Shelf Life Page 5

  “Could and would?” asked Warne.

  “I’m not prepared to give anybody the slightest chance to even hint at a whitewash in this Division. We are going to be seen to bare our breasts to the scrutiny of investigators other than our own immediate colleagues. In other words, we are not going to conduct our own enquiry. We’re going to get somebody in from outside to do it. The only decision to be made is whether I invite the C.C. of another Division to arrange it or whether I ask the Yard to do it. I’d like your opinions, gentlemen, please.”

  “I’m quite easy, sir,” said Warne. “I’ll be happy with whichever you decide.”

  The D.C.S. was more deliberate.

  “Horses for courses,” he said firmly. “In a case like this it’s best to choose the best man for the job.”

  The C.C. nodded his agreement. Crewkerne’s words were almost a repetition of those used by Professor Haywood.

  The D.C.S. continued: “If it was a case of fatal injury with a lot of routine work involved, I’d opt for a Crime Squad man from another Division. But this is not injury, it’s medical—very tricky—and it’s going to take a man with a track record in just such cases to do it properly.” He looked squarely at the C.C. “In my opinion, sir, we should nominate the man we want.”

  “That sounds logical. Who had you in mind, Aubrey?”

  “D.C.S. George Masters of the Yard. He’s a specialist in this sort of case.”

  “Thank you both for your help and advice, and you, Aubrey, for your unquestioning agreement to call in somebody to do a job you could undoubtedly do yourself. I’ll ring the Yard and ask for Masters. Let us hope he’s free to help.”

  Chapter Three

  Masters was free to help.

  Though he and his team were not at the top of the list to answer outside calls for assistance, Anderson the A.C. (Crime) was very happy to accede to the Chief Constable’s request to send a specialist team for a specialist job.

  “Whoever decided to ask for Masters by name was a sensible chap,” the A.C. said.

  The C.C., at the other end of the phone, admitted that it had been the decision of his D.C.S.

  “Who is your D.C.S.?”

  “Crewkerne.”

  “Aubrey Crewkerne? He and I are of the same vintage. We were colleagues many moons ago, and he’ll know Masters. Crewkerne was, I believe, a D.I. here when Masters joined us as a detective constable.”

  “Then we should have a happy team.”

  “More important, you’ll have the best team. Now Chief Constable, please give me a brief rundown of your problem so that I don’t have to send Masters out to you completely cold.”

  By the time the phoned report was finished it was after half past five. Anderson immediately rang through to Masters.

  “George, there’s an outside job for you.”

  “You know I’m not on standby, sir?”

  “You’ve been asked for by name. Come up and hear all about it after you’ve warned Green and your sergeants.”

  “You mean we’re to go this evening, sir?”

  “’Fraid so, George. To Colesworth. It will take you the best part of a couple of hours to get there by road, and the Colesworth people are quite twitchy.”

  “That’s where the cell-death occurred, isn’t it?”

  “The same.”

  “Then I can understand them being a little tense. Is that, in fact, the job we’re wanted for?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “I’ll join you in two minutes, sir.”

  *

  Shortly after six they were on the road.

  As so often happened, Masters briefed his team in the car as they went. When he had finished telling them what he had learned from Anderson, Detective Sergeant Berger, sitting in the front passenger seat, turned round to Masters in the opposite back and said: “As I see it, Chief, it all revolves round the question of whether the constable who picked up this villain Boyce should have done what he did or whether he should have called an ambulance and had him taken to hospital.”

  Before Masters could answer, D.C.I. Green, sitting as usual in the—to him—psychologically safer nearside rear seat, said: “It all revolves round that, does it, lad? Then in that case we might as well revolve this car and go home.”

  Berger looked astonished. “But if he’d been taken to hospital he’d either have been saved or he’d have died under medical care, and the local force wouldn’t have been involved.”

  “The pathologist thinks it’s murder, lad, and murder involves the police whether the victim dies in a cell, a hospital bed or a field of cowslips.”

  “I know that. But if Sergeant Watson and Constable Sutcliffe had acted differently . . .”

  “They acted correctly,” said Masters. “This is a grey area in police work to which nobody has yet found an answer.”

  “I don’t follow you, Chief.”

  “Coppers,” said Green, “can’t shove drunks into hospitals unless the drunks are injured.”

  “Quite right, too,” added Reed, keeping his eyes on the road while he joined in the conversation. As he overtook a small car, he continued: “I’ve seen some of it—we all have—on Saturday nights especially. Swearing drunks, fighting mad, playing absolute havoc with casualty departments in busy hospitals. You always have to get extra porters and cops off the street to restrain them. How the hell those young nurses stick it, I don’t know. Vulgar language, puke all over the shop and the chance of a black eye or a broken nose for trying to help them. And those young doctors, too. I remember one of them once telling me that he had been on call for over a hundred hours that week, and he hadn’t been paid as much for all that work as some of the drunks he was treating had spent on booze that one night.”

  “That’s common knowledge,” said Green. “But the drunks wouldn’t believe you, though, come to think of it, their wives might.”

  “Alcoholism is growing worse and it’s of great concern to the authorities,” said Masters. “But the Home Affairs Committee that investigated deaths like this one—deaths in police custody, that is—reported that our way of dealing with drunks is as good as any, short of setting up special centres to which all drunks would be taken to sober up.”

  “Sort of half hospital, half nick?” asked Green. “At the public’s expense, I suppose?”

  “The do-gooders have suggested them. Meanwhile, we compromise. We ignore drunks that are still on their feet. We take in those that are completely blotto or incapable of taking care of themselves, and we send the injured ones to hospital. That is our system, and I can’t see that Sutcliffe and Watson were at fault in any way, particularly as the pathologist has reported that there are no marks of violence on the corpse.”

  “So you’ll ignore all this business about Boyce getting Watson’s daughter pregnant?”

  “I don’t think I can say that at this stage. That fact may be relevant to discovering the how, the why and the who of Boyce’s poisoning. But, equally, it could be just as much of a distraction in the way of getting at the real reason or motive for his death.”

  “That’s simplified that,” said Green airily. “Let’s hope the rest comes as easily.”

  Masters started to fill his pipe. “You’re a humbug, Bill.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “A gob-stopper,” said Reed and then went on hurriedly, “After all, you did shut the Chief up.”

  “Just for that,” growled Green, “you will buy me my second drink tonight.”

  “Will I? Who’s buying the first?”

  “You are. And keep your mind on your driving. I know I’m getting hungry and thirsty, but I can wait an extra few minutes to get to Colesworth.”

  They went straight to the Albatross Hotel. As they entered, Green said: “Pretty lush, this. But I don’t like the way the carpet goes up the wall. I prefer paper myself.”

  “Bill Green!”

  It was Crewkerne. The big, bulky D.C.S. had been waiting in the foyer to greet them. No
w he ambled forward like a muscle-bound grizzly bear.

  “Aubrey the Crook!” cried Green, moving to meet him.

  “Old Home Week,” grunted Reed. “Now the Chief’s at it, too.”

  Masters said: “It was good of you to book us in, Mr Crewkerne, and better still of you to be here to meet us.”

  “Still got the old charming manners, have you, young Masters? I always thought life in the Met would knock them out of you.”

  “He keeps his end up,” said Green. “How’ve you been keeping, Aubrey?”

  “On top of the world till this business today. Now I’m a bit singed.”

  “Cheer up. His Nibs here has the case half-solved already. Have you had dinner?”

  “Not yet. I was waiting for you.”

  “Excellent,” said Masters. “If you could give us a few minutes to settle in, we could meet again in the bar.”

  They were all sitting round a table in the bay window of the bar, drinks in front of them. Crewkerne said: “The point is this, George. The pathologist—and he’s the real forensic McCoy—says it’s tricky. Technically, that is.”

  “The death itself?”

  “Yes. Fatal thrombocytopenia, if I’ve pronounced it right. I’d never heard of it until this afternoon. I’d never heard of blood dyscrasias either, but evidently there’s scores of ’em, all caused by different things. Professor Haywood—that’s the pathologist—advised my guv’nor to get a specialist team if he could.”

  “And you agreed?” asked Green, surprised.

  “Yes. I told him to get you lot.”

  “You could have done it yourself. Hell, Aubrey, you’ve bottomed more problems in your time than . . .”

  “I know. But I wanted an outside team because of all that claptrap in the news. I want it to be seen we’re not covering up. And for that reason, though I’ll give you any co-operation you might need, I’m not going to offer to help or suggest that any of my people should help—barring answering your questions, of course. It’s got to be a genuine third-party investigation. So after I’ve had a bite to eat with you here—for old times’ sake—I’m going to leave you severely alone unless you approach me. I’m telling you so you won’t take it amiss and think I’m sulking because you’ve been called in.”

  “We understand,” said Masters. “We’ll bother people as little as possible.”

  “Good. Let me get some more beer in.”

  “Not before we eat, Aubrey,” said Green. “I’m oppressed with the two weak evils.”

  “What the hell . . . oh, you mean your bladder is . . .?”

  “Age and hunger,” snorted Green. “Doesn’t anybody round here know any Shakespeare?”

  “His bladder’s all right, sir,” said Reed to Crewkerne. “It should be. He exercises it to the full often enough, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  “Lubricates it well every day, does he?”

  “Yes, sir. And usually at other people’s expense.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” grinned Crewkerne. “Because though I’m not so hot on Shakespeare, I do know that little rhyme . . . how does it go, now? Ah, yes . . . ‘As men draw near the common goal, Can anything be sadder Than he who, master of his soul, Is servant to his bladder?’.”

  “I wish you’d shut up, you lot,” said Green, getting to his feet. “Talking about it like that brings it on—like whistling in hospital.” He stalked out and the rest followed him to the dining room.

  *

  Green was first down to breakfast the next morning. He had asked if the chef would fry him some potato to have with his bacon, egg, tomato and sausage. His request was granted, but his order took a little longer to prepare than just the scrambled egg that Masters had chosen, and as Green had neglected to arm himself with a newspaper, the others were well into their meal while he was still at a loose end.

  “Where are we going to start, George?”

  Masters emptied his mouth and looked up from his Telegraph. “With Snell.”

  “You’ve definitely decided on him?”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Your usual ploy is to start with the victim and work outwards. This time you’re proposing to start on the edge of the circle and work inwards despite the fact that last night you said you were going to ignore the involvement of the local police.”

  Masters laid the newspaper aside. “True. What I meant, however, was that I was intending to ignore the part the newsmen have ascribed to them.”

  “Can Snell tell you anything you don’t already know, Chief?” asked Reed.

  “I’m working on a second-hand report so far. I’m tolerably certain it won’t have contained everything we could learn from the locals.”

  “True,” agreed Green, rubbing his hands together appreciatively as the waiter came up with his laden plate.

  “And,” said Masters, “there are one or two things that seem to have been left out. First off, I want to know where Snell got the information that he gave to Watson concerning the relationship between Pam and Boyce. There’s somebody there who must have felt inimical towards the lad, otherwise why grass about him to Snell?”

  “Good spud, this,” said Green. “He’s done it just how I like it. Let it brown to the bottom of the frying pan so that there’s a layer of crispy. And he’s used bacon fat to fry it in.”

  Reed raised his eyes in mock despair and then said: “The second point, Chief? You said there were two.”

  “What I said about second-hand reports not giving us the right feeling about a case. Have you got the same impression as I have about events in the nick the night before last? To me it sounds as if everything took place in a deserted building with no witnesses other than the people directly involved. I want to know who else entered the station that night and if they saw anything. After that . . .”

  “There’s more?” asked Green, reaching across for the toast rack.

  “There’s just one minor item of information that has been denied us so far—the identity of the poison. Until we have that titbit we shan’t know what to look for, so we may as well use the time until then getting to know the chief protagonists.”

  “True,” said Green. “I like it here. I reckon the chef put a few bits of finely chopped onion in this spud. Like the Germans do. Makes it very tasty.”

  “Go on, Chief,” urged Berger. “We don’t have to sit in silence and listen to him eat, do we?”

  Green waved his fork menacingly at Berger, but his mouth was too full for him to reply to the sergeant’s remark.

  Masters smiled. “How much thinking have you done about the case, Sergeant?”

  Berger reddened. “Well, Chief, when I hit the sack last night . . .”

  “You fell asleep immediately? Why not? It’s a good thing to do.”

  “But you didn’t, Chief,” suggested Reed.

  “Actually, I did. But before then, the D.C.I. and I conferred for a few minutes. We came to no definite conclusions—hence his question as to where we would start this morning. But we did unearth what we think could be a significant fact.”

  “Can you tell us?”

  “Did you note the time at which Snell says he approached Watson and told him of his daughter’s involvement with Boyce?”

  “Lunchtime, Chief. But what does it matter?”

  “Lunchtime, certainly.”

  Berger and Reed glanced at each other in bewilderment. Green pushed his plate away, wiped his mouth on his napkin and drew his coffee cup towards him. “Think, lads,” he said.

  “What about?”

  “Put yourself in Snell’s shoes. If you’d heard a bit of news which concerned your sergeant as personally as that bit of gossip did, when would you tell him?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Right. Go on.”

  Reed sat up. “I get it. The earliest possible moment the inspector could speak to Watson was when he returned to the nick after the morning court hearings.”

  “Now you’re thinking.”<
br />
  “So . . . yes, that’s it! Snell got his information during the morning, and as he was in the court building all the time . . . that would be odd, Chief. I don’t reckon many of us get tip-offs in courtrooms.”

  Masters shrugged.

  Reed went on: “So the grass was somebody who was there at the court and who had a grudge against Boyce. He heard of the lenient sentence given those yobs and that disappointed him, so he eased the grudge by grassing to Snell.”

  “The important thing is,” said Green, “that we are on our way to establishing that there could be somebody with a grudge against Boyce.”

  “Could be?” asked Berger. “Don’t you mean ‘there is’?”

  “No,” said Masters firmly. “If we meant that, we would have to ask ourselves why Inspector Snell, knowing about the grudge, hadn’t hauled this chap in for questioning.”

  “And the answer to that,” said Green, “is nasty.”

  “Dereliction of duty or worse,” said Masters.

  “So, where does that leave us, Chief?”

  “It means we are going to insist that Snell discloses the name of his informant.”

  “He won’t like it, Chief.”

  “Then he’ll have to lump it, won’t he?” said Green. “Either he tells us, or he leaves himself open to suspicion.”

  “And that,” said Masters, “is why I want to see Snell first. The D.C.I. and I will deal with him. You two will see Watson and Sutcliffe. After that, there are Boyce’s two pals, probably Pam Watson . . . but I don’t really know until the pathologist lets us know how the lad was poisoned.”

  *

  Colesworth police station boasted a recreation room. It was, in fact, a basement just big enough to take a table-tennis table, a dartboard, a dozen folding chairs and very little else. It was one of three choices offered, apologetically, to Masters as his Incident Centre. The other two were Snell’s office and a cupboard-like interview room.

  “This will suit our purpose,” said Masters to Snell. “I don’t want to upset your routine work by turning you out of your office and the interview room is a little claustrophobic for four of us.”

  “Anything I can bring in to help you, sir, I will.”