Chapter 10
At ten minutes before nine Sam knocked on Mr. Foyle's door but received no answer. In a flash of fear she imagined that Monday night's events had somehow been repeated and she burst into his room, but merely found it empty. Realising her folly, she pulled herself together and went down the stairs in search of him. Just before turning towards the dining room, she overheard his voice coming from the enclosed telephone booth.
He sat within the small chamber, a file of papers spread over the inadequate table surface and his knee, rapidly writing notes and talking animatedly into the receiver, which he held wedged between his ear and shoulder. She caught his eye and he smiled and lifted an index finger to signal that she should wait.
"Morning, Sam. Had breakfast?" he asked, standing in the doorway of the booth.
"Yes, sir. Ready when you are."
"Good. I'm expecting a return call so I'll hang on here, but don't wander off." He smiled and went back to his notes, then the telephone trilled and he closed the door and took the call.
Up in the sitting room together, Sam thought her boss looked tired, as if he had slept badly, and yet there was an unmistakable current of restrained energy in his movements. She could see by the open files on the desk, now moved near the window, and several additional pages of notes that Foyle had been at work for some time already.
"Let's just discuss this meeting, then, Sam. Help me bring this chair forward; I want the Chief Constable here. I would like you there, on the sofa. I have quite a lot of information to go through with the Chief and it is important that he hear it in order and that there be no interruptions. Can you make sure of that, Sam?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good."
"And what am I to do, sir, during the meeting?"
"You don't have to do anything except be here, and respond as best you can if I should ask you to clarify anything about your travels yesterday. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly."
"Thank-you."
Somehow she couldn't imagine what points she'd need to clarify, but she went dutifully to speak to the staff, while Mr. Foyle continued to organise his papers.
"Thank-you for agreeing to the change in venue, Chief Constable. This is my driver, Miss Stewart. I've asked her to sit in with us because she's contributed to the information gathered in this investigation, and is able to offer clarification on certain points."
Sam greeted the police chief smartly, took her place on the sofa as Foyle had instructed, and turned her attention to the two high-ranking officers. However, she had failed to see the silent exchange between the two men after the Chief ran his gaze over her figure; he had raised an appreciative and knowing eyebrow at Foyle, who had only stared coldly in response.
The Chief was a large, gruff man with an impressive sandy-coloured moustache and a northern accent. He cleared his throat in slight embarrassment before speaking,
"Now, Foyle, on the phone you told me you'd met with an accident. This is no accident: you look as if you'd had the stuffing knocked out of you."
Foyle waved the Chief into the chair positioned in front of the writing desk.
"Yes. Well. Hampered my investigation somewhat, but I do have certain information for you."
He took the chair behind the desk, with his back to the window, careful to disguise any sign of discomfort from his injuries.
"No, no – I insist that you tell me, Foyle. How did this happen?"
He frowned irritably at his papers but answered matter-of-factly,
"I was followed, after I left our meeting Monday evening."
"Followed?"
"You hadn't noticed them? Two men followed me from Bishopsgate, and later a third joined them. I'll give you their names in due course."
"You know who they are?"
"I do now. Miss Stewart brought me confirmation of their identities yesterday."
Sam did her best not to react to this piece of news, but she was growing uneasy as to what he might expect her to say.
"In due course, you say... Well," the Chief sighed with fatigue,
"I'm afraid I've got you up here needlessly, Foyle. I've kept this appointment with you merely as a courtesy."
"Oh, how's that, sir?"
"The bombing raids, night before last; took out nearly one-sixth of my men, in several different locations. Whatever crime or corruption I've put you onto seems almost irrelevant in light of this catastrophe."
"Ah. Well, I'm very sorry for your loss, sir." Foyle dragged his fingers across his forehead. "You believe the men involved in the murder and the criminal activity have been... eliminated?"
"As I said to you on Monday, my suspicions tended towards those three I told you of. They were amongst the dead at Moseley. However, there is one thing..."
"Yes?"
"It would seem that two of my men were away from their posts that night."
"Not on your authority."
"No. Generally these two were at Gravelly Hill."
"But they were at Small Heath."
The Chief raised his eyebrows in surprise,
"Yes."
"Armoury Road area?"
"How did you know that?"
"The railyard near the BSA munitions works?"
"What do you know, Foyle?" He asked darkly.
"I know nothing definite, but there are enough facts that you can see how they're likely linked together."
"What facts? If you were followed and attacked Monday evening, and have been laid up here ever since... what could you possibly have in the way of facts?"
Sam looked down uncomfortably at her hands folded in her lap, as Foyle pressed on.
"Much of it comes from what you've supplied me with, and, combined with evidence we've collected here – if you'll bear with me – I think I can lay before you enough information to form a reasonable hypothesis as to the truth behind the murder of Constable Rees."
"Very well. Go on."
"Thank-you. Let's begin with what happened Tuesday night, during the Air Raid."
Foyle had his documents and files arranged in the order he would need them. He spread out the small scale Ordnance Survey map and put it before the Chief.
"If you'll look over this map, you'll see that the bombers flew north and northeast in two waves. They struck in a northeast line hitting Acocks Green, Tysley, Alum Rock and Ward End; and they struck in a northerly line hitting Moseley, Balsall Heath and Digbeth. There was only one hit between these two vectors."
"Small Heath."
"Yes. All the other hits were high explosive bombs or incendiaries. Only the Small Heath hit was a landmine."
"That wouldn't have been dropped by the Heinkels."
"Very unlikely."
Chief James sat back in his chair thoughtfully.
"It may've been left over from a previous air strike. Those mines get caught up in trees, on utility poles, lampposts; the parachutes catch, and sometimes the mine never explodes; bloody difficult for the UXB chaps. And then they go off unexpectedly."
"My driver interviewed the local ARP warden yesterday. What did you learn from Mr. Layzell, Miss Stewart?"
"That the entire area had been swept clean after the previous air raid on the night of September the fourth, sir."
"Thank-you, Miss Stewart. They're especially vigilant around the railways and the BSA, as you know, Chief Constable."
"Well, what are you suggesting, Foyle?"
"The landmine was brought to the location by people on the ground."
"What – Jerry spies? Saboteurs?"
"By your two men and their accomplices."
"To blow up the BSA? Don't be absurd."
"No, sir. The BSA wasn't their target; the mine exploded prematurely."
The Chief studied the DCS with a wary expression.
"All right, Foyle. Let me hear your hypothesis."
Foyle produced another map showing a series of dots and crosses in lines down the region, dated and annotated. He passed the map to the Chief Constable.
"You'll see the pattern has been repeated five times. On each occasion, on the night of a bombing raid, there's been an anomalous hit on a lone lorry carrying a shipment of BSA arms to the railyard. Each time the device was a landmine, but because of the general devastation, and the destruction caused by other landmines on those occasions, there were no suspicions raised over the destruction of a lorry. And, of course, the losses in the shipment couldn't accurately be accounted for."
Sam looked on with growing interest as Foyle handed over another paper.
"The BSA have confirmed that the lorries, on each of these occasions, were driven by the same two men. In each of the four previous hits, the driver and guard claim to have been thrown clear of the explosion and were relatively unhurt."
"I don't recognise either of these names."
"No? Well, we'll leave that for the moment. Amongst the files you sent to me were records of Rees's work in cases of important property damage and losses reported after these and other air raids. At first my thoughts had tended towards organised looting, but I found an intriguing coincidence."
He passed another page to the Chief.
"You'll note the names of the constables who reported the first four lorry hits."
Chief James read out from the list,
"Rees and Cartwright on the 12th of July at Yardley;
"Rees and Smith on 4th August at Selly Park;
"Rees and Bayliss on 20th August at King's Heath;
"Cartwright and Bayliss on 4th September at Hall Green." James returned the paper to the desk,
"This falls within their regular duties in the motor division – responding to bomb-damage incidents; often they are called out to assist."
"According to the records these were not call-outs; the constables reported, in each incident, that they had simply come upon the damaged lorry and the injured drivers in the course of the air raid patrol. There is no indication of assistance from the Home Guard or the ARP. Neither driver was ever taken to hospital or administered first aid – unusual if the lorries were supposed to have been driven over the mines, wouldn't you agree? Which two constables were killed at Small Heath?"
"Cartwright and Smith. There were other men dead at the scene. What was the coincidence?"
"Your Constable Alan Cartwright and one of the lorry drivers – both too old for military service this war – served together in the Great War."
"Did they?
"Yes, in a rather infamous campaign."
"How did you discover this?"
Foyle produced the sketch he had made of the ring.
"The third man I encountered Monday evening, whom the other two called George, wore this."
"A ring. What of it?"
"It's an original design that was commissioned for veterans of the Siege of Kut-Al-Amara, April 1916, in Mesopotamia."
"How the devil do you know that?"
"Well, the design was familiar to me, though I couldn't at first recall how. It was Miss Stewart who reminded me."
Sam, who had been following the discussion intently, was surprised to hear her name brought up again. And she knew that she hadn't found any useful information about the ring.
Foyle nodded in her direction,
"Yesterday, Miss Stewart happened to mention the Battle of Alam Halfa, Lieutenant-General Montgomery's recent victory against Rommel in North Africa. In the last war Montgomery had served under a Major-General Gorringe, who arrived on the Western Front in September 1916 to command the 47th Division. And it was Gorringe who had, in April of that year, led the disastrous attempt to relieve the British forces besieged by the Turks at Kut-Al-Amara."
The Chief gazed at Foyle with a quizzical expression before lowering his eyes to study the sketch,
"And when had you seen this design before?"
"I had once met a veteran of the campaign. In fact... I arrested him in 1920; he had just received the campaign medal and the DCM – as you may know it was a year or more after the end of the war before medals were given out – this man had just been given his medals, and also one of these rings by a former commander. But owing to the horrific memories associated with the siege, he had gotten drunk, disturbed the peace, and... I had to arrest him. But I listened to his story and he told me some of what had gone on there."
"An outright slaughter, from what I've heard – more than 20,000 killed? And why should this detail be so fixed in your mind, Foyle?"
"Oh, er... I was attached to the 47th Division for a time."
The Chief's eyebrows went up,
"Under Gorringe? Ever meet him?"
"Y-yes." Foyle's face was a study in restrained contempt.
"But I also met Montgomery."
"Saved you from shooting yourself in the leg, I'll wager. Well, what of this... ring? What did you make of it?"
"I made a phone call this morning to a friend at Whitehall who was able to search military records for veterans of the campaign. I gave him the names of these four constables and the two lorry drivers. Your constable Alan Cartwright and lorry driver George Collymore came up in the same regiment, as well as a Stan Bayliss."
"My constable is called Arthur Bayliss."
"Yes. Stan is his cousin, according to your desk sergeant at Gravelly Hill. Stan Bayliss had been an artillery and explosives expert, and according to his military dossier he stands six foot five and has lost the tip of the little finger on his right hand. One of the men who followed me, the one the other two called Stan, matches that description."
"Arthur's well over six feet himself."
"Stan... carried this torch Monday night." He laid the smashed torch on the desk.
"It appears to be a special issue to railway workers, but I haven't followed up on this detail as yet."
"Then it seems you were attacked by George Collymore, a BSA lorry driver, and Stan Bayliss, an ex-artilleryman and possible railway worker. Who was the other?"
"He was called Ray, and I believe he's the younger brother of George Collymore."
"Based on –?"
"Family resemblance; the fact that they were wearing identical waistcoats knit of the same wool," Foyle gave Sam a quick smile, "...suggesting a family connection; typical older brother/younger brother antagonism; and he didn't deny it when I suggested it to him. Ray also named Alan Cartwright as being involved."
"He admitted that? How on earth did you get him to tell you?"
"Well, clearly there was some discord in the ranks. Alan Cartwright and George Collymore seem to have been the leaders. Rees was murdered on 2nd September, two days before the fourth hit, either because he wanted more of the profit or he wanted out, and perhaps they feared he would turn them in.
"What they were doing was very dangerous, not to mention treasonous – Stan Bayliss and Ray Collymore certainly had regrets. George Collymore was still keen to carry on. It seems the plan was to stage the next hit in another week, but when they learned of this investigation they moved it forward to Tuesday night; perhaps the planning was rushed and that's why the mine exploded at the wrong location.
"It's impossible to know how Smith felt about it, but it would seem he did take part in the attempt on Tuesday night. As for Arthur Bayliss, you can interview him yourself. It would seem Rees's body was dropped behind the station as a warning to the others."
"To Smith and Arthur Bayliss – or would you say there are more of my men involved?"
"I've found no evidence of it."
"Where were they selling the arms?"
"I haven't investigated that far. No doubt Arthur Bayliss can tell you."
"Who murdered John Rees?"
"I believe it was George Collymore." Foyle set the broken knife and the triangular tip on the table.
"This is the knife he carried on Monday evening."
Foyle glanced self-consciously in Sam's direction and was surprised to note a striking change in her manner – she seemed withdrawn into herself as she frowned fixedly at the cap held on her knee. He forced his attention back to Cecil James.
"...According to the autopsy report, it is a likely match to the wounds on Rees's body."
"Collymore meant to kill you."
"Y-yes. That was his intention."
"Who prevented him?"
"It was Stan. Stan Bayliss."
The Chief glowered at the floor, deliberating over the information, and then looked Foyle in the face,
"I owe you more than an apology, Foyle; I had no idea of the scope, or the nature of the corruption. I should never have put you on to this alone – I should have provided you with some support."
"Well, perhaps."
"I'm sure this is not how you go about gathering evidence in Hastings..." he gestured to the knife, the broken torch and the bruises on Foyle's features.
"No, not usually. Can you tell me ...who knew of our meeting on Monday?"
James ran a hand over his brow in obvious discomfort,
"I'm afraid it must have been Alan Cartwright."
"Must have been?"
"It was Cartwright. I admit I never suspected him."
"No. And in some sense, you owe an apology to the three men who died at Moseley; they had nothing to do with this."
The Chief Constable nodded regretfully.
"Was Cartwright, by any chance, a marksman? I noticed that Stan wore this," Foyle produced the sketch of the tie-pin.
"Miss Stewart spoke to a jeweller who identified it as the insignia of the Kingsbury Shooting Club."
"A marksman? Now that you mention it, I seem to recall hearing that he had been a sniper during the last war."
"I see. Ray Collymore seemed to suggest that it was Cartwright who recruited Stan, and if they were members of the same Shooting Club, and, given their war service together, that might partly explain his influence with him."
"You believe Stan Bayliss was a reluctant participant?"
Foyle was thoughtful before he responded.
"Well, I'd have to say that Stan impressed me as a clear-thinking and decisive man and, yes, definitely reluctant. Perhaps the first hit was meant to be a single incident, one that his conscience could accept, but because it was successful, George Collymore and Cartwright insisted on continuing…
"Well, this is only speculation, and probably not worth taking up more of your time, Chief Constable."
"Is there anything I can do for you, Foyle?"
"Would you let me know the names of the other men killed at Small Heath?"
"Of course, but, anything else? All your expenses will be taken care of, naturally, but clearly returning by car will be awkward – I could arrange air transport –."
"That's very good of you, Chief Constable, but not necessary." He smiled briefly,
"Glad to be of service, and, er, I'll submit a final reckoning from Hastings."
"Well, I am indebted to you for your work here."
The two men stood and shook hands and as Sam rose the Chief spoke to her.
"Well done, Miss Stewart. You would do well to stick with Mr. Foyle – work with him and learn from him, and you might consider making application to the force – we got our first two women in the CID in '37."
"I will, sir. thank-you, sir."
TBC...