Petrella at 'Q' by Michael Gilbert Page B

alarm stirred in Petrella’s mind. It was an instinctive reaction, born of experience, sharpened by the habit of joining together apparently unassociated scraps of information, which is the basis of all good police work. Somewhere, months before, he had read a report – from where, and about what? He could see himself sitting back in his chair and reading it. The hot tarry diesel-fumed smell of Patton Street had been coming in through the wide-open window. So it must have been July or August. He had thought the report worth keeping and he had filed it. Interpol. That was right. It was a routine report from Interpol.
    Petrella unearthed it, and read it a second time, with the murk of December swirling down Patton Street and the sounds of life coming muffled through the tight-shut window.
    A French revenue cutter, patrolling in the early morning mist, had hit a small outboard motor boat which was running without lights. By the time the cutter had succeeded in turning round and getting back to the scene of the collision, the boat had sunk, but the crew of two, who were wearing life-jackets, had been rescued without much trouble. They turned out to be local fishermen. They had offered no satisfactory explanation of what they were doing, and the look-out on the cutter asserted that, just before the crash, he had seen a third man in the small craft. The two fishermen had been released after questioning as there seemed to be nothing specific they could be charged with. A fortnight later a body was recovered. It had been swept by the current into the rocks at the foot of the Nez de Joburg and wedged there. It appeared to be an Indian, in early middle age, dressed in what had, before its immersion, been a respectable suit of clothes. Under the coat, in a webbing belt worn round the waist, were twelve four-ounce tablets of gold.
    Petrella sent for Sergeant Roughead and was irritated to find that he was out on an enquiry. He spent some time after that on the telephone to the managing director of Waterside Properties.
    It was four o’clock, and the drizzle of the morning had turned into a thick mist, when Milo arrived back. Petrella said, “There’s been a development in the gold-running business. Do you think you could get on to your pal down at Cooling and see if he’s got anything to report.”
    “I’ve had three reports from him already,” said Milo smugly.
    “You’ve had what?”
    “Three reports. The last one was two days ago. I don’t suppose—”
    Petrella said, “Are you trying to tell me that you’ve had three reports and sat on them?”
    “They weren’t very conclusive—”
    “Do you want to continue in the police force?” The anger in his voice was so sharp that Milo went scarlet. He found nothing to say. “There is one use and one use only for information. You share it. You don’t hoard it. Or decide what’s important and what isn’t. Or wait till you’ve got everything complete and wrapped up so that you can spring it on us as a nice surprise. Do you understand?”
    “Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Roughead, in a very small voice.
    “Then let’s have it.”
    “The doctor has been seen down there three times. Twice he came by car and once by train to Graystone Halt, and was picked up by his wife. She’d come down earlier by car. She didn’t meet him at the station actually. She waited a short distance away and he walked to the car. They’ve got an old farm house on the marshes. It’s down a track, leading off the main road.”
    “Don’t explain it. Just show me.”
    Petrella had a one-inch Ordnance Survey map spread on his desk and Sergeant Roughead put his finger on a dotted line, which led out over the marshes and stopped just short of the river. A building was marked at the end of it.
    “It’s called Barrows Piece,” said Sergeant Roughead. He seemed to have recovered some of his spirits. “A farmer called Barrow built it, and committed suicide in the barn. It’s pretty lonely. The