6

The Outgoing of an Intake Attendant

 

Petrella was down at the reservoir by half past eight next morning. It was a calm, bright, cold winter’s day, a day of nipped fingers and steaming breath. He found Sergeant Dodds already at work.

A lorry and trailer stood in the open space in front of the cottage and Dodds and three men were offloading a flat-bottomed boat. It looked like an infantry-assault craft.

“Now you have got out of bed,” said Dodds, “you can come and lend a hand. I’m warning you it’s a lot heavier than it looks.”

Between them they staggered onto the landing stage, lowered one side, lifted the other, and heaved. The boat hit the surface with a solid ker-splash, sending a long ripple out over the surface of the water and fetching a protest from a sleepy swan.

“She floats,” said Dodds. “What next, George?”

“The detector gear has to be fixed in,” said the young man who seemed to be in charge of the party. “We can handle that now. Just tell us the line you want to take.”

“You’re to cover a strip,” said Dodds, “ten or twelve feet wide. Say two yards either side of the boat. Go straight across from this landing stage to the far end. There’s a point you can lay on. It isn’t easy to see from here. Where a path goes up through the bushes.”

“I’ll walk round in a minute and stick a flag in,” said the young man. “You show me just where you want it. It’s going to take me a bit of time to rig the gear. I’ll tell you when we’re ready.”

He went into a huddle with his two mechanics, and Petrella heard snatches of conversation about something which sounded like “the fixer magnet”. Then all three men went back to the lorry and started rolling back the tarpaulin.

“What’s it all about?”

“Just a bit of Chris Kellaway’s famous drive and efficiency,” said Dodds. “This is an up-to-date salvage unit. Private firm. George, here, does the frog stuff, when it’s called for. The other two operate the box of tricks. It’s a detector. Something the navy dreamed up for dealing with limpet mines. You can drag an electrical gadget across the bottom and if it comes within smelling distance of any metal it goes ‘ping’. In fact, it goes several different sorts of ‘ping’ and the bright boy sitting in the boat can tell how much metal, and what sort, and how far off, and so on.”

“And then the frogman goes down and has a look at it?”

“Right. And rather him than me this weather.”

“I don’t know,” said Petrella. “You can wear warm clothes inside the suit. As a matter of fact, I’ve always wanted–”

“Not today,” said Dodds. “Have a heart. You get it out of your system some other time. This is strictly a professional job.”

One of the men in the boat looked up from screwing an instrument panel to the cross-thwart of the boat and said, “How deep’s the water?”

Dodds consulted his plan. “Twenty feet in the middle,” he said. “Six feet at the sides. Gravel bottom, shelving gently. Piece of cake.”

The man grunted, picked up a ratchet screwdriver, and screwed in a screw as if he hated it.

“You’ve got to hand it to Chris,” said Dodds. “He does get ideas – sometimes. You take an ordinary piece of water, a pond or a river or a canal. You put a sensitive bit of machinery like this over it, and what happens? ‘Ping’ – and up comes an old kettle. ‘Ping-ping’ and it’s a washtub with a hole in it. ‘Ping-ping-ping’ and it’s an–”

“I get your point,” said Petrella.

“Here you’ve got a nice clear bottom. Shouldn’t be anything there except water. So every time she sounds off, it’s worth going down to have a look.”

“And you’re starting on this particular line because you think that whoever it was took the boat rowed her straight across and may have dropped – something or other – overboard. What are we hoping to find?”

“Like all good policemen,” said Dodds, “we’re keeping strictly open minds.”

The frogman now appeared, carrying a red-and-white survey flag on a stick, and he and Dodds wandered off together to mark the aiming point.

Petrella looked at his watch and remembered that the reason he was there was that he had a date with Mr Lundgren at nine o’clock.

Punctual to the minute, a smart little car drew up on the gravel sweep and the resident supply engineer jumped out.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” he said. “How are things progressing – what on earth’s going on?”

“It’s a treasure hunt – modern style,” said Petrella, and explained.

“I hope they don’t disturb a pair of little crested grebes,” said Lundgren. “This is the first year they’ve wintered here. Their nest’s over there, near where those two men are standing. What the devil are they waving that flag for?”

Petrella explained this too.

“Let’s stick flags up all round and have a regatta. Why not!” said Mr Lundgren sourly, and Petrella registered the thought that if Superintendent Kellaway had been just that little bit more tactful he would have told the supply engineer what he planned to do and got him on his side first.

“Do you mean to say,” went on Lundgren, “that you’re working on the assumption that the murderer shot this woman – she was shot, wasn’t she? – I thought it said so in the papers – and then took the boat, and rowed it across, and sunk it, and went up the path and climbed over a ten-foot fence. Why didn’t he walk out of the front gate? It’s locked, but it isn’t all that difficult to climb over. I’ve done it myself before now, and I’m no gymnast.”

This was precisely the point that was worrying Petrella, so instead of answering the question he asked one himself. “In fact,” he said, “had you noticed that the boat was missing?”

“No,” said Lundgren. He sounded a bit upset about this. “I expect we should have spotted it when we made a proper check. That would be when the next man came in.”

“And the house.”

“We’ll look at that now. I brought the keys with me.”

“Are we the first people to go in since Ricketts left?”

“Bless you, no. We may be a bit unbusinesslike, but we’re not as bad as that. One of our property managers went over it as soon as we heard Ricketts had gone. Turned off the gas and electricity, and checked that Ricketts hadn’t walked off with any of the Board’s property.”

“And had he?”

“On the contrary – now which of these two is the front-door key? – I seem to remember that he’d left quite a lot of his own stuff behind. We had it inventoried and stored away–”

(Petrella thought, Where did I hear that before? Of course, Rosa’s friend Jean. “I packed them in a bag and put them in the storeroom downstairs.” Two lots of belongings, waiting for two people to come back and claim them.)

“What sort of things?” he said.

“Bed linen and curtains and things like that. All these doors are apt to stick. Give it a push.”

Cold and dark and silent, the house awaited them, an old woman, her hands folded, expectant of indignities.

“Smells damp to me,” said Mr Lundgren. “We’ll have to get it thoroughly aired before the next man comes in. I’ll go and open the shutters. Then we shall have a bit more light.”

One door on the right of the tiny hallway opened into the living-room; another, at the end, into the kitchen. The stairs rose straight out of the hall.

“It’s a simple sort of but and ben,” said Lundgren, “but it’s handy. There’s a nice bedroom, and a modern bathroom and lavatory upstairs. Main drainage, of course. And electricity, only it’s turned off just now.”

“I expect it’s very nice,” said Petrella, repressing a shudder. “When it’s warm and cheerful. Just at the moment–”

“I’ll open the shutters.”

They gazed round the living-room. The carpet had been rolled up and the floor scrubbed. An imitation-leather sofa and two armchairs were stacked together in front of the unprotected grate. Petrella ran a finger along the top of the nearest chair, producing a faint powdering of greeny white mould. Lundgren was right. The place was damp.

“We had it cleaned right out. I expect we shall redecorate before the next man comes in.”

“Yes,” said Petrella. “What I’d like to do is have a word with the man who saw it first. Did he get the impression that Ricketts had taken his time about going? Had he packed all his things up carefully? That’d take time, you see. Or did he just cram what he wanted into a suitcase and push off?”

“I’m not sure,” said Lundgren. “There was something in the report – I’ve got it at the office. I’ll look at it when I get back. No, I remember. It was the washing. The laundry had delivered a week’s washing. It was still in the porch when our man came round.”

“There’s nothing in that,” said Petrella. “Anyone might forget their washing. Let’s look upstairs.”

The bedroom was furnished simply with a bed, now stripped to its springs, a chest of drawers and cupboard. The chest and cupboard were empty and clean.

“Some of the things left in here would certainly have been his,” said Lundgren. “The sheets and pillowcases, for instance. The blankets and bedding were supplied by us. That vase now – I’m not sure–”

“Even if I’d had plenty of time,” said Petrella, “I think I might have managed to leave that behind.” The vase was pink, and embossed with tiny green oyster shells which formed the words “A present from Whitstable.”

“Not absolutely my taste,” agreed Lundgren. “But some people like that sort of thing. Here’s the bathroom.” This, too, was bare, except for a cork bath mat and several dozen rusty razor blades, which had been overlooked on top of the medicine cupboard.

“Well, he took his toothbrush,” said Lundgren.

“And his towel. Let’s try the kitchen.”

Here there was more to be seen. The room had been scrubbed and tidied, but they found a cupboard full of tins and packets – corn flour, tea, sugar (turned by the damp into a granular lump), and other accessories of the kitchen. In the larder stood a plate with a remnant on it that defied immediate analysis. There was a crusted saucepan pushed away on a shelf over the gas stove, and beside it a dry kettle.

“It’d be interesting, too, to know if he left any washing up behind him. That’d be a pointer to the time of day he left. Perhaps your man could tell us that? And by the way – I don’t think I ever asked you. What day did he go?”

“Now, that I can tell you exactly,” said Lundgren. “I found the copy of his telegram on my desk when I got to my office that Monday. It had been sent off two days before, on Saturday night.”

Petrella swallowed hard.

“Saturday?”

“That’s right. Saturday, September 22nd. I was due to start my holiday on the following Friday – that’s how I know.”

The world, which had been rotating comfortably on its axis, stood still; then started again with a lurch. Petrella said softly, “What a fool! What a fool! What a brainless, clueless fool!”

Lundgren gaped at him.

“Myself, I mean. Fool not to ask such an obvious question right at the start.”

“Is the date important?”

“Certainly it’s important. In fact, right now it’s the most important thing in the case. We’ve got to get hold of Ricketts, and get hold of him quick. Do you know where he is?”

“Well,” said Mr Lundgren. “No. Really, I’m afraid I don’t. We never made any real effort to trace him. We were sorry he left us, but he wasn’t a criminal or anything. Why is it suddenly so important to know where he is?”

From outside, on the reservoir, there came a shout. One of the men in the boat was on his feet and calling to the bank. Then the excitement seemed to subside. The man sat down again.

In this space of time, Petrella had come to an important conclusion. He wanted Lundgren’s help. And he would only get it at the cost of telling him the truth or a good deal of it. And this he did.

When he had finished, Lundgren said, “I must say, it sounds pretty conclusive to me. The woman was Rosa Ritchie, you say?”

“Almost certainly, yes. The dental check should be conclusive. But I think we might assume it.”

“And she was killed on Saturday, September 22nd. Most probably in the afternoon or evening, wouldn’t you think? The other men go off duty at one o’clock on a Saturday. Except for Ricketts.”

“Exactly,” said Petrella. “Except for Ricketts. And your evidence shows that he cleared out that same evening. Do you happen to remember exactly what time his telegram to you was sent off?”

“I don’t remember,” said Lundgren. “But I’ve got the confirmation copy in my files. Would you like to see it? I can run you back to my office in the car.”

“Grand. I’ll have to telephone my superintendent. We’ll arrange to have the place gone over thoroughly. And I’ll need help for that. Not that we’re likely to find much now.”

“You don’t think, do you,” said Lundgren, as they got into the car, “that Ricketts–”

“Shot Mrs Ritchie?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not impossible. It doesn’t quite fit in with one or two other things. I think this is the sort of case where it’s a mistake to jump to conclusions.”

He caught Kellaway at his desk and told him what had happened. After he had finished speaking, there was a very slight pause. It was as if the superintendent was trying to fit the news into an existing pattern of notions, and the rough edges would not quite match. Then he said, “Yes, of course. That’s a vital piece of news. I’ll have a team sent down right away to go over that cottage with a tooth-comb. Keep on at the Ricketts angle and let me know what happens.”

In Lundgren’s office, a little research produced the telegram.

“That’s our private stamp,” said Lundgren. “It shows that it was dealt with here on the morning of September 24th. Otherwise it’s exactly as it was received. Dispatched from Leicester Square Head Post Office, you see, at 9:45 p.m.”

The telegram was addressed “Metropolitan Water Board North West Area” and said, “Am leaving job and cottage tonight going Blackpool Regret inconvenience Writing Ricketts.”

“Terse, and to the point,” said Petrella.

“It was a considerable shock,” said Lundgren. “When a man pulls out suddenly like that, you can’t help wondering if everything’s in order in his department. Not that Ricketts handled any of our money.”

“Everything at the cottage was in order. And his gear?”

“Unless he was responsible for the boat, there weren’t any deficiencies at all. As a matter of fact, we were in pocket by two weeks’ pay. For some reason he hadn’t drawn that Friday or the Friday before.”

“Sounds like a capitalist.”

“It’s odd you should say that,” said Lundgren. “He didn’t make any sort of show, but I had the impression that he wasn’t broke by any means, I can’t remember why I thought it. Maybe because he always dressed well off duty.”

“I take it he didn’t write from Blackpool.”

“Not a word.”

Petrella said, “I seem to remember you telling me that you were in the army with Ricketts.”

“That’s right. He was in my battery during the war. We used him in the Battery Office, for clerical duties. He was as fit as a fiddle, but a bit over age for work on the guns.”

“Tell me all that you can remember about him.”

Lundgren considered.

“I remember him best,” he said, “in the very first months of the war. We were all new to our jobs and feeling our way as we went. That was when the old soldier came into his own. Ricketts was just that – an old soldier par excellence.”

“A regular?”

“No. I don’t think so. I mean that he’d seen service in the First World War, and active service at that. He wore the ribbon of the MM. I believe he lied about his age to get to the front.”

Petrella made a calculation. “If he was seventeen or thereabouts in the last year of the war, he’d be in his late fifties now.”

“That’s about right. He was in his early forties when this war started. An active, vigorous, handsome man. Hair going a bit grey, but that somehow gave him an extra touch of dependability. And he certainly knew how to get things done. He was an extra right hand to an inexperienced subaltern like me. You know the sort of man.”

“Yes,” said Petrella. “You’ve described him very well. The only thing is – don’t take this the wrong way – he seems a bit too good for the job he landed up in.”

“I had just the same thought myself,” said Lundgren. “You know what a difference uniform makes to a man. I’d got used to seeing him slopping round in battledress. When he called on me here, in answer to our advertisement, my first reaction was surprise that he should have been applying for the job at all. He was neatly dressed. His hair a bit greyer and he’d taken to glasses, and altogether he looked just the sort of person who comes up to town on the 8:30 in a first-class carriage, as likely as not. I assumed he was hard up, and left it at that.”

“Did he say anything about it? Why he wanted the job – and so on–?”

“Not a word. I gather one of the attractions was the cottage. He said he liked privacy.”

“And that was – how long ago?”

“Two years, almost to the day. He started work in early September. And I patted myself on the back that the Board had made a good bargain.”

“No complaints?”

“None at all. It wasn’t very exacting work. But he did it excellently.”

Petrella picked up the telegram and read it through again.

“And you never took any steps to trace him?”

“We had no reason to. As I said, his account was in credit – more than enough to pay for the cleaning of the cottage and make good any little deficiencies.”

“And at the time you had no doubt that this telegram came from Ricketts.”

Lundgren looked up quickly.

“I haven’t any doubt about it now,” he said. “What are you getting at?”

“Didn’t it strike you as odd that the telegram shouldn’t have been addressed to you personally? It must have been intended as a sort of farewell message. And it was you who got him the job. If there was anyone he was letting down it was you.”

“Yes–”

“If he felt shy of addressing it to you by name – and he may have been – why not ‘Resident Supply Engineer’ with the proper address of your office? I suppose he knew it? Just to put ‘Metropolitan Water Board, North West Area’ – isn’t that a bit risky? It might have landed up in anyone’s in-tray.”

“It never occurred to me,” said Lundgren slowly. “In fact, you see, this is the headquarters of the North West Area, and I’m in charge, so it naturally came to me. What’s your idea about it?”

“I couldn’t help noticing that there’s a board up outside the reservoir with exactly those words on it. ‘Metropolitan Water Board. North West Area.’ It occurred to me that if someone who didn’t know much about your set-up wanted to send a telegram as if it came from Ricketts, that’s just how he’d address it.”

There was a long silence while Lundgren stared at Petrella.

Then he said, “If that’s right, where’s Ricketts?”

The telephone on the desk saved Petrella the difficulty of answering. Lundgren picked it up and said, “Yes?” and listened for a moment. “Yes, he’s here with me now. Hold on,” and to Petrella, “It’s for you.”

“It can’t be,” said Petrella. “No one knows I’m here. Hullo.”

“We’ve been looking for you,” said the voice of Sergeant Dodds. “You’re to come back to the reservoir, as quick as possible.”

“What’s happening? How did you know where I was?”

“The Dodds bush telegraph system. I can’t tell you anything more on this line. But we’ve found something.”