by John Creasey
“Half-past three, at the Athenaeum Club. He will be in the library.”
“I’ll be there,” said Gideon.
As he rang off the door opened and Chief Superintendent Simmons came in. Simmons looked a little like a lecherous Punch, and the fact that he was the cleanest-living man imaginable did not lessen that impression. Behind a jocund leeriness, however, lay one of the keenest minds at the Yard. He was a mathematician and an accountant, and no one in England knew more about company law. For over five weeks, now, he had been investigating the activities of a company which controlled dozens of subsidiary companies, among all of which there was reason to suspect enormous tax evasion. There was also reason to suspect a major case of share-pushing.
“Sit down,” Gideon said.
“Thanks.” Simmons looked at Gideon searchingly, and then said in a rather grating voice, “Heard any good sermons lately?”
Gideon chuckled. “Any ideas about that job?”
“Haven’t given it a thought,” said Simmons. “Hope the beggars don’t have a go at St. Paul’s or the Abbey, that’s all.” He paused.
“So do I. What have you got?”
“Trouble and worry,” answered Simmons. “I’m not sure there’s a case for the Public Prosecutor - certainly there isn’t yet, and finding out for sure whether it’s a civil or a criminal case will take another four weeks of solid going.”
“Think it’s worth four weeks?”
“It is to me. It is to Inland Revenue - their Investigation Branch really thinks they’re onto outsize evasion. It’s borderline, mind you - very clever accountants on the other side, but there may be a share-pushing angle as well as tax evasion. The thing is—” He paused.
“What other job have I got for you?” suggested Gideon.
“That, and - should we leave it to the Inland Revenue and only come in if they can hand us share-pushing on a plate?”
“How long will the Inland Revenue chaps take?”
“Another year, at the present rate of progress. They’d like us to keep on too, of course.”
“I dare say they would,” remarked Gideon dryly. “That way they would get half their work done for them.” He watched the faint reflection from river and window play on the back of his hand, then looked straight at Simmons. “If the parent company promotes any more smaller companies, it could fleece a lot of people in a year, couldn’t it?”
“It certainly could.” Simmons’s corrugated forehead looked almost smooth for a moment. “Do we want to risk it?”
“No. Keep at it. If it looks like keeping you busy for more than a month, let me know. Have you got all the help you need?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“That’s something,” said Gideon.
When the door had closed on Simmons he opened the fraud case file, made a note, pondered for a few moments, then closed it. He brought out an empty manila folder and made some pencilled notes on the inside of the cover. They ran:
B of E. Bullion.
What countries besides G.B., S.A. and Aust’a?
Athenaeum, 3.30, today.
Check flights to Paris after seeing Gov. He may have something planned.
He closed the folder, knowing that there was a real possibility of a major investigation over the gold, wishing he knew more about it and also wishing that it hadn’t come at this juncture. There could be ugly developments at the churches by Monday or Tuesday, and he would have preferred to stay in England. Hobbs would have to take over, and he wasn’t too keen on Hobbs and Lemaitre working together on this particular investigation - Lemaitre might be far too sensitive. Then he thought, Dammit, I asked for Kate. He lifted the outside telephone as the door opened to admit Rollo and Golightly. He waved to chairs as he said, “What happened to that call to my wife? . . . Yes, keep trying.” He rang off and looked into the faces of these two officers who were so different and yet could work together as an excellent team. Rollo looked as vigorous and healthy as ever, ten years younger than his age; Golightly had an air which suggested that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
Neither looked particularly pleased, though Rollo never found it easy to hide elation.
“Who’s going to start?” asked Gideon.
“There isn’t another clue in the Rhodes murder,” Rollo announced. “We haven’t found the motorcycle, haven’t discovered where Rhodes holed up, haven’t found any of his associates. He did this job at the chemist’s, and was competent enough. The cellar was a spare-time and evening occupation. Percy did spot one thing that I missed.”
Gideon turned his gaze on Golightly.
“The photographs on the wall of Rhodes’s cellar were all printed off the same kind of negative,” he said, “and printed on the same kind of paper and in the same type of solution. We’re checking photographic suppliers.”
“Couldn’t Rhodes have supplied the stuff?”
“The paper he used in the printing at the chemist’s is a poorer quality than that of the cellar photographs,” Golightly stated. “The cellar ones are all printed on Kodak Bromesko, a white, smooth, glossy paper, and all developed by a good, high-definition developer from a fine-grain film. I’d say a very good camera was used, German or Japanese. All of the prints were obviously handled by someone wearing rubber gloves - quite common in the developing process - and there are no prints except Rhodes’s.”
Gideon said, “And the Dalby girl?”
“Vanished without a trace.”
“This Italian or Spaniard whom the girl at the supermarket talked about?”
“No line on him yet.”
Gideon was still watching the flickering on the back of his hand. “Has the time come to try to get in touch with all girls who pose for photographers and see if they know about this man?”
“That’s the rub,” said Rollo.
“No need to be obscure,” rebuked Gideon.
“Sorry. These aren’t regular models. I’ve been to twenty photographers who specialize in nudes and none of them admits to recognizing any of the girls. I’ve tried every art and model agency in London, too. Rhodes and this good-looking Toni used amateurs - and so far we haven’t found any of the girl he used.”
Gideon said, “Dammit. How many have been reported missing? Thirty?”
“Thirty-two.”
“And we can’t even find one of those?”
“Just the three dead ones,” Rollo reminded him. “Rhodes had their photographs all right.”
There was a moment of absolute silence, so acute, so profound and searching, that it was almost as if all three men had stopped breathing at the same moment; after a few seconds, all of them began to breathe again, a little stiffly and with an effort.
Gideon said, “Are you seriously telling me you think all the other girls have been murdered?”
Rollo shifted in his chair, and began to speak at the same moment as Golightly.
“I know it sounds crazy—”
“It may seem ludicrous—”
They both came to an abrupt halt.
“When did you start thinking like this?” demanded Gideon.
“Idea struck me last night,” said Rollo. “Percy and I had a talk on the telephone.”
“It hit me like a sledgehammer,” Golightly put in.
“It’s hit me like a pile driver,” said Gideon gruffly. “Get all thirty-odd photographs out to all the Press, television, anyone who can use them. If these girls aren’t in England it seems to me they’re more likely to have been shipped abroad than to have been murdered. Whichever way it is, it’s very bad. We want news of any of them - and we want it urgently.”
Both men were already getting up from their chairs, and in a few moments they had gone, leaving Gideon in a mood not far removed from tension and alarm.
Thirty-two girls—
He muttered to himself, “What a morning!” and glanced at the reports. The church problem, the gold problem, the photo-nudes problem. A new thought came, relaxing him for the first time since the shock of
the silence when he had realized the full significance of what the Superintendents had implied. Religion - money – sex; the three motives which controlled most human behaviour now demanded the attention of the Yard more than they ever had before.
Gideon felt a heavy burden of responsibility far beyond one man’s due.
If he failed in any one of these investigations, how deep would the effect of such failure be?
17: BRIEFING
The lecture room at the Yard was neither large nor impressive. It was pleasant to know that when the new building down the river was ready there would be at least two lecture halls for instruction and for briefing. Meanwhile they had to make do with what they had, and that morning, just after half-past eleven, the largest available room was crowded to overflowing with Divisional Superintendents, their chief assistants, the Commander of each of the districts into which the Force was divided, the Commander of the Uniformed Branch, and a few other key officers. As Gideon stepped inside the room, which was already thick with smoke, there was a pause in the hum of conversation. Lemaitre, at a table which stood on a small dais, waved to him.
“Be a bit of a mess if someone blew up this lot, wouldn’t it?” He grinned, obviously delighted with himself. “Going to take the chair, George?”
“I can’t stay long,” Gideon told him.
“Pity,” said Lemaitre, trying hard to disguise his pleasure. “I asked Hobbs. He hasn’t come in at all yet.”
Gideon said, “I know. Are you ready?”
“Yes - I’ve the plan of campaign.”
“Right.” Gideon went to the front of the dais, his right hand raised. Silence fell immediately. It was a long time since he had seen so many senior officials together, and by the nature of things, most of those present were in his own age group - the middle forties to the middle fifties. There were at least a dozen with whom he had walked the beat, when superintendence had been a far-off dream. He had a warmth of affection for most of them, and knew that it was returned; but he wondered how many, if any, would have the faintest idea what he was talking about if he attempted to describe to them the overwhelming feeling of responsibility which lay so heavily on him.
They fell silent. Usually he would have been ready with a joke, but this wasn’t the morning for any kind of lightheartedness.
“Glad you could all make it,” he said in a carrying voice. “But I’m sorry it was necessary. Our biggest worry, as you must have realized, is the church outrages. There is a danger that we might think, because we had a quiet time last night, that we’re over the worst. I don’t believe it for a moment. Whether we like it or not we’ve got to gear ourselves for a continuing effort until we find out who’s behind it. Lemaitre will tell you how we think it can best be done. I want to tell you that it’s just about the gravest problem I’ve ever had to deal with at the Yard.”
“And that’s saying something,” Lemaitre interpolated in a loud aside.
“There’s another case in which I need your help,” Gideon went on, “but before I mention what it is - do any of you have any ideas about the motivation of the church crimes?”
For a moment no one spoke, but a man with a north country voice suggested from the back of the room, “Religious persecution, maybe.”
“Intolerance, I was going to say,” put in a Welshman.
“Plain bloody hate,” a Cockney piped up.
“Insanity,” suggested another.
“There are probably quite a number of these vandals,” Gideon remarked. “Madmen don’t normally get together and plan a campaign like this. Let’s cut out insanity.”
“Fanatical hatred of the Church,” the Welshman suggested.
Two or three others began to speak at the same time, but stopped when Gideon raised his voice. “All right, so no one has any ideas we haven’t tossed around ourselves. When Lemaitre’s briefed you, it would be a good idea to have a discussion, something might come out of it. There is one important point to consider, for instance, and that is that instructions for the last crop of outrages must, in all probability, have been sent out the day before the incidents. How? At a meeting like this? By telephone? By letter? By personal messenger? But I needn’t elaborate.” Gideon paused, until he was sure they all realized he had finished with the church crimes, and then went on. “Now about another matter. We’re gravely worried over the photo-nudes.” Only two or three men grinned, a clear indication that most of these took the photo-nude murders very seriously. “Golightly and Rollo will see you all get a set of thirty-two photographs. All but the murdered three are missing, without trace. We want any line at all on any one of them. If you get even a whisper of information, send it through to us at once.”
There was a murmur of understanding, and several men echoed, “Thirty-two.”
“Over to you, Lem,” Gideon said.
On this kind of assignment, Lemaitre was good; anything that assured him of the limelight and fed his ego also assured his effectiveness. Gideon left him with feet planted firmly, head and shoulders thrust slightly forward in a form of restrained aggressiveness. As he entered his own office the outside telephone bell rang.
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Gideon, sir.”
At last! “Put her through . . . Hallo, Kate, I’ve been trying to get you.” Gideon infused a little lightheartedness into his voice, which was always easy for him to do with Kate. “Been buying up London?”
“George,” Kate said, “did you know Helen Hobbs was in a very bad way?”
Gideon caught his breath.
“No. But I had an idea she was not too good. In fact that’s what I was ringing about - to ask you to go and see her.”
“She isn’t likely to last the day,” Kate said quietly.
Again Gideon caught his breath, and this time it hurt. Kate would not say such a thing unless she had been sure.
“I’ve just been there,” Kate told him. “Alec was with her.”
“Oh,” said Gideon. “He - I hope he doesn’t feel he must come into the office.”
“He does. He wants to.”
“He mustn’t. He—”
“George,” interrupted Kate, “he can’t do any good. She’s in a coma, and the doctors say there’s no chance that she will come out of it. That’s what I wanted to ask you. Is there something he can really concentrate on?”
The church outrages - the gold - the photo-nudes.
“Dozens,” Gideon said.
“He mustn’t have time to think.”
“I know.”
“George,” Kate said with a sob in her voice, “she still looks so beautiful.”
Alec Hobbs stood with his back to the window, studying his wife’s face. In the coma she looked peaceful, as if she were indeed asleep. Although the illness had wasted her body, it had never touched her face; thin she was, but not gaunt. She still had some colour, and her beautiful black hair shone with its early lustre. She did not appear to be breathing. When she had first been seized with the respiratory onslaught she had been in pain, but there was no pain now. Then, in between spasms, she had liked to be able to look out of the window which overlooked the river which she loved. Now her bed was raised at the head, so that the reflection which played about Gideon’s face and hands, only a mile along the river, played on the eyes which were closed forever.
Hobbs had stood there for a long time.
Slowly he moved and turned his back on his wife, looking out onto the river’s sparkling bosom, seeing tugs and barges and some pleasure craft, trivial against the might of the Battersea Power Station. He had come home and found her sitting here so often, so patiently, and love for her and grief for her had had to be lightened to a gentle gaiety. Now all that was over.
He turned away, unable to face the ebbing of her life.
In the next room, a middle-aged nurse put down a magazine.
“I’m going to the Yard,” Hobbs said. “You can get into touch with me there.”
“Certainly, sir.”
He nodded a
nd went out, turned left along Chelsea Reach and walked stoically, agony held off a hand’s breadth away, toward Westminster and Scotland Yard. Passing a new church close to the Embankment, which served a host of flats and houses built on the sites of others destroyed by bombing two or more decades ago, he thought of the outrages; then he noticed a uniformed constable. He paused.
“Keeping an eye open?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” The man drew himself up almost to attention. “We’re being very careful here, sir. There’s a lot of gold in some of the altar plate and the candlesticks and chalices - very valuable, as well as sacred.” The officer was an earnest man of middle age.
“What’s the cooperation like?”
“Excellent, sir. Couldn’t be better. There are at least four church members on duty there day and night. Not much chance of trouble here, I’m glad to say.”
“Good,” Hobbs said. “Keep your eyes open.” He walked on.
A spasm of pain shot through him. Keep your eyes open, open, open, open - but Helen’s eyes were closed. Eyes open, keep them open - my God, wouldn’t he like to catch the devils who were doing this. If only Lemaitre had some other job–
The leader of the “devils” who was organizing the outrages on the churches sat at his desk, brooding over the great tower of the Cathedral. In front of him were the daily papers with their varying stories about what was being done to save the churches. Each gave it the main front-page headline as well as a continuation inside, and each newspaper carried an editorial. The tabloid Daily View said:
It is quite incomprehensible that any man or woman, or group of men or women, should set out to commit not only crime but sacrilege. We do not believe that any crime committed in London - in fact in the whole of the British Commonwealth - has ever shocked the public so deeply. Nor do we believe that the conscience of the British people has ever been stirred so much as it has been by this abominable campaign of destruction.
It is conceivable, we believe, that good can come out of even so great an evil as this. The people are stirred - and perhaps this will awaken them to an awareness of their own shortcomings. Never has church membership been at so low an ebb. If these crimes should give birth to a great revival in religion, who can deny that good will once again triumph over evil?