Murder, London--Australia

by John Creasey

  The night duty Inspector of the police station was walking along the passage towards Roger. There was no doubt that he brought trouble with him. Tall, grey-haired, one of the most experienced and reliable officers on the Force, this was one of the few occasions when Roger had seen his looks give him away.

  Roger waited for the blow.

  “Jessup’s killed himself,” the Inspector announced bluntly. “He’d a tablet of cyanide of potassium hidden. He knew he’d be identified, of course, knew he hadn’t a chance.”

  Roger stood absolutely still.

  “I’m damned sorry,” the Cannon Row man went on. “And I can’t blame anyone but myself. I was present when he was searched. How bad does that make things for you?”

  After a pause, Roger said bitterly, “God alone knows.”

  Now he had no cause at all for elation, only for a new kind of anxiety. If a man would kill himself rather than be made to talk, what cause did he serve? What hideous secrets had he taken into death?

  Roger gripped the other man’s forearm.

  “Bad luck, Jim.” He paused again, and then went on, “I’d better go and see him.”

  8

  Message From Hong Kong

  Half an hour later Roger turned into his office, where the lights blazed. He was still needled by the sense of some unknown but terrible thing, by a desperate anxiety to learn the truth. He wondered when Doreen Morrison would be able to talk – he ought to have enquired how she was. He saw Kebble at his desk, looking young and very wide awake. Kebble grinned and put a finger to his lips. For the first time Roger was aware of a third person in the room.

  Sprawled back in the easy-chair, mouth open, a faint snore coming rhythmically, was Dr Whales. In a flash Roger remembered one thing that had slipped his mind – the autopsy report on Perce Sheldon; that seemed to belong to an earlier age.

  “Has he reported?” asked Roger, quietly.

  ‘”Sheldon died of digitalis poisoning,’” Kebble stated. “It was almost certainly from an injection in the right buttock.”

  Roger said, “So now we know. Anything in about Doreen Morrison?”

  “She’s under sedation. The Divisional Surgeon thinks she’ll be able to talk tomorrow. She’s not injured or harmed physically, and she’s had plenty to eat, he says.” Kebble was looking at Roger as if puzzled.

  “Good,” Roger said. “Hong Kong?”

  “The call should be through any minute.” Kebble paused, and then asked, “Care for a drink, sir?”

  “Do I look as if I need it?”

  “I do,” Kebble said, rather awkwardly.

  “Help yourself and pour me a double.”

  Roger sat on the corner of his own desk, looking down at Whales.

  “Jessup killed himself,” he announced unemotionally,

  Kebble drew in a long, hissing breath, as if suffering from physical pain. He didn’t speak; he had a gift for knowing when not to. He handed Roger a whisky and soda; he hadn’t spared the whisky. Roger drank. Whales snored. Kebble sipped. Roger moved slowly and held his glass under Whales’ nose. Whales’ snore became brisker. His lips and nostrils twitched. Roger didn’t move. The pathologist stirred, and his eyes flickered open. He squinted down at the glass, then hoisted himself back in his chair.

  “Don’t tempt me,” he said. “When it sends me to sleep, I’ve had enough.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes,” said Whales. He gave an involuntary shiver. “Bloody cold in here. Had the report?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Got a nice job on your hands, you have,” said Whales. “Do something for me.”

  “Yes, gladly.”

  The flabby man grinned.

  “No one quite like Handsome West,” he said, glancing at Kebble. “Never has been, never will be. ‘Yes,’ he says although I might ask him for the moon. Send a driver to take me home, Roger.”

  “Fix it, will you?” Roger asked Kebble.

  When both men had gone, five minutes later, he sat on the arm of the big chair. Big Ben, sounding very loud on the quiet night, began to chime the hour. It was midnight, and this case hadn’t really got under way until four o’clock this afternoon. He stretched, stood up, went to the window, and looked out at the lights of Westminster Bridge, lights from the old-fashioned lamps reflecting on the calm water on the Thames. Big Ben had a yellow glow, like a sickly man in the moon. The shape of the clock tower showed dark against the starlit sky; so did the shape of the rest of the Houses of Parliament.

  Mother of Parliaments.

  A telephone bell rang. He turned quickly, Parliament forgotten; this might be the Hong Kong call. He stepped towards the telephone as his door opened and Kebble appeared. Roger felt an impulse to wave to Kebble to take the call, but changed his mind. He lifted the receiver.

  “Your call to police headquarters in Hong Kong, sir,” the operator said.

  “Hong Kong,” Roger whispered to Kebble, who went across to pick up an extension. “Put me through.”

  “It’s Superintendent Hodges on the line, sir.”

  Roger’s heart leapt, for Hodges had once been a member of the Metropolitan Force. It was always helpful to speak to an old friend.

  “Fred?” he said, a little too loudly.

  “Hi, Handsome.” Hodges sounded as clear as if he were in London. “You must be in serious trouble to spend money like water on telephone calls.”

  “That’s right,” Roger said. “Do you know anything about the death of a man – a ship’s officer named Sanderson, of the SS Kookaburra?”

  There was hardly a moment’s pause.

  “Yes, I know plenty about it,” Hodges answered. “He was killed on the way back to his ship, knocked over the head, we thought, and pushed into the harbour near the Star Ferry. It took us three days to discover that he died of an injection of digitalis. We haven’t a clue as to who did it, or why. Don’t say you have.”

  Roger hesitated before he said, “I haven’t, Fred, but I’ve two victims of the same poisoning here – passengers off the same ship. I don’t like it much, do you?”

  “My God I don’t!” With hardly a pause, Hodges went on, “We’ll split our sides here to try to find the killer. And I’ll airmail you a full report today. Anything else?”

  “Not yet,” Roger said, almost awkwardly.

  “Don’t let it get you down,” Hodges cracked. “See you one of these fine days, I hope.”

  “Next time you’re on leave, come and spend a night or two at Bell Street,” Roger invited.

  When he rang off, he sat very still for some time. Kebble didn’t move. Finally Roger looked across at him, raised his hands, and let them flop on to the desk.

  “So there’s another murderer as well as our missing man.”

  “Obviously no one who was on that ship is safe.” Kebble spoke dispassionately, but nothing could take the cold horror out of his words.

  “We’d better cable the Sydney Bureau,” Roger said. “Tell ‘em as much of the story as we can in a cable.” He picked up a pencil. “Then we’d better get home.”

  “Like me to word the cable?” Kebble offered.

  “If I don’t like the wording in the morning, I’d rather blame myself,” Roger said. He forced a smile. “You now see the rewards of promotion, don’t you?”

  Kebble said quietly, “Yes, sir, I see the reward of being on top of your job.”

  It was half past one when Roger turned the car into Bell Street, Chelsea, and then parked in front of the garage by the side of the house. The gates were open but the garage doors shut; neither of his sons had thought to open them for him. The late teens was a forgetful age. He pulled up within an inch of the doors, irritated, and walked on the grass alongside a concrete path to the back of the house. The back door was locked. He use
d his own key, making as little noise as he could. Although Janet slept at the front, trifling sounds disturbed her when he was not home. He switched on the light. On the kitchen table was a dish of sandwiches inside a plastic bag, instant coffee already in a cup, cream by its side. He lit the gas under the kettle. He had not realised he was so hungry until he tucked in. By the time the kettle was boiling, only one sandwich was left and his mood was already better.

  The passage floor creaked.

  The sound reminded Roger vividly of the creaking door at the house in Notting Hill Gate. He started, and stared at the door, which was ajar. It moved under gentle pressure, and Richard’s dark head appeared. Richard was a year younger than his brother, two inches taller, much more slender. His eyes looked huge with tiredness.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “What’s the matter with sleep tonight?”

  “I’ve been reading.”

  “Until this hour?”

  “Jolly good book.” Richard came farther in. He wore a suit of pale-blue pyjamas, much mended, gaping open to reveal a tanned chest. “True crime and all that. Had any luck?”

  “My luck’s right out,” Roger answered. “Someone forgot to open the garage for me.”

  “Oh, damn!” Richard looked really contrite. “I knew there was something I meant to do. Sorry.”

  Roger’s exasperation vanished.

  “Try to remember, old chap.”

  “Yes, of course.” Richard went to a bowl of fruit on the kitchen table, picked off a few green grapes, and ate them one by one. “I mean, about that girl in the paper – Scoop was talking about it just before he went to sleep. Is it going to be one of the big cases?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Roger admitted.

  “Beastly swine.” Richard’s vehemence made his lean cheeks flush and his tired eyes spark. “The devil who did it, I mean. What makes a man a murderer, Dad?”

  When Roger didn’t answer at once, the lad went on, “I mean, could it happen to me? Could I be one?” When Roger still didn’t answer Richard went on with a kind of restrained vigour, “I mean, people say ‘there for the grace of God but go I.’ Does it really mean every one of us is a killer at heart, only we don’t all get the chance?”

  It was nearly two o’clock, and even with a whole evening in front of him, Roger wouldn’t have found it easy to answer those impassioned questions satisfactorily. Yet to make light of it, to be casual or uninterested, would not only be cruel but might discourage his son from asking questions of vital importance to them both.

  “I don’t think it means that,” Roger said at last. “I don’t think all human beings are potential murderers. I do think there are some with a bad streak in them, and others who learn to be callous. Can you kill and skin a rabbit?”

  “You know I can.”

  “Can Scoop?”

  Richard frowned, drawing his dark eyebrows together.

  “He hates it if anyone kills a rabbit or anything near him.”

  “So there’s something different in your make-up. People have such differences to a greater or lesser degree. The murderer with a bad streak is at one end of the scale. The boy who hates killing by hunting is at the other. Most of us are somewhere in between. Does that make it clearer?”

  “I suppose so,” Richard conceded. “I’m still a bit confused, though. Do you mean that because I can kill a rabbit and Scoop can’t, I’m closer to being a murderer than he is?”

  Roger almost groaned.

  “No, I don’t.” He drank his coffee slowly. “I don’t think this is the right end of the day to try to explain, but—”

  “No, it isn’t, and you look fagged out. I might be clearer on it in the morning, anyhow.” Richard flashed a smile. “I hope so, anyway! Night, Dad. Sorry about the garage doors.”

  He went off.

  Roger felt strangely light-hearted when he went upstairs; Richard had done him a world of good. He crept into his bedroom. Light from a street lamp showed Janet in the middle of the bed, dark hair against white pillow, both arms and shoulders covered.

  She did not stir as he got undressed, but when he was in bed beside her, she moved her warm, soft body against his, and said with unexpected clarity, “Have you got to get up early?”

  “Not too early.”

  “That’s good,” she said, and was asleep again in a few seconds.

  Roger lay for a while, anxiety and fears for other people drawn out of him. Soon, he fell asleep. He did not dream. He was not aware of Janet getting up, just after seven o’clock, of the boys talking outside the room, or of the other noises of the house or of the street. He lay sleeping in this bright room, their bedroom ever since they had married, and the first thing to disturb him was the harsh note of the telephone; it had been switched through to the bedroom, as it always was by night, and Janet had forgotten to switch it back to the main instrument downstairs. There was a clatter of footsteps before the bell stopped ringing here, although he could hear the less strident noise downstairs.

  He shifted over and picked up this extension.

  “. . . must you wake him? He was in so late.”

  Kebble’s voice was unmistakable.

  “I’m sure he would want to be called, Mrs West.”

  “Oh, all right.” Janet wasn’t pleased, and did not hesitate to make it obvious. “Wait a minute.”

  She let the telephone clatter and hurried to the foot of the stairs.

  “Scoop!” she called. “Wake your father and tell him Detective Sergeant Kebble says he must speak to him urgently.”

  “Right, Mum!” Almost at once, the door opened and Martin-called-Scoop came in, broad face bright with excitement, broad, solid, eager. “Dad—”

  Roger turned his head and winked.

  “Oh, he’s awake,” Martin called down, in a tone of mock disgust. He advanced into the room as Roger waved the receiver.

  “Yes, Kebble?”

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Kebble said. “I thought you ought to know that there is a telephone call coming through from Sydney, New South Wales, at half past eight. That’s half past six in the evening, their time. It’s in response to your cable. Will you take the call at home, sir, or come to the office?”

  The clock on Roger’s bedside table pointed to five minutes to eight; so there was just time to get to the Yard.

  9

  Call From Australia

  Martin-called-Scoopy’s eyes were as huge as Richard’s had been the previous night, with a kind of earnest appeal, as if he divined the significance of the question. There were quiet footsteps on the stairs, and Janet appeared, hair wavy but tidy, without make-up except for a little lipstick, eyes bright with anxiety which she sensed rather than understood.

  “You’re going to have a good breakfast!” she whispered. “You can’t work on an empty stomach.”

  Roger found himself grinning. “Have it put through here, Keb, will you?”

  “Right you are.” If Kebble felt disappointed, he kept any trace of it out of his voice. “I’ll fix it with the overseas operator. They didn’t say who would call – the operator just said Sydney Criminal Investigation Bureau.”

  “With a bit of luck it will be Luke Shaw,” Roger said. “What are you doing up so bright and early?”

  “I got in at half past seven, seeing that it was bound to be a busy day.”

  “Had breakfast?”

  “No, just a cuppa—”

  “Go and have a good one,” Roger said. He was smiling at Janet, who had come farther into the room. “You can’t work on an empty stomach.”

  “Er—right, sir.” Kebble sounded bewildered.

  “Thanks for calling,” Roger said, and rang off.

  Janet said, “Beast,” but came across, sat on the side of the bed and looked down at
Roger, as if looking for some tell-tale sign. “You don’t look as if you were up all night, I must say. Scoop, go and make some tea, and—”

  “Char coming up!” That was Richard, from the stairs.

  “I don’t know what you two think you’re going to worm out of me this morning,” Roger said. “It’s a hundred to one you won’t succeed. There’s a call from Sydney, Australia, coming through in half an hour. Run a bath for me, Scoop. Go down and check the car levels, Fish.”

  “Any orders for me?” demanded Janet.

  Roger squeezed her hand.

  “There’s no time,” he said, wickedly. “I’ll be ready for that hearty meal at about a quarter to nine, though.”

  It was eight thirty-one; no call had come.

  It was eight forty-one; no call had come.

  “I’m beginning to think you might wait for an hour. I’ll cook your eggs,” Janet said. “You boys ought to be on your way.” They were rising twenty and rising nineteen, but still ‘you boys’ to Janet, particularly when she was preoccupied.

  Martin was studying at an art school, not far away from Bell Street. Richard, longing for the day when he would be able to join a television company, the dream of his life, worked at a West End bookshop.

  “If you don’t go now you’ll be late,” Janet said. “No, Scoop, don’t make me cross. I—”

  The telephone bell rang. Roger strolled towards the main instrument, which was in the hall just outside the kitchen door. Roger lifted it, feeling that he was dramatising a long-distance call simply because it impressed the boys. There was something else; a sense of foreboding, or at least of disquiet. Sydney could not have received the cable more than three or four hours ago. What made it so urgent for them to telephone halfway across the world so soon?