Body of a Girl (18 page)

He produced his warrant card, and said, “I'm a police officer. It's been reported to us that the man who has just left is in the habit of coming here regularly, in the evenings. You understand that you're under no obligation to answer any questions, but if you can help us, and trouble does arise, we can probably help you.”

Massey was rather pleased with this speech. He had, he thought, put the situation neatly. The proprietor seemed to be weighing things up. He said, “From what he told me, the other gentleman is a police officer too.”

“That's correct. But I'm afraid that proceedings are pending against him. Disciplinary proceedings, you understand. These things happen from time to time. Mostly they're kept very quiet.”

“Yes, I understand that,” said the proprietor.

“And the names of people who help us can usually be kept out of the record altogether.”

The proprietor said, “Ah.” He appeared to be arriving at some sort of decision. Massey prayed that no one would come into the shop.

“You understand, I only did it to oblige.”

“Did what?”

“Took in letters for him. And let him use my telephone. Little things like that.”

“Nothing else?”

The man hesitated. Massey noticed his glance shifting towards the old iron safe, under the shelf behind the counter. He had an inspiration.

“You didn't look after anything for him, did you?”

“Well, yes,” said the man. “There was a package. He said he didn't quite trust the people he was staying with, you see.”

“Did you know what was in it?”

“I never asked. Why should I?”

“Of course not. Could I see it?”

“I couldn't let you do that. Not without his permission.”

“I only want to look at it. I'm not going to take it away.”

The proprietor hesitated. Then he opened a drawer and took out a ring of keys. With the largest of them he unlocked the safe, and after what seemed to Massey to be interminable deliberation drew out a sealed manilla envelope and laid it on the counter.

Massey picked it up.

“I don't think you ought to open it. Not without him being here,” said the proprietor anxiously.

“That's all right,” said Massey. He ripped open the flap. A wad of new one-pound notes slid out onto the counter.

“Well, that's that,” said Murray Talbot. “You've got it both ways. First, we know from Derek Robbins that three deposits of fifty pounds each have been made in Mercer's bank account. And the first one was made the morning after he'd spent the evening talking to Jack Bull at that public house.”

“Yes.”

“Now we know that he's got at least one other cache that he visits secretly.”

“I suppose I shall have to make an official report.”

“You'd be failing in your duty if you didn't,” said Murray Talbot. He said it with considerable satisfaction.

Chapter Nineteen

“What the hell's up with everyone this morning,” said Gwilliam.

Prothero said, “In what way?”

“When I came in, when Tovey-luvvy saw me, he had a grin all over his stupid face. Like he'd won the Treble Chance or something.”

“Funny you should say that,” said Prothero. “I got the same idea. Nothing pleases the blue-bottles like when we're in a right mess up here. What do you think?”

Sergeant Gwilliam lowered his massive form onto a small chair, which squeaked in protest, and disposed himself to consider the matter. He said, “Bob Clark's got his knife into the skipper. But there's nothing new about that. They've been cat and dog ever since he arrived.”

“Nor the skipper doesn't strain a gut trying to be matey, neither.”

“He's not too easy to get on with,” agreed Gwilliam. “I grant you that.”

“And Bob's getting old. He's got an eye on that sunny day when they hand him his first pension cheque, and he can stay in bed as long as he likes next morning. You know why our crime figures are so low? For the last few years, if there's been any doubt, Bob's idea has been, don't count it as a crime. That way, he's got a nice quiet little manor. Then Mercer comes along, and bingo! Before he knows where he is, he's up shit creek without a paddle. You've got to be sorry for the old sod, really. Did you see this? It was in the papers last night.”

It was an imaginative effort by the cartoonist. It showed Sowthistle, with a black patch over one eye and a cocked hat on his head, booting a black-coated civil servant carrying a briefcase labelled ‘Ministry of Interference' off the deck of his barge and into the river. The caption underneath said, ‘The Nelson Spirit'.

“It beats me,” said Gwilliam. “Here's this old toe-rag, living in a pigsty, making money by flogging dirt, pissed as a newt most days by lunch-time, and the way people carry on about him he might be St. George for Merry England.”

“Here comes the boy scout,” said Prothero. “Maybe he can tell us what's up.”

Detective Massey was looking serious. He said, “What's up about what?”

“Taffy and me both got the idea that our chums in blue were sitting downstairs rubbing their hands together like they'd heard we'd dropped a great big clanger, what about it?”

“I did hear,” said Massey, “off the record, that Mercer was in some sort of trouble.”

The other two looked at him.

“You never really hit it off with the skipper, did you?” said Gwilliam.

“He's been picking on me ever since he got here,” said Massey. “Not that it signifies. Because he's on his way out.”

“Then you do know something,” said Prothero.

“Out with it, laddie,” said Gwilliam.

“Well—” Massey stopped as the door opened and Mercer came in. He stood for a moment, viewing his three subordinates. All had fallen strangely silent and seemed to be absorbed in their work. Mercer grinned. Then he tiptoed across the room to his desk, humming the opening bars of the Funeral March. Lowering his voice almost to a whisper, he said, “Who are we in mourning for, eh?”

Gwilliam said, “We heard Bob died—of laughing. He saw that cartoon in the papers last night.”

“That,” said Mercer. “I saw it. Not very funny really. Did you get what I wanted in Slough, Taffy?”

“I'm not sure if it's what you wanted, but I got something.” Gwilliam unrolled the map on the table. “There's not a lot of places in that area would be open at nine o'clock at night. There's two pubs and one drink shop with a late licence, but I don't suppose Johnno went all that way to fetch back a bottle of booze, do you?”

Mercer shook his head.

“Then there's a working men's club. On the corner there. That was open. All the other side of the street is offices and such like. All tight shut.”

“And that block along the other side?”

“That's the Southern Counties Safe Deposit.”

“Which was also shut?”

“Yes and no. You couldn't get in, but there was a night safe. If you had anything to deposit, you labelled it and pushed it down the slot, and the management would look after it for you until you could stow it away in your box, I imagine.”

Mercer said, “That'd be the sort of arrangement.” He swung round on Massey. “When you were watching that night, did you get the number of the car? The last one that came in before Johnno shut up shop.”

“No. I'm afraid I didn't.”

“Why not?”

“I was watching Johnno. Not the customers.”

“You've forgotten the rules, lad. When on observation, never assume what's important and what isn't. Write it
all
down. Didn't they teach you that?”

“I suppose so,” muttered Massey. He didn't look up from the form he was filling in. Mercer watched him for a few seconds in silence, then said to Gwilliam, “If anyone should want me – by any chance – I'm going over to Slough. I should be back in about an hour.”

“There's a message from Brattle at the boat-house. You could look him up on your way.”

“All right,” said Mercer. “I'll do that too. Let's say an hour and a quarter.” He moved out, and closed the door softly.

“He knows,” said Prothero.

“And he doesn't care,” said Gwilliam.

Massey said nothing. He seemed to have got the form wrong. He tore it up and dropped the pieces in the wastepaper basket.

Mr. Brattle was sitting on an old chair, outside his boat-house. He waved a hand at Mercer, who took it as an invitation to make himself at home, and squatted on top of an upturned dinghy.

“I found something out for you, son,” he said. “It's probably not important, but you never can tell. I once read in a book that when you're investigating a crime, any little detail can be the vital link in the chain.”

“I must introduce you to Detective Massey,” said Mercer. “You could teach him a thing or two.”

“I do a lot of reading, in the winter, when I've got the boats cleaned up and put away. I don't care for this modern stuff.”

“I don't read a lot myself,” said Mercer.

It was a perfect autumn day. The sunlight was gilding the leaves of the poplars, already yellowed by the turn of the year.

“You don't know what you're missing.” Mr. Brattle gazed fondly at the river. Scarcely a breath of wind troubled the smooth brown surface of the water which slid past at their feet. The river was so low that the sluice gate had been shut and the roar of the weir had sunk to a distant mumbling. A family of swans advanced in line astern along the far bank. The father and mother were followed by four bobbity cygnets. They had lost their brown baby plumage and were beginning to have the look of youngsters sneering at the apron strings. Fifty yards away, on their side of the river, a solitary fisherman reeled in his line, jerked the red float upstream and let it go. The silence was so complete that they could hear the ‘plop' of the float as it hit the water.

“Eighteen eighty-seven,” said Mr. Brattle. “The year of the old Queen's Golden Jubilee. That was when my grandfather opened this boat-house. The girls used to wear bustles and carry parasols and the men wore straw hats. Do you remember that book about the three men who took a trip on the river with a dog? It was well known in its day.”

Mercer racked his brain but could recall no such book. He realised it was going to spoil Mr. Brattle's story if he said so, and nodded his head.

“The man who wrote it used to hire his boat from my grandfather. Very humorous, so I'm told. When my grandfather died, my father took over. Then me. I had the one son, but he was killed in the war.”

Mercer looked at the old man, and decided that he wasn't asking for sympathy. He was stating facts.

“Even if he had come back, I don't know that he'd have fancied this job. He'd got ambitions.”

“He didn't know what was good for him, then.”

“If you ever thought of retiring from the Police Force, you might consider it yourself.”

Mercer said, “Don't be surprised if I take you up on that,” and got up. Mr. Brattle said, “Damned if I didn't nearly forget what I got you down here to tell you. Mrs. Prior said you were asking about that boat. Diesel powered twenty-footer. I asked one or two of my friends down the river. She comes from Lock's at Teddington. One of the residents has her on hire for the season. Man of the name of Fenton.”

“Mo Fenton,” said Mercer softly. The scar showed red.

“My friend did say that he'd got a bit of a reputation. Maybe nothing to it. You know the way people talk. Anyway, he didn't like him much.”

“If Fenton's the man I'm thinking of,” said Mercer, “you can tell your friend from me, he's dead right.”

The fisherman seemed to have caught something. It looked like a fair-sized chub or dace, maybe a barbel.

Mr. Nevinson, the manager of the Southern Counties Safe Deposit, received Mercer in his office. ‘Received' seemed the appropriate word. Mr. Nevinson, in early middle age, had acquired that regal air which comes upon a man who has a job which suits him, is secure in it and can see an untroubled road stretching ahead of him to retirement.

He invited Mercer to be seated, contemplated offering him a cigarette out of the silver box on his desk, and decided against it. He said, “Well now, Inspector. What can I do for you?”

“It's good of you to see me at such short notice,” said Mercer.

Mr. Nevinson inclined his head. He thought it was good of him, too.

“I realise that a relationship of confidence exists between you and your clients.” Mercer was choosing his words with care. Clients was a lot more dignified than customers.

“Certainly,” said Mr. Nevinson. “At Southern Counties we endeavour to observe exactly the same rules that govern our banking institutions.”

Right, thought Mercer. And those same rules can be a real pain in the neck to hard-working policemen. He said, “I appreciate your position. You look after a lot of money and valuables for people, and they've got to have confidence in you. I see that. And that's why I'm only going to ask you questions it won't embarrass you to answer. First, can you simply tell me if you have a client of the name of Jack Bull, from Stoneferry?” As Mr. Nevinson hesitated, Mercer said, “I could, of course, find out for myself, by putting a man permanently outside the door to see if Bull or any of his employees turned up, but that'd take time, and I haven't much time to spare.”

Mr. Nevinson weighed the possibility of indiscretion against the embarrassment of having a policeman scrutinising his customers and said, “Yes. I don't think there could be any objection to my answering that question. Mr. Bull of the Stoneferry Garage is one of our oldest clients. When I came here twenty years ago he was renting a strong-box. He now has a small strong-room.”

“Can you tell me when he changed over?”

“The exact date you mean?”

“Approximately.”

“As I recollect, three or four years ago.”

“If
I
were a client, and wanted to rent a safe, how much would it cost me?”

Mr. Nevinson extracted a brochure from his desk, smoothed the pages, and said, “It would depend on the cubic capacity of the receptacle. A medium-sized strong-box, eighteen inches square by two foot deep would cost you forty-five pounds a year to rent. A strong-room is a good deal more expensive, of course. The smallest would cost you two hundred and fifty pounds a year.”

“I see,” said Mercer.

If Bull was renting even a small strong-room it was costing him nearly a fiver a week. It seemed a lot of money for a garage proprietor. A lot of space too.

He said, “I imagine you keep a duplicate key for each safe and strong-room. Or is it one master key for the lot?”

“Neither, Inspector.”

“I don't follow you.”

“Each lock is unique. And there is only one key in existence for each. That is held, of course, by the renter. We could not contemplate any other system. If we held a key, the responsibility on us would far outweigh the occasional convenience.”

“But what happens if the renter loses the key?”

“It happens very rarely.”

“But it must happen sometimes.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Nevinson. “Well—I don't suppose there's any harm in your knowing this, but the information is, of course, extremely confidential. I keep, in my safe, a set of templates which can be fixed to the exterior face of the locked door. They enable us to locate, with minute accuracy, the position of the metal rivets on the
inside
of the door which hold the locking mechanism in position. We can then drill out the rivets from this side. The whole operation costs the renter twenty-five pounds. You'd be surprised how carefully that makes him look after his key.”

“If you've got no key to the safes, how does the night service operate?”

“Very simply. All depositors have code numbers. They mark night deposits with that number and we keep them for them, in a central strong-room, of which
we
hold the key. When the depositor pays us his next visit, he can himself transfer his property to his private safe.”

Mercer thought about it. Then he said, “Could you get one of your staff to show me the strong-rooms? Tell him I'm a prospective customer.”

“I'll show you round myself,” said Mr. Nevinson.

He walked across to the panelling and opened a door. Behind it was a steel grille.

“You've got to realise,” he said, “that above ground everything is quite normal. We have bars on the ground-floor windows and an alarm on the front door, but so do a lot of office buildings.” He pushed the grille, which swung back ponderously on its roller-bearing hinges. “It's only below ground that we begin to be something out of the ordinary. After you.”

A flight of stone steps led down into a basement. Mr. Nevinson touched a switch and the neon strip-lighting came on, showing a long line of numbered, green-painted steel boxes on either side of a central corridor. There were further sections of boxes arranged in bays behind the corridor.