Roller Coaster

by Michael Gilbert

  “And if we field enough men to hold them, that’ll mean open war. Which will give the papers a field day.”

  “Right. And that’s why I’d like to wrap up the top men before war breaks out.”

  “Do you think you can do it?”

  “With an average amount of luck,” said Morrissey, placing one thumb firmly on the wooden desk in front of him, “I think I can.”

  “We didn’t have much luck with Flower.”

  “Not a lot. But it taught me a lesson. One or two lessons in fact.”

  “The main one,” said Lovell, with the hint of a smile lifting his tight lawyer’s mouth, “was to keep your plans to yourself.”

  “Right. And I’m aiming for them to stay that way, for the moment. If you’re agreeable, that is.”

  “Provided you tell me, personally, what you’re planning to do, before you do it, not after.”

  “I read that as a vote of confidence,” said Morrissey smiling in his turn. “And now, since we don’t want two wars on our hands at once, I’d better try and get Petrella to pacify the Sentinel. I’ll talk to him on Monday. I find people tend to be a bit more receptive after a quiet weekend with their families.”

  “I don’t think I’ve met his wife.”

  “She’s a grand girl. Used to be in the Probation Service. And I guess she’s about the only person in the world that would get him to change his mind once he’s made it up.”

  The weekend was quiet, but Monday was another busy day. A hotchpotch of things Petrella wanted to do and things he had to do. Just before lunch Milo telephoned. He said, “Those three outfits you asked me to look up. Have you got your pencil poised? Right. The directors of the Anglo-Netherland Shipbuilding Company are James Hardaker, William Piper, Colin Mayle – spelt with a ‘y’ – Toby Ringland and Graham Mayle. None of the names meant anything to me, though they may do to you.”

  “One of them does,” said Petrella. “On you go.”

  “The merchant bankers, Angus, Hardy and Glenister, are just that. Donald Angus, David Hardy and Ray Glenister. They’re a newish outfit. Been going for less than ten years. The insurance brokers were a bit of a problem. They don’t print the names of their partners on their note paper. It used to be obligatory, but now they can get away with a statement that ‘a list of the names of partners is maintained at their head office and can be inspected by appointment during business hours.’ In the light of what you told me I didn’t think you’d want me ferreting round at their office, but one of our boys has had dealings with them lately and he said that the man who made all the decisions was a chap called Bob Seamark. Does that give you what you want?”

  “It gives me exactly what I want,” said Petrella. Or almost exactly, as he told himself after Milo had rung off. Glenister was mentioned in Father Freeling’s brochure. Ringland had featured in Hoyland’s adventures and misadventures in Amsterdam. The brochure listed Franz Mittelbach and Partners as one of the corporate contributors and if Bob Seamark was the man who pulled the strings, it was reasonable to suppose that it was he who had decided that the partnership should contribute to this excellent charity.

  Toby Ringland, Bob Seamark.

  The odds were shortening.

  Coming back from lunch in the nearest sandwich bar, he found Morrissey occupying the visitor’s chair. He was smoking a filthy black pipe and looked relaxed and comfortable. He said, “I’ve been talking to the DC.” Pause for a puff of smoke. “And he’s been talking to the Home Secretary.” Puff. “They’re both singing the same song. They don’t want trouble with the West Indian community.”

  “You can add my voice to that chorus,” said Petrella.

  “Or with the Press.”

  He cocked a weather eye at Petrella as he said this and noted the slight stiffening in his attitude.

  He said, “It depends what you mean. If it’s simply that we shouldn’t go out of our way to antagonise the Press, then I’d go along with that. But if you mean that we should do exactly what they want us to, I’m afraid I should have to reserve judgment.”

  “Really, it’s halfway between the two.” It was clear to Petrella that Morrissey was picking his words with great care. “Seems we might be on collision course with both of ’em. Equally, it seems we could avoid any sort of confrontation easily enough. The key figure in both spots of trouble is your Sergeant Stark. The Sentinel are sure that he either killed Poston-Pirrie or had a hand in his death. And they think that you’re keeping the truth from them.”

  “Indeed. Just how am I supposed to be doing that?”

  “You’re doing it by not letting them have the facts they want. You could cut both knots by allowing Batson to question the men who were at the White Horse that evening.”

  “I have no control over Batson. If he wants to question them, it’s up to him to try. I don’t think he’ll get much joy out of it.”

  “What’s preventing him from trying it,” said Morrissey, with another gentle puff from his pipe, “is that he doesn’t know who was there. But you do know.”

  “Yes. I know who was there. Or most of them.”

  “So you give the names to the Sentinel. And tell the men that if they’re questioned it’s with your consent. Nothing more. You don’t press them to talk to Batson. You just don’t stand in his way.”

  “In fact,” said Petrella, “they want my help in setting up one of my own men for trial by the Press.”

  “Put it that way, it sounds dirty,” agreed Morrissey. “Put it another way, all they’re asking for is the facts.”

  “Which they’ll twist to suit their own brief.” When Morrissey said nothing he added, “What happens if I tell them to take a running jump at themselves?”

  “If you won’t co-operate, likely you’ll find yourself in trouble.”

  “The same sort of trouble that Hood found himself in?”

  He said this so coldly that Morrissey, who was not the most sensitive of men, felt the ice and the steel in his voice and was, for a moment, shaken.

  He had spent a lot of time recently looking up Petrella’s record. He was fully aware of his good points, which were many, and his bad points, which were few, but he had never before seen his feelings stripped bare. To gain time he said, “The answer is yes and no. No, because Hood was a fool and you’re not. The DC enjoyed the ten-foot West Indian who got his hair parted by a shot that went through his sleeve. But yes, because it seems the Sentinel has been doing a strip search of your past, present and future. Particularly your activities in the City. And they’ve been getting enthusiastic help from certain high-ups there. Have you been buying any shares lately?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I have. I was given full pay whilst I was away and as I was living with, and on, my father, my expenses were trivial. So I found I’d got a bit of capital. I asked an old friend of mine, Milo Roughead – he used to be one of my sergeants – to invest it for me.”

  “Do you know what he put it into?”

  “No. I left that to him.”

  “I see,” said Morrissey thoughtfully. “It’s never easy to sort out this sort of thing at second-hand. Why don’t you have a word with Lovell?”

  “I don’t imagine that the Deputy Commissioner really wants to waste time gossiping with a junior superintendent.”

  “It was his suggestion. I was to tell you that he’d be available at ten o’clock on Wednesday – if that fitted in with your commitments.”

  Petrella looked at his desk diary, but it was only a gesture. He knew very well that a suggestion from the Deputy Commissioner was tantamount to an order. He said, “I’ve got nothing I can’t put off.”

  Noting the mule-like expression on his face Morrissey said, “One thing you’ve got to remember, Lovell’s a lot more important in your young life than I am. Come the end of the year I go out. He goes up.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind,” said Petrella.

  The telephone call from the hospital came at half past four on Tuesday afternoon. Petrella had just
concluded two long and tiresome conversations, the first with Ramsbottom at HC, the second, as long, but less tiresome, with Trench at HD. Dr Burden sounded upset. He said, “I’ve been trying to get through to you for nearly an hour. Now, it may be too late.”

  “Damn, damn and damn,” said Petrella. “When you told them who you were, why the hell didn’t someone have the sense to put you through?”

  “Can’t be helped. If you come round quickly you may still—”

  Without giving him time to finish the sentence, Petrella slammed down the receiver, and sprinted for the basement garage. Fortunately both Hoyland and the runabout were there. He gave his instructions as he was getting into the car, adding, “As quick as you like.”

  For the next few minutes he wondered whether he had been rash, but providence turned all the red lights green.

  When, still breathless, he was shown up to the small room in the Intensive Care Unit where the hospital had been fighting for Thresher’s life, he met the doctor and the nurse coming out and knew that he was too late.

  “I’ve noticed before,” said Dr Burden, “that when a patient has been in a coma for a long period, there is often a short moment of lucidity when he comes out of it. In fact, that’s usually a signal that the end is near.”

  “And that’s what happened?”

  “Yes. Very briefly. It was clear that he wanted, desperately, to say something. I was sitting on one side of the bed and the nurse was on the other side and he was turning his head, first to one of us, then the other, and I could see his lips moving. Then he said something. A few words and something that could have been a name. But too softly for me to make any sense of it.”

  “And then?”

  “That was all.”

  “I’m truly sorry,” said Petrella.

  “No need to be. If you’d been here in time it wouldn’t have made any difference.”

  As they were speaking they were walking down a long corridor, with doors on either side of it. The doctor paused outside one of the wards, offered his hand to Petrella in a gesture of sympathy, and disappeared into it.

  The nurse had gone through a door on the other side of the corridor into a room which contained two benches, a row of shining brass taps and a number of empty bedpans. Looking at her for the first time he noticed two things. First, that though no longer young she was an attractive-looking woman, with a face which carried lines of experience and determination. Clearly one of the senior nurses. The second thing, which was equally clear, was that she had something to say to him.

  He followed her into the room and, obeying a small gesture of her hand, shut the door. When she spoke, her voice placed her, as her face had done, in the upper reaches of the middle class.

  She said, “I’m afraid Dr Burden was not being entirely frank with you.”

  “No?”

  “As he told you, we were sitting on either side of the patient when he died.”

  She did not say ‘went’ or ‘passed on’. She had seen death too many times to be mealy-mouthed about it.

  “We could both hear anything that Mr Thresher said. In fact, when he did speak he was facing the doctor, but although his head was turned away from me I could hear him perfectly clearly. He said, ‘The man who let me in for this was called Seamark.’ Then, again, ‘Tell the police, Bob Seamark.’ “

  The silence which followed seemed to last a long time. Then Petrella gave a little sigh, as though he was emptying his lungs of their last fraction of breath, and said, “You’re quite sure about the name?”

  “Oh, quite sure.”

  “If you had to stand up in court and swear to it, do you think you could do that?”

  “I could swear that that’s what Thresher said. Dr Burden would swear that he said nothing. When a doctor and a nurse disagree, it’s the doctor’s version that’s accepted. That’s a matter of protocol, you understand.”

  “Then you think Dr Burden would be prepared to lie, on oath.”

  “In this case, I think he might do so.”

  “Why in this case?”

  “Sir Robert Seamark is chairman of the Hospital Finance Committee. And they say he’s made very generous contributions to our funds out of his own pocket.”

  “I see,” said Petrella. A number of things were becoming plainer. “You realise that if you give evidence it will almost certainly get you into trouble?”

  “Trouble?” said the nurse. “There’s so much of it around these days that everyone’s bound to run into it sooner or later, don’t you think?”

  Looking at her face, composed, but resolute, Petrella thought what an excellent witness she would make.

  “Poor old boy,” she said. “It was his last wish and it cost him all the life that was left in him to get it out. How could I stand by and let it be brushed aside and buried? As for the money Sir Robert handed over, that didn’t weigh with me. Why should it? He’s probably got plenty.” With the beginning of a smile she added, “I might have been more sympathetic if it hadn’t all been spent on fancy equipment and a little of it had gone to improving our pay.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  At nine o’clock on Wednesday morning, Petrella warned Ambrose that he would be away and unavailable for two hours, and told him where he was going. Ambrose said, with a smile, “If you’re taking the station runabout you’d better let Hoyland drive it. He seems to have adopted that machine and constituted himself your chauffeur.”

  “Thank you,” said Petrella. “I’ve only just recovered from my last experience of being driven by Hoyland in a hurry. This time I’ve got plenty of time and I’m going on foot.”

  It was a perfect morning. A succession of showers had washed away the dirt and depression of the long summer drought and the sun was shining once more, but without its previous ferocity. August had turned the corner into September and there was already a faint foretaste of autumn in the air.

  He set out, following the Commercial Road until it became Fenchurch Street, thrust through the confusion round the Bank and made his way up Cheapside where the dome of St Paul’s rode above the City. Here he had a choice of ways and decided to strike south, onto the Embankment, which he could follow as far as the other great London church, at Westminster. Here he was within easy distance of his destination.

  How many days ago was it that he had taken that other walk down to the Isle of Dogs, visualising, as he went along, the roller-coaster on which he was a captive passenger? Only now the other car had a different crew.

  The Farm Boys and Hicks were still there, but relegated to the second seat. The front row was full of well-dressed City types, arm-in-arm in token of friendship and community of purpose. Men who would give money to hospitals and subscribe to sending poor boys abroad. Yes, and would recoup their outlay by making obscene video films and selling them to their acquaintances, and using the muscle of the thugs sitting behind them to keep those acquaintances in line.

  There was one odd thing about the set-up. Surely a properly thought out roller-coaster was designed so that the cars followed each other. Here it seemed that when his car started on its downward sweep it must run head first into the other car grinding its way up.

  “Odd sort of construction,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon,” said a young man who had come up close behind him.

  “Talking to myself,” said Petrella. “Bad habit.” He turned into the steel and glass battleship which was New Scotland Yard. He was shown straight up to the Deputy Commissioner’s office. Lovell, who seemed also to have been influenced by the weather, was at his most charming and persuasive. He wasted no time on preliminaries. In exactly the way that he would, at the Bar, have opened a case to the jury, he subjected Petrella to a closely reasoned, quietly convincing pattern of argument. As the interlocking sentences followed each other, Petrella was guiltily aware that he was paying them less attention than he should have done.

  His mind was running on different rails.

  He was aware that Lovell held most
of the cards. Whilst he could not sack him – at least, not without some definite and demonstrable grounds – there was nothing to prevent him taking him away from his present job and shunting him into some administrative siding where he would be harmless. He realised, too, that if Lovell really was in line for the top job, the one thing that might stop him being promoted to such a politically sensitive post was bad trouble with the West Indians.

  Having sorted this out in his mind he was able to ignore the special pleading and concentrate on the single point that mattered to him personally.

  Accordingly, when the time came for him to speak, he said, “It’s true that I know the names of most of the men who were present in the back room of the White Horse at the time you mentioned. And I know, in outline, what was said. The information was entrusted to me by one of the men who was there, in the confidence, I’m sure, that I should not repeat it. You’re therefore asking me to do something which is totally repugnant to me. If the Sentinel raise the matter again, you’ll have to tell them that I won’t help them to set up a newspaper tribunal to try Sergeant Stark. Either for general brutality, or on the specific charge, which I personally don’t believe, of having been responsible for the death of their man Poston-Pirrie.”

  When saying this he managed to keep his voice and delivery as matter-of-fact and unemphatic as possible. He did not wish to sound as though he was making a speech from the scaffold.

  Lovell accepted the rebuff calmly. He said, “As long as you realise that you’re charging headlong at one of the most powerful and unscrupulous outfits in London.”

  Petrella said, with a smile, “Have you ever seen a bull fight, sir?”

  “Never. And never wanted to.”

  “If you had, you’d realise that the matador doesn’t charge headlong at the bull. He waits for the bull to charge at him.”

  Lovell said, “Yes, I suppose that’s right.”

  After Petrella had left he sat for several minutes, looking down at his desk. Oddly enough, he was not thinking about Petrella at all. He was thinking about his father, Colonel of Police Gregorio Petrella, whom he had met once, at a conference in Paris, and who had impressed him greatly.