A Part for a Policeman

by John Creasey

  Copyright & Information

  A Part For a Policeman

  First published in 1970

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1970-2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755136152 9780755136155 Print

  0755139488 9780755139484 Kindle

  0755137825 9780755137824 Epub

  0755152220 9780755152223 Epdf

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.

  Chapter One

  Interruption

  ‘Enjoying it?’ asked Roger West.

  ‘Shhh!’ breathed Janet, his wife.

  He did not ask again but pressed her hand, which lay relaxed in his. She was still attractive to him as when they had married, over twenty years before, but now there was an added maturity that lent dignity and poise.

  Roger’s attention moved back to the screen.

  He was mildly entertained by a love story beautifully filmed in Ireland; though not as absorbed in it as Janet appeared to be. He was pleased by her pleasure, because he was so seldom free to take her out in the evening, and this was the first film they had seen together for several months. They had dined out in Soho, before attending an English premiere at London’s most modern West End cinema; he was replete, warm and comfortable and the film was not likely to send him to sleep.

  As an obvious villain appeared when an Irish colleen was on her own in a rainswept cottage, he grinned to himself. The first dawning of anxiety showed in the girl’s eyes, as the man bore down on her, and Roger had to admit that she held his attention. The scene – played in silence but for the spattering of rain on the tiny windows and the sound of the man and woman breathing – was very effective.

  Across the scene ran a caption, which he read without at first taking it in.

  If Supt. R. West is in the audience will he

  please call at the manager’s office?

  It disappeared.

  Roger, still following the plot, felt Janet stir beside him.

  ‘Roger! That was—’

  ‘For me,’ he completed in a whisper, as the significance of the flash made a delayed impact. Oh, damn.’ He glanced to the right. There were three people between him and the gangway, not too difficult to pass.

  ‘They can’t even leave you alone for an evening,’ Janet whispered in vexation.

  ‘It’s the devil. But you stay.’

  ‘It’s spoiled for me already.’ Janet began to pick up her bag.

  Someone a few rows behind hissed: ‘Shhh!’

  Roger put his arm firmly on Janet’s wrist, placed his lips close to her ear, whispered: ‘I’ll have to go straight to the Yard—stay, sweetheart,’ and kissed the lobe of her ear. Then he turned and spoke softly to the woman on his left. ‘Excuse me. I’m so sorry.’

  As he reached the gangway the flash came again:

  If Supt. R. West is in the audience will he

  please call at the manager’s office?

  A few among the audience turned curiously as he walked up to the cross gangway and then towards the nearest red exit sign. As he reached it an usherette stepped into his path.

  ‘Are you Superintendent West?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Would you please give me your autograph?’ the girl almost pleaded.

  In spite of himself Roger had to smile. He signed on the paper she held out and walked off to her, ‘Oh, thanks ever so much.’ He had no idea what was happening on the screen, went through the swing doors and, at a door marked Manager, saw a youth, no older than one of his own sons, immaculate in a dinner jacket. A girl at the confectionery stall was serving two teenage girls with hotdogs.

  ‘Are you Mr West?’ the youth asked.

  ‘Yes. Is the manager—’

  ‘I am the manager. There is a car waiting for you outside, sir.’

  ‘No message?’ asked Roger, almost sharply.

  ‘Only would you go to the car when it arrived—and it has arrived, the box office cashier just telephoned to tell me.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Roger said. ‘Sorry I’ve been a nuisance.’

  ‘No nuisance at all, sir!’ the youth said warmly. ‘Great pleasure to have met you.’

  ‘Oh,’ Roger ejaculated, surprised. As they went down the thickly carpeted stairs, he glanced engagingly at the other. ‘Tell me something,’ he said.

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘What happens to the girl?’ asked Roger.

  After a moment of silence, the manager chuckled as he answered: ‘She got what she didn’t deserve! A trusting husband!’

  They reached the foyer, with its coloured prints of the colleen and her lovers, and of the Western film due on next week. Roger felt the wondering gaze of an elderly cashier, saw the car outside with a uniformed officer standing by it. He shook hands with the manager.

  ‘Thanks again—and goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  Roger put the cinema and the evening behind him as the uniformed man touched the peak of his cap. A ‘Police’ sign showed, pale blue, on top of the car, and another uniformed man sat at the wheel.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘’Evening,’ grunted Roger, without moving towards the open door. ‘What Division are you from?’

  ‘Western, sir—we were patrolling when we were asked to pick you up here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Roger, and leaning inside for the radio-telephone, from the pavement
, he went on into the microphone: ‘Superintendent West reporting—Information Room, please. Over.’

  ‘Just a moment, sir.’

  Roger waited, aware that the driver was staring up and the other man was half-frowning, as if puzzled. There was a long pause before a familiar voice sounded over the radio – that of Tom Thorn, the Chief Inspector on night duty.

  ‘Sorry we had to get you out of the pictures, Superintendent,’ he said. ‘Funny you should have been there, as a matter of fact. Danny O’Hara has been attacked in his London flat and badly knocked about.’

  Danny O’Hara, Roger echoed in his mind – and was suddenly, unbelievably confronted with a mental image of the man he had just seen on the screen!

  ‘How badly?’ he made himself ask.

  ‘He’s in St George’s Hospital, unconscious,’ answered Thorn. ‘You’re expected at his flat, sir—at the Commander’s personal request.’

  ‘Request’ had a hollow ring, and there was a note of ironic amusement in Thorn’s voice. There might be some special reason for Coppell, the Commander of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police, to assign him to this case, but Roger had no idea at all what the reason could be.

  ‘Who’s there now?’ he asked.

  ‘Peterson of West End,’ answered Thorn. ‘I’ll send word that you’re on your way.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Roger handed the instrument to the driver and at last got into the back of the car. ‘Do you know where to go?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir—Bannock Towers, Bannock Street, off Berkeley Square.’

  ‘Make it as fast as you can without risking our necks,’ Roger said, and settled down in his seat.

  As the car moved off a huge photograph of Danny O’Hara, as he appeared in the film, showed on a corner of the theatre buildings. He closed his eyes and pictured the man’s easy manner and pleasant brogue as well as his handsome face and merry eyes. O’Hara played a part which was very popular these days – of a happy-go-lucky, good tempered rogue.

  How badly had he been hurt, Roger wondered.

  He knew Bannock Towers well, for twice in the past two years it had been the scene of robberies, both by daylight, and he had been in charge of the investigation into each. Perhaps that was why Coppell had bulldozed him out of the theatre. The building was at the far end of narrow Bannock Street, and filled the whole of a triangular block. There were three main blocks connected to one another by passages on ground, basement and top levels, and there were no more extravagant or modern apartments in London. They were floodlit in a diffuse way, giving plenty of light without glare. Even by night they looked massive, impressive and very austere; the windows were flush with the reinforced concrete walls and there was no way for the cleverest cat burglar to get in.

  The approaches to the building had been carefully planned so that no one could draw near without being seen, and the most modern security devices had been installed by Allsafe Incorporated, the biggest and probably the best of all the private security organizations in the country.

  Bannock Towers wasn’t burglar proof; no place was; but this came as close to it as any Roger West knew.

  Police cars were dotted about the driveway leading from Berkeley Square, and half a dozen policemen, made tall by their helmets, were in a cordon across the driveway, obviously to keep newspapermen and spectators away. As Roger’s car drew up a man stepped out of a taxi, and his words came floating back.

  ‘What on earth is all this?’

  ‘There’s been an incident in the building, sir,’ a plainclothes man answered. ‘Are you a resident?’

  ‘Of course I’m a resident,’ the man answered testily. ‘Do you mean there’s been another robbery?’

  ‘May I have your name, sir, please?’

  ‘When you’ve answered my question—yes.’

  Roger got out of his car, said: ‘Better get back on your beat,’ to the Divisional man, and walked to the entrance; a policeman who recognised him let him pass. The resident who was being difficult glared, but Roger went inside, paying no attention. One lift stood open in the spacious, well-furnished foyer, and a policeman stood by it.

  ‘Mr West, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr Peterson is in Apartment 2007, sir, twentieth floor. Will you please go up?’

  Roger nodded, and stepped inside the lift. Buildings which stood twenty or more storeys high were still rare in London, and as he went up in the silent automatic lift his thoughts turned to his visit, only last year, to New York and Miami Beach, Florida.

  The lift stopped, the doors slid open; almost simultaneously there was a cry of ‘Stop him!’ and a man appeared in the doorway – dark, wild eyed, brandishing a gun. It was all so utterly unexpected that it seemed to Roger as unreal as a scene in a play. But this was no act. The man with the gun flung himself into the lift cage, struck Roger a savage blow on the side of the head, then spun round and fired a single shot. Roger was aware of the roar, even of the flash, but he was still reeling from the blow, dazed by the shock. He was just aware of the man’s hand on a button of the control panel, and of two faces in the passage, but he did not recognise the fear on them.

  The lift doors closed, and the car began to go down.

  The man with the gun spun round on Roger.

  ‘Lie flat on your face,’ he ordered. ‘Lie flat!’

  Roger, nearly upright now, heard but did not properly understand.

  ‘What—’ he began.

  ‘Don’t give me any lip, do what I say!’ The man covered him with the gun and grabbed his wrist, twisting, meaning to hurt, trying to force him to his knees. Pain, streaking through his hand and arm, had an unexpected effect; it cleared Roger’s vision and it cleared his head.

  He let himself fall to his knees. The man with the gun stood to one side, glancing up at the numbers of the floors as the lift descended. The panel showed 7, so in a few seconds they would reach bottom, and—

  It passed the numeral 1.

  Below this was the letter G. Did that mean ground, or garage? Roger tried to remember. The doors began to open, and as the man stepped towards it he raised his gun and pointed at Roger. On that instant, Roger realised that the other meant to shoot him. There was an expression on the dark-haired man’s face which left him in no doubt at all.

  He had never been so near to death.

  He rolled over, in a sudden, spasmodic movement, grabbing at the other’s leg. He heard the roar of a second shot but felt nothing, as he gripped a bony ankle. He saw a boot looming, tried to dodge, felt agonising pain as the hard toe cap struck him on the temple. He almost lost consciousness and probably would have but for his dread of another shot. The barrel of the pistol seemed like a tunnel along which his gaze travelled, he flinched and tried to squirm away – and then saw the gun describe a wild arc. He saw men, heard heavy breathing and the incoherent sounds of a struggle. Very slowly he picked himself up. Two men were struggling with the gunman who still held the gun in a hand thrust towards the ceiling.

  Others came running, from gaps between cars which filled the floor. G for garage, Roger thought almost stupidly. He felt sick. One man turned to him and asked in a husky voice: ‘Are you hurt, sir?’

  ‘No,’ Roger muttered.

  ‘Do you mean that, sir? Your face—’

  Roger felt the spot where he had been kicked, and saw blood vivid as paint on his fingers.

  ‘Just a kick,’ he muttered. ‘I’m all right.’ He felt dizzy and his head throbbed but less acutely than a few seconds before. He saw the man with the gun suddenly twist round, the gun dropping from his fingers, and handcuffs snapped. ‘Bring him back upstairs,’ he ordered. ‘Anyone hurt up there?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I was on duty down here and heard the shot—lucky there were three of us.’

  ‘Yes,’ Roger said heavily. ‘Yes indeed.’

  Suddenly, he wished there were a chair. But the lift was already moving, and he leaned against the wall in an attempt to support him
self. The prisoner, unexpectedly still now that he had been vanquished, stood handcuffed to a plainclothes man half a head taller than himself.

  The indicator showed floors 17–18–19–20. The lift stopped, and as it did so there was another sudden transition, from reality to fantasy on film, for the prisoner made a wild leap, half dragging his captor with him. But the CID man had been solidly prepared, and he took the strain with a bent elbow, bringing the other up with a jolt. Now the prisoner stood still, gasping for breath.

  Other plainclothes men came forward, and the tallest was Peterson, sandy haired and fresh faced, with curiously pale blue eyes and lashes so light in colour he looked almost like an albino.

  ‘So you got him,’ he said, staring at Roger. His gaze flickered to the bloodied temple, but he made no comment, just went on: ‘It looks as if he’s going to have a lot of explaining to do, Superintendent. I’ve just had word that Danny O’Hara is dead.’

  In the broadest of Irish accents the captive man cried fiercely: ‘And thanks be to God that he is!’

  Chapter Two

  The Shambles

  Roger knew Ian Peterson well. He was a staunch Presbyterian, an active worker in his church and a very real believer in his Maker. To hear a man giving thanks to God for a brutal murder broke through the hard surface of the policeman and revealed him for a moment simply as the human being.

  ‘That’s enough blasphemy,’ he said harshly.

  ‘Why, you—’

  The detective who was handcuffed to the prisoner jerked the handcuffs and made the man break off. This gave Peterson the opportunity to recover his poise. His lips tightened and his eyes seemed to cloud over.

  ‘Take him into the dining room,’ he ordered. ‘Two of you stay with him. We’ll deal with him later.’ He turned from the prisoner to Roger, and for the first time his thin but well shaped lips curved into a smile. ‘Sorry you had such a rough welcome,’ he said. ‘I think you should have something done to that head.’ He turned to a plainclothes man hovering near. ‘Didn’t I see a first-aid wall cabinet in the cloakroom?’