Shelf Life

by Douglas Clark

  “I’m sure. Thank you. If there’s anything we want, we’ll ask for it, but I can’t see us being here all that much. However, Mr Snell, I shall hope to keep you fully informed of the progress of the investigation.”

  Snell looked surprised. “That’s good of you, sir, but Mr Crewkerne specifically said that he didn’t want any of us locals to be involved.”

  “I am aware of that and I shall do my best not to involve you, but the time could come when local knowledge would be invaluable. If that happens, I shall call on you without hesitation.”

  “Yes, sir. Understood.”

  Masters turned to Reed and Berger. “Go and find Sergeant Watson and Constable Sutcliffe. Talk to them.”

  Reed and Berger left the recreation room. Snell glanced from one to the other of the Yard men. Masters, sensing the local man’s rising apprehension, said:

  “Don’t worry, Inspector. We’re not A10, you know.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Son,” said Green, “what’s your first name?”

  “Roy.”

  Snell was impeccable in uniform, but he had a strained look in his eyes, as though the events of the last few days and the prospect of being questioned by Masters was playing havoc with his nerves. He started visibly when Green said: “Well, Roy, lad, draw up a chair. His Nibs has announced his intention of starting with you.”

  Snell sat down gingerly. It seemed that in spite of Masters’ reassurance he anticipated being put through the hoop.

  “Now, Roy,” said Green, sitting beside Masters across the table from Snell, “we want to talk to you about your sources of information.”

  “My sources of information, sir?”

  “Yes, lad. Narks, grasses . . . whatever you call them in this neck of the woods.”

  Snell sat silent, unwilling to be forthcoming.

  “Who informed you of Pam Watson’s liaison with Boyce?” asked Masters.

  “Sir,” began Snell, “you know it’s an unwritten law that we don’t disclose . . .”

  Masters held up a hand to stop him.

  “Don’t go on. You’re making a fool of yourself, Roy.”

  Snell reddened. “Sir, that is an uncalled-for remark.”

  “Just listen for a moment and then see if you change your mind.”

  “Sir . . .”

  “Listen, lad,” counselled Green.

  “Regard me as a hostile investigator for a few minutes, Roy,” ordered Masters. “I’m out to get you. This is my story to Mr Crewkerne concerning you.”

  Snell sat wooden-faced.

  “Inspector Snell received information concerning Pamela Watson and Norman Boyce. This he passed on to Sergeant Watson. The thing to note is, that this information was passed to the sergeant at lunchtime on the day the three young men appeared in front of the magistrates. My belief is that the inspector, being a friend and colleague of Watson, would impart such information as this at the first possible moment. I deduce, therefore, that the inspector gathered his information during the hours immediately before lunch. But as he was in the court building throughout that time, it is logical to suppose that the information was passed inside the court building.

  “If this is so, I am at liberty to assume that the inspector’s informant—already proven to have an interest in Boyce’s movements—had heard that Boyce had been found not guilty by the magistrates. Had the informant been friendly towards Boyce, this verdict would have pleased him. The reverse could be said to be true. Why should the informant grass to the inspector unless he—the informant—was disappointed by the verdict? To grass suggests ill-will. In other words, the inspector was well aware that there was somebody who bore Boyce a grudge. On that same day, somebody with a grudge against Boyce murdered the lad. Yet Inspector Snell told nobody that he knew of a person who held a grudge against Boyce. In a member of the public, this would be a criminal offence—withholding information. In a senior police officer, it is, at the very least, dereliction of duty and, at worst, gives me grounds for suspecting that Inspector Snell is shielding the man who could have murdered Boyce. This, in my opinion, could lead to a charge against Inspector Snell equal to that of murder—namely, as an accomplice after the fact . . .”

  “Stop, sir! Stop!” Snell did not sound desperate. Rather that he was angry, as though he had bottled up the interjection to a point where he could no longer keep it in.

  “Stop?” asked Masters gently.

  Snell exhaled. “Sir, you know this is absolute rubbish.”

  “Do I? As a friendly investigator I would probably agree with you. But as a hostile one . . . Look, Roy, all sorts of interpretations can be put on the most innocent of acts. As I have demonstrated, I could wheel you up in front of your superiors and make out a very good case against you if you decided to continue to shield your informant. On the other hand you could partially demolish that case were you to give us the name we are seeking.”

  Snell opened his mouth in surprise. “Only partially, sir?”

  “Of course, lad,” grunted Green. “You should have been on to that chap like a sparrow on a crumb as soon as you heard that Boyce had not died naturally. You knew he didn’t like Boyce, didn’t you?”

  “No!”

  “You what?”

  Snell leaned forward. “You were very clever, Mr Masters, but you got it all wrong.”

  “I did say it was speculation,” murmured Masters. “But I shall be interested to hear how I was wrong.”

  “The information was given to me not to ease a grudge against Boyce, but out of gratitude to the police and resentment against the magistrates. I have not withheld vital information . . .”

  “Tell us, Roy,” invited Green wearily, “because this I have to hear.”

  “Every word,” instructed Masters. “Leave nothing out.”

  Slowly at first, and then at a more natural pace, Snell described the court hearing against Joe Howlett. How Miss Foulger had lectured him, how he had been impertinent to Mrs Hargreaves, and the conversation in the corridor. He even described the magistrates and what Howlett had told him of his immediate intentions. When he had finished he looked up at Masters and asked: “Would you call that sheltering the name of a suspect?”

  “Yes, lad,” said Green. “We can see how and why you regard this tramp, Joe Howlett, as a harmless old man unlikely to be connected with Boyce’s murder. But you’re wrong about the D.C.S. getting it wrong. He got it right. He sussed out when and where you got your whisper. He was right about the grudge . . .”

  “But not about a grudge against Boyce.”

  “A grudge,” said Green solemnly, “is a grudge. It’s a feeling which affects the mind. It troubles people mentally. This old boy may have had his grudge sparked off by Miss Foulger, but like a lot of grudges, it began spilling over to splash on other people. Howlett was showing the signs, otherwise he wouldn’t have shopped Boyce.”

  “He didn’t shop him.”

  “He showed envy,” said Masters. “Envy because those three got off. Besides meaning resentment, a grudge can mean envy. Whatever causes it, it can result in ill-will. Ill-will shown in this case by the snippet of information he gave you. You attribute it to gratitude to the police, but I could argue that gratitude is not as strong a motive as resentment.”

  “Couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Green, “so, you see, Roy, you’d be wrong to run away with the idea that His Nibs was on the wrong set of rails.”

  Snell shrugged helplessly. “I see I was wrong not to have gone after Howlett, but the need to name him never arose.”

  “Inspector,” said Masters quietly. “don’t become like one of those witnesses who retort that they didn’t tell what they knew because nobody ever asked them. You’ve got to think and act—as I’m sure you do for the most part—above and beyond the normal boundaries.”

  “Yes, sir. I should have acted differently.”

  “Most surely you should. Now, I think that’s over, and we could do with some coffee. Stay with us
, Roy. I’d like to chat a bit more.”

  Snell didn’t look as if the idea appealed to him very much, so Masters added, “But if you’d rather disappear . . .?”

  “There’s the routine work to be done, sir.”

  “Mustn’t keep you from that, son,” said Green.

  “In that case . . .”

  “Just one thing, Roy,” said Masters. “Have you somebody who could act as a local guide? I know I promised not to involve your people, but if you had a cadet handy, one who knew the district, it would help.”

  “No cadets, sir. It’s only an inspector’s station, you see. But I could let you have a W.P.C. She’s young, but she was born and brought up here and would make a good guide.”

  “Is she bright?”

  “They don’t come any brighter, sir.”

  “In that case we’ll accept. What’s her name?”

  “W.P.C. Prior, sir. Betty Prior.”

  “If she were to wear civilian clothes she would be less conspicuous and the link between you and us would be less obvious.”

  “She’ll have civvies in her locker, sir.”

  “Good. Please send her down.”

  “With coffee?”

  “Oh, yes please. Tell her to bring some for herself and if you wouldn’t mind asking her to find Reed and Berger and to bring them along, too, if they’re finished, that is, I’d be grateful.”

  Snell left them, patently pleased to be free.

  Green took out a battered packet of Kensitas and lit up. “Yon’s not a frightened man exactly, but he’s shaken.”

  “So he should be. Sticking to that damned old shibboleth about protecting sources of information! It’s fine in a young copper, but when you get to his rank you’ve got to know when to discard tenets which are inappropriate, old-fashioned, generally abandoned or—as in this case—downright dangerous.”

  Green grunted, whether in agreement or the opposite was not clear. Masters got to his feet to fetch a tin ashtray from a small table near the dartboard. As he sat down, there was a bump on the outside of the door. He immediately rose again to open it. As he did so, a girl in uniform came stern first into the room, carrying a large tray.

  “W.P.C. Prior, I presume?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, but I hadn’t a free hand.”

  Masters took the tray. “Thank you Miss . . . shall we call you Betty? . . . you were very quick.”

  “I didn’t stop to change out of uniform, sir. I thought I could do it while you had coffee.”

  “Right. But get back here as quickly as you can.”

  “Inspector Snell asked me to say your sergeants would be down almost immediately, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Pretty little bit of capurtle,” said Green, who liked his females slightly on the fuller side of lean. “Beats me why young lasses like her join.”

  “For probably much the same reasons as men do. And although we see very little of them, most people are very appreciative of their efforts and admire not only their skill, but also their undoubted courage.”

  “That’s a point that makes me sore,” said Green. “I don’t reckon we should use them when there’s likely to be danger. We all know they’ve got courage, but that doesn’t mean we should test it.”

  Masters agreed. He had long argued that in tricky situations male members of the force could well be more concerned to protect their female colleagues than to protect themselves or even to do the job they were concerned with at the time. But he was told that in view of the Sex Discrimination Act and Equal Opportunities Commission, the force would be leaving itself open to censure were it to discriminate in the way he wished.

  He was saying something of this when Reed and Berger joined them. As they drank their coffee, Masters said: “Bill, do you think it is necessary to question Pam Watson?”

  “Just to make sure, you mean?”

  “You saw the report by the local detective who visited her to check up yesterday?”

  Green shrugged. “Nothing in it.”

  “Quite.”

  “You’re not suspecting Watson, are you, Chief?” asked Reed.

  “No more than anybody else.”

  “He’s a very decent chap, and cut-up as hell about his daughter.”

  “That is one of the reasons why I asked the D.C.I. if we should visit her.”

  “I don’t get it, Chief. If you discount that news story, why bother—unless you have to, that is.”

  “You don’t get the drift, lad,” said Green. “What His Nibs means is that the girlie has given her father a rough time. If he’s the decent bloke you say he is, he’s probably suffering in silence, and the little madam thinks that’s the end of it. But if the big guns of the Yard descend upon her she could come to realise what a bloody fool she’s been and how rotten she’s treated her parents. It could make her think, lad.”

  “And haul her back from the brink, you mean?”

  “Precisely. Get her to behave herself in future.” Green turned to Masters. “I suggest we think about it for a bit, George. That is, of course, unless you can’t think of anything else to do.”

  Masters grinned. “There are several things. First off, there’s Joe Howlett.”

  Green shook his head. “Probably harmless.”

  “True. But apart from investigating his movements, we could question him. I got the impression that he knows most of what goes on round here. Could be that he could give us a few whispers—as well as Snell.”

  Green nodded.

  Berger said: “Howlett? The old tramp? Was he the one who gave the inspector his information, Chief?”

  “Yes. Watson didn’t know that, I take it?”

  “No, sir. But he gave us quite a bit about the old boy. How he came to collect his belongings after the court and how savage he was about the women magistrates.”

  “Savage?”

  “According to Watson, Howlett said Miss Foulger should be put down.”

  “Did he, now? Snell says he referred to her as a miserable old bitch. It seems to me our old tramp will definitely be worth a bit of attention. We want to know exactly what he did between the time he left here and the time when Boyce was picked up.” Masters turned to Green. “Bill, if I remember rightly, Snell said something about old Joe going to a fish and chip shop.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Watson said that, too, Chief. Watson had given him some tea and sugar—filled one of the old tin cans he wore round his waist with tea bags and a poke of sugar. He told Watson he was going to Berry’s chip shop for some scraps—that’s the stuff they skim off the top of the oil.”

  “I know that, lad,” said Green. “When I was a choker—when a penn’orth of chips really cost a penny and a fish cost either tuppence or threepence and you could actually see the difference in size—we used to get scraps put on top for nothing. Supper rooms they used to have then. Just a few tables covered in oil cloth and some forms to sit on, but you could use them if you were a customer, and there was none of this VAT lark if you ate something on the premises. Supper rooms! Usually just a bit of the shop, sometimes the back room leading off, but they used to have it painted on the windows. Fish and Chips. Supper Room Within. And then they used to put the prices up on the window as well—in whitewash. Skate Knobs! You never hear of skate knobs now. And little messages like ‘No pies tonight. Peas.’ As cryptic as that they were. Sometimes funny and misspelt. But they were your real fish and chip shops, not the Chinese chippies you get today.”

  Masters said: “They always smell so good as you walk past, but they never taste as good as they smell.”

  “No,” said Green, “because they use oil. In my day they used dripping, and put up a sign to say so. In my area it was always Webster’s Pure Dripping, and you got some taste with it.”

  Reed said: “And yet you lot are always complaining about the thirties!”

  “I don’t,” said Masters. “I wasn’t born then.”

  Green shrugged. “There were
some good things then. Better than they’ve ever been since. The trouble is we’ve thrown out the baby with the bathwater—in the name of progress.”

  Before anybody could reply to this, the door opened and Betty Prior came in. “Sorry to have been so long, sir, but there was a phone call from Division.”

  “Don’t worry, lass,” said Green gallantly. “It was worth waiting for.”

  As indeed it was. W.P.C. Prior was—as Snell had said—a pretty little thing, with a snub nose, big eyes and nice auburn hair. Her figure was shown off well in the floral summer dress she wore. Masters noticed that it was basically green and just the right shade for a girl with her colouring.

  She stood, blushing with pleasure at her greeting and at the silence which then ensued as the four big men gazed at her like small children gravely inspecting an animal at the zoo, as though not knowing quite what to make of so unaccustomed an addition to their ranks.

  Masters was the first to pull himself together.

  “Betty, we want to start tracing the movements two days ago of a man called Joe Howlett.”

  The small nose wrinkled. “The smelly old tramp, sir?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Sergeant Watson told me he was sober, honest and a true conservationist.”

  “Meaning, I suppose,” said Green, “that he doesn’t drink, doesn’t nick things and what else?”

  “Makes good use of everything, sir. Old cans, bits of old string and so on.”

  “Right,” said Masters, “lead on. He said his first port of call was to be Berry’s fish shop.”

  “That’s in the High Street, sir.”

  They trooped after the girl. Berger moved alongside her as they went. “Betty,” he whispered, “the Great I Am is usually referred to as Chief, not sir.”

  “He might be cross if I call him that.”

  “Try him.”

  “He’s very important, isn’t he?”

  “Very. And very good. So just play it calm and straight. Don’t get windy at being with him.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  She led them past the desk where Sergeant Watson was working and out into the sunlight. “Right, along here, Chief.” She said it hesitantly and appeared to gather courage because he seemed to accept the form of address.