Pollard told him.
James Westlake sank on to a chair, utterly appalled. ‘This is a God-awful mess,’ he said. ‘Do his people know?’
‘No. He’s supposed to be in the country, on the firm’s business, and refuses to contact them. We picked him up at the Athenaeum, where he admitted to the break-in and the theft. He said he did it for a giggle. A protest, too, we gathered. He seems allergic to your Society. He could have meant to flog the books, of course, but I doubt if he’s got the know-how.’
James Westlake exploded in fury. Recovering himself, he listened to an account of the efforts being made to check Peter Escott’s statements.
‘One can only hope to God he can anyway be cleared of anything to do with the girl’s death,’ he said. ‘Wretched young waster that he is, I can’t believe that he deliberately threw her downstairs... The appalling scandal for his family...’
He relapsed into silence and sat thinking, almost audibly.
‘About the books,’ Pollard said, after a lengthy pause. ‘Since they’ve been returned I suppose prosecution isn’t a foregone conclusion?’
‘I’m thinking along those lines myself,’ James Westlake replied, exchanging a glance with Superintendent Daly. ‘It’s partly a matter for my fellow-trustees, of course.’
Not for the first time, Pollard was amused by official reluctance to become embroiled with prominent local citizens. However, more serious matters were involved than a mere theft of books. Shortly afterwards, he left the others and returned to his room, wondering if the inquiries Toye was making at Escott House were achieving anything. In the light of the caretaker’s clock-watching habits, the prospects seemed hardly hopeful.
Presently Peter Escott’s written statement was brought in to him. He read it attentively several times, and admitted that it was concise, clear and identical with what had emerged at the interview. Putting it down, he reflected that you could combine intelligence with immaturity to an astonishing degree. The chap was unusually small-scale for his generation: kicking against his personal circumstances instead of campaigning against nuclear weapons or apartheid. I hope, he thought, that nice Clare Fenner hasn’t fallen for him: she’s worth twenty of him. I’m certain she went back into the flat, when we’d all cleared out, and rang him to come over at once. What exactly was going on between them when I barged into the library? Was she giving him a friendly tip-off that we were on his tail, or advising him to come clean?
The arrival of Toye, neat and impressive as always, cut short these speculations. Pollard looked at him inquiringly.
‘Not much to report, I’m afraid, sir,’ he said. ‘Tom Billings, the caretaker, can swear that Escott’s TR4 was in the park when he locked up at quarter to seven, and that it had gone when he came back to his supper at eight o’clock. He and his wife have a flat at the top of the building, but she doesn’t remember hearing it go out. The only other thing I got was the names and addresses of the cleaners. Billings said he’d booted them out as usual at quarter to seven. There are three of them, and I’ve been round to see two, who’d nothing to tell me. They’d gone straight home. The third, funnily enough, is Mrs Dibble. I couldn’t get hold of her, of course, as she’s in court with Ernie. But Billings did say he’d had a breeze with her, Wednesday night. Something about her not being finished in time and wanting to stay on, but he wasn’t having any.’
Pollard looked up from doodling a spiral staircase on a piece of blotting paper. ‘She’d hardly have sneaked back, I suppose, as the place was locked up? Still, we might go along and see her when we’ve had some grub, just on chance.’
He spoke absently, fretted once again by the elusiveness of a fact, retained in his memory, which obstinately refused to surface at the level of consciousness. It was not the basic missing clue, but something somebody had said. Just a casual remark ... something...
Suddenly he threw down his pencil. ‘Got the street plan handy?’ he asked abruptly. ‘I’ve just thought of something.’
Toye produced it, and spread it out. ‘You’ve got the Dibbles’ address, haven’t you?’
‘Oaks Lane,’ Toye replied, indicating it on the plan. ‘Number Seventeen.’
‘How long would it have taken young Ernie to belt home from Abbot’s Green on Wednesday night?’
They worked out the most direct route, and agreed that a boy of Ernie’s age could have done it easily in five to six minutes.
‘Now, then, how long would it take Mrs Dibble to get home from Escott House?’ Pollard asked.
They marked the obvious route on the plan. Toye measured it carefully with a piece of string, which he laid along the scale line. ‘Between fifteen and twenty minutes,’ he said, after a calculation.
‘So, if Billings chucked her out at a quarter to seven pronto, she ought to have got home just after the hour. But Ernie said he just beat her to it, didn’t he? He watched Clare Fenner’s arrival at five past seven. Say he cleared off at ten past, he’d have arrived home just after quarter-past, which puts his Mum’s return at about twenty past. She’s got a quarter of an hour unaccounted for. We can rule out prolonged nattering with the other women, as they say they went straight home, or a quick one in a pub — Mrs D. being Mrs D. Shops would be shut. And I shouldn’t think she’s much of a one for paying social calls, would you?’
‘I wouldn’t say so,’ Toye replied seriously.
‘And add to it all that she’d just had words with Billings. Might she have gone back to pay him out somehow? She’s one to harbour a grudge all right.’
‘I’m not sure you haven’t got something there.’ Pollard stared at the town plan for a moment. ‘She’ll probably be more bloody-minded than usual after being in court this morning, but if she was hanging around Escott House anywhere near seven o’clock on Wednesday, I’m going to get it out of her somehow. Let’s go and eat first, though.’
Oaks Lane was a drab, nineteenth-century street of working-class houses flush to the pavement. Number Seventeen was distinguished from its neighbours by an immaculate doorstep and windows shining with cleanliness. Pollard knocked emphatically on its chocolate brown front door, which was badly in need of a coat of paint.
It was quickly thrown open by Flo Dibble, who stared at him blankly, clearly expecting someone else. She was tidily dressed, in what he guessed was her Sunday best.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Dibble,’ he said, before she could speak. ‘This visit is nothing whatever to do with Ernie. You remember me? Superintendent Pollard, from Scotland Yard, down here in Ramsden to inquire into what happened at the Athenaeum. I think you might be able to help us.’
‘The probation officer’ll be bringing Ernie back any time now,’ she said, eyeing Pollard doubtfully.
‘We won’t keep you more than a few minutes,’ he assured her.
‘You’d better come inside, then. There’s been enough talk b’ the neighbours as ’tis.’
In spite of this grudging reception, it struck Pollard that Flo Dibble was in a much more rational frame of mind than when they had met at the police station. He guessed that she had been skilfully handled at the Juvenile Court. They must have realized that, short of removing Ernie from home, nothing could be done for him without remedial work on his mother.
‘You must be glad to have somebody to share the responsibility for Ernie,’ he remarked, as he followed her into a tiny passage and the front room, with Toye bringing up the rear.
He had hit the right note.
‘Thass what the lady and gentleman said,’ she replied. ‘Time I ’ad a man’s ’elp, seein’ as the boy’s never ’ad a father, in a manner o’ speakin’. Done very well, they said I ’ave, keepin’ the ’ome together. But ’e mustn’t be soft with Ernie, as I tells ’un. Please to sit down.’
The small room managed to be both claustrophobic and bleak. They sat on upright chairs, at a table covered with a green serge cloth. The paint was chocolate brown here, too, and the floor covered with well-scrubbed linoleum. A framed text over the empty grate exhorted them
to watch, for they knew not the hour. On a small table in the window a Bible was flanked by an aspidistra.
‘It’s just this one point, Mrs Dibble,’ Pollard began. ‘Can you put your mind back to last Wednesday night? You went to work at Escott House as usual, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right, same as usual.’
‘What time did you leave?’
Something of the seething indignation that they had witnessed at the police station reasserted itself.
‘Quarter to seven. I ’adn’t finished me work, and no fault o’ mine, seein’ there’d bin ink spilt all over the floor in one o’ me rooms. But would that Billings wait ten min nits? Not ’im, rarin’ mad to git orf to the pub, night after night. ’E’s a wine-bibber, an’ ’e’ll come to no good, as I’ve told ’n, more ’n once.’
‘But if you left Escott House at a quarter to seven, or a minute or two later if you were talking to Billings,’ Pollard cut in, as Flo Dibble showed signs of running out of steam, ‘how was it that you didn’t get back here until about twenty minutes past?’
She looked at him with a gleam of satisfied malice in her hot brown eyes.
‘I went back after ’e’d cleared orf, see? I’d slipped the polish and cloths under my coat, so as I could do me brass. That ole brass plate where you goes in, with the funny writin’ on it. I keeps n’ lovely, an’ I wasn’t leavin’ ’n all mucky, not for a dozen Billingses, no more than I’d leave the door ’andle up to the Athenaeum.’
‘Mrs Habgood said this morning how super you make it look,’ Pollard told her. ‘How long did it take you to go back to Escott House and clean the brass plate?’
Flo Dibble became voluble. She had gone along with her two fellow office cleaners because she didn’t want to be laughed at, and that Mrs Doggett was a proper Red over doing a bit extra. As soon as their various ways diverged, she had hurried back to Escott House and got on with the job. She couldn’t say to a minute how long it had taken her, but she’d had to wait a bit because she’d heard someone coming ... and then the gate into the car park unlocked ... and she hadn’t wanted one of the bosses to see her leaving so late. It was while she was squeezed up in the porch that she’d heard the clocks striking seven, so she couldn’t have taken more than five minutes over the brass. Then a car came out — and the gate was locked again — and it was driven off.
‘Did it go past the entrance to Escott House, where you were standing?’ Toye asked.
‘That’s right. I watched ’n out of sight an’ then skedaddled, not knowin’ what the boys ’d be up to, me bein’ so late.’
‘Did you recognize the driver?’ Pollard inquired, as casually as he could.
‘Young Mr Escott,’ Flo Dibble replied without hesitation. ‘I knows ’is car, too. One o’ they low-on-the-ground, open sorts.’
‘Are you absolutely certain the driver was young Mr Peter Escott?’ Pollard pressed her.
‘Course I am. I knows ’im orl right. Cleans ’is room, I does, an’ a fair muck ’e leave ’n in. ’Ad words with ’im, I ’ave. Not to mention me findin’ a book under ’is desk that no decent woman’d soil ’er hands with. I put ’n straight in the dustbin, I did.’
Pressed yet further, she gestured towards the table in the window, and offered to swear on The Book.
Chapter 11
Within an hour, a white and subdued Peter Escott had left the police station, cleared of responsibility, direct or indirect, for Annabel Brown’s death, but informed that a charge of burglary was likely to be brought against him. He had blenched further on being handed a curt written request to drive over to see James Westlake at the latter’s house later that evening.
Manifest relief was evident in Superintendent Daly’s office, Inspector Cook remarking sardonically that he didn’t doubt but that they’d find a way round the theft of the ruddy books.
Over cups of tea and gingernuts with Toye, Pollard’s immediate reaction was also one of relief. Without Mrs Dibble’s conclusive evidence there would have been nothing for it but an interminable search for pedestrians and motorists who might have seen Peter Escott on the previous Wednesday evening. The inquiry would have dragged on and on. Surely it was now perfectly legitimate and reasonable to pack it in? If they started at once on a final report leading up to the formal conclusion of there being insufficient evidence to determine the circumstances of Annabel Brown’s death, it would be possible to return to London tomorrow... Fine, except for that niggling conviction that a clue had somehow been overlooked.
Pollard poured himself another cup of tea and drank it down in great gulps, as if trying to drown the niggle.
‘There isn’t one shred of actual evidence that Brown was blackmailing Mrs Habgood,’ he said aloud, a defensive note in his voice. ‘And even if there were, there’s no proof that she was in on the girl’s fall: there never could be any. All we can do is just touch on the bare possibility, in our summing up. If we start now putting the damn thing together, we ought to be through by midday tomorrow.’
Toye, masticating a gingernut, nodded without speaking. Pollard looked at him sharply. Blast him, he thought. He knows exactly how I’m feeling. Getting abruptly to his feet, he walked over to the window and stood looking out at the depressing vista of boarded-up houses awaiting demolition. In the half-light of the fading winter day, they looked more dejected than ever. He wondered irrelevantly if Escott’s had bought the site and were about to cash in with a property development. By an association of ideas, he found himself visualizing Peter and Evelyn Escott. Then the two Habgoods joined the mental picture, Laura still in the grip of some unexplained, tormenting anxiety. James Westlake presented himself, squared to meet trouble but suddenly looking his age...
In the background there was a rattle of teacups as Toye began to clear the table for work. Pollard swung round. ‘Hell,’ he remarked, returning to his chair. ‘Sorry to dither, but I’ve got to have one more bash at the file. Dislike of being done, I suppose. And it’s a bit rough on some of these people if it’s never cleared up. Don’t look so damn complacent: it’s not as though we’re going to get anywhere. This missing clue’s sunk without trace.’
By half-past ten that night, Toye had come to a reluctant agreement. Apart from a short break, they had spent nearly five hours dissecting and discussing the contents of the case file. No fresh lead had emerged. Pollard pushed a pile of papers away and planted his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his clasped hands. In spite of little sleep on the previous night and the effect of prolonged concentration, he felt unusually clearheaded and still quite maddeningly convinced of the existence of the missing clue. For no apparent reason, his mind went back to his first big case: the case of the body in the puppet theatre. On the night when his one remaining lead had petered out he had rung Jane from a telephone kiosk, feeling at rock bottom... And she had urged him to concentrate on the victim, who after all, had somehow sparked off the murder. Then, in some odd way, the stuffy kiosk had become the puppet theatre and he had understood...
Pollard brought his mind back to the present and began to concentrate furiously on Annabel Brown’s movements on the evening of her death. She had come out of the Athenaeum with Evelyn Escott; they had paused for a brief moment, then parted, Annabel going into the yard...
‘Toye,’ he said, so abruptly that the latter gave a start. ‘Why the heck have we never given a thought to Brown’s car?’
After the excitement of the discovery had subsided, they agreed that the car was unlikely to provide any useful information.
‘Could be a letter or a diary,’ Toye suggested doubtfully. ‘People bung no end of stuff into the dashboard and pockets and forget all about it.’
‘We might find a lead to some other blackmailing activities of Brown’s, I suppose,’ Pollard said, ‘but I simply can’t believe she was chucked downstairs by somebody we’ve never heard of up to now. Even the worst detective novels jib at that sort of way out, these days. We’ll go along though, even if it’s only routine. Let
’s turn in now. It’s been a hellishly long day.’
The garage patronized by Annabel Brown turned out to be a small one in which the owner did the bulk of the work himself. After looking round, Pollard and Toye located a pair of legs protruding from under a car ... and Pollard bent down to introduce himself and his business. The legs made a convulsive movement and a small dark man in an oil-stained boiler suit emerged.
‘Sure, that dame’s car’s here,’ he said belligerently, ‘and what I want to know is who’s paying for the garaging? Over there — the A30. It’s all yours.’
He gave a vague gesture, and promptly dived under the car again.
Pollard and Toye squeezed between other vehicles and through stacks of tyres and various pieces of garage equipment. Toye critically surveyed the A30 and diagnosed rust underneath as he opened the driver’s door. A grubby piece of white paper was attached to the steering wheel by string threaded through a hole in one corner.
‘Must have car early Saturday morning. Please fill her up as well. A Lucas,’ he read aloud.
‘It’s an old envelope,’ Pollard said from behind him. ‘Let’s have it out.’
Toye carefully untied the string and emerged. The envelope had been slit open and was empty. Annabel Brown’s name and address in Moneypenny Street were typewritten; and there was a just decipherable London postmark. The date stamp was illegible. There was a printed heading: ‘The Queen Alexandra College of Domestic Science, Waverley Road, London NW35Z 1AF’.
‘College,’ Pollard said, staring at it. ‘That piece of carbon paper you found, showing she’d typed something about students. We might have another look at it, I suppose.’
An exhaustive search of the car produced nothing further of interest; and after brief and unacknowledged thanks to the proprietor of the garage, they returned to the police station.
The carbon paper was unpromising as a source of further information, having been used for making duplicate copies until it was little more than a network of perforations.
Step in the Dark Page 16