*
On Monday morning, Detective Inspector Peters, a man who always took a great deal of trouble over his appearance, went into the Midland Bank branch nearest to the police hostel and saw the manager in the latter’s office.
Peters sat down. ‘As I said over the telephone, I’m interested in Mr. Kerr’s account.’
‘I haven’t had the usual written application on the appropriate form,’ replied the manager, a rather gloomy-looking person.
‘I know, sir, but this is a priority job. I’d be grateful if we could skip the preliminaries.’
‘That’s all right so long as I can rely on your sending me the completed form within the next couple of days or so?’
‘You’ll get it tomorrow morning.’
The manager picked up a sheet of paper. ‘Mr. Kerr has only one account with us and it’s in credit for one hundred and nineteen pounds twelve shillings and sixpence.’
‘Has anything been paid in in the last twenty-four hours?’
‘One hundred pounds, exactly.’
‘How was it paid in?’
‘It came by post this morning. Here’s the paying-in slip.’ The manager held up a white oblong slip of paper. ‘One hundred one-pound notes.’
‘May I see that?’ The paying-in slip was handed to Peters. He studied it. ‘Was there an accompanying letter?’
‘No. Only that slip and the notes, which were all well-used ones.’ The manager looked directly at the other. ‘Is this a serious matter?’
‘It’s building up that way,’ replied Peters grimly.
16
Kerr ate breakfast in the hostel canteen and every time one of the other men looked his way, he wondered what that man was thinking. Catby often had breakfast with him, but was now at a different table. Was he refusing to eat with a crooked copper? It was the first time Kerr had ever bothered to question the motives of others, and it both frightened and angered him that he should be doing so now.
He left the canteen and went upstairs to his room, where he sat down on the bed. Life was kicking him and kicking him hard. Take Judy — she hadn’t begun to try to hide what she thought of a copper who might get busted. On the Monday, he had made a fool of himself with Helen. Desperate for understanding and sympathy, he had gone to see her and she had offered him what he sought, but with a bitter perversity beyond his power to overcome, he had taken her sympathy as a clear sign that she believed him guilty. There had been a row entirely of his making and he had left her and gone to the nearest pub where he had drunk too much.
He stood up, crossed to the window, and looked out. Below was a small green on which children often played. There were three boys there now, obviously enjoying themselves despite the cold wind. For some people, life was still worthwhile.
Yesterday, almost as if to do so would rebut the truth, he had arrived at the police station at 8.30 in the morning, as if still on regular duty. There, men went out of their way to greet him or offer him a cigarette. It was their way of saying that they didn’t believe he could be guilty. Only Rowan, in the C.I.D. general room, had remained completely neutral. Rowan had only contempt for failure and to him it was a failure even to be accused of blackmail.
He left the bedroom and made his way downstairs and out to the bus stop where, three minutes later, he caught a bus to the police station. He’d been told to report to Fusil at 10.30 and it was 10.29 when he knocked on the door and went in. With Fusil was a man who looked as if he used a lot of male talc and after-shave lotion.
‘This is Detective Inspector Peters,’ said Fusil. ‘He’s in charge of the enquiry. He’s going to question you. You’re not bound to answer him at this stage, but in your own interests it’s obviously advisable you do.’
Kerr was suddenly really scared. Fusil’s voice suggested he was bitterly angry… As if he had suddenly become convinced one of his men was crooked.
‘You already know the terms of the complaint,’ said Peters, in his flat, slightly nasal voice. ‘It is alleged that you, in the course of your investigations into a hit-and-run case, discovered the van responsible was driven by Reginald Walker, otherwise Choppy Walker, a man with a record. You demanded a hundred pounds for not reporting the facts. Walker paid you this sum of money.’
‘It’s all a lie,’ replied Kerr urgently.
‘Very well. Did you suspect that Evans, the dead chief officer, had been engaged in some sort of fiddle?’
Kerr forced himself to answer relatively calmly. ‘I reckoned he’d been flogging old hawsers, sir.’
‘What sort of proof?’
‘The carbon copy of the last used dock pass was noticeably fainter than the previous one and I thought three hawsers had been entered on the top sheet and a thicker piece of paper had been inserted to make out the carbon copy for the two hawsers.’
‘How far did you pursue this?’
‘Evans got killed, sir, and in any case I was only interested in the van in case it had been in the hit-and-run.’
‘Would you have questioned the driver of the van about the hawsers if you’d finally identified him?’
‘Yes, I would.’
‘This fiddle would have given you an added lever if you’d set out to blackmail Walker, wouldn’t it?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t blackmail him.’
‘Walker claims you and he met, close to the hostel, at some time between seven and eight-thirty?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve given Mr. Fusil a timetable of your movements on Tuesday morning. Can you prove you were in bed until a quarter to eight?’
‘No, sir.’
‘When is your first provable contact?’
‘Just after eight twenty-five, sir.’
‘So it’s Walker’s word against yours?’
‘He’s lying.’
Peters picked up a quarto sheet of paper. ‘How much is in your bank account?’
‘I don’t know, exactly.’
‘Approximately will do.’
‘Not much.’
‘More than fifty pounds?’
‘Much less.’
‘Give me an estimate.’
‘I suppose something around twenty.’
‘Have you recently posted a sum of money in cash to your bank?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did you make out a paying-in slip for one hundred one-pound notes and post that and the money in an unregistered letter to your bank?’
‘No, sir.’
Peters put down the sheet of paper and picked up something. He stood up and walked round to where Kerr sat. ‘D’you recognise this?’
Kerr saw it was a paying-in slip for his branch of the Midland Bank. Suddenly, and with a sense of fearful shock, he saw it was made out for a hundred pounds in one-pound notes and that the signature, under ‘For credit of…’, was ostensibly his.
‘D’you recognise this?’ demanded Peters.
‘It’s nothing to do with me. I’ve never seen that before. I’ve never had a hundred pounds to pay in.’
‘Whose signature is it?’
‘It’s a forgery. The whole thing’s a frame-up.’
‘Is it?’
Kerr spoke wildly. ‘You’d have to be crazy to think I’d shake Walters down for a hundred and then pay it straight into my bank.’
‘If criminals didn’t make stupid mistakes, we’d never catch them.’
‘Why should I ever pay the money in?’
‘It would instantly arouse suspicion for a D.C. to be seen with a bundle of notes as thick as a Sunday paper. You had to do something with the money. You weren’t to know that Walker was going to report the blackmail before he was sucked dry.’
‘I didn’t pay any money in. I didn’t enter up that slip. I never blackmailed Walker.’
Peters went back to his chair and sat down. He nodded at Fusil.
‘O.K., you can go,’ said Fusil to Kerr.
‘I didn’t pay that money in, sir.’
‘Your denial’s been not
ed.’
‘You’ve got to believe me.’
‘You can go.’
Kerr stood up. He felt sick, as if someone had kicked him hard in the stomach. Slowly, he left the room.
After Kerr had gone, Peters collected up the papers. ‘I’ll send the paying-in slip to the lab,’ he said. ‘Get me a couple of examples of his normal signature, will you?’
‘Yes. You are going to make Walker sweat, aren’t you?’
‘He’ll sweat his guts out. But look, Bob, it can always happen. You’re half believing it yourself, aren’t you?’
‘The evidence…’ muttered Fusil. He suddenly swore crudely. When he stopped, he looked at his watch. ‘Goddamn it, they must have started loading the special cargo into the Sandacre by now.’
Peters put the papers into his brief-case. ‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I know anything definite.’
‘Thanks.’
Peters left. Even though overdue at the docks, Fusil made no move.
*
Carter, a handwriting expert, put the three photographs of Kerr’s signatures, magnified fivefold, on the desk. The one on the right was the control signature, the other two were specimen signatures.
He studied them. How could anyone, he thought with sudden irritation, expect him to judge if the control signature was a forgery on such little evidence?
He took a ruler and drew vertical and horizontal lines on the three signatures. The vertical lines gave the slope of the downstroke of the J K and two Rs. The horizontal lines exactly joined the upper and lower points of the E R R at the end of the signature. He compared the lines. The verticals of the two specimen signatures were nearly similar and there was a difference between them and those of the control signature, but not large enough for any conclusion to be drawn. The horizontal lines showed a break between the first and second R on the specimen signatures, but not on the control one.
He went across to the projector, switched it on, and inserted two slides. The two images on the screen were superimposed and every difference between them was immediately visible. He compared each signature to the other two.
When he had finished his tests with the signatures, he did the same with the figures.
He sat down at his desk, lit a cigarette, and dictated his report into a tape recorder. He could say that the document might be a forgery because the control signature and figures showed certain irregularities compared to the specimen signatures and figures, but these irregularities were not strong enough to preclude the possibility of genuineness. In other words, his report wasn’t worth a damn.
*
The Volkswagen van which Walker admitted driving was brought to Western Division H.Q. After being photographed, it was driven into the special garage whose walls were painted white and lined with a battery of powerful lights. In the floor was an inspection pit, twelve feet long.
The front near-side wing had a dent and in the centre of this was the image of a pattern, caused by impact with a relatively coarse material. The woman had been wearing a winter coat of a relatively coarse material of similar pattern. The height of the bumper bar coincided with the height of the primary injuries on the woman’s legs. There was a small chip of paint missing to the left of the near-side sidelight. Spectrographic tests and identification of the layers of paint proved that the car paint exactly matched the tiny chip of paint caught in the woman’s wedding ring.
*
Peters parked in the courtyard of Eastern Division H.Q., entered the building, and went up to Fusil’s office. ‘The legal department says it’s got to be a prosecution,’ he said abruptly.
Fusil swore. ‘What about Walker?’
‘I’ve shaken him down, Bob. I’ve shouted at him, pleaded with him, threatened him, and his story hasn’t changed an inch.’
‘Then try again. What the hell’s the use of giving up so easily?’ Fusil suddenly looked up. ‘Sorry, Pete, this case has got me on the raw.’
‘Because you can’t make your mind up?’
‘Because of a dozen and one things. I’ve backed Kerr, but even without the evidence against him I’ve seen enough of human nature to know there’s no such thing as a completely honest man. Most people stay honest, but it’s only because the temptation not to do so hasn’t been strong enough.’
‘If this were a frame, it would have to be because of the gold.’
Fusil stood up and kicked the chair backwards. ‘That doesn’t lead you anywhere until you can be certain Kerr isn’t the blackmailer Walker swears he is.’
‘And what but blackmail would bring a bloke like Choppy Walker to the police station to admit he drove a car in a hit-and-run?’
‘For every question there’s an answer that makes Kerr a blackmailer. If only to God Charrington had never been posted.’
‘But he was,’ said Peters quietly.
*
The T.S.S. Sandstream docked two days after Kerr had been remanded on bail for a week and one day after the T.S.S. Sandacre had sailed for New Zealand. The customs and police boarded the Sandstream and carried out the search that by now had become routine. They found contraband, but no gold. The crew were paid off and a skeleton shore crew took charge of the vessel. The cargo of frozen meat, butter, chilled beef, cheese, and wool was discharged.
17
The central magistrates’ court was a barn of a place so that in winter it was as cold as charity, except on the dais where electric fires kept the magistrates warm.
Prosecuting solicitor was a small man with a very pointed face. ‘How long have you had a bank account?’ he asked Kerr who, despite his solicitor’s advice, had demanded to give evidence and not reserve his defence.
‘About five years, sir.’
‘What has been the average balance during those five years?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Will you accept the round figure of twenty-five pounds?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘During these five years, what has been the biggest sum you have ever paid in at any one time?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Will you accept the round figure of twenty-five pounds?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let us move on to the sum of one hundred pounds, paid in to your account on Wednesday, the fourteenth, with the paying-in slip dated the day before. Is there a record of this payment on the counterfoil of your paying-in book?’
‘I didn’t pay the money in.’
‘Is there any record of it?’
‘No.’
‘The money was sent by unregistered post and was accompanied by a separate paying-in form, of the kind one gets from the bank counter where one banks?’
‘I tell you I didn’t pay it in.’
‘The use of this single form would ensure that no record appeared in your paying-in book, should anyone by chance look at it?’
‘Can’t you understand, I don’t know anything about it?’
‘You have been shown the paying-in slip by your counsel. Do you agree that it is your name which appears on it?’
‘I didn’t sign it.’
‘You have heard a handwriting expert testify that he is unable to swear it isn’t a forgery?’
‘He also said he couldn’t swear it was.’
‘Quite. So that if it is a forgery, it’s an excellent one?’
‘I…I suppose so.’
‘Can you suggest why an expert forger should forge your signature not in order to benefit himself, but to pay in one hundred pounds in cash to your account?’
‘To complete the frame-up that Walker started.’
‘Will you tell the court why Walker should try to frame you?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve said it again and again — I don’t know.’
‘Then according to you we have an unknown forger sending a hundred pounds to your bank account in order to frame you for some reason of which you’ve no idea? Is that really what you are asking the court to believe?’
*
Le
ery left the courtroom and walked out to his car. He backed, turned, and drove out on to the road.
Detective Constable Kerr had been sent for trial. At his trial he would be convicted and sent to prison. How was he, Leery, going to live with his conscience, knowing this? Yet, and this was a frightening fact, even as he posed that question he knew his conscience would be the loser.
He drove through the streets, filled with rush-hour traffic, and went past the turning that would have taken him direct to Pendleton Bray. He would have to ring Gladys to say he was hung up with work or she’d imagine he’d been killed in any one of half a dozen different ways.
He passed the derestricted sign and increased speed. In the gathering darkness, oncoming cars had switched on their headlights and these, even when dipped, kept dazzling him. His eyesight was deteriorating: just one more sign of advancing age. If he lived long enough, he would become too old to make love to Prudence. He hoped he died before then.
*
Fusil, in his office the next morning, scraped out his pipe and emptied it into the nearer ash-tray. He blew through the stem to clear it, put the pipe together, filled the bowl with tobacco, and lit up.
Kerr had been sent for trial and divisional C.I.D.’s name had been dragged through the mud. So had his own name, since he was in command.
There was a knock on the door and Braddon entered. ‘There’s a girl wants to see you, sir.’
‘The feeling’s not mutual. Get rid of her.’
‘She’s Kerr’s girl-friend, Helen Barley.’
Fusil tamped the tobacco with his forefinger. ‘What’s she want?’
‘To speak to you.’
‘I’ve nothing to say.’
‘Shall I bring her up?’ asked Braddon, ignoring the other’s ill temper.
Fusil muttered something, but his words were indistinguishable.
When Helen Barley came into his office, Fusil was surprised because she looked so pleasant and natural. Knowing Kerr, he would have expected someone tarted up to the nines.
She sat down and stared at him. ‘It’s about John,’ she said suddenly and loudly.
‘Yes, Miss Barley?’ She must be very fond of Kerr, he thought, judging by the heavy lines of misery on her face.
The C.I.D Room Page 13