Death of a Postman by John Creasey

Author:John Creasey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: House of Stratus

Chapter Twelve

Parcels

Carmichael had lost every vestige of colour. Roger watched him intently, and couldn’t even begin to guess whether he was upset simply because of what he saw, or whether he had realised the greater significance of the discovery. No one else in the yard had any idea of what had been found.

“What do you want me to do?” Carmichael asked, and went on without waiting for an answer: “Of course Mr Farnley will have to decide, but I can advise him of the best way of co-operating without upsetting the smooth flow of the work too much. You won’t agree with me, but with so many perishables in the mail and so many parcels, it’s easily a record year—anything which might hamper us must take second place to the mail.”

Roger said quietly: “Have word sent round that all perishable parcels are to be brought over here, will you, especially anything with a smell of putrefaction. No need yet to tell the men what’s happened. Get a couple of chaps you can trust to collect the parcels—and pick them up by the string. Don’t open any more, just check the addresses and where they were posted, and handle them as little as you can. We might find fingerprints that will help. All right?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. You mean we needn’t stop work?”

“Not yet.”

Roger had an odd idea that Carmichael was blessing him, as he turned away.

He sent for the three Yard men still on duty at River Way; also for a police surgeon and for an assistant from the Police Laboratory, and superintended the collection of the parcels. There were hundreds; but those he was interested in were easy to pick out.

The body, so far as it could be assembled, was of a young man.

The hands were missing; so was the head.

The parcels had been posted at different offices throughout the west and south west London area, the previous morning.

Preliminary medical evidence said that the dissection had been carried out skilfully but not surgically, and that the body had been exposed to a warm temperature for some time.

“Could the man have been alive forty eight hours ago?” Roger asked the doctor. “Roughly.”

“It’s hard to say. Three days, yes. Two—well, I don’t know.”

Derek Bryant had been missing for nearly three days.

“Any way of being sure?” Roger asked.

“When we’ve finished the pm we might be able to give you a better idea,” the doctor said. “Young man, fair haired, aged about twenty three or four. If we could find the hands I could tell you a lot more; until we do I’m guessing.”

“Don’t guess any more,” Roger said.

He left the doctor and the laboratory assistant, and went into the small room which had been set aside for him and the newcomers from the Yard. A junior Post Office official was also with them. There were dozens of sheets of brown paper, piled up, and one of Wilberforce’s men was going over them methodically with fingerprint powder. It was difficult to get prints on some, because the paper was too damp, but there were dozens on others.

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