“I imagine he’d be hanging round just inside the public entrance to the arcade, out of sight as far as possible. When he saw Williams he’d open it up for him and say, ‘Step inside. Mr Fredericks is waiting for you.’”
“Why should he agree to do anything of the sort?”
“I could think of half a dozen reasons. Maybe he owed money. Or Fredericks had scared him by threatening to put the hard boys on to him. He didn’t strike me as a very robust character.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” said Sabrina. “The plan wasn’t to kill Williams. Just to make him look a fool. As soon as he’d been let out he’d put a finger on Louie’s men and they’d be up for criminal assault at least.”
“Not necessarily. Remember they were waiting for him inside the ghost train. It’s pretty dark and they’d probably have put on some sort of mask. All Williams could have said was that he was grabbed from behind and tied up. When they’d finished fixing him up, they could slip out the way they’d come in.”
“Or easier still,” said Sabrina, “wait till the amusement arcade opened and mix with the crowd.” She seemed to be thinking it through, testing it for weaknesses. In the end she said, “You may be right. It could have been done that way. If no one saw Aylett letting Williams in and everyone keeps their heads, the police are going to have the devil’s own job proving it.”
On Monday morning Landless arrived with copies of the local and national papers. He said, “They’re making a meal of it. Lucky they were stopped from publishing the photograph.”
“Then there was one?”
“There certainly was. It was sent to the South Coast Gazette and News. A friend on the editorial side showed it to me. Naturally they made a copy before they handed it back to the police. Just in case they might ever have a chance of using it, though I don’t see how they could.”
“Unpleasant, was it?”
“Not just unpleasant. It was—oh, comic and gruesome at the same time and horribly scary.”
“Then thank goodness it wasn’t published.” Jonas had been studying the papers. “The stories are bad enough by themselves.”
Landless said, “Someone’s got to stop this. What are the police doing?”
“I’m afraid I’m not in their confidence. I imagine they’re grilling Aylett.”
“That won’t get them very far. The people they ought to be grilling are Louie and his boys. Everyone knows it was them who did it.”
“Knowing isn’t proving.”
“Why don’t they circulate photographs of these thugs, post them up all over the place, with a notice asking anyone who saw them on or near the pier on Saturday to contact the police?”
“Awkward if it turned out that it wasn’t them.”
“It’s easy to make objections,” said Landless, who was getting angry. “But I can tell you one thing. If the people who did this aren’t stamped on, good and hard, and quickly, World Wide are going to have a lot of new customers in Shackleton.”
Jonas’s mind sometimes moved in a disorderly and illogical way. It was activated by stray thoughts, coincidences and impulses. The mention of photographs had summoned up a mental picture of a squat man with a squint.
When Landless had taken himself off, grumbling, Jonas turned to the classified pages in the local directory under the heading ‘Photography’. Some of the entries he was able to dismiss. They were high-class outfits which specialised in studio portraits for weddings and such.
He did not visualise the stout man as belonging to any of them.
In the end he narrowed down the possibilities to three. Instapics, Happy Snaps and Souvenir-pics. He thought he would visit them that evening. By nine o’clock the pier would be shutting down and the photographers would have returned to their shops, bringing the fruits of their day’s work with them. Instapics was the nearest. When Jonas went in he saw that he’d made one good guess. The squat man, a Mr Bugden, was behind the counter.
He said, “’Ullo, Mr Pickett. Don’t tell me. The grandchildren have been after you for that snap you wooden let me take.”
“Not exactly,” said Jonas. “What I want is information. And since I shall be taking up your time, I’m quite prepared to pay you for it.”
Mr Bugden looked at him shrewdly. He said, “Your enquiries wooden relate, by any chance, to the poor old sod they found in the ghost train?”
Jonas nodded.
“Then you can have any information I’ve got for free and welcome.”
“I’m very grateful,” said Jonas. “What I was going to ask about was what you might call the tricks of your trade. To start with, I don’t suppose you take a photograph every time you click your camera.”
“Not always, no. It’s a matter of experience. Fr’instance, people are more likely to buy a snap at the end of their holidays than at the start.”
“How do you know when it’s the end?”
“When the kids have got brown legs and Dad’s nose is peeling.”
Jonas laughed.
Mr Bugden said, “Soften as not a happy family like that will buy the snap. If they don’t, all right, usually it’s just thrown away. A few we do hang on to, such as if you get a shot of someone who’s got some publicity value, like it might be the mayor or the top policeman. If there was some story about them, maybe you could make a sale to the local paper.”
“And you keep those ones?”
“If they’re good pictures, yes.”
“Could you show me last Saturday’s lot?”
“Sure.” He went to a cupboard, selected an envelope and spilled the contents on to the counter. There was a group photograph of the pierrots and pierrettes, who were opening that week at the concert hall, one of a smiling man holding a fish with his wife admiring it (“Won the angling competition”) and a solemn one of a clergyman (“Reverend Tobias Harmer from St Michael’s, always threatening to close down the pier”).
He saw that they all had the date stamped on the back.
“Tell you something else about them. It’s not only the date. The sun being out – I can tell you what time of day they were taken. That sort of detail comes in useful sometimes. See that shadow. That’s the top of the concert hall roof. Just like a sundial. The pier runs north and south, right? So at one o’clock the shadow’s dead central. By four o’clock it’s moved off to the east side.”
“I see what you mean,” said Jonas. He examined the snapshots in front of him. “That man with the fish. The shadow hasn’t reached the middle point. Say half past eleven, or twelve?”
“Just about. And the rector was mid-afternoon, I remember. About three o’clock.”
“Then the sun was shining all day on Saturday?”
“Every blessed moment. Does it help?”
“It shortens the odds, very slightly,” said Jonas. “But it’s still a long shot. Could you give your opposite numbers in Happy Snaps and Souvenir-pics a ring and tell them to expect me?”
“Will do. Happy Snaps will be Major Piper. And don’t forget to call him Major. He likes it. Souvenir-pics is a Mrs French. They’ll both be glad to help when I tell them what you’re up to.” As Jonas was leaving he added, “I wooden say old Williams was a popular man, but we don’t like characters from Brighton throwing their weight around in Shackleton.”
Major Piper already had his Saturday snapshots out when Jonas arrived. He said, “I’m afraid they won’t be much help to whatever it is you’re after.”
There were several more of the pierrots’ troupe and one of a pudding-faced boy.
“Fell into the sea and was rescued by one of the fishermen. You’d have thought his parents would have wanted a snap, wouldn’t you?”
“If he was my son, Major,” said Jonas, “I think I’d keep him away from the camera for a year or so. Perhaps he’ll be easier on the eye when he’s a bit older.”
He thanked him and made for his last port of call.
The office of Souvenir-pics was at the far end of the town. His two visits had taken time. It wa
s already dark and a fresh wind was blowing in off the sea. Jonas shivered and turned his collar up. His mind was full of faces. Faces with bloated lips and burst eyes. Faces that worked their jaws and tried to scream, but could make no sound.
There was a light in the shop and Mrs French opened the door to him herself. She said, “Mr Pickett? I’ve got something I think you might find interesting. When our man noticed Williams he remembered the public meeting and the fuss about it and followed him up to see if he could get a good picture. Which he did.”
“It’s beautifully clear.” Suddenly Jonas found it difficult to speak.
“I thought you might want some copies so I’ve had six made.”
“You’re an angel. Let me give you a piece of advice. First thing tomorrow take the original to your bank and ask them to put it in their strongest strongroom.”
“You think it’s that important?”
“It’s not just important,” said Jonas softly. “It’s dynamite.”
When Jonas sat down at his desk on Tuesday morning he reached out, twice, for the telephone and twice drew back his hand. He was aware of the views of Chief Superintendent Whaley. In the present case it was possible that those views were shared by his second-in-command. In the end he said, “Well, he can only snub me.” He grabbed the instrument. When he heard Queen’s voice at the other end he said, speaking fast, “Look, I wanted to ask you one question. I don’t imagine this is a good line to do it on. Could we meet somewhere?”
“A question about what?” Queen’s voice was cool.
“About that business on the pier.”
The silence that followed was so long that he thought the Superintendent might have gone off to have a word with Whaley. Apparently no, he had been thinking. He said, “I’ve got to be at the Everdene Hotel at twelve o’clock to take a written statement from young Williams. If you happened to be in the manager’s office at the same time—”
“I’ll be there at five to twelve,” said Jonas. “What I’ve got to ask won’t take more than a few minutes.”
When he saw the Superintendent, he noted the signs of strain in his face. His superiors and the press between them must have been giving him a hard ride.
Queen said, “All right. Ask your question and I’ll see if I’m allowed to answer it.”
“Before I do that,” said Jonas, “I’d like to make my own position in the matter clear. Williams was my client. I understand from Mrs Williams that she would like me to go on acting for her and the estate.”
Queen had no comment to make.
Jonas went on, “It so happens that I have got hold of something. Whether it’s going to help or not, whether it’s important or unimportant, turns on a single point. You’ve been questioning Aylett. Can you tell me, broadly and without going into any detail, what his story is?”
Queen chewed over this in silence. Then he said, “If I answer your question, do you undertake that this something you’ve discovered comes straight to us? No fooling round, no trying to be clever.”
“Just as soon as the information is hard, you shall have it.”
“Very well. You said, tell me what Aylett’s story is, without details or trimmings. That’s easy. There aren’t any. It’s a flat denial of seeing anyone or doing anything. He thinks two of Louie’s men must have got into the arcade by the lower entrance. They must have met Williams and induced him to go in with them. He swears that the first moment he knew anything was wrong was when Dr Abrahams showed him the body. The doctor says that’s a lie. It’s clear he did know something was up. But we can’t shake him. He’s obstinate and he’s frightened. And when you’re dealing with a man who’s obstinate and frightened, you might as well talk to a deaf monkey.”
Jonas could hear the ragged edge of strain in his voice. He said, “If I wanted to telephone you this evening, where would I find you?”
“I’ve spent the last two nights on a camp bed in my office. I expect I shall be there tonight as well.”
When he got back, Jonas sent for Sam and said to him, “I want you to get hold of Aylett. I believe you said you knew him.”
“I wouldn’t say we was buddies. I met him a few years ago at Portsmouth Fair. Running a coconut shy. The sort where the coconuts are nailed on. What do I say to him?”
“Ask him if he’ll come along and have a word with me.”
“I’m told he’s pretty busy. That ghost train was popular before. Now the queue’s a hundred yards long. All the kids in town want to get on it. Gruesome little buggers.”
“Do your best,” said Jonas. “If he can’t come till the arcade shuts, that’s all right with me. I don’t mind how late he is. I’ll wait up for him.”
Claire, who was there, said, “I thought your idea was to steer clear of this thing. Now you seem to be getting mixed up in it.”
“I’m not doing it for fun,” said Jonas crossly. “I’m doing it to help my client, Mrs Williams.”
Claire said, “Oh, yeah?” But being a perfect secretary, she said it to herself.
“He’ll come,” said Sam.
“How did you persuade him?”
“No persuasion needed. When I mentioned your name he seemed quite keen on the idea. He’s got to shut down the train and get something to eat. He reckons he’ll be here about ten.”
“Splendid.”
“Matter of fact, I got the idea it suited him better to come after dark. Someone seems to have thrown a scare into him. I told him you’d leave the side door open. The one on the alley. He could slip in that way without showing himself in the street at all. He seemed to like that idea.”
Jonas took his evening meal at the South Wind Restaurant. When he had finished, Landless came and sat at his table. He said, “Does the fact that the police have let Aylett go mean that they think he’s in the clear?”
“It only means that they haven’t got enough evidence yet to charge him with anything.”
“Seems the only result of this whole thing is to make the Shackleton ghost train the biggest attraction on the south coast. They’ll be running coaches from Seaford and Newhaven next.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Jonas shortly. He didn’t want to talk about it.
It was nearly eleven o’clock before Aylett arrived. Jonas had been devoting some thought to how he was going to open what was bound to be a tricky conversation. Aylett saved him the trouble.
He said, “As soon as Sam mentioned your name, Mr Pickett, I thought that’s just what I want. I want a good solicitor.”
Jonas stared at him.
“They’ve let me go. Just for now. But they’ll have me back. I know they will. They’ll keep on and on at me trying to make me say—I mean, trying to make me say something different to what I have said. Next time I go, I want you to come with me. That’s the law, isn’t it? I’m entitled to have a solicitor with me.”
Jonas had got his breath back. He said, “There’s one thing you’ve got to understand. No solicitor can act for a client unless that client tells him the truth.”
“But that’s what I have done, Mr Pickett.” His voice was a thin wail. “I’ve told the police twenty times. I knew nothing about what happened to Mr Williams. Nothing at all. I didn’t get there that afternoon until just before the arcade opened up. There was a lot of kids waiting already. All I had to do was switch on the effects and start the train. Honest.”
The only illumination in the room was the big green-shaded table lamp. In the bright circle of light which it threw on the desk Jonas placed a photograph. It had been taken at an angle to the main entrance of the arcade and some distance from it. It showed Aylett smiling and holding the gate open for Aneurin Williams. Both of them were side-faced to the camera and there was no disputing their identities.
“I’ve been told by three experts,” said Jonas, “that they can time a photograph like this from the angle of the sun. Some time between noon and half past twelve is the consensus of their opinion.”
He said this slowly, in order to giv
e Aylett time to collect his wits and start lying.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “That would have been – let me see – about a week ago. Maybe a little more. Mr Williams came to see me about not letting children on to the train without an adult in charge. That was one of his fads, you see.”
Jonas said, “I don’t think you’ve examined the photograph quite carefully enough. Look at that placard on the wall of the arcade. You can only see the right-hand half of it. But it’s quite clear, isn’t it? Jokes and Jollities. That’s one of the posters announcing this season’s pierrot show. It was put up last Friday evening.”
There was a long silence broken finally by Jonas. He said, “When this matter comes to court, as it will, this photograph will be exhibited. The manager of the pierrots will give evidence and so will the photographer. There is no doubt at all” – Jonas’s words were falling like stones into a pool of silence – “that this photograph was taken around noon last Saturday. Two hours before Williams was found dead.”
Aylett said, “What—” and didn’t seem to know how to go on. Then he said, “What can I say?”
“You can tell the truth,” said Jonas. “And then I’ll see what I can do to get you out of the mess you’ve got yourself into.”
Aylett’s resistance broke suddenly and completely. The words came tumbling out. “It was Mr Fredericks. He made me do it. He owns a lot of the concessions on the pier. The ghost train is one of them. If I didn’t do what he said I was out of my job, see? And I owed him money already. And he said he’d put Louie’s men on to me to collect it. Oh God!”
So both my guesses were right, thought Jonas. He said, “Go on. And talk slowly because I’m going to write it down and you’re going to sign it.”
“Wrong on both counts,” said a voice from the darkness near the inner door. Two creatures had come into the room. A lion and a bear. They must have come in by the side door in the alley. They had slipped into the room with all the stealth and cunning of wild animals.
The lion padded across, swept books and papers off the desk and perched on the space he had cleared. Jonas could see that the mask was well made, fitting round the neck with a stockingette collar. Dark eyes gleamed at him through the slits. The bear had backed Aylett into a corner. He had a husky Midlander’s voice. A Merseysider, Jonas guessed. “Wassall this, Cyril?” he said. “Consulting the law. You don’t want a lawyer. What you want is a nurse, to smack your bottom when you have naughty thoughts.” As he said this he brought one arm across and caught Aylett a swipe on one side of the head which slammed him against the wall. As he threw up his hands to guard his face the bear kicked him in the stomach. Aylett folded forward on to his knees, retching.
Anything For a Quiet Life Page 10