Not Hidden by the Fog

by John Creasey

  Now, the alarm was about Hobbs.

  Perhaps a dozen, perhaps two dozen policemen knew what car Hobbs drove for his own pleasure, and its number. Once the description was out in a priority message to all divisions and sub-divisional stations, another word went with it.

  Hobbs’s car’s been stolen!

  At first, that was a bigger joke than Gideon’s jam jar, but it was short lived. The fair-haired constable in Information was laughing at the enormity of the joke. Who would have the nerve to steal the Deputy Commander’s car, and wouldn’t Hobbs’s face be red? – when the inspector to whom Gideon had talked said roughly: “This isn’t funny. The D.C. was in it when it was last seen.”

  “My God!”

  “Don’t spread that around, but just concentrate on stolen cars.”

  “Don’t spread that around” was like telling the wind not to blow. From lips to lips the words went: “Do you know what—Hobbs is missing!”

  “Hobbs?”

  “The D.C.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “It’s a fact—Hobbs is missing.”

  “Alec Hobbs?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I saw him only yesterday afternoon.”

  “I saw him—”

  “No one’s seen him today.”

  “Who did see him last?”

  “He was at Hampstead, with me,” a red-faced superintendent at the K.L. Division said. “Left about half-past four. I’ll check … It was a quarter-past four.”

  “The car was in the car park behind N.W. Headquarters.”

  “I saw him out,” a constable boasted.

  “It was getting very thick by then, I asked him if he was sure he could make it. He said he was.”

  “Which way did he go?”

  “He went towards the Pond, could have gone anywhere from there.”

  “Anyone thought of dragging the Pond at Hampstead Heath?” a wag asked.

  “That’s not funny.”

  The red-faced man at K.L. was given these reports, and took the almost unprecedented step of talking to all the men in his division who had been on duty the previous afternoon; it was comparatively easy because the same shift was being worked now and there were few changes. His name was Sharp; he had a decisive, rather clipped voice.

  “I want you to discuss this with your colleagues. I want any information you can give me about the car, already described to you, and Mr. Hobbs. And I want reports of anything at all unusual noticed in the area.”

  But the fog had blinkered both sight and sound. Men who had seen a white M.G. had not seen the driver closely, nor had it been possible to note the number.

  All the reports were negative until Sharp called Gideon, in the middle of the afternoon.

  “About Mr. Hobbs’s car, Commander—”

  “Have you traced it?” Gideon demanded.

  “No, sir, but it was parked here until four-fifteen, and I’ve some reports of a similar car going along—do you know Hampstead?”

  “Well enough.”

  “It was seen near Ken Wood, that is the last official report,” Sharp went on. “Do you know if there were any distinguishing marks on the tyres?”

  “No.” Gideon looked at a report which had come up from Information. “It has Dunlops on the front and one rear wheel, Michelin on the other – nearside – rear wheel. Why?”

  “It was very damp yesterday and there was rain at the weekend – and there are a lot of private dirt roads and drives – good area for tyre prints. I thought I’d send out word.”

  “Do that,” Gideon urged and rang off. He felt more anxious than ever.

  About the time that Superintendent Sharp was talking to Gideon, one of the oldest men on the divisional staff was standing at a corner where he had stood on the previous day, although then it had been half an hour later. He was running to fat, and it was a long time since he had moved very fast, longer since he had known the slightest ambition. He was not an unhappy man, he lived comfortably in a house in Kensal Green, his wife worked in the canteen of a small factory, all their children were away from home. This man, Police Constable Best, had probably the least distinguished career of anyone in the Force; yet he had a level of high competence, and training had taught him to use his memory. Ever since the call for the Deputy Commander’s M.G. had gone out he had tried to recall where he had seen a similar car yesterday.

  Now, he remembered.

  He was at the corner of Hampstead Lane and one of the innumerable private roads which branched from it. On this corner was a large Victorian house with a FOR SALE notice on a board in the front garden. He passed it twice a day on his rounds, keeping a look out for young vandals who might hurl stones at the windows, or any sign that hippies had taken possession.

  He had seen the car just here.

  He could not honestly say that he had recognised the driver, but he had certainly noticed his dark hair and the fact that he was rather older than most drivers of sports cars.

  It had disappeared.

  Ah! He had another gradual return of memory; a few seconds, perhaps half a minute after seeing it, he had heard a crash. Not a loud one, and somewhere behind him. On a clear day, P.C. Best might have been able to turn round and see what had happened. As it was, he had paused and pondered, then decided to go and investigate, but as he had started off an elderly woman with a Yorkshire terrier on a leash, loomed out of the fog. If there was one animal Best liked above all others, it was a dog, and he had a special liking for small ones.

  He approached the couple with the encouraging clicks of the tongue dog lovers commonly suppose dogs liked. This one did not appear to do so, but Constable Best remained undaunted. Its elderly owner, swift to take advantage of Best’s interest, volunteered the information that she lived in Ebury Court and had temporarily lost her sense of direction. Constable Best saw her safely home, and with a last loving glance at the Yorkshire terrier made his way back to the spot where he thought the crash had been. There was a litter of broken headlamp glass near the kerb, so he hadn’t been wrong; but there could have been no harm done, it had not been worth reporting when he went off duty.

  But if it had been the wanted car—

  “I’d better report it now,” he told himself, “just in case.” He called the station.

  “Stay there,” he was told promptly. “This one’s urgent.”

  P.C. Best, mourning his tardiness of last night, searched for tyre marks and found them. Five minutes later, a police car pulled up. The three occupants joined him.

  “There’s a Michelin print here,” one of them cried.

  “And here. It looks as if it did a U turn.”

  “Bloody silly thing to do.”

  “Well, look.” The first man pointed to tyre marks which were quite unmistakable. “That car stopped on the collision, and then did a U turn. Better trace it back. Will you pick up as much of that glass as you can?” He added to Best.

  Methodically, Best began to collect the pieces of shattered glass, while the plainclothes man and the driver of the police car went slowly along, keeping to the middle of the road. Now and again tyre prints showed, but there was no certainty they were Michelin. They came to the Victorian house with the sale board.

  “Stop a moment,” the C.I.D. man said. “Let’s have a look in that driveway.” Muddy sand had gathered not only at one side but right across the drive in places, and there was no doubt of the Michelin tyre print.

  Hot on the scent the men followed the drive to the side of the house, where all prints disappeared on gravel on which grass and weeds were growing. Straight ahead, perhaps fifty yards from the back of the house, was a brick-built garage, the wooden doors secured with a bar and locked with a hasp and padlock.

  “That hasp’s rusty,” one of the me
n remarked. “The padlock might have been bought yesterday. Any windows?”

  They made a quick round of the garage; there was a window on each side, but both were boarded up.

  “Let’s get those doors open,” the C.I.D. man urged.

  The driver, a stocky man with powerful shoulders, attacked the doors with professional zest. At the third attack the hasp broke, and the doors sagged open.

  Both men started forward, their eyes fixed on the back of a small white car, bearing the number KLG 231X.

  “That’s it!” cried the C.I.D. man. “That’s the car! It—” He broke off, and gulped. The other said uneasily: “Well, we’ve found the car, have we found the D.C.?”

  For slumping forward over the wheel, was the body of a man.

  They approached slowly, one on each side. The body was so still it might have been a dummy – or it might be stilled in the quietness of death. It was the C.I.D. man who spoke next with a ring of relief in his voice.

  “Whoever it is, it isn’t Hobbs. He’s dark and this chap’s hair—” His voice quivered into silence.

  “That’s not hair,” the police driver said bluntly, “that’s blood.”

  Both of them stood still: as still as the man slumped over the wheel of Hobbs’s car. He had been battered to death.

  Only a mile or so away, the young man named Lennie Sappo nursed his secret. It worried him. He kept seeing images of the face of the man being forced into that house at Cricklewood. Kept hearing the other man threatening to kill him.

  But it wasn’t his business. Ever since he could remember his parents had told him: “Don’t stick your nose in anybody else’s affair. Just keep your mouth shut and you’ll be all right.”

  Lennie Sappo wished there were one person, just one, he could talk to.

  Chapter Nine

  THE MISSING CAR

  Gideon picked up the telephone at twenty to five, said: “Gideon,” and wondered what triviality this would be; to him, now, everything but the search for Hobbs had become trivial. On the instant that the caller began to speak he knew that it was Sharp, of Hampstead, in K.L., and his whole body went tense.

  “We’ve found Hobbs’s car,” Sharp said. “But not Hobbs.”

  “Where?”

  “In the garage of an empty house,” Sharp replied. There was a curious hesitation about the way he spoke; it screamed a warning, for normally Sharp was the most incisive of men. “Commander—” He broke off, but Gideon had the sense to wait. “There was—is—a dead man at the wheel.”

  Gideon heard and yet did not fully take it in. A dead man at the wheel of Hobbs’s car in a deserted garage. Sharp said nothing, and quickly Gideon regained control of himself.

  “How did he die?”

  “It looks like murder.”

  “Do we know him?”

  “No one who’s seen him has recognised him, but we’ve taken fingerprints. They’re on the way to Records now.”

  “I’ll come over,” Gideon said decisively. “I’d like to have a word with the man who found the car – tell me about it on the radio as I come. I’ll need a word with the Commissioner, then I’ll be on the way. Press on the scene yet?”

  “No – the discovery wasn’t made until twenty minutes ago.” That was Sharp’s way of making sure Gideon knew how quickly he’d been informed.

  “Good work,” Gideon said.

  He rang off and immediately dialled Fingerprints, where one of the older men at the Yard, Nicholson, was still in charge.

  “Some fingerprints are on the way from Mr. Sharp, at Hampstead,” Gideon said. “They could not be more urgent. Send someone to Records with them as soon as you’ve got good specimens. Let me know, send a copy of a report to the Commissioner’s office, and telephone Mr. Sharp.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Gideon grunted, and rang off; hesitated, and then dialled the number of the Commissioner, Sir Reginald Scott-Marie. He had known the Chief of the Metropolitan Force for many years and was on good terms with him — as good if not better than anyone at the Yard. Yet when it came to calling him about some new situation Gideon always felt a moment’s uncertainty; almost diffidence. The bell rang six times and then Scott-Marie’s brisk, clear voice came over the wire.

  “This is the Commissioner.”

  “Gideon, sir,” Gideon said.

  “George,” said the Commissioner, “what is this rumour I hear about Hobbs being missing?”

  Of course, Gideon thought, such a rumour was bound to reach him: it would have been wiser to tell him at the start.

  “It’s more than a rumour now, sir, I’m afraid. His car has been found, and in it the body of a murdered man.”

  “Good God!”

  “I’m just on my way to Hampstead,”

  Gideon said. “How late will you be in the office, sir?”

  “Call me, and if I’m not here, call me at home,” Scott-Marie ordered.

  “I’ll do that, sir,” Gideon said.

  He replaced the receiver and strode out of his office, chin thrust forward in an aggressive tilt. He turned into the men’s room for which only a favoured few had a key, as a small man with a very lined face was coming out. This was Chief Detective Superintendent Piluski, busy on an investigation concerning immigration, and whom Gideon must soon see.

  “Any word from Mr. Hobbs, sir?” Piluski asked.

  “Nasty rumours,” Gideon said. “I’m going to see what I can make of them now.”

  Soon, he was in the back of a big and comfortable limousine, with a peak-capped driver at the wheel. The traffic was very thick; everyone seemed to be on the move early, in an attempt to beat any return of the fog. But his driver knew the short cuts and Gideon was able to talk, via Information, to Sharp at Hampstead. This time Sharp was quite himself, recovered from the shock he had received earlier.

  “No more news, sir,” he reported. “But I’ve talked to one of our constables who was on beat duty yesterday. He remembers one or two things which may be helpful.”

  “Why didn’t we know about it yesterday ?”

  “There was nothing to know,” Sharp replied. “It wasn’t until the call for the car went out that our chap—” He told the story in some detail, obviously anxious that the constable, Best, should get full credit. “Best is to retire at the end of the year, sir,” he added.

  Gideon said. “Tell me that bit about the woman who got lost with her dog.”

  “Could easily happen to anyone last night,” Sharp replied, and repeated what Best had told him. Gideon rubbed the lobe of his left ear as he pondered; and then asked slowly: “A Yorkshire terrier, you say ?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Have you checked at this block of flats, Ebury Court, to see if such a woman and dog live there?”

  There was a startled pause, which answered Gideon before Sharp actually replied in a rueful voice: “No, I haven’t.”

  “Better make sure she exists,” Gideon said.

  “I’ll know within half an hour,” Sharp promised, in a voice which betrayed his anger with himself. “Anything else now, Commander?”

  “Press still unaware of what’s happened?”

  “I had a call from the Daily Echo to ask whether it was true we’d found a dead man in an unused garage,” Sharp replied, “but the man didn’t link it with Mr. Hobbs.”

  “Hold them off as long as you can,” urged Gideon.

  He looked out on to the crowded pavements, seeing a girl of Penny’s colouring and Penny’s build, which brought his daughter sharply to his mind. What would she do? How could he tell her what had happened? In a surprisingly short time the car reached Swiss Cottage, but there the traffic was really thick, and when they weren’t standing still they were crawling. No news came over the radio-telephone, and Gideon had time to let everyt
hing that had happened pass through his mind; and he even began to speculate.

  Was Hobbs hurt?

  Had he been taken away against his will? Kidnapped? The very word was anathema where a senior policeman was concerned but it recurred over and over again. It was unthinkable, yet he was thinking about it.

  Why should the word occur to him? Why not wonder whether Hobbs was alive?

  Because, had whoever stolen his car wanted to kill him, presumably they could have done so as readily as they had killed the man found slumped over the wheel.

  At last the car turned into the street where the Divisional Headquarters were, and as it slowed down Gideon saw one policeman duck indoors, while another came forward, obviously prepared to receive Gideon. The first man was alerting Sharp and the whole station, of course.

  He was right about that, for Sharp was in the hall to meet him. Before he had finished shaking hands, he spoke.

  “Word came through from Records. Those prints aren’t known.”

  “Pity,” Gideon gloomed.

  “Nor is a little old lady with a Yorkshire terrier known at Ebury Court,” Sharp said, ruefully. “It so happens that it’s one of the few apartment buildings around here where they won’t allow pets. I’ve got P.C. Best busy trying to recall every last detail of her face,” he added. “Would you like to see him before we go round to Tower House?”

  “What do you advise?”

  “He’s a bit jumpy,” Sharp replied. “Nearly thirty years with the Force and this is the first time he’s run into anything like this. I think he’ll bear being left on his own for a bit.”

  “Then let’s leave him,” Gideon agreed readily. “I’d like to see the car, and the body.”

  “We’ll go in my car – it’s parked at the back, and we needn’t go upstairs to my office until later,” Sharp declared. “My God! I’m mad at myself for not thinking that woman could have been there to stop Best from going to see what was happening.” When Gideon didn’t answer him, and they stepped out into a well-lit car park behind the police station, he went on: “If that’s what she was there for it’s a pretty well-organised job.” He paused to give Gideon another chance to speak, but Gideon preferred to listen. “And what’s a little old woman doing in a case where a man’s head was smashed in? I’ll vow one thing, Commander. Whoever struck the blows had the strength of an ox. Only a young and very fit woman could have used such force.”