Maurice Procter - Two men in twenty

'It was nice of you to come with me,' Dorrie said to France as they walked along Naylor Street.

'A pleasure, I assure you,' France replied, wondering if she would realize that he meant what he said. She had never given him any clue as to whether or not she was aware of his feeling for her. Women could be uncannily perceptive in matters of that kind, he knew. But on the other hand, she was accustomed to admiration. To her, he might just be another man who would have liked to make love to her.

It was Dorrie's first shopping expedition in Churlham. When they reached the main road she stopped, looking around wondering which way to go. From the window above Otto Neubaur's pork shop Policewoman Dale and Detective Constable Murray looked down at her, and at the man beside her. They had witnessed her arrival with Flo. P.W. Dale was certain that she was the Sedgeworth Co-op suspect. And, looking at Martineau's sheet of twenty pictures. Detective Constable Murray was equally certain that her escort was none other than Ned France alias Jimmy the Gent.

'We'll try that pork butcher first,' Dorrie said, and they crossed the road.

When they headed straight for the police observation post P.W. Dale uttered a little cry of dismay. But Murray said: 'Don't worry. If they knew we were here they'd go the other way.'

In the shop below, Dorrie bought some rashers of ham. Old Otto was impassive as he served her. He had seen the couple emerge from Naylor Street. They were strangers. He wondered if they were the people Martineau was watching. If that were so, he thought, it was a great pity. They were as nice looking a young couple as you would see on a day's coach tour.

From the pork shop they walked along the same side of the street, and the police observers were unable to see them. But at the next crossroads Dorrie said: 'There's a Maypole shop.' The crossing was controlled by traffic lights for both pedestrians and traffic. She was about to step off the kerb at the wrong time, but France gently detained her by catching her arm just above the elbow. Involuntarily, it seemed, she pressed the arm to her side, squeezing his fingers. He felt the warmth of her. The little gesture thrilled him. To him it seemed like a caress. After that, there was a comfortable silence between them as they went from shop to shop. It marked a new relationship. It was tacitly understood that they were special friends. France did not make the mistake of assuming that Dorrie was about to be unfaithful to her husband. She was still out of his reach, but he was happy to have her friendship.

Dorrie's shopping basket became heavy, and France wanted to take it from her. 'No,' she said. 'I couldn't let you carry a basket of groceries. Besides, I'm used to it.'

As they walked back to Naylor Street, Dorrie asked: 'How did you get into the tea-leaf game? You seem to have been better brought up, like.'

'Don't be kidded, Dorrie,' he said. 'I'm no Eton an' Oxford product. I went to an ordinary grammar school, and did reasonably well in examinations. After school I took a short-service commission in the R.A.F., and that's where I got the blah-blah. After the air force I had a bit of bad luck. That's not an excuse: there's no excuse for being a thief. Anyway, I got the sack from an insurance job, and I had a chip on my shoulder. There was a sittin' duck in the boarding house where I lived. The used-car trade was flourishin' then, and he was up to his neck in it, dealin' in cash and cheatin' the inland revenue. I was a softy then: I only took part of his money. As far as I know, he never reported it to the police.'

'And that was the start?'

'Yes. I found I had an aptitude for gettin' in and out of places. I thought it was a lot better than havin' some old geezer orderin' me about for a few pounds a week.'

'Will you ever give it up?'

'Yes. Sometime soon. I've got a stake now. I can get into some sort of business and be my own boss.'

'I wish Howie would give it up,' Dorrie said.

France was quite sure that Howie never would, but he did not say so. They walked on in silence.

On Wednesday morning Martineau was on duty early, and long before eight o'clock he was in touch with Mr. Barden in his office at North Western Oxygen.

'We're all ready here,' Barden said. 'I'd like your Traffic sergeant to be here before eight-thirty.'

'He'll be there,' said Martineau, and that was all that needed to be said. All the rest was prearranged, and it was intended to be a prime example of police deception.

Soon after eight o'clock the North Western drivers began to take on their day's loads. Barden watched from his office window, and very soon it became obvious to him that driver Alec Newby was manoeuvring so that he would be certain to be loaded by the suspect Greaves. The loading began, and in a few minutes the police officer Birkett, acting as checker, walked to the toilet at the end of the loading platform. This was the signal to Barden that Newhy's load was complete.

The security man said 'This is it,' to the waiting police sergeant, then left his office and ran down the stairs. He hurried across the yard, and was just in time to intercept Newby as he was driving towards the gate.

'Pull over there,' he commanded, pointing. 'The police want to see you.'

Newby coloured. 'They want to see me? What for?'

'They're still on about that hit-and-run with the Ford Zephyr. The sergeant says there's a witness who took the number of the lorry, and it was this one. He wants a statement from you.'

'This is daft,' said Newby in disgust. 'I proved to you I was nowhere near the place.'

'All right. Now you're going to get the chance of proving it to the sergeant, and he's going to ask a lot of questions.'

Newby moved his lorry to the place indicated, and climbed out of the cab. Barden beckoned the yard foreman, who was conveniently at hand because he also had had instructions.

The police want to see this man,' Barden told the foreman. 'It looks as if they'll detain him for some time.'

The foreman frowned. 'What the blazes do they always want to come after my drivers in working time for?' he demanded.

Barden shrugged. 'You know what they are.'

'Aye, a damn nuisance,' the foreman snapped. He turned to Newby. 'Give me your sheet. I'll put you on spare today, and send another driver out with your truck.'

Newby was annoyed. 'The police can't keep me more nor a minute or two,' he protested. 'I just wasn't anywhere near that accident.'

'Hah!' Barden scoffed. 'You don't seem to know the police. This chap has all his stuff spread out on my desk. He's set for a couple of hours at least.'

That seemed to settle the matter. 'You'll go on spare today,' the foreman repeated. 'This load has got to go out.'

So Newby went with Barden to his office. The sergeant was waiting, with a carefully drawn plan and meticulously made-up statements and reports about the imaginary accident. He did not obviously waste time, but nevertheless he wasted Newby's for an hour and a half, and sent him away still doubtful whether or not the irritating misunderstanding had been cleared up. It was, the sergeant said, Newby's word against the word of the witness who had taken the lorry's number, and he was gracious enough to admit that the witness might have been mistaken.

Meanwhile the police officer Rhodes, posing as a spare driver, had taken Newby's journey sheet and lorry. At the first opportunity he stopped and checked the load, and found that there was one oxygen cylinder and two bottles of propane not accounted for on the sheet. He went on his way, delivering and collecting cylinders, and finding that people wanted exactly what they had ordered, and nothing more.

He went through the day without noticing any suspicious behaviour, and he began to fear that the extra cylinder had been intended to go to some person whose name was not on the list. But his last place of call was at Pickover and Son, a small one-man-one-boy motor repair shop in a yard in Shirwell, one of the older suburbs.