The Quiet Woman, page 1
Harry Carmichael
THE QUIET WOMAN
Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
… a horrid stillness first invades the ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.
John Dryden, 1631-1700
Chapter I
At Three O’clock on the afternoon of Wednesday, November 4, a security van called at Lloyds Bank in Willesden to collect the Jauncey Engineering Company’s payroll. By ten minutes past three the armoured truck had set off with two men locked inside to guard £53,600 in currency.
It took seven minutes to reach the North Circular Road, another two and a half minutes to arrive at the factory. As the driver turned into Bransby Lane he noted the time as usual. It was precisely twenty minutes past three when the big gates swung open and the van drove in. At three-twenty-one it pulled up outside the Administration building.
In another sixteen minutes the cash boxes had been carried into Wages Department, their contents checked, signed for and transferred to the office safe. At three-thirty-seven the security crew left.
The entry in the driver’s log book recorded a routine cash delivery made without incident. There was no way he could have anticipated what would happen at the Jauncey Engineering works in three hours’ time.
The factory worked overtime several nights a week but seldom on a Wednesday. Shortly after five p.m. on November 4, some eighteen hundred production workers had clocked out. By five past five, jostling crowds were streaming through the exit gates on Bransby Lane and the North Circular Road. Within a quarter of an hour the last stragglers had gone and only the office staff remained.
They left at five-thirty, except for a handful of executives and supervisors. By six o’clock the majority had gone. Minutes later only two offices still had their lights on.
Reg Tugwell completed his first hourly tour of the works just after six. When he returned to the Patrol Office inside Bransby Lane gates he told Alfie Platt, ‘Some people have no homes to go to. Head cashier says he doesn’t know when he’ll be finished and Mrs Marshall in Wages is still at it.’
Alfie said, ‘If they did more work during the day and drank less tea they might finish same time as everybody else.’
‘You can say that again. Are those all the clock cards?’
‘Every single one. Now I’ll be off. Weather forecast says it’ll be wet and windy during the night.’
‘I heard it,’ Reg said. ‘Won’t bother me as much as Vic. The rain isn’t expected to be heavy until the early hours. With a bit of luck I’ll be snug in bed by then. If you see Vic Ryan tell him not to be late.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Alfie said.
Tugwell walked with him to the gates, locked up after he had gone and returned to the Patrol Office. In the record book, he noted: Day patrolman left 6.10. Mr Graham and Mrs Marshall working late. All exits secured. Main factory lights switched off. Everything OK.
It was raining heavily and blowing half a gale when Vic Ryan reached the factory. The time was then a few minutes before one a.m. From Bransby Lane he could see there were no lights showing in the Patrol Office.
The other buildings also were in darkness. Throughout the whole length of Centre Way—the main road which bisected the factory—nothing stirred. All he could hear was the wind and the gurgle of water in the gutters.
With his back to the driving rain he waited patiently outside the gates. It was barely five minutes to one. Reg would be along pretty soon. He always pinched some time off the last patrol of his shift. On a night like this he would be only too anxious to get off home.
Ryan huddled in his oilskins and watched the road which branched left and ran past Admin. Any minute now he would see Reg’s bobbing flashlamp. Every tour of the works was completed by passing the Administration block and then crossing Centre Way to the Patrol Office. Any minute now … and the sooner the better.
But the minutes went by without any sign of Reg Tugwell. At five past one Ryan was in no mood to wait any longer.
It had been months since anyone had rung the bell late at night and the clamour was startling. He took his finger off the button and listened. He could still hear nothing but the noise of the rain and the buffeting wind.
By then he had an uneasy feeling that something was wrong—very far wrong. This had never happened before. Reg must have been taken ill on one of his rounds … or had an accident …
That was when Ryan discovered the gates were unlocked. The right half moved as he leaned against it to peer along the streaming darkness of Centre Way.
He pushed it open just enough to let him through. With the wind and the rain beating in his face he hurried to the Patrol Office.
It was locked. He had known it was bound to be locked.
Reg Tugwell had gone on his rounds—and not come back. He might be anywhere.
To search the factory, building by building, would take an hour or more. There were so many places to look.
Ryan told himself he would get no thanks for setting about the task on his own. The longer he spent hunting for Reg the more time he would waste. He had to get help.
If Reg was all right he would have heard the bell. It was loud enough to be heard the length and breadth of the factory.
Whatever had happened to him, the gates should never have been left unsecured. Anybody could have got in … and out again. They might be getting farther away every second.
Nothing could explain the unlocked gates—neither illness nor accident. Reg knew the rules. He knew that carelessness could cost him his job.
So something must be wrong. Reg was in trouble—bad trouble. Danger lurked in the blustering darkness. Vic could feel it all around him—an atmosphere of menace that seemed to be drawing closer every moment. Fear laid a cold hand on him as he stood in the doorway of the Patrol Office.
There was only one thing to be done. And he must do it soon.
This was police business. They would know what to do. If Reg was anywhere in the factory they would find him … dead or alive.
That unwelcome thought goaded Ryan into action. He left the shelter of the doorway and trudged, head down to the wind, past the adjoining stores block and on to the open area where a new production building was in process of construction.
Piles of bricks and rubble, skeleton girders, a concretemixer—all loomed black against the yellow glow of street lamps on the North Circular Road. When he stepped off the secure footing of Centre Way he stumbled into a wheelbarrow and almost fell over the edge of an excavation where part of a new road ended.
The ground was slippery and pitted with water-filled holes. He splashed from one to the other, groping here and there, until he found something that felt like half a brick. Then he made his way back to the Patrol Office.
A couple of blows smashed the window. When he had chipped away the remaining fragments of glass he climbed inside and put on the light.
His hands were muddy, his fingers numb with cold. The first time he dialled the emergency call he was clumsy and stumbled over one of the digits. Before he tried again he wiped his hands on a rag and gave them a brisk rub to get his circulation going. Then slowly and carefully he dialled the number once more …
The desk sergeant listened, asked one or two questions and promised he would have a police car at the factory within minutes. He gave the patrolman renewed confidence.
‘… You stay right where you are, Mr Ryan. If you’ve got intruders on the premises we’ll send in a couple of dogs to flush ’em out.’
The first car arrived at one-twelve. Two other vehicles were outside the gates by one-fifteen. They cordoned off both Bransby Lane and the North Circular Road entrances and then split up into separate groups, two of them each with a dog-handler.
Headlamps lit the entire length of Centre Way from Bransby Lane to the car park beyond the Foundry as the various groups began their search. By then the wind had slackened and it was raining steadily.
A-group proceeded to the far end of Centre Way and took up a position where they could see the whole of the factory: B-group criss-crossed from building to building, checking the entrances and exits of the production shops: C-group—two officers accompanied by Vic Ryan inspected Stores and then turned their attention to the Admin block.
That was where the search ended. As Ryan used his key on the door, he halted and said, ‘Did you hear a noise like someone banging? It’s gone now but I was sure … there it is again.’
They all heard it—a rhythmic drumming sound that started and stopped half a dozen times. Then everything was still except for the hissing of the rain.
Vic Ryan said, ‘I think I know where it’s coming from. Hold on a second.’
He went inside and the beam of his flashlamp picked out a switch on the wall. A moment later the corridor lights came on.
With Ryan leading the way they took the second passage on the left, turned right and then left again. On a door at the end a notice read: WAGES DEPARTMENT—No Admittance.
Only a couple of lights burned in the long room with its three rows
No lights were on in the glass-walled private office. The door was open.
One of the policemen said, ‘You better keep behind us, Mr Ryan. Never know what we’ll bump into.’
At the sound of his voice there was scuffling in the inner room and a muffled noise like someone in pain. The rhythmic drumming began again.
When they got to the open door everything went quiet. All that Ryan could hear was the threshing of rain on the roof. Then the other policeman reached inside and switched on the light.
Over the officer’s shoulder Ryan saw a man lying on the floor. He was bound hand and foot with adhesive tape round his ankles and wrists. Several lengths tied his feet to one of the heating pipes under the window. A strip of plaster had been stuck over his mouth.
Ryan said, ‘Well, I’ll be damned! It’s Reg Tugwell. Wonder how long he’s been tied up like that?’
They freed his arms and legs and helped him into a chair. One of the policemen said, ‘This might hurt a bit—but it’s the only way.’
He pried loose a corner of the tape covering Tugwell’s mouth. With a quick pull he ripped it off.
Reg cried out and clapped both hands to his face. With his eyes screwed up tight, he wailed, ‘Bloody hell! What did you want to do that for? Haven’t I gone through enough already? What a night I’ve had! What a bloody night …’
Somebody brought him a glass of water. Then they massaged his limbs until he told them to leave him alone.
… I’m all right now. If it wasn’t for my head I’d be OK.’
‘What’s wrong with your head?’
‘I’ve got a lump on it like an egg where the bastard hit me—that’s what’s wrong.’
He put a hand to his head just above and behind his left ear. He grumbled, ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve got a cracked skull.’
‘Did you see who it was?’
Tugwell took another sip of water. In a stronger voice, he said, ‘Of course I saw him … just before he hit me. Mister bloody Graham, that’s who it was.’
‘Who’s Mr Graham?’
The head cashier. He was hiding behind the door and she—’ Tugwell pointed to a spot in front of the twin-lock safe built into the wall—‘she was standing there looking scared to death. I heard something close beside me and I tried to get out of the way but I was too slow.’
He felt again and grimaced with pain. Then he went on, ‘I just managed to catch a glimpse of Graham. He had a shiny thing in his hand and he brought it down smack on my head … and that’s the last I knew until I woke up lying on the floor.’
‘You’re sure it was Graham who struck you?’
‘I’m absolutely positive.’
‘What about this woman you saw? Did you recognize her?’
‘Yes … same as I recognized him. It was Mrs Marshall, the wages supervisor. And that reminds me …’
Tugwell stood up. On unsteady feet he walked two or three steps towards the safe.
In a tone of bewilderment, he said, ‘It was open … and there was bundles of money on the desk … and two cases packed with notes and … oh, bloody hell.’
He went forward another step and reached out to take hold of the handle of the safe. He seemed reluctant to go too near.
One of the policemen said, ‘Don’t touch it. They’ll want to test for fingerprints. Just you sit down and relax.’
As he turned to the door, he added, ‘You’re going to have a lot of talking to do before the night’s over.’
Chapter II
Thursday Morning, November 5, Detective-Superintendent Tom Hennant got to the office at eight-thirty. An hour later he had a phone call from the Assistant Commissioner.
‘… I want you to take charge of the inquiries, Tom. Judging by what Willesden have managed to piece together it looks straightforward enough … but let me know what you think.’
‘Yes, certainly. I’ll get on with it—’ Hennant looked at his cluttered desk and sighed—‘right away, sir.’
The AC said, ‘Good. Willesden have already circulated descriptions of Graham and Mrs Marshall.’
‘Who had time to go to ground before the theft was discovered,’ Hennant said.
‘Well, they haven’t been seen since the factory patrolman was given a nasty headache.’
‘Is this fellow Graham married, sir?’
‘Yes. Lives with his wife at Crouch End.’
‘Until last night,’ Hennant said. ‘Wasn’t she worried when he didn’t return home?’
‘Not until it got very late. Seemingly she was just about to phone the police when a local inspector called at her house in Maryland Avenue.’
‘How about the woman—the Wages Department supervisor? Is there a Mr Marshall?’
‘Oh, yes. He was at home all yesterday nursing a dose of flu. Never guessed, of course, what his wife was up to.’
‘Husbands rarely do,’ Hennant said. ‘Often wonder whether it’s misplaced trust or plain masculine vanity.’
‘Probably a combination of both. However, to get back to this case, it seems she told Marshall she’d be working overtime and he wasn’t to expect her till pretty late.’
‘That’s all very well, sir. But didn’t he think he ought to do something when it got to one a.m. and she still wasn’t home?’
‘Probably would’ve done. But he took a hot toddy with some aspirins about nine o’clock and slept like a log from then until somebody from the station at Dollis Hill got him out of bed. Nearly roused the neighbourhood to do it, too.’
The AC added, ‘I’ve sent you the file. It’s all there … but if you have any questions have a word with Chief Inspector Edmund at Willesden. And keep me posted.’
Superintendent Hennant said, ‘Of course, sir. I’ll let you know soon as there are any developments.’
He read through the folder quickly, made a précis of the events at Jauncey Engineering Company’s works and then studied each document in careful detail. From time to time he made marginal comments. Finally he checked all the known facts and listed them in the form of a time-table.
The main report included biographical remarks on the missing personnel. Hennant re-read this section with special interest.
Harold Victor Graham: Age 45: Married: No children: B.Econ. London Univ: Worked for mail-order company until he joined Jauncey Engineering nine years ago as manager Accounts Dept. Later promoted to Head Cashier.
Enjoyed complete trust of Jauncey’s board of directors. Works manager insists there must be some alternative explanation for Graham’s disappearance. He was known to the company’s executives as a man of absolute integrity.
Under his breath, Superintendent Hennant murmured, ‘Shows how people can be mistaken—an expensive mistake, at that.’
Yvonne Marshall: Age 30: Married: Had one child who was killed in road accident returning from school: Worked for Jauncey Engineering before marriage: Reemployed by Company after death of child.
Handled considerable sums of money over many years. Never any suspicion that she was not entirely trustworthy.
Then there was a footnote. The superintendent talked to himself again as he read it.
Two keys were required to unlock the safe. One has always been in the possession of Harold Graham; the other was entrusted to Mrs Marshall. Theft of the payroll would have been impossible without collusion between these two employees.
Inquiries at their respective homes reveal that no photographs of them can be found although in both cases wedding pictures, holiday snaps, etc. are known to have existed. It would seem obvious that Graham and Marshall removed all such photographs recently.
The following descriptions have been circulated to all stations.
On the instructions of AC Godolphin copies are also being sent to Interpol.
The listed physical characteristics of the wanted couple were obtained from Graham’s wife and Mrs Marshall’s husband. They were checked with business colleagues who knew them well.
Harold Victor Graham: Height 5 ft. 8 ins.: spare build: erect carriage: dark hair greying at temples: brown eyes: thin mouth: square chin with cleft: good teeth: fair complexion: no distinguishing marks.
This man is 45 years of age but looks younger. Has an educated voice and speaks slowly. No particular accent. Can converse in French and Italian.
