by John Creasey
Roger bit back a retort, and then said mildly: ‘It must have become a habit.’
‘Don’t you want time off?’ demanded Coppell.
Janet had asked that very same question, and Roger became vividly aware of the way she had cried, and all she had said, last night – a week ago, it seemed, but in fact only last night. Was there some subconscious influence which drew him away from home? Or was it that he had acquired a habit? Ninety two days in a row with only one weekend off was asking for trouble, and if one of his subordinates got into such a habit, he would soon jolt him out of it. Coppell was trying to jolt him out now. He realised that the older man was giving him much longer than usual to answer, and patience wasn’t exactly one of Coppell’s virtues.
‘Make up your mind, Handsome,’ he said, at last. ‘Is there any reason why you don’t want to spend time at home?’
‘No,’ Roger replied, slowly. ‘No, none at all. There always seems a hell of a lot to do, and—’ He broke off, smiling faintly, and went on: ‘Supposing I’d begged off this assignment? What would you have done? Shrugged your shoulders and sent for someone else?’
When he stopped, there was a long silence. During it, he reflected that he had never before sat opposite Coppell in such a mood of scrutiny. He saw things about the other which he had never noticed before. A tiny sear on his forehead, just above the right eyebrow; the way his eyebrows grew, thick, black, wiry; several pockmarks on either cheek, lines at the mouth and chin which he was sure had not been there for long: signs of passing years, or signs of strain.
At last, Coppell spoke.
‘Meaning, it’s my fault?’
‘The Yard’s fault,’ Roger was quick to correct. ‘The system’s fault, sir. It’s difficult to say no to any assignment. It gets drummed into you that you’re always on duty, always on call, and jumping to it does become a habit.’
‘All right, all right,’ Coppell said gruffly. Then: ‘The system?’ he echoed. ‘Or the way we use it? Easy to think of ourselves as indispensable.’
‘I suppose so,’ Roger said. Quite suddenly he was caught by a yawn which gave him no chance to hide or pretend; and swiftly by another.
‘Handsome,’ said Coppell abruptly, ‘tell me what you can about the O’Hara job, then get home and take it easy for an hour or two before you go to bed. First thing in the morning, tell me how you feel. No point in flogging yourself to a breakdown; be honest with yourself and with me. Right?’
‘Right,’ said Roger, and added: ‘Thanks.’
He did not realise it at the time, but that was the moment when he slipped into a different relationship with Coppell; when he saw the man struggling beneath the skin of the policeman, the man of feeling, of understanding, of – yes, there was only one word, of compassion.
‘So let’s have the report,’ Coppell said briskly.
‘I’ve a feeling that the Mary Ellen woman and the nursing home are not the main, or even a very important, issue,’ Roger answered at once. ‘I’ve a feeling that there’s something here we have no idea about, a motive we haven’t even dreamed of. It could even be an attempt to destroy the British film industry, although that sounds too extravagant. I think—no, I can’t go as far as to say I think—I have a feeling that someone wants both O’Hara and Greatorex dead but wants to keep the motive hidden at all costs. I—’ He broke off, seeing a strange expression on Coppell’s face, and waited; it was almost as if Coppell was sneering at him.
‘Well, I’ve news for you,’ Coppell said. ‘I’ve heard from Dublin, and apparently there is a family of Donovans in Leary, and Patrick does work in a garage, and his brother works in England. Patrick does have a daughter and she is the girl at the Mallows place—but she didn’t have a miscarriage, induced or otherwise. Our doctor’s examination proves that. It would seem that someone just wanted her out of the way for a few days. There’s something for you to think about, Handsome. And here’s something else. O’Hara came from the village of Leary, too.’
‘We’ll probably have to send someone over to Leary,’ Roger remarked. ‘But what’s more urgent, sir, is to check the fire-raising. It should be done quickly.’
‘Not tonight,’ Coppell said. ‘It’s too late.’ He made a note. ‘I’ll talk to the Fire Department in the morning.’
‘Thanks.’ Roger found himself thinking of the village of Leary. ‘So O’Hara comes from there as well as the Donovans. I wonder if Galbraith—’ He stretched out as if in a reflex action for the telephone. ‘May I?’ He dialled Information. ‘West here, I want Dr Galbraith of Whitechapel picked up at once and held at East End. I’ll go there and see him. Get to his house quickly, it’s urgent.’
A man said: ‘Right away, sir.’
Roger put down the telephone slowly, aware of Coppell staring at him, aware of the way his heart was thumping with a sick kind of fear.
‘Galbraith must have known there was no induced miscarriage,’ he said. ‘You hadn’t arranged to pick him up, had you?’
‘No,’ said Coppell. ‘I hadn’t got round to that, but you’re right. What about the Mallows woman and the nurse who attended the girl?’
‘When I’ve talked to Galbraith I’ll tackle them,’ Roger assured him. ‘Berne Court is still being watched, shouldn’t be any trouble there.’ He was getting to his feet, all thought of going home to ‘relax’ completely gone. ‘One thing, sir.’
‘What?’
‘James Donovan worked for Allsafe, and Sandell out at Borelee employed him. Our Borelee CI wonders why. Can you check with Allsafe about Sandell’s record with them?’
‘Dave Sandell,’ Coppell said. ‘Yes, all right.’ He stood up and nodded, as Roger strode to the door. He gave a snort that was almost a laugh, and seemed to speak under his breath: ‘Take it easy.’
Halfway back to his own office, Roger began to laugh.
He checked in his office, then went down to the canteen for a meal. It was already past eight o’clock; he had almost lost count of time.
Well fed, he telephoned Janet, but Scoop, answering, told him she was at a neighbour’s.
At least she wasn’t feeling lonely.
It was after nine o’clock when he sped along the Embankment in the back of a car with a detective sergeant at the wheel. The lights of the County Hall, the new Shell House and the Festival Hall were bright against the dusk, and reflected vividly in a Thames so still that it almost seemed like a wide, wet road. Beyond was London’s skyline, and beyond that was Links End, the cul-de-sac where Galbraith lived and worked.
Now, the truth was hitting him like a pile-driver; Mary Ellen hadn’t been pregnant. So Coppell was right: someone had wanted Mary Ellen out of the way, and that seemed to put her in very grave danger indeed.
The car walkie-talkie radio crackled. Roger leaned forward, heard: ‘Calling Superintendent West, over,’ leaned across the back of the seat and took the instrument off the hook.
‘West speaking.’
‘Information here, sir.’ The voice sounded far off and impersonal. ‘There’s a message from East End for you, sir.’
‘What is it?’
‘The home of Dr Galbraith is on fire, sir. Detective-Sergeant Pell is known to be inside, and Dr Galbraith is believed to be. The Fire Service is in attendance, sir.’
Slowly, very slowly, Roger put back the receiver. For the second time in twenty minutes he felt that he had been pole-axed, and only gradually did fear for Pell break the numbing sense of shock.
Chapter Thirteen
Hero
Detective Sergeant Martin Pell was a mixture of personalities, and knew it. He had always hankered after being a policeman, and was in fact a good one, yet there were times when routine, and the slowness of promotion, irked him, and he felt like throwing his hand in. One of the things which most worried him was the irregular hours, the fact that he was always on call. Because of this, he could not make the dates he wanted to. Without being particularly vain about it, he knew that he was attractive to women. Enjoying thei
r company to the full, he did not like having to telephone at the last minute and say: ‘Sorry, darling, I can’t make it for dinner tonight.’ It meant that there was no hope of playing that curiously exciting game: judging how far they would be willing to go. It was not simply that this upset his ‘sex’ life; that could be easily arranged. It was the chase, the search, that was endangered. He did not realise it, but he was in fact an incurable romantic. He told himself that nothing would ever lure him into marriage, but his bachelor life had many shortcomings.
He was older than he looked: thirty nine.
His encounter with Superintendent West had come at a time of particular indecision. He had met an exceptionally attractive woman, half English, half Norwegian, the ash blonde type he had always particularly admired. He wasn’t by any means sure of her, and wanted to learn much more. But twice running he had been forced to cancel an appointment and he wasn’t at all certain that there would be a third opportunity.
She was, of all things, a Customs officer who worked in the London docks. He knew that when the Mary Ellen case first came up she was on duty, but that she would be off duty for three consecutive days, beginning tomorrow. If he asked her out again and had to cancel—
The truth was that he would probably have to. West would take it for granted that he would always be ready and eager to go anywhere at a moment’s notice, as he himself would be. Pell was, in fact, intrigued by the present case. Inevitably, he thought of being the central figure in solving it. If he could – if the cook Maureen O’Malley knew more than she admitted, for instance, or if Galbraith did, or even Ivy Mallows, he might be able to get a statement, and if he broke the case wide open then he would win all along the line.
The case would be over, too, and he could expect a couple of free evenings.
He would have proved himself ripe for promotion.
And, once with an inspectorship, he could make up his mind to stay in the Force.
While on the way from Borelee, these thoughts had been vivid in his mind, and one factor grew larger than any other: the Ivy Mallows/Dr Galbraith relationship. Ever since he had been on the case he had sensed that there was something between them. He now knew that Galbraith called at 5c Berne Court on average once a week, while Ivy Mallows spent many evenings – though never the nights – at Galbraith’s house in Links End.
His immediate task was to find out all he could about the cook. A little ruefully but without any resentment, he thought that West would want to look after the bigger fish, but if he could get to grips with Maureen O’Malley he might be able to learn more about the other two.
He already knew a great deal about her. She did two four hour stints at the ‘nursing home’ – eight until twelve noon, and two o’clock until six. Sometimes, in the evenings, Maureen cooked at a restaurant as relief chef; and she had a few private customers for whom she would cook an evening meal from time to time. She was in the middle forties, busty and lusty, but everything she did between the sheets was ‘for love’. Pell wasn’t yet positive but he believed she was quite well-off in her own way, and he suspected that the Income Tax inspector knew nothing about her secondary income.
‘And that’s what I’ll use to scare the living daylights out of her,’ Pell told himself.
It was nearly seven o’clock when he reached her home, one of the terraced houses in a narrow street not far from Berne Court, and for that matter not far from Links End. This was also a cul-de-sac which ended at the towering wall of a warehouse. There were only a dozen houses in all, six on either side; built, at one time, for senior dock workers. Newly painted, gay with window boxes, they were under one ownership. There was no light on at Number 7, which was close against the warehouse, but Pell – who had walked from his own car at the end of the street – banged loudly on the knocker.
No one answered.
He knocked again, virtually sure that no one was in, equally sure that he was being watched by neighbours. After a couple of minutes, he went next door, where a light showed dim against the daylight. Almost at once, footsteps sounded, and the door opened. A small, trimly-built woman looked up at him.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
‘Can you tell me where Mrs Maureen O’Malley is?’ asked Pell. He looked at her very directly but with a twinkle in his eyes.
‘What do you want her for?’
‘To find out what the little birds have been telling her.’
‘Maureen! You must be mad, she wouldn’t shop—’ The young woman broke off, suddenly confused.
Pell grinned.
‘Birds of a feather, is it? I just want a word with her, and if I can’t find her soon she might find herself in trouble.’
‘What kind of trouble?’ asked the neighbour.
Pell’s grin widened.
‘Where is she, love?’
‘Don’t you “love” me!’
‘Can’t think of anything I’d like to do more,’ retorted Pell.
‘You’re a bloody funny copper,’ she said. ‘Not going to pick her up, are you?’
‘Not if she’s been a good girl. Now come on, love. Where is she?’
‘Well, I suppose there’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell you. If you want to know, she was going round to the doctor’s, after doing some shopping, as she usually does on Fridays. Cooks him a meal and a few cakes and suchlike for the weekend.’
‘Dr Galbraith?’ asked Pell. Nothing in his relaxed voice or manner suggested his sudden, sharp interest.
‘Who else do you think?’ the neighbour asked.
‘To tell you the truth I hadn’t thought of anyone,’ said Pell.
‘Just like a copper, all beef and no brains!’
He chuckled all the way back to his car.
Then he began to think. If he tackled Maureen O’Malley about Galbraith and Ivy Mallows while she was at the doctor’s house, it might stiffen her resistance. On the whole he thought it would be better to catch her just as she left. He glanced at his watch. It was after eight, and it would be dark in an hour. He hadn’t had a meal all day, this was the right time for a break, but Galbraith’s house had to be watched. He called his Divisional HQ, where Campbell was on duty.
‘I’ll send a couple of men to relieve you for an hour,’ promised Campbell. ‘Don’t be any longer, there’s no time for a banquet.’
‘Right, sir,’ Pell said.
After the two men had arrived at the top of Links End in a police Ford, he drove off. One of his moods of dissatisfaction slid over him. Now was the time when he would like to go home, eat a meal already prepared for him, forget the whole job for an hour. As it was he would have to cook for himself, or go to a steak house. He knew that the choice was really made: he would go home, wash, then go out and have a T-bone steak at a steak-bar in the Whitechapel Road.
He finished his meal with five minutes to spare. The two detective officers had nothing to report except that Mrs Mallows had gone into Galbraith’s house half an hour before.
‘Anyone come out?’ demanded Pell.
‘No, sir.’
‘Okay. Ask Mr Campbell if he can let me have a man for a few hours, will you?’
‘You’ll be lucky,’ one of them said. ‘The Bingo Boys are expected out tonight.’
‘The Bingo Boys’ was a group of youngsters who raided bingo halls, looted the takings and the one armed bandits, and then ran for cover. Campbell had been out to get them for a long time, and obviously he’d heard from an informer. Pell pulled a face. He was certainly on his own, unless there was an emergency.
Links End was different from most streets in the area. There were only four houses, two on either side, each with front and back gardens and with garages. The end of the street debouched on to a small playground on which a few children were kicking a ball about. Apart from them, the whole area seemed dead.
Lights went on at all the houses; at Galbraith’s last.
Be interesting to find out if Mallows and Galbraith were having an affair, reflected Pell.
/> It was about half past nine before Maureen O’Malley came into sight. She was later than Pell had expected, and she appeared to leave the house in a hurry. Pell, watching from some distance off, wondered: what’s she in such a hurry for? Then he saw her glance over her shoulder towards the house she had just left. Pell stiffened, some sixth sense giving him a warning which he could not yet understand. Again she glanced behind her.
‘What’s happened?’ Pell asked himself. ‘Have they thrown her out?’ Once more Maureen glanced over her shoulder. She did not appear to have noticed the parked car. As she turned the corner, Pell, rubber shoes making no noise on the macadamed road, stepped swiftly behind her. She had to walk towards another street then turn off towards a main road which led eventually to her home. Five yards, three, one yard behind her, he matched her step by step. Then quietly he asked: ‘Going somewhere, Maureen?’
She missed a step, almost fell, as she turned. He had never seen such stark fear in a human face. She had lost every vestige of colour and her eyes seemed ablaze with terror.
Pell was astounded.
Her lips fell open; he could see two gaps in her lower jaw, and the glint of gold further back.
‘Now take it easy,’ he said. ‘I want to ask—’
Like lightning she swung her right arm with the handbag in her hand across his face. There was a metal frame which caught his cheekbone and caused agonising pain. Clutching the handbag, she turned and ran, but he did not see her, he was holding his face in his hands, blood streaming through his fingers, vision blurred. Her footsteps rang out for a moment, then began to fade. He was aware of them, aware of the need for catching her, but all he could really think of was the pain. He staggered towards the spot where he thought he had parked the car, but unseeing, he banged heavily into a brick wall. The collision went through his whole body, he felt as if his head were falling off.
