by John Creasey
“No. Much more. We went to the home of one of the ringleaders of the attack on Rataudi’s house. It’s a room at the back of a cafe where they sell Pakistani, Indian, and Jamaican snacks as well as fried fish and chips and chicken and chips. We found enough documents there to show that Archer is absolutely right. The Black Power group has hundreds of members, and the only objective is to make as much trouble as possible. We got a copy of these rules but not of the names and addresses of the members. The immigrants are seething. Even the most liberal and tolerant have lost their patience. Seven of their people were killed in today’s collapse and they want revenge – on Rataudi and his partners, on every profiteering landlord in London. And tonight could be flashpoint. We’ve never needed every man on duty as we do tonight.” He tossed down his whisky and soda. “I hadn’t come to that conclusion when I telephoned you, George. I feel sick about the whole business. It was something young Archer said when I left which really started me thinking.” He drew a deep breath and faced Gideon as squarely as a man could: as if this was a kind of confessional. “He asked me to consider having an all-night standby alert in the division, with concentrations of men on duty in all areas with a large immigrant population. And he suggested special watch on the houses of known profiteering landlords. That told me how desperate he thinks the situation has become, George. And I’m afraid I’ve let it become almost too late.”
Gideon could imagine exactly how Saxby was feeling: even worse, he himself was touched with anxiety that the others were right. He stretched forward and pulled the file toward him, flipping over documents until he came to an outline map of the Saxby’s division and parts of those adjoining. Hobbs joined them at the desk. There were small areas shaded in black, including the Notting Hill district close to Long Street. Some areas were shaded grey, some remained white. The neighbouring divisions had their share of black and grey, also.
Black indicated a heavy concentration of immigrants.
Grey showed a concentration of much less density.
White, ironically, stood for areas where only white people lived.
There flashed through Gideon’s mind a sense of anger that there should be such divisions, that such a situation had ever been allowed to develop; but that was not the immediate problem: meeting the present situation mattered now. He looked up to find Hobbs’s eyes close to his.
“There’s time to stop the change of shift in the divisions,” Hobbs said. “Time to allow everyone an hour off before we put them on standby. We can organise a meal up in the canteen, if we arrange for extra staff in the cafeteria. Will you speak to Uniform, sir, and see what help they can give? I’ll brief all our chaps.”
So Hobbs had no doubt that Archer was right; nor, for that matter, had Gideon.
“I’ll talk to Uniform,” he promised.
He thought that if Uniform raised any difficulties, either of protest or over the availability of men, he would go straight over their heads to Scott-Marie. But he didn’t expect, nor did he get, any obstructiveness. If anything, he sensed that the Commander of the Uniformed Branch wondered why this request had been so long in coming. When it was all done, Saxby looked younger by ten years. Gideon and Hobbs felt some measure of satisfaction, but there was one great cause for anxiety: the landlords. Some were known and could be protected, but a great number, living in different parts of London, were not known to the police but might be to the Black Power group. Obviously each one was in danger, those quite innocent of overcrowding and profiteering, as well as the guilty.
Rataudi might know many of them.
After all the emergency arrangements were made, Gideon looked at his watch. It was nearly twenty to seven, and he immediately went along to the waiting rooms. He had left Mahommet Rataudi kicking his heels for a long time, certainly long enough to have made any Englishman complain; but Rataudi showed no sign of impatience or distress. He had some evening newspapers, whose front pages carried huge headlines and some remarkable pictures of the collapsing wall, including one of Riddell actually being buried. He also had some newspapers in Bengali, thin and poorly printed on greyish paper, and folded small enough to go into his pocket. He stood up, pressed the tips of his fingers together, and bowed slightly. He looked neither young nor old but ageless; neither good nor bad but touched with suffering.
“Sorry I’ve kept you,” Gideon said. “It’s going to be a busy night and it’s been a very hard day.”
“For that, sir, I am deeply sorry,” Rataudi said.
“What are you prepared to do to make amends?” Gideon asked.
“Commander Gideon,” replied Rataudi with dignity, “I feel no responsibility and no guilt, and so no need to make amends.” He added a few words in his own tongue and Gideon detected the name Allah uttered several times. “But of course I am prepared to help, in any way I can, all these unfortunate people of my country.”
Gideon, eyeing him very straightly, avoided argument and said:
“There are indications of serious outbreaks of violence. You, your partners, and other landlords of overcrowded property are in acute danger. Before we can protect all of you we must know who and where the others are. You can at least name your partners.” He waited but Rataudi said neither yes nor no. “Can you name others whom the crowd might attack?” he demanded.
“Are the police so helpless?” asked Rataudi suddenly, and he made it sound like a simple question with no implications.
“We can protect you and others if we know where everyone is,” Gideon said. “We can’t if we don’t.” He waited, but got no response, so he went on: “Mr. Rataudi, I shall have to investigate the conditions at Long Street to find out whether any law was broken. Whether you and other landlords like the idea or not, there will have to be a very thorough investigation, possibly by a Court of Enquiry. I would rather be able to improve the situation now, and not wait until there has been a lot of violence and so arrests and court cases. That would only make a bad situation worse.”
He feared that Rataudi was going to refuse to help, even as he spoke. He had a strange feeling that he was not really communicating with the man, that Rataudi was facing an ultimatum for which he saw no justification. It was as if he and the Pakistani came not only from different countries but from different worlds.
Then Rataudi said in a tired-sounding voice: “I will give you some names and addresses, Commander. You understand, of course, that I do not know them all. If I may have a pen and some paper on which to write—”
Before dark the police had dozens of houses under guard—the home of every landlord they knew to be in danger from mob violence. Some were in the overcrowded areas, some in residential suburbs, a few in beautiful homes in the West End, Knightsbridge, Kensington, and Hampstead. A dozen attacks began, but all were abortive, for the ringleaders had not expected to find police ready for them. Patrol cars were available for reinforcements, but none was needed.
Protest meetings were held at the approaches to Long Street and to all other predominantly immigrant areas. There were threats to profiteering landlords and demands for equality between black and white. Marches were hurriedly organised, but all were easily contained. It was an uneasy night but a victory, at least by stalemate, for the police.
While much of this was going on, Gideon was at home with Honiwell, sitting in the kitchen eating a mountain of sausages and chips which Penny had cooked. She had gone out, and the two men were soon on their own in the big front room, whisky between them hardly touched, Honiwell fiddling with a cigar. They had discussed the Entwhistle case in detail, and now Gideon had to advise the other man what to do. Despite the standby alert throughout the whole of the London area, Gideon’s attention just then was concentrated on the problem of Entwhistle, his children, and Eric Greenwood.
Greenwood’s growing list of mistresses and what seemed to be the intensity of his latest affair with a merchant seaman’s wife appeared to
be leading to a crisis of some kind. The worsening mental condition of Entwhistle at Dartmoor, reports which came in about his children, particularly the girl Carol, demanded action for another, very strong reason.
On a table between their two armchairs was a report from Detective Sergeant Benbow, who had been assigned exclusively to this reinvestigation. It read:
The aunt with whom the children are living reports that the two older, Clive and Jennifer, are apparently no longer troubled although occasionally each is mocked at school by taunts of being the child of a killer. Such phrases as: “Your dad killed your mum, didn’t he?” are less common but still liable to be used at any time. The child Carol is much more affected by these taunts than the others. Always more distressed, being more sensitive by nature, she is “lonely and withdrawn,” to quote a form mistress at her school, as well as the aunt. The aunt has recently discovered an illustrated tourist book on Devon, hidden in the girls’ bedroom. Carol had pasted in snapshots of her mother and father opposite a picture of Dartmoor Prison. The oldest child, Clive, might remember if Greenwood ever visited the home while the father was away and if he recognised Greenwood, might enable us to break the man down.
Gideon picked the report up and said: “Matt, we’ve a very awkward problem. Certainly we may have to use the boy Clive, but only as confirmation, not as a means of breaking Greenwood’s confidence. If we make any move and are wrong it could put an end to all Entwhistle’s hopes and that might do both Entwhistle and the child irretrievable harm. On the other hand we can’t reopen the case officially – which means publicly – simply because of the mental condition of father or child. We can only reopen it if we are absolutely certain of our case against Greenwood – but remember we were once certain of our case against Entwhistle. If this were a new case we could move on circumstantial evidence, but we need much more before we can reopen an old one.”
Honiwell simply raised his hands helplessly, and Gideon touched another report, a detailed one of Greenwood’s amorous adventures.
“We could tackle Greenwood if we had reason to believe that he might do the same thing again, but no matter what we think, we can’t take action of any kind without very strong evidence that he killed Margaret Entwhistle. As far as I can see the only proof we can get after this lapse of time is a confession, and the only hope of getting a confession seems to be by presenting Greenwood with strong circumstantial evidence.” He took out his pipe and began to polish it with the palm of his right hand. “Is there any such evidence?”
After a long pause, Honiwell answered: “Not yet, George.”
“Then I don’t see how we can act until we have some. Is there really any hope of your sergeant getting it?”
“He’s turned up a surprising lot of stuff,” answered Honiwell. “I think he might find what we want, but I’m damned if I think he’ll find it in time.” His voice seemed to be echoing in the big, old-fashioned room, when a police car pulled up outside. The curtains weren’t drawn; Gideon saw the driver get out and wondered what this was about, could imagine only an emergency, yet if it were one, why hadn’t he been telephoned? His mind sprang at once to news about the standby alarm, but suddenly he saw Kate get out of the police car and heard her clear:
“Thank you very much. Good night.”
She came briskly toward the front door as the car moved off.
Detective Sergeant Sam Benbow sat in a small cellar restaurant in King’s Road, Chelsea, enjoying good, solid Belgian cooking, and a low-priced but nicely dry Moselle, just right for the rather fatty stuffed veal. He had a corner table, on which a newspaper was propped up so that he could read all the details of the murder at Ealing and of the disaster at Notting Hill. He looked much more like a boxer than a policeman, with one cauliflower ear, a broken nose, and flattened lips. It wasn’t until one looked into his bright, periwinkle blue eyes that one began to trust him.
The woman who hustled two blue-smocked Finnish-speaking waitresses about and bustled to and from the kitchen which her husband ruled, also took all the orders in good if obviously accented English. When she came to offer Benbow another slice of veal or more sauté potatoes, he kissed her hand in an extravagant gesture.
“Wonderful!” he boomed. “Wonderful!” As she served him he took a photograph out of his breast pocket, one of Eric Greenwood. “Don’t happen to know him, do you?”
She looked down and shook her head.
“I do not see him, ever,” she answered, and piled the potatoes high.
Benbow, who was married to a woman who was out night after night on social work in the East End, put the photograph away. Five nights a week he visited different restaurants in this part of London, for one of the things Bessie Smith had said in passing was that Greenwood liked to eat in this area, where food was less expensive yet often as good as in Soho and the West End.
Five times the patrons had recognised Greenwood, but none had also recognised Margaret Entwhistle. Somewhere in London, Benbow believed, he would find someone who recognised them both. True, it was a long time ago, but the human mind could be remarkably retentive, and the owners and headwaiters of small restaurants would often remember not only faces but food likes and dislikes over several years.
The one positive thing emerging was that Eric Greenwood, in his way, was very much a ladies’ man.
Also on his travels was Simon Goodenough. And as he travelled so much and to far places, he had greater opportunity than most men. He accepted only one obligation to his wife – apart from keeping her, of course. He made quite sure that he had caught no venereal disease, so that whenever he was home with her there was nothing barred. Perhaps because they were apart so often, when he was home their life was tumultuous and wildly exciting. He wasn’t sure that of all his conquests his wife didn’t give him the most pleasure.
At the back of his mind he knew that when he was at sea she had lovers, but this was a forbidden subject even to him. Provided she was at home, waiting, eager for him, he was happy. At the very moment when Sam Benbow had shown Greenwood’s photograph to the Belgian woman, Goodenough was on the bridge of the Orianda, thinking about Jennifer: longing to be back.
13
Standby
“I must be off,” said Honiwell, as the front door of Gideon’s house opened.
“Don’t rush,” urged Gideon.
“Hallo, George,” Kate called as she opened the front door with her key.
Gideon went into the passage to welcome her, a gesture which Honiwell noticed with a sharp pang. He wanted to talk in confidence to Gideon about his situation with Netta, but this broke across his mood, and would almost certainly change Gideon’s. Outside, Kate put her cheek forward to be kissed, and Gideon hugged her for a moment, very tightly. As he let her go, he said:
“Have you had supper?”
“All I need, dear,” she answered, “except for some coffee – or tea, as it’s so late. Did I see another head in the front room?”
“Matt Honiwell’s here,” Gideon told her, and they stepped into the big room. Honiwell was already on his feet in front of his chair. There were brief greetings, before Gideon went on: “How’s Vi Riddell, Kate?”
Kate was taking off a close-fitting hat, and poking her fingers into her greying hair, which was a little flattened and yet still attractive. It gave her a rakish look.
“Do you know, I’m not really sure,” she answered seriously. “Much better than I would have expected in some ways. Almost as if”—Kate paused, one hand at her side now, the other holding her hat in front of her breast—”as if she’s relieved.”
“Relieved!” echoed Honiwell.
“Yes, that’s why I’m puzzled. She said that she’s been worried about Tom for a long time. Apparently he was near a breakdown before his holiday, and if he hadn’t gone away she thinks he would have collapsed. She told me a lot I hadn’t expected, too – but you don’t w
ant to hear about it now; you must have something to discuss with Matt.”
“I’d like to know, too,” Honiwell said. “So will Netta. She took a liking to Vi Riddell last night. My God, only last night,” he almost groaned. “You’ve packed a week in this day, George!”
“Well, briefly then,” conceded Kate a little reluctantly. “Violet Riddell’s been very worried about Tom, who was obsessed by the fact that he simply couldn’t see the racial problem objectively. First his sympathies were all on one side, then they swung round to the other. She wasn’t able to help him. Once he used to talk about his problems to her but he’s hardly talked at all about this. She thinks he needs to talk to someone and that’s been her only way to help him, just letting him talk. Now she longs to get him home so that she can nurse him and start making him confide in her again.” Putting her hand on Gideon’s shoulder, Kate went on: “She’s sure he would have cracked up mentally if something hadn’t happened. Now, provided he gets over this—” Kate’s fingers tightened. “George, he’s all she lives for, and I promised to keep her in touch with the latest news. He will get over it, won’t he?”
There was no way of being sure about recovery, Gideon knew. He had learned before leaving his office that Riddell had already had an emergency operation because of internal haemorrhage from crushing; and there was after all some cerebral haemorrhage. No surgeon would predict how he would get on. That was all he could tell Kate, and all she could tell Vi Riddell, on the telephone.
When she finished, she picked up her hat from the sideboard and moved toward the door.
