‘Don’t I just.’ Gregory smiled coolly. ‘I’m afraid someone may be in for a rather nasty surprise.’
The address was that of a small back-street newsagent in Kendal and a patrol car was waiting when Gregory and the two Scotland Yard men arrived. The postman, a man named Harvey, was sitting in the back, a walking stick between his knees, chatting to the patrol car crew.
When Gregory leaned in the window, the two constables got out of the car at once. ‘Mr. Harvey-I’m Superintendent Gregory, County Constabulary. You’re sure about this?’
‘About the letters addressed to Charles Grant, care of Tomlinson’s? Oh, yes, sir. I remember kidding him about it and him saying how trade was bad and who was he to turn down ten bob a week just to accept delivery of a few letters.’
Gregory straightened and turned to the two constables. ‘Have you been in?’
‘Not yet, sir.’
He nodded to Vanbrugh. ‘After you.’
Tomlinson was a middle-aged man with greying hair and horn-rimmed spectacles that had been badly repaired with electrician’s tape. When they went in he was standing behind the counter, leaning forward to see what all the fuss was about.
‘Mr. Tomlinson?’ Gregory said. ‘I’m Superintendent Gregory, County Constabulary. This is Chief Superintendent Vanbrugh and Sergeant Dwyer of Scotland Yard. We understand you might be able to help us in an investigation we’re conducting.’
Tomlinson looked completely bewildered. ‘I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
‘You’ve been allowing this address to be used by a Mr. Charles Grant, isn’t that so?’
Tomlinson nodded, a slight frown knitting his brow. ‘Nothing wrong in that, is there?’
‘We think Mr. Grant may be a man we’re looking for. Have you any idea as to his present whereabouts?’
‘Not a clue,’ Tomlinson said. ‘I’ve only ever seen him once, that was the first time he came in. He was pretty old, walked with a stick. Irish, I think, which surprised me, him having a Scots name.’
‘Have many letters come for him?’
Tomlinson nodded. ‘Three or four a week, I’d say. They’ve been picked up by a young woman as a rule.
She’s usually looked in most afternoons.’
‘Do you know her name?’
Tomlinson shook his head. ‘No, but I’ve seen her at Ambleside Market a couple of times. She was with an old fella called Costello-Paddy Costello. Runs an excuse for a sheep farm up Scardale way. Big boozer and gambler. He’s known in every pub in the district.’
Gregory was already moving outside. He leaned in the window of his car and said to the driver, ‘Get through to H.Q. at once. Tell them to phone the Station Sergeant at Ambleside. Ask him what he knows about a man called Paddy Costello who keeps a farm somewhere Scardale way. And tell them this is top priority.’
He turned and took out a silver case as Vanbrugh and Dwyer joined him. ‘From the sound of things, this could be it.’
He offered Vanbrugh a cigarette and they stood there smoking nervously, neither man speaking. Within an incredibly short space of time, Gregory’s driver leaned out of the window.
‘On Costello, sir. Station Sergeant at Ambleside knows him well. A list of drunk and disorderly charges as long as your arm. Keeps a farm at the top end of Scardale below the old mine workings.’
‘Does he live alone?’
‘He has a son and his niece has been living with him for the past ten months. Hannah Maria Costello. She has a record, sir. Six months at Holloway on a vice charge last year.’
Gregory turned to Vanbrugh. ‘Rather more than promising, I’d say.”
The driver interrupted. ‘One more thing, sir. This man Soames that Chief Superintendent Vanbrugh wanted to see, they’ve picked him up in Broughton. They want to know what to do with him.’
‘We’ve more important business in hand/ Vanbrugh said. ‘Tell them to run him up to Kendal. I’ll see him later.’ He turned to Gregory, his face expressionless. ‘I’d
say we could do with a couple of dozen good men.”
‘Don’t worry, sir.’ Gregory smiled gently. ‘We breed them on the large side up here. Your pal Rogan may be in for something of a shock.’