Impartiality Against the Mob

by John Creasey

  Gideon listened to all he was told with sinking heart.

  This was a period when one lived on a precipice of labour troubles and economic disaster; one had for years. It was as if Britain had created a society in which the only way to get justice for one group was to create injustice and hardship for others. Some believed this to be a perpetual problem; believed that the ever-shortening periods of industrial peace developed a strength which would eventually overcome the causes of conflict. He was not among those who thought so. Not a politician, and as dispassionate as a man could be, he felt a deepening ache at the wounding of his country and its people and was only too aware that the consequences of this wounding injured many others in the world. But he was above all a policeman. His position made him stand apart from the causes of the disputes, whether they be basic or short-term causes. Only now and again when something like this trouble threatened, was there anything he could even try to do. In keeping the peace, as it was called, one could cause bitter enmity. If open conflict resulted, the police would automatically become involved but they would be regarded as cyphers; charges of brutality would be bandied about, the television screens and the newspapers would be full of pictures of clashes, not between the opposing groups, but between the police and one group or the other.

  Before he could say what he felt, though, there was one question he had to ask; and even that question caused a problem because it might look as if he were trying to evade responsibility.

  Both men were watching him as he made himself ask: “Why send for me, sir? Why not Uniform? Or the Commissioner? Isn’t it more their province than mine?”

  Chapter 2

  UNOFFICIAL

  To Gideon’s enormous relief, Rook began to smile and Lawless gave a broad grin. Whatever these reactions implied, it was not that they believed him to be evading the issue. Both men began at once.

  “We were saying—”

  “Percy had just prepared me for—”

  “What my first question would be,” Gideon finished for Rook. He chuckled, feeling in better spirits than he had been all the morning. What trifling things could lift or sink a man’s heart! “It’s a valid question, sir.”

  “Yes,” Rook admitted. “I’m not sure the answer is as valid, though. At the moment this is unofficial. Lawless got his tip from someone outside the Force and came straight to me because he thought I would keep it under my hat while we had time to think. And I thought you would do the same. Once this gets deep into the official channels, we don’t know where it will end.”

  “Couldn’t be more right,” said Lawless emphatically.

  “The problem is, where will it end if it doesn’t get stopped?” asked Gideon.

  “Precisely.” Rook sat very erect in his chair. “We couldn’t sit still and do nothing. We would have to have men on standby, so would Lawless and the P.L.A. everywhere, and so would you. A show of police force at a dockers’ strike meeting will enrage the dockers. We’ll be shot at from all sides and accused of being responsible for inciting trouble – especially as the extreme right-wingers will almost certainly avoid a clash with us. We would in effect do their job for them without causing them any trouble.” Rook paused, looking almost anxiously at Gideon, and went on: “Do you see what I’m driving at?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” Gideon answered. “I see only too well.”

  “Don’t you agree with the reasoning?”

  “Provided we went in to keep the opposing factions apart, yes, but if we were simply on duty and the right-wingers didn’t turn up, we’d certainly be the troublemakers. It’s almost as if someone leaked the story so as to put us on the spot, isn’t it?”

  “Could that be your informant’s motive?” Rook asked Lawless, as if startled.

  “I’d be bloody surprised,” the fat man answered. “But I couldn’t swear it isn’t. Doesn’t make much difference, though, does it? We know what’s in the wind. If we do nothing and there’s trouble, we’ll know we should have tried to stop it. If we take official action – oh, George is right,” Lawless went on. “All I can say, George, is that I don’t know what’s best.”

  “George,” Rook asked, in a no-nonsense tone, “what do you advise?”

  In all his years of experience, Gideon had never before run into a situation anything like this: top policemen withholding knowledge from top policemen! It had a funny side and also a deadly serious side, and now he was as deeply involved as either of them. Or if he joined them in their conspiracy of silence, he could be. Rook’s readiness to ignore the rules and regulations of the ‘proper channels’ did not really surprise him; in the chair of his Committee he had always been inclined to cut both corners and red tape. Percy Lawless surprised him very much indeed, for he had always been a stickler; even over-punctilious. Perhaps there was a relaxation of discipline in the Port of London Authority force; or was it that he had gone as high as he could ever hope to go and was therefore less on his guard?

  He, Gideon, remarked: “You know this would be primarily a Uniform job, don’t you?”

  Rook nodded; Lawless made no comment. Uniform at the Yard, at this time, was undergoing a difficult period, with a young, very able, almost over-efficient Commander at its head, one who would carry out every job he had to do in a manner not far short of ruthless. If he heard even a breath of this in advance he would be after the Assistant Commissioner of the Uniformed Branch to take immediate action, and that could be so easily premature.

  These two men were acutely aware of these things, of course. They had sent for him because they felt they could rely on him at least to sympathise with if not share their attitudes, and he was sitting back and bleating like a disgruntled bull. At the same time, he was letting thoughts drift through his mind. This was the kind of situation he would like to ponder, forget, and ponder again until his subconscious produced some viable new ideas.

  “George,” Rook said quietly, “I know how you like to chew the cud, but there isn’t much time.”

  “Hardly any time,” Lawless remarked, gloomily.

  “But there’s a little,” Gideon replied more vigorously. “Is the coffee they bring you as good as ever?”

  “Better,” Rook said, and lifted a telephone, speaking almost as soon as he’d put the receiver to his ear. “Send some coffee in at once,” he ordered, and put the receiver down and pushed back his chair. He was now completely relaxed, all impression of tension and urgency gone. “It’s good to see you,” he went on. “It must be over two years since our last committee meeting.”

  “Three,” Gideon observed.

  “Is it really as long as that?”

  “Must be four since you came along to see us, George,” remarked Lawless. “There ought to be a way to get together sometimes without all the pomp and ceremony of the police ball and official occasions.”

  “I rather enjoy the big nights,” Rook remarked. “But I had to miss last year’s. Touch of influenza.”

  “That miserable Asian flu which hit you twice?” Lawless sympathised.

  “I had to miss the previous year,” Gideon said. “My wife was ill.”

  “Kate all right now?” enquired Lawless.

  ‘”Fine, thanks, she—” Gideon broke off, because the door opened and an elderly man brought in a tray of coffee and biscuits, and also because of an expression on the fat man’s face which puzzled him. Could it be pain? Not physical pain, but some kind of hurt brought on by recollection?

  Rook poured out and there were the usual questions: “Sugar?” “Cream?” “How much?” until at last they were sitting back and drinking coffee, Gideon still puzzled by Lawless’s expression but no longer preoccupied by it. It was good, strong coffee, served American style with thin cream; he had acquired a taste for it on his brief visits to New York and other cities in the United States. Now, looking at Rook, he was also contemplating the problem which had
n’t yet gone too deep in his mind. He finished his first cup of coffee, handed it back, said: “May I come again?” and as Rook took the cup, he went on in almost the same breath: “We’d better leak the information to a reliable man in Fleet Street.”

  “Leak?” Lawless almost squeaked.

  Rook did not pause as he poured out, and did not speak.

  “Yes,” Gideon insisted. “We can’t tell the Press generally, that would have to come through official channels. Thanks.” He took the proffered cup. “Of course the obvious and simplest method is to make it official to all the newspapers. Then both sides would expect the police to be at the dock gates in strength.”

  “So you haven’t heard,” Rook said, rather heavily.

  “Heard what?”

  “About the strike.”

  “You mean in Fleet Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew some London editions had been stopped by a dispute,” Gideon said. He didn’t touch his coffee, just looked blankly at Rook, aware of a sinking feeling inside him. “How big and when?”

  “The London evening papers have joined in,” answered Rook. “We’ve just heard.”

  “The dailies?”

  “There’s a fifty-fifty chance that they’ll go back to work, and it’s about two-to-one against the evenings being published tonight.”

  “But you know how these stoppages spread,” Lawless put in.

  “Yes,” said Gideon, gruffly. He felt more sick at heart than ever as he sipped his coffee. The lifeblood of the nation pulsed through the docks, and the minds of the people were fed mostly through the newspapers. These were the two channels, of goods and news, which were most essential to the nation. He was surprised that this blow struck so heavy. Why the hell couldn’t employer and employed find a way of working together in harmony?

  “These bloody strikes,” Lawless said, out of the blue. It was a cri de coeur, not simply said out of exasperation or of prejudice. “I don’t know how big it is, but this group calls itself the Strike Breakers. Ever hear of them?”

  “No,” Gideon said.

  “Strikes can be bloody all right,” agreed Rook. “The ugliest one I ever had to deal with was in M’Lawa, at the copper mines. Half the poor devils were terrified of what would happen if they downed tools, so they tried to get past the pickets. The pickets were well-drilled and trained. Seven died,” he went on. “At least a hundred were severely injured. I lost one man, and two were so badly wounded they had to retire. That’s why—” He broke off, as if suddenly and for him rarely in confusion. “Never mind.”

  “That’s why you don’t want trouble at the dock gates,” Lawless observed.

  “Can you think of a better reason?” asked Rook.

  The reply silenced and presumably satisfied Percy Lawless, but it didn’t satisfy Gideon. He placed the half-finished coffee on Rook’s desk, pushed his chair back and stood up. It was only a step or two to the window. The red-tiled house was three storeys high and above a very narrow, cobbled passage, but he wasn’t thinking about buildings or passages. He was telling himself that Sir Giles Rook was the Police Commissioner of the City of London and was far superior to him in rank. So there was a limit to what he should allow himself to say, certainly he shouldn’t become involved in argument about motives. He had a great deal of experience to draw on, and although the situation outlined to him might be as bad as the others obviously believed, even if it were only half as bad he would still favour the unofficial approach. Any formal police action in advance of industrial conflict was always likely to be misinterpreted, and could lead to positive harm because it might undermine the faith of reasonable men in the impartiality of the police.

  A couple came out of a narrow doorway, the girl slim, the youth plump; and on the instant they put their arms round each other, and kissed passionately.

  Gideon turned round, and said with quiet deliberation: “I think it would be better if we missed the evening newspapers, anyhow. They always give plenty of time for action to be taken. What we need is a London national morning newspaper which would squeeze the story in at the last minute. What time is the meeting, Percy?”

  “Twelve noon,” Lawless answered promptly.

  “If a story was released by nine or ten o’clock it would be in time,” Gideon opined. “I think we should try the Daily News, it has a special late morning edition covering news which comes in up to about seven o’clock. If the story didn’t appear we would still have time to leak it to the B.B.C. on one of its hourly radio news broadcasts.” He paused for a moment before going on gruffly: “Mind you, a lot of our chaps would say that we should release the story to the newspapers and the B.B.C. and I.T.V. now, claiming that a proper job would be done at the docks. This way, my way, any attempt we made might go off half-cocked.” He looked from one to the other, suspecting that they had some reason for consulting him that they hadn’t yet vouchsafed.

  “George,” Rook said, “if it’s broadcast everywhere then the right-wingers will know there is a spy in their ranks. If it leaks out at the last minute – well, that’s the way I would prefer. But I wouldn’t force the issue, although I’m convinced the information is reliable. I confess I was hoping you would suggest that we should let the story leak out, and a reliable Fleet Street man would be just what we want. Do you know of one? We don’t.”

  Ah, thought Gideon. That’s the crunch and that’s why I’m here.

  “Possibly,” he said.

  “One thing’s certain,” said Rook. “If the story is officially released by the main television news tonight, that will give us all the official time needed. By then you should know whether the morning papers are coming out. If you’ve a friend whom you could trust, will you talk to him?”

  “We’d give you carte blanche, of course,” Lawless put in eagerly. “Whichever way seemed best to you would be all right with us – with me. Wouldn’t it be with you, Sir Giles?”

  “Yes,” Rook agreed, briskly.

  They were passing the buck, in a way that was both pleasing and flattering. Gideon knew them well enough to be sure that neither would take umbrage if he decided that he should take the story to Uniform, either direct or through his deputy. He was doubling the posts of Commander and Assistant Commissioner C.I.D. for the time being, which could cause problems. The fact that Rook had sent for him showed how strongly he felt the need for discretion, but there were other factors. Rook had the strongest personal reasons for hating the very thought of trouble at the docks; he had an emotional response which could warp his judgement. And Percy Lawless also had the strongest possible reasons for not wanting trouble; a violent clash would suggest that the Port of London Authority Police could not handle their own affairs. There was little doubt that these two men had considered all this and decided that if there was a way out of their predicament, it was through him, George Gideon, because he had the ear of so many people, the entrée to so many places, and an influence partly due to his own reputation and personality but due at least as much to the actual position itself.

  “George,” Lawless said, “if anyone can pull this out of the bag, you can. No one else would stand an earthly.”

  “I fully concur,” Rook stated.

  “Just between you and me,” said Gideon, “I think you are a pair of back-slapping buck-passing coppers. But you might be right, all the same.”

  “You’ll do it!” cried Rook, excitement breaking through.

  “I’ll try,” Gideon said.

  “Who—” began Lawless, happy and hopeful.

  “You don’t expect me to tell you who I’ll try this out on, do you?” asked Gideon. “But I’ll do what I can. Now if you will tell me who these right-wingers are, Percy, and all the details you can – who squealed, for instance, and how reliable the statement is . . .” He went on for a moment or two, inwardly at peace and knowing the others
were, too. For the time being the possibility of taking effective action deadened the impact of both dock strike and newspaper strike and their potential harm.

  “The right-wingers are a group we’ve heard rumours about for some time, dedicated to breaking strikes, hence the title the Strike Breakers. As to who gave me the story I can’t see that it would help you to know, but I’ve got my spies everywhere!” Lawless spread his hands. “Will that do, George?”

  For the time being, Gideon knew, it had to do.

  That was the very moment when Willis Murdoch, the most militant of the leaders of the dockers at the London docks, was looking across a small desk in his tiny, scrupulously tidy office just inside the King Edward Dock Gates, at a diminutive, red-haired man. Murdoch himself was powerful-looking and stocky, a man who was nearly bald, and who wore pince-nez on his broken nose. That was one of the many incongruities about him.

  “Tig,” he said, “if you’re making this up, I’ll break you into little pieces and throw you into the river.”

  “But I’m not!” protested Tig, in a voice so hoarse it sounded as if every syllable hurt him. He had a look of perpetual fear on his wizened face, not without reason for he had always fought the odds. “They’re going to bring knives and clubs, I tell you, razor blades and bicycle chains, too. And I’m not the one they’ll break into little pieces, either. I got just one piece of advice for you, Willy – make sure your chaps are ready to defend themselves.”

  “Who are these bloody Strike Breakers?” demanded Murdoch, in a reedy voice.

  “I don’t know who they are, I only know they’re coming from all over London. I was doing a job last night and they was talking – scared the living daylights out of me they did, I didn’t need telling what they would do if they caught me. I sneaked out as soon as I could, they never knew I was there. Absolutely wasted night for me, that was.”