Roller Coaster

by Michael Gilbert

  At the Stepney mortuary Petrella found Gwilliam with three other men. Dr Summerson, the Home Office pathologist from Guy’s, was deep in discussion with Superintendent Groener of the River Police. Groener had served in the Thames Division, which he now headed, for twenty-five years. He was a standing authority on every aspect of the grey and dangerous stretch of water under his charge. The third man was an ex-policeman called Cracknell, the Stepney coroner’s officer. Petrella had met him once before and disliked and distrusted him.

  Gwilliam said, “It was one of the superintendent’s people who found Poston-Pirrie. He’ll tell you about it. It’s an odd set-up altogether.”

  Groener said, “This morning Sergeant Belling, one of my most experienced men, was taking a look at the East Stepney Dock. It’s a small dock – it hasn’t been used for many years – near the outflow of the Limehouse Cut. He’d taken his launch into the entrance channel. There’s no gate at the river end and it’s blocked at the far end by a movable grating. There’s a narrow beach of shingle and mud on each side of the channel, just above tide level, and it was on the downstream beach, a few yards in from the river, that he spotted the body. And the real puzzle was how the hell it got there.”

  “Might it have been dropped from the dock?” said Gwilliam.

  “Quite impossible. There was no sign of anyone having broken into the dock, which was strongly barred. And if they had got in, to put the body where it was found would have meant hoisting it over a ten-foot railing of pointed steel spikes.”

  “And why should anyone have bothered?” said Petrella. “If they wanted to get rid of the body, they’d have weighted it and dropped it into the river, not left it where it was bound to be spotted sooner or later.”

  “Might it have been brought in from the river?” said Summerson.

  “The same objection,” said Petrella. “Why do it?”

  Having allowed the amateurs to talk nonsense, Groener was now prepared to pronounce a professional judgment. He said, “I don’t think anyone brought that body in. Let me explain. On this stretch of the river boats observe a sort of rule of the road. When the tide’s ebbing, and they’re coming up against it, they’re allowed to hug the banks, where there’s some slack water. Boats going down use the tidal flow and keep to midstream. So what I’m reasonably sure must have happened is that the body was floating down close to the bank and still high in the water.”

  “Explain that last bit,” said Petrella, who was listening intently.

  “A body that goes in fully clothed doesn’t sink straight away. Which is how quite a few attempted suicides have been saved. Their rescuers have been able to grab them before their clothes get sodden and pull them right down. Now if a barge came past, near the bank and against the stream, its bow wave would be quite strong enough to lift a body that was only just submerged clean out of the water and deposit it on the beach just inside the entrance.”

  “Which fits in,” said Petrella, “with its being found on the downstream beach. How long would a body float high?”

  “That depends on how it was dressed when it went in. I’ve known a man wearing a heavy overcoat stay up for a quarter of an hour. In this case, in view of the weather, he seems to have been dressed in an open-neck shirt and a light jacket.”

  “So how long? Five minutes – or less?”

  “You can’t be accurate to a minute. But call it five.”

  “And at the speed the tide was running, you’d say he went in – how far above the dock – two hundred yards?”

  “I wouldn’t say anything of the sort,” said Groener. He was worried by these attempts at accuracy when none of the factors were certain. “If you insist on a distance, you can call it anything between fifty yards and a quarter of a mile.”

  They were all looking at the map which Gwilliam had produced.

  “Cannon Wharf looks the favourite,” said Petrella, unabashed.

  Dr Summerson, who knew Petrella well, said, “Might I suggest that you wait for the results of the autopsy before attempting – as policemen so often do – to build a concrete theory on a foundation of uncertainties? However,” he added, “in a somewhat cursory preliminary examination I did observe one thing which supports Superintendent Groener’s general idea. The body must have left the water soon after it went in, for there are no signs that the fish have been at it. All the damage to it has been done by the wharf rats, who have enjoyed a feast denied to their rivals, the Thames’ eels. You can see where the clothing has been torn open and the marks of their teeth in the soft tissues of the body. If you had to rely on the face for identification you’d have been unlucky.”

  “Too true,” said Gwilliam, with a slight shudder. “Luckily we found the wallet in his pocket. There was plenty of identification there. And to make certain, we’re sending the dental details direct to the Sentinel.”

  “Then, doctor,” said Petrella, “until your autopsy is completed and you are able to give us some estimate of the time of death – surrounded by the normal medical reservations and obfuscations – there is not much more we can do here.”

  Summerson grinned. He knew that Petrella was getting back at him for his earlier comment.

  Cracknell, who had been standing quietly in the background, now said, “I have informed the coroner. He tells me that since identity has been established, the inquest can be opened as soon as Dr Summerson is ready.”

  “The sooner the better,” said Petrella, and Gwilliam nodded agreement. They could visualise the storm that was going to break.

  On their way back to Maplin Road Gwilliam said, “I’ve asked Constable Severn to stand by. He’s got some information for you. In view of what’s happened, it could be important. He may have been one of the last people to see Poston-Pirrie alive.”

  Severn was an Essex man, solid, but clearly not unintelligent. He said, “It was on the Friday evening, just two weeks ago, I was passing the end of White Horse Road, when I saw this gentleman coming towards me. He was walking in the middle of the road, sort of tacking from side to side and talking to himself. I did wonder if he might have been drinking at the White Horse.”

  “Which is where?”

  “It’s at the top end of the road, where it runs into Stepney Lane.”

  “Yes. I remember it. Please go on.”

  “Well, seeing he looked a bit shaken I asked, was there anything I could do for him? He seemed to pull himself together and said, could I direct him to the Athletic Club? Which wasn’t difficult as it’s a short way up Commercial Road.”

  “And that’s where he went?”

  “I imagine so, sir. I didn’t see any reason to follow him, but he certainly moved off in that direction.”

  Petrella thought about it. There were a number of other things he wanted to find out, but he knew the danger of asking Severn leading questions. If he did, Severn might be tempted to tell him what he thought his superior officer wanted to hear rather than the unvarnished truth.

  He said, “Did you actually see Poston-Pirrie coming out of the White Horse?”

  “No, sir. He was in the middle of the road, like I said.”

  “Or anyone coming out after him?”

  “I got the impression the door was open and someone shutting it. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention to it.”

  “Naturally not. What I was wondering was whether anyone in the pub could have heard Poston-Pirrie telling you that he was looking for the Athletic Club.”

  Severn smiled slowly. Petrella had no idea of what was coming.

  “I can see what you’re getting at, sir. It wasn’t a question of them overhearing what was said. Everyone in the White Horse knew where he was going.”

  “How so?”

  “Some of the lads who’d been there were joking about it in the canteen afterwards. It seemed they started pulling his leg. Implied he was chasing small boys.”

  “You said, ‘some of the lads’. Can you give me their names?”

  Severn looked unhappy. He said, “Mus
t I do that, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Petrella gently. “You must.”

  “Well, two of them were Sergeant Stark and Sergeant Pearson, and there was Ward and Harrington. I can’t remember who else.”

  “Thank you,” said Petrella. An unhappy picture was forming in his mind. He could visualise only too clearly how Poston-Pirrie would react to having his leg pulled. He said, “If you didn’t follow Poston-Pirrie down Commercial Road, where did you go?”

  “My route was along Cable Street, past the church and the rectory. I had a point at Shadwell Station.”

  “That’s quite clear. And very helpful.”

  When Severn had, thankfully, removed himself Gwilliam said, “I could ask him a few questions if you like. He might speak more freely to me than to you.”

  “No,” said Petrella. “Leave it.” Severn was too valuable a witness to be tampered with. “Next stop the Athletic Club. Who’s in charge there?”

  “The missioner’s a man called Branch. Bert Branch. He and the rector do it together. The rector’s got the City connections. That’s where he gets the money to keep the club going and pay for trips to the Continent.”

  “And it’s Branch who does the day-to-day running?”

  “That’s right. If you were thinking of going down to have a word with him, I know Bert quite well—”

  “Fine,” said Petrella. “We’ll go together.”

  As they walked, under the steely blue August sky, down Maplin Street and into Harford Street, each of them was busy with his own thoughts. They passed the HC station house at the foot of Harford Street and crossed over into White Horse Road. The door of the public house on the corner was wide open and one or two customers were drinking in the public bar. No policemen in sight, but they might have been tucked away in the back room. Halfway down the road Gwilliam pointed out an uninspiring block called Grindall Mansions. He said, “Some of the boys have pads there. Stark among others.” Petrella nodded, but said nothing. They were approaching the point which, as he was beginning to see, was the centre of one of his problems.

  It was a crossroads, Commercial Road ran across it, still busy though evening was closing in.

  “Athletic Club down here,” said Gwilliam, turning left.

  “Hold it,” said Petrella. He was looking down the fourth arm of the crossroads. This was Cable Street, which ran towards the river. He remembered going down it when he called on Father Bernard. From where he stood the rectory was hidden, but he could see the squat tower of the church.

  He said, “As we’re here we might as well have a look at Cannon Wharf.”

  Gwilliam smiled. He was well aware that this was one of the main objects of their excursion.

  After fifty yards Cable Street curved to the right. From this point Butcher Row ran straight down to the wharf. It was a stretch of cobbles. Dangerous if wet, Petrella thought. The wharf was a simple affair of planks, unguarded at its entrance and clearly little used.

  “Wouldn’t care to come down here in the dark,” said Gwilliam. Petrella said nothing. He was as certain as he could be that this was the point at which Poston-Pirrie had gone into the river.

  Whilst he was watching he saw a barge coming up, against the tide. It was keeping, as Groener had said it would, close to the bank. So close that he wondered, for a moment, if it was going to carry away the pier, but the steersman knew his job and swerved away at the last moment. In the evening light the grey wave he left behind him looked almost solid.

  “Seems to bear out Groener’s idea,” said Gwilliam. Petrella nodded. Accept Groener’s hypothesis certainly. But it left the main question unanswered. Had Poston-Pirrie slipped into the water by accident? Or been pushed? Or carried down unconscious and thrown in? Maybe the autopsy would give them an answer. They plodded back, careful not to slip, turned into Commercial Road and made for the club.

  Bert Branch was a cheerful tub of a man who looked as though he had come out of the army or the navy. He had, in fact, spent most of his earlier career in the fire brigade. He greeted Gwilliam warmly and didn’t seem unduly worried when the object of Petrella’s visit was explained to him.

  He said, “Yes, I remember that journalist feller. About a fortnight ago, would that be right? Came along around seven o’clock. The club was pretty full.”

  “As full as it is now?”

  “About that.”

  There were twenty or more boys there, some Brits and others who, he guessed from their colouring and their hairstyles, were probably West Indians.

  “They get on well enough,” said Branch, answering a question that had not been asked.

  “They certainly seem to,” said Petrella. He moved across to watch a group of three who were playing shove-halfpenny, one white, two West Indians. The white boy was performing as they came up. Petrella noticed his hands. They were like a musician’s: long fingers, broad and flat at the end. He seemed to be conjuring the metal discs into the right slots.

  “That’s Arnold,” said Branch. “And Winston and Delroy who are his particular friends. They won’t play against him for money.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’ve got tired of paying out. He always wins.”

  A darts match was going on at the end of the hall, but the main attraction was a game of table-tennis. A dozen boys were watching what was obviously a needle contest. The two players were both good. They indulged in full-blooded smashes and athletic saving shots.

  “If you’re talking to them about it,” said Branch, “do remember not to call it ping-pong. They take it very seriously. Those two boys both reached the quarter finals of the local league knock-out.”

  Petrella watched them for some minutes. Then he said, “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “I’ve got an office. If you can call it that.”

  It wasn’t large, but the three of them managed to squeeze in and shut the door.

  Petrella said, “Tell me, when this journalist turned up – his name was Poston-Pirrie, by the way – what exactly did he do?”

  “He talked to the boys.”

  “About what do you happen to know?”

  “There’s precious little goes on here that I don’t know,” said Branch with a smile. “It seems he was fishing. For titbits about them and the police. Harassment, bullying, that sort of thing.”

  “And did he get much out of them?”

  “The boys weren’t born yesterday. They reckoned that if they were going to rubbish the police they ought to get something in return. When it seemed this chap wasn’t going to shell out – he put it to them it was their duty to give him the information – they shut up shop. Gave him a brush-off. They weren’t rude about it, just got on with whatever games they were playing. With one exception, that is. Barry Thursday.”

  As he mentioned the name the missioner’s face registered the sort of expression that would have greeted the opening of a tin of over-ripe fish.

  “Tell me about Barry.”

  “He’s a bad lot. And I don’t mean the sort of harum-scarum kid who gets into trouble. If there’s any trouble around Barry, it’s the other party who collects it.”

  “You mean he’s a nasty little boy.”

  “I mean just that. Mind you, some of the blame may go to his mother. He’s an only child and she’s spoilt him rotten. And she’s had plenty of opportunity to do it. Mrs Thursday’s the uncrowned queen of Limehouse Fields.”

  “Then Barry’s a West Indian boy.”

  “He’s certainly got a West Indian mother. No one can remember who his father was. I doubt if his mother can.”

  “And Barry was the only one prepared to talk to Poston-Pirrie.”

  “Not only prepared. Seemed anxious to. He asked, could he talk to him in private. I let him use this room. They were nearly half an hour together – perhaps not as much, because it was still quite light when he left, though the mist which we get in the evenings was beginning to come up.”

  “Which makes it, what? About eight o’clock
?”

  “About that, I should say.”

  “Can you tell me what they talked about?”

  “Seeing I’d been excluded from the discussion, I’m afraid not.”

  “You didn’t ask Barry?”

  “I shouldn’t have been told the truth if I had. He’s a natural liar. And I shouldn’t have had much chance anyway. He pushed straight off and hasn’t been here since.”

  “Before this happened, was he a regular attender?”

  “Quite regular, yes.”

  “And for a fortnight he hasn’t shown up at all. Did that strike you as odd?”

  “When I had time to think about it, I suppose it did.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Petrella, “you’re a busy man and I’m taking up a lot of your time. Then one last thing. Can you give me Barry’s address?”

  “I can look it up for you. Do you think it’s important?”

  “I think,” said Petrella slowly, “that what he said to Poston-Pirrie and what Poston-Pirrie said to him might be very important indeed.”

  As soon as he got back to Maplin Road he telephoned Ramsbottom. He said, “Could you send a good man to Limehouse Fields? Someone who gets on with the West Indians. His job is to locate a Mrs Thursday – it shouldn’t be difficult, apparently she’s quite a local character – and find out what’s happened to her one and only chick, Barry. When she asks what it’s all about he can be a bit cagey and say that the police think he’s got some information which might interest them. At which point he can mention that the banks have put out a five-thousand-pound reward in connection with that nasty little wage-snatch at Old Ford last month.”

  “You mean the one when the girl cashier got her front teeth knocked out?”

  “That’s the one. It had the hallmarks of a Torpedo/Farm Boys’ job.”

  “And you mean that Barry might be able to pin it to them?”

  “To be honest with you, I rather doubt it. But if you dangle that carrot in front of his mum she might persuade Barry to talk to us. I think he knows something which I want to know very badly indeed.”

  And that, thought Ramsbottom, is all I’m going to get out of him. Close as an oyster. He said, “The best time to find Barry at home will be late afternoon. Wherever he’s been he’ll turn up for his evening meal.”