Chapter Sixteen

The Body in the Dump

Peel’s stomach heaved. He cleared away more of the muck, and the arm was disclosed – badly burned, in places to the bone.

The arm moved easily.

It wasn’t attached to the body.

Peel looked round. No one was in sight nearby, no one could see him working, except people in the upper floors of the buildings, and he was too far away to be identified. He wanted to run off, telephone the local police and get a squad out here, but he had to find out more about this.

He found a leg; that wasn’t attached to the body, either.

Then he found the head.

He turned away suddenly, nausea overcoming him, and was violently sick. When that was over, he took out a cigarette and lit it with shaky fingers. Better report what he had found to the manager. If he went straight to the police, he would give himself away. His legs weren’t very steady at first, but he threw off the effects of the discovery as he neared the gap in the wall. Now he could see a van-driver standing by the cabin of his vehicle, and several other workers.

He left the dump.

As he did so, he felt something touch his legs, looked down – and was thrown heavily to the ground. The ‘something’ was a piece of wire, with a hooked end, which had caught him round the ankle. He heard nothing, but the fall winded him.

Then he saw the man.

He caught only a glimpse of him – a man with a handkerchief tied round his face and a hat pulled over his eyes – and with a long shovel in his right hand. The shovel was raised, Peel sensed what was intended and twisted himself to one side. The blow caught him on the shoulder, his arm went numb and useless. He tried to shout, but the sound wasn’t loud. He kicked at the fellow’s legs, struck home and gave himself a moment’s respite. The shovel came again – if the corner struck his head it would split his skull. He dodged; the thing clanged noisily on the cement path, and something hit his ear. Then he heard a shout from some way off …

Next moment a blow struck him behind the ear, and he fell flat again.

He held his breath, expecting the final killing blow – and then felt someone touch his shoulders and heard a man say: “Okay, mate, okay; take it easy!”

Peel sat up slowly.

“Now take it easy,” the man said urgently. He was a stocky little fellow, peering closely into Peel’s eyes. “You’re okay – take it easy. Don’t try to get up, just sit back a minute. They’re fetching you a pick-me-up. You’re okay.”

Peel licked his lips.

“That—man—”

“They’re after him, you’re okay.”

Two other men came out, and one of them had a flask of whisky.

A new, authoritative voice spoke.

“Don’t give him that, it’ll go to his head. Let me have a look at him.”

The newcomer was a small, middle-aged man, well-dressed, obviously a manager or one of the office staff. Peel sat obediently while the other examined his head, and it felt tender but not particularly painful. The man stepped back.

“Only a graze; perhaps a drink will do him good,” he conceded.

The whisky trickled down Peel’s throat, biting, welcome. He tried to stand up on his own, but couldn’t; the others helped him up. He stared over the wall. Three men, all van-drivers, were coming away from the railway sidings, talking to one another.

“Did they get him?” Peel muttered.

“No,” said the well-dressed man. “But the police will – don’t worry about that.” He frowned. “What was it all about?”

Peel told him.

If the local police were puzzled by Scotland Yard’s prompt interest in the body in the dump, they didn’t say so but welcomed Roger. A sergeant and a police-surgeon had arrived almost immediately. Seven or eight uniformed men were poking about the dump, the remains of the victim were placed side by side near the wall. Only a hand remained to be found – an arm with a badly charred and broken wrist had just come to light. So had the remnants of a pair of flannel trousers and two brown shoes, which had been surprisingly little damaged; there was even a trace of the printing inside the heel of the shoe, visible to the naked eye. It would be fairly easy to identify the clothes, although it would be a long time before the body itself could be identified.

Roger and the police-surgeon studied it.

“Youngish chap,” the police-surgeon said. “Height about five seven or eight, I’d say. You’ll trace him through his dentist, I expect. Can’t think of any other way.”

“Any idea how long he’s been here?” asked Roger.

“Hard to say. Know who you want, don’t you? Fire expert. Tell you more about it than I can,” said the police-surgeon. “When your photographers have finished, I’d send the remains to the Yard, if I were you. No point in leaving them somewhere locally, and I can get a dentist working at them early in the morning.”

“Tonight, please,” asked Roger.

“All right, all right,” grumbled the other.

Roger had a word with the local superintendent, whose men were still searching the smouldering rubbish, then turned towards the main factory buildings. As he drew near the platform, against which a dozen vans were backed, a man came out of a large office – a rather short, well-dressed man, accompanied by a foreman.

The well-dressed man saw Roger.

He drew back, knocking against his companion. It was a moment of shock, astonishment, alarm, and it seemed to Roger there was something else in his expression: fear. He didn’t move, even when the foreman spoke to him, and Roger vaulted up to the platform level. The colour was drained from the man’s face, and his hands were shaking.

“Mr Akerman – what’s up, sir?” That was the foreman.

Akerman pulled himself together and approached Roger.

“Who—who are you?” he asked, and his voice quivered a little.

“Chief Inspector West of New Scotland Yard,” Roger said brusquely. “Reason to be alarmed, sir?”

“Al—alarmed? Well, yes, in a way. It’s incredible. You’re the living image of him. You—but, of course, you know about him. I’m talking of Guy Randall.”

“Yes, I know about Randall,” said Roger heavily. He couldn’t make up his mind whether the likeness was the full explanation of Akerman’s manner. “Nasty business here, sir. Are you the—a manager?”

Akerman said: “Not here, I’m from the London offices. Francis Akerman, from the Buying Department. Er—yes, today’s is another nasty business. I’m glad the local police haven’t delayed sending for the Yard, we shall want to get to the bottom of it quickly.”

Roger said: “I hope we shall. Who is in charge?”

“Mr Emanuel,” said Akerman, and added hastily: “Mr Emanuel Perriman, that is – our managing-director. He will see you himself, I’m sure.”

“Thanks,” said Roger, “but I meant in charge of this department. I want to see the men who saw the attack on your warehouseman, please – what’s his name? Peel, I think.”

“The drivers have already been interviewed by the police,” complained Akerman.

“They’re still here, sir,” said the foreman.

“Oh, are they? Good. You look after the Chief Inspector, and I’ll tell Mr Emanuel that he’s here.”

Roger interviewed the van-drivers. None of them could describe Peel’s assailant, except to say that he had been dressed in dark-brown and wore a handkerchief mask. During these interviews the foreman was present, and Roger asked him if any of the regular workers were missing.

“I couldn’t say – it’s been such a messy afternoon,” said the foreman. “Tell you what might help, though – the time-cards.”

“How can they help?”

“Well, if it’s one of our staff, and that’s what you obviously think, he wouldn’t have clocked out, would he? The attacker just made off.”

“He could have slipped in at another entrance and clocked out,” said Roger. “But I’d like to find out who hasn’t.”

“Come along with me,” said the foreman.

He led the way to the time-keeping office, outside which were racks of cards. Most of the cards were in one large rack, but there were a dozen in another – and the foreman told him these people hadn’t clocked out; he himself was included. He ran through the names. Six were of women, who were working overtime in the wrapping shed. His made seven. He read out the other names aloud, and looked round the big shed, saying: “Danny’s here … Bob … Tim … Benny … h’mm, Relf, he—”

“Who?” exclaimed Roger.

“Relf – one of the porters, and he’s usually off on the tick,” said the foreman with a sniff. “Name’s familiar, is it?”

“It is rather. What’s this Relf like?”

“Big powerful chap. Can’t say I like him. General porter – odd-job man. He—”

The foreman broke off.

“Yes,” encouraged Roger.

“He does more work on the dump than anyone else.”

Roger said quietly: “I’ll check up on Relf. None of the staff is missing, I suppose, apart from him?”

“No, no one. Why?”

“There is a corpse,” Roger reminded him.

“Yes, yes. But it isn’t one of our men, I’m sure.”

“Noticed any strangers about here lately?” asked Roger.

The foreman said: “Well, there are always a few. Scrap merchants come up to see if we’ve anything for disposal. But—can’t say—wait a minute, though. There was one fellow who’s been more persistent than most of them. He said he was a scrap disposal merchant, and wanted to make an offer for everything we had. Been hanging about part of each day for the last week.”

“What was he like?”

“Not a bad chap. About medium height, I suppose, or a bit less; rather plump. Had dark hair, and always wore the same clothes.”

“And what were they like?”

“A black-and-white check sports coat and a pair of flannel trousers,” said the foreman, and licked his lips again. “They—they found a black-and-white coat on the dump, didn’t they? Or what was left of it.”