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  Sutcliffe confirmed there had been no signs of vomit in the street where he had found Boyce. Whilst waiting for the car he had made a point—after putting Boyce back on the pavement—of searching the area round the body for . . . well, for weapons or articles that could have been nicked or bottles of drink.

  As soon as Snell and Scovell had left them, Watson said: “There’s going to be hell to pay over this, lad. Why the devil it had to be you that found him and me that was on the desk, I don’t know. But I’ll tell you, young Sutcliffe, before long we’re going to wish we’d never heard the name of Norman Boyce.”

  *

  The news of Boyce’s strange death broke dramatically the next morning.

  Bennett, the Colesworth Gazette crime reporter who had approached Snell in the corridor outside the courtroom the previous morning, had made a habit of dropping into the police station on his way to the office each day. There he was usually courteously received and given any snippets of news that the police could afford to let him have—crashes, fires, drownings and the rest.

  In the seven or eight years of his experience as a crime reporter, Bennett had developed a hide of leather and antennae so sensitive that they could log the slightest change from normal in the atmosphere at the police station. The reception he received that morning screamed aloud that something out of the ordinary had happened overnight. Other observations helped to reinforce the impression. Bennett had noted that standing outside the station were the cars—both known to him—of the Divisional Chief Superintendent and of the Detective Chief Superintendent. Both were comparatively rare visitors, and for them both to be at Colesworth together, at so early an hour, argued that something out of the ordinary was afoot. Inside the station, the sight of Sergeant Tom Watson still unshaven at nine o’clock argued a situation serious enough to transcend routine discipline.

  Once put on the trail by these pointers, Bennett was not to be headed off. The fact that nobody in the station would tell him anything only served to confirm his belief that he had stumbled across a big story. From then on he only had to try his other sources—the hospital, fire brigade, ambulance service and the like. It was the morgue attendant—who charged a fiver for the information—who produced the goods. The body of a youth had come in early from the nick. The name tag identified the corpse as that of Norman Boyce. The pathologist, Professor Haywood, who held the chair of Forensic Medicine at Aveling College, had sent word to say that he proposed to start the autopsy at eleven o’clock that morning.

  Norman Boyce! Bennett had heard the case in the Magistrates’ Court and he still remembered that Snell had not been exactly co-operative later, in the corridor. Perhaps this could be Bennett’s chance to make Snell pay for shrugging off the press.

  Bennett remembered the other two youths who had been charged with Boyce. It didn’t take him long to find Lawson and Mobb and—as he had expected—found them to be mines of information.

  Sure, Boyce had been in a pub last night, but he’d only had a couple of halves. It took more than that to make Norman Boyce drunk. He’d been all right when they had last seen him, and they reckoned the fuzz had picked him up because they had a down on all three of them and were disappointed that the court had not jailed them.

  This seemed a fair enough assumption to Bennett who had overheard Sutcliffe’s angry reaction to the outcome of the court case. Sutcliffe, after all, had vowed to “bang-up” the trio “no matter what”.

  Girlfriends? Yes, Norman Boyce had a girlfriend. Pam Watson—Sergeant Watson’s daughter. Did Dad approve of the relationship? Lawson and Mobb didn’t think Dad even knew about it, but they reckoned one thing was sure and that was that when Dad did get to know there’d be hell to pay.

  Bennett had left them with a pound note apiece and had then hurried to Watson’s house to ask Pam what she had to say about her boyfriend’s death in police custody.

  As a result of Bennett’s exertions, the Colesworth Gazette put out a Special that morning—something it hadn’t done since Coronation Day. According to the front page article, Pam Watson, on hearing from Bennett that Boyce had died overnight in a police cell, had become hysterical and shouted over and over again that her father had killed him because he disapproved of the relationship and because she, Pam, was expecting Boyce’s child.

  There followed a paragraph about how Watson should not have been on duty that night, thereby hinting that there was something not only mysterious but sinister about the sergeant’s presence in the police station when Boyce was brought in. This mystery was heightened, claimed Bennett, by the fact that the arresting officer, Constable Sutcliffe, should not have been on duty either. And he went on to say how he himself had overheard Sutcliffe’s voiced intention of seeing that Boyce and his two companions got what was coming to them, after they had been let off by the magistrates.

  It was all there, in black and white. The editor of the Gazette had really had no choice but to print it. Bennett, who was also a stringer for the London evening press, had phoned the story through and was delighted to hear that not only did the early editions feature it, but also that the lunchtime news broadcasts carried it.

  There were those in the Colesworth police station who did not share Bennett’s pleasure in these revelations.

  Detective Chief Superintendent Crewkerne, and Chief Superintendent Warne, the two whose cars had been noticed and identified by Bennett, had come to Colesworth as soon as they had learned of Boyce’s death. They had first conferred with Inspector Snell, then they had interviewed Watson and Sutcliffe separately. After that they had questioned Constable Younghouse and then inspected the incident ledger, generally treating the affair in a level-headed way, but regarding it nonetheless as a serious and deplorable case of unfortunate death while in legal custody.

  There was no reason to take any other course. Dr Scovell’s report stated clearly enough that there were no marks of violence on the body and certainly nobody had treated Boyce, while still alive, in any way more harshly than the unceremonious fashion of his transportation to the cell demanded. It was only after the Gazette Special hit the streets and the Chief Constable had heard a lunchtime news bulletin that the enquiry began to take on a different aspect.

  The Chief Constable himself arrived at Colesworth before two o’clock. Watson was interviewed again and denied that he knew his daughter to be pregnant, let alone that Boyce was the father of the child. A detective was sent to interview Pamela Watson who agreed she might have said something like Bennett’s report, but only because she assumed her father knew her to be pregnant. The reason for such an assumption was the fact that she had confessed her state to her mother during their talk the previous afternoon and had supposed that her mother had passed the news on to her father. Mrs Watson denied telling her husband because Pam herself had begged her not to.

  Snell was recalled and told the group of senior officers that he had come to hear of Pam’s involvement with Boyce and why he had informed Sergeant Watson of the involvement. He was careful not to reveal the source of his information, and the other officers present had been too preoccupied to think of asking him to do so, even had they been prepared to demand a name. Snell also explained how it was that Watson and Sutcliffe came to be on night duty.

  Sutcliffe, on his second appearance, confessed that in the heat of the moment, outside the court, he had said to a colleague that he intended to make sure that Boyce, Lawson and Mobb got their just deserts.

  It all sounded terribly thin this second time round and the D.C.S. looked glum as he spoke to the Chief Constable. “I don’t like to suggest this, but it’s beginning to look as though you’ll have to suspend Watson and Sutcliffe.”

  “Why?” asked the uniformed chief superintendent, determined to put up some sort of defence for his own men.

  “So that we can set up an official enquiry.”

  “Enquiry into what?”

  “Into a death while in police custody and also into the less-than-satisfactory story that Watson and
Sutcliffe have told.”

  The Chief Constable, who had listened to all that had been said, but had contributed little himself, now spoke. “Less-than-satisfactory to whom? To us? Or by the standards set by a local news reporter?”

  “To test the story for ourselves, sir.”

  “But to institute an enquiry, we must have adequate cause. On what grounds will you base your enquiry should I agree to it?”

  The D.C.S. frowned. “I said I didn’t like it. But what Watson’s daughter said is enough.”

  “That her father knew of her condition?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are willing to accept the hysterical ravings of a teenage girl as reported in a newspaper before the word of her father—a trusted and able man—and to crucify him on that account? Because, believe me, an enquiry such as you suggest would crucify him.”

  “If we don’t, the public will.”

  The Chief Constable shook his head. “If Watson is in the clear, he will ride the newspaper reports, but if he is pilloried by his own colleagues it will finish him.”

  D.C.S. Crewkerne acknowledged the truth of this, but asked: “What are we going to do then? Those bloody newshounds will demand something, and enquiries such as I’ve suggested are the only moves that will satisfy them.”

  “I shall decide when I know how Boyce died. The medical reports confirm that our men did not use violence. How do you suggest they could have murdered him?”

  “Murdered?”

  “What else would it be if it were not death from some sort of natural causes?”

  “I never mentioned murder.”

  “Then please tell me, Aubrey, why you wish to conduct an enquiry into the actions of Watson and Sutcliffe.”

  The D.C.S. shook his head glumly. “There’ll be questions asked,” he forecast, “and I would like us to be in a position to answer them.”

  “Agreed. But not at the expense of two of our men against whom—so far, at least—there is no evidence.”

  The uniform-branch superintendent applauded this, and was in the middle of suggesting to Crewkerne that statements should be taken and filed, unofficially, against the chance of storms ahead, when the phone rang. The Chief Constable was asked if he would take a call from Professor Haywood, the pathologist.

  The C.C. took over the phone and announced himself.

  “Ah! Just the chap,” said Haywood, a still youthful man with a still youthful turn of phrase. “I expect you’ve been getting a bit twitchy about this Boyce character, in view of the bad press you’re getting.”

  “It is disturbing, Professor,” admitted the C.C.

  “Then I’m glad to be able to set your mind at rest—in part, at least. The lad died of a fatal thrombocytopenia.”

  “What’s that in layman’s words?”

  “It’s what we in the trade call a blood dyscrasia. Dyscrasia simply means disorder.”

  “So he died of a blood disorder?”

  “That’s the strength of it. And it lets out your officers in the station last night, despite the insinuations in the Gazette.”

  “You are absolutely sure of that? I mean, I can count on it?”

  “There was no way they could have induced a blood disorder in Boyce in the time he was in their hands, short of injecting him with massive doses of some toxic material.”

  “Which they didn’t?”

  “Nary an injection mark on him. He may have been a young tearaway, but he wasn’t on the needle, praise be.”

  “And they couldn’t have fed him some substance by mouth?”

  “I think not.”

  “Only think?”

  “I can discover no signs of forcible feeding, and it would have to be forcible to get something down a chap who is stinko profundo. There would be marks or stains round the mouth—that sort of thing—and there weren’t any. So I think they didn’t feed him anything unless they’ve perfected a means of administration unknown to the medical world. But the time factor works here, too. You could feed a quick acting poison to a man and kill him off in less than an hour and a half, but I can’t think of anything that would cause so total a blood disorder as to kill him in that time. And that, in my opinion, exonerates your chaps.”

  “Thank you for that. Now about this disorder. What was it?”

  “A massive decrease in the number of blood platelets.”

  “So he could have died at any time.”

  “No, no! Hold your horses, Chief Constable. I rang you to set your mind at rest over your two officers who are under a cloud. But don’t run away with the idea that your job is over. That lad was killed by a toxic substance. In other words, he was poisoned earlier in the day.”

  “What by?”

  “I don’t know the substance yet. There are scads of tests to be done. What I can tell you is that Boyce could not have lived for a full day in the state he was in. I also know that fatal blood dyscrasias can occur suddenly. But that is a relative term, meaning at the minimum a period of . . . well, certainly not within the short time he was in police custody.”

  “Any ideas at all, Professor?”

  “As to exactly when he took the stuff? Not really. Your people say that when he was picked up he was well and truly sloshed, which I think he was. But his friends say he only had two halves of beer when he was with them last night. If that’s true, then he had something else to drink elsewhere or—and this could be the right answer—at the time your people found him he may have been under the influence, not of drink exclusively, but also of some of the nasties that can accompany thrombocytopenia.”

  “Could those nasties, as you call them, appear like the effects of drunkenness to the layman?”

  “In the street at night in a character smelling of booze? Oh, yes. Your chaps aren’t doctors. In fact, I think most doctors would have been fooled at the outset. So I don’t think your officers could be expected to know what was wrong. I’ve heard from the police surgeon that they monitored him in the accepted way and, so far as I can make out, the only things out of the ordinary were that Boyce wasn’t noisy, he didn’t vomit and he wasn’t actively uncooperative.”

  “Those things sometimes happen. Often, in fact.”

  “Quite. Well, now I’ve got your chaps off the hook for you, I’ll get on with the job. There’s a hell of a lot still left to do in the laboratory, and the coroner won’t get his written report till it’s completed.”

  “Thank you, Professor. I hope all of this will come out at the inquest so that the public will learn the truth.”

  “I’ll do my best for you. But if I were you, Chief Constable, I’d get my sleuths on to discovering how this otherwise healthy young man came to be in the state that killed him. Quite frankly, I think you will have to work on the presumption that somebody poisoned him deliberately.”

  “Murder?”

  “That’s what I’d call it, but these days they water murder down and call it manslaughter or justifiable homicide or some such thing. But I’d begin to look into it if I were you because I’m positive my report is going to force the coroner to require you to do so. And, Chief Constable . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Get a smart jack on to it, won’t you? This is going to be tricky—technically tricky, I mean—and you’re not going to clear your name completely unless you make a first class job of the investigation.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I just thought I’d mention it.”

  “When I said thank you, I really meant it. Both for the advice and the great help you’ve given me.”

  “In that case, so long. See you in court.”

  *

  The Chief Constable repeated the gist of the conversation he had had with Haywood. It wasn’t a difficult task because all of them present had gathered much of what had been said. The only bit the C.C. did not mention was the professor’s final bit of advice about the advisability of making sure of success in the investigation which now faced them.

  “Snell,” said the C.C., �
�are Watson and Sutcliffe still on the premises?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go and put them out of their misery. But keep quiet about the poison. Just tell them he died of a blood disorder exacerbated by drink.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “And send them off. They’ve been on duty since eight o’clock last night and Watson, at least, has got trouble to sort out at home.”

  “Sir!”

  After Snell had gone, the C.C. turned to the other two officers. “We’ve got a dog’s dinner here,” he said. “A lot of the mud that’s already been thrown is going to stick. An unfortunate death while in police custody, which sounds as though it could be murder, is going to be quite a target for mudslingers.”

  “A murder committed before we were involved,” reminded Warne.

  “True. But I wonder how many worthy citizens are going to cock a knowing eye when we try to put that across?”

  “It’s a pound to a penny,” grumbled Crewkerne, “that the local rag will be talking about a police cover-up by tomorrow night’s edition.”

  The C.C. asked: “Do you honestly believe that, Aubrey? Even if they know that you are conducting an enquiry?”

  The D.C.S. nodded. “We’ve had some. The police are a law unto themselves! They investigate their own misdeeds and find themselves not guilty!”

  “How can they say that,” demanded Warne, “when they learn that the pathologist has cleared my men?”

  “But he hasn’t,” said the D.C.S. “He has only cleared them for the one and a half hours during which Boyce was in the nick. What if our chaps got at him earlier?”

  “Rubbish!”

  “Maybe. But somebody is going to think of that and say we are using Haywood’s report as a get-out. Particularly if we can’t find whoever it was who fed the lad the poison.”

  The Chief Superintendent considered this for a moment or two and then turned to the C.C. “Is that how you see it, sir?”

  “I’m afraid I do. However, I really believe that Aubrey and his men could and would find the culprit.”