by Roy Lewis
Grout frowned. ‘But the upshot was a year’s work was destroyed, and he had no thesis to present to the Senate.’
Godfrey sighed. ‘That’s about the size of it. There were a few scraps, bits and pieces relating to his research. And I had my own notes from the sessions we had together, when I was supervising his work, but let’s put it like this, he was a foolish young man. He should have taken rather more precautions, in my view. I mean, it was all so … irresponsible.’
‘But I understand from Dobson that he was finally awarded his MA … by your efforts, I believe,’ Grout murmured.
Godfrey shrugged again and was silent for a little while. Grout waited. He thought about the influx of students to Godfrey’s department and realized that the professor’s treatment of Philip Proud would be symptomatic of the close regard the man had for his students. He would be popular for his extrovert manner and his television appearances but they would probably also respect him for the interest he took in their academic welfare … and perhaps their personal lives.
Almost reluctantly, Godfrey murmured, ‘I thought someone should fight his corner. He had worked hard; I didn’t think it was right he should be penalized for some drunken prank by his fellow students. Or whatever it was …’
‘So what happened to him later? After he was awarded his MA, did Proud take up an academic appointment?’ Grout asked.
‘Did he hell! He threw away his future, dissipated his talents.’ Godfrey’s tone was wry, irritated, and Grout realized that there might be reasons other than those mentioned for Godfrey’s disappointment in Philip Proud. He had helped the young man, nurtured his talent, assisted him towards the award of his MA in difficult circumstances, but there was something needling Godfrey about Philip Proud.
‘So what happened to him after he left the university?’
‘Do you know York?’ Godfrey asked abruptly.
‘Fairly well.’
‘You’ll know the Shambles then.’
‘Most people do.’
The Shambles was the mediaeval street right in the centre of York with its overhanging windows, narrow street, lurching, crowded houses beloved by tourists. No longer the habitat of sellers of meat, it remained perhaps the most perfectly preserved mediaeval street in Britain.
‘If you walk into the Shambles from the lower end – that’s St. Hilary’s end – you’ll soon come across a small bookshop. If you were to put something completely out of character in that beautiful street, you’d install Philip Proud there. In pursuit of Venus, you might say. Selling cheap, salacious paperback books mainly for the shabby raincoat trade.’
His tones were edged with disgust. Grout could not be certain whether the disgust came from Proud’s involvement with eroticism or simply with the book trade itself.
‘So how did he come to set up there?’’ Grout asked.
‘I understand he received some sort of legacy from a deceased aunt, but I’ve no idea how much it was, or indeed how he manages to keep his head above water financially, because I don’t believe there’s much trade for pornography down there in the Shambles. From what I hear the place is closed half the time anyway, and as for the present state the book trade finds itself in … You know, if he had a legacy like that he could have done something useful with it, extended his learning, gone to Italy to do further research but instead of that the young fool deserted academia for the salacious end of the commercial world! Pornographic literature … and in the Shambles at that!’
It was clear to Grout that Godfrey regarded Proud’s offence as even more heinous than allowing his precious thesis to have been destroyed. Grout was silent, making no attempt to sympathize, feeling that Proud was a young man making his own decisions for his own reasons; he was not to be bound by the desires and dictates of his older mentor. He glanced up and was surprised to see that Godfrey was staring at him with a half-smile on his face. It suggested to Grout that Godfrey was quite capable of self-analysis and was feeling slightly abashed at having expressed himself so forcibly.
‘You must think I’m somewhat ivory-tower, and perhaps a certain … Victorian in my attitudes?’
‘I think you were understandably disappointed, Professor Godfrey,’ Grout replied non-committally.
‘Yet who am I, really, to offer criticism?’ Godfrey spread his hands wide in a somewhat theatrical gesture. ‘After all, there are those I’m certain would rush to argue that I myself have prostituted my knowledge and talents to the ravening beast that is television. I suppose that’s the trouble, really, university professors do live in a somewhat narrow world, and have difficulty seeing the wider issues … such as the need to earn a living. Maybe that’s what drove Proud to his decision, though I can’t believe he’s making much success of his life on the road he’s chosen for himself… .’
He nodded, hesitated, then raised his carefully trimmed eyebrows. He rose, moved towards the door, intimating the interview was at an end as far as he was concerned. ‘I forget sometimes that I was once young too,’ he murmured. ‘But then, traditionally, all professors are forgetful, aren’t they?’
So are detective sergeants, from time to time, Grout considered as he made his way down Blackett Street, away from the university. He realized he had forgotten to ask Professor Godfrey for the loan of the professor’s monograph on Chesters Fort.
CHAPTER FIVE
Cardinal received Grout’s report in silence. His lean, ascetic features remained impassive but Grout was in no doubt of the chief inspector’s disapproval. He stumbled to the end of his account, stubbornly defiant in his tone of voice as he realized the extent of Cardinal’s displeasure. Cardinal fixed a cold, contemptuous glance on the uncomfortable detective sergeant.
‘So, it seems you had an enjoyable time fannying around, then?’
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
Cardinal allowed himself a thin smile; there was no warmth in it.
‘As far as I can gather, you’ve been having a pleasant time swanning around York, chatting with a professor and a student while the rest of us have been keeping our noses to the grindstone. What your buggering about with academia has to do with the investigation we’re carrying out, I haven’t the faintest idea. Perhaps you could elucidate the point for me. Is that the right kind of academic phrase?’
Grout’s chin came up stubbornly. ‘Things might get a bit clearer when I’ve been allowed to interview Philip Proud, sir.’
‘Allowed?’ Cardinal’s eyes widened in mock surprise. ‘Seems to me you’re wandering off on a frolic of your own with or without permission! As for this man Proud, you’re not seriously suggesting you waste time talking to him about his lifestyle, his bloody thesis on mediaeval Italy, or whatever else you want to have a chat about. Or perhaps it’s the pornography angle. It’s not that you have a leaning towards dirty books, is it?’
Grout was annoyed. He felt he didn’t deserve that kind of snide comment. Doggedly, he said, ‘I just feel he might be able to help us with regard to why the Chesters storeroom was broken into.’
‘I thought it just contained run of the mill stuff. So what will this bookseller have to tell us?’
‘Until I speak to him, sir, how can we know?’
Grout sensed it was a standoff. But Cardinal was not the man to admit defeat. He shook his head sadly. ‘You know, Grout, I sometimes despair about you. I can’t see how Proud will be able to help us in the Rigby killing, or connections to Clifford, or anything else arising out of this bloody mess. From what you tell me, we don’t even know whether Proud did any cataloguing in that storeroom, and even if he did, you’ll tell me it was over a year ago. I just don’t see what possible use …’
Cardinal paused, considered matters. He stared at the young sergeant in front of him. He was sorely tempted to tell Grout that he should terminate the inquiry into the storeroom contents immediately. He should be concentrating on discovering who had killed Rigby rather than messing about with a break in at the museum which might have no connection whatsoe
ver to Rigby. They didn’t even know if anything had even been taken from the site … or why Rigby was there in the first place. He was tempted … but he hesitated.
It was not that Cardinal thought Grout might be right, and on a useful track; he was fairly certain the sergeant was on a wild goose chase. On the other hand, since Grout had been working with him in the squad, Cardinal had become aware that Grout possessed a certain advantage over his superior officer. DCI Cardinal, he admitted wryly to himself, had always been a man who insisted on pursuing details, it was the way he had been trained. Doggedness was the key. But Grout was different. Cardinal sensed that the detective sergeant was a man to whom things happened, and his mind was of the kind that could leap into an abyss of indecision and reach surprising, and accurate conclusions. It was called flair, he supposed. Something he himself lacked.
Cardinal grunted sourly to himself. He knew he was a meticulous, plodding sort of copper – the results he achieved were usually a consequence of long, arduous, slogging drudgery. But Grout was of the kind to whom coincidence and accident were bedfellows. And he seemed to profit accordingly. After all, it was why Cardinal had accepted the recommendation from the Chief Constable – uncle or not – in the first instance. It was why he felt he needed Grout. Young blood. Natural intelligence. Lateral thinking. Uninhibited endeavour. He sighed. Maybe he should admit he and Grout could make a good combination: Cardinal to restrain Grout from his wilder flights; Grout to inject the unusual and unexpected into Cardinal’s routine investigations.
The uneasy silence was finally broken by Grout clearing his throat nervously. He clearly felt the need to change the subject of their discussion. ‘Have we got anything yet on the woman who was staying at the hotel, sir?’
Cardinal shook his head. ‘Nothing yet. Her description has been circulated and I’ve got two men checking on likely female contacts of Rigby’s. It seems,’ he added bitterly, ‘they have been rather numerous. Rigby should have been a sailor, in my view. He’s docked in more than a few ports over the years.’
‘How have they managed to check?’ Grout asked.
‘You mean what lines of inquiry have been followed? Apart from usual known acquaintances, the keys we found in Rigby’s pocket were linked to a flat in Gosforth. Expensive place too, more than I could bloody afford. Anyway, there was some useful stuff there—’
‘Do we have anything tying him in with Clifford?’
‘Rigby wasn’t stupid enough to leave anything of that kind lying around. But there were documents he was in the process of getting rid of, it seems. Papers had been dumped in the incinerator in the basement, but there were odd sheets that didn’t get completely burned. Forensics had a crack at them and they think they’ll manage to piece together some information from it all.’
‘But you mentioned women friends.’
‘Didn’t get that from the papers that were dumped. No, much simpler. A diary in a bedroom drawer. Maybe he didn’t think it was that important, or just forgot about it before he essayed forth into the night to get his skull crushed up at Chesters. No, there were a number of female acquaintances noted in his little black book. Unsurprisingly, some of them hookers. Others, well, they’re being checked out but it would seem they could be simply casual acquaintances, girls he’d met in the clubs. Even just some personal friends. However, my guess is we’ll find most of them are … or were, rather … in some sort of gainful employment with Rigby.’
Grout frowned. ‘You mean a prostitution ring?’
‘We’ll wait and see. But Rigby was tied in with Gus Clifford, and that bastard was involved with women trafficking from Romania for a number of years.’
‘So we might find the missing Miss Grant in there somewhere.’
Cardinal shrugged. ‘Who knows? Under another name, maybe. Anyway, she’s not turned up yet.’
‘But what about the papers he was dumping? What importance did they have? And why would he try to get rid of them so suddenly?’
Cardinal shrugged. ‘Something was panicking Rigby. He certainly wanted to get rid of some documents in his possession, that’s clear enough. Get rid of information, before heading off to Chesters. It would suggest he was in the process of moving his operations prior to heading for the Roman fort. But we don’t know why. Not yet. Of course, it might have some connection with Clifford’s meeting in London, or maybe it was because of its cancellation? I’ve got a couple of men sifting through what papers remained, and doing some cross-checking but at this stage … who knows?’
‘But you think it’s all linked to Clifford’s operation,’ Grout suggested.
Cardinal grimaced. ‘Maybe I’m just obsessed with nailing Clifford, tying everything into his operations. And Rigby was Clifford’s man. So, I’m hoping so. I’m hoping we’ll be able to find a connection between the murder of Rigby, and the whole business that Clifford’s been running. So far, we can’t be certain that this might be a gangland killing, or a personal matter, and to date we’ve no whisper from the Met that there is a link but then, they’re not even sure that Clifford is still in their area. He seems to have gone to ground, while his other agents have also been scurrying for cover.’
‘Sinking ship.’
Cardinal scowled. ‘I don’t think it’ll be as good as that. No, the rats will be diving overboard because they’ve been told to do so. Yes, maybe Clifford’s finding the heat too much for him; he might be wanting to close down some of his activities. But I have a feeling …’ He paused, reflectively.
‘Sir?’
‘I’ve just got a gut feeling something else is going down. Something we haven’t yet thought about. Yes, it could just be my gut rumbling, but I feel Gus Clifford is just closing down temporarily because he’s got some other iron he wants to heat up in the fire. But what that might be. …’
Cardinal rose and walked across to the map on his wall. He stared at it moodily for a little while, then sighed, shook his head, turned back to Grout.
‘Anyway, first thing is we have to get more information on these girls. If we’re lucky, one of them will turn out to be the woman whom Gilbert met at The George. We need the answer to one question from her: was she waiting for Rigby or was she waiting for the man who killed him? And why did she go to ground so swiftly? What has she got to hide?’
That’s three questions, Grout thought, not one. He did not say so.
‘And then there’s this photographer character, Paul Gilbert. I want a closer check done on him. I’ve been reading the notes on his interview and the statement he gave to the guys at Ponteland HQ. I’m not happy about them. As you said, it must have been clumsy, that inspector doesn’t have the techniques… . Anyway, I think we need to have another chat with Mr Gilbert. We’ve got his address, he lives at Beverley, in the East Riding. I want you to take a car, Grout, and go pick him up. We’ll use the York office to have a chat with him. I’ll join you there this afternoon.’
Grout hesitated, opened his mouth, then closed it again. Cardinal scowled. He could guess what Grout was thinking.
‘And since you’re going to be near York, all right, I suppose we might as well let you indulge your passion for the academic – or is it the pornographic? You can do a detour, call in and go see this bookseller you’re so keen to interview. When you find the time.’ Cardinal shook his head disapprovingly. ‘But I’ll be more than surprised if Proud is of any use to us.’
Since his meeting with Cardinal was not due to take place until late afternoon, Grout decided to call on Philip Proud before he went out to Beverley to pick up Paul Gilbert. He left his car in the station car park and walked across the bridge and down past the Minster until he reached the Shambles. Proud’s shop was just a short distance from St Hilary’s and Grout found it immediately. He made no immediate attempt to enter; instead, he wandered along the Shambles for the sheer pleasure of taking in its mediaeval ambience. He found himself in agreement with the views of Professor Godfrey as he walked; Philip Proud’s commercial venture was hardly in keep
ing with the nature of the street itself.
He turned, walked back from Clifford’s Tower and returned to the bookshop. The narrow leaded windows of Philip Proud’s enterprise were packed with paperbacks with sensational titles of the kind that would once have been seized by the police years earlier, as much for their failure to deliver what the covers promised, as much as anything else.
Grout entered the shop and found himself in a small room, the shelves being browsed among by several middle-aged gentlemen and a few prurient youngsters of school age. No one among the schoolboys seemed intent on buying; they were there for a thrill they were unlikely to achieve, and the boys should have been at school anyway, but Grout wasn’t interested in doing anything about that. He made his way along towards the back of the room, glancing vacantly at some of the more lurid titles. Proud had spent a fair amount of money on his stock, that was clear enough. Much of it, in Grout’s view, would have been wasted.
He became aware of someone standing behind him. He began to turn when the individual spoke quietly. ‘This is all run of the mill stuff, of course. If you’re at all interested, sir, we have some rather more fascinating material in the next room.’
Grout turned to stare at the young man who had addressed him. He guessed he was in his early twenties, and he was thin, dark-suited, sporting a pink shirt, floral tie and fashionably-framed spectacles. His hair was dark and neatly combed, and a hint of a moustache struggled for existence on his upper lip. His eyes were almost china-blue, and innocently frank. Grout supposed the projected innocence was one way of persuading the punters that all was on the level.
Grout nodded, saying nothing; the young man took it for acquiescence and gestured towards the back of the shop. He led the way. The room beyond was narrow and low-ceilinged; it was also rather dim. Grout stared at the shelves ranged around the room: there were books on flagellation, sadism, masochism, bondage, and a collection of Victorian bodice-rippers were grouped in one corner.