by John Creasey
“As far as I can, I understand,” said Henby-Kite. “May I presume to guess what you would like to ask me?”
“Yes.”
“Is the young man so demented that he might kill others?”
“Yes,” said Gideon.
“Commander,” Henby-Kite said in a firmer voice than before, as if he wanted to make sure that Gideon could not possibly under-estimate the significance of what he said, “if I were a mother with a very young child I would not like to meet this man now. If I were a young and pregnant woman, I would not like to meet him, either. I give you as my considered opinion that in these circumstances he could – I do not say he would, only that he could – be extremely dangerous. It goes without saying that if cornered by your men he might be very dangerous, also; on the other hand if cornered he might kill himself.” Henby-Kite paused for what, in the circumstances, was a long time, and then went on: “I do hope I have made myself clear.”
“Crystal clear,” Gideon agreed, gruffly. “I was alarmed before. I’m terrified now. “
“I really think you have cause to be until that young man is where he can do no harm,” said the psychiatrist. “Please don’t hesitate to call me if you think I can help. If the young man is cornered, I might be able to reason with him where less experienced men or women could not.”
“I understand,” Gideon said. “Thank you.”
He rang off, but kept a hand firmly on the telephone, as if he wanted to hold onto something. This was worse than he had anticipated. Now he had to decide quickly what to do. Warn all divisions, of course; step up the search for Moreno until it had absolute priority. That much was easy but—how? If the men knew the kind of crime Moreno might commit, then they might find that vital little extra to put into the search. The murder of a policeman; the murder of a child or of a mother-to-be – these gave to most of his men reserves of strength that they did not know they had.
But if he put the full story out it would reach the Press; television; radio. It was the kind of thing which could spread near-panic; the kind of danger which might seriously harm a woman in the later stages of pregnancy.
If he didn’t put out the full story, then none of these women would be warned to take care.
This was a period when there was no active Assistant Commissioner whom he could consult. He might be wise to check with Scott-Marie, but that would simply be shifting responsibility, or attempting to. The longer he clutched the telephone, the more certain he became of what he must do. He rang for Tiger, who came in as quickly as Hobbs ever did, and asked: “Do you do shorthand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then take this down, get it on the typewriter as roughly as you like and let me have it the moment you’re through. It’s a general call to London and Home Counties—” He broke off, with a sudden flare of hope. “Is there any news of Moreno?”
“No, sir.”
“The car?”
“No, sir.”
“Then take this down, and fill in the blanks for me. Quote. The search for Christian name Moreno wanted in connection with the murder of Dr. Jonathan Kelworthy in Fulham this morning must be given absolute priority. Moreno, known to be suffering severely from shock, can be anywhere in the London Metropolitan area or beyond. He was last seen at – fill in – in Harrington Street, Fulham, driving a red MG number – fill in. Experts fear that the double shock of losing his wife and stillborn child may make him attack young babies and their mothers or women obviously pregnant. A special watch should be kept in High Streets, shopping centres and supermarkets. Officers must use their own judgment whether to advise mothers with infants-in-arms or mothers-to-be to stay in the open or stay in the security of their homes. Wherever possible out-of-doors they should not be alone.” For the first time since he had started to dictate Gideon stopped, and for the first time Tiger’s pencil stopped on his note-book; apparently he had kept pace without any difficulty. Gideon stared out of the window and then went on: “Since Moreno has had no experience in evading the police it should not be long before he is apprehended, but until such time the search for him must be given absolute priority. Repeat: Absolute priority. Signed: George Gideon, Commander CID.”
He broke off, motioning to the other man to get up, and said: “The last sentences are for Press and publicity. Get moving.”
“Sir,” said Tiger.
“Well?” Gideon demanded impatiently.
“The message could go out as it is, without any revision.”
“So I should hope. But I want to check for any change of emphasis,” Gideon said. But he half-smiled. “You’ve lost a line on that typewriter already!”
Tiger went out of the communicating door like a streak, and for the first time the door closed behind him with a bang.
Gideon felt the sweat spreading across his forehead and the back of his neck. He was undergoing the kind of pressure that he had not experienced for a long time; and until Moreno was caught it would get worse. But he must not let the other cases slide; he needed to concentrate on the food business, although that could wait until Cockerill arrived.
There was a tap at his passage door, and he called: “Come in.”
The door opened slowly and an elderly man, one of the retired policemen who had become messengers at the Yard, came in, holding a tray with great care. Lunch! Gideon had forgotten that he had told Tiger to send for some. The man walked past the desk with a nod and a smile at Gideon, placed the tray on a small table by the side of the window, straightened out and beamed in self-congratulation.
“Haven’t spilt a drop, sir!”
“Good. What have you brought me?”
“Green pea soup, sausages and mash, coffee in a pot, cream, baked jam roll, butter and cheese. You won’t starve, sir.”
“Better not tell my wife how you feed me,” Gideon said. “She can’t understand why I’m putting on weight.” He sat watching as the man spread first a white cloth and then the silverware, and finally the food. He stood back to admire his handiwork and then backed away.
“Just give a ring when you’re finished, sir.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
Gideon moved over to the table and began to eat, slowly at first, and then more heartily. Before he had finished the soup, Tiger came in with the message typed, letter perfect. Gideon altered only a word or two here and there, and added at the top: For General Release, then handed it to Tiger.
“Get it out in record time,” he ordered.
He had nearly finished the meal when it occurred to him that he had forgotten the escaped prisoner, what was his name? Dalby, Arthur Dalby. Had there been any news of him Tiger would surely have said so.
So one of the two prisoners, rapist and murderer, had been at large for twenty-four hours.
9
AFTERNOON
ARTHUR DALBY, known at Dellbank Prison as Pretty Face, was driving along a busy road on the outskirts of London when he saw the girl, her hand raised in silent request for a lift into London. His heart leapt. She wore shorts and a kind of scarf blouse which covered her bosom but left her back bare down to the waist. These things he took in at a glance as he began to slow down.
He had chosen to come along less busy roads than the M1 and the A1 for he guessed that the police had barricaded the main thoroughfares and were checking all cars. In this north London suburb the chances of being seen were very small. His car, stolen from a car park, was one of a popular model, too usual to be noticed, and he had taken it from a place where All Day Parking was written, so that its owner was not likely to miss it until the evening.
He felt good.
Everything had gone right for him since the break, whereas poor old George Pitton had run into a search party in a matter of hours. He had read of it in a discarded newspaper, but he would have guessed it anyhow. No mind, that was the trouble with George Pitto
n. Thought he knew everything and actually knew practically nothing. He hadn’t known, for instance, that his good pal Arthur Dalby had stashed away a couple of hundred quid in the side of a disused well, so that now he was flush. The first thing he had done, had been to buy a wig. It made him look very different from the prison-cropped creature whose picture had been shown in the papers and on television. The second thing he had bought was a suit from a second-hand shop, with big pockets, a flared jacket and bell bottom pants. Just the thing! He could hardly recognise himself, and no one else was likely to.
Now this girl was flagging him down.
He deliberately passed her, although going slowly, and then pulled into the side of the road. Traffic swished by in two busy lanes and dozens of people were on the pavement. He wanted to see her run! Here she came. Oh, boy, what a pair! And he didn’t need any telling that they weren’t acquainted with a bra. She swayed from side to side and he wondered what she would look like, when running, from behind. Well, he couldn’t find out now. He leaned across as she bent down to look in at the window. Don’t be in too much of a hurry, that was his motto! He opened the window slowly.
“Hallo, sweetie,” he said.
“Room for a little one?” she asked; and flashed a smile.
She wasn’t a beauty, no one could call her that. But she had pretty eyes and pouty lips and dimples. Nice. Plump and round. He pushed down the handle and she opened the door and slid in. Gee-ess-o-phat! Without appearing to do so he looked at her legs – and swallowed. He hadn’t seen a girl for over a year, let alone touched one. But he had to be careful; if he let his hand stray too soon she might get scared, and there were plenty of traffic lights along here and she could get out whenever she wanted.
Timing, boy; timing, that was what mattered.
It was a small car. Sitting side by side they had to touch, and he noticed with glee that she did not attempt to draw away.
The last one—
He drew in a breath too quickly and the girl glanced at him.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Where the wind takes me, my dear,” he replied.
She raised her eyebrows. “One of the funny ones, are you?”
“My very worst enemy never said I had no sense of humour,” Dalby assured her, earnestly.
“Did your worst enemy ever tell you not to look where you’re going?” she asked. “There’s a red light in front of you.”
He brought the car smoothly to a standstill.
“I will say your reflexes are good,” she declared. “And you’re certainly smooth.”
“The smoothest ever,” Dalby said, pleased.
“Where is the wind going to take you today?” she asked.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Wimbledon,” she suggested.
“I don’t see your racquet anywhere.”
The girl actually laughed, and as he moved the car on again, she murmured: “You’re cool, man, cool. Not bad at all.”
He shot her a sidelong glance and pursed his lips. They were thin but well-shaped lips and very pink.
“Why Wimbledon?”
“For the bread,” she said.
“You mean the dough?” he demanded.
“That’s right.”
He drove on for a few moments, pretending to be preoccupied with thickening traffic, actually trying to make this girl out. She wasn’t ordinary. She had a “posh” voice, but it could be put on. And she talked of “bread” meaning that she was going to collect money from someone in Wimbledon. Was she going to do a job? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her when caution interposed; she might be hitchhiking, but that didn’t mean she was one of “them”, the natural breakers of the law.
“Who are you going to collect from?” he compromised at last.
“My father,” she answered.
“You mean he lives in Wimbledon.”
“It’s actually sinking in,” she said, half-laughing. “I go there now and again, when I’m skint, and he always lets me have some. Enough,” she added, and laughed again. “I don’t spend much.”
He settled back in his seat. “Do you have to be there at any given time?”
“No.”
“Expected?”
“Sooner or later.”
“Well, now, isn’t that lucky,” he said easily. “I’ve a little job to do on the way – a car deal,” he added. “This one’s giving me too much trouble and I’ve got a pal who will give me a square deal on an exchange. After I’ve done the deal I’ll take you to Wimbledon, and after that we do the town, hey?”
“So long as you don’t mean Wimbledon Common,” she said.
He stared at her, and then roared with laughter. She really did amuse him, he couldn’t remember anyone who had made him laugh so much in years. Cute, that was the word. A Cutey. And did she know the odds! ‘So long as you don’t mean Wimbledon Common!’ What a hoot! Wimbledon Common was the cheapest place anywhere for a lay – grass or bracken, plenty of bushes, no one nosing about too much. But that wasn’t for her. What could she mean except that she rated herself good enough for a bed?
He nearly brought his hand down on her leg, but he knew that if he did, it would waken something in him; lust, desire, he knew the words for it. He knew that if he could keep his hands off that warm flesh he would be all right, and that it was only a matter of waiting.
And if she led him up the garden, like that last one—
Well, she’d better look out, that’s all.
Would she fight like that last one had? Fight until he had been forced to stop her screaming by pressing his hand against her throat, tighter and tighter, until she went limp.
But this one was all right. She knew her way about.
She asked, as they turned off the main road: “Where am I going to be while you fix your car deal?”
“You can come and wait,” he said, “or—”
“I don’t want to wait about in a smelly old garage,” she said, and in one way he was greatly relieved; he had made the offer simply because he did not want to lose her. Not to worry! “I’m going to do some window-shopping and then have tea,” she said. “How about waiting for me here in two hours?”
In two hours, it would be a quarter to six; rush hour.
In two hours, he could get his exchange done and have a car which a million policemen wouldn’t notice! And “here” was a little side street near a red light, an easy place to drop her and an easy place to pick her up. He pulled into it, and then for the first time put a hand on her leg. It was as if fire ran through him; not just through his fingers and his arm but through his whole body.
“You’ll be here, won’t you?” he demanded, hoarsely.
“I’ll be here,” she said, and opening the door slipped out with a supple movement of those lovely, sun-tanned legs. She walked past a new store which displayed a banner in crimson and black letters:
THE BEST BUY IN LONDON
But she did not go in; her interest was in the smaller shops, the salons, the hairdressers, the boutiques, although she spurned everything they sold.
About the same time, on the other side of London, in Clapham, another girl of about the same age was looking at herself in a long mirror. What having a baby could do to you! But at least it hadn’t changed her legs. They looked exactly the same. No one could deny that she had the most beautiful legs! Not even she, Sylvia Russell!
She laughed; then frowned.
Were they strong enough to take her to the shops?
She ought to go, for the larder was very bare and it wasn’t fair to leave all the shopping for Bobby to do at the weekends. And she couldn’t honestly say that her legs ached. She felt clumsy in movement, that was all, and although Bobby chided her gently, while many of her friends scoffed, she was self-
conscious about her condition. Gibes such as: “Come on old girl, don’t be prissy, everyone knows where babies come from,” didn’t hurt her a bit; but nor did they encourage her.
“We must have something for supper,” she said aloud, and made her decision on the instant.
She and Bobby lived on the second floor of a house in a street which was due for demolition. Some houses were already down, others were empty shells. A few of the sites had been turned into car parks, others into unofficial junk yards. Their tiny flat was self-contained, and had its own separate side entrance through a door in a brick wall. This wall stretched the whole length of the house to the street, which in turn led to the High Street and a main shopping centre. She had to walk along a kind of alley between the wall and a thin wooden fence surrounding a rough and ready car park, and as she closed the side door – her private door – she saw a man standing by a vivid scarlet sports car. She thought, idly, just the job for Bobby, and walked into the street.
As she walked, the man watched her.
10
DAY’S WORK
SHE had a sense that she was being watched when she reached the street, but when she glanced round no one was in sight. She was dreaming it up! She saw two youths on the other side of the road, brightly dressed in coloured shirts and patched trousers. A few months ago these two would have whistled across at her, or called her over, even crossed the road to intercept her. They would have meant no harm and in fact it was a great compliment to her: to her figure and her appearance at all events. Now, they glanced covertly at her and did not call or wave.
Would the baby be worth it?
Oh, not just the giving up of a flippant, passing admiration, but the giving up of freedom, of being herself. She had always, even as a child, been free to do what she liked within well-defined limits which had been extended year by year. Even when she had grown old, become sixteen, begun to go out with boys on their own and not in groups, begun to understand the mystic awareness that made one boy’s touch welcome and another’s repellent, she had made no secret of it; even when her mother and father had found her reading an esoteric book on Human Sexual Appetites, it had not occurred to her to slip the book out of sight.
