by John Creasey
He wondered if Kate would be in. He knew quite well that he wanted to have a cup of tea with her because of the look in Lucy Saparelli’s eyes. He wondered whether Kate would be pleased to see him; the youngsters would—no, the youngsters wouldn’t!
The three girls were out at a party – Prudence to play in the glow of her examination success, Priscilla to recite, no doubt; she was a wonderful mimic. Well, good. Penelope just to look pretty, and no one could do that more easily.
Pretty Penelope.
Pretty, dead Dorothy Saparelli and Jennifer Gay – what was the first dead girl’s name? He couldn’t call it to mind.
Prudence, eighteen plus, Priscilla, fifteen plus, Penelope twelve, with Pru younger than her years except in her playing, so they were all good friends. There was a greater disparity in the ages of the boys. Tom, the oldest, was twenty-six, Matthew was fourteen, Malcolm only just eight. Matthew would almost certainly be out playing – he’d probably gone as far as Putney Common, or even to Wimbledon, Malcolm was more likely to be at home with Kate – unless she had taken him out.
Well, at least he’d have looked in.
The sergeant got out of the car to open the door for him. “Thanks,” said Gideon. He did not consciously make a note of the man’s name or the way he’d behaved, but except for that attack of nerves when Gideon had been driving, he’d done very well. Shorter than most, wiry fair hair, slim waist and no hips to speak of, he was quick moving, quiet, efficient; oh, yes, and his name was Wedderburn.
“Oh, come straight back. I’ve got another call to make.”
“Right, sir.”
Harringdon Street, Fulham, was on the “classy” side, norm of the Wandsworth Bridge Road, near Hurlingham – still an oddly exclusive district although bordered by some of the poorer neighbourhoods of southwest London. The solid houses were all of red brick, two story plus attic, and most of the householders were sufficiently well off to keep them in good repair; painting the outside every third year was a matter of pride. This had been Gideon’s third year, and the painting had been finished only a few weeks ago. It was still bright and shiny, black and white as Kate had wanted it, and made him look up with interest and satisfaction; one could still take pleasure in the appearance of one’s house.
There were two stone steps, a shallow porch, and a solid oak door – the door put in by Gideon. Most front doors in Harringdon Street had coloured glass panels, open invitation to light-fingered gentry.
Not that wood would keep anyone out, if he wanted to get in.
There was a small front garden, neat and attractive, with a postage-stamp lawn, two beds of varicoloured wall flowers, daffodils out and tulips not yet in flower. No one was about; the street as well as the house looked empty. Gideon felt a twinge of disappointment, but it wasn’t very strong.
They had come to live in the upstairs flat here when he and Kate had married, and over the years they had converted the flats to one house, reversing the usual process. Always handy with his tools and not so busy in those early days as he had been for the last ten years, he had converted the attic so that there had been a playroom and cubicles for the boys. Now Tom had a small room to himself, and the younger boys the cubicles. A corner of the playroom was used for their books and homework.
Pru had now a tiny partitioned room to herself; the younger girls shared the other side of the partition.
Gideon took out his keys, opened the door, and wondered when he had last come back during daylight. Three Sundays ago, when all the family had been waiting for him since noon, a job had cropped up …
The hall was narrow but bright and fresh, and well lit from a landing window.
“Anyone home?” he called, and was startled when he heard an immediate response: footsteps above his head, in his bedroom – and Kate’s.
“George, is that you?”
“Yes, m’dear. Just looked in for a cup of tea.”
Kate’s footsteps came hurrying; he could picture her easy walk. Although she was getting rather heavy-breasted and thick at the waist, she was still graceful, and she didn’t have to worry too much about her figure. She appeared at the head of the stairs, wearing a black skirt and a fresh white blouse, looking neat and wholesome; her hair was more grey than his, and she improved a natural wave skilfully.
“You might as well shoot me as frighten me to death,” she said. “I couldn’t believe it was you when I heard the car, and when it drove off again—”
“Don’t tell me you took any notice of a car pulling up outside!”
Kate had reached the foot of the stairs. With her broad forehead and high-bridged nose she was quite striking, and she used make-up well; more, these days, than she had a few years ago. Standing on the bottom stair, she was just an inch or two taller than he.
“Don’t tell me you’ve just looked in for a cup of tea,” she scoffed. “What did you leave behind?”
“Nothing, honest. I happened to be handy, and thought it would be a good idea to pop in.”
“Crime must be in a bad way,” Kate said.
It was only half serious, only half hurtful; in fact, hurtful was too strong a word. They had six children, the memory of a seventh, a certain kind of mutual dependence, and practically nothing else in common. In a queer way, one Gideon hadn’t been aware of for a long time, he looked upon her as he might a stranger – Mrs. Lucy Saparelli, for instance.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “crime’s flourishing. We’ve had a bad one today. Cleaned it up as well as it can be cleaned up, though.”
“Oh.” Kate moved, pushing past him, and their hands brushed; hers was very cool. “Well, I don’t suppose you’ve got long. Going to wait in the front room while I get it?”
“No, I’ll come into the kitchen. Where’s Pen?”
“Gone to the pictures with the Odlums,” Kate said. “I think Mrs. Odlum knew all the others were out, and deliberately gave me an afternoon off. I was just going to do some window shopping.”
They reached the kitchen. It was spick-and-span, and more than that. Kate knew what she wanted, and went all out to get it; and to help she had a little money of her own. That had always made a big difference to them. The kitchen was fresh and bright in pale blue and white paint, pale blue cake tins, pale blue handles on the saucepans. A new kitchen cabinet was painted the same colour – the carpentry and paintwork by Tom and Matthew Gideon! Everything had a clean smell. The gas popped. Gideon sat back in an old bed-chair, one of those Heath Robinson contraptions which could be turned into a bed to sleep an extra one, if needs be.
It was Kate’s passion for tidiness, contrasting with his habit of coming home and littering the place, that had first really come between them; really contrast of temperaments. Funny thing, to think like that about the mother of your six—seven—children. One married a girl, loved, lived; after a while the intimacies became almost habitual, and since Malcolm’s arrival—
The only time he’d known Kate hysterical was when she had known for certain that Malcolm was coming. In this very room she had cried and screamed and shaken her clenched fists at him.
“I won’t have it, I won’t have another brat, it’s all I ever do! Work, slave, breed, work, slave and breed. And for you! What do you care? You’re never in, never got five minutes to spare, and—I tell you won’t have it! I’ll get rid of it somehow.”
It had been a bad, even an ugly evening.
They had never really recovered from it, although oddly, she was passionately fond of Malcolm, and showed her affection more than she did with the others – showed it to Gideon that was; the children didn’t know. If they did, it was because of some sixth sense that he knew nothing about.
“What kind of case was it?” asked Kate.
He sensed what she was feeling; as if this might be a chance to begin to get to know each other again. He’d made a gesture; she wanted to, too. She wasn’t quite sure why he had come, and sitting back there and watching her, he wasn’t sure either – except that one idea, w
hich hadn’t occurred to him before, came into his mind and wouldn’t be dismissed. He had come home because he needed her; because the sight of little Dorothy Saparelli’s mother had hurt him more than he knew.
The kettle was boiling.
Kate made the tea, and said, in a tighter voice: “Or is that a forbidden subject?”
“No,” said Gideon. “No, Kate. Just nasty. A sex maniac, two little girls, and the hell that it’s caused to a couple of families. I’ve just come from one of the mothers. It—well, you know what it is. Sometimes it makes me sick. Sometimes I wish I were one of the average crowd, lost in anonymity, doing a job which didn’t make me rub shoulders with all the beastliness and the brutality there is. A man kills a child – and the pain goes on and on and on. By hanging him, you don’t make it any less. I’m not even sure that you don’t make it more.”
Kate was spooning sugar into his cup. The tea was very strong: sweet and strong, the way he liked it.
She took a big cake tin out of the larder; the cake was already on a plate. Knives, plates and plastic mats appeared as if by sleight of hand.
“You look tired, George,” she said abruptly.
“Oh, I’m all right.”
“You can’t give yourself a few hours off, I suppose?”
“Well—well, no, Kate, I wish I could.”
She didn’t answer.
The fruit cake was rich, too, and good; it had that richness of flavour that made each mouthful something to enjoy and to remember, not just to eat. He had another piece.
“Window shopping where?” he asked.
“Oh, in town! Knightsbridge or Oxford Street.”
“How soon can you be ready?” asked Gideon. “I’ve got the car coming back in twenty minutes or so. Could give you a lift.”
“Oh, that’s lovely,” Kate said in a flash. “All I need is five minutes. I must be back by half past six; they’ll start coming home soon after that – but it will give me a couple of hours to play truant in.”
Then Gideon remembered Foster’s sister, in Chelsea; he had meant to call on her on the way back to the Yard. The fact came to the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t utter it. Kate looked suddenly gay. She was bright-eyed and eager, her grey hair didn’t make her look her age. It wouldn’t take him long to drop her, and then come back to Chelsea and Miss Foster—Mrs. Addinson… .
“Thanks a lot, George, that was lovely,” Kate said. ‘’You must drop in more often!” Her eyes were bright with excitement, and she was laughing at him; with the children and with others – and at one time with him – she had always laughed easily. She didn’t let him get out, but slammed the door and walked off, tall and brisk, something to see in her black suit and white hat and gloves. He was in at the curb, forgetful of the fact that he was in the way of Oxford Street traffic. He picked up the radiotelephone.
Soon, he was speaking to Lemaitre.
“Got something you want to see here, George-couple of good photographs of Foster, lying in the road.” Lemaitre paused; a note in his voice suggested that he had something up his sleeve. “Going to be long?”
“Not long. Anything else?”
“Not to worry about. Sayer’s made a clean breast of it, and the mystery of that kid in the tunnel out at Ealing isn’t a mystery any longer. He did that, too. You know the job, three weeks ago. Haven’t got a clue on that Islington killer, except that the chap was medium height and wore a brown suit. Used iron piping, and gloves – no dabs, not very optimistic.”
Lemaitre sucked his breath. “Half a mo’.”
Gideon waited. Buses pulled up almost on the tail of his car, and then swung out. Traffic filtered past; a constable came up looking as if he had nothing in the world to do, bent down, and peered at him.
“Going to be here long, sir?” He bumped his helmet on the top of the window. “Oo!” Praiseworthy self-control. “Holding up the traffic, you know, very bad place to stop.”
“Yes. Sorry. Let me finish this talk to the Yard, and I’ll move off.”
“To the—” There was a closer, sharper, scrutiny. “I didn’t recognize you, sir! Sorry. Like me to make ‘em give you a bit more lee room?”
Gideon chuckled. “No, thanks, I’m all right.”
The constable did his best to salute so that the courtesy could be noticed, and moved off. There was the purr, the hum, the roar of engines, the swish of wheels on the tacky road, the perpetual motion of people weaving to and fro, the air heavy with petrol fumes. Gideon eased his collar; his neck was damp.
Lemaitre came again, almost bellowing: “It’s a flash from Waterloo, they’ve knocked off a van with thirty thousand quid in it. One of our chaps caught a packet. Three in one blasted day! Wonder if the others were dummy jobs – be seeing you.”
9. The Mail-van Job
A small but well-set-up-looking man in the early thirties, at the wheel of an Austin 10 saloon, cellulosed black, was drumming the steering wheel with the fingers of both hands, and watching a flow of traffic coming from the one-way street leading from Waterloo Road. Standing a few hundred yards away from him was another, younger man, dressed in drab grey and rather down at heel. He had a motorcycle. Nearer the Austin was a short, stocky man who kept taking a cigarette out of his mouth, looking at it, then putting it back again.
All three had been there for ten minutes.
The stocky man near the Austin finished his cigarette, glanced up and down, and then stiffened, for a red mail van came in sight. It was on its own, clear of other traffic, and moving at a good speed.
The driver’s hands stopped drumming. He started the engine. The others tensed, as if for action, although no one noticed them then.
The van didn’t swing beneath the dark arches of the wide approach to Waterloo Station, but came straight on.
All three men relaxed; if relaxed was the word.
The stocky one came up to the car.
“You must have got it wrong.”
The driver said smoothly: “I don’t get things wrong.”
“It’s late, nearly ten minutes—”
“That’s your watch, it’s fast,” the driver said. “Beat it, Ted.”
“We can’t stay around here any longer.”
“What’s the matter, losing your nerve? We’ll stay as long as we have to. I got the squeak, didn’t I? There are thirty thousand quid in that van, being sent down to Bournemouth.”
“It’ll have a cop tailing—”
“S’right,” the driver said, “and we’ll fix the cop and scram. Quit worrying. I’ll see you at Shippy’s, and—”
He stopped, as another mail van came in sight. This time he didn’t relax, for he read the registration number.
“That’s it,” he whispered, and the stocky man shot away from him as the Austin’s engine started; then roared.
The Austin 10 was on the move as the van swung toward the archway; as it turned left, the Austin swung right. That was normal enough for there was access to traffic from both directions.
Behind the van was a Wolseley, with two men in it. Anyone who knew a Yard car would recognize that; there was something unmistakable about the look of the man at the wheel and his companion. They weren’t in any mood of alarm – until the man in drab grey, astride his motor bicycle, roared alongside and tossed a little, fragile glass tube through the driving window. It broke on the driver’s forehead. Ammonia gas billowed, biting at both Yard men’s eyes, mouths and noses. The driver grabbed at the gear lever and his foot went down on the brake, but he was going fast, and was blinded before he could stop. The police car lurched across and smashed into the archway wall. The man by the driver’s side gave a funny little grunting sound as the door buckled and squashed him.
The car was slewed across the road; no other traffic could get in, and it was a one-way stretch.
The Austin, a hundred yards further on, screeched alongside the mail van. The scarlet of the van’s cellulose, bright under the sun, was reflected on the black shine of the car. The post-offic
e driver and his mate glanced sideways nervously, sensing what was happening. Brakes went on, but the Austin forced the van to keep on the inside, drawing just ahead of it. The Austin driver pulled a gun. The post-office men didn’t move.
Two youths, bent low until then and wearing black cloth masks, jumped from the back of the Austin. They didn’t wait for keys, didn’t speak, smashed at the padlock at the back of the little red van and, as the doors swung open, grabbed the registered bags – all of green canvas.
They rushed back to the Austin.
Within ninety seconds they were being driven away at furious but controlled pace, with the motorcycle roaring after them. The post-office men watched them go, and saw the registration plate of the saloon vanish. It had false plates; other plates would drop as soon as the robber car reached the Waterloo Road.
Back in the archway, cars were lined up behind the wreck. One Yard man was leaning against the wall, with tears still streaming down his face. Two men were pushing at the damaged car, so as to get at the driver’s companion, who had slumped down in his seat; there was blood on his chin. Someone was calling for a doctor. Two uniformed policemen came hurrying.
The stocky youth, not needed to make a diversion after all, turned away and walked toward Whitehall, whistling.
Gideon switched off the radiotelephone and started his engine. He felt as if he were back where he had started; the all-pervading shadow of the mail-van robberies had become blacker than ever. Whether the two earlier jobs had been to sell the police dummies or not, someone was bound to suggest that they had been, and two or three of the newspapers would have a smack at the Yard for it; and at him.
He was ten minutes’ drive from the Yard.
He was fifteen minutes’ drive from Foster’s flat and his sister, Mrs. what-was-her-name?—Addinson.
“Can’t prevent the damned holdup now,” he said aloud and savagely, “and if I don’t see the woman soon I’ll have to give the job to someone else.”
