‘ABOUT AS MUCH A COMMUNIST AS MY AUNTIE MARY’S RED SETTER.
PC PERCY COPPER HAD BEEN ASSIGNED TO THE FINGERPRINT SQUAD. Or at least that was how it was put to him, but he really only accompanied the fingerprint technician who took the actual prints. Percy’s job was to record the names of those printed, the address of houses and other premises that had been visited into a ledger, and to log the printed cards into the ‘print bag’. A canvas bag, divided into two sections, one section for the virgin cards, the other for the prints once they had been taken. In reality, it was quite boring, but at least he felt he was contributing, in however small a manner, towards the hunt for the killer of Emily Black.
He was out in the Longdyke area, to the southeast of the town, close by to the new industrial area which had sprung up since the war. Percy and PC Norman Jackstaff from the West Riding Constabulary fingerprint section drove out there in one of the roving fingerprint vans. Their first port of call was to a small industrial estate set up to provide warehousing and light industrial premises for the expanding industrial business spilling over into Garside from Sheffield.
The management had been forewarned that the police would be visiting that day and had been requested to have their male staff available for printing.
The process at the first three premises went smoothly enough. Elvin Small Tools Ltd had twenty-seven males that fell into the printing category, and all lined up willingly, calling the killer a ‘fucking evil bastard’, and other similar comments, ‘owt we can do to catch the bastard,’ etc.
They were mostly younger men, not old enough to have served in the war and lucky enough to have done their National Service in Germany or Malaya rather than Korea. They laughed and joked, seeing the fingerprinting session as a welcome break from the routine of their mostly mundane jobs, pushing at each other and larking about like schoolkids. A couple of the older men tried to remonstrate, but even the stern-faced, pot-bellied foreman with huge bushy eyebrows and a soup-strainer moustache could not curb their high spirits. Those that had been printed came out from the van, displaying their ink-stained fingers as though they were trophies, and one or two pretended to smear the ink on the faces of their mates.
Archers Delivery and Warehousing had sixteen male staff, but five of the drivers were on delivery runs, and Percy made a note to follow up, either back at the warehouse or at their homes.
Henderson Glass and Windows had nineteen male staff, of which eleven were in the factory, the others out on calls, fixing broken windows or delivering glass to the construction companies building the new estate houses springing up on the outskirts of town.
The only problem occurred at Whitecross Engineering, a small factory turning out specialist machine parts for the aero industry. The management were happy to allow their workers to be fingerprinted during their half-hour lunch break. (Arnold Whitecross was not so public-spirited that he was willing to lose production; he had deadlines to keep. ‘Look, I know tha’s got to do this, but make it as quick as you like, time’s money in this game and there too many hungry buggers about just waiting for us to slip up so’s they can step in and nick our orders. So, like I say, do it sharpish, right?)
The workers, all in blue boiler suits with Whitecross Engineering printed on the back, lined up, then the office staff came out to join them as well. There was some good-hearted banter between the lathe operators, the top earners in the factory apart from senior management, and the accountants and clerks from the office suite. The ladies, secretaries and typists, and the tea ladies came outside to watch the fun as well.
Then one of the office staff, a thin-faced man in a check pattern sleeveless pullover walked up to Percy as he began to make the entry for the first of the volunteers. His spectacles were lopsided, NHS glasses that had been broken at some stage and repaired with pink sticking plaster.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ he said to Gerry Carter, the first in line. ‘They can’t make you do this you know, it’s police harassment. Tell them, officer,’ he said to Percy, his voice high-pitched and whiny, the sort of voice that makes you want to punch the speaker in the throat to make him shut up before he has said more than a dozen words. ‘It’s not compulsory, is it?’
‘No sir, it’s not compulsory. The public have been asked, requested to voluntarily give their prints to assist in the search for the killer of little Emily Black. I hope that you’ll be one of them.’
‘I most certainly will not. This is outrageous harassment of innocent workers. Go on,’ he turned to the line of workers and clerks, ‘you heard him, you don’t have to do this. It’s nothing more than the first steps to police tyranny, attempting to get everyone’s prints on record, just like Big Brother in 1984.’
‘Who the fuck’s Big Brother when ‘e’s at home?’ someone shouted.
‘Language, there’s ladies about,’ admonished Whitecross, trying to see who had shouted.
‘What are you on about, Lenin?’ somebody else at the back shouted.
‘It’s Leonard. It’s about our rights. The cops can’t just walk in here with their jackboots on and demand our fingerprints.’
‘Nobody is demanding fingerprints, sir, we are politely requesting cooperation and assistance to help solve a crime,’ responded Percy. ‘I would have thought you wanted to catch Emily’s killer.’
‘That’s not the point. The point is that this is the first step down the road to fascism,’ Leonard said, getting more worked up. ‘The proletarian masses should make a stand against the establishment, and the police are the jackboot enforcers of the establishment. Bet you aren’t taking prints at the sodding Conservative club, are you?’
‘Not me personally, sir, but I’m sure some of the other officers are.’
‘Come on, Leonard,’ said Whitecross irritably, ‘this is taking up time and time is money, you know that if anybody does.’
‘It’s the principle, Mr. Whitecross.’
‘The only principles that concern me are time and money, and this is costing me both.’
‘If you don’t mind, sir,’ said Percy calmly, ‘we need to get on. Please move along and go and join the line to have your prints taken.’
‘You just said it was not compulsory,’ Leonard said triumphantly, as if he had scored a major debating point, his Adam’s apple bouncing in excitement.
‘No, sir. It is not, but if you do not, it will make you look very suspicious.’
‘Typical, using threats now, that’s the thin end of the wedge. You gonna arrest me for not giving my prints?’
‘No, sir, for obstructing a police officer in the course of his duties.’ Percy was not certain if he could arrest this annoying little twerp for obstruction, but he was getting heartily fed up with him, that’s for sure.
‘Come on, Lenin, move it. We ain’t got all day, and some of us want our sarnies before we have to get back to the grind, work, you know, or perhaps you don’t,’ a burly man about fifth in the line said loudly. There was an outburst of laughter, and Leonard turned away, blushing furiously, and marched back into the office, his head held high as though in defiance, but everyone there knew it was humiliation.
After that, the line moved quickly, and the entire workforce, including Whitecross but not Leonard Poppens, were printed and logged. Percy made a note to pass Leonard Poppens up to CID to see if they had anything on him. But just as they were packing away the fingerprint equipment in the van, Leonard Poppens sidled over to them. ‘Yeah, OK, it’s against my principles, but, like, I don’t want to be seen as not caring about that little girl, so you can take my prints, long as you keep the promise to destroy them after.’
It was almost lunchtime, and Norman Jackstaff, the fingerprint technician, asked Whitecross if they could get a cup of tea. They had brought their own sandwiches, cheese and pickle for Jackstaff, made for him by his landlady. He had come from HQ in Wakefield, some 30 miles away, and was housed in Mrs Edith Gentry’s Bed and Breakfast, who made up his sandwiches every morning and gave him a goodbye peck on the cheek, as she did her husband when he was alive before he left the house.
As for Percy, he now lived in the station house and made his sandwiches up in the communal kitchen, for which nobody ever seems to take the responsibility to keep clean. Percy’s sandwiches were some stale cheddar he found in the meat safe.
‘Aye,’ answered Whitecross, ‘best come up to my office. The lads might feel a bit… intimidated if tha’ knows what I mean wi’ two coppers in the canteen. Maureen, she’s the secretary, like. She’ll bring us a cuppa.’
Whitecross’s office was on a mezzanine overlooking the factory floor so that he could oversee what was going on below. Whilst Percy and Jackstaff ate their sandwiches and drank their tea, Whitecross answered the phone and read through some letters delivered to him by his secretary, a middle-aged spinster – or at least she wore no ring – who fussed over him like a mother.
As Percy finished off his tea, below on the factory floor he could see Leonard Poppens going from lathe to lathe, counting the finished machine parts that the lathe operator put in a large trolley beside his lathe. Poppens noted the figures down on a production sheet clipped to a piece of plywood which he carried with him. He was quick and efficient, almost rodent-like as he scurried from lathe to lathe.
‘Tell me about him, Leonard Poppens. Been with you long?’ he asked.
‘Leonard? Aye, he’s an arsey little wanker, no doubt, but he’s dead efficient on the tally, and he’s a bloody genius on the books, if you get my meaning.’
‘I think perhaps you oughtn’t be telling us that,’ said Jackstaff dryly.
‘Aye, right, but having said that, he’s a queer bastard. No, I don’t mean queer as in bum boy, leastwise I don’t think so, never had no reason to think it, put it that way. Nay, it’s just that he’s a whatchamacallit, a fantasist, says he’s a communist and that there’s going to be a revolution like in Russia and all the bosses are going to be put against a wall and shot. Which is why the lads on the floor call him Lenin, taking the piss like, but I reckon he’s about as much a communist as my Auntie Mary’s red setter. Says he wants to be a Russian spy, bollocks like that, claims the Russian secret police have already contacted him. My arse!’
‘What about his home life? Where does he live?’
‘He lives with his Mum and Dad, whose lungs are buggered, he was a miner, see, and his big sister and an aunt in a terrace house in Hinkley. Nah, he’s harmless enough, studies bookkeeping at night school at Garside College and wants to be an accountant. A communist accountant, if you can believe such a thing. He’s harmless. A bit opinionated, a bit arsey but harmless. His Mum’d take the hide off’n him if he was up to owt.’
With no other business to keep them, Percy and Jackstaff made their way back to the van to carry on to the next destination. Whitecross accompanied them, as if glad to see the back of them and to make sure they left the premises. Too much production had already been lost for the day.
When they drove into the factory yard, Percy had noticed a shiny new two-tone silver and blue Armstrong Siddeley Sapphire parked by the main entrance. Although he could not afford a car of any age or condition, let alone a new Armstrong-Siddeley, nevertheless he took a keen interest in cars, determined that he would one day own such a car.
‘That yours, sir?’ he asked Whitecross, trying not too successfully to keep the envy out of his voice.
‘Aye, lad,’ Whitecross answered proudly, caressing the gleaming mudguard as though it were a woman’s thigh. ‘One thousand five hundred and twelve pounds it cost. It was the missus as wanted it, of course. Didn’t want a big flash car myself,’ the lie apparent from his tone of voice. ‘A Ford Prefect or summat would’ve done me, but the missus, well, she insisted.’
‘Doing all right then, this business?’ Percy asked, sweeping his arm around to encompass the factory.
‘Listen, lad, I started out as an apprentice lathe operator when I were fourteen, but I said there and then, the only way to make money is to work for thi’self not for some other bugger. Bloody hard work it’s been, and we’ve been down on our uppers more than once, I can tell you. Nobody’s given me nowt. I’ve grafted for every penny and still do.’ Whitecross pulled out his cigarettes and lit up ‘Woodbines,’ Percy noticed, one of the cheapest brands, so Whitecross had not entirely left his poor beginnings behind.
‘Fourteen, sixteen hours a day sometimes, and that little gobshite Lenin wants to take it all away and make this a workers’ commune. My arse! He wants to bring in a union, but that’s the first step on a downhill path, you ask me. What the fuck do they need a union for? I pay top rate; they get two weeks paid holiday and a bonus at Christmas. If he weren’t so good on the books, I’d have him out of here, but… he saves me a packet in tax, so I put up wi’ him.’
‘Yes, sir. Thanks for your help,’ said Norman Jackstaff, and they drove away and on to the next locality.