Chapter Twenty #2
Superintendent Oakhurst looked them over without any sign of either approval or disapproval.
“I’ve been talking to your respective superiors,” he said, in the clipped accent of South African English.
“I gather you’ve found a link between Bristol and the charity shop murder.
Inspector Everett here is very familiar with the area you expressed an interest in. ”
“I can mebbe give you a hint whether your informants are reliable.” In contrast to the superintendent, the inspector had the slow, soft voice of a West Country native. “Give us a report, Sergeant, with a bit more detail than you phoned in last night, please.”
Ken did so, including the group of young people who had skedaddled from the pub when they weren’t looking. “I didn’t actually spot them,” he admitted. “DS Pencarrow drew their departure to my attention.”
The superintendent’s and inspector’s attention thus drawn to Megan, she explained that the youths had vanished through an unnoticed back door while she was waiting for a suitable moment to interrupt DS Faraday’s questioning of the informant.
Oakhurst looked as if he was about to utter a reprimand, but Inspector Everett said placidly, “Silent as shadows and slippery as eels, those squatters, when they want to be. They’d have disappeared into their holes before you got outside to go after them.”
“That’s what I reckoned, sir,” said Ken, “having had some experience of the type in London. It seems to me it will take considerable manpower to find the ones we’re looking for.”
“You won’t be one of them,” the superintendent informed him.
“You’re to take the first train back to London.
I understand you’re needed at Scotland Yard.
The presumed owner of the stolen goods the Cornish force recovered”—he nodded at Megan—“was released from the hospital yesterday morning and he seems to have disappeared.”
“What!”
“An officer went to his home to take him to the Yard to identify the jewelry. He wasn’t there.
Nor was his car garaged. The next-door neighbour’s out of town and no one they’ve contacted has seen him or has any idea where he might have gone.
They seem to think you might be able to find him, Sergeant.
Or perhaps it’s just that they can’t spare anyone else to look.
” Everett glanced at the electric clock on the wall.
“You’d better get going. Temple Meads station is just a few minutes walk. ”
“I need to discuss the case with M—my Cornish colleague, sir. The parts that aren’t relevant to your force.”
“DS Pencarrow’s superior is expecting her to ring him, and we need her cooperation with regard to these squatters.”
Superintendent Oakhurst intervened. “A few minutes is neither here nor there, except when it comes to catching trains. We won’t have men to spare till Sunday.”
“Both Bristol teams have home games,” Everett put in gloomily.
“Or even Monday, if your lot don’t want a huge bill for over time. You may go with Faraday to the station, Miss Pencarrow, but make your discussion quick and come straight back.” He nodded dismissal.
“Sir.”
Ken held his tongue till the door was safely shut behind them, then he burst out, “What the hell does it mean? Disappeared! Did the robbers snatch him and do him in for fear he might be able to identify them? Or has he scarpered for fear they might? Oakhurst didn’t give me much info to build theories on. ”
Megan stopped to ask the desk sergeant for directions to Temple Meads station.
“The disappearing jeweller is really none of Oakhurst’s business,” she pointed out as they went out to the street. “His only part is to help to identify our victim. I doubt he bothered to find out more than he told you.”
Ken mimicked the South African accent: “ ‘An officer went to his home to take him to the Yard to identify the jewelry. He wasn’t there. They seem to think you might be able to find him, Sergeant. Or perhaps it’s just that they can’t spare anyone else to look.’ ”
Megan laughed. “That final dig was uncalled-for. I expect he’s just fed up at being asked to lend his men for at least several hours for a case that’s not his problem. It’s a nuisance they can’t get onto it till Monday. Too bad both Bristol City and Rovers have home fixtures this weekend.”
“Yes. I hope the kids who knew him won’t have taken fright by then to the point of leaving town.”
“Like Donaldson. Are you going to try for a warrant to search his house?”
“I suppose so. At least I might be able to tell whether he left voluntarily. Though I doubt they’ll grant a warrant till he’s been missing a bit longer.”
“I take it he’s not married, since no mention’s been made of a wife. He probably has a daily. She might know something useful.”
“Good point. But with any luck he’ll have turned up by the time I get back.” They entered the station and studied the departure board. “Damn, I’ve just missed a train.”
“That was a slow one, look. The next is an express. You’d better buck up and get your ticket.”
“Yes.” Ken checked his watch against the station clock. “Meggie—Megan—do you ever think of transferring back to the Met?”
“Never. I love Cornwall.”
“Pity. We’d make a good team.”
On the job or off it? she wondered. “We didn’t do too well at the pub, letting the people we wanted get away.”
“True,” he said ruefully. “But you have the makings of a good detective. Don’t let your guv’nor get you down. Well, if you ever come up to town for a weekend, give me a ring.”
“I’ll think about it.” But not for very long.
In a most unprofessional manner, he dropped a kiss on her cheek. “See you later, alligator.”
“In a while, crocodile.”
Watching as he joined the queue at the ticket window, she gave a little wave as he turned his head to glance back.
Good-looking, charming, intelligent, competent—and doubtless dating some gorgeous leggy blond model, his preferred type of female.
Megan left the station and headed back towards police headquarters.
She was less than a hundred yards from the building, walking briskly, when a girl darted out of an alley and caught her sleeve.
“Oh, please,” she gasped, “are you a policeman? A policewoman, I mean? A police officer?”
“I am.”
“That’s what Jake said.”
“Is there something—?”
“I’ve got to talk to you!” A slight figure, nervous but determined, she peered at Megan through National Health glasses and a long fringe—raggedly cut but neatly combed—of lank, mousy hair.
She wore faded plimsolls and grey bell-bottom trousers two or three sizes too large, cut off at ankle height and badly hemmed, cinched at the waist with a worn leather belt over a tight top in a psychedelic design of pink and orange.
“I don’t care what the others say, it’s not right! ”