Chapter 244
“This is a bloody nightmare, Boss.”
“You wanted normal police work, and that's what you are getting, Hunt my lad.”
“Still, plodding around Liverpool like the greenest constable in the Realm on a bloody sunday in this infernal heat makes me almost wish I'd joined the Navy instead of the Police.”
“Aye, I feel you on this. However, just as all the member of His Majesty's Forces we do what we are told.” the Inspector replied in an affected manner.
“I also wish that Jonesey the bloody useless git had not stolen these ration books. What on earth did he have in mind with them anyway? They are one per man anyway.”
The Inspector nodded. “Indeed, Hunt. If he hadn't signed them with his own signature he could have flogged them on the black market for a hefty profit. But what does he do instead? He goes into the shops and tries to get himself above-ration meat.”
Hunt snorted. “What's more we wouldn't have found out anything hadn't...”
“Hadn't your very own butcher of choice told you about something he heard from somebody else.”
“Indeed, Boss. So why was he murdered?” Hunt sighed. “Sometimes I wish I were back on my old plod as a mere DI.”
“Oh quit whining, Hunt. What I wish is that my car hadn't broken down and we wouldn't have to go on foot.” the Boss said. “Ah, here we are.” he went on and stopped. What they were in front of was the police station they were based at.
Once inside Hunt at first went into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face and then walked over to his Office where the Boss was waiting.
The Superintendent was sitting in the chair, but before Hunt could do anything the phone rang.
“DCI Hunt Hunt and this better be good.” He listened for a few more seconds and then slammed the phone down.
“Well, it seems that the good doctor has found how our friend was killed. It appears that the hole was made by a 7.63 Mauser which he recovered from the body, but he was killed by stabbing, one right into the old pump.”
“That does indeed shorten the range.” the Super said with his customary sarcasm.
“What he also found was an old Navy tatoo, but we knew that Jonesey was in the fleet during the last round.”
The man in question had been a stoker aboard HMS Iron Duke for most of the war before being discharged when the war had ended. Hunt however suddenly had an idea.
“How about we bring that ladyfriend of his in? I mean she said that they had broken it off last time I spoke to her a couple of months ago when we suspected him of lifting that Army lorry from in front of the Railway station, but she might know anything.”
The Super nodded and then rose from the chair. “You do that Hunt, while I go to report to our lord and master.”
“Righto, boss.”
One of the forged ration books
A very unproductive three hours later a heavily sweating Hunt Hunt was standing in line in front of the Vending Machine that dispensed cold drinks a gift from a grateful Expat American industrialist whose son's life had been saved by members of the station[1] and thought about the case.
It had started three days ago when his butcher, knowing that he was with CID gave him a tip that someone was using multiple ration books, something that was normally not for the CID to do, but Hunt had agreed to look into the matter, fully intending to hand it over to the appropriate authorities once he had made some inroads. That he had stumbled across the body of Jonesey when calling on a few contacts had changed matters. How he had found himself walking through Liverpool with the Super at his side was another unrelated matter, but suffice it to say the old man had a good point, but alas, the ladyfriend had vanished of the face of the earth, the only thing that he had managed to find out was that the dead forger and petty thief had been dabbling in a lot of things that were less then reputable but quite legal from the look of things. Shellgames for impressionable merchant sailors might be in a grey area but weren't illegal as such as long as no winnings were guaranteed beforehand, and selling car parts wasn't either if somewhat unusual. Still, Hunt was resolved to look into all of these dealings considering that it was unlikely that signature forgery on a ration book was hardly a viable motive especially since the meat ration in particular had been increased a couple of weeks ago.
Once back in his Office with a bottle and cursed the dead man not for the first time in the last few days. It had been especially confusing that the place, normally so orderly had been in a mess. It hadn't been the mess one expected if the place had been searched, no the small room had been reeking of rotten food with plates all over. Hunt hadn't spent much time in it, leaving it to the poor sods who had to catalogue the evidence, but it didn't look like it had anything to do with the murder itself. Normally ration book forgery got one a beating from one's contemporaries, but outright murder? No, there had to be something else behind this.
The telephone rang, and again it was the Coroner. When he replaced it, Hunt was even more puzzled because the knife had been identified as a German-Army issue combat knife from the Trenches of the last war, which wasn't really a clue, Hunt's own uncle had brought one back and there had to be thousands of them all over Britain. There was, like with the case of the murdered turncoats a while back not much to go on, in fact there was zilch to go on. Rumour in the more shady circles of Liverpool had it that there was a smuggling ring with Irish booze in the harbour, but that was a case for Special Branch and perhaps the Coast Guard and Navy.
Hunt sighed. Most likely old Jonesey had simply stepped on the wrong foot at some point and had collected his dues, and even more likely he would never find out what had happened, the underworld of Liverpool was like that.
“Anything yet?” asked his newest sidekick, a fresh young constable with the name of Crabtree. “None at all, Micheal. The bloody bastard has apparently annoyed the wrong people and we have a snowball's chance in hell of finding out who it was. There'd be more to go on if they'd bloody torched the place.”
“Probably not, Sir.”
“Huh? Whatever are you on about?”
“Well Sir, there's been another murder.”
“What on earth does that have to do with us, Crabtree?”
“The point is that it was in the pub our first victim used to frequent and also the man was working at City hall, something with the registration of ration books. They don't think he was bent, but isn't that worth looking into?”
“It is Constable. Get me a car from the garage, I am not going to bloody walk again in this heat.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Hunt drove the raggedy old Austin Seven towards the pub as fast as the car would go, with Crabtree reciting what the men on the scene had telephoned before they had set off.
“It seems that the man wasn't a regular there until quite recently, the owner apparently saw him for the first time two weeks ago. They don't know who he is, but apparently he once let slip that he was some sort of minor worker bee at the Ration board, at least he does carry the Identity Card for it, so according to it his name is Harry Weatherby.”
In front of the pub a sizeable group of Constables had gathered to keep the people back that lived in this relatively good but still below-average neighbourhood and Hunt only got through without having to show his badge because he was well known to many in the force. Inside a starch stink greeted him, not from the body even though the flies were already circling it but rather from what had once been a steak coaling away on the stove in the kitchen before someone had turned it off.
The body lay almost directly in front of the bar, right where the stools would usually be. Much of the bar was covered in blood and spilt drinks, and someone had taken the time to smash the old mirror behind the bar and pour out most of the liquids that had been stored there even though Hunt strongly suspected that the real treasures were stashed away elsewhere. While Crabtree was talking with the other constables and interviewed the owner again, Hunt examined the body closer. The Coroner had already been here and left and the body was awaiting transportation to the morgue so Hunt took the opportunity to get his own look at the situation. The man had most likely died from a similar or the same weapon as the first victim, a stab wound to the heart, but like with Jonesey there was suspiciously little blood, considering that the wound was right over the heart, in spite of the splatter on the bar. It appeared that someone had killed the man elsewhere and then deposited him here, much to the surprise of the owner who had promptly forgotten about his breakfast on the stove and run out the back door he had entered through. No matter what disreputable things he was normally involved in, he wasn't someone who went around and stabbed people to death in his own pub, so Hunt was inclined to believe him for now. Other than that nothing out of the ordinary could be seen at a first glance and yet something was tingling his sixth sense.
“Got anything, Boss?” Crabtree asked.
“Nothing, but something here is off. Aside from the body itself of course.”
Crabtree was looking at the body and seemed to nod in agreement, only to suddenly snip his fingers.
“It's the same pose as the other one was in, Boss. On his back, left arm by his side, right arm draped over the stomach and the hand pointing at the wound.”
“The Heat must be getting to me, but good work.”
“Sir, doesn't this mean that it was the same bloke who killed the both of them?”
“It might, Crabbie.” Hunt said, using the Constable's nickname. “It most certainly looks like it.”
“We could also theorize that they were killed at the same place, seeing as there is by far not enough blood around here for that type of wound.”
“Did the owner say anything?”
Crabtree sighed and pulled out his notebook. “Nothing much, Boss, at least nothing much new.”
Hunt nodded. “Bring him in then, I'd like to talk to him somewhere where the walls aren't melting.”[1]
Somehow he felt that this was going to be one of
those cases.
[Notes: Where is this going, hmmm?.]
[1] I doubt the Summer of 1942 in the North of England was anywhere near as hot as I imagined it when I wrote this, but the Summer of 2010 in Germany most certainly was. The sweat was literally dripping of me.