by John Creasey
‘I’ll go,’ offered the policeman. A moment later, his voice changed. ‘Good morning, doctor!’
Doctor? They had sent for no doctor.
There was a murmur of voices before short, dapper, young-looking Dr. Wade came in, brisk and forthright.
‘Good morning, Mrs. Pierce,’ he said as Wanda freed herself and stared at him. He nodded to David. ‘I think it’s time …’
Wanda cried: ‘Is there any news of my daughter?’
‘Everything possible is being done to find her,’ Dr. Wade said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘She probably ran away in a fit of temper. You know, Mrs. Pierce, you aren’t going to be able to help if you don’t have some rest.’
‘Rest! How on earth can I rest, when I don’t know where Dina is? When I don’t know …’
‘Mrs. Pierce,’ Dr. Wade interrupted sharply, ‘when Geraldine gets back she will need your help. If you’re in hysterics, you’ll only make her feel worse. Now I’m going to give you an injection. You won’t feel it, and it won’t make you sleep too long. Just hold out your left arm.’
‘I—I don’t want an injection!’
Dr. Wade looked into David Pierce’s eyes and took a small box out of his pocket. David gripped his wife’s hand and pushed her left sleeve back above the elbow, and as Wanda stiffened in stubborn resistance, he held her tightly. Wade rubbed a spot on her arm with a piece of cotton wool, pinched the flesh, and put the needle in, all very swiftly.
‘I don’t want an injection!’ repeated Wanda, but she didn’t pull herself free.
‘You need some tea or coffee with a lot of sugar,’ Wade said, briskly. ‘And I’ll see Geraldine the moment she’s found. That’s a promise.’
‘Promise!’ Wanda echoed, stupidly. ‘Promise!’
‘Hold her!’ Dr. Wade said sharply.
David Pierce felt her dead weight fall against his body. Almost at once he saw Mrs. Edmond, a neighbour from across the street, and another woman whose name he did not know just behind her.
‘We’ll take her upstairs,’ said Mrs. Edmond, also matter-of-factly.
‘Like me to carry her?’ asked the policeman. Without waiting for a reply, he lifted the unconscious woman, and carried her from the room with no apparent effort, followed by the two visitors.
David Pierce watched them disappear up the narrow staircase then turned back to the dining-room and stood by the closed French windows, which opened on to a small garden with a patch of grass bright and trim, some roses, and a bed of multi-coloured antirrhinums, as fine as any he had ever grown. His expression was one of bleak despair. There were movements above his head as the neighbours busied themselves: and Wanda had never had much to do with neighbours, but how lost they would be without them, now.
‘You could do with some rest, too,’ Dr. Wade told him.
‘I’m all right,’ muttered Pierce. ‘If Wanda’s all right, I am.’ He broke off, ‘I’d better telephone the office, as soon as I can. My—my boss won’t like me being late.’
‘He won’t mind at a time like this, surely.’
‘He’s—he’s a funny chap. I must telephone.’ Pierce closed his eyes. ‘Doctor – is there any news?’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid,’ Wade said, gently.
‘What—what do the police really think?’
‘They’re doing everything they can to trace her, you can be sure of that.’ Wade tried to be reassuring, just as David Pierce had tried to be with Wanda, and his words sounded just as empty. ‘Have you a telephone?’
‘No. There’s one in the High Street, though.’
‘Mrs. Edmonds has one,’ said Dr. Wade. ‘I’m sure she would like you to call from there.’
‘Really, Pierce, you know how busy we are,’ said Edward Lee, Pierce’s employer. ‘Yes, of course it’s worrying but you don’t know that anything’s happened to her yet … Come in as soon as you can, we must get the Seaborne analysis finished this week … I shall expect you to work late, of course …’
That was the time when David Carter and Samuel Cottingham were standing in the dock at Greenwich Police Court and Chief Inspector Singleton was giving evidence of arrest.
The magistrate was a very big, very deliberate man.
‘And have the accused anything to say?’ he asked.
‘Not guilty,’ Dave Carter said quickly. He was surprisingly small, very wiry-looking and had a suspicion of a hare-lip. ‘It was just a lark, sir, that’s all.’
‘That’s right,’ said Cottingham, whose hair was as long as a girl’s and whose nose was almost as pointed as Cyrano de Bergerac’s. ‘Not guilty, me lord.’
‘What do the police ask for?’
‘A remand in custody while inquiries are being made, sir,’ Singleton said.
‘Custody?’ queried the magistrate.
A youthful, shiny-faced man stood up at the back of the court.
‘I’ll put up surety, in any reasonable amount, sir,’ he announced.
‘For both the accused?’
‘Yes, sir, if it’s not too high.’
In the well of the court, Mary Rose and Tom Argyle-Morris sat close together, almost as frightened as they had been the previous night.
‘What do you say about bail?’ the magistrate asked Singleton.
‘We oppose it, sir, having reason to believe that the two witnesses might be menaced by the accused.’ Singleton spoke without any expression or apparent feeling.
‘Why that’s crazy!’ cried Dave Carter. ‘It was only a lark, I tell you!’
The magistrate looked at him levelly. ‘A very unfortunate lark, I must say. I shall remand you both in custody for eight days.’
Carter caught his breath. Cottingham rubbed his nose. The shiny-faced man muttered, audibly: ‘That’s persecution, that is.’ Quite clearly, Carter said: ‘Flicking bastard,’ but the magistrate and his clerk pretended not to hear.
Both Mary Rose and Tom looked noticeably relieved as they left the court. Singleton left just after them, satisfied, but preoccupied about the packet of industrial diamonds found in the water at Fiddler’s Steps.
Detective Superintendent Micklewright waited as the KLM twin-engined jet taxied towards the entrance to the Customs shed at Heathrow. The Customs men knew him well; it was surprising how often he came here over smuggling and theft investigation. He saw two nice-looking women, a girl and several business men come out, followed by Van Hoorn. The Dutchman had the widest pair of shoulders Micklewright had ever seen on a man; he was only about five feet seven and that made his breadth of shoulder even more noticeable. He carried a small shiny black attaché case.
‘Looks like a bloody hangman,’ Micklewright muttered under his breath, then beamed and went forward, splay-footed, big hand outstretched, feeling as if Gideon’s hand were on his shoulder. ‘Good morning, Inspector, very glad to see you again … we needn’t bother with Customs, we trust all policemen!’ He led the way through a side door and out to the front of the terminal building, where his car and driver were waiting.
‘You are very kind,’ Van Hoorn said stiffly.
‘Pleasure, Inspector, pleasure.’ Micklewright started to slam the door, saw Van Hoorn’s thick fingers on the frame and snatched his hand away. The driver was there to close the door, anyhow. He walked round the back of the car and got in the other side, kicking against Van Hoorn’s foot as he sat down. ‘Sorry. Have a good flight?’
‘It was uneventful,’ stated Van Hoorn. His voice was slightly guttural, and yet high-pitched at the same time. ‘I studied all the documents, and depositions of the man we caught. I hope you will agree; there is much evidence that the stolen jewels do come to England.’
‘Wouldn’t be at all surprised,’ said Micklewright, opening his own battered pigskin briefcase. ‘We had a bit of luck last night. Quite fortuitous,’ he added s
lyly, but Van Hoorn gave no sign that the word puzzled him. Micklewright took out the waterproof packet, now unsealed, and held it towards the Dutchman. ‘Is this one of the Dutch consignments?’
Van Hoorn’s slate grey eyes shone suddenly with excitement; the expression put life into his face, and he seized the package.
Something outside the car caught Micklewright’s eye – an airport policeman, waving. Just beyond this man was a woman and on that instant Micklewright thought it was his wife. His heart seemed to expand, then slowly, very slowly, to shrink. It wasn’t Clara; it couldn’t be Clara. The woman just happened to have Clara’s attractive kind of grey hair with a slightly blue tint, and a black and white check suit, like Clara’s; and she had an absurdly small waist – Clara’s waist.
She passed.
Micklewright rubbed his sweaty hands together, and stared in the other direction oblivious of the rustling of the polythene bag which Van Hoorn was easing out of its outer waterproof container, and of the curious whistling sound which Van Hoorn made as he took a fold of linen from the bag. He opened this and peered down at the scintillating diamond chips which were fastened to the linen’s wash-leather lining by strips of transparent plastic.
‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘This is one of the missing consignments. The inside packing is exactly the same. You will see.’ He opened his case and took out a folded pad exactly like the one found in the Thames. ‘There can be no mistake. This is good, very good.’ He almost dropped the ‘y’ in ‘very’, almost added a ‘t’ after good. ‘Where did you find it?’
Micklewright was staring out of the window, chin thrust forward, eyes narrowed, lips set tightly, his hands spread over his knees like an octopus with its tentacles tightening round a victim. Van Hoorn raised his eyebrows and fell silent. They crawled out of the parking area and were soon on the underpass and out on the main highway. Van Hoorn continued to inspect the diamonds on the two pads, as if trying to see any dissimilarities.
Micklewright turned his head, as if with an effort.
‘Er – sorry,’ he said. ‘You said something.’ The weight lifted and he went on in a stronger voice. ‘Oh, yes, the industrial sparklers. Is it one of your consignments?’
‘I am quite sure that it is,’ replied Van Hoorn, patiently. ‘This is a big step forward. May I ask you where it was found?’
‘A big slice of luck,’ Micklewright said, and explained in detail. ‘It may have been in one of those barrels but more likely it was dropped or thrown overboard from a ship. No use guessing. We’ll cover all the possibilities as soon as we can.’ By the time he finished, they were moving fast along the Great West Road. ‘I’ve told the Thames Division to lay on some lunch for us, and we can have a look round from there. And I’ve told the Port of London Authority chaps to expect us this afternoon sometime. Tell you one thing, though. If the crooks are bringing the stuff in by the river – or taking it out by the river if it comes to that – what price the man you caught who flies between here and Amsterdam so often?’
‘It is one of the problems we have to discuss,’ Van Hoorn said stiffly. The sympathy he had felt for the Scotland Yard man because of his obvious troubles, dried up. Micklewright had a reputation in Amsterdam, Brussels, Paris – in fact in most of the European capitals – for being far too insular, a difficult man to work with and one who was always trying to score off continental detectives. Now he was virtually telling him, Van Hoorn, that the Dutch police had made a mistake over the suspect who had been arrested in Holland. Van Hoorn geared himself for a difficult time.
Chapter Four
GIDEON WALKS
No one knew about the cave in the old quarry except the man who had discovered it several years before and who had made his home there. To reach it, he had to climb down one shallow side of the quarry and cross ten yards or more of water; this water was several feet deep, except in the middle where an earth fall had made a kind of bridge; even after heavy rain the water there never rose higher than his ankles, and he always wore boots which came halfway up his calves. He had furnished his home gradually, piece by piece, from furniture found on rubbish dumps. In a recess there was an old oil stove, a frying pan, a kettle and a saucepan, and he always kept a bucket of rainwater there. Near the stretch of water opposite the cave was an old shed, once used for tools, but now empty and derelict. Rainwater dripped off the corrugated iron roof into an old drum, from which he refilled his bucket. Very few people ever came near, and when they did, they could not see the cave, which was hidden by a jutting piece of sandstone. Behind this, and across the mouth of the cave he had built a ramshackle wooden wall, with a tiny window and a door which he could bolt from the inside. This gave him a sense of protection and security.
Jonathan Jones – for such was the man’s name – was gearing himself for a difficult time; as Van Hoorn had done. He sat in a rocking chair, lurching gently to and fro, to and fro. On the one narrow bed, in a corner and beneath the hole which served as a window, lay a girl, asleep.
She was a pretty child, with full lips and a snub nose. She had dark, bobbed hair and, even as she lay, her figure appeared more a woman’s than a girl’s. She had a tiny waist, drawn in tightly, a dark red skirt and a grubby white blouse. She appeared to be sleeping quite naturally.
Now and again Jones shook his head.
Suddenly, he leaned forward and stretched out his right hand, touching the child’s ankle; his touch was still light as he ran his hand up and down the calf of her leg. She wore no stockings, and her skin was enticingly soft. He rocked and stroked, rocked and stroked. The chair made a slight creaking noise, the only sound.
His difficulty was to decide what to do with her.
She was nice; very nice.
He hadn’t frightened her; not really.
But when she woke she would remember and when she remembered she would want to scream, and if she got away it would not be long before the police arrived.
It was a very, very difficult time. He had to decide what to do, soon. He did not know how long she would sleep, but it would not be for more than two or three hours. That wasn’t very much time in which to make such a decision. He did not want to kill her but on the other hand he did not want to be caught by the police. If he were caught he would be sent to prison, and goodness knew what would happen to him there.
It would really be better if the girl did not wake; it would solve so many of his problems.
To and fro, he went: to and fro.
Up and down went his hand over the satiny skin: up and down.
Gideon heard a man laughing.
It was a pleasant laugh, perhaps little more than a chuckle, as if the other were deeply amused, and hearing it, Gideon’s pre-occupations faded. He was in St. James’s Park, watching the lake, the wild ducks so nearly tame, the masses of flowers, the people sauntering over grass and along the paths. A thicket of bushes hid him from the man, but a few yards further along he saw what was happening. A child of four or five was trying to stand on his head. Up he would go, legs waving wildly, scarlet in the face, supporting himself with his hands; then over he would tumble, only to be up again on the instant game for another try. He wore very short blue shorts and a singlet. The man, wearing a short-sleeved shirt of pale blue, looked spruce and scrubbed. Neither child nor man said a word. The child tried twice again, so intent and so earnest that Gideon also began to smile.
Then as the child thumped down with the inevitable tumble, the man said: ‘That’s enough, kiddo.’ As the boy started again he moved forward, grabbed and swung the lad over his head. Now it was the boy’s turn to chuckle. Gideon started to move on; he hadn’t been noticed yet, and there was something curiously private and personal about the little scene.
Swinging the child to the ground, however, the man turned and came almost face to face with him. On that instant his expression changed, he lowered his arms quickly but in full contro
l.
Gideon had a shock: for the last time he had seen this man, he had been in the dock in the Old Bailey; it must be seven or eight years ago.
‘Hallo, Mr. Miller,’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen you for a long time.’
Miller stared, his face and body tensed; then, very slowly, he relaxed.
‘No, we haven’t met, have we?’
‘Your son?’ inquired Gideon.
‘You could say so,’ Miller replied. There was a curious twist to his lips which puzzled Gideon for a moment; then the penny dropped and he was appalled by his own gaucheness. Miller had served six years at least, and the child could be no more than four or five.
Once again Miller gave that pleasant chuckle.
‘Let’s say, adopted son,’ he said. ‘I’ll settle for that.’
‘Lively youngster,’ Gideon observed. ‘How long have you been back in London?’
‘Six months or so.’
‘Everything all right?’
‘I’ve my own little haulage business, thanks to my wife,’ said Miller. ‘Yes, everything’s fine, now.’ His eyes filled with laughter and it came to Gideon that he was a happy man. ‘How are tricks in your line of business?’
‘Too many for my liking,’ Gideon said.
‘Daddy …’ the child began, its patience wilting.
‘Okay, kiddo, we’ll go and look at the ducks. Good day, Mr. Gideon.’ He took the child’s hand.
Gideon nodded and passed on, his thoughts carrying him back over the years. Miller had been a cashier for one of the big Joint Stock banks, and had helped thieves to break into a suburban branch where he had once worked. Now he had a haulage business, ‘thanks to my wife’. What exactly had that meant?
Gideon, already later than he had intended, stepped out more briskly.
He was due for a conference at Savile Row Police Station with two divisional men and an insurance broker. There had been a lot of fur robberies in recent months, mostly in Mayfair, and the police had been too long a time without making an arrest. The conference could easily have taken place at the Yard but then three men would have had to travel, and Gideon wasn’t under any particular pressure that afternoon, moreover the walk through the park, then past Clarence House, up to St. James’s Palace, across Piccadilly and along Bond Street to Savile Row, had attracted him. This was part of his old ‘manor’, his square mile; seeing it now filled him with nostalgia – in a way, the encounter with Miller had done the same thing.
