Petrella at 'Q' (19 page)

“Bernie Nicholls,” said Petrella. In the march of events during the last six weeks, he had almost forgotten that body, face downwards on the frozen foreshore of the river.

“What about Adams?”

“I should think he was put in by the Tillotsons to keep an eye on Lloyd. I don’t mean that they actually distrusted Lloyd. But it must have been handy to have their own creature in the organisation too. He’d be under their thumb, because they knew about his record.”

The more Petrella thought about it, the more sense it made. He said, “I’m not sure how we’re ever going to prove it, but I think you’re right.”

“Can we tie the Tillotsons to it?”

“We can tie the Tillotsons to the wage snatches all right,” said Petrella. “We can tie them with three sweet little clove hitches. Their names are Sandra, Avril and Jayne. They all work, or pretend to work, for Tillotsons (Middle East) Agencies. Let us suppose that you are the personnel manager of Corinth Car Parts. You need a secretary to work in the accounts department. You advertise. Past experience has shown you that you won’t get many applicants and will probably have to fall back on paying an exorbitant fee to an employment agency. However, to your surprise and delight, an applicant turns up who has every qualification, is prepared to accept the wage you offer without quibbling, and, as an extra, which must appeal to a susceptible personnel manager, happens to be a very attractive-looking girl. What do you do?”

“I hold my breath,” said Milo, “and ask for a reference from her last employer.”

“Her last employer is Tillotsons (Middle East) Agencies. They give her a glowing reference. They are very sorry to lose her. She is only leaving them because she finds the journey to work difficult.”

“And did this actually happen?”

“It happened three times. Sandra, who is a blonde with shoulder-length hair and green eyes, joined Corinth Car Parts in the autumn of the year before last. They lost a large wage packet in early November of that year. She was back at Tillotsons by Christmas time. At about that date Avril, a brunette with a snub nose and a page-boy cut – you’ll find her photograph, it’s numbered 1, in that folder—”

Milo examined the photograph with appreciation. He said, “Let me guess. She joined G.E.X. and left them shortly after their wage snatch in April.”

“Absolutely correct. And Jayne – she’s the red-head – No. 2 photograph, joined Costa-Cans in May, and was back in the nest by October.”

“Who’s Number 3?”

“Her name is Julie and she comes from Liverpool. I think she must be on probation. As far as I know they haven’t loosed her on British industry yet. They must be saving her up for the next job.”

Milo was examining the three photographs. He said, “Those are the three girls who are currently at Tillotsons, I take it.”

“Correct. Lampier photographed them as they were coming out to lunch last week.”

“Then where is Sandra?”

“If we knew that,” said Petrella, “we should know where the
next
big wage snatch was going to take place.” On these words Petrella’s desk telephone gave a buzz and Station Sergeant Cove said, “I thought you might like to know, Superintendent Watterson’s on his way up. He’s got the top brass with him.”

Petrella said, “Thanks, Harry.” And to Milo, “I don’t suppose they’ve come to give us a Valentine. You’d better clear out.”

Commander Baylis came straight to the point. He said, “The general manager of G.E.X. Engineering put in a report that one of your men had been round at his place asking questions. He wanted to know what it was all about. So do I.”

Petrella said, “You might have had similar reports from Corinth Car Parts and Costa-Cans, sir. Sergeant Ambrose visited all three.”

“Would you mind explaining why.”

Petrella did his best.

“And who authorised you to investigate these three wage snatches?”

Petrella said, “I wasn’t investigating the wage snatches. I was investigating two men called Tillotson. I arrived at them in the course of an enquiry into the affairs of Lloyd and Lloyd, which was authorised by you personally.”

Watterson said, “You remember, sir. This arose indirectly out of the death – suspected murder – of a man called Nicholls.”

“Precisely,” said Baylis. He said it in the pleased tone of a small man about to score a small point. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Superintendent; but I understood that the body in question was not found in this Station area at all.”

“You’re right,” said Watterson. “By a matter of a hundred yards. It belonged to Loveday, at Borough.”

“Then will you please hand it back to him.”

Petrella was now as angry as Baylis. Disregarding a warning look from Watterson he said, “Since Lloyd and Lloyd
are
in my area, I assume I’m allowed to continue my investigation into their affairs.”

“Then you assume wrongly. To the best of my knowledge, and I have had quite a lot to do with them, Lloyd and Lloyd are a perfectly respectable firm. It is not my job to allocate your duties, but if I was in Watterson’s place, I’d instruct you to attend to more serious matters – confining your attention to your own Station area.”

He stalked out, leaving Petrella and Watterson staring at each other.

“What on earth’s biting him?” said Petrella.

Watterson blew his nose in the peculiar trumpeting manner which Petrella recognised as meaning that he wanted time to think. He said, “If it was just the wage snatches, Patrick, I could understand that. They’re S.C.S. jobs and he’s not even allowed to touch them himself. So you can imagine he wouldn’t be too pleased at you butting in. But warning you off Lloyd and Lloyd just doesn’t make sense.”

Sergeant Blencowe put his head round the door and said, “Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you ought to have this at once. Owers just found Mr. Lloyd in an alley off the Cut. Head smashed in. Whoever did it dragged the body into a doorway and covered it with sacks. Owers spotted his boots.”

“Well now,” said Watterson. “That’s different. Your area, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is.”

“Then I don’t see how anyone can object if we investigate this one, do you?”

St. Valentine’s Day

St. Valentine’s Day was cold, but bright.

By nine o’clock Petrella was at the Kentledge Road Mortuary. The Coroner’s officer took him through the public offices, into the long back room with overhead fluorescent lighting where the body of Jimmy Lloyd, stripped of all clothes and all human dignity, lay on a slab.

Dr. Summerson came out of a room at the back wearing a white surgical gown and pulling on a pair of thin rubber gloves.

He said, “Good morning, Patrick. ‘Q’ Division are keeping us busy these days.” And to the mortuary assistant, “Hand me those scissors, would you, Fred. I’d like to get some of the hair away. Then we can take a proper look at the damage.”

Petrella watched him at work, snipping away the dank grey strands of hair and swabbing off the blackened blood. He had watched too many post-mortems to be badly upset, but it usually took a minute or two for his stomach to settle.

“Not much external bleeding. A very deep impacted fracture, about an inch to the right of the centre of the rear occipital dome. Did you get that, Lucy?”

Petrella realised that he was speaking to his secretary who was in the back room taking notes. She said, “How many ‘c’s’.”

“Two for preference,” said Dr. Summerson. “Wonderful girl, but can’t spell her own name. I am removing a number of splinters of bone and will place them separately in an envelope marked L/A. I can now see into the wound which seems to me”—a pause for probing—”to be just over two inches deep at its point of greatest penetration. Would you care to have a look at it, Patrick?”

Petrella peered cautiously into the cavity. He presumed that the grey matter at the bottom of it was brain tissue. He said, “What do you suppose did it?”

“It wasn’t anything very sharp. Nothing like an ice pick, for instance. More like the blunt end of a hammer. Judging from the point of impact and the direction of the blow, the man who hit him was several inches taller than Lloyd, right handed and standing almost directly behind him. We may know a bit more when the laboratory has finished with these bone fragments. They’ll pick up traces of rust, things like that.”

When Petrella came out, the Coroner’s officer had the contents of Mr. Lloyd’s pockets arranged on the table. A packet of Senior Service cigarettes and a Ronson lighter. Three felt-tipped pens, one black, one red and one green. A cheque book. A fat black wallet with a rubber band round it. Two dirty handkerchiefs, a bunch of keys and a pile of loose coins. In the wallet, fifteen pounds in notes, a number of different credit cards, two uncashed cheques for small amounts, a new book of stamps, with one stamp missing and a photograph of two small girls with the words, “For Grandfather” written on the back.

“Better list them and let me have a copy,” said Petrella. There was an odd-looking coin among the loose change. When he picked it up, he saw that it was a polished metal disc with a hole in the middle.

“Shove ha’penny,” said the Coroner’s officer. “Poor old Jimmy. He must have been pretty pissed if he put that in his pocket in mistake for a tenpenny piece.”

“I’d better give it back to its owner,” said Petrella. His next call was at the Wheelwrights Arms where he was let in by the side door. Mr. Elder identified the metal disc as his property and said, “Poor old Jimmy. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d walked off with the dart-board actually.”

“Was he as drunk as all that?”

“He wasn’t drunk. He was just—I don’t know—he wasn’t with it at all.”

“What exactly do you mean?”

“Well – he came in about eight o’clock and asked for a double Scotch, and took it over to a table in the corner, and put it down and seemed to forget about it.”

“You mean he just sat there?”

“That’s right. Until Charlie Cousins went over to talk to him. Then he seemed to remember it was there and drank it off quickly. Charlie came back to the bar for another round and said, ‘What’s up with old Lloyd? He isn’t making much sense at all.’ However, as I said, he wasn’t drunk. One or two other people went across to chat him up and they got him playing on the shove ha’penny board. He seemed to be going a bit better at that point. Then, quite suddenly, right in the middle of a game, he said, ‘I’m sorry, lads. This isn’t my night,’ and walked straight out.”

“What time would that have been?”

“About half past ten.”

“Did you get any idea what was wrong with him?”

“Not from anything he said. It did put me in mind of Jimmy Wilson. You wouldn’t remember him. It was before your time. He came in here one evening and behaved just like that. Walked out at closing time and threw himself off Tower Bridge. Of course, we only found out afterwards his wife had been killed in a car smash that afternoon.”

The telephone at the back of the bar rang. Mr. Elder lifted off the receiver, listened for a moment and said, “It’s for you.”

It was Sergeant Blencowe. He said, “I’m round at Lloyd’s office. The girls are in a bit of a flap. Adams hasn’t put in an appearance.”

Petrella said, “I’ll be right over.”

When he got there, he found the two girls in the outer office twittering with the pleasurable sort of excitement, which is produced by a crisis for which you have no sort of responsibility. In the inner room, Sergeant Blencowe was talking to the sad solicitor, Mr. Lampe. Mr. Lampe said, “I heard the shocking news about James Lloyd and I came straight round. I really don’t know what to do. Since Nicholls died I’ve been handling Lloyd’s business myself. There were half a dozen outstanding matters which had to be cleared up. My conveyancing is a bit rusty, but luckily they were none of them too complicated. Straight sales and purchases. One of them was due to be completed this morning. The purchase of the stock of a sweet shop and tobacconist.”

“For cash?” said Petrella.

“Why, yes. It was for cash. Most of Mr. Lloyd’s purchases seem to have been made that way. I confess I thought it rather curious.”

“And you were coming round here to collect the money from Mr. Lloyd.”

“Mr. Adams usually dealt with matters like that.”

“I see,” said Petrella. It was confirmation. “I suppose the cash was kept in some sort of safe.”

“It’s next door,” said Blencowe. “And some sort of safe is right.” They all went into the adjoining room. The green and gold monster was set solidly into the brickwork of what had once been a fireplace.

“You wouldn’t open that with a bent hairpin,” said Blencowe.

“Who’s got the keys?”

“I asked the girls,” said Blencowe. “Old man Lloyd had one set. Adams had the other.”

“Nip down to the mortuary,” said Petrella. “There was a bunch of keys on Lloyd. I’ll give them a ring from here and tell them you’re coming.”

Blencowe was back in ten minutes. There was only one key that looked like a safe key. Petrella slid it into the lock with an odd feeling of anticipation. It turned smoothly. He pulled down the handle and swung the heavy door open.

There were three shelves which held a few bundles of deeds and leases, carefully tied in red tape. The space under the bottom shelf was occupied by a locked steel drawer.

“That’s where the cash was always kept,” said Mr. Lampe, who was peering over his shoulder. Petrella found the right key pulled open the drawer. It was empty.

He said to Mr. Lampe, “You were coming round here, you told us, to collect the cash to complete this purchase. How much was it?”

“Nine hundred pounds.”

“And you’ve had cash from here before.”

“Oh yes. Several times. Once nearly two thousand pounds. I told Mr. Lloyd that it was foolish to keep it all here, even in a modern safe like this. The insurance companies are apt to make trouble about that sort of thing.”

“How much do you suppose he had here at a time?”

“It’s difficult to say. I remember Nicholls telling me that he once paid out five thousand pounds in five-pound notes.”

“The cupboard’s bare now,” said Blencowe.

Petrella said, “Take a car and go straight out to Blackheath. You know Adams’s address. If he’s there, invite him to come back with you to the Station. If he won’t come, telephone me. But don’t let him out of your sight.”