Murder At Deviation Junction

    Clegg lifted his shirt: more blackness.

    'That was courtesy of their number six. So I belted him with my left. If I'd used my right, he'd have known about it.'

    'You've put him in hospital any road,' I said.

    'Hospital? Is he buggery!'

    'His head had to be sewn.'

    'Don't believe it.'

    'We'll swear to what happened,' said the bearded player, 'every one of us.'

    'It'll come to court,' said another, 'and it'll be the fixture all over again, only with swearing in place of ball skills.'

    'That's just about what it was before,' said beard, who gave me a grin as I took out my notebook.

    'Shillito's a cunt,' said one of the blokes.

    I looked up, but couldn't make out which one had spoken. It wasn't Clegg.

    I said, 'That's—'

    'That's what?' put in beard.

    '— That's as maybe.'

    A sort of shimmer went through the football team. One of the blokes said, 'Stand you another pint, mister?'

    I nodded.

    'Won't say no,' I said, and one of the tall stools was pushed my way.

    As the pint was poured, I asked, 'Who was the bloke that just bolted?'

    It was Clegg who answered.

    'Alf Wood.'

    'Where's he gone?'

    'Don't know, mate,' said Clegg.

    I nodded thanks as the second pint was passed over.

    'He went just as soon as I held up my warrant card.'

    'Happen he doesn't like warrant cards,' said the long-haired bloke.

    Clegg was grinning. 'Never mind him,' he said. 'What about the business in hand?'

    I had made up my mind not to take Clegg in. The situation did not call for immediate arrest, and Shillito could go hang.

    'I'll take statements,' I said, 'starting with you, Mr Clegg.'

    With pint and notebook in hand, I removed to a table under the window and Clegg followed me over. He sat down, and told me of the fight. He was about of an age with me, and I liked him, and I believed his account. After Clegg, I took statements from three other blokes, who wandered over one by one. Each man, when speaking to me, was out of earshot of his confederates, and each said the same, or as near as made no difference. As the third man spoke, i reasoned that Shillito might want to make an end to this investigation, for it was becoming obvious that he ought to be the one charged. I was just stowing away my indelible pencil when the pub door opened, bringing a freezing wind, and sight of the bloke who'd scarpered a minute earlier.

    'Hi!' I shouted. 'I'd like a word, mate.'

    He stood his ground this time, and one of the team said, 'You're all right, Alf. He's white as they come, this lad.'

    Alf Wood stepped into the Cape of Good Hope. Judging by the speed with which he'd made off, he was certainly a vagabond - which might prove useful.

    'You'll take a pint?' I asked him.

    He nodded, and I called for the drink with a flash of anxiety at the amount I was spending. If I made no arrest, Shillito would not permit me expenses. The football group stood in a somewhat looser arrangement now, but they all watched as one man as I turned towards Wood, saying, 'Would you mind answering a couple of questions?'

    'Why me?'

    'I think you know this town.'

    'I bloody don't.'

    'But you've lived in it all your life?'

    Long silence on this point.

    Presently, Wood said, 'Two questions only?'

    'Aye.'

    'I'm saying nowt about the business at Langton's place, mind.'

    'What's Langton's place?' I said.

    Wood looked at me for a space.

    'I'm saying nowt about it.'

    'You've one question left,' one of the football blokes called out to me.

    'Mr Wood,' I said, 'have you heard of any operator in this town - any man who might at some time last year have had away a good- quality camera?'

    'Camera? What for?'

    'How do you mean, 'What for?' The camera was taken from a professional photographer in a street robbery this time last year. It happened in Spring Street near the railway station.'

    'Camera?' Wood said, making a question of the word again. 'Never heard of any such article being taken.'

    'Then do you have any idea where a good camera might fetch up having been taken?'

    I was nearer the mark with this, for one of the footballers said, 'You give him the tip, Woody, and he'll do all right by us over the little bit of bother we had in York.'

    He didn't have this quite right, but I kept silence.

    'Let's be right,' Wood said to me. 'I'll take you to a likely spot, but the bloke there - he doesn't want any bother from you lot.'

    'I'm after the camera,' I said, 'and that's all.'

    Wood nodded, and fixed his cap back on his head.

    'We'll take a walk then.'

    I picked up my hat and notebook. Turning to Clegg and his mates, I said, 'I'll show these statements to Detective Sergeant Shillito, but I'm going to recommend the matter goes no further.'

    Clegg nodded at me.

    'Obliged to you, mate,' he said. I then turned and followed the little bloke, Woody, into the street.

    Woody pushed on ahead, red-faced from anger or shame at helping out a copper; or just from the bitter cold. It was washday in Middlesbrough, and we moved under great glowing white banners of towelling and sheets suspended across the streets. Turning a corner in the half-light, I fancied that I saw two great snowflakes swooping down towards us, but they were seagulls. We were on the edge of the town centre, and rows of shops began to appear amid the red houses, but the place that Woody found was something between a shop and a house. The door was ajar; there were words painted on it that I did not have time to read, because Woody pushed it open directly and then, saying something in an under- breath, he was off down the street like greased bloody lightning.

    A man in a dusty topcoat stood by a small fire looking thoughtfully at a great mix-up of goods, as though he'd lately bought it as a job lot and was wondering whether it had been a good investment. There were bits of bicycles, gramophones, sticks of furniture, a tangle of overmantels, with the ornamental items that might once have stood on them - and that might, but probably wouldn't, do so again - tumbled into wooden boxes hard by. There were a lot of clocks, some of which turned out to be barometers, and a whole corner was given over to musical instruments, including half a dozen fiddles, one of these being labelled 'violin' as though it was a cut above the others. I nodded at the man, holding up my warrant card.

    'Detective Stringer,' I said. 'Railway force.'

    The man stood up straight.