Anthem for Doomed Youth (24 page)

The road from Hertford to Westminster passed in a blur. If any traffic policeman had the temerity to attempt to hold them up, Alec didn’t see him. Sir George wanted every detail of the case to date. His enthusiasm made Alec suspect he was not as a rule provided with much information about what was going on in his county.

When the chauffeur pulled up at the Embankment entrance to New Scotland Yard, Sir George said wistfully, ‘I’d love to come in and look round, but my wife will be worrying.’

‘Another time, sir,’ said Alec, already half out of the car. ‘My thanks for the lift.’

Hurrying in, he arranged with the sergeant on duty to have the photos sent immediately by motorcycle to the morning papers with the highest circulations. ‘Clement Rosworth, wanted for questioning in connection with … etc.’ The negative would go straight to the photography department for more enlargements to be made.

The most pressing business taken care of, Alec slowed down. He was in no rush to talk to the super, but at least his recital of the facts to Sir George had got everything straight in his mind.

‘I don’t suppose Mr Crane is still in?’

‘’Smatter of fact, he is, sir. In his office or in the Epping Executioner room.’ Smirking at Alec’s wince, the sergeant reached for his phone. ‘You want me to find out—?’

‘No, I’ll find him. Get those photos moving.’

‘Yessir.’ The man glanced at the clock. ‘Too late for first edition, but most of those go to the North and Scotland anyway.’

Alec hoped Rosworth had not taken off for the North or Scotland. Though his roots were in London and the Southeast, with his skills he wouldn’t find it hard to get a licence to drive and a job under an assumed name anywhere in Britain. The Continent would be much more difficult.

Was it a mistake to concentrate on Harwich? No, the port was the only direct indication they had of Rosworth’s possible movements. And Alec wasn’t disregarding the rest of the country.

He entered the Epping Executioner room, as it had
apparently
been dubbed in his absence. He found Superintendent Crane presiding, and Mackinnon missing.

‘Fletcher! At last! I’ve been expecting to hear from you.’

‘I’ll tell you all about it, sir, but DS Mackinnon ought to hear this as well. Where is he?’

‘He’d set everything going as you requested. I sent him to find a corner for a couple of hours sleep. Better if he’s fresh tomorrow. I’ve taken over for the present, so get on with the story.’ With a raised finger, he summoned a stenographer. ‘We’ll have it taken down and typed so that you can go home for a kip, too, instead of writing up your report.’

Alec was sure his mind was too busy for sleep, but a rest wouldn’t come amiss. He tried – and failed – to remember at what point in the saga he had last brought the super up to date. Crane had been extremely forbearing, not pestering him for constant reports. Though in part, no doubt, he had the weekend and his dashing hither and yon to thank for that small mercy.

He started at the beginning, skipping quickly over the bits that had turned out to be irrelevant, but mentioning the common opinion of the characters of the three victims. From the second visit to the Barley Mow onward, he went into more detail. Finally, he explained the urgency of his rush back to town, which had prevented his ringing Crane earlier.

‘Good work, Fletcher. I can’t see how you could have done better. Let’s hope the man falls into your chaps’ hands in Harwich, but if not, you’ll tackle the job better tomorrow if you take a break now.’

‘You’ll ring if I’m needed, though, sir?’

‘Can you doubt it? One more thing: Mrs Fletcher, she’s not anywhere near Harwich, is she? You said she’s
somewhere
in Essex.’

‘She was in north Essex, sir. Harwich is in the east. But in any case she’ll be safe back at home by now.’

‘I hope so, Fletcher, I hope so.’

Lack of sleep was catching up with Alec. On the doorstep, although Elsie had left the porch light on, he fumbled with his keys and dropped them. When he stooped to retrieve them, straightening seemed to take an inordinate effort.

Quietly, he let himself into the house, intent on a brief visit to the nursery to kiss the twins in their sleep, followed immediately by sinking into his own blissful bed.

On the hall table were a plate of wax-papered sandwiches and a flask, and yesterday’s post. Suddenly hungry, he poured a cup of cocoa and started to unwrap the sandwiches. The post could wait till the morning.

Then he noticed that the top envelope had just his name on it, in Daisy’s writing, obviously delivered by hand. What the deuce … ? Wasn’t she supposed to have come home that evening, after taking Bel out for high tea? She ought to be fast asleep upstairs.

He ripped open the envelope.

The note was just a couple of scribbled sentences. Reading it, he groaned. ‘Unexpected death … detectives.’ What
was
Daisy’s extraordinary affinity with unnatural death? But
perhaps
the poor chap had merely had a heart attack. Harriman—

‘Great Scott! Harriman!’
Harris? Or Harrison?
Or Harriman? It was too much of a coincidence to be ignored.

What the hell was he going to tell the super?

Wide-awake now, he needed time to consider his next move. He took a gulp of cocoa, in the process catching sight of himself in the looking-glass hanging over the table. First things first: a wash, a shave and a clean shirt. Sandwich in hand, he hurried up the stairs.

His immediate impulse was to dash off to Saffron Walden to find out what Daisy was up to, not to mention whether Harriman was, in fact, the sergeant who had led the firing squad. But the man, whatever his identity, was dead. They were too late to save him – and wouldn’t the press have a field day with that!

Unless, of course, the similar name was sheer coincidence. There was no sense in going off half-cocked. Yet the
all-consuming
desire for sleep had left him. He needed to be up and doing.

In terms of his investigation, rushing to Saffron Walden couldn’t be justified without more details of Harriman’s life and death. Alec could, however, make a case for joining the team in Harwich. If the local police and the Haven Authority failed to find Rosworth, or worse, found him and let him slip through their fingers, they would be all too happy to unload the blame on the absence of the detective in charge.

To Harwich he would go.

Despite his sense of urgency, he popped into the nursery before returning downstairs. Oliver slept with his knees drawn up under his chest, his rusty-bronze head sideways on the pillow, thumb in mouth. Miranda lay on her back,
arms and legs flung outwards in abandon. Alec kissed their rosy cheeks, and ventured to ruffle Mirrie’s dark curls, very gently so as not to wake her and rouse Mrs Gilpin’s wrath.

When this was over, he vowed, they’d all go away for a few days, leaving no address or telephone number. In between catching up on sleep, he’d spend some waking hours with his children!

On his way downstairs, he prepared to justify to the super his decision to go to Harwich. Before phoning, though, he went into the office and dug out the Ordnance Survey map of Essex – he kept a full set of county maps at home. Hertford – Saffron Walden – Harwich, it was hardly any distance out of Rosworth’s way, and he’d had a day and a half to get from the brewery to the port.

Back to the phone. ‘Whitehall 1212.’ At this time in the morning, the connection went through quickly.

‘New Scotland Yard. May I help you?’

‘DCI Fletcher. Put me through to Superintendent Crane.’

‘Mr Crane went home a few minutes ago, sir. DS Mackinnon’s taken over.’

Alec breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Mackinnon then, please.’

The Scot sounded alert, refreshed by his brief respite. ‘Sir, I was havering about whether to ring you. Just after Superintendent Crane left, Harwich telephoned.’

‘They’ve got him?’

‘No, sir, but they’ve found the dray, Hertford’s lorry.’

‘Fast work. Where?’

‘Parked on the dock at Parkeston Quay, I gather, just where it ought to be, ready for transferring the cargo into the ship.’ Not such fast work. ‘He can’t have twigged that we’re after him.’

‘What about him? Rosworth?’

‘Not a sign. They’ve made enquiries at all the usual
doss-houses
near the harbour. A lot of angry landladies, I gather. DC Piper suggested that he might be sleeping in the cab of the lorry. They haven’t dared approach too closely for fear of alerting him before they’re ready. They won’t start loading the
Mayfly
in the dark, so there’s no need to disturb him yet. They’re getting boats on the Stour in case he jumps in and tries to swim for it, and a couple of armed men, as he’s got a gun.’

‘I’m going. Send a car right away. Uniformed driver.’ Alec didn’t want to be stopped by some officious local constable for driving over the speed limit.

‘Sir.’ Mackinnon could be heard giving the order, then he came back on the line. ‘On its way, sir. Should I notify Mr Crane?’

‘He won’t be home yet. No, best not to disturb his
household
. It can wait. Ring him at seven. With any luck it will all be over by then, and we’ll have Rosworth in our hands. In the meantime, find out what’s going on in Saffron Walden – police activity.’

‘Saffron Walden?’

‘A man by the name of Harriman died unexpectedly in Saffron Walden – it’s a small town in northern Essex – probably over the weekend.’

Mackinnon made the connection instantly. ‘Harri
man
? “Harris or Harrison”?’

‘That’s my thought. Since the super didn’t mention it last night, I assume you weren’t able to discover the name and whereabouts of the missing sergeant yesterday.’

‘No, sir. Impossible to get hold of anyone at the records office on a Sunday. We did talk again to two of those who
served under Pelham but neither remembered a Sergeant Harris or Harrison. You’d think they would mention it if they recalled a name as similar as Harriman, particularly as we were uncertain.’

‘Try them again, as early as won’t lead to major
complaints
, and those you couldn’t reach yesterday, as well. Get those damn army records people moving. Clerks probably turn up at eight. Have a man on their doorstep. And I think we’d be justified in waking Shadd at seven or thereabouts to see if the name jogs his memory.’

‘Right you are, sir. You think the sergeant’s in Saffron Walden?’

‘I think he’s
dead
in Saffron Walden. I hope I’m wrong. I may end up going on there from Harwich.’

Alec debated whether to send Daisy a wire. But no, if he went, he’d be strictly on police business. She had been questioned by now and was no doubt out of the picture. He hoped. The thought of breaking to Crane that his wife had been caught up in yet another murder investigation – especially if it turned out to be linked to the Epping Forest burials, with which, he had assured the super, she had
absolutely
no connection … His mind boggled.

The car arrived a good five minutes before Alec expected it. The driver whisked them out of London by a route Alec would never have thought to take.

In answer to an enquiry, he explained that he had passed ‘The Knowledge,’ the rigorous exam for London
taxi-drivers
, before he decided to join the increasingly motorised Metropolitan Police.

‘Don’t ’ave to worry about passengers complaining you’re running up the meter,’ he said with a grin. ‘Take the
fastest route ’stead of the shortest. Course, it depends on the time of day. Right now, I guarantee you, sir, you’d get held up something awful on the main roads by heavy lorries crawling across the Smoke between the evening crush and the morning hullabaloo.’

‘I hope you’re equally good at country roads.’

‘Not bad, sir, though I says it as shouldn’t.’

He was as good as his word. The sky ahead was barely beginning to lighten as they approached the coast. Then they started to encounter ribbons of mist writhing across the road. It wasn’t enough to slow them, but, as the driver said pessimistically, ‘It’s bound to be worse down by the waterfront.’

How much worse? Enough to severely complicate or even wreck whatever plans had been made to take Rosworth?

Assuming he was in fact sleeping in his lorry, and hadn’t abandoned it and skedaddled. If the latter were the case, they’d have to fall back on hoping someone, somewhere, would recognise the fugitive from the picture in the papers.

The mist thickened, hiding the sky, but not yet impeding their course – at least in the opinion of Alec’s enthusiastic driver. Alec hung onto the strap as they rounded a bend and a heavy-laden lorry loomed ahead. They overtook it and cleared a tractor coming the other way with inches to spare.

‘I’d like to get there alive.’

‘You did say you’re in a hurry, sir.’

By the time they drove into the town, the mist qualified as fog, though nothing to compare to a London pea-souper. The grey beginnings of daylight seeped through, making it just possible to read the street signs to Parkeston Quay. Alec was of two minds whether to go straight there or call at the
police station first. But it was growing lighter by the minute, and it seemed likely that daybreak would be the time chosen for the forces of law and order to swoop down upon the Hertford dray.

He wanted to be there, to speak to Rosworth before the system enveloped him and turned him into something he was not yet – because probable though it seemed that he was the murderer of three or four men, they had no proof that such was the case. The exchange of a few words, whether truth or lies, would allow Alec to be certain in his own mind of the man’s guilt. Then the law could take its course.

The signs now offered a choice between passenger and freight. High wire fences ran along the roadside, with dim shapes lurking beyond. A moment later their way was barred by wide gates guarded by two men, one in unfamiliar uniform inside and a bobby outside. Alec leant over just in time to prevent the driver demanding admittance with a blast of the horn.

Alec got out and presented his warrant card to the constable.

‘No vehicles allowed in, sir. There’s a small gate at the side there. It’s been a rush, and the fog didn’t help,’ he added
chattily
, ‘but it’s all set up. You’ll be wanting the superintendent? He’s in the Haven Authority building, over that way.’ He pointed.

A dawn breeze had suddenly arisen, breaking up the mist and flapping the flags on the big white building: the Union Jack, the Blue Ensign with crown of Customs and Excise, and the Harwich Haven Authority pennant. As Alec passed through the wicket gate, the wharf patchily emerged. He stopped to look.

A dark green freighter patched with orange rust
dominated
the scene, its superstructure grimy, smoke trickling from its two funnels. Cranes towered along the quay. To the left stood a row of lorries and a few horse-carts, waiting to move alongside for their loads to be transferred to the holds. The only signs of sound and movement were a flock of sparrows squabbling over a crust and seagulls crying as they wheeled overhead.

Alec scanned the line for the Hertford Brewery’s
motor-dray
. He frowned.
Where the hell … ?
Then he spotted the distinctive shape of barrels beneath a tarpaulin draped over the rear of the fifth vehicle, effectively hiding the company name painted on its low sides.

Clever
, he thought. Nothing to arouse suspicion, just enough to delay identification of the lorry if the search for it had been less thorough and determined.

As the mist cleared further, he saw men crouched beside bollards, stacks of crates, the bases of the cranes, the other lorries. The dray was surrounded.

What were they waiting for?

The first rays of the rising sun glinted on windscreen glass. Within the cab of the dray, a figure sat up, stretching.

A whistle blew. Sparrows scattered in alarm as a dozen helmeted figures converged on the dray. Someone shouted an indistinct command to surrender in the name of the Law.

With a startling roar, a motor revved. The dray jerked forward – apparently no one had considered the possibility of its being able to start without being cranked, that it might have a self-starter. Swearing, Alec glanced behind him, at the fence. Though it looked sturdy, if Rosworth drove straight at the gates he might be able to break through. The two
guards dithered, alarmed and uncertain, all too obviously unprepared for the situation.

But the front wheels of the dray turned towards the water. The two men closest to it leapt for it. One failed to get a hold on the rope fastening down the tarpaulin. The other grabbed the door and hung on with one hand, the other arm reaching in to wrestle for control of the steering wheel.

Accelerating madly, the lorry sailed off the edge of the quay, out over the river, and disappeared.

Alec ran. He was in time to see a bubble of air break to the surface from the cab, and the tarpaulin belched out a series of smaller bubbles. A moment later, the dray was invisible in the murky harbour.

‘Deep water,’ said a constable, shaking his head. ‘He’s gone.’

Alec took off his hat, but the time was not ripe for a moment of silent contemplation of the death of a man who, whatever his misdeeds, had deeply loved his son.

Two coppers floundered in the water. Already a pair of rowboats was pulling towards them. From the quay, men shouted encouragement and confused directions. In no doubt that they would be rescued, Alec trudged off to find the superintendent and arrange for divers to recover Rosworth’s body.

That, of course, was the least of it. Over an hour passed before Alec was able to tear himself away from explanations, apologetic self-justifications, and, on his part, qualified
congratulations
. After all, they had found the man and hadn’t exactly let him escape.

‘I really must report to the Yard,’ he insisted at last. He escaped into a small office with a telephone, with Tom and Ernie, who had lain low in the background, in tow.