He went out into the bright air of morning, and the sun was high above the Hallowmount, climbing in a sky washed clean of clouds. Thank God for a fine Saturday for Jane Darrill’s field-day with the Geographical Association. No one would wonder too much at seeing forty small boys let loose over the hills on a sunny October afternoon, no one, not even themselves, would suppose they were there to fend off a thief and murderer from recovering his gains (if, of course, he had not already recovered them), and no one would think that even their supervisors and elders were looking for anything more sensational than samples of the local flora, and of the conglomerates, grits and slates of the ridge, or the occasional fragment of galena, or bright bits of quartzite from the outcrop rocks.
Thanks to them, George thought as he slammed the door of the car and drove along the lane to Wastfield, he had this one day’s grace; and it hung heavy upon his mind that that was all he had, and that he must make it bear fruit. Time trod so close and crushingly on his heels that he had difficulty now in remembering that the murder of Jacob Worrall was, in the first place, Birmingham’s case and not his.
He had extracted a list of Annet’s closest school-friends from her mother; he checked it with Myra Gibbons, who had been closest even among these, and she supplied, with some encouragement, details of their subsequent whereabouts and fortunes. It might be time wasted, but it might not. No one had yet provided any clue as to where Annet and her partner had spent their nights in Birmingham, though by this time the hotels were all eliminated, and even the bed-and-breakfast places dwindling. One of Annet’s GCE class, it seemed, was now reading English literature at Birmingham University, and another was studying at the School of Art. Probably both in respectable supervised lodgings, but sometimes they found flatlets which afforded them privacy enough to abuse the privilege. And even if they had not given her a bed, they might have been in touch with Annet while she was there. No need for them to have seen the boy, he could easily be kept in the background. But even there, there was at least a chance.
He telephoned Duckett from the box at the edge of the village, and reported his meagre gains: three addresses where there might be something to be gleaned, the two girl students, and an old, retired teacher who had once been on unusually good terms with the fourteen-year-old Annet at the Girls’ High School in Comerbourne.
‘They’d have come forward,’ said Duckett positively, ‘if they’d known anything about her moves. The teacher, anyhow.’
‘You would think so. But we can’t afford to miss anything. Have you talked to them again at that end? I take it they’ve got nothing?’
‘Nothing? Boy, they’ve got everything, except what they want. The usual lunatic fringe ringing up from everywhere else but the right places, reporting having seen everybody but the right girl. They creep out from under every stone,’ said Duckett bitterly, ‘and run to the nearest telephone. But no sense so far. And yet they must have slept somewhere. And even with dark glasses and a different hair-do and whatever, you couldn’t hide that girl every minute of the day. Somewhere in the ladies’ room of a café she’d be sure to re-do her hair, somewhere she’d take off her hat, if she was wearing one.’
‘I don’t believe she ever tried to disguise herself,’ said George. ‘She was committing only a private sin, and she wasn’t ashamed or afraid, once she was away from Comerford, once she’d got what she wanted. I don’t believe she ever even tried very hard to hide from anyone. If she had, she might have been noticed more. And yet, as you say, they slept somewhere, they ate somewhere. Public transport they didn’t need, if they had the motor-bike. And if they walked the streets together, they did it in the dark. The two witnesses who came forward and identified her as the girl on the corner wouldn’t have been much use to us, either, if she hadn’t stood under a street-light.’
‘As you say. For one who wasn’t trying, she made a pretty good job of being invisible.’
‘Agreed, but largely accidentally. You see she didn’t mind being seen that night. She did stand under a light, she didn’t try to withdraw even when the Brummie lad came along, she only froze him out when he got too oncoming. She didn’t know of any more pressing reason for hiding herself or her lover than the mere preservation of their week-end together. But somehow the circumstances of their stay in the town were such that they did remain unnoticed. That’s how I read it.’
‘You could be right,’ said Duckett. ‘Try it out.’
‘Nothing new? Has Scott reported anything further on Geoff Westcott?’
A spurt of laughter exploded in George’s ear. Duckett laughing meant trouble for someone, but decidedly not hanging trouble.
‘Has he! And very interesting it all is, too, but I doubt if it’ll do much for you, George. No, the thing is, Geoff told Scott yesterday he’d been down in South Wales with that side-kick of his, Smoky Brown, staying with Smoky’s cousins in Gower. Said the whole clan would bear him out. Scott didn’t doubt that, knowing our Browns, so he didn’t ask ’em, he went straight to Martha Blount, before Geoff could get away from Lowthers’ last night. Told her Geoff had told him he’d travelled south for the week-end with the Browns, to stay with their cousins, and asked her if she could confirm it. Innocent style, she’d be sure to know, and all that. And Smoky Brown’s sister being the only other Brown in the reckoning, and a very hot little number into the bargain, Martha jumped to the inevitable conclusion, and all but went through the roof. The rat, she says, so that’s what he meant by doing a long-distance driving job as a favour to a friend! And me believing every word, like a damned fool! All Scott had to do was put in the right questions whenever she stopped for breath: What friend? Where to? What was he carrying? She came out with everything he’d told her, and what he’d told her was the truth as far as it went, and it went one hell of a long way. He didn’t tell her where they’d lifted all the lead from, but would you believe it, he told her in confidence where he was delivering it. Two trips, two lorry-loads, to a back-street yard in Bolton. Love’s a terrible thing.’
‘Doesn’t mix with business, anyhow,’ agreed George wryly. ‘Think they’ll be in time to pick up the goods?’
‘With luck, yes. How are the receivers to know he’d be such a fool as to tell his girl the real reason why he couldn’t take her out Saturday? Didn’t tell her his cargo was pinched, of course, but he only pulled himself up just short of that.’
So that was another one off the list of possibilities, thought George as he hung up the receiver. Poor Martha! But at least if she made up her mind she was well rid of Geoff, no one was going to die of it. And if she cut her losses and made the best of him, with her force of character she might keep him out of gaol in future. Once having told her the truth, it wouldn’t be any use telling her lies thereafter, she would always be on the look-out and ready to shorten the rein. And if young Geoff really wanted her, as seemed, oddly enough, a strong possibility, he must have thrown such a scare into himself this time that he’d do almost anything in future rather than take the risk of losing her again. She might, even, find it easy to forgive him and wait for him, in the relief of finding that he was not unfaithful, but merely a minor criminal.
Their small story, at least, need not occupy him. A few more such intrusive comedies, and his list of possibles would be dwindling out of sight.
He drove through Comerford and over the bridge, and round the eastern flank of the long, triple-folded range to Cwm Hall. The long drive unrolled before him, the vista of the park and the hollow square of the stable-yard over to the left, aside from the house and by two centuries younger. To the rear of the beautiful, E-shaped house lay the farm buildings, barns and dovecote so tall that they showed above the mellow red roofs.