Roller Coaster

by Michael Gilbert

  “Yes,” said Petrella, “I remember that. Well, I can’t see him now. I’ve got a lot of stuff to look at and then I’m going to get some lunch. Tell him I’ll see him this afternoon. No. On second thoughts, make it tomorrow afternoon. Three o’clock.”

  “Right, sir.”

  Ambrose sounded so delighted at the idea of sending Mr Poston-Pirrie about his business that Petrella concluded that he was not a popular figure at Maplin Road.

  “I talked to Hoyland like a Dutch uncle,” said Petrella.

  “Poor Perry,” said Jane.

  “Is his name Perry?”

  “It’s Peregrine. But everyone calls him Perry.”

  “I don’t, I call him ‘Detective Hoyland’ and he calls me sir.

  “I hope you’re not turning into a Barstow.”

  Superintendent Barstow had been head of District when Petrella was a junior detective at Highside.

  “Barstow was a damned good policeman.”

  “You didn’t say so at the time. You said he had the mentality of a middle-aged rhinoceros.”

  “I can see things in better perspective now,” said Petrella complacently. He was leaning back in his chair in front of the wide-open window. It was a second-storey flat in a modern building in Grove Road, just round the corner from Maplin Road police station. It had come on the market whilst Petrella was in Morocco and fearing he might lose it he had installed his cousin, Casimir, to keep it warm for them. Jane had come back from Morocco, with the baby, a few days ahead of Petrella and his nine-year-old son, Donald, who had been most reluctant to give up the freedom of his grandfather’s fruit farm for the constraints of London and school.

  The first of Jane’s jobs, which she had carried out with her usual efficiency, had been to get rid of Casimir. The next had been to set right the disorder which his bachelor existence had left behind. He seemed to have entertained a lot of friends.

  “What gossip did you pick up? Apart from Detective Hoyland’s Christian name.”

  “I wasn’t after gossip,” said Jane austerely. “I was looking for information which might help to put you in the picture.”

  “Of course.”

  “I had dinner with Gwilliam. He’s a good man.”

  “The best,” said Petrella. “What did he tell you?”

  “It was rather a sad story. You heard about Lampier?”

  It had all been in the first docket he had opened that afternoon.

  “Do you know,” he said, “I was half afraid something like that might happen. It’s the difficulty about undercover work. When does cover turn into reality? I remember when he was talking about that YMCA hostel we got him into. ‘I soon found out,’ he said, ‘that half the young Christians were juvenile delinquents and the other half were working hard to qualify.’ All right, I laughed when he said it. But I ought to have seen the red light and got him out.”

  “Gwilliam said that when you left he seemed to go to pieces. Then those horrible Farm Boys got hold of him—”

  Petrella had no wish to discuss it further. It was all in the docket. He would have to talk to someone at Central about Lampier. Morrissey, possibly.

  Jane said, “I had your father on the telephone this morning. It seems he’s planning to come over to England.”

  “For any particular reason?”

  “You know how cagey he is. He said something about business, but he didn’t explain what it was.”

  “Probably wanted to see his grandson. He and Donald got very friendly indeed.”

  “There,” said Jane, “Lucy heard you say that. She doesn’t approve of favouritism.” A wail had sounded from the bedroom. Jane departed to deal with it.

  Lucinda was only nine months old. The reason for the long space between her and Donald was a miscarriage. Petrella thought back to that desperate time when Donald had been kidnapped by Augie the Pole and the shock had deprived them of their expected second child.

  He leaned back in his chair and the sounds and smells of London in summer came up to him through the open window: a man at the far end of the street who was getting the worst of an argument with a taxi driver; two girls tittupping along the pavement in their high-heeled shoes, chattering; the hoot of a distant steamer and a smell compounded of petrol, hot tar and a faint tang of fresh salt air blowing up from the river on the evening wind.

  Chapter Three

  Next morning Petrella called on Chief Inspector Ramsbottom, head of HC Sub-Division, at his Harford Street Station. He found a large amiable man with a mop of woolly grey hair and a warm smile.

  “Glad to see you, Chief,” he said. “Very glad. Whilst you were away I found myself acting head of the area. Quite a responsibility, I assure you.”

  He didn’t look as though the responsibility had worn him down. Possibly, thought Petrella, his carefree temperament allowed him to skim over rough waters which would have swamped a more conscientious man.

  Petrella came straight to the point. He said, “I wanted to talk to you about one of your sergeants. Sergeant Stark.”

  “An excellent man.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say so.”

  “Before he came, we were having a lot of trouble with a crowd of West Indians in the Globe Road area. They used to hang about in Limehouse Fields and annoy passers-by with their comments. Not now. Stark attended to them. Now they’re quiet as mice.”

  “When you say he attended to them?”

  “Ask no questions,” said Ramsbottom, with a smile so wide that it unveiled the whole of a noble upper set of false teeth, “and you’ll be told no lies.”

  “Unfortunately, the Press has been asking questions.”

  “Surely we don’t worry about what the papers say.”

  “Maybe not. But when the Home Secretary says it and it comes down through Central—”

  “Our shoulders are broad.”

  “It’s not the breadth of your shoulders that concerns me,” said Petrella, keeping his temper. “What I want to find out is whether the things that this man Poston-Pirrie is saying are true or not.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t time to read all the nonsense these journalists cook up.” Conscious, from the silence which followed, that this was not an entirely adequate answer, he added, “Was there anything in particular?”

  “One of the things he mentioned was a complaint by a West Indian that when he and some of his friends were driving along in a car they were stopped and asked for their documents. A lot of white people had been driving along the road at the same time. Why weren’t they treated in the same way? It seemed they were being picked on because they were black.”

  “I don’t think you could describe it as being picked on,” said Ramsbottom tolerantly. “There was probably some reason for it. They may have assumed that the car had been stolen.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Well, those West Indian boys don’t often have enough money to buy their own cars. And another thing, as often as not, when people like that are stopped and searched they’re found to have drugs on them.”

  “But, surely, we only stop people and search them if they are acting suspiciously.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then for a West Indian to drive a car is a suspicious act.”

  “Not in itself, perhaps. No. But there may have been other reasons.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, for instance, they might recognise one or other of the men in the car as men with records.”

  “I see,” said Petrella. What he did see was that he and Ramsbottom were not on the same net. He said, “There were other complaints. Specific acts of violence. Might that have been the sort of thing that happened when Stark was ‘attending to’ the West Indians in the Arbour Street area?”

  “That might be so,” said Ramsbottom. He leaned back comfortably in his chair. “But what you have to bear in mind is that I’ve received no official complaints. None at all. It beats me. If these characters think they’ve got something to complain about, wh
y don’t they come to me? Wouldn’t that be more sensible than running off to people like Poston … what’s his name? And even he didn’t come here to see me. No. He preferred to talk to our local MP, who’s as left-wing as all come and well-known to be anti-police, as I’ve no doubt you’ll discover when you encounter him. If you want the short and long of this thing, it’s a case of harassment of the police by the media.”

  By this time Petrella understood why nothing had got through the chief inspector’s defences. His vast, amiable, amorphous nature could suck up complaints like a huge bath-sponge and squeeze them away down the drain.

  He said, “Well, thank you for telling me this.”

  “Not a bit of it. It’s been a pleasure to talk to you. I was sure you’d understand.”

  ‘I think, if you don’t mind, I’d better have a word with Sergeant Stark myself. I don’t want you to think that I’m going behind your back, but it seems that he’s probably got a lot of first-hand information.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “I expect he’s pretty busy, but if you could find a moment when he’s not on duty.”

  “I’ll do that. You’ll find him a most interesting man.”

  “I’m sure I shall,” said Petrella.

  He left Harford Street, driving himself in the aged station runabout which was on loan to him until he could buy a car of his own. His conscience was nagging him about the pile of work which awaited him at Maplin Road. He ignored his conscience, turned north and made his way through the maze of small streets behind Commercial Road. In most of them the boys, revelling in the heat and the weeks of freedom from school, had turned the pavements into cricket pitches or the roadways into football grounds.

  He drove carefully until he reached the open stretch of Hackney Road. He was heading for Shepherdess Walk, where Chief Superintendent Liversedge had his headquarters. This was not a police station. It was the administrative centre of No. 2 Area.

  He had met Jim Liversedge before and even on short acquaintance had had no difficulty in understanding why he was known as BTB, which stood for By The Book. It was not, perhaps, an entirely admirable characteristic, but at least you knew where you were with him. Also he had detected, deeply hidden under an iron exterior, an unexpected vein of humour.

  He listened in silence to what Petrella had to say. Then, still without speaking, he took down from the shelf behind him the volume, containing 800 closely printed pages, which is entitled Police Orders. It specified every detail of police organisation, down to such important points as when officers on street duty are permitted to appear in shirt sleeves rather than tunics, and how the sleeves should be rolled – a matter of some importance that month.

  Finally he closed the book, remained for a few seconds in what seemed to be silent prayer and said, “If Ramsbottom is correct in saying that he has received no official complaint about Sergeant Stark, then he is in a strong position. Therefore, the next time that anyone reports any irregularity of any sort by the sergeant, or anyone else, it will be up to you to forward an official complaint. It will be on Form PCD 6. There should be four copies. One goes to Ramsbottom, for action; one to me for information, with a spare copy in case I wish to forward it to Central and, of course, one for your own files.”

  “Of course,” said Petrella. “One for my files.”

  “Does that deal with your point?”

  “Fully,” said Petrella.

  It seemed that this was all that Liversedge had to say, so Petrella stood up. He had reached the door when Liversedge added, “You can’t reach high rank in the police without attracting a nickname. I am well aware of mine. I regard it as a compliment. Ramsbottom got his nickname at recruit school. He’s been known as Sheep’s Arse for the past twenty-five years. I’ll look forward to hearing from you how this matter develops.”

  Petrella left feeling oddly comforted. It was the confidence of a nervous full back who suddenly realises that he can trust the goalkeeper.

  At Maplin Road the detectives’ room was on the ground floor, opposite the public office.

  Passing the door on his way upstairs Petrella paused for a moment. He heard the voice of Sergeant Wilmot saying, “Tell us, Perry. Suppose you’re giving evidence and counsel says to you, ‘You’re very young. Tell us, do you still have wet dreams?’”

  A strange voice said, “Can counsel say things like that?”

  “When he’s got a policeman in the box, counsel can say anything he bloody well likes. Well?”

  “I think,” said Hoyland deliberately, “that I should say, ‘Only on Sunday night.’ And when he asked why, I’d say, ‘I’ve often wondered. I think it must be something to do with the sermon at evensong.’”

  The guffaw which this produced was cut short when Petrella opened the door. He said to Hoyland, “If you’ve got that paper, I’d like to see it.”

  When it was spread on the table he examined it curiously. It was half of a double sheet. He could see the jagged end where the other half had been torn off. What interested him most was the condition of the paper. It was shabby. Its edges were crumpled and the area round the photographs, which had once been white, was now grey. Also there were spots on it which looked like chocolate.

  “An odd thing to find tucked into a brand new comic, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what Mr Chipping said. He swore he’d never set eyes on it before. He produced a dozen copies of the same comic and there was nothing in them. I got the impression he was telling the truth.”

  “If he didn’t put it in, who did?”

  “Someone wanting to get him into trouble, perhaps.”

  Petrella had returned to inspecting the exhibit. He said, “How did it come to light?”

  “The boy’s mother found it in his sock drawer. She showed it to her husband, who blew his top. It was a double spread, so he tore it in half and then tore the first half into about fifty pieces so small that no one could see what was on them. He was planning to treat the other half in the same way when his wife came in and stopped him. She said, ‘You’ll need that if there’s going to be any trouble about that man you hit.’ So he thought he’d better keep it. He told me, ‘The half I tore up was worse than this bit.’ All I can say is, if it was worse, it must have been pretty hot.”

  When he stopped he became aware that Petrella was looking at him. It was not an agreeable look. When the silence had become uncomfortable Petrella said, “Just what did you mean by that?”

  “Mean—?”

  “You described this production as ‘pretty hot’. Well?”

  “I suppose I should have said that it must have been obscene. Filthy. That sort of thing.”

  “Let me give you some advice. If you think a thing is obscene, call it that. Don’t make it sound like something you think is funny – or halfway acceptable on a man-to-man basis.”

  “No, sir.”

  The colour which had started to mount in Hoyland’s face had now spread from his cheeks to his hair line.

  “That may seem unimportant to you. But once the police start adopting that line about pornography, we’re heading for a precipice. The one the Gadarene swine went over. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Embarrassed though he was, Hoyland managed to stand his ground. He said, “There was something I meant to mention about this paper.”

  “Go on.”

  “It looks to me as though it had originally been the back sheet of a magazine. I mean, the double spread inside the actual covers. If that’s so it’s a great pity Jackson tore off the left-hand half. If that was the first page, it might have had some useful details on it. I asked Mr Jackson about that, but he couldn’t remember and didn’t want to discuss it. On the other hand, if the bit he did keep is the last page, there ought to be some printer’s mark on the back.”

  “Very likely. The printer is supposed to identify himself. In a case like this, no doubt he does it as inconspicuously as possible.”

  “Just what I thought
, sir. And if you hold the page up to the light you can see – it’s more like a water mark – it looked to me like I.P.”

  Petrella got a magnifying glass out of the drawer of his desk. Hoyland watched him anxiously.

  Finally he said, “Yes. I think you’re right. The Yard has got a very good index of printers’ monograms. Always supposing this one has been registered. I’ll find out when I’m up at Central tomorrow. Meanwhile, have another word with that newsagent. Find out if he’s got any enemies: trade rivals; people who’d like to do him a bad turn. At the same time you could find out if he wants to pursue a charge of assault against Jackson.”

  After Hoyland had departed he took up his glass again and stared through it at the monogram. Was it a tiny peephole, through which a little piece of truth might eventually be seen?

  Philip Poston-Pirrie arrived at ten past three, the ten minutes having been added to show that he was not impressed by the police. When he had rejected the first chair offered and settled himself to one side of the desk, so that the light from the window behind Petrella did not shine directly on him, he further asserted his independence by refusing the offer of a cigarette and producing his own case. He then opened the conversation with a well-thought-out preamble. It was based on one of his own articles.

  “It will clear the air,” he said, “if I make my own position in this matter quite clear. It is also, incidentally, the position of the paper which I represent—”

  “I hadn’t understood that you were on the staff of the Sentinel.”

  “Nor am I. I am a freelance journalist. Of some repute, if I may say so.”

  “Certainly,” said Petrella. “You may say anything you wish – in this room.”

  “Are you implying that I should not repeat it outside the room? Because if so—”

  “All I was suggesting was that there must be a difference between the things you say in private and the things you say in public. You would agree with that, surely.”

  These interruptions had thrown Poston-Pirrie off his track. He hoisted himself back onto it.