Chapter Three

Hotting Up

No one would ever have called Tom Bryant handsome. In death, he looked exactly what his wife had said that he was in life: a good man. This showed in the placid expression, the serenity, the hooked nose, the full lips. His thick, wavy hair was quite grey, suggesting that he was probably ten years older than his wife. Lying on the stone slab, he looked as much alive as dead, and his was the only body in the morgue.

Roger was on one side of Bryant’s widow, Janet on the other.

They were not there long.

Without a word, Mrs Bryant bent down, put her lips against a forehead which was already cold, then moved blindly towards the door. It was chilly in here, but warm outside in the passages. The warmth seemed to melt something inside her and she began to cry again, more freely than she had at home.

Roger and Janet went out with her into the Cannon Row Police Station adjoining, and Roger said: “I’ll have someone standing by to take you both home, Jan. If she wants to go back to Clapp Street, I’d let her.”

“All right,” said Janet. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going over to River Way, to see if our chaps have picked up anything,” Roger said.

He didn’t think that Mrs Bryant noticed him leave.

Now that the harrowing part of the task was over he felt better; he could free himself from the harsh bite of another’s grief, and see this as a job: to find a killer. He drove, alone, to River Way, which led to the Chelsea Embankment and the broad Thames. The huge new building of West London’s Post Office stood as massive and in its way as commanding as the Battersea Power Station, only a mile or so away on the other side of the river. Every light at a thousand windows seemed to shine brightly. People could be seen sitting at desks near the windows. The great yard, approached by road from the Embankment, was crowded with jostling red Post Office vans; traffic was on the move all the time. The new building dwarfed all others nearby, and in the misty gloom stood out like a monster with a thousand square eyes. Nonsense. Roger drove past it, seeing a police car at one gateway, and then slowed down towards the end of Goose Lane.

In Goose Lane, Bryant had been murdered. It led from a side of the mammoth building to the Embankment, along which Bryant would have cycled home. It always saved him half a mile and a lot of traffic, and according to the Chief Sorter, whom Roger had seen earlier, many clerks and Sorting Office workers who lived in the south west of London used that short cut – unless they travelled to and from work by bus, when it wouldn’t help them. At the beginning and the end of the different shifts, it was used a great deal; between those rush hours, hardly at all. Normally, a single electric light shone at the near end of the lane; now, it was one of a dozen. Car headlights and a specially rigged searchlight were in position, so that the lane, which was usually very dark, was brighter than any floodlit stage. The bricks of the walls on either side showed up, and all their tiny holes looked black. It was even possible to see where the cement in between had started to crumble. At intervals there were alcoves, for the wall on one side had once been that of a private garden. The path was paved, but some of the old flagstones were cracked, and in places soil had gathered, especially at the sides and spots where the flagstones were broken.

At the far end was another wall lamp, helping to show that the lane was alive with men. There were the photographers, an inspector from Fingerprints with two sergeants, and other men taking measurements; all these had started before Roger had left, and should be well on with their job.

If they weren’t, there would be trouble.

Roger turned into the alley and walked towards the men near the spot where Bryant had been found by another Post Office worker. This man could not have been three minutes behind Bryant; three minutes between life and death.

A crowd had gathered at the Embankment end, and uniformed policemen were keeping them back. The Press was here in strength. One dead man, a dozen CID men, as many reporters hungry for news, a hundred sightseers – harbingers of thousands who would come next day.

Divisional as well as Yard men were here, and the Divisional Superintendent, Gorme, was officially in charge. Gorme was a big man, good in his steady way, who never lost a moment sending for Scotland Yard, preferring to make sure that he could at least share the responsibility, if anything went wrong.

“Hallo, Handsome,” he greeted, “back already?” He sniffed. “Told the family?”

“Yes.”

“Rather you than me, but I did offer.”

“I know. Found anything?”

“We have and again we haven’t,” said Gorme, and gave another sniff; until one was used to that habit of his, it was annoying. “Footprints in the dirt at the side of the lane, made by a chap running. Well, might have been running—toe deep in some mud, heel hardly showing any impression at all. Bit of blood showing on the first three or four prints.”

“Sent the blood for grouping?”

“Yes. If you ask me, chap might have killed Bryant and then run off on tiptoe to lessen sound. We took a cast after taking up the bloodstained bits.”

“Nice work,” said Roger. “Anything else?”

“Only the usual,” Gorme said. “Got the area cordoned off while we search for more prints and a weapon. Know what I think?”

“He’d throw the weapon into the river.”

Gorme grinned. “Two minds with but a single,” he chanted. “Thought I’d wait for you before calling in the River boys. Like me to, now?”

“Will you?” asked Roger.

“Like a shot, Handsome, like a shot Be seeing you.” Gorme moved off, sniffing. Roger stood by himself for a few minutes, and no one in the lane took any particular notice of him. Most of the men were gathered round a spot where there were a lot of chalk marks on the ground, made when a man from the Yard had drawn a line to show the position of the body. The men taking measurements from this, so as to establish the exact position of the body, were finishing their job; so were the photographers. One man stood close to the wall, while another shone a powerful torch; he was scraping something off the weatherworn brickwork.

Roger neared him.

“What have you got there?”

“Blood spots,” the man with the torch said flatly. “Highest is at seven feet two inches.”

“Upward splash, eh?”

“Not much doubt about it, sir. We’re just scraping off enough to make sure it’s new blood, and to check the group.”

“Right,” said Roger.

He felt something soft beneath his feet, and looked down. Sawdust was spread thick, and it would be spread thickest over blood. This was close to one of the alcoves, where the murderer had lurked. Why should a man lurk here to strike down a Post Office sorter?

The medical evidence suggested that only two blows had been struck, one on top of the head, one a little lower down; perhaps as Bryant had been falling. Two blows – and the skull had cracked and broken. Smack, smack. Someone with exceptional strength –

Hold it.

Bryant’s skull might have been thinner than the average. When they had the facts they could start working on them.

Roger went farther along the lane and saw other spots chalked off, with a policeman on guard. Sightseers were only about thirty yards away. Inside one chalked circle was a pale blotch – this was the spot where the cast of a footprint had been taken. Roger went down on one knee and shone his torch on to it A narrow toe mark showed, but there was hardly any impression of the heel. Gorme was always literal.

The routine work would be done as well without as with him, Roger knew, and he went back to his car. Gorme was coming away from his, wiping his lips with the back of his hand; he had a reputation for liking his liquor, but that didn’t affect his sniff.

“The River boys will be on the job right away,” he said. “We should have the doctor’s report soon, and find out a bit about the weapon.”

Roger said dryly: “Blunt instrument.”

Gorme grinned.

Roger slid into his own car, flicked on the radio and talked to Scotland Yard. The footprint cast was already there, photographs were being developed and more casts were being made from the original. The medical report was confirmed by X-ray photographs – only two blows had been delivered.

No one suggested that Bryant’s skull had been particularly thin.

Roger could almost hear Mrs Bryant’s voice.

“Why Tom?”

Yes – why a Post Office sorter?

And why did a Post Office sorter earning less than ten pounds a week have a hundred pounds in his pocket?

Roger drove into the big yard of the River Way building. There were fewer red vans. Half a dozen big lorries carrying printed labels reading Royal Mail were the forerunners of the countless private lorries and vans which would soon be hired. The loading platform was piled high with parcels which had been brought from the nearby offices and were being tossed into different chutes – each big city had one of its own, like Birmingham, Manchester, Bristol, Cardiff, Edinburgh; there were dozens. Other chutes were marked East Midlands, Southeast England, Home Counties, Western Isles, Ireland and the like. Men in dark blue stood by the mass of parcels which came off the vans and fed the chutes, and the parcels were swallowed up. Somewhere out of sight the same kind of thing was happening with letters. The new River Way Post Office was the largest in London, and was hotting up for the Christmas rush.

Roger was recognised by a one armed lift attendant who took him up to the third floor and the Postmaster’s offices.

“Know your way all right, sir?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Terrible business, sir, and Tom Bryant especially.”

Roger paused. “Why especially?”

“Well, if you’d known Tom you wouldn’t have asked,” the liftman said. “They don’t come any better.”

“Man without enemies, eh?”

“I should have thought so, sir.”

“Don’t know anyone who didn’t share your opinion, do you?”

“To tell you the truth, sir,” the liftman said, “I don’t know a soul who didn’t like Tom Bryant.”

Roger said, “We’ll get the brute,” and went on. He tapped at a door marked Postmaster and it was opened at once by a middle aged woman in a black skirt and a light grey sweater, with dark hair done in a bun at the back. She had a pleasant smile.

“I thought it might be you, sir. They’re all together in the Postmaster’s room.”

“Thanks,” said Roger.

The secretary opened the door, and he stepped into a spacious room. There were three men inside – the Postmaster himself, Matthew Farnley, short and stocky, with close cut grey hair and a pronounced double chin; the Chief Sorter, a small man named Carmichael, and a big man who dwarfed both the others – Detective Inspector Turnbull of the CID. Turnbull had the look of a lion and the body of one, too; a massive and powerful man, who could upset a lot of people. Apparently he had been on his best behaviour, for neither Farnley nor Carmichael looked upset.

“Hallo, sir,” Turnbull greeted; the ‘sir’ was for effect, and was not even slightly obsequious. “Mr Farnley has been very helpful, but I can’t say we’ve got anywhere yet.”

Farnley waved a square hand.

“Sit down, Mr West, please. Cigarette?” He lit Roger’s cigarette, then Turnbull’s, then his own; Carmichael didn’t smoke. Carmichael was a small man whom it would be easy to overlook in a crowd. His coat was a little too large for him. His forehead was lined and the skin around his eyes wrinkled, and he had pale, gingery hair which needed cutting.

“I only wish we could help you to clear up this shocking business quickly,” the Postmaster said. “Shocking! And just when things are hotting up for the Christmas rush. Don’t misunderstand me, Mr West, I’m desperately sorry about Bryant, but the work must go on.”

“No reason why we should stop it,” Roger said dryly. “So Bryant had no known enemies in the building.”

“Absolutely none,” Farnley assured him. “None at all. Eh, Carmichael?”

Carmichael was a mumbler.

“None at all,” Roger made out. “One of the most popular men, well respected and well liked.” The last words were hardly audible, and the Chief Sorter fidgeted with his hands and feet. “I really ought to go and see how things are getting on, sir.”

Farnley looked at Roger. “Is there anything else you need Mr Carmichael for?”

Roger said, “Nothing now, thanks.” He didn’t appear to watch as Carmichael went out, but he didn’t miss the nondescript little man’s eagerness to go.

“Mr West,” said Farnley briskly, “I don’t want you to misunderstand me, but if we should get a hold up now, even a trifling one, it could disrupt all of our Christmas posting arrangements. That apart, I’ll do anything at all that I can to help. Anything. So will my staff.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Roger said formally. “Thank you. Detective Inspector Turnbull will be in charge when I’m not here.”

“Good,” said Farnley. “Good.” Obviously, he hoped they would soon go.

Once they were out of the Postmaster’s room, Turnbull said roundly: “Cold shoulder’s not in it And that Chief Sorter, Carmichael, puts up a funny act, doesn’t he? Edgy as a monkey with fleas.”

“He’s probably haunted by thoughts of a parcels hold up,” Roger said. “Better have someone tag him, though.”

He left Turnbull, and soon slid his car on to the Embankment; from here, he could be in his office in five minutes. In ten seconds under the five, he was getting out of his car.

A uniformed man from the top of the steps leading to the CID building, came hurrying down.

“Mind you don’t slip,” Roger said. “There’s frost on the steps.”

“I’ll be careful, sir, thanks,” the duty sergeant said. He was breathing heavily. “A word in your ear, sir. There’s a boy up here—lad of about eighteen, just raring to go. Says he must see you, won’t be put off with anyone else. Shall I get rid of him?”

“Did he give a name?”

“Name of Bryant—and so young he ought to be in crawlers, not in uniform.”

“I’ll see him,” said Roger, and began to hurry up the steps. He’d already met Derek; this would be Micky Bryant.