The Shadow of Treason (13 page)

‘Now that would be daft, wouldn’t it?’ Adam protested. ‘The two of us would be far more likely to be spotted than me on my own.’

Vic had to agree. ‘I’m afraid he’s right, Janie. A man can sometimes be overlooked. But a girl like you is always going to be looked over.’ A thought struck him. ‘Listen, if someone comes up with some naughty liquor, what are you going to use for money?’

‘This wonderful girl’s been subbing me. I’ve got about ten quid.’

‘Which won’t go very far. Dodgy Scotch is costing more than five a bottle these days. Besides, you’re going to need that cash to carry on living.’

Vic got up, opened a drawer, and took out a wad of notes in a rubber band. ‘I did a gig at Benny’s Club last week. Got paid in readies. Here’s twenty.’

‘Vic, you’re amazing. That must have been a very generous nun.’

‘It’s only money,’ said Vic. ‘Money doesn’t buy friends. But it does give you a better class of enemy. Take it.’

Adam took it. ‘All right. Thanks. Just a loan, of course.’

‘We’ll see. If you come back with some Scotch, I’ll take that instead. Just make sure you come back.’

A
T THE
J
OINT
Services Supply Depot in Leatherhead, Staff Sergeant Whittaker was puzzled. He put down the sheaf of papers, scratched his head, and looked across at the adjutant, sitting at the opposite desk.

‘Excuse me, sir, have you seen these latest orders from HQ?’

Captain Hazell looked up from
The Times
crossword puzzle. ‘You mean the Home Guard requisitions?’

‘Yes, sir. It doesn’t make sense. Why do these toy soldiers suddenly need all this extra ammunition? They’re not doing any fighting.’

‘They say they need it for their exercises. And it seems there’s a big one coming up.’

‘They don’t use live ammo for exercises, do they?’

‘Apparently, sometimes they do. That’s how that poor devil in Bristol bought it. And, of course, they need live stuff on the firing ranges.’

‘Beats me why they haven’t been disbanded yet. Jerry’s not going to invade now, is he?’

‘Quite a lot of people share your view, Sergeant. But it seems somebody up there likes them. And I suppose they could still be useful if these damned V2s started causing civil unrest.’

‘Well, I hope they wouldn’t be using live ammo for crowd control!’

Hazell’s brain delivered the word he’d been searching for, and he wrote it into his crossword puzzle. Then he sat back. ‘Actually, Sergeant, I did query those orders when they came
through. I had a word with the colonel, and he took it up with the top brass.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, sir. Puts us in the clear.’

‘The answer came back, yes, the stuff had to be despatched. And quick. It seems to have been decided at government level. So we’d better get on with it.’

‘Very good, sir, I’ll start things moving at once. “Theirs not to reason why”, as Shakespeare put it.’

‘Tennyson, Sergeant. Any chance of a coffee?’

Reggie Paynter was not inclined to be co-operative. He glared across the table and snarled, ‘You’re wasting your time. You got no evidence.’

Jessett stared back. ‘Evidence of what?’ he asked innocently.

The question threw Paynter. He hesitated before saying, ‘The post office job. That’s what you pulled me for, innit? You haven’t got me here for fun.’

‘That’s true,’ said Jessett. ‘Nobody’s laughing. But I’m glad you want to talk about the post office job. Get it off your chest, eh?’

‘What’s your game? It isn’t on my chest. I didn’t do it!’

‘So it’s funny you led off about it. I was going to talk about resisting arrest. Obstructing the police. Assaulting a constable.’

‘I never touched him!’

‘Only because you weren’t good enough. You threw a pretty hefty punch. Just a bit too slow.’

‘Sod off,’ said Paynter. He folded his arms across his chest.

‘Last night’s caper’s enough to lock you up for a bit,’ said Jessett cheerfully. ‘So let’s move on to this post office raid you were so anxious to discuss. Fifteenth of February. Tilfleet High Street.’

‘I didn’t do it,’ Paynter reiterated.

‘We’ve got a statement from a witness who heard you admit the crime.’

‘Rubbish! Why would I do that?’

‘Because you can’t resist bragging when you’ve had a few
jars. We’ve also got a bookie who says you suddenly had a great deal of cash.’

‘A present from a friend.’

‘You haven’t got any friends, Reggie. And, if you had, they wouldn’t be the sort to give away money. Best of all, you were picked out by both witnesses at the identity parade.’

‘That was rigged. How could they know me, we was wearing … the blokes who done that job was wearing masks.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I read it in the papers.’

‘That’ll be the day. Anyway, witnesses saw your eyes and hair, and those bloody great cauliflower ears. Face it, we’ve got you bang to rights.’

‘My brief doesn’t think so.’

‘He’s paid to bring hope to the desperate.’

‘And he told me not to answer any more questions.’

‘You don’t have to, Reggie. I’m just trying to help you, that’s all.’

‘Help me? You’re joking!’

‘No, I’m not. Like I said, we’ve got you fair and square. Robbery with violence, GBH. With your record, that’s eight years, maybe ten.’

Paynter pondered for a moment. ‘So how are you going to help?’

‘We can’t stop you going down, Reggie. But I could get you a shorter sentence.’

‘What? Fix the judge, you mean?’

‘No, that’s something we can’t do. But there’s something I can do. I can get them to reduce the charge from GBH to common assault, go easy on the gory details. I can say you’ve been co-operative. That way you might get off with a couple of years. If you smile nicely at the judge.’

Paynter thought it over. A six-year difference. That was a lot of living time. Eventually he spoke, with slightly less
arrogance
.

‘So what do I have to do? I ain’t going to grass on anyone.’

‘I wouldn’t expect it, Reggie. We’ll get your mates in our own good time. What I want from you is information.’

‘Information … grassing … same thing. I don’t do it.’

‘Not the same thing. I’m not asking you for names. You don’t have to put anyone in the frame. I just want a rough idea of what’s been going on.’

‘Going on?’

‘You were a friend of Frank Cregan, right?’

‘Yeah. We used to train together.’

‘And I bet you knew Dave Clark too. So you should be able to tell me what the hell they were doing, roughing up a bloke on Southend Pier.’

‘Oh. That.’

‘Yes. That. Spilling the beans on the pier shambles can’t hurt Clark or Cregan now, can it? In fact, if you tell me about it, you’ll be doing them a favour. We want to find out who topped them.’

‘I don’t know who topped them. If I did, I’d be after the bastards myself.’

‘Just tell me what they were doing.’

Paynter pondered again. As the man said, telling what he knew couldn’t do his mates any harm.

‘So if I tell you that, you’ll do what you said?’

‘If you tell me the truth about the pier, I’ll go easy on your previous. I’ll want to know a few other things before I reduce the charge.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like why you and your pal were waiting outside the Windmill stage door.’

‘That’s easy. We seen the show, and we was waiting to see if we could chat up a couple of the girls. That’s not illegal, is it?’

‘Were you waiting to see Jane Hart?’

Paynter’s reply was not quite quick enough, but eventually it came. ‘Who?’

‘Jane Hart. The girl from the boarding house where Maurice Cooper had his head bashed in.’

‘I don’t know their names. I took a fancy to a redhead, and my mate would have settled for anyone.’

‘What do you know about the Cooper murder?’

‘Only what I hear in the pub. That bloke on the pier done it, right?’

‘He’s the one we’re looking for. And that brings us back to the pier, doesn’t it? So what were Cregan and Clark up to?’

Paynter sighed. ‘Yeah, well, I do know a bit about that, cos I was due to meet Frank that evening. We was going to the dogs.’

‘And he cried off?’

‘Yeah. Rang me in the afternoon, said he’d got a job. Him and Dave had to nab this bloke on the pier. They was to take him somewhere quiet and lean on him till he coughed up. About some notebook he’d nicked.’

‘A notebook? Are you sure?’

‘That’s what Frank said.’

‘And who’d given them this job?’

‘I dunno.’

‘I think you do, Reggie. The word is, someone round here is paying good money to the local villains to do naughty things. Who is it?’

‘I told you, I dunno. None of it’s come my way.’

‘What about the ten fivers in your pocket when we nicked you?’

‘I’d like them back.’

‘You’ll get them back, if they’re legit. Where did they come from?’

‘The dogs. I had a couple of wins. Listen, you said you’d go easy if I told you about Frank and Dave on the pier. I done that.’

‘And I’ve said I’ll knock a couple of blots off your record. Before I talk about reducing the charge, I’ll want to know a lot more.’

‘Well, I ain’t saying nothing more.’

‘Ah, but you will. All in good time. Just go away and think about it.’ Jessett nodded to the constable. ‘All right, Thompson,
take him back to his cell. Have a good night’s sleep, Reggie. We’ll talk again tomorrow.’

‘Sod you,’ said Paynter. He got up and Thompson led him away.

Sergeant Monk came in.

‘Any luck, sir?’

‘We’ve made a start.’ Jessett told Monk what he’d learned. Then he summed it up. ‘Someone else is after Webber. You can bet they paid those two to go to the Windmill and follow the Hart girl.’

Monk grinned. ‘Not a bad way to earn a few quid.’

‘I’m glad you think so. We’ll be back on stage-door duty tonight.’

‘Right, sir. Do we get to see the show again?’

‘Of course. So we know when it ends. Any news on Webber’s history?’

‘The Marine Research Centre recruited him from Imperial College, London, so I got on to them. It seems he studied marine biology there for three years and got a good science degree. Never known to be in trouble.’

‘Background? Family?’

‘They don’t know much. His parents were killed in the Blitz. Webber shared digs with a fellow student called Adam Carr.’

There was a sharp intake of breath from Jessett. Monk looked at him enquiringly, but the inspector merely said, ‘Go on.’

‘Just before they were due to leave Imperial, their house got a direct hit from a V1. Webber was the only survivor – he’d gone out to buy fags. He went straight from college to the Marine Research place, and booked into the Cavendish, where they don’t seem to know anything about his background.’

‘I see. Well done, Arthur.’

‘Fancy. No one wants to know about their guests.’

‘Ah. Not quite true, Sergeant.’

‘You don’t agree, sir?’

‘An hour ago I had a phone call from George Fowler. You know, the Cavendish handyman.’

‘Oh yes. The chap who thinks he’s Sexton Blake.’

‘Well, he does try to be helpful. He rang to say he’d found an envelope in Webber’s room. Not addressed to Adam Webber. Addressed to Adam Carr.’

Now the intake of breath came from Sergeant Monk. ‘Webber’s mate at college. That’s interesting.’

‘Isn’t it? Get back to Imperial and see if they can tell you the exact date the bomb hit Webber’s digs. Then contact Civil Defence and ask if they have a full casualty list for that incident.’

‘Right, sir. What was in the envelope, by the way?’

‘Nothing. It seems someone had chucked the contents and scribbled on the envelope. Some kind of list, Fowler says.’

‘What sort of list, sir? Could be helpful.’

‘Yes. Unfortunately, I didn’t find out. The superintendent came through on the other line. He’s complaining that we don’t do enough to stamp out the local black market.’

‘That’s not fair. We’re doing our best.’

‘Quite. I said smashing that black market was our top priority. And I told Fowler you’d get over there sharpish and pick up the envelope. Have another chat with him while you’re there. Find out what he thought of Webber. OK?’

Monk sighed. ‘With respect, sir, couldn’t Ernie Fairweather do that? I’ve got all these phone calls to make. And there’s a lot of paperwork piled up.’

‘Sorry, Arthur, it needs to be you. You know the Cavendish people, and they know you. You’ll get the best out of Fowler. Do the phone calls first, and then get over to the Cavendish as soon as you can.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Monk allowed a hint of weariness to creep into his voice. He managed to restrain himself from saying, ‘What did your last slave die of?’

And then Jessett had an afterthought. ‘Talking of Sergeant Fairweather, if he hasn’t got those biscuits from the Maypole yet, tell him to try and fiddle a packet of tea at the same time.’

It had been a bad day for the short man. It started with a
shamefaced
Garrett reporting last night’s failure. By now it had dawned on Garrett that, since it was only Paynter the police wanted, he himself had no need to run. He should have stayed and followed the girl as instructed. It had been an instinctive reaction. Since childhood, a cry of ‘It’s the law!’ had always caused instant flight.

Needing to hide his mistake, Garrett had told a story that varied greatly from the truth. In his account, there’d been a dozen police in Archer Street, questioning everyone at the scene. With his criminal record, Garrett had feared he might be detained. So he’d run, believing that, as a free man, he’d be more use to the short man in the future.

The short man had questioned Garrett’s use to man or beast at any time. But Garrett had admitted he had no idea what had happened to Paynter: so, with a temporary lack of manpower, Garrett had been told to go back to the Windmill tonight.

After dismissing Garrett, the short man worried. Why so many police at the Windmill stage door? Perhaps they’d
realized
, as he had, that the best route to Webber was via Jane Hart. But why so many police to do a routine tailing job? Were they beginning to get an inkling of the bigger picture?

There was a lot of paperwork for him to do that day, and he busied himself with that. He was a perfectionist: both in his vision of the way society should be ruthlessly organized and in his detailed planning of the forthcoming action. He achieved some satisfaction from checking and re-checking arrangements and finding them all in order.

But anxiety and wrath returned when, soon after midday, a phone call informed him that Paynter was in custody at Tilfleet police station. He cursed the incompetence of the underworld characters he was compelled to employ. And he tried to console himself with the belief that, as he understood it, the criminal code would compel the man to keep his mouth shut. He told the caller to keep him informed.

Then, at five o’clock, came the call that set alarm bells ringing in overdrive.

He barked at the phone in disbelief.

‘What? … What? … Are you sure? … I thought he was supposed to be tough! … The notebook? My God!’

The short man’s fist tightened around the ebony ruler on his desk, and his knuckles were white.