by John Creasey
This case, PC Howard knew, might go on for years before it was settled.
He put the report aside, about eleven o’clock, and went to the canteen for a cup of coffee; he was allowed a break of twenty minutes. For some reason the canteen was crowded this morning and he sat down at a table at which three other policemen, one a sergeant, were sitting. The sergeant, senior in age, as well as in rank, was listening to a boyish-looking constable, who was saying: “I only just wondered, sergeant. I know London’s the last place I’d come to if I wanted to hide.”
“Maybe it is but a lot of people think they can lose themselves better in a crowd,” replied the sergeant. “And whether you like it or not you’ve got to find a way of picking out a familiar face—”
“Don’t you mean a face that ought to be familiar?” demanded the second police constable.
The sergeant put his head on one side and looked as if he were going to deliver a blockbuster to the young chap who had both interrupted and corrected him. Instead, he nodded slowly and admitted:
“Yes, that’s what I do mean. How many of you would really pick Arthur Dalby out of a crowd,” he went on, and before any of the others could reply he continued: “if he wore a wig, for instance, or a beard; or if he changed his colouring, or put false heels in his shoes or padded his clothes.” Now the others were silent. “You’ve got to know everything about a man and learn it off by heart, and don’t tell me you can’t – if you can’t you’ll be a copper all your life, you want to see the way the CID works. You’ve got to study the man. For instance, there’s a piece in the special sheet sent round with the Police Gazette this morning. Have you all read it?”
One of the men said: “I looked through it. Description of Arthur Dalby, isn’t it?”
“Isn’t it,” jeered the sergeant. “You ought to know.”
“Well, the others haven’t even read it yet,” the man protested.
“Well, you make sure you read it and study it and commit it to memory. Dalby’s got a smaller left little finger than usual, that’s one thing I didn’t know. And when he grips the wheel of a car, he spreads his fingers out, that’s another. And he’s got a laugh like a hyena, when he laughs he—”
“My God,” breathed Howard. “It was Dalby!”
The words came out with such a blast that they silenced the others absolutely; and then he stretched across and without a by-your-leave took the sheet from the sergeant’s place and stared at the profile picture of the escaped murderer. He drew in a long hissing breath, and went on as the sergeant began to speak.
“It was him. He wore a wig; and that fooled me. Changed his profile, but—he spread his fingers over the wheel and he laughed like a maniac. He was in an old Jaguar, just off Islington High Street. He . . .”
Gideon waited for a call to come through, drumming his fingers on the desk and looking at a menacing grey cloud which hung low over the river. Before him was one of the special sheets which sometimes went out about wanted men, and this was a particularly good one. The details of Dalby’s mannerisms were fascinating in themselves. He turned the sheet over to see if the author of the piece was named, but there were not even initials. He called Tiger on the inter-office machine.
“Tiger, find out who did this special insertion for the PG will you?”
“Yes, sir. Good isn’t it?”
“Very.” Gideon heard the first warning ring of the operator’s telephone and rang off. It was remarkable how one could go along with a method or a situation and think it first-class and then stumble upon an improvement. He lifted the other telephone as it began to ring full blast.
“Sharples? Hallo, Mike.” Sharples was only a few years younger than he, and soon due for retirement. “Gideon . . . This report about Arthur Dalby being seen. How reliable is the chap who put in the report?”
“I would say absolutely reliable,” answered Sharples, speaking with a noticeable north country accent. “I’ve had him in my office and questioned him for half-an-hour without shaking his story. Apparently he noticed the laugh first, and he saw the man with his fingers spread wide and off the wheel for a moment. Thought of checking that he was sober, then decided he was all right and out to impress his girl friend.”
“Ah. First I’ve heard of a girl friend. “
“I don’t mind admitting it worries me,” Sharples said. “He has a reputation for stringing them along for a few days and then doing unspeakable things. He—”
“I know his reputation.”
“Sorry, Commander. My chap Howard said the driver straightened up at once and was driving well enough, so he didn’t follow. But he did get the car registration number.”
“Good!”
“It was a 1958 or 1959 black Jaguar, right wing crumpled and looking the worse for wear. Licence number 8512 BD. I’ve checked,” went on Sharples, “and that’s a licence number issued in 1959 by the Northamptonshire County Council, but the records show that it’s changed hands seven or eight times at least. And it may have changed again without the licensing authority being informed.”
“Have you put a call out for it?”
“Thought I’d check with you first,” replied Sharples. “I’ve only had the full details for ten minutes or so.”
“I’ll tell Information to expect details from you,” Gideon said. “Which way was the car heading?”
“On a one way stretch of road towards the West End.” ‘
“Hmm,” Gideon paused for a few moments and then went on: “Well, first we want the car, then we want anyone who’s seen the car. Then we want a description of the girl.”
“Howard’s done pretty well on that,” Sharples said. “About twenty, long hair, very short hot pants-type jeans, scarf, blouse. The kind who ask for it. Howard says that on reflection he thinks they had an appointment. I’ll add her description in the general call.”
“Yes. And once we find that car we want a house-to-house search.”
“Only hope we find it,” said Sharples, in a tone which made it clear that he rather thought they wouldn’t. “He could be anywhere by now—and could have dumped the car, too.”
“Yes. What else are you doing?” asked Gideon.
“There are several shops, a news-stand and a café near the spot where he picked the girl up. I’m going to send Howard out with a plainclothes man to find out if anyone noticed anything.” Before Gideon could comment Sharples went on: “What about issuing descriptions to the Press, TV and radio?”
“Yes, widespread,” answered Gideon. “Get our Identikit people to draw full face and profile of Dalby as he would look in the kind of wig he was wearing. Better have Howard have a talk to them, they might get a good idea of what the girl looked like, too. Put Dalby on the screens and in the newspapers with and without wig.”
“Right,” ejaculated Sharples.
Gideon rang off, not displeased, but troubled. One of Sharples’ sentences hovered in his mind: “The kind who ask for it.” There wasn’t a girl in the world who “asked for” the kind of treatment which Arthur Dalby was likely to mete out. At the time of his arrest and during the enquiries which had followed, he had been revealed as a sadistic pervert who seemed to get the greatest satisfaction from behaving, early in an intimate sexual association, with extra-normal virility, until suddenly something seemed to crack in his brain.
For PC William Howard it was a day of days. First, the obvious astonishment of the sergeant at coffee break; then the equally obvious approval of a man he knew only as an aloof and distant figure, the superintendent; soon a visit to the Identikit and Photography departments and Scotland Yard, where about twenty wigs had already been brought in on loan from a nearby hairdresser. Unhesitatingly he had pointed to one of the wigs, identical to that worn by the man in the car. With a few deft strokes an artist added it to the photographs of Dalby, and Howard could not conceal his excite
ment.
“I’m more sure than ever – that’s him all right!”
He was less happy about the attempt to get a good likeness of the girl; but one could not be a hundred per cent sure on everything.
To cap the day he went with two detective officers of the CID branch to question shopkeepers and the newsboys and passers-by at the spot where he had seen the laughing man.
At half past five that afternoon, the first report came in. The battered Jaguar with the registration number 8512 BD had been found in Mount Square, near Russell Square, in Bloomsbury. Heavy rain and leaves had half-covered the car, lessening the chance of it being found hours earlier.
At ten past nine that evening in front of his coloured television set in the comfort of the living-room in his Wimbledon house, Janice Westerman’s father sat alone watching the news. This had become a ritual since his wife had left him, two years before, for a man fifteen years younger than he. At heart, he was lonely, despite his material success and despite being able to afford expensive “consolations” to ease the boredom of his new bachelorhood. He knew that he was really too old to be an understanding father to Janice. He had learned that criticism and. condemnation of her way of life did nothing to help their relationship, and for the past year they had come to a working agreement: if she were in need she would come to him, and he would not ask why, or for what purpose, she needed the money. She was never greedy, and, in a strange way, he had come to enjoy these brief visits.
He heard about the Jaguar, about Arthur Dalby, and the fact that he had a girl with him. Then an Identikit picture was thrown onto the screen, and he felt a stab of recognition. The newscaster was describing her.
“Full figure, slightly plump but not fat, wearing blue jeans cut short as hot pants and fitting very tightly, wearing a halter or scarf-type blouse of vari-coloured pastel shades . . .”
Janice Westerman’s father felt as if he had been turned to stone.
16
MONDAY, TUESDAY
GIDEON heard about the call to the Wimbledon police by Mr. Westerman in the middle of the Saturday morning, when he was cleaning the lawn mower. Kate, watching him from the kitchen window, saw him frown as the telephone bell rang. He was caught between frustration at being interrupted at a job he wished to finish, and relief that he could leave it with a clear conscience for a few minutes. There was an extension in the kitchen, and after a moment Kate called: “It’s Information, George.”
Why wasn’t it Tiger? Why did the Yard have weekends? Why didn’t the whole staff, civil as well as uniformed and plainclothes, work in shifts so that the Yard was fully manned seven days a week? These thoughts teased through his mind as he approached the back door. Step and floor were covered with an old builder’s canvas, a manoeuvre of Kate’s so that neither he nor the children trampled dirt into the kitchen. The telephone was the wall type, near the door which led to the passage alongside the stairs.
“Gideon,” he stated gruffly.
“Thought you should know, Commander, that the girl with Arthur Dalby has been identified. Her father saw her Identikit picture and heard her description, and called in last night. We’ve checked her fingerprints, left on a cigarette box and furniture when she was at home on Thursday, with fingerprints in the car, identical, sir.”
“Good. Did the father know she knew Dalby?”
“He says he doesn’t know who she knows, sir. She lives her life away from home, he lives his. He doesn’t even know her address.”
“Good lord!” exclaimed Gideon.
“But we’ve got some good photographs,” Information went on. “Should we use them in place of the Identikit picture?”
“Yes. Is that all?”
“Mr. Lemaitre was on the buzz – was calling for you, sir, and I told him you wouldn’t be in this morning unless something special turned up.”
“If he calls again, ask him to ring me here,” Gideon said. “Anything else, while I’m on?”
“Nothing really special, sir,” Information told him. “Two refrigerated provision lorries were hijacked outside a transport café last night, and one containing cigarettes was stolen from a wholesaler’s warehouse. The usual crop, sir – as I say, nothing out of the ordinary.”
“No,” said Gideon. “Thanks.”
He rang off, thinking “nothing out of the ordinary”. That is exactly what he would have said a week ago, but now anything to do with food thefts was very out of the ordinary indeed. He wished he had asked what the latest figures on the ptomaine poisoning were, and then reassured himself that Firmani would keep him advised of any serious development, Saturday or no Saturday. Kate was bending down in front of the oven, and already, whatever she was cooking smelled good. A casserole – no, the lid would keep the smell in. Certainly not a roast. Perhaps one of the old-fashioned dishes which he liked too much; hot pot. He watched her as she straightened up, wondering why some people had such natural grace while others looked so clumsy doing everyday things.
“Hot pot?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Bless you. I—”
The front door bell rang, making both of them start, because they had been so absorbed in each other for those few moments. Then Gideon glanced down at his gardening shoes and Kate said: “I’ll go.” He looked after her, listening. The note of pleased surprise in Kate’s voice could not be mistaken.
“Why, Lem! What a pleasant surprise!”
“It certainly is for me,” said Superintendent Lemaitre. “If I’d come at the worst possible time you’d still pretend I was welcome. Is George in?”
“He’s in the garden.”
Good idea, thought Gideon, and withdrew to the garden quickly. He was lifting the grass box when Kate called out: “George, it’s Lem.” A moment later Lemaitre appeared beside her, looking spick and span, even slightly pernickety, in a matching shirt and tie with coloured handkerchief.
“My!” breathed Gideon. “Sartorial splendour indeed. My hand’s a bit dirty, Lem.”
Lemaitre turned and winked at Kate.
“Cracks every crime problem in England, but doesn’t seem to have much success with his lawn mower, does he! ‘Morning, George! Want some help?”
“And spoil those spotless cuffs? Kate would never forgive me.”
“It’s not your wife who would have to forgive you but mine. She sends her how-de-dos, by the way. Nearly brought her but she’s got some charity thing on, bazaar or some such nonsense! Well, George, you’d never believe what I’ve done.”
“Lem,” Kate interrupted. “Will you have some coffee? Or is it time for something stronger?”
“Coffee’d be just the thing,” replied Lemaitre. He picked up a trowel and began to scrape the blades as if it were second nature. Gideon sat on a bench and watched, while Kate went into the kitchen. “I checked on the quayside deliveries of the old frozen carcasses, George. Do you know what I found?”
“What do you think you found?” asked Gideon warily.
“Good old George. Never believe a thing until it’s down in black and white and can be used in evidence!” He went on scraping the muck off the blades but looking occasionally at Gideon.
One thing was certain: Lemaitre would not have come right across London on a Saturday morning unless he was sure that it was a matter of extreme importance. He had a habit, his main weakness, of jumping to conclusions, but he seemed superbly confident this morning. True, he was obviously determined to impress Gideon, but if the information was significant Gideon was eager to be impressed. The only sounds were the scraping, the rattle of cups and saucers in the kitchen, and the trilling of the birds.
“All right, Lem,” Gideon said when he judged the moment right. “Let’s have it.”
“You might or you might not believe that whole lorry loads of the frozen mutton, lamb and beef, especially from New Zealand, leave
the docks but never reach their intended destination. Not one, not two, but half-a-dozen each shipment.” Lemaitre finished scraping, and wiped his hands against one another fastidiously. “It’s the same as the old trick of putting a railway wagon in a siding, and losing it long enough for it to be emptied by night. George, this is a very big job.”
Gideon stared at him, his eyes narrowed.
Kate’s voice drifted out from the kitchen. “Are you coming in for coffee?”
“Half a mo’, Katey,” Lemaitre called, and stared back at Gideon.
Gideon said gruffly: “How did it come to grow so big. How did we let it happen?”
“Easy,” Lemaitre stated.
“I don’t want any guesses, Lem.”
“No guesses. It isn’t from me, either, it’s straight from the horse’s mouth.” Seeing the storm gathering on Gideon’s forehead, he added quickly: “It’s from Edie Pearson, the Smithfield woman. She was over at the docks last night, and I got a call to go and looksee. That woman’s got an analytical mind, George, she—”
“How did it happen?”
“One or two key men at the docks, or at a market, signing for nine lorry loads going out when there were ten. General falsification of papers – a very clever mind behind it, Edie says. A dozen drivers in the know and say a dozen others – checkers, superintendents – and that’s all. That’s how the stuff goes, George. How it goes from other big food warehouses, too – the only commodity that doesn’t seem to suffer much is tea, and anything under bond. Question is – who buys it?”