Man. The nursing sister gently told her I was there, and went away. I steered clear of the reasons she was there, and asked no questions about it. Honnister was probably a better interrogator than I and would have sucked her dry. Instead I stuck to trivialities and told her a couple of funny items I had read in the papers that morning, and brought her up-to-date on the news of the day. She was very grateful. 'I miss reading the papers. Penny comes in every day and reads to me.' Brent had told me of that. 'I know.'
'What's gone wrong between you and Penny?' 'Why, nothing,' I said lightly. 'Did she say there was anything wrong?' 'No, but she stopped talking about you, and when I asked, she said she hadn't seen you.'
'We've both been busy,' I said. 'I suppose that's it,' said Gillian.
'But it's the way she said it.' I changed the subject and we chatted some more and when I left I think she was a little better in outlook.
Michaelis found his job boring, which indeed it was. As far as the hospital staff were concerned, he was a policeman set to guard a girl who had been violently attacked once. He sat on a chair outside the ward and spent his time reading paperbacks and magazines. 'I read to Miss Ashton for an hour every afternoon,' he said. 'That's good of you.' He shrugged. 'Nothing much else to do. There's plenty of time to think on this job, too. I've been thinking about that model railway in Ashton's attic. I've never seen anything to beat it. He was a schedules man, of course.' 'What's that?' 'There's a lot of variety in the people who are interested in model railways. There are the scenic men who are bent on getting all the details right in miniature. I'm one of those. There are the engineering types who insist their stuff should be exact from the engineering aspect; that's expensive. I know a chap who has modelled Paddington Station; and all he's interested in is getting the trains in and out according to the timetable. He's a schedules man like Ashton. The only difference is that Ashton was doing it on a really big scale.' Hobbies are something that people really do become fanatical about, but Ashton hadn't struck me as the type. Still, I hadn't known that Michaelis was a model railwayman, either. I said, 'How big a scale?' 'Bloody big. I found a stack of schedules up there which made me blink. He could duplicate damn nearly the whole of the British railway system- not all at once, but in sections. He seemed to be specializing in pre-war stuff; he had schedules for the old LMS system, for instance; and the Great Western and the LNER. Now that takes a hell of a lot of juggling, so you know what he'd done?' Michaelis looked at me expectantly, so I said, 'What?' 'He's installed a scad of microprocessors in that control board. You know-the things that have been called a computer on a chip.
He could program his timetables into them.' That sounded like Ashton, all right; very efficient. But it wasn't helping me to find him.
'Better keep your mind on the job,' I advised. 'We don't want anything happening to the girl.' Two weeks after Ashton bolted Honnister rang me. Without preamble he said, 'We've got a line on our man.' 'Good.
When are you seeing him?' I wanted to be there. 'I'm not,' said Honnister. 'He's not in my parish. He's a London boy so he's the Met's meat. A chap from the Yard will be seeing him tonight; Inspector Crammond. He's expecting you to ring him.' 'I'll do that. What's this character's name, and how did you get on to him?' 'His name is Peter Mayberry, aged about forty-five to fifty, and he lives in Finsbury.
Apart from that I know damn-all. Crammond will pick it up from there.
Mayberry hired the car for the weekend-not from one of the big hire-car firms, but from a garage in Slough. The bobbies over there came across it as a matter of routine and asked a few questions. The garage owner was bloody annoyed; he said someone had spilled battery acid on the back seat, so that made us perk up a bit.' I thought about that. 'But would Mayberry give his real name when he hired the car?'
'The bloody fool did,' said Honnister. 'Anyway, he'd have to show his driving licence. This one strikes me as an amateur; I don't think he's a pro. Anyway, Crammond tells me there's a Peter Mayberry living at that address.' 'I'll get on to Crammond immediately. Thanks, Charlie.
You've done very well.' He said earnestly, 'You'll thank me by leaning bloody hard on this bastard.' I was about to ring off, but he chipped in again. 'Seen anything of Ashton lately?' It was the sort of innocuous question he might be expected to ask, but I thought I knew Honnister better than that by now; he wasn't a man to waste his time on idle chit-chat. 'Not much,' I said. 'Why?' 'I thought he'd like to know. Every time I ring him he's out, and the beat bobby tells me there's been some funny things going on at the house. A lot of coming and going and to-ing and fro- ing.' 'I believe he went away on a business trip. As for the house I wouldn't know-I haven't been there lately.' 'I suppose that's your story and you're sticking to it,' he said. 'Who's going to tell the Ashton sisters-you or me?' 'I will,' I said. 'After I've made sure of Mayberry.' 'All right. Any time you're down this way pop in and see me. We can have another noggin at the Coach and Horses. I'll be very interested in anything you can tell me.' He rang off. I smiled. I was sure Honnister would be interested.
Something funny was going on in his parish which he didn't know about, and it irked him. I dialled Scotland Yard and got hold of Crammond.
'Oh yes, Mr. Jaggard; it's about this acid-throwing attack. I'll be seeing Mayberry tonight-he doesn't get home until about six-thirty, so his landlady tells us. I suggest you meet me here at six and we'll drive out.' 'That's fine.' 'There's just one thing,' Crammond said.
'Whose jurisdiction applies here-ours or yours?' I said slowly, 'That depends on what Mayberry says. The acid- throwing is straightforward criminal assault, so as far as that's concerned he's your man and you can have him and welcome. But there are other matters I'm not at liberty to go into, and we might like to question him further before you charge him. Informally, of course.' 'I understand,' said Crammond.
'It's just that it's best to get these things straight first. See you at six, Mr. Jaggard.' Crammond was properly cautious. The police were not very comfortable when mixing with people like us. They knew that some of the things we did, if strictly interpreted, could be construed as law-breaking, and it went against the grain with them to turn a blind eye. Also they tended to think of themselves as the only professionals in the business and looked down on us as amateurs and, in their view, they were not there to help amateurs break the law of the land. I phoned Ogilvie and told him. All he said was, 'Ah well, we'll see what comes of it.' I met Crammond as arranged. He was a middling-sized thickset man of nondescript appearance, very useful in a plain clothes officer. We went out to Finsbury in his car, with a uniformed copper in the back seat, and he told me what he knew. 'When Honnister passed the word to us I had Mayberry checked out. That was this morning so he wasn't at home. He lives on the top floor of a house that's been broken up into flats. At least, that's what they call them; most of them are single rooms. His landlady described him as a quiet type-a bit bookish.' 'Married?' 'No. She thinks he never has been, either. He has a job as some kind of clerk working for a City firm. She wasn't too clear about that.' 'He doesn't sound the type,' I complained. 'He does have a police record,' said Crammond.
'That's better.' 'Wait until you hear it. One charge of assaulting a police officer, that's all. I went into it and the charge should never have been brought, even though he was found guilty. He got into a brawl during one of the Aldermaston marches a few years ago and was lugged in with a few others.' 'A protester,' I said thoughtfully.
'Amateur or professional?' 'Amateur, I'd say. He's not on our list of known rabble-rousers and, in any case, he has the wrong job for it.
He's not mobile enough. But his appearance fits the description given by Honnister's witness. We'll see. Who does the asking?' 'You do,' I said. 'I'll hang about in the background. He'll think I'm just another copper.' Mayberry had not arrived home when we got there so his landlady accommodated us in her front parlour. She was plainly curious and said archly, 'Has Mr. Mayberry been doing anything naughty?' 'We just want him to help us in our enquiries,' said Crammond blandly. 'Is he a good tenant, Mrs. Jackson?' 'He pays his rent regularly, and he's quiet. That's good enough for me.' 'Lived here long?' 'Five years-or is it six?' After much thought she decided it was six. 'Has he any hobbies? What does he do with his spare time?' 'He reads a lot; always got his head in a book. And he's religious-he goes to church twice every Sunday.' I was depressed. This sounded less and less like our man. 'Did he go to church on the Sunday two weekends ago?' asked Crammond. 'Very likely,' she said. 'But I was away that weekend.' She held her head on one side. 'That sounds like him now.' Someone walked along the passage outside the room and began to ascend the stairs. We gave him time to get settled then went after him. On the first landing Crammond said to the uniformed man, 'Wait outside the door, Shaw. If he makes a break grab him. It's not likely to happen, but if he is an acid-throwing bastard he can be dangerous.' I stood behind Crammond as he tapped on Mayberry's door and noted that Shaw was flat against the wall so Mayberry couldn't see him. It's nice to see professionals at work. Mayberry was a man in his late forties and had a sallow complexion as though he did not eat well. His eyes were sunk deep into his skull. 'Mr. Peter Mayberry?' 'Yes.' 'We're police officers,' said Crammond pleasantly. 'And we think you can help us. Do you mind if we come in?' I saw Mayberry's knuckles whiten a little as he gripped the edge of the door. 'How can I help you?' 'Just by answering a few questions. Can we come in?' 'I suppose so.' Mayberry held open the door. It wasn't much of a place; the carpet was threadbare and the furniture
