by John Creasey
But now she felt sorry for him; and there was more than that. There was a devil in him which she recognised, having one of her own. His looks, his talk, his touch, all told her how much he wanted her but—he was too tired! If she took him up to her apartment she believed he would drop onto the bed and fall asleep. When he woke in the morning he would feel humiliated, of course, but—well, it would be his responsibility, not hers.
Should she take the risk?
He yawned again, and the car swerved. He straightened it out quickly enough, startled and a little scared. He had nearly fallen asleep at the wheel!
“Take the first right and the second left to Mount Square,” she instructed. “You’ll be able to park there, and it’s only a step from my place.”
He parked with great care in the small square. She took his arm and half-pushed, half-led him to the house where she had her flat; twice he actually stumbled on the stairs. Once inside he stood and looked about him, stupidly. She led him to the bedroom, and he dropped onto the bed, yawning widely.
She pointed to the bathroom, then went on to the big living-room where she had a day bed on which she proposed to sleep. She waited for ten minutes or so and then peeped into the bedroom. He lay, inert, shoes on, tie on, fully dressed. He did not notice her unlace his shoes and pull them off, or unfasten his tie. It was while doing this that she noticed something strange about his hair; a moment later it dawned on her that he wore a wig.
She locked him in before she went to bed.
He puzzled her, but she was also intrigued.
14
MEAT MARKET
NEXT morning, the newspapers chose the murder of Kelworthy and the capture of Moreno as their main theme. All three of the men who had met in Kilfoil’s flat searched for and found mention of the murder at the warehouse and the poisoned food, but neither was given much space. The Globe ran a main inside feature on prison escapes, finishing with the latest one and the fact that Arthur Dalby was still at large.
In the Stop Press of three newspapers was a single sentence, which read:
Mrs. Robert Russell who was yesterday attacked by Moreno, currently charged with the murder of Dr. Kelworthy, gave birth to a baby girl in South West London Hospital last night.
Kate read this out to Gideon when, for once, the newspapers arrived before he left for the office. Detective Sergeant Shea, still glowing from the message from the Commander, read it with deep satisfaction. The two long-haired youths who had done as much as anybody to save the woman, read it with a kind of embarrassed satisfaction.
Police Constable Howard read it, also.
That was when he was having his breakfast in the front room of a small guest house not far from the local police headquarters. Then he saw a Jaguar pass, fairly new and wine red, not like the battered black one he had seen yesterday evening, but the combination of events reminded him of the way the driver had thrown back his head and laughed. Why should such a simple thing affect him so? He told himself there was a vague familiarity about the driver’s face but he could not place the man who was etched so vividly on his mind’s eye.
Within ten minutes of going on duty he was within sight of an accident in which a youth at the wheel of a battered-looking Volkswagen crashed into a Ford, crumpling the driving door, and seriously injuring the driver. PC Howard gave no more thought to the man who had laughed. Here was a serious job to do; an ambulance to summon, traffic to control, a hysterical passenger to calm, people to hold back from a determined endeavour to look at the driver of the Ford, who was bleeding freely.
What made people such ghouls?
Gideon talked with half-a-dozen superintendents at briefing sessions that morning, including Firmani, who had a fully detailed report on his previous day’s work. No one had yet discovered where the incendiary material had come from; no one appeared to have seen the start of the fire.
“Most of it’s routine, now,” he remarked.
“Yes,” Gideon admitted, “but finding all the other van salesmen who call on restaurants isn’t, and I don’t want any of them alarmed.”
“Discretion is my middle name,” Firmani assured him, and went bounding out of the office.
Merriman, summoned for the first time to the Commander’s office, showed the gradual accumulation of facts and figures, and a total of theft value that startled Gid”Over eleven million pounds-worth! Is that figure reliable, Inspector?”
“That’s just for London,” Merriman assured him gloomily. No man could have been more inappropriately named. “It will be double or treble throughout the country, sir.”
“Are you getting the other figures in?”
“Yes, sir,” Merriman said stolidly. “I’ll have a report ready as soon as possible.”
When he had gone, Gideon studied the copy of the report again, frowned, and then called the Confederation of British Industries. Could they help him to find some facts and sales figures of foodstuffs in London – at the major markets, for instance, as well as in the main shopping areas, central suburban and provincial?
“I am sure you will find that the Association of Master Food Suppliers will be able to help you more than I,” the secretary of the CBI replied. “If I were you, sir, I would ask for Sir Bernard Dalyrymple.”
“The head of Serveright Stores?” asked Gideon.
“That’s the man, Commander. He is this year’s president of MFS, and spends a great deal of time at their offices. If he’s not there, they’ll tell you where to find him.”
Sir Bernard Dalyrymple was at the offices of the Association of Master Food Suppliers, in the Strand. He was gentle-voiced and forthright in manner.
“I hope you will soon be able to tell me why you need these figures, Mr. Gideon, but meanwhile—yes, I am sure I can get some by mid-afternoon. Will that be in time?”
“Splendid,” Gideon answered appreciatively.
“May I ask now why you’re interested, Commander?”
“We’ve had so many thefts lately I’d like to get a proportion of goods stolen as against general turnover,” Gideon told him. “It may prove to be very illuminating, or it may be so negligible as not to matter.”
“I don’t think you’ll find it negligible,” the other man said. “There’s one very interesting thing which I’m sure has struck you, Commander. I don’t know whether we would have thought much about it if one of your men – Mr. Cockerill, would it be?”
“Probably.”
“Well, someone with a name rather like that raised the question and we prepared some tentative figures. The point is that although food may be stolen it’s nearly always sold. It isn’t a loss in actual food, it’s simply a loss to the producers or distributors from whom it’s stolen. I would say it is a very substantial proportion,” Dalyrymple went on.
“Such as?” Gideon asked.
“Four or five per cent.”
“My God!” exclaimed Gideon. “That’s a lot of money!”
“It is indeed,” the President said, “and whichever of my hats I am wearing I am keenly alive to it. Er—I don’t know whether it would interest you, my deputy has an appointment at Smithfield this afternoon at three o’clock. The market won’t be very busy at that time, but one of the Chief Security Officers and the Public Relations Officer are going to prepare some figures for me. I’d rather thought Mr. Cockerill would be there.”
“He’s off sick,” Gideon explained. “But I would very much like to be.”
“Three o’clock then, at the main entrance,” the other said.
Gideon rang off, but was soon talking to the secretary of another group, the Food Retailers Association, who said in a worried voice: “There’s so much savage price-cutting a fantastic number of our smaller members are being forced out of business. Some of the smaller chains are feeling the pinch, too. There isn’t much doubt what’s causing it,”
he added bitterly. “The big boys mean to squeeze and squeeze until there’s no room at all for anyone else. But I’ll gladly send you details of bankruptcies and losses, Commander.”
When Gideon rang off, he held the instrument under his hand for much longer than usual.
Janice Westerman was wakened by the telephone bell. It appeared to be muffled. She could not understand it, until she turned over in bed to look at the instrument and saw a hand covering it.
It was her “guest’s” hand, and he was standing by the side of her bed staring down at her. He was wearing an old towelling dressing-gown which she had had for years; it was short enough to show his legs, bare and hairless. His wig was on straight again.
She remembered with a pang of fear that she had locked his door last night.
“Move over,” he said.
She began to rise on one elbow. She wore a shift type nightdress which draped loosely over her full bosom; it had no sleeves, and was cut in a shallow curve at the neck.
“How did you get out?”
“No one locks me in, sweetie,” he stated. There was a peculiar smile on his thin lips, which had a frightening effect on her. “No one, ever, anywhere, locks me in. You’d better get that straight.”
“I must go—” she began.
“You aren’t going anywhere,” he said in a taut voice. “Move over.” When she stayed on her elbow, her heart palpitating, he lurched forward with devastating suddenness. With one hand he gripped and then ripped the neck of the nightdress, with the other he thrust her across the bed. She had never known such violence, seldom violence at all, and her fears were near screaming pitch. He ripped the nightdress down to the bottom hem, and then flung the dressing-gown off himself.
“Now,” he said, close beside her, “you do what I say. Just what I say. That way you aren’t going to get hurt.”
She was trembling from head to foot, but there was enough detachment in her to realise that it would be better not to struggle.
She was fairly experienced in a rather shoddy way, but this man’s excesses amazed her.
She thought: He’s been starved of sex for years—
“Now, beautiful,” he said, between gasps, “you and me can get along all right if you just remember who’s master here. Just do what you’re told, see – and you’ll find it works out the same every time: you’ll find yourself joining in!” He gave her a squeeze which almost drove the breath out of her body, and then went on: “Now I’ll have a cuppa, and breakfast in bed.” Quite suddenly his whole body seemed convulsed with laughter. “I haven’t had breakfast in bed for a long time, sugar plum. Make it extra-special!”
Gideon stepped out of his car a few minutes before three o’clock that afternoon, and looked about him. Standing by another car was Greerson of the City of London Police, for Smithfield was also within the City boundaries. They shook hands as a third car drew up and an extremely tall man in a clerical grey suit and a bowler hat got out of the back seat; he seemed almost to unfold himself, and when at his full height was at least four inches taller than Gideon, who seldom had to look up at any man.
“Commander?” It was the pleasant voice of the deputy president of the Association of Master Food Distributors. “I am Reginald Appleby.” There was a little flurry of introductions and handshakes.
“I’ve brought Miss Pearson because she has all the facts and figures at her fingertips which is a lot more than I have. You don’t mind a photographer, do you?” Another man was hovering in the background, a man with a big head and a thin neck, manipulating a huge camera into position.
“I don’t mind what photographs are taken,” Gideon said, “but they mustn’t be used until we give the OK.”
“My word on it,” said the deputy president. “Now, where would you like to begin?”
“If you were going to steal a refrigerated lorry load of meat, how would you begin?” asked Gideon. “I’d like to see how the deliveries arrive, where they’re kept, how they’re loaded.”
Gideon felt chilled from the refrigeration. Surprised at the hugeness of the stocks, he wondered what this place would be like early in the morning, when the market was at its busiest.
“That’s the time when big lorries could come in and be loaded up with meat and taken off without much trouble,” the deputy president said, “but if you ask me, Commander, a lot more is likely to go from the docks, when the ships come in and are unloaded from New Zealand and the Argentine.”
“And Australia,” piped up Miss Pearson.
“And Australia, of course. A driver and his mate could get away with a lot that way, once the unloading started. Often have ten or twenty at the quayside, don’t they, Miss Pearson?”
“From New Zealand, the Argentine and Australia,” she declared. “And some from Europe, particularly pork from Denmark, but some comes in from Poland and Czechoslovakia and West Germany, and France,” she added. “And only a proportion of it comes here these days, Commander. More here than any one place, of course, but there is a great deal that goes direct from the docks to provincial markets. Some of the big chain stores have two or three lorry loads at a time which start off from the docks and call at their biggest stores to make deliveries.” She was a small, grey-haired woman, with an over-exposed, projecting forehead. She wore ugly, unbecoming clothes, but to Gideon she stood out amongst these people, not simply as a personality, but because her heart was so obviously in her job. She added crisply: “There’s a ship from New Zealand just beginning to unload. We’ll be getting part of a load here tonight but the provincial deliveries will start almost at once. I happen to know that the ship’s been cleared,” she added, with a positive little nod. “And I can easily arrange it.”
Gideon thought: Why not let her, while she’s in the mood? And if she arranges it, there won’t be so much fuss as if we arrange it ourselves.
But there was protocol: first, a word by telephone with the Divisional Headquarters to say he would be there. Next, a word with the Port of London Authority Police, to make sure no toes were trodden on, because officially they were the autonomous security authority within the docks; next again, a word with the particular branch of customs which cleared cargoes and ships before they could be unloaded.
No: he mustn’t go. His presence would attract more attention than he wanted.
“I wish I could,” he said regretfully. “Another time I hope. Taken by and large you think that the big containers and big deliveries could more easily be stolen or side-tracked from the docks than from here?”
“Far more easily,” she said, with a sharp glance at the deputy president. “I’ve always said our security could be tighter.”
“But once you make the security too tight you look as if you suspect the porters of theft and get trouble that way,” said the deputy president ruefully. “It’s a difficult world, Commander. Every job has its own problems. But that’s an internal one.”
“It’s not simply internal if it involves the theft of food,” Gideon said, and for the first time Miss Pearson smiled. He wondered what she would look like without her spectacles. Certainly he had said what she had wanted him to say; as certainly he was greatly in her favour when she dispensed tea and cream cakes before the party left.
15
CHANCE
“MERRIMAN,” Gideon said next morning, when the big and stolid Detective Inspector was in his office, “have you taken into account the amount of direct theft from the docks, before the goods reach the markets?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” answered Merriman. “It’s a pretty big proportion, but I haven’t got the exact figures yet.”
“Substantial?”
“Very, sir.”
Gideon nodded. “Have you heard how Mr. Cockerill is this morning?”
“Yes, sir. He telephoned some instructions.”
“Oh, did he,” said Gideon, stifli
ng a laugh. “Well if you don’t get on with them you’ll be in trouble when he gets back.”
“No fear of that, sir,” the big man assured him; there did not seem to be a spark of humour in his make up. “I’ll get it done.”
Another man might have explained what he had been told to do, but Merriman stood silent, responding only to direct questions. And another man than Gideon might have asked those questions, but Gideon sensed this man’s pride in his job, sensed too that he would be a stickler for rules and regulations: he should report to Cockerill, Cockerill should report to him, Gideon.
“All right, thanks,” Gideon said. As soon as the door had closed on the man he rang for Tiger, who did not come in at once; did not come, in fact, until Gideon’s fingers hovered over the bell-push again; but then the door opened quickly and Tiger arrived with a rush.
“Sorry, sir. I was caught on the telephone.”
“That’s all right,” Gideon said. “How well do you know Inspector Merriman?”
“Fairly well, sir. He’s very thorough.”
“Yes. Check with him at least twice a day to find out if he’s got anything new to report or any final figures.” He did not add that he thought Merriman might hold back interim reports until Cockerill came back, Cockerill almost certainly knew how to handle him. “Anything very exciting in this morning?”
“Well—one thing could be, sir,” said Tiger. “It’s a report. . .”
Police Constable Howard was worried.
It was not often that a single mind-picture stayed with him as long as the picture of that driver of a battered Jaguar with his head thrown back and his hands momentarily off the wheel, but it was as vivid this morning as ever it could be. He was at the Divisional Headquarters, making out a report on the accident between the Volkswagen and the Ford. That case was going to give him a lot of trouble, he knew, because the Ford driver had died, and all kinds of development might follow. Certainly there would have to be a check on careless driving; so they would need witnesses for that, and witnesses had a habit of vanishing into thin air. Then there would be the Coroner’s inquest, a special report was needed for the Coroner. And the insurance people were already asking questions, and if the dead man had been heavily insured then the insurance people would check everything, especially possible negligence on the part of the dead driver, so as to cut down the size of any award for damages.