by James Barlow
MacIndoe said, ‘I don’t know what that’s got to do with it.’ The girl stared in confusion. After the laughter MacIndoe asked her, ‘Which way did the man go when he left here?’
‘He went round the back to the cinema.’
‘How do you know?’
The girl blushed. ‘I went to look at the back. He turned the corner.’ She hesitated and then admitted, ‘Well, he was good-looking. He went to fetch his sports car from the cinema car park.’
MacIndoe glanced at Maddocks. ‘Ah, he did! How clever of him! We hadn’t thought of that. Did he drive down the hill towards Birlchester?’
‘No. Uphill through the town.’
‘Could you identify this man if we found him?’
‘Has he done something wrong?’
‘I believe he has,’ said MacIndoe.
‘What a pity,’ said the girl. ‘A handsome man like that.’
‘And when you’ve finished your duties will you come to the station and make a statement? Just what you’ve told me.’
‘They won’t put him in gaol if I do?’
‘Not for long,’ said MacIndoe evasively.
As they walked up the High Street, MacIndoe said, ‘What’s the implication of the tie, Tony?’
‘He could be in the R.A.F.V.R.’
‘If he was in the wartime R.AF. would he automatically retain his commission?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘Is there a local squadron?’ MacIndoe asked Maddocks.
‘Yes,’ said Maddocks. ‘The County of Middleshire. They’re on manoeuvres.’
‘In England?’
‘Oh, yes, locally. They’re at Greenridge. It sounds hopeful, doesn’t it?’ Maddocks gave a slight groan. ‘Hell. I’ve just thought. They’ve been there since last Saturday.’
‘Perhaps they didn’t all go on Saturday,’ said MacIndoe. ‘Perhaps at least one officer turned up on Wednesday. Tony, m’lad, you know all about aeroplanes, and I want you to handle this. Another thing for you: the R.A.F. has something to do with this Harrison. The barman at the Dragon described him as ‘officer type’. The doorman at the Queen’s said he wore a pale blue shirt of the type R.A.F. officers wear. Olwen herself wrote that he was a pilot at Little Over during the war and went on a big raid to lay mines in the Kiel Canal. Get everything you can about that raid and that squadron. I’ve written to the Air Ministry already, but I’d like the personal aspect.’
Baker said, ‘I was on fighters, but a pal knows all about bombers. I’ll contact him.’
‘Yes; do that,’ MacIndoe said. ‘Send him express messages, telegrams, pigeons if you like – I’ve got a feeling that Mr Harrison likes to boast.’
Returning to Almond Vale police station, they found that there was no Mr Harrison – or at least none fitting Hazel’s description. A message had arrived from the City of Birlchester police. There were three men in that city with the name Roy Harrison. They were twenty-one, forty-nine and sixty-seven years of age respectively; they were all able to account for their movements on the Tuesday afternoon; the oldest one possessed a car, but it was a saloon; not one of them was a commercial traveller (two, in fact, had been working in offices at the particular time); the older two had wives who were alive and well and didn’t answer to the name Evelyn; none of them had served in the Royal Air Force.
‘Tony, m’lad,’ said MacIndoe in depression, ‘we’re approaching the stage at which I shall be forced to use intuition.’
At the Greenridge R.A.FV.R. station an hour later. Beyond the village of Greenridge ran a private road flush with the surface of the aerodrome. An enormous expanse of grass – at least a mile long – with a wide concrete strip running from south-west to north-east. A long way off two blue lorries crossing the field, brown dust rising high behind them. A few air-men walking past huts with mugs in their hands. The faint sound of a piano. Round the edges of the aerodrome fighter aircraft parked haphazardly. A few concrete buildings on the aerodrome itself, a wind-sock hanging limp, all the other buildings on the side near the village. The faint hum of a solitary aircraft. One of ours.
At the main gate – a surprisingly flimsy barbed-wire trestle – the sentry was thrown into some confusion. He didn’t know what to do with detectives; but a sergeant of the R.A.F. police – apparently under the impression that he, too, served justice – eventually fetched the Orderly Officer. The Orderly Officer telephoned the Commanding Officer, and that young man, having just finished a considerable dinner and one and a half pints of beer, and therefore being loath to move from his chair, suggested that the detectives be brought to the officers’ mess.
In here MacIndoe and Baker were greeted in some amusement by several officers. A slim, blond moustachioed squadron leader said, ‘I’m the C.O. I say, are you johnnies really detectives, or is it that you’re off duty?’
Baker said, ‘I’m afraid we’re on duty.’
‘Have a drink?’
‘Don’t,’ said a pilot. ‘It’s all poisoned.’ all the young men found this remark exquisitely funny.
Baker said, ‘What sort of kites have you got?’
‘Kites?’ protested the squadron leader. ‘You’ll be asking us about our balloons next. We fly jets, old man. Arrows.’
‘I was on Spitfires during the war,’ said Baker.
‘Lord bless you!’ said the squadron leader. ‘How old you must be. These bloody Arrows stall at about four hundred. Have another drink?’
‘I haven’t had one yet,’ said Baker.
‘Lord, how slow you are,’ the squadron leader said. Some drinks were brought. ‘Does your Dad drink too?’
Baker said in protest, ‘That’s Superintendent MacIndoe.’
‘I say,’ another officer said. ‘I’ve just thought. Perhaps they’re from Scotland Yard.’
There was more laughter. ‘We are,’ said Baker. There were at once cries of ‘Line! line!’
‘Are you looking for a body?’
Baker said, ‘We’ve found the body.’
The laughing ceased. Everyone stared in shock at Baker. The squadron leader said, ‘Have you come about Harris? It was an accident. Surely the less said –’
‘What happened to Harris?’
‘He was killed yesterday. It happened forty miles off. Went straight into the deck. The funeral’s tomorrow.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Baker. ‘I’m afraid our inquiry is about something equally unpleasant.’
‘Perhaps,’ said the squadron leader, ‘we’d all better have another drink.’
‘We may have to abuse your hospitality.’
‘Well!’ said someone. ‘They suspect one of us.’
There was a slight renewal of the laughter.
‘Do you?’ queried the squadron leader.
‘No,’ said Baker. ‘At least –’
‘You’d better tell us. What is it? A hit-and-run motorist?’
‘Anybody here named Harrison?’
‘No. We had Harris, of course.’
‘Christian name Roy?’
‘No; it was John. I say, damn it, the fellow’s dead …’
MacIndoe said, ‘A girl is dead, too. She was strangled.’
They all turned to stare at him, their young faces full of horror. MacIndoe said, ‘I’m sorry about Mr Harris. I’m sure this is nothing to do with him.’
‘It’s all right,’ said the squadron leader. ‘All this is a bit vague, you know. I thought you Yard johnnies looked for men with gold teeth, bad breath, one finger missing – you know the sort of thing.’
‘We have some details,’ said MacIndoe. ‘A name – Roy Harrison – which is probably false. He was a bomber pilot at Little Over in the war – although that may be false too. But he was wearing a R.A.FV.R. tie on Tuesday afternoon
… He has a red sports car and is a traveller.’
‘Tuesday, you say?’ the squadron leader said. ‘But we’ve all been here since Saturday. Tuesday afternoon we were flying. That rather settles it, doesn’t it?’
Someone said, ‘Wasn’t George at Little Over in the war?’
‘Was he?’
‘Where is George?’
‘Ah! Hiding! George, the master criminal!’
The Orderly Officer appeared at that moment. ‘Come here, George,’ said the squadron leader. ‘Weren’t you at Little Over in the war?’
George nodded.
‘Did you ever meet a Roy Harrison?’ asked MacIndoe.
‘Never met a Roy Harrison,’ said the Orderly Officer. ‘I knew an Eric Harrison. He was pranged.’
‘Can you remember any Birlchester men who served as pilots?’
‘There was Allday. He was pranged, too.’
‘Some swine’s going around shooting a line about it,’ explained the squadron leader. ‘He’s killed a girl.’
‘The redhead in the papers?’ MacIndoe nodded.
‘Sorry,’ said the Orderly Officer. ‘I’m sure Bill Allday was the only one. Could he have been a sergeant pilot?’
‘It’s possible.’
Baker said, ‘Were you there for the Kiel show? The mine-laying effort?’
‘No. Before my time.’
‘When did it take place?’
‘I can tell you that. It was carried out in March, 1943. We lost about eighty men on that show.’
‘You’d better get on to Records,’ suggested the squadron leader. ‘Even if George remembered someone, you’d have to approach them for the address.’
‘I’ve already written to the Air Ministry,’ said MacIndoe. ‘I’m awaiting their reply.’
There was general laughter again. ‘Oh, you wait years,’ said the squadron leader. ‘They never answer anything in less than three months.’
Chapter Eight
The squadron leader was mistaken. A letter from the Air Ministry arrived on the following afternoon. It came with twenty other letters. There had been more than a hundred in the morning’s post. The police at Almond Vale, including the visiting detectives, had by now had about three hundred door-step interviews in the town, which was quite a lot for such a small force – sufficient to justify an index being made of the statements. The letters – and personal calls with similar information – did nothing beyond confirming that a red-headed girl had been seen in the town with a tall man. Arranged chronologically the information indicated the direction the two had taken; it all confirmed that the girl had been alive between three o’clock and three-thirty; the pathologist had said that she had died between three and four; someone would have to account for himself during every minute of that hour; the wearisome collection of information was strong, relentless circumstantial evidence.
The letter from the Air Ministry did not, on the face of it, add any relevant information; there was no mention of a man with the name Harrison.
SIRS,
The following were officers (pilots, observers or air-gunners) from the city of Birlchester and environs who served at the R.A.F. Station, Little Over, Lincolnshire, during the period of hostilities, 1939/1945:
Allday, William Laurence, b. 1917. R.A.F. 1938. Commissioned 1939. F/O 1940. F1/Lt 1941. Sq/Ldr 1943. D.F.C. 1940, bar 1942. D.S.O. 1943. Killed in action November 1943. At Little Over May, 1943–November, 1943. Married, Birlchester, 1942. Two children. Address of Next-of-kin (widow): Mrs Myrtle Elizabeth Allday, 147, Blenheim Road, Iron Common, Birlchester 17.
Edwards, Charles Henry, b. 1916. R.A.F. 1935. Commissioned 1938. F/O 1939. F1/Lt 1940. Sq/Ldr 1943. Wing Cmdr 1943. D.F.C. 1940, bar 1943. Prisoner of war September, 1943–April, 1945. At Little Over November, 1941-September, 1943. Married, London, 1941. One child. This officer is still serving in the R.A.F.
Ferguson, George Rodney, b. 1920. R.A.F. 1940. Commissioned 1941. F/O 1943. At Little Over March, 1944–December, 1944. Then transferred to Coastal Command Station at Rocksea. Married, Birlchester, 1940. Three children. Present address: ‘The Hollies’, Church Avenue, Paleside, Birlchester 22. This officer is serving in the R.A.FV.R. (County of Middleshire Squadron).
Fortescue, Roy Marlborough, b. 1920. R.A.F. 1940. Commissioned 1940. F/O 1941. At Little Over April, 1943–May, 1943. Transferred to FTS at Biggots Aybury as possible L.M.F., May, 1943. Address of next-of-kin (parents): Mr and Mrs H. V. Fortescue, 14 Cedars Avenue, Flowersworth, Birlchester 20.
Should you require information about non-commissioned officers, would you please give as much notice as possible, since such would need more time to ascertain.
I am, Sir,
Your Obedient Servant,
——— (illegible)
for Commanding Officer.
MacIndoe read the letter twice before passing it to Maddocks and Baker. ‘I like the sound of Roy Marlborough Fortescue,’ he commented, not altogether seriously. ‘Tony, what does F.T.S mean?’
‘Flying Training School.’
MacIndoe considered it. ‘He was transferred to a non-operational aerodrome, where he had time to look around and find a wife. How about L.M.F.?’
‘It means low moral fibre.’
MacIndoe said in astonishment, ‘I didn’t know they worried about morality in the R.A.F.’
‘It doesn’t quite mean that,’ explained Baker. ‘It refers to morale rather than morals; and the fact that he wasn’t discharged as L.M.F. means they didn’t wish it; which in turn means he had a good record.’
‘He won no medals.’
‘That doesn’t mean much.’
‘But he’s alive,’ said Maddocks. ‘And his name is Roy.’
‘Why do they give the address of next-of-kin as parents if he’s married?’ MacIndoe said.
‘It’s the last address they would have,’ said Baker. ‘I expect that their information doesn’t go beyond the date of demobilization. He must have returned with his wife to his parents – for a time, anyway.’
MacIndoe reached for his hat. ‘I suggest we interview Mr and Mrs H. V. Fortescue,’ he said. ‘Of the names we have, one man is dead; one we’ve already seen: he was flying on Tuesday afternoon; another is still serving in the R.A.F. and presumably cannot be a traveller also; which leaves Mr Fortescue, who has the attractive name Roy. I do like the sound of L.M.F. It’s such a perfect description of the man we want.’
The three detectives reached 14 Cedars Avenue, Flowersworth, half an hour later. It was a large, detached house in a residential suburb of Birlchester. Hidden from the road by bushes and trees it had lawns on three sides; on the fourth were two garages, a greenhouse, rainwater barrels, a shed and the tradesmen’s entrance. Dogs began to bark as they walked along red gravel towards the front door. MacIndoe felt some misgivings. It seemed the wrong sort of house at which to inquire about murder. MacIndoe read occasional novels about murders at country mansions, but knew that in reality murder belongs with the rest of the world’s miseries to the poor and the uneducated.
A maid answered the door. Beyond her in the hall MacIndoe saw a wooden chest, hundreds of years old, and on a wall, a drawing of a cathedral. The place stank of respectability. Ah, well, he was entitled to make his inquiry. ‘Is Mr Fortescue in?’ he asked.
‘No, sir. But Mrs Fortescue is here. Do you wish to speak to her?’
‘If we may?’
‘What name is it?’
‘We are police officers.’
‘Oh.’ The woman’s mouth tautened: it was apparent that if she had known who they were, Mrs Fortescue also would have been out. Her employers had to be defended against those who were not respectable: the maid knew that the police (no officer class) were included in this category. There’s nothing quite like the English, MacInd
oe thought. Just when you felt the whole lot of them were unbearable snobs and hypocrites one of them would laugh and you’d have to form an opinion all over again. But it was as well they laughed.
The maid returned to the door almost immediately. ‘Will you come this way?’
The detectives were led into a lounge, where they were greeted rather coldly by a tall, middle-aged woman. She was well-dressed, alert and confident, with an expression of slightly hostile detachment; snobbish and confident, it was obvious that she had no reason to suppose their visit would be hostile. ‘Did you wish to see me?’ she asked, and her tone implied the question, ‘How much money do you want?’ In the end, everything came down to how much was to be paid.
‘We really wish to speak to Mr Fortescue.’
‘He is at business.’
‘I mean Mr Fortescue junior.’
The woman’s expression changed almost imperceptibly. ‘What about my son?’
‘We would like to interview him, but we haven’t his address.’
‘What about, may I ask?’
‘I think we should discuss that with him.’
‘Then why come here?’
‘We’d like his address.’
‘Do you suspect my son of some crime?’
‘We have to satisfy ourselves that he was not concerned,’ said MacIndoe. ‘His name seems to occur in a diary, that’s all. It’s a question of tidying up everything appertaining to this particular crime, you see.’
The woman said, ‘Oh, I think I can tidy up that part of your inquiry. I can satisfy you absolutely. My son is dead.’ The astonishment of the detectives could not be quite hidden and the woman went on: ‘You seem surprised.’
‘We had just been informed that he survived the war,’ said MacIndoe. ‘It’s a shock to hear of a young man dying in peacetime. I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Fortescue. If we’d known –’
For the first rime the woman smiled. ‘You had to follow your clue, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘What was the inquiry concerned with?’