Gideon's River

by John Creasey

  ‘Right!’ Hellier was obviously satisfied. ‘Look forward to seeing you, sir. I’ll tell you one thing we did find while we were looking for the kid.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Body of a day-old child, strangled and buried in the park,’ Hellier said. ‘Some poor young bitch got herself in trouble.’

  There was no need for any special instruction about the murdered baby. Infanticide by half-demented mothers was not infrequent and, shocking though it was, sympathy for the mother was almost inevitable. Gideon rang off, again momentarily depressed. He told Hobbs what he had done, and in a few seconds was free from depression and looking forward to going on the river.

  ‘Will you have the Superintendent’s launch, or a patrol boat?’ Hobbs asked.

  ‘A patrol boat on its beat,’ Gideon decided. ‘Have ’em pick me up at Westminster Pier in half-an-hour.’

  ‘There’s one waiting there for you,’ said Hobbs.

  So the fact that he was going out on the Thames was known, and Hobbs and Worby had guessed he would prefer a patrol boat. Gideon made no comment, went through the other cases pending, and then found a coloured postcard from Algiers at the bottom of the pile. He picked it up, thinking: Scott-Marie’s on holiday there. It was from Scott-Marie, and almost an unprecedented gesture from the Commissioner. Gideon felt a moment of pleasure, put the card down, and remarked: ‘He’ll be away for another two weeks.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hobbs.

  ‘Did you see Pilkington?’

  ‘No, he’s in Paris,’ Hobbs answered. ‘But I saw his wife. He is arranging a kind of gala mannequin parade on the river, between five o’clock and eight o’clock next Monday or Tuesday evening. He plans to have floats with top fashion models showing all kinds of clothes, jewellery and furs. It will be quite a sensation.’

  ‘So I imagine,’ Gideon grunted. ‘What’s all the secrecy about? They usually like to get as much publicity as they can for this kind of stunt.’

  ‘They’re planning a big campaign in the weekend papers and on television,’ answered Hobbs. ‘The proceeds are for a World Food Campaign. All the invitations have gone out, and the guests told to look for the time and venue in the newspapers. The press have been invited in strength, of course. No one knows exactly how it will be done, and the secrecy is intended to heighten the effect. It should be very effective, George. Pilkington is the brains behind it, and he’s obviously put a lot of effort into the preparations. Some of the best designers, furriers and jewel-merchants will exhibit.’

  ‘If it hadn’t been for Morris the first we’d have heard of it would have been Sunday,’ grumbled Gideon. ‘As it is, we’ll have to put all the divisions with waterfronts on special alert, and warn the City chaps and Port of London and the Thames Division. They’ll have a major job on their hands. I’ll tell Worby when I see him; you see to the rest.’

  ‘I will. What is your feeling about letting our precautions be known?’

  Gideon pursed his lips.

  ‘Pity to spoil their surprise – if that’s how they want to do it, it’s up to them. We needn’t talk about it. Just put out a special alert to the divisions affected. Better cancel all leave except the usual holidays, and arrange for overtime where it might be necessary.’

  ‘I’ll have a report ready by morning,’ Hobbs promised. ‘There is one particular thing, George.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I told Esmeralda – Lady Pilkington – that we took a dim view of the fact that we hadn’t been warned, and that the least they could do was to see we have a few complimentary tickets. I thought perhaps you’d like to take Kate, and if Priscilla will accept an elderly escort, I’d be happy to take her.’

  Gideon warmed to him in a way he never had before.

  ‘Kate will love it, and if Priscilla hasn’t a passionate boyfriend at the moment, she will, too.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better be off.’

  It was only a step to the pier at Westminster Bridge. The patrol boat was waiting with Old Man River Singleton and P.C. Addis standing by, and Sergeant Tidy at the helm. It was the crew which had saved Tom Argyle and his girl, and found the packet of diamonds, although Gideon did not know this; nor did he know that they had all volunteered for this special spell of duty. Stepping over the polished side, he moved to the centre of the boat. It was pleasantly warm in a hazy sun. Two pleasure boats and several river trip launches were hove-to, one of them already loading passengers. A man with a croaking voice kept calling out: ‘Tower Bridge – Pool-a-London – Bloody Tower – London Bridge, all for three bob. Tower Bridge – Pool-a-London – Bloody Tower – London Bridge, all for three bob.’ There was no variation in his tone or expression.

  The youngest man in the police crew cast off.

  Gideon settled down at the seat in the stern. Old Man River Singleton balanced himself evenly, looking at Gideon. The engine began to growl. They went slowly towards midstream before heading down river. For the first few minutes Gideon forgot practically everything – the coming water parade, the diamond thefts, the missing Pierce child, all the crime that was taking place in London, all those conditions which ‘invited’ crime, everything but the sensuous pleasure of feeling the sun on his face and the gentle sway of the boat.

  Geraldine Pierce also felt the sun on her face. And it fell on the head of the man who now had his back to her. She could not move, for she was tied to the bed; she could not shout, for she was gagged. She lay in a kind of stupor, conscious and terrified and yet numbed.

  It was the first time in her life she had felt fear.

  It was not fear of a repetition of what had happened soon after the man had brought her here, not fear of being ravished – it was fear of being killed. She did not know what was in his mind, but she was no fool. She read newspapers, and she knew that this man, with his gentle, almost soothing touch and his soft and rather pleasant voice, was frightened of the police.

  He had given her milk and bread and butter, some ham and some cheese.

  He had cut the cheese with a knife.

  He kept the knife close at hand, kept touching it, and turning to look at her.

  If only he would take the gag off, she could plead with him.

  Wanda Pierce looked at the tall, square block of a man, Superintendent Hellier of the divisional force which served Richmond division. He towered over her. She did not think of it consciously, but there was something hard and ruthless about him; about his rather small eyes which seldom blinked, the stubby brown eyelashes, even the brickish colour of his skin. His cheek bones were prominent, his jaw very square, even the way his hair grew on his forehead gave a square, symmetrical effect; not at all rounded. He had a harsh penetrating voice.

  ‘So there’s no news,’ Wanda said, emptily.

  ‘No, none. I’m sorry.’ That was almost perfunctory. ‘I have given instructions for dragging the river, Mrs. Pierce. If we find anything we will inform you.’

  Wanda’s heart seemed to become a ball of lead.

  ‘Commander Gideon, the head of the Criminal Investigation Department, is coming to visit the scene in person,’ Hellier went on. ‘That gives you some idea of the importance we are attaching to this sad affair.’

  Sad – sad? Dear God, it was agonising!

  ‘Thank you,’ Wanda said stiffly.

  The neighbour with her, plump and fluffy Mrs. Edmonds, said almost in despair: ‘I’m sure she’ll be all right, Wanda dear, I’m sure she will be.’

  Hellier thought bleakly: She hasn’t got a chance. We’ll find the body in the river. He did not say this, but something in his manner conveyed that impression. He turned and went out, and as the front door closed he heard the neighbour exclaim: ‘What a brute of a man! He shouldn’t be in the police.’

  The friendly policeman who had shown so much sympathy and understanding, was at the door. He must have hear
d the comment but made no sign.

  Chapter Six

  HARD SHELL

  Dick Hellier got into his car outside the Pierces’ home. His movements were always brisk but deliberate, almost as if he controlled the reflexes of his body as he controlled – or tried to control – the reactions of his mind. He sat back in the car and said to the driver:

  ‘River.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As the car moved off, two reporters drew near and a photographer leant down and took a photograph through the car window. Hellier was acutely aware of the fact that they hadn’t approached him closely until he had settled into the car. They had just watched, blank-faced, almost sullen. They disliked and resented him, of course; in a way, they feared him. He knew that, just as he knew that the way he had talked to Mrs. Pierce had seemed harsh and unfeeling to her and her neighbour.

  ‘What a brute of a man! He shouldn’t be in the police.’

  And Constable Luckley had heard, of course; Luckley probably agreed.

  Hellier, son of a Swedish sailor and an English mother who had been killed in the late stages of the bombing of London in 1944, did not understand why he felt as he did at this moment; almost savagely resentful. He had not meant to sound cold and indifferent, he had formed his words carefully so as to create a different impression, but he had failed. He always failed in his relationship with people, he thought bitterly. There was some quality missing in him.

  When he had first heard of this case he had felt furiously angry, and determined at all costs to find both man and girl. Deep down inside him, only half-admitted, there was a special reason.

  He knew the child, as he knew the mother; by sight.

  Each had a quality which was rare, a quality he knew about vicariously but which he had not experienced personally for nearly twenty years. They had a sexual attractiveness, the kind of attractiveness which made them natural seductresses. He did not think the mother was aware of this quality in herself, and that might mean that she was unaware of it in her daughter. Hellier found it very hard to describe. It was far above anything which made youths turn their heads and whistle. It was not simply the fact that men would notice their slender legs and their slim hips. It was not their faces, attractive and alike though they were, nor their figures. It was something in the way they stood, walked, glanced about them; a kind of regality, an assurance of their own ascendancy.

  Nonsense?

  Hellier, groping for words as he sat still and outwardly morose in the back of the car, didn’t think so.

  The girl hadn’t quarrelled with her three school friends. Why then, had she left them early? Why had she taken the long way home, by the river? Because thought Hellier, she had known that along the river she would find youths and young men loitering and would revel in the effect she had on them. He suspected that the other girls had let her go alone because they knew that she would attract all the attention.

  They, and their mothers, had virtually told him as much when he had questioned them.

  And so Geraldine had gone off on her own.

  And someone …

  Some brute of a man!

  Hellier drew in a sharp, hissing breath.

  For a reason he could not understand, the thought and the momentary hurt drew him out of this mood of introspection and he became what he appeared to be to most people who knew him; a calculating machine, weighing up facts and drawing conclusions. He had one invaluable asset as a detective – a memory for names and faces, as well as for details of everyone he knew. He was a kind of walking records office where this division was concerned.

  An instance of his gift came at that moment, when a black Jaguar swept round a corner leading from the river. At the wheel was an austere, very handsome woman; Hellier, although he did not know her, recognised her immediately as a Mrs. Tollifer, from Rivers Meet. She and her husband lived in some style in a house with grounds which ran down to the river. Tollifer, a stockbroker, was reputed to be several times a millionaire, a big, genial, fleshy man. His wife appeared as cold as he, Hellier, was thought to be. For the first time Hellier wondered whether she was as frigid as she looked on the surface.

  On the next corner, a milk dray was parked, safely tucked in but seemingly deserted; milk, cream, eggs and orange drink bathed in the afternoon sun. The milkman was Constantine Duros, a remarkable name for a milkman; he was a Greek, with a roving eye and a caressing voice and an indisputable attraction for his housewife customers. It was not unusual for this dray to be parked for half-an-hour or more, while Constantine Duros was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Don’t know how he does it,’ Hellier’s chief assistant had a habit of saying. ‘Three times a day sometimes and he must be over fifty!’

  Coming along the street on his bicycle was ‘Daddy’ Paterson, the postman, also in his fifties, with iron grey hair, iron grey eyes, a stalwart of the local council, a man who never wasted a word, was involved with nearly every do-gooding organisation in the district, and who had never looked at any woman since his wife had died seven years previously.

  Hellier could place and catalogue an incredible number of people in his manor, their weaknesses, their idiosyncrasies, their likes and dislikes, even their potential for good or bad. This served him in remarkable stead in his job, which was in some ways the best organised division in the Metropolitan area, with a much higher ratio of solved cases than in most. This part of Richmond, of course, did not lend itself to much professional crime, but there was some: and pocket-picking, shop-lifting and car stealing was as rife here as in most Greater London areas.

  He reached the pier at Barnes, where Gideon would come ashore, ten minutes before Gideon’s patrol boat arrived. Several reporters had wind of who was coming, and stood close by. So did the Thames Division men, with whom Hellier worked closely. They got along well enough, for Hellier’s efficiency was respected by everyone and personalities counted for very little. He stood talking to the Chief Inspector in charge of Barnes as the boat came chugging round the wide bend in the river.

  Someone said: ‘There’s Gideon – standing up.’

  The big man seemed to dominate not only the boat but the smooth expanse of river. In the other direction three patrol boats were dragging, systematically, and crowds lined the banks to watch. Several pleasure boats were moored close inshore, crowded with passengers watching this search for the body of a child.

  ‘Lot of ghouls,’ stated Old Man River Singleton, roundly. ‘I’d send the blighters packing if I had my way.’

  Gideon, standing while the other man now sat, nodded and said tritely: ‘Takes all sorts.’

  Gideon watched as the patrol boats gently moved, all going up river, all with the drags out. Unless it were weighted down, a body would float and be caught. Usually, he knew, it was possible to recognise that it was a body, but sometimes it floated too far beneath the surface for there to be any indication. There was a matter-of-fact air about all the men involved, those on the banks as well as those in the boats.

  This one drew alongside with hardly a jolt. Gideon climbed out, the Thames man, Chief Inspector Bill Bell, shook hands.

  ‘Glad to see you here, Commander.’

  ‘Haven’t seen you for years,’ Gideon remarked, and was slightly vexed with himself; everything he said today seemed trite. It wasn’t exactly an inspection, but even the river men, with their reefer jackets and curious air of informality, were on their best behaviour. ‘Any sign of the child?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Bell looked like a sailor, even to the faraway expression in his eyes.

  Gideon saw Hellier, who was standing on one side, nodded, but didn’t go towards him at first. Bill Bell, a little self-conscious, glanced up river, and his expression changed.

  ‘They’ve got something!’ he exclaimed.

  Every man on the pier and in the boats, every newspaper man, everyone
in sight, spun round and stared at the middle one of the three boats which were dragging. One man was standing up with the hitching pole ready: something heavy was caught in the drag.

  The man with the hitching pole leaned forward and pulled gently. A camera clicked. Gideon took a swift look round and noticed Hellier’s set profile, the thrust forward chin, the obvious tension in his body.

  Someone on the bank cried: ‘They’ve got her!’

  A woman turned away from a little group and scurried off, mounted a bicycle and raced along the path. Everyone in the pleasure boats craned their necks, a dozen cameras pointed at the swirl of water around the drag. Another police boat drew nearer. A man close to the rail of one pleasure boat suddenly retched and was sick. Gideon, forcing himself to study the policemen near him, read compassion and sadness in Singleton, a tight-lipped distaste in Sergeant Tidy, matter-of-factness in most of the others. Young Addis, the youngest member of the crew of his boat, said sotto voce: ‘I’ll never learn to like it.’

  Hellier stood like a rock; a man made of rock. Heartless? Gideon did not know him well, and liked little of what he did know, his main interest being in the fact that Hellier was one of the best detectives in the Force.

  Someone cried shrilly: ‘It’s only a dog!’

  One of the men on the nearer boat nodded his head and relaxed. In a few moments the body of a big dog appeared clearly above the water. Orders were shouted, and one man called: ‘Bring it in.’ Someone gave a high-pitched laugh; a siren blasted, a bicycle bell tinkled.

  ‘Anyone would think it was something to celebrate,’ grunted Singleton. ‘Haven’t found the kid yet, then.’

  Gideon said to Hellier: ‘Do you still want those frogmen?’

  Hellier turned, and seemed startled, as if he had been shaken out of a coma.

  ‘Er – yes. Yes, sir. If you please.’

  Gideon turned to Singleton. ‘Will you fix the frogman team, Superintendent? Get them here as soon as possible.’