Carmichael rang off, crammed the paper with the address into his pocket, and rose, snagging his jacket off the back of his chair as he headed for the door. There he nearly ran headlong into Constable Lemmy, who loomed up in the door frame at the last possible moment, causing Carmichael to draw up sharply. The encounter was so unexpected that Carmichael scowled at his subordinate without meaning to.
“Sorry, sir,” said Lemmy, stepping back.
Carmichael remembered that he was not supposed to resent his assistants and resettled his features into a neutral expression.
“You’ll have to walk with me, Constable,” he said. “I’m on my way out. What have you got?”
He started down the hallway and Lemmy scurried to keep up with him.
“Got, sir?” he inquired doubtfully.
“Yes.” Carmichael wondered if he would ever have a conversation with Lemmy in which he would not have to manfully restrain his temper after the first two sentences. “I assume there was a reason you came to see me?”
“Oh. Yes, sir. I was just wondering, sir, if you remembered the name of Sergeant Gibbons’s cousin?”
Carmichael quickened his pace as he rounded the corner and saw the lift doors just opening up ahead.
“Gibbons’s cousin?” he repeated. “You mean the day-care woman?” He was, he realized, unreasonably annoyed that Lemmy did not remember himself, although the constable had not been present for the interview. “Dawn Melton,” he answered.
“Yes, I thought that was it.” Lemmy nodded.
“Hi, there!” called out Carmichael as the lift doors began to close again. “Hold the door, please!”
The doors reversed their motion and a head peered out.
“Did you need anything else?” asked Carmichael as he reached the lift and nodded to the man holding the door open.
“Oh. No, sir. That’s what I wanted.”
“Good, good,” said Carmichael, stepping in. “I’ll be back soon, Constable. See how many of those phone numbers you can get through while I’m gone, eh?”
And with that he stepped into the lift and felt his shoulders relax as the door closed. He was quite certain that never in the long course of his career had he had a subordinate so aggravating.
When Carmichael knocked on the door of Tom Gerrard’s flat in Walworth, it was opened by a young giant of a man, well over six feet tall and very fit-looking, dressed in an ancient football jersey and a pair of faded jeans. He was also, however, very soft-spoken, and asked the detective in politely, though something in his eyes told Carmichael Gerrard was not altogether comfortable talking to the police. Since his accent placed him as a native of the Walworth area, Carmichael deduced that this reluctance was more an ingrained result of growing up in a poor London neighborhood than anything specific to Gibbons’s case. He was rather surprised the young man had come forward at all.
Gerrard motioned Carmichael to a chair and took the sofa himself, sitting uneasily on its edge with his hands clasped between his knees.
“I work for Ryman, the stationery shop,” he told Carmichael. “I’m a supervisor at the Lower Marsh shop, and I was to go down to the Brighton shop for a couple of days’ training. They wanted me there early Wednesday, so I left on Tuesday night.”
Carmichael nodded; this fit in with his first assessment of Gerrard: a young man from a poor background who was working his way up.
“You took the bus to the train station?” he asked.
“That’s right,” said Gerrard. “My train went from London Bridge, so I caught the number forty bus out on Walworth Road. It goes right by the station.”
“But no doubt you had to wait for it?” asked Carmichael encouragingly.
“Only because I missed the first bus,” replied Gerrard gloomily. “I was coming along East Street, nearly to Walworth, when I saw the bus on the other side of the street. I tried to hurry, but there was no way I was going to make it across in time. In fact, I had to stop and wait for the light at the corner.”
“Aggravating,” said Carmichael sympathetically. “Was that when you saw my man?”
“Well, no, I saw the other one first,” said Gerrard.
Carmichael’s brows shot up; Hollings had not mentioned this. “There was another man?” he asked.
“That’s right.” Gerrard nodded. “I was waiting to cross the street, see, and wondering if I would still make my train. I checked my watch and it was half eight, which meant I still had time. And it was then the taxi pulled up to let his fare out, and I did just think of taking the taxi myself for a moment. It was a nasty night out, and I had the money on me. But I didn’t know how much I’d need to spend in Brighton, and after a second, I decided to stick to the bus.”
Carmichael nodded understanding; he was quite familiar with the momentary temptation to spend more than one should on some little luxury. Like Gerrard, he seldom gave in to it.
“It was a young man got out,” continued Gerrard. “He headed toward East Street, I think. I didn’t notice all that particularly, it’s just that down here you tend to take note of people around you, especially at night.”
“Of course,” said Carmichael, a little at a loss to see what this had to do with Gibbons.
“It was then I saw your man,” said Gerrard. “At least, I saw another taxi had stopped up the street and that fare was just getting out. He came down the street toward me, and I think it must have been your man. Bloke about my age, average height, stocky build.”
“That would be right,” said Carmichael, nodding. “Tell me, isn’t it a bit unusual to see so many taxis in this area on a Tuesday night?”
For the first time, Gerrard relaxed enough to grin at him.
“You’ve got that right, guv,” he said. “I thought it was downright unfair at the time, tempting me with all those taxis when I couldn’t afford them. But that’s what made it all stick in my mind, see, and when I got back today and heard you were looking for information about one of your own on that night, I thought to myself, well that’s why there were two taxis: this police bloke was following someone.”
Carmichael tried to contain his excitement at this information. It was better than merely putting a time on Gibbons’s arrival in Walworth; it also gave the first clue as to why he had been here in the first place.
“That’s very good indeed,” he said. “Did you see where my man went?”
Gerrard shook his head regretfully. “No, sir,” he said. “It was then the light changed and I was off across the street to wait for my bus.”
“You’ve still been a very great help,” Carmichael told him. “Most people never notice anything, you know. And it’s very lucky for me you had a train to catch—we’d no notion of when my man had arrived here until you came forward. Thanks very much for letting us know—we do appreciate it.”
Gerrard accepted this praise modestly, but Carmichael sensed he was both pleased and relieved.
“Glad I could help,” he said.
Carmichael left Gerrard’s elated. Observant witnesses were a rarity, and Tom Gerrard was a perfect gem. For the first time Carmichael felt that some of the pieces of this puzzle were falling into place. It was true that they still had two hours to account for, but if they could find the taxi and discover where he had picked Gibbons up, they might be well on the way to figuring out how he had spent his evening before being shot.
Inspector Hollings was still working at Lambeth station, so Carmichael headed there, eager to see how the search for the taxi was progressing.
“There’s no news yet,” Hollings told him. “I’ve put out the word to all the taxi companies, and arranged for advertisements in all the major papers tomorrow, but you know the drill, sir. There’s not a lot to be done besides sitting back and waiting.”
Carmichael did know the drill, but that did not keep him from wishing it were otherwise.
“How about the news tonight?” he asked.
“I’ve put public relations on that,” replied Hollings. “They’re going to
have a spokesman do an announcement on the telly tonight, and they’re preparing another one for the radio, but I don’t think they’ve got it on yet.”
Hollings looked up at his superior, who was chewing his lip, and added sympathetically, “I’m sure we’ll hear something soon, sir. If not tonight, then by morning. We’ve just got to give it a bit of time, let the word get out, and the cabbies will turn up. They most always do.”
Carmichael sighed. “I know,” he said. “And my fussing at you won’t make it happen any sooner.”
“No, sir,” said Hollings with a smile. “How are things coming from your end?”
“More waiting,” growled Carmichael. “Only I’m waiting for forensics instead of taxi drivers. Although,” he added, “they did come up with the list of phone numbers off Gibbons’s mobile today. I’ve got Lemmy going through—oh, bloody hell!”
This exclamation came from out of nowhere, and Hollings was immediately alert.
“What is it, sir?” he asked.
“Lemmy.” Carmichael spoke the name like a swear word, while he dug in his pocket for his mobile. “He was asking me as I was leaving about Gibbons’s cousin, the one who lives down here. I’ve only just remembered.”
“Do you think he’s found something, then?” asked Hollings.
“I’ll damn well bet he has,” said Carmichael, clicking on his phone. “I’d set him to go over the phone numbers. I should have realized earlier that his asking about the bloody woman meant he’d found her number on the list.”
Hollings looked startled. “But surely he’d have said so, wouldn’t he?”
Carmichael glared at him in response while he held his phone to his ear. “It’s Constable Lemmy we’re talking about, Hollings. What do you think?”
Hollings, who had not had much to do with the constable, did not think it possible that anyone who had made detective could be that obtuse. He opened his mouth to say so, but Carmichael waved him to silence while he barked into the phone, “Constable? Yes, it’s Carmichael. Did you find Dawn Melton’s phone number on that list?”
Hollings, watching, was alarmed to see Carmichael’s complexion redden with fury.
“And when did Sergeant Gibbons ring that number?” he demanded. He listened for a moment, and then said, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “Thank you so much for letting me know, Constable,” before ringing off without waiting for Lemmy’s reply.
Hollings raised an eyebrow, but refrained from comment until his superior had finished venting his temper by swearing a blue streak.
“I take it,” he asked mildly once Carmichael’s invective seemed to have run down, “that Gibbons rang his cousin that night?”
“Too bloody right he did,” snarled Carmichael. “She was the last call he made before he rang and left that message for me. And she swore she hadn’t heard from him in weeks. Oh, damn and blast, why couldn’t the idiot have told me earlier?!”
To this Hollings wisely made no reply.
“I want her brought in for questioning,” Carmichael told him, and Hollings did not envy Dawn this summons. “Have her brought to the Yard,” continued Carmichael. “I want to put the fear of God into the little chit.”
“Do you think,” ventured Hollings, “that she really might have shot Gibbons?”
“I don’t know.” Carmichael seemed to deflate suddenly and his eyes looked bleak. “I hope not. I’ve hoped all along that this mess has nothing to do with Gibbons’s personal life. An investigation is such an awful intrusion. But I can’t think why the woman would have lied about a phone call from her own cousin.”
The two men exchanged grim looks, neither of them having to voice what they knew of the horrors that could be uncovered in family life.
“I’ll send some uniforms to pick her up,” said Hollings. “What’s the address of that day-care center?”
Carmichael gave it to him from memory.
Gibbons was blessedly alone when he woke again. He could not remember the last time that had happened and lay quietly, reveling in the peace. His abdomen still throbbed, but he thought he felt a little less nauseous than he had been.
He could not tell how long he stayed like that before he began to idly pick out the details of the room. Someone had shifted the chairs about while he had been sleeping; they were pushed back against the wall by the bureau instead of drawn up to the bedside as he last remembered them. The small detritus that had been left on his bedtray table was gone and in its place the police envelope containing O’Leary’s report sat with its corners neatly aligned with that of the table. Beside it lay a small shopping bag that he did not recognize.
Gibbons frowned at it. He was quite certain no one had brought in anything for him in the course of the day, nor did he remember any of his many visitors coming in with it. And yet, one of them must have. He hated that even such a small thing had escaped his notice, and he glared at the bag as if affronted by it.
But gradually indignity began to give way to curiosity. Part of what made Gibbons such a good detective was his perennial curiosity—he simply was incapable of leaving a question unanswered. Right now, nothing hurt very much and he did not want to move and disturb that status quo. But he had to know what was in the bag.
Gingerly, he shifted himself up on one elbow, bracing himself against the expected sharp spasm of pain, and reached out to grab the bag off the table and drag it onto his lap. Panting a little with the effort, he peered down into the open top.
The contents were not very exciting, only a couple of notebooks with cardboard covers and four plastic mechanical pencils. But it made Gibbons smile.
There was a telephone on the bedside cabinet, which was positioned somewhere behind him. He had seen it as he had tottered back into bed that morning, and it had particularly struck him as he had not suspected its existence before.
He tilted his head on the pillow, craning his neck to peer up behind him. Beyond the bed railing he could just see the square little chest with the old-fashioned white telephone perched on it. It was quite definitely out of reach.
Gibbons sighed and considered his choices. He could ring for help and some helpful person in scrubs would no doubt come and give him the phone. Or he could wait, enjoy his peace and quiet until the inevitable interruption, and ask for the phone then. If, he added to himself sourly, he was still awake. Lastly, he could screw his courage to the sticking point, endure the pain, and fetch the phone himself.
He contemplated these unenviable choices and began to wish he had never thought of ringing Bethancourt. But he knew, really, which choice he would make in the end.
“They keep telling me moving is good for me,” he muttered, and he pushed himself into a sitting position. The pain was as intense as he had expected and he paused for a moment, absorbing it, before moving his legs out of bed. That, of course, engendered a new wave of pain, but what he had not anticipated was the shakiness that being upright caused. He felt quite dizzy and weak and had to sit on the edge of the bed for several minutes before he could once again focus on his goal. He glared at the telephone, which was now within easy reach of anyone who had not recently been shot. Hanging on to the bed rail, he pushed himself to his feet, shuffled forward a step or two, and seized the telephone. Clutching this prize to his chest with one hand, he staggered back to the bed and eased himself back down with a grateful sigh. Lifting his feet back in cost him an effort, and he had to rest and recover from the exertion, but he had possession of the phone and in a little while, curled on one side against the pain, he picked up the receiver and dialed with a sense of satisfaction.
“Wake up, Phillip.”
Bethancourt had not meant to fall asleep, but he came out of a deep slumber at the sound of Marla’s voice. She was wrapped in a satin quilted dressing gown, her hair still tousled from the pillows, and was kneeling on the bed and holding out his mobile.
“It’s University College Hospital ringing,” she said, pushing the phone at him.
“Ta,” said Bethancour
t, his heart suddenly in his throat. He flipped the phone open. “Hullo?”
“Phillip?” said Gibbons. “It’s Jack.”
He sounded weak to Bethancourt’s ears, but his tone was determined. And he was clearly no worse off than he had been that morning. Bethancourt relaxed.
“How are you, old man?” he asked, pulling the pillows up behind him.
“I’m making a miraculous recovery,” said Gibbons sarcastically.
“Good to hear,” said Bethancourt. “Better than the long, slow kind I would imagine.”
“I don’t know about that,” replied Gibbons. “I’m beginning to wonder, actually.”
“Let’s hope you don’t get the chance to find out,” said Bethancourt. “Nurse Pipp told me you’d had the physio in today.”
“It turns out,” said Gibbons, “that ‘physiotherapist’ is just another term for ‘sadistic bastard.’”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Bethancourt. “I’d gathered some recovery time was necessary.”
“It wouldn’t have been if I’d not been tortured in the first place,” grumbled Gibbons. “Oh, never mind. I rang you to talk about the case, not the damned hospital.”
“Ah?” said Bethancourt. “Have you had any new thoughts?”
“None to speak of.” Gibbons sighed. “If talking to O’Leary that night sent me off on a new track, I don’t know what it could have been.”
“Tell me this, then,” said Bethancourt, settling comfortably back in the pillows and arranging the duvet over himself. “When you’ve got a case, does your mind automatically revert back to it the moment you’re left to your own thoughts?”
“I don’t know,” answered Gibbons, sounding slightly exasperated. “I never thought about it. I suppose it might—I tend to be a bit obsessive at times.”
Bethancourt smiled at this self-description, having had personal experience of the phenomenon on many occasions. “So let’s think it out,” he urged. “There you are, having had a nice after-work pint and heard about the latest murder down in Walworth, not to mention Chris O’Leary’s new flame, but now you’re alone. Your mind goes back to the Haverford case.”
Trick of the Mind Page 18
