by John Creasey
Roger said slowly: “Yes, you get your facts right. I’d noticed the bit about the policemen, too. What else is the Courier going to say?”
“It’s going to suggest that there is a deliberate campaign against the police—a terror campaign. It’s going to show that a policeman’s life isn’t so safe these days. It’s going to campaign for better salaries, a big recruiting campaign, and—guns for the police all the time.”
Roger finished his drink.
“And is it all your idea?”
“No, mine’s the bit about a terror campaign against the police.”
“What’s your evidence?”
“What I’ve told you, plus the fact that Ruth Linder hates the police and has these boyfriends—the tough type who probably carry guns. There isn’t any doubt that she knew Prescott, Handsome.” Brammer emptied his glass.
“Another?”
“Thanks.”
Roger refilled it, and gave himself another whisky, but added plenty of soda.
“Why come and tell me?”
“You always play ball with us,” Brammer said, “and although you probably won’t admit it, you collect most of the really dangerous jobs that are going. You handled this morning’s job brilliantly—it’s one of the slickest the Yard’s ever done, and the Courier will say so!” Brammer gave his sardonic smile. “It’s also going to suggest that from now on, your life isn’t safe. After the hospital killing, that will look a lot more plausible, won’t it? I’m going to say that you should carry a gun all the time, and so should everyone connected with the Prescott case. I’m also going to say that nothing else is likely to warn these young brutes off.”
“I see,” said Roger.
“Care to comment?”
Roger grinned. “I would not!”
“Off the record, then.”
“You wouldn’t let me down about that, would you?”
“No.”
“I don’t think it would be a good thing if we were armed. I don’t care what they do on the Continent or in the United States I say that in England, if the police were armed, more criminals would arm themselves. There’d be more, not less, violence; more risks—and not smaller ones either. Larger.”
“That’s just the official attitude,” Brammer said, as if disappointed.
“It’s personal opinion,” Roger assured him, “and it doesn’t mean that I don’t think we should ever carry arms. There are times when I’m much happier with a gun. As this morning! But if we have an armed police force, before we know where we are we’ll have an army of armed bandits.”
“We’ve got one.”
“For every crook in this country who carries a gun, hundreds don’t,” Roger said. “And you know it. Anything else?” he asked abruptly.
“No, I don’t think so,” Brammer said. “The blatt’s going to scream at the top of its voice about this, and the other papers will take it up.”
“You have to find something to write about,” Roger growled. “You heard my wife complaining, didn’t you?”
Next morning the Courier came out with the first broadside of the campaign for ‘improving the efficiency of the police’. It was one of the papers which Roger had delivered to Bell Street, and when Janet came into the bedroom with the post and the papers, she was reading it. He did not like her expression.
“If you’d been in that ward last night—” she began.
“But I wasn’t, my sweet!”
“I suppose you’ll just go on until one of them does shoot you,” Janet said. “The boys were reading this when I went downstairs. And this about the campaign against the police by these young terrorists, too. Do you think there’s anything in it?”
Roger said: “I suppose there could be. I wouldn’t put it higher.”
“Roger, does that mean that you know there is?”
“It just means that I think there could be,” Roger repeated, and slid his arm round her shoulders. “I don’t think there’s any kind of a case to say there is, yet. Even if there were, it wouldn’t last long. A few more raids like the one we made on Prescott’s place, and they won’t have any weapons left.”
Janet’s body didn’t yield against him.
Within an hour of reaching the Yard, Roger sensed the ‘atmosphere’. It had been there the previous morning, when the news of PG Allenby’s death had been spread. It was created every time a policeman was murdered, or whenever the Yard was under exceptional pressure from the Press. But this time it seemed more tense.
It affected Sloan and Peel.
There were those who said that Brammer and the Courier were talking out of their hats; but others agreed, either by comment or by silence, that they were right. Several were all for being armed; more, for flogging and severe corporal punishment as well as imprisonment.
At half past ten, Roger’s telephone bell rang.
“West speaking.”
“Come and see me, will you?” The gruff voice was that of the Assistant Commissioner at the Yard, Sir Guy Chat-worth. “And don’t take all day about it.”
So the atmosphere affected Chatworth, too.
The AC was a big, burly-made man with a ruddy face, veiny skin, a shiny bald patch surrounded by grizzled hair, and a soft collar that was a size too large for him. His office was a modern wonder of black glass and chromium. He sat at a huge glass-topped desk, looking rather like a sulky bulldog.
“Good morning, sir.” Roger was bright.
“Sit down. You can smoke if you want to. What about this terror campaign?”
“It’s much too early to say,” Roger temporised.
“Is it? I wonder? Trouble with you, the trouble with all of us, is not seeing the wood for the trees. A lot of people have talked about a terror campaign in the past few weeks—but not a single policeman has. I’ve pooh-poohed it where I could, without being happy about it. That hospital shooting—” Chatworth broke off.
Roger lit his cigarette.
“That was to keep Prescott quiet—it wasn’t part of any campaign.”
“But you think there is one, don’t you?” demanded Chat-worth.
“No,” Roger answered. “I think it could be, that’s all.”
“What do the others say?”
“There’s a feeling that there is a campaign,” Roger admitted. “I get a queer impression, sir—that most of our men suspected it subconsciously and that this has brought it to the surface. I still think it could be wrong.”
He told Chatworth about Brammer’s visit and the story of Ruth Linder.
“Do you think she’s capable of organising this?”
“I think she’s worth a lot of watching,” Roger told him. “I also think we could jump at this far too quickly.”
“So long as you don’t jump too late, all right. You know there isn’t a chance in hell that the Home Office will let you fellows carry guns as a general practice, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“But you and anyone working with you on this case can carry a gun all the time,” Chatworth went on, “and I don’t give a damn who says that you shouldn’t. Whether there’s a terror campaign or not, there was a killer at that hospital last night, and we want him. Your job, Roger.”
“Thank you, sir,” Roger said. “But as for carrying a gun all the time, I don’t think—”
Chatworth leaned back, opened his centre drawer, took out an automatic and two clips of ammunition.
“Take this,” he said abruptly. “Carry it all the time. That’s an order. You’re in charge and you might be a target any moment.”
“Yes, sir,” Roger said stonily.
Brammer had told him that he got the dangerous jobs; Janet said the same thing. Well, he did. He could even persuade himself that he liked them, but as he walked back to his office, he knew that he didn’t. PC Allenby and the Yard man with Prescott had been alive and kicking until a moment or two of seeing a man with a gun. Yet he didn’t want a gun all the time. At heart, he was sure that it would lead to trouble. The police
didn’t want guns; they wanted new recruits by the thousand.
But he had his orders, and Janet would probably be glad.
He could leave Janet and the boys, get into his car, drive off – and be taken back to Bell Street soon afterwards, in a coffin. Death was always near, and this job brought the fact home. The gun ought to be a comfort.
It wasn’t.
Nothing else had come in from the hospital; they had no clue apart from the pieces of wool, which weren’t much help. Sloan and Peel were checking Prescott’s girlfriends one at a time, with help from the photographs found at Prescott’s flat. A man recently moved into the plain-clothes branch because he had shown exceptional ability as a shadow, was put on Ruth Linder; his one job was to follow her, and to report and describe every one whom she saw, day by day.
It wasn’t quick and it wasn’t satisfying.
The Courier ran the terrorist campaign story by itself for three days. On the fourth two other London dailies took it up. The atmosphere at the Yard became more marked than ever. There was a curious sense of waiting for another attack on a policeman.
On the evening of the fifth day, PC Babbington, of the KJ Division, was patrolling that part of St John’s Wood near Regent’s Park. It was dusk. Several people were in sight, all of them moving briskly. One youth walked towards Babbington, perhaps more quickly than the others.
He was dressed in a tweed jacket, baggy trousers, and was hatless.
As he came almost level with the policeman he drew a gun from his pocket and fired three times into Babbington’s face. Babbington fell, dying instantly. Someone shouted. The killer broke into a run, until he reached a motorcycle resting against the kerb.
He was astride this, and near the first corner, before any of the horrified passers-by reached the policeman.
Chapter Seven
Visit
Roger West opened the Courier. He stood quite still, looking at the front page. The boys were on the stairs. They stood and watched, very quiet. Janet was still upstairs.
TERROR STRIKES AGAIN
ANOTHER POLICE VICTIM
Terror struck again in familiar, friendly London last night. A 53-year-old policeman, well liked, with a wife and family, was patrolling a street near the Zoo.
A killer shot him down.
There was no reason for it. The policeman was by himself. The killer was not being questioned. Here is further evidence that there is a deliberate reign of terror aimed at London’s heroic police force.
In common fairness the men who protect us must be armed.
“Is it another one, Dad?” asked Martin.
Richard just looked at his father’s face, without echoing the question. Martin’s grey eyes were rounded, candid, untroubled.
“Yes, Scoop.”
“It’s awful, isn’t it?”
“It’s not very good.”
“Mum hates it,” Richard declared.
“I expect she does, old chap.”
“There’s one thing,” Martin said; “you don’t wear a uniform, Dad, do you? There’s a chap at school, Bob Arnold, his Dad’s a sergeant at Chelsea, perhaps you know him. Bob Arnold says that his Mum hates it, too.”
“She would,” said Roger.
He found words difficult.
The boys weren’t old enough to talk like this. Nine and ten – and talking of terror, fear, the danger of wearing uniform, walking hand-in-hand with the horrors of sudden death. It was absurd, hideous. In the past they had been excited, thrilled because he was a detective. This case had sobered them – and the process had not come quickly. It must have been growing in them, through Janet perhaps and through Bob Arnold’s ‘mum’, for some time.
“Why don’t these men like policemen?” asked Richard, changing the subject slightly, and looking angelic. “Policemen are nice men, aren’t they? Why, they see the young kids across the road every day at our school; they’re ever so nice. It’s silly to shoot them.”
“Ridiculous,” Martin agreed solemnly.
“Boys,” said Roger, “nip into the kitchen, put the kettle on for breakfast, and cut the bread for toast, will you? You’d better light the gas, Scoop.”
“Oo, I can do it just as well as Martin!”
Richard forgot police and gunmen as he rushed to get into the kitchen first.
Roger looked up at Janet, who was on the landing. He had seen her standing there for some time – almost from the moment they had started talking.
They hadn’t talked about the Yard when Roger had got home, late, on the previous night.
“So there’s another one,” she said, when he reached her. “Let me see.” She scanned the headlines. “It is true, you know, Roger. It’s a campaign.”
“If it is, it’ll be beaten.”
“But—” began Janet, and then her chin went up, her voice hardened, and she turned briskly towards the stairs. “I must go and get breakfast. I know there’s nothing you can do about it; I only wish you’d never been idiotic enough to join the police force.” She ran down the stairs.
There was another item of news, too. Residents in Wimbledon and Putney were calling a meeting to form a Citizens’ League – its purpose to demand harsher punishment for violent criminals, and an armed police force.
That would have interested Roger by itself, but there was an item which reminded him vividly of Ruth Linder. Her handsome and wealthy friend, Sir Neville Hann-Gorlay, had been asked to speak at this meeting.
Roger tapped at the door of Chatworth’s offices, and went in. Chatworth was on the telephone. He waved to a chair, and sat in silence with the receiver at his ear. He listened so long that Roger knew that he was talking to a superior – probably someone at the Home Office. Even the superior could not keep Chatworth quiet for long when he disagreed.
“Balderdash,” he growled.
He listened again, impatiently.
“Addle-pated imbecile,” he spat.
He kept quiet for fully thirty seconds.
“Congenital lunacy,” he roared. “Can’t stay now, I’m busy. Call you later!” He banged the receiver down, and glared at Roger, then stretched out for a small cigar and lit it. “That was the Home Office.”
“Was it?” Roger was mild.
“In the considered opinion of one of the permanent officials, too much attention is being paid to this terror campaign talk, and too many officers are being allowed to carry guns.”
“How many are?” asked Roger, still mildly.
“Five.”
“There’s still one born every minute,” he said. “But we’re going to have a lot more pressure before long. The Courier has now lined-up four more morning and two evening papers as well as a dozen or so in the Provinces, all wanting revolvers to be issued to police forces everywhere. It’ll get stronger for a while, and then some other sensation will chase it out of the headlines.”
“Still against guns as a rule?”
“I’ll willingly take a gun when I know I’m going to tackle a gunman, but I won’t otherwise,” Roger said. “I’ve been testing opinion here, sir. It’s about evenly divided on arms. I wouldn’t much care to say what it will be if there are many more jobs like this St John’s Wood one. Being shot at while stopping a crook has always been occupational risk. Being shot while patrolling is a different matter. I’ve had Peel trying to get the feeling of the uniformed staff, too.”
“What is it?”
“They’re all being harried by their wives.” Roger gave the ghost of a grin. “Ninety-nine in a hundred say they want the cat back, and harsher treatment.”
“What you really mean is that everyone’s getting edgy.”
“Yes.”
“Any ideas?” Chatworth asked abruptly.
Roger said: “It could be simple vendetta, but I find that hard to believe. I keep after Ruth Linder. We’ve got a kind of line to her again. A Charles Mortimer, one of the youths Ruth has entertained at her Mayfair flat, is going about with a girl who knew Prescott. The girl has some jewe
llery which was probably stolen. I think I’ll have another look at the stuff, and if it is stolen, hold the girl for receiving. That’ll make her talk, I fancy.”
“Anything’s worth trying,” Chatworth agreed. “If it isn’t a simple vendetta, what the hell is it?”
Roger shrugged.
“I couldn’t work up an idea if you offered me a thousand pounds! Have you seen that bit about a protest meeting at Putney and Wimbledon?”
“Citizens’ League, or some such nonsense?”
“If the public get really worked up about this,” Roger said, “it’s going to give us some new problems.”
He left Chatworth soon afterwards, and went to see Prescott’s girlfriend.
The girl’s name was Pauline Weston. She was tall, ash-blonde, slim, almost flat-chested, but with much grace of movement. She wasn’t exactly a beauty, but had a certain attractiveness – and her grey eyes had a candour which appealed. She wasn’t more than twenty-two or three, didn’t overdo make-up, and dressed simply, mostly in tailored clothes. Roger hadn’t talked to her himself when she had first been questioned after her photograph had been found at Prescott’s flat.
She lived in a two-roomed flat in Bayswater. By profession a research chemist, she did no regular work and appeared to have private means.
She opened the door to Roger, who handed her his card. She looked disappointed, but certainly not disturbed.
“Won’t you come in?”
“Thanks.”
He went past her into a charming flat, of pale blues and gold, chintzes, all very comfortable. It was eleven o’clock in the morning.
“How can I help you, Chief Inspector?”
“Do you know a man named Charles Mortimer?” Roger was friendly enough.
“Yes.”
“Do you know him well?”
“He’s an acquaintance,” Pauline Weston said, “I’ve known him for several months.”
“How did you meet him?”
“I suppose you’ll expect to hear this,” she said. “I met him at a party which Roy Prescott gave.”
“How well do you know him?” Roger looked straight at the brooch at her throat. It was of diamonds, worth several hundred pounds, and in a beautiful platinum setting. She couldn’t fail to notice that he was studying it. “Does he ever give you presents?”