Howlett accepted the proffered ball-point and signed his name—Joseph Porton Howlett.
“Ritzy sort of name, that,” said Watson. Joe made no reply. Watson began to put the possessions on the desk. “I’ve put a dozen tea bags and a poke of sugar in your can.”
“Thank you, Mr Watson. There was no need.”
“We always know when you’ve got nothing, Joe.”
“That woman . . .”
“What woman? Don’t tell me you’re courting, Joe?”
“The Foulger woman.”
“Oh, her! You’re the second who’s had something to say about her this morning. And by the way, you didn’t tell me what kept you after the case was over. Constable Brown, who nicked you, was back here a full quarter of an hour before you.”
Joe Howlett picked up his cans. “Ask no questions, Mr Watson, and you’ll get no lies told you. But I will tell you this, that woman wants putting down. Straight she does.”
Watson grew severe. “Don’t you start to play any games, Joe. Not with her, especially. Otherwise you will find yourself in the nick—for good and all.”
Howlett grunted, turned away and trudged out of the police station. The W.P.C. clerk, sitting at the typewriter on a small table behind Watson’s desk counter, said: “What a nasty, smelly old man, Sergeant.”
“What, him?” replied Watson. “Not half as smelly and nasty as some of the tricks pulled by most of the better-washed people we get in here. He doesn’t break into houses to use sitting room carpets as lavatories, he doesn’t get drunk, he doesn’t bash people up and he doesn’t go in for fraud, fiddling, illegal parking, speeding, driving without due care and attention or shoplifting.”
The girl smiled. “You make him sound like a model citizen.”
“Why not? He’s an active conservationist.”
“Him?”
“Yes. He makes good use of anything and everything.”
Howlett, of course, had heard none of this. He had told Snell he would probably be able to get some scraps from the fish and chip shop. This was true enough. Jack Berry, the owner, skimmed the scraps—mostly solidified drops of batter from the fish—off the top of the oil he used for frying. When these had drained and cooled, they were either put in the waste bin or thrown into a cardboard box lined with white wrapping paper. The box was then transferred to the brick-built shed behind the shop which Berry used as a store and preparation room. It was built like a garage, with wide double doors and a concrete apron sloping down to a drain and then on for another few feet to the small street behind the shop. In warm weather the garage doors would be wide open, showing a stack of potatoes in sacks, jerricans of cooking oil, a vast ice box, a double sink, wooden cutting table and a rotary potato cleaner. This last had seen many years of service and would last many more because, according to Jack Berry, “there was nowt in it to go wrong and it cost nowt to run”. This was a tribute to the sturdiness of the workmanship and the simplicity of design. It was, in essence, a drum the size of a dustbin, slung horizontally on an iron stand which carried the ends of a central axle. An extension of the axle at one end was fitted with a large cranking handle. This, turned by hand, rotated the drum—easy to do, even when half full of potatoes. The scraping and peeling was effected in much the same way as a domestic grater operates on a nutmeg or piece of cheese. The cylinder of the drum was perforated with close-set holes that had been driven in from outside to leave rough claws of metal standing proud inside. To lubricate the operation and to wash away mud and scraps of skin, the drum turned inside another half drum slung beneath it and filled with water.
Jack Berry had never seen any reason to exchange this highly satisfactory, reliable and economic piece of equipment for some new, more sophisticated and expensive equivalent. Particularly as he never seemed to be short of volunteers to turn the handle. Local ten- and twelve-year-old lads were quite capable of doing the work, and were always willing to do so for the obvious reward—a good big bag of hot chips fresh from the first frying, soused in vinegar and liberally sprinkled with salt.
Besides the lads, over the years, Joe Howlett had been accustomed to helping out when he was in the district, particularly in the preparation of the potatoes for lunch-time opening during term-time when the boys were in school. As an additional reward for long—if intermittent—service, Joe was allowed to help himself to the scraps from the box whenever they were there to be had, whether he had helped that day or not. His habit was to take them away to Burner’s Wood, there to reheat them in a makeshift frying pan over a twig fire.
So Joe Howlett was fairly confident that what he had told Inspector Snell was correct. The tramp shuffled off down the High Street in the direction of Berry’s shop, but before reaching it, turned off right down a side road and then left again to bring him to the back of the premises—the area with which he was so very familiar. The garage doors were open, and though there was no sign of Berry himself, there was the box of scraps in its usual place at the end of the preparation table. Joe, as had always been his custom, entered the premises, keeping his eyes open for a decent bit of paper or a plastic bag in which to wrap the scraps.
“Hey, you! What do you want in here?”
It was a heavy, unpleasant voice, but undoubtedly that of a woman. Though less refined than the voice that had berated him in the court, it was of the same timbre and reminded him strongly of Miss Foulger.
Joe looked up. Standing in the doorway at the back of the garage—the common entrance to the house and shop premises—was a large woman so heavily built that her legs were splayed apart by the sheer volume of her thighs. Though her bust must have boasted a gargantuan measurement, it was almost indiscernible except as an upward continuation of her great belly over which a green and white cotton frock was stretched like a newly inflated hot air balloon. Howlett recognised her from years ago. She was Berry’s daughter who no longer lived in Colesworth.
“Scraps,” he muttered, half-pointing towards the cardboard box. “Mr Berry always lets me have some.”
“You’re not getting any today. He’s not here. He’s gone on holiday and I’m in charge. And I’m not having a mucky old tramp like you hanging round. Dirty old ragamuffin! Get out of here before I turn the hose on you.”
“The scraps . . .”
She took a pace towards the stand-pipe on the wall, her man-sized gumboots clopping ominously on the wet floor. “Out, you dirty old bastard! I hated the sight of you even when I was a kid. How my dad could ever let you . . .” She stooped to pick up the nozzle of the hose. With the business end pointed at Joe, and one pudgy hand on the tap top, she screamed: “I’ll not tell you again.”
Joe turned away. Evidently too slowly, too reluctantly for the bully girl. As he started to shamble off, a jet of water hit him between the shoulder blades. It was not powerful enough to knock him off his feet, but there was enough volume to wet the back of his clothes, his hair and his belongings. The tin containing the tea bags and sugar Watson had given him was half full of water, the contents completely ruined.
When he reached the pavement, with the wall for shelter, he turned. “Fat bitch,” he yelled at her. “You ought to be in a sideshow.” He dodged behind the wall as another jet of water hit the brickwork. Then he again peered round the corner. “If they could find a tent big enough.”
He mooched on, breathing imprecations against all women. As he went, he mumbled to himself, mouthing curses which covered Miss Foulger and Berry’s daughter indiscriminately. For a normally mild-mannered man, he was very angry indeed, and not only with the two women, but with himself for being powerless to do anything to redress his grievances. Like a child he wanted revenge—to make them sorry for the way they had treated him.
It was in this frame of mind that he continued his way. He would now have to break into the pound note the inspector had given him. He would buy a loaf and then go to the kitchen door of the Albatross Hotel. On more than one occasion he had been given there the scooped-out rind of a Sti
lton with enough cheese left adhering to it to last him for days. But even the thought of this prospect did nothing to cool Joe’s temper and his desire for revenge.
*
Inspector Snell reached the police station just as Sergeant Watson was about to leave the desk to have lunch in the canteen.
“I’d like a word with you, Tom. Private. In my office.”
“Now, sir?”
“Yes, please. Come through.”
Snell’s office led off a corridor behind the desk space. It was the usual spartan place. All the furniture, with the exception of the filing cabinets, had been given a hurried coat of yellow varnish several decades earlier. The walls, however, had been newly colour-washed in duck-egg blue and a piece of chestnut coloured broadloom occupied two-thirds of the floor. The visitor’s chair was an old carver, still yellow as to woodwork, but with a brown rexine seat that was a near-match for the carpet. Snell signalled to Watson to take this chair while he himself took off his uniform jacket and put it on a hanger in a cupboard.
“This is man to man, Tom,” said Snell as he took his own chair. “Private, personal and off-the-record.”
“Personal?”
Snell nodded.
“That sounds serious.”
“There may be nothing in it, and I don’t really know how to begin. The point is, Tom, I’m poking my nose into your business. My only excuse for doing so is that we’re old mates, and I feel I would be letting you down if I were to keep quiet.”
“I reckon we understand each other well enough to talk plain when we’ve got to, Roy.”
“I’m pleased you see it like that, Tom, because it’s . . . hell, man, it’s like this. You know we had those three young villains, Boyce, Lawson and Mobb in court this morning.”
“Of course I know. I also know they got away with it.”
“And you know we were pretty sure they’d done four or five jobs before this last one?”
“I’m the desk-sergeant round here,” said Watson drily. Then he changed his tone. “But you couldn’t mention the other jobs.”
“No. But before the hearing we did try to tie them in. We made a lot of enquiries, as you know, but we had no luck or not enough time.”
Watson nodded to show he appreciated the point.
Snell continued. “During the enquiries we talked to a lot of informants.”
“Naturally.”
“One of mine—one I trust, otherwise I wouldn’t be passing on what was said—told me something I think you ought to hear.”
“What?”
“It’s your Pam, Tom. I was told she has been seen running about with those three yobbos. Pam and Rosie Sewell.”
There was a long moment of silence before Watson asked: “You’re sure of this, Roy?”
“In so far as I trust my informant, yes.”
“Who is he, your informant?”
“I’m not telling you that, Tom. You know the game.”
“All right, all right! But my Pam . . . with those three? Why, they’re . . . they’re devils double-dipped.”
“That’s putting it mildly. So I reckon you ought to find out if it’s true, Tom, and if so, put a stop to it before it goes too far.”
“You’re not suggesting my lass had anything to do with those break-ins?”
“No, definitely not. All I’m saying is that Pam’s a pretty girl and would attract those three like a jar of honey does wasps. Those three particular wasps are a bit older than Pam . . .”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“I was just going to say your girl is probably impressionable and thinks it’s smart to be seen with them at discos and the youth club. Nothing more than that. But I thought you’d want to do something about it before Pam really does get involved. As for Rosie Sewell . . . well, I know very little about her.”
“Empty-headed little piece,” murmured Watson abstractedly, obviously uninterested in Rosie. “She’d not lead my Pam astray . . .” He looked up. “Roy, this is a hell of a shock.”
“Of course it is. I know what you and your missus think of the girl. That’s why I’ve told you.”
“Yes, thanks. This’ll upset her mother. Knock her backwards.”
“Does Freda have to know? Why don’t you go home now and have a word with Pam? If there’s nothing in the story . . .”
“I’m on duty, Roy.”
“Forget the duty. Go home and see your daughter. How long is it since you’ve really seen anything of her?”
Watson shook his head. “By the time I get home she’s usually gone out.” He grimaced. “A copper can’t always be there when he should be.”
“I know. It’s the big drawback of the job. That’s why I say go home now and sort it out.”
“I’ll come back . . .”
“Tonight. Take the half-shift. I was going to have to find somebody. If you could do eight till two . . .”
The sergeant got to his feet. “Thanks, Roy. I know how difficult this must have been for you.”
“I’m hoping it will turn out to be nothing. And, Tom, take it easy on the girl. Just because you think the light shines out of her is no reason to let worry carry you over the top.”
“I’ll remember. But when I think of those three yobs . . .”
Watson left the station and caught a bus for a free ride along the main road. He stood on the conductor’s platform, paying little attention to anybody or anything but his own thoughts. But he did just notice Joe Howlett going into a baker’s shop.
“What are you doing home, Tom?” asked Freda Watson in surprise.
“Changed duties, love. We’re a bit pushed because of holidays so I said I’d do a half-shift tonight if I could have this nice sunny afternoon off to do a bit in the garden.”
“Oh, I see. Do you want something to eat?”
“Have you had yours?”
“Half an hour since. Pam wants to go to the baths.”
“In that case I’ll have a sandwich and a can of beer. I’ll just go up and change.”
“Pam’s upstairs.”
“I don’t need telling. This house will shake to bits one of these days. How these kids manage to stand the noise! I’ll bet the roof joists are bouncing.”
“I’ve asked her to turn it down a bit.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Watson knocked on the door of his daughter’s room and entered. It was obvious she had not heard the knock. She lay on her back on the bed, seemingly oblivious to everything but the beat, beat, beat of the record player. Watson had to move in close to stand above her, within her immediate vision, before she noticed him.
“Turn it down a bit, love,” he shouted.
She sat up, noticeably put-out by the request, and lowered the volume of the player beside the bed to about half its former power.
“What do you want, dad? Shouldn’t you be at work?”
Watson undid his tunic and loosened his tie, to give the impression that this was a normal, casual visit.
“Changed shifts, love. Mum tells me you’re going swimming.”
“I am.”
“When?”
“What is this, dad? A cross-examination?”
He sat on the side of the bed and gestured towards the record player.
“I suppose that means you want me to turn it off?” she asked.
“It would help.”
She switched off. In the blessed silence she looked at her father. “Satisfied?”
Watson pretended to ignore the unaccustomed enmity in her tone; made no comment about the unprecedented impertinence. “Not entirely. I want to talk to you.”
“What about?”
Watson wondered whether it was his imagination seeing things that weren’t there, or whether a hint of defensive fear had shown in his daughter’s eyes. He disliked the way, too, in which she had suddenly tensed her body. He remembered Snell’s advice and decided to play it gently.
“Who are you going swimming with?”
&n
bsp; “Coral.”
“Coral? You mean Carol, don’t you? Carol Gilbert?”
“She’s decided she’d prefer to be called Coral.”
“Why? Because she thinks she looks like Marilyn Monroe?”
“Yes.”
“Tell her Marilyn Monroe didn’t have knock-knees.”
“They don’t show under skirts.”
“They will at the swimming baths, unless she’s going to wear those frilly Victorian pantaloons.”
Pam didn’t reply. She sat leaning against the bed head, picking at the cover and not looking at her father.
“Who else is going? Rosie Sewell?”
“P’raps.”
“Boyfriends? Three young seventeen-year-olds like you must have boyfriends these days, I reckon.”
She glanced at him, as if waiting watchfully for what was to come next. They sat looking at each other for another moment or two. Then he got to his feet.
“When I say that three good-looking girls like you, Rosie and Carol . . . er . . . Coral, must have boyfriends, love, I mean decent lads. Not yobbos like those three who used to go to your school and we had up in court today—Boyce, Lawson and Mobb.”
She suddenly flared up at him.
“You’ve been spying on me!”
“You know I’d never do that, Pam,” he replied quietly.
“Do I? You’re the fuzz, aren’t you?” Her voice was becoming hysterical in its accusation.
“I’m the fuzz all right. But I haven’t been spying on you.”
“Somebody must have.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You talking about Norm, Eric and Ted like that.”
“Norm, Eric and Ted?” He again remembered Snell’s advice, and strove to keep calm. “That’s what they’re called, is it?”
“Yes.” She sneered the names. “Boyce, Lawson and Mobb! They’re not people to the fuzz, are they? Just . . . just things.”
“Hold it, hold it, love! What are you trying to tell me? That you know those three? That they’re friends of yours? That you actually go about with them?”
“Yes, I do. And you know I do, else you wouldn’t be up here smarming away pretending you didn’t know.”
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