night patrols.’
‘That is strictly against all regulations,’ Piet said. ‘If you really have got a pistol, give it to me. I think we’ll have the lights of the car on – and I think I’ll have the key.’
As Piet opened the door to switch on the lights and remove the ignition key, Constable Reece closed with him and pressed the barrel of a small automatic into his side.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Piet said. ‘If you shoot me, how long do you suppose it will be before you’re caught? Every policeman in Britain will be looking for you.’
‘Do you mean that you know about us?’
‘I know enough to require a lot of explanations. Give me the pistol and get into the back seat of the car. I want to use the radio.’
It was touch and go. Piet was defenceless against the pistol, but Constable Reece was in an agony of indecision. How much did the Chief Constable know? He had to find out before he could kill him. ‘I’ll do a bargain with you,’ he said. ‘Forget about this meeting, let me get into the car and drive off, and I’ll leave you unharmed.’
‘You will do as I tell you. Give me the pistol and get into the back seat of the car.’
Piet’s calmness and air of complete authority won. The next moment the pistol was thrust into his hand and Constable Reece was grovelling at his feet. ‘Oh, sir, try to help me,’ he whimpered.
Piet left him where he was and used the police car’s radio. ‘Chief Constable speaking,’ he said. ‘I want two patrol cars with four men to come at once to the Netherwick-Foldworth road. About half way between Netherwick and Foldworth.’
Suddenly the non-visual memory that Piet had taken away from his lunch at the printers surged into his conscious mind. He knew exactly what it was – it was the scent used by Miss Wells. And that told him something else. ‘While we are waiting you had better tell me precisely how Miss Wells comes into things,’ he said.
The North Wessex patrol system was so efficient that there wasn’t time for conversation before the first car, which had been in the neighbourhood of Foldworth when called by radio, turned up. The second arrived a few minutes later. ‘You will know Constable Reece,’ Piet said. ‘He is under arrest on a charge of unauthorised possession of a firearm. He can be formally charged with that and is to be held in custody. More serious charges are likely to follow later. Here is the pistol which I took from him – you will see that it is not a police issue. He may get in touch with a solicitor if he wishes, but in no circumstances may he communicate with anyone else. Take him away now. I want one of you to drive his patrol car back to the station. I have my own car and I’ll take that myself. I’ll give further instructions later in the morning.’
*
Piet did not wait to see his orders carried out – he was too sick at heart. While Constable Reece was being put into one of the other cars, with an officer beside him, Piet drove off. He did not go home, but went to Simon Begbroke’s house. On ringing the doorbell he was admitted by Simon in a dressing gown. ‘I’m sorry to rob you of the rest of your sleep,’ he said, ‘but what I feared has happened, and we’ve got to act quickly.’
‘I’ll make some coffee,’ Simon said. ‘What has happened?’
‘I’ve arrested Constable Reece for unauthorised possession of a firearm – he threatened to kill me with it. He has been taken away to be charged with that, but I think there is very little doubt that he was concerned in the murder at the Post Office. I have always feared that since I went into the question of the ringing of the shop doorbell. I am now convinced that Miss Wells is also mixed up in the affair. Can I use your telephone? I’m afraid that I’m going to get my neighbour in Oxfordshire out of bed.’
While Simon made the coffee Piet rang the Chief Constable of Oxfordshire. He had a phone by his bed, and answered almost at once. ‘Sorry to bother you at this unholy hour, but there’s been a major development in the Netherwick case, and later today I expect to charge a man with the murder of the Postmistress. Miss Wells, of the printing firm, will also be charged with being an accessory. Can you please get her detained forthwith, and get a search made of her house? You can detain her on a holding charge of stealing a quantity of security stamp-printing paper from her employers. Later in the morning perhaps you could send her over to us – I want to interview her myself. But she must be taken into custody at once – it is a matter of great urgency.’
‘If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t have rung up like this,’ the Chief Constable said. ‘I’ll act at once, and the woman should be in custody in about twenty minutes. Can I congratulate you?’
‘At the moment, no,’ Piet said. ‘It is a bad, and miserably sad, business. Justice may come out of it, but as things are I want to weep.’
XII
Breakdown
IT WAS INSPECTOR Parsons’ turn to be got out of bed. Twenty-five minutes after Piet’s call he was at Lime Kiln Cottage, accompanied by a constable in uniform and a woman police officer. It was a still morning, not yet beginning to get light. The rather isolated cottage was in total darkness. There was no drive – a biggish garage was built to one side of the place – and a flagged footpath led to the front door. There seemed to be no bell, but there was a heavy wrought-iron knocker. ‘Don’t want to rouse the neighbourhood,’ Inspector Parsons said, ‘but there seems nothing else for it. Anyway, there don’t appear to be many neighbours to be aroused.’ He knocked sharply on the door.
In the still darkness the sound seemed like a thunderclap, but nothing happened. The inspector knocked again. This time an upstairs window was opened and a woman’s voice called down, ‘Who is it, and what do you want?’
‘We are police officers and we need to see you urgently,’ the inspector replied.
‘How do I know you are police?’
‘If you look out of the window I’ll shine my torch and you can see that two of us are in uniform. If you come to the door you can see our warrant cards.’
The inspector duly shone his torch on his companion, and then whispered to the constable, ‘Nip round to the back in case she tries to slip out.’
No light went on in the house and for three or four minutes the police party waited in silence. Then there was a call from the back of the cottage. ‘I’ve got her,’ the constable shouted. ‘She was about to climb over the fence.’
The inspector and the woman officer ran round the cottage and their torches showed a young woman, dressed, and firmly held by the constable. The back door of the cottage was open. ‘We’ll go inside through the back door,’ the inspector said. ‘Come along, Miss. It will be better for you not to struggle.’
The door led directly into the kitchen. The woman officer found the switch for the light and the constable and the inspector brought in the girl, each holding gently one of her arms. The inspector shut the door, and drew the curtain over the window above the kitchen sink. ‘Now why did you want to run away like that?’ he asked.
‘Because I don’t trust you. I’m alone in the house, and you could be burglars dressed up as police for all I know.’
The inspector produced his warrant card, and the constable and the policewoman showed her theirs. She waved them away. ‘Oh, all right,’ she said. ‘Tell me what you want and go away so that I can go back to bed.’ She was still standing, and the inspector moved a kitchen chair for her. She sat down ungraciously. ‘Get on with it,’ she said.
‘I understand you to be Miss Rebecca Wells. Is that your name?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And you are employed by the firm of security printers near here?’
‘Yes, I am the managing director’s secretary.’
‘I have reason to believe that you are concerned in the theft of a quantity of stamp-printing paper from your employers.’
‘Absolute rubbish.’
‘It may be so, Miss, but I have orders to take you into custody.’
‘How dare you do that! Have I no rights in the matter?’
‘Of course you have, Miss. You will be taken to Oxford police station and formally charged with the alleged theft. You may make a statement then if you wish, but I must warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence.’
‘That is preposterous. May I consult my solicitor?’
‘That can be arranged at the police station. And if you want to collect anything in the way of clothes Woman Police Constable Susan Briggs will accompany you while you pack.’
‘Can I make a telephone call first to say what is happening to me?’
‘I’m afraid not, Miss.’
‘What about my house? How long is this ridiculous performance likely to go on?’
‘I can’t say, Miss, but your house will be left secure, and the police will keep an eye on it.’
‘Well, I don’t seem to have much choice.’
The policewoman went upstairs with her, and she was down a few minutes later carrying a small suitcase. ‘You can take her away now,’ the inspector said. ‘The station officer is expecting her, and she will be formally charged and kept in custody. I have a warrant to search these premises and I shall stay here for a bit. When you get to the station, send back a car with a driver, a photographer and a man to take fingerprints. I must ask you to let me have your keys, Miss. I will give you a receipt for them.’
*
Alone in the house, the inspector turned on more lights and had a quick look round. The original cottage consisted of the kitchen and a sitting room on the ground floor, with two bedrooms upstairs. It had been built on to, the extension providing another bedroom and bathroom upstairs, a cloakroom and another room on the ground floor. The door to the ground floor room, opening from the original sitting room, was locked, but one of the keys he had taken from Miss Wells fitted the lock. When he turned on the light inside he thought at first that he was in an artist’s studio. There was a half-finished picture of a boat on an easel, a collection of brushes and tubes of paint on a small table beside it. On looking round he saw a number of other things. One corner was walled off to make a small inner room, and inside it was a sink, and quantities of high grade photographic equipment – it formed a self-contained dark room. On a bench along one wall of the main room was a hand-operated engraving press, old, but in beautiful condition. Beside it was a small reel of perforated, gummed paper. He was making a note of the various contents of the place when the photographer arrived. By this time it was getting light. The inspector felt that there was little more that he could do. Leaving the photographer and the fingerprint expert to their work, he went back to Oxford in the car that had brought them. Before leaving, he said, ‘This whole place is to be kept under police guard. I’ll send back a car and a man to relieve you, but until you are relieved stay in the cottage. It looks as if we’ve uncovered evidence of a major forgery.’
*
At ten o’clock Piet ordered Constable Reece to be brought to him. He had Simon Begbroke with him in his office and they already had a report of the finds at Lime Kiln Cottage. Constable Reece was still in uniform, but unshaven, and somehow looking unkempt. He was accompanied by two other officers, both of whom, of course, knew him. ‘This is distasteful to us all,’ Piet said. ‘I am going to arrange for Constable Reece to be kept in custody in Oxford, where at least he won’t have to be guarded by ex-colleagues. But I need to interview you now, Reece. Do you wish to have a solicitor present?’
‘No, sir. I know about my rights but you have a reputation for being fair. I want to get it over with.’
‘Very well. The chief superintendent will take down your answers to my questions, and you will then be asked to sign a statement. I need scarcely tell you that you are not compelled to say anything, but that anything you do choose to say may be used in evidence.’
‘I understand well enough, sir. I’ve done enough harm, and I want to put right what I can.’
‘Where did you meet Miss Wells?’
‘Does she have to be brought into it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I met her at the dinghy sailing club. You may know that I was last year’s champion in the police sailing association.’
‘When did you meet Miss Wells?’
‘It would be about two years ago. She was short of a crew one day at the club and I crewed for her. After that we sailed together quite a bit, and I became very fond of her. In fact, we were engaged to be married.’
‘And she told you that she’d thought of a way of making money that wasn’t stealing and wouldn’t hurt anybody?’
‘It was more or less like that, sir. We both wanted a big yacht in which we could sail round the world, but we didn’t see any hope of being able to afford one. Becky – that’s Miss Wells, sir – understood the stamp market, and she knew about printing partly because of the firm she worked for, partly because she’d had previous experience in the design department of an advertising agency in London. She’s always been keen on painting, and I think she’s very good. I know quite a lot about photography, so we worked together.’
