Chapter Four

Micky Bryant

The youth coming swiftly towards Roger might have risen from that cold stone slab after shedding thirty years of his age. Obviously he was in such distress that he hardly knew what he was doing. He pushed past the sergeant, who said sharply: “Now, I’ve warned you once.”

“It’s all right,” said Roger. “If I’d just learned that my father had been murdered, I’d be pretty mad.”

Micky Bryant stopped moving. Then his lips began to work and his eyes screwed up. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. He was short for his age – over eighteen, or he wouldn’t be in the Army.

“Let’s get along to my room,” Roger said, and walked briskly towards the lift. Bryant still didn’t speak as they went up, then along the wide, bare corridors to Roger’s office. His desk, one of five, was in a corner with a window overlooking the Embankment, the floodlit London County Hall, and the shimmering reflection of the lamps of Westminster Bridge on the Thames.

No one else was here.

“Sit down for half a minute, will you?” asked Roger, and pushed up a small green armchair. He himself sat on a corner of the desk and lifted a telephone – one of three on the desk. “Give me Sergeant Appleby, please.” Brown trilby tipped to the back of his head, overcoat collar turned up, he looked vigorous, and right on top of his job. “Hallo, Appleby? … Just make a note of these things, will you, all to do with the Post Office investigation.” He saw Micky Bryant stiffen.

“… see that I get photographs of that footprint and a copy of the plaster cast,” Roger said. “Have a word with the River Police and ask them—”

He broke off.

“You’ve got it?” he exclaimed. “Fine—yes, I’ll be here. Anything else? … All right, thanks.”

He put down the receiver, and looked keenly into the youth’s face.

“Micky,” he said, “I think you like it straight from the shoulder.” The boy nodded. “Right. The River Police have found a weapon which they think was used to kill your father. That means we’ve made a good start. We’ve also found a footprint which will probably help to identify the killer. And there are fifty or so detectives ready to work night and day until they’ve found the man.”

He stopped.

Micky Bryant said, slowly, gratingly: “That—that’s what I came to—to see you about. You must find him.”

“I think we shall.”

“You must find him,” the lad repeated, as if he hadn’t heard the response. “It’s the most terrible thing that’s ever happened. My father was such a good man.” Tears shimmered in the stricken eyes. “If I knew who it was, I’d kill him myself, the devil. I’d make sure he didn’t live to kill anyone else.”

Roger tipped his hat farther back, and spoke very quietly.

“Listen, Micky. The law exists to punish murderers. If you found and killed this man, you’d be guilty of murder in the eyes of the law. How would that help your mother?”

All the boy could do was stare.

“Your job’s to help us,” Roger went on, more briskly. “Have you any idea at all who killed your father?”

“No, I only wish—”

“Just answer my questions. Have you any idea why he was killed?”

The boy shouted: “Of course I haven’t!”

“All right, I had to ask. Derek’s older than you, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s twenty two.”

“All your other brothers and sisters are younger, aren’t they?”

“Yes, much—much younger.”

“Thanks. Do you know where Derek’s fiancée lives?”

“Oh, yes. She has a flat in Chelsea, 27 Barton Mews.”

“Good,” said Roger, and lit a cigarette. “Now, when were you last on leave?”

“It was only three weeks ago; now I’m on embarkation leave. I—excuse me, sir, do you think I shall get compassionate leave all right? I—I must stay at home with Mum.”

“I think I can guarantee it,” Roger said. “Don’t worry about that. You saw your father on your last leave, of course.”

“Oh, yes. He took a day off, and we went—”

The boy broke off, and had to fight the tears. Roger looked down at the papers on his desk, and asked: “Did he say anything to suggest that he had any enemies?”

“Heavens, no! Everyone liked him.” Micky’s voice broke again.

“Did he say anything at all about his work?”

“Well—well, last night he said that things were really getting heavy, this time of the year is always the—the busiest in the Post Office, you know. He—he said he expected to have to work overtime every night, but didn’t mind because it meant a little extra money for Mum.” Micky caught his breath. “Oh, God, why did he have to die?”

Roger let the cry fade into silence, then asked quietly: “He held a pretty responsible position, didn’t he?”

“Well—well, yes, in a way,” Micky mumbled now. “He was a senior sorter.”

“Parcels and letters?”

“Yes.”

“Did that include registered post?”

“Oh, yes,” said Micky, “I know it did. He took me round the new office the time before the last time I was on leave, with Mr Farnley’s permission, and showed me what they do with the registered parcels and letters. There’d been so much trouble.”

Roger said: “That’s what I’m getting at, Micky. There’s been a lot of trouble with the Post Office van robberies, and I wondered if your father ever suggested that he knew who was behind them.”

“Oh, no!”

“Then that couldn’t be the motive, could it?” I suppose he hadn’t won a fortune on the pools, or betting.”

“Dad gamble? He’d rather starve!”

Then where had he got that hundred pounds?

“Wise man,” Roger said briskly. “Now, I’ll send you to my home, where you can join your mother, and go home with her. Do you know if she has any sisters, or anyone who’ll come and stay with her?”

“Oh, May will. May’s wonderful.”

“Good. What’s her other name?”

“Rosemary.”

Roger was surprised into a smile. “No, I mean her surname.”

“Oh, I see. Harrison, May Harrison.”

“Thanks. Has she known Derek for long?”

“Oh, yes, years.”

“And what does Derek do for a living?”

They were at the lift by then.

“He works at River Way, too.” said Micky Bryant. “He’s on the maintenance side, mostly engineering. I don’t really know what he does, except that it’s mostly outside work.” He stepped into the lift as Roger motioned him ahead. “May’s like one of the family; it’ll help a lot just to have her around.”

“That’s fine,” said Roger, and meant it.

A few minutes later he watched the lad being driven off; then he went straight back to his office.

There was nothing at all to suggest that the murder might be connected with Bryant’s private life; it seemed more likely to be connected with his work. In his humble way, he had been a key worker, handling a good proportion of the registered letters and parcels which went through River Way. There had been dozens of Post Office van robberies in recent years, and some evidence that an inside worker was supplying the thieves with advance information. When the thieves knew where valuable packets would be coming from, and what time they were expected at the post offices, their task was easier.

Turnbull was already busy on that angle, consulting with officers of the Post Office Investigations Branch.

By working into the early hours, Roger could make up the time he had lost with the Bryant family.

He looked through some reports on a dozen other cases, and made notes for morning action, mostly delegated. His main job would be the Post Office murder, and he wanted to soak himself in the details.

A telephone bell rang.

He lifted the right receiver. “West speaking.”

“What–ho, Handsome,” said Detective Inspector Turnbull. His deep, powerful voice held a note of excitement. “I’ve picked up a bit of dope on our pal Carmichael, the Chief Sorter. He’s got a bit of blonde stuff tucked away. Expensive piece, too—diamond earrings and bells on her toes. Now where would our Carmy get the money for high life like that?”

“Sure about this?” Roger demanded.

“Been seen by the PO detectives, night clubs and expensive restaurants.”

“Have ’em both watched, but don’t let them know about it yet. Could Carmichael be the killer?” Roger couldn’t imagine the little man having the physical strength to deliver those terrible blows.

“No,” said Turnbull, “he was in the office at the time; we couldn’t pin the job on to him. But a Post Office chap with a salary of nine hundred a year keeping a blonde whose house rent must be five or six pounds a week smells high, doesn’t it?”

“Couldn’t smell much higher. Anything else come in at the River Way Post Office?”

“Nothing worth singling out. I’ll make a report for the morning,” Turnbull promised. “I hear they’ve found the instrument.”

“They think they have.”

Roger rang off, frowning, picked up a file of reports, but hadn’t read the first one when the door opened and a bald-headed man looked in. It was going to be like this, with hardly a minute’s peace.

“That hammer used on Bryant’s come in,” the man announced. “Coming up to see it?”