Petrella at 'Q' (4 page)

It was the last sentence in the report which caught Petrella’s eye. This said, “The fire brigade authorities are not satisfied as to the origins of this conflagration.”

Petrella was still wondering why Constable Mitchinson, who had written the report, had used a four-syllable word to describe a one-syllable event when Bill Brewer was shown in.

He said, “Sent your suit to the cleaners, Patrick?”

“I’m afraid I had to,” said Petrella. “I ought to have had the sense to wear a gas-cape like you.”

“Messy things oil fires. This one’s messier than most, I’m afraid.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that it certainly wasn’t an accident.”

“Sure?”

“Dead sure. It had three different points of origin. Two in the workshop, one in the office at the back. O.K., I’m prepared to believe a fire can start accidentally. What I’m
not
prepared to believe in is three separate accidents happening on the same premises at the same time.”

“I suppose not,” said Petrella.

“We’d call that conclusive by itself. But it’s not all. Not by any means. There was a strong wind last night. It helped to spread the fire. But it also blew it away from one of its points of origin in the office at the back. And we found this.”

He took from his briefcase an object wrapped in tissue paper, unwrapped it and placed it on Petrella’s desk. It had suffered in the flames, but was still recognisable as a small alarm clock, with the frayed ends of two wires sticking out of the back.

“What does it do?” said Petrella.

“Quite a neat job. It was connected to the electric fire in the office, through the fuse box. Whoever set it up, took out the fuse, and then turned the electric fire on. When this jigger went off, it restored the circuit. I don’t know what had been left in front of that fire. A pile of cotton waste soaked in petrol or a box of old film. Whatever it was has been destroyed, of course.”

Petrella looked curiously at the twisted, fire-stained relic. He said, “Is there enough of it left for your experts to be able to say when it was meant to go off?”

“Nine o’clock, they think, and that was roughly when it did start.”

“Is there any indication of how the other fires started, in the main workshop?”

“Not a scrap. Like I said, this little fellow wouldn’t have survived if the wind hadn’t got up and blown the flames directly away from it.”

He wrapped it up lovingly, and said, “I’ll hand it over to you, when I’ve written my report.”

“I’d better be having a word with the owner,” said Petrella.

He had a policeman’s memory for faces, and he recognised Willie Cookson as soon as he came into the room. He had last seen him four years before, when he had been enquiring into a case of organised pilfering at the Crossways Goods Depot. Cookson, who was a large, cheerful, red-haired man had been one of the men he had talked to. His hair had a touch of grey in it now, and he was not looking cheerful.

He said, “People have been talking, I hear. Saying I started that fire. They’re bloody liars. I was nowhere near the place when it went up. If I had been, I’d have done something about it, wouldn’t I?”

“Where were you?”

“Wasting my bloody time.”

“All right,” said Petrella. “Tell me about it.”

It was a simple, straight-forward story, and almost completely unverifiable. A man had telephoned Cookson at seven o’clock, when he was shutting up shop. He said that he had a five-year-old Bentley for sale and had been given Cookson’s name by a friend. It was urgent, because he was leaving the country next day. That was why he was willing to let it go cheap. He had mentioned a price, and Cookson had realised that if the car was in reasonable condition, this was a real bargain. The caller gave his address, a house standing in its own grounds, between Dartford and Northfleet. Cookson had said he would drive right out. The man said, don’t come before half past eight, or you won’t find anyone in. Cookson had arrived promptly at eight thirty. The front gates were padlocked, and there was a for sale notice hung on them. However, a small side-gate was open, so he had left his car, and walked up to the house. No lights showing, and no answer when he rang the bell.

“I hung around until after nine,” he said, “although I knew it was no good, really. I could sort of feel the house had been empty for some time, if you know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean,” said Petrella. “I think it’s the smell. Did anyone see you on your way out or coming back?”

“A load of people, I expect. No one I particularly noticed, though.”

“I take it you’re insured?”

“Of course I’m insured.”

“Let’s go down and look round.”

“If you think you’ll find anything,” said Cookson. “The fire boys have been combing it over since first thing this morning.”

It was a sad sight. One or two steel girders of the main structure were still there, but looked as if they might come down at any moment. The ground was knee-deep in charred woodwork, twisted metal, and the remains of what might once upon a time have been two good-looking motor cars.

Petrella climbed through to the back. Here, as Brewer had said, the destruction was less complete. The little brick-built office, which stood at the back of the yard, with a window giving on to Banting Passage, had suffered least of all. Petrella said, “When did that happen? That wasn’t done by the fire.”

He was looking at the window. There was a splintered break in the woodwork of the cross bar and the retaining clasp was hanging by a single screw.

“Search me,” said Cookson.

“It looks as if someone has forced the window from the outside. What did you keep in here?”

“Papers mostly. Account books. Trade catalogues. Nothing anyone would want to steal.”

“And you’re certain this hadn’t been done when you locked up last night?”

“Well I’d have noticed it when I locked up, wouldn’t I?”

“I suppose so,” said Petrella.

He went back to Patton Street. Brewer’s report arrived that afternoon. Petrella wrote his own that evening. Arson is a serious crime, so the reports went up to the Director of Public Prosecutions. In due course, Cookson was charged.

On the morning of the preliminary hearing, Chief Superintendent Watterson walked down to the police court with Petrella. He said, “I’m surprised Cookson is fighting it at this stage. The normal thing would be to plead not guilty and reserve his defence.”

“He’s not only fighting it,” said Petrella. “He’s got Tasker to do it for him. I’ve seen him in action before. We’re not going to have a walk-over.”

“Do you think he did it?”

Petrella walked a few steps before answering. He said, “The circumstantial evidence is strong. The garage made a loss in its first two years. It was insured. The fire was clearly a fake. Cookson was the only person who stood to gain. But I’m not sure it adds up to proof. And I’m puzzled by that breaking in. The only person who
wouldn’t
have to break in to start a fire was Cookson himself.”

“That could have been a fake too.”

“It could have been,” agreed Petrella.

The first witness for the Crown was Brewer. He was taken carefully through his report by the solicitor for the police. When he had finished, Mr. Tasker rose to his feet. He was a big, full-jowled, black-haired man, who conducted a flourishing one-man practice near the Oval. He worked twelve hours a day for most of the year, and closed his office for the complete period of any Test Match. Mr. Tasker did a lot of the local police court work, appearing indiscriminately for and against the police in the impartial way which is so puzzling to foreigners brought up on a system of state prosecution

He said, “I have no questions to ask Mr. Brewer. The defence accepts that the fire was caused deliberately.” Then he sat down.

The solicitor for the police looked annoyed, and crossed out the names of the two experts he had been planning to call from the Forensic Science Laboratory.

The next witness, a Mr. Phipps, gave formal evidence of the existence of a comprehensive insurance policy on the Premier Garage, and added that, at the moment, his company was withholding payment on it. Mr. Tasker said, “Please tell the court when this policy was taken out.”

“It was taken out three years ago, when Cookson acquired the garage.”

“When
Mr.
Cookson acquired the garage,” suggested Mr. Tasker gently.

Mr. Phipps blushed, and said, “That’s right.”

“Did you have a valuation made?”

“Yes. We agreed a valuation.”

“And that was three years ago. During which time the value of all properties has gone up.”

“I believe so.”

“Then at the moment, the garage is under-insured.”

Mr. Phipps hesitated. The Magistrate said, “Come, Mr. Phipps. That’s the effect of what you’ve told us, isn’t it?”

Mr. Phipps looked unhappy, and said, “I suppose it is.”

Petrella gave evidence of having examined the garage on the following morning. He agreed that the window at the back appeared to have been forced. He was not cross-examined.

The next witness was an accountant. He produced a sheaf of papers, and told the court that the Premier Garage had lost money in its first two years, and might have been coming out level at the end of the third year.

Mr. Tasker said, “These accounts were produced to you voluntarily by the accused.”

The accountant, who did a lot of work for the police, and who knew Mr. Tasker, agreed cautiously.

“I imagine that he was proud of them, wasn’t he?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Come, come,” said Mr. Tasker. “A newly-established garage. A lot of initial expense to write off. Getting into the black by the third year. That’s pretty good, isn’t it?”

The accountant boggled at “pretty good”, but settled for “fair”. Mr. Tasker let it go. Some plans were produced and agreed, and the prosecution case was closed.

Mr. Tasker said, “I should be justified, sir, in asking you to rule, at this point, that the prosecution has failed to make out its case. I shall not do that, because I have some witnesses whom I think you will be interested to hear—”

Petrella and Watterson looked at each other uneasily. Mr. Tasker was famous for his surprise witnesses.

The first was an A.A. patrol, who stated, quite simply, that he had seen a car outside Cranbrook House, Northfleet, which he knew to be empty, at ten minutes to nine on the night of the fire. He had stopped to see if it was in trouble, but since it seemed to be in order, he had gone on. He had, however, made a note of the car’s number in his log, which he produced. It was clearly Cookson’s car. The police solicitor could think of nothing to ask him.

Mr. Tasker’s second witness was a taxi driver. He said that he had parked his taxi in Kentledge Road at about half past seven for a short lay-off and a smoke. It was opposite the end of Banting Passage, and he had seen two men doing something to a window farther down the passage. Mending it or breaking it. He couldn’t see which, and it wasn’t any of his business. They were still there when he had driven away.

“Could you recognise them?” said Mr. Tasker.

“Not to say recognise.”

“Did either of them resemble the accused?”

“Him? He’d make two of them.”

“You mean that the accused is much larger than either of these two men?”

The taxi driver agreed that that was what he meant.

The prosecution did their best but were unable to shake him.

Mr. Tasker said, “The absurdity of this charge must, by now, be apparent to everyone. First, it was suggested, if I understood the police case, that the whole story of my client’s visit to Northfleet was a fabrication. In the light of our evidence, I suppose they will now say that the telephone call was invented, but that, to support his story, my client actually motored out there and hung around in a deserted garden for half an hour. Why? To establish an alibi for a fire he had arranged to start at nine o’clock? Ridiculous. If he wished to establish an alibi, why did he not go to some function – the social club run by his old workmates and friends from Crossways, for instance. They had a function that evening. Then he would have produced fifty people to support his alibi.”

Mr. Tasker blew his nose loudly at this point, and said, “Next, perhaps someone will explain why the accused hired two men to break into his own garage. Wouldn’t it have been easier to lend them a key? This whole case is founded on a faulty premise. The Crown say, this garage was doing badly. It was insured. The accused burned it down. He was the only person who could benefit. Now we know that’s not true. This garage was doing well. And going to do even better. The people who would want to burn it down – the only people with any possible motive for burning it down – were his rivals. The people he’s taking business from. It’s common knowledge there are too many garages in this district. There’s one in the very next street. Of course, I’m not suggesting—”

“But he bloody well did suggest it,” said Watterson, as they were walking back to the station after the case had been dismissed, and a contingent of Willie Cookson’s friends from the goods depot had cheered him all way out into the street. “Albert Rugg keeps the Octagon Garage in Kentledge Road and everyone knows he’s been losing business to Cookson.”

“Albert was in court,” said Petrella. “You should have seen his face.”

“It’s not funny,” said Watterson. “We’ve been made to look stupid. There’ll be a rocket from District about this.”

“If Albert got anyone to do his dirty work,” said Petrella, “I guess it would have been Stan or Les Corner. Should I pull them in and put them through it?”

“Drop it,” said Watterson sourly. “The case is dead. It’s finished.”

But here he was wrong.

Albert Rugg, owner of the Octagon Garage, was a bachelor, like Cookson. He didn’t live above his business. He had a comfortable flat, over a newsagent’s shop, a quarter of a mile away. He came back to it, a week later, and had shut the flat door before he realised that he was not alone. Not only was Willie Cookson waiting for him, but he had with him three friends from the Crossways Depot.