by John Creasey
He stood back and examined it —and then he said: “Let’s go.”
The page was rushed downstairs, the moulds were made, the presses started, the great rollers turned, the folded newspapers came out, were counted automatically, were bundled and pushed on to a conveyor and carried up to the waiting vans. Men worked as if their lives depended on it, stacks were wrapped and labelled, engines roared and fumes stank and the vans went out to feed the multitudes who would expect the papers in the morning.
They went to the heart of London.
They went to the heart of each big city.
They went to the country towns, the villages, the hamlets.
They went into letter boxes and into racks.
And one of them was tucked into Gideon’s letter box before he woke, while another was pushed through the letter box of a house in Highgate owned by John Winfrith.
Gideon, gloating over that front page, felt exhilarated to a point of exultation. He read every word of every story, the quotes from man after man, fully convinced that the dangers in the situation had been vividly portrayed so that no reader could be in doubt. The people would listen and my God, the authorities would listen, too! He would never again feel that the police were fighting this battle on their own.
John Winfrith stared at the headlines and the stories and the photographs. There were so many evidences of his failure. The fact that all the dockers arrested at the docks had been bound over to keep the peace, which really meant allowed to escape scot free, was one of the worst.
Nine out of ten of his men languished in Brixton Jail, and, he felt sure, would be remanded in custody for at least a week. All the hatred he felt for society and people he believed to be ruining Britain, welled up in him; and one face peered up at him; the face of the one man above all others whom he blamed.
Chapter 19
THE BIG MACHINES
Gideon, who drove himself to the Yard that morning, pulled up outside the newsagent’s shop in the New King’s Road, and as he stepped towards the doorway saw that all the newspapers were crowded outside in the racks. Several customers were inside and Gideon hesitated for a moment before going in; he was eager to glance at all the front pages but not to be kept waiting. The grey- haired, garrulous man behind the counter caught sight of him and waved a Daily Star above his head.
“You seen this, Mr. Gideon?”
“Gideon,” a man echoed.
“Mr. Gideon,” a second exclaimed, and the couple who had just left also turned and stared.
Willy-nilly, Gideon went in, welcomed by the newsagent with a broad smile, rare in one usually over-earnest. He handed Gideon the Star and said: “You can have that with my compliments, sir. Wonderful job at the docks, that was, and – have you seen the Examiner?”
“No,” Gideon said.
“That’s with my compliments, too,” said the newsagent. “Page three, Mr. Gideon – and you’ve proper hogged the whole of Simply this morning!”
Gideon opened the copy of the Examiner, rather like the Daily Telegraph in appearance, and there he was, looking out from the columns, not a big photograph but one extremely well printed; obviously a special block had been made. Slightly self-conscious because so many pairs of eyes were concentrated on him, he skimmed the column – in fact, over two and a half columns of the top half of the page with the heading: ‘Simply Speaking’. He had no idea what to expect, although the newsagent would hardly have drawn attention to the piece had it been unfriendly. Simply had written:
If Commander George Gideon, C.B.E., really had his way, the lot of the policeman, from the London (and, he is careful to make clear) the provincial bobby up to the senior ranks of the hierarchy of Scotland Yard would be a much happier one. And lighter . . . and more successful . . . and much worse for the bad man: the criminal.
For the Commander, powerful in body, voice, and opinions, says simply that society is responsible for too much crime . . . that the police too often have to clean up the situation created by the mistaken policies of some politicians, past and present, in local government and in Westminster.
The Commander is, of course, fully aware that there may be some in high office, who do not think he should express these views, no matter how strongly he may hold them. However, he has had some thirty years in the Metropolitan Police Force. He literally worked himself up from the beat. He holds one of its highest ranks with great distinction. Some of Scotland Yard’s greatest triumphs are directly attributable to him, although he prefers to talk of team effort. He was the prime mover in the dramatic coup at London’s docks yesterday when the bloodiest riots in British history were avoided by a fraction of time and the courage and efficiency of the police.
He says the answer to our rising crime rate is not simply more police but fewer causes of crime. In a society in which nearly everything goes the crime rate is bound to soar because the incentives are so great. I rate this, very simply, as common sense from the Commander. It is widely known that the Home Office – like all Ministries – frowns upon statements of opinion from its servants, and for some reason I find difficult to understand, the Home Office appears to regard the police as its servants rather than the public’s.
The police are public servants, doing an extremely difficult job in a thorough, painstaking, efficient way occasionally shot with brilliance. I have a piece of advice for the Home Office.
Don’t reproach Commander George Gideon, C.B.E. for his outspoken manner. Persuade him, if he can be persuaded, to be the chief public relations officer for the police of the land. In fact, an Ombudsman. This would be yet another glowing triumph for common sense.
Gideon, still aware of the gaze of at least half-a-dozen people, folded the newspaper and said, a little gruffly: “Very flattering.” He wasn’t sure how he felt. A little heavy-hearted, perhaps, or apprehensive: in one way Simply had gone further than he, Gideon, had expected. But if it were possible to remove his, Gideon’s, name from the column, there would be nothing at all with which he would disagree; it was exactly what he believed to be true. These things were going through his mind as he picked up one of each of the morning’s newspapers, insisted on paying for all but the Examiner, and made his way out of the shop to the wide pavement.
There, he was astounded!
At least fifty people had gathered, many of them waving newspapers. Most were men, but women and some teenage girls were amongst them as well as three boys with hair down to their shoulders and clothes adorned with sewn-on-badges, pieces of velvet and ribbon, peace badges and buttons. A dozen copies of the Star were turned, face towards him, with that remarkable diamond effect in the middle. On the fringe of the crowd were three policemen, one of them the man who had come to tell him he was wanted by the City Police – good Lord, little more than forty-eight hours ago! There was spontaneous cheering as Gideon appeared, and, startled though he was he could not keep back a smile of sheer pleasure. A man called: “Good old Gee Gee!” and others took up the nickname. He waved as he bore down towards his car, where the familiar policeman opened a door.
“Good morning, sir!”
“Good morning,” said Gideon. “Is anyone after me this morning?”
The man’s responding grin was as broad as Gideon’s.
“Looks as if everybody is, sir!”
Gideon laughed as he got in and took the wheel. There was another, louder cheer as he started off, with traffic behind him held up by one of the policemen. He slid out into the empty familiar road, passing the open space of the Eelbrook Common where the late office workers were still hurrying across the green towards Fulham Broadway, which he had known for so long as Walham Green. So much changed yet so much was exactly the same. Soon, he was reflecting less generally. Either the Star’s front page or the ‘Simply Speaking’ column would have been enough for one morning; the two together were almost too much.
And he hadn’
t yet read the leader in the Star or the front pages in the other newspapers.
Would he be well advised to pull in and skim them through so that no one at the Yard would be able to bring up angles with which he was unfamiliar? He decided not to; it was already half-past nine, later than he liked to arrive although hours as such had come to mean little to him. Traffic was stinking and thick as he neared Albert Bridge, nothing seemed to improve either the traffic or the fumes, and this Embankment drive could be so beautiful. It had been when he had first walked, later cycled, even when he had first driven along it. He was being very nostalgic this morning! Policemen on duty at the worst traffic spots singled him out for special treatment, and two or three on the pavement saluted him, but it was not until he reached Parliament Square and was saluted by four uniformed policemen in a row that he realised this was particular to the morning. If he had had a moment’s doubt before he could have had none when he reached the Yard, where man after man flicked a hand in salute or acknowledgement, from the uniformed men to a group of massive Flying Squad men and several senior detectives. Two hurried to open the car door for him.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning.”
So it went on, up the steps, in the hall, towards his office. Hobbs appeared from the cloakrooms, and as several men were about he was formal except for his broad smile.
“Good morning, sir!”
“Good morning, Alec. If this goes on I shall expect my office to be like a bower full of flowers.”
Hobbs laughed, and opened the door for him. There, on his desk and on top of the filing cabinets, were three vases full of flowers! Hobbs began to chuckle, and after the first shock, Gideon laughed but was more touched than amused. He went to a bowl of red roses, as nearly sure as he could be that these were from Kate. The card with them read: At last the reward you deserve. Love, Kate. This was in her own handwriting, and Gideon raised his head, to consider, as Hobbs told him: “She sent them up by a neighbour, they arrived half-an-hour ago.”
“Humph,” grunted Gideon. “Nice.” He picked up a vase of mixed garden flowers and the perfume was much stronger than that of the roses. The card said: Keep at it – Penny, which was typewritten. “Very nice,” he repeated.
“And don’t get any false ideas,” Hobbs said. “It was Penny’s own idea, she telephoned me before I left my flat and told me exactly what to buy and what to say.”
“Bless her,” Gideon said.
In that moment the mood between them changed. In any case it was a rare one in the office, but so were the flowers and the brightness about them. Suddenly, however, Hobbs was a different man; younger, diffident. Gideon, who had moved to pick up the third vase, little more than a posy, met the other man’s gaze; he knew instinctively that Hobbs was going to talk about his relationship with Penny. So Gideon waited. He thought, something is bound to go wrong, and wondered if Hobbs, after all, had changed his mind. If he had, it would be a dreadful blow to Penny. She would try to hide it, of course, but it would hurt her beyond thought. At least there would be the sound-proofed attic. He did not know why, in those few seconds, he felt so sure that Hobbs was going to ask him to help him break the news: it was perhaps just the feeling that no morning could maintain such an upbeat swing.
“George,” Hobbs said, “Penny’s going up to Scotland this week has made me do a lot of thinking. I’ve waited for a long time, tried to make sure that she has had plenty of time and every opportunity of breaking with me if she wants to. But I think she’s had time enough, now. If she’s agreeable I’d like us to marry very soon – as soon as the banns can be called and arrangements made. Will it be too much of a wrench for Kate, do you think?”
So I was wrong, thought Gideon, with enormous relief. Thank God, I was wrong! He shook his head and said: “No. But too much time-pressure could be a problem. Give them time to make proper preparations. Kate wouldn’t forgive you if this weren’t the whitest of weddings with all the trimmings. Apart from that, I think we all feel you’ve lived on your own long enough, Alec. And Kate and I have lost any doubts we ever had.”
“Thank you,” Hobbs said, gruffly.
Gideon, at a loss for words, simply waved his hands in disclaimer, and then picked up the posy. On a slip of paper, not a card, were two letters: S.S., without a single word. This was from Sabrina Sale, of course; and it was the first time she had come anywhere near revealing her feelings. Then, the inter-office telephone bell rang and Gideon picked up the receiver.
“Gideon,” he said.
“Come and see me, Commander, will you?” asked the Commissioner. “Use the private door.”
Sir Reginald Scott-Marie stood up from his desk; a tall, lean man in his middle fifties, with iron grey hair, regular features, a kind of aloofness of manner which made many people fell ill-at-ease, even many who had known him for years. The door leading to his secretary’s room was closing as Gideon went in, so Scott-Marie had not been alone. Did that explain the use of ‘Commander’? Although he had known this man for many years, liked and trusted him and had a relationship which overlapped into friendship, he could still feel uncertain of himself. Now he wondered whether the Simply Speaking column had gone too far, whether Scott-Marie, who was in fact the man most in touch with the Home Office, felt he had said too much. Something had to go wrong!
Scott-Marie smiled at his friendliest, rounded the desk, and gripped Gideon’s forearm; and there was a note of laughter, of pleasure in his voice.
“Quite a morning for us, George – especially for you.”
“I am waiting for the ground to cave in,” Gideon countered.
“Nonsense! Nothing but good can possibly come out of this, and you will be intrigued to know that Sir Gordon Pettigrew telephoned me as soon as I got in this morning and asked if I had inspired the ‘Simply Speaking’ story and whether you might become available as a kind of liaison between all police forces in the country and the Home Office.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Gideon.
“You really mean that surprises you?” asked Scott-Marie. “It doesn’t surprise me at all, but that isn’t why I asked you to come and see me. There’s plenty of time for that later.” So he was not going to raise the issue of the Assistant Commissionership. “As far as you yet know, is there a case against the men in custody for conspiracy?”
“Hobbs has been going through the records, where known,” Gideon said. “He thinks there is a case. Lemaitre talked to him this morning by telephone, and the man who tried to put gas down the ventilation hole of the cellar has a badge in his pocket which is similar to badges held by over four hundred of the men under charge. It is a good quality oak leaf and acorn made of brass. We’ve no record of it, and it obviously indicates membership of some organisation. Lemaitre’s prisoner hasn’t talked, but one or two of the others have. All are viciously anti-colour and anti-Communist. There doesn’t seem any doubt at all that an organisation exists. The problem is to find out how big it is – and how dangerous.”
Chapter 20
SEA AND AIR SEARCH
Matthew Honiwell woke in his bedroom at a small hotel on the sea front at Lowestoft and looked out on to the beach and the sunlit sea. Gulls were screaming. Some trawlers appeared to be at anchor, some distance off; a few row-boats were drawn up close to the promenade, some old men were mending nets. Only a few holiday-makers were about, mostly young men with children young enough to skip about with joie de vivre simply because they were at the seaside. A few puffs of white cloud showed towards the south. Two aeroplanes flew miles out to sea, and at least three motor boats were a mile or more off-shore. Honiwell stretched, yawned, and then heard a tap at his door. This would be morning tea.
“Come in!” he called.
It was morning tea – brought in by fair-haired, blue-eyed Superintendent Cressy, who also carried the morning newspapers. Before Honiwell could recover from his sho
ck, the other man slapped the tea tray down on the bedside table, and then spread the Daily Star over the bedclothes.
“Good God!” exclaimed Honiwell. He read avidly, drank tea, read more, and then demanded belatedly: “Was anything found here during the night?”
“No.”
“Any more bodies?”
Cressy said: ‘Two, Matt.”
“Are they searching again?”
“They’ve been at it since dawn,” Cressy assured him.
Soon, Honiwell was wallowing in sea that most people would have considered icy-cold, hurried back to shave and shower and took a last look out of the window before going down to breakfast and to gloat over the newspapers. He felt, in common with every policeman in England, that this was a red letter day for the police force throughout the land.
Honiwell, in that last look across the water of the North sea, did not realise that he was looking in the direction of the S.S. Breem, which was drifting, helpless, and already dangerously near capsizing.
There were fifty-nine men left in the hold.
Some were still strong enough to bang on the hatches and to shout, but no one came because there was no one to hear them.
Some were strong enough to keep their own heads above the thick, slimy water, half-bilge half-sea water coming in through a hole which was blocked by debris after an explosion in the engine room. A few tried to help others keep their heads up, so as to breathe. But every time the ship lurched with a wave the water in this hold went slowly, sluggishly over the heads of some, who gasped and spluttered and cried out in fear. Then as the water receded near-quiet fell, but every mouth was nearer the level of the water.
