A Part for a Policeman

by John Creasey

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Lay on some coffee, will you?’

  Peterson gripped Roger’s arm and led the way along a wide passage to a cloakroom near the front door. The door was directly opposite the lift, which opened at that moment for the resident who had been so indignant to step out. Staring along the passage, he caught sight of Roger’s bleeding temple, and gasped.

  Peterson opened the cloakroom door, and as Roger passed him, said: ‘You look pretty groggy. Sit down a minute.’

  Opposite this door was a large mirror, with a carved gilt frame. The reflection of his face explained Peterson’s ‘You look pretty groggy’ and the resident’s startled gaze. The skin had been badly grazed by the heavy boot, and the blood was oozing out and dripping down onto his collar and jacket. The vivid crimson showed up the stark pallor of his face. In the corner by the mirror was a small, comfortable-looking chair, covered in pale green and grey satin.

  Roger dropped into it.

  ‘In fact you look like death,’ said Peterson. ‘Would you be wise to—’

  ‘Go home? No,’ answered Roger. He gave an involuntary shiver as he went on: ‘I was a damned sight too near death to like it. God knows how he missed me when he fired. Give me five minutes, and I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Would you like a nip of brandy?’

  ‘It would go straight to my head,’ Roger said, drily. ‘Help me off with my coat, will you? Then I’ll clean this off, and—’

  ‘Come nearer the hand basin,’ ordered Peterson in a no nonsense tone. He put a hand under Roger’s arm and eased him up. In a few moments, Roger was sitting on a soft padded stool over the hand basin, leaning forward as Peterson filled the basin and began to sponge very gently. Closing his eyes, he pictured the barrel of that gun. He shivered involuntarily, but Peterson took no notice and continued to cleanse the wound. Now and again he spoke. ‘Over a bit … There’s more blood than you’d expect … My chaps are on the job … it won’t do the Irishman any harm to cool his heels … Over a bit … I think the bleeding’s mostly from one cut, it’s slackening now … You’ve a big graze and you’ll be black and blue in the morning, but it’s not so bad, no stitches needed … I’m going to put some antiseptic on, it might sting.’

  Roger was already feeling better. The pain eased in a surprisingly short time, and his head cleared too. Peterson put on a patch of plaster, well padded and smeared with a salve he found in the first aid cabinet.

  ‘Stop it from sticking,’ he remarked. ‘I must say you look as if you might live, after all. What happened, Handsome? I know you were in the lift, but that’s all.’

  Roger told him exactly what had happened, and then asked: ‘What time did you get here?’

  ‘Just after eight o’clock,’ Peterson answered.

  ‘Did you ask for me?’

  ‘No,’ said Peterson. ‘It’s always good to see you but I think I could have managed.’ He smiled, quite amiably. ‘Coppell said he wanted you over here.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘No. But he was always a secretive type.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Roger. ‘He usually has a good reason for what he does, too, but I’d like to know what he thinks I can do here that you can’t. Might simply be because I know the building.’ That seemed more than ever likely. ‘It’s my turn to ask what happened.’

  ‘There was an emergency call from the doorman in this block—O’Hara pressed the alarm bell which rings in the doorman’s office, but didn’t answer the telephone. So the doorman sent for us, then went upstairs and got in with his master key. O’Hara was in the kitchen—where the alarm switch is—unconscious and bleeding badly from head wounds. He was pretty bad, and I doubt whether he ever came round. I was here within twenty minutes,’ Peterson finished, ‘and the living room and bedroom were a shambles. There’d been a very fierce struggle.’

  ‘Was O’Hara alone in the flat?’ asked Roger.

  As he spoke and before Peterson could answer, there was a tap at the door.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘Coffee, sir,’ a man called out.

  ‘Bring it in.’

  The man entered, with coffee on a tray, two cups and cream – and over his arm, a clean white shirt. He put the coffee down carefully.

  ‘Where’d you get the shirt from?’ asked Peterson, who seemed almost to be evading Roger’s question.

  ‘The gentleman in the next apartment, he looked about Mr West’s size, sir—sixteen and a half neck.’ He looked hopefully at Roger.

  ‘Just right,’ Roger said appreciatively.

  ‘And the lady made the coffee,’ the detective told them.

  Roger was already pouring out, finding the aroma warm and satisfying. There was a curious and yet welcome normality about the situation now. Peterson had a knack of putting witnesses at their ease and obviously passed this quality on to some of his men.

  ‘Everything all right out there?’ Peterson asked.

  ‘Can tell you one thing, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The prisoner’s dabs are all over the kitchen and bathroom.’

  ‘Good. But how do you know?’

  ‘Got a good set of his on a cigarette case, sir.’

  ‘Right, Lomas. Keep at it.’

  ‘How’s the prisoner behaving?’ inquired Roger.

  ‘Quiet as a lamb,’ answered Lomas. He had small features and a fat, good tempered face. ‘You’d hardly believe it.’ He glanced at Roger’s temple, and half grinned. ‘Says he wouldn’t have hurt a policeman for anything in the world, he thought you were one of Mr O’Hara’s friends.’

  ‘He’s certainly not one of mine,’ Roger rejoined grimly. As the door closed on Lomas, he sipped coffee and asked: ‘How did the prisoner get in?’

  ‘Very bad slip on my part,’ confessed Peterson. ‘He was here all the time. When we arrived we thought the place was empty but for O’Hara, but this chap was here.’

  Roger needed no more telling why Peterson had been slow in answering.

  ‘If Coppell hadn’t sent for you early, I daresay he would have done so the moment he learned that,’ went on Peterson. ‘There’s a brush cupboard between the kitchen and the bathroom. The door’s flush with the wall and the handle’s set in. We didn’t notice it, and prints show that he was hiding there. If he’d had a bit of luck and kept his head, he might have got away. No one saw him actually leave the cupboard, but when one of our chaps approached him near the front door, he pulled the gun. Scared the wits out of them.’

  ‘He’s good at doing that,’ said Roger. ‘Well, we’ve got him, that’s the main thing. We should start looking round—I’m all right now.’

  ‘Five minutes won’t hurt,’ said Peterson. ‘Everything’s under control—photographers, fingerprints—’

  ‘No need to list them,’ interrupted Roger. He poured himself another cup of coffee. ‘This is just what I needed.’ Drinking, he looked about the room. ‘Pretty fancy,’ he remarked.

  ‘The whole apartment is,’ said Peterson. ‘This is a cross between a theatrical dressing room and a salon.’

  The description of the cloakroom could not have been more apt. The green and grey decor had touches of gold, the mirror and chairs were all satin covered, there was a range of makeup creams and powders, lipsticks and hair sprays, perfumes and soaps. Everything was obviously expensive, and just as obviously intended for Danny O’Hara’s lady guests.

  Or girlfriends?

  ‘What’s the rest of the place like?’ asked Roger.

  ‘Why don’t you wait and see,’ said Peterson. ‘Ready?’

  Roger stood up carefully, but felt no return of dizziness. They went out into a hum of talk and a constant shuffle of movement from the dozen or so detectives in the apartment. As they approached a door which led off to the right, Roger sensed the expectant way Peterson and two other men looked at him: this was going to be a showpiece.

  Already, Roger saw that it was a room which overlooked the in
ner courtyard of Bannock Towers and in the courtyard there was a swimming pool, lawns, flower gardens, patios and artificially simulated sunlight and warmth. On all but the worst winter days, or days of teeming rain, the courtyard could give the illusion of the Riviera or the Bahamas. The rooms over looking this were of two kinds – very small, in the cheaper flats, very large in the expensive ones. This was one of the most expensive.

  Peterson opened the door, and as they stepped inside they found themselves surrounded by mirrors in which they saw their own reflections startlingly repeated a dozen times. An enormous, ornately curtained double bed flanked one of the walls.

  ‘Like it?’ asked Peterson, heavily. It was easy to sense his disapproval of such eroticism.

  ‘Not much,’ said Roger. ‘There’ve been some sights and scenes here!’ He glanced up, not surprised to see that the ceiling was also a huge mirror. He stepped past the foot of the bed towards a window overlooking the floodlit courtyard, where the pool shimmered silvery blue. The walls here were plain but water colour paintings of unusual quality hung on them – paintings of scenes from tropic islands, with no particular emphasis except on sunlight and warmth and beauty.

  ‘Is this O’Hara’s room?’ he asked, turning back.

  ‘No—my lady’s boudoir,’ answered Peterson.

  ‘So he was that kind of bachelor,’ remarked Roger.

  ‘And the actual place where the crime was committed?’

  ‘In his living room,’ answered Peterson.

  They went out of this strange room of mirrors.

  Roger saw the layout of the apartment in his mind’s eye. Coming in at the front door there was the passage, the cloakroom on one side, and the big bedroom and patio room. On the opposite side were a smaller bedroom and a living room, and at the end a wide passage, so that the whole flat was L-shaped, with the front door centred on the top of the downstroke. On one side of the foot of the L was the kitchen and domestic bathroom, opposite a servant’s bedroom and sitting room.

  The door of the living room was open, and a half a dozen men were inside, measuring, taking photographs, checking fingerprints; the job-to-job routine.

  Shambles was the only word to describe the scene; there did not seem to be a single piece of furniture left whole. Along one wall had been a bookcase, now the shelves were smashed, the books scattered on the floor. Small chairs were overturned, one of two huge armchairs lay on its side, its pale green leather slashed.

  A great number of things had been deliberately damaged; all this destruction wasn’t wholly the result of the fight. Glasses were smashed, china ornaments lay in pieces, the thick carpet had been ripped, and in one corner was the most telltale clue of all: two floorboards had been pulled up.

  ‘Burglary, then,’ Roger remarked.

  ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘Any other rooms like this?’

  ‘The next bedroom’s in a bit of a mess.’

  Peterson opened a door where two men were working by the side of a bed. This was the only masculine looking room of them all. The furniture was mostly old fashioned, some antique. The bed, of solid oak, had been stripped and the mattress searched, a dressing table was pushed against a wall, all the drawers open, and a writing desk had been turned on its side.

  ‘What are you two doing?’ Roger asked the men.

  ‘Think we might have found a hiding place,’ answered one of them, still on his knees. He was thin, dark, small eyed. ‘See here, sir? … The base of the bed is very thick, and along here—’ he tapped sharply with the wooden head of a screwdriver – ‘there’s a piece of metal. Wouldn’t surprise me if we find a concealed safe.’

  ‘We’re trying to make sure without damaging the bed too much,’ interpolated the second man, who was getting to his feet.

  ‘Let me know as soon as you’ve finished,’ ordered Peterson, obviously determined to make sure that his men took orders from him. ‘Like to see the kitchen, Mr West?’ With the others in earshot, he was very formal.

  ‘Yes,’ said Roger.

  There, he noticed bloodstains for the first time. The big, modern kitchen, choc-a-bloc with electrical gadgets, had blood all over the floor near the door, blood on the stainless steel sink, on the working surfaces, and a smear of blood on one wall beneath a switch marked: ‘Emergency Alarm – press down and speak into grille.’

  Danny O’Hara had pressed down but had not been able to speak.

  Peterson said: ‘The brush cupboard is just outside. The dining room’s here.’ He pointed to a door leading off the passage next to the dining room and went on: ‘Ready for the prisoner?’

  ‘Past time we saw him,’ Roger agreed, and added mildly: ‘I’ll talk to him first, but don’t hesitate to chip in if you think it will help.’ Having asserted his own authority as unobtrusively as he could, he opened the door of the dining room, where two policemen guarded the man who had come within an ace of murdering him – and who was the obvious suspect as the murderer of Danny O’Hara.

  Chapter Three

  The Suspect

  The captive was sitting very erect on an upright chair, and looking straight at the door. As he saw the senior officers enter he sprang to his feet and saluted with his free hand; the man handcuffed to him jumped up in time to avoid being jarred. Smaller than Roger had realised but very powerful looking, and with thick, wide shoulders, the prisoner stared at Roger.

  ‘Have you searched him for arms?’ asked Roger.

  ‘Yes, sir. His automatic pistol, and two knives, are in that bag.’ A man pointed to a plastic bag on the corner of the dining table.

  ‘Take off the handcuffs,’ ordered Roger.

  After a moment of hesitation the man handcuffed to the prisoner fished a key out of his waistcoat pocket, and unlocked the cuffs. The other plainclothes man moved closer to the door, but the captive stood with his hands linked submissively behind him.

  ‘I am Chief Detective Superintendent West,’ Roger stated.

  ‘Yessir.’ He made it sound rather like ‘Yassorr’. ‘I’m sorry I hit you on the head.’

  ‘If you’d hit me with a bullet, you would be on a murder charge by now.’

  There was a pause before the man said with restrained ferocity: ‘My abject apologies, sorr.’

  ‘What is your name?’ asked Roger.

  ‘Donovan, sorr. Patrick Donovan.’

  ‘Where do you live, Donovan?’

  In County Cork.’

  ‘What part of County Cork?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be knowing it, sorr, ’tis a small village by the name of Leary, ten miles from Cork itself.’

  ‘When were you last there?’ asked Roger.

  ‘On Monday this very week.’

  ‘Do you live and work in Leary?’

  ‘That I do, sorr.’

  ‘And what is the nature of that work?’

  ‘I’m a motor mechanic, and a good one, if I say it meself.’

  ‘The best in the whole of Leary, I daresay.’

  ‘The best in the whole of County Cork!’

  ‘Why did you come to England this week, Donovan?’ demanded Roger, without a change of tone. But the captive was very alert, and paused to take in the significance of the question before he answered with great deliberation: ‘To see me daughter, sorr.’

  ‘What is the name of your daughter?’ asked Roger.

  ‘Mary, sorr, Mary Ellen, that is her name.’

  ‘How long has Mary Ellen been in England, Donovan?’

  ‘Why, Superintendent, it must be all of eleven months by now.’

  ‘Have you been here to see her before?’ Roger demanded.

  ‘No, sorr, this is the first time I’ve set foot in London since I worked here myself, and that’s ten years ago, before I signed up for the Army.’

  ‘Which Army?’

  ‘The British Army, sorr—the Royal Artillery.’

  ‘I see. Why did you come to see Mary Ellen at this particular time?’

  ‘For a very good reason—the chil
d was in trouble.’

  ‘How do you know she was?’

  ‘Surely when a daughter writes and tells her own father she’s going to do away with herself, he knows she’s in trouble,’ argued Donovan. ‘Do you have any daughters yourself, might I ask?’

  ‘No,’ answered Roger.

  ‘Then you wouldn’t understand, you wouldn’t understand at all.’

  ‘Did you see her when you arrived in London?’ Roger asked.

  ‘No, sorr.’

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘It’s a sad thing indeed, but I don’t know.’

  ‘Why did you come here?’ demanded Roger, sharply.

  ‘Because I had reason to believe that Mr O’Hara would know where she was.’

  ‘And why should Mr O’Hara know that?’

  ‘Because she worked for him.’

  ‘What work did she do?’

  ‘She was a cook, sorr, and a very good cook, young though she was.’

  ‘How old is your daughter, Donovan?’

  ‘Eighteen. Her birthday was only last week, sorr.’

  ‘And a professional cook?’

  ‘She’s a very good cook like I say, sorr, and has two diplomas to prove it.’

  ‘How long has she worked for Mr O’Hara?’ Roger wanted to know.

  ‘It would be about six months, give or take a month, sorr. Before that she was with a very nice family in London.’

  ‘Why did you attack O’Hara?’ demanded Roger, his voice suddenly harsh.

  The other’s brown eyes seemed to catch fire. He clenched his fists and for the first time since the interrogation began he showed some threat of violence. One detective moved in closer, Peterson seemed to hover about Roger, and the man by the door looked sharply alert.

  ‘It’s a bloody lie! I didn’t attack O’Hara,’ cried Donovan. ‘I didn’t attack anyone.’

  ‘You did,’ said Roger, curtly. ‘You attacked me.’

  Donovan’s eyes and mouth opened wide, the tension relaxed and his shoulders seemed to sag as he said with what seemed to be the most genuine humility: ‘And so I did, sorr, and it’s sorry I am.’

  ‘So let’s try again,’ said Roger. ‘Why did you attack O’Hara?’