Roller Coaster

by Michael Gilbert

  “All right,” said Petrella. “Six o’clock tomorrow. Send your man straight round here with his report—”

  “About next Friday,” said Ramsbottom. He sounded worried.

  Petrella had to think for a moment. Other things had relegated Friday’s programme to the back of his mind.

  He said, “Yes. I imagine you’ve made your plans.”

  “We shan’t be short of men. A and B are lending me two crews each. I’m going to block all the side roads at the Globe Road end—”

  “Let me have it in writing,” said Petrella. “With a sketch plan. And a copy of the instructions you give those cars. Also, of course, for the drivers of the decoy van. Have you picked them yet?”

  “Sergeant Stark and Sergeant Pearson.”

  “That sounds a good choice.”

  He rang off before Ramsbottom could say anything else. He suspected that he wanted to pass on some of his worries. Petrella had enough of his own without sharing Arthur Ramsbottom’s.

  It was close to seven o’clock on the following evening when Detective Harrington arrived. Petrella remembered the name. Harrington was one of the men who had been in the back room of the White Horse when Poston-Pirrie had his brush with the police. He was a large, red-faced Father Christmas character; a type calculated to appeal to children and also, hopefully, to West Indians.

  He had to report complete failure.

  “Really, sir, unless you met her – Mrs Thursday, I mean – you’d hardly credit her. She’s huge, heavier than I am, I guess, and I’m no featherweight. Quite a handsome moustache and her voice! She could sing bass in any choir. I wasn’t surprised to hear that she runs Limehouse Fields. Give her half a chance, she’d run the country.”

  “From which I gather that she wasn’t anxious to produce her son.”

  “That’s right, sir. Might as well try to argue with the Rock of Gibraltar. Nor she wasn’t interested in money. The way her house was fitted out I’d guess she’s got plenty. And she doesn’t like the police.”

  “A pity.”

  “I did have one idea. She mightn’t be interested in money, but that’s not to say her son wouldn’t be.”

  “Yes,” said Petrella. “It’s an idea. But if she won’t let him loose from her apron strings, how are we going to sell the idea to him?”

  “What I thought was, that she couldn’t keep him at home forever. From something she let slip, I gathered that he was keen to get back to that club, where his pals were.”

  “He hasn’t got many friends. All the same, it’s an idea. Money jumps all barriers. I’ll have a word with the missioner and with Father Freeling. They might be able to work something between them.”

  When Harrington had rolled away he tried to get on with some of the routine matters which were piling up, but his mind could not focus on them. Traffic control and drug-related offences distanced themselves obstinately from his more immediate problems.

  He looked at his watch. It was close to eight o’clock. He had no wish to go home. The flat would be empty. His family had gone for the weekend to stay with one of Jane’s many aunts. This one had a house in Broadstairs. In that weather and at that time of the year, the resort would be jam-packed, but better than London, which had baked for so many weeks that its houses, its streets and its inhabitants all seemed to be over-cooked. He was planning to join them on the Sunday, if nothing cropped up to prevent it.

  There was still an hour of daylight left and he knew what he wanted to do with it. He had promised himself that, when he had time, he would look at the Cold Harbour area. And he wouldn’t repeat that impossible train journey. Quicker on foot, Trench had said. Twenty minutes, if he put his back into it, and a striding walk would help him to sort out the thoughts which were jostling each other in his overcrowded brain.

  At the age of nine, during his first Christmas holidays from preparatory school, his mother had taken him to the circus at Olympia. He had an abiding memory of the scenic railway, a towering construction of girders and spars, up which the coaches ground their way towards the summit, pausing there for a moment before the glorious downward swoop. A coachload on a parallel track would already have begun its descent and young Patrick, even at that age a shrewd observer, had recorded, as in a camera flash, the faces of its occupants; the grown-ups simulating boredom, the children excited, apprehensive or plain scared.

  His own coach, he noted, contained a disparate collection. On the back seat, Morrissey and Charlie Kay; in the next one Father Freeling and the sardonic Ashley Drummond; in front of them, youth in the forms of Milo Roughead and Peregrine Hoyland, and indomitable old age in Colonel Winchip and Wilfred Wetherall who shared nearly a hundred and eighty years between them and still wanted to play an active part in the melodrama which, as the coach climbed, was inching towards its climax.

  ‘But something ere the end, some work of noble note may yet be done, not unbecoming men that strove with gods.’ Had they striven with gods? Mr Wetherall had certainly striven with a number of education authorities.

  Now the opposition coach swung into view. Maurice and Mamma Meinhold smiling smugly in the back seat. Ahead of them a crowd of folk whom he had not yet met in the flesh, some wearing animal masks, others dressed in smart City uniform. In the front seat, leaning dangerously out and waving their hands, were the urchin forms of Arnold, Delroy and Winston.

  A policeman, looming ahead of him, brought him down to earth with a bump. He was clearly wondering what this strange man was doing, wandering among these dim deserted buildings. Petrella said, “Could you tell me, is this the area known as Cold Harbour?” The policeman started to say, “Perhaps you could explain why—” Then he recognised Petrella and changed it to, “Yes, sir. That’s where you are now. As you see, most of the buildings have been shut down.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” said Petrella. He was peering at a notice pinned to the door of one of them, directing enquirers to Messrs Summerskill and Partners, who were acting for the receiver.

  “I know this district pretty well, sir. I wonder if I could help you.”

  “All I know about the building I’m looking for is that it’s an old ships’ chandlery and that it’s within very easy distance of the river bank. And it probably has some sort of access – a goods shoot or even an air-vent through which an active boy might wriggle.”

  The constable thought carefully about this. His professional knowledge was being tested. He said, “If I had to guess, I’d have said that the most likely location was the Stewart Street area. That’s on the other side of the Blackwall Basin. Packstone Passage is what it sounds like to me. There are one or two buildings there – all shut up now – within what you might call spitting distance of the river. And it’s in my mind that the second one along, the Packstone Building, has got some sort of goods hatch in the pavement. I could show you the way if you like.”

  “I won’t take you off your beat,” said Petrella. “I’m sure I can find it. And thank you very much.”

  The evening was closing in now and Packstone Passage, even in broad daylight a gloomy place, was beginning to disappear under the mist which came up from the river at the end of a hot day. The Packstone Building certainly met two of his requirements. There was a goods chute in the pavement, covered by a heavy iron lid over which he had almost tripped as he felt his way along the pavement. And it was certainly very close to the river, separated from it only by a brick wall behind which he could hear the water lapping and splashing as the tide ran out.

  As he stood there, in the dusk, he heard something else.

  It was the click of metal against metal and it came from almost under his feet.

  He withdrew a few yards and wedged himself into a doorway. It was too shallow to hide him properly, but he reckoned that if he rolled his jacket up to hide the white of his shirt, he would pass muster.

  Then things started to happen.

  First a jet of torchlight came up out of the pavement. Petrella could see, now, that it came from an a
ir-vent which he had overlooked. Then a boy’s head appeared. As his body slowly followed, the metallic sound came again. It sounded like the buckle on his belt hitting against some obstruction as he wriggled and heaved.

  A voice from below said, “Gerra move on, for Chrissake. We can’t hang abaht all night.”

  The first boy said, “Nearly through.” Then a climactic heave brought him, face downward, onto the pavement.

  The second boy seemed to have no difficulty in negotiating the narrow exit. He was out before the first boy had got back onto his feet. He said, “And don’t flash that fucking torch about.”

  The light went out, but it had been on long enough for Petrella to recognise Arnold and one of his shove-halfpenny opponents. Delroy or Winston, he couldn’t tell which.

  Both boys moved away down the passage and were swallowed in the looming dusk.

  Petrella had no intention of following them. He had got the information he wanted.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nothing having cropped up to prevent it, Petrella spent Sunday at Broadstairs. It could hardly have been described as a day of rest. Donald was not a restful child. He had a sharp, long-handled spade which he had used to construct a castle on the beach and, later, in an attempt to decapitate a small dog who came sniffing round it (Settled by apologies.) Afterwards he assaulted a boy who had trespassed in the castle grounds. (Settled by the purchase of ice-cream cornets for both boys.)

  Petrella returned to London, perhaps not rested, but certainly refreshed.

  Monday was a day of telephone calls. As soon as he got to his office he put through a call to Trench. He described the Packstone Building and said, “You told me that you’d been entrusted with the keys of some of those places. Is Packstone one of them?”

  Trench said, “I think so. Hang on a moment.” Then came back and said, “Yes, you’re in luck.”

  “Good. Send the key up here. Don’t post it. Send it by hand next time you’ve got someone coming in my direction.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Trench. He would bring it up himself. If he did, he might be able to find out what the old man was up to. It was not that he distrusted Petrella, but he liked to have a hand in anything that concerned his own manor.

  As soon as he rang off, the telephone went again. Ambrose said, “It’s a Mr Callaghan for you.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “Seems he’s the editor of the Sentinel.”

  Then Petrella remembered the name. He had seen it in the report of the Robin Hood case. Callaghan had supplied an affidavit. It had not been particularly damning, but it had not helped Hood. “Put him through.”

  “Superintendent Petrella?” The voice was incisive. “I am telephoning you to let you know that we are offering a reward of twenty thousand pounds for information leading to the identification and conviction of the person responsible for the death of Philip Poston-Pirrie. I have agreed the wording of the announcement with the Assistant Commissioner and it will start appearing tomorrow. I hope this will convince you that we are taking the matter seriously.”

  Petrella nearly said, ‘Oh, we’re taking it pretty seriously down here, too,’ but realised, in time, that the editor was not the sort of man who would appreciate that sort of comment. So he simply said, “That should be helpful.”

  “I hope so. And now could you kindly give me an update on how your investigations are proceeding?”

  “I can only tell you that it looks as though Mr Pirrie went into the river some way above the entrance to the East Stepney Dock, where his body was found.”

  “Went in? Was pushed in? Thrown in?”

  “We shall be better able to judge that when we have the result of the post-mortem. We’re expecting this today.”

  “And who’s conducting it? Your police surgeon?”

  “No. That would be no part of a police surgeon’s job. The autopsy is being carried out by Dr Summerson, at Guy’s.”

  “I see.” A measure of grudging respect had come into the editor’s voice. Summerson’s reputation was international. “In that case we can look for a fair and unbiased report.”

  “You’d have had that even if we’d been forced to use our own man.”

  “You’ll forgive me, Superintendent, if I say that certain unhappy episodes in the past have taught me to distrust the police when they make themselves judges in their own affairs.”

  Petrella said, “Yes.” He found this monosyllable useful when his object was to keep his temper.

  “The Sentinel is instructing one of its foreign correspondents, Murdo Wintringham – I expect the name means something to you?”

  “I fancy I have seen him once on television.”

  “He happens to be in London at the moment. His remit will be to investigate all the circumstances of our man’s death. I trust that the police will give him their cooperation. Could you see him tomorrow at three o’clock?”

  “Yes.”

  “He has had a rough passage lately in various parts of Europe and the Far East.”

  “Then he should be able to survive a few weeks in East London,” said Petrella.

  This time it was the editor who said, “Yes,” and rang off.

  Ten minutes later Charlie Kay was on the telephone. He said, “You remember you asked me to see whether our experts here could identify that printer’s mark – I.P.”

  Petrella wrenched his mind back with an effort to that earlier episode. He said, “Any luck?”

  “Not at the moment. The mark hasn’t been officially registered. Which makes it worth a little more investigation, don’t you think?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I remembered that when I was with the porn boys there was a renegade printer, a man called Mai Martiennsen. He knew all the ins and outs of printing dirt and we found him very useful. So I had a word with him. When I mentioned I.P. he turned remarkably coy. But I got a strong impression that he did know something about it.”

  “Splendid.”

  “The snag is that he wouldn’t open up to me. But he might talk to you. The one thing that warms his cold and grubby little heart is money. And if you could hint that if he helped he might be qualifying for a share of the Sentinel hand-out—”

  “Oh, you’ve heard about that, have you?”

  “Nothing shouts louder than money.”

  “I must admit that I can’t, for the moment, see any plausible connection between a sheet of dirty photographs and the death of Poston-Pirrie. But if you think it might give us a line, I’m game to try. Only, things are rather crowding up on me at the moment.”

  “Could you manage Wednesday evening?”

  Petrella looked at his desk diary. If he said yes, it would enable him to side-step a meeting of the Road Safety Committee. He said, “Yes. When and where?”

  “Martiennsen suggested six-thirty at the Quartermass Club. It’s in St Bride’s Square. It’s a boozing den, much frequented by newspaper men. Fairly disreputable, but not actually criminal. You won’t have to sew up your pockets.”

  “Will you be coming along to introduce me?”

  “I think he’s more likely to say his piece if I’m not there. You’ll have no difficulty in recognising him. He’s got a slashing moustache and a terrible squint. And he’ll be tucked away in one of the niches at the back of the room.”

  Petrella said, “All right,” and put down the telephone which rang again at once.

  Ambrose said, “Dr Summerson. He’s been hanging on for you.”

  Petrella said, “Put him through.”

  Dr Summerson said, “I thought you’d like to have this at once. Deceased was hit by a powerful swinging blow on the throat. Either from some form of club, or possibly from the fist or the edge of the hand. Maybe a sort of karate chop. It was savage enough to fracture the sound box and severely damage the oesophagus. It would almost certainly have rendered him unconscious.”

  “But not killed him.”

  “No. He was alive when he went into the river. There was s
ome water in his lungs. Not much. Enough to suggest that he had gulped once or twice. Then the joint effect of the blow and the shock of the immersion stopped his heart.”

  “First he was hit,” said Petrella slowly. “Then he was thrown into the river.”

  “It looks like that. I’d guess he’d been dead about twelve days. Difficult to be more accurate. I’ll let you have this in writing as soon as I can get it typed out.”

  After Summerson had rung off, Petrella sat for quite a long time, thinking. Hit by a fist or the side of a hand? Maybe a karate chop. It opened up a train of thought so unpleasant that he hesitated to follow it to its logical conclusion.

  He had asked Ambrose to keep callers off his back and was surprised when the telephone rang once again.

  Ambrose said, apologetically, “I didn’t like to head this one off. It’s Sergeant Roughead – ex-sergeant, I should say.”

  Ambrose and Milo, as he knew, had been close friends in the old days. He sighed and said, “All right. Put him through.”

  When Milo spoke Petrella realised that the normally imperturbable Etonian was angry. And there was a hint of worry behind the anger. He said, “I’ve got something for you that I don’t really like passing over the telephone. And I know how busy you are, but if I could look in—”

  “This afternoon. Any time after four.”

  “I’ll be with you,” said Milo.

  He was prompt to the minute and looked both excited and worried. Petrella had observed before that when Milo was excited he tended to become incoherent. So he sat him down in a chair and said, “Bear in mind what the King of Hearts said to Alice. Begin at the beginning, go on until you come to the end and then stop.”

  “All right,” said Milo. “The beginning’s simple enough. I found out, quite by chance, that the beneficial shareholders in the Mansion House Nominee Company – the crowd that control Meinhold’s shop – are another company called Intriguing Publications.”

  “I.P.,” said Petrella softly. “Go on.”