by John Creasey
The scream went through Roger like an electric shock. He flinched, felt Turnbull react the same way, swayed – and then heard a different sound; a thud. Hanging there, it seemed as if he were hearing the sound of his own body hitting the ground.
The scream came again.
Chapter Five
The Father
Turnbull did not flinch at the second scream, but was very tense, rigid; and Roger waited almost fearfully for a third. It did not come; instead there was an outburst of sobbing, and gradually words themselves floated on the soft evening air.
“He’s dead, look, he’s dead.”
Men spoke; the voices quietened; it was as if a soothing murmur rose from the spot which was out of sight. Some men working to get the ladders into position made much more noise, yet it did not drown the other.
Soon the firemen came hurrying up, nimble, seeming careless to the novitiate. They talked quietly, expertly, deftly, telling Roger and Turnbull exactly what to do. It seemed a long time, but it wasn’t so long before Roger was safely on firm scaffolding.
Turnbull was arguing.
“Take him first,” he said to the firemen. “I’m all right. Just look at him, out on his feet, white as a sheet.”
They let him have his way.
Roger was slung over a man’s shoulder. He had to clench his teeth because his own shoulder hurt so much. His left leg did, too. Something wet and warm was running down it; when he put his foot on the ground, he seemed to be treading in a sticky pool.
“Steady,” a man said.
“Lay him down,” said another, authoritatively. “Let’s have a look at that leg.”
“Bleeding like a pig,” contributed a third.
They helped Roger to sit on the ground, and he couldn’t keep back a gasp when someone jolted his shoulder.
“What, more trouble?” said the man with the authoritative voice.
“I’m—all right. What—happened round there?”
“Don’t know and couldn’t care less,” said the fireman. “Easy, now—”
It wasn’t long before a doctor arrived; then an ambulance; and soon they put Roger on a stretcher, with the wound in his leg padded to stop the bleeding, and his shoulder thick with a temporary strapping. The pain came like waves of the sea, smashing at him ceaselessly; pain which nothing seemed to stop.
Turnbull looked aggressively healthy as he stood staring down at the stretcher.
“Bad luck, Handsome, but it’ll give you a couple of weeks’ sick leave.” He grinned, as if rejoicing. “I’ll tell your missus, don’t worry.”
“What happened—”
“Millsom threw himself over,” said Turnbull. “He’s just a nasty mess on the pavement. Couldn’t be helped, I suppose.”
He wouldn’t say that to others; he would say that Millsom would have been taken alive if Roger West hadn’t thrown his weight about. That was as nearly certain as anything could be.
“Oh,” Roger grunted. “My fault Er—”
“Oh, forget it!”
“Not so easy,” Roger said, and twisted his lips against another wave of pain. He felt the sweat running down his forehead in tiny beads. “Thanks for what—you—did—up there.”
Turnbull grinned almost fiercely.
“Forget that, too. Hi, Doc!” Someone had come round the corner of the church. “Got a shot of morphia? The boss needs one.”
The doctor was the Divisional police surgeon, grey, grave, well-prepared. He busied himself; an ambulance man bared Roger’s arm, the needle plunged in, and more agonising pain stabbed at the shoulder.
“Be gentle with him,” the doctor cautioned.
Two men lifted the stretcher, and no one could be blamed for the pain Roger felt. He ought to sing about it, for he was alive when he might so easily have been dead. He saw the scaffolding against the sky, and the plank off which he had slipped; it hurt even to think of hanging by one hand from that iron tubing. If it hadn’t been for Turnbull’s cold, calm courage, there would be another mess on the ground.
They went out of the churchyard.
Police had cordoned off a spot. Turnbull, going ahead of Roger, reached it first. Roger could see only from a distance of twenty yards or more. There was a woman being carried away, and the parson on his knees by the side of something which was covered with a piece of the green canvas used for the work on the church. The parson’s face was bowed, but even in that position he was vaguely familiar; irritatingly familiar.
The pain wasn’t so bad, now. Roger felt drowsy with a different kind of wave sweeping over him; these were gentle waves. But he was a long way from unconscious. He was even beginning to wonder why Millsom had fired at him, Roger West, and not troubled to shoot at Turnbull. Had he been terrified, fired almost without thinking, and afterward realised that nothing he could do would help him?
He’d been a long time deciding to jump off.
Turnbull’s voice startled Roger.
“We can’t stay here all day, even for you.” He was harsh, almost brutal, as he spoke to the clergyman. “Nothing more you can do for him, anyhow. You missed your chance while he was alive.”
The clergyman’s face, pale and grave until then, became the face of a different being. Such pain suffused it that even Turnbull was shocked into brief silence. One of the ambulance men must have been looking; involuntarily he allowed his end of the stretcher to drop a few inches. Roger could see nothing but the pale face and the torment possessing it. He was ten yards away; he saw it as he could have seen a film close-up.
“Ever seen him before?” Turnbull demanded.
There was a long, long pause; and then the clergyman’s face lost a little of the agony, and he answered very quietly.
“Yes,” he said, “he was my son.”
So he was Millsom’s father; no wonder there was a likeness! And he was racked by his grief and distress and perhaps remorse.
What did Turnbull think? What went on in his mind now, that he knew he had spoken so brutally to the dead man’s father, half-jeering while saying, “You missed your chance while he was alive.” What did Millsom’s father think?
The new waves, the quiet, peaceful waves, were now coming very fast.
Roger lost consciousness.
Martin West, often called Scoopy, was walking along Bell Street, Chelsea, when he saw his father’s car turn into the street, and his eyes lit up. He was carrying his precious cricket bat and a pair of pads fastened to it by the straps. He hoisted these to his sturdy shoulder as he broke into a run.
He passed the open garden gate of his house, where his brother, Richard, was watching a bird’s nest high in a tree.
“Dad’s coming!” cried Martin.
“Oh, good!” called Richard, a tall, slender nine, left the birds to look after themselves, and raced into the street. “Ask him for a ride!” he called to Martin.
At the bedroom window Janet West heard and saw them both. She had been about to call them in; they ought to have been getting ready for bed, but it was a glorious June evening, and she hadn’t had the heart to call them earlier. She watched them running, and then frowned, for Roger did not slow down. Usually he spotted the boys in a moment, and would stop for them to clamber in – sometimes teasing for a few moments by pretending that the brakes wouldn’t hold.
Ten-year-old Martin first, then Richard, stood and gaped as the car flashed by them.
It was going much too fast, too.
“What on earth’s the matter with Roger?” Janet asked aloud, and stared out.
Tyres squealed as the car jolted, and then came to a standstill outside the house. Roger wasn’t going to put it in the garage, he must be in a tearing hurry. That explained much, but not the way he had passed the boys. He didn’t usually drive so fast, even when he was rushed. He—
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A stranger climbed out.
But it was Roger’s car, wasn’t it?
The boys, hurrying, were now side by side, and watching the stranger with as much curiosity as Janet.
The man was something to see. He was taller than Roger, and quite remarkable. Janet found herself smiling down at him. He walked briskly towards the front door. His hair was auburn and ridiculously curly, the kind of hair a woman would give a fortune for. He went out of sight on to the porch; and knocked and rang.
The boys reached the gate.
Janet moved suddenly, and ran across the room, seized by a sudden panic. What on earth was she thinking of? Who would come in Roger’s car except a policeman bringing bad news? Could it be trouble? Surely someone would have telephoned … no, the Yard preferred to send a messenger with bad news, but would they send a stranger?
She flew to the front door, and opened it.
“So you’re Handsome’s young feller-me-lads, are you?” the stranger was saying. He had his back to the door, and apparently didn’t hear it open. “Wouldn’t have any doubt that he was your father,” he added, and ruffled Martin’s hair. The elder boy ducked and backed away. Janet saw the stranger’s profile, and the way he grinned as he tweaked one of Richard’s large, outstanding ears. “Wouldn’t like to be so sure about you! Is your mother in?”
“Yes, sir,” said Martin, from a distance. “But please, is there anything the matter with my father?”
“Plenty, Sonny Jim,” said the stranger, but his grin belied the words. Janet now believed that he knew she was there, and was deliberately keeping her waiting. “He’s going to have a few days in hospital and then a week or so’s sick leave. He’s hurt his arm.”
“Arm!” exclaimed Janet, and moved forward. “Is that all? Are you sure?” She clutched the stranger’s sleeve. He turned to look at her, opened his mouth to speak; but didn’t utter a word. He just stared, while the boys watched him closely and with sharp interest. The admiration which showed in his eyes was plain enough to Janet, but meant nothing to the boys. Nor did the way the stranger twisted his wrist, took her hand, and squeezed.
“Sure I’m sure, Mrs. West,” he said, and broke the spell with a deep laugh; a bronzed Apollo. “I saw him into the ambulance myself—dislocated shoulder and a few pulled muscles, I’d say, and a flesh wound in the leg. Nothing he won’t be laughing about soon. And the nasty piece of work who was responsible won’t cause any more damage to man or beast.” He winked; as if to tell Janet that she could understand what he meant, but the boys mustn’t. “I promised him I’d come and tell you myself. I’m Warren Turnbull— Detective Inspector, C.I.D.” He gave a mock salute and a dazzling smile, and the admiration was still brazen in his brown eyes.
Richard broke into a delighted giggling laugh; in spite of the tweaked ear, he had been won over. Martin was sober-faced and still kept his distance.
“It—it’s very good of you to come,” Janet said. “And if he’s no worse—”
“My word on it. He’s at St. George’s Hospital now, and nothing at all to worry about.”
“That’s a relief,” said Janet, and then added hurriedly: “I must telephone, and—but I shouldn’t keep you on the doorstep. Won’t you come in?”
She hoped he would say that he was sorry he couldn’t stay; but she didn’t think he would. She was right, too. She took him into the front room, and asked him to sit down, mechanically, picked up the telephone directory, and found the hospital number.
Turnbull grinned, as if amused at her anxiety and determination to do this herself.
The hospital report was fairly reassuring. Janet decided to go there as soon as Turnbull had gone, she had to make absolutely sure. Now the least she could do was to offer him a drink.
“Do sit down,” she said.
He sat in Roger’s rather worn hide armchair, with his back to the window.
The boys had followed them in, and hovered in the doorway.
“What can I get you?” Janet asked.
“Oh, anything, Mrs. West—from whisky to beer! Ever seen anything like this, chaps?” Turnbull leaned forward and tweaked Richard’s ear again; two pennies clinked in his hand. “Well, well, well, what a son for a copper, coining money under my very eyes! What about you?” He shot out a hand and touched Martin’s nose before the older boy could back away. Pennies clinked.
“Ooh, that’s wonderful!” exclaimed Richard. “Do it again.”
“Take my advice, young ’un, and never do the same trick twice,” advised Turnbull. “Always have something fresh up your sleeve.” He winked at Janet again, then took a ping pong ball from his mouth. “See what I mean?”
“It’s marvellous,” cried Richard.
Janet mixed a whisky and soda …
Three quarters of an hour later she managed to get the boys upstairs to start getting ready for bed. They were dazed with a succession of sleight-of-hand tricks which were all clever and quick. Turnbull had a lively patter, and found plenty of time to drink two whiskies and several opportunities to wink at Janet. He had a curious effect on her. His open admiration had something naïvely boyish about it, but he wasn’t naïve or a boy. His wink carried an unmistakable innuendo, if she cared to see it. Now and again he gripped her arm or squeezed her hand, always in the course of performing a trick – but never strictly necessary. He made her feel a little uneasy, but he was a magnificent-looking man, and even made Roger seem small. Well, not exactly small …
She hoped he wouldn’t linger when the boys had gone upstairs.
He was standing by the side of his chair, smiling but brisk.
“I must be on my way—regretfully,” he said. “I don’t mind telling you that I envy Handsome!” His eyes laughed, at her, saying she could make what she liked of that. “Two promising kiddos, too,” he went on. “I’d like to take ’em out for a day sometime. We’d have fun.” He put out a hand. “Au revoir, Mrs. West.”
He shook hands without squeezing.
He walked away, forgetting to offer to put the car into the garage.
Janet had to make herself back away from the door, and to avoid watching him until he was out of sight She’d never met anyone quite like Turnbull. He had almost succeeded in making her feel sure that Roger wasn’t badly hurt, too.
She rang Scotland Yard and was soon speaking to the Rugged Profile.
“Lord, yes, he’ll be as right as rain in a few days,” the Chief Inspector said. “But mind you, he was lucky. Young Turnbull saved his life, risking his own into the bargain. If Turnbull has any sense, he can make himself the best-liked man at the Yard, now—bar Roger.”
“You mean—Detective Inspector Turnbull saved him?” Janet exclaimed.
“That’s the chap,” the C.I. said. “Why so surprised?”
“He came and told me what had happened to Roger, but didn’t say anything about his part in it.”
The C.I. made startled noises. Then: “… if Turnbull can be a modest hero I’ll believe in miracles,” he said. “Anyway, you needn’t worry about Roger.”
When she rang off, Janet was quite convinced that there was nothing seriously the matter with Roger. Yet she wasn’t quite at ease. It wasn’t fear or anxiety or even anger that Roger should be exposed to danger again. It was something she didn’t quite understand.
That night, when Roger was still under morphia, Turnbull was having fun at a little-known night spot, Millsom’s father was sitting in his study, staring at a cross, and Janet and the boys were asleep, another girl was murdered.
This time, the body was dragged behind bushes which were not likely to be disturbed for days; or even weeks.
Chapter Six
Two Weeks Later
“You all right now, Handsome?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Better, Handsome?”
&nbs
p; “Yes, thanks.”
“Still limping a bit, aren’t you, Handsome?”
“Habit, that’s all.”
“Glad to see you back, sir.”
“Thanks, Simpson.”
It was like running a gauntlet, from the gates of the Yard, up the steps through pelting rain, into the damp hallway, up the lift, along the wide green passage and the doors which seemed to open by remote control to allow a face to appear and the inevitable question to come.
Roger reached his own office.
It was nearly nine o’clock on the fifteenth day after his visit to the Chelsea church of St. Cleo’s. Outside, black clouds opened to let rain spill out. It smashed on to the Embankment, pelted through the vivid green foliage of the plane trees outside the window, smashed against the glass, churned up the Thames. No one else was in the office, and Roger stood and looked at the river and remembered how it had seemed when bathed in sunlight just before he had been shot.
The door opened, and Eddie Day came in. He was the Yard’s genius on forgery of all kinds, a big man with a huge belly, a receding forehead and receding chin, and prominent teeth which were choked with stoppings.
“Why, ’allo, ’andsome. Back again? Sure you’re well enough?”
“I’m fine, Eddie, thanks,” Roger said mechanically.
“Must say we’ve missed you,” conceded Eddie Day. “’Eard—heard all the news?” He rattled off several items.
“Coroner sewed everything up for the Gelibrand job, practically told the jury to say it was murder at the hand of Harold Millsom. Lumme,” went on Eddie, “Turnbull’s hands must be fair worn out!”
Roger’s eyes flickered with keener interest.
“What do you mean?”
“The way he’s rubbed ’em with satisfaction. All he could look as if he’s saying was ‘I told you so.’ But I ’and—hand—it to ’im, ’Andsome, he hasn’t crowed. Well, not much. Quietened him down a bit, too. Mind you, he’s still the best detective at li’l ole Scotland Yard, but he doesn’t say so the same nasty way. You’ve made him almost popular!”