by John Creasey
Coppell, taken by surprise by the unexpected question, pursed his lips in doubt, and then said: ‘I want to keep my job too badly, sir. So the answer is “no”.’
‘What do you feel like?’
Coppell was surprised into a laugh.
‘Well, like the chap who was in here only half-an-hour or so ago, although he did threaten to throw his hand in. He told me where to get off.’
‘Know what you mean,’ said Trevillion. ‘Like to know something, Coppell? I still haven’t sorted out the difference between discipline in the navy and in the police.’ There was hardly a pause before he changed the subject, beginning with a kind of bark. ‘Well – what’s the trouble? This invisible chap?’
‘Er—in a way, sir. Yes, sir.’
‘So your chaps found out something. About time.’
‘I don’t know whether they have or not but I’m sure you ought to know. Care to look at these, sir?’ Coppell went on. He turned to his desk, selected a photograph of West, a portrait showing him as he had been ten years or so ago, and an enlargement of the photograph Alice Brace had sent out. He placed them side by side.
Trevillion stared down; moved to one side; shifted the pictures at different angles, and then barked: ‘Well?’
The committee of five superintendents say that although it doesn’t show in this photograph – and I’ve checked and it doesn’t show in any, sir – West has a scar like that one’—he pointed—’under his chin.’
Trevillion did not speak until he had looked at the photographs again for several minutes. Then he said: ‘Knives out for West. Hey?’
‘Nothing vindictive in this, sir.’
‘Yes. They’re bloody unhappy at the thought.’
‘So am I, sir. In the little time I’ve had to think, sir – very unhappy. It’s nonsense, of course.’
‘Why?’
Coppell eased his collar. This was a moment when he desperately needed a drink.
‘Well, dammit, you must have some reasons,’ growled Trevillion, and looked about him. ‘Do you keep whisky in here?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Past my usual time,’ stated Trevillion, and watched as Coppell went to a cupboard and took out Johnnie Walker, a soda syphon and glasses. He poured the drinks, stopping at Trevillion’s “Whoa!” and took a gulp gratefully. ‘In the first place the girl who sent this out had time to write on the back but didn’t mention West.’
‘Good point. Go on.’
‘For a second, only a few months ago West turned down a job which could have given him a life of luxury, because he preferred the Yard.’
Trevillion nodded and sipped.
‘Good prima facie that he has no motive. Next?’
‘It just isn’t West, sir.’
‘Very poor reason for a policeman,’ barked Trevillion.
‘Best reason there is,’ retorted Coppell. ‘Got to know your men – and I know West.’
He eyed the older man straightly but not in defiance, and they both sipped again before Trevillion said: ‘We want a picture of West lying down in much the same position.’
‘They’re not two a penny, sir.’
‘Wasn’t there one when he was caught with that woman with photographers who—’
‘No, sir.’
‘Humph. Pity.’ Trevillion brooded. ‘Home.’
Coppell was startled. ‘What about home, sir? If you’re ready to go—’
‘West’s home. Should be plenty of pictures there, romping with his family—hey! Gymnasium.’
‘I hadn’t thought about that, sir.’
‘Well, think now. And if there’s nothing in the Yard’s sporting archives, we need to look at the photo albums he keeps at home.’
Coppell drained his glass to the last drop, and then asked curiously: ‘With or without his knowledge?’
‘Without, if we can.’
Coppell said: ‘Oh, hell. If it’s got to be done we could do it tonight. He’s taking his wife out to dinner, and they went to a matinee this afternoon. And one of his sons is in Australia and the other’s on a television film location in India, so the house is empty. But I don’t like it. ‘
‘Of course you don’t like it,’ said Trevillion. ‘Got to do it, though. Who will you use?’
Coppell pondered for a long time, and then said: ‘I’ll go myself. If I give the job to someone else word might get out, and—I’ll go myself,’ he repeated.
‘How will you get in?’
‘Another whisky before you go?’ Coppell avoided the question.
‘No, must fly,’ said Trevillion. ‘Call me at home when you have the results.’
‘Right.’ Coppell nodded. ‘If he has that scar, sir, I’d want to tell him what’s on.’
‘Use your own judgment,’ conceded the Commissioner, and he went off, slamming the door behind him.
Coppell poured himself another drink, and then went moodily to the desk and studied the two photographs. The man in bed was older and the angle of the face was different, but they looked as alike as two peas.
‘I hope to God he hasn’t got that scar,’ Coppell said, and downed the rest of his drink.
Chapter Four
Search
Coppell turned out of busy King’s Road, Chelsea, into Bell Street, where the Wests lived. Built between the wars the houses on either side were very different from one another; red brick might stand by stucco, yellow brick by stone from Bath or Portland; two were even of the Swiss chalet style. Since the houses were solid and well-maintained, for most of the people in Bell Street were in the higher-middle income group, and the gardens were matured and well cared for, the whole street gave pleasure.
Forsythia and flowering cherry, flowering currant, may trees and may hedges, all of these and other ornamental bushes were blooming, while in the middle of one green lawn which looked as smooth as a billiard table, was a single magnolia tree. The late spring had delayed growth, but three nights without frost had allowed the blooms to come out to such perfection that all those who passed paused to enjoy and admire.
Coppell saw half-a-dozen people outside this magnolia house, which was a few doors away from the Wests but on the other side of the street. He parked his car outside the Wests’ garage, the door of which stood open, and went boldly to the front door. Years ago there had been danger here for Janet West, and Coppell had given several of the men on duty near the house keys, so that in emergency they could get in. One of these keys had been in Coppell’s desk for so long that he remembered it only when rummaging for papers pushed to the back.
Now, he took it from his pocket.
Of course, West might have had his lock changed, in which case the back door might be the best way in. Coppell inserted the key, and turned; the lock yielded, the door opened at a touch.
He stepped inside, closed the door, and listened; then in a low-pitched but carrying voice he called: ‘Anyone at home?’ There was no answer. From that moment Coppell behaved exactly like the policeman he had been trained to be: quick, quiet, efficient – and well-prepared. The first and most obvious place for a photograph album was the front or living-room, where he had been occasionally. He went in. The daylight was still quite good enough to see by. Over on a sideboard he noticed the unmistakable back of a photograph album.
Luck, first try?
He stepped across, opened, and thumbed through it – and soon grimaced with disappointment, for this was of the Wests’ children, Martin and Richard. Coppell snapped his fingers in exasperation. There was not a single family portrait, just of the children – from naked-on-a-couch stage to strapping young men in boxing gloves or swimming trunks; a nice-looking pair. He closed the album, and began to look round, and almost immediately saw another album on the shelf of a rather battered bookcase. It passed through Coppell’s mind that this room hadn’t been refurnished in over twenty-five years. West didn’t exactly make a fortune out of his graft – if graft it was!
Coppell chuckled.
‘Bloody no
nsense,’ he said aloud.
There were a few photographs of Roger and Janet from their wedding day onwards and some formal family groups, but nothing to give Coppell what he wanted. The ‘happy snaps’ of this family were obviously kept in another room.
He ran through the drawers of tables and a chest in a room next to the kitchen, but no snapshots.
He went up the stairs.
There were four bedrooms and one bathroom, and he knew that West and his wife slept in the front room.
He stepped in.
There was the big, old-fashioned bedstead with handsome wooden head and foot panels, a Victorian wardrobe which took up the whole of one wall. ‘Graft!’ Coppell grunted half-sneering, and then began to look for photographs.
There were one or two informal family groups standing about.
There was a tall chest of drawers with a small mirror standing on top, and he opened the top drawer to find gloves, handkerchiefs, oddments; those underneath contained folded slips, stockings, and – photographs. There must be fifty of them, and as he looked at them Coppell saw they were mostly of Roger – with cricket, football and swimming teams, actually at judo and karate classes. Now and again he was on his back, in others his head was tilted backwards. Coppell saw enough to be sure that he had to look at these more carefully, through a magnifying glass if necessary, and he gathered them up in his arms and turned towards the door.
A man flew at him from the open doorway.
He had no time to see more than that he was solid and big but not tall; and that his face was set and his eyes blazing. Coppell dropped the books and kicked out – but the other man grabbed his ankle and heaved him backwards; he went flying onto the bed, quite helpless and so twisted that he couldn’t see round at his assailant.
He felt a powerful hand at his wrist; felt his arms thrust up behind him in a hammer-lock, pain at elbow and shoulder so excruciating that he cried out.
‘Just make one move and I’ll break your arm,’ the man said.
Coppell had a feeling that he would do exactly that. ‘Now wriggle round so that you’re face downwards on the bed.’
Coppell hesitated for a moment, and then felt the other’s grip slacken enough to allow him to obey without giving himself too much pain. Very slowly he worked his body round until suddenly the other ordered: ‘Wait.’
Coppell stopped.
Still keeping his hold, the other did an astonishing thing: he pulled the laces of Coppell’s shoes until they loosened, and then ordered: ‘Kick your shoes off.’
For the first time Coppell hesitated.
‘But why should – ach!’
The other pushed his arm further up and there was a flash of pain. So Coppell kicked his shoes off and they fell, each with a heavy clump, onto the floor. Without waiting to be told, Coppell moved so that he was face downwards on the bed, head turned to one side to avoid being smothered, left arm still pushed up behind his back so that movement hurt.
‘Now,’ the man said. ‘Who are you?’
‘I warn you—’ began Coppell, and then gasped: ‘Ach! You’re breaking my arm.’
‘And your neck if you don’t answer my questions,’ the other said. ‘Who are you?’
There was no way of giving an answer; and no way of living this down if it reached the Press, or even spread throughout the Yard. Coppell knew that and felt the remorseless increasing of the pressure at his arm, and yet he hated to have to answer.
The man said: ‘I shall ask you once more before I break your arm.’ He did not ask the question immediately, Coppell actually had time to wonder who would be watching West’s house; and to reflect also that this man was young, remarkably strong, and had a deep, educated voice.
Now, with great deliberation, he asked: ‘Who—are—you?’
Coppell said: ‘I am a senior detective officer from Scotland Yard and my name is Coppell – Frank Coppell.’
He felt the hold relax.
He sensed that the other was so astounded that for a vital moment he would be vulnerable. Coppell snatched his arm from the other’s grasp, twisted round and kicked out, remembering suddenly that he had no shoes. He saw the other draw back, as he sprang to a standing position.
He saw a rage-filled, handsome face.
He saw a clenched fist coming at him which he had no time to dodge; the blow caught him on the side of the jaw and he went down as if made of crumbling lead. His head struck a corner of the bedside table and he lost consciousness.
And yet – consciousness did not go altogether.
He saw against the darkness a glimmer of light and had awareness of movement and of his head being touched. Soon, he realised that his attacker was examining the spot where it had struck the table. The other straightened up, and moved away, but didn’t go far; he sat on the side of the bed, looking downwards, for perhaps five minutes. Then he disappeared, only to return with a glass of water. He went down on one knee, raising Coppell’s head, and put the glass to his lips.
Gratefully, Coppell sipped. The other put the glass to one side and asked: ‘Can you get up?’
‘I daresay.’
‘I’ll give you a hand.’
A ‘hand’ proved to be the support of a very strong arm, and even with it Coppell had difficulty in getting halfway to his feet so that he could drop onto the bed. That had been a punch in a thousand; what a boxer called a ‘killer punch’ and delivered to the right spot there was no doubt at all, it could kill. Even now his head swam and he could not focus his gaze properly.
The other man said: ‘So you’re Commander Coppell.’
He hadn’t called himself ‘Commander’ but he answered: ‘Yes.’
‘I’m Martin West.’
‘What?’ gasped Coppell, and so jarred his head that he actually pressed his palms against his ears to try to calm the sound. He knew he said but did not hear himself saying: ‘I thought you were in Australia.’
‘I was, until three days ago.’
‘Have you been in the house all the time?’
‘No. I was across the street looking at the magnolia tree when I saw you come in. What are you doing here?’ His expression hardened again and he looked dangerously aggressive.
Coppell said reasoningly: ‘Martin, don’t you think you would be wise to wait until—’
‘Don’t “Martin” me, Commander. And no, I don’t think it would be wise to wait. I want to know what you’re doing here and I want to know now. Just in case you’ve forgotten, you forced your way into this house. You’ve no right here, and you’ve a damned sight less right to go hunting through my mother’s clothes and my father’s private papers. And I’m so flaming mad I would break your arm or your neck as soon as look at you. Let’s have it – what are you doing here?’
This ‘boy’, thought Coppell, was in his late twenties. He was an artist who had hoped to make a living in Australia, but it didn’t matter what had brought him back. He was a son of Roger West, and he meant exactly what he said. That was a streak of ruthlessness in him as there was in West – as there had to be in all good policemen. At this moment the muscles of his hands and jaw were flexing; no doubt his whole body was; and God knew what tricks of karate and judo he might know.
‘I came to look for a particular photograph of your father,’ he said.
‘Why not ask him for it?’
‘I didn’t want him to know I was looking.’
‘Afraid he might break your neck, too?’
‘No,’ Coppell said, and was suddenly surprised by his own restraint; the fact that he did not actually feel like knocking West across the room. He wanted to be conciliatory not simply to get himself out of an awkward situation but to help the boy. Boy! ‘No, I’m not afraid of your father breaking my neck although he’s often wanted to. If I could find the photograph I’m looking for it might clear up a peculiar situation which has arisen at the Yard.’
The younger man began to frown, and when he spoke it was in a more subdued voice.
‘You
mean, he’s under suspicion.’
‘I don’t think so, yet. That’s why I came here myself. If I could clear the thing up without having to talk to others it would be better all round.’
Martin West said slowly: ‘That was decent of you.’
Coppell didn’t reply. Though a little late for his comfort, he knew that he now had Martin with him, there would be no more conflict if he handled the situation well, and he felt in his bones that he was doing so.
‘One other thing,’ Martin went on. ‘If you’d found what you wanted, could you have avoided telling my father?’
‘I think so. I would try to. It would be impossible if I—if I didn’t get what I wanted from here.’
‘What do you want, exactly?’
‘A photograph like this – not the same one, it was taken only a few days ago, but one showing your father’s head in about the same position.’ The implication in the photograph was clear, the man in the bed was waiting for a woman to join him. How would this son, so fiercely proud of his father, react to the obvious? Would he suffer an emotional storm, of anger, resentment, repugnance? There was no way of telling.
He handed the enlargement of Alice Brace’s snapshot to Martin, who turned it round slowly, frowning. There was no indication that he was going to be outraged or insulted.
‘How long ago, then, was it taken?’ he asked.
‘We think, last Monday.’ It was Wednesday now. ‘It reached us as a snapshot on Tuesday by the morning post, and was taken by a police officer working on a very rough case.’ He paused long enough to allow Martin to absorb all this, and went on: ‘The woman police officer was murdered and thrown into the Thames where she was found early this morning.’
For the first time Martin’s eyes flared up.
‘You suspect him of murder?’
‘If he’s the man of the photograph, yes, we suspect him of murder and a lot of other things,’ Coppell answered calmly. ‘That’s why I want a certain photograph which shows his face, particularly his chin, from that angle.’
There was a long, tense silence.
It was impossible to imagine what the other was thinking, and Coppell didn’t try; but it was easy to imagine what he was feeling: fear, dread, perhaps even despair.