by John Creasey
Gideon woke, the next morning, with a clear head and a deeply satisfying sense of well-being. He had had an early night, being very tired, and could remember dropping off to sleep with Penny’s joyous piano playing in his ears. He was to meet Jonathan formally tonight, it was to be a great occasion. Kate seemed content with her future son-in-law and on the suitability of a young man for their daughter she wasn’t likely to be wrong.
It was another beautiful morning; this was one of the best summers in the south of England for many years. Gideon lingered over his breakfast, chatting to Kate about weddings and trousseau and presents, his mind only half on the subject. He had The Times business section unopened near him, and caught a glimpse of the words ‘Rumours of Electronic New Age Takeover’. Anything to do with electricity had a particular interest for him, and he began to read the opening paragraph.
“George. You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying,” Kate protested.
“Yes I have,” said Gideon. “You’ve been saying that I’ll have to ruin myself to see Penelope married.” He grinned at her. “Well, if I have to be ruined I might as well enjoy the reason. Ring the office for me, love, and tell them I’ll be walking this morning – along the Embankment if they need me.”
“Walking?” Kate’s grey eyes showed her astonishment.
“I want to think, I might as well keep my weight down at the same time.”
As they laughed there was a ring at the back door, and Kate got up saying: “That’ll be the butcher.” Gideon, alone scanned the article. It was really a summary of speculations about one of the biggest of the electronic companies, telling him little, reaching the conclusion that Electronics New Age shares would probably reach a record high if production was maintained. Gideon, skimming, thinking about Boyd, suddenly saw a phrase ‘recent series of blackouts’ and quite suddenly his body stiffened and he gave the article all his attention.
“It is certain,” he read, “that the recent series of blackouts in various London areas have had a serious effect on Electronics New Age and other companies, particularly those whose production has already been impeded by strike difficulties and internal differences. Future orders depend largely on keeping to a tight delivery schedule.”
He got up and went into the passage for the nearest telephone, dialled his office and asked for Hobbs. He was through immediately; Hobbs, being a widower, was often at his desk by seven in the morning.
“Anything more in about Boyd?” Gideon asked.
“Not yet,” answered Hobbs.
“Seen The Times business section?”
“Yes.”
“Electronics New Age Company?” Gideon asked.
“Yes – and the effect of the blackouts on the production and so the share values of allied and subsidiary companies,” replied Hobbs.
“Should have known you wouldn’t miss it,” Gideon almost growled. “But we’re very late on it, Alec. Get Osmington in as soon as you can.”
“He’s here.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Gideon promised. He put down the receiver, saw Kate at the kitchen sink with a dish full of cellophane-covered stewing steak on the draining board. “Changed my mind about walking,” Gideon said. “Malcolm gone to work yet?”
“No. I’ve told him to bring your car round.”
Gideon stared, then laughed, gave her a hug and went upstairs to put on his tie and jacket. Looking out of the window he saw Malcolm driving the Humber with great care, and a boy of about the same age sitting next to him. Malcolm – driving. Malcolm – their last surviving child, the sixth. Out of the mists of memory came recollection of the seventh child, who had died in infancy when he, Gideon, had been forced to choose between duty and family. He had chosen duty, and for a long time he had feared that it would break his marriage. But the union had survived and Kate’s bitterness had gradually died, the tensions between them had eased. He was happier, with Kate at home, than he had ever been in his life.
Did Kate ever think back to those difficult days?
Of course she did; it was unavoidable.
What would happen to Penny and her Jonathan?
He hurried downstairs, shouted: “Bye, love!” and went out of the front door, Kate’s voice echoing after him. Malcolm and his friend were by the other side of the car, the engine of which was still running.
“Thanks, son,” Gideon said. “Morning, Charlie.” He got into the car and drove off slowly towards King’s Road, putting on speed as he rounded the corner and found a gap in the traffic. He drove fast, goaded by a great sense of urgency, saw a policeman raise a hand, then lower it quickly as he recognised the Commander. He heard an ambulance siren, pulled in, let the white ambulance pass, then drove after it along the road it cleared.
He was at the Yard in fourteen minutes.
“Put that away,” he said to a plainclothes man at the foot of the steps, and went up two at a time.
“Long time since Gee-Gee’s been in such a hurry,” the duty sergeant remarked. “Wonder what’s up?”
Gideon went into Hobb’s office, where Hobbs was sitting at his desk opposite a short, rather hump-backed man with broad features and very thick lips. This was Superintendent Osmington, the C.I.D.’s expert on stocks and shares, market rigging, share-pushing and related offences. He had huge, cow-like brown eyes, short hair which seemed to grow straight up from his pale forehead.
He sprang to his feet, nearly dropping a big book from his knees.
“Good morning, Commander.”
“Morning.”
“Commander,” said Hobbs, always punctilious when anyone else was with them.
“What have we got?” asked Gideon.
“I’ve a breakdown of companies which are having troubles and whose production has been affected by the blackouts,” said Osmington. “It wasn’t difficult, I simply rang The Times, and they had it by them – the article was by a staff writer. There are eight in all.”
“One in each of the affected areas?” asked Gideon.
“Yes, sir. Wembley, Slough, Uxbridge, Mitcham, Twickenham, Barking and Greenwich. We’re now making a list of the directors and major shareholders of the various companies, and the control of the companies.”
“Any single control?”
Osmington looked at Hobbs.
“There’s a pattern,” Hobbs said. “Hibild, the building company, has a substantial holding in each. It has holdings in a great number of subsidiary companies, too – furniture manufacture, timber importers, cement; brick and tile manufacturers, and bathroom and kitchen ware.” He paused, to allow Gideon to absorb all this, and went on: “The electrical manufacturing companies which had trouble all do a substantial share of their trade in manufacturing electrical equipment used in buildings, cable, wiring, electrical fittings, plugs – and also manufacture household goods such as washing machines, refrigerators, television, radio and vacuum cleaners. They’re all comparatively small manufacturers compared with giants like General Electric and English Electric, but when added together their output is very substantial.”
Gideon sat on the corner of Hobbs’s desk.
“Been doing research on this, Osmington?”
“I’ve been aware of it,” the Superintendent answered cautiously. “It’s just as well to know what’s going on. I hadn’t connected the power failures with any of these companies, but they’re all obviously ripe for takeover by one of the bigger groups. The power cuts could have been deliberately aimed at them – there isn’t the slightest evidence, sir but the possibility is there.”
“Yes. Anyone after them?”
“I’ve heard no rumours.”
“Who would know?”
“The Times and the Sunday Times – and the Financial Times – all keep their ear to the ground,” answered Osmington. “And they’ll all help, if they can.�
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“Try them,” ordered Gideon. “Right.”
“And check if John Boyd has any shares in any of these companies,” said Gideon.
“That won’t be too easy, and could take a lot longer, unless we know his broker,” Osmington answered.
“Try,” Gideon urged. “Let me or the Deputy Commander know of each development as it turns up.”
“Very good, sir.” Osmington heaved the heavy book, one of the two volumes of the Stock Exchange Year Book, on to the desk, and went out.
Gideon rubbed his chin, then put his left hand to his pocket and smoothed the big bowl of a pipe which he seldom smoked. Hobbs sat still and silent, reading from the notes in front of him. Suddenly Gideon spoke: “The one possibility we hadn’t allowed for.”
“You wanted to know whether the cuts had hurt any particular company,” Hobbs reminded him. “You weren’t happy about any of the more obvious theories.”
“I’m not happy about this,” Gideon retorted. After a pause, he went on: “Anything else in?” And before Hobbs could answer, he added: “What about the Morrison woman and George Jensen?”
“Jensen’s dead,” Hobbs told him flatly. “Mrs. Morrison’s all right though.”
Gideon took his hand out of his pocket.
“I’m not sure it wouldn’t have been better the other way round. Alec, we want someone who knows a lot about Hibild. Isn’t that part of the Craven empire?”
“Yes,” Hobbs answered.
“Who’ve we got?”
“I don’t know that we’ve anybody who isn’t already up to his neck,” replied Hobbs. “But the headquarters are in the City, and City Police are sure to have someone.”
Gideon’s eyes brightened.
“I’ll talk to them,” he said. “Good thought.”
He went into his own office, sat down, and immediately asked for the Commissioner of the City of London Police, who was an old friend. In two minutes he was told: “The Commissioner is expected in during the next half-hour, sir. Would you like to speak to someone else?”
“No,” said Gideon. “Ask his secretary to call me when he’s in.”
“Very good, sir.”
Gideon rang off, and looked with distaste at the files on his desk. This was one of the mornings when he found it difficult to get his mind off the major problem of the day, and it was no use pretending that he might be exaggerating – the importance of it. There was no certainty of impending disaster, and yet he had that driving sense of urgency. He wished he knew more about the workings of the Stock Exchange and business – his was a general, not a specific, knowledge. He should have thought of the City of London police earlier – and at the thought, laughed at himself. It was only about an hour and a half since he had first seen this aspect.
He stopped laughing.
“I should have seen it before,” he said aloud. Then: “With a bit of luck, City will have Hibild at their fingertips.”
The City of London police, being the force responsible for the City of London, would naturally be familiar with banking, insurance, the stock market and all allied matters, conversant as they were with the head offices of all the big banks and most of the insurance companies, shipping companies and a great number of commercial and industrial firms.
Grimly, Gideon told himself that he might have been barking up the wrong tree, and so lost valuable time. At last, he began to open the files. Hobbs had made notes – and so had McAlistair, in some of them – and there were five Superintendents waiting to see or talk to him. He soon pushed the major investigation into the back of his mind and concentrated on the others.
Chapter Twenty
Electronics New Age
One of the most important of the other cases was the fire at Mickle and Stratton’s, the murder of the night watchman – the cause of death had been binning, the autopsy report said – the disappearance of young George Jensen and the death in a road accident of the youth’s father. There was a note pinned to the front, saying: Superintendent Lemaitre is to be here at 12 noon. That was, in about half an hour. Gideon dealt with all the others until he came upon a report from Richmond about the Morrison/Oliver case. It included two autopsy reports, one on the child Sheila, one on her murderer, Luke Oliver. The child had been brutally assaulted. There were marks on the mouth and lips, where sticking plaster had been placed to prevent her from crying out; could any father be blamed for doing what he had?
Oliver had died of a bullet in the brain, another in the heart. So Morrison was a crack shot; he must have been absolutely calm when he had taken the gun from his pocket, absolutely cold-blooded. The prosecution would make a big issue of that; this had been a cold and calculated crime, not one committed in the grip of an overpowering emotion. Much would depend on the prosecuting counsel, of course.
The wife and mother, Lillian, was still in hospital, but could be released at any time. There was a note in Moore’s handwriting: She will go and stay with her mother until after the trial. And another note: Childs funeral, tomorrow. Oliver’s, Monday. I propose to attend each on behalf of the police.
Gideon nodded approval, put the file aside, stretched out for Honiwell’s report from Epping and opened the folder as the telephone bell rang. That would be the City Commissioner, he hoped, and picked up the receiver.
“Yes?”
“There’s a Reverend Wilkinson on the line, sir, speaking from Truro.”
After a prick of disappointment, Gideon said: “I’ll speak to him.” At the same time he saw Honiwell’s contribution for the morning. No fresh developments to report. It was beginning to look as if they were not going to find their Epping Forest child killer. The speed with which Lillian Morrison had reported her child missing had certainly helped in that case.
“You’re through.”
“Is that Commander Gideon?” Wilkinson’s voice was immediately recognisable.
“Yes.”
“Commander, I’ve reason to believe that the youngest of the Entwhistle children has recollected incidents that could prove the existence of a close man friend – possibly a lover. I mean, her mother’s, of course.”
Gideon stalled. “Have you?” He was thinking: It’s a job Honiwell could do well – go back over it, check everything that Golightly had done. Golightly, in Australia, would look down his nose if he ever found out what was planned – Good God! He, Gideon, was already accepting the case for probing deeper!
“Are you there, Commander?” Wilkinson sounded anxious.
“Yes. Mr. Wilkinson, you know that I think any further investigation will only make the evidence more conclusive, but I understand your own and the children’s position. I will have one of my senior officers discuss this with the foster parents, but you must understand it will be simply a discussion.”
“That’s all I ask for,” said Wilkinson, his voice strangely subdued. “Thank you, Commander. I’m very grateful.”
As he spoke, the second telephone bell rang. Gideon said formally: “I can do no less,” and put down one receiver as he picked up the other. His mind was as clear as it had ever been and he felt not the slightest sense of being over-pressed.
“Gideon.”
“Good morning, George,” said Sir Francis Rowbottom, the City Commissioner. “What can I do for you this morning?”
Gideon hesitated, needing only a moment to re-orientate himself. The mental picture of Josiah Wilkinson soon faded, however, as that of a tall, dark-haired man took its place.
“’Morning, Francis. Thanks for calling. Have you got a man who knows a lot about the Hibild Corporation?”
“Yes,” answered the Commissioner, without hesitation.
Gideon, half-prepared for a negative or a cautious answer, was taken aback, but Rowbottom filled in the gap.
‘What do you want to know?”
“What kind of set-up it is.”
“Dangerously near monopoly, in some of its aspects,” answered Rowbotton. “I’ve been asked by the Monopolies Commission to get some information for them, and I never lose a chance of finding out what’s going on in the City. I’ve had two men working on Hibild for three months – and on Sir Geoffrey Craven as well, for that matter. He’s a modern Midas, if ever there was one.”
“And I didn’t know!” exclaimed Gideon.
“Should have told you,” Rowbottom said. “We ought to meet more often and exchange odds and ends of information more frequently. What’s your particular interest?”
“Have they been taking over any electrical companies lately?”
“They’ve been trying to,” answered Rowbottom. “And they do it very cleverly. Individual directors buy blocks of shares in the other companies, the actual firm doesn’t appear. The control is not always direct, but through individuals, and we haven’t yet reached the stage where any private investor can be told what to do with his money. I can tell you one or two things which have made us open our eyes.”
