“Oh, yes, Inspector.” He smiled thinly. “I do my share of the domestic side, all right.”
All policemen did their share of the domestic side. “Domestics” were what new constables on the beat cut their wisdom teeth on. It aged them more quickly than anything else.
Sloan took a final look round the boathouse, and said formally, “I’ll be in touch with you again, sir, about this break-in. In due course. Come along, Crosby…”
He turned to go but as he did so his ear caught the inimitable sound of the splash of oars. Sloan leaned out over the path and looked downstream as far as he could. He recognised Horace Boiler and his boat quite easily. He had to screw up his eyes to see who his passenger was. And then he recognised him too. It was Mr. Basil Jensen, the curator of the Calleford Museum…
“Terry?” Miss Blandford pursed her lips. “Terry, did you say?”
“I did.” Police Constable Brian Ridgeford had begun his search for a boy named Terry at the village school at Edsway.
School was over for the day but the head teacher was still there. “Have you got any boys called Terry?”
“The trouble,” said Miss Blandford, “is that we’ve got more than one.”
“Tell me,” invited Ridgefbrd, undaunted.
She opened the school register. “There’s Terry Waters…”
“And what sort of a lad is Terry Waters?”
“Choirboy type,” she said succinctly.
Ridgeford frowned.
“The ‘butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth’ sort of boy,” amplified the teacher.
Ridgeford’s frown cleared.
She waved a hand. “If you know what I mean?”
Ridgeford knew what she meant. The manner of boy to whom benches of magistrates in juvenile courts—who should know better—almost automatically gave the benefit of the doubt…
“You probably passed him on your way here,” said Miss Blandford. “He only lives down the road.”
Ridgeford shook his head. “Not Terry Waters then.”
He wasn’t expecting Terry or his friend to be Edsway boys. Mrs. Boiler would have recognised Edsway boys when they had brought the ship’s bell into her shop. Children from all the other villages roundabout, though, came into Edsway school every day by bus. “What about the others?” he asked.
“There’s Terry Wilkins.”
Ridgeford got out his notebook. “Where does he hail from?”
“Collerton.” She hesitated. “He’s not a bad boy but easily led.”
Ridgeford knew that sort. A boy who wouldn’t take to crime unless the opportunity presented itself. There was a whole school of academic thought that saw crime as opportunity. Remove the opportunity, they said, and you removed the crime. If that didn’t work you removed the criminal and called it preventive detention.
Miss Blandford said, “With Terry Wilkins it would depend on the temptation.”
Constable Ridgeford nodded sagely. Who said Adam and Eve was nonsense? Temptation had had to begin somewhere. It didn’t matter that it had only been an apple to begin with. It was the principle of the thing. “Go on,” he said.
“There’s Terry Goddard.” The head teacher’s face became as near to benign-looking as Ridgeford had seen it. “He’s a worker.”
“Ah.”
“Not clever, mind you, but a worker.”
Everyone liked a worker. Being a worker evidently exonerated Terry Goddard in Miss Blandford’s eyes from any activity the police were likely to be mixed up in. Perhaps being a worker meant you weren’t idle and that removed you a stage farther from temptation. Ridgeford tried to think of some industrious criminals.
Henri Landru must have been quite busy.
In the nature of things eleven murders took time.
Dr. Marcel Petiot couldn’t have been much of a layabout either. He hadn’t kept a stroke record of the murders he had committed but the French police thought sixty-five—give or take a few.
“That the lot, miss?” he said aloud. “I’d been hoping for someone from Marby.”
“There’s Terry Dykes.” She looked Brian Ridgeford straight in the eye and said, “I don’t know what you want your Terry for, Constable, but I wouldn’t put anything past this one.”
Ridgeford put the name down in his notebook. There was no point in asking expert opinion if you didn’t take account of it. He took down a Marby address with a certain amount of satisfaction, then he asked Miss Blandford if Terry Dykes had got a sidekick.
“I beg your pardon, Constable?”
Ridgeford searched in his mind for the right expression. “A best friend, miss.” Bosom chum sounded distinctly old-fashioned but that was what he meant.
“Oh, yes.” Her brow cleared. “Melvin Bates.”
Ridgeford wrote that name down too.
“Melvin Bates hangs on Terry Dykes’s every word, so,” she gave a quick nod and said realistically, “I daresay that’s two of them up to no good.”
Police Constable Brian Ridgeford took his leave of the head teacher and applied himself to his bicycle and another journey to the fishing village beside the open sea. Judicious questioning of Marby natives led the policeman to the harbour. He’d find his quarry there for sure, he was told. They were always there, messing about in boats. Or just messing about. But as sure as eggs they’d be there.
So they were.
Two boys.
There had been something that Brian Ridgeford dimly remembered in his training that advised against the questioning of juveniles by a police officer in uniform. Because of the neighbours. Brian Ridgeford squared his shoulders. There weren’t any neighbours on the eastern arm of the harbour wall.
Just two boys.
They saw him coming and at the same time saw that there was no point in retreating. They stood their ground as he approached, one standing against a capstan and the other with one foot on a coil of rope.
“About that ship’s bell,” began Ridgeford generally.
“Wasn’t worth nothing,” said the boy by the capstan.
“The old woman said so,” chimed in the other.
“Load of old iron,” said the first boy, kicking the capstan with his foot.
“Waste of time going over there,” said his friend.
“She wouldn’t give us nothing for it,” said the boy who was kicking the capstan. “You ask her.”
“Where did you get it?” asked Ridgeford.
“Up on the Cat’s Back,” replied the first boy glibly. “Didn’t we, Mel?”
“Up on the Cat’s Back,” agreed Melvin. “Like Terry said.”
“Did you now?” said Ridgeford evenly. “Suppose you tell me exactly where.”
“By an old tree,” said Terry.
“Near the hut,” said Melvin at the same time.
“By an old tree near the hut,” said Terry promptly.
Constable Ridgeford decided that Terry Dykes already had the makings of a criminal mentality.
“I suppose,” said the policeman heavily, “that it fell off the back of a lorry up there.”
“No,” began Melvin, “it was in…”
“There’s only a footpath,” Terry Dykes cut in quickly.
Any resemblance to the tableau formed by the three of them to Sir John Millais’s famous painting “The Boyhood of Raleigh” was purely coincidental. True, there was more than one beached rowing boat on the shore in the background and there were certainly two boys and an adult in the composition but there any likeness ended. In Millais’s picture the two boys had been hanging, rapt, on the words of the ancient mariner as he pointed out to sea and described the wonders he had seen. In the present instance the tales were being told by the boys and Brian Ridgeford wasn’t pointing anywhere. He was, however, projecting extreme scepticism at what he heard.
“So it didn’t fall off the back of a lorry then,” he said.
“No,” said Terry Dykes defensively, “it didn’t.”