“Someone seems to have found an answer.” Quentin went closer, took a coin from his pocket and tapped the metal cautiously. “Doesn’t sound like metal,” he said. “No echo at all.”
“I think.…” Page paused to clear his throat and started again. “I think there’s something stuck in there, Mr. Quentin., stuck in the bulge like. Look. sir, I’ve got to say this — if you sniff at either end of that pipe, there’s a right nasty smell.”
“The hell there is!” Quentin took a cautious sniff himself and almost retched, the picture of a slit trench clear in his mind. Whatever was in that pipe might not be human but the smell of decay was unmistakable.
There seemed to be only one answer: he called Landring at the police station. It was a good choice. Inspector Landring was a political policeman who had his eye on a position in the Mayor’s office.
“You were quite right to call me, Quentin. As you say, there might be a dead dog or a badger in there but the situation raises questions. Something a bit weird about the whole business and the very last thing we want is the press and the media getting wind of it.”
He frowned, ruddy faced, thumbs stuck into his belt. “I’ll go back and change into civvies, come in an unmarked car; no need to advertise a police presence in the area. The Mayor wants to present a picture of an open, safe, seaside city, suitable for families, you know what I mean.”
He turned towards his car. “I’ll bring someone back to open up this pipe for, for all I know, it could be full of dead rats.”
He was back in twenty minutes with a little bald man and a bag of tools. He didn’t look like a police employee but he knew his job.
Within minutes he said, in a frightened voice: “There’s a man’s shoe here, Superintendent, and his foot’s still in it.”
It took a full two hours to reveal the complete body The face looked blotchy but the features were recognizable.
Landring said: “Well, well! ‘Basher’ Cole, full name Silas Manton Cole. No mistake, half his left eyebrow missing, anchor tattoo on left wrist. He’s an ex-pug, spent most of his life in prison, came out a couple of months ago. Just done a ten year stretch for robbery with violence.”
He paused and looked thoughtfully at Quentin. “No one is going to miss him, are they? No relatives of any kind. Point is, this could be swept away with the minimum of fuss. He could have been found dead, exposure, heart attack.”
Quentin shook his head. “Fine until you get to the medical examiner.”
“Yes, yes, you have a point there.” Landring nodded slowly and thoughtfully but his face was untroubled. Doctor Pierce LeGraton would be the examiner: married, highly respectable with a large influential family background. Surely the doctor would like his assignations with a certain lady at ninety two Lake Street to remain a secret?
Landring smiled. “I know I can rely on you, old son.”
Quentin said: “Of course,” fully conscious that it was the wrong answer, but hell, he only had eight weeks to go before retirement. He didn’t want some upset threatening his pension. Again, no one was going to lose anything by a little blindness on his part.
Landring interrupted his thoughts. “What about him?” he said and jerked his head in the direction of Page.
“Oh, I’ll have a word with him later,” said Quentin. “He’ll keep quiet.”
He thought, when Landring had gone, what did he mean by a word? He meant, of course, a deliberate lie. He had told Page, who trusted him, that he must keep his mouth shut because certain aspects of National Security were involved.
His thoughts turned back to the incident itself. He could well see reasons for hushing the matter up and sweeping the whole affair under the carpet but the man’s indifference defeated him. A man’s body had been found in the middle of a drainpipe, the ends of which would not have admitted his clenched fist. Apparently Landring wasn’t even interested, his only concern was to get everything out of sight as soon as possible.
Quentin shrugged mentally, he supposed that attitude was called single mindedness but it didn’t apply to him. In point of fact it did but he was unable to see it at the time. The vow of silence he had imposed upon Page was about to be broken by himself,
That evening he called in on his lifelong friend Ben Hoathe, and told him the whole story He had a certain justification; Hoathe had been with the police department for thirty years and had only recently retired as Detective Inspector.
Hoathe pushed the lank, graying hair away from his forehead and smiled.
“I believe you, man, of course, but run it through again and give me the chance to ask questions.”
Forty minutes later he thrust a short, black pipe into his mouth and began to chew it, frowning. He never lit it but it always helped him to think. “Give me a couple of days to scout around, meet you in Harry’s Bar around seven on Friday.”
Hoathe arrived on time two days later and gulped at his beer before he spoke. “I’ll be honest got quite a bit, but some of it I’m holding back because there’s more I need to know. I have to fit the parts together in my own mind first. However, I’m sure you’ll be interested to know that ‘Basher’ Cole died of a heart attack due to an excess of alcohol. The body was found by a workman taking a short cut to Clarges Street via the old sports complex.”
“What about the Medical Examiner’s report?”
“That is the report.”
“Dear God!”
“Exactly my own reaction but there’s more, old son, due to some mismanagement of the lists, the body has already been cremated.”
Quentin frowned. “I don’t like the sound of this, could be repercussions.”
“Not for you, old friend, I’ll just keep you in the picture, you’re not involved.”
He paused and changed the subject. “They had to go through the motions of course, looking for witnesses, those who might have been in the area before or around the time.”
“Did they find any?”
“Well, yes, but it’s not thought to be important. A young lad, Tommy Beal, was seen leaving the sports area just before dusk on the night in question. They’ll send a man round tomorrow just to ask a few questions. They don’t expect much — the boy is only twelve.”
Emotionally, Tommy Beal was an old twelve. His introduction to school and much of his experience since had been a living hell.
He was different, children can sense that sort of thing. He was frail, quietly spoken and well mannered. As such he became an almost instant target for bullies. Worse, although in his early days he was often reduced to tears, he never fought back. On the other hand he never ran telling tales to the teachers. It seemed to make no difference, he was subjected to every humiliation and minor cruelty that his classmates could conceive. Glue or bright paint were squeezed onto his chair just before he sat down. Notices were frequently stuck to his back bearing the words KICK ME or a similar unpleasant invitation.
The real reason, yet again, was the fact that he was different. He didn’t join school sports and the only exercise at which he excelled was swimming. Here, too, he placed himself beyond the pail — he refused to compete.
“You could out-swim young Nolan by a length, lad, beat him hollow.”
“I don’t want to beat anyone, sir, I just like swimming.”
His tastes, also, were considered outlandish. He was not interested in the things which concerned normal boys, he was much more concerned with nature. He spent a lot of his spare time in the country studying plants, birds and insects.
His foster-father virtually disowned him in public. “Studying bloody birds and flowers, it’s not natural, is it? Sissy pastime in my opinion, okay for girls, but for a boy, well, I ask you!”