Toye turned next to the subject of what Mullins had looked like. The two Stentifords confirmed Trevor Cupple’s description of his height, build and long lightish hair, and after some argument agreed that his eyes had been a sort of blue grey. Toye conscientiously refrained from prompting, and was rewarded by a spontaneous remark from Mrs Stentiford.

  ‘Mullins ’ad a nice set o’ teeth,’ she declared. ‘’Is own, that is. Mouth on the big side, I’d say.’

  Asked about the shape of the face, they were undecided: not round so as you’d notice it, nor yet lantern-jawed. No, he’d never said anything about having had an accident or breaking any bones, nor mentioned hospitals or operations. He’d been very close about what family he had, and where he’d come from. A bit surly with customers, too. Mr Stentiford had told him of it, and that a man in business on his own couldn’t afford not to be obliging, but he’d no interest in his work, like all the young chaps these days. Life was a lot too easy for them, that was the trouble.

  ‘All the same, ’e’d got the ’ang of retail tradin’,’ remarked the dairyman. ‘Maybe ’is folk was retailers.’

  Toye was interested, and followed up his statement, but soon realized that the Stentifords could tell him nothing more on the subject. He turned to the question of dates.

  ‘You say the last time Mullins worked here was the morning of Saturday, July 28?’ he asked.

  The ledger was produced in evidence. It recorded that Mullins had been given his week’s pay on that day, and had his card stamped up-to-date. He had said nothing whatever about not turning up again on Monday. Toye asked about the insurance card. He learnt that Mullins said he had lost his on the way down from London, and the local office had issued him with another, pending enquiries. Later, a man came round saying that they were unable to trace the issue of this lost card, but by that time Mullins had gone off and taken the new one with him.

  A possibly useful lead gone west, Toye thought regretfully.

  ‘Now, this is very important,’ he told them. ‘I want you both to think very carefully before you answer. During the week before Mullins went off, did you notice anything different about him? For instance, did he seem worried or excited?’

  The Stentifords admitted reluctantly that they could not remember anything of the kind. Everyone had been properly browned off that week with the rain. It had been something terrible, ending up with that awful flood at Dincombe, and all those people drowned. The things that happened these days, and now the skeleton up to Twiggadon. Did Sergeant Toye really think it was Mullins, poor chap?

  Toye sidestepped the question, emphasizing that there was no evidence that this was the case, but naturally the police were enquiring into unexplained disappearances from the area. He wondered how long it would be before the story of the pony-chasing and the assault on Mullins got round. Assuring the Stentifords that they had been most helpful, and thanking them for the meal, he took his leave.

  He felt that it was still on the early side for a visit to Mrs Cupple, and bicycled to a nearby park. There were very few people about, and sitting down on an empty seat he made notes on his interview with the Stentifords. Then he took out a map and began to consider the various routes by which Mullins could have left Bridgeford.

  What had been his purpose in leaving Bridgeford? The only clue to his plans was his alleged statement that he was going to get even with the farmer who had beaten him up. There seemed no reason why Trevor Cupple should have made this up, even if he had the imagination to do so. Was Mullins simply talking big, to cover a sense of humiliation, or was he the sort to nurse a grievance to explosion point? Not that this really mattered at the moment. There were some definite resemblances between Mullins and the skeleton, and the possibility of his having returned to Twiggadon must be investigated thoroughly. To get there he would have to go out on the London road, and branch off. Bus services must be looked into, but surely it was much more likely that he would have thumbed a lift: a depressing thought. It had been in the middle of the holiday season, and passing motorists might have come from anywhere between Land’s End and John o’ Groats. An enquiry on a gigantic scale seemed to be looming ahead. If he had not gone to Twiggadon he might have returned to London, or taken the Wintlebury fork, or left the town in the opposite direction, heading west. Or, of course, struck out across country by one of the innumerable by-roads shown on the map. Then there was the railway.

  Unless the chap just couldn’t wait to get at the farmer — almost certainly Bickley — it was decidedly odd that he went off so suddenly, when he must still have been feeling a bit of a mess. If only we knew why, Toye thought, it would be comparatively easy to work out where he went, and either find him alive and kicking somewhere, or identify the skeleton as his. However, speculation got you nowhere. The next step was to see Mrs Cupple, and get every possible bit of information about Mullins out of her.

  Mrs Cupple opened the door of number twelve Hobbett Street so promptly that Toye wondered if she had been watching hopefully from behind the curtain of her front room. He placed her at once as a good-natured type in process of going to seed. She had let her figure go, her arches had dropped in protest, and he detected a whiff of spirits.

  The cramped little terraced house was congested to suffocation point with the characteristic products of the Affluent Society. Invited to enter, Toye squeezed with difficulty past the Honda in the narrow passage, and followed her to the kitchen.

  It was not a large room, and as well as an electric cooker, a table, some chairs and a dresser, it contained an outsize television set which was blaring powerfully, and a refrigerator. Every available surface was crowded with cooking utensils, crockery, tins and general odds and ends. It was hot, and the air was thick with the savoury smell of a roasting joint, the sizzling of which could be heard in the brief pauses in the television broadcast. In response to a gesture from Toye, Mrs Cupple turned off the sound, leaving the picture flickering industriously away on the screen.

  ‘Bit warm,’ she remarked conversationally, clearing a space on the table with a sweep of a large bare arm. ‘’Ow about a nice cuppa? You’m ’uman, even if you’m a rozzer, I says.’

  Toye was feeling decidedly replete after two breakfasts, but felt it expedient to accept. Mrs Cupple switched on an electric kettle which quickly roared up to the boil, and within a few minutes he was sipping a potent brew of tea.

  Rather to his surprise he found himself liking Mrs Cupple. There was something disarming about her, and he found it impossible to visualize her as a murderer or an accessory. Moreover, the house was so crammed with furniture and other objects that there seemed to be little space available for the concealment of a body. He had already noted that the diminutive lean-to scullery and the kitchen were both stone-floored. However, he’d manage to look over the place later…

  ‘Loored to ’is doom, pore young fella,’ pronounced Mrs Cupple with dramatic relish, clattering down her cup. ‘Follered down ’ere by one o’ them Lunnon gangs.’

  ‘Did Mullins ever tell you he’d been mixed up with a gang?’ Toye asked her.

  ‘Not ’im. Close as the grave. ’Ad to be, on the run from a gang. But they got ’im. Yer sees it ev’ry day on the Noos.’

  Behind her ghoulish enjoyment Toye sensed a higher IQ than her son’s, and began to question her carefully. Her description of Mullins included all the items already supplied by Trevor and the Stentifords, and when asked about the shape of his face she replied at once that it was a bit weaselly-like. As a lodger he’d fitted in well, taking them as he found them, and paying on the nail. He’d given no trouble, unless you’d call patching him up a bit after he’d taken that bashing giving trouble. She, Ena Cupple, never grudged lending folk a hand when they were down on their luck.

  Toye’s thoughts returned to the topic of Steve Mullins’s sudden departure.

  ‘All the same,’ he said, ‘I understood from your son that Mullins went off owing you half a week’s money. A bit shabby, surely, after all you’d done for him?’

  Mrs Cupple’s enjoyment of drama, however, prevented her from seeing it in this light. If a gang was on your heels you could hardly be expected to think of trifles like a few days owing. He’d probably got a tip-off somehow, and hoped that if he went fast enough he’d shake them off. Why, Trevor’d seen it that way at first. It was the snooty little bitch he’d taken up with as was grabbing after every penny.

  ‘But did he get a tip-off?’ asked Toye. ‘Now this is very important, and I want you to think carefully. Did you notice anything in the least different about Mullins during the week before he cleared out so suddenly? Did he strike you as frightened or worried, for instance?’

  ‘’E come in different on the Friday afternoon,’ she replied without any hesitation. ‘Where ’e’d bin, I can’t say, but ’e ’adn’t come direck from work, not by an ’our or more. ’E wasn’t what you’d call excited, but so as ’e’d made up ’is mind to summat.’

  Toye pounced, but all his skill and experience in questioning failed to extract a shred of evidence to support this statement. It was apparently based solely on feminine intuition. Pressing on with his enquiries he learnt that after Trevor had come in, they had had a meal round about quarter to six. Then Trevor had gone out again, and Steve Mullins had sat reading the evening paper while Mrs Cupple did the dishes. Then he’d offered to stand treat at the Spotted Dog, round the corner.

  ‘’E weren’t mean, that girl can say anythink she likes,’ Mrs Cupple reiterated with warmth. ‘“Come on, Ma,” ’e said. “Let’s go an’ ’ave a nice booze-up. Treat’s on me. It’s pay-day termorrer.” Mind yew, ’e was puttin’ on an ack.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Why, talkin’ that way, ’Twasn’t nacheral to ’im, see? Times ’e’d come out quite clarse, when ’e were off ’is guard. Not real clarse, like the Juke, but ’e’d ’ad a lot better schoolin’ than most folk round this way. Bears out ’e was on the run, don’t it?’

  ‘About those threats of his to go back to Twiggadon and get even with the chap who’d rammed into him. Do you think that was what he meant to do, and he thought it would be healthier to clear out of the neighbourhood altogether when he’d done it?’

  Mrs Cupple shook her head so vigorously that her double chins wobbled.

  ‘’E never,’ she said decisively. ‘’E’d take the easy way, Steve Mullins, sooner than stick out ’is neck. Just shootin’ ’is mouth, ’e was.’

  ‘I suppose he didn’t have any letters or callers while he was here?’

  ‘Not a one. Lyin’ low, ’e were, but they got ’im, an’ put ’un in that car up to Twiggadon. I ’opes the perlice gets ’em, that’s all.’

  Toye pointed out once more that there was no definite evidence to support this theory, at which she sniffed and tossed her head. Much to his relief she took it for granted that he would want to look over the house, and he reflected that there was something to be said for crime plays on television and even for detective novels. An unexpected stroke of luck was a resounding crash from the kitchen, just as they reached the top of the stairs. Mrs Cupple descended again with surprising speed, luridly apostrophizing her neighbour’s cat, and he had time to open cupboards and look under beds. The room which Mullins had occupied was a slit over the front door, just able to take a bed and an upright chair. Mrs Cupple informed him that two other lodgers had rented it since. No one ever stayed long as it was a bit cramped: only while they were looking around. Not that she bothered. What with her office cleaning job, and the widow’s pension and Trevor’s money things weren’t so dusty. And when he married that Moyra, God help him, she’d do up his room nice, and get a permanent.

  Toye was amused at her detailed knowledge of Steve Mullins’s wardrobe, and other scanty possessions, and made a note of what he must have been wearing when he left.

  ‘I want to narrow down the time when he went off as far as we can,’ he told her. ‘Can you remember roughly when you and your son were both out that day?’

  To his satisfaction Mrs Cupple was quite clear on this point. Normally both Trevor and herself went off to work soon after half past seven, but she didn’t go on Mondays, having cleaned the office on Saturday morning. She always stayed at home Mondays, did the bit of washing, tidied round and then went out to the shops. That would have been round half past ten. How long was she out on her shopping? Well, say about an hour. The shops were only just round the corner, but you met your friends, and everyone had a crack after the weekend.

  Feeling that he had for the moment exhausted her as a source of information, Toye thanked Mrs Cupple for her help, managed to avoid having another cup of her tea without giving offence, and took his leave.

  Back at the police station after a snack at a pub, Toye found that no message had come through from either Pollard or Scotland Yard, and settled down to consider the facts which he had collected in the course of the morning.

  It was obviously a matter of urgency to find Steve Mullins if he were still alive. If he could only be tracked down, the possible case against Bickley would cease to exist. Of course, Bickley wouldn’t be out of the running altogether, but at present nothing else was known about him which was a potential link with a skeleton found on his land.

  The only hope of finding Mullins was to get out the fullest available description of him. Perhaps there were enough particulars now for the back room boys to build up an Identikit portrait. Slowly and meticulously Toye listed every scrap of information about Mullins’s appearance and personality provided by the Stentifords and Cupples. Then he re-read Alan Pulman’s detailed description of the skeleton, and felt impressed by the indisputable points of resemblance. Still, the search for Mullins had got to go ahead, and as quickly as possible. He sat pondering on the best use to which he could put his time until Pollard reappeared.

  The post office would be shut, so enquiries about possible letters sent to Mullins poste restante must wait until the next day. Enquiries at the railway and bus stations were almost certain to turn out a waste of time on a Sunday afternoon: there would be no one who could look up records of duty rosters for July 30 last year, even if these had been kept, which did not seem very hopeful. But the prospect of merely hanging around waiting for the return of Pollard, was a waste of time which Toye’s zealous and conscientious soul deplored. As he cast about for some alternative programme there came steps in the corridor, and a knock heralded the appearance of Inspector Crake, less inhibited in Pollard’s absence, and obviously bursting with curiosity about progress in the case.

  Toye welcomed him with relief, and plunged into a resumé which brought him up-to-date, not forgetting to be congratulatory about the local enquiries which had resulted in Trevor Cupple’s coming forward. Crake agreed that nothing worthwhile could be done with the public transport authorities until the following morning.

  ‘It’ll be a waste of time anyway, if you want my opinion,’ he said frankly. ‘Chaps like this Mullins — and God knows we get enough of ’em in these parts—’d rather lie down and die in a ditch than fork out a fare. If he left Bridgeford, it was on somebody else’s four wheels, you can bet your bottom dollar.’

  ‘That’s just about the length of it,’ Toye replied gloomily. ‘The place must’ve been stiff with visitors from anywhere you like. I suppose there’s a chance something might come in if we put out a broadcast appeal, but it’s over a year ago.’

  ‘When was it he vamoosed from the Cupples?’

  ‘Monday, July the thirtieth.’

  ‘Time of day?’

  ‘Between half past ten and half past eleven, roughly. There doesn’t seem any doubt about that.’

  Inspector Crake looked thoughtful. ‘It’s just on the cards that being a Monday morning might make it a bit easier,’ he said cautiously. ‘A lot of the local people from the villages all round come in to do their shopping Monday mornings. There’d more likely be a spare seat with one of them than in a car bung full of summer visitors.’

  At the prospect of a lead, however slight, Toye showed keen interest.

  ‘That would mean, then, that anyone thumbing a lift from one of these locals would soon get slung out, and have to pick up another car if he wanted to push ahead?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Crake agreed.

  ‘Well, then,’ Toye went on, visited by a promising idea, ‘let’s say Mullins cleared out of the Cupples by eleven. He wouldn’t have wanted to hang around once he’d heard Mrs C. go out, especially as he owed her money. The chances are that he went on one of the main roads. Say half an hour to get out of the town and strike lucky with a car. It isn’t everyone’ll give a lift these days, and small wonder. So he wouldn’t have landed up anywhere much before twelve: more likely after. If he found himself in a village, what’s the betting he made for the pub?’

  Crake looked impressed.

  ‘You could be on to something there,’ he admitted. ‘If the chap got a lift from someone local, that is. It’s a sporting chance, anyway. Our men out in the villages could start on enquiries. Shall we put it to the Super? Let’s have a look at the map.’

  With Crake’s help, a list of likely villages within roughly a twelve-mile radius of Bridgeford was drawn up. There were an awful lot of them, Toye thought.

  ‘Any chance of my borrowing one of your cars?’ he asked. ‘I might try a few of the nearer ones myself. There's not much else I can do till Superintendent Pollard comes back.’

  ‘Sure,’ Crake told him. ‘Help yourself when you’re ready to go. Nice thought, a pub crawl.’

 

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