by John Creasey
Again Gideon paused, and then said quietly: “Yet this is the one who talks of remembering her mother going to see a very special friend. She was four or five at the time, hardly the most reliable age for memory. And a special friend could mean anybody—”
“Exactly!” interrupted Wilkinson. “Anybody – including a lover. Commander, it is a terrible thing to live with the possibility that someone is in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. I’ve talked to all the children, of course: Clive, the eldest, pretends it doesn’t worry him, but the pretence is too brittle to be true; Jennifer, has moments of fierce defiance that sometimes lead to taunts from other children. The position is terrible enough in all conscience, but if their father is innocent, how much worse.”
Slowly, heavily, Gideon said: “Yes, I see exactly what you mean.”
Wilkinson did not speak.
Gideon watched him, pondering. He would not have felt as he did had there not been that tinge of doubt in his own mind, and now he was wondering what he might possibly do. Wilkinson was quite right, the case certainly couldn’t be re-opened unless there was positive evidence – but how could positive evidence be obtained if the police didn’t look for it? On the other hand, was there really any justification for expecting – even hoping – to find it now, when none had been found at the time of the case?
The Yard had tried to find if there had been a lover, but had they tried hard enough? It hadn’t, strictly speaking, been their job; rather the job of the defence. It was no use allowing sentiment to influence him, or the persuasion of this earnest young man who had described the children’s plight with such graphic realism.
He leaned forward.
“What is your interest in the case, Mr. Wilkinson? Why are you exerting yourself so much?”
Wilkinson pushed back his chair and placed his hands on the arms, almost as if the question offended him.
“Must there always be a motive for what one does, Commander?”
“Yes,” said Gideon flatly.
“Must there always be something ‘in it for me’? Do you really—”
“Now steady on,” protested Gideon. “I didn’t ask you whether you were getting anything out of it. I simply want to know why you’re doing it. Entwhistle was a complete stranger to you when you first met at Dartmoor, I imagine?”
“He was. He was not even a man I greatly liked,” answered Wilkinson, much more mildly. “But I’ve come to like him and to believe in him. My motive is simply to try to help a man and his children, in the face of a very grave human problem. After all, that is what I’m supposed to do – paid to do as a minister of religion, if it comes to that. I suppose you could say that I’m simply doing my job in the best way I know how.”
Chapter Fifteen
The Minister
Gideon sat very still, and Wilkinson sat exactly as he was, hands on chair arms, as if ready to get up. The room seemed unnaturally quiet, only sounds of traffic outside disturbed it. Many thoughts passed through Gideon’s mind, the most vivid perhaps that Wilkinson might be his own son in age, and was not unlike Tom, his eldest boy – long since married and away from home. The next most insistent thought was that he must not raise this man’s hopes – nor Entwhistle’s – in the slightest degree.
Quietly, he said: “I’ll give you this assurance, Mr. Wilkinson. I will go over the files, discuss the case with the investigating officers concerned, and try to find a flaw in what we did. If there is such a flaw, then I will examine it in order to find out if there is enough justification for us to reopen the investigation.” He saw Wilkinson’s eyes light up, and went on: “But I’m not hopeful. And I’m promising nothing beyond that.”
“Precisely what are you promising?” asked Wilkinson, and then added hastily: “This is for my own satisfaction. I should not of course tell Entwhistle.”
“It would be very cruel if you did,” Gideon remarked, but he was facing the fact that Wilkinson was doing his best to make him commit himself. “I am promising you that if I find anything in a re-examination of our investigation to suggest that anyone at the Yard made a mistake, I will try to rectify it. It could – I’m a long way from saying anything stronger – it could possibly throw some doubt on the verdict. If we at Scotland Yard informed the Home Office that we thought there was a miscarriage of justice, the Home Secretary would not ignore us.”
“No,” breathed Wilkinson. “No, I’m sure he wouldn’t.” He stood up slowly. “Can I help in any way?”
“I doubt it. Where can I get in touch with you if something crops up?”
Wilkinson took a card from his pocket, and passed it to Gideon.
“Here,” he said. “And the children live—”
“I know where they live,” Gideon interrupted.
Wilkinson gave a brief smile.
“I will tell Entwhistle that you were at least prepared to listen to me,” he said. “I won’t tell him a word more. Thank you, Commander.”
Gideon said drily: “No need to thank me. I’m only doing my job!”
Wilkinson laughed, as much with satisfaction as because he was amused.
Five minutes later, when Wilkinson had gone, Gideon telephoned Lemaitre, who was in his office although it was lunch-time.
“I was just having a sandwich,” he told Gideon. “Then I’m going over myself to have a word with the man who bought the bicycle. He thinks we think he knows it was stolen, but I’ll shake him down if I have to. Thanks for ringing, George.”
“Keep in touch,” Gideon urged.
He himself had a sandwich, spent another quarter of an hour with Hobbs, and then left the office and set out to walk to the Ministry of Power, at Millbank. It was no more than ten minutes away, and he had been cooped up in a car too much today. He crossed the Embankment and walked alongside the river for a hundred yards or so, crossing again by Westminster Bridge, then by the gates of the Houses of Parliament. The Square was a dense mass of red buses, he did not think he had ever seen so many there at one time; obviously there was a traffic hold-up in Victoria Street. He passed the Houses of Parliament and strolled alongside the open space near the river. The opposite bank was beginning to take on an almost panoramic skyline. Further along, beyond Lambeth Bridge, the new Ministry Building looked as if it were made of glass, fragile enough to splinter.
A doorman let him in; a commissionaire took his name. He gave the name of the Minister’s personal secretary as the man he wanted to see. Waiting – and wondering how long he would be kept – he let his thoughts go back to the morning and that quite astonishing interview with John Boyd. The further away it became, the more improbable it seemed.
A middle-aged man approached from the lifts.
“Commander Gideon?”
Gideon turned to look at the pale face, the faded grey moustache, the tired grey eyes.
“Mr. Menzies?”
“Yes. Will you please come with me.” They stepped into a lift and the doors closed on them. As he pressed a button he went on: “The Minister has asked me to apologise that he will have to leave at four o’clock precisely.”
That gave them an hour, so he wasn’t making light of the visit.
“That should give us plenty of time,” Gideon said. At last he pushed thoughts of Boyd out of his mind for a few minutes, and concentrated on what he knew of the Minister of Power. The Right Honourable David Wilshire was a relatively young man, being in his late forties. He was also one of the unexpected successes of two administrations. For a man who had a very tricky ministry to control, with three major nationalised industries within its orbit, it was remarkable that he managed to keep out of public disfavour. Known on television as one who spoke seldom, but always to the point, he was reported to be the only minister who had ever made the public accept the reasonableness of an increase in the price of coal.
Menzies opened a door o
f a room which must overlook the Embankment; it was large, with very wide, spacious windows, and as Gideon crossed towards the desk set slantwise across the corner, he realised that this must have one of the most magnificent, views of London. Thoughts of that faded as Wilshire stood up. He was smaller than his television image, very compact, very lean. His face was tanned and stronger than photographs implied; there was something in the set of his lips which caused the impression.
“Good afternoon, Commander. Thank you for coming.” Gideon muttered something which sounded vague, even to him. “Do sit down,” Wilshire continued. “I think the other chair will be better, it’s made for large men!” Gideon sat down – and found cigarettes and cigars in boxes pushed towards him. “No? It’s surprising how many people don’t smoke, these days. Yet tobacco sales don’t seem to be dropping.” The Minister lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “Your concern is with the blackouts we’ve had recently, I understand.”
“It is, sir.”
“Sir Reginald made it clear that he is troubled, too.”
Gideon hesitated, and then asked gruffly; “Aren’t you, sir?”
Wilshire paused, startled at having the ball tossed back so quickly, and then gave a quick, pleasant smile.
“Yes, I am,” he admitted.
“Do you have reason to suspect sabotage, sir?”
“I hadn’t, until I heard from Sir Reginald. I have since consulted some of my advisers who agree that it could be sabotage. They also believe that it could be coincidence. Nothing is yet conclusive – or have you any sensational revelations to make, Commander?”
Gideon wasn’t sure whether he was being gently and cleverly taken down a peg or two, but he had adjusted himself now, and knew exactly what tactics to adopt: Bluff forthrightness, no beating about the bush, no vacillating.
“No, sir,” he said. “I hope there won’t be any need for sensational revelations. They could cause too much havoc. Nor have I any positive evidence that there is a connection between the instances of damage, but that some are sabotage there is no doubt at all. It is my considered view that these breakdowns may be organised by a single group of people, and obviously they could become more frequent and more serious. With winter coming on, we don’t want to lose any time.”
“If you are right, we certainly don’t.”
“We don’t even if I’m wrong,” Gideon said. “We don’t want the possibility hanging over our heads, and we at the Yard are too busy with the more common forms of crime to want to spend unnecessary time on this.” He wondered if he was being too blunt: whether he was slipping into aggressiveness. “All our resources are stretched to breaking point, sir – like all Government departments, I suppose.”
Wilshire looked at him speculatively, no longer with a half-smile. Gideon thought, he has a lot of power – can he use it properly? He did not feel anxious for himself, was concerned only for what might happen. Then Wilshire put out his cigarette, and asked: “What exactly do you want from me?”
“Authority to investigate all the cases we suspect of being sabotage.”
“With or without the co-operation of our security officers?”
“I would like them instructed to co-operate.”
“Do you doubt their readiness to do so?”
“I doubt their readiness to believe that some of the incidents are sabotage,” Gideon said. “And I don’t think they’re the only people in the nationalised and other industries who would doubt it.”
“You seem very sure, Commander.”
“I am very sure that every case should be treated as sabotage until we’ve proved that it isn’t,” Gideon said.
“If it is so treated, don’t you think your attitude might be regarded as alarmist?”
Gideon hesitated; and then, without realising it, he did exactly what Josiah Wilkinson had done in his office. He gripped the arms of his chair and eased himself forward, as if about to get up. He sensed a certain disapproval in Wilshire’s expression; even derision.
“I’m alarmed already, sir,” Gideon said. “I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.”
He knew, as he said it, that he was asking for trouble. And he knew, also that he was dabbling in politics and spheres of influence which were none of his business and often beyond his understanding. But it was said, and he did not regret it. He had a mental picture of John Boyd, and compared the two men, each the antithesis of the other, and he did not know which one he mistrusted most. When Wilshire made no move, he stood up.
He had no idea what a towering and impressive figure he made; no idea of the impression he was making on the Minister, who sat back without change of expression, and stared up. Slowly, he backed away, pushing the chair aside. There seemed nothing to say but “Good afternoon, sir”.
“If you had your guess,” asked Wilshire, “what would you say is the motive? Political, industrial or criminal, in the sense that someone wants to cash in?”
What was he saying? That he accepted the theory of a campaign of sabotage? Gideon deliberated, and then answered gruffly: “I’d say that the main probability is a criminal motivation.”
“That would be a considerable relief,” remarked the Minister. “Have you any reason for saying that?” He motioned to Gideon’s chair, casually.
Gideon sat down again, as casually.
“It is only a guess,” he admitted.
“You mean you find an industrial or a political motive hard to believe?”
“That about sums it up, sir.”
“A lot of the industrial security men find organised sabotage itself hard to believe.”
“That shouldn’t prevent them acting on the possibility,” argued Gideon. “We would go all out to find the men involved whether we knew they were doing it for political, industrial or criminal motives. I mean criminal in your sense, of course.”
“I think we understand each other,” Wilshire said, drily. “Have you any idea how long it will take you to find the truth?”
“No, sir, not the slightest. It could be months. It might be days. It really depends on whether we have another breakdown in the near future or not – and whether at the time of such a breakdown, we have full security established at all power, transmission and transformer stations.”
To his astonishment, Wilshire actually laughed.
“In other words, if there’s another power failure and we can’t trace the cause or the culprit, it will be my fault. I certainly can’t risk that! I’ve arranged for representatives of the three nationalised industries concerned, electricity, gas and coal, to meet you when we’ve finished.” He pressed a bell by the side of his desk, and went on: “I’m glad you’re not a politician, Commander! Now let’s have some tea.”
Carol Entwhistle sat at the tea table, but did not eat.
Florence Entwhistle, her aunt, a greying woman no longer young, looked at her anxiously, but said nothing. It would do no good, and would only drive the child into one of her long silences. The one thing she knew that Carol enjoyed was helping in the garden, and, after tea and when the others had gone, she went into the back garden of the pleasant house on the new estate, and began to clip the edges of the grass with a small pair of hand shears. After five minutes, Carol emerged. Her aunt appeared not to notice her. Carol sauntered over, looking downcast as always, and stood close by. Normally she would pick up one of the tools, and dig or rake the grass. Today, she stood for a long time doing nothing, until her aunt felt that she could scream.
Suddenly, Carol spoke.
“Auntie.”
Thank God!
“Yes, Carol?”
“What is it like to be dead?”
Florence looked up, shaken by the question.
“What on earth made you ask that?”
“I want to know.”
“Yes, but why do you want to
know?”
“That little girl’s dead, isn’t she?”
“What li—oh. The one whose picture was in the paper.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, she’s dead.”
“So she knows what it’s like to be dead, doesn’t she?”
The woman, on her knees with a piece of matting to save her stockings, said in a mood of helpless resignation: “Yes, I suppose so.”
“And my Mummy knows, doesn’t she?”
“She—yes, Carol, she knows.”
“Then why don’t you know?”
“Because I—because I’m alive, Carol. I’m not dead.”
“My Mummy knew what it was like when she was alive,” Carol stated.
Florence Entwhistle did not speak, but put the shears down and got to her feet. This was a moment which came so rarely. Carol was talking without being cajoled or persuaded, and her aunt did not know how best to cope.
Only an hour before she had talked to Josiah Wilkinson who had urged her to do everything she possibly could to make the child talk about her mother, but now the opportunity was here she simply did not know how best to use it.
Slowly, she said: “I don’t think she did, Carol.”
The child nodded in agreement with her own assertion.
“How do you know that?” asked Florence.
“Because she told me so,” answered Carol simply.
“Did she?” asked her aunt, and she realised that she was doing the right thing – by being sceptical she was making Carol try to prove that she was right. “I think she must have been teasing you.”
“No, she wasn’t teasing,” Carol insisted.
“How do you know she wasn’t?”
“Because she was crying,” Carol said, “and she only teased when she was laughing.”
