Death in Cold Print Read online

  Roger asked cautiously. ‘What’s on?’

  ‘Got a nasty murder on our hands, and I don’t want to make a hash of it. Very difficult situation for us local chaps, too.’ Tenterden’s slow manner of speaking made his colloquial phrases seem a little stilted. ‘The night-watchman of Richardson and Key, the big printers down here, was murdered last night. Very nasty job, head smashed right in. I’ve had a look round myself and put my chaps on it, and there’ll be someone out from Colchester during the morning. But in my opinion we need someone from the Yard.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Roger, and tried to pin-point Corby on the map.

  ‘Well, half the population of Corby works at the printing works or lives off it some way or other,’ said Tenterden, ‘and I know the lot of them. Went to school with half of them, too – did you know this was where I started? Er—’

  He broke off.

  Roger found himself thinking; ‘I get it,’ and felt sure that he understood at least part of the man’s motives. Superintendent Tenterden was batting on his own wicket, and it could become a sticky one. If he had to have help it was far better that it should be acknowledged experts from Scotland Yard rather than another, probably younger, local man. Prestige could mean a lot in a small country town. Roger now had a map of Eastern England on his mind’s eye. Corby couldn’t be more than eighty or ninety miles from Bedford, where Janet’s family lived; it would be no more difficult driving there from Corby than driving from London. He could do with a job out of the London area, too; he hadn’t been in the country for nearly six months. Once there, he would be his own master; no one could thrust a new job on to him at the last minute.

  Tenterden was saying: ‘… never quite sure of the form up here, Mr West, but I know my Old Man pretty well, and he’ll consult the Yard if I recommend it strongly enough. How are you fixed?’

  Roger temporised: ‘It’s not as simple as that, it depends on who the Assistant Commissioner thinks would be best for the job.’

  ‘Oh, you would,’ Tenterden said emphatically.

  Roger thought: ‘Why’s he so sure?’ All Tenterden needed was a man from the Yard, the individual really couldn’t matter.

  ‘You made a big hit when you were on that factory job out at Ipswich,’ Tenterden explained, ‘and there was that other motor-works job you handled. What I mean is, Mr West, you’ve had a lot more experience than most in jobs which involve big plants and work-people. Richardson and Key employ nearly a thousand people here, and it would be easy to get in their bad books. That’s what I’m afraid of doing, naturally – and if you knew the people we have to deal with down here you’d know they can close up like oysters if they get rubbed up the wrong way. If we fetch someone from Essex police they’ll turn up their noses. If they have to put up with me for too long they’ll pretend to be sleeping. But if they had you to deal with well, your reputation would break ’em down.’

  Roger chuckled.

  ‘That’s enough blarney,’ he said. ‘I could come down if I got the job, though. Why don’t you get moving right away?’

  ‘Will you have a word your end?’

  ‘Yes. What’s the score with you, though? Any suspect in mind?’

  ‘Got one or two possibilities, but wouldn’t like to put it stronger,’ said Tenterden, and he seemed to perk up. ‘You could come down right away, could you?’

  ‘Sometime today.’

  ‘Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll send a teletype report up, giving you all the details I can,’ said Tenterden. ‘One of the funny things is that nothing’s missing, as far as we can find out. No damage was done, either – the chap was just battered to death. To make it worse, he’d only got one arm, lost the other in a motor-cycle accident three years ago. Well, thanks, Mr West. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ Roger said, and replaced the receiver.

  As he did so, he saw Cope leaning forward, elbows on his desk, hands clasped beneath his double chin.

  ‘So you want a nice slack time so that you can go and extend the hand of friendship to your long lost brother-in-law from the United States of America,’ he remarked witheringly. ‘You sly old so-and-so.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Roger said. ‘I work too hard, remember? The only way I can get time off is by simple cunning, Look up the map – London to Corby, Corby to Bedford, for me, will you? I’m going over to watch Sparkham wishing he could cut my throat.’

  He put on his coat, slapped on his hat, and went out.

  At Bow Street, Sparkham was remanded for the required and regulation eight days, and Roger negotiated Covent Garden trucks and laden porters as he drove straight back to the Yard. Before going to his office, he went to see the Assistant Commissioner, Hardy. Hardy had come up from the ranks, and could be difficult, but Roger seldom found him so. Now he was sitting at a big desk in a big office: a solid man, not fat and not really big, with iron-grey hair, iron-grey eyes, and stubby hands with broad but well-shaped fingertips.

  ‘Just the man I wanted to see,’ he greeted. ‘Get what you wanted at Bow Street?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Feel like an out-of-town job?’

  ‘It depends.’ said Roger cautiously.

  ‘You can have it or leave it,’ Hardy said. ‘You’ve been working your guts out lately, and it’s time you eased up. You can stay here and look after the Sparkham case, or you can leave that to Cope and the others, and go down to Corby, in Essex. There’s a murder down there they don’t want to handle themselves, some kind of wheels within wheels. I don’t yet know exactly what. The Chief Constable asked for you if you were free, because it’s a factory job. Printing works, rather. You seem to be getting quite a name for yourself as an industrial specialist.’

  ‘Sounds interesting,’ Roger said blandly. ‘Provided you don’t mind if I nip across to Bedford for the weekend—I told you about my wife’s brother, didn’t I?—I’d like to have a crack at this.’ He paused until Hardy said. That’s all right,’ then went on in a brisker voice: ‘Wonder when they take men on at the works? Every day, or just on Mondays? And come to think, we ought to have Pratt and Asterley on this job. Pratt did that paper warehouse investigation last year, and Asterley was on the printing job out at Kingston. They both took jobs, and passed as genuine. Will it be all right to send them down there?’

  Hardy laughed.

  ‘Take any two or three you like.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Roger, and glanced at his watch; it was a quarter past twelve. ‘I’ll get it all laid on, send them down by train, and drive down with Brown. Should be there by about four o’clock. Will you call them at Corby, or shall I?’

  ‘I’ll telephone the Chief Constable at Colchester, and he can tell Corby,’ answered Hardy. ‘Report in once a day, and don’t let anyone crack that thick skull of yours.’

  That was the nearest that Hardy ever came to making a joke.

  By half past one Roger was driving towards Essex, with Detective Inspector Brown sitting next to him. Detective Sergeants Asterley and Pratt were on their way by train, and would apply for jobs at Richardson and Key’s works first thing next morning.

  Brown was a big, burly, over-weight man with a good mind for detail and a most retentive memory. He was a jack-of-most trades, and his bag contained everything they would need for on-the-spot checks of finger-prints, ballistics, and general work. Brown would give a spot opinion on a dozen subjects, and experts would usually confirm his opinion. He preferred working in the background, too.

  ‘I know you want to have a look at this works before it closes tonight,’ he said, as they drove through the suburbs, ‘but don’t scare the wits out of me.’

  ‘Am I going too fast?’ Roger asked, surprised. ‘Sorry.’ He checked his speed, remembered that Brown was an over-nervous passenger, and waited until they were on the open road before he said: ‘Read that teletype message from Corby again, Browny, and don’t rush at it. I want to make sure I’ve got it off pat before I talk to the chaps at Corby.’

  ‘Nothing like
proving you’re on the ball,’ remarked Brown. ‘Well, the murdered man’s name is Jensen, Jack Jensen. Aged thirty-one, single …’

  Roger listened intently.

  ‘… no apparent motive, nothing stolen, no damage done,’ Brown concluded. ‘But you don’t crack a man’s skull for the sake of it, do you? Looks as if this was a pretty strong personal motive, someone hated his guts. Be a nice job, finding which one it was out of nine hundred and forty-three employees.’

  ‘It might have been someone outside the factory, remember,’ Roger said musingly. ‘Right, thanks. Now hold tight, I’m going to tread on it. This road’s safe for seventy.’

  Chapter Four

  Corby

  Corby lay in the folds of some gentle hills, not far from the sea, which lay beyond the small fields and the wooded land. The roofs of the town were old and made of red tiles, mostly lichen-greened, and mostly made at the ancient tile and brick works on the outskirts of the town. The main street was wide, and at the middle wide enough for a coach and eight to turn in comfort, and the archway of the Rose and Crown, a coaching inn which had been built four hundred years ago, was spacious enough for two carriages to pass. Inside, the courtyard was cobbled and there were hanging plants of ivy and geranium and wisteria.

  The other streets were narrow, and many of them on the slopes of the hills. Old cottages, sometimes rows of them with crooked roofs, had an atmosphere which did not seem to have been disturbed for centuries, but the windows of many of the shops were new, and television and radio, new cars and contemporary furniture, crowded the shop windows next to butchers with the hanging sign:

  PURVEYORS OF MEAT FOR 300 YEARS.

  Roger saw Superintendent Tenterden in the square, near its old wooden hall, which looked as if a strong wind would blow it down. Tenterden was six feet two, with a matching girth and matching shoulders. As he came to greet Roger, Brown got out of the car; here were two men of equal size and stature. They all appraised each other as they shook hands. Tenterden said formally that it was good of the Yard men to come so quickly, and the people in the square, the shops, and the streets turned to look at the three men with open curiosity. Roger, just six feet, was broad and big, but not an ounce overweight; compared with these two, he seemed lean. He had corn-coloured hair which disguised the few streaks of grey, and his clean-cut features deservedly earned him the nickname ‘Handsome’. He was aware of the scrutiny and the curiosity, and asked Tenterden: ‘Have you spread the glad tidings that we’re due?’

  ‘Just dropped a hint,’ said Tenterden. He had a very heavy jowl and rather heavy eyelids, and was even more florid-faced than Roger remembered him, with a tiny criss-cross of purple veins on his nose and cheeks; the heavy-drinker type to look at. ‘You said you’d like to go straight out to the scene of the crime, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. What time do they stop work?’

  ‘Five’s knocking off time, but they’re busy at the moment, most of the departments will be working until six. Coming in my car, or like to use yours?’

  ‘You take us, will you?’ asked Roger.

  Tenterden’s was an old Rover, and it was a tight fit inside.

  ‘It’s about a mile to the works gates, down Factory Road,’ Tenterden said. ‘The road doesn’t lead anywhere else, most of the cottages on either side of it are owned by Richardson and Key, and let off at very reasonable rents to the employees.’

  ‘A good firm to work for?’

  ‘Funny thing to ask, really,’ Tenterden said. ‘No one else down here would think of asking it. You see, Mr West, this is a good place to work and live, and R. & K.’s keep it going. Family firm, you know, been here for over two hundred and fifty years. Know how these East Anglian printing firms started, don’t you?’ They had driven along a narrow cobbled street into a fairly wide road with small, redbrick Victorian cottages on either side, one or two pubs and shops, and a narrow pavement. ‘Dutch and Belgian printers were driven over the North Sea for printing Bibles and heretical literature three hundred years or so ago, and a lot of them settled here. Dozens of big printers and dozens more little ones have been gobbled up by the big ‘uns.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Roger said formally. ‘Slow down a minute, will you?’ They were not far from the big iron gates of the works. Three tall chimneys showed up stark against the blue sky, and the throb of machinery came clearly. A big lorry with the R. & K. monogram on its sides came tearing out of the gateway, and had to swing to one side to pass the policemen.

  ‘Young Tom Cousins at it again,’ Tenterden remarked. ‘I’ll have to have a word with Mr Richardson about him. What was it you wanted?’

  ‘Can I get up those chimney stacks to get a bird’s eye view of the whole works? I can get my bearings better when I see a plan, then.’

  ‘I daresay,’ said Tenterden consideringly. His face cleared. ‘But Ben Soley’s silo is a much better spot, though. It’s higher than any of the chimneys, and easier, too. One of his cow hands fell off it last year and he had a platform put round it to make sure no one else did. Just down here.’ He turned left, and they found themselves in a country lane, with fields on one side and a high brick wall on the other. After about a mile, the silo showed up, a big concrete erection with the platform round the top, and iron rungs at the sides for climbing up. No one else was near. Tenterden unhooked a five-barred gate and they stepped into a field of grass and clover which looked as if it had wintered well. ‘Dunno that I’ve got the figure to climb that,’ Tenterden added.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Brown.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Roger said. ‘Won’t be five minutes.’

  He went up, cautiously at first, and then more nimbly. The silo was at least sixty feet high, and when he was half-way up he felt the wind more strongly, and the round tower seemed to sway. There was an odour of rotting vegetation, and he kept wrinkling his nose. Then he reached the platform, hauled himself up, waved to the two men who looked so far below, and studied Richardson and Key’s works. The odour had become a stench up here.

  He had known the works was big; he hadn’t realised how big. In some ways it was deceptive, because there were two-storey buildings, and many a factory with half the ground space of this was in fact larger, but the impression was of vastness. There were two distinct sections: on his right, about a dozen low buildings, all with triangle-shaped roofs, and with a lot of window space; on his left, smaller but higher buildings, with three factory chimneys giving off a pale-grey smoke. He saw the masses of cycles, and about a hundred cars, most of them small, parked near the main gates. Close to these gates were red-brick buildings, two or three storeys high, which he imagined to be the offices. There was a covered way between these and some of the low-roofed buildings.

  He registered all this on his mind’s eye, then walked round the platform and began to descend. He was half-way down, holding on very tightly and feeling that slight swaying movement, when he saw something fluttering from the top edge of the silo; a piece of paper or cloth had got caught, but he couldn’t identify it from here. It did not seem to have any significance. A loud tractor engine sounded as he neared the foot of the silo, and he glanced round and saw a farm tractor draw up, with a small, wizened man at the wheel.

  This man was saying: ‘Now what’s your game, Arthur? I didn’t put that silo up so as the police could do their PT on it.’

  ‘Afternoon, Sam,’ Tenterden said comfortably. ‘Mr West of the Yard is just taking a look at the country. It’s cheaper than an aerial view.’

  ‘Cost you a pint next time we meet at the Rose and Crown,’ said the wizened man.

  ‘I daresay I can go to that,’ said Tenterden. ‘Mr West, I’d like you to meet Mr Sam Soley, who owns the farm and most of the land round here. And this is Chief Inspector Brown, of Scotland Yard, Sam.’

  There were handshakes all round.

  ‘Nasty business over at the works,’ Soley remarked. ‘Can’t say I envy you your job, Mr West, but I hope you find the devil soon. Got anyone in mind yet?’
>
  ‘I’ve been here for about half an hour,’ Roger answered.

  ‘Thought you Yard chaps solved cases with a wave of the hand,’ said Soley, and winked at Tenterden. ‘Well, seeing that I’m here I’ll go up and have a look at the stuff in the silo, should be nice and ripe by now. Good luck, gents.’ He turned away from his machine and began to climb up the iron rungs with much more agility than Roger. The policemen got back into Tenterden’s car, and drove towards the works. Roger noticed some broken glass just off the road, and there were tracks of tyres on a patch of soft earth. He caught sight of something else, half hidden by grass near the broken glass, and said: ‘Stop a minute, will you?’

  Tenterden stopped smoothly, almost alongside the glass.

  ‘That looks like a bicycle pump,’ Roger said. He did not see any significance in that, but it was unusual, and it was close to the scene of the night’s crime; the murderer might have come along here on a bicycle. ‘Let’s have a look,’ he added, and opened the door and stepped out.

  At close quarters there was much more to see.

  The glass had been trodden into the ground, and he judged that there was about enough to make up a bicycle lamp. The grass showed no traces of tyres, but there were cycle-tracks some distance away, leading from a hedge, and the path alongside the hedge looked as if it were used a great deal. He saw the heel-prints of a woman’s shoes, and strolled towards these, while the other two joined him.

  ‘Looks as if a woman wheeled her bicycle along here, and then let it fall,’ reasoned Brown.

  Roger said: ‘Could be.’

  ‘If she was walking there, how’d the lamp get broken?’ asked Tenterden thoughtfully. It was not an effort to assert himself, he was simply speaking his mind. ‘The bike must have fallen down with a bump to break the glass and knock the pump out.’ He narrowed his eyes and peered along the hedge. ‘Looks as if she came off the road by the gate, but what did she stick so close to the hedge for? Much more comfortable cycling along the road.’