Death of a Postman Read online

  He was directing the work.

  Roger watched him for fully five minutes. Some men made a lot of fuss and got little done, some made no fuss and got everything done. That was Carmichael. He might be a slimy piece of work, but he was efficient, and his men jumped to his orders. Wherever the piles of parcels looked largest and the chutes were threatened with overloading, there was Carmichael – not striding, but pointing, speaking in a quiet voice, setting everything on the move.

  Roger parked near the entrance, because there was no room further in the yard, and walked towards the loading platform. There were steps at intervals, where he could climb up. He didn’t go to Carmichael, but saw Turnbull just inside the huge sorting room.

  “Hallo, Handsome,” he greeted. “What do you think of our overseer?” He was just too familiar, but Roger let it pass.

  “He’s doing quite a job.”

  “He’s so busy that he hasn’t time to give us much help this morning, and Farnley is saying that if we interfere too much it will choke the whole works,” Turnbull said. “Wants to know whether we can’t postpone questioning Carmichael until the flood’s slackened a bit, or he’s having his lunch. Apparently they’ve had four ships in together at Southampton, all held up by the gales, and this is the result. Chaos, and—”

  “Better leave Carmichael for a bit,” Roger said; “if we get their backs up it isn’t going to help. Any news of that hammer?”

  Turnbull said: “Yes,” in a way that puzzled Roger.

  “Whose?”

  “Maintenance engineer. Some weeks ago he lent it to another maintenance engineer, name Bryant. Derek Bryant.”

  Roger echoed: “Derek Bryant?” unbelievingly.

  “That’s it,” said Turnbull. “And young Bryant’s been in this morning—he didn’t take the morning off.”

  “Where is he now?” asked Roger, sharply.

  “Out on a job—there’s been a bit of trouble at one of the sub Post Offices. Pipe burst or something. I didn’t find out about the hammer until he’d left I’ve got the number of his motorcycle, and we can put a call out for him—”

  “Not yet,” Roger said.

  When you had been in the force as long as he had, you didn’t rule out any possibility, but this—

  Well, they could soon tackle Derek Bryant.

  He heard a shout outside, so clear above the general hubbub that he turned quickly away from Turnbull, and went to the loading platform. He saw Carmichael standing in a little oasis of platform space and surrounded by the parcels, and a big, burly man in a postman’s uniform.

  “I tell you I didn’t leave the van for ten seconds,” this man roared, “never mind ten minutes!”

  Everyone nearby had stopped working; for a moment, the parcels hardly seemed to matter. The postman was a head taller than the Chief Sorter, and was clenching his fists; but Carmichael looked him up and down without any sign of nervousness, and said in an incisive voice: “You must have left your van, Simm.”

  “I tell you I didn’t!”

  “Then perhaps you can explain why three sealed, registered bags are missing,” Carmichael said, coldly. “They were there, you’ve reported that yourself, and it’s in your record book, and they’re not there now.”

  “They must be.”

  “Very well,” said Carmichael, “go and look for yourself.” He put a hand to the postman’s arm and led him a few yards along the platform; there was a small red van, open at the back, with two men guarding it. Now everyone in the yard had stopped working, and the silence was startling.

  Turnbull was just behind Roger.

  “Now we’ll see fun,” he said. “Now we’ll see if Mr Ruddy Carmichael can find time for us.”

  “Hold it,” Roger said.

  “Simm,” said Carmichael in the same incisive way, “you had better lock the door of your van, and—”

  Roger was on the move.

  “Mind if I have a look at the van first?” he said, and didn’t wait for an answer. Carmichael gave the impression that he would have refused if he could. Instead, he nodded and then called out to the absorbed, watching men: “What’s the matter, have you forgotten that Christmas is coming?” He got them busy again, and the chutes soon filled up.

  Roger went with Simm to the van.

  “I tell you I didn’t leave the van for a minute,” the postman insisted. “I’ve been on this job for twenty years; think I don’t know a thing or two? I wouldn’t leave my van unlocked whether I had registers in or not, and you can take it from me—but who the hell are you?”

  Roger said: “From the Yard, here on the Bryant job.”

  “Perishin’ copper,” Simm said, as if the news had done him good. “Take it from me if they set the dogs on me, I’ll have them for defamation of character. I’ve done my job.” He pointed to the back of the van, where two men stood as if on guard. It was stacked to the top with sacks of parcels, and the only gap was just at one side. “That’s where they were, all flipping three of them. Sealed, too, And I didn’t leave the van—”

  “For a flipping minute. I heard you.”

  Simm grinned.

  “Okay, okay, we understand each other! Well, look for yourself. See if that lock’s been tampered with.”

  Roger said dryly: “Thanks.”

  The double doors at the back of the van were made of heavy steel. The lock was a modern Landon, and would take a lot of forcing; there was no sign at all that it had been forced. A few scratches on the outside had almost certainly been made with the keys.

  “Well?” asked Simm, aggressively.

  “Who has the key to this?”

  “Strike a flipping light, what a question! I have.” Simm took a bunch of keys from beneath his coat, and shook them. “That’s it.” He singled one key out, and pushed it in front of Roger’s nose.

  “Anyone else?”

  “There’s a duplicate key in the office, and the master key which Mr Fli—”

  “Skip the description.”

  Simm grinned again. He had good white teeth, and knew it.

  “Okay, Mr Carmichael has a master key.”

  “Who has access to it?”

  “Mr Carmichael, or the Postmaster. It’s like asking to look at the Crown Jewels to get permission to use that key.”

  “Hm.” Roger turned to Turnbull. “Call the Yard, have someone out here from Fingerprints to check that van all over.”

  “If you think you’re going to take my dabs—” Simm began.

  Roger said casually, “Oh, we won’t do that until you’re under arrest,” and moved away. Simm gaped after him. Turnbull grinned, jumped down, and hurried to the car, to radio the Yard. Two policemen had come up from the sorting office itself, and Roger left them to watch the van. Simm followed him.

  Ten minutes had worked a kind of miracle with the parcels, and Carmichael stood calm and detached in the middle of the few that were left. No man ever looked less like a mouse.

  “Now if you can spare a few minutes,” Roger said, “we’d better report this to the Postmaster.”

  “That has been done,” retorted Carmichael, “I had a message sent to him. Simm, I want you to go over your movements this morning very carefully; you will find that you did leave the van for a few minutes at some place or other. And—”

  Simm raised two big, clenched fists.

  “Listen,” he roared in a foghorn voice, “you might be the Chief Sorter, you might be the Shah of Persia, but you don’t get away with calling me a liar. I didn’t leave my van for ten seconds without locking it. Gawd! With the pillar boxes crammed full you take five minutes to empty one.”

  “Let us see the Postmaster,” said Carmichael, coldly. He motioned Simm to go ahead, and then spoke quietly to Roger, more human than he had yet shown himself. “It is much more difficult to trace the source of trouble at Christmas time. This can be extraordinarily difficult. It could be disastrous to the smooth running of Her Majesty’s mails.”

  He said that as if robberies as
robberies didn’t matter; only the job was important.

  Roger said: “We needn’t start jumping our fences,” and walked on towards the lift.

  The Postmaster was as harassed as Carmichael, and a glimpse of the seeming chaos in the Sorting Room and the fantastic stacks of mail made it easy to understand. There was little that Roger could do here now, but he waited until Wilberforce’s men arrived, and went over Simm’s van.

  There were dozens of prints of the same man; Simm’s.

  On the lock, there was a fragment of a print – identical with that found on the hammer and on the glass in Wilson’s room.

  ‘We’ll see how far this gets us,” Roger said. “It won’t be long before we have to take the dabs of everyone working at River Way.”

  He meant it; but he knew it would run him into trouble and conflict. The permanent staff was over a thousand, and there were as many temporary workers. That was bad enough. Carmichael’s and Farnley’s screams of protest would make it worse. They’d pull every string they had to stop it.

  The police found nothing else to help on the van.

  Simm stuck to his story.

  Turnbull had finished all the routine work at the Post Office, and reported that Derek Bryant hadn’t yet returned.

  “I think it’s time we questioned him about that hammer,” he said.

  Roger was crisp.

  “Yes, get hold of him and do that, but keep it to yourself until you’ve seen me again.”

  “Okay,” said Turnbull.

  Roger went back to the Yard. He soon telephoned Chatworth and told him he wanted to take the fingerprints of all the River Way employees, and he guessed from the AC’s cool reaction that Chatworth also anticipated trouble.

  “Any other time I’d say go ahead,” he said, “but I’d better talk to the Postmaster-General first. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

  “I suppose it can,” Roger said. “But today would be better.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” promised Chatworth.

  Roger busied himself with reports and snippets of news about this and a dozen other jobs, and was sorting them out when the telephone rang. He had a sneaking hope that Chatworth had fixed the PMG already, but this was a sergeant who was working with Turnbull.

  “Handsome, here’s a do,” the sergeant greeted him, and something in his tone stopped the ‘Handsome’ from being familiar. “Derek Bryant’s skipped. He left the job he was out on but hasn’t come back.”

  Derek Bryant wasn’t found, that day, in spite of the widespread search.

  Mrs Bryant seemed too numbed to feel any more, but May Harrison’s self control almost snapped under the new strain.

  Young Micky was wild eyed, but outwardly calm.

  By noon next day, there was still no fresh news. Roger checked and double checked, wearied himself with a mass of reports, and found it difficult to concentrate on any but the Post Office murder. He was through the morning’s reports, just after twelve o’clock, when the telephone bell rang.

  “West,” he said briskly.

  “Better get over to Clapp Street, quick,” said Turnbull harshly. “There’s more trouble at Bryant’s place.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Bryants’ Place

  A little before five o’clock on the morning after Derek Bryant had disappeared, Mrs Bryant allowed May and Micky to persuade her to go upstairs, at least to lie down. They had talked through this second frightening, lonely night, saying the same thing over and over again, reviving the old hurts without knowing what they were doing. Mrs Bryant’s face was as colourless as it had been after she had first been told. Micky, who talked more than any of them, was looking better. May Harrison had just let them talk, had made tea, had made them eat a sandwich or two.

  None of the other children yet knew their father was dead, only that he was missing. And now Derek—

  “Of course, I’ll have to tell the children myself, sooner or later,” Mrs Bryant said. “I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I’ll have to go through with it somehow.” She raised her hands from her knees, and dropped them again. “It isn’t the kind of job that I can leave to anyone else, is it?”

  “Mum, dear, why don’t you try to get some rest?” May pleaded.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Mrs Bryant said, “although how I’m going to rest, with Dad and Derek—oh, it can’t have happened to him, too!”

  May said stiffly: “Please don’t talk like that. Have two of these tablets the doctor gave you.”

  “I don’t want to drug myself into forgetfulness,” Mrs Bryant said crossly. “I—oh, I don’t know what I do want! May, I really don’t know.”

  “Of course you don’t,” May said. “But come upstairs now.”

  “Yes, Mum, you ought to,” Micky urged.

  “I suppose I’d better,” Mrs Bryant said again, and stood up.

  Micky went up with her, and May Harrison stayed in the kitchen. There was little sign of the party now, although some of the holly was still up, and a few of the festoons.

  The younger children were in the two small bedrooms upstairs, two boys and a girl. Nine, seven, and three. Well, the toddler wouldn’t feel much. Nine, seven and three. And where was Derek? May felt her eyes stinging, and doused her face in cold water. The kettle was singing. She turned the gas up, filled a hot water bottle, and then put two tablets from a small box into the saucer with a cup of milk; she would heat the milk for Mrs Bryant in the bedroom.

  May went towards the stairs.

  Micky, on the landing, looked as if he was ready to drop. His eyes were red rimmed and glassy, his lips were strained. He’d had little sleep the previous night, none yet tonight, and in three hours it would be dawn.

  “I think Mum will be a bit better, now,” he said. “May, do you think I could have a couple of aspirins, and lie down? I’ve got such a splitting headache.”

  “Of course, Mick,” May said, and squeezed his hand. “You’ve been wonderful.”

  “You have, you mean.”

  They passed each other, and May went up to Mrs Bryant’s room. She was sitting on the side of the bed, looking at a photograph of herself and her husband, which had been taken a year before. She didn’t turn her head when May came in. It was ten minutes before May could persuade her to take the tablets, drink the milk and lie down. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, her belt and skirt loose, and her shoes off.

  Now, the house was silent.

  Micky slept in a tiny cubicle which his father had partitioned off from the room where the younger boys slept; it gave him a little privacy. May saw the light go out under his door. She closed her eyes as she went downstairs, feeling dizzy and sick with tiredness and fear for Derek; now that there was no one to help, it was much more difficult to keep going. She went into the kitchen. There was a couch which she had slept on occasionally, in emergency; she would again tonight. She felt cold, and very lonely. It was as if ghosts were walking the house.

  She put on her thick overcoat, pulled a blanket over her, and punched two cushions into position. She didn’t expect to sleep, just to rest and ease her aching eyes and head. If she felt like this, what on earth did Mum feel like?

  She began to doze.

  She went to sleep.

  One of the children woke her when it was broad daylight. Pam, the girl. May sat bolt upright and clutched her, almost scaring the girl with her intensity.

  “Pam, what is it? What’s the matter?”

  “Mummy’s fast asleep,” Pam said, “and Daddy still isn’t there. And I’m afraid I’ll be late for school.”

  “For school,” echoed May. “Yes, what a fool I am!” She pushed the blanket back and got up. “Pam, put a kettle on, there’s a dear, and then go and get washed and dressed. Are the others awake yet?”

  “Bob is too, but Tim isn’t.”

  Tim was the three year old.

  “Don’t wake Tim then, but tell Bob to get washed and dressed. If you’re late for school I’ll come and
tell the teacher that it was my fault.”

  Pam went into the scullery; happier.

  Still hardly awake, May pulled up the spring blind of the kitchen, so that more light came in. The window overlooked a brick wall which divided this garden from the one next door; and, beyond the wall, the window of the next house. It was drab and grey, but the morning was bright, and frost sparkled on some slates.

  Pam was filling the kettle.

  “I couldn’t even wake Mummy,” she announced.

  “Couldn’t wake her,” May echoed.

  In sudden panic, she went quickly to the stairs and hurried up. She could hear the younger children talking; so Tim was awake. She hesitated outside Mrs Bryant’s door, her heart thumping. Was it only the sleeping draught?

  She opened the door.

  The room was nearly in darkness; light came from the sides of the windows, that was all. She hurried and released the blind, then stopped it from banging. She turned and went towards Kath Bryant, hands outstretched.

  It was all right; thank God, it was all right. The older woman was asleep; May could see movement at her breast and lips. It was just the effect of the sleeping tablets, then. That silly fear – it wasn’t much after nine, she’d hardly been asleep for three hours!

  May tiptoed out.

  She listened at the door of the room which Derek and Micky shared. There was no sound. She felt her heart pounding, opened the door, and peeped in.

  Derek’s bed was empty; so he wasn’t back.

  May went downstairs, heavy hearted, made tea, and then heard a knock at the front door. Mingled hope and fear flared up. She saw herself in the mirror, but hardly noticed that she had on no makeup, that her short fair hair was untidy, her thick, green coat was creased and crumpled.

  It was Mrs Rosa Trentham, from across the road, Mrs Bryant’s oldest and one close friend. She’d been out on the night of the news, but had spent most of yesterday here. Behind her were several other neighbours; behind them, a dozen strangers including several men; and there was a policeman in uniform, looking very official. It had been like this most of yesterday.

  “Let me in and then close the door, May,” Rosa Trentham said. “I’ve come to help.”