The C.I.D Room Page 3

  Kerr climbed into the saloon and started the engine at the first attempt — much to Braddon’s astonishment. He drove out on to the road and along to the cross-roads which brought him to the High Street.

  The High Street was a long road, changing in style and character throughout its length. He joined it in the centre of the main shopping area, completely rebuilt after the war, and just by the market, two acres in size and set against a well-restored length of the old city walls. The traffic was heavy and it became almost stationary a quarter of a mile further on where the road split into two to go round either side of the South Castle Gate — a gateway, with worm-eaten portcullis, that was the only remaining one of six city gates.

  Past South Castle Gate, the traffic thinned out and the shops quickly gave way to dirty-looking offices and warehouses. The old docks were at the end of the road, stretching away to the left, and the new docks were to the right. Dock Road, bounded on the south by the high, dirty, ugly dock wall with massive gateways at regular intervals, quickly became a near slum with terraces of houses on the north side set straight on the pavements and an endless succession of dirty, dismal public houses where it almost seemed possible one could still be shanghaied. After nearly a mile, there was a memorial garden to the seamen lost at sea during the two World Wars — usually the garden was suffering from some sort of vandalism at the hands of modern-day seamen — and beyond this were warehouses and a number of shipping companies’ dock offices.

  As he drove along Dock Road, Kerr saw, towering above the high brick wall and roof of a cargo shed, the foremast of a large ship. The crow’s nest looked minute. He saw himself in it, wheeling an arc across the sky, eyes trained on the horizon, waiting for land to appear. Hawaii, where the rollers came thundering in and the surf boards went like express trains: Tahiti, land of grass skirts, dusky maidens, tropical moonlight…

  There was parking space two hundred yards beyond the Sand Steamship Company’s offices. These, in sharp contrast to the smart, newly built passenger offices in the centre of town, were in a grimy three-storey brick building, almost black in colour. In the dirty right-hand window was an ancient and dusty model of a 20,000-ton passenger ship with the upright profile of a ship built in the 1920s. A yellowing poster in the second of two left-hand windows advertised cruises to Australia and New Zealand, for those with all the time and money in the world.

  He went inside, into a reception area around which, in a semicircle, were three doors. The one on the right bore the legend ‘Enquiries’, and he went inside. There was a counter, behind which worked two secretaries. One ignored him throughout, the other looked at him, but said nothing.

  ‘Anyone at home?’ he asked the peroxide blonde.

  She didn’t answer for several seconds. ‘You off one of the ships?’

  ‘Not yet, but if life gets too tough ashore maybe I’ll run away to sea. How about telling Captain Leery that Detective Constable Kerr is awaiting without?’

  The blonde’s mouth tightened and as she telephoned she held her left hand so that he could not overlook the diamond ring on her engagement finger. She replaced the receiver. ‘He’ll see you now,’ she said, in an aggrieved tone of voice. ‘Up the stairs, second floor, third door. Knock.’

  ‘And ask for Maggie?’

  The blonde sniffed loudly.

  The landing of the second floor smelled musty and was almost in gloom so that when he knocked on the third door and stepped inside he was surprised to enter a room that was well lit and comfortable.

  Captain Leery stood up and came round the large desk. He shook hands.

  ‘’Morning, sir. I’m Detective Constable Kerr.’

  ‘Do sit down.’

  Kerr sat down. Captain Leery reminded him of the undertaker who’d coped with his great-aunt when she died at the ripe age of ninety-two. Leery was tall and thin, with a long, thin face that was heavily lined and a mouth that seemed set in severe, mournful lines. His eyebrows were black and thick and they stuck out like a pair of miniature wings. Old and sour, decided Kerr.

  Leery sat down behind his desk, opened a brass box and took out a cigarette, then pushed the box across. ‘D’you smoke?’

  ‘Thanks very much.’ Kerr helped himself and lit a match for both of them.

  Leery rested his elbows on the desk and joined the tips of his fingers together. ‘How can I best help you?’

  ‘What I’m particularly interested in, sir, are the normal security arrangements.’ Kerr took out his notebook and prepared to write.

  ‘Then I’ll try and cover them. The company carries a considerable amount of unusually valuable cargo out to Australia, New Zealand, Japan, and sometimes Malaya, and it’s an obvious target for theft. Over the years, a special system of dealing with this cargo has been developed. When it arrives at the docks it’s immediately stored in a special security area: that’s a strong cage, guarded all the time. When it comes to loading, the cargo is taken out under guard, hoisted aboard ship, and received aboard by a ship’s officer. An officer has to be down the hold all the time the cargo’s being loaded and until the locker has been locked and sealed by him — being refrigerated ships, these lockers are very stout with thick doors.’

  ‘What kind of seal?’

  ‘A length of ridged wire and a lead blank. The wire goes through a hole in the lead and the sealer squashes the lead on to the wire and embosses the company’s seal.’

  ‘Do the ship’s officers have a number of blank seals aboard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there any check on the number they use each trip?’

  Leery shook his head. ‘Not in the sense that by counting the seals remaining one could say whether an abnormal number have been used.’

  ‘Who’s responsible for the seals and sealer?’

  ‘The chief officer. He’s cargo officer.’

  ‘Who’s that on the Sandstream?’

  ‘Wilson. He’s been with the company from the time he was an apprentice and he’ll be given command very shortly.’

  ‘Were there any alarms at this end over this consignment of gold?’

  ‘Nothing. All the usual security arrangements and regulations were enforced and there was nothing to report.’

  ‘What are the chances that the theft was carried out by the dockers?’

  ‘The captain’s report says that the fourth officer was on duty all the time and he’s certain there’s no chance of theft while he was down the hold.’

  ‘Then for your money it didn’t happen aboard?’

  ‘I’ve complete faith in the officers concerned. What’s more, the security precautions we take have proved effective over a very great number of years.’

  ‘When’s the ship due back?’

  ‘In a month’s time, as near as anyone can say at this point.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ Kerr looked up. ‘That about covers things for the moment.’

  Leery spoke earnestly. ‘That theft was carried out either at the factory or between the factory and the docks. There isn’t an officer in the company would steal cargo.’

  That depends, thought Kerr. Every man had a price: some prices just came a bit higher than others. He stood up. ‘I don’t doubt you’ll be hearing from us, sir.’

  ‘Of course. I hope it gets cleared up quickly.’ Leery smiled briefly and this transformed his stern expression into one in which there was some warmth and humour. ‘I get rather hot under the collar when anything tends to throw suspicion on any of my officers.’

  Another man with the regimental mentality, thought Kerr. The company’s flag was a burgee, quartered, with a sailing ship in one quarter: would that image be found engraved on the captain’s heart when he died?

  5

  Kywood rang Fusil at eastern divisional H.Q. to say he would be there at mid-day. Typically, he arrived within a minute of that time. He was a methodical man who had almost not gained promotion because his talents were the talents of conformity and tenacity and not those of cleverness or natural apt
itude. Having obtained the rank of D.C.I., he did his best to make certain the C.I.D. worked smoothly, by running it as his superiors would have him run it: thus at times he subordinated the interests of his command in order to be certain his superiors were satisfied. That was why so many of the transfers from the borough force to the county force were of the best men.

  He sat down in front of Fusil’s desk. He was a well-built man, with sleek black hair, a rounded face, and a strongly featured chin which was strange, considering his character.

  ‘How are things, Bob?’ he asked.

  ‘Not too bad, sir.’

  They stared at each other. Neither man ever really trusted the other. Fusil thought Kywood weak, Kywood thought Fusil dangerously sharp — dangerous to Kywood, that was.

  Kywood was the first man to look away. He broke the silence. ‘I had a look at the latest crime graph just before I left H.Q.’

  ‘Yes?’ The meeting was obviously about the gold theft, thought Fusil, yet, as always, Kywood was approaching matters from an oblique angle.

  ‘It’s climbing, Bob.’

  ‘It always does at this time of the year, when the town’s full of visitors.’

  ‘The clear-up rate’s static, though.’

  ‘I know. And when my best detective constable gets pulled out at a moment’s notice, it’s going to stay static.’

  ‘Kerr’s a good man.’

  ‘He may be, eventually. If he ever learns to take life seriously. But who’s got the time to wait and see?’

  Kywood changed the subject. ‘I saw the chief constable this morning, Bob.’ He paused for a while. ‘He’s worried.’

  ‘He spends his life worrying.’

  ‘It’s the publicity.’

  ‘Over what?’

  Kywood showed his surprise. ‘Over the gold, Bob. You must have seen that it’s hit the papers in a big way.’

  ‘It was bound to. They’ve nothing else to talk about at the moment.’

  ‘D’you see The Times?’

  ‘My level’s the Daily Express.’

  ‘There was an article on the increasing frequency of unsolved thefts. This job’s got to be cleared up soon, Bob, for the good of the name of the borough C.I.D.’

  ‘It’s by no means certain the theft took place at the docks.’

  ‘It looks mighty like it, surely?’

  ‘I’d have said it was too early to speak.’

  Kywood’s voice sharpened. ‘The chief constable was saying that if it’s not cleared up smartly, things will look bad for the division.’

  ‘And me?’

  Kywood rubbed his chin. ‘You took a bit of a tumble over the Burchell case, you know.’

  ‘Burchell was the man we wanted.’

  ‘But in the end you couldn’t prove it and that left you out on a limb.’ Kywood let go of his chin and gestured with his right hand. ‘You had all my sympathies. Many’s the time I’ve been tempted to go outside the rules to land a villain.’

  But you never have, thought Fusil.

  ‘You’ll clear this job up, I know.’ Kywood moved on to other matters. He stayed for a further fifteen minutes, then left.

  Fusil sat back in his chair. If the gold had been stolen in his division, he was going to have to solve the case or bust a gut trying. He was an ambitious man, yet the Burchell case — when he’d been too intent on making certain the guilty man was proven guilty — had put a large black mark against his name which almost buried his ambitions: if this gold theft hung unsolved for any length of time, someone was liable to come along and whisper in his ear that he needn’t bother to watch the promotion lists any more.

  He stood up. If it became certain the gold had been stolen down at the docks, he and his detectives were going to work twenty-five hours a day until the theft was solved.

  *

  It was six o’clock in the evening.

  George Leery pushed a file across to one side of his desk, stood up, walked across the room, and stared through the window. He could see, above the sheds of Firbank Wharf, the masts and blue, red, and yellow funnel of the M.V. Sandpatch. She was unloading frozen lamb and butter, chilled beef, and cheese. She had been his last command. His time as captain had been a happy one, that he now remembered with deep nostalgia. Life had been so simple. The captain was a man apart who had to live apart, and that suited him perfectly. He liked to be on his own, even though he was not the sullen, morose character some obviously thought him to be.

  As marine superintendent, he no longer knew the peace of solitude. Seagoing men envied him because he had swallowed the anchor: he envied them because they knew the joy of the complete solitude of the wing of a bridge in the graveyard watch.

  He turned away from the window. Regrets were futile. He would never again serve at sea. Now aged fifty-two, he would hold his position until pensioned off at sixty. He often thought of making a long voyage when he retired, but this would probably be a terrible mistake. Shipping companies provided their passengers with everything but solitude.

  He looked at his watch. If he did not get back home by 6.30, Gladys would start worrying. If he were fifteen minutes late, she would become certain he had been struck down by every kind of disaster known to God and humanity.

  He went down the two flights of stairs to the entrance square. Three typists were there, gossiping. One of them wished him good night. As he opened the outside door, he thought he heard a quick giggle. His nickname in the office was Frankenstein: pedantically, he wished people would at least verify their literary facts. He suddenly remembered how, just after they were married, Gladys had confessed that after their first meeting she had referred to him as Abraham Lincoln with the toothache. They had laughed. Ugliness was only skin deep, he had assured her. It was a long time since they had laughed together.

  His car was parked a quarter of a mile away. He walked to it with the carefully measured steps that came from endless hours pacing the wing of a bridge.

  He reached his home in Pendleton Bray at six-twenty-five. Pendleton Bray had been little more than a village until 1924 when speculative builders had soon put up so many houses that there were only a few green fields separating them from the outer suburbs of Fortrow. In the 1930s, those green fields vanished beneath still more houses and Pendleton Bray became part of Fortrow.

  He parked his car and went into the house. It was a detached, characterless, clumsy-looking house, built in 1929 for what had then unashamedly been called the middle-class person. There was a sitting-room, dining-room, study, three bedrooms, maid’s bedroom, one bathroom, two lavatories, kitchen, and scullery. He often wondered if maids had been meant to bath.

  Gladys was in the sitting-room. ‘You’re a little late, dear,’ she said, as he bent down and kissed her.

  ‘It’s only just gone half past. How have you been today?’

  ‘I suppose I’m not too bad,’ she said, in a voice filled with self-pity. ‘But one leg’s rather painful.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I was wondering if I ought to see if the doctor can do anything about it?’

  ‘I should if I were you.’

  ‘But I do so try not to fuss, George.’

  ‘I know. You’re wonderful.’

  She shut her eyes and rubbed her forehead.

  ‘Have you a headache?’ he asked.

  ‘A bit of a one. It’s been around all day. I should have taken some aspirin, but they always make me feel sick. I’m so sorry to be like this, George.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘But you can’t have any idea what it’s like to be in pain every single day. Sometimes, I wonder why I go on living.’

  ‘You’re not to talk like that: there’s every reason for you going on living.’

  She reached out and took hold of his hand. ‘You’re so kind to me. Mother always said you had a warm nature.’ She held the back of his hand against her cheek. ‘Let’s have a bottle of wine tonight?’

  He hesitated.

  ‘George,
surely you’re not going out again?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to.’

  ‘But you were out until so late last night. They can’t expect you to work all the time.’

  ‘You know how busy things get down at the docks sometimes.’

  She let go of his hand, rubbed her forehead once more, and sighed.

  He moved away. She wanted his sympathy, but that was something he just could not give her. It shocked him that he couldn’t. He hated himself for being able to see her in pain and yet remain unmoved.

  She asked him to get the aspirins for her, saying she must take some even if it did make her sick. He did as she asked. She swallowed two aspirins with the gulping effort with which she swallowed all tablets. She thanked him with a pathetic sincerity for being so kind to her.

  He went upstairs to his bedroom. After the car crash, she had been in hospital for six months. When she returned home, she had slept so fitfully that they had used separate bedrooms and from then on he had always turned down her suggestion that they should once more share a room. He told her it was so much better for her to be on her own because then she was free to read at any time of the night. Hypocrisy was a word he had come to understand intimately.

  He changed out of his suit into a green sports coat and grey flannels. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. Did the sports clothes turn him into an Abraham Lincoln without the toothache?

  He went to the top drawer of the bow-fronted chest-of-drawers and took out the .455 Webley revolver, in its battered holster, that had belonged to his father in the First World War. Gladys would never touch that gun, being scared of any sort of weapon. He pulled out the revolver from the holster and then a roll of banknotes. He peeled off three ten-pound notes.

  Supper was like so many meals — spoiled and tasteless. Gladys refused to have anyone to help her with the housework or cooking because she was desperate to show she could still look after her husband, but because she was so often ill her standard of cooking was very poor.