Shelf Life Page 8

  “No. But I would have expected you personally to do something.”

  “Me, sir? I was on the desk . . .”

  “Quite. Now think, Tom. There are three entries only in the book for that night—before midnight, that is. The last of them is the Boyce episode all neatly documented.”

  Watson nodded in agreement.

  “The first of them is from Miss Foulger. Didn’t it even strike you as a coincidence, when you were entering the Boyce details, that your book on Tuesday night should have incidents concerning not only the lad who was brought in, but also the magistrate who had heard his case that morning?”

  Watson scratched his head. “Well, sir . . . I suppose you could say it was a bit funny them both being there . . . a coincidence, like you said, but I didn’t pick it up. Is it important?”

  “Let’s see, shall we?” Green took out his crumpled Kensitas packet and offered it across the table. Watson accepted the cigarette with a word of thanks, but there was a furrow of worry on his brow as he leaned forward to do so.

  “Mr Green,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re getting at. I’m out of my depth with you.”

  “Oh? How come, lad?”

  “I’ve had a word with Inspector Snell.”

  “Oh yes? What about?”

  “About your interview with him.”

  “And?”

  “Well, he didn’t tell me what was said, but he came up from here saying you could twist any word or any action, even if it was innocent, into a hangman’s rope.”

  “He was being critical, was he?”

  “No, sir. Not critical. In fact, I thought he was admiring the way you did it, but as if he was feeling a bit sore at having been on the wrong end, like.”

  Masters broke in.

  “Did your inspector say nothing of the subject matter of the interview? Nothing at all of what was said?”

  “No, sir, he wouldn’t do that. If it was confidential he’d never say a word.”

  Masters smiled. “I wasn’t suggesting Mr Snell would be indiscreet, but what I spoke to him about concerned you in a way.”

  Watson looked surprised. “Oh yes, sir? Oh, of course! Boyce!”

  “No, no. Mr Snell gave you some information about your daughter.”

  “He did that, sir.”

  “I wanted to know who his informant was. Do you know, by any chance?”

  Watson’s face set stubbornly. “I don’t know who it was, sir. He wouldn’t tell me and, if I may say so, I don’t reckon much to you getting me down here to get to know something you couldn’t get out of Mr Snell.”

  Masters smiled. “You’ve got it wrong, Tom. I wasn’t going behind his back. He told me who it was, you see.”

  “Then why . . .?”

  “I simply wanted to know if you knew or had guessed who it was.”

  “How could I, sir? It could have been any one of a thousand blokes. Roy Snell has been operating in Colesworth as long as I have, sir, and I know nearly everybody. How could I guess who it was?”

  “How indeed! Thank you, that’s all I wanted to ask you.”

  “But why, sir? Why should that be important?”

  “To me? To you? Or to the investigation?”

  “Well . . . for any reason, sir.”

  “I have no wish to leave you in suspense, having roused your interest and particularly on a point which concerns you so closely. So I will just satisfy your curiosity by saying that if Boyce was murdered—and I am only here because Professor Haywood is sure he was—then I must locate somebody who bore him sufficient ill-will, for whatever cause, to kill him. Now it has been demonstrated that you had no cause to love Boyce . . .”

  “Sir!”

  “But Professor Haywood exonerated you and Sutcliffe. If I believe his word in one respect, then I must believe it in another. So I must look for somebody other than you who wasn’t too well disposed towards Boyce. Common sense, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir. Put like that, it is.”

  “How do you think a man who grasses to your inspector about Boyce feels about the man he has spoken about? Would you regard him as being a good friend, or the opposite?”

  Watson moved uneasily on his seat. Then he said: “I hadn’t thought of it that way, sir.”

  “So now we’ve cleared the point, perhaps you and the D.C.I. will continue discussing the entries in the Incident Book.”

  Green shrugged and squared up to face the sergeant once again. “Now, Tom, we’ve mentioned a coincidence—Miss Foulger and Boyce both in court together on Tuesday morning, and both in your book again on Tuesday night.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry I didn’t notice that, but . . .”

  “Never mind that now, Tom. What I want to talk to you about is the other entry.”

  “The . . . er, soiled wellingtons, sir?”

  “Yes. Do you remember who made the complaint?”

  “A Mrs Somebody-or-other. Corby was it?”

  “Yes. Now you’ve explained—quite rightly in our view—that you took no action. But, Tom, did you note, when you entered the complaint in the book, who Mrs Corby is?”

  “No, sir, I don’t think I did . . . wait a moment, yes, I did. She said she was the daughter of Berry the fish and chip man. I haven’t seen her for years and I didn’t recognise her married name.”

  “Back to Tuesday morning again, Tom. When we came in here today, you told your story to our two sergeants here. A very full story.”

  “It’s what they asked for.”

  “You told them that an old tramp called Howlett said to you on Tuesday morning that when he left you, he was going straight to Berry’s shop.”

  “That’s right, sir. To pick up some scraps.”

  “So that was another coincidence, wasn’t it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No? Berry’s fish shop mentioned on Tuesday morning—again by somebody who had been in the magistrates’ court—and then mentioned again that night in your book? What’s that if it isn’t coincidence?”

  “Put your way it may be, sir. But for me the complaint at night would have had to mention Joe Howlett, not Mrs Corby. It didn’t concern Howlett.”

  “How do you know it didn’t? You didn’t make any enquiries, did you?”

  Watson looked bewildered. “I know what Mr Snell meant. You can make anything mean . . . mean anything you like.”

  “Can I? Have I twisted anything I’ve said, or anything you’ve said?”

  “No, sir, not exactly.”

  “What then?”

  “You’re saying Howlett fouled those boots. But you wouldn’t say that if you’d met Joe Howlett. You’ve not met him. I have.”

  “Have you met Mrs Corby?”

  “No.”

  “We have. She wouldn’t give him any scraps. And what is more, she deliberately turned the hose on him and drenched him.”

  “She did what?”

  “You heard.”

  Watson frowned. “What the hell did she do that for? I’d given the poor old boy some tea bags and sugar in one of those open tins he carried on a bit of string round his waist. If she drenched him she’d wet that lot and ruin it.”

  “Well, Tom?”

  “Well what, sir?”

  “Don’t you think that your tramp—or indeed any man—after having a hose turned on him and his brew-makings would want to get back on the person who did all that to him?”

  Watson nodded. “I know I would, sir.”

  “Do you still consider it impossible for Joe Howlett to have treated Mrs Corby’s wellies?”

  “No, sir, I don’t.”

  “Does that mean you think it is probable that he did?”

  “Yes, I do, sir, and I’ll have him brought in for it.”

  “And what will happen to him if you do?”

  Watson looked dismayed. “Oh, lor’. I was forgetting. The bench would think he’d done it to get into jail. They’d kick him out again as like as not.”

  “Nice, ain’t it,” said G
reen, “to be in a position where you know that any misdemeanour you commit will only result in a let-off?”

  “I suppose it is, sir.”

  “Do you think he thinks the same applies to murder?”

  Watson half-rose from his seat. “No, sir. Not Joe Howlett. He wouldn’t do it.”

  “You said a moment ago that he wouldn’t have played that game with Mrs Corby. Now you’ve changed your mind.”

  “I know, sir, but . . .”

  “Didn’t Howlett mutter threats against Miss Foulger in your hearing? Yes? And Mr Snell says the same.”

  Watson shook his head. “I just can’t believe what you’re suggesting, Mr Green.”

  Green shut the book. “Okay Tom, but we can’t just take your word for it. We’ll have to follow in Howlett’s footsteps, literally, to see where he went and what he did last Tuesday.”

  “Well, sir, I can help you a bit on that. When I was going home on the bus—to see Pam—I caught sight of Joe going into Osborne’s the bakers. That’s on the High Street a bit past the Albatross Hotel from here. W.P.C. Prior will know where it is.”

  “Thanks, Tom. That’s all. Nice to know that a Yard team can solve one of your minor problems for you, isn’t it? How the dog muck got in the wellies or Mrs Corby steps into the fertiliser—with both feet.”

  *

  They went to a nearby pub for lunch. Reed, who was buying the first round, said to Green: “You set out to baffle that poor chap.”

  “Not at all.”

  “You made sure Betty Prior didn’t warn him about the Corby woman.”

  “His Nibs engineered that.”

  “After having baffled Inspector Snell.”

  “To the point where Snell was fighting hard to avoid arrest, lad.”

  “You what? Is that true, Chief?”

  “More or less,” agreed Masters, carefully accepting an overfull tankard.

  Reed finished handing round the drinks and followed the other three to a secluded table. As he sat down, he returned to the subject.

  “Look, Chief, why frighten Mr Snell and get the D.C.I. to put Watson through the hoop?”

  “Because they’re sloppy,” said Green lifting his beer for the first great gulp.

  “And you’re slurpy,” retorted Reed.

  “Maybe,” agreed Green, exaggeratedly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But at least I’m making a good job of what I’m doing—demolishing this pint, that is.”

  Berger joined in. “You mean these people are not doing their job properly?”

  “Slapdash,” said Green. “Like you two.”

  “Now what haven’t we done?”

  “Thought through why we’ve been a bit hard on the local talent.”

  “I realised there’d be a reason, because the Chief doesn’t go round chopping heads off without good cause. Even you aren’t too hard on people at times.”

  “I’ll be hard on you in a minute. Like suggesting that you can buy me another drink inside the next sixty seconds.”

  “That’s your normal self,” retorted Reed. He looked up. “I ordered salad sandwiches.”

  “Give them time,” said Masters. “I’d prefer them to be fresh cut.”

  “Come on, Chief,” said Berger. “Why the war on the Colesworth people?”

  “To concentrate their minds, Sergeant. Murder is the worst crime in the calendar. When it happens, the police concentrate on it virtually to the exclusion of all else. How much more then should they concentrate when a man who is actually in their hands dies of a murderous attack?”

  “They concentrated to the point where they called us in, Chief.”

  “Flattering to us, no doubt, but we all know that in the majority of cases a crime such as this is solved within forty-eight hours, or it drags on for ever. But they don’t think about that. They leave it to us. Yet we, who have come in cold, can start our investigation and get some way with our enquiry right here in their own nick. My contention is that whether they had invited us in or not, they should have used their heads. Snell should have realised that Howlett is a possible. Whether he actually is guilty or not is immaterial. He’d ratted on Boyce and that argues a certain degree of malevolence in the old man that both Snell and Watson refused to recognise. That I am right about that is probably supported by the dirty trick he played on Mrs Corby.”

  “Warranted, Chief.”

  “That is beside the point. He could bring himself to do it. If he could introduce dog-droppings into a woman’s gumboots, why wouldn’t he introduce a noxious substance into Boyce’s drink?”

  “You’re saying Howlett is the murderer, Chief?”

  “Not at all. I’m saying he should have been considered and followed up yesterday by Snell. By the same token, Watson should have noted the coincidences in the Incident Book and so should Snell. That would have prompted them even further to look at Howlett. But they did nothing. And not only that, when we arrived Snell didn’t want to divulge the tramp’s name and Watson didn’t bother himself to get round to the fish shop to see whether it was possible to establish whether Howlett could be involved.”

  “So now you know,” said Green, “one of you lads can refill my glass.”

  Reed and Berger paid him no attention. They sat quiet for a moment or two before Berger asked: “And you think your tactics paid off, Chief?”

  “Assuredly. We got to know Howlett’s name, and where he was going. We’ve surmised he got his own back on Mrs Corby. Now Watson has told us he saw the tramp going into a baker’s shop. We’re going there after lunch. But do you think we would have got that snippet unless we’d managed to concentrate Watson’s mind?”

  “I suppose not, Chief.”

  “And in addition,” said Green, “we’ve probably given them an idea or two which will make for better policing in Colesworth.”

  “Are you saying the force here is bad?”

  “What do you think? Three yobs on the loose, breaking into four or five houses in a month. Snell and his merry men know this, but they say they couldn’t get proof. Would you be satisfied with that, young Berger? How many jobs like that would three kids have to pull before you nailed them—given you knew their identity?”

  Berger shrugged. “Not four or five, I hope. And when I did get them, I wouldn’t have let them get away with it.”

  “Ker-rect, lad. So what is your opinion of the local bobbies?”

  “Nice chaps but could do better, I suppose.”

  “And all they have to do to do better, lad, is to use their heads. That’s what His Nibs was saying, in essence.”

  The sandwiches arrived. Large portions of French bread split lengthwise and overstuffed with tomatoes and other salad stuffs. The effort required to eat what Green described as “doorsteps” effectively precluded much more conversation. By two o’clock they were back at the station to find Betty Prior waiting for them.

  “Osborne’s the bakers, please, Betty.”

  “Right Chief. It’s the same way as Berry’s, but we stay in the High Street.”

  “Is it far to walk?” asked Green.

  “Six or seven hundred yards, sir.”

  “We’ll walk.”

  Much as visitors to an unfamiliar town will, they walked along gazing at the shops on both sides of the road.

  “Where would Howlett have come back on to the High Street, Betty? After he left Berry’s he continued along the back road, according to Mrs Corby.”

  “It runs parallel to this, Chief. His first chance of getting back to the High Street would be down the narrow road which runs just this side of the Albatross Hotel. Then he’d not have far to go to reach Osborne’s.”

  It was a good-looking shop: double fronted with bow windows, small paned. Masters imagined that the proprietors would not be too pleased at receiving the patronage of tramps. As yet it was a little early in the afternoon for the full flow of business to have resumed, but judging by the two or three customers he saw, the shop normally catered for a section of the
community unlikely to be well-disposed towards smelly old tramps.

  He and Green went in with Betty.

  “Can I see the manager or manageress, please?” asked Masters when the girl behind the counter offered her services. “Make sure to tell whoever it is that I’m not here to make a complaint. I’m a police officer and I’m seeking information.”

  The girl looked at him for a moment and obviously liked what she saw or approved of his approach. At any rate she smiled at him. “I’m sorry, but the manageress won’t be back for at least half an hour. Can I help you?”

  “Perhaps you can. On Tuesday—at lunchtime—an elderly tramp came into the shop.”

  “Oh, yes. He was wet through. Mavis served him.”

  “Mavis?”

  The girl nodded in the direction of the opposite counter where a girl was down on her knees stacking pies and sausage rolls in a display case.

  “Thank you.”

  “Mavis!” called the first assistant. “The police have come for you.”

  “For me? Damn!” Mavis, in standing up too quickly in her inquisitive enthusiasm had obviously put an unbearable strain on her tights, and one leg had laddered sadly. “That’s the second pair this week. I’m just going to have to stop wearing them.” She straightened the skirt of the pink overall. “Police, did you say? Why? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, love,” said Green. “But don’t go about saying you’re just going to have to stop wearing them, or people will get the wrong idea.”

  Mavis chuckled. Masters said: “On Tuesday—at lunchtime—a tramp came into the shop.”

  “Oh, yes. Old Joe Howlett.”

  “You know him?”

  “He’s been around ever since I can remember.”

  “Does he come in here regularly?”

  “Well . . . sometimes. About once a month, I’d say. He always wants the same thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A yesterday’s loaf. Most people like fresh bread you know. But some—like those who suffer from indigestion—like it a bit older. If we have any over, we sell it next day a bit cheaper. Five pee off, usually. That’s what Joe has.”

  “Always the same, you say?”

  “Oh, yes. We know he’s been to the Albatross when he comes in here. He goes to the back kitchen door at the hotel, you know, and if they give him his cheese rind . . .”