Part 17 (1/2)
”And that won't make it any easier for them.”
He did not sound particularly sorry about this.
Sloan went into Traffic Division on his way back from seeing the Superintendent. A lugubrious man called Harpe was in charge. He had a reputation for having never been known to smile, which reputation he hotly defended on the grounds that there had never been anything to smile about in Traffic Division. He was accordingly known as Happy Harry.
So it was now.
”Nothing's turned up, Sloan,” he said unsmiling. ”Not a thing. No witnesses. No damaged cars. n.o.body reported knocking a woman down.”
”Where do you usually go from here?”
”Inquest. Newspaper publicity. Radio appeal for eyewitnesses to come forward.”
”Any response as a rule?”
”It all depends,” said Harpe cautiously. ”Usually someone comes forward. Not always.”
”They won't this time,” prophesied Sloan. Harpe's pessimism was infectious.
”Don't suppose they will. Lonely road. Uncla.s.sified, isn't it? n.o.body about. Dark. Pubs open. Shops shut.”
”Inst.i.tute night.”
”What's that?”
”Nothing.”
”Our chaps have been in all the local repair garages-no one's brought in anything suspicious, but then if they were bent on not coming forward they'd go as far afield as they conveniently could-”
”Or not repair at all.” Harpe looked up. ”How do you mean?”
”If this was murder,” said Sloan, ”they'd be dead keen on not getting caught.”
”I'll say.”
”Well, I don't think they'd risk having telltale repairs done in Calles.h.i.+re.”
”They might sell,” said Harpe doubtfully. ”We could get County Hall to tell us about owners.h.i.+p changes if you like.”
”I wasn't thinking of that, though it's a thought. No, if I'd done a murder with a motor car and got some damage to the front... how much damage would it be, by the way?”
Harpe s.h.i.+fted in his chair. ”Difficult to say. Varies a lot. Almost none sometimes. Another time it can chew up the front quite a lot. Especially if the windscreen goes.”
”It didn't,” said Sloan. ”There was no gla.s.s on the road at all. We looked.”
”That means his headlamps were all right then, too, doesn't it?”
Sloan nodded.
”Of course,” went on Harpe, with the expert's cold-blooded logic, ”if you're engineering your pedestrian stroke vehicle type of accident on purpose...”
”I think we were.”
Harpe shrugged. ”If you can afford to wait until you can see the whites of their eyes, then naturally you pick your spot.”
”How do you mean?”
”You hit them full on.”
”Amids.h.i.+ps, so to speak?”
”Between the headlamps,” said Harpe seriously. ”You wouldn't break any gla.s.s then.”
”I see,” said Sloan.
”Of course, your 'exchange principle' still applies.”
”What's that?”
”Car traces on the pedestrian. Pedestrian traces on the car. Paint, mostly, in the first case...”
”Dr. Dabbe didn't say and he never misses anything.”
”Blood stains on the car,” went on Harpe cheerlessly, ”and hair and fibres of clothing-only you haven't got the car, have you?”
”No,” said Sloan. 'Then, to go back to concealing the damage...”
”If you didn't want to take it anywhere to repair...”
”I know what I'd do.”
Harpe looked at him uncompromisingly. ”Well, and what would you do?”
”Bash it into a brick wall,” said Sloan cheerfully. ”Or arrange another accident that would destroy all traces of the first. That would make him safe enough if they did find the car.”
Even then Harpe did not smile.
It was about a quarter to six when Henrietta and Bill Thorpe got back to Boundary Cottage, Larking.
Henrietta went straight through into the front room and halted in her tracks. Bill nearly b.u.mped into her.
”Oh, I'd forgotten,” she said.
”What?”
”The Police Inspector took the photograph away with him.”