He sat back in his chair staring at me vacantly while the data got processed.
At length he said, ‘Betty called in the local police this morning early, but…’ he hesitated, ‘they hadn’t the clout you need.’ He thought some more, then picked up an address book; he leafed through it for a number and made a phone call.
‘Norman, this is Archie Kirk.’
Whoever Norman was, it seemed he was unwilling.
‘It’s extremely important,’ Archie said.
Norman apparently capitulated, but with protest, giving directions.
‘You had better be right,’ Archie said to me, disconnecting. ‘I’ve just called in about a dozen favors he owed me.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Detective Inspector Norman Picton, Thames Valley Police.’
‘Brilliant,’ I said.
‘He’s off duty. He’s on the gravel pit lake. He’s a clever and ambitious young man. And I,’ he added with a glimmer, ‘am a magistrate, and I may sign a search warrant myself, if he can clear it with his superintendent.’
He rendered me speechless, which quietly amused him.
‘You didn’t know?’ he asked.
I shook my head and found my voice. ‘Jonathan said you were a civil servant.’
‘That, too,’ he agreed. ‘How did you get that boorish young man to talk?’
‘Er…’ I said. ‘What is Inspector Picton doing on the gravel pit lake?’
‘Water skiing,’ Archie said.
There were speedboats, children, wet-suits, picnics. There was a clubhouse in a sea of scrubby grass and people sliding over the shining water pulled by strings.
Archie parked his Daimler at the end of a row of cars, and I, with Jonathan beside me, parked my Mercedes alongside. We had agreed to bring both cars so that I could go on eventually to London, with Archie ferrying Jonathan back to pick up the. Brackens and take them all home to Combe Bassett. Jonathan hadn’t warmed to the plan, but had ungraciously accompanied me as being a lesser horror than spending the afternoon mooching aimlessly around Archie’s aunt-infested house.
Having got as far as the lake, he began looking at the harmless physical activity all around him, not with a sneer but with something approaching interest. On the shortish journey from Archie’s house he had asked three moody questions, two of which I answered.
First: ‘This is the best day for a long time. How come you get so much done so quickly?’
No answer possible.
And second: ‘Did you ever steal anything?’
‘Chocolate bars,’ I said.
And third: ‘Do you mind having only one hand?’
I said coldly, ‘Yes.’
He glanced with surprise at my face and I saw that he’d expected me to say no. I supposed he wasn’t old enough to know it was a question one shouldn’t ask; but then, perhaps he would have asked it anyway.
When we climbed out of the car at the water-ski club I said, ‘Can you swim?’
‘Do me a favor.’
‘Then go jump in the lake.’
‘Sod you,’ he said, and actually laughed.
Archie had meanwhile discovered that one of the scudding figures on the water was the man we’d come to see. We waited a fair while until a large presence in a blue wet-suit with scarlet stripes down arms and legs let go of the rope pulling him and skied free and gracefully to a sloping landing place on the edge of the water. He stepped off his skis grinning, knowing he’d shown off his considerable skill, and wetly shook Archie’s hand.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said, ‘but I reckoned once you got here I’d have had it for the day.’
His voice, with its touch of Berkshire accent, held self-confidence and easy authority.
Archie said formally, ‘Norman, this is Sid Halley.’
I shook the offered hand, which was cold besides wet. I received the sort of slow, searching inspection I’d had from Archie himself: and I had no idea what the policeman thought.
‘Well,’ he said finally, stirring, ‘I’ll get dressed.’
We watched him walk away, squelching, gingerly barefooted, carrying his skis. He was back within five minutes, clad now in jeans, sneakers, open-necked shirt and sweater, his dark hair still wet and spiky, uncombed.
‘Right,’ he said to me. ‘Give.’
‘Er…’ I hesitated. ‘Would it be possible for Mr Kirk’s nephew Jonathan to go for a ride in a speedboat?’
Both he and Archie looked over to where Jonathan, not far away, lolled unprepossessingly against my car. Jonathan did himself no favors, I thought; self-destruction rampant in every bolshie tilt of the anti-authority haircut.
‘He doesn’t deserve any ride in a speedboat,’ Archie objected.
‘I don’t want him to overhear what I’m saying.’
‘That’s different,’ Norman Picton decided. ‘I’ll fix it.’
Jonathan ungraciously allowed himself to be driven around the lake by Norman Picton’s wife in Norman Picton’s boat, accompanied by Norman Picton’s son. We watched the boat race past with a roar, Jonathan’s streaky mop blown back in the wind.
‘He’s on the fence,’ I said mildly to Archie. ‘There’s a lot of good in him.’
‘You’re the only one who thinks so.’
‘He’s looking for a way back without losing face.’
Both men gave me the slow assessment and shook their heads.
I said, bringing Jonathan’s signed statement from my pocket, ‘Try this on for size.’
They both read it, Picton first, Archie after.
Archie said in disbelief, ‘He never talks. He wouldn’t have said all this.’
‘I asked him questions,’ I explained. ‘Those are his answers. He came with me to the Land-Rover central dealers in Oxford who put that red-dragon transfer on the windshield of every vehicle they sell. And we wouldn’t know of the Land-Rover’s presence in the lane, or its probable owner and whereabouts now, except for Jonathan. So I really do think he’s earned his ride on the lake.’
‘What exactly do you want the search warrant for?’ Picton asked. ‘One can’t get search warrants unless one can come up with a good reason — or at least a convincing possibility or probability of finding something material to a case.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘Jonathan put his hand on the hood of the vehicle standing right beside the gate to the field where Betty Bracken’s colt lost his foot. If you search a certain Land-Rover and find Jonathan’s hand-print on the hood, would that be proof enough that you’d found the right wheels?’
Picton said, ‘Yes.’
‘So,’ I went on without emphasis, ‘if we leave Jonathan here by the lake while your people fingerprint the Land-Rover, there could be no question of his having touched it this afternoon, and not last night.’
‘I’ve heard about you,’ Picton said.
‘I think,’ I said, ‘that it would be a good idea to fingerprint that hood before it rains, don’t you? Or before anyone puts it through a car-wash?’
‘Where is it?’ Picton asked tersely.
I produced the English Sporting Motors’ print-out, and pointed. ‘There,’ I said. ‘That one.’
Picton read it silently; Archie aloud.
‘But I know the place. You’re quite wrong. I’ve been a guest there. They’re friends of Betty’s.’
‘And of mine,’ I said.
He listened to the bleakness I could hear in my own voice.
‘Who are we talking about?’ Picton asked.
‘Gordon Quint,’ Archie said. ‘It’s rubbish.’
‘Who is Gordon Quint?’ Picton asked again.
‘The father of Ellis Quint,’ Archie said. ‘And you must have heard of him.’
Picton nodded. He had indeed.