Impartiality Against the Mob

by John Creasey

  So was the secret of the organisation of illegal immigrants. Oh, he knew that existed, but it had been absolutely unknown for a very long time. Even now, the police only saw the tip of the iceberg. It was this which worried him most; that it might be on a very much larger scale than he or anyone else had ever suspected.

  So might the Strike Breakers.

  In different ways each could have a deadly significance; could lead to social distress and social disorder in a disastrous way. If there were a clash tomorrow at any one of the docks and it got out of control, it could delay any hope of peace at the docks indefinitely.

  And if there were many true ghettos hidden from the local authorities, and if the people living there were breeding as fast as they had been in those places already discovered, then there was real danger of epidemics, and so grave danger to health, quite apart from the political dangers and the inevitable social unrest.

  Gideon, moving into the house, gave a little shudder.

  He stopped at the second door on the left, which was at the foot of the staircase, and went into a scene of strange but expected emptiness, painter’s dustsheets on the floor, furniture gone, two ladders reaching up to a great hole in the ceiling. In the household this was called Penny’s Pothole, and always brought a smile; but Gideon was not smiling then, for a new and most disturbing thought had struck him.

  The Strike Breakers, right-wing extremists, might not stop at trying to break strikes.

  They might attempt to take the law into their own hands where the immigrants were concerned. There might well be shiploads of human beings who could run not simply into the measured obstruction of the law but against the savage antagonism of obsessed men quite capable of using violence born of their hatred.

  It was bad enough to think of ships at sea, their holds crammed with men whose one hope and object in life was to get into Britain and become absorbed into the community;: it was far worse to think, for instance, that one such ship might be sunk.

  He shivered again.

  There were in fact two shiploads of Pakistanis at sea, one not far off the east coast, one not far off the south. This one, if all went smoothly, would land between Brighton and Eastbourne, guided by a motorboat which would rendezvous with them after dark. The sea was calm. The immigrants, sitting on long wooden benches or on boxes or on anything which jutted out, were in total darkness. Every now and again a man prayed in a wailing voice. Every now and again, a man was sick.

  The immigrants in the other ship were not so lucky.

  They were in a smaller vessel, no bigger than a tug, and had less room. None was actually sitting, although some could lean against a stanchion or a bulkhead. The hold stank from oil and grease. The sea was choppy and they were never steady for a moment but went swaying and sprawling, swaying and sprawling.

  Many were sick.

  One, although the others did not yet know it, was dead.

  Among those on the look out, not for these ships specifically but for any vessel which might be carrying immigrants and might seek to land after dark, were the coastguards; the customs men; naval and air force craft; and the police at docks and in villages. None was spending full time on this search but many were keeping a weather eye open.

  Another man keeping his eye open for any attempt to smuggle Pakistanis and Indians from Holland or Belgium, was a member of the crew of a small Yarmouth fishing trawler. He was a recent member who had put some money into a small fleet, otherwise – since he was from the south – he would never have been accepted by master or men. He was in fact one of the committee of a group which called itself the Strike Breakers, and one of several who had infiltrated the ranks of the coastal fishermen. His main task was to find out who helped the immigrants, so that the police could be tipped off, but deep down his one concern was to make sure that as few as possible landed alive.

  By the time Matt Honiwell reached his house, Gideon had recovered from the impact of that ugly thought; it was not completely gone but it did seem to him most unlikely, and no longer troubled him. All the same, as he opened the door to Matt and stood aside in a hall just wide enough for two big men to pass, he determined to share the thought; there wasn’t a better man to share it with than this big, burly, cuddly-looking man.

  Chapter 8

  HONIWELL’S FEARS

  The front door of Gideon’s house opened on to the passage and to the stairs, half the passage width, beyond. Off the wide section of the passage led the front room; opposite the foot of the stairs was another doorway into the room which had Penny’s Pothole in the ceiling. This was next to the big room and on its other side was a narrow one, once the kitchen, now a kind of living-cum-sewing-cum-everyday room with a television, books, magazines, a room which was often untidy but like the rest of the rooms, Kate-clean. Beyond this was the old scullery made larger and converted – years ago – into a kitchen big enough for a big deal-topped table and for the family to eat.

  The room at the end of the stairs was the dining-room.

  “Have a look in here,” Gideon said, opening the door. Honiwell stepped in, stopped, stared upwards, gasped, and after a moment demanded: “Someone drop a bomb on you?” He looked round. “Where’s that big dining-room suite? And the sideboard? Where—” He broke off, went in and peered up and demanded: “Why? That’s the question? Why make a big hole in the ceiling?”

  “To get into the attic,” answered Gideon.

  “Now, come off it!”

  “All the same, it’s true,” Gideon assured him, and chuckled. “Did I ever tell you I’d promised Penny that I’d make the attic soundproof so that she could practise her piano day and night, if she wanted to, without disturbing a soul?”

  “Yes, but you didn’t need to make a hole that size! And in the dining-room. What about the bedroom above it?”

  “Penny’s, nowadays,” Gideon answered. “We had some soundproofing and attic extending specialists in and there were a dozen reasons, mostly water pipes and gas pipes, why they couldn’t get up into the loft, or come through the roof. There were also rafter problems for a grand piano and everything she would need up there. But by lowering the ceiling of this room and using Penny’s bedroom it became a practical proposition and they’re nearly done. Penny’s bedroom will be smaller, the walls are packed with fibreglass and whatever they use for soundproofing. The window’s double-glazed. One day next week they’ll hoist the piano up through there and a week after that have the joists and the floorboards back in position – on hinges so that if we ever wanted the piano down it could be done.” When Honiwell made no immediate comment, Gideon went on: “Kate’s gone to Pru for a few days until the worst of the noise is over.”

  “I can’t say I blame her,” Honiwell said. “But—” He broke off.

  “But what?”

  “None of my business,” Honiwell muttered, “but didn’t this cost a fortune?”

  “One thousand two hundred pounds.”

  “Good God! When Penny might—” Honiwell broke off again.

  “Get married any day and move to a home of her own. Yes, I know,” Gideon said quietly. “Of course she might, but at least—” It was his turn to break off, and Honiwell’s to press, but Honiwell simply gulped and made no comment. Gideon turned and led the way into the utility room where two huge armchairs were on either side of the fireplace; the old iron stove had been taken away and the television set stood where it had been, still on the old wrought iron pedestal. “Cold beer or warm, or would you rather have a brandy?” asked Gideon.

  “Cold beer, I think.”

  Gideon went into the kitchen and brought out four cans of beer and two glasses. He opened two cans and gave one to Honiwell, to pour out and make his own ‘head’. Then they settled down, Gideon facing the door as he always did if he had a chance.

  “How’s Netta?” he asked.

  “Couldn’t
be better,” Honiwell replied. “And Kate?”

  “Fine,” Gideon raised his glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  “Matt,” Gideon said, “I imagine the whole of the Yard knows about Penny and Alec Hobbs.”

  “Have to be deaf, not to,” Honiwell remarked.

  “What’s the general reaction?”

  “Everyone’s for you. Nearly everyone likes Alec Hobbs, so if the match is agreeable to you – and if it wasn’t you’d find a way to stop it – good luck to them.” Honiwell broke off, drank some, and then said very quietly: “George, we are talking as friends, aren’t we? I haven’t affronted you by calling the Deputy Commander ‘Alec’?”

  “Good Lord, no!” Gideon was surprised into a broad smile. He knew that Honiwell had been long enough at the Yard to observe all the customs as well as the regulations, and in the office he would not talk of Hobbs except as ‘Mister’ or ‘Deputy’; nor would he use Gideon’s Christian name. But here, yes: they were old friends and closer than many he could recall. The other man with whom he might have talked freely and with absolute familiarity on any other subject was Hobbs; but not about Penny, not in the circumstances.

  “What were you going to say?” Gideon asked.

  “What do you think about Penny and Hobbs?” asked Honiwell.

  “On the whole I’m more for than against, even though she is fifteen years younger and he’s a widower. They’ve been very good friends for a long time and I think they could be very happy. Neither of them shows any sign of jealousy, each knows the other’s career has to be first or near-first much of the time. Yes, on the whole I’m glad.”

  “But have a doubt,” Honiwell said.

  “Inevitably, I suppose.”

  “I daresay,” Honiwell conceded. “Are they likely to get married soon?”

  “I think Alec would like to,” Gideon answered.

  “Not Penny?”

  “I think she would, on the whole,” Gideon replied. “She had a lot of doubts and misgivings in case Alec felt she should give up her career but he’s reassured her about that.” Gideon drank some beer and put the glass on a small table standing inside the fireplace. “So, you think I’m crazy to make a soundproof room for Penelope to practise in before they’ve decided what to do. Isn’t that about it?”

  “Yes,” admitted Honiwell, half-smiling. “I think I’ve a glimmering, but tell me.”

  “She needs a place to practise,” Gideon said. “It has to be a place of her own, where she can go without the slightest fear of causing annoyance or resentment. Alec can give her one, of course – whether they live in a flat or a house, in the heart of London or just outside, he can and will give it to her. But I don’t want that to weigh with her when she makes her decision about marrying. I think it would. I think she would hesitate about being at home all the time and exasperating some neighbours and even us. There are times,” admitted Gideon with a smile, “when Kate and I feel we can’t stand another arpeggio or another phrase of the same music over and over and over again. This way, she’ll make her decision for the right reasons – not the wrong ones.”

  “That’s what I suspected,” Honiwell said, quietly. “You and Kate take the biscuit.”

  Gideon said: “Kate’s the one in this family! More beer?”

  “Is there another just as cold?”

  “Yes,” Gideon said, picked up one he had brought in and took it back to the kitchen. Soon, he appeared with another straight out of the refrigerator. “This ought to suit you.” He opened the can and went on as it popped and sprayed: “What do you think about the immigration situation, Matt?”

  Honiwell took the can, placed it by the empty one, seemed to hesitate for a long time, and then looked straight into Gideon’s eyes and said with great precision: “It scares me stiff.”

  Until that moment, Gideon had been more relaxed and content than he had all day, had half-forgotten what it was he wanted to talk to Honiwell about. Now, disquiet and memory came crowding back, although neither showed in his expression.

  “What particular aspect of it?”

  “Three aspects. First, I don’t think we yet know the size of the problem and it isn’t one we can handle on our own. By ‘we’ I mean the police generally. I’ve been to the Midlands, the Manchester area, Glasgow and the north-east where most of the concentrations of immigrant populations are, outside of London. Our chaps try, but basically it’s a matter for the local authorities. Some want to move fast but can’t, some are afraid that if they dig too deep they’ll find more than they bargained for, and they don’t want either the scandal or the possibility of having to do a big rehousing job. And to be fair, rehousing is a hell of a problem even without complications. I don’t think we as the police can or should tackle the major problem. I’d like to suggest we draw up a report, without comment, and give it to the Home Office. And if I had my way, send a copy to the Press.”

  Gideon, lips pursed, nodded slowly.

  “Second, there’s the problem of the profiteering landlords,” Honiwell went on. “They buy up old property which hasn’t yet been condemned, say – swear it’s for family use only. They use hundreds of contacts, and cram the illegal immigrants in like cattle. They’ve even gone as far as arranging to have wholesale supplies of food delivered to the doors so that some of the poor devils never need get out by daylight. Gradually these are moved to better homes – whenever their families can afford it, that is. There’s a second kind of racket going on, too. Some families unofficially adopt complete strangers who become boarders, and have to pay through the nose – but at least these have reasonable food and living conditions. Eventually all those who get out of the ghettos are found a place like this and a forged work permit, and they get by. But while we can’t get any accurate figures there are some ways of getting approximations. I’d say one immigrant in ten dies in the ghetto.”

  Gideon flinched.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No. But in thirty-seven cases covering nearly five hundred people that I have been able to check, it comes out to more than ten per cent, that’s why I say ten. It is just possible to check occasionally. Now and again there’s a deeply conscientious council employee, a rent collector or a public health official who dedicates himself to finding facts. On the whole we get most help from newspapermen, especially some of the youngsters in the worst areas. They keep on compiling, putting snippets in the local newspapers, besieging local councils, and M.P.s. Too many of them come up against a blank wall of ‘we don’t want to know’.”

  Gideon frowned, but did not interrupt.

  “It’s absolutely true,” Honiwell insisted. “Local newspapers are gossip sheets more than campaigning organs and their readers don’t really want to know. At least two have gone out of business because they printed too much, and advertising and circulation dropped. George, this is an awful problem. It really is.”

  “Yes,” Gideon grunted. “Yes, I can see.”

  “What it needs is a big nationwide campaign and what it still gets is hush-hush and swept under the carpet.”

  “Are you telling me that the ten per cent who don’t get out of these ghettos, as you call them, are killed?”

  “They just die.”

  “But how?”

  “Starvation and neglected illness, mostly bronchial. All of them have visits from Pakistani doctors who are on the lookout for smallpox or typhoid or cholera, and a pretty tight watch is kept on that although I suspect—” Honiwell gulped and broke off, and while Gideon stared at him as if commanding him to go on, he finished his beer. “George,” he said, “I have a bloody awful feeling that if smallpox or cholera is found the patient is allowed to die, and the place where he lived is closely watched. If there are other cases, it is burned. I don’t know this for certain but I do know that several old houses in immigrant quarters have been bu
rned to the ground before the fire brigade could arrive. We’re only at the beginning of this business. When Tom Riddell discovered what was going on in that place near Notting Hill, he really started something.”

  Gideon said: “He certainly did.” It passed through his mind that when Detective Superintendent Thomas Riddell had first been assigned to a job concerning immigrants he had wanted to dodge it because of violent colour prejudice. Then he had begun to see some of the evidence of overcrowding, victimisation and exploitation, and he had nearly died holding up a house in Notting Hill which, without support from human backs, would have crushed hundreds of immigrants to death.

  “George,” Honiwell went on, “I know that ninety-five per cent of all the immigrants live reasonably and decently – not our way but their way. But even if ninety-nine per cent did, and there were two million in Britain altogether, think how many live in hell? Over twenty thousand! And they are continually smuggled in. There’s no certainty how many but several shiploads a week, I would say, each with anything between fifty and a hundred on board. At least one such ship is said to have sunk off the north German coast in the gales last month, certainly a number of bodies were washed up. There was no identification, but finger rings and other adornments suggested the people were Pakistanis. Whoever sends them over from the Continent is absolutely cold-blooded and ruthless, it’s an Interpol job if ever I saw one. I’ve a written recommendation here.” He tapped the brief case, and then leaned back, momentarily closing his eyes.

  When he opened them again, he said in a hopeless-sounding voice: “I’m not sure that’s the worst, George.”

  Gideon, already sitting absolutely rigid from tension born out of Honiwell’s manner as well as the story itself, did not make any comment; simply waited for the other man to go on.