Roller Coaster

by Michael Gilbert

  “That’s a friendly way of putting it. The truth is, I made a stupid mess of my direction-finding and nearly wrote myself off. That was when I was coming back. Going out I’d noted down directions and distances for each leg. That should have meant that if I followed the reverse directions for the same distances I’d get back to the place I’d started from. It didn’t work out. I can only suppose there was something wrong with my compass.”

  “In some parts of the desert they say there’s a lot of ironstone under the sand. Enough to throw an ordinary compass off a point or two. That’s why the SAS and the Long Range Desert Group used the sun compass.”

  Petrella did some hasty arithmetic. He said, “You couldn’t have been old enough to take any part in the desert war.”

  “Old enough? I wasn’t even a gleam in my old man’s eye. But he used to talk to us about it. He’d enjoyed it, you see. It was clean fighting. Same thing in the SAS when I joined. Operation Jaguar and the action round Mirbat. We were soldiers then, not policemen. The change came when we were sent to Northern Ireland. Not a job for a soldier. Should have been left to armed policemen. That was where I blotted my copybook. I expect you heard about it?”

  “I heard about it and I couldn’t see that you were to blame.”

  “I guess that’s what the court of enquiry thought. When you’ve got a situation where one side tries to keep the rules and the other side breaks them all the time, accidents are bound to happen.”

  He didn’t sound bitter about it. A man hardened by hard experiences. He would not allow his feelings to interfere with the notion he had of his duty. If an IRA supporter went into action against you, with one hand under his jacket, that hand might hold a loaded pistol or it might not. Don’t chance it. Shoot first. Aim at the arm or leg if possible, but don’t hesitate. If a West Indian became aggressive hit him hard, once, where it would hurt. If a reporter was looking for trouble—

  At this point the arrival of Sergeant Instructor Hector Lambie interrupted a train of thought that had become uncomfortable.

  Lambie was a formidable hunk of regular soldier, not a man to take liberties with, but friendly for the moment because he knew and clearly approved of Stark. Petrella explained briefly what was wanted.

  He said, “Meath Gardens is private property and kept locked. The opposition must have picked the lock or broken it. Anyway, I imagine the gate will still be open. We go in there with a ladder and I want you to see if you can locate the tree and the two bullets Sergeant Stark fired into it. About twelve foot up, he says. Then see if you can dig them out. And if you can calculate the angle they went in at, well, that’d be a bonus.”

  “Doesn’t sound too difficult.”

  “The West Indians who hang out round there may spot us and be hostile. However, we’ll have a crew with us who’ll be able to keep them quiet while you’re doing your stuff.”

  There was no opposition. Half an hour later they were back in Petrella’s office examining the two pieces of lead that Lambie had extracted from the tree. One was twisted out of shape, but the other, which must have gone into a softer part of the tree, was practically intact.

  “Police-Positive .38,” said Lambie. “No doubt about that.”

  “Assume,” said Petrella, “that the crowd was pretty well filling up that end of the square and the sergeant was standing—how far from the nearest man?”

  “About a yard.” He looked at Pearson, who nodded and said, “About that.”

  “And that he fired those two shots which hit the tree twelve foot up.”

  “Thirteen,” said Lambie. “I measured it.” As he spoke he was drawing a plan showing the relevant heights and distances.

  “Could he have hit anyone in the crowd?”

  “Well, now,” said Lambie, “by my calculations if one of the men in the crowd was ten feet high, he might have parted his hair for him.”

  Everyone laughed. Petrella said, “Could you let me have a short report in writing? No need to mention names. Set it out as a problem in geometry. X standing there. Y there. The bullet hitting the tree at point Z.”

  “I could do that all right,” said Lambie. “But if I’m going to have to swear to it in court, I’d need to go higher up to get permission. They’re a bit shy about getting mixed up in legal matters.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I think it’s most unlikely that we’re heading for court. None the less, I’ll feel happier with that report in my pocket.”

  “Are you expecting trouble, then?”

  “All I can say at the moment is that I’ve a feeling there’s a storm coming. The barometer’s going down and there are some nasty looking black clouds on the horizon. When a prudent mariner feels like that he shortens sail and makes all as safe as he can.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Her Majesty’s Secretary of State for Home Affairs, the Honourable Geoffrey Tredinnick, was certainly no fool. The worst the Opposition could find to say about him was that his early training in the City would have fitted him better to be Chancellor of the Exchequer. And he knew and respected Frank Lovell. As Deputy Commissioner, Lovell headed all CID operations and was a very hot tip to be the next Commissioner. If the central pivot of police power was to mesh smoothly, they would have to work hand in glove.

  He had summoned Lovell to his room and got straight down to business.

  “I don’t need to remind you,” he said, “that in the late seventies and early eighties the relationship between the police and the Press was at a very low ebb. No doubt there were faults on both sides. When Robert Mark became Commissioner one of his greatest achievements was to rebuild confidence. He did it by insisting that the papers should be given the facts, in every case, no matter how damaging they might be to individuals. If you don’t give them the facts, he used to say, they’ll invent them. There was considerable opposition in police circles, but it proved to be the right answer. You agree?”

  “I think there are still a few cases,” said Lovell, “where, as far as the great British public are concerned, ignorance is bliss. But in general, yes, I agree with you. What particular case had you in mind?”

  “No secret about that. I had half an hour yesterday evening with Callaghan, the editor of the Sentinel. Not a bad chap, as editors go. Ruthless as all come, but not unwilling to co-operate. I didn’t care much for the lawyer he brought with him. A barrister called Andrew Batson. We had him in a case when I was in the City. He won it, by bullying the witnesses on the other side.”

  Lovell said, “He was on his feet a good deal during the inquest on Poston-Pirrie. I wasn’t there, but I’ve read the report. The coroner kept a firm hand on him, I was glad to see.”

  “If you’ve read the report you’ll appreciate the case he was trying to set up.”

  “Surely. He was fixing the locus of the crime as Cannon Wharf – or maybe a short distance above it at a place where Cable Street crosses the Commercial Road. In his scenario that is the place where Sergeant Stark – who knew that Poston-Pirrie was visiting the Athletic Club – was waiting to continue an argument which had started in the bar of the White Horse. All that his script lacked was an account of what had actually happened in that bar.”

  “Which, I gather, he hasn’t been able to find out.”

  “His man, Wintringham, had another session with the landlord. Reading between the lines I guess he must have tried to frighten him, by waving subpoenas at him, and only succeeded in gumming him up entirely. In fact, he not only went dumb, but took back anything he had said before.”

  “The whole thing sounded a bit thin to me,” said Tredinnick. “Whatever was said, could it have been so offensive that Stark was prepared to wait, for an hour or more, and then to hit Pirrie so hard that – whether he meant it to or not – it finished him?”

  “Their whole case rests on their estimate of Stark’s character. Based on his record in Ireland and the things he has done since he came here.”

  “The things he has done here?”
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  “Hitting any West Indian who talked out of turn. And firing into a crowd of them to clear them out of his way.”

  Both men thought about it for an appreciable time.

  Then Lovell said, “If the case had been put to me when I was at the Bar I’d have said that it had a fatal hole in it. And until that hole was filled, my clients would be ill-advised to take it to court.”

  “And how would you have suggested that they set about filling it? If they don’t know who was in the bar and no one’s prepared to tell them, they’re stuck.”

  “Only one thing to do. They’d have to persuade the men’s superintendent to co-operate.”

  “Petrella?”

  “Right. I’m sure he knows exactly who was there. And if he passed the names to Batson and allowed him to cross-examine them, he’d soon have the whole story.”

  “Do you think he’d be likely to agree?”

  “Difficult to say. In theory, I’m sure he’d support the Robert Mark thesis. Let the truth be told whoever it hurts. But it’s difficult to be certain. He’s got a mind of his own. In fact, a remarkable man all round. If he doesn’t blot his copybook now, he could go right to the top.”

  “Then let’s hope he will co-operate. Because, from something Callaghan let drop, I gather they’re busy constructing a bomb to blow him up. With enthusiastic help from some City types. He wasn’t very forthcoming about that part of it, but I gathered that the superintendent had been after one of their pet rackets and was beginning to tread on their heels. If that’s true it’s a formidable combination. Press and City.”

  “However formidable, they can only smear someone if they’ve got dirt to do it with.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” said Tredinnick. “If they gave their horrible minds to it they could smear the Archangel Gabriel.”

  Lovell thought about it. Then he said, “Best will be to get Morrissey to talk to him. He mightn’t listen to me, but he’ll listen to him.”

  At the same time an equally important, if slightly lower-level, conference was taking place. Arnold, Delroy and Winston were deep in discussion. They no longer dared to use the Packstone Building. Their new meeting place was a very large packing-case which had once contained the works of a diesel engine and had been dumped at the back of Murgatroyd’s Shipyard. Since the shipyard had been closed months before and was unlikely to re-open, they felt reasonably secure from outside interference.

  Which was as well, in view of the matters they had to discuss.

  “How much did we get last night?” said Winston.

  “All he had,” said Arnold. “Every last penny. We cleaned him right out.” Any other boy would have laughed. Arnold only smiled; the tight smile of a professional gambler.

  “All and a bit more,” said Delroy. “He had to borrow from the gr’iller who comes to look after him. Nor he wasn’t keen to let him have the money neither. I heard him say, ‘You pay me back tomorrow or I’ll tell your ma.’”

  Winston said, “She’d belt him good if she found out he’d been playing cards for money.”

  “And he knows it,” said Delroy.

  The skinning of Barry had gone according to plan. In three evening sessions they had scooped up all of his generous pocket money and now he was in debt.

  “What’s the next move?” said Winston.

  “When he turns up this evening—”

  “If he turns up.”

  “He’ll come all right. He’s got to try and win back some of what he’s lost, hasn’t he?”

  Losers always did that.

  “Like I was saying, we offer him cash for his information.”

  “How much?” said Winston and Delroy in unison.

  “How much have we got?”

  Pockets were turned out and a count was taken.

  “Eleven pounds eighty. Right. We offer Barry ten quid.”

  The other two boys normally followed Arnold without demur. On this occasion there were rumblings of dissent.

  From Winston, “Suppose we give him the money and he hasn’t really got anything to tell us.” And from Delroy, “Or if he hangs onto the money we give him and asks for more.”

  “If he did anything like that, he knows what’d happen to him. He’s yellow, see. He doesn’t like the idea of being hurt. If he takes our money he’s got to come across with something good, or he’ll be half-killed. He knows that. And anyway, what have we got to lose? It’s his money.”

  His allies considered the point. It was perfectly true. Any money that was paid him would have come out of his own pocket.

  “OK,” said Winston. “But where’s our pay-off?”

  “Our pay-off comes when I see that superintendent and pass on what Barry has told us. And I tell him it cost us ten quid to get it. He’ll fork up.”

  “Tell him twenty quid,” said Delroy.

  “All right. Twenty quid.” He’d been going to ask for that anyway and pocket the difference. Now he’d have to make it twenty-five. The trouble with having greedy allies.

  Morrissey had been a sergeant in the uniform branch when Lovell was a recruit, and though Lovell had climbed further and faster, a little of the old relationship still remained. In all matters affecting the conduct and well-being of their service they looked with a single eye. The police were a band of brothers. There were two enemies: the criminal whom it was their job to pursue and the public who got under their feet when they were chasing him.

  Later that morning Lovell passed on, with minimal omissions, what the Home Secretary had said to him. It appeared that he had been talked into accepting Stark in the Metropolitan Police by the head of the Anti-Terrorist Branch. It had been put to him that this was necessary protection of the sergeant and an acknowledgment of his services in Northern Ireland. The Sentinel, which had been critical of his conduct at the time of the incident in Northern Ireland and had denounced his acquittal as a political job, now had all its guns pointed at him. They were convinced that he was responsible for the death of their man Poston-Pirrie.

  “Do you believe that?” said Morrissey.

  “Speaking as a lawyer, I’d say they haven’t got a legal case, but quite enough to make a newspaper case.”

  “Based on the fact that killing Poston-Pirrie was an act of violence and Stark is a violent man?”

  “If you like to put it that way, yes. They’ve got a long list of individual acts of violence. And now this business of firing into a crowd to disperse it. I gather that one of the West Indians was lucky to escape with a bullet hole in the sleeve of his jacket. He’s given them an affidavit.”

  “And has produced the jacket as evidence?” said Morrissey repressing a grin.

  “I imagine so. What’s the joke?”

  Morrissey laid in front of him a copy which Petrella had sent him of Lambie’s statement, with a plan attached to it. Lovell read it through twice. At the second reading he, too, was smiling.

  Morrissey said, “He’s had the other two bullets dug out of the car engine as well. Stark’s gun and ammunition were checked when he got back to the station. Four shots fired, four bullets used. He’s got that in writing from Ramsbottom.”

  “He is being careful, isn’t he?” said Lovell.

  Morrissey said, “He’s an odd mixture. Part of the time he plays the police game straight down the middle like a real professional – like he’s done over these bullets. Other times he behaves like a reckless amateur. I’ve got two whole squads deployed in this area. They aren’t there to spy on Petrella, but somehow they always seem to be running up against him. He’s been seen more than once in the Isle of Dogs with three street urchins of murky character. And one of my men who was watching the Quartermass Club – incidentally, both Farmer and Hicks are known to use it – noted him making at least one visit there, when it seems he was drinking with a notorious pornographer.”

  “Are you telling me that this is another Hood case?”

  “No. I think he’s too crafty and too experienced to let himself be led by the
nose down that track. The real trouble is that the wild side of his character makes him like and approve of Stark.”

  Lovell was looking at the diagram on the paper in front of him, with its careful annotation by Sergeant Instructor Lambie. He said, “OK, I agree. He’s got a complete answer to the charge of shooting into the crowd. But what about all the other charges? The Sentinel has got a long list, ranging from casual brutality to actual assault. What I was wondering was, is Ramsbottom the right man to control Stark?

  And if he’s allowed to carry on unchecked, may we be provoking a West Indian riot?”

  Morrissey took his time over answering this. The possibility was one which hung over them all the time. In the end he said, “No, I don’t think so. I’d have said that, for the most part, our second generation West Indians are settling down. A lot of them are making money. They don’t want trouble. Only one lot – the Limehouse Fields crowd – are really dangerous. And that’s because they’re organised by some remarkable men. The character known as Torpedo Hicks and the Farm Boys. Leonard Farmer is the boss. He actually is a farmer, of sorts. He’s got a few acres out at Hagley, mostly pasture which he leases to people with horses. His wife, who’s as bad as he is, looks after it. The others are professional thugs. Buller is a part-time butcher. Henty, who they call Dog, is a bookmaker’s runner in his spare time. Goat Glibbery looks after a second-hand clothes shop, and Soltau, known as Piggy – in my view the nastiest of a nasty bunch – he used to be a doctor, but got struck off and jugged after a messy abortion which killed the girl. When he came out he got a job at a garage, which will do surprising things to your car.”

  “If you managed to get them on the run, which of them do you think would be most likely to crack and come across?”

  “My money would be on Soltau. But he’ll only talk if the others are safely locked up.”

  “So what comes next?”

  “Friday week could be D-Day – if we chose to play it that way. They’ve now failed, twice, to get their hands on the ELBO pay packet and everyone knows it. This time they’ll put out their full strength. Hicks can call out a couple of dozen West Indians, or more.”