Dread and Water

by Douglas Clark

  “I have nothing sussed out, Director. It’s early days yet. When I fish in a pond the size of this, not being familiar with the water, I usually take a little time to decide which ground bait to use—or hooks, or flies, or weight of line, or whether I need a huge dragnet to land my prey. But whichever it is, I try to go about it fairly quietly and gently. There’s little point in stirring up the sludge on the bottom to muddy the water so that nobody—not even the fish—can see what they’re doing.”

  “Do I detect a warning tone in your description of what I consider to be a gratifying way of conducting your enquiry?”

  “I think perhaps that is what I intended, Director, because there is one measure which I am prepared to take to land my fish—should it become necessary—which I didn’t mention.”

  “I believe I know what you’re going to say.”

  “You do?”

  “You would drain the pond to pick him up—if all else failed.”

  Masters looked across at him as they walked.

  “I would try to filter through to safety the small fry and the innocents.”

  “I’m sure. I am extremely grateful that you haven’t started draining operations already.”

  “Draining is hard work. A murder HQ set up; hundreds of interrogations and written reports; scores of files and hundreds of cross-checks; phones brought and clerks doing shift-work on a rota basis, conferences every few hours … you can imagine it, I daresay. It is a very useful way of going about things on occasions, but here it would be terribly disruptive. I would prefer to spare you and myself that experience. Watching the water and casting the right line in the right place is the method I usually use.”

  “Some fish—even those whose identity is known—often refuse bait, I understand. I have heard tell of big ’uns that have steadfastly refused, for years, to be hooked.”

  “That is, I believe, a notable characteristic of the pike,” said Masters drily. “And to translate it into human terms, a pike or piker is a gambler—one who dices with danger. I would never put my money on the punter—always on the bookie.”

  “Still that element of warning,” said Crome, frowning slightly. “I wonder why? I pay you the compliment of supposing it to be intentional.”

  Masters felt happier. He felt he had really got through to Crome; conveyed to him his firm intention of seeing the case through to the bitter end.

  “Thank you. It was intentional.”

  “For any particular reason? Was in personal, for instance?”

  “Strictly speaking it was a general warning that this business may be long, hard and upsetting to the Centre as a whole. But I feel you must accept it as a personal warning, too.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Because murder enquiries are like wars. Nobody wins. Nobody comes out unscarred. You have more to lose than anybody—except, possibly, the murderer. I hate to think of anybody paying a penalty he has not incurred—or should I say a higher penalty than he has incurred?”

  “Meaning that whatever the outcome of this, I am in some way to blame?”

  “It may turn out that way. It may have been as a direct result of some decision of yours, as Director, that certain personalities were hired, fired, thrown together, separated or given certain tasks, any of which could have laid the groundwork for the present situation.”

  “Agreed. But I would have liked to hear you include the word ‘unwitting’ to describe any action of mine which may have precipitated such events.”

  “I would do that willingly, Director, but I feel I should point out that you are not paid to be unwitting.”

  “Nor am I. But am I to understand that you seriously suggest that ignorance is no defence?”

  “I would sound more charitable, Director, if enquiries had been put in hand after the second death. It would not have lessened the crime, but it might have saved Mailer.”

  Crome’s hand was on his forehead. “You’re an unnerving man, Superintendent. We are speaking now from hindsight, but I cannot for the life of me think of one good reason why I should not have asked for enquiries to be made after Redruth’s death. Mea culpa! I am the Director here, and as such …” He spread his hands. “Somewhere along the line you reckon I shall get it in the neck for so obvious an oversight! And the penalty may be greater than that which my sin of omission may have incurred! Thank you, Superintendent, for the elucidation. Do you know, I have had this in the back of my mind all along—the probable penalty, not the sin. And yet I feel it has done me good to realise that you thought this through so clearly. I feel it is a sort of insurance—your understanding will protect me and all of us here from some gross miscarriage of justice.”

  “Did you fear that, too?”

  “I confess it. At first. Mistakes are so easy to make, so difficult to rectify.”

  Chapter 5

  Masters parted from Crome outside the front door of the old house. He had seen Brant lurking, at a discreet distance, as he and the Director had walked back from the Group Six laboratory. Now he turned in the direction of the Sergeant, who hurried towards him.

  “Something to tell me, Brant?”

  “Yes, Chief. Miss Dexter remembered who made that bet with Silk.”

  Brant seemed slightly uneasy in the telling, and Masters had a momentary pang of remorse at using the growing friendship between Brant and Cynthia for such purposes. It was this feeling that dictated his next question.

  “She told you willingly?”

  Brant reddened. “No, Chief. But she told me.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Winter.”

  “Let’s get it straight, Sergeant. Miss Dexter told you that Winter bet Silk that he, Silk, couldn’t get up a particular climb alone?”

  “It was a race for a bottle of whisky, Chief. Winter was to walk up, Silk was to climb. Whoever got to the top first won.”

  “I see. That marches.”

  “Beg your pardon, Chief?”

  “Nothing. Just thinking aloud. What’s the matter with you, Sergeant? You look a bit pained about something? Was Miss Dexter difficult?”

  “Not exactly, Chief. She didn’t like it, of course.”

  “And?”

  “Well, Chief, she wants me to go out to dinner with her tonight.”

  Masters realised that the news pleased him. Obviously no irreparable harm had been done to the relationship between the sergeant and his lady scientist.

  “I don’t see why that should upset you.”

  “You mean it’s all right for me to go?”

  Masters looked straight at Brant. “Sergeant, you’re a grown man …”

  “But the case, Chief!”

  Masters felt for his tobacco tin. “The unwelcome and tiresome duty of accompanying Miss Dexter to dinner is in the furtherance of our investigation, which means you may use the car. I’m awfully sorry you’ve had this rather dull chore thrust on you, Brant, but there you are! And please remember, as I said, you are a grown man, and within reason, you do as you like. The only limitation on whatever action you take—ever—is that you need to be in a position to give a good reason for taking it if asked for one later.”

  “Thanks, Chief.”

  “Is she personable, your Miss Dexter?”

  “I think you’d find her … yes, Chief, she’s great.”

  “Good. I’d like to meet her some time. Where are the DI and Hill?”

  “I saw Hill a few minutes ago. He said they’d sorted out a list of climbing club members as long as your arm and were interviewing them one by one.”

  “In that case, I’ll leave them to it. There’s a library in the house. I’m going in there.”

  “What about me, Chief?”

  “See if you can help the DI.”

  As he and Crome had not encountered Doctor Clay on the way back from Group Six, Masters was hoping she would still be in the library. If she were, it might be a convenient time and place for having a chat with her. He asked the guard in the hall for the library and wa
s directed upstairs to the northern wing, where a number of former bedrooms had been converted into a library. He entered the one marked Technical, and saw it was deserted except for a woman sitting behind a desk in what had been a dressing room.

  “Doctor Clay was here earlier. Have you tried Reference and Non-Technical?”

  “Not yet.”

  “They’re all in this wing.”

  “Hasn’t the house got a library proper? Old houses of this size usually had large rooms.…”

  “There is one. On the ground floor. It is now the computer room. Air-conditioned and all that.” The librarian sounded slightly cross that a machine should merit such comfort while she was relegated to makeshift quarters.

  “I see. Thank you.”

  He tried Reference and lastly, Non-Technical, without seeing Dorothy Clay. In this last room he found what was virtually a lending library for private reading: novels, autobiographies, rose-growing, history, motor-car racing, small-boat sailing, climbing, mountaineering …

  He picked out a book on this last subject and opened it at random.

  ‘Where the party is large,’ he read, ‘each member’s personal gear should be individually marked, particularly items like cutlery, mugs and water-bottles. These should be used only by the owner: it is difficult to wash them really clean in camp conditions and if used communally they can serve to pass germs among the party, causing stomach upsets.’

  He turned over a few more pages and read:

  ‘THE CLIMBING SEQUENCE:

  ‘There should always be at least sixty feet of rope between each two climbers, and the leader will need much more on most routes.…’

  That, he thought, seemed to be in keeping with what Tom Hawker was reported to have said concerning the amount of rope Redruth had paid out before leaving his novice companion on the first ledge, and obviously the society was following the precepts of the experts in the way they allocated stores. He put the book back and wandered out on to the landing. A red cross on a white board, with an arrow pointing further along the corridor and the words MEDICAL TREATMENT CENTRE, made him wonder whether he should look in on Partington. But the thought that the post-mortem report on Mailer could not yet be through caused him to go downstairs and outside again. He had reached the tarmac when a two-fingered whistle cut through the air. He looked up and saw Green some distance away down one of the narrow paths which led to the laboratories. Green was lumbering towards him. As Masters looked up, the DI waved a beckoning arm.

  “Struck oil?” asked Masters as Green came up.

  “Maybe.” Despite his laconic reply, there was an air of satisfaction—almost one of suppressed excitement—about Green. “I’ve just been talking to a chap called Doctor Roslin. He’s a physicist, but he’s also an amateur photographer. He and his wife went along with the bus that went to the Lake District.”

  “When Silk died?”

  “That’s right. I … don’t look round, but we’re being watched.”

  “Who by?”

  “Widow Twankey—who else? Out of his office window. He’s standing far back, but he’s getting an eyefull.”

  Masters relit his dead pipe deliberately. “Perhaps that’s one of his usual observation posts. I don’t doubt he’s always taking furtive peeps at somebody.”

  “Us, mostly, this morning,” replied Green. He’s keeping close tabs on us, an’ trying to catch us out. Me, I reckon he’s hiding something from us and watching to see we don’t discover what it is.”

  Masters started to move away from the house. “You’d better tell me about it.”

  Green, falling in beside him, recounted very carefully his earlier meeting with Toinquet. How the security man had ordered his guards to report the Yard team’s movements. How he had tried to catch Hill out over the assistants he saw in the tobacconist’s shop.

  “And now he’s been watching us,” said Masters. “What do you make of it?”

  “As I said, for my money, he’s hiding something from us. Or hoping to. And as we’re here to look into multiple murder … well, why try to hide something we’re not looking for?”

  Masters walked on in silence for a moment. Then—

  “You are suggesting he should go higher on the suspect list?”

  “At the top of it.”

  “If he’s keeping such a watchful eye on us, it will be difficult to start investigating him without him getting to know.”

  “Or it might flush him out.”

  “Of course. That was your plan from the beginning, wasn’t it? But I wonder …”

  “You don’t think I’m right to try an’ panic him,” accused Green.

  “What? Oh, yes, I agree with you. I was wondering what Toinquet could hope to achieve by keeping us under observation. After all, when we arrived last night he seemed not to have anything on his mind. What’s caused him to change? Could it be your threat to keep an eye on him?”

  Green scratched an ear and then wiggled a forefinger inside it as if to clear it of wax. It irritated Masters who, though aware that such anti-social gestures were usually a sign that Green was thinking deeply, nevertheless preferred to observe the graces of behaviour.

  “I reckon,” pronounced Green at last, “that he’s been knocked off his perch by our form of investigation. What Widow was expecting was a crowd of fingerprint boys and photographers who’d concentrate on the job in hand and not pay any attention to anything outside it. When he realised we don’t work that way, but pry into every hole an’ corner, he began to get windy.”

  “What of?”

  “Now you’re asking. But I still reckon he knows something.”

  “In that case we’d better start looking at him in earnest. Can I leave it to you, as you seem to be the one he fears most.”

  “I’m game. I’ll have a word with some of his guards a bit later. Now, what I came to see you about …”

  “Doctor Roslin?”

  “The same. He’s an amateur photographer. He tells me he’s got a movie shot of Silk climbing that mountain.”

  “Of the moment he fell?”

  “Come off it,” said Green. “You want jam on it.”

  “There’s no harm in hoping. And if the sequence is just one of Silk climbing, it’s not going to be much use to us.”

  “I’ve sent Brant to Roslin’s house in the village to collect it. Roslin will show it to us. He’s got a projector in his lab.”

  Green’s tone clearly indicated to Masters that the DI had expected more enthusiasm to be shown over his discovery. If that was what he expected, thought Masters, he wasn’t going to get it.

  “Has he shown it to anybody else?”

  “I asked him that. He said not. In fact, he was going to destroy it after Silk’s death but never got round to it. Apparently not even his wife saw it. He just ran it through once when the reel came back and then put it aside. Said he’d forgotten all about it until I started asking questions.”

  They walked on, Green leading the way to another of the laboratory complexes, a replica of the one in which Group Six was housed. As they went, Masters told Green how Brant had learned that it was Winter who had laid the bet with Silk.

  “So it’s getting nearer home,” grunted Green. “Three men killed. At least one of them trying to win a bet with his boss. Where does that leave Winter?”

  “Definitely in the mind’s eye.”

  “I’ll say. And somebody knows it. That Clay dame, trying to prove to the custodian that Winter isn’t a betting man!”

  “I must admit I find that very interesting.”

  “Me, too. So, with Winter and Widow Twankey on our books, we can begin to build up a short list. In here.” Green waved a rejecting hand to the custodian who made as if to stop him and carried on. “Roslin’s office is down the left-hand corridor. He’s the boss of this lot.”

  Roslin was a small man, bespectacled and bald. His white lab coat had been shortened to fit him, but the side pockets had not been lifted, so they hung, not just below his
hips, but rather just above his knees. As it appeared he made full use of them for carrying bulky objects, the effect was ludicrous—or it might have been had the man himself not had an air of unconscious dignity which caught the attention and held it.

  “You will understand,” he said, “that I am an amateur photographer in the lowliest sense of the word. What I mean is, I make no pretence of emulating professional ability.”

  His voice was charming. As he explained himself, he was lowering the blinds in his office. As he moved to the projector on his desk he went on: “Perhaps you find that surprising.”

  “A little,” murmured Masters. “Most enthusiasts strive for perfection in their hobbies.”

  “Ah, yes! I thought you would take that point of view. I needed a hobby that would be a relaxation. One which I could enjoy indulging, which might pay dividends, but which would make no demands on my time or my mind.” He looked across at Masters and his eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. “I am, basically, an idle man. To do anything, to achieve anything, I have to drive myself, and I find the process more wearying than, I imagine, do most of my colleagues. That is why I take reels of film but never edit them. Most people view critically, cut and splice into pictorial accounts of holidays or journeys. I don’t. I get great pleasure out of not doing it. And I get great pleasure simply from viewing everything I have filmed—warts an’ all.”

  Roslin reached up to pull down the rolled screen. “You must understand that what I shall show you is not poor Silk’s fall itself. I stopped filming when I saw he was in some distress.…”

  “You mean,” asked Green, “that you had the camera on him until you realised he was in difficulties and then lowered it?”