The Protagonists

by James Barlow

  A high percentage of C.1 officers are Scots, and terrible orgies on the Embankment are reputed each New Year’s Eve. But, like many Scots, MacIndoe had a strong moral and religious sense, an attachment and devotion to both work and his home. The work he did was arduous and its hours even more irregular than other police officers’; because of it, he placed a high value on his home life. His greatest pleasure was to watch his wife Janet and their two children, Andrew Junior and Mary; just to listen to their nonsense as he sat smoking his pipe. Younger than he, Janet was still now, as she had been when they met, of a shy, silent, somewhat obstinate disposition. There was nothing glamorous about her, but she was attractive in person, generating a kindliness and gentility which are more hard-wearing than physical beauty. She had not the shrewdness of her husband – in fact, she sometimes described him as a ‘cunning one’ – and would have been quite content if he had never become more than constable. She was not curious about criminals and knew little of the dirty side of life. MacIndoe told her the main facts of each case, but never mentioned the small vilenesses, the perversions and cruelties which formed or caused it. Janet was not the sort of person who would listen with satisfaction to such details. In any case, it was her husband’s wish to keep her innocent. She was the person to whom he could return after weeks of living near the sordid – he could return to her and know that she represented normality. It was not, as in disappointment and disgust he sometimes nearly believed, a world in which the evil predominate, but a world in which the average try to maintain their standards despite the uproar created by the others.

  Chapter Two

  Outside there was a flash and it was followed almost at once by the deafening crash of thunder. MacIndoe stirred in bed. As he had expected, it was stiflingly hot in London. ‘I’m glad we reached home before the weather changed,’ he said, knowing that Janet was awake.

  A girl’s voice said from another room, ‘Mum-eee, I’m frightened.’

  ‘What’s the time?’ Janet asked.

  MacIndoe stretched an arm out of bed and looked at his luminous wristwatch. ‘Half past one,’ he said. In the distance thunder rumbled: another part of the storm. MacIndoe started slightly, not at the thunder, but at the telephone extension by his bedside. As it shrilled he said, ‘Make a note of it,’ and laughed wryly. From the other bedroom Mary’s voice came again, ‘Mum-eee, I’m frightened.’ Then Andrew Junior’s voice, in exasperating contrast, said, ‘It’s ever so good – just like a bomb.’

  MacIndoe grunted affirmatives into the telephone: ‘Whereabouts? – Is Tony coming? – Yes, yes, verra nice – Good weather too – I’ve plenty of petrol – No, we never use it on holiday; Janet gets travel sick – No, that’s all tight; I was awake anyway – and the kids – Good – all right – Goodbye.’

  Mary had come shamefacedly into the room. MacIndoe looked at her in tenderness. ‘What’s the matter, chicken? Afraid of the noise?’

  ‘I wanna come in with Mummy.’

  ‘All right. Daddy’s going to work, anyway.’

  Janet said, ‘Was it serious?’

  MacIndoe looked quickly at Mary and answered cautiously, ‘Yes, they’ve found a girl. I have to hurry. It’s a long way and I must be there ahead of this rain.’

  ‘Where have you to go to?’

  ‘A place called Almond Vale.’

  ‘What a pretty name. Where is it?’

  ‘A small town in Middleshire.’

  Janet stepped out of bed. ‘Then you’ll be driving all night and you’ll be without breakfast. I know you. I’ll make some sandwiches and coffee.’

  ‘Och, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Why can’t the Yard phone at a reasonable hour?’ But she knew the answer to that question before it was given.

  MacIndoe said, ‘I was at the top of the rota from midnight. I’ve had a free hour and a half. Ye mustna grumble.’ He felt slightly distant already, involved in the technicalities and tears of others. He thought vaguely of the sea; imaginary seagulls fluted in his mind and he grinned. ‘Never mind,’ he said, touching his wife. ‘It was a nice holiday.’ The tension was not altogether unpleasant. It might be an easy one. It was the possibility of the unsolved crime that worried him: failure at work. There had been thirty murders during MacIndoe’s police career, and of these he had been the chief investigating officer of seven. They had all been solved.

  ‘Did they say what sort of a girl she was?’

  ‘They know very little.’

  Mary said, ‘Has she been a naughty girl?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  MacIndoe dressed quickly and then packed pyjamas, shaving kit, soap, a tooth- and a hair-brush (he was inclined to baldness, but still used one). Before going downstairs he said, ‘Kiss Daddy,’ and Mary’s warm, sleep-softened face touched his gently. ‘Mummy’ll be upstairs in a minute or two.’ From his own MacIndoe went to his son’s bedroom. The boy was looking out of the window at the storm. Rain lashed the glass. MacIndoe said, ‘Hey, back in bed, m’lad.’ He tousled Andrew’s hair and kissed him on the neck without request. ‘Bye, bye, son.’

  Downstairs he donned a belted raincoat and slammed a bowler hat on his head. As he backed his car out of the garage a police car turned into the cul-de-sac where he lived. A young man in plain clothes stepped out, thanked the uniformed driver, and strode up to MacIndoe while the vehicle departed.

  ‘Hello, Tony,’ said MacIndoe.

  ‘Had a nice holiday, sir?’

  ‘I’ve got my strength back. Are you ready?’

  ‘Absolutely. Shall I drive?’

  ‘All right,’ said MacIndoe. ‘You take her as far as Oxford and then I’ll take over.’

  A bar of light spread from the front door. Janet had opened it and was standing there. The two men approached her and stood in the porch out of the rain.

  ‘Hello, Sergeant Baker.’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs MacIndoe,’ said Tony. ‘They picked a fine night for it.’

  She passed the small parcel of sandwiches and a thermos flask. ‘See that he eats some, won’t you?’

  MacIndoe said, almost shyly, ‘I’m too heavy already.’ He kissed her. ‘G’bye, m’dear. Don’t ye worry.’ He was thinking, as she was, of the last case but one, when someone had fired a revolver at point-blank range and had only missed because a revolver is not really an accurate weapon.

  There was very little traffic about and the two men were more or less silent as the miles receded. Long before they passed Oxford, still driving in a north-westerly direction, the thunderstorms and rain had been left behind, and they travelled in the same hot, sultry weather that London had experienced not many hours previously.

  Before sunrise they reached Almond Vale. The police station there happened to be the county station, but it was, nevertheless, not large. Outside, under the blue light of the street lamp, were notices about Civil Defence, the Colorado beetle, the Royal Navy, the number killed and mutilated by vehicles during a recent month, a charity dance (tickets six shillings, dress optional) and two photographs of a man, incredibly ugly, who was wanted for armed robbery. Inside, the Enquires Room was of the usual large institutional sort, with some of its green paint flaking from the walls. In the centre of the room was a very solid, antique-dealer’s sort of desk covered with books and forms. Against the far wall was a longer desk with three telephones on it. On the walls were many notices: a framed picture showing the varieties of thoroughbred dogs; a notice about bicycles; a large map of Middleshire and a smaller one of Almond Vale; a Notice to Prisoners; some yellowing papers on files – Case Summaries, Police Orders, Crime Information and Special Crime Information. (What, one wondered, was the difference between crimes and special crimes? Was a special crime a sin against the Holy Ghost?) Along another wall was a board from which keys hung from pegs. Two red fire buckets stood near the doorway,
full of stagnant water. Despite the sultry weather, a small fire was burning in the enormous grate. In front of it stood the inevitable constable warming his back. Facing him was an old man in a boiler suit, sitting down. Both were drinking tea.

  ‘Good morning,’ MacIndoe said. ‘I am Superintendent MacIndoe and this is Detective Sergeant Baker.’

  The man in the boiler suit said with enormous tact, ‘I’ll be away,’ and slid out of the room. The constable put down his tea urgently and said, ‘Good morning, sir. The Deputy Chief Constable is waiting for you.’

  The two detectives were led into his room, a less institutional one, where the Deputy Chief Constable of Middleshire greeted them. He explained that the Chief Constable did not live in Almond Vale, but would be along presently. ‘I expect you’d like to meet Maddocks,’ he said after a while, and took them to the C.I.D. room.

  Detective Inspector Maddocks was a tall, wiry man, fortyish, with a fresh complexion and an alert, sensitive sort of face. His dark skin and hair and his lean frame contrasted with Baker’s blond, pudding bulkiness. After some introductory remarks the Deputy Chief Constable left the three men alone; they, after all, were the men who were about to investigate the crime.

  Maddocks said, ‘Would you like a cup of tea to start with?’ The two others assented and Maddocks telephoned an instruction. ‘We thought we’d call you in straight away,’ he began to explain. ‘I’m knee-deep in a fraud case.’ He waved a hand at the papers on his desk. ‘I shall be in court most of this morning. Also,’ he added with a smile, ‘the Chief Constable decided that as I hadn’t had a murder yet – we’re so damn respectable round here, y’know. Poaching and that. Not used to anything worse. In fact, damn glad to see you …’

  A constable entered with a tray. ‘Have you ever noticed,’ MacIndoe asked, ‘how quickly a constable can make a pot of tea?’

  Maddocks smiled. ‘I believe it forms part of their training.’

  The constable grinned. ‘Well, sir, we have to have a pot ready in case of shock.’

  They all laughed, still in the introductory politeness; but MacIndoe already knew that he was going to like Maddocks. The Inspector said, ‘Will you have one of the cars ready? We’ll be going to the scene in a few minutes, I expect.’ He looked at MacIndoe in inquiry, and the Superintendent nodded.

  ‘Well, let’s have this tea,’ said Maddocks, ‘and I’ll tell you what I can.’

  They all sat on the hard, official chairs and sipped tea. ‘The victim is a young woman,’ said Maddocks. ‘She’s lying on her face and we haven’t moved her yet. She seems to be – well, rather beautiful. Her hair is an unusual auburn. I don’t think she was a local girl – not that I notice all the local girls,’ he added, ‘but this girl’s hair is so distinctive that I think it would be remembered … None of the constables had seen her before. She seems to be more or less fully dressed, but her clothes are disarranged. There must have been assault of some kind before she was killed.’ Maddocks looked down into his cup and continued, ‘I’m damned if I can understand the destruction of beauty. I always thought that murder was the sudden release of some unbearable tension, with both the victim and the killer needing almost equal sympathy because of their ugliness …’

  MacIndoe said, ‘It usually is like that. They stand there pitifully and say, “I don’t know why I did it.”’

  ‘There are marks on her throat,’ said Maddocks. ‘I expect she was strangled. There’ll be no scratches on the face of the criminal. She was found last night by a young couple out walking. They didn’t know her. There are a number of things lying about – a handbag, a sort of satchel and a camera with its back taken off.’

  ‘Was it light enough for our own pictures?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Maddocks. ‘It was quite light and we took several photographs.’

  The constable re-entered. ‘Car’s ready, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Constable.’ Maddocks took his raincoat from a hat-stand and put it on. ‘Perhaps we’d better go now before the rain arrives. Will you explain that to the Chief Constable that we’ve left to examine the body and the scene, as there is a probability of rain?’

  The constable acknowledged that he would.

  The sky in the east was spreading pale, dull silver as the men came down the four steps to the pavement and the waiting police car. Maddocks pointed down the hill. ‘This is High Street. It starts at the other end, at the bottom of the slope. We’ve booked you rooms at the George. It’s not far down the road. It’s pretty full up in summer, so we were lucky. I didn’t think you’d want to go the dozen miles into Birlchester. Food and beer’s quite good,’ he concluded. ‘We have the Christmas party there.’

  ‘The George will suit me very well,’ said MacIndoe. ‘Thank you. Perhaps we’ll have a party before Christmas.’

  ‘I’m sure we will,’ Maddocks agreed.

  The police car moved off. The streets were deserted. Even in this essentially agricultural district it was too early to expect activity. The car crossed over a bridge – MacIndoe saw a river gleaming coldly below – turned left and after a mile’s further drive stopped.

  MacIndoe stepped out, looked back at the slope of the town and heard the faint murmur of the river where it dropped in a small waterfall somewhere. He realized with satisfaction that it was a very small town. He could cover, almost individually, every café, garage, boarding-house, hotel – everywhere needing the routine part of an investigation could be examined in hours, or, at most, a few days.

  They walked past a few huts, stacks of deck-chairs, lines of rowing boats, flower beds and official trees to the river bank itself. ‘It’s a pretty town,’ commented Baker. ‘It smells of holiday – sort of fresh,’ he explained. ‘Perhaps the girl came here as a holidaymaker.’

  ‘The camera suggests it,’ Maddocks said. ‘The couple who found her are almost sure they visited the same spot on the previous night, which may mean that the girl was there alive yesterday.’

  ‘A camera presupposes the victim had company,’ MacIndoe said. ‘So do the sexual indications. Suppose she did walk with someone she knew – would they be likely to walk this way?’

  ‘If they didn’t know Almond Vale, it is a sort of natural and obvious way to come for a walk out of the town,’ said Maddocks. ‘Not that it goes anywhere.’

  ‘It doesn’t lead to any beauty spot?’

  ‘No,’ said Maddocks. ‘If the river hadn’t been so low they wouldn’t have reached as far as they did.’

  It had become much lighter, and about two hundred yards away two constables could be seen on guard before some bushes. The path ended and the three detectives had to walk on the caked mud.

  ‘If it had rained before eight o’clock last night,’ Maddocks said in something like horror, ‘she might not have been found before next summer.’

  MacIndoe grunted. ‘Let’s not worry about what might have happened. What did may prove difficult enough to deal with.’

  They were by now quite near to the uniformed police, and Maddocks called a greeting. He explained who MacIndoe and Baker were and asked if the pathologist had arrived. He had not. Moving on into the bushes, they came to where another constable stood talking to a sergeant. There were more greetings and introductions; the sergeant explained with dry humour that a lot of people had come to have a look at the scene on the previous evening, but for some reason had left quickly at dusk. The sergeant was an old sweat; not impressed by death, he said without concern, ‘Shall I uncover the body, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Maddocks.

  The sergeant removed the covering material very gently, and in the sultry light of early morning MacIndoe and Baker saw, statuesque in her death agonies, the body of a young woman. As Maddocks had said, her hair was of a fine texture and the colour of amber. It was still quite neatly arranged. Her arms were twisted backwards – she lay fac
e downwards – and one leg was limp over the other. The shoe had dropped off the right foot and lay a few yards away in line with the legs. The girl’s dark green skirt had rolled as high as her hips – whether as a result of her fall or even, MacIndoe realized grimly, prior to it, he could not yet say. The matching green jacket lay neatly a short distance off near a handbag. All stocking attachments had come undone – at the stocking end – as though one terrible frenzied kick had snapped them free. It suggested violence held in check by greater violence – someone strong. It was impossible not to know that the girl had graceful young legs. Above her waist she was covered by a blouse of paler green than the jacket. This was undamaged at the back, but whether or not it was unfastened or torn at the front MacIndoe did not intend to find out before an examination by the pathologist.

  MacIndoe saw all this in one glance. The first thought beyond the technicalities, his first opinion of the girl herself was that she was innocent. He was a man who had seen a great deal of personal violence, and he knew that whether to be the victim of it or to inflict it causes an alteration of character and physique; it throws a strain on the body to live violently or quickly or without moderation. People who rush both times round the clock whittle themselves down; they become taut in face and thinned in body. This girl did not look as if she had been weaned on gin; she had a sort of schoolroom plumpness, a physical innocence. He could not see her eyes, but her face seemed soft and rounded also. From her physical appearance alone one could hazard the probability that the girl had been essentially innocent. MacIndoe retained a Scottish dourness concerning sophistication in women. He did not like women who drawled witticisms; he did not value or understand them; to talk in an amoral fashion, he considered, implied maturity of the wrong kind. But the body before him was that of a schoolgirl – the clothes were suburban, the girl’s face and nails unpainted, the hair style quite simple, the eyebrows thick and natural. MacIndoe was stirred to pity. ‘Poor lassie,’ he said gently – only in moments of emotional intensity did he reveal any Scottish accent. ‘Ye must ha’e known some bad moments yesterday …’