be another of the unforgettables.
“Brought in from the estuary,” expanded Leeyes. “Someone reported it to Constable Ridgeford.”
Sloan nodded. “Our man in Edsway.”
“He’s young,” added the superintendent by way of extra identification.
Sloan nodded again. He wasn’t talking about the body. Sloan knew that. The superintendent had meant the constable.
“Very young.” The superintendent at the same time contrived to make youth sound like an indictment.
Sloan nodded his head in acknowledgement of this observation too. He even toyed with the idea of saying that they had all been young once—including the chief constable—but he decided against it. Medical students, he knew, when certain specific diseases were being taught, were always reminded that the admiral had once been a midshipman; the bishop, a curate… Anyway it was quite true that constables did seem to come in two sizes. Young and untried was one of them. Old and cunning was another. The trouble was that the first group had seen nothing and that the second lot—the oldies—had seen it all. The latter tended to be world-weary about everything except their own lack of promotion. On this subject, though, they were apt to wax very eloquent indeed…
“And,” carried on Leeyes, “I don’t know how much of a greenhorn Ridgeford is.”
The only exception to the rule about old and disgruntled constables that Sloan knew was Constable Mason. He must be about due for retirement now—he’d been stationed over at Great Rooden for as long as anyone could remember. The trouble with Constable Mason from the hierarchy’s point of view was that he had steadily declined promotion over the years. More heretical still, he had continually declared himself very well content widi his lot.
“I don’t,” said Leeyes grumpily, “want to find out the hard way about Ridgeford.”
“No, sir,” said Sloan, his mind’still on Mason. The bizarre attitude of that constable to his career prospects had greatly troubled Superintendent Leeyes. If the donkey does not want the carrot there is only the stick left—and there has to be a good reason for using that. Consequently a puzzled Police Superintendent Leeyes had always watched the crime rate out at Great Rooden with exceedingly close attention. Mason, however, was as good as any Mountie in getting his man. This, he said modestly, was because he had a head start when there was villainy about. He not only usually knew who had committed the crime but where to lay his hands on the culprit as well…
“Besides,” complained Leeyes, “you’ve got to put the young men somewhere.”
“Yes, sir,” Sloan heartily agreed with that. “And some of them have got to go out into the country.”
“As long as they don’t take to growing cabbages,” said Leeyes. Constable Mason—old Constable Mason— insisted that he liked living in the country. That was another of the things that had bothered the urban Superintendent Leeyes. Another was that there really seemed to be no crime to speak of in Great Rooden anyway. The superintendent had put the most sinister construction possible on the situation but three anti-corruption specialists—heavily disguised as government auditors—had failed to find Mason collaborating improperly with anyone.
“We can’t,” growled Superintendent Leeyes, his mind on Constable Ridgeford of Edsway, “keep them all here in Berebury tied to our apron strings, can we?”
“We can’t keep an eye on them all the time even if we do,” said Detective Inspector Sloan, who had ideas of his own about the “being thrown in the deep end” approach. “Besides, we’re not wet nurses.”
That had been a Freudian slip on Sloan’s part and he regretted it at once.
“This body,” said Leeyes on the instant, “was picked up in the water between Collerton and Edsway.” He moved over from his desk to a vast map of the county of Calleshire which was fixed to the wall of his office. It clearly showed the estuary of the River Calle from Billing Bridge westwards down to the sea with Kinnisport standing sentinel on the north shore and Edsway sheltering under the headland on the southern edge, with the village of Marby juxta Mare over on the seacoast to the south-west. It was a contour map and the headland between Edsway and Marby called the Cat’s Back showed up well.
The limits of F Division were heavily outlined in thick black pencil. Each time that he saw it Detective Inspector Sloan was reminded of the ground plan of a medieval fortress. Superintendent Leeyes added to the illusion by presiding over his territory with much the same outlook as a feudal baron.
He put his thumb on the map now. “They found it about here, upstream from Edsway.”
“And downstream from Collerton.” Detective Inspector Sloan made a note. “Is there anyone missing from hereabouts? I haven’t heard of…”
“I’ve got someone pulling a list now,” said Leeyes briskly, “and I’ve been on to the coastguards.”
Sloan lifted his eyes towards the point on the map where the stretch of cliff beyond Kinnisport showed. “Ah, yes,” he murmured, “they might know something, mightn’t they?”
It was the wrong thing to say.
“It all depends on how wide awake they are,” sniffed Leeyes.
“Quite so,” said Sloan.
“I don’t see myself,” said the superintendent heavily, “how anyone can keep an eye on them out on the cliffs like that.”
“Still, they might have seen something.”
“It’s too quiet by half up there,” pronounced Leeyes.
“That’s true,” agreed Sloan. Mercifully Cranberry Point did not have the attractions of Beachy Head. He was profoundly thankful that those who wished to end it all did not often buy single tickets to Kinnisport and walk out to the cliffs. The rocks at the bottom were singularly uninviting. Today’s victim wasn’t likely to be a suicide: not if he was found in the water but not drowned…
“The trouble,” declared Leeyes, still harping on the coastguards, “is that nothing ever happens up there on the cliff to keep them on their toes.”
“No, sir,” agreed Sloan. The superintendent was a great believer in a constant state of alert. In an earlier age he would have been a notable success as a performer with a dancing bear. It would have been on its toes, all right. “This chap could have been a seaman, I suppose.”
“Eight bells,” said Leeyes suddenly.
“Pardon, sir?”
“Sunset and rise and shine,” said Leeyes.
“Er—quite so, sir.”
“The old watch stands down, duty done,” intoned Leeyes sonorously. “The new watch takes over.”
“The coastguards’ll know about shipping, surely though, sir?” Sloan ventured back onto firmer ground.
“Ah,” said Leeyes, unwilling to impute any merit at all to a distinguished service, “that depends if their records are any good or not, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose it does.” Sloan wasn’t going to argue: with anyone else, perhaps, but not with Superintendent Leeyes and not at the very beginning of a case.
“Remember,” said Leeyes darkly, “that not everything gets reported. Especially at sea.”
There was no thick black line extending F Division out into the sea to the territorial limit but in Leeyes’s view there should have been. From time to time he hankered after the autocratic authority of the captain of a ship at sea as well.
“They’ll listen in all the time to radio messages at sea, though,” pointed out Sloan. “Bound to.”
He didn’t know about nothing being sacred any longer but he did know that between radio and computer nothing much remained secret for very long.
“All right, all right,” conceded Leeyes. ‘They may have picked something up. Well have to wait and see what they say.”
Detective Inspector Sloan kept his mind on essentials. “But it isn’t a case of drowning, you say, sir?”
“Not me, Sloan,” countered Leeyes robustly. “I didn’t say any such thing. It’s the pathologist who says that.”
“Ah.”
“And I don’t suppose he’ll change his mind either. You know what Dr. Dabbe’s like when he gets a bee in his bonnet.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sloan. The proper name for that was “professional opinion” but he didn’t say so.
“It doesn’t sound too important anyway,” said Leeyes. He tore off the top sheet of a message pad and added gratuitously, “And if it’s not too important you might as well take Constable Crosby with you. I can’t spare anyone
