Petrella at 'Q'

by Michael Gilbert

  “Let her rip,” said Geoff. “It’s not like you were driving your own car, and got to be careful you don’t scratch the paint. With this one a few bumps don’t signify.”

  This was on the occasion when they had borrowed Mr. Knowlson’s new Ford Capri. Timothy had suggested it. “He’s stuck to the television from eight o’clock onwards,” he said. “He wouldn’t come out if a bomb went off.”

  The evening runs were not solely pleasure trips. There was a business side to them as well. Len and Geoff had a lot of contacts, friends of Geoff’s father, who seemed to have a knack of picking up unwanted packages. A carton containing two dozen new transistor wireless sets might have proved tricky to dispose of. But offered separately to buyers in public houses and cafés and dance halls, they seemed to go like hot cakes. Len and Geoff were adept at this.

  The first time they took Timothy into a public house the girl behind the bar looked at him and said, “How old’s your kid brother?”

  “You wouldn’t think it,” said Geoff, “but he’s twenty-eight. He’s a midget. He does a turn on the halls. Don’t say anything to him about it. He’s sensitive.”

  The girl said, “You’re a bloody liar,” but served them with half pints of beer. Mr. Grant was a teetotaller and Timothy had never seen beer before at close quarters. He took a sip of it. It tasted indescribable. Like medicine, only worse. Geoff said, “You don’t have to pretend to like it. After a bit you’ll sort of get used to it.”

  Some nights they were engaged in darker work. They would drive the car to a rendezvous, which was usually a garage in the docks area. Men would be there, shadowy figures who hardly showed their faces. Crates which seemed to weigh heavily would be loaded on to the back seat of the car. The boys then drove out into the Kent countryside. The men never came with them. When they arrived at their destination, sometimes another garage, sometimes a small workshop or factory, the cargo was unloaded with equal speed and silence and a wad of notes was pushed into Len’s hands.

  The only real difference of opinion the boys ever had was over the money. Len and Geoff wanted to share everything equally. Timothy agreed to keep some of it, but refused any idea of equal sharing. First, because he wouldn’t have known what to do with so much cash. More important, because he knew what it was being saved up for. One of the pictures on the wall of their den was a blown-up photograph of a motor-bicycle. A Norton Interstate 850 Road Racer.

  “Do a ton easy,” said Len. “Hundred and thirty on the track. Old Edelman at that garage we go to down the docks says he can get me one at trade prices. How much are we up to?”

  As he said this he was prising up a board in the corner. Under the board was a biscuit tin, the edges sealed with insulating tape. In the tin was the pirates’ hoard of notes and coins.

  “Another tenner and we’re there,” said Geoff.

  Timothy still went to choir practice. If he had missed it, his absence would have been noticed, and enquiries would have followed. The Reverend Amberline usually put in an appearance, to preserve law and order and on this occasion he happened to notice Timothy. They were practising the hymn from the Yattenden hymnal, O quam juvat fratres. “Happy are they, they that love God.” The Rector thought that Timothy, normally a reserved and rather silent boy, really did look happy. He was bubbling over, bursting with happiness. “Remember now thy Creator,” said the Reverend Amberline sadly to himself, “in the days of thy youth.” How splendid to be young and happy.

  That evening, Detective Chief Inspector Patrick Petrella paid a visit to Mr. Grant’s house in Dodman Street. He said, “We’ve had a number of reports of cars being taken away without their owner’s consent.”

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Grant. “And I’m glad you’re going to do something about it at last. My neighbour, Mr. Knowlson, lost his a few weeks ago. He got it back, but it was in a shocking state.”

  “Yesterday evening,” said Petrella, “the boys who seem to have been responsible for a number of these cases were observed. If the person who observed them had been a bit quicker, they’d have been apprehended. But she did give us a positive identification of one lad she recognised. It was your son, Timothy.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Mr. Grant, as soon as he had got his breath back. “Timothy would never do anything like that. He’s a thoroughly nice boy.”

  “Can you tell me where he was yesterday evening?”

  “Certainly I can. He was with the Voluntary Service Organisation.”

  “The people at Craythorne Hall?”

  “That’s right.”

  “May I use your telephone?’

  “Yes. And then I hope you’ll apologise.”

  Three minutes later, Petrella said, “Not only was he not at Craythorne Hall on Wednesday evening, but he’s never been there. They know nothing about him. They say they only take on boys of seventeen and over.”

  Mr. Grant stared at him, white-faced.

  “Where is he now?”

  “At choir practice.”

  “Choir practice would have been over by half past eight.”

  “He goes on afterwards to the youth club.”

  Petrella knew the missioner at the youth club and used the telephone again. By this time Mrs. Grant had joined them. Petrella faced a badly-shaken couple. He said, “I’d like to have a word with Timothy when he does get back. It doesn’t matter how late it is. I’ve got something on at the station which is going to keep me there anyway.”

  He gave them his number at Patton Street.

  The matter which Petrella referred to was a report of goods, stolen from the railway yard, being run to a certain garage in the docks area. It was out of this garage, at the moment that Petrella left Dodman Street, that the brand new, shining monster was being wheeled.

  “She’s licenced and we’ve filled her up for you,” said Mr. Edelman, who was the jovial proprietor of the garage. “You can have that on the house.” He could afford to be generous. The courier service which the boys had run for him had enriched him at minimal risk to himself.

  “Well, thanks,” said Geoff. He was almost speechless with pride and excitement.

  “If you want to try her out, the best way is over Blackheath and out on to the M2. You can let her rip there.”

  Geoff and Len were both wearing new white helmets, white silk scarves wrapped round the lower parts of their faces, black leather coats and leather gauntlets. The gloves, helmets and scarves had been lifted the day before from an outfitters in Southwark High Street. The coats had been bought for them by Timothy out of his share of the money. Len was the driver. Geoff was to ride pillion.

  “Your turn tomorrow,” said Geoff.

  “Fine,” said Timothy. “I’ll wait for you at our place.”

  “Keep the home fires burning,” said Len. “This is just a trial run. We’ll be back in an hour.”

  “And watch it,” said Mr. Edelman. “There’s a lot of horsepower inside that little beauty. So don’t go doing anything bloody stupid.”

  His words were drowned in the roar of the Road Racer starting up. Timothy stood listening until he could hear it no longer, and then turned and walked away.

  Petrella got the news at eleven o’clock that night.

  “We’ve identified the boys,” said the voice on the telephone. “They both lived in your area. Cowell and Rhodes. I can give you the addresses.”

  “Both dead?”

  “They could hardly be deader. They went off the road and smashed into the back of a parked lorry. An A.A. patrol saw it happen. Said they must have been doing over ninety. Stupid young buggers.”

  The speaker sounded angry. But he had seen the bodies and had sons of his own.

  The Cowell’s house was the nearest and Petrella called there first. He found Mr. and Mrs. Cowell in the kitchen, with the television blaring. They toned it off when they understood what Petrella was telling them.

  “I warned him,” said Mr. Cowell. “You heard me tell him.”

  “You sa
id what nasty dangerous things they were,” agreed his wife. “We didn’t even know he had one.”

  “It was a brand new machine,” said Petrella. “Any idea where he might have got it from?”

  “Tell you the truth,” said Mr. Cowell, “we haven’t been seeing a lot of Geoff lately. Boys at that age run wild, you know.”

  “We’ve brought up six,” said Mrs. Cowell, and started to cry softly.

  Mr. Cowell said, “He and Len were good boys really. It was that Ronnie Silverlight led them astray. Until they ganged up with him we never had no trouble. No trouble at all.”

  It was one o’clock in the morning by the time Petrella got back to Patton Street. The Desk Sergeant said that there had been a number of calls. A Mr. Grant had rung more than once. And a boy who said he was Len Rhodes’s brother was asking for news.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “About ten minutes a”That’s funny,” said Petrella. “I’ve just come from the Rhodes’. And I don’t think Len had a brother. What did you tell him?”

  “I just gave him the news.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. He just rang off. I think he was speaking from a call box.”

  At this moment the telephone on the desk rang again. It was Mr. Grant. His voice was ragged with worry. “It’s Timothy,” he said. “He’s not come home. You haven’t—”

  “No,” said Petrella, “we haven’t got him here. Is there anywhere else he might have gone? Had he got any friends?”

  “We don’t know anyone round here. He wouldn’t just have walked out without saying anything. His mother’s beside herself. She wanted to come round and see you.”

  “I don’t think that would do any good,” said Petrella. “We’ll do what we can.” He thought about it and then said to the Desk Sergeant, “Can you turn up the record and find out what happened to a boy called Ronald Silverlight. He was sent down for petty larceny, about two months ago. One of the Borstal institutes. See if you can find me the warden’s telephone number.”

  In spite of being hauled from his bed the warden, once he understood what Petrella wanted, was sympathetic and co-operative. He said, “It’s a long shot, but I’ll wake Ronnie up and ring you back if I get anything.”

  Ten minutes later he came through again. He said, “This might be what you want. I gather they were using some derelict old building down in the docks area. It wouldn’t be easy to explain. The best plan will be to send the boy up in a car. It’ll take an hour or more.”

  “I’ll wait,” said Petrella.

  It was nearly four o’clock before the car arrived, with a police driver and Ronnie Silverlight and a warder in the back. Petrella got in with them and they drove down, through the empty streets, towards the river.

  “You have to walk the last bit,” said Ronnie.

  Petrella thought about it. There seemed to be too many of them. He said, “I’ll be responsible for the boy. You two wait here.”

  When they got to the building Ronnie said, “We used to shift the bottom board, see, and get in underneath. It’ll be a tight squeeze for you.”

  “I’ll manage,” said Petrella.

  He did it by lying on his back and using his elbows. When he was inside, he clicked on the torch he had brought with him.

  “Up there,” said Ronnie. He was speaking in a whisper and didn’t seem anxious to go first, so Petrella led the way up.

  When he opened the door, the first thing that caught his eye was a glow from a fire of driftwood in the hearth which had burned down to red embers. Then, as his torch swung upwards, the white beam of light showed him Timothy. He had climbed on to the table, tied one end of a rope to the beam, fixed the other in a noose round his neck, and kicked away the plank.

  Petrella put the plank back and jumped up beside him, but as soon as he touched the boy, he knew that they were much too late. He had been dead for hours.

  He must have done it, thought Petrella, soon after he had telephoned the station and heard the news. And he made up the fire to give him some heat and light to see what he was doing.

  “It’s Timmy Grant isn’t it,” said Ronnie. He sounded more excited than shocked.

  “Yes,” said Petrella. “It’s Timmy.” He was thinking of all the things he would now have to do, starting with the breaking of the news to his parents.

  “He was a good kid,” said Ronnie. “Geoff wrote me about him.”

  Petrella’s torch picked up a flash of white. It was a piece of paper which had fallen off the table. On it was written, in Timothy’s schoolboy script, two lines. Petrella recognised them as coming from a hymn, but he did not know, until Father Amberline told him long afterwards, that they were from the hymn that the choir had been singing that evening.

  And death itself shall not unbind

  Their happy brotherhood.

  Petrella folded it up, and slipped it quickly into his pocket. It was against all his instincts as a policeman to suppress evidence, but he felt that it would be brutal to show it to Mr. and Mrs. Grant.

  Winter

  The Cleaners

  Part I

  Inquest on the Death of Bernie Nicholls

  “Say it after me,” said the Coroner’s officer, eyeing the jury as a drill-sergeant might eye a batch of recruits. “I will diligently enquire into and a true presentment make—” The jury did its best. “Of all matters given into our charge concerning the death of Bernard Francis Nicholls. And will without fear or favour a true verdict give according to the evidence produced before us”

  “—according to the evidence,” said a bright-looking girl, three beats behind the choir and in a very clear voice, “produced before us.”

  The Coroner’s officer looked at her suspiciously and replaced the printed card on the shelf in front of the jury box. The Coroner said, “Well now—” and Police Sergeant Underbill of the Thames Division of the Metropolitan Police took the oath and explained to the Coroner that, being on duty on the morning of January 1st, he had been passing Malvern Steps and had observed what appeared to him to be a body lying on the foreshore below the Malvern Jetty and just above the high-water mark.

  “What time of day was this, Sergeant?”

  “Approximately half past seven, sir. Just beginning to get light.”

  The Coroner made a note. He was a nice little man and Petrella, who was at the back waiting to be called in the next case, knew him for a breeder of canaries and an unreliable bridge player. A sound enough Coroner, though, who went by the book when it suited him and stood no nonsense.

  “I directed the police launch to the steps and climbed down onto the foreshore. I found the body of a man lying head downwards, that is to say with his head towards the water. Since he had quite clearly been dead for some time, I did not disturb the body. I observed a broken portion of wooden railing near the body and I saw that there was a break in the railing which ran along the edge of the quay about six feet above him. I therefore deduced—”

  “That’s all right,” said the Coroner. “You thought he’d fallen through the railing, very probably he had.”

  A man, with thick black hair and a thick white face, rose to his feet, said, “The point will be disputed, sir,” and sat down again.

  The Coroner said, “Good gracious. Mr. Tasker. I didn’t see you. Do you appear in this case?”

  “I represent Mr. Mablethorpe, the owner of the premises and of the quay,” said Mr. Tasker.

  “And I represent the deceased,” said a thin, sad-looking man.

  The Coroner peered at the second speaker over the top of his glasses, identified him, and said, “Very well, Mr. Lampe. Some dispute about liability, no doubt. Looks as though we shall be here for some time. I expect that’s all you can really tell us, isn’t it, Sergeant? Any evidence of identity?”

  Mr. Lampe rose once more to his feet and said, “I am able to identify the body. The man was employed in my office and his name —”

  “Better have this formally. For the
record, you know.”

  Mr. Lampe accordingly moved from his seat on the solicitors’ bench to the witness box and told the court that he identified the deceased as Bernard Francis Nicholls, aged fifty and employed by his firm, Messrs. Gidney, Lampe and Glazier, as a legal assistant.

  “Not a qualified solicitor?”

  “No sir. But a very experienced conveyancing clerk. He had been with us for five years.”

  “When did you see him last, Mr. Lampe?”

  “When I left the office at about six o’clock on the night of December 31st.”

  The Coroner’s officer said, “There is a witness who saw him later that evening.”

  “Very well,” said the Coroner. “But let’s hear the doctor first. I’m sure he wants to get away. Doctors always do.”

  Doctor Pond said that he had examined the body, both in situ and later at the Kentledge Road Mortuary. There were minor abrasions, consistent with a fall from the quay on to the foreshore, a distance of about six feet. There was also one large depressed fracture, on the crown of the head, a little right of centre. He placed his own hand on top of his head to demonstrate the position. The Coroner nodded and said, “He could have hit his head, I suppose, when he fell.”

  Dr. Pond said, cautiously, that there were several large stones embedded in the mud of the foreshore and he understood that the police had removed one of them for further examination.

  “Yes, doctor?”

  “I examined the contents of the stomach,” said Dr. Pond, with the relish with which pathologists always seem to discuss this topic, “and I discovered what appeared to be the remains of a meal taken shortly before death consisting principally of ham and bread. It was also apparent that the deceased had consumed a substantial quantity of whisky in the last hours of his life. There was evidence, from the degeneration of the liver and the spleen that this indulgence may not have been of recent origin.”