Body of a Girl (17 page)

Nearly three hours later, Morrissey said, “All right, you can go now,” and Pugh clambered to his feet. He was a badly puzzled man. He had been questioned by the police before, but never quite in that way. He had told them very little. But they seemed to have told him quite a lot. If they knew about Stoneferry, it was a fair bet they knew about other things. That was important. It would have to be passed on at once. When he reached the ground floor, there was no one about. The back door was open. The car had gone. The streets round the office were quiet and empty under their neon lights. He had no idea where he was, except that his instinct told him he was still south of the river. He padded off down the street.

From their second-storey window the two policemen watched him go.

“Do you think he'll fall for it?” said Anderson. “I thought you laid it on a bit thick.”

“He's got a thick head,” said Morrissey.

“He has that,” agreed Anderson. “I'd say he was still concussed too.”

“If you want my guess, he'll go into the first telephone booth he finds, and ring Paul Crow.”

When the telephone rang, the man rolled over in bed, cursed, turned on the bedside light, and sat up. He was middle-aged, thick but not fat, and had a white face and black hair streaked at the edges with grey. The girl in bed beside him muttered something and he said, “Shut up, and go to sleep.” And into the telephone, “Yes, what is it?” As the thick voice at the other end rumbled on, the man's face remained impassive. A very close observer might have noticed a slight tightening of the mouth, a wariness in the eyes. He said, “What was that name again? The new man at Stoneferry. Mercer! All right. Go on.” Later he said, “Just where are you? A telephone box in Paxton Street, S.E. Right. Stay where you are. I'm sending a car for you.” He rang off, dialled a number, and spoke to someone he called Mo. His instructions were clear and categorical. As he rang off the girl said, “Do you have to do business in the middle of the night?”

“I do business when I like, sweetness. And I make love when I like.”

He pulled her towards him. The girl said, “For God's sake! You're insatiable.”

Chapter Eighteen

On the following morning, too, a lot of things happened.

A photograph of a man coming out of a garage was sent by tele-copier to the Isle of Wight. A police officer took it to a terrace of small houses overlooking the sea, near Ryde, and showed it to a man who was spending a fortnight in one of them with his aunt. The man's left arm was in a sling, and there was a heavy plaster round his wrist.

He examined the photograph carefully and said, “Yes, that's Taylor all right. He looks a bit older, but I'd recognise him anywhere. Do I have to make a statement about it, or something? Because I'm not keen on getting involved.”

The policeman said he didn't know anything about that. All he'd been told to do was to get a positive identification.

Other photographs were being examined that morning.

A middle-aged man, who was wearing a blue suit and a bowler hat but still carried the stamp of past military service about him, was shown into the new Defence Ministry building in Whitehall and taken, after a minimum of delay, to a big room, with a skylight, on the sixth floor.

Here he met a corporal from the Records Section of the 1939-45 War, who had laid out a number of photographs on a table. He said, “Would you start on these, Mr. Syke? If you don't have any luck we've got a lot more, but these are the most likely ones.”

Some of the photographs were formal groups. Some were informal snapshots. Each of them had a reference number and a letter on them.

“I didn't know you went in for this sort of thing,” said Sykes.

“Very useful, sir. You'd be surprised how many men we've traced through them. Men who served under another name. Or changed their names when they left the army. They couldn't change their faces.”

“That's me!” said Sykes. “I wish I was as thin as that now.”

A few minutes later he said, “I think this is the one you want.”

It was a group of men dressed in service overalls, with the light blue insignia of the Para-Corps sewn over the breast pocket. Some of them were squatting on the ground, others were standing behind them. Their faces were upturned and serious. It looked as though they were listening to a briefing.

“That one must have been taken when we were at Lakenheath, getting ready for operations at Arnhem. That's Jack Bull, all right. One of the best. He collected a Spandau burst in his arm, and it had to be taken off.”

There was another man in the room in plain clothes, young and fresh-faced, who spoke with a Scots accent. He said, “Can you put a name to any of the others, Major?”

“At one time I could have done you the lot,” said Sykes. “But a quarter of a century is a hell of a long time.”

“We could let you have a nominal roll of the unit if it would help,” said the corporal.

The Scotsman said, “It'd be better if he made the identification himself. We can check up on the roll later.”

“Is there anyone you're particularly interested in?”

“Yes. The man on Bull's right.”

“Oh well, no difficulty about that. He really
was
a character. I often wondered what had become of him in peacetime—”

Mercer dialled a number, and breathed a sigh of relief when it was a woman's voice that answered.

He said, “Is that you, Mrs. Prior? Mercer here.”

“Mercer?”

“Detective Inspector Mercer.”

“Oh.”

The drop in temperature was perceptible even over the telephone line.

“Something has come up. I wanted a word with you about it.”

“You promised me you'd leave us alone.”

“I know I did. I'm not trying to involve you in anything. But there's just one piece of information I
must
have. It's not really something I could discuss on the telephone.”

“I don't think—”

“You remember that tea shop. The room at the back is perfectly private.”

“I'm not sure—”

“I could come out to your house, but the trouble is my car would certainly be recognised.”

“No—no. Don't come out here.”

A voice in the background said, “Who is it, dear. Who's that on the telephone?”

“It's the laundry. There's been some muddle over the sheets. I'll have to go and sort it out.” And to Mercer, “Very well.”

“As quick as you can.”

Twenty minutes later, he was stirring a cup of coffee and pacifying an angry Mrs. Prior.

“We're getting near the end of the track now,” he said. “And if everything goes as I hope it will, two of the people who'll get what's coming to them are the men who assaulted your husband.”

“I hope so,” said Mrs. Prior, through thin lips. “I do most certainly hope so.”

Looking at her, it occurred to Mercer that, if they had consulted Mrs. Prior, the theorists who maintained that punishment should be reformative and not retributive might have been shaken in their views.

“What are you smiling at?”

“Nothing,” said Mercer. “Just a thought. Look, what I wanted to know was this. When you had that lawsuit brought against you by the motorist whose car Taylor – his real name's Pugh, by the way – was supposed to have repaired, what exactly happened?”

“How do you mean, what happened?”

“Let's take it in steps. First a writ was served, right? Then you must have had a number of conferences with Weatherman.”

“We saw him the first time. After that it was mostly dealt with by his litigation department.”

“Meaning who?”

“There was an elderly man, rather deaf. I think his name was Pollock. But most of the work was done by a young woman. She seemed to know her stuff all right. I didn't like her much.”

“Would her name have been Maureen Dyson?”

“Yes. That's right. I remember the reference on all the letters was M.D. I'd nothing against her. I think she worked very hard. It was just her manner. I don't think Mr. Weatherman liked her much either. I remember at the last conference we had before the case was due to come to court she actually suggested that the whole thing might have been a put-up job, and Mr. Weatherman shut her up pretty sharply.”

“Now why would he do that?”

“He said it was pointless bringing vague accusations like that if we couldn't support them. He said it would put the court against us, and drag out the proceedings and make them much more expensive. Actually, it was after that conference we decided to settle.”

Mercer leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He said, “This is vitally important. I want you to tell me everything you can remember about that last conference. Who said what to who, and why.”

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Prior. “I'll do my best.” As she talked a thick skin of milk formed over two untasted cups of coffee.

John Anderson said, “We were on target there, all right. His old company commander identified Jack Bull.”

“A bullseye in fact,” said Morrissey. He was given to making bad puns when he was pleased.

“And guess who was sitting right next to him?”

“You tell me. I can see you're happy about it.”

“It was Paul Crow.”

“Ah,” said Morrissey softly. “Yes. That explains a lot, doesn't it? Dear old Paul. We knew he had a service background, but we could never trace it. What name was he using?”

“Barker. Ron Barker.”

Morrissey had unlocked the steel filing cabinet behind him and was looking through a bulging cardboard folder. “You've asked the army to send us copies of everything they've got?”

“They're sending a messenger down with it. I picked up something else this morning. It came from Ernie Milton. He says that the field squad is being mobilised, for action this evening, he thinks. And outside London. Mo Fenton would be in charge.”

“Ernie's information is usually reliable.” Morrissey was rummaging through the contents of the folder, which seemed to contain a large assortment of typewritten documents, photographs, blue and buff forms and newspaper clippings. “It was Ernie who put us on to Stoneferry in the first place, I seem to remember.” He found the paper he was looking for. “Getting on for a year ago.”

“That is so,” said Anderson. He repressed a sigh. Every time Morrissey looked through one of his files it took him ten minutes to put it together again in proper chronological order. “It looks as if that fly you cast over Pugh has been snapped up. Incidentally, if tonight's party is not a success, he'll be in trouble himself.”

“Pugh's troubles are over,” said Morrissey. “He was picked up this morning on the Great West Road. He'd been run over by a very heavy lorry. More than once. It was lucky they found some papers in his pocket. They confirmed the identification from finger-prints. There wasn't a lot of his face left.”

Mercer called on Mr. Weatherman that afternoon. Knowing the ways of solicitors he had telephoned first, and been given a grudging appointment for three o'clock. When he arrived at the office in Fore Street, the receptionist apologised for keeping him waiting. She said confidingly, “Mr. Weatherman's busy with Mrs. Hall. She's our head cashier. There's been some muddle over accounts. Papers getting lost. You know how these things happen.”

Mercer said he knew how those things happened.

It was nearly half-past three when a buzzer sounded, and he was invited to go up. He met Mrs. Hall coming down. She was frowning, and there was a slight flush over her prominent cheek-bones. She recognised Mercer, and gave him a smile.

Mr. Weatherman apologised briefly for keeping Mercer waiting and motioned him to a chair. This, Mercer noticed, was placed directly in front of the desk which stood in the bay window. The effect of this was that Mr. Weatherman could study his face, whilst his own remained obscure. He said, “I gather you've been dealing with an office crisis.”

Mr. Weatherman said, “A minor one. Some accountancy records seem to have gone astray. I'm sure Mrs. Hall will be able to deal with it.”

“Yes indeed. I remember you telling me what an efficient person she was.”

“Quite so. Now what can I do for you, Inspector?” (He didn't actually add, “I'm a very busy man.”)

Mercer smiled politely. He said, “It's strange how many of the jobs in offices, which used to be male preserves, are now carried out by women.”

Mr. Weatherman said nothing, and his expression was hidden. But Mercer saw that he had raised his chin very slightly and seemed to be busy rearranging the pencils on his desk. He went on, at the same leisurely pace. “I believe I am right in saying that towards the end of her time here, your litigation department was practically run by Miss Dyson.”

“Until his retirement, and death last year, the litigation department of this firm was run by Mr. Pollock.”

Mr. Weatherman's voice was cold.

“He was, I believe, over seventy. It would have been natural for him to have passed on a good deal of the responsibility to a younger colleague.”

“Do you mind telling me exactly what you want, Inspector?”

If Mercer noted the icy hostility in Mr. Weatherman's voice he was apparently unperturbed by it. He continued in the same unhurried way. “What I want is what policemen are always eager to have. Information.”

Mr. Weatherman had nothing to say to this.

“I understand that a conference took place here in connection with the Prior Garage case. Mr. Pollock was not present, but no doubt he was—ah—controlling matters from the background. But Miss Dyson
was
at the meeting and she made a suggestion. She suggested that, possibly, the whole matter had been rigged. That it was a put-up job. I don't know if she went as far as to suggest
who
had rigged the job, but there was one obvious candidate, the owner of the only remaining garage in Stoneferry, Mr. Bull.”

Mr. Weatherman was now not only silent. He was completely motionless. He had slightly turned his head and Mercer had the impression of a black profile against the grey of the window.

“I understand, however, that this suggestion of Miss Dyson's did not find favour with you, and was not followed up. Is that so?”

Mr. Weatherman said, “Your ignorance of the law seems to be equalled only by your gaucheness. You must be aware that I am quite unable, even if I wished, to answer questions about my clients' affairs.”

“It wasn't really their affairs I was asking about,” said Mercer mildly. “It was your own reactions. Did it never occur to you to wonder
why
Miss Dyson made such a suggestion? And, if it was based on information,
how
she had got that information?” He paused, and added, “Of course, Mr. Bull was your client too, wasn't he?”

“I am not without influence in this town,” said Mr. Weatherman. “Unless you leave this office at once, I shall telephone Superintendent Clark.”

“You can do better than that,” said Mercer. “Why not ring up the Chairman of Magistrates, Murray Talbot. You act for him, too, I believe.”

Massey had not found the watching easy. There was, on this occasion, no conveniently vacant building over the way. His own aged sports car would, he realised, be too conspicuous. In the end he had parked it round the corner, and managed to keep the tobacconist's shop under observation by making occasional trips on foot down the road.

Mercer had arrived at dusk. Fortunately he arrived when Massey was at the far end of the road. He had stayed in the shop for about fifteen minutes. As soon as he had driven off, Massey had moved in.

The proprietor was behind the counter, sorting out a late batch of evening papers. Massey saw a man in early middle age, with a brown and cheerful face. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to show a pair of thick forearms, with an army badge tattooed on each. He said, “And what can I do for you, sir?”

Massey had been considering his tactics. He was, he knew, on delicate ground. He had decided to be official, but friendly.