by John Creasey
‘Hallo, Dad!’
‘Hallo, Fish!’
‘You’re up early.’ Richard had a brisk, almost brusque way of talking.
‘Not early enough. Coming down for a cup of tea?’
‘Wouldn’t mind,’ said Richard, ‘if it doesn’t take too long. I’m meeting a girl, as a matter of fact. She’s busy most evenings—special classes at the Tech—and I can’t get away much during the day, so we get up and have a set of tennis or go for a swim most mornings. We’re playing tennis this morning, at the River Club at eight o’clock.’
The kettle was singing.
‘Do I know her?’ asked Roger.
‘I think you met her once, yes—one evening. Scoop and I were with a crowd. You wouldn’t remember her, though. Her name’s Wendy.’
‘Very slim, nice figure, rather clearly cut features, dark hair, mini skirted,’ Roger said.
Richard looked a little taken aback.
‘So there are snags in having a detective for a father! I thought there might be!’ He grinned, but was instantly serious again. ‘There is something I’d like to ask you, pop.’
‘Well, ask away. What is it?’
Richard said, a little awkwardly: ‘I know Mum’s been a bit on edge, lately. I wondered—well, as a matter of fact, Dad, I wondered if there was any chance of you taking her away for a week or two. She needs a holiday, and she simply won’t go without you. Is there a chance, do you think?’
‘There will be if I have my way,’ Roger told him.
‘Oh, that would be great!’ exclaimed Richard, in a tone of vast relief. ‘And you look as if you could do with a holiday, too. How is your head, by the way?’
‘It will stay on,’ said Roger, drily. ‘How’s work, Fish?’
Richard, in his younger days more often called Fish, was in one of the independent television companies, learner-researcher-producer, director, jack-of-all trades. The moment Roger mentioned work his eyes glowed and he began to talk of hopes and dreams as if they were certainties, with the happy assurance of youth.
He talked and drank tea, and then suddenly sprang up.
‘Gosh, look at the time! I must fly.’ He reached the door and looked back. ‘Try for that holiday, won’t you?’ He disappeared, racing upstairs, so that Roger’s amusement faded in the fear that he would wake Janet.
She didn’t come down.
Roger opened the O’Hara case file and read every report, from telephone messages to typewritten statements, some from Yard men, some from witnesses. He added his own recollection of what had happened and what the bright and alert Mrs Adams had told him last night.
He thought of Pell.
He heard Richard again, heard the letter-box clatter; a moment later Richard appeared in the doorway, dressed in white shorts and a singlet. He was staring at a newspaper held in one hand; tennis balls, sweater and racquet were held in the other. He was obviously very tense.
‘And you were there?’ he gasped.
‘After the event,’ said Roger, getting up. He took one of the newspapers. There was a photograph of smouldering ruins, and an inset picture of himself and Campbell, another of Ivy Mallows and Dr Galbraith – and, much larger, a rather blurred photograph of the Irish cook with the caption:
Mrs Maureen O’Malley, whom the police would like to interview.
The headlines screamed:
WAS IT MURDER BY FIRE?
Roger put the paper down.
‘You ought to be on your way,’ he said.
‘I’ll go in a minute,’ Richard replied gruffly. He finished reading the article, and then went on in the same tone: ‘This will be hell for Mum. Whenever she hears of a policeman being hurt, she gets worked up. And when it’s a case you’re involved in, she feels ten times worse.’
‘Fish,’ said Roger, quietly. ‘I know.’
‘You—of course you do. I’m always sticking my big nose in, but—if you could take her away, Dad—’
‘I shall try,’ said Roger.
Richard gulped; then hurried off.
Roger went back to the file, read and re-read, and at last went upstairs. Janet was awake, and Martin appeared at his bedroom doorway, looking half asleep.
‘Make your mother some tea, Scoop,’ Roger said.
‘Okay.’
‘Good morning!’
Scoop’s eyes brightened.
‘And good morning to you!’
Nearly an hour later, Roger drove to the Yard. He felt sure there were no developments, or he would have been told by telephone. The rain had eased a little but the sky was leaden, the roads sodden, everyone on foot looked damp and everyone splashed as they walked. He drove carefully, saw a cyclist skid and fall just clear of a car. It was ten o’clock when he reached the Yard where he sensed the particular interest of everyone he met; there was always an atmosphere at the Yard when a policeman had died in the course of duty, a kind of grim determination to avenge him, together with an awareness of the dedication demanded of them all.
As he turned into his own office, Watts must have heard him, for the communicating door opened and he appeared, obviously very eager.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ve got that cook.’
Roger’s heart leapt.
‘Thank the Lord for that! Where is she?’
‘She was caught at London Airport—she had a ticket for a morning flight to Dublin.’
‘Well, well,’ breathed Roger. ‘Where is she?’
‘In the waiting room, sir. I thought you’d like to talk to her yourself.’
‘I would, but—why wasn’t I told before?’
‘The Commander’s orders, sir.’
‘What?’
‘He said you weren’t to be disturbed until after eleven o’clock.’
‘Well, well,’ repeated Roger. He nearly made a comment, forced it back, and sat on the corner of his desk. Is anything else in?’
‘It was arson, of course, sir—the assessor’s preliminary report is in. He’s coming here at twelve noon—Mr Raison, sir.’
Raison was one of the Home Office fire assessors who did most of the work for the Yard. Roger knew him, and knew that he could be fully trusted; he wouldn’t have given such a positive report unless he were absolutely sure he was right.
‘More?’ asked Roger.
‘Raymond Greatorex is still on the danger list,’ Watts told him. ‘There’s no word about James Donovan. Sandell telephoned to say he’s sending a written report. That’s all of any significance, sir.’ He pointed to a thin folder on his desk. ‘It’s all there, sir.’
‘Good.’ Roger took out the thicker folder. ‘Run through this again and see if anything strikes you.’ He lifted the telephone, and dialled Coppell’s number; almost at once, Coppell’s secretary answered. ‘Is the Commander there?’
‘Who is that, please?’
‘West.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr West, but he’s with the Commissioner.’
‘I’ll call later,’ Roger said, wondering why the woman always contrived to annoy him. He put down the receiver and went on to Watts: ‘I’ll go down and see Maureen O’Malley. Tell them I’m on my way.’
There was a suite of waiting rooms in the building, and Maureen O’Malley was in Number 3. He glanced in. She was sitting back in an easy chair, and seemed larger and more flabby than he remembered. Her eyes were closed but he did not think she was asleep; her eyelids flickered too often. A woman police officer sat reading a book in the corner of the same room. The sergeant in charge of the suite was by Roger’s side.
‘She’s been like that ever since she was brought in, sir.’
‘Has she said anything?’
‘She just stares at you stupidly, as if she doesn’t hear you.’
‘Has a doctor seen her?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Arrange for one to come at once; he can join me,’ Roger said.
‘Very good, sir.’
Roger opened the door of Room 3, and immediately Maureen O
’Malley’s body jerked into defensive action as she shrunk back into her chair. She was certainly very frightened. Her eyes seemed buried. The lines at the corners were deeper than he remembered, and she looked exhausted.
The policewoman stood up, and took a notebook out of her pocket. Roger nodded to her, but went towards O’Malley. He was so tall that he must have seemed to tower over her. Her lips began to pucker, she made a kind of whispering sound, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘Why did you poison them?’ he demanded.
She didn’t answer.
‘Mrs O’Malley,’ said Roger, hitching up a chair, ‘it isn’t any good putting on an act. You put poison in their food last night. Why?’
She looked at him blankly as if she hadn’t heard; but she must have heard, and she knew the answer.
‘You know you killed two men, don’t you?’ he said.
Her eyes filled with tears, the only response she made.
‘And you know you could go to prison for life for it, don’t you?’ Tears actually spilled down her cheeks, but she did not speak. It was as if she were suffering from some kind of seizure and that she could hear but could not utter words. Was that possible? He looked down at the woman dispassionately, going through everything that Mrs Adams had said – how she had swung the bag at Pell, then turned and run. That could have been in blind panic; her present silence might be the result of blind panic, too.
‘You know you were responsible for Dr Galbraith’s death, don’t you?’ he insisted.
She seemed to try to speak but managed only a spluttering sound.
‘And if Mrs Mallows dies, that will be your fault, too.’
The woman stared at him. Her lips worked again, her whole face twitched – and so did her body. It was as if she were trying to break through a spell, trying to speak but still unable to. In a strange way he felt sorry for her, she was in such fear. At least he had been right to send for a doctor, and with luck the man would soon be here.
For the first time he looked away.
‘Has she been like this all the time?’ he asked the woman.
‘Yes, sir, she seems—’
‘It’s a lie!’ screamed Maureen O’Malley, springing up from her seat. ‘It’s a filthy lie! I didn’t kill anyone, I didn’t kill anyone. I only sent them to sleep. I wouldn’t hurt the doctor silly bloody fool, you ought to know I wouldn’t hurt the doctor! She’d always been wonderful to me. And she won’t die! She mustn’t die! God will never forgive me if she dies!’
Chapter Sixteen
Despair
Maureen O’Malley sounded in an agony of despair. Her expression was almost unbelievably despondent, the tone of her voice held tragedy. Other things came through: her love for Ivy Mallows, her gratitude, her devotion. There seemed hope, too, that she would tell him all she knew, now that the ice was broken.
‘The doctor is a very remarkable woman,’ Roger said.
‘She’s an angel of mercy,’ declared Maureen O’Malley. ‘If ever a saint lived on this earth it’s Dr Mallows, sir.’ For the first time her eyes, bleary from lack of sleep and tears, seemed to clear, and she looked at him straightly. ‘As God is your judge,’ she said, ‘tell me she won’t die.’
Roger was acutely aware of the policewoman, watching tensely.
He was aware of the throb in the Irish woman’s voice, but did not believe it was blarney. She spoke absolutely from the heart, and he did not think that he should do anything more to play on her nerves.
‘She is very ill,’ he said. ‘But she is alive and the doctors think she will recover.’
‘How—how badly is she burned, sir?’
‘Badly about the legs, and she had burns on her arms, but her body wasn’t touched.’
‘Praise be to God,’ said the woman, and she crossed herself with slow deliberation. But her fear remained and she raised her hands as if to fend off some fearful blow. ‘But her dear face,’ she said. ‘What of her dear, dear face?’
Gently, gladly, Roger answered: ‘There won’t be any scars.’
‘Thank God, thank God, thank the Holy Trinity!’ O’Malley’s eyes lit up almost with exultation, all the fear was driven away. ‘The doctor’s not scarred for life, praise be!’ She leaned back in her chair, and Roger turned towards the policewoman. ‘Get some tea.’
‘Yes, sir!’ The woman moved silently from the room as Roger stood back. O’Malley’s colour was better but her breathing was worse – asthmatic, brought on by the anxiety. Her eyelids kept on flickering, and a vein in her neck beat rhythmically.
Suddenly, Roger asked: ‘Don’t you want her to die?’
She started up.
‘That’s a wicked question,’ she said. ‘I’d give my own life for hers, and you know it.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Roger, more sharply. ‘If it hadn’t been for you—’
‘I didn’t start that fire!’ she cried.
‘Never mind the fire,’ said Roger. ‘Why did you put them to sleep?’
She didn’t answer, but her eyes dropped, giving her a very cunning look.
‘If you don’t tell me, they may try again,’ Roger said.
‘Try—try what again?’ she demanded, wheezing very badly.
‘To kill Dr Mallows,’ Roger said.
She caught her breath, and gripped the arms of her chair.
‘You—you’re having me on!’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Roger retorted. ‘Someone made you put a sleeping dose into their food. They told you it would just send them off to sleep. Isn’t that right?’
‘That—that’s it,’ she muttered.
‘But in fact they put Dr Galbraith and Dr Mallows to sleep so that they would die in the fire. You don’t need telling that twice. Do you?’ he demanded roughly.
‘I—I suppose so,’ she muttered. ‘As God is my judge, sir, I didn’t know.’
‘You must realise that they’ll try again as she’s still alive,’ Roger insisted.
‘She—she’s in hospital, so he can’t!’ she cried.
‘Oh yes he can,’ said Roger. ‘If he can do all he’s done so far he can get into the hospital, and her life wouldn’t be worth a tuppence piece. Don’t fool yourself and don’t fool me, O’Malley. Who is he?’
She closed her eyes, and crossed herself. Roger saw her lips move, as if in prayer. He hoped the policewoman would not come in for a few minutes, believing that Maureen O’Malley was on the point of breaking. He studied her features closely, one by one, and then noticed something that hit like the kick of a mule. There was a marked likeness between her and James Donovan. It was in the broad forehead with the rather full eyebrows, in the shallow ridge between her eyes, the nose that looked broken but wasn’t. When she went on praying to herself, he asked very quietly: ‘It was your brother, wasn’t it?’
Her lips stopped moving; her whole body went still and for a few moments she hardly seemed to be breathing.
‘It was James, wasn’t it?’ he insisted.
Without opening her eyes, she answered huskily: ‘Surely be to God, it was James.’
‘Your brother?’ he insisted.
‘Yes, that’s the truth of it,’ she said, and opened her eyes a fraction. ‘I didn’t go telling you, now, you told me, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Roger, gently. ‘You didn’t betray him.’
‘He’s my own brother, don’t you see I can’t betray him?’
‘Yes,’ Roger said again. ‘Where is he, O’Malley?’
‘That’s a thing I do not know.’
‘It won’t help you to lie,’ Roger told her. ‘It can only do harm.’
‘And it won’t help you to ask me where he is,’ she said with shrill insistence. ‘I don’t know.’
‘When did you see him last?’ Roger asked.
‘Why, yesterday morning, at the home.’
‘Was he the friend of a cousin you talked about?’
‘And why shouldn’t I lie to save my own brother?’ she demanded
with a flash of spirit.
‘Why should you he to save the brother who tried to kill the doctor?’
O’Malley didn’t speak at once, but he noticed the way her lips twisted, as if she were about to burst out crying. This was a moment to ease off the pressure, and again he hoped that the policewoman wouldn’t return with the tea. After a few moments, he went on: It was James who gave you the drug, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was my own brother James.’
‘Why would he want to kill the two doctors?’
‘I can’t believe—’ she began, and her lips puckered again. ‘He’d never mean to do such a thing.’
‘Maureen,’ said Roger. ‘Why did James say he wanted them to go to sleep?’
‘He—he said he wanted to get some papers.’
‘To break in, you mean?’
‘That’s the truth,’ she said. ‘It’s the whole truth. He said that Dr Galbraith had some incriminating documents and he could be sent to prison, all he needed was half an hour in the house, undisturbed. I didn’t think it would do them any harm. I gave some of the powder to Mary Ellen and she was right enough soon afterwards.’
‘So you acted in good faith,’ Roger said. ‘No one will blame you too much if you tell me what happened—everything, O’Malley. What kind of crime had James committed? What were he and Patrick doing in London?’
‘And Patrick’s in prison, if there wasn’t enough trouble already.’ Maureen O’Malley sighed. She opened her eyes wide. ‘I don’t know, Inspector, I swear I don’t know. They are both in trouble, that I do know. First Patrick and then James wanted me to help, and—I helped as best I could. That’s all I know—except that when James telephoned me last night and told me to put the good doctors to sleep, I didn’t think he meant for ever. I swear it on my knees before St Patrick. Holy Mother of God, such a thought didn’t enter my head. I thought he wanted them asleep while he searched for the documents, and I didn’t think—’
She hesitated, and sat up again, making a great effort. ‘I still don’t believe it!’ she cried. ‘He would never murder anybody, it couldn’t have been my brother James!’
‘If it wasn’t James, who was it?’ demanded Roger. ‘Not Patrick, he’s in prison. So who was it?’
