by Jack Higgins
When she turned and went through the main office, she found that she was trembling. She didn’t bother with the lift, but hurried down the three flights of marble stairs to the ground floor and out through the revolving door into the portico at the front of the Town Hall.
She leaned against one of the great stone pillars that towered into the night above her and a gust of wind kicked rain into her face in an oddly menacing manner, ice-cold, like the fear that rose inside her.
‘Damn you, Ben Garvald! Damn you to hell!’ she said fiercely and plunged down the steps.
‘Quite a girl,’ Brady said.
Grant nodded. ‘And then some. She couldn’t be anything else to survive a place like Khyber Street.’
‘Do you think there’s anything in it, sir?’
‘Could be. They didn’t come much tougher than Ben Garvald in his day. I don’t think nine years of Parkhurst and the Moor will have improved him any.’
‘I never knew him personally,’ Brady said. ‘I was pounding a beat in “C” Division in those days. Had he many friends?’
‘Not really. He was always something of a lone wolf. Most people were afraid of him if anything.’
‘A real tearaway?’
Grant shook his head. ‘That was never Garvald’s style. Controlled force – violence when necessary, that was his motto. He was a commando in Korea. Invalided out in ’51 with a leg wound. Left him with a slight limp.’
‘Sounds a real hard case. Shall I get his papers?’
‘First we need someone to handle him.’ Grant pulled a file forward, opened it quickly and ran his fingers down a list. ‘Graham’s still on that rape case at Moorend. Varley went to a factory break-in Maske Lane way an hour ago. Gregory, sick. Lawrence, sick. Forbes, gone to Manchester as a witness in that fraud case coming up tomorrow.’
‘What about Garner?’
‘Still helping out in “C” Division. They haven’t got a plain clothes man capable of standing on his own two feet out there at the moment.’
‘And every man a backlog of thirty or more cases at least to work through,’ Brady said.
Grant got to his feet, walked to the window and stared down into the rain. ‘I wonder what the bloody civilians would say if they knew that tonight we’ve only got five out in the whole of Central Division.’
Brady coughed. ‘There’s always Miller, sir.’
‘Miller?’ Grant said blankly.
‘Detective Sergeant Miller, sir,’ Brady stressed the title slightly. ‘I heard he finished the course at Bramshill last week.’
There was nothing obvious in his tone and yet Grant knew what was implied. Under the new regulations any constable who successfully completed the one year Special Course at the Police College at Bramshill House had to be promoted substantive sergeant immediately on returning to his force, a source of much bitterness to long-serving police officers who had either come up the hard way or were still awaiting promotion.
‘I was forgetting him. He’s the bloke with the law degree, isn’t he?’ Grant said, not because he needed the information, but mainly to see what the other man’s reaction would be.
‘So they tell me,’ Brady replied, a knife edge to his voice that carried with it all the long-serving officer’s contempt for the ‘book man.’
‘I’ve only met him once. That was when I was on the interviewing panel that considered his application for Bramshill. His record seemed pretty good. Three years on the pavement in Central Division so he must have seen life. As I remember, he was first on the spot after the Leadenhall Street bank raid. It was after that the old man decided to transfer him to the CID. He did a year in “E” Division with Charlie Parker. Charlie thinks he’s got just about everything a good copper needs these days.’
‘Including a brother with enough money to see him all right for fancy cars,’ Brady said. ‘He turned up for parade once in an E-type Jag. Did you know about that?’
Grant nodded. ‘I also heard he took Big Billy McGuire into the gym and gave him the hiding of his life after Billy had let the air out of the tyres on the same car. They tell me that Billy says he can use himself and that’s praise from a master.’
‘Fancy tricks, big words,’ Brady said contemptuously. ‘Can he catch thieves, that’s the point.’
‘Charlie Parker seems to think so. He wanted him back in “E” Division.’
Brady frowned quickly. ‘Where’s he going, then?’
‘He’s joining us,’ Grant said. ‘The old man gave me the word this afternoon.’
Brady took a deep breath and swallowed back his anger. ‘Roses all the way for some people. It took me nineteen years, and at that I’m still a constable.’
‘That’s life, Jack,’ Grant said calmly. ‘Miller’s supposed to be on leave till Monday.’
‘Can I roust him out?’
‘I don’t see why not. If he’s coming to work for us, he might as well get started. His phone number’s on the file. Tell him to report in straight away. No excuses.’
A slight, acid smile burned the edges of Brady’s mouth and he turned away with his small triumph. As the door closed, Grant lit another cigarette and walked to the window.
A good man, Jack Brady. Solid, dependable. Give him an order and he’d follow it to the letter which was why he was still a Detective Constable, would be till the day he retired.
But Miller was something different. Miller and his kind were what they needed – needed desperately if they were ever to cope with a situation that got more out of hand month by month.
He went back to his chair, stubbed out his cigarette and started to work his way through the mountain of paper work that littered his desk.
Chapter 3
The houses in Fairview Avenue were typical of
the wealthy town dweller. Large without being mansions, each standing remotely in a sea of green lawn. The knowledge that Nick Miller lived in one of these did nothing to improve Jack Brady’s temper.
Four Winds was at the end, a late-Victorian town house in grey stone with a half-moon drive and double entrance. Brady drove in, parked his old Ford at the door, got out and rang the bell.
After a while, the door was opened by a slim, greying man of about his own age. He had sharp, decisive features and wore heavy rimmed library spectacles that gave him a deceptively scholarly air.
‘Yes, what is it?’ He sounded impatient and Brady noticed that he was holding a hand of cards against his right thigh.
‘I’m from the Police Department. I’ve been trying to get hold of Detective Sergeant Miller, but I can’t seem to get any reply. Is your phone out of order?’
The other man shook his head. ‘Nick has his own flat over the garage block at the back and a separate phone goes with it. As far as I know, he should be in. I’m his brother – Phil Miller. You want him for something?’
‘You could say that.’
‘I thought he was on leave till next Monday?’
‘So did he. Can I go round?’
‘Help yourself. You can’t miss it. The fire escape by the main garage door will take you straight up.’
Brady left him there, went back down the steps and followed the gravel drive round the side of the house to a rear courtyard illuminated by a period gas lamp bracketed to the wall above the back door.
The sliding doors of the garage were partially open and he went in and switched on the light. There were three cars parked side by side. A Zodiac, the famous E-type Jaguar and a green Mini-Cooper.
The anger which suddenly boiled inside him was something he found impossible to control. He switched off the light quickly, went out and climbed the iron fire escape to the landing above.
Nick Miller came awake to the sharp, insistent buzzing of the door bell. For a little while he lay there staring up at the ceiling, trying to collect his thoughts, then he threw back the blankets and swung his legs to the floor. He got to his feet, padded into the living-room, switching on a table lamp as he passed, and opened the front do
or.
Brady took in the black silk pyjamas with the Russian neck and gold buttons, the monogram on the pocket and then his eyes moved up to the face. It was handsome, even aristocratic with sharply pointed chin, high cheekbones and eyes so dark that all light died in them.
At any other time, those eyes would have given him pause, but the frustration and anger boiling inside had taken the sharp edge from his judgement.
‘You’re Miller?’ he said incredulously.
‘That’s right.’
‘Detective Constable Brady. You certainly took your own sweet time answering.’ Brady brushed past him. ‘Is it the butler’s night off or something?’
Nick shut the door and moved towards the fire-place. He opened a silver box that stood on a side table, selected a cigarette and lit it from a Queen Anne table-lighter.
‘If you could get to the point,’ he said patiently. ‘I’d been hoping for an early night.’
‘You’ve had that for a start. Superintendent Grant wants you down at Headquarters. Seems he has a use for your valuable services.’ Brady walked across to the telephone which was off the hook and replaced it. ‘No wonder I couldn’t get a bloody answer.’ He swung round angrily. ‘I’ve been trying to ring you for the past half hour.’
‘You’re breaking my heart.’ Miller ran a hand over his chin. ‘Anyway, no sense in you hanging around. I’ll see you down there. I’ll use my own car.’
‘Which one, the Rolls?’ As Nick moved past him, Brady grabbed his arm. ‘The old man said on the double.’
‘Then he’ll have to wait,’ Nick said calmly. ‘I’m going to have a shower then a shave, because I need them. You can tell him I’ll be there in half an hour.’
With surprising ease he pulled himself free and turned away again and all Brady’s anger and frustration flooded out of him in a torrent of rage. He pulled Nick round and gave him a violent shove.
‘Just who in the hell do you think you are? You jump up out of nowhere after only five years in the force with your bloody degree and your fancy cars, write your way through an examination and they make you a sergeant. Christ, in that rig-out you look more like a third-rate whoremaster.’
He looked around the luxuriously furnished room, at the thick carpets, the coloured sheepskin rugs and expensive furniture and thought of his own small semi-detached house. A police dwelling on one of the less desirable slum clearance estates on the other side of the river where men like himself and their families lived in a state of perpetual siege.
The irrational anger which he was by now quite unable to control, bubbled out of him. ‘And look at this place. More like the waiting room of one of those Gascoigne Square knocking shops.’
‘You would know, presumably?’ Nick said.
His face had gone very white, had changed completely. The skin was clear and bloodless, the crisp hair in a point to the forehead, the eyes staring through Brady like glass.
They should have warned him, but Brady was long since past the point where reason had any say in the matter. He reached out, grabbing at the black tunic, the silk ripping in his hands and then pain coursed through him like liquid fire and he staggered, a cry rising in his throat as he swung on his right arm, quite helpless.
The pressure was released and he sagged to one knee, and almost at once the pain left him. He got to his feet, dazed, rubbing his right arm in an attempt to restore some feeling to numbed muscle and nerve and looked into the dark, devil’s face. Nick smiled gently.
‘You need brains for everything, even the heavy stuff, these days. You made a mistake, Dad. You weren’t the first and you won’t be the last, but don’t speak to me like that again. Next time I’ll throw you down the fire escape. Now get out – and that’s an order, Detective Constable Brady!’
Brady turned, wordless, and stumbled to the door. It closed behind him and Nick stood there listening to the sound of the feet descending the iron fire escape. He sighed heavily, and went into the bathroom.
He stripped the torn tunic from his body and stood looking into the mirror for a while, waiting for the coolness to thaw inside him. After a moment or two he laughed shakily, opened the glass fronted door of the shower cubicle and turned it on.
When he stepped out five minutes later and reached for a towel, he found his brother leaning in the door holding the torn tunic.
‘What happened?’
‘A difference of opinion, that’s all. Brady’s the sort who’s been around for a long time. He finds it difficult to get used to someone like me jumping the queue.’
Phil Miller tossed the tunic into a corner and swore softly. ‘Why go on, Nick? I could use you in the business right now. We’re developing all the time, you know that. Why waste yourself?’
Nick moved past him into the bedroom, opened the sliding door of the wardrobe which occupied one side of the room and took down a dark blue worsted suit and freshly laundered white linen shirt. He laid them across the bed and started to dress.
‘I happen to like what I’m doing, Phil, and all the Bradys in the Force won’t make me change my mind. I’m in and I’m in to stay. The sooner they accept that, the better it will be for all of us.’
Phil shrugged and sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. ‘I wonder what the old lady would say if she was still alive. All her plans, all her hopes and you end up a copper.’
Nick grinned at him in the mirror as he quickly knotted a dark blue knitted tie in heavy silk. ‘She’d enjoy the joke, Phil. Probably is doing right now.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be on leave till Monday?’
Nick shrugged. ‘Something must have come up. I was talking to Charlie Parker from “E” Division this afternoon. He was telling me recruiting’s hit an all-time low. We’re better than two hundred men under establishment. On top of that, God knows how many are on their backs with this Asian flu that’s going around.’
‘So they need Nick Miller. But why now? What kind of a time is this for a man to be going to work?’
Nick took a dark blue Swedish raincoat from the wardrobe. ‘We do it all the time, Phil. You should know that by now. Ten p.m. till six in the morning. The Graveyard Shift.’ He grinned as he belted the coat around his waist. ‘What would you do if someone turned over one of the shops right now?’
His brother raised a hand defensively and got to his feet. ‘All right, you’ve made your point. So the great Nick Miller goes out into the night to defend society. Watch yourself, that’s all I ask. Anything can happen these days.’
‘And usually does.’ Nick grinned. ‘Don’t worry, Phil, I can look after myself.’
‘See you do. I don’t want any phone calls around four in the morning asking me to come down to the Infirmary. Ruth and the kids would take it pretty hard. For some strange reason they seem to think a lot of you.’
‘All we need now are violins.’ Nick adjusted the peak of the dark blue semi-military rain cap over one eye and turned. ‘Will I do?’
‘You’ll do all right,’ Phil said. ‘I’m not sure what for, but you’ll do.’
Nick grinned and punched him in the shoulder. ‘With any kind of luck I might manage breakfast with you.’
He moved to the door and as he opened it, Phil called sharply, ‘Nick!’
‘What is it?’
Phil sighed heavily and something seemed to go out of him. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Just watch it, that’s all.’
‘I always do.’
He turned and went out into the night, clattering down the fire escape to the cobbled yard, a strange restless excitement surging up inside him at the prospect of being back on the job after a year of space.
Phil stood in the centre of the living-room, a slight frown on his face, and beneath him from the garage came a sudden surge of power as an engine roared into life. As he opened the door, the little Mini-Cooper moved across the yard into the drive and disappeared round the corner of the house.
He stood there in the rain at the top of the iron stairway liste
ning to the sound of it fade into the distance on the run down the hill towards the city. And when the silence came, he was afraid. For the first time since he was a little boy he was really and truly afraid.
Chapter 4
The wind howled fiercely around the corner of the Town Hall and hail rattled the windows of
the Information Room.
‘God help any poor lad walking the pavement on a night like this,’ Grant said as the Duty Inspector turned from the telephone.
‘It keeps the other lot indoors as well, sir,’ the inspector pointed out. ‘One good thing about this flu. It’s no respecter of persons. There are just as many villains on their backs tonight as our lads. I can tell that by the 999 calls. Only five so far. We’re usually good for thirty at least by this time.’
‘A good thing, too, with only four mobiles out to cover the city.’ Grant looked down at the great map in the well below with the green and red lights flashing. It was just after ten and he sighed. ‘Anyway, don’t start counting your chickens. The boozers aren’t out yet. We might see some fun then.’
He went into the corridor and met Brady on his way up from the basement where the teleprinter was housed. ‘Anything from C.R.O.?’
‘They confirm he was released yesterday morning. That’s all.’
‘What about Miller?’
‘No sign of him yet.’
They moved into the main CID office and Grant snorted. ‘Taking his bloody time, I must say. You’d better get all the relevant stuff out of the file ready for him then, Jack. We’ve wasted enough time already.’
‘I’ll be in Records if you want me,’ Brady said and moved out.
Grant paused to light a cigarette and went into his office. Nick was standing by the window looking out into the night. He turned quickly and smiled.
‘Good evening, sir.’
Grant took in the highly polished Chelsea boots, the hand-stitched raincoat, the white collar and last of all, the continental raincap.
