“It was only yesterday morning that he found out Miss Gardner was gone, right? But today he said
“Right you are,” Payne said. “But he could have that kind of mind, adjusting to a new idea quickly.”
“So you don’t want to arrest him?” I asked.
“It would be preferable to sorting through this lot, but he’d be out in no time. Maybe you could shoot him, Captain Boyle,” Payne said, gesturing to the bulge under my jacket. “I know I’d be tempted if I went about armed.”
“Maybe,” I said, patting the.38 Police Special. “But then I’d have to write a report. Let’s try this first.”
It wasn’t just Stanley Fraser and Ernest Bone. There were files on dozens of applicants. None of them lived very far away. Lots of renovations and additions, but not much new construction or large-scale work. German bombing raids had devastated London, the ports to our south, and any city with large-scale industry. Newbury had been hit once, earlier in the year, with casualties and a number of houses destroyed. But it was nothing like the wholesale destruction in some cities. That rebuilding took all the available labor and materials, leaving little for small towns and villages. People fixed things up, houses, clothes, and automobiles alike, making do until the war was over and the boys came home.
We read for over an hour, pursuing one of the most boring aspects of police work: reading bank reports. Some folks, like Razor Fraser, had blueprints and plans drawn up. Most made do with a written description. The level of detail varied. There were specific measurements, giving the dimensions of a new room, and others that were sketchy on the details. None of that seemed to matter. Neville’s notes spoke about income, business plans, funds in the bank, and potential earnings more than the building plans themselves.
“Do you get the feeling there wasn’t much to Neville’s job?” I asked.
“He had a nose for numbers, that’s plain to see,” Payne said.
“He did, but anyone here could have put all this together. Why did he visit the applicants? There’s hardly a comment about the actual plans or buildings.”
“He had to assess future earnings potentials, didn’t he? Can’t do that from an office.”
“Right,” I said, leaning back in my chair. That was why he turned Ernest Bone down, and it seemed logical. Why put money into a business that sold a rationed product? Hedley’s Sweet Shop probably sold out every month on a regular basis. Once the ration coupons were used up, there was no way to increase sales. He couldn’t even sell to me for cash.
“Why did Fraser want to build?” I asked, tossing down the file I had been pretending to read.
“To create an image of himself as an upstanding and successful man. And to please his wife,” Payne said.
“That makes perfect sense,” I said. “And why did Bone want to build?”
“To prepare for the future, I’d say,” Payne answered. “He had adequate space for current business, according to Neville’s notes.”
“Right. But who knows how long the war will last? It could be over by Christmas if the invasion comes soon enough. Why wouldn’t Neville approve the loan? It wasn’t for that much.”
“Perhaps you should advance Mr. Bone the loan yourself,” Payne said with a laugh. “Then you’d have all the sweets you’d want.”
“It seems odd.”
“Well, the war could be over by Christmas, just no telling which Christmas. If we’re still at it in 1946 or so, the Newbury would never get their money back. Bone can’t make enough under rationing. It’s too bad the man chose the profession he did, but he’s got all his eggs in one basket, now, doesn’t he?”
“All his sweets, you mean. Let me see his file.”
Payne grunted and shoved it over. He returned to poring over Razor Fraser’s application, looking for anything even slightly illegal.
Bone’s proposal was fairly simple. He wanted to remove a wall and extend the kitchen. Build a larger storage area for his products in his basement, and remodel the façade. He mentioned expanding after the war, shipping his sweets to France from the Channel ports. All smart ideas, it seemed. Neville had scribbled notations in the margins.
I looked at Neville’s typewritten report. He didn’t mention any of that, simply saying that economic circumstances due to the war did not favor the loan, and that the business and Bone’s own savings might not be sufficient to cover any potential loss. It made sense.
“Did Neville have any handwritten notes on Fraser’s papers?” I asked.
“He did,” Payne said. “A bit hard to read, but here they are.” He handed me a notepad. Neville had a list of questions written down.
“He had the same suspicions you had,” I said. “But he approved the loan.”
“Aye, but that’s his job. Fraser has the money, and that’s all Flowers and his high and mighty boss Lord Mayhew care about,” Payne said.
“But if Neville looked into the source of the income, he may have found out that Fraser didn’t need the loan at all. Not for the building project, anyway. He needed the loan to launder his illegal money.”
“So, you’re saying Neville took his role a bit too seriously and played detective. Found out about Fraser’s scheme and had to be silenced?”
“It’s possible. Have you found out about Harrison Joinery yet?” I asked.
“No, I haven’t had the time. This afternoon, though, I’ll make it a point to find out who really owns the firm. If things lead back to Razor, we may want to press the matter with him. At the station.”
That was all we came up with. Other than the lady who wanted to build a special room for her cats. All thirty of them. Neville’s handwritten note simply said
CHAPTER TWENTY — FIVE
Payne went off to follow up on Harrison Joinery while I took a walk. It wasn’t far, over the bridge to the other side of the canal, following Stuart Neville’s walk home from work. Time for a pleasant chat, a social call. I knocked on the front door, which was answered by a guy I didn’t recognize. He wore a sweater and had a pipe clenched between his teeth.
“Yes?”
“I’m Captain Boyle,” I said. “Here to see George Miller.”
“Of course,” he said, opening the door wider. “I’m Nigel Morris.
George told me about you and Inspector Payne.”
“You’re the other boarder, right?”
He shut the door behind me and settled back into his chair, where he’d been reading the newspaper. “Yes. The only one at the moment. Awful news about poor Stuart. I was away and heard only when I came back yesterday.” He fiddled with his pipe, banging out the ashes and filling it again, in the way pipe smokers do when they can’t sit still. “Any progress?”
“We’re following up leads,” I said. “What kind of work do you do?”
“Plumbing fixtures. I make the rounds of builders and plumbers, showing the firm’s new wares. Even in
