Manna from Hades (18 page)

TWENTY

As Megan parked the car, Ken said, “Sorry. You know, we ought to discuss what we’ve found out and what to do next. I’ll buy you a decent dinner. Not on expenses.”

“I have to ring the guv’nor.”

“So do I. Let’s sign into our rooms first. Then I’ll phone the Yard to report and to find out whether the jeweller has positively identified the stuff as his. If he says it’s not—not likely but always possible—I’ll be off your case, and you’ll want to tell DI Scumble.”

“That’s a point. I’ll wait till we know.”

“And dinner afterwards?”

“Yes. Thanks. But I didn’t bring anything special to change into. Just my overnight bag. And I’m not sure what’s in that. I don’t exactly need it often in Cornwall, not like you Yard types.”

“You can borrow my toothpaste, but not my toothbrush. What you’re wearing looks fine to me. I’ll ask the receptionist for suggestions. Let’s go.”

The hotel served breakfasts but not dinners, so the plump blond receptionist was quite happy to recommend a couple of restaurants nearby that were “nice” but didn’t expect their customers to dress up.

Megan eyed the very public telephone next to the stairs. It was not the sort of hotel that has a phone in every bedroom. “We’d better make our calls from the nick,” she suggested to Ken.

“Definitely.”

“It’s only a couple of minutes walk, I think. Let’s drop off our bags and go over.”

She had spoken in a low voice, but the girl overheard. “You’re with the police, aren’t you?” she asked. “They booked for you.”

“From Scotland Yard.” Ken showed her his card.

Her eyes rounded. “Gosh, fab! Wait till I tell Mum we had Scotland Yard detectives staying in the hotel. You’re a detective, too, Miss—” She glanced at the register. “—Pencarrow?”

“Yes.” Megan didn’t think it necessary to specify that she was merely from Cornwall.

“Fab! If there’s anything you need, just let me know. I think there’s a magnifying glass in the manager’s office.”

“Don’t tell anyone who we are,” Ken told her solemnly.

“Not even Mum?” she asked, disappointed.

“Oh, I think you can tell your mother,” said Megan, “but not until after we leave, all right?”

“All right! Fab!”

They went up the stairs. On the landing, they exchanged a look, said together, “Fab!” and burst out laughing.

Megan’s room was small but adequate, the mattress sagging a bit but not lumpy. The wash-basin had running hot water that was really hot, and the bathroom and loo were nearly opposite, not hidden away down miles of corridors. Unpacking her night things, she discovered her toothpaste in her sponge bag and was glad she wouldn’t have to borrow Ken’s—or more likely do without. Underneath was a clean pale blue blouse that was not too creased. She hung it over the basin while she washed, in the hope that the creases would be diminished by the steam.

. . . Well, it was worth a try. She hadn’t time for a nice hot steamy bath. When she put the blouse on, it didn’t look too bad with the dark green suit, which would definitely have to go to the cleaners next week.

She brushed her hair and was applying her usual peach-coloured lipstick when Ken knocked on her door.

“Coming!” she called, annoyed to find she was looking forward to having dinner with him.

He had taken off his tie and changed from his dark suit into a tweed jacket and fawn slacks. A sudden thought struck her.

“Why did you bring your overnight bag?” she asked accusingly. “You were supposed to collect the jewels and go back to London.”

He grinned. “As a matter of fact, my super and yours had already had a confab before I left town. But yours had to consult your CC, and he didn’t want to alert DI Scumble to the possibility of working with the Yard in time for him to think up objections. I rather think Scumble won the second round, though, shipping me off to Bristol.”

“He may be a misogynistic pain in the neck, but he’s not stupid. I knew he was planning something tricky. He got both of us out of his hair in one swell foop.”

“I hope he’s pleased with the result. Let’s go and report.”

“I just hope he doesn’t want
us
to do a house-to-house down by the docks.”

“Horrors! We’d better be extra charming to the Bristol people and with any luck they’ll agree to send uniforms.”

It was a pleasant evening. The wind had died down and the air was balmy. On the way to the Bristol nick they passed both the recommended restaurants and both looked “nice.” One was Italian, the other Indian.

“Which do you prefer?”

Megan picked Indian. “One thing I do miss in our rural fastness is a choice of restaurants.”

“Pasties or fish and chips?” Ken said sympathetically.

“Not quite that bad! Even Port Mabyn has Chinese, and we have an Italian place in Launceston. Your choice of spaghetti bolognese or ravioli. Oh, and minestrone, of course. I have to admit that my mother makes a better spaghetti bolognese.”

“Your parents live in Cornwall too, don’t they, as well as your aunt? I had forgotten.”

“Yes, near Falmouth. It’s quite a trek on our roads, but I get down there once a month or so. Here we are.”

They were accommodated with a small office containing a desk, a file cabinet, two chairs, and a telephone. Ken sat down behind the desk, pulled the phone to him, and dialled the Yard.

Megan didn’t listen as he talked his way towards whomever he was supposed to report to. She was too busy reading over her notes and preparing her own report in her mind. Then his exasperated tone broke through her absorption.

“What the hell d’you mean, ‘something’s happened’?”

She couldn’t hear the person on the other end.

Then Ken said, “All right, all right, so no one told you and no one left a message for me. Get me a typist and I’ll dictate my report.” He put his hand over the receiver and hissed at Megan’s enquiring look, “ ‘Something’s happened’! Apparently only God and my guv’nor know what, and the guv’nor’s gone home to bed. Do
not
suggest that we try . . . Yes, Faraday here. Ready?”

His report was admirably concise yet complete. Megan took it down word for word in shorthand. Unless DI Scumble was still at the station and wanted to discuss what to do next, she would just repeat Ken’s account.

Ken hung up. “At least my guv’nor left word he’d be in tomorrow and I should ring at nine. Your turn.” He shoved the phone across the desk.

Megan had even less luck. She spoke to the desk sergeant in Launceston, who told her he was the only copper in the station. He had no idea when DI Scumble would be in on Saturday morning, if at all. He would leave a message for the inspector to ring DS Pencarrow at Bristol HQ.

“But if he gets in before nine, to try my hotel first, please.
Number?
” she mouthed at Ken, and was impressed when he knew it. She passed it on to Sergeant Welham. “And please tell him—”

“Keep it short, Pencarrow. I’m expecting another call.”

“Tell him the victim was definitely seen in Bristol but we haven’t got a name or address yet.” So much for her planned miracle of comprehensive conciseness. She hung up.

“Another misogynist?” Ken asked.

“Welham? Not really. The bastard is just as bloody-minded with everyone. Including the public we’re supposed to serve.”

“That’s why they put that sort on the desk, didn’t you realise? Keeps away all but the most determined of the public.”

“Most of ours are all right, actually.”

“Call it a wild generalisation. Well, we’ve done what we can to appease our lords and masters. Let’s go and eat.”

Over an excellent meal, they discussed how they might set about finding the people who had known the victim, if they were required to do so. Their dispiriting conclusion was that it would take a large number of officers to draw a net around the entire area.

“CaRaDoC’s not going to supply them,” Megan said with certainty.

“Nor’s the Yard. Caradoc?”

“Constabulary of the Royal Duchy of Cornwall.”

“I can see why you shorten it!”

“Caradoc was a Celtic prince. I think he fought the Romans. He was Welsh, strictly speaking, but all us Celts have to stick together.
Onen hag oll
is Cornwall’s motto. Kernow’s, I should say.”

“Should you?”

“ ‘One and all,’ it means.”

“Let’s hope Bristol feels that way about lending us a hand.”

“What we need is lots of hands,” Megan pointed out.

Ken sighed. “Which probably means bringing out the big guns, otherwise known as the Assistant Commissioner. Who will not be happy.”

“How about offering a reward?”

He brightened. “Now that’s an idea. Having a concrete proposal to suggest will look a whole lot better than admitting we can’t do our job without calling out the entire Bristol force. Nothing we can do about it tonight, anyway.”

And by the morning, Megan suspected, it would have metamorphosed into his own idea. Never mind; that was just the way he was.

Her move from London to Cornwall had been dictated as much by the desire to escape her helpless attraction to Ken as by the promotion to sergeant and her preference for rural over urban life. She was grateful to Scumble for sending him to Bristol with her. Seeing him again had exorcised a ghost. Now, she hoped, they could be friends.

In the morning, they fortified themselves with eggs, bacon, sausages, fried tomatoes, and fried bread, not to mention toast and marmalade, before walking over to the Bristol police HQ. To their dismay, they were directed to the office of the superintendent of the local CID.

The presence in his office of a uniformed inspector and a shorthand writer didn’t make them feel any better. Megan wondered whether, in spite of having their plans okayed by the Bristol force, they had transgressed against some local shibboleth. She came to attention beside Ken—and a little to the rear. Cowardly, perhaps, but he was the man from Scotland Yard and she was merely from Cornwall.

“DS Faraday and DS Pencarrow reporting, sir.”

Superintendent Oakhurst looked them over without any sign of either approval or disapproval. “I’ve been talking to your respective superiors,” he said, in the clipped accent of South African English. “I gather you’ve found a link between Bristol and the charity shop murder. Inspector Everett here is very familiar with the area you expressed an interest in.”

“I can mebbe give you a hint whether your informants are reliable.” In contrast to the superintendent, the inspector had the slow, soft voice of a West Country native. “Give us a report, Sergeant, with a bit more detail than you phoned in last night, please.”

Ken did so, including the group of young people who had skedaddled from the pub when they weren’t looking. “I didn’t actually spot them,” he admitted. “DS Pencarrow drew their departure to my attention.”

The superintendent’s and inspector’s attention thus drawn to Megan, she explained that the youths had vanished through an unnoticed back door while she was waiting for a suitable moment to interrupt DS Faraday’s questioning of the informant.

Oakhurst looked as if he was about to utter a reprimand, but Inspector Everett said placidly, “Silent as shadows and slippery as eels, those squatters, when they want to be. They’d have disappeared into their holes before you got outside to go after them.”

“That’s what I reckoned, sir,” said Ken, “having had some experience of the type in London. It seems to me it will take considerable manpower to find the ones we’re looking for.”

“You won’t be one of them,” the superintendent informed him. “You’re to take the first train back to London. I understand you’re needed at Scotland Yard. The presumed owner of the stolen goods the Cornish force recovered”—he nodded at Megan—“was released from the hospital yesterday morning and he seems to have disappeared.”

“What!”

“An officer went to his home to take him to the Yard to identify the jewelry. He wasn’t there. Nor was his car garaged. The next-door neighbour’s out of town and no one they’ve contacted has seen him or has any idea where he might have gone. They seem to think you might be able to find him, Sergeant. Or perhaps it’s just that they can’t spare anyone else to look.” Everett glanced at the electric clock on the wall. “You’d better get going. Temple Meads station is just a few minutes walk.”

“I need to discuss the case with M—my Cornish colleague, sir. The parts that aren’t relevant to your force.”

“DS Pencarrow’s superior is expecting her to ring him, and we need her cooperation with regard to these squatters.”

Superintendent Oakhurst intervened. “A few minutes is neither here nor there, except when it comes to catching trains. We won’t have men to spare till Sunday.”

“Both Bristol teams have home games,” Everett put in gloomily.

“Or even Monday, if your lot don’t want a huge bill for over time. You may go with Faraday to the station, Miss Pencarrow, but make your discussion quick and come straight back.” He nodded dismissal.

“Sir.”

Ken held his tongue till the door was safely shut behind them, then he burst out, “What the hell does it mean? Disappeared! Did the robbers snatch him and do him in for fear he might be able to identify them? Or has he scarpered for fear they might? Oakhurst didn’t give me much info to build theories on.”

Megan stopped to ask the desk sergeant for directions to Temple Meads station.

“The disappearing jeweller is really none of Oakhurst’s business,” she pointed out as they went out to the street. “His only part is to help to identify our victim. I doubt he bothered to find out more than he told you.”

Ken mimicked the South African accent: “ ‘An officer went to his home to take him to the Yard to identify the jewelry. He wasn’t there. They seem to think you might be able to find him, Sergeant. Or perhaps it’s just that they can’t spare anyone else to look.’ ”

Megan laughed. “That final dig was uncalled-for. I expect he’s just fed up at being asked to lend his men for at least several hours for a case that’s not his problem. It’s a nuisance they can’t get onto it till Monday. Too bad both Bristol City and Rovers have home fixtures this weekend.”

“Yes. I hope the kids who knew him won’t have taken fright by then to the point of leaving town.”