Blood and Judgement (9 page)

“And were any of those the occasions on which she failed to return until the following morning?” inquired the magistrate.

“No. She was back within a few hours on those occasions.”

Mr Horsey looked cross and said he had no more questions. Mr Wainwright looked pleased, and indicated that he, too, would leave well alone. As the witness was on the point of descending and the usher had actually taken a deep breath to shout for the next witness, the magistrate raised his hand. He was a very shrewd old man, wise by experience rather than book reading in the ways of the law. He could read the minds of both counsel with precision. Both were afraid of asking any more questions lest they prejudice their position at the later hearing. He was servant to no such hopes or fears.

“I would like to be a little clearer about this, Mrs Fraser,” he said. “It is a matter of some importance, you know. You are describing the relationship between the woman who is dead and the man who is accused of her murder. Would you have described them as lovers?”

Mrs Fraser thought about it. Then she said, “Not in the film sense.”

“You mean there was nothing romantic about it?”

“Definitely not.”

“But there could have been a more sordid relationship.”

“Yes. I suppose so. There could have been.”

“I am not here to put words into your mouth, Mrs Fraser. You are a woman of the world. Just how would you describe it yourself?”

“I should say that it was – a sort of business relationship between them.”

The magistrate turned it over in his mind. The packed court was completely silent. Petrella found that the palms of his hands were wet. It was extraordinary how the bumbling processes of the law could roll along, hour after hour, producing nothing, and then, suddenly, a witness would say something that opened up a vista of startling clarity.

“Very well, Mrs Fraser,” said the magistrate.

The rest of the evidence was something of an anticlimax. Mrs Gurney told of seeing the accused near the reservoir on the night of September 22nd. The young man who had been in charge of the diving operation, and whose name turned out to be William Borden, gave evidence of the finding of a
P
38 pistol in the reservoir and reidentified Exhibit Six. He was of the opinion that it was a good deal too far from any point on the bank to have been thrown. In his view it had been dropped from a boat. This brought on Sergeant Dodds, who told of the finding of the boat, on the far bank of the reservoir. No one could offer any explanation as to why, if the murderer had rowed out in the boat to dispose of the pistol, he had not simply rowed back again and left it in its shed; and Mr Wainwright made a number of sharp notes on his brief.

The next witness was a man whom Petrella had not seen before. He had an indefinable air of spuriousness about him, which was apparent even before he opened his mouth and increased when he did so. He gave his name as Charles Garden, his occupation as an agent, and an address in Paddington. He spoke of an incident, in a club in Scrope Street, when the accused had been present and had produced an automatic pistol which, in Mr Garden’s opinion, was the same as Exhibit Six.

Mr Wainwright rose to his feet and addressed the magistrate, not the witness. He wished, he said, to protest in the strongest manner possible against the last-minute inclusion of Garden among the prosecution witnesses. His name had not appeared in the original list, and he had therefore had no opportunity of checking his character and standing.

The magistrate said he was sure that the prosecution, now they had called him, would give Mr Wainwright every possible opportunity of examining the witness’ credentials. Mr Wainwright said he hoped so. And the witness disappeared with a speed which suggested that he was happy to get out of the box.

His place was taken by Superintendent Kellaway, who supplied some badly needed background. He told the court of the escape of Monk Ritchie from custody and his presumed departure to France. He described his investigations at the reservoir and at the cottage (“At that time, standing empty”), culminating in the discovery of a complete set of fingerprints on the window jamb (“as to which,” he understood, “a later witness would speak”). As he quitted the box, having left out, Petrella thought, a great deal more than he had put in, the magistrate glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to five.

“If you have many more witnesses–” he said to Mr Horsey.

“In fact, your Worship, only one more. Superintendent Burrell of the Fingerprint Section at New Scotland Yard.”

“Very well,” said the magistrate. “I am myself quite prepared, of course, to sit here until any hour, but I have my officials to think about.”

The superintendent stepped up into the box, and was soon deep in the complexities of his craft. The atmosphere thickened as loops, arches, whorls and composites, outer termini, closed deltas, and secondary characteristics flowed in a steady stream over the long-suffering heads of the magistrate’s clerk and his shorthand typist, who were the people chiefly responsible for reducing to intelligible compass the depositions of the witnesses.

The clock was pointing to half past five when the magistrate said, “I take it, Superintendent, that what you are telling us is that you, as an expert, are perfectly satisfied that the four fingerprints on the cottage window were made by the prisoner?”

“That is so, sir.”

Now, thought Petrella. Now for it.

“Have you anything to add, Superintendent?”

“No, sir. I think that is all.”

“Any more questions, Mr Horsey?”

He
can’t,
thought Petrella. He can’t. Even Kellaway. He can’t get away with it.

“No more questions,” said Mr Horsey, his voice now reduced to a croak.

“Have you any submissions on the evidence, Mr Wainwright?”

Mr Wainwright said that he was instructed to reserve his defence for a subsequent occasion. This was not to be construed as meaning that he agreed in any way with the evidence as put forward.

“In that case,” said the magistrate, “I have to record that I find a prima facie case made out against the accused. And I shall order that he be committed for trial at the session of the London Assizes commencing at the Central Criminal Court in three weeks’ time. Copies of all depositions to be made available to the defence.”

Petrella missed the closing formalities. He was out in the streets again, walking furiously. Hard as he walked, he could not outwalk his thoughts.

“I’m not saying,” said Superintendent Kellaway, “that I don’t sympathize with you.” He looked hard at Petrella, who was standing stiffly in front of his desk. “But this is my case, I’m responsible for it from the moment I’m put in charge until the jury files out at the Old Bailey. After that, you can do what you like about it.”

Petrella said, “I only thought, it might have been safer, from our point of view, to tell them about the print on the gun. The Fingerprint Section at Central are working on it now. Suppose it turns out to be someone not connected with Howton at all. It’d mean a last-minute switch in the case. Mightn’t that be more awkward than having it now?”

“If it turned out to be Charlie Chaplin,” said Kellaway, “it wouldn’t make a farthing’s worth of difference to my case. That’s one thing you’ve got to learn about police work, son. Concentrate on what does matter. Cut out what doesn’t. You try to put forward all the facts, and what happens? Someone on the jury thinks up some theory or other, and once the jury get hold of a pet theory of their own, you can whistle for a conviction.”

Petrella was well aware of the tricky nature of the ground on which he was treading. He was also perfectly conscious of the proper relationship between a junior detective sergeant and a senior and experienced detective superintendent, a man who, in the normal course of promotion, would next be given charge of a district; and who might therefore – the chances were, after all, only three to one against it – become Petrella’s next chief.

Nevertheless, there was something which had to be said.

“You’ll have to put it down to ignorance, sir. But I thought the prosecution had to give all the evidence to the defence. Whether it made sense or not. It’s not only the second fingerprint. I mean the fact that Ricketts left his cottage that day and has never been seen again. It could be a coincidence. Or he might have been meaning to go for some time. And hearing the shooting and all that rumpus, he got frightened, and pulled out straight away. Or–”

“Or he might be in the reservoir too,” said Kellaway softly. “Yes? I’ve thought of that too. With the second bullet in him? Right?”

Petrella nodded.

“Now tell me this: what difference would it make to the case against Howton if he knocked off Ricketts as well – because he got in the way or to stop him talking? We’re not charging him with two murders. Why should we? One’s enough to hang him.” He paused, then added, “Did you know that Charlie Gover is still unconscious, and every hour he’s out makes it less likely he’ll ever come round again? Even if he does he may be blind, or paralyzed, or plain crazy. That’s the sort of thing a boot in the head does for you.”

Petrella nodded. He had no answer to this.

“When you’re fighting a war, you stick to the rules – if you can. But if the rules get in the way of winning, you toss ’em overboard. And with people like Howton I’m at war. As for giving the defence all the evidence, the rules say we must answer all their questions, fully and truthfully. I’ll do that. If anyone asks me about the print on the gun, I’ll tell ’em. But not before. The same with Ricketts. One thing you said about that made sense. It might have been a coincidence. They’re things that happen quite a lot in real life. I once arrested a man for a murder he did for £75, on the same day that he won the Treble Chance Pool first dividend of £75,000.”

Kellaway got up, came round, and added, in tones of surprising friendliness, “Anyway, it’s something I’ve got to worry about, not you. Until the case finishes one way or the other, at the Bailey, you’re under my orders. And I’m ordering you not to worry about it. You can have it in writing if you like.”

“No, that’s all right, sir,” said Petrella, summoning up a smile of his own. “I won’t ask you to commit it to writing.”

After he had gone, Kellaway sat for a few minutes, quite still and perfectly relaxed. Then he rang the bell for Sergeant Dodds.

Petrella walked out of Crown Road Police Station in a bad temper. He had been cleverly handled, and the fact that he knew it did not make it any better. The appeal which had been made to him was a hard one to deny. The police were a private army. Criminals were the enemy. The rest of the world were onlookers. Onlookers with certain undefined but unpleasant powers of interference. The way to deal with them was to stick to the letter of the law. Learn the Judges’ Rules by heart, and give the devil no more than his due. And over all, and before all, and above all, never forget that the team came first.

And if he did decide to do the unspeakable thing, whose side was he on? On Boot Howton’s – who had kicked Charlie Gover nearly to death, who bullied and pimped and tramped on people weaker than himself. A creature who, in a rational society, would be put away. Was he going to fight for him and against (not Kellaway, Kellaway was an accident, something that had happened to him) – against Gwilliam and Gover and Haxtell?

“I’m damned if I’ll do it,” said Petrella out loud.

“Certainly not,” said someone behind him. Petrella swung about, and found the face of Mr William Borden a few inches from his.

“Oh, hullo,” said Petrella. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually talk to myself.”

“You look pretty steamed up,” said Borden. “Come and have a noggin. They’re just open.”

“Good idea,” said Petrella. He drank very little, and never at midday, but this seemed the moment to start a few bad habits.

“There’s a pub here,” said Borden, “that’s got a shove ha’penny board with a set of original William and Mary shillings. They’re polished smooth on one side, but you can read the superscription on the other side quite easily. Did you know that the game originated in the reign of Queen Elizabeth the First? God bless her. The beer’s not at all bad, either.”

The beer was very good, light amber brown, well cooled and of greater than ordinary strength. They drank a pint each, slowly, and a second pint rather faster. The third pint they carried across to a table in the corner of the empty bar.

“The trouble with everyone nowadays,” said Borden, “is that they’re too nice. Did we create the greatest country in the world by being nice? Did we win every war from 1066 onwards – except the War of American Independence, but I don’t count that, they cheated – by being nice? Did we found the British Empire by being nice? Like hell we did. We starved and bullied and flogged our children until they ran away from home, and went off and conquered India.”

He took a further draught of beer and added, “Nowadays, all our virtues are negative ones. Hurt no one. Be fair to everybody. Save money. Don’t take risks.”

“Is it easy to be a frogman?” said Petrella, who was following his own thoughts, as people often do when they are drinking together.

“Nothing to it. Teach you in the morning.”

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

“Only if you forget to put enough warm clothes on. Could catch a nasty cold. A friend of mine got pneumonia, diving without his pants on. Now, there’s another thing. That job we were on at the reservoir. When we found the gun – you remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Do you know why we stopped?”

“I thought you’d finished.”

“Finished nothing. We were less than halfway across. What they
said
was, to save money. We’re an expensive outfit. Set you back twenty-five quid a day for our services. All right. We’d found what they were looking for, so we stop. Economy. But that wasn’t the real reason. Another pint?”

“I – oh, yes. If you like.”

The fourth pint was brought.

Petrella said, “What you were saying about that reservoir job. Why
did
you stop?”

“We stopped because they were bloody scared that we might turn up something else and spoil the case they were cobbling up. I’m sorry to say it, Patrick. But sometimes I’m afraid the police stink.”

“That’s all right,” said Petrella. “Don’t mind me. The real thing is, are you prepared to do anything about it?”

“I’m prepared to do anything about anything.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Are you calling me a bloody liar?”

“No. Certainly not. But people do sometimes say they’re going to do things and then not do them. I’m sure,” added Petrella hastily, “that you’re not like that.”

“What do you suggest we do?” said Borden, suddenly becoming reasonable and businesslike.

“I think the same as you do. There’s something more in that reservoir. Maybe another gun. Maybe – something quite different.”

“Maybe the old boy who lived in the cottage and walked out of it without leaving a forwarding address.”

“Yes.”

“And you’d like me to have a shot at finding him for you?”

“What I’d really like to do is have a shot myself, with you to show me how, I mean.”

“This calls for more beer.”

“It’s my turn.” Petrella secured two more pints. It was the nicest beer he remembered drinking. It was a pity that he spilled a bit of it on the return journey, but the floor had a very slight tilt. He hadn’t noticed it before. “I suppose you can do that diving stuff after dark?”

“Certainly. Electric torch on the helmet. Matter of fact, it’s always dark if you go deep enough.”

“We’d have to do it at night, anyway. Otherwise we’d give the show away. Even if we slipped in without being seen, people would spot bubbles from the what’s-its-name.”

“From the aqualung. Yes. There is an oxygen set, which doesn’t show bubbles. But the aqualung’s safer.”

“I’d have to practice quite a bit first,” said Petrella.

“The best place for that’s a swimming pool.” Borden felt for his wallet and extracted a card. “That’s got my business telephone number on it. If you feel of the same mind tomorrow morning, ring me up. How are we going to square this with the top brass?”

“I don’t,” said Petrella with dignity, “anticipate any trouble at all.”

“You don’t, eh?”

“None at all. If Superintendent Kellaway says anything to me, I shall say to him,
‘Fiat justitia, ruat coelum’.”

“That ought to shake him,” agreed Borden. “What does it mean?”

“It means,” said Petrella, “‘Let justice prevail, though the sky fall.’”

“I see.” Borden looked at his new friend critically. “And just when were you planning to say this?”

“The next time he says something to me.”

“I think I should leave it until tomorrow if I was you. It’ll sound all the better in the morning.” He got up and walked slowly across to the door, Petrella following him willy-nilly.

Outside the sun was shining and the sky was blue.

“What about something to eat?”

“No,” said Petrella. “No time. Too busy to eat.”

“What about a taxi?”

“Perfectly all right,” said Petrella. “Very good of you, but perfectly all right. Be seeing you.” He swung round on his heel, went rather farther than he had intended, and steadied himself by holding onto the lamp-post.

“Hell’s bells,” said Borden to himself.

As he watched, Petrella smiled gravely at him, waved, and started straight off down the pavement, did a stem turn at the corner, and disappeared from his sight.

“At least he can still walk,” said Borden. “Stupid of me really. I hope he’ll be all right.”

Petrella felt fine. It was a grand day. He was in grand form. The world was a good place. All that was needed was a little give and take, a little co-operation. Why had this not occurred to him before? Now that it had occurred to him, he would put it into practice. He would seek out Superintendent Kellaway, and he would say –

“Where are you off to, Patrick?”

Sergeant Gwilliam loomed up in front of him.

“I’m going to see Superintendent Kellaway and I’m going to talk to him about co-opper-operation.”

“Are you, now?” said Gwilliam thoughtfully. He waved his hand, and the police car which had been idling by the curb drew up.

“It’s a house at the top of Foljamb Road. No. 37, I think.”

“There’s a mistake somewhere here,” said Petrella. “I don’t want to go home. I want to go to the station. I’ve got something important I must say to old Kellaway.”

He found himself in the back of the car with Sergeant Gwilliam wedged in beside him. At 37 Foljamb Road, where Petrella’s landlady, Mrs Catt, lived, he protested again, but feebly. The front door was open, and Gwilliam came in with him.

“Which is your room?” he said. “First floor back. All right. Up we go. Less talk and a little more co-opper-operation.”

Next morning Petrella woke feeling curiously clear-headed and with an imprecise recollection of the previous day. He remembered Bill Borden, and took out his card and looked at it. One of the police drivers grinned at him as he went in. He found Gwilliam at work.

“Did you take me home in a car yesterday?”

“That’s right,” said Gwilliam. “You had a touch of flu.”

Later that day he had to go down to Scotland Yard, and he called in on Sergeant Blinder to see how he was progressing.

“You want to know about that print on the gun,” said the sergeant. “That’s not so easy. It’s a single print. Quite a good-looking one, as I said.” He pulled out a ten-magnification photograph and Petrella stared uncomprehendingly at the ridges and valleys, the watersheds and river junctions of the human tegument. It might have been a physical geography of the moon for all it said to him.

“You’ve got six to eight possible points of identification. But nothing so absolutely out of the way that you can make a positive start from it.”

“You mean that if it had a scar across it, or something like that, you could use that as a short cut?”

“We’ll clear it in time,” said Blinder. “Don’t you worry. We can’t work miracles, that’s all. No matter who calls for ’em.”

Petrella gathered that Kellaway had been exercising some more of his well-known drive on the Fingerprint Section.

“I tell ’em all,” said Sergeant Blinder, “that fingerprints are a science. You can’t hustle science. Not if you want reliable results.”

“Tell me something,” said Petrella. “Do you have all your prints in a single collection?”

“That’s right. One main index of all recorded prints. Except, of course, there’s the Aged Collection.”