Body of a Girl

by Michael Gilbert

  “If you’re going to be sick, be sick outside,” said Mercer. “We may have to make a chemical analysis of this muck. Don’t let’s complicate it.”

  “I’m all right,” muttered Massey.

  “Hold the torch then.”

  It was a heavy double-power inspection lamp, and its white light showed up the disastrous squalor of Sowthistle’s living arrangements. There was an old iron bedstead with a leaking feather mattress, blankets which had once been white and were now grey, and an old army overcoat. In one corner a paraffin stove was almost hidden behind a pile of unwashed saucepans and crockery.

  “If he cooks his food in those, and eats it off these,” said Mercer, “he must have a bloody wonderful inside. You or I, we’d be dead of food poisoning inside twenty-four hours.” He lifted up a saucepan and peered into it. “What do you think that is?”

  Massey sniffed delicately and said, “It smells like kidneys. Do you mind—”

  “Sorry,” said Mercer. “I thought it’d be a nice change from the other smells. Let’s have a look in that cupboard.”

  The cupboard was padlocked. Mercer found a poker, put the point through the staples and twisted them out of the woodwork. The shelves were so tightly crammed that when the doors came open the contents started to cascade onto the floor. There were piles of books and magazines. Mostly foreign and all featuring naked or near-naked girls with enormously inflated bosoms and behinds. There were photographs, single and in sets. There were sheets of typewritten, hand-written and mimeographed paper. Mercer picked up one of them and started to read it.

  After a minute he said, “Well, well,” put it down and started on another.

  “What’s it all about?” said Massey.

  “Sexual intercourse,” said Mercer. “This one’s entitled, ‘The Ballad of Shooters Hill’. It’s hot stuff. Rhymes, too. Hold that torch steady.”

  “What is all this?”

  “I guess it’s Sowthistle’s personal collection of pornography. Phew! Look at that photograph. On second thoughts you’d better not. You’re too young.”

  “Dirty old man.”

  “I don’t think,” said Mercer, turning the photograph over and examining the back of it, “that it’s all for his own edification. I think what we’ve stumbled on is a Licentious Lending Library. You see those crosses and dates.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d guess each one represents a loan. The lads of the village come over here and he lets them read these, or maybe borrow them. For a shilling a time, or whatever the going rate for filth is round here. Judging from the number of crosses he must be making a bloody good living out of it. Tax free, into the bargain.”

  They heard the gangplank creak, and the opening was darkened for a moment as Sowthistle came through it.

  Massey turned the torch on him.

  “Who is it?” The voice was high-pitched and querulous. “Who are you? What do you want? You’ve got no right in there. Clear out the lot of you.”

  “You got a lamp?” said Mercer.

  “Wassat?”

  “I said, have you got a lamp. You must have some light in this hole.”

  “Who are you?”

  “We’re police.”

  “Police?” The old man was swaying on his feet, and each time he opened his mouth the sour smell of whisky was added to the other elements in the atmosphere. “You busted open my door, didn’t you? You’ve got no right to do that. And my cupboard.”

  “If you don’t get that lamp lit, grandpa, I’ll bust you, too,” said Mercer.

  “All right, all right.”

  “Get a move on.”

  The pale, smoky light of a paraffin lamp showed up the interior of the barge. It also illuminated its owner. He would have looked a lot less unpleasant, thought Mercer, if he had been dressed in the traditional rags of a tramp, with his toes sticking out of holes in his boots. In fact, he had assembled an outfit which, in different circumstances, might have looked almost respectable. He was wearing a blue suit, two sizes too large for him and shiny at the corners, a flannel shirt and a made-up bow tie which had twisted on its stud and was now pointing north and south, rather than east and west. On his feet, a pair of brown, lace-up boots. Red-rimmed, watery eyes and a stubble of grey beard completed the picture.

  Mercer said, “All right. Sit down.”

  “I want to know what right you’ve got—”

  Mercer took two quick steps up to him. Sowthistle retreated from the menace, the backs of his legs touched an old armchair, and he folded back into it.

  “That’s better,” said Mercer. He perched on the edge of the table beside him. “Let’s have that stuff.”

  Massey opened the bag he was carrying and took out the clothes and trinkets one by one. Sowthistle made no pretence of examining them. He simply nodded his head at each item.

  “You identify these as Sweetie’s property?” said Mercer.

  “I wouldn’t say identify. I knew she had some things. Kept them down in town. Wouldn’t bring them home.”

  “Why not?”

  Sowthistle waved a vague hand round the dirt and shambles of his home.

  “Answer the question,” said Mercer. “Do you mean she was afraid of the dirt? Or was she afraid you’d take ’em off her?”

  “I don’t follow you, Inspector. Are you suggesting I’d rob my own flesh and blood?”

  “You could read that into it,” said Mercer, “or take it the other way if you like. Did you ever take her clothes off her?”

  This got a reaction. Sowthistle started to come out of his chair. Mercer raised his leg, planted his foot in the old man’s chest, and pushed him back.

  “All you’ve got to do,” he said, “is sit still and answer questions. Are any of those photographs in the cupboard photographs of your daughter in the next-to-nothing?”

  “Of course they aren’t. I bought ’em.”

  “We shall see when we’ve had a chance to look through them.” Mercer sat, swinging one leg, and looking down at the old man. “You’re on a spot. You know that, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “No? What about all that filth—?”

  “Like I told you. I bought ’em for myself. There’s no law against that.”

  “Try and get the court to believe you. I’ll put up half a dozen witnesses who’ll say you charged them to look at it. Young boys, some of them. There’ll be other charges, too. Indecent behaviour—”

  The old man opened his mouth to say something, and then shut it again. He seemed to be fascinated by Mercer’s leg swinging within inches of his face.

  “There’s a lot of people in this town have been waiting a chance to run you out. You’ll get four years I’d guess. Maybe seven, when all the charges have been added up. And as soon as you’re safe inside we’ll get a clearance order and burn this place down. I’ll be happy to light the first match. I don’t like people like you. Not one little tiny bit, I don’t. And I think it’s time someone taught you a lesson.”

  He slid further round the edge of the table, until he was sitting almost on top of the old man, who cringed back in his chair.

  Mercer said to Massey, “I think you’d better step outside, son, and keep your eyes open. We don’t want anyone butting in.”

  “Don’t you go. Don’t leave me alone with him.”

  Massey hesitated.

  Mercer said, “Outside, son. I’m not going to touch him.”

  “Anything you say, Skipper,” said Massey. He went out, and they heard the gangplank creaking as he went down it. Then silence. Mercer let it hang for a full ten seconds whilst Sowthistle crouched in his chair, his eyes ablink.

  Then Mercer leaned forward, crooked a hand into the old man’s coat, pulled him forward until their heads were no more than a few inches apart and spoke, very quietly.

  “You’re in bad trouble, grandpa.” He gave the coat a little shake and Sowthistle’s head seemed to nod in agreement. “And a sens
ible man, when he sees trouble coming, the first thing he thinks about is how he can side-step it. Right?” Again a little shake. “And I’m going to show you how to do it. I’ll let you buy your way out of this, if you like.”

  “Buy?”

  “Not with money. With a piece of information. Just one piece.”

  “Anything I can do to help, Inspector. You know I’d do it.”

  “Fine. Then here’s what I want to know. During the last month of her life your girl had picked up a new boyfriend. She was meeting him secretly. No one seems to know who he was. But you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

  “She never told me anything, Inspector.”

  “You’re lying. There’s nothing she did you wouldn’t know about, or could find out.”

  “I swear to God—”

  “Just the name. That’s all I want.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Sowthistle said, in a different, sharper voice. “There’s someone outside, I heard him.”

  “It’s only Massey.”

  “There’s someone out there, listening. I can’t talk to you.”

  “You’ve got to talk. You’ve got no option.”

  “Not now.”

  “What are you frightened of?”

  With a sudden jerk the old man freed himself, tearing the lapel of the coat right off. He wriggled out of the chair, and scuttled round to the end of the bed.

  Then he started to scream.

  “Stop that,” said Mercer. “It won’t do you any good.”

  Massey came back through the opening. He looked curiously at the old man, who was holding onto the end of the bed. He had stopped screaming, and was shaking violently.

  “Anything I can do, Skipper?”

  “Not just now,” said Mercer. He put down the torn piece of coat on the table and led the way out. They made their way back to the car in silence.

  When they got back into the town, Mercer said, “Who’s the next man on your list?”

  It took Massey, whose mind was on other things, a moment to work this out. Then he said, “It’s Henniker. He’s a bookie. Betting shop at the top of the High Street.”

  “I’ll drop you there. I’ve got another visit to make.”

  Massey said, “O.K., Skipper,” got out and stood on the pavement looking down at the car. There was clearly something he wanted to say and Mercer waited for him to say it.

  “Did you get anything out of the old coot?”

  “It depends what you mean by anything. Information, no. One fact, yes. He does know something, and he’s frightened to talk.”

  “Frightened of who?”

  “If we knew that, son,” said Mercer, “we’d be a long way on.”

  Chapter Six

  The notice, in sun-blistered white letters on a black board, read: ‘Brattle’s Boat House. Punts Dinghies Skiffs Canoes. By Hour Day Week or Month.’

  Mr. Brattle was at work on the sloping plank-way in front of his boat-house. He had a punt upside down on two wooden trestles, and was replacing a cracked bottom plank.

  “How did that happen?” said Mercer.

  “Some silly kids, skylarking,” said Mr. Brattle. “Ran her onto the footing of the bridge.” He didn’t sound upset about it. He didn’t look the sort of man who would upset easily. His thick bare forearms were almost as brown as the teak he was shaping. Mercer had been watching him with pleasure for some minutes before he spoke to him. He thought that he had rarely seen a more relaxed character.

  “You were asking about Mr. Prior,” said Mr. Brattle. He held the plank up, decided that it could do with a fraction more off the left-hand side, and walked over with it to his workbench to position it in the vice. Mercer followed him.

  “There’s two different ways you could get to his place. One is, you could go right back into the town, cross the bridge, take the turning to the left – not the first one, the second – go as far as the cemetery, and turn down the small road opposite the cemetery gate. That’d bring you back, you see—to there.”

  Mr. Brattle pointed with his spokeshave across the river.

  “You mean, that’s his bungalow I can see.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And I’m on the wrong bank.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Damn,” said Mercer.

  Mr. Brattle removed a sliver of wood from the plank, and said, “The second way is, I could run you across in the boat.”

  “Well,” said Mercer. “If it isn’t taking up too much of your time.”

  “Time,” said Mr. Brattle, “is meant to be took up.”

  He led the way down to the landing stage, unhitched the chain with one large hand, picked up the pole with the other, motioned Mercer aboard, and drove the punt out into the river, performing every action with an economy of movement and effort that was poetry in action.

  It was very peaceful on the river. The weir lay downstream, hidden by a bend, and they could hear it grumbling to itself. The water slapped against the bow of the punt. A moorhen scuttled out of one patch of reeds and disappeared into another.

  “There you are, Inspector. If you’re not going to be too long I’ll wait for you.”

  “Might be ten minutes.”

  “Time for a pipe,” said Mr. Brattle.

  Mercer walked up the path between two gardens. The bungalow on the left belonged to the Priors. The one on the right looked empty. There was no other building in sight. The service road seemed to have been built for them alone.

  Henry Prior answered the door bell. He was a thin man with a lot of untidy grey hair and glasses. He seemed surprised. He said, “I didn’t hear anyone drive up.”

  “That’s because I didn’t drive,” said Mercer. “I was ferried.” He showed him his card.

  “Police?” said Mr. Prior. “Not Mabel—”

  “Your wife?”

  “She’s in town, shopping. She hasn’t—”

  “Nothing to do with your wife, sir.”

  “Silly of me. Every time she takes the car out I think something’s going to happen to her. Actually she’s a much better driver than I am. Come in.”

  A room with French windows opening onto a strip of lawn which dipped down to the river. Shabby furniture, which had been good once. Photographs of children and grandchildren. A lot of books. If you had to sit down somewhere and wait for death, it wasn’t a bad spot to sit in.

  “It’s about your garage,” said Mercer.

  “Oh, that.” Mr. Prior made a face. “That’s over and done with, or so I’d hoped.”

  “As far as you’re concerned, sir, that’s right. Not an agreeable topic, I expect, and I apologise for raising it. The fact is, we’re interested in that mechanic. The one who caused all the trouble.”

  “Taylor.”

  “Was that his name?”

  “That was the name he gave. I understand now that it wasn’t his real name. He was a shocking mechanic. I ought to have checked up on him, I suppose. But mechanics are very hard to get.”

  “I don’t think he was just a bad mechanic. I think he was a crook.”

  “Whatever makes you think that, Inspector?”

  “Bad mechanics don’t operate under false names. And when they get into trouble they don’t disappear. They haven’t got the facilities.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Prior. He didn’t sound very interested. “Well, if he was a criminal, and has got into more trouble, I can’t be expected to have much sympathy for him.”

  “Naturally not,” said Mercer. “Did it ever occur to you that he might have been planted on you?”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Deliberately planted on you. With the idea of running you out of business.”

  Mr. Prior sat very still. Then he said, “Who would have done such a thing? And why? I haven’t got any enemies that I know of.”

  “It would have been to Jack Bull’s advantage to have you out of business.”

  “I’m quite certain he wouldn’t do a thing like
that. Besides—”

  He stopped. Then added. “This didn’t come out at the time, but he was very good to me. When a business goes bust you usually have to sell the fixed equipment at scrap prices. He bought it all from me at its full balance-sheet value. But as for someone planting that mechanic on me—I did think about it. But it didn’t seem possible to prove anything. It’d be more difficult still by now.”

  “If we could find him, we might prove it.”

  “My solicitors tried to find him. That was three years ago. If they couldn’t do it—”

  “We’re better than solicitors at finding people. If we give our minds to it. What I was wondering was whether you had any old records. For instance, Taylor could change his name, but he couldn’t change his National Insurance number.”

  “The solicitors thought of that. The cards had gone. He must have taken them out of the office.”

  “Were there any other sort of papers? Did he give any references? Or mention any other job he’d been in?”

  “References? No. I’m pretty certain there was nothing in writing. My wife looked after all that sort of thing—and here she is.”

  There was a sound of badly adjusted brakes squeaking and of a car door slamming. Mr. Prior trotted out of the room and came back, shepherding in his wife, and looking like a dog who has done something rather clever.

  Mrs. Prior had grey hair like her husband, but there the resemblance ceased. She was a rounded cheerful person and was clearly the driving end of the Prior axis. She listened carefully to what Mercer had to say, and shook her head.

  “The lawyers went over all that. There wasn’t a scrap of paper in the office belonging to him or referring to him.”

  “When you sign on a new man and take over his National Insurance cards there’s a form which gives the name of his last employer. You couldn’t possibly remember what the name was?”

  “I could, and do. It was the Crescent Garage, at an address in Southwark.”

  “Which was duly investigated, I imagine, and found to be nonexistent?”

  “Correct.”

  “I see,” said Mercer, and was silent for a moment, staring out of the window. A launch went slowly past upstream. A man in a Panama hat was seated at the wheel. He was smoking a cigar.