by John Creasey
“Ma!” young Syd cried and skidded to a standstill in front of his mother. “You know what...?”
“You’ll get a slap round the side of your head if you don’t go out faster than you came in,” said Mrs. Benson. “I told you to stay and watch the television and not come unless I told you. Go on and do what you’re told. Liz, I’m ashamed of you, you ought —”
“But Ma!” cried young Syd, standing his ground with a defiance which obviously wasn’t unusual. “Dad’s coming on television, it just said so on the news. Had to tell you that, didn’t I?”
8. The Reason for Fear
Young Syd’s voice faded.
He looked into his mother’s face, and showed his own shocked reaction to the way she took the news. She lost her colour, and seemed to grow older in front of Gideon’s eyes. It was only for a moment; then she braced herself, squaring her chin and her shoulders, and fought to throw off the crushing effect of what her son had said and - so much more important - how he had said it. Now, she looked down at him. He was small for his age; the girl was only an inch or two shorter. He was like Syd Benson; no one could mistake those sharp features, the rather thin lips, the chiselled look. And he had his father’s light-blue eyes, with the unexpectedly long, dark lashes. He’d come bursting in to tell his mother that his dad was coming on the television; and in the way he had said it there was burning eagerness to see his father; excitement; welcome. The man whom his mother feared, whom she thought might harm these children, was this child’s father; and the three years or more of separation hadn’t altered the affection the boy felt.
Gideon found himself in the middle of a maelstrom of emotions, in depths which he only vaguely understood.
Then young Syd said, “He is, Ma, the announcer said so. Aren’t you coming to see him? It’s on ...”
Mrs. Benson said, “Yes, Syd, I’ll come. Will you come too, Mr. Gideon?”
“I’d like to,” Gideon said.
“Well, hurry,” urged young Syd.
He and his sister led the way. Ruby Benson looked once into Gideon’s eyes, and then away; she was tight- lipped; and it was only possible to guess what was passing through her mind. Gideon followed her along a narrow passage to the long kitchen-cum-living-room, where the small-screen television set stood in one corner. It was dark outside, and there was no light on inside; the screen looked very bright. There were pictures of a speedboat undergoing trials on lakes which were probably in Scotland, and the loud roar of the engines throbbed about the room. The children took their seats; two larger chairs were placed so that anyone sitting in them could get a good view of the screen.
“Please sit down,” Ruby Benson said.
They sat down.
“Do you know what?” young Syd burst out. “I haven’t seen him for over three years!”.
“Nor have I,” piped up the girl, “and he’s my dad, too.”
Gideon heard Ruby Benson’s sharp intake of breath. He saw that she was biting at her knuckles. There wasn’t a thing he could do except sit there stolidly and watch and listen, understanding what was racking her. She hadn’t said anything to try to turn them against their father; that was obvious. Right or wrong, she had let them have their own thoughts and memories of him, and now there was the excitement, this eagerness to see him; no sense of shame, no sense of fear.
The picture and the noise faded.
The male announcer came on.
“Now we take you for a brief visit to Millways jail, in the north of England, from which nine desperate criminals escaped this morning, three of whom have now been recaptured.”
The announcer’s face faded.
The high, grey bleak walls of Millways jail were shown upon the screen, and there was silence except for the slight hum of the loud-speaker. The shots were done well, and the announcer did not spoil them with a running commentary; he let the prison speak for itself. The walls with the great curved spikes on the top; the small windows with the thick iron bars; the watchtowers; the shots from inside, with the galleries round the cells, the cell doors open, the convicts coming out, the great net spread between the galleries, to catch any prisoner who was fool enough to try to kill himself. Here was everything, with the warders, the grey-clad, grey-faced prisoners, the long rows of cells, the tiny holes in the doors, the inside of a cell with its bed, one chair, one small table, the pin-ups on the wall.
Everything.
The two children were absolutely still.
Gideon felt Mrs. Benson’s hand touch his. He moved, so that he could take her hand, and felt the pressure of her fingers. She needed his presence, the warmth and stolidity of his touch, to help her now.
Then Liz spoke.
“I can’t see Dad,” she complained.
“You’ll see him,” the boy said. “Shut up.”
The prison faded and the announcer spoke from a screen filled suddenly with one word: Wanted.
“We are about to throw onto the screen pictures of the six men who are still missing, and for whom the police in the whole of England are searching. By the side of the photographs will be a description which will help in the identification of the wanted men, each one of whom has a record of violence ...”
Ruby Benson said in a choky whisper: “They can’t stay and see this, I ought to have stopped them, I —”
“Let them be,” said Gideon, softly.
Neither of the children turned.
First, there was Jingo Smith, with his bald head and button of a nose, quite a merry-looking man; then, Wally Alderman, with his flat and broken nose, a man whom Lombroso would have welcomed as the perfect illustration of criminal type. Then, Matt Owens, small, with pointed features and one eye which twitched a great deal and, in the photograph, looked half-closed.
Then, Benson.
It was a good photograph; prison photographs were getting better. This showed him exactly as he was, and the boy staring at the screen might have been looking at himself as he would be in twenty years’ time. Every line and every feature of Benson’s face showed, and those thin lips.
Hair: Dark.
Complexion: Sallow.
Eyes: Pale blue.
That was what made his eyes so noticeable: clear, pale blue in a sallow face, the face that was almost olive-skinned.
Height: 5 ft. 9 in.
Distinguishing marks: Brown mole, left ear. Appendectomy scar. Top of little finger of left hand missing.
Then Benson was taken off.
Freddy Tisdale came on, looking almost cherubic, in spite of the starkness of the photograph. He gave the impression that he might burst into a smile at any moment. Ruby Benson stopped looking at the screen, but still sat there, as if hopeless. Gideon watched the children, and tried to imagine what was passing through their minds, but that was only for a moment. He leaned forward, took a brandy flask from his hip pocket, and unscrewed the cap.
“Have a sip,” he said.
Ruby took it, blindly. When their hands touched again, hers were icy; she had gone cold in a few seconds. She choked a little, and Gideon took the flash away as the last picture faded and the screen went blank, then showed the announcer.
“Tomorrow, at the same time, WYN TELECASTING will bring you up-to-the-minute news of events throughout the world. Now there will be an interval of . .
Gideon stood up. The children got up, too, and turned toward Gideon and their mother. It seemed very dark now that the screen was blank.
Quietly and steadily, young Syd’s voice came.
“And you’re the bloody copper who put him inside,” he said. “What wouldn’t I like to do to you!”
Gideon had built up the case against Benson.
Gideon had broken down Ruby’s resistance, and had prevailed upon her to give evidence against her husband.
Now, Ruby heard her son speak
like that.
This was a challenge which couldn’t be set aside. If Gideon said nothing to the boy, then the hatred would only fester and there would be a new element: birth of contempt for the police. So Gideon had to take up the challenge, without hurting the mother too much, without showing the slightest sign of vengefulness. He had to make an impression which, later, might stand Sydney Benson’s son in good stead.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” young Syd said, and swung round toward the back door.
Ruby burst out, “Syd! Don’t you dare!”
“I got to go where there’s some clean air,” young Syd sneered, and glowered at Gideon.
The girl stood there uncertainly, looking first at her mother and then at her brother, but never at Gideon. All Gideon did was to watch young Syd, catch his gaze and hold it. The boy tried to look away, but could not. They were more used to the dim light now.
Gideon said, “That’s right, Syd, I did help to send your father to prison. But he knew the risk he was taking, and he knew for years that one day the police would catch up with him. They always do. Do you play football?”
Young Syd didn’t answer.
Gideon said roughly, “You’ve got a tongue in your head, so answer me. Do you play football, or don’t you?”
“I – yes. Yeh,” repeated the boy, with a gulp.
“He’s in the school team” Liz put in, as if glad to -say something for her brother.
“Doesn’t surprise me, he looks as if he’s good at sports,” Gideon said offhandedly. “All right, Syd, you’re in the school team for football, but what happens when you foul one of the other side? The ref blows his whistle, and there’s a free kick against you, isn’t there? Do it in the worst place, the penalty area, and it’s almost certainly a goal to the other side. What does that mean? If you break the rules, if you foul too often, you’ll get kicked out of your school team. That’s the way it works at school, and it’s the way it works outside. We make certain rules. Most people obey them. Some think they can foul and get away with it. They do for a while; but sooner or later, they’re found out. Your father didn’t play to the rules. If he had, he’d be here with you today. It’s as simple as that. I should have thought you would know it by now, without having to ask a copper to tell you. Got it?”
The boy said, “Bloody copper, that’s all you are,” and he turned suddenly and ran swiftly toward the door which led to the scullery. In a moment, he was outside in the small yard; and as Gideon hurried after him, he heard the sound of his steel-tipped heels on the concrete of the yard. When Gideon reached the back door, young Syd Benson was climbing over the wall which led to an alleyway running between two rows of houses.
Behind Gideon was Ruby Benson, clutching the hand of her other child.
“Don’t let him get away,” she breathed, “anything could happen to him, don’t let him get away.”
The luck could run well, sometimes.
Gideon was outside and giving orders to Abbott and Old Percy, who came hurrying, when a police patrol car turned into Muskett Street. Radio messages flashed to other patrol cars, and in ten minutes young Syd was discovered with half a dozen other boys standing about an old warehouse not far from the Thames, Gideon didn’t send a patrol car or a uniformed man to talk to the boy, but went himself. It gave young Syd a chance to show off in front of his pals, but it also gave Gideon an opportunity to find out if there was as much good in the boy as his mother hoped.
“Syd,” he said, “you can play the game anyhow you like, but I’ve told you what will happen if you play it in the wrong way. Now show some sense, and time it better. Fond of your mother, aren’t you?”
Syd didn’t answer.
Gideon swung round on another lad.
“Do you like your mother?” He flashed to a third. “And you? And what about you?”
He won a startled “Yes,” and unexpected “She’s okay,” and a grunt.
“Been happy with your mother at home, haven’t you?” Gideon asked young Syd, still roughly. “Come on, the others admit it, why don’t you?”
“Ye-yeh.”
“Well, she played to the rules, and she’s made a man out of you,” Gideon said. “If you hadn’t a lot of guts you wouldn’t have behaved like you did just how. But don’t forget that your mother’s having a tough time. I’m talking to you like this because I can tell you’ve got a good mind, and I won’t insult you by pretending that you’re just a kid who doesn’t understand. You understand all right. Your mother’s nervous because your father’s out of jail; and if he comes and sees her, she’ll want help, not hindrance. It’s up to you to do all you can to help her, and pay her a bit of the debt you owe her. But if you don’t want to, okay, I can’t make you go back.”
He was thinking, “If it comes to a point, I’ll have to find some charge and pick the kid up; he’ll be safer in a cell than out here tonight.”
He turned and walked off, knowing that young Syd was being watched by Divisional men.
He went back to Muskett Street. There wasn’t much that he could say, and he wasn’t looking forward to the next interview; but he had another surprise. Ruby had controlled her fears and overcome the moment of crisis so well that she greeted him quite briskly.
“I shouldn’t have let him watch, I suppose,” she said, “but he’ll soon come to his senses. The trouble is he mixed with the kids from Syd’s old crowd, and there’s nothing you can do about it. One of these days he’s going to have to choose one way or the other, though I can’t make him do it the way I want him to. The important thing is to make sure he doesn’t run into trouble. You are having him watched, aren’t you?” She was very anxious.
“Closely. He’ll be all right, and I think he’ll come back before long. We’ve got to decide what to do with him and the girl,” Gideon went on. “I could arrange for them to go away somewhere; but if you send them now, you might make young Syd think that we’re just trying to make sure that he can’t see his father. That won’t help on a long-term basis. Like us to put the girl somewhere, and leave you and young Syd here?”
There was a long silence. Then: “We’d better all stick together,” Mrs. Benson said.
Gideon went back to the Yard before going home.
Lemaitre had gone, and Sergeant Jefferson was there, holding the fort before a night-duty Chief Inspector came in; there was always someone in the Commander’s office. Jefferson’s grey head was bent over a report as the door opened, and he looked up quickly, then stood up.
“Didn’t know whether you’d be looking in or phoning, sir.”
“Best to look in,” Gideon said. “Anything new?”
“Been very quiet, so far,” said Jefferson. “Nothing fresh from Millways. That railway-sidings man who was beaten up is on the danger list. If he dies, that’ll be a nasty job.” Jefferson had a gentle way with him. “They’ve picked up a footprint near the Kelly’s Bank vault, which might help; but in my opinion it’s a bit tenuous, sir. Otherwise, just routine. I’m not expecting things to be so quiet tomorrow. Much warmer tonight, isn’t it?”
Gideon smiled.
“We old-in-the-tooth coppers can tell the youngsters a thing or two, can’t we? Well, I’m going home. Superintendent Fisher on duty tonight?”
“Yes, sir.”
. “Good. Pleasant dreams,” said Gideon, and went off.
He looked in at the A.C. ‘s office and made sure that it was empty; had a word with Fisher, who had an office along the corridor; took a last look at the Information Room, studying recent teleprints from other parts of the country and the radio flashes. They were coming in fairly fast, he gathered; there had been five burglaries tonight so far, mostly on London’s outskirts, nothing yet which the Divisions couldn’t handle. He went off with a familiar feeling , which was stronger at certain times than others, and was very strong now. It was
a sense of anti-climax: a sense that when so much needed doing, he was walking away from it. The theme song of the Yard was unfinished business, and there was the guilty sense of going away at a time when anything might happen. The night held its secrets; perhaps the dead body, not yet discovered; or the killer, striking at this very moment. The burglar at the window or at the safe; the criminal at work everywhere; the never-ending cycle of the crimes committed by night and of the investigations beginning next morning.
He remembered, suddenly, that in the cell at H5 Division was a lad, who might have taken the first steps on that long walk.
He, Gideon, was going home - to his wife, to supper and to bed.
Unless, of course, he was called out.
9. Benson Alone
Benson did not know that his picture was being thrown onto the television screens all over the country. He stood in the kitchen of the furnished house, unable to hear the faint sounds from the radio in the next room, but hearing a louder, throbbing noise coming from the house next door; that was either radio or television, tuned too loudly. It got on his nerves. Everything was getting on his nerves, and he didn’t realize that it was largely reaction to the fact that what he had planned so long and so carefully had actually gone according to plan.
Freddy Tisdale was out.
It was ten minutes to seven and Freddy oughtn’t to be so long.
Benson began to wonder if he could trust Freddy.
Freddy had told him to stay here in the warm, there was no sense in their both going out; and that was right. It wasn’t as if this job would be dangerous. It was five minutes’ walk to the shop at the corner, and it would be child’s play to get in, lift a few oddments of groceries, and get out again. Freddy, whose nerves seemed to be much steadier than Benson’s that day, hadn’t appeared to give it a second thought.
