Colin Watson - Hopjoy Was Here

The honeymooners simultaneously stopped eating. “Oh, no!” Doreen’s fleshy little mouth tightened. “That’s not fair; Brian lent it to us specially.”

“I’m terribly sorry, but there it is. We’ll not keep it longer than is absolutely necessary.”

“But what’s the car to do with...with all this?”

“Perhaps nothing, Mr Periam. It’s just that policemen have no choice in the matter of leaving stones unturned.”

Doreen impatiently stabbed a piece of chicken. “You won’t find Brian in the boot, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Purbright looked at her and sighed. “You know, Mrs Periam, I hate to be solemn at meal times, but I feel it’s only proper to tell you—as I told your husband this morning—that we are quite seriously concerned with the possibility that Mr Hopjoy’s disappearance will prove permanent.”

The admonition produced no reaction beyond a quick little shake of the head. “He’ll turn up: don’t you worry.” If this girl had been consciously party to a crime, Purbright reflected, it was clearly of no use hoping that she would be harrowed into acknowledging it.

When he arrived back at the police station, Purbright found his desk neatly stacked with Sergeant Love’s gleanings from 14 Beatrice Avenue. He sought Love out.

“Righto, Sid; astound me.”

Love looked doubtfully at the pile of papers. “I collected everything I could find. There’s nothing very exciting, though.”

“Never mind. Let’s have a look.”

The sergeant picked up the first few sheets. “Letters to Periam. Either he didn’t get many or he didn’t keep them. There’s nothing recent.”

Three of the letters appeared to be from female relatives. They offered condolence on the death of Periam’s mother. ‘She was a beautiful soul,’ ran one, written in a wavery but florid hand, ‘and I know that no one can ever take her place. But, Gordon dear, you must not let your grief be a door closed against all other affection. Dear Mackie—and I’m sure you won’t mind me mentioning her at this time—has been so patient and loyal, and what could never be so long as your duty lay with your poor mother is now quite possible and right.’ The signature was ‘Auntie B’.

A fourth letter was from a solicitor and enumerated final details of the administration of Mrs Periam’s will. The other two were formal acknowledgements of a transfer of deeds and a small quantity of stock.

“This,” said Love, handing over a second, thicker sheaf, “is just shop stuff—you know, his tobacco business.”

Purbright glanced quickly through the invoices, delivery notes and receipts, and put them aside. Love picked up his next selection. “Periam again. Certificates, documents and all that.”

“You should have been an archivist, Sid.” The sergeant, suspecting an ironic indecency, grinned to show his broadness of mind.

The third batch of papers was unproductive of anything more exciting than a faded copy of Mrs Periam’s marriage lines, her son’s birth certificate, and, crispest and most blackly inked of all, that of her death. There were several bank statements, showing Periam’s credit standing at around £2,500; a couple of insurance policies; National Health Insurance cards, one in the name of Joan Peters, the shop assistant; some rates receipts and a card of membership of the Flaxborough Chamber of Trade.

Finally in the Periam collection came a miscellany topped by two years’ back numbers of Healthy Living and a number of pamphlets on muscle development ‘in the privacy of your own bedroom’. There were some scrolls commemorative of Gordon Halcyon Periam’s achievements as pupil and teacher in the Carlton Road Methodist Sunday School. A small album of photographs seemed a typical record of family life in back gardens and beach huts; Purbright noticed the consistent role of the young Periam to be that of a frowning, slightly agape custodian of his mother’s arm. An exceptional snapshot, marred by faulty development, showed him at the age of fifteen or sixteen, looking defensively at the camera in the company of a fat girl pouting at an ice cream cornet. Even in this picture, however, a segment efface in the top left corner indicated the fond and watchful presence of the late Mrs Periam.

Love licked a finger. “Now for Hopjoy,” he announced. “I didn’t have such a job rooting these out. They were all stuffed into this writing case thing. I found it under his bed.”

“By the way, what did you make of that big bedroom at the back; I can’t imagine who uses it.”

Love shook his head. “Nobody does. It was the old lady’s.”

Purbright looked up from his examination of the writing case. “But it’s cluttered up with all manner of things. Shoes, gewgaws, medicine bottles, hair nets. I noticed the bed was still made up, too. A bit odd, isn’t it?”

“I saw a film once,” said Love, his face brightening, “where a bloke kept a room like that for years after his mother was supposed to have been buried. She was in the wardrobe, actually, all shrivelled, and he used to plonk her down in a chair at teatime and talk to her. It turned out that...”

“Did you take a peek into the wardrobe, Sid?”

Love looked a little ashamed of himself. “I did, as a matter of fact. Just in the course of things. There were some dresses in it. And a sort of basket thing.”

“Basket thing?” Purbright frowned, suddenly interested.

“That’s right.” The sergeant sketched in the air with his hands. “I should think it was one of those old contraptions dressmakers used to use.”

“I’m quite sure you’re wrong, Sid. Never mind for now, though. Let’s see what Mr Hopjoy left us.”

The Hopjoy bequest was not calculated to bring much joy to beneficiaries. It consisted, almost exclusively, of bills and accompanying letters that ranged in tone from elaborate politeness to vulgar exasperation.

Purbright mentally awarded top marks to the essay contributed by the manager of the Neptune.

My dear Mr Hopjoy (it began expansively),

I need hardly tell you how delighted I was to renew the acquaintance, in the person of your charming wife, of a lady I had mistakenly supposed to have married into a family on the other side of the county. I cannot say what gave me that erroneous impression: the man is almost unknown to me, save by repute as a choleric and well-muscled individual. You will, I am sure, apologize to Mrs Hopjoy for whatever trace of bewilderment I may stupidly have shown on being introduced to her (or re-introduced, should I say?) May I take this opportunity also to congratulate you upon your new union. The former Mrs Hopjoy—if I might make so bold as to offer comment—seemed possessed of a disconcertingly changeable personality; there were times when I had difficulty in persuading myself that she was the same woman. Now that a more settled marital relationship seems happily in prospect, I may, no doubt, look forward to the satisfactory adjustment of the incidental matter of your account.

Yours ever to serve,

P. BARRACLOUGH

‘Adjustment’, it appeared, involved the sum of £268 14s.

To an even larger debt a letter from Mr J. O’Conlon made regretful reference. In this case, social overtones were absent. Mr O’Conlon merely expressed the hope that his client would avoid trouble for all concerned (including, especially, himself) by sending along his cheque for £421 at any time convenient to him within the following forty-eight hours.

“Bookmaking,” Purbright observed to Sergeant Love, “must be looking up. I wouldn’t have thought Joe O’Conlon had enough padding to let anyone have that much credit.”

Turning to the next sheet, Purbright raised his brows in mild astonishment. “George Tozer, gentlemen’s hairdresser,” he read out. “To goods, £11 15s. 4d. A remittance will oblige or I’m sorry no more of same can be supplied.”