Strike for Death

by John Creasey

  Harrison, the Works Manager, was breathing hard. Tessa did not like the note in his voice, he was seldom so abrupt or harsh. His words had sounded faintly in the room, and Amory was already stretching out for the telephone.

  He took it from her.

  “Hallo, George,” he said. “What’s on? … Yes, of course we are.” He stopped speaking, and caught his breath. His red, round face drained of its colour. Tessa shot a glance at Malcolm, and saw how startled he looked. Then Amory spoke into the telephone again, while the others watched with increasing tension. “Are you positive? … Well, yes. Yes, of course, they’ll have to be given all the help possible, but George, just a moment. I think we ought to have a pathologist to advise us, we must be absolutely sure of the cause of death as soon as possible … We can do that through the hospital, surely … Well, do it if you can. Yes … Thanks.” He rang off.

  It was almost an anticlimax when he said: “Young Grannett died on the operating-table.”

  And all four of the others in the room stared at Malcolm.

  Chapter Three

  A Job for West

  That afternoon, at a little after four o’clock, Chief Inspector Roger ‘Handsome’ West of New Scotland Yard was reading through a report on a trial which was being held at the Old Bailey. He was both marvelling at and confounding the brilliance of defending counsel, who might succeed in getting a guilty man off from a charge of robbery with violence.

  Roger was alone in the Chief Inspectors’ office, with its five biliously yellow desks, the smouldering coal fire, the green armchairs, and the battery of telephones. His desk was near the window and farthest from the door; the best position in the room, and the least draughty when the windows were open, as they were now. A few spots of rain spattered the glass. The river, just in sight, was rippled with the wind, but the water looked as clear as that of a mountain stream; that didn’t fool him.

  A telephone on his desk rang. His movement to lift it was automatic

  “West speaking … Oh, yes, Joe … I’ll come right along, what’s on? … That’s all right, provided it isn’t trouble.”

  He put the receiver down and stood up, a tall, powerful-looking man in the early forties, with fair hair which hid the coming grey, and almost with a film star’s looks. The most noticeable thing about him was that he looked human; as if he could smile easily. His movements were brisk, suggesting energy kept on a leash. He let the door swing to behind him, and thrust open the door of a sergeants’ room, next to this, and said: “Send someone in, will you?” and went on, knowing that one or two sergeants would stand in until one of the CIs got back.

  All he knew was that there was a ‘job out at Elling, bit different from usual’. Joe Knightley, recently promoted to senior superintendency at the Yard, always liked being a little mysterious.

  His office was along the passage, a small one, with only two desks: his and a Chief Inspector’s. For once, Roger entered with a feeling almost of envy. In the general promotional moves which had been made in the past six months, when Superintendents like Cortland, Abbott, and others had retired, and others had replaced them, he had been passed over; yet he was next in running for an office of his own according to length of service as a CI, if not on age.

  The bad moment soon passed.

  Knightley was sitting behind his large pedestal desk, a slow-moving, ponderous type of man, who did nothing without thinking three times about it. He was signing letters, nodded and motioned to a chair, then finished signing and looked up.

  “Hallo, Handsome, got a good one for you, this time, one where you’ve got to mind your p’s and q’s.”

  “Sounds like a politician, high society, or big business,” Roger said.

  “Too clever, that’s your trouble, too clever by half,” said Knightley, without a change of expression; he had large features and rather big pores. “You want to let other people be right sometimes, Handsome. It’s big business.”

  “Really big?”

  “Big enough to have the Divisional boys ask us to send someone pronto, and the Assistant Commissioner to assign you,” Knightley said. “It’s out at Munro Motors plant. Don’t know the rights of it yet. Some say it’s to do with a strike, some say it’s not. Anyhow, one of the directors got mixed up with one of the factory hands, and there was a fight. The factory hand died in hospital. That makes it manslaughter, and it could even be murder. You’re to go out and have a look round, and be very careful how you deal with these people.”

  “It’s a new one all right,” said Roger, pondering. “Did I get it straight? A director and a factory hand were mixed up in a fight?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I’d like to meet that director!”

  “That’s just what you’re going to do,” Knightley said, and for the first time he grinned. “Take a sergeant, shouldn’t think you’d need anyone else yet. The Divisional chaps are on the spot, and one of the works’ detectives is old Charley Coombs. Remember him?”

  “Yes, and that’s a good break,” said Roger, with obvious satisfaction. “He’ll have the thing sewn up before I get there.”

  “Want it easy, do you? Here’s the play,” Knightley went on. “We’ve got to see justice done, none of this one law for the rich and one law for the poor kind of stuff, and we’ve got to lean over backwards to make sure that the director isn’t whitewashed. No one told me, and no one’s telling you, but there’s a possibility of a lot of trouble if this is badly handled, especially if it’s something to do with a strike.”

  “You said—”

  “Just check me when you get there,” said Knightley. “What sergeant will you take?” “Sheppard, if he’s free.”

  “I’ll see that he’s free,” promised Knightley, and picked up a telephone. “It’ll take you about half an hour to get out there. I’ve arranged for you to meet Old Charley at the Post Office in Elling at a quarter to five, he’ll take you out to the factory and brief you on everybody in the case. Don’t forget we could use quick results.”

  “If it was manslaughter—”

  “We want the chap charged quick,” Knightley said. “If it wasn’t, we want all the answers that we’re going to need for the Press, Parliament, and Transport House. Don’t blame me, I didn’t make society, I’m just a copper.”

  When Roger stood up, Knightley grinned, and added: “Forget my blather, Handsome. Willing to take a tip from me?”

  “Glad to.” Roger waited by the door.

  “Don’t put a foot wrong on this job. Even if it gets difficult, make quite sure of everything you do. Sir Ian Munro knows a lot of people who matter, and if you upset him they might not like it if you were promoted. We wouldn’t like that to happen, would we?”

  Roger said softly: “What’s this, Joe?”

  “Keep your nose clean for another ten days, and you’ll have a desk and an office of your own,” Knightley said. “That’s not official, but you can kick me if I’m wrong.”

  “Joe,” said Roger, his heart pounding, “if you’re right, I stand you the best dinner you’ve had for years. You and your wife. I’ll be seeing you.”

  So it was a journey to dreams.

  Sheppard was a youngster, only twenty-seven, and fresh from a Division, where he had been recommended for the Yard. He had a pink face, childish even for his years, and when he took his hat off he made most people gasp: for he was nearly bald, with just a little hair down on his round, mushroom-shaped head. This baldness was the only thing he was self-conscious about, and he kept his hat on whenever he could. He had one of the most retentive memories of any man at the Yard, and therein lay his greatest value.

  They reached the Post Office at one end of the wide, newly-built Elling High Street, at ten minutes to five. Old Charley Coombs wasn’t in sight, but the car had hardly stopped before he came towards them from a doorway, a big burly man in a raincoat and, unexpectedly, a brand-new brown trilby. He was slightly splayfooted, making his movements seem slow and deliberate. Sheppard jumped out a
nd opened the door, and Coombs heaved himself in.

  “And don’t tell me I’m not getting any thinner,” he said. “My wife tells me that twice a day.”

  “I don’t mind how much weight you’ve put on, provided you haven’t got fatty degeneration of the brain tissues,” Roger said. “Sergeant, this is the fabulous Charley Coombs, there’s never been a man to touch him on fingerprints. Charley, this is Sergeant Sheppard.”

  “Very proud to meet you, sir,” Sheppard said.

  “If you take any notice of Handsome West’s blarney, you won’t go far at the Yard,” said Coombs.

  “Compliments over, what’s it all about?” Roger asked.

  “Turn right at the roundabout and then straight on for half a mile,” said Coombs, easing himself up so as to loosen his raincoat. “I can tell you in a dozen sentences. The management and hands at Munro’s have been spoiling for a fight for years. Robert Amory, the managing director, has got his head screwed on properly, and has pushed it off. The firm’s just perfected the Munro Mark 9, which looks like taking the cream off the export market, and the labour leaders at the plant have seen their chance to get the biggest rise they’ve had for years. Sir Ian Munro, one of the old school sees himself more as a feudal baron than chairman of directors of a modern factory. Until about a year ago, his brother was chairman, and he was always on Amory’s side. Now that Sir Ian is OC by seniority and shareholding, relations with the workers haven’t been so good. Sir Ian’s son, Malcolm, came into the firm and on to the Board recently. Rumour says that he didn’t want to, but finally acceded to his father’s wish. Army, travel, the type who’d prefer to be in a trans-Tibet expedition in a jeep or on a camel than at a desk. That’s the general set-up.”

  “Thanks. When do I turn off?” Roger asked.

  “Second right, then sharp left, and the factory will be straight in front of you, you can see the Powerhouse chimneys now. The trouble today started when the chief shop steward – the arch villain, according to Sir Ian – called a lunchtime meeting of the men and got a crowd of five or six hundred who were with him all the way: ten per cent rise or strike. You could almost see Sir Ian’s gills flapping. Then young Malcolm comes up flaunting his Rolls-Bentley. Not exactly perfect timing.” Charley Coombs grinned. “A youth started throwing oranges, and hit the car. Malcolm lost his temper and went after him, to give him the sack. The youth had friends, among them the brother of Michael Grannett, the chief shop steward. I haven’t got the whole story yet, and I’m not sure who started the fight, but Malcolm taught the workers that you might run a Rolls-Bentley and wear Savile Row clothes, but it doesn’t mean you can’t use your fists.”

  “It’s not easy to kill with fists,” said Roger mildly.

  “Don’t know what killed young Roy Grannett, yet. He went down and hit his head an almighty crack on the ground, could have been that. He might have a thin skull, or what’s-it-called, sub-something.”

  “Sub-arachnoid,” Roger said, straightfaced.

  “Too clever, that’s your trouble. Anyway, he was helped to the factory hospital, and a nurse cleaned and bandaged his head, but didn’t realise how badly hurt he was. He got weaker, a doctor saw him, and had him taken to hospital right away. He died under the anaesthetic”

  “First thing we have to know for certain is the cause of death,” Roger said, and turned where he had been told, then took a sharp left. This led him on to a long, wide road, with crisscross wire fencing on either side, and beyond the fences, hundreds upon hundreds of what looked like derelict cars, standing in rows. One huge mass of these stretched nearly out of sight. Not far off, a railway engine was puffing, and they could see cars being loaded on to wagons. The factory buildings were all one storey, and spread over a vast area. Two squat modern chimney stacks were giving off pale smoke. Half a dozen large lorries were being unloaded at a platform near the railway siding, where fifty or sixty men were in sight. Half a mile ahead was a gateway, open, with a gatehouse close to it.

  Roger slowed down.

  “Had time to judge the mood of the workers?” Roger inquired.

  “Not really,” Coombs answered. “The few I’ve spoken to since it got around that young Grannett was dead are more shocked than anything else. One or two breathed vengeance, of course, but one or two argued that if a chap could be killed in a fight like that, it might have happened any time.”

  “Usual mixture of common sense and irresponsibility,” Roger mused prosily. “What was the mood before they knew he’d died?”

  “That’s easy. Like a lot of excited kids. I should think the factory lost an hour’s production, there was so much talk about it.” Coombs chuckled. “All the girls in the Assembly Shop, stores, and packing are on Malcolm’s side, he’s a handsome young buck. More Irish than Scottish in temper, too, like the whole family. The middle-aged and steadier chaps thought that young Grannett and the boy who threw the oranges were at least as much to blame as Malcolm. Bit scared, the steadier chaps, because they can see how this could be used to make real trouble. There’s a lot of wild talk about Malcolm being the aggressor, and making him apologise, and a lot of resentment because he made Woods get his cards.”

  “Woods?”

  “The orange-thrower. If I feel sorry for anyone in this, it’s Woods,” Coombs said. “He was egged on by young Grannett, not much doubt about that, and wishes he hadn’t seen or smelt an orange in his life. He’ll take it hard when he knows what happened.”

  “How will Malcolm Munro take it?”

  “Funny thing, but he hasn’t favoured me with his confidences. Tell you what, though.”

  “What?”

  “He’s sweet on his secretary, who used to be his Uncle Paul’s secretary. Shows he has judgment, she’s some girl. Properly handled, you might get more out of her than anyone else. Tell her you need all the information you can, get to help Malcolm, that kind of talk. Get young Sheppard to have a talk to her, too, he might be more effective, she’ll probably feel that a sergeant is safer than a big shot.”

  They were slowing down as they neared the gates. A uniformed gatekeeper came out, dressed in a tailored blue raincoat and a blue peaked cap, then drew back as he saw Coombs.

  “All right, sir, thank you.”

  Coombs nodded.

  “Anything else you want to know before you start meeting people?” he demanded of Roger. “I’ll do anything short of work miracles.”

  “What about this chief shop steward, Michael Grannett?” Roger asked. “What line is he likely to take?”

  “I think you’ll find that he’ll be outwardly all sweet reason, but inwardly he may be fuming and hating. It’s a funny thing with Grannett. I’ve often had a pint with him, and talked to other chaps who know him well. He’s a decent-living, mild enough chap at home. Married, two children, pretty wife. But he’s always needling the Munro management, and has always waged war with it. It’s like a kind of vendetta,” Coombs went on, and he was not a man given to flights of fancy. “But he’s clever. On the works labour-force side there isn’t anyone to touch him. On the managerial side he’d rise to the top. He knows the Factory Acts inside out, and never steps over the line, but he gets every penny and every concession he can for the workers generally.”

  “Sounds the kind of chap I’d like for my chief shop steward,” Roger said. “In politics?”

  “He’s not a Commy, if that’s what you mean. He’s a member of the Labour Party, but not an active worker. Seems to think that he’s destined to serve the workers at Munro’s. The key to Michael Grannett, as far as I can see, is that he regards himself as dedicated, and thinks Sir Ian can do no right I’d say those two hate each other,” Coombs went on. “But you aren’t likely to catch Grannett doing anything he shouldn’t.”

  Roger said: “Well, thanks for the picture, Charley, it’s saved me hours of questioning, and I wouldn’t have got it so clearly, anyhow. What did you want me to stop here for?”

  “That’s where it happened,” Coombs said. “Those wood
en boxes surround the spot where young Grannett fell, and the two in the middle cover bloodstains. There are some old bricks buried just beneath the surface, looks as though he fell on one. Thought I’d better fool you into thinking I knew something about the job! The Divisional chaps have already taken photographs, but I left everything untouched for you.”

  “Fine,” said Roger. “Thanks.”

  “Who are you going to see first?” Coombs asked. “Workers or management?”

  “Workers,” said Roger promptly. “If I see the management first, some of the workers might get an idea that I’m on the management’s side. What I’d like is to go straight to the Works Manager’s office, and have a couple of witnesses to the fight meet me there. The directors can wait.”

  “You’ll make an enemy of Sir Ian,” Coombs said with a grin, “but that won’t do you any harm. Colonel Harrison, the Works Manager, is on his side, anyhow. I take it you really want to see Michael Grannett first?”

  “If he’s available,” Roger said, and stopped the car outside the building where Coombs told him to. “And then I want to see the hospital Sister, nurses, and anyone who was near Roy Grannett while he was in the First Aid quarters.”

  “Shouldn’t be too difficult,” Coombs said, “although there are three ways of getting to the place. I’ll get it started.”

  The police car was opposite the office block, and Malcolm stood at his window, watching, while Tessa watched from hers. The fact that Coombs got out of the car probably meant that the Scotland Yard officials had arrived.

  Tessa felt an almost irresistible desire to go and see Malcolm, but fought it back.

  He had hardly spoken since the announcement of the youth’s death. His father, although obviously badly shaken, had tried gruffly to reassure him. A. C. Cobb had seemed to shrink farther within his big white collar. Only Robert Amory had been able to help at all, by saying quietly: “We’ll be firmly behind you, Malcolm, and you’ll find that most of the people in the works will know that this death was accidental.” Then he had paused, looked at the red-faced, hard-eyed, implacable, rather bitter man in the chair, and said very quietly: “We can’t make any decision immediately, Ian. We ought to tell the workers’ committee that we want at least twenty-four hours’ grace. I’ll get forty-eight hours, if I can. Do you agree?”