by John Creasey
Roger saw him standing in the doorway of a shop opposite, wearing an old raincoat; rain streamed down his battered trilby hat, a man who looked like a tramp and was probably worth a hundred thousand pounds.
Bishop, of the local Division, was standing with him. Two plain-clothes men were at the locked door of the shop itself, but others were standing back, as if they did not relish being so near. Bishop was tall and thin, an angular forty, with knuckly hands and a bony jaw. He was a ‘play safe’ officer, and didn’t take risks with himself or with his men if he could avoid it.
Watching from other doorways and from the street were perhaps twenty plain-clothes detectives, including some Flying Squad officers and some Divisional men in uniform. The two by the door were obviously trying to force the lock.
Turnbull wasn’t in sight.
Roger said: ‘Hallo, Bish. Having trouble?’
Bishop turned swiftly.
‘I’d like to cut the swine’s throat myself.’
‘What’s he done now?’
‘Just thrown a Molotov cocktail at my chaps, two of them have been carted off to hospital.’
Roger’s heart seemed to miss a beat.
‘Badly burned?’
‘Shouldn’t be too bad, but—’ Bishop glared across at the shop, with its boarded windows and its locked door. ‘How much more damage will he do, that’s my worry.’
Roger didn’t speak.
‘Mr West,’ said Gossen, moving forward and touching Roger with a talon-like hand which was very pale and almost transparently white, ‘Mr West, I hope you’ll do all you can to make sure my premises aren’t damaged.’
‘Here’s a man with his face burnt, and another with his hand burnt nearly to the bone, and all Gossen can talk about is his bloody shop. I’d tear the place apart if I thought it would do any good.’ Bishop looked as savage as he sounded.
‘My life’s fortunes are in those premises, Mr West,’ Gossen said as if in despair.
‘We won’t do any damage we don’t have to,’ Roger told him. ‘What’s the trouble with the lock?’
‘He had it made for the Bank of England,’ Bishop growled.
‘There are a lot of valuable things on those premises, I had to make sure that there was a good lock,’ Gossen protested.
Roger asked: ‘Is Turnbull here?’
‘He’s gone to see if he can get in the back way,’ Bishop said. ‘I tore a strip off him. He came round and started ordering my chaps about.’
‘Who traced Ashley here?’ asked Roger.
‘Turnbull started the ball rolling,’ Bishop admitted. ‘It’s not what he does it’s the way he does it that gets my goat. He called the fire station for help without a by your leave. I—’
A small glass bottle appeared suddenly at a hole in the window, and fell just behind two men at the door. As it burst, a hissing cloud of smoke and a burning liquid which ran about in a dozen directions, giving vicious indications of the awful injury it could do to a human being. It caused a shocked pause. Then: ‘That’s settled that,’ Bishop rasped. ‘I’m going to break that door down.’
Gossen cried: ‘No!’
The sound of a fire engine bell came clearly, as Roger said: ‘Bish, I want to know this before the firemen come. How did you know that Ashley was here?’
‘One of our chaps saw a man who answered his description, and reported. Turnbull was here, and was on it like a flash.’
The firefighting unit swung round a corner and pulled up, and the blue-clad men jumped off, already wearing steel helmets and carrying their axes.
Gossen called out in a frail but carrying voice: ‘Mr Ashley, don’t cause any more trouble, sir, you’ll never get away. Give yourself up, Mr Ashley, it will be best in the long run.’
There was no response.
‘Get the door down, will you?’ Bishop said to the Fire Service Officer who came clumping over.
Axes were raised and smacked down into the oak of the doors, dexterous twists and turns freed each one, then it smacked home again. Every blow seemed to strike at Gossen’s frail body; with each, he winced.
‘What’s that petrol and phosphorus doing in there?’ Roger asked Gossen.
‘Don’t ask me, Mr West. I’m not responsible for what my workmen do, am I? Why, I don’t even know for certain who’s in there! The shop shouldn’t have been opened at all until midday, I always prefer to open it myself, and I’m not at all well these days—’
The door sagged, and one of the firemen pushed it violently open. It fell with a crash, leaving a gaping hole. The firemen stepped to one side, and Roger moved forward with the Chief Fire Officer.
‘Carry a spare helmet?’ Roger asked.
‘Yes. Charlie—’ the officer snapped his fingers, a man brought a steel helmet. ‘Better let me lead the way, Mr West.’
Bishop joined them.
The inside of the shop was cavern-dark, but the fire officer used a powerful torch, and its beam crept round the empty walls, now and again striking a picture hanging on a hook, or one standing up against the wall. There were empty counters, or draped trestle tables. Unlighted electric lamps hung down, all with white, old-fashioned office shades. Everywhere was a smell of dust and a smell of varnish and paint.
‘Put on a light,’ called Bishop.
There was a click.
‘No electricity,’ the firefighting officer remarked uneasily.
‘Ashley!’ Roger called. ‘Don’t make it more difficult for yourself. Give yourself up.’
There was no answer.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Bishop. ‘They might have guns, or more of that petrol.’
The beam of the torch moved, and fell on a closed door in a corner.
‘Looks as if we’ll have to get that down too,’ Roger said, and went near it, looking up at the low ceiling, to dodge aside if more liquid fire came.
‘You’ll never force that door, Gossen’s made sure about that,’ Bishop declared sourly. ‘He sometimes stores pictures worth thousands.’
‘Show me a door, and I’ll force it in a few minutes,’ boasted the Fire Officer.
‘I’ll go and have a look at the back, while you’re doing it,’ Roger said to Bishop. ‘Coming?’
‘You’re as bad as Turnbull,’ Bishop growled, but led the way. It had nearly stopped raining, and there was a brighter look about the sky. The crowds were larger, and an ambulance was standing by.
Bishop took a narrow side turning, then opened a wooden gate. This led to gardens divided by brick walls which looked as if they might fall down under pressure. Some distance along, about the spot where he would expect the back yard of Gossen’s shop, was a low, squat square concrete building, ugly as it could be, and with only two small barred windows. Turnbull was working at one of the bars, and the sound of a saw screeching on metal was harsh and loud.
‘What the hell does he want – a medal?’ Bishop demanded.
Then Turnbull swung round, saw them, and beckoned furiously. Bishop would have ignored him; Roger broke into a run.
‘What is it?’ he demanded as he drew level.
‘Smoke in there,’ Turnbull said, jerkily. ‘There must be a hell of a fire, I can’t cut through these bars in time.’
Roger smelt the unmistakable stench of burning petrol.
‘Keep trying,’ he urged, and raced back to Portobello Road, to warn the men there. Gossen was peering in at the door of the shop, and Roger pushed him aside, with Bishop on his heels. As they reached the door, one fireman said: ‘We’re through, sir.’
The Chief Officer put his shoulder to the door, and heaved it back. Thick smoke billowed out, surrounding them and making them choke.
Then Roger saw that Turnbull had managed to get inside.
13: Self-Destruction
TURNBULL was thrusting himself towards a corner where the fire was fierce and glowing red. The whole place was thick with grey smoke which had a peculiar, oily smell of petrol, paint and varnish burning, and in this, Turnbull loomed
hugely. A man was lying head towards the door, only a few yards from the fire. Turnbull reached him, a second ahead of Roger. Gasping from the smoke, they bent down to pick the man up.
Then Roger was yanked aside, and the Chief Fire Officer said: ‘We’ve got masks.’
‘Get him out, quick,’ Turnbull rasped.
‘We’ll get him out, you two keep out of the way.’
It seemed an age but, it was only a few seconds before two firemen arrived with smoke masks. Roger and Turnbull staggered out choking and coughing one against the other, but Roger made himself stand and watch as the huddled figure was dragged out.
‘I’ll bet a pony that’s Michael Ashley,’ Turnbull wheezed. Then he stopped, for another man, obviously a dead man, was carried out.
‘Or that is,’ Roger said.
The sun was shining, and it was quite warm.
Gossen, looking like a ghoul, was drooping in a shop doorway, watching two men being thrust into an ambulance, and seeing the firemen, with their hoses snaking and writhing like giant worms, filling with water which smacked into the shop, and into the strongroom. The crowd was several hundred strong, and very noisy: cordons of police were at the barricades.
Roger and Turnbull stood watching the two stretchers.
The first man was Michael Ashley, with his hair burnt, and ugly red patches on his forehead; his clothes were singed, but apparently his body hadn’t been badly burnt. A sheet covered the head and face of the second man.
The ambulance moved off, with a Yard detective squatting next to Ashley, and an ambulance man with him.
Roger asked Bishop: ‘Where can we talk to Gossen?’
‘In a hurry?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a back parlour to a shop along here, we can use that,’ Bishop said, and looked at Turnbull with acute dislike.
Roger said: ‘Turnbull, go and find out how soon Ashley can talk, and report in person to me at the Yard, will you?’
Turnbull was almost meek.
‘Right.’ He turned away, and Roger gripped Gossen’s arm.
‘Come on, we want to talk to you.’
‘You ought to be in there, saving my pictures, saving everything!’ Gossen choked. His eyes were staring and wild, his voice so hoarse that it seemed to hurt him.
Bishop led the way into a sweet shop, had a word with the old man at the counter, and then took Roger and Gossen into the little parlour at the back. There was a sofa, a coal fire smouldering, some cartons of sweets and chocolates in one corner. Roger let Gossen go, and said coldly: ‘Don’t forget this is a murder investigation, Gossen, and don’t forget that your strongroom was destroyed by arson.’
‘What are you trying to tell me? That I burned my own place? You must be crazy!’
‘Let’s take it that I’m crazy,’ Roger said, still roughly. ‘When did Michael Ashley go there?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘How many people have the keys to your shop?’
‘Only—only me.’
‘How many have keys to the strongroom?’
‘Any—anyone can make a set of keys, they only had to borrow them for five minutes and make impressions.’ The defiance in the old man’s voice was less strident, and he did not meet Roger’s eyes.
‘One set of keys, and you look after them. You’ll have a hell of a job proving that anyone made impressions, then. You knew we were looking for Ashley, every newspaper in the country has carried the story.’
‘I told him myself,’ Bishop put in. ‘Personally.’
‘So you knew we were after him,’ Roger repeated. ‘Why let him hide in there? Come on, out with it.’ He had never sounded harsher, never looked more menacing. ‘You gave shelter to a man wanted on suspicion of murder. You’d better have a good reason.’
Sweat made Gossen’s leathery face look greasy. Bishop was standing by his side, ready to clap an arresting hand on his shoulder. The shopkeeper hovered in the doorway, until the shop bell clanged. Gossen’s lips began to quiver, but he insisted: ‘I didn’t know he was there, I tell you. One of my runners told me he wanted to hide a pal, so I let him. I didn’t know who he was going to hide, didn’t have any idea.’
‘Who was the runner?’ Bishop demanded.
‘It was Hill, the chap who was burned to death, that’s all I know!’ cried Gossen.
‘Did Hill work for anyone else?’ demanded Roger. ‘Did he work for Jeremy Clinton?’
Gossen gasped: ‘No!’ so quickly that Roger felt positive that he was lying.
‘Get the truth out of him if you can,’ Roger said to Bishop, ‘and see if your chaps can get a line on Clinton, will you?’
‘You bet I will,’ Bishop promised.
The sun was hot when Roger reached the street. At least a thousand people, half of them Jamaicans, were gazing and chattering. Women with babies in their arms or in prams, with toddlers at their skirts, men with small children on their shoulders. The police cordoned off the area about the shop, but not the ends of the street. Only one fire engine remained, and the hoses were being coiled up to that. The Chief Fire Officer was coming out of the broken doorway, trampling on the mass of blackened wreckage. A dozen or so scorched canvases were leaning against the outside wall, and inside there were several dozen more. The paint and varnish on them had blistered badly in the heat, although the actual canvas hadn’t been burnt. Most of the gilt frames were scorched, but not beyond repair.
‘That all you got out?’ Roger asked.
‘The rest is just a sticky mess,’ said the Fire Officer. ‘We’ll have a good look round when we’ve got some light on, but I don’t think you’ll salvage much. There was a lot of paint and varnish stored in a corner, and a dozen medicine bottles filled with petrol and a spot of nitro in the corks, I’d say. Midget firebombs. There are plenty of traces of an explosion and nitroglycerine residue, looks to me as if a bomb was set to go off at a certain time. Not much doubt that Hill tried to reach the door, he didn’t set fire to the varnish and spirits. Ashley could have, but—anyway, I’m glad you got him alive.’
Roger let him run on for a minute, then broke in, shook hands, and hurried along to his car.
‘The dead man was first suffocated by smoke, which was the cause of death, the burns were caused partly before and partly after death,’ said the pathologist’s report at the Yard. ‘Identification is by means of the jaw and teeth. He was Arthur Hill, aged forty-nine, of no fixed address.
‘The other man, with head and hand burns, was not seriously injured on other parts of the body and recovered consciousness within an hour of being brought to the hospital. His right hand was only slightly burnt. His name is Michael Ashley, of New Bond Street, London, W1, and Dolchester Mansions, W1.’
‘Ashley says he decided to hide because he thought we’d charge him, and he wanted a chance to find out who really killed Maggie Roy,’ Turnbull reported. ‘He said he paid Hill twenty quid to let him hide there.’
‘Think he’s telling the truth?’ Roger asked.
‘Like hell I do. I’d like to hand him over to your New York pals for some third degree. They’d make him talk. I’ll say that for them. They’d make Gossen talk, too, and that’s more than Bishop will.’
Roger said: ‘You’ve got a lot of wrong ideas about New York and other things.’
‘Who says so?’
‘I’m saying so,’ Roger answered, patiently. ‘Turnbull, I know something’s eating you and I think I know what it is, but if you’re not careful, it will break you. You’re relying too much on your own judgement. If it lets you down—’
‘Listen to who’s talking,’ jeered Turnbull. ‘While you were a CI you broke every rule in the book. Did you ever wait for a superintendent’s approval before acting? Not on your nelly! Now it’s do as you say, not as you did. I never did like being preached at, and while we’re on the subject—’
‘Shut up!’ Roger, his patience snapped, raised his voice almost to a shout. ‘I’m your superior officer and I’m gi
ving you orders, if that’s the only way you’ll play it. Don’t do anything else on this case without first consulting me. Got that?’
Turnbull looked furious enough to strike him. It was ludicrous for two senior officers to be viciously hostile, but the crisis was on them. If Turnbull lost his self-control completely, he would have to be taken off the case.
Turnbull said icily: ‘Yes, sir,’ and turned on his heel.
This had happened between them once before, when Turnbull had gone too far; then Roger had saved him from disaster. Now unhappiness over his wife warped his judgement again, and it was going to make a lot of difficulties.
Roger had a gloomy feeling that he could have handled the situation better, and was scowling at his desk when Turnbull appeared, with the report on the pictures salvaged from Gossen’s place. He dropped it in front of Roger.
‘Old canvases cleaned off, and some had the background of period work painted in,’ Roger observed, as if there had been no trouble. ‘Two canvases in course of preparation, after Constable and Gainsborough. See what that means?’
‘It squares with a note from Fletcher about those paintings at the Gallery waiting for Rapelli,’ Turnbull answered. This seemed a great effort to restore good relations. ‘They’re recent paintings done on old canvas with paint faked to seem old. Sticks out a mile that the Old World Gallery’s been sending faked paintings to New York and getting big prices for them. There’d be a small value on them in England, so they wouldn’t be subject to control. There’d be no trouble getting them out either – the problem would be getting them into the United States, and then boosting their value. Old Rapelli was half-blind and easy to fool.’
‘How about his daughter?’ Roger demanded.
‘Could have been fooled because she knows damn all or could be a party to the racket,’ Turnbull answered. ‘Clint was married to her, and he’s got a record of fraud. Say! How about that for the motive we’ve been looking for?’ Turnbull clapped his hands with a noise like a bullet shot. ‘Margaret Roy discovered that Telisa and her ex, with Ashley and maybe Wickham, were in this racket, and was going to blab, so she was killed. She’d told Rapelli by telephone before she died, so he had to go. Then Clint tried to kill anyone who could name him and Telisa, including Ashley. When the hell are we going to get Clint?’
