by John Creasey
Ever since the beginning of the Second World War the greatest Police Force and the greatest Detective Force in the world has been compelled to fight its own war with too few men and too few weapons.
Government economy with the Criminal Investigation Department is criminal in itself. It must not be permitted.
“Well,” Kate said, an hour later, “it hasn’t spoiled your appetite. Don’t forget that you’re going out to lunch today.”
“If the Old Man doesn’t cancel the invitation when he reads all this,” said Gideon.
“No man could be such an utter lunatic,” said Matthew.
That gave Gideon one supreme moment, for he saw the way his children looked at him, and sensed the hero worship of each one.
There was no mention in any of these newspapers of the seven-year-old girl, Rose Jeffson, who was missing from her home in Bournsea.
The local police knew about it, of course, but they assumed that the child had been drowned, and expected the body to be washed up on the beach before long.
Micky the Slob, hiding in the hold of a small tramp steamer due to sail for America the next morning, read the newspapers and saw himself mentioned in every one. He was no fool, and realised that the police would strain everything they could to get him.
Micky the Slob was frightened.
Among the other thirty-odd million people who read the story in one newspaper or another was Keith Ryman. He was sitting in his small flat in Mayfair, with the newspapers spread out about him, when his ‘wife’, a blonde as pretty as could be, cuddly, and dressed as if Hartnell had made her clothes, came in from the bedroom to the chair where he sat looking through a large window over Hyde Park.
“Sure you won’t come out with me, darling?”
“Too lazy,” Ryman said, smiling at her; his eyes crinkled attractively when he smiled. “You take Flossie for her exercise, I’ll be ready to take you out to lunch when you get back.”
“All right.” Helen Woodley, who called herself Helen Ryman, kissed him lightly on the forehead and went out, calling her French poodle from the bedroom. Ryman waited for the door to close, and waited again until he saw Helen walking across Park Lane, towards the park. Then he stretched out and dialled a Mayfair number, and was answered at once.
“Come and see me, Rab, will you?” he asked.
“Right away, Keith. Wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain front-page story, would it? “
“Wouldn’t it?” Ryman smiled as he replaced the receiver. He leaned back, put his folded hands beneath his head, and looked up at the sky. “Hit ‘em hard and often in five or six places at the same time, and then do the real job when they’re not expecting it. That’s the strategy all right.”
He took his hands from the back of his neck, and rubbed them together.
7
LUNCHEON
“Well, hold your breath,” Gideon said.
He had parked the car a few doors away from Scott-Marie’s house in Radlett Square, one of the smaller, lesser known and more exclusive of London’s squares; it was still residential. There was a small green patch in the middle of it, with a few plane trees, some rhododendron bushes and some laurel. One or two dogs were playing, two nursemaids were sitting on a wooden bench with a pram by each. On another seat were boy and girl – lovers.
Gideon saw all of this without appearing to notice it, as he armed Kate up the short flight of stone steps which led to Scott-Marie’s house. The front door was painted black, and the knocker and the letterbox looked like solid silver.
“At least we’ve the same colour scheme,” Kate remarked.
Gideon said: “I’ll bet he didn’t do any of the painting himself,” and pressed the bell.
He was dressed in a suit, bought at Kate’s insistence last year, which served him for many formal daytime occasions; it was nearly black, had a very narrow grey stripe, and was beautifully cut and made by a little Jewish tailor who worked in the East End and had known Gideon for many years. He looked and felt spruce and almost too much at his best. During the moment or two that they waited, he looked Kate up and down. She had on a bluey-green silk suit, perhaps a trifle easy fitting, for she hated her clothes to be too tight, and a hat to match – she had trimmed it herself with the same material as the suit.
“What’s the matter, I look all right, don’t I?” she asked urgently; for he seldom looked at her so intently.
“You look”—he hesitated, and then let the word come—”just right. Don’t alter a thing.”
She squeezed his hand.
The door was opened, almost without a sound, by a young footman, bandbox dressed. Hardly had the effect of this unaccustomed formality touched the Gideons when Lady Scott-Marie came hurrying from a big room with double doors. She could not be much more than thirty, and her husband was undoubtedly in his late fifties. She was tall but not as tall as Kate, between colours, and strikingly attractive. She wore a suit of pale grey with white spots, and Kate could not have been more suitable dressed.
“Hallo, Mrs Gideon, I’ve so often wanted to meet you, and I’ve heard so much about your husband.” She had blue eyes, the merry kind. “Do come along in.”
Gideon was handing his hat and gloves to the footman, and wondering how the subject heaviest on his mind would come up. Would Scott-Marie’s tactics be to talk on trivialities before and during the meal? Socially, that would be right, but Gideon hoped that there would be a way of avoiding a long delay, although he must not break the ice himself.
The hall was small, and he did not notice much about it, except two portraits, the circular staircase, and the passage alongside. The room into which Scott-Marie’s wife took them was much larger than he had expected, high-ceilinged, with a beautiful double bay window overlooking an unexpected garden, vivid with wallflowers and tulips, forget-me-nots and polyanthus. All this Gideon saw as one takes a photograph. There was the black grand piano, the Regency style of decor and furniture, and the Commissioner, moving forward from the fireplace, which Gideon knew was Adam.
Scott-Marie was dressed in a black and white overcheck suit; not exactly sporting, not really formal; and on the instant Gideon felt overdressed. Thank God Kate wasn’t.
Scott-Marie was shaking her hand.
Then he was taking Gideon’s.
His wife was so vital, her complexion so good, and vivacity showed in every movement she made, even in the turn of her head. Scott-Marie was rather dried-up, like his Greek gods. He was tall, too thin, almost hollow-cheeked, with a touch of tan which gave the impression that he was suffering from jaundice. His hair was cut very close to a somewhat narrow head, and suddenly he was a personality, and not remote at all.
He did not open his mouth much when he spoke; nor even when he smiled.
“What’s it like to have a husband in all the headlines, Mrs Gideon?” His tone could almost be called bantering.
Gideon thought: ‘Thank God, he’s out with it,’ and immediately felt acutely anxious for Kate, so tempering his own relief.
“Darling, let them have a drink first,” Lady Scott-Marie protested.
Damn nice woman; she saw that Kate was on the spot.
Kate was smiling at the Old Man.
“It’s the first time it’s happened since I’ve known him,” she said; “it’s rather a thrill.” Her smile was spontaneous, and Gideon, who knew the sign, felt a moment of panic; she hadn’t finished yet and there was going to be a barb in what she added: “Now it has happened, I hope that someone’s going to sit up and take notice.”
Gideon had never heard the Commissioner laugh before. He actually opened his mouth wide.
It was an excellent meal; Gideon had never tasted duck and green peas cooked to such perfection, and there was a creamy sweet, a confection which reminded him of something he’d had in Switzerland, years ago; finally there were coffee and cigars, and Gideon found himself in a small first-floor study, overlooking the back garden, where Kate was going round with Lady Scott-Marie; Kate was th
e Gideon gardener.
They had touched only lightly on Yard affairs, and the only thing Gideon could feel sure about was that his Boss was not going to be on his dignity, or vengeful about the newspaper story. Now he sat down, pulling at the cigar as if it were a pipe; Scott-Marie stood with his back to the window.
“Why don’t you throw that away and fill your pipe?” Scott-Marie said. “I’m sure you’d prefer it.” Gideon did. “Now I’d like to have your considered view of the staff situation,” Scott-Marie went on, “without any need to fight or argue with the other departmental heads. You know as well as I do that there’ll always be some feeling between the various departments, and the CID certainly gets the plums in publicity. Did the Taylor business make you talk to the Press?”
That was as safe an explanation as any; and being partly true, it helped.
“A newspaper man caught me just after I’d heard,” Gideon said, “and I was so mad . . .” He talked a little more; and then found himself rationalising his approach. Syd Taylor was only one factor. “We’re stretched far too thin, that’s the truth of it, and have been for years. There aren’t even enough allowances made for sickness and holidays. Hill, on the Bournsea child murder case, has actually taken his wife there so that she can get a weekend’s holiday, and . . .” He quoted a dozen cases, and also explained what he had done on Friday in the Divisions. “I think that probably stamped on anything planned for the weekend, but sooner or later one of us is going to miss something he would see if he weren’t so busy.”
“Do you mean, someone will organise a wave of crime?”
“I don’t think any of the old hands will try to organise anything on a big scale, we’d have had a lot of squeaks by now,” Gideon answered. “But most of these people we deal with are imitative. We get a crop of smash and grabs, a crop of fine art thefts, a crop of holdups, an outbreak of shoplifting – it seems to go in waves.” Gideon was really warming up. “Micky the Slob’s killed Taylor, it’s all over the newspapers – and you can take it from me that before the week’s out two or three more policemen or detectives will be attacked, because some swine will argue that if Micky can get away with it, so can they.”
Scott-Marie said: “Won’t today’s newspapers encourage them still more?”
Was that a criticism?
“Probably,” Gideon answered.
“Then there’s a risk that the stories do more harm than good.”
“Of course there is,” Gideon agreed. “The newspapers are telling them today what Micky the Slob told them yesterday, but that’ll only have a short-term effect. We can go after them with all we’ve got, and smack ‘em down for a few weeks. It’s the long-term situation that worries me. We don’t have enough men even to send to the provinces, and Hill and his two chaps ought never to have come back from Bournsea. I haven’t laid it on too thickly, Commissioner, take my word for that.”
“I do,” the Commissioner answered him. “Rogerson agrees with you absolutely, and so do two or three of the other Department heads. But all of them need extra money and more men, especially the Uniformed Branch, even if the most urgent need is in your Department. I’m now practically convinced, but—”
Gideon interrupted, warmly: “You don’t know what a relief it is to hear that.”
“I hope I’m not misleading you,” said Scott-Marie, and Gideon sensed something which hadn’t yet been said. “You may have convinced me, but that’s a very different thing from convincing the Home Office and the Treasury. I had two calls from the Home Secretary this morning. He’s not at all happy about the newspaper stories, which he says look like a deliberate attempt to force the hand of the Government.”
Gideon realised how justified that was the moment it was said, and felt suddenly, badly, shaken.
Scott-Marie hadn’t finished.
“Other people will probably resent it, too,” he went on. “Every Department and all the services are being axed, and in my view the best you’ll get is status quo. Even that won’t be easy.”
“If you’re with us, we’ve surely a chance of getting a bit extra,” Gideon said, trying to ward off depression.
“It may be worth trying,” the Commissioner conceded. “I want you to concentrate on this problem for a few weeks. Delegate as much of your normal work as you can and find the evidence that I can take to the Minister, with reasonable hope of making the case unanswerable. I’ll arrange for Popple to give you all the help he can. I needn’t advise you not to overdo the Press interview business now,” Scott-Marie went on, “but Popple can probably slant a lot of stories your way to show the situation as you’ve presented it. I’ll arrange for one of our legal Department to work with you, too, as well as someone from the Secretary’s office. If I take this case to the Minister, I’ve got to convince him. If I can do that, he’ll fight for us. Even then it’ll be a toss-up whether he or the Chancellor of the Exchequer wins. What we need is an unanswerable case.”
He stopped.
Gideon said, very gruffly: “You’ll get it, sir.”
“Good!” Scott-Marie tapped the end off his cigar at last, and stood up, to glance out of the window. Kate and Lady Scott-Marie were swinging gently in the garden seat. “Do you go in much for gardening?”
“My wife—” Gideon began, a little awkwardly because of the deliberate change of subject. He was glad when the telephone bell rang.
“Sorry,” said Scott-Marie, and lifted the receiver. “Scott-Marie here . . . yes, he’s with me at the moment, hold on.” He handed the instrument to Gideon, who was astonished; only the family knew where to find him, and this would make it look as if he had spread the invitation news around, would make it look as if he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Who’s that?” he asked, abruptly.
“Daddy, it’s Penny,” said his second daughter, a little breathlessly. “I know you said no one was to ring, but Superintendent Hill rang up, he said he’d tried to get you at the Yard, and must speak to you. I asked him where he was, and he said Bournsea Police Headquarters. I promised to tell you as soon as I could, but I was right not to give him the number, wasn’t I?”
“Absolutely right, Penny.” Gideon was delighted and yet anxious at the same time. “I’ll call him right away, see you soon.” He rang off, looked at Scott-Marie, and said: “That was my daughter. I don’t much like the sound of this, Hill wants to talk to me urgently. May I call him at Bournsea?”
“Let me put the call in for you,” Scott-Marie said; and to
Gideon’s surprise, was able to give the Bournsea number from memory. “Yes, ring me as soon as you get Superintendent Hill on the line.” He put down the receiver, and added, to Gideon: “I hope this isn’t another child murder.”
“George,” said Hippo Hill, “we’ve found another seven-year-old girl, same circumstances as the other job down here. Can you get Evans and Peto down from Scarborough, and let me have a team . . . ? With all these holidaymakers here we’re going to have a hell of a lot of trouble.”
“I’ll send you a team,” Gideon promised, “and I’ll get it down to you tonight.”
“There’s a pal.”
“Anything to go on?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, one queer thing,” said Hill. “You remember the first case, there were some marks on the girl’s clothes which looked as if they’d been made by a dog’s paws, and there was some dog’s spittle on her right hand? Same traces of spittle and of a toffee on this child’s. Wouldn’t like to let that news out yet, but we’re going to start looking for a man with a dog – hell of a case in its way, the mother goes out to work, and we’ve lost a day because everyone thought it was missing by drowning until a couple going for a cuddle on the grass found the kid – yes, and strangled.”
Gideon said: “Pull out all the stops, Hippo. We’ve got to get that swine quick.”
He rang off.
Scott-Marie was watching intently.
“We could do with two hundred and fifty men extra down there,” said Gideon, and that did n
ot sound extravagant as he said it. “If that was the only job they did for a month, it would be worth it to make sure the swine doesn’t get a third victim.”
“You’ve already convinced me that you’re right,” the Commissioner said, quietly. “Why don’t you go over to the Yard at once? I’ll run your wife home – or my wife will – and I’ll have a word with the Chief Constable at Bournsea.”
“Thanks very much,” said Gideon.
Keith Ryman first heard about the Bournsea crime on the television that afternoon. A photograph of the dead child was flashed on the screen, with a police request for anyone who had seen a man with her to inform the nearest police station.
“. . . over a hundred policemen are engaged in the hunt for clues,” the announcer said.
Ryman snapped his fingers.
“What’s the matter, honey?” Helen asked.
“Just thinking,” Ryman replied. “Just had an idea.”
8
MASS ATTACK
Gideon did his share of the investigation from his desk, but he knew exactly what was happening in Bournsea.
It was as if a great animal had woken, shrugged himself and begun to prowl. In Bournsea itself, and in the county surrounding it, messages went out to all police, uniformed or the plain-clothes branch, on duty or off. As it was Sunday, the weekend traffic going away from the seaside resort was very heavy, but except at key points the uniformed police were taken off traffic control, and special constables and AA and RAC scouts took over.
It was a fine day, with the temperature about seventy degrees, although as usual the sea temperature was ten degrees or more lower. The beaches were crowded. There were masses of weekenders and more day trippers, but if the police drive was left until tomorrow, when the crowds would be smaller, then anyone who had been here last evening might be gone, and be almost impossible to trace; people were notoriously reluctant to come forward in response to police requests.
