The Cold North Sea

by The Cold North Sea (retail) (epub)

  ‘Here?’

  Finch lit up and took a puff.

  ‘Yes. He was in a bit of a pickle, you see, living rough. He’d sought me out. He was a little paranoid about something…’

  Finch circled his finger at his temple to indicate mental health concerns and to remind them of his own professional status.

  ‘…He showed up here again yesterday… Saturday morning. About eleven-ish. He was penniless, soaking wet, cold, hungry and was also coming down with something. It was not a situation I could tolerate as a physician… or a Christian…’

  He hoped the playing of the God card would appeal to this congregation… and on a Sunday.

  ‘…I gave him some medicine, a bite to eat, let him dry out his clothes and laid him down on the sofa. Poor chap was in quite a state. Thing is, I had plans… was going out… off into London. Told him he could stay for a bit but should see himself out.’

  ‘That’s very trusting of you.’

  Finch handed the photo back.

  ‘Too right. I came back that night to find the house ransacked and some items missing, as I’ve said. Again, I’m not accusing Pickersgill specifically, but it happened on his watch, if you know what I mean?’

  The sergeant gestured to Woodruff. He took out a notepad and read from it.

  ‘Two candlesticks, a carriage clock and a trophy… It had your name engraved on it, sir…’

  He gave Finch a wink.

  ‘…Never ’ad you pegged as a darts man, sir.’

  ‘No end to my talents, Percy… But yes, those are the items that are missing.’

  ‘We found ’em in an ’essian sack, Dr Finch…’

  ‘Swift work, gentlemen. Thank you.’

  ‘…on Sidney Pickersgill’s person.’

  Finch sighed. Jilkes had been right.

  ‘Only thing in ’is pockets, other than the photograph, was a silver ’alf-crown.’

  Finch, you are a mug.

  ‘Then you’ve got him?’ asked Finch. ‘Down at the station?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said the sergeant.

  The policemen exchanged a glance.

  ‘We mean ’e’s dead, sir,’ added Woodruff.

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Found ’im in a ditch out on the old Roman road,’ the constable explained. ‘Bloke on the estate was ferretin’. Came across ’is body ’bout half past seven this mornin’. Looks like it was dumped there.’

  ‘Dumped?’

  ‘Was killed with a single shot to the left temple…’

  ‘My God!’

  ‘…from about five to ten feet.’

  Finch looked around for an ashtray. He settled on the empty teacup by his feet.

  ‘But the body’s position was not one of a man felled by a bullet, if you understand, sir,’ said Woodruff. ‘It was of someone who’d been rolled, dumped down there… There are ways of tellin’, sir.’

  Finch nodded.

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  Finch felt genuinely sad. Pickersgill had predicted his own imminent demise. He thought now about the man’s final words to him. It was a goodbye. He’d known then and there that his time was up. But then why waste time with a pointless robbery?

  He flipped ash into the cracked saucer.

  ‘We contacted our colleagues in the Norfolk Constabulary,’ said the sergeant. ‘A telephone call from Norwich confirmed Pickersgill had history – a drunk, a petty thief, a conman…’

  A drunk?

  ‘Upset quite a few people, he did. Worming his way into their lives with tall tales. Invoking pity, scamming food, bits of cash…’

  The sergeant looked around the room. He harrumphed.

  ‘This “ransacking”, as you’ve called it. Looks pretty tidy in here.’

  ‘Well I’ve broken the back of it. Was quite a mess before.’

  The next question put Finch on the defensive.

  ‘Are you sure that’s what happened, Dr Finch?’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Exactly as I asked.’

  The sergeant nodded to PC Woodruff who, on this signal, licked the stub of a pencil and began taking notes.

  ‘Now look here, Sergeant. I’m not sure I appreciate the insinuation.’

  Woodruff scribbled furiously.

  ‘And what insinuation’s that?’ sneered the officer.

  ‘I don’t know… that I’m somehow being… deceitful.’

  ‘And why would that be?’

  Finch had had experience of police interrogations. They seemed to rely on a standard routine of turning every statement into a question. He did the same with his answer.

  ‘And why would it not be?’

  Woodruff looked up. His face suggested Finch’s tactic might not be the most prudent, a silent imploration to desist. The sergeant upped the ante.

  ‘Dr Finch, we have several witnesses who can place you at the Six Bells public house around twelve noon on Tuesday. Said witnesses also claim that Pickersgill entered the pub, sought you out and that the pair of you then entered into an intense conversation – some would allege a confrontation – which concluded with you berating Pickersgill, then storming out of the pub and slamming the door.’

  Finch smiled a wry smile to himself. They had an agenda. He suspected there was little he could do now. He bent down and stubbed out his cigarette.

  ‘Something funny, Dr Finch?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘I’m glad you place such faith in the testimony of a bunch of drunks.’

  The sergeant nodded at the empty whisky bottle which Jilkes had stood on the occasional table.

  ‘Does that include yourself, sir?’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘People talk, you know.’

  Finch stood.

  ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

  ‘Not so fast. I advise you to sit down again.’

  Finch huffed, then complied.

  ‘Did you have something against Mr Pickersgill?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘It’s just this whole robbery thing. It seems something of an amateur cover-up…’

  Now it was the sergeant spluttering an ironic laugh.

  ‘…I mean, stealing something with your name on it. How convenient.’

  ‘It’s exactly as I told you,’ bleated Finch, frustrated now that the sergeant was employing the very same logic that he himself had used earlier.

  ‘One final thing,’ said the sergeant. ‘Pickersgill was killed with a .45 bullet. It had lodged in his skull. Most likely from an Enfield or a Webley revolver.’

  Finch’s heart sank. He knew what was coming when he saw the sergeant’s eyes dip down to the area beneath the settee, right behind his ad hoc ashtray.

  ‘What’s wrapped in that rag?’ he asked.

  He had tucked it away but not yet returned it to its hiding place.

  ‘You can probably guess,’ said Finch.

  ‘Do you have a licence for it?’

  ‘It’s my old service pistol. No.’

  There, he knew, was their pretext.

  The sergeant turned to PC Woodruff, who looked personally pained at what he would now be obliged to do.

  The policemen stood; so did Finch. Woodruff produced a pair of handcuffs.

  ‘Sorry sir…’ he said.

  Chapter Eleven

  Finch sat on the bed in the police cell. The room smelled of carbolic and urine. The thin, worn mattress had a rough horse blanket upon it and a stripy pillow stained a nasty yellowy brown. The ensemble acted as a deterrent to any notion of lying down.

  Periodic footsteps and police shop talk echoed off the bare walls of the corridor. After about an hour or so they were followed by the clanking of keys and the swinging open of the heavy metal door. Beneath a police arm, Jilkes ducked in. The door clanged shut again. A copper glanced in through the grille then slid the panel back across.

  Sure that they were alone, Jilkes’ voice came in a strained whisper.

  ‘For Ch
rist’s sake, Ingo. I told you to let this bloody thing go!’

  ‘It was they who came for me, Jilkes. The poor bastard’s dead and they’re suggesting I had something to do with it…’

  He shrugged.

  ‘…Then again I suppose I did, in a way… Hastened it, maybe.’

  ‘Don’t start saying that. You acted most charitably to Pickersgill.’

  ‘Come on, Jilkes. Executed and dumped in a ditch just hours after I took him in? Single shot from five to ten feet? And with a bullet from a Webley revolver…?’

  Jilkes nodded that he was familiar with the facts.

  ‘They’ll be taking a look at your pistol later. It shouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘Forgive me for being cynical, Jilkes, but I’m sure they can make that bullet match it if they really want to. Ballistics is an inexact science. You know that.’

  Jilkes exhaled. He let the pause hang for maximum impact.

  ‘Hold on, laddie. Let’s get one thing clear. The law’s an ass, sure. But the law’s still the law. If you lose complete faith in it, there’s no point fighting your corner; no point in my even being here…’

  ‘It’s just—’

  ‘I know what you’re saying, Ingo. But you can’t just storm off, take your ball and go home. You have to play the game to the rules. To the very letter. Play it better.’

  Jilkes looked paler than he had done earlier, thought Finch. He dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief then sat down on the bed next to him. He opened his brown leather briefcase and shuffled some papers.

  ‘Well I guess if we’ve learned anything, we now know what message your friend in the gents was sending you,’ he said. ‘It was a warning. A good old head on a spike, stuck there to make sure you keep your nose out of this business. Whatever “this business” may be.’

  ‘My head on the spike, Jilkes.’

  ‘Not quite. They’re holding you without charge on a technicality – possession of a firearm without a licence, that’s all. It’s a typical tactic. Bring you in while they see if they can amass enough evidence to charge you for the bigger deal…’

  ‘You mean the murder?’

  Finch put his head in his hands.

  ‘Listen to me, Ingo. The ballistics – inexact science or otherwise – will only be advisory. They can’t pin anything on you. Our local bobbies, especially that sanctimonious wee arse of a sergeant, have already broken just about every rule governing the processing of a crime scene. Even if you did do it…’

  Finch looked startled.

  ‘…which I’m not suggesting for one second, I’m merely talking hypothetically… we’d get it thrown out by the judge. It’s inadmissible.’

  Finch sighed.

  ‘More immediately, I’ve corroborated everything you’ve told me that happened over the past few days. Ralph the bartender is happy to give a more favourable account of what happened in the Six Bells. I have the names and addresses of two others who I’m certain will sing the same tune. Here…’

  He passed Finch a packet of Navy Cut and a box of matches.

  ‘God bless you,’ said Finch.

  The packet was already open.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind. Thought it’d calm my nerves.’

  Finch offered him another.

  ‘Better not. Two in one day.’

  Finch lit one himself. He drew deep and sighed. From a sheaf of papers Jilkes pulled out a document. He handed it over.

  ‘Excuse the two-fingered typing… It’s a signed statement from me to say I was at your house this morning, saw all the mess – I’ve catalogued it in detail for them – and that you’d fully intended to come and tell the police sooner… were it not for a bastard of hangover.’

  ‘Which is actually true, Jilkes. I had a change of heart. Was on my way here. Only wish I’d done it sooner.’

  Jilkes didn’t react, just handed him another sheet, a list of names.

  ‘You also have witnesses who can account for your whereabouts yesterday evening: Maude, Annie Pointer, her husband if necessary. I dropped in on Maude on the way here. Not only will she attest to the fact that she witnessed you extend your charity to the unfortunate Mr Pickersgill – and against her better judgement – but that she was also witness to the aftermath of the ransacking and robbery when you came back from London.’

  Finch sighed again.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You should thank Maude most of all, Ingo. The wee lass was prepared, if needed, to state on record that she spent the whole night with you. If that had gone to court she’d have lost her job… her honour…’

  Finch stared down at the floor. It was a hell of a thing for Maude to have done. But he couldn’t stop thinking of Annie.

  ‘One last thing. I got on the phone to a colleague, a specialist in military law, worked with him in Lagos. Told me that if you raided the home of every serviceman who saw action in the colonies, you’d find over half of them had illicit hardware… stuff they brought home as a “souvenir”… And that includes an awful lot of coppers, by the way. So at the very least we can pick the police up on their inconsistency. Our ass of a law has to be applied fairly. But it also seems you chaps in the Medical Corps were a special case…’

  ‘We were?’

  ‘The South African War marked the first time in combat that field medics, battlefield surgeons, weren’t just volunteers in mufti…’

  Finch nodded.

  ‘…The Royal Army Medical Corps had been formed specifically as a uniformed military unit. For medics in the field, carrying a sidearm was optional, a matter of conscience. Remember that?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Thing is, the whole expedition was so shambolic to begin with, especially after the defeats and retreats of the Black Week – you know, when the Boers gave us a bloody nose – that no records exist of who was issued what in the field. Whether you signed the weapon out or back in again is something no one can prove. Nor whether, after hostilities… and I want you to listen very carefully, Ingo… you paid cash to the quartermaster to purchase the gun in your own name and with the paperwork duly processed to go with it.’

  Jilkes grinned.

  ‘The retail value of a used Webley in May 1902 was about eight guineas, Ingo. I’m asking you – and you don’t have to answer – do you remember handing eight guineas cash to a quartermaster in Cape Town whose name you can’t recall on the promise that the paperwork would be forwarded to your home address in England…?’

  Finch smiled.

  ‘M’lud, I do believe the defence is leading the witness.’

  ‘The burden of proof’s on them, not us… So here, sign this…’

  He handed Finch a sheet which summarised all that they had just discussed.

  ‘You did this all in the last hour, Jilkes? I’m very impressed.’

  He took Jilkes’ fountain pen and added his name.

  ‘Not as impressive as my fee, Ingo… Waived in your case… Anyway, you’re free to go…’

  His face was still grim, his jaw tight.

  ‘But this is the last time. I told you, I can’t represent you any more, I simply can’t. I’m sorry. I truly am.’

  Jilkes pointed at the cigarettes.

  ‘Think I will have one of those after all.’

  He took one and lit it up. They sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ Jilkes asked.

  ‘Some stale bread. A few hours ago now.’

  ‘Then you’re coming with me. Agatha’s cooked a topside of beef. Roast potatoes, vegetables, the whole works. More than enough to go round.’

  Finch began to protest about the imposition.

  ‘Nonsense, Ingo. Always a seat at our table.’

  They stood.

  ‘Thank you, Jilkes. Sincerely. Thank you.’

  Jilkes noticed the tremors in his Finch’s outstretched right hand before he shook it.

  ‘Best way you can thank me? Give up the bottle.’

  Jilkes banged on the door a
nd PC Woodruff opened it. Jilkes escorted Finch out.

  ‘Sorry ’bout all that, sir,’ the constable offered. ‘I feel a right charlie.’

  ‘Not your fault, Percy,’ assured Finch. ‘Your sergeant made an honest mistake.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. No ’ard feelings?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘The socks. As soon as Mary’s finished, I’ll bring ’em over…’

  * * *

  Jilkes lived in large detached house in a newish development on the edge of the city, but the ivy that trailed artfully across the façade and the Georgian-style sash windows gave it an older feel. It was getting dark when their cab pulled up and the front door opened to reveal a house of heat and light, the aroma of a home-cooked roast dinner and the excited noise of children. It was, as Finch had described it to Maude once, in one of his more sentimental digressions, ‘a house full of love’.

  Agatha – petite, beaming and pretty – stood in the doorway, untying her apron.

  ‘Hello, Ingo,’ she said, greeting him with a warm embrace and a kiss on the cheek.

  A seven-year-old boy and a five-year-old girl whose front teeth had recently fallen out, rushed into the hallway and thundered noisily into Finch’s legs.

  ‘Sorry, Ingo,’ added Agatha. ‘Since Albert and Agnes heard you were coming they’ve been whipping themselves into a frenzy.’

  Finch squatted down and, with sleight of hand – and having checked en route that the police had returned his small change – went through his magician’s routine of producing a sixpence from behind Albert’s ear and then pretending to cough up another one for little Agnes. The kids shrieked with delight, then upped the volume further when Finch acceded to Agnes’ request and got down on all fours so they could hop on his back and pretend he was a horse.

  ‘Children, give poor Uncle Ingo some rest,’ said their mother. ‘Now run along and put that money in your piggy banks. And after supper it’s straight to bed.’

  They departed in a chaotic whirl.

  ‘Don’t believe they heard a word you said,’ smiled Finch.

  ‘You know how they love seeing you… how we love seeing you, Ingo… and Maude.’

  ‘Now now, Agatha,’ admonished Jilkes, as he pressed a whisky into Finch’s hand.

  ‘An amnesty,’ Jilkes whispered. ‘You can quit tomorrow.’