There was an hour yet before he could call the doctor and receive his verdict on Annet; and when he went to Fairford this time he must have a sergeant and a constable with him. Meantime, he could view the escape route and its strategic possibilities, the filling stations, the natives, the chances of picking up evidence. Annet was striking in any circumstances; even flying past on the pillion of a motorbike (probably stripped of its silencer and ridden with vile technique and viler manners), she might be noticed. If they’d halted at a filling-station with healthily normal young men in the forecourt instead of girls, she certainly would be. Someone might remember.
‘So Miss Myra Gibbons always reports back, does she?’ said George sceptically. He had received a half-account of last night’s unsought confidences, but it stopped well short of the revelation about Annet’s parentage. If anyone re-told that tale, short of the most desperate emergency, it would have to be Beck himself.
‘Not as fully as father supposes, I fancy. I bet I know one or two things that never got back to the parents. As, for instance, that a couple of uniformed men had to show up at the hall late one Saturday night, to stop what promised to be a first-class fight. Over Annet. Not her fault, unless she’s to blame for looking like she does. A handful of the local ton-up club have taken to looking in at the ballroom about ten to ten, just in time to beat the no-entry or re-entry after ten rule. They know a good-looker when they see one, and they think a good-looker ought to go for their kind. Annet didn’t do anything except dance with the leader of the bunch when he asked her. It was her escort who objected when he promptly asked her again. There’ve been other clashes, too, occasionally, less serious. Oh, yes, even among the respectable and ultra-respectable Annet can set the sparks flying.’
‘Then this youngster who tried to corner her had a motor-bike,’ said Tom hopefully. ‘All the round-the-houses brigade seem to have big, powerful jobs, five hundreds mostly. What beats me is they never seem to do anything or go anywhere with them – only round and round the block.’
‘Oh, they do now. They go all the three-quarters of a mile between their favourite roosting-ground on the corner of the square and the Rainbow Café on the edge of town. And back. One or two,’ admitted George on reflection, ‘might have the enterprise to get as far as Birmingham. One or two, literally, might get a good deal farther and venture a good deal more, but I wouldn’t put it higher than two. And one of ’em’s the youngster who fancied her at the dance. And he works,’ said George reflectively, sliding into the driving-seat of his almost-new MG, ‘at a haulage concern in Abbot’s Bale.’
‘He does?’ A spark of hope kindled professionally in Tom’s eye at the thought that the hunt might veer so blessedly away from the school. Not one of ours! One of the black-leather lads, born scapegoats! But could so close an association be formed over a few dances, without a single strictly private meeting? Maybe it could, but the odds seemed against it. He’d never, for instance, taken her home afterwards. She always went home with Myra. Or did her parents merely suppose that she did?
‘Of course,’ he said dubiously, ‘it seems more likely, on the whole, that it was someone from Birmingham, someone who came here to fetch her, and isn’t necessarily known here.’
‘With Annet planning the operation and telling him exactly where to wait for her and how to get there? It would well be.’ It could; she had the stuff of command in her, and passion enough for two if the partner proved deficient. ‘We’re checking at both ends, anyhow,’ said George. ‘Properly speaking it’s Birmingham’s case, not ours.’
He was turning the key in the ignition when Tom came loping across to ask: ‘You didn’t ask your boy, did you? About my questioning them both?’
He was glad to have the full story of that incident off his chest, but very reluctant indeed that it should get back to Dominic. Nothing had been published yet about Annet. Nothing would, if they could get the information they urgently needed some other way; and surely, surely she’d talk this morning, and save herself? It would be superhuman to keep silence still. Supposing she told everything, did her best to co-operate, and she herself turned out to have known nothing about the crime, then her part in the affair, even if it could not be suppressed, would be for ever toned down to its most innocent, and maybe need never erupt into the headlines at all.
‘I asked him about their week-end. He told me what he told you.’ George’s eyes did not commit him at all as to how completely he had believed; but the ghost of a rather rueful smile showed for a moment. ‘I didn’t say I had any deep motives for asking, and I didn’t say you’d tipped me off – even inadvertently. But I suspect he already smells a sizeable rat.’
‘Did he say anything to make you think so?’
George’s smile lost its sourness for an instant. What Dominic had actually said, and very belligerently, was: ‘What business is it of Brash ’Arry’s, anyhow?’ But there was no need to broadcast, that. ‘My thumbs pricked, that’s all.’ This time he did turn the key. ‘So long, Tom, and thanks!’
He drove southward along the flank of the Hallowmount, past the turning to Wastfield, past the new plantations, on towards the slow, descending tail of the ridge, that took such an unconscionable time to decline far enough to permit the passage of a road. Yes, if the boy had needed to keep a strict time-table on his return home he might very well be forced to cut that long drive round, and drop Annet where he had picked her up, to climb back over the hill. But why not simply drop her on the bus-route to the village, and let her ride the last stage home as though she’d been to a cinema? Who would have thought anything about her appearance on an evening bus? It might even have disarmed some who had been gleefully scenting a trail of fresh trouble. But half the ‘why’s’ involved in any crime must be answered without too nice a reference to logic. At our best we are not creatures of absolute reason and consistency. Having killed, we are not at our best.
Not much time to do more than run into Abbot’s Bale, and take a quick look at the upland road which soon dwindled into a cart-track, plunging at last through a farm-gate to climb the first rough pasture; and then fill up at Hopton’s as an excuse for a word with old man Hopton, who was sure to be the only one pottering about the forecourt at this hour. A powerful, bowed, cross-grained little elderly man with an obstinate, surly face that never took anyone in for long. It was one of the very few places where George and the probation officer had ever been able to place their most perilous problem-boys with goodwill and confidence. If they failed there, you were on your way to despairing of them. Some did fail; there was more than enough to despair about in human nature, twentieth-century style. Some, against all the odds, stuck it out and got a stout foothold on life again; there was plenty of ground for hope, too.
George asked after the latest of them, as Hopton flicked his leather squeaking across the windscreen. Hopton opined that the latest was an idle, cheeky layabout with a chip on his shoulder as big as a Yule log; he reckoned he’d shape up about average. Rightly interpreting this as a considerably more encouraging report than it sounded, George turned to the matter that was nearer his heart.
‘Ever see young Geoff Westcott these days? He’s still driving for Lowthers, isn’t he?’
‘Hear him more than I see him. Comes clattering in to fill up sometimes, week-ends. Oh, ay, he’s still there. Good driver, too, on a lorry. Pity he leaves his manners in the cab when he knocks off. He’s hell on that three-fifty of his.’
‘Fill up last week-end?’ asked George.
‘Didn’t see him. Why? You got something on him?’ The shrewd old eyes narrowed on George’s face expectantly. ‘Didn’t see him since Thursday, come to think of it.’