Good and Justice

by John Creasey

  Into the silence that followed, Scott-Marie said: “I think I hope it was, George.”

  “So do I,” Gideon said. “I’ll keep you posted, sir.”

  Now he was going through that “accident” in his mind. He had a report from Watford, the nearest town to the actual crash. A car had overtaken Cockerill on the inside and then swung in front of him, forcing him to brake sharply and causing the car behind him to bang into the back of the police car. The cut-in car’s number had been noted by the police driver; it had been an old Jaguar but moving very fast.

  Gideon now wondered what Cockerill himself would have to say.

  His telephone bell rang, and he hoped this would be news that the other man was here early; instead, it was Information with the officer in charge in a rare mood of excitement. Almost as Gideon announced himself, he declared: “We’ve got Moreno, sir!” A great surge of relief went through Gideon and everything else faded into the background. “Thank God for that. Where is he now?”

  “On his way to Fulham HQ, sir. Apparently he was caught only just in time, out at Clapham. One of our chaps was hurt a bit, but not much.”

  “Good chap,” Gideon said, still feeling enormous relief.

  He rang off, and immediately put in a call to the division which included Clapham and several adjacent areas. He knew the superintendent there fairly well; a man named Blunt. Blunt was on the line almost immediately, and after a quick: “Hallo, Hugh,” and: “Evening, Commander,” Blunt went on with obvious satisfaction: “So you’ve heard about Moreno.”

  “Yes. How’s our chap who was hurt?”

  “He’ll be all right. Nasty cut in his forehead; Moreno had got another knife from somewhere. And was your general call on the mark, George! A minute more and he would have killed the woman. If you’d like all the details—”

  “I’d like a full report in the morning,” Gideon interrupted. “Just the essence, now. Who was our chap?”

  “Detective Sergeant Shea,” Blunt answered, “and it was time he had a break, he’s a damned good man. I’m going to recommend him for promotion. He took the trouble to listen to a couple of hippies, who’d seen Moreno go into a house. A very quick and tidy job, thank God.”

  “Give Shea my personal congratulations,” Gideon said, and rang off.

  Bobbie Russell leaned over his wife, who lay in bed looking pale but surprisingly untroubled, and kept on saying over and over again: “Thank God the police got here in time. Thank God.”

  Arthur Dalby, in an early model Jaguar obviously the worse for wear, but the best deal he could get from his friend, pulled into the arranged meeting place, then sat, very tense and still, waiting for the girl. Ah, here she was. He gazed avidly at her legs, long and lovely. My God, he thought, what a pair!

  Smiling, he leaned across and opened the door, “Welcome back, girlie. What do you think of this beauty?”

  She got in and looked at torn upholstery and a cracked window. “Well, it’s got more leg-room, I’ll say that for it,” she said drily.

  He shot her a swift, almost wolfish look, as he started the car, and throwing back his head laughed uproariously.

  He was laughing so much, at getting the car, at getting the girl, that he did not notice the policeman on the other side of the road, who most certainly noticed him. The policeman, a youngish man, did not recognise him; did not have the vaguest suspicion of his identity; he simply knew that a man who laughed like that when at the wheel of a car wasn’t really paying attention to what he was doing, and so wasn’t really fit to drive. No one could throw his head back like that and rear away from the wheel and still maintain full control.

  The fellow was out to impress the girl he’d just picked up, of course.

  The officer, whose name was Howard, Police Constable Howard, watched as the car moved into a stream of traffic. It went smoothly enough, and the man seemed to have recovered, so it wasn’t worth passing on, by walkie-talkie, to other policemen along Islington High Street and further beyond. Yet the way that head went back, the way the man’s mouth had opened when he had laughed, remained a vivid picture in his mind.

  While he was worrying over this, the girl next to Dalby was saying to herself: “I’ve got to be careful with this one. He’s half crazy.”

  Her name was Janice; Janice Westerman. Sometimes she thought she was a little crazy, too, taking the chances she did.

  Kate Gideon laid down the evening paper as the telephone bell rang. Instinctively, she knew that this was George to say that he would be late; only occasionally did that particular instinct fail her. About the family room there were oddments seldom seen here these days; at one side a half-built castle of bricks, on the other books lying face downwards, their covers bright with animal pictures; and there was a tray with spoons and nursery-rhyme plates on it: the very plates most of her own children had eaten from.

  “Kate Gideon,” she said into the telephone.

  “Kate,” said Gideon, “I hate to have to say it but I’m going to be at least an hour and a half.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, dear,” Kate said. “Priscilla’s been here most of the day. She brought the children over. There’s some kind of school holiday.”

  “So that’s where she was!”

  “Did you try to get her?” Gideon laughed. “Yes. To see if she could come over, or she could persuade you to go to her. There’s one good thing,” he added. “Moreno won’t do any more harm.”

  “You’ve caught him!”

  “He’s been caught,” Gideon replied, “and apparently since his arrest—” He broke off, for this was no time to talk too much, but he wanted Kate to know that he felt a kind of pity, perhaps even true compassion, for the man.

  Kate said: “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so badly about anyone outside my own family.” She paused, and then went on with forced brightness: “Are you sure you’ll be an hour and a half?”

  “At least,” he said. “More likely two. And I’d better have a snack here, so you needn’t worry about food.”

  “I’d much rather get you a meal,” she said, “unless you’re famished. George – I’ve had a silly idea today.”

  “How silly?” he tried to sound flippant.

  “You’ll think it’s absurd.”

  “Try me,” he urged.

  “Well, I’ve thought a lot about the soundproofed attic and the piano standing up there doing nothing but collect dust, and it seems such a waste. I used to play, suppose I take it up again? Shut up there the neighbours won’t hear a thing.” When Gideon didn’t respond at once she said almost anxiously: “Are you laughing at me, George?”

  “Laughing!” exploded Gideon. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard in years!”

  Gideon put down the receiver with a sigh of relief. He had meant exactly what he said. In one swoop, the sense of waste and purposelessness of the sound proofing had gone, while Kate had thought of something which might make a world of difference to her. She had played, once, but all their daughters had proved to have a musical talent so far exceeding her own that she had lost heart. If the idea of playing again really caught hold of Kate there was no telling how significant it might be: the thought of moving from Harrington Street might become just a vague fancy, never to be taken seriously.

  Thank God!

  He heard footsteps in the passage, and then Tiger’s door opened. How much more clearly sounds travelled in the evening, when most of the offices were empty and the Embankment traffic was so much lighter. He could even hear a murmur of voices, and thought: surely Cockerill. There was a tap at the communicating door and Tiger appeared.

  “Chief Inspector Cockerill, sir,” he announced.

  “Show him in, and then you get off,” Gideon said. “You look dead beat. If I need anyone I can call on the night staff.”

  “If you’re sure.”

 
; “Quite sure.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Tiger stood aside for Cockerill to come in. At sight of him Gideon had one of the shocks of his life, for a bandage covered Cockerill’s left eye and was taped to his forehead and underneath his chin. If this was to read “superficial wounds” what the devil would he have looked like if he had been badly hurt? One side of his mouth was badly swollen and bruised, too, although it wasn’t covered. His hands seemed uninjured and he walked freely enough, putting out his right hand.

  “Sorry I’m late, Commander,” he said.

  “It looks as if we’re lucky you weren’t a lot later,” Gideon said gruffly. “Sit down.” As the other man settled, rather gingerly, into a large armchair, he went on: “The first thing I want is just an opinion, Inspector – we can settle down to the details later.” He sat behind his desk, looking at Cockerill squarely. “Do you think it was an accident? Or was it an attempt to put you out of action?”

  As well as he could, Cockerill smiled. Normally, he was sharp-featured and thin-faced, the skin drawn tight across his bones, but now his features looked puffy. He must have taken a real buffeting about the face.

  “Ah,” he said, “so you smell a rat too? I haven’t breathed a word, and thought it better not to do so until I’d talked to you. But this smash was deliberate. I haven’t any doubt whatever. In fact if it hadn’t been for my driver I think we’d have been under a lorry without any chance at all. Someone was after me, Commander, and I can only imagine it was because I had been nosing around some places in the south Midlands where I wasn’t welcome.” He sat back, both convinced and utterly convincing.

  12

  FOOD MARKET

  GIDEON bent down to a cupboard in his desk and took out a syphon, a bottle of scotch, and a bottle of gin.

  “Will whisky go to your head?”

  “Could do,” Cockerill said. “You haven’t got a beer, have you?”

  “Certainly, but canned, and probably warm.”

  “Suits me – don’t care for iced drinks myself,” Cockerill said.

  Gideon bent down again for two tins of beer of the self-opening type, and a glass tankard. He passed these to Cockerill and mixed himself a whisky and soda, sipped, added a little more soda, and leaned back.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  “Cheers.” Cockerill drank like a man who had been wandering in the desert for days, and when he lowered his tankard he murmured apologetically: “It’s these drugs they pump into you. Dry you out.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised,” Gideon said, and after a pause, added: “So, it’s big.”

  “I think so,” replied Cockerill. “That Whitechapel fire this morning – do you think it’s part of the same racket?”

  “It could be,” Gideon replied non-committally. “I think Firmani would say so.”

  Cockerill finished the tankard, and leaned back cautiously in his chair. Gideon wondered if his head was aching badly or whether the drugs had numbed him; but whatever it was, either or both, did not appear to have affected his wits.

  “Then it is big.”

  “What have you discovered?” asked Gideon.

  “That there are at least two lorry loads of stolen fruit and vegetables taken up on the M1 every day, and off-loaded at small wholesale markets or at the branches of big supermarkets. On the surface the buying side is legal. The buyers may know that they’re getting stolen goods and the managers may be taking a cash discount on the side, but I’m not sure. I am sure about the stolen produce leaving Covent Garden and I think I know how it’s done.” He opened the second can of beer, pulling back the little fastener too abruptly, so that the spray spurted over his face and bandages. “I’m okay,” he said as Gideon started to get up. “Haven’t lost more than half a mouthful!” He went on talking as he refilled the tankard. “I’ve been keeping an eye on Covent Garden for some time, but you know that. At first there was a little pilfering and a few fingers in the tills, which most of the market men take in their stride. Then it got bigger and the market security chaps thought we’d better take a hand.”

  All of these things Gideon knew, although Hobbs had handled most of the details; and it was surprising how soon information read or passed on by word of mouth could fade. He nodded, and asked: “What was special about last night’s hijacking?”

  “New ground,” answered Cockerill.

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Sorry,” the other man said. “I’m not as clear in the head as I might be. Well, in the past, lorries have been rented and stolen goods brought from all over the market and loaded: a crate here, sack there, string bag – the lot, so to speak. No one misses a single item, and a lot of stuff is moving all the time. Until someone gets suspicious the thieves can get away with murder, but once the security chaps know what’s going on, the details can be found out fairly easily. Clear so far, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Last night was quite different. A lorry filled with produce from one big merchant for delivery to an associated wholesaler in Coventry was stolen – hijacked. It wasn’t missed for an hour. The driver who was to take it up on the M1 was having his dinner; he came back on time, to find it gone. Somehow the name of the firm was blotted out, probably with a quick drying spray paint, and there wasn’t a trace of it until it was found in an old quarry.”

  “Damaged?” asked Gideon.

  “Good as new.”

  “Then they haven’t a home for stolen lorries,” Gideon remarked.

  “Hardest things in the world to keep under cover for long, and the easiest things to check for engine numbers and chassis numbers. I wouldn’t be surprised to find someone with a fleet of smaller lorries and vans, many of which might be stolen; but the big ones – no, Commander.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Gideon said. “What made you stay in the Midlands so long?” Seeing a change of expression in Cockerill’s one visible eye he went on hastily: “That isn’t meant as a criticism, man – you must have had a good reason.”

  “Theft of refrigerated lorry from Smithfield,” Cockerill said.

  Gideon stared, thinking the answer through. Cockerill gave him very little time before going on: “I wanted to find if the meat was going to the same places.”

  “Ah!”

  “Some of the big wholesalers have sections for fruit and veg, meat, fish, provisions and groceries or dry goods,” went on Cockerill. “They supply not only the small trader but the supermarket chains – it’s very involved these days. You go to a fishmonger to buy fruit and to a greengrocer to buy bacon, very often. The day of the specialist is nearly over.”

  Gideon said: “My wife doesn’t like it.”

  “A lot of wives who have to save five or ten per cent like it,” Cockerill replied, frankly, and then added hastily: “But this is just background, sir. I went up to Coventry and Northamptonshire and got the local chaps to watch the wholesalers who had bought some of the Covent Garden stuff, to see if they’d bought some of the frozen meat.” Cockerill gave a crooked smile as he went on: “The refrigerated vehicle was found in the grounds of a big industrial estate near Coventry. It’s also near a very big warehouse owned by Quickturn Supermarkets. It was empty. The meat had been unloaded into small vans – I can give you chapter and verse, Commander, they did a bloody good job up there, and these small vans carried the stuff round.”

  “As Jackie Baker carried the fish,” Gideon said softly.

  “Right on the nose, sir. We traced five vans; there might be ten or twelve in all but we traced just five. Each one sold its entire stock to one of the wholesalers who bought the Covent Garden produce.”

  “Good,” Gideon said, showing both satisfaction and enthusiasm. “Bought?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Cash?”

  “Some cash, some on accounts,” answered Cockerill. �
�As with the fruit and veg there’s no way of being absolutely sure the buyers knew the meat was stolen, but it looks likely. Wouldn’t you think so?”

  “Probably, when I’ve seen the general evidence,” Gideon admitted. “What did you do?”

  Cockerill said: “Nothing, sir.”

  “Question the buyers at these wholesale places?”

  “No, sir,” answered Cockerill. “By the time I was sure the meat had gone to the same places, I began to smell something very big, and I thought I’d better do some thinking. And conferring, Commander! I didn’t want to catch a few sprats and scare off a whole shoal of mackerel.”

  “You couldn’t be more right,” agreed Gideon. “Yet—”

  “They tried to get me.”

  “They actually did get you,” Gideon reminded him. “Do you know how you warned them?”

  “No, I’m damned if I do,” replied Cockerill thoughtfully. “I would have said that we kept away from trouble, always had a phoney reason for asking the questions. If you ask me—” He broke off, frowning. When he didn’t continue, Gideon said: “I am asking you.”

  “I was afraid you would,” said Cockerill, pulling down the uninjured corner of his mouth. “If you ask me, sir, they have a first-class warning system. Antennae all over the place, as it were. Spies everywhere. The harder I look at this the bigger it seems to get, and if you ask me, I boobed.”

  Gideon asked, quietly: “How? What more could you have done?”

  “How much less should I have done?” asked Cockerill. “I think that’s the question. If it is a really big operation then the people who are running it might decide to close it down for a while. A few weeks, even a month or two. If I hadn’t gone back about the meat I doubt if they would have got so worried. But I did.”