by John Creasey
He read on.
He began to whistle, beneath his breath.
A carefully prepared sketch of the spot where the body had been found was attached to the report; and it showed a line where the girl’s body had been dragged, after death, away from the footpath and behind some bushes. Remove the name, remove the evidence of battered Tick Carter, and forget the disappearance of Harold Millsom, and the two cases could be almost identical. The one Roger was reading about, the murder of a girl named Hilda Shaw, had been at Tottenham, a very similar London district to Telham.
The door opened and Turnbull breezed in.
“I’ve done the report,” he said. “Like to read it, or shall I turn it in?”
“I’ll look through it,” Roger said.
“Thanks, sir.” Turnbull almost sneered. “Put me right if I’ve gone wrong. There’s a call from Chelsea, they think they’ve seen Millsom. Okay for me to go and see?”
Roger hesitated, then said, “Yes.”
“Oke,” said Turnbull, and went out. The door closed with a snap.
Roger read the report. It was good; in fact, it was almost brilliant. Turnbull had an easy prose style, which wasn’t exactly an accomplishment of many Yard men, he didn’t waste words, and he was clever; not far from ginning. Nothing here suggested that he took Millsom’s guilt for granted; in fact, he had gone out of his way to recommend that MK Division be asked to speed up inquiries about Betty Gelibrand’s other boy friends. “An attractive girl of the type is likely to have many,” he had added – his one written mistake, the only time when he had talked down to whoever would read and study the report.
Turnbull had signed it, heavily, in ink.
Smiling faintly, Roger wrote, ‘Read and approved’ and initialled it.
There was Chatworth to see, and developments in a dozen other cases to look at. He was working at too high a pressure; he always was. He ought to be able to leave the Telham job to Turnbull and MK Division, but was teased by the murder of the Tottenham girl. She’d been dragged away by her feet, too, and—
Roger snatched up the report again; a factual and thorough one. What about the stockings? Ah – identical, too: “Slight damage to the nylon stockings worn by the deceased.”
He rang Records.
“Get me everything you can on the murder of Hilda Shaw, at Tottenham, six weeks ago.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Hold it until I come,” Roger said, “don’t send it along.” He almost surprised himself by saying that, and realised that it was to make sure that Turnbull didn’t find out how his mind was working. He wanted to keep something up his sleeve.
Then Chatworth sent for him – big, burly, grizzle-haired Chatworth, the country farmer in the wrong place, the place being an office of ultra-modern design, black class and chromium furniture. Chatworth just wanted to be brought up to date. He grumbled, rumbled, and smoked a small cheroot.
“Seems all right, then,” he said. “No word from Turnbull about this man Millsom yet?”
“Not yet.”
“About Turnbull,” Chatworth said. “Is he as good as some people say?”
Roger was ready for that. “He gives me the impression of being very efficient, sir. I don’t think you’ll find anything wrong with his report.”
“Oh,” said Chatworth, and rumbled again, and looked thoughtful. “All right, I’ll go through it.”
Roger went off.
It was nearly six o’clock. He’d had a heavy day, and wanted an evening at home. Why not take one? Janet, his wife, was going through one of her periodic spells of complaint against the Yard, and his having long hours and too much responsibility. An evening at home now would make all the difference to her. He scribbled notes, then reached for his hat – and the telephone bell rang.
He was alone.
He answered, “West speaking … Oh, yes, put him through … Yes, I’ll hold on.”
He fumbled for cigarettes with his left hand as he held the receiver to his ear. This was Turnbull, who’d persuaded someone to say that he wanted to speak to Chief Inspector West in person – Turnbull being very important and making sure he didn’t waste any of his precious time.
He spoke.
“That you, Handsome?” Damn his eyes. “Turnbull here, I think we’ve got him.”
“Millsom?”
“Yep. On the roof of a church, Brickley Street, Chelsea, near Cheyne Walk. Only trouble is, he’s got a gun.”
Roger said slowly, softly: “Are you sure it’s Millsom?”
“I’m going to be surprised if it isn’t,” said Turnbull. “Thought you ought to know what’s on. I’m going up after him.”
Roger snapped, “You stay down there. Have the place surrounded and wait for me.”
“But—” Turnbull almost howled.
“I said wait!” roared Roger, and banged down the receiver and rushed to the door.
Chapter Four
The Church
The church rose high above the tall houses near by. Its slender steeple overlooked the broad and gentle Thames, and three bridges and, not far off, the stark grandeur of the Battersea Power Station, which poured thick, dense, white smoke out of a vast chimney and sent it rolling over the roofs of the mean houses on the other side of the river.
Uniformed policemen were controlling a restive crowd. Quiet staff work had brought a black-and-yellow diversion notice, and a hot but placid constable stopped Roger with a sturdy arm raised.
“Sorry, sir, the road’s blocked.” He had the patient pedantry of London police at times of trial. “If you turn back, take the second on the right, then—”
“I’m West.”
“Eh? Who? Oh, Mr. West.” The barricade of an arm dropped like a railway signal. “Sorry, sir.”
Roger drove along the empty section of the street, watched by envious youths, a hundred or more men and women, and a few newspapermen. He could see the steeple and the metal scaffolding built about the church. He turned a corner, and there was a little group of Divisional police, a fire-fighting unit with the turntable already being extended, firemen in steel helmets – everyone who should be there except Turnbull.
A burly, benevolent-looking man came towards him as he pulled up behind the fire engine. This was the Superintendent of the Division.
“Hallo, Handsome, you didn’t lose much time.”
“’Lo, Teddy. Where’s my D.I.?”
“Turnbull?”
“Yes.”
The Divisional man grimaced.
“Inside. Up on the roof, I shouldn’t wonder. There was no holding him.”
So Turnbull had defied a specific order. There were moments to be patient, times to be tolerant, but sooner or later with Turnbull, a time to be drastic. This was it. Roger didn’t say so to the Divisional man, but nodded, and went towards the open doors of the church. The other walked with him, talking, explaining. There was a way to the roof from the inside as well as from the outside – the steeple was rickety from delayed-action bomb damage, and was now being repaired. The fabric of the church was all right, apart from that and a few holes in the roof. Millsom appeared to have gone there for sanctuary. A passing police constable had seen and recognised him and raised the alarm. There had been one shot, so far – a warning shot fired at the constable inside the church.
“Inside?” Roger asked.
Here, it was gloomy. The side windows were of plain glass, but one coloured window beyond the altar was radiant with a glowing beauty, the greater because the evening sun shone upon it, turning to gold a halo upon the picture of Christ.
“Yes,” the Divisional man said. “Bullet hit the vestry door. Our chap came in by the vestry. Millsom was climbing up to the roof, then.”
They craned their necks.
There were g
reat oak rafters in the roof; more scaffolding; and several places where green canvas awnings gave temporary protection against the weather. The grey stone of the walls made its own peculiar suggestion of massive strength.
Two policemen, helmets off, stood near the chancel steps.
“Not much chance that he’ll come back this way,” the Divisional man said in a hushed voice. “But I thought we’d better be sure.”
“Yes. When did Turnbull come in?”
“Just after ’phoning you.”
There was no sign of Turnbull. The two policemen, their voices muted, said that they had seen him disappear behind the altar – it was from there that one could get to the roof from the inside.
“Now that Millsom’s outside, this is the safest way up, I suppose,” said the Divisional man.
“Yes,” agreed Roger. No one else moved, there was no sound but their breathing. He called, “Turnbull.” He didn’t shout, but his voice was loud, and the sound echoed about the cool, quiet building. “Turnbull!”
A man appeared from the vestry.
It may have been a trick of the light, but for a moment he did not look like a man of the flesh, rather one apart from this world. That was partly because of his pale face, partly because of his expression; one of strange serenity – a kind of serenity which looked as if it would not last long, being imposed upon him rather than springing from great inner strength.
He was dressed in clerical grey, and wore a clerical collar.
Roger thought, “Where have I seen him before?”
The clergyman came forward.
“I know you must make some noise,” he said quietly, “I’m not used to shouting in here.”
“No,” Roger said. “Sorry. Did you see Millsom?”
The man’s eyes closed for a moment; as if he were hurt, or as if light dazzled him. Then he looked Roger full in the eyes.
“No,” he said.
Something in his manner made Roger doubtful, but he didn’t ponder over that.
“Pity,” he said. “Have you seen anyone else?”
“I’ve seen several policemen, including the man who went up to the roof.”
“So he’s up there, is he?” Roger said grimly.
He touched the gun in his pocket. He didn’t like carrying a gun, but when a wanted man was known to be armed, it was folly not to be. He didn’t like the idea of a gun fight in or on top of a church, but there was the mark of a bullet on the dark, age-worn oak of the vestry door.
“I’ll go up after him,” Roger said to the Divisional man. “We won’t be any more of a nuisance than we can help, sir.”
He nodded to the clergyman, and turned away, wondering why the man had raised his doubts with that emphatic “no,” wondering now if a parson could have lied when standing so close to the altar steps and the communion rail. Then Roger forgot the parson, the Divisional man, everyone else. He started to climb up the scaffolding. It was easy to see where Turnbull had gone. You had to concede the man courage; he wasn’t armed, but knew that Millsom was.
Roger climbed higher and higher.
Looking down, the nave, the pews, the glistening brass eagle at the lectern, the carved choir stalls, the altar and the lovely flowers on it, all looked small; miniature; so did the policemen and the parson.
“I’ve seen him before,” Roger thought again; and then stared up.
Light came through a hole in the roof, where the canvas covered it. He pushed the canvas aside. It was easy to climb out from here, and the bright light of the sunlit evening hurt his eyes.
Not far along was the base of the steeple, about it a forest of steel scaffolding. There was no sign of Millsom or Turnbull, but Roger couldn’t see far because of a little wooden hut, perched on the scaffolding like a giant crow’s nest. Between this and Roger was a wide gap in the scaffolding, bridged by two narrow planks of wood.
To the right and the left were the grey roofs of houses; ahead, the broad strip of the Thames burnished by the sun. There was also the power station pouring out its mass of smoke.
“Turnbull!” Roger called.
There was no answer.
“Turnbull!”
There came a creaking sound; then Turnbull’s head appeared at the open doorway of the little hut. The sun made his hair look as if it were made of copper. His eyes glistened, he looked viciously angry.
“Why the hell can’t you keep quiet? He—” Turnbull broke off abruptly, obviously hadn’t realised that the caller was Roger. There was a moment’s pause; then, “Sorry.” His voice was just a whisper. “Think I’ve cornered him.”
This wasn’t the time to tell Turnbull where to get off.
“Where?”
“Other side of this tool shed,” said Turnbull, still whispering. “I’m trying to prise some boards out, to get at him. I’m afraid he’ll jump off if we’re not careful. Rather see him hanged than break his neck the other way! Leave this to me, will you?”
“No. I’m coming across.”
“Listen,” Turnbull protested, “I’m here, I can manage. It’s dangerous and—”
“Stand by,” Roger said.
Turnbull looked at him angrily, but didn’t protest again. It was dangerous all right; just the two planks across a ten-foot gap and a drop to sun-baked ground and gravestones covered with lichen, softly green. A drop to death. Millsom lurked somewhere behind Turnbull and the shed, and Roger wanted Millsom alive, wasn’t sure that Turnbull was the right one to get him. Turnbull wouldn’t reason with the wanted man.
Roger stepped on to the planks.
He stretched his arms out on either side, to keep his balance. It was only ten feet away, but looked much farther. Turnbull was glaring, but stretching out a hand to give support the moment Roger was on the other side. There was really nothing to it.
He was halfway over. Then, Cra-ack, came the shot.
Roger heard it, thought he saw a tiny flash, felt a biting pain at his leg. He staggered. His heart made one convulsive leap, as if it had turned right over. The grass, the gravestones, the headstones, the men, the guttering and the granite sides of the church were all below him, he was falling towards them, he hadn’t a chance.
He grabbed at a piece of steel scaffolding, and clutched it. As it stopped him, his arms seemed wrenched out of their sockets. He groaned, then hung full length, a hundred and fifty feet from the ground, with pain tearing at his shoulders.
He couldn’t hold on for long, his right hand was already slipping. He felt it going. His only chance of getting firm hold with both hands was to lift his right and grab again.
He took the chance.
He grabbed and missed.
The pain at his left shoulder became far greater. He couldn’t get his foot against the wall or against any piece of scaffolding. He was quite sure that he was going to fall, and that in falling he would smash himself to death. He could think quite calmly of Janet and his two sons; as if they were physically near him. He could imagine his wife’s voice vividly. That was all – except for the increasing pain at his shoulder because all of his fourteen stones were on it; and a gradual movement of the palm of his hand and his fingers as they slid round the piece of rounded steel.
He couldn’t hold on for more than two or three minutes, and there was no chance of help from below. Just death, waiting to catch him.
“West” called Turnbull, in a piercing voice.
Roger moved his head, slowly, cautiously; he dared not do anything in a hurry.
“Listen,” Turnbull called. He was above Roger, kneeling by the little hut. “Listen, I’m coming. Hold on, I’m coming.”
He’d kill himself.
“No! Don’t—”
“Just hold on, you bloody fool!”
Millsom, who could see them although he wasn’t
in sight, would probably shoot again.
“Go back!”
“Hold on,” Turnbull called.
He was edging towards the piece of scaffolding, along the planks. He dared not move too quickly for fear of losing his balance. Now he was on one knee, kneeling on the planks across which Roger had walked. If Millsom fired, Turnbull would make the easiest target anyone could wish for.
Roger’s hand was slipping; slowly, remorselessly.
“Hold on, West”
“You’ll fall, go back.”
“Come on,” Turnbull said. “Lend a hand.”
He lowered himself with painful slowness, until he lay full length on his stomach, his body overlapping the boards on either side. His long right arm stretched downward, the hand crooked, to grip. He didn’t need to speak; he wanted Roger to raise his right hand, so that they could grip each other, and then he might be able to support Roger long enough for the fire turntable to come, or for help with ropes.
On the other hand, he might overbalance.
Or Millsom might shoot him.
“Come—on,” Turnbull breathed, hoarsely.
Roger raised his right arm. It wasn’t easy because the movement of his body thrust greater weight on his left shoulder, the pain tore at him. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, but managed to raise his right hand. He felt the touch of Turnbull’s fingers – hard and firm. Then he felt the grip of the other man’s hand, and some of the weight was eased from his shoulder.
“Now we won’t be long,” Turnbull said. “Take it easy.”
His left arm was underneath the boards, holding on, and his grip was powerful and steady. But Roger could see the sweat beading his forehead and gathering in his eyes. There were other things to make him think, too. Voices below, noises as if an engine were starting up, men shouting as if calling orders.
The firemen were bringing an escape ladder. Roger had a distorted view of them crossing the churchyard at the double.
Where was Millsom? Why had he fired before if he wasn’t going to fire again? Why—
Somewhere near by but not just below, a man or woman screamed.