“Contraband,” answered Yarrow, giving nothing away even though the operation was now over.
“Sure. But what kind? Hell, there’s always contraband on a ship. Extra cartons of fags, extra bottles of plonk. But this was like you were searching for the Crown Jewels.”
“Maybe we were.” Despite himself, Yarrow had been impressed by the way the operation had been organised: annoying, since he didn’t like to think a small borough force like Fortrow’s could do anything really efficiently.
“But you didn’t find whatever it was you were after?”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
The third officer drank. “You’ll probably think I’m soft, but I’ve been wondering whether what you were after could have had anything to do with something I saw. I still think it was bloody odd.”
“What was it?”
The third described what he’d seen from the wing of the bridge as they passed The Shallows.
Yarrow left the cabin ten minutes and two drinks later. He walked out on to the starboard side of the boat deck and stared over the rails. What had the third officer seen? Viewing conditions had been fitful, with shafts of bright light from the ports and dark in between, but the third seemed pretty certain a load of clothing had been thrown overboard from one of the passengers’ cabins. Assuming he was right, why should anyone be slinging clothes over the side? Worn out, unwanted? But people didn’t set off on a sea trip with worn out clothes. Then why suddenly unwanted?
Clothes, he knew, provided one of the more favoured covers for heroin smuggling because they were an essential part of anyone’s baggage and they offered very good hiding places for small parcels of the drug: pure heroin was so valuable that even a small parcel was worth a mint. But if heroin had been hidden in clothing, what had then caused the clothing to be discarded? Obviously, the only reasonable answer to that was that a warning of the massive police operation had reached the courier.
He dropped the cigarette over the side and watched it spiral down to the water, then went back to the third officer’s cabin and found the latter in his bunk, reading. He asked where the chief wireless officer slept and was told on the port side of that deck, in the last cabin immediately for’d of the rails and gate which separated the officers’ from the passengers’ accommodation.
The chief wireless officer, a man unfortunate enough to have virtually no jaw so his face just melted away below his lips, had not been asleep for long and for a while he was solely concerned with peevishly demanding to know why any enquiries couldn’t have waited until the morning. Finally, however, he climbed out of his bunk, put on a dressing-gown, and led the way aft — his moans now reduced to a mumble — to the wireless cabin which was beyond the main passenger square.
He sat, unlocked a drawer beneath one of the receivers, and brought out a log book. He ran his finger down the last page of entries and finally said: “We received two cables. One to Mrs. Wheeler, telling her that her daughter had had a baby. The other to Mr. Pilgrim, telling him someone had died and he was to drop everything and return home at once. That was received at nineteen hundred and thirty-three hours.”
Drop everything, thought Yarrow. What could be clearer than that? It was not every detective, he decided with complacent pride, who would have appreciated the significance of the third officer’s casual remarks, and out of those, few would have had the intelligence to trace back the cable which had raised the alarm.
*
Rowan sat at his desk and tried to make out he was working at some papers.
Yarrow said: “So I reckoned there must have been something to trigger off this throwing away of clothes and I pulled the radio bloke out of his bed and he told me about the cable.” He paused and looked round.
Welland went on idly staring at a shoe-box filled with wristwatches taken from a youngster of fifteen and not yet sorted out, Rowan went on apparently reading. Yarrow felt annoyed. The trouble with country hicks was that they weren’t capable of appreciating real detective work when they met it. “The cable was supposed to tell of a bloke’s death. It said to drop everything. It was really telling Pilgrim to ditch the heroin.”
Welland wondered why his wife, Molly, had been a little short tempered that morning.
“So we’ve got a real lead. You realise that?”
“What d’you say?” asked Welland.
Yarrow, who’d been standing by one of the filing cabinets, went over to his desk and sat down. If an atomic bomb went off under them, they’d hardly notice.
How strong a lead? wondered Rowan. Surely not as strong as Yarrow believed. Pilgrim could only have been a courier and they never knew much because they were expendable. But just suppose this case was the exception, just suppose Yarrow was right… Then he was for the high jump. He stared across at Yarrow and hated the other because he had so endangered Heather and Tracy.
*
Six men sat round the circular table in the conference room at borough H.Q. The chief constable was in the only chair with arms — these marked his authority since a round table had no head — the two uniformed superintendents of the two divisions were on either side of him, Kywood was next to Superintendent Passmore, and the two D.I.s were on the far sides of the other superintendent and Kywood.
“It’s a bugger,” said the chief constable abruptly.
That summed up their feelings exactly.
“But it’s got to be sorted out, and quickly. If there is some dirty washing around, then it must be seen to be washed in public.”
It was interesting how the chief constable and Kywood had both apparently altered in character during this case. No longer did either have one eye permanently fixed on self-interest, playing politics because that was how to survive in his present rank until retirement and so draw a higher pension than if he lost rank through the borough’s being finally amalgamated into the county force. Now, both of them were concerned solely with the possibility of police corruption and if it were found the need to stamp it out. They had rediscovered ideals that each had secretly thought had been burned out by the dull fires of experience.
The chief constable looked across at Fusil. “Are we absolutely certain there was a tip-off?”
“No, sir.” Fusil spoke with unusual care. “All we can say for sure at the moment is that it appears very likely. The cable was received about three hours after the briefing at Eastern H.Q. was over and that obviously fits in with the necessary time scale. The cable was handed in at a main post office in Highgate and we’ll have the original form as soon as possible, but we’ll have to be real optimists to think it’ll help. As far as we can work out, from the evidence of the officer aboard the ship who saw the clothes — if they were clothes — being thrown out of a porthole, it was about ten on the Thursday night when they were jettisoned, which again fits in time-wise. He fixed the position of the porthole as well as he could and this proved to be within four portholes of Pilgrim’s cabin.
“The address Pilgrim gave to the shipping company and to the customs has been checked out and it’s false. I’ve been on to the passport office and they came back just before I came here to say that no passport has been issued to a J. T. Pilgrim of his description. The passport number is one of forty-two unissued passports which were stolen from a consulate in France six months ago.
“An extensive search of the waters by The Shallows has been carried out by police and coastguards, and one part of what was almost certainly a jacket, in a lightweight tweed, has been discovered. A preliminary — and this must be underlined — scientific report suggests it hadn’t been in the water for more than twenty-four hours. The portion of cloth, virtually new, shows no signs of having been in contact with heroin. A coastguard has worked out time and tides and the place of finding is consistent with its having been thrown from the Western Sand.
“Enquiries have been made among fishermen and small-boat owners and we have one report of a floating light off The Shallows at around ten, Thursday night. A boat was seen to
approach the light and pick it out of the water. Our informant has no idea who or what.”
There was a short silence.
“Then have you any doubts that the heroin was dumped to a prearranged emergency plan?” asked the chief constable.
Fusil hesitated, finally answered reluctantly: “Not really, sir, nor that we’re dealing with a tip-off.” His voice became harsh. “One of the coppers who was at the briefing was bent.”
“Or one of the blokes from C.I.D.,” said the uniformed superintendent from Western Division.
“Impossible,” snapped Fusil.
“And just what’s so impossible…”
“Gentlemen,” cut in the chief constable sharply, “inter-departmental squabbling isn’t going to help us one little bit.”
Fusil took his pipe from his pocket and rubbed the bowl against the palm of his left hand. How bloody typical of the uniformed branch to imagine a member of the C.I.D. could turn crook. Kywood shook his head, as if in friendly warning, and Superintendent Passmore wondered, sadly, what would happen if such belligerent faith should prove unfounded?
The chief constable thumped the table with clenched fist — an appropriate gesture, despite its air of theatricality. “In a case like this there is nobody, and I repeat, nobody, above suspicion. The traitor can have come from any department.”
They seemed to agree, albeit reluctantly, yet each man was certain that if there was a traitor he must be from someone else’s department.
The chief constable looked round the table. “All right. What’s our next move?”
Fusil answered him. “Failing evidence definite enough to make or even suggest an identification, I suppose we ought to ask our men for any information they may have.”
“Thereby openly publicising the fact that we believe we have a traitor?”
“We can’t avoid that for much longer, sir, whatever we do.”
“And how will they respond to being asked to inform on their own companions?”
“They’ll hate it, but for the good of the force they’ll do it.”
The chief constable spoke in a low voice. “It’s a very sad, painful time for all of us.”
His manner and speech were old-fashioned, yet both perfectly suited the occasion and the emotions of those present.
*
For longer than either cared to remember, Heather and Rowan had spent their evenings together mainly in silence because to speak at any length was to risk provoking yet another bitter argument. Now, they sat in silence because to speak might be to remind the other of the danger in which they had both been and could so easily be again.
The telephone rang. Rowan stood up, turned down the sound of the television, crossed to the telephone, and answered the call.
“It was lucky you got word to us, copper,” said a voice he had not heard before.
He knew both rage and fear.
They were waiting, like a swarm of bleeding locusts.
But unlike a swarm of locusts, they’d found nothing.
“So now we want to know who did the squealing, and we want to know real fast. Got that?” The connection was cut.
Heather said, her voice little more than a whisper: “That was them again?”
He turned. Her face was white and strained and it hurt with bitter poignancy to look at her.
“What did they want this time, Fred?” she asked.
He shook his head.
She spoke urgently. “You’ve got to tell me and you mustn’t try to shield me — then I only think the very worst. Please, Fred.”
He went over and stood by her chair and stroked her neck with his thumb. A feeling of overwhelming love and possession swept over him and he felt choked because they were threatening to take her away from him.
“What do they want this time?” she asked, in a muffled voice because she’d turned her head to rest it against him.
He said: The name of the grasser who told us a load of heroin was coming into the country.”
“Do you know it?”
“No.”
“Does anyone know it?”
“Someone might, but we don’t trade news on informers.”
“So how will you find out?”
He didn’t answer.
“What will they do to the man if you tell them who he is?”
“Kill him,” he answered harshly.
She finally understood. If he refused to tell them the name of the informer — because he wouldn’t, or couldn’t — they would give the police proof of his betrayal. If he did tell them, they’d kill the man and he would be indirectly responsible for the murder.
Chapter 12
It was first a secret shared by only a few, then it became the subject of hurried, embarrassed conversations by many. One of the policemen at the briefing was bent and had informed the mob that a police operation was on so that the search had failed. Inevitably, partisanship, evident even at the chief constable’s conference, became very strong. Men from Eastern Division were certain the bent copper could only come from Western Division or the county force: men from the county force knew the bent copper came from the borough force: men from Western Division knew the bent copper had to be from Eastern Division or the county force: the uniformed branch knew he had to come from C.I.D.: C.I.D. knew he had to come from the uniformed branch. Rumours multiplied. Harsh words were spoken. There was fight at Western Division H.Q. and a P.C. and a D.C. were both severely reprimanded, although each man’s superiors later made it clear that his offence was more to be lauded than condemned. The chief constable demanded that Kywood and the uniformed superintendents stem this tide of bitterness and hate, but not only were they virtually powerless to do this, they now viewed each other with unspoken hostility and suspicion.
Fusil was dealing with the previous night’s crime reports on Tuesday morning — crime, like Old Father Thames, went on no matter what else happened — when there was a knock on his door and a uniformed constable’s head and shoulders appeared.
“Well?” snapped Fusil.
The constable entered and shut the door. He stood to attention, helmet in his right hand, as if on a parade ground. “P.C. forty-one, sir.”
Fusil picked up his pipe and tried to light it, but it refused to draw properly. He separated the stem and blew, to expel a wad of goo. Contemptuous that he should do anything so childish as play for time, nevertheless he continued to do so because the P.C.’s manner told him that he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.
The constable coughed.
“Spit it out, man,” snapped Fusil.
“I’ve something to report, sir.” The constable smartly took two steps forward. “I’ve mentioned the matter to Sergeant Green and he said I must report direct to you.”
He’d had a run-in with Sergeant Green only a few weeks ago, thought Fusil: evidently the sergeant hadn’t forgotten or forgiven. “Then suppose you start reporting.”
“The trouble is, I’m not certain how important it is, or even whether I should mention it at all when I can’t be certain…”
“Stop spending so much time trying to salve your own conscience.”
The P.C. flushed and his expression became one of resentment. “I was at the briefing you gave.”
Fusil struck a match and sucked flame into the bowl and now the tobacco burned briskly: the smoke was more acrid than ever because he hadn’t scraped out the bowl for a long time.
“When the briefing was over, sir, I left to go home because my spell of duty was over, me being on the revised duty roster that Sergeant Braddon gave us. So I walked down Tidemouth Road towards the shops and I happened to notice a bloke in front.”
Fusil clamped his teeth down on the stem of the pipe.
“He went up to one of the call boxes that are by the shops and made a call. And that seemed odd because he was from the station so why didn’t he use one of the phones in the station?”
“Obviously, because it was a personal call,” snapped Fusil.
“His name?” demanded Fusil.
“D.C. Rowan, sir.”
“And is that all?”
“Yes, sir. But we’ve been asked to report anything that could be of the slightest significance and I thought how it was odd he didn’t make the call from here… Blokes usually make personal calls from the station, sir, even if the regs say they shouldn’t.”
“Thank you for reporting the matter. You will discuss it with no one else. Is that quite clear?”
“Yes, sir.” The P.C. stared at Fusil, resentful that he’d been treated like some schoolboy sneak, then he turned, clumping his feet, marched out, and slammed the door shut behind himself.
Good God! thought Fusil bitterly, couldn’t a bloke even make a private call without drawing suspicion onto himself? D.C. Rowan was moody and unpredictable — a fact which prevented his becoming a really good detective, since his work suffered accordingly — but he couldn’t become bent. Any more than Braddon, Kerr, Welland, or Yarrow, could become bent.
Fusil returned to his work, checking which crimes Braddon was handling and which he’d passed on to the uniformed branch, altering one transfer because the victim was a local councillor with a loud mouth who’d need to feel he was getting V.I.P. treatment.
Fusil put down his pen, worried by some dusty half-memory. He tried to pin it down, failed, and resumed work, only to remember what it was almost immediately. There’d been a letter through from the Spanish police regarding an enquiry, placed through Interpol, concerning a man who’d been arrested in Palma. The enquiry hadn’t meant a thing to him — he’d known for a fact that it didn’t concern a current case — and at the time he’d done no more than throw the report away, thinking it had been sent to the wrong force. But suppose it hadn’t? Suppose Rowan had been the originator and the enquiry had been made because…
He cursed. He was as bad as anyone, seeing shadows that weren’t there. Yet, his conscience nagged, surely he ought to check up and find out what the enquiry had been about?
The Murder Line (C.I.D. Room Book 8) Page 10