A Part for a Policeman

by John Creasey

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘No—thought you’d rather I left it to you.’

  ‘I’ll make it my first job to go and see her,’ Roger decided, and heard a rattle of cups at the landing; so Janet would have heard what he said. ‘Anything from Pell? or from East End?’

  ‘Interim reports, that’s all.’

  ‘Has Donovan made a statement?’

  ‘He’s signed a transcript of the one he made last night.’

  ‘Any clue about the other man who was at O’Hara’s apartment?’ Roger wanted to know.

  ‘No,’ said Peterson, ‘but one thing is almost certain. O’Hara let him in. No one else appears to have been about last night, no one we’ve interviewed admits to seeing anybody, but a lot of the residents at Bannock Towers are out during the day and we haven’t traced them all yet.’

  ‘Someone he lets in, someone whom he knew,’ Roger said. ‘Thanks. I’ll be over as soon as I can.’ He rang off, and on the instant the door opened and Janet came in with the tray.

  ‘I think that proves it.’

  ‘Proves what?’

  ‘That you’d rather be out working than here at home.’ Almost before she had finished she laughed and went on: ‘Don’t be a goose, I’m joking—but must you go out?’

  Roger glanced at the newspapers on the tea tray, and said: ‘They don’t tell you that we found Mary Ellen, do they?’ He explained as much as he could as he drank the stinging hot tea, studying her expression all the time. She seemed quite free from the night’s tensions, quite objective. ‘So I ought to see the girl, I’d rather not leave her interrogation to anyone else.’

  ‘Because you don’t trust them,’ Janet said drily.

  ‘Er—’

  ‘Or at least you don’t think they’ll be able to handle her as well as you can, darling. I should have known that it isn’t simply you get tired of my cooking, it’s because you think you can do everything better than anybody else.’

  ‘In short, I’m a big head,’ said Roger.

  ‘You said it, precious. More tea?’

  ‘Please,’ said Roger. ‘I—’ The telephone bell cut across his words and almost immediately he lifted the receiver, whispering: ‘This may be Coppell.’ More loudly he went on: ‘West speaking.’

  ‘So you’re awake,’ growled Coppell.

  ‘Just about, sir, yes.’

  ‘Seen that doctor your wife talked about?’

  ‘Er—he’s not been yet,’ said Roger, ‘but I don’t think he’ll keep me in. I want to go over and see Donovan’s daughter. She’s awake, I’m told.’

  ‘Do that after you’ve been to see me,’ ordered Coppell.

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘Be here as early as you can,’ Coppell ordered, and rang off.

  Janet had poured out the second cup of tea, and looked at Roger questioningly as she handed it to him.

  ‘You certainly didn’t do him any harm,’ Roger said, and after a pause, he put a hand over hers. ‘Jan, how are you this morning? Really?’

  She looked at him for a long time before answering, and he could tell from the candour of her expression that she wasn’t going to hedge her answer about with half truths. In the clearer light even of this grey day, she looked older; attractive, yes, but unquestionably older, with lines at her eyes and the corners of her mouth quite clearly marked.

  ‘I’m on top of myself,’ she answered at last, ‘and it isn’t such an effort this morning as it is sometimes. Sometimes—often, really—it’s very difficult. I—sometimes I’m almost at screaming pitch. No,’ she answered, and he must have looked the question, I don’t really know why. It isn’t anything special that you do, it’s just that I’m on my own so much that I could almost qualify as a neglected wife.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Roger, ‘I do see that, Jan—’

  ‘Don’t try to promise anything now,’ Janet interrupted briskly. It’s a help that we’ve talked about it, and young Scoop last night—’ Tears clouded her eyes.

  ‘He was remarkable,’ agreed Roger warmly. After a pause, he added: ‘We’ll talk about it more as soon as I’ve a few hours to spare.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Janet, ‘I’d like that. But I know you’ve got to give all your time to this job, darling. It’s just that sometimes—’ She paused, listening, and he knew that she had heard something, it wasn’t simply that she felt she had already said too much. ‘There’s someone coming to the front door—I expect they’re going to try again.’

  ‘Who’s going to try what?’ demanded Roger.

  ‘Newspapermen and photographers have been calling all the morning,’ Janet said. ‘I made a deal with them: if they would stop harassing you until ten o’clock, you would at least tell them something. You will, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Roger assured her, with a sigh of resignation. ‘Tell them I’ll be twenty minutes and will be able to spare them five, will you?’

  Janet looked relieved as she left the room and he heard her hurrying down the stairs. Roger, the die cast, bathed and shaved quickly and in twenty two minutes flat was at the front door.

  At least fifteen men, several women, and four photographers were outside, with twice as many passers by.

  ‘Good morning all,’ Roger said. ‘I am alive, you see. Any questions?’

  One of the men laughed.

  You’re not at death’s door, anyhow!’

  ‘Turn your right side, will you, sir? We’d like pictures of that plaster.’

  ‘What did he hit you with?’ That was an American.

  ‘Was it the man Donovan?’ That sounded like a Frenchman.

  ‘His boot. Yes. That’s what he’s been charged with—assaulting a police officer,’ Roger answered briefly.

  ‘Mr West,’ one of the women called, ‘you can’t mean it when you say you don’t yet know the motive.’

  ‘Oh, but I do mean it.’

  ‘Surely you know that Danny O’Hara seduced Donovan’s daughter, and—’

  ‘No,’ Roger interrupted. ‘No, I don’t know anything of the kind. I wouldn’t put it in the Mirror if I were you, Donovan could sue you for libel with big damages.’

  ‘Oh, come off it,’ a man called. ‘He wouldn’t sue if we said he was a murderer.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, either,’ Roger said. ‘When I get to the Yard I shall probably be in trouble for having told you as much as I have, but one thing is quite positive. I do not yet know the motive for the murder, and I do not know why Donovan went to O’Hara’s apartment.’

  ‘You mean you think there’s an underlying motive no one suspects?’ asked the American.

  ‘I think there could be,’ Roger said blandly.

  He went back into the house and closed the front door. The odour of frying bacon came from the kitchen, so Janet realised that he was well enough to eat a hearty breakfast. And he was: he felt ravenous. Drinking coffee, glancing through the newspapers, chatting with Janet, it was hard to believe she had been in such distress the night before.

  She had unlocked the garage for him.

  Several cameramen still stood about and at least a dozen photographs were taken. What did they do with them all? He turned out of Bell Street into King’s Road. Some new flats, an eight-or nine storey block, were nearing completion. Everything changed. New Scotland Yard had changed yet in a few short months he had become accustomed to it. He missed the old building but no one could argue about the merits of this one. He went straight to his office, meeting very few people; most stared at his plaster. His office was empty but there were files put there by Inspectors and sergeants working on jobs in which he was involved.

  There were three urgent messages: Please call Mr Peterson. Please call Cannon Row. Please report to the Commander immediately on arrival. All of these had come within the past twenty minutes. Donovan had been held at Cannon Row, and Roger dialled that number first.

  ‘West,’ he said to the Superintendent in charge.

  ‘My God, you’ve taken your time!�
�� exclaimed the other. ‘When are you going to get this raving lunatic off our hands?’

  ‘Is Donovan playing tricks again?’ asked Roger.

  ‘He’s behaving like a madman,’ the other declared. ‘Can’t you get him across to the court and then let Brixton look after him?’ Brixton was the remand prison where Donovan would almost certainly be sent.

  ‘You mean he hasn’t been charged?’ gasped Roger, appalled.

  ‘You know damned well he hasn’t! Every time I tried to get Peterson to collect him, he said he wouldn’t do anything without your approval.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ groaned Roger. ‘I see. All right, I’ll fix it.’ He rang off, and then rammed his finger on a bell for the Chief Inspector who had the next, small office.

  He came in at once; youthful, stolid, inconspicuously dressed in a suit of navy blue. He was Chief Inspector Watts.

  ‘We want Donovan over at West End Court at once,’ Roger said. ‘Check who’s sitting, check what time he’ll be up—if it’s after two o’clock I’ll be there myself. If not, make sure who charged him. Liaise with Peterson, and ask for an eight day remand in custody. All clear?’ his words came out like bullets.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Watts said.

  ‘I’ll be with Mr Coppell if I’m wanted urgently,’ added Roger. ‘Then I’m going to Whitechapel.’

  ‘Where the girl is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Roger picked up the telephone again and put in a call for Peterson. He realised how close he had come to a serious mistake. A man charged one day had to be taken to court the next day, and if he had let the courts close a special one would have had to be opened, at heavy cost in time and money. Thank God he’d called Cannon Row.

  Peterson came through.

  ‘That’s a load off my mind,’ he said when Roger told him what he had arranged. ‘You specifically said you wanted to fix the hearing yourself. What happened to delay you so long?’

  Roger said: ‘Keep it to yourself, but I forgot!’

  As he said that he heard heavy footsteps in the passage, knew in a moment who it was, added: ‘I’ll be in touch,’ and rang off. As the telephone went ‘ting!’ the office door opened and Coppell strode in.

  The door slammed behind him.

  Chapter Seven

  Angry Commander

  Roger, hand on the telephone, stood by his desk. The window rattled to the echo of the slamming door. Coppell glared at him. He was a heavily-built man with deep-set, penetrating grey eyes, under thick eyebrows which always made him look as if he were scowling. Now, he most certainly was. ‘What the devil’s got into you, West?’ His deep voice

  ‘About what, sir?’ Roger asked flatly.

  ‘You seem to be deliberately disobeying my specific instructions.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I give you that impression, sir.’

  ‘Well, you do. Didn’t you get my note?’

  ‘To come to you immediately I got in?’ hazarded Roger.

  ‘Yes. Did you get it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I—’

  ‘Why didn’t you come?’

  ‘I assumed you would want to be fully informed when I reported,’ Roger said. ‘And I couldn’t inform you until I was briefed. And I had to …’

  Coppell glowered.

  ‘When I say immediately I mean immediately.’

  ‘… to repair a serious omission,’ Roger finished doggedly.

  ‘Omission? What omission?’

  ‘I forgot to arrange for Donovan to be sent to court,’ Roger said flatly.

  ‘You forgot?’

  ‘I assumed Division would do it but forgot that last night I’d instructed Division to leave it to me,’ Roger said.

  Coppell breathed heavily, and then demanded: ‘Is it done now?’

  ‘It’s in hand, sir.’

  ‘I suppose that’s something,’ conceded Coppell grudgingly. ‘What else have you forgotten?’

  Roger caught his breath.

  ‘To my knowledge, nothing, sir. But I’ve lost a lot of time this morning, and it isn’t going to be easy to make it up.’

  ‘You’ve lost so much time that we may lose our man,’ said Coppell. ‘I assigned you to this investigation because I wanted action and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t mishandled. I knew it wasn’t going to be a job for the Division—it’s got national and international complications. I’ve had three New York and Hollywood people on to me already. I needed a man who would keep his head and a man with an international reputation. And look what I’ve got.’

  There was a heavy silence.

  ‘Well?’ barked Coppell.

  Very slowly, very deliberately, Roger said: ‘I quite understand how you feel, Commander. I shall also understand you taking me off the case. You may care to give as a reason the fact that my injury last night has proved more serious than was at first thought. That will at least save the Yard’s face, sir.’

  With half of his mind, he wished he had not spoken, with the other half, he marvelled that he had been so restrained. Coppell’s eyes seemed to bore into him. Roger had seen this man savage senior officers too often not to know that he had really asked for trouble. At least he had kept his voice low, no one outside could have heard, although Coppell might consider there was insolence in the last remark. There was never any telling with Coppell.

  In a controlled voice, Coppell said: ‘Do you want to be taken off?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what are you talking about?’

  ‘I don’t want to let you down, the Yard down—or myself, if it comes to that.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you do,’ said Coppell, gruffly. ‘Any idea who the killer was?’

  ‘No clue at all except some fingerprints,’ Roger said. ‘So—’ He broke off.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘No professional would scatter prints about like this man did.’

  ‘Unless he was drunk,’ said Coppell.

  ‘He’d have to be blind drunk.’

  ‘Yes. All right—what’s your next move?’ This was a tacit withdrawal from the censorious, a very great concession for Coppell.

  ‘I’m going to see the Donovan girl, sir.’

  ‘You think she could name the killer?’

  ‘She ought at least to be able to name the man who put her in the family way.’

  ‘Wouldn’t like to be sure, the way girls go on these days,’ Coppell said scathingly. ‘Still, there’s a chance. Anything else?’

  ‘The truth is, I haven’t had time to do anything else,’ Roger said. ‘You’re quite right—I’ve let a lot of grass grow under my feet.’ As he spoke, he had a mind picture of Peterson and his men at Bannock Towers. Every tenant in the apartments would be questioned by nightfall, dozens and perhaps hundreds of men were busy in the area, and all of this had been going on while he had been asleep. He had another flashback, to Janet, remembering her implication that he was beginning to regard himself as indispensable.

  Coppell stared but did not speak; it was almost as if he understood something of the way Roger’s mind was working.

  Then he spoke abruptly, in dismissal.

  ‘All right, Handsome. If your head worries you, and you don’t feel up to the job, tell me. And remember that if we don’t get results quickly, the whole world will know about it. Our name will be mud.’

  Quite suddenly, Roger understood what was goading Coppell; fear that the Yard’s reputation with other national police forces would be damaged. In that moment, he warmed to this big, glowering man more than he had ever done.

  ‘I’ll let you know if I can’t cope,’ he promised, and deliberately added: ‘Thank you, sir.’ Coppell nodded and turned away as if embarrassed. ‘One other thing, sir,’ Roger went on.

  Coppell growled: ‘What?’

  ‘Have you any special reason to expect trouble from the film and television people?’

  ‘I don’t know what to expect,’ Coppell replied. ‘I’m being pushed by the Home Secretary, I’ll tell you that much. And I thi
nk he’s being pushed already by the British Film Corporation. They have, of course, an enormous scope for publicity, and in anything so blown up as they might blow it, politics are almost bound to come in.’

  ‘Sooner or later,’ Roger agreed. He needed no more telling why Coppell had decided to assign him. This case really had international complications and would attract worldwide attention. He was the Aunt Sally, because he had always attracted attention on the several occasions when he had been assigned abroad. He could be proud of it, or rueful. On the whole, he felt proud.

  But it created pressure he did not like; a need to work against time to get results, to find how deep this went in the world of the theatre, the cinema and television. It was literally true that the eyes of the world were on him.

  No one was in the passage as he walked soberly along to his own office. Nearing it, he heard the telephone ringing. It stopped just before he picked it up, and he heard Chief Inspector Watts answer on an extension.

  ‘Watts … No, Mr West isn’t in his office … Yes, I’ll give him a message. Who is that, please?’

  The man who answered had a pleasing voice, and was quite self possessed.

  ‘My name is Greatorex, Raymond Greatorex.’ There was a pause, obviously to allow the significance of that to sink in, and it hit Roger as it would have hit most people, like a sledgehammer. Raymond Greatorex was one of Britain’s—one of the world’s—most renowned film stars. ‘I have some information which I think will interest Mr West, about the late Daniel O’Hara. I shall be at the Borelee Studios until about six thirty this evening.’

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ Chief Inspector Watts promised.

  ‘Thank you,’ Greatorex said pleasantly, and rang off.

  Watts put the telephone down a split second before Roger, who strode to the communicating door and pulled it open.

  ‘We want two or three men out at the Borelee Studios and a watch kept on Greatorex until I’ve seen him,’ he ordered. ‘If he put that call through the studio exchange, a thousand people might hear about it. Go yourself if you’re free, but send Bill Sloan if you’re not. Don’t lose a minute.’