Death of an Alderman

by John Buxton Hilton

  Gill did not say anything. His wife looked disturbed.

  ‘Let’s approach it from another angle, Gill. Barson was, let’s be honest about it, humble in his origins, blunt as to his intellect, mentally unbalanced. How does he go rocketing to the top in the choosiest party in the town?’

  Gill licked his lips.

  ‘That’s an open secret. He was Sir Howard Lesueur’s protégé.’

  ‘His nominee, you mean.’

  ‘If it makes any difference.’

  ‘But why, of all people, should Lesueur have picked on Barson?’

  ‘How should I know? One man’s as good as another, in that line of business, I should have thought——always provided he can be bought in the first instance.’

  ‘Exactly. And amongst other things, Lesueur runs the party in this district?’

  ‘That is common knowledge.’

  ‘Because he can make or break them financially?’

  ‘That’s what people say.’

  ‘And as Lesueur’s nominee, it was Barson’s job to protect his master’s interests as far as council business was concerned?’

  ‘Indirectly, yes. And with due regard to constitutional practice. There has never been any suggestion of flagrant collusion.’

  ‘Nevertheless, when you commissioned Warren’s investigation, it was in this sphere, wasn’t it, that you really thought the story would break?’

  ‘It had crossed my mind.’

  ‘You’d have had quite a single-handed fight on your hands, wouldn’t you, laddie? A fight for which you’ve now lost your stomach.’

  ‘Now Barson’s dead, I’ve no reason to go on fighting.’

  ‘All right, Mr Gill——I’ll go easy on you. Millions wouldn’t have had the guts to start fighting, anyway. It would be rather like asking me to shop the Assistant Commissioner for smoking a cigarette that he’s charged to entertaining guests. But I must persevere on one or two points. It’s clear that when you were briefing Warren, you must have told him about the tie-up between Barson and Lesueur. If you hadn’t mentioned it, it’s clear that he’d have got round to it himself.’

  ‘I mentioned it.’

  ‘And how did Warren receive it? Gleefully?’

  ‘He pulled a face about it. He said he hoped I wasn’t going to get him baked in that sort of pie.’

  ‘And when Warren made his report to you the other day, did he mention the Lesueur angle?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Did you ask him about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You were too happy to settle for a load of garden rubbish?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Kenworthy eased his body in his chair.

  ‘I think I would have been, too, laddie, if I’d been in your shoes.——Well, I shall want a full written statement from you, and I’m sure there’s no need for me to bring you to the station to write it. You’re a literate man. I take it you’ve got a typewriter? Just put down what you’ve told me, starting from that appointments subcommittee. You can omit any reference to Sir Howard Lesueur. There’s no point in feeding that kind of poison into the local nick unless we have to.’

  He led Wright out into the frosty morning air. A heavy lorry was jolting through Fellaby. A couple of railway workers were walking with brisk, brittle steps towards the station.

  ‘So the name Warren means nothing to you? I should have thought his name was printed on the lining of the heart of every detective sergeant.’

  ‘Who, or what, is he or was he?’

  ‘A detective sergeant. With the Bradcaster City Borough Force. Hit the headlines about four years ago. Committed the cardinal sin for any detective sergeant——didn’t report facts to his senior officers. Hung on to suspects in the hope that they’d lead him to solve big crimes off his own bat. There was also a strong suspicion that he could be bought off, and that he had a price for tip-offs. Nothing was ever proved. I was one of those that thought that Bradcaster didn’t try very hard. Warren resigned without much fuss——he was sitting pretty, anyway——and Bradcaster counted their blessings.’

  ‘I think I remember the case. I must confess I’d forgotten his name.’

  ‘He was as crooked as a bent pin——and, to make him all the more dangerous——he was a damned fine detective. He set himself up in this private agency with a fair proportion of the Bradcaster records memorised, if not actually photo-copied. Also with four fifths of the Bradcaster informant service still in the palm of his hand, and probably several of his former mates, besides——always prepared to do them a service——on a strictly reciprocal basis. I always thought that Bradcaster were a little too happy to play the ostrich, once they were mercifully rid of Warren.’

  The Fellaby town hall clock struck five. They crossed the High Street. The County Hotel was already in view.

  ‘So you can see how his eyes must have glistened, when Gill handed him the Barson case. Now I know that Warren was mixed up in it, it doesn’t surprise me that things got worked up to murder pitch——though we’ve still to find the connection. You can bet your boots that Warren didn’t tell Gill half of what he’s dug up. Barson’s garden path made a very convenient stopping place for stage one. But the rest——Lesueur and the big stuff——Warren would have pigeon-holed for his own purposes. I wonder if Warren tried to put the screws on Barson himself?’

  Kenworthy pressed the night bell at the County.

  ‘I want to see you at the breakfast table at 7.45 sharp. That gives you roughly two hours——one in which to run over your notes of what Gill has told us. Don’t bother to make a fair copy, but make sure it’s all legible, that all your abbreviations and caballistic signs mean something. Nothing like going over your notes while they’re still fresh in your memory. And try to get an hour’s sleep, Shiner. Can’t do a day’s work without your proper rest.’

  Chapter Eight

  Over the breakfast table, Kenworthy briefed Wright in some quite surprisingly detailed aspects of the day’s forthcoming interviews. He had even put ball-point to paper and listed some of the points which he wanted to make certain were not missed.

  ‘Sorry to break my own rules and talk shop over bacon and eggs——but I’ve got to be away for most of the day. There are things I want you to keep jealously in our own hands. There are others that I want to saddle firmly and irretrievably on to the local boys.’

  ‘You’ll be off to Bradcaster to see Warren?’

  ‘Not half.’

  ‘You’re not having him in?’

  ‘What do you think? We haven’t a shadow of a charge against him.——Feeling tired, boy?’

  ‘Back of my neck’s as stiff as a board, and there’s half a yard of pump water where my spinal column ought to be. Otherwise I feel fit enough.’

  ‘Keep yourself going on cigarettes and coffee. Nine tenths of what you’re going to do today will turn out to be irrelevant——that’s always the way of it. But every thread has got to be unravelled, nevertheless.’

  Kenworthy conducted his morning conference with a briskness that had the shorthand writers on their mettle.

  Gill was to be unobtrusively shadowed if he should leave the library premises——which was not considered likely. The press was to be played at arm’s length over the green hat mystification: it was not yet sure that Warren would be easy to locate, so interest must be kept at least lukewarm. On the other hand, the name Warren was certainly not to be released. And Kenworthy did not release to his colleagues any suggestion of the Lesueur angle.

  The collection, collation and analysis of questionnaires was to continue as if Gill had revealed nothing.

  ‘Warren might,’ he said, ‘have let slip some detail on somebody’s doorstep that could help us considerably.’

  He ordered a fresh neighbourhood enquiry about anyone who might have been seen in the vicinity of the museum on the night of the break-in. He asked for an inventory of all the known keys to the museum. Inspector Malpas had completed his initial investigation i
nto Futurco and would present his report in a few minutes.

  ‘Though I could have done with it last night,’ Kenworthy said.

  ‘I didn’t get back till late, sir. I thought you’d be in bed.’

  The town clerk had asked for an officer to call in the earlier part of the morning, and Wright would attend to that. The civic funeral was at 11.15, at which a strong contingent of the uniformed branch would be on parade and others, including sergeant Wright, would mingle with the crowd. Inspector Cook, formerly of the Military Police, would be over to expand his notes of the earlier Barson case; sergeant Wright would talk to him, at his convenience, during the course of the morning. Chief superintendent Grayling would himself co-ordinate arrangements for dealing with the pitched battle that was expected between the rival youth factions. For the rest, sergeant Wright had his orders, and would know how to fill in the odd corners of his day.

  ‘There’s a further point,’ Kenworthy said. ‘I notice that the broken window at the museum has not yet been glazed. Can someone ensure, please, that it remains as it is for the time being? I assume that the broken bits have been preserved?’

  An officer of Grayling’s staff nodded assent.

  ‘I shall be asking for them——not necessarily today, though. I may not have time. Inspector Malpas, please——’

  The officer who had accompanied Wright on his first visit to the museum put on his spectacles and went to the rostrum——one of the Sunday School’s bible-boxes——and read what he had to say in flat, rapid tones.

  ‘Futurco Publicity is a limited company, formed in 1934, and operating from second-floor offices in Eastgate Street, Bradcaster, which it has occupied since its inception. The senior personnel are Mr Michael Endersley, Managing Director, Captain Lewis Exeter, Company Secretary, and the Rt Hon. R. St John Bradshaw, C.B.E., M.P., sleeping partner. The firm has exclusive rights of advertisement in the public service vehicles operated by the Bradcaster City transport undertaking and also owns hoardings in desirable sites both within the city and throughout the county.

  ‘Edward Barson, subject of this enquiry, was employed by the firm since July 1954, at a salary rising by annual increments to the £1,850 per annum which he was earning just prior to his death. Invisible emoluments included private use of the firm’s car, which was renewed annually, a mileage allowance, and fixed, tax-free expenses of £300 per annum.

  ‘His work consisted of driving regularly about the area in which his company operated, examining the posters displayed on the company’s hoardings, and reporting to his headquarters when any of these needed renewal, due to deterioration through age, weather or acts of vandalism. I understand that he carried out these duties to the complete satisfaction of his superiors.’

  Malpas closed his folder. Kenworthy looked at his watch, raised his hand in acknowledgement of the report, and tip-toed from the room.

  Wright half rose in his chair.

  ‘May I ask a question, please?’

  ‘Certainly sergeant.’

  ‘The common belief in Fellaby was that Barson acted as a middleman between commercial firms and the copy-writers who would actually produce their advertisements——’

  ‘I could discover no substance in that. I can only assume that he invented such a story to give himself more imposing status among his acquaintances in this town.’

  ‘Do you happen to know, sir, what work he did before he went to Futurco?’

  At least half a dozen policemen showed eagerness to reply.

  ‘Before he was called into the armed forces, he was a trainee fitter at Morley’s——that’s a light engineering firm along the Town Moor Road. After demobilisation, he acquired a small insurance book, and went about the outlying villages on a bicycle.’

  Malpas sat down. Grayling picked up his gloves and swagger cane and went back to his office. Rhys took charge of the Report Centre, assigning officers to details, and issuing commands that Wright considered unnecessarily noisy in his chanting, Welsh voice. Wright went up to him and formally asked to be dismissed.

  ‘You have your orders for the day from superintendent Kenworthy? And you don’t require assistance from any of my officers?’

  Wright made his way to the town hall and found the town clerk staring motionless and moody out of his window, as if he had maintained the same stance since the detectives had last been there. But he was now dressed entirely in coarse and uncompromising black, and his wig stood ready on a wooden stand by his desk.

  ‘So. An hour before the funeral it has to be. I fear that there has been no error in the Borough Engineer’s paper-work. I have personally interviewed the yard foreman and several other of our municipal employees, and certain admissions have been made. There have been thefts——not on an alarming scale, but thefts, nevertheless, and a somewhat ingenious juggling of the books to conceal the discrepancies. It goes without saying that I shall prosecute. If you wish to begin taking statements——’

  ‘No, sir. Superintendent Kenworthy and I have our hands full with the main concern. We shall have to leave this issue to be attended to by the local station. Unless——’

  ‘Unless what, sergeant?’

  ‘Unless you think, Mr Belfield, that there are likely to be ramifications. That is, unless any further and more extensive improper practices come to light.’

  ‘And what do you think they are likely to be, sergeant?’

  ‘We don’t know, sir. We merely feel that where this kind of thing has been going on on a small scale——and where events have already reached the pitch of fatal violence——there may well have been other malpractices.’

  ‘I can hardly think what they would be. Anything bigger than the case in hand would certainly have been revealed at our annual audit, or in one of our frequent snap-checks. But believe me, sergeant, the moment this funeral is over, this town hall is going to be turned inside out. If anything else untoward has been going on, I can assure you that you shall hear about it.

  He came back to his desk and sat down with his hands laid wearily on his blotter.

  ‘There’s a bitter irony about it, sergeant. One of our promising young quantity surveyors might very likely go to prison over this. He will certainly lose his job, and it is equally certain that he is a ruined man as far as a career in local government is concerned. Two other employees, with thirty-five years of trouble-free service between them, are going to get the sack. And I can’t help feeling for them. I know what they were up against. With Barson at their throats, they hardly stood a chance. And what did Barson stand to gain out of all this? By the time he’d sweetened everybody who needed to be sweetened, it must have cost him as much as if he’d bought his paving-stones on the open market. It’s as if he had to do it the underhand way for the sheer challenge of it.’

  ‘Superintendent Kenworthy and I had arrived at precisely that reading of his character, sir.’

  ‘Well——you haven’t been in Fellaby long——but you don’t seem to have missed much. And do I gather that I am shortly also likely to have to advertise for a new librarian?’

  ‘From our point of view, I don’t think that will be necessary, sir. We are of course not concerned with his obvious transgressions of protocol, which are purely your domestic affair. The superintendent did ask me to suggest to you that Gill might well be encouraged to take a few days’ leave.’

  ‘That will be convenient for all parties.——Have your investigations given you a realistic picture, I wonder, of what Gill has had to tolerate?’

  ‘They have indeed.’

  ‘I rather like the little man,’ the town clerk said. ‘Perhaps he will be able to settle down to enjoy life, when this has blown over.——Will that be all, sergeant?’

  ‘Kenworthy did ask me if you could give us a line——entirely off the record, of course——on Sir Howard Lesueur.’

  The town clerk blew out his cheeks and exhaled air through protruded lips.

  ‘Lesueur? I don’t know the man. Oh, I’ve met him——I’m
always meeting him——at receptions and the like. But he’s not an easy man to know, and I’ve never felt constrained to try particularly hard. I’ve never really tried, in twenty-five years. I drink his whisky. I eat his wife’s canapés, I’ve even had my back slapped by him. But Lesueur is a politician, and I’m not. I do my best to keep this town on an even keel despite the politicians. Up to now, I pride myself that I’ve succeeded, by and large.’

  ‘What do you think will happen, sir, if there’s a change of political control on your council?’

  ‘Oh——has someone been talking to you about the intrigues to put councillor Durkin into an alderman’s seat?——A lot will happen, sergeant, and in the long run not very much.——And I hope you can soon release me, now. I’m due to go down to the Mayor’s Parlour in five minutes’ time, ready for our procession.’

  ‘The superintendent wanted me to ask your opinion on one other small matter, sir——but it can wait. I can come back later.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’ve formed an impression of alderman Barson with which you don’t seem to disagree. We can’t help wondering what such a man must have been like as a husband and father.’

  The first note of the parish church’s passing bell struck dismally across the street outside.

  ‘For that, sergeant, you’ll have to go to the gossips——of whom you’ll find no short supply. It isn’t that I won’t tell you——I simply can’t. I don’t pry, and I don’t listen to old women. If you think the opinions of the Carlton estate are worth having, you might try over there.’

  He stood up. And then he made a remark which was to haunt Wright until Kenworthy told him the answer.

  ‘There is something, and you’ll come across it sooner or later. And when you do, you’ll not blame me for not having mentioned it to you.’

  Chapter Nine

  Wright left the town hall as major elements in the procession were being manoeuvred into position in a side-road; the Boys’ Brigade, with black crêpe arm-bands and their drums muffled; a contingent of nursing cadets; a representative Civil Defence team; a platoon from the British Legion, wearing medals dating from before Barson’s birth. Wright came abreast of the doorway in which the crippled newspaper-seller sat hunched, his trousers threadbare and shapeless against his withered leg. There were no papers in his stand at this time of day, but he had a tray of matchboxes and shoe-laces, to which no one was paying attention.