Chapter Twenty-Five #2
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.
Alec dropped into the nearest chair, the sense of urgency he had lived with for days no longer making up for lost sleep.
“So it’s all over, Chief,” said Tom, slumping on the other chair, leaving Ernie to lean against the desk.
The youngest of the three, DC Piper was the least frayed at the edges. He reached for the telephone. “The Yard, Chief?”
“Yes, please,” Alec said to him, and to Tom, “Not quite.”
“Not quite?”
“Well, apart from at least another couple of hours sorting things out with the people here, we’ve got a lead on the firing squad sergeant. I’ll explain in a minute. I’m hoping to get hold of Mackinnon before the super turns up.”
“Before six in the morning? Come off it, Chief!”
“Not likely, but he was there till well after midnight last night. This case has had the brass worried stiff.”
“Mr. Mackinnon, Chief.” Ernie pushed the telephone towards Alec. “Operators got nothing better to do this time in the morning than put you right through.”
“Mackinnon? You haven’t rung Mr. Crane yet?”
“No, sir. Seven, you said. Hae ye collared Rosworth already?”
“Not what you might call ‘collared.’” Alec explained what had happened.
“Ye’ll no be wanting me to break it to the super, sir!”
“’Fraid so. Think you can handle it?”
“Aye, sir.” Mackinnon’s tone suggested a squaring of the shoulders. “If I must, I must.”
“Since there’s no longer any urgency, you can let him sleep till eight. He’ll ring me here, I expect, but with any luck he’ll have to make do with his local counterpart. I hope to tie things up and be on my way before he gets through.”
“To Saffron Walden? I rang the local station earlier and they confirmed that Harriman was a sergeant in the War. He was killed Saturday night, by a blow to the head. I didna talk to DI Gant himself, but—”
“Gant’s in charge? Bloody hell! I’m off to Saffron Walden as soon as I can get away.”
“I was just about to tell you, sir, there’s word come through from DS Miniver in Newcastle. He rang up as soon as he came on duty, early shift. The inspector on duty yesterday sent a man over to see Mr. Chivers about the sergeant. He didn’t think it was urgent so he left it for—”
“And?” Alec cut him short.
“Chivers remembered a Sergeant Harriman, sir.”
“That confirms it, then.” Alec sighed. “So Rosworth bagged his fourth victim. The AC, the home sec, and the Great British public are not going to be pleased. Be glad it’s only Mr. Crane you have to report to.”
Ringing off, Alec told Tring and Piper the bad news.
“Sounds like Rosworth hit him too hard,” said Tom. “The shooting scene he liked to set up was superfluous.”
“Or, knowing we were on his trail, he didn’t have time for the fancy touches,” Piper suggested. “He had to get here, too, to catch the ship. So we’re going to Saffron Walden, Chief?”
“I am. I’ll take Tom. If they haven’t brought up the body yet, I’ll have to leave you, Ernie, to deal with Rosworth’s personal effects and so on.
But Daisy’s there, and involved in the business at least to the extent of being asked not to leave the town.
I’m Gant’s bête noire at the moment, after taking the Epping Executioner out of his hands.
If the two get together, there’s no knowing what might happen!
I daren’t even think what the Super’s going to say… ”