by John Creasey
Beryl got up, slowly, awkwardly, and called: “It’s all right, I slipped.” She leaned against the wall, listening to the whine of the lift, hoping that the man on the floor below would not come up to investigate. She listened for the sound of footsteps, and believed that she heard him coming. She swayed away from the wall, and noticed that the door of Jorrie’s apartment was open.
She stepped inside quickly and closed the door; it slammed. She stood in the darkness, heart thumping, eyes straining as they tried to accustom themselves to gloom broken only by a glow of light at the door.
No one called out.
At last, Beryl groped for the light switch, and found it. Blinking against the bright light, she went into the flat, with the furniture which to her seemed luxurious. Light in the big living room came from a lamp with a monster shade. The television stared with a square, vacant eye. Thick carpet cushioned her feet.
The bathroom, jade green in colour, made her gasp. Everything seemed all right, but Jorrie wasn’t here; at least she hadn’t refused to open the door.
But who had the man been? Who would come here alone at night, if it wasn’t Carraway? And why should a man behave like that unless he was frightened?
Soon, Beryl went out, and down in the lift, and back home by bus. The next step, she told herself, was to find out where Carraway lived and go and see him.
Bruce Carraway was not thinking about Marjorie or about Eric Little just then. He was busy making telephone calls in quick succession to private-hire car dealers in the Home Counties, on the perimeter of London. He was obtaining options on cars and drivers at normal rates for the week of the Visit. Rental cars would be in great demand, whatever the weather.
In between calls, his telephone rang. He hesitated, wondering who it was. Eric Little had already reported that the job at Brighton had been finished, so it wouldn’t be Eric. It might be the police. Carraway lifted the receiver and said briskly: “Bruce Carraway speaking.”
“Bruce.” It was Little again, and something in the way his name was uttered warned of impending trouble. “Bruce, I - I went round to - to her flat to get her things.” There was a long, alarming pause. I - I went to make it look as if she’d moved, like you told me, and . . .” Little was breathing very hard. Carraway gripped the receiver tightly, but he did not speak. “Her sister called. She - she threatened to go to the police if the door wasn’t opened. I got away all right, she didn’t see me, but I had to leave the clothes and everything there.”
Carraway said softly, slowly: “Keep away from that place until we know which way the police are going to jump. And keep away from me, except at the showrooms. Understand?”
Before Little had a chance to answer, Carraway rang off. He sat there, scowling, and it was a long time before he made his next call. Even then, he wasn’t concentrating on business, but on this new danger. Supposing this sister had seen Little, after all. Supposing she could identify him?
That could make the difference between being safe and being caught for a murder.
6: Ripple
After the general call had gone out for Marjorie Belman, earlier that evening, Gideon studied Abbott’s reports and listened to everything the man said to amplify them. He could understand what had driven Abbott to make his decisions, and there was nothing in the preparation or the carrying out of the investigations which Gideon could fault. Abbott was sitting opposite him, still tense.
Gideon pushed the reports aside, bent down, opened a drawer in his desk, and took out a bottle of Scotch, two glasses and a siphon.
“Like a nip?’
“Be glad of one.”
“Say when,” said Gideon, and mixed a fairly strong drink for Abbott, half-and-half for himself. He pushed it across the desk, put his own glass to his lips, said: “Here’s to the end of crime,” and sipped. He wouldn’t have had a whisky, then, but he felt Abbott needed one. “Now,” he went on, “if you’d come in yesterday morning and told me more about the girl Belman, I would almost certainly have advised you to leave Carraway for a few days and concentrate on the girl. I also would have told you to have her followed and would have added the usual ‘don’t lose her.’”
Abbott’s eyes were brightening.
“You’re not just saying this, George?”
“No,” Gideon assured him. “I don’t know how the case will work out, but I hardly think Carraway will kill the girl - he must know that it would be asking for trouble. Can’t be sure, of course, but apart from that risk, there’s only one thing I don’t like.”
Abbott went taut. “What’s that?’
“The fact that you’re dithered,” Gideon said. He had a strange feeling, one which came every now and again and which he never liked, but it had to be accepted for what it was. He was the headmaster, Abbott was the pupil in trouble; the relationship between two grown men was temporarily suspended. “Nothing wrong in the handling of the case, but there will be in future ones if you have the same approach. When did you last have a holiday with your wife?”
“Last year, but . . .” Abbott hesitated. “Yes?’
“Well, we didn’t go away,” said Abbott. “Haven’t been away for four years, as a matter of fact. Just messed around the house, going out for odd days. We have a bit of a problem at home.”
Gideon thought: Why didn’t I know? Is this wife trouble? “Sorry about that,” he said. “Serious!”
“In itself it’s not,” replied Abbott, hesitantly. “It gets on my nerves, though. The wife’s, too. We’ve got her mother living with us. The old soul’s practically bedridden, and there’s no one else to take over. Ties my wife all the time, and I can’t very well go off on a holiday without her.”
Normally Gideon would have told Abbott to fix a holiday of some kind, soon, and would have him taken off the job whether he liked it or not. But it simply couldn’t be done. Every man on the force would be needed until after the Visit.
“No sisters, brothers or relatives to take over for a week or so?’ he asked.
“No one who will, George. You know how it is. My wife’s always been the Martha in her family, and . . .” Abbott broke off.
“As soon as the V.I.P.’s have gone home, you’ve got to take a few weeks off,” Gideon compromised. “That’s an order.”
“Oh, sure,” said Abbott.
After Abbott had gone, Gideon sat back, frowning. He had the frustrated feeling which often came when he could not go out and tackle a job himself; that feeling would probably come frequently in the next few weeks. But it was no use sitting and brooding. He did up his collar, tightened the knot of his tie, jumped up, and went out. He poked his head around the corner of the office where the night-duty inspector was and said: “Nothing much to worry about, Mac, except this Marjorie Belman job. Seen that call?”
“Yep.”
“Watch it. And in your spare time, check all duty rosters, holidays and special leaves, will you? Get as many holidays as you can over before May twenty-third and postpone all of ‘em after that a while, June fourth or fifth, say.”
“Big Visit blues,” the other man said. “Okay.” Gideon strode on, nodding good night right and left, until he reached the courtyard and saw someone standing by the side of his car, back from its check up. When he drew nearer, he recognized Ripple. He frowned because he hadn’t recognized the other at once. Usually his long sight was fairly good; he needed glasses only for continuous close work.
“Hallo, Rip.”
“Going to be busy tonight, George?”
“Not ‘specially,” Gideon said.
“Think Kate will want to throw me out if I come round for an hour?”
“Come and have a meal with us,” invited Gideon. “Can’t do that - I’ve a lot of odds and ends to clear up before I pack it in for tonight. I’ll have a snack at the canteen. Okay if I come round about nine?”
“We’ll have a drink,” Gideon said. “Good man,” said Ripple.
There was something curiously secretive about him. In appearance he w
as much too heavy, almost coarse, and his face was badly pitted, probably from severe chicken pox as a child, although he had never said anything about it. He looked both tough and rough, but his voice was gentle, and whenever he was pleased he could not repress high spirits; whenever preoccupied, he seemed to brood.
Gideon reached Parliament Square, saw many more cars there than usual at seven o’clock in the evening, then noticed that a car was on its side, blocking part of the road to Victoria Street. How could any driver manage to do that on a perfectly dry road in a thirty miles-an-hour area in broad daylight? A constable came up.
“I’d filter through to the right if I were you, sir, and go through St. James’s Park. Nasty business over there.”
“How nasty?”
“Two stone dead, I’d say. Pedestrians. And the driver of the car’s a hell of a mess. He sideswiped a lorry - Oh, there’s the ambulance. Shall I see you through, sir?”
“Please,” said Gideon. “Thanks.” The constable moved a dozen pedestrians from the middle of the square, and Gideon crawled past them. He saw a middle-aged woman being led away from the scene by a man; the woman looked greenish-yellow, as if she would be sick. As Gideon passed, she muttered: “Terrible, terrible.”
He moved along with a line of traffic into St. James’s Park, thinking of Cox, because Cox was in charge of Uniform except during the Visit, and accidents like these were handled by his department. It was a hell of a job. For the first time, Gideon found himself wondering whether Cox was the right man to take the brunt of public and newspaper criticism about motoring and motorists. When there was a big traffic jam the police were always blamed; the Visit would cause some of the biggest jams ever.
Gideon was halfway along Birdcage Walk when he caught sight of a man and a woman strolling along on the far side of the road, arm-in-arm. The woman was tall, had a nice figure and slim legs, and kept her shoulders straight. As he drew level he saw that it was Miss Timson and - Good God! Young Wall from Sydney. Thirty-five-year-old man and forty-five-year old woman, if Gideon was any judge. The coincidence made him forget both the accident and Cox. It was half-past seven when he put his car into the garage around the corner from his house in Harrington Street, Fulham, and locked the shutters and strolled around to the house. It hadn’t been painted on the outside for three years, and ought to have a coat this year. Three or four years ago he would have taken that in his stride; it would be three week-ends’ work at the most, if he could get three off duty in a row. He could forget that this summer - after the Visit he would be so involved with a backlog of normal work that week ends off would be skimpy, to say the least.
He opened the iron gate, passed the neatly-trimmed privet hedge and the trim, postage-stamp-sized lawn and, as he did so, the door opened and his wife appeared.
“Hallo, dear! I was in the bedroom. I thought I saw the car pass.”
She had been making-up for him; not too heavily, just enough to look fresh and appealing. She made-up more these, days than she had when she was young. She was tall, in fact a big woman, deep-breasted but with a well-defined waist, nice legs, rather large feet, narrow enough for shoes of fashion. Her hair was a lighter grey than Gideon’s, and she’d had a set today. It was good to see the way her face lit up, good to feel the satisfaction which he felt, yet their kiss was light and almost casual.
“You look as if you’re expecting visitors,” Gideon said.
She looked pleased. “According to the news, you’re expecting the visitors.”
Gideon laughed, and then told her all that had happened. Kate was quiet and thoughtful until they were sitting at the table. Gideon had a huge plate of meat pie in front of him, knife and fork at the ready. “Isn’t it going to be rather a lot?” Kate asked.
“What?”
“Your ordinary job, and Uniform.”
“It’ll break my back!”
Kate gave a little laugh, and started to eat. Five minutes later, she looked across at his empty plate, shook her head, and said: “I suppose it’s no use saying you’ll ruin your digestion. You haven’t improved in thirty years. George.”
“Hm-hm?” Gideon was helping himself to more pie. “Do you think you could get me a seat on the balcony of the Ministry?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” said Gideon. “I’ll put in the
request tomorrow.”
He helped Kate wash up and, at half-past eight, switched on the television. There was a news telecast at 8:45 to make time for a two-hour Shakespeare performance. Kate took out some of their son Malcolm’s socks, drew them over her hand, found a small hole in one heel, and began to darn. The news announcer reported the forthcoming Western Summit as if it were fresh and epoch-making. There were a few Russian comments, some Africa news, some home oddments, and finally: “In reply to questions in the House of Commons today, following his speech about the reduction in overall crime figures, the Home Secretary said that he fully realized that the improvement might be short term and the police would certainly not relax their efforts in any degree. His speech was not intended to suggest that there were any grounds for complacency. In reply to Mr. Lubbock, Labour, West Ferry, he said that the improvement was certainly due to improved police methods in which scientific aids to the investigation of crime were being “used to the full. There had been no material increase in police manpower. In reply to Mr. Ventry, Conservative, Lushden, he said that some measure of the improvement was undoubtedly due to the spell of severe cold weather in the month of March, but he did not believe that this was a major cause. The major cause was undoubtedly the unceasing vigilance of the police and the use of new methods of crime detection. In reply to Mr. Goss, Liberal, Ockney, he said that it was Government policy to put as much emphasis as possible on the prevention as distinct from the detection of crime, and that in the long run this would undoubtedly be the deciding factor. The Home Secretary added that he did not think that a long-term policy of crime prevention would really enable anyone
to sleep more easily in his bed tonight or for many nights to come - detective work by the Criminal Investigation Department and patrolling by the uniformed policemen were still the main weapons used against modern crime.”
The announcer turned to some racing news. “The Home Secretary sounds almost as if he’s got some sense, doesn’t he?” remarked Kate. “Scott-Marie had a go at him,” said Gideon. “We had a conference this morning . . .” He was halfway through a recital of what had happened at the conference when the front-door bell rang. “That’ll be Rip,” he said. “I’ll go.” He had a queer little thought as he went to open the door. He wished this was Cox, come to discuss their joint problem, instead of Ripple.
Mildred Cox knew that Ray was in a gloomy mood almost as soon as he got home, just before seven o’clock. He was sharp with Tom, their only child, nine years old, whom Ray usually spoiled. Mildred’s problem was to prevent a scene with the nine-year-old without making her intervention too obvious.
Everything she did to help Ray had to be unostentatious. Outwardly, he was the hub of the little family, and Mildred cheerfully went along with that. For one thing, she was so small and he so tall and rangy; seen from behind, they looked like father and daughter, for the top of her blonde head barely came up to his angular shoulders. She wore her soft, golden-blonde hair in a feather-like cluster. Her grey eyes were big and round with an expression of constant wonder. She had a button of a nose and, unlike Ray, nice full lips and a little pointed chin.
Tom took after her in features and colouring, and promised to take after his father in height.
“Now you go along to your room and get your homework done,” Cox ordered his son. “Don’t let’s hear another squeak out of you until it’s finished.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“And don’t say ‘okay.’ Use the English language.”
“All right, Dad.” Tom was always subdued when his father picked on him.
The boy went out of the long, narrow living room, and closed the door quietly. In
the corner, the twenty-one-inch television screen was blank. This was a four-room apartment in Lambeth, just across the river from the Yard, in a square, squat new apartment building. The window overlooked the Thames, the embankment, the training slips moored alongside, the passenger jetties, the Thames side jetty and the launches, the Victorian buildings cheek-by-jowl with modern blocks - and New Scotland Yard. That was why they had moved here, five years ago. When the boy had gone, Cox stood staring out the window. A few lights were on, although there was another hour of daylight. The river was calm and beautiful. Boats skimming along it looked almost unreal. Cox kept looking at the C.I.D. block, grey and fairly modern; he could see Gideon’s office window.
Suddenly, he said aloud: “We’ll have to watch the river. Be a hell of a lot of extra traffic on it.”
“When, dear?” asked Mildred, although she knew very well.
. “During the next State Visit. Haven’t you heard about it?”
“There was something on the television.”
“It’s going to be a very big show.”
“I suppose so, with all those Presidents. There’s one good thing, it won’t interfere with our holiday this time, as we’re not going until August. Will it mean a lot of extra work for you?”
“Not as much as it should.”
“What a funny thing to say,” murmured Mildred. She put down some of Tom’s stockings and smiled at him. “You don’t want more work, do you?”
“I wanted this,” growled Cox.
“I think I must be extra dumb tonight,” said Mildred, apologetically. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, it doesn’t take much explaining. I’ve been given a kick in the pants, and . . .” He talked slowly at first, and then with increasing vigour, so that both bitterness and injured pride showed all too clearly. He walked about the room as he told her how Gideon had actually come to see him to lay down the law and show his authority. By the time he had finished, it was nearly eight o’clock. More lights were on across the river, and a pleasure craft with festoons of coloured bulbs went swinging down-water.
