by John Creasey
He pushed open a door on the other side of the great shed, and they stepped into another sound trap, then outside into the bright morning. Gideon had been so intent on what Boyd was saying that he had almost forgotten the throbbing and droning of the turbo-generators. Here, the quiet brought him up sharply to the point of realisation.
The door closed, and Boyd went on as if there had been no interruption. One of the uniformed security men moved aside, to let them pass.
“There won’t be any trouble at New Bridge, you can be sure of that. I won’t let it happen. But this is only one of twenty-odd stations in the Greater London area, Commander. Failure at any one of the others could do a lot of harm. Whole areas can be blacked out at will – but I don’t need to rub that in, do I?”
“No,” Gideon agreed. “You certainly don’t.”
Boyd clapped his hands together; for the first time he failed to trap enough air between his palms, and the sound was a faint echo of the resonant bangs he had made before. Gideon saw his car about a hundred yards away, the driver talking to a security guard, so they had come full circle.
“Have you approached anyone else about this?” he asked.
“I’ve told my masters what I think.”
“About what, precisely?”
“The vulnerability of all power stations and the need for much stricter security.”
“Have you told them why you think so?”
“No, sir!” answered Boyd, his grin holding more than a touch of derision, “They would think I was a crank. I tell ‘em what could happen, you’re the man to find out why. I shouldn’t think anyone else can.”
They stopped by the side of the car.
“If I get any news worth passing on, I’ll tell you,” Gideon said. “Superintendent Piluski will get in touch with you in person.”
He put out his hand, and Boyd took it firmly, holding it a few seconds longer than convention demanded.
“We’re relying on you,” he said. “We really are. Thanks for coming.” He shook hands with Piluski, and then turned and strode off towards the staircase down which he had come when Gideon had first seen him.
Gideon and Piluski got into the car. Security men watched them out, and soon they were driving along the narrow streets, with the tall stacks of the power station behind them casting a kind of shadow. The children still played and the older ones still cycled. Gideon, noticing this, said almost casually, “Shouldn’t these children be at school?”
“There’s a teachers’ strike in this part of London,” Piluski told him.
“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten.” Gideon sat back, feeling a strange kind of relaxation: as if he were recovering from a period of great exertion, although in fact he had little more than walked and listened. Then he chuckled. “There’s another thing that got forgotten. Our coffee!”
“Great Scott!” exclaimed Piluski. “Boyd will kick himself when he realises that!”
“I’m not at all sure that Captain John Boyd ever reaches that point of annoyance with himself, if any point,” remarked Gideon drily. “What we’ve got to check is whether he’s right.”
“About the political implications, do you mean?”
“Yes – and about the vulnerability.” For the first time Gideon began to feel anxious to see the Minister of Power, and to find out what the C.B.I. reaction was going to be. “Why did you want me to go to Bridge End instead of having him come to see me?”
Piluski shot him a quick, wry smile.
“Seen in the Yard or against any other background he’s so much larger than life that he wouldn’t seem real, sir. Against the power station he’s real enough and you can see what makes him so apprehensive. Don’t you agree it was better to meet him there?”
“Yes,” Gideon said. “Put the details of the interview in as part of the general report, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” promised Piluski. “I’ll do it tonight”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, driving towards Poplar. Soon they would be in the City. Traffic was heavy, particularly the big trucks from the docks which ranged along the river on their left. Now and again through gaps in the buildings, they could see the cranes at the wharves. It passed through Gideon’s mind that one of the power stations must feed the docks, that a failure there could affect cranes, loading and unloading, all the activity of the docks with all its significance for London’s people.
There was no doubt about the vital importance of the power stations. But surely those in authority knew that; they didn’t need a domineering, power-conscious man like Boyd to tell them.
Did they?
There was a voice over the car radio, and Gideon sat up to listen as the driver said: “Commander Gideon’s vehicle.”
“Is Commander Gideon there?”
Gideon leaned across and took the speaker.
“Yes, speaking.”
“Mr. Hobbs for you, sir,” Information said, and after a pause Hobbs came on. So he hadn’t lost a minute getting from the airport, Gideon thought appreciatively. He had a clear, cultured voice, quite unhurried. Nothing could have sounded less like Boyd’s.
“You have a three o’clock appointment at Millbank, Commander,” he said, and Gideon knew at once that he meant with the Minister of Power. “Shall I confirm it?”
“Yes,” said Gideon. “How long have you been there?”
“About half an hour.”
“Thanks for coming back,” Gideon said, glancing at his watch. It wanted a few minutes to twelve. “I’ll be at the office in about half an hour.”
“There’s one other thing,” said Hobbs.
“Yes?”
“A Reverend Josiah Wilkinson is here, and says he will sit in the hall until you see him,” said Hobbs. “He’s one of the prison visitors at Dartmoor. He won’t tell me what he wants to talk to you about, but he knows you by sight. If you don’t want him to know you’re back you might be wise to come in the other way.”
Gideon grunted. And he got the impression that Hobbs felt sympathetic towards the Reverend Josiah Wilkinson.
Any prison visitor at Dartmoor almost certainly knew Geoffrey Entwhistle, he reflected.
“I’ll see him,” he said. “But warn him I can’t spare more than fifteen minutes or so.”
It did not seem strange to him that he should be called on to switch so suddenly from a subject of mass significance to the affairs of a single man. It was part of living.
Chapter Fourteen
Prison Visitor
Gideon walked past the clergyman who sat at the window in the hall, without glancing at him. Nevertheless, his impression was clear enough. And he was surprised. The name ‘Josiah Wilkinson’ had conjured up a vision of an elderly or at least old-fashioned parson, but this man appeared to be somewhere in his early thirties, and looked a healthy, outdoor type. He stared intently at Gideon, but did not speak or attempt to attract his attention. Gideon went into his office, where several notes, all in Hobbs’s handwriting, were awaiting him. Already, he felt that things were under control.
The first note read: Frank Morrison remanded in custody for eight days.
The second: Lemaitre reports G.J.’s bicycle was at a second-hand shop in Brick Street.
The third: Autopsy on Sheila Morrison tomorrow, Friday, 2 p.m. Do we want an observer?
The fourth: Sir Humphrey Briggs report delayed another 24 hours – with his apologies.
The fifth: Chief Fire Officer Carmichael suggests lunch tomorrow, 12.45 for one o’clock, R.A.C. Club.
The sixth: Commissioner telephoned for you at 11.30 and 12.05.
Gideon put these aside, and pressed the bell to Hobb’s room. After a pause, the door opened without the jack-in-the-box violence Gideon had become used to, and Deputy Commander Hobbs came in. He was a quiet, controlled man, good-looki
ng in a rather negative way, dark-haired, dark-eyed. His background was very much public school and university and for many years Gideon had doubted whether such a springboard would enable him to hold a senior post at the Yard, for the men with whom he worked and the habitual criminals talked a different language. Hobbs, knowing this, had learned theirs without in any way making concessions or trying to adjust to them. He had spent some time in N.E. Division, where Lemaitre was now in charge and the simple truth was that he had done a better job than Lemaitre. He was a dedicated detective, bringing an excellent mind and up-to-date training to bear on all police problems. It had taken a long time for him and Gideon to establish full understanding, but they had it now. Indirectly this had been due to the over-riding tragedy in Hobbs’s life: the death, after much suffering, of his wife. Somehow, this had done more to bring out the depth of humanity and humility in him, qualities which had been overlain by a certain aloofness of manner and the habit of keeping his thoughts as well as his anxieties to himself.
Now, he looked rested, tanned, well.
They shook hands.
“Thanks again,” Gideon said.
“I was getting tired of shooting grouse, anyhow,” said Hobbs. His gaze, quite impersonal, was very direct. “You’re looking tired. It’s time you got away for a week or two.”
“Not until this latest business is over,” said Gideon. “When did you hear about the appointment with the Minister?”
“The Commissioner spoke to me when he couldn’t get you,” Hobbs said. “I called you immediately. It’s to be a confidential person-to-person talk.”
“Good.”
“And there is a meeting with the C.B.I, tomorrow morning – that’s just been confirmed. What’s it all about?”
“Blackouts,” Gideon said.
“I remember you were preoccupied about them before I left,” said Hobbs. “So there have been more.”
“Yes.” Gideon stared out over the river for a few moments, and then went on: “Ever heard of John Boyd, now security chief at New Bridge Power Station?”
“Yes,” answered Hobbs promptly. “I met him out in Kenya soon after I joined the force. A team of us went out to study conditions. And I’ve met him once or twice since, too, on special inquiries. He’s a good all-round policeman.”
Gideon asked: “Sure?”
Hobbs frowned, then amended slowly: “I think I see what you mean. He’s a good all-round detective, but some of his political opinions are too strong for him to be objective. I haven’t seen him for several years. He may have become more vehement.”
“Judging from what you’ve said, he certainly has,” said Gideon ruefully. “I’d like to learn more about him. Ask the Special Branch if they know anything, and put somebody on to him – political associations, personal life, everything. Don’t tell Piluski about this yet. I’d like this to be something quite separate, and if Piluski knows what I’m doing he might inadvertently give something away. Boyd’s nobody’s fool.”
“I’ll fix it,” promised Hobbs.
“Now, what about this parson?”
Hobbs smiled.
“He was sitting there when I came in, and the duty sergeant said he wouldn’t budge, so I had a word with him. But he says what he has to say is highly confidential, and that he must see you.”
“No idea what it’s about?” asked Gideon.
“None at all.”
“Remember Geoffrey Entwhistle?” asked Gideon, and saw Hobbs’s start of surprise.
“He’s at Dartmoor!”
“That’s right.” Gideon went to his own desk, took out the brief note from Entwhistle, and handed it to Hobbs, who scanned it, handed it back, and said with obvious self- reproach: “I should have made him talk to me. You don’t want to be worried by this kind of thing.”
“It’s just the kind of thing that should worry me,” Gideon replied. He put back the note, and laughed with mild amusement. “It will be funny if Wilkinson is here about something else. Have him sent in, will you?”
Hobbs said: “Yes,” and went out.
Gideon forced his thoughts back to the Entwhistle case, so that he would be wholly familiar with it by the time Josiah Wilkinson arrived. He had thought then, and thought now, that if it could have been established by the defence that Entwhistle’s wife had had a lover, it would have cast sufficient doubt on the evidence for there to have been an acquittal. He could remember Entwhistle well – a very much less aggressive and less positive John Boyd to look at: same kind of colouring, same kind of rangy figure.
There was a tap at the passage door.
“Come in.”
“Mr. Wilkinson, sir,” a messenger said.
Full face, Josiah Wilkinson looked even younger than Gideon had thought, certainly the youngest prison visitor he had ever known, except in Borstal and in detention centres for young people. He had clear grey eyes and a spotlessly scrubbed look.
“Very good of you to see me, Commander,” he said as he sat down. “I’m sorry I was so insistent.”
“It’s often the only way to get what you want,” said Gideon.
“It is indeed! I wouldn’t have come but for the fact that I’ve been assured that you can be absolutely objective – even about any mistake you may have made in the past.”
“I’m glad I’ve got that reputation,” Gideon said drily.
“Both the Governor at Dartmoor and the Chief Constable have assured me that it’s more than a reputation. Let me get to the point, Commander. I believe there has been a grave miscarriage of justice, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the police are the only people who might be able to put it right. I’ve studied this aspect of the law very closely. In my younger days I tried very hard to get certain cases reopened, but the ‘usual channels’ are choked with red tape and precedent.”
“I’m often told that about Scotland Yard,” Gideon said gravely, checking a smile at his youthful looking visitor’s reference to his ‘younger days’. “Who is the person involved?”
“A Geoffrey Entwhistle. I believe you’ve heard from him recently.”
“Yes.” Gideon smiled drily. “You put him up to writing and then came to follow up the impact of his note. Is that it?”
Wilkinson looked startled – and then he gave an infectious chuckle.
“Absolutely right,” he confessed. “Do you remember the case?”
“Very well indeed.”
“Are you convinced that justice was done?”
“I’m convinced that, as in every murder investigation, the case was only presented in the absolute conviction that the evidence was conclusive,” Gideon answered carefully.
“That hardly answers my question, surely.”
“Mr. Wilkinson,” said Gideon, “this isn’t a cross-examination, and I have limited time. I don’t yet know whether I should or whether I can help. How did Entwhistle convince you that he was innocent?”
“The absolute unvarying similarity of his story, whenever he told it to me,” said Josiah Wilkinson. “I am supposed to be a softening influence in the prison – to win privileges and concessions which others won’t give. I am not so young as I look, however.” He was quite serious, although he was smiling. “I have heard the plea of innocence a hundred times, and never before been convinced – it is almost invariably made in the hope of getting extra remission, or other privileges. So whenever I hear a new one, I ask questions about it out of the blue – jump into the middle of the story, say, or pick up some trifle that isn’t significant in itself. In the past, this has always caught the complainant out in positive lies, but I’ve never caught Entwhistle out. I could tell you exactly what he did on the night when he came home and found his wife murdered, what he did afterwards, exactly how he felt. I do not believe he killed his wife, Commander.”
“Nor do you believe t
hat you’ve enough evidence to ask to have the case reviewed,” said Gideon shrewdly.
“No, Commander, I’m afraid not. I am sure the Home Secretary would refuse. I’ve no actual new evidence to offer and an instinctive certainty is hardly a legal argument.”
“It certainly isn’t,” agreed Gideon, but his tone was gentle. The more he saw and listened to Josiah Wilkinson, the more he liked him. “So, you come to me, knowing I can’t reopen the case without instructions. Why? My reputation for objectivity wouldn’t impress the Home Secretary any more than your instinctive certainty.”
Wilkinson was silent for a long time, and then said: “Yes it would, Commander.”
“In what way?” asked Gideon, unmoved.
“If you were to report that you had found indications that there might be fresh evidence, he would listen to you.”
“But I have found no such indications,” Gideon said.
“I think I can give them to you,” replied Wilkinson, flatly.
“What are they?” demanded Gideon.
“One of the Entwhistle children, the youngest, remembers the mother talking about going to see a very special friend,” said Wilkinson. “I’ve tried to urge her to tell me more, but she seems to withdraw into some inner fastness of her own. I believe she could be made to talk by a psychiatrist but I’m not sure it would be a good thing for her. On the other hand, if the existence of a lover could be proved it would indicate the possibility of a different motive, wouldn’t it?”
Gideon looked at him thoughtfully, but didn’t speak.
“I’ve seen the child half a dozen times, at the home of the aunt and uncle who took her in,” Wilkinson continued. “I went there first simply to visit them, because Entwhistle was very anxious to find out how they are getting on. The youngest child, Carol, worried me from the first.”
‘Why?” demanded Gideon.
Wilkinson frowned.
“She’s taken the loss of her parents very badly. She doesn’t play with other children, doesn’t lead a normal life at all. Her uncle and aunt – they took all three children in – are very worried. They’ve seen doctors, but no one is able to help.”
