Presumption of Guilt

by Jeffries, Roderic

  De Matour laughed complacently. “You have missed the point.”

  “Which is what?”

  “You do not present a British passport, but a French temporary travel permit.”

  “And how in hell do I get my hands on one of those?”

  “I will provide it.” Seeing Sterne’s look of amazement, de Matour laughed with sly pleasure. “As I mentioned a moment ago, I was once in a position to recommend fundamental changes in the structure, level of manning, and day-to-day working practice of a great number of bureaucratic institutions. While these recommendations, if made, would eventually have been suffocated, they must in the meantime inevitably have opened up many a Pandora’s box. I took the opportunity of pointing this out to many of those most intimately concerned and each one of these persons was quick to argue the practical advantages of keeping the lids of those boxes shut and locked. I listened and eventually allowed myself to be won over by their eloquence. Naturally, one good turn deserves another and men of honour must always recognise their debts. So you will understand, if I now have a word with someone about providing you with a travel permit there will be no difficulties.”

  “You mean you’re going to…” Sterne cut short the words, recognising that there were times when it was best not to go into details. “But that’s a hell of a risk. What happens to you if I’m caught?”

  “There’s not the slightest chance of that. The course of the official mind can be relied upon under all circumstances.”

  “The immigration officer might start speaking French to me to find out how long I intend to stay in Britain.”

  “No Frenchman would ever be able to understand an English official’s fractured French.”

  “It’s a crazy idea.”

  “Excellent. Nothing is better guaranteed to ensure its success.”

  *

  Sterne left the walkaway and carried on down the last stretch of corridor to immigration control. There was a long queue at the British desk, much shorter ones at the other two. He ran his forefinger around the top of his lightly coloured turtle-neck leisure shirt which Belinda had insisted he buy in Chinon because it was so chic, so French, and in England the kind of thing worn only by foreigners and homos…

  The immigration officer was asking a woman a multitude of questions. It would, Sterne thought, be just his luck to meet some inquisitive bastard who spoke half a dozen languages fluently… The queue moved forward. And now, as if to make up for lost time, the immigration officer did little more than briefly study each newcomer, flick through the passport, look back and wave the person on. Soon, Sterne stood in front of the desk. He hoped the sweat on his forehead and neck wasn’t yet obvious. The immigration officer examined the travel permit: his expression could have been disapproving, as if only second-class citizens were content with travel permits rather than passports. He looked back at Sterne. He handed the permit back and concentrated on the next man in the queue.

  Sterne walked towards the luggage hall. He needed a drink, a very large drink, but he couldn’t remember whether the ridiculous licensing laws applied to international airports.

  Chapter 20

  Sterne pushed his way through the crowd of waiting relatives and friends and crossed to a telephone kiosk. He checked the telephone directory for the number of a local car hire firm, rang them, and asked for a Fiesta to be delivered at the airport immediately. The woman he spoke to promised it would be in the short-term car park within twenty minutes. He dialled Parsonage Farm: Ralph answered. “The prodigal brother has returned so cast an eye for a fatted calf.”

  Ralph, his voice high, said: “You mean… you’re here? And you’re not in custody?”

  “Didn’t I say there’d be no problem? I’ve been thinking things over and it’ll look better if your passport and I don’t suddenly appear at the same time in the same place. I’ll stay with Leila and Andy, who live pretty close to here, then, once you’ve got your passport, you can ring Young and tell him the Rover’s registration letters. So how about meeting at Spironi in an hour’s time for a meal and the official passport handing-over ceremony?”

  *

  The restaurant was half a mile back from the A20 and before the motorway had opened it had been a popular stopping place for travellers: now, it was often virtually empty during the week. As he sipped a gin and tonic, Sterne stared at the large mural on the far wall and wondered if the Mediterranean scene had ever been so dazzlingly blue, white, and green, as the artist had made it…

  Ralph entered, saw him, and hurried across. “How are you, really?”

  “Ninety-nine per cent recovered.”

  “Thank God for that. When we read the news about the crash we were worried so sick we couldn’t think straight.” He put his right hand on Sterne’s arm as if to reassure himself, then quickly dropped it away, perhaps slightly embarrassed at having openly shown such emotion.

  They sat. Sterne called a waiter over and ordered a whisky and a gin and tonic. Ralph, not fully aware of what he was doing, picked out a slice of crusty French bread from the wicker basket on the table and began to tease it with his fingers. “How in hell did you manage to get back into the country without being caught?” He’d lowered his voice, even though the two nearest tables were unoccupied.

  “I used a forged French temporary travel permit in the name of Robert Brousse.”

  “My God! I wish I hadn’t asked… It really was… forged?”

  “Expertly.”

  “If you’d been caught with a forged document on top of everything else…”

  The waiter returned with the drinks.

  When he had left and was out of earshot, Ralph said: “How did the crash happen? Did you have a blowout?”

  “Nothing like that. A large Peugeot worked it.”

  “You mean, it wasn’t an accident?”

  “No way.”

  “Christ! …Why should anyone have tried to kill you?”

  “I wish I knew the answer. Belinda and I had been asking questions at the motel in Lençon, but we’d learned nothing and since there wasn’t anything more we could do we decided to spend the last few days in the mountains, in a little village she knew. We were on our way when the Peugeot came up behind us and tried first to swipe us off the road, then to steer us into an oncoming lorry.”

  “You must have discovered something dangerous to them.”

  “Obviously they thought we had. But if they’d bothered to check with me first, I could have told them how mistaken they were.”

  The waiter returned and served Ralph with another whisky.

  Sterne said: “Phone Young as soon as you get back and tell him the possible registration combinations are A one BDB to A nine nine nine BDB, and the car’s a dark blue Rover: I can’t say which model.”

  “He’ll start shouting for you.”

  “Tell him I’m due to ring you very soon and you’ll ask me to get in touch with him.”

  Ralph nodded, lifted his glass, and drank.

  *

  The red Metro turned into the drive of Parsonage Farm and came to a stop by the side of the double garage. Young climbed out and stared at the house, and thought that though life had taught him the futility of dreaming, nothing could stop him dreaming of one day owning a house like this, a private piece of history, set in the quiet countryside… Meacher, beside him, said: “I wonder what they find to do, living out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Let’s move,” Young said, annoyed to discover yet again how wide a gulf could exist between people.

  Ralph opened the front door to them and he shook hands with punctilious good manners. He led the way into the sitting room. “I decided it was best to telephone you the moment I found the passport.”

  Young said nothing.

  “It had somehow dropped into a file so it was only when I opened the file for some papers that I found it.”

  “I’d like to look at it, if you don’t mind.” Young’s tone was carefully neutral.

  �
�Of course not. As a matter of fact, I’ve got it on me now.” Ralph brought the passport out of his coat pocket and handed it across.

  Young opened the passport, checked through the pages, closed it. “It’s a pity immigration controls have given up stamping these,” he said as he handed it back. “They used to help keep memories alive.”

  “My wife would agree with you; she’s a great person for memories,” replied Ralph blandly. “By the way, when my brother phoned me, I told him you wanted to hear from him.”

  “He got on to me late last night.”

  “Then now you’re satisfied that your suspicions were entirely wrong?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just routine. The phone call could have come from abroad so I’ve asked your brother to go to his nearest police station to identify himself. Until he’s done that, I can’t officially be satisfied that he is still in this country.”

  “But unofficially?”

  “Unofficially, I’m quite certain…” Young stopped himself.

  “Now the business is over, have a drink?”

  “Thank you, but we have to get back to work.”

  Once they were seated in the Metro, Meacher said: “Well?”

  “How the bloody hell did he manage to slip back into this country?”

  “By yacht? Port officials aren’t always as wide awake as they might be.”

  “You know as well as I do that for an amateur that’s a sight easier talked about than done. And we had a general alert out to all coastguards.”

  “Then have you got it all wrong and the Ralph Sterne in the car crash was nothing to do with here?”

  “It was Angus Sterne, travelling on his brother’s passport.”

  “Well, he can’t have come through the normal channels so that just leaves one answer. He was telephoning from France, hoping you’d buy his story that he was in Sussex.”

  “What’s the point of that if he can’t go to a police station and identify himself.”

  “He was hoping you wouldn’t demand he did. But you did, so he’s lost out. But he’s not worried. He’s shacked up with a woman and he’s forgotten that there’s a tomorrow.”

  “Don’t you ever lift your mind above sex?”

  “Not unless I absolutely have to.”

  *

  The police station was an old building, part of a complex which had been added to from time to time and now was an architect’s nightmare. The front room was square, shabby, and smelled of boiled cabbage and boot polish. The duty sergeant, an elderly, disgruntled man, studied Sterne. “You say a Detective-Superintendent Young of the Kent police asked you to go to the nearest police station to identify yourself?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard of it.” He sighed. “All right. Have you got a driving licence, credit card, anything of that nature?”

  Sterne brought a wallet out of his breast pocket. “Driving licence, Access and cheque cards.” He placed the things on the counter.

  The sergeant examined them and compared the three signatures, then reached for a sheet of plain paper and a ballpoint pen. “If you’ll sign your name three times, making the same signature as on the cards.”

  Sterne signed his name three times. The sergeant compared those signatures with the ones on the licence and cards, wrote a few notes on the bottom of the sheet of paper, turned the paper over so that there was no chance of Sterne reading what he’d written. “That’s all, then, Mr Sterne.”

  “You’ll get in touch with Superintendent Young?”

  “That’s right.”

  *

  Sterne telephoned Fording Cross divisional HQ several times the following morning and finally managed to speak to Young. “Did the police at West Treshurst get in touch with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So everything’s cleared up?”

  “I suppose you could put it like that.”

  “Have you done anything about the registration numbers?”

  “Swansea gave me four names and addresses and the four persons concerned have been interviewed.”

  “With what result?” Sterne asked, his voice sharp from tension.

  “None of them, or their cars, was in France on the relevant date.”

  “One of them was. Someone’s lying. You’ve got to go back and find out who.”

  “Mr Sterne, the four men live in different parts of the country so were questioned by officers from four different county forces. Each of those officers was satisfied that he was being told the truth. On the facts available, the police are unable to take the matter further.”

  “Don’t you believe Belinda?”

  “She could have made a mistake.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Letters can easily be misread at a distance, especially when seen only briefly.”

  “What is it? You want me to be found guilty to prove what a clever detective you are? All right, you won’t do anything. So give me the names and addresses and I’ll find out who’s lying.”

  “That’s quite out of the question.”

  “Why?”

  “Surely it’s obvious that any investigation must be carried out by the police and not by an individual?”

  “And when the police refuse to do anything?”

  “I have explained the situation.” Young said a curt goodbye and cut the connection.

  Sterne’s thoughts were both angry and bewildered. A man was innocent until proved guilty but it seemed that sometimes he would be prevented from establishing the facts which would deny such proof… He dialled Ralph’s office. “I’ve just spoken to the Detective-Superintendent. He’s identified four possible Rovers and each of the owners has been questioned. They all deny being in France. But one of ’em’s lying.”

  “Angus, if the police have questioned them and are satisfied…”

  “One of ’em must have bloody well been lying but Young refuses to have ’em questioned again. Get on to him and make him.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What the hell d’you mean, you can’t?”

  “The way in which an officer conducts a case is within his own jurisdiction and it can only be questioned — in court — if it can be shown beyond any shadow of doubt that he’s been negligent or guilty of malfeasance.”

  “So he’s been guilty of malfeasance — he won’t check up again.”

  “If he genuinely believes nothing’s to be gained from further inquiries — and the burden of rebutting this assumption is entirely on the person who asserts he does not genuinely believe — then his judgement cannot be challenged.”

  “God Almighty! A hundred words to say they’ve covered themselves in all directions.”

  “It’s not really like that at all. If only you’d look at things reasonably…”

  “How the hell can I? I’m the poor sod who’s got his goolies caught in the nut-crackers… If he won’t question the four again, I will.”

  “That’s quite out of the question.”

  “Why?”

  “The private individual’s never entitled to take the law into his own hands — subject to a couple of minor exceptions. On top of that, you are out on bail…”

  “Can you get hold of the names and addresses for me?”

  “The Superintendent certainly won’t give them to me.”

  “Why can’t you get on to Swansea? From time to time, solicitors must need to know in civil cases who the owners of cars are.”

  “Yes, but… but even if I did obtain the names, what could you possibly hope to do?”

  “Come face to face with each of the four and find out which one of ’em was in that Rover on the outskirts of Vertagne.”

  “You can’t… Angus, you told me they deliberately tried to kill you in France.”

  “Well?”

  “Then they’re obviously very dangerous. If you should personally identify the driver of the Rover he could try a second time to kill you. It would
be insane to run the risk. You’ve got to leave the police to handle things.”

  “I would, if they hadn’t refused.”

  “But…” Ralph became silent. As a lawyer, he believed both in the sanctity of innocence and the certainty that when such innocence was challenged its defence must be left to the legitimate forces of justice. But how did one square those two beliefs when the forces of justice refused to act…

  He made one last effort to change his brother’s mind. “You’ll be risking everything for nothing. I’ve told you, even if you identify one or more of the men behind the smuggling, that won’t prove you innocent of the charge of knowingly smuggling in the heroin.”

  “Maybe,” replied Sterne harshly, “but it wasn’t just me they tried to murder in France. It was Belinda as well.”

  *

  Of the four names Ralph had given Sterne, one man lived in Crawley, one in Olningham, one in Manchester, and the fourth in Haddington. Crawley being the nearest town, he drove there and spoke to the self-satisfied, patronising owner of an up-market antique shop: this man resembled neither of the two in the Rover in Vertagne. Sterne left Crawley and, after spending one night with friends en route, continued on to Suffolk.

  The river Olner had been of considerable importance in mediaeval times and Olningham had been a busy port, but then the wide estuary had begun to silt up due to an unexplained change in the currents around that stretch of the coast and its importance had declined until only a handful of inshore fishing boats sailed from it. Then, after the turn of the present century, its popularity had gradually returned with the spread of yachting — mud flats now covered much of the mile and a half wide estuary, but there were two broad, if relatively shallow, channels of clear water and these allowed weekend yachtsmen to sail without ever risking the challenge of the open sea.

  He reached the hotel, in Flood Street, in time for a mediocre dinner. Afterwards, he left and walked down Flood Street to Harbour Walk, in search of the owner of the second of the dark blue Rovers whose numbers Ralph had obtained from Swansea. The tide was now on the turn and beginning to ebb and ripples were forming on the upstream side of buoys. A hundred yards along a man was changing the plug of a moped and Sterne asked him where Bailey and Sons were. The man said round the corner.