Strike for Death Read online

  Sir Ian had given an imperceptible nod.

  Malcolm had said: “Thanks, Bob,” and gone to his own office. He hadn’t moved from there since, and Tessa hadn’t seen him.

  Then, the handle of the door from his office turned and she swung round. She didn’t know what to expect, but wasn’t really surprised to see that he was outwardly unmoved, although the set of his lips and jaw seemed tighter, and his eyes might have been the eyes of a much older man.

  “Find out where those Yard men are, will you? I want to go and see them,” he said. He didn’t smile.

  Chapter Four

  Sweet Reason

  Coombs explained the layout of the factory buildings to Roger and Sheppard quickly and graphically. There were four main workshops, each vast in size, and the largest of them the Assembly Shop, where all the parts of the cars were brought for the final assembling. One of the other shops dealt exclusively with the bodies, including upholstery, another with the chassis, a third with the engines – and these were the three main component parts, which met and were put together in the Assembly Shop.

  There were many smaller shops – the Paint Shop, the most modern of its kind in spite of the old-fashioned name, stores, Machine Shop for small tools, research, everything one would expect to find.

  The Works Manager’s office was in the Assembly Shop. Each of the other shops had its own manager, foremen, and shop stewards. Assembly was placed virtually in the centre of the plant, so that it was truly the hub of Munro Motors.

  Roger sent Sheppard off to check with the Sister and nurses, then went into a large entrance hall, past the racks of cards by the six time-stamp clocks on either side, then through double doors into a mammoth shed which, at first sight, seemed all iron girders and masses of cars. It startled him. It took him several minutes to walk from the door to the offices, in the middle, with the big sign Works Manager above them, visible from any part of the shop. There were four rows of moving cars at the end where Roger was, and as he neared the offices, he saw how the different major component parts were assembled on a conveyor-belt system. At least three hundred men and half as many girls were in sight, all wearing khaki overalls. The clatter and rattle of the revolving conveyors, the hum of machinery, all the noises inseparable from a large factory, seemed to merge together in a tuneless cacophony. It was almost impossible to hear what Coombs was saying as he pointed out various things.

  Coombs stopped, pointing.

  “See that chap just going into the office?”

  “The red-haired one?”

  “Yes. That’s Mike Grannett.”

  “Just as we wanted it,” said Roger. “What did you say the manager’s name was?”

  “Colonel George Harrison. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Amory was here, he’s the real factory manager,” Coombs explained. “Harrison is Sir Ian’s brother-in-law. He’d never hold the job otherwise.”

  As they passed the men and girls, all performing some operation on the cars which slowly passed them by, or else stopped automatically, giving them time to finish the job they had to do, most people paused to look at Roger and his party. It was almost possible to hear them thinking: The men from the Yard. A short man in the now familiar khaki stood at a corner. Roger looked at him again, then grinned.

  “Didn’t know this was a home for old lags,” he said to Coombs.

  “You saw Pixie Parsons, did you?” Coombs had to raise his voice, but it carried only as far as Roger. “There are about a dozen of the Old Borstal Boys Association here. Haven’t had any trouble with them yet. Don’t get anything wrong, Handsome, Munro’s aren’t heartless. It’s just that some of them are a bit old-fashioned.” They reached the office.

  This was a much larger building than it had seemed at first sight, built square, and with glass walls, so that the outer office staff could both see out and be seen. Inside were some offices with frosted glass, presumably all managerial. Raised higher than any of these was a kind of observation tower.

  “That’s the control room,” Coombs said, “a sort of all-seeing eye. If anything goes wrong, everything can be stopped at the touch of a button. They’ve modernised everything.”

  He led the way into the offices, and along a glass-walled passage to the inner office, marked general. He opened the door without tapping, and went in.

  Roger followed closely.

  Michael Grannett was sitting on the corner of a desk, where a girl in a black dress sat typing. He looked round. Roger’s first impression was of an earnest, good-looking man; for some reason he was surprised that Grannett wore rimless glasses – not pince-nez, but with gold-coloured arms and thick hooked ends to go over the ears. His hair seemed more auburn than red in this fluorescent light. He had a good, square chin, and curiosity seemed to show in his expression.

  Coombs said: “Hallo, Mike. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  Grannett said: “Thanks, Charley.”

  “Like you to meet Chief Inspector West of New Scotland Yard, an old friend of mine,” said Coombs.

  Grannett stood up, and Roger shook hands. Full face, Grannett looked nearer forty than thirty, and his thick hair was receding from his temples. He had grey-green eyes, and they didn’t smile, although his lips did. He looked shocked; almost dazed.

  “Glad to know you, Chief Inspector.”

  “I wish we could help,” Roger said.

  He was startled by the change in Grannett’s expression, by the glint which drove the shadows out of the man’s eyes for a moment, and by the strength of his fingers as he gripped his arm.

  “You can help,” Grannett declared, in a thin voice. “You can see that Munro isn’t allowed to get away with this. It was cold-blooded murder.”

  “Now, Mike—” Coombs began.

  “Oh, you have to be on the side of the management, you know which side your bread is buttered,” Grannett said, “but I tell you it was murder. Roy was just a kid. He didn’t stand a chance. Munro was two stone heavier and as good as a professional. He meant to teach Roy and everyone with him a lesson, he meant to show them who was boss. Don’t make any mistake about that. It wasn’t just a slap down, he meant to do Roy injury.” His eyes were narrowed and glittering still, and he uttered the words through lips which hardly seemed to move. His fists were clenched tightly by his sides, and obviously it would not take much to make him lose his self-control completely.

  He rasped: “Well, Chief Inspector, isn’t that murder?”

  “That’s not for me to say,” Roger said. “It—”

  “It’s for you to say all right. Listen to me, Mr West – and you, Charley. As sure as I’m standing here, if Munro isn’t arrested and charged with his crime, if he isn’t punished just as severely as the law can punish him, I’ll punish him myself. He’s not going to get away with

  “Mike, take it easy,” Coombs urged.

  Grannett didn’t say anything else. It was hard to be sure whether he meant exactly what he said; whether this was really the consequences of pent-up bitterness, or whether it had been born out of the shock of his brother’s death.

  “In your position I think I’d feel the same,” Roger said quietly, “even if I’d know it was crazy to say it. I’ll see that the law is properly carried out, Mr Grannett.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Grannett said, and dropped on to the corner of the desk again, took a handkerchief out of his pocket, and dabbed at his forehead. He had gone very red, and the navy-blue suit he was wearing threw up the flood of colour vividly. Roger saw that his big, strong hands were well kept, and that the suit was well pressed and brushed; his shoes were highly polished.

  He said: “I’ve just come back from the hospital, and I saw Roy on a slab. So don’t think I don’t mean what I say.” He took out cigarettes, and then unexpectedly burst out: “Goddam the no-smoking rule!”

  “Break it for once,” Coombs said, “no one here is going to work to rule on this.”

  He broke off as another door opened, and two men appeared, one shor
t, grey-haired, stocky, the other tall and round-faced. Before they came into the room, Coombs whispered into Roger’s ear: “Tall one’s Robert Amory, the other’s Colonel Harrison.”

  He straightened up, much as he would have done in the old days when the Assistant Commissioner appeared.

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  Amory said: “Hallo, Coombs, I won’t keep you a moment.” His clear, calm blue eyes seemed to absorb all there was to see of Roger and Coombs, and then he looked at Grannett, giving him his full attention. “Ah, Grannett. I won’t waste words, but I must say that I am terribly grieved and shocked. I speak for everyone when I say that we only want to make what amends we can.”

  Would Grannett flare up again?

  He didn’t; he didn’t speak at all.

  “I asked to see you, if you came back; your deputy, if you didn’t,” Amory went on. “Do you feel up to talking business?”

  Grannett said, “Yes,” in a hard voice.

  “Then if you’ll come into Colonel Harrison’s office – I’m sure these gentlemen will excuse us for a few minutes – we can talk.”

  “All you have to say is yes or no, isn’t it?” asked Grannett, in the same hard voice. “We’ve made our claim. You undertook to give us the answer by five o’clock this afternoon. It’s ten-past five now.”

  “True enough,” said Amory. “And you won’t want me to bandy words, Grannett. So I’ll be quite frank with you. It seems to the Board that to try to reach a considered decision in view of what has just happened would be unwise. I—no, let me finish, please. It is now Wednesday. We would like two more days to consider the issues, and I hope that on behalf of the workers you will agree to it. A forced decision is never a good one, and the present circumstances could hardly be less auspicious.”

  Roger studied each man, and couldn’t even begin to anticipate how Grannett would respond, although he had already come to respect the chief shop steward for unexpected qualities. Now Grannett stood silent, eyeing the managing director; it seemed obvious that the Works Manager was of little account. But there was a kind of strength in him; Roger had a feeling that he was holding himself in with an effort. Harrison, too; Harrison wasn’t a man to write off, and there was a peculiar brilliance in his eyes.

  The silence seemed to last for a long time.

  Then Grannett took a cigarette from the packet he had been holding in his hand all the time, and put it to his lips. A few minutes ago he had hesitated to do this, because observance of the factory rule was so drilled into him; so this was defiance, or genuine forgetfulness. He lit the cigarette from a lighter. He put both lighter and packet away. He blew out of the side of his mouth, and then answered in a high-pitched voice.

  “That’s fair enough. I’m not in a mood to be dispassionate, either. Friday, five o’clock, and there won’t be any more delays?”

  “There will not.”

  “Then I’ll recommend the employees to accept the postponement.”

  “Thank you, Grannett,” Amory said quietly, “I’m sure you’re wise.”

  Grannett said: “I hope so. Good night,” and turned sharply on his heel. Years of Army square bashing were in that movement and in the sharp click of his heels.

  “If there is anything at all we can do to help—”

  Amory began.

  Grannett stopped at the other door, and said icily: “You could give my mother back her younger son, and me back a brother. That’s all we want.” He looked away from Amory to Roger, and added in a way that was almost a sneer: “By five o’clock on Friday perhaps you’ll have finished your job, too.”

  He went out.

  “I’m sorry that we had such a delay, Chief Inspector,” Amory said two minutes afterwards, when they were in Harrison’s office, with Harrison standing silently watching all of them with those unnaturally brilliant grey eyes. “I don’t know anything about official inquiries such as this, but I can assure you that everything you require will be put at your disposal. I imagine you will want somewhere to work from, and an office either here or in the main office building will be made available. Mr Coombs will be at your service. You may have free access to all parts of the factory, and absolute freedom to question any individual, either among the workers, the office staff, the management, or for that matter the Board. We want to assist in every way possible, Mr West, you have only to ask for what you want.”

  He was half a head taller than Roger, he spoke quietly and impressively, and it was obvious that he meant what he said. Now and again Harrison gave a brisk nod, as if anxious to assert himself.

  “Thank you, sir,” Roger said formally. “I’d like to see three or four witnesses of the incident first, one at a time, and preferably persons not related to or closely associated with the dead youth. Then I’ll have a word with my sergeant, who is checking with the First Aid people. After that, I’d like to see Mr Malcolm Munro.”

  “Coombs told me you would certainly want to see some witnesses, and I have six who have agreed to stay late – the afternoon shift finished at five-thirty, you understand.”

  “They’ll be paid overtime rates, of course,” Harrison put in, with the air of a man making a statement of high policy.

  “Where would you like to have your office, Chief Inspector?” Amory asked.

  “Here, sir, please,” Roger smiled.

  “Good. Colonel Harrison will show you where it is, and unless there is anything else you want me for, I’d like to go over to the office building.”

  When Roger said: “You’re quite free to go, sir,” Amory hesitated, and then added very quietly: “Thank you. I would like you to know this, Chief Inspector. Everyone is greatly distressed about this unfortunate accident, none more so than my fellow director, Mr Malcolm Munro.”

  “I’m sure,” Roger said formally.

  Amory went off, bending his head a little because the doors were on the low side. Harrison now came into his own, and talked bluffly, rather like a recording of everything Amory had said, as he led the way into a small office, with a large desk, three telephones, blotting-paper, a writing-pad, pen and ink, and standing by the side, a dictaphone. The walls were of frosted glass, and there was a door which presumably led to the outside passage and the factory itself.

  “This will be at your disposal,” Harrison declared. “Call on me for everything you want, please. May I express the hope that your investigations into the accident will not be unduly prolonged?”

  “It won’t take a minute longer than I can help, sir.”

  Harrison nodded, and went out. Coombs closed the door firmly behind him, but as the latch clicked a man came up and opened the door. It was Sheppard.

  “Come in,” Roger said. “How have you been doing?”

  “The First Aid Rooms can all be approached from three different ways, to make ’em easy to access,” Sheppard reported. “The Sister is worked up because she didn’t realise how badly the boy was hurt.”

  “What makes her so worked up?”

  “Injured pride, I’d say,” said Sheppard. “I came straight back because she’s the only day-duty First Aid person still there. Don’t know if you agree, sir, but it doesn’t seem worth going out after the others tonight. They’ll all be on duty by eight o’clock in the morning.”

  “We’ll let ’em wait,” Roger agreed, and turned to Coombs. “Call that Sister on the blower and tell her I’d like a word before she goes.”

  Coombs nodded, picked up the receiver, and asked for the Sister. Sheppard looked puzzled, but Roger didn’t explain until Coombs said into the telephone: “Okay,” and then rang off. “She’s been gone five minutes. Think it’s worth calling her back? “

  “Might as well wait for the autopsy report, we don’t want to start a hare,” Roger said.

  “I may be dim-witted, but what are you two getting at?” Sheppard asked.

  Roger motioned to Coombs.

  “Tell him, Charley.”

  “Look at it this way, Sheppy,” the ex-Yard man said. “
A boy who’s pretty tough and eager for a fight bangs his head on the ground. Perhaps he hit a buried brick, perhaps he didn’t. Damned bad luck a fall like that should kill him – bad for him, bad for Malcolm Munro, in a lesser degree. Handsome and I asked ourselves if it’s as simple as it looks. Then the Sister starts saying she didn’t realise how badly the boy was hurt. You don’t get a job like hers at a place like Munro’s unless you’re good. Judging the seriousness or otherwise of a head injury should be easy – at least, as far as saying whether it’s superficial or not. This Sister plumped for the injuries being superficial – but he died from them. Now she ‘can’t believe’ she made a mistake.” Coombs paused, as if for breath, and then challenged: “See?”

  “You mean, could the injuries have become worse after she’d examined Roy Grannett?” Sheppard asked slowly.

  “You’re on the ball,” Coombs approved. “Yes, that’s it, eh, Handsome?”

  “That’s it – and if they became worse, how did they?” Roger said. “Did he fall off the couch? Bang his head against a wall, or—”

  “Did someone hit him!” cried Sheppard. “My God, that would be—”

  “Don’t even mention the word,” Coombs warned.

  “Certainly not until we’ve seen the medical and the pathologist’s reports,” Roger said. “There’s your next angle, Sheppy. Get hold of another telephone, call the hospital, and go and see them if necessary. Talk to the works’ doctor and everyone who saw young Grannett when he was in the sick-bay or whatever they call it. Charley will help fix all that, won’t you, Charley?”

  “Nice to see you’re making a job of it. Yes, I’ll fix it all.” Coombs had the light of excitement in his eyes. “You might have told Harrison you wanted two offices, and not left it to me.”

  “Just blame the Yard,” Roger said briskly. “Then lay on these witnesses of the fight, will you?”