Key The letter, written in capitals on a sheet of plain white paper, said: “HOW MUCH DID FRED BARRON PAY YOU TO PERJURE YOURSELF? I EXPECT SCOTLAND YARD WOULD LIKE TO KNOW. SO I’M GOING TO TELL THEM. NOT NOW. PROBABLY NEXT WEEK. THINK ABOUT IT.” “When did you get this?” said Petrella. “This morning,” said Constable Owers. He looked half amused, half angry. “I kept the envelope. I thought you’d want it.” The envelope was a large yellow one, and Constable Owers’s name and address was neatly typed on it. “Whoever sent it,” said Petrella, “can’t have known a lot about police procedure.” Fred Barron had long been under suspicion of being a receiver of stolen goods, and this was the charge that the police would dearly have liked to pin on him. The Director of Public Prosecutions had studied the available evidence, and had advised against it. A summons under the Shops Act, which they could make stick, had been substituted. Constable Owers had been the main police witness, but the decision on which charge to prefer had been nothing to do with him.
