‘No,’ said George, ‘I don’t want to arrest her. I admit I was tempted to do it the easy way, and put her clean out of his reach. He may not have much faith in her silence; and however surely he committed the crime for her – in a sense – in the first place, his terror now is liable to be all for himself, and all-consuming. He must have been wildly uneasy already; he’ll be frightened to death when he sees the paper. But there it is – I don’t want to bring her in, because I’m convinced she’s absolutely innocent – apart from this damned mistaken loyalty of hers after the event.’
‘Well, let’s hope the photograph will bring in somebody who saw and remembers them in Birmingham. Somebody who can give us a good description of the boy. Up to now, what do we really know about him? No one’s admitted to seeing him, he left no distinguishable prints on the glass cases or the latch of the door or the candlestick – soft leather gloves, apparently. Trouble is, they all know the ropes by now. He’s still totally invisible and anonymous, to everybody but the Beck girl. He may be from anywhere, he may be anyone. All we can say with reasonable certainty is that he must be someone young enough and attractive enough to engage a girl’s attention. And what does that mean? Most of the young ones you see about, these days, you wouldn’t expect a smart girl to want to be seen dead with, but they break their hearts over ’em just the same. And what else do we know about him? That he’s got no money. He has to get it the quick, modern way in order to be able to take his girl about in style. But which of ’em have got money? They make what most of us used to keep a family on, but they’re always broke before the end of the week. And that’s it. A blank.’
‘Except that he may have a motor-bike,’ said George, and stuffed his notes sombrely back into his pocket. ‘If we accept that the tracks down in Middlehope are relevant. Nothing positive from London yet on our friend’s week-end?’
‘Nothing conclusive. He was home, that’s true enough, but in and out a good deal, apparently. I asked them to fill in Saturday evening, and let the rest go. From London to Birmingham is an evening out these days. Coaches do it in no time, up the Ml. I called them again half an hour ago, but they won’t be rushed. I hoped we’d get that, at least, before we had to issue the hand-out, but it makes no difference. We’d have had to publish, the grapevine was getting in first. So how does it stand from the other end now? How’s your list of possibles?’
‘Wide open. Her parents think they had a boy-proof fence erected round her, but you and I know there’s no such thing. There were three or four rather dull and respectable lads they allowed to squire her to dances, but always with the Gibbons girl in tow. But who knows whether they stay dull and respectable once they’re out of sight of the older generation? Here are the names of the approved, and we’re checking up on them, but I’m not expecting much from them. Still, you never know. Then there’s young Geoff Westcott, who would certainly not have been approved by mother. He’s danced with Annet several times, and started a fight over her at least once. And he chose to take the few days’ holiday Lowthers owed him from the summer this last week-end, and filled up at old man Hopton’s on Thursday afternoon. Scott is nosing around to find out what he did with his time. And then there’s an interesting outsider. I saw him this morning in Abbot’s Bale. Mrs Beck always reassured herself that the Blacklocks took care to send Annet home in the car when she worked late, or whenever the nights dropped dark early, or there was bad weather. If Regina or hubby didn’t drive her home, they sent her with the chauffeur. All very nice and safe, and when could she possibly have struck up an undesirable acquaintance? But was it so nice and safe? Braidie was sixty-five and past caring, but Braidie, it seems, retired about three months ago. The fellow they’ve got now – I wonder if the Becks have even noticed? – is one Stockwood, twenty-fourish, good-looking and altogether presentable. And because Mrs Blacklock was away at her conference, and Blacklock prefers to drive himself, Stockwood was given the week-end off after he’d driven Mrs Blacklock down to Gloucester, and he reported back only to fetch her home on Wednesday. Annet had the opportunity to get to know him, all right. Probably three, four times a week he’s had her in the car alone with him.’
‘And that’s all?’
George said, with his eyes fixed on the roofs of Hill Street outside the window, and the small crease of personal anxiety between his brows, ‘It wouldn’t do any harm to get on to Capel Curig, and ask them to check up on the boys and their camp-site, I suppose. Shouldn’t take them long, we can tell them exactly where they were supposed to be.’
‘I did,’ said Duckett smugly, and grinned at him broadly through the smoke of his pipe and the stubbornly un-military thicket of his moustache; and anything that could raise a genuine grin that day was more than welcome. ‘I should have told you sooner – you can cross off young Mallindine. They were there, all right, both of ’em, we found people who saw them regularly two of three times a day, one couple who climbed with them all day Sunday. Saturday night, around the time we’re interested in, know where they were? In the local, with a couple of half-pints. The barman remembers, because he asked ’em, by way of a leg-pull, if they were eighteen. He says one of ’em looked down his nose at him and said yes, and the other blushed till his ears lit up.’
‘Good God!’ said George blankly, manfully suppressing the thankful lift of his heart. ‘I didn’t know he could.’
‘Plenty of things you don’t know about your Dom, you can safely bet on that. But his friend’s in the clear over this, and your boy hasn’t had to tell any lies for him. As for his crime against the Licensing Act, you take my tip, George, don’t waste it. Save it up till the next time he gets uppish with his old man, and then flatten him with it. You’ll have him walking on tip-toe for weeks, thinking you’re Sherlock Holmes in person.’
‘I wish to God I was!’ owned George, sighing, and rose somewhat wearily to put on his coat. Something was gained, at least, if Miles was safely out of the reckoning. Only let there be someone observant and reliable somewhere in Birmingham at this moment, reading the noon edition over his lunch, and suddenly arrested by Annet’s recognised and remembered face. Let him be able to set another face beside it, clearly, quickly, before that other turned the same page, to swallow his heart and pocket his shaking hands, and ponder at last, inescapably, that it was Annet or himself for it.
‘I’m going to snatch a meal,’ he said, picking up his hat from Duckett’s desk. ‘I’ll be back.’
He had the door open when the telephone rang. Very quietly he closed the door again, and watched Duckett palm the hand-set, his shaggy head on one side, his thick brows twitching.
‘Ah, like that!’ said Duckett, after a few minutes of silences and monosyllables, and emitted a brief and unamused snort of laughter. ‘Yes, thanks, it does. Clears the decks for us, anyhow, and leaves us with at least a glimmer of a lead. Yes, let us have the reports. Thanks again!’ He clapped the receiver back and thrust the set away from him with a grunt that might have meant satisfaction or disgust, or a mixture of both.
‘Well?’ said George, his shoulder against the door.