The Killing of Katie Steelstock (6 page)

Walter noted it too, and was relieved. He had braced himself for tears and hysteria. He had not expected anger and resolve.

His mother threw a dressing gown over her shoulders, went across to a small davenport in the corner of her bedroom and took out an address book. She said, “I’m going to ring up Philip.”

“Now?”

“Of course. At once.” She was dialling as she spoke, picking out the numbers unhesitatingly.

When McCourt got back to the boathouse he found that reinforcements had already arrived. Detective Superintendent Farr, the head of the Berkshire C.I.D., was talking to a tall thin civilian whom McCourt placed, after some thought, as Sam Pollock, the Deputy Chief Constable.

“It’ll be for the Chief to decide,” said Pollock. “But I know what I’d do in his place. I’d get C. One in on the act from the start. No offence intended, Dennis, but this girl’s a public character. As soon as the news breaks, you’ll have the press round your neck.”

“Don’t mind me,” said Farr. “I’ve got enough on my plate already. So far as I’m concerned, the glory boys can have it and good luck to them.”

“There’s another thing. Agreed, this could turn out to be a local matter. But then again, it needn’t be. The girl lived half her life up in London. There are bound to be inquiries to make up there.”

“All right,” said Farr. “Like you said, it isn’t our decision. I can tell you one thing. Whichever way it goes, our chaps will have to do most of the work.” He looked at his watch. “It’ll be light in three hours,” he said to Dandridge. “We want this section of the towpath blocked off at both ends. Put barricades at the end of Church Lane and River Park Avenue. Leave a man here to keep an eye on things. Right?”

“Right,” said Dandridge. He seemed happy to be taking rather than giving orders. “You’d better stay here, Keep.” This was to Police Constable Keep, who had been on night duty at the station and looked as though he would have been glad to get back there.

After sprinkling a few more suggestions and commands around, Farr walked back to his Humber and drove off. Dandridge said, “See you keep everyone off. Especially the newspaper boys.” He then made for his car. Esdaile picked up his bicycle, which he had propped against the farther wall of the boathouse, and said, “I’ll be seeing you.”

McCourt thought, it was like the gradual emptying of the stage, the release of tension after the high point of the drama. He was perched on the rail of the landing stage which fronted the boathouse. He felt curiously wide awake.

Constable Keep, who had taken one cautious look over the sacking screen and then turned quickly away again, came across and joined him. McCourt got out a packet of cigarettes and they both lit up.

“Who could have done a thing like that?” said Keep.

“I expect we shall find out soon enough,” said McCourt.

They smoked in silence. It was past the dead hour of the night. The pendulum had swung across the midpoint and was climbing toward morning. Soon light would be coming back into the world. A thin curtain of mist was beginning to rise from the water. In the intense stillness, they could hear the small sounds of life moving in the long grass and the bushes which fringed the riverbank. A white shape showed through the mist as a single swan sailed toward them breasting the current with easy strokes.

“Nasty brutes,” said Keep. “When I was a kid playing about on the river, I used to be terrified of them. They say they can break a man’s arm easy.”

“Is that right?” said McCourt. He had no wish to talk. If he had any sense, he thought, he’d have gone back to bed when the top brass left. They were going to be busy enough, in all conscience, when the sun rose.

It was as he was starting to get up that they both saw and heard something else. The growling of a car in low gear. The twin eyes of headlights dimmed by the mist. McCourt said, “I’d better stop them before they come too far.”

He walked forward. It was a big black car with the stamp of officialdom on it. As he came up to it the lights flicked on inside and he saw the occupants.

The driver was a young man with a young and solemn face. The passenger, who had opened the door and was climbing out, was a small thick person with white hair and a nose which had been broken and badly set.

McCourt recognised him at once.

“My name’s Knott,” said the newcomer. “Chief Superintendent, C. One. And who are you?”

“McCourt, sir. Sergeant. Hannington C.I.D.”

“Give me that torch, Bob.” He returned his attention to Ian. “I understand you’ve got a body for me.”

“It’s behind those screens.”

“Someone’s had that much sense.” He seemed to be in no hurry to examine the body but shifted the torch, not so that it shone into Ian’s eyes but far enough for the side glow to light up his face. He said, “Haven’t I seen you before?”

“I was two years at West End Central, under Watts.”

“Thought so. Never forget a face. What took you out into the sticks? Looking for quicker promotion, or less work?”

“Neither, sir. My mother had folk in these parts. She wanted to get out of London and wanted me by her.”

Knott grunted. He had, as McCourt remembered from the previous occasion on which he had met him, an orchestration of grunts which could mean anything. It was not clear whether this one implied disapproval of a mother who could stand in the way of a promising young man’s career in the metropolis or contempt for a young man who could fall in with her wishes.

“When was she found?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir. I was in bed and asleep.”

“Early to bed and early to rise, eh?”

McCourt said, with a smile, “I hardly got to bed at all last night.”

“Then why the hell aren’t you in bed now?” The torch shifted slightly. “You’re not going to be much use to anyone if you’re half asleep, are you? Push off. I’ll see you at the station at nine o’clock. Not a minute before.” As McCourt turned to go, he added, “And not a minute after.”

As soon as he had gone, Knott moved across to the screen and peered over. He shone the torch down for a moment, then switched it off and turned to Constable Keep, who was standing impassively. Having discovered the constable’s name, he perched himself on the rail which fenced the side of the boathouse slipway and sat there swinging his short legs. Then he said, “Tell me about yourselves, Keep.”

“About ourselves, sir?”

“The Hannington Force.”

“Oh. I see. Well, sir, it’s not a big station. There’s Chief Inspector Dandridge. He’s in charge. On the uniformed side we’ve got Sergeant Bakewell. He’s the Station Sergeant. And there’s two other constables besides me – Coble and Mustoe. Then on the C.I.D. side we’ve got Inspector Ray, only he’s not there just now, being in hospital at Reading.”

“Serious?”

“Stomach ulcers. He’s been there a month or more. Under observation.”

Knott’s grunt implied that he knew better than the doctors exactly what this could signify.

“And then there’s Sergeant Esdaile and Sergeant McCourt. Him you were talking to. And Detective Arnold. He’s away with a broken ankle.”

Knott sat in silence for some minutes. He seemed to be counting up the numbers and estimating the calibre of the forces at his disposal. He said, “Has the doctor seen her?”

“Oh yes, sir. Dr. Farmiloe was here very qui”Farmiloe. Jack Farmiloe?”

“I believe that’s his name, sir. He was up in London, doing police work, I understand, before he came down here. You may have met him.”

“If he’s the Jack Farmiloe I knew,” said Knott, “we’re in luck. It means that one job at least will have been done properly.” He swung himself down onto his feet. “Keep your eyes skinned. We’ll have both ends of the path blocked by first light. And if anyone comes past, keep them well away from the screens.
But get their names.
Right?”

“Right,” said Keep. He thought, Cheeky bugger. One job at least done right. He, too, had recognised the squat white-haired figure. Charlie Knott, one of the self-appointed stars of the Murder Squad. His picture had been in the papers only that week. A case at Oxford. A man being led into the Magistrates Court by two detectives, with a coat over his head and Charlie Knott close enough behind to get himself into the picture. As per usual.

Knott was examining the boathouse. Solidly constructed out of good materials, it had been built nearly a hundred years before, in the heyday of Thames boating. It would last another hundred years, he thought,
if
it was looked after. But there were signs of deterioration. The paintwork needed redoing, and there was a missing pane of glass in the small door set into the left hand of the big swing doors which guarded the main part of the shed.

Knott shone his torch through and picked out the four-oar skiffs, the tub dinghies, the upended canoes and the lines of oars standing like guardsmen at the back.

The swing doors were fastened with a padlock. The small door was locked, too, with a Yale-type lock. Knott wandered around to the far side and found another door. Beside it a painted notice board said, “Hannington Boating and Aquatic Club. Committee Room.” This door also was locked.

He completed his circuit of the building, past the lean-to at the rear, and came out again behind the point where Constable Keep was standing. He said, “Who runs this place?”

“Mr. Cavey, he’s the caretaker. He’s the one who found her.”

“So I heard. What I meant was, who’s the boss?”

“That’d be Mr. Mariner. He’s the president of the club. Mr. Nurse is secretary.”

Knott stood for a moment digesting this information. At the beginning of a case, like a careful hostess at the outset of a party, he liked to memorise names and fit them to faces. He walked back to his car. The driver was lying with his eyes shut. He looked absurdly young.

Knott said, “Wake up, Bob. Take the car back to that pub – the one we telephoned – can’t remember the name.”

“The Swan,” said Sergeant Shilling sleepily.

“Right. Drop our stuff there. Tell them we’ll want an early breakfast. Then get round to the station. There’ll be someone on night duty. Tell him to get hold of Dandridge. I’ll meet him there in half an hour. Then you can go to bed.”

“How are you going to get back?”

“When I’ve finished here, I’ll walk. It isn’t far. Don’t try to turn the car. Back it until you reach the turning we came down. And don’t go into the river.”

“Do my best,” said Shilling.

Knott followed the car as it backed. It was a tricky manoeuvre in the mist but deftly accomplished. He watched the car turn down Upper Church Lane. The cottage on the corner, which he knew belonged to Mr. Cavey, was in darkness. He wondered about Mr. Cavey. The first person on the scene of a crime was always important. He must find an early opportunity for a word with Mr. Cavey.

Turning about, he walked slowly along the towpath, keeping to the metalled portion in the centre. On his right the river ran black under its quilt of curling mist. On his left was a strip of rough grass, backed for the first fifty yards by a barbed-wire fence, and after that by a hedge of what looked like thorn bushes and alder. The sunshine of the past fortnight would have baked everything rock hard. But it would all have to be searched, because it was the path down which Katie Steelstock had walked to her death.

He continued on past the boathouse. Here there was a change. No hedge on the left, but a row of fenced building plots. Then a shed. Then a bungalow – “Shalimar” in Gothic script on the gate – and here was the turning he had expected. River Park Avenue. If he went along it, it must bring him back to the main road. Twenty minutes’ brisk walk would get him through West Hannington and back into Hannington town.

It would also restore his circulation and give him time to plan his strategy. He had been long enough at the game to know that the first twenty-four hours could make or mar the outcome.

In this case, the fact that important people were involved had given him a flying start.

Mrs. Steelstock had telephoned her brother, Philip, at twelve forty. Philip Frost was the Deputy Director of Public Prosecutions. He had immediately contacted his friend and professional colleague of long standing, Terence Loftus, Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Two telephone calls had followed, the first to the Chief Constable of Berkshire, who had already been alerted by the Deputy Chief Constable and who was not only wide awake but had been on the point of telephoning Loftus himself; the second to Detective Chief Superintendent Knott, who was sleeping the sleep of the just in a small hotel outside Oxford, having that day brought to a successful conclusion the hunt for the killer of two Somerville students. One more jump forward in the rat race. A real possibility that he might make the coveted and difficult step up to Commander. It was a two-horse race really. Himself or Haliburton. And, as a result of the Oxford case, he fancied that his own nose was in front.

Success at Hannington could make a certainty of it. And success should not be too difficult. When a girl was killed you started with the 90 per cent probability that the killer was one of her boyfriends. In this case there was the extra possibility that it was a casual crime. The girl might have disturbed someone who was up to no good. A wild blow, not meant to kill. A panic-stricken flight. That would be much more difficult.

Could the missing window in the boathouse door be significant? How long ago had it been broken? He would have to ask Cavey about that. As the outlines of the investigation formed themselves in his mind, he began to consider what help he would need. He would have the two detective sergeants: McCourt and—what was the name?—think—Esdaile. McCourt had struck him as a cocky type who would be inclined to strike out a line on his own. He would want watching. For immediate purposes he would need more men. A lot more. The first step would be to contact Dennis Farr at Reading. He had met him in the course of the Oxford investigation and had got on well with him. Farr would help.

West Hannington merged into Hannington town. The change occurred quite suddenly. One moment he was in a village. The next moment in a suburb of small houses. Ten minutes more took him to the central point, where he turned left for the bridge over the river and the railway station and right up the main shopping street, near the far end of which was the police station.