Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple and the Harkdale Robbery

FRANCIS DURBRIDGE

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

Hodder & Stoughton 1970

Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1970

All rights reserved

Francis Durbridge has asserted his right under the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2015

Cover image © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008125707

Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008125714

Version: 2015-07-24

Contents

Cover

Title Page FRANCIS DURBRIDGE

Copyright An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by Hodder & Stoughton 1970 Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1970 All rights reserved Francis Durbridge has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2015 Cover image © Shutterstock.com A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008125707 Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008125714 Version: 2015-07-24

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

About the Author

Also in This Series

About the Publisher

Nothing ever happens in Harkdale on a Friday afternoon.

The black Wolseley cruised along the deserted country road because it was part of the schedule. Showing the police car in Harkdale each afternoon was like showing the flag in the outposts of empire, a symbol for the inhabitants that they were being looked after. Police Constable Newby drove through the flat midland countryside without seeing the potato fields or the pine woods; he didn’t speak to PC Felton beside him. Newby was a town man and only the smoke and the factory skyline seven miles behind them was real. He thought of becoming a sergeant and recited pages of Moriarty’s Police Law to himself to pass the time. There was nothing else to do.

‘There’s a lorry over there in the lay-by,’ said Felton.

Lay-by? He made it sound like the motorway to London. Newby reflected that it was odd for a man called Moriarty to write their basic textbook: Moriarty, the archfiend of Sherlock Holmes. For a bored few seconds he pursued the idea that the archfiend had written it all wrong to throw the law into confusion.

‘Pull up, Bob,’ said Felton. ‘He might need help.’

‘Who might?’

‘The lorry driver, of course.’

Harry Felton would think of something like that! He was a born country copper, doomed to remain a PC all his life. He told people the time and helped old ladies across the road. The schoolkids in all these outlying villages called him Harry. He was a little undynamic for Bob Newby’s taste. The police car screeched to a halt.

‘So ask him if he needs help,’ sighed PC Bob Newby.

He watched his colleague go over to the lorry. ‘Joseph Carter & Co.’ the legend on the side of the lorry proclaimed. While somebody underneath it was tinkering with the works a fox terrier guarded the dismantled rear wheel. The hub and various parts of the wheel were scattered over the grass verge.

‘Hello, Jackson,’ said the policeman as he bent down to pat the dog. The dog, Jackson, wagged its tail. ‘Are you having trouble?’ Even the damned dogs, Bob Newby realised, knew Harry Felton. ‘Where’s your villain of a master?’

The dog’s master looked a villain to PC Newby, but then most people did to PC Newby. The lorry driver didn’t look, apart from the way he was dressed, like a lorry driver. He looked an intelligent young man, but he had longish hair; his attitude as he stood up beside the lorry was slightly supercilious. He looked like the kind of student who gets arrested on demonstrations.

‘Hello, Gavin,’ PC Felton said. ‘Fancy seeing you.’

‘Enjoying a spot of lunch,’ said the young man with a glance at his watch. Then he spoke to the dog: ‘We enjoyed our scampi and avocado pear, didn’t we, Jackson?’

The dog leaped up at its master as PC Newby strolled across to join them. ‘You look as if you’re in trouble, mate,’ Newby said, making it sound slightly ambiguous. But Gavin Renson accepted the edge of menace cheerfully.

‘I’m always in trouble, aren’t I, Harry?’

Felton nodded amiably. ‘How long have you been working for Carter’s?’

‘Just over a week.’

‘Ah, temporary, is it?’

‘Yes,’ Gavin Renson agreed with a laugh, ‘bloody temporary. Look at the lorry they gave me.’

Newby sniffed irritably. As a policeman he knew what he liked, and he didn’t like Gavin Renson. ‘Is there anything we can do for you?’ he asked.

‘Well, that’s kind of you. Yes, I think I need a new job. But a nice soft cushy job this time.’

‘A job like mine, I take it?’ Newby snapped.

‘Well, you said it!’

Gavin Renson clearly preferred policemen who gave him the feed lines. He looked disappointed when Harry Felton intervened with a diplomatic, ‘I doubt whether we’ve a uniform that would fit your lanky figure. And Jackson isn’t a standard sized police dog. Too short, and he has small feet.’

Newby watched angrily while Gavin Renson conferred with his dog about mixing with all those undesirable Alsatians.

‘Do Carter’s know about this breakdown?’ he asked sharply.

‘Yes, I’ve been on the blower. They’re sending someone –’