Petrella at 'Q' (14 page)

“Quite so,” said Mr. Tasker. “The question is, who broke it, and how did they do it?”

It was extraordinary, thought Petrella, how the whole atmosphere of the court had suddenly changed. The jury were no longer apathetic, but were crowding together to look at the photographs. The Coroner had his head on one side, like a blackbird sighting a promising worm. His colleague, Jack Loveday, was looking resigned.

“I would ask the jury,” said Mr. Tasker, “to look particularly at the first photograph. A very good and detailed photograph, if I may say so. They will observe three overlapping circular depressions, of approximately four inches in diameter, close to the fractured end of the rail. It is not easy to judge from the photograph, but I have been allowed to examine the railing itself, and I can assure them that they vary from a quarter to a full third of an inch in depth. In my view they were made by a very heavy sledge-hammer, applied with considerable force—”

“Well,” said Loveday, “he got his adjournment, which is what he was angling for. The rail and post have gone up to the lab for a report.”

“What’s it all about?” said Petrella. They were having a quick beer at the pub opposite the court.

“He came in originally to look after old Mablethorpe’s interests. If the fence had been rotten, there could have been a hefty claim for damages by Nicholls’s wife. Now he’s seen the photographs he’s taking it a lot farther.”

“Yes,” said Petrella. He knew Mr. Tasker for a man who never left a promising hare unhunted. “But what exactly is in his mind?”

“I wish you’d find out,” said Loveday. “You know him better than I do, and his office is nearer you than me.”

Petrella, who was aware that Loveday was involved in a particularly unpleasant child-murder case said, “All right. I’ll take it on and let you know what happens. O.K.?”

“O.K.” said Loveday. “And thank you.”

Mr. Tasker ran a one-man solicitor’s practice from an office near the Oval. He appeared in the local Magistrates’ Courts indiscriminately for and against the police. Petrella had found him to be astute, but fair, in both roles.

He said, “I saw you at the back of the court, Inspector. I guessed you might be round to see me.”

“I wanted to hear a bit more about this railing.”

“Have a look at this sketch. It’ll show you the point I was trying to make. The end of each rail was countersunk into the post on the
inner
side. You see what that means?”

“It means that it couldn’t have been knocked off by someone falling against it. The top of the post would be in the way. Right?”

“Correct. And each rail is fastened to the post by three six-inch nails driven right through and turned flat on the other side. You won’t shift them in a hurry.”

“Then the only alternative is a flaw in the wooden rail.”

“Right,” said Mr. Tasker. “That’s the only alternative. But in this case it isn’t true. I’ve had the rail examined by my own expert. He’ll say that it’s as sound a piece of oak as you’ll find anywhere in England.”

The two men looked at each other in silence for several seconds. Then Petrella said, “So what’s your idea about all this?”

“I think it’s fairly obvious.”

“Let’s have it, all the same.”

“Someone wanted Nicholls out of the way. It was more than one person probably. It’s got the feel of a gang job. All they had to do was follow him home from the pub. They knew he’d go past Malvern Steps and they knew he’d be full of whisky. One of them has already got hold of a handy chunk of rock from the foreshore. He walks up behind him, and slugs him on top of the head with it. Didn’t it strike you as odd that the fracture should have been on
top
of his head? If you broke through a railing and fell six feet, you might land on your face or you might land on your bottom, but you wouldn’t land on top of your head.”

“It did strike me as a bit odd,” said Petrella. “You suggest they just pitched him down and put the chunk of rock back beside him. And broke the rail and threw that down too.”

“That’s right. And that rail took some breaking. They had to hit it three times with a fourteen-pound sledge-hammer to crack it.”

“Can you think of any reason why anyone should want to get rid of Nicholls?”

“Search me.”

“Did you know him professionally?”

“We were sometimes on opposite sides in a house sale or purchase. He acted for Lloyds.”

Petrella was aware that in that part of South London if someone mentioned Lloyds they meant neither the well-known City outfit nor the bank. They were referring to Lloyd and Lloyd who were the largest and busiest local firm of property dealers specialising in sales of small houses, flats and one-man businesses. Petrella knew them well. He had bought his own flat from them.

Mr. Tasker said, “Nicholls brought them all the Lloyds business. He knew old Jimmy Lloyd from army days. Now Nicholls has gone, the business will go somewhere else. Lampe’s got no one capable of handling it”

“Hasn’t he got any partners? What about Gidney and Glazier?”

“Gidney’s dead. Glazier’s retired. Lampe ought to have retired too. Probably can’t afford to. Poor old sod.”

A more cheerful aspect of the matter occurred to Mr. Tasker. He said, “Come to think of it, if he loses Lloyds’ business, I might get it.”

“You realise that makes you the number one suspect,” said Petrella. As he was going he added, “If you do hear anything about Nicholls, you might pass it on and we’ll look into it. It’ll help you to get the verdict you want if you can suggest some sort of motive.”

“You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours,” said Mr. Tasker cheerfully.

The offices of Messrs. Gidney, Lampe and Glazier were in Kentledge Road, opposite the mortuary. There was a sad air of mortality about them, too. The unmistakable odour of decay.

Mr. Lampe received Petrella in a room which was lined on one side with deed boxes and on two sides with books. Neither boxes nor books looked as though they had been opened for some years. Mr. Lampe said, “I saw you in court, Inspector. Do I understand that you are now in charge of this matter?”

“I’m giving Inspector Loveday a hand,” said Petrella. “Temporarily. I thought you might be able to tell me something about Nicholls.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Lampe. “Yes. Well – he was a very able conveyancer. Before he came to me he had been many years with a firm in Lincoln’s Inn. But he found the daily journey across London tiring. As we grow older, Inspector, bodily comfort becomes more and more important.”

“He was a native of these parts.”

“He has lived here all his life. And married a local girl. I am doing what I can to look after her, poor soul.”

“Is she hard up?”

This direct question seemed to disconcert Mr. Lampe. He said, “You’ll understand that I haven’t had time to look closely into Nicholls’s private affairs. But I never got the impression that he had a great deal of money to spare.”

“It would seem,” said Petrella, “that any money he did have to spare went on whisky.”

“I find that remark uncalled for.”

“When you took him on, did you
know
that he was an alcoholic?”

A flush spread over Mr. Lampe’s pale face. He said, “There is no truth in that at all. I was surprised that the Coroner let the question stand. I shall take the first opportunity at the adjourned hearing to protest very strongly. Mr. Nicholls liked a drink after the day’s work was over. If that makes him an alcoholic, there must be a great number of them about—”

“I’m afraid I put the old boy’s back up,” said Petrella to Sergeant Roughead. “A pity, because after that he stood on his professional dignity and I couldn’t get anything out of him at all. We shall have to tackle this from the other end. You’d better go along and have a word with Saul Elder at the Wheelwrights. I’d like to know who Nicholls was drinking with that evening.”

Sergeant Milo Roughead, late of Eton and the ranks of the Metropolitan Constabulary, accepted the assignment with enthusiasm. He had always found Mr. Elder friendly, and drinking in pursuit of information was the sort of duty which appealed to him.

The Wheelwrights Arms, though full to suffocation on most evenings, was little patronised by day. He found the saloon bar empty and Mr. Elder, with his sleeves rolled up, polishing glasses. He drew a pint for Milo and a half pint for himself and said, “And what may we do to help the cause of law and order, Sergeant?”

“You can tell me something. Who was here with Nicholls on the night he was killed?”

When Mr. Elder froze into sudden immobility, Milo realised that he might have been indiscreet. There was a long silence. Then Mr. Elder slowly resumed his polishing. It was a full minute before he said, “Killed, eh? So that’s what Tasker was getting at. I thought it might be.”

He examined the glass, holding it up against the light, then put it down and picked up another one.

“It’s not certain, by any means,” said Milo. “But we’re looking at it that way for the moment.”

“So you want to know who was drinking with Nicholls?”

“That’s right.”

“Difficult to say. He had a lot of friends. Not friends really. Acquaintances. People who would always take a drink off him, and sometimes stand him one back. Charlie Cousins, the bookmaker. Phil Green, who drives a taxi. You know him. Sam – I don’t know his other name – works in the goods depot. I could give you a half dozen names if I thought hard enough. They was all in here that night, and more besides. We had an extension up to midnight, seeing as how it was New Year’s Eve.”

“But you don’t remember any one in particular?”

“No. First one, then the other.”

“Did anyone leave with him?”

Mr. Elder thought hard about this. Whilst he was thinking, the door of the small bar at the back opened and two men came out. Milo could see them quite clearly in the mirror behind the bar. Both of them were big men, who carried themselves like soldiers. Both had the pug faces of fighters, short noses, small eyes and unobtrusive ears. The one in front had smooth black hair. The other had thick reddish hair which grew to a peak on his forehead and ran down either side of his face in long side-boards.

They walked out without speaking and the street door swung softly shut behind them.

“I got a few names,” said Milo, “and I can check up on them, but I don’t fancy we shall get much out of them. It was a New Year’s Eve crush, everyone standing drinks to everyone else. There was one thing, though. Did we ever connect the Wheelwrights with the crowd from the Elephant – Les Congdon’s lot?”

“The Elephant? No, I don’t think so. They usually stick to their own patch of the jungle.”

There had been a dynasty of gangs centred on the Elephant and Castle; known at different times as the Elephant boys, the Mahoots or the Jumbos – or simply by the name of the man who happened to have taken over the leadership. They were the mercenary soldiers of the South Bank, happy to sell their services to the best paymaster; dispersed when some gross outrage had roused the police to action; re-forming as soon as the dust had settled.

“Why do you ask?”

“I thought I spotted two of them coming out of the private bar. Chris Mason, I’m sure was one of them. I recognised that widow’s peak.”

“If that’s right,” said Petrella, “the black-haired one was probably his brother, Len.”

“They didn’t look like brothers.”

“Their father was Buster Mason who used to box at the Blackfriars Ring. He was married four times – officially. Died of a brain haemorrhage some years ago. Chris and Len are bad boys. I’ll have a word with Loveday. They’re his homework, not mine.” He was wrapping a scarf round his neck as he spoke and buttoning up his raincoat. The weather was vile. Rain alternating with sleet, driven by a wind which was blowing from the North Sea. “I’m going to have a word with Jimmy Lloyd. Private business. You can look after the shop until I get back.”

James Lloyd was sixty-five. The years since the ending of the war had brought him a lot of money. They had also added unnecessary pounds to his weight, an inflated paunch and a troublesome digestion. It was hard to believe that he had once played wing-threequarter for Aberavon.

He said, “Shouldn’t be too difficult to find a buyer. Everyone’s looking for small flats. You’ll be after something bigger, I take it?”

“We’ll need one more room at least,” said Petrella, “when the second child does decide to put in an appearance. Preferably a spare room as well.”

“Two living, three beds, usual offices.” Mr. Lloyd made a note on his pad. “What did you put down when you bought this one?”

“I paid seven hundred pounds for a gas-stove, two tatty carpets and some pelmets which we pulled down as soon as we got in.”

“Usual swindle,” said Mr. Lloyd. “Much more honest to call it a premium and have done with it. You didn’t throw the pelmets away, I hope.”

“We’ve got them stowed away somewhere.
And
we’ve put in a new gas-stove.”

“Lovely,” said Mr. Lloyd. “Present state of the market, should be able to get you a thousand. Of course, you’ll have to lay most of it out again when you get a new flat. Tom Adams will keep his eyes open too. Right, Tom?”

This was to a tiny, bird-like man who had come into the room without knocking.

“My head accountant, Tom Adams,” said Mr. Lloyd. “I don’t think you know Detective Chief Inspector Petrella, do you?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” said Mr. Adams in a thin piping voice.

“The Inspector wants to move into a larger flat. Three beds. Must do our best for him. Got to keep on the right side of the law, boy.”

Mr. Adams looked doubtful. He said, “It’s a very popular size. I’ll certainly keep my eyes open.” He paused. “If you’re busy now, I can easily come back.”

“That’s all right,” said Petrella. “I’ve finished.”

When he got back to Patton Street Station, he sent for Detective Sergeant Ambrose, and said, “There’s a job I want you to look into. It was a long firm fraud. About ten years ago up at Highside. I’ve forgotten the name of the man concerned. It wasn’t my case. He was an unqualified accountant who worked for a firm of builders. Sent down for five years by Arbuthnot at the Bailey. See if you can find me the name and a photograph.”