Trouble

by Michael Gilbert

  No hesitation this time. Lamb trotted across to the corner where there was a piece of furniture which had already aroused Jonty’s curiosity. It was a metal chest, of the size of two large filing cabinets laid flat. The lid was designed to open upwards and there was a single keyhole in the green painted front. The general effect was as though a fair-sized safe had been laid over on its back.

  Lamb squatted in front of it. The hand which held the key was shaking so much that he had some difficulty getting it into the hole.

  “Give it to me,” said Jonty. “I’ll do it.”

  “If you tried to open it,” said Lamb, with an apologetic smile, “you wouldn’t find anything inside when you’d got it open.”

  “Box of tricks, is it?” said Jonty. “I’ve heard of ’em, but never seen one.” He squatted down beside Lamb to observe his manoeuvres.

  The key, once Lamb had got it inserted, could only go in a certain way because of a steel pointer, attached to the shank, parallel with the flattened end of the key. Now that he was close to the box Jonty could see that there was a clock face of numbers round the keyhole. As the pointer moved against the numbers on the clock it was a simple matter to gauge, without possibility of error, exactly how far the key turned on each occasion.

  First anti-clockwise to ten o’clock. Then, clockwise, to four o’clock; clockwise again to six o’clock, then up to twelve o’clock.

  Lamb took the key out, put it back in his pocket and opened the lid. He needed both hands to do it. The lid, like the rest of the box, was made of steel and lined with what looked like asbestos. The interior had no shelves or subdivisions of any sort. It was full of numbered cardboard folders standing on end. Lamb consulted his pocket-book and selected one of the folders. It was divided into sections, each of which held a single photograph.

  Lamb pulled out one of the photographs, gave it to Jonty, pushed the folder back and began the careful ritual of relocking the box.

  Jonty, his face expressionless, handed the photograph to Max, who looked at it for a long moment before putting it away in his inside pocket.

  He said, “Leslie didn’t have his hand on his hip that time, did he?”

  8

  “I’m not sure that Abel is going to like this,” said Sandra Leone.

  She was reading a copy of the local paper that had appeared that Saturday morning. For some time now it had been running a daily piece on local notabilities, which had started with a stately and appreciative article on Arthur Drayling, his artistry and his national reputation, but the author was, by now, finding himself a bit short of suitably eminent subjects. Today the spotlight was turned on Abel Drummer and the writer, lacking reportable facts, had fallen back on wit and imagination.

  Under the heading ‘Birdman of Thameside’ he had described the livestock in which the Drummer emporium dealt and had indulged a fancy that, spending his working-day among small animals, birds and reptiles, the proprietor would unconsciously assimilate some of the characteristics of each. Might not his speaking voice gradually acquire the squeak of his mice, the hiss of his grass-snakes and the twitter of his budgerigars?

  It was a fairly harmless piece of leg-pulling, but Anthony agreed with his wife that it was unlikely to appeal to Abel. He was thinking about it as he set out for the court building to pick up some reports that were waiting for him. Maindy Road was normally a quiet thoroughfare, but as he turned into it he noticed a small crowd beginning to collect at the far end and he realised that something unusual was happening. On both sides of the road, people had stopped walking and were bunching together, not doing anything, just staring and chattering.

  As he approached he saw that the centre of attraction was a man, kneeling beside a dog. The man was Abel Drummer. The dog was his Rhodesian ridgeback, Tiger and Tiger was sprawled on the pavement in the abandoned attitude of death. Anthony could see, as he got nearer, the dark blood which disfigured the handsome black and tan head.

  Hit and run? If a car had hit a dog it could hardly have got away down the street without being seen and certainly its number would have been noted. Someone was muttering. Anthony edged closer.

  “Bloody Pakis. Hit the dog. Killed it.”

  “Hit it with a hammer,” said a man who seemed to have been closest to the incident.

  “Do you know who it was?” said Anthony. A horrible suspicion was growing in his mind.

  “All bloody Pakis look the same to me,” said the man. “Why don’t we kick the lot out? Send the bastards back where they belong.”

  He had spoken loud enough to be heard and there was a murmur of sympathy from the people round him. The soft sound of the woodwind and the strings before the brass opened its throat.

  Abel Drummer looked up and recognised Anthony.

  “Your friends,” he said bitterly. “Your brown friends.”

  Anthony knew what he had to do, but had little heart for it. He slid out of the group and made his way up Reynolds Road to the premises of East London Motors. He found all five of the boys in the shed behind the garage. He thought they looked serious, but neither guilty nor frightened. They did not seem surprised to see him. They might almost have been expecting him.

  “You know what I’ve come about,” said Anthony. He was angry and made no attempt to conceal his anger.

  “That dog,” said Salim.

  “Yes. Mr. Drummer’s dog. I thought you understood when I told you that you had to keep clear of trouble. Not stir up more, for God’s sake.”

  “But Mr. Lee-owny—”

  “If you’re looking for a spell inside, all I can say is you’re setting about it in the right way, although you might have thought of a better way of doing it than murdering a fine dog like that” Mr. Lee-owny. Please listen. All we did was protect ourselves. That dog was out to kill us.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true. He came straight across the road and made a jump at Sher. Didn’t he?”

  Four heads nodded.

  “And Sher just happened to have a hammer with him?”

  “That’s right. He’d just bought it. It was for some work he was going to do here.”

  Saghir nodded and pointed to two or three boards which were lying in the corner. He seemed to be the most shaken of the five.

  “And you’re telling me that this dog – a trained dog – left his master and came across the road for no reason at all and attacked you.”

  “That’s what happened.”

  “And you’d done nothing to provoke him?”

  “Well—”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “It wasn’t the dog we provoked,” said Rahim, speaking for the first time. “Not exactly. It was Mr. Drummer.”

  “How did you provoke him?”

  “We all whistled. You know, sort of made bird noises.”

  “It was that thing we read in the paper this morning. About him being a birdman. It was only a joke.”

  “A joke!” said Anthony bitterly. “That’s your idea of a joke. I hope you’ve all had a good laugh.” He looked round at five faces which had become suddenly apprehensive. The anger in Anthony’s voice disturbed them. “Because of all the stupid bloody jokes I’ve ever heard of, this gets top marks as the stupidest bloody joke of the whole bloody year.”

  “I can assure you,” said Superintendent Brace, “that you have my full sympathy.”

  The Superintendent was a thick-set man with a firm chin and light blue eyes. Single-minded determination and adherence to the rule book had brought him from police recruit to his present rank. The only sign of the passage of twenty strenuous years was a scattering of white in his hair.

  He said, “He was a fine dog. Did you see which of the boys hit him?”

  “It was difficult. I was on the other side of the road and there was this bunch of them, you see. Four or five. I know who they were. They’ve been fighting with my boy and his lot ever since—well, you know about that.”

  “You mean the incident involving your
older boy and Salim Kahn. Was it Salim who hit the dog?”

  Abel Drummer hesitated. He would clearly have liked to say that it was Salim, but he had already admitted that he was uncertain. He said, “It was one of them. They hang round together. Your Probation Officer knows their names. I expect he’s already talked to them.”

  “I’ll have a word with Mr. Leone.” The way in which Brace said this did not indicate any particular regard for his Probation Officer. “As soon as we find out which one it was, he’ll be charged; with creating a disturbance and damage to property. Your property.”

  When Brace had heard of the incident late on Saturday, he had had a word with Mr. Nabbs, who advised the police in such matters. To start with, Mr. Nabbs had seemed to experience some difficulty in deciding exactly what offence had been committed, but had settled for what seemed to be two possible ones – “And, of course, if our investigations show that they were all in it, the charge will be conspiracy to commit those offences.”

  “If you can make an example of them,” said Abel, “it will reassure people that they can walk their own streets without having to submit to foreign hooliganism.”

  Brace said, “Quite so.” There was one point which had to be settled. He said, “Can you tell me why your dog should have crossed the street?”

  “Well, the boys were whistling.”

  “Whistling? To your dog?”

  “I suppose so. That’s what it sounded like. Anyway, he went over to see what they wanted. I expect when he arrived they were scared. Tiger was a big dog. He could look pretty fierce when he was roused.”

  “And you think the whistling annoyed him?”

  “It must have done. It annoyed me, I know.”

  Brace had been making a careful note. He said, “The boys attracted the dog across the road by whistling, then panicked and hit him. That’s right is it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then you can leave it to me, Mr. Drummer. They won’t get away with this.” He paused, and added, “You understand that I’m not being influenced by the fact that the boys were Pakistanis. I’d take the same action if they’d been any colour: white, brown or yellow. I want that to be clear.”

  “Of course,” said Abel. “I understand that.”

  At the same time, on that Monday morning, Mr. Norrie had visitors. Normally he liked to spend the time between the end of his breakfast and the opening of the court in studying the charge sheet and the reports from policemen, doctors and other interested parties that came with them. He also liked to discuss them with Anthony, whose views on his own and on other people’s cases, he often found helpful.

  He allowed himself to be interrupted on this occasion because he knew both of the interrupters and had a feeling that they would not have come unless they had something important to say. Mrs. Roundhays, widow of Simon Roundhays, twice Mayor of the Borough. Colonel Ramifies, retired from the Army and running a kennels near the Common.

  “Won’t waste your time,” said Mrs. Roundhays. “Just thought you ought to know. Was walking back down Maindy Road on Saturday morning. I’d met the Colonel in the High Street when we were both doing our shopping. I’d two bags. Both a bit heavy. Mistake to do your shopping only once a week. He kindly offered to carry one of them.” She smiled at Colonel Ramifies, who smiled back. The Colonel was a widower. Norrie thought, it might be a good thing if they hitched up and then decided, no, they were both perfectly happy on their own. The thought had distracted him for a moment from what Mrs. Roundhays was saying. Her delivery was telegraphic and needed close attention.

  “You were saying that you saw Mr. Drummer—”

  “Saw him and heard him. Set the dog on the boys.”

  “He set the dog on them? You’re sure?”

  Mrs. Roundhays looked at him blankly. Then she said, “What do you mean, am I sure? Do you think I’m imagining it?”

  “No, of course not. I’d already heard about it from my Probation Officer. He seemed to think it was the dog that took the initiative.”

  “Wasn’t the dog. Was Drummer.”

  “If I might,” said Colonel Ramilies. “As you know I’ve had a good deal of experience in training dogs. In fact, two years ago, when they were short-handed, I helped the police. I had some of their dogs in my kennels for a time. Alsatians. Not, in my view, the best dogs for the job. They’re too highly strung. They can be trained, of course, but if I had my way I’d use Airedales. Placid Yorkshire tykes. However, as I was saying, any dog can be trained and Mr. Drummer’s ridgeback had been.”

  “By you?”

  “Yes. I had him for three months when he was young. Do you know much about training dogs, Mr. Norrie?”

  “Practically nothing.”

  “There are four basic commands. ‘Stand’, ‘Go’, ‘Hold’ and ‘Tackle’. When they’re told to hold someone their objective is his arm, particularly if he’s got some sort of weapon in his hand. ‘Tackle’ is more serious. It doesn’t mean go for his throat. It means, knock the man down and stand over him. They get up what speed they can and launch their full weight at the subject’s chest. Nine times out often it sends him sprawling.”

  “And which command was given on this occasion?”

  “I wasn’t near enough to hear. But I can tell you this. Unless some command had been given, the boys on the other side of the road could have whistled until they were blue in the face before he’d have moved from his master’s side.”

  “They weren’t really whistling, either,” said Mrs. Roundhays. “Not in the way you’d whistle to call a dog. More like chirruping.”

  “Chirruping?”

  “Making bird noises.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Norrie. “Yes. That explains a lot. If anything further comes of this incident, you’ll probably be called on to give evidence. I’ve got your addresses. I’d better have your telephone numbers as well. Thank you for coming along.”

  When they had gone he telephoned Reynolds Road Police Station and asked for Superintendent Brace.

  “All that I can properly say at this moment,” said Norrie, “is that if Drummer presses charges and the matter comes to court, Mrs. Roundhays and Colonel Ramilies will both want to speak. I can’t tell you what decision I should come to without hearing the story from the other side.”

  “I suppose so,” said Brace. He had met the Colonel and had little doubt that his evidence would be conclusive; the more so if supported by someone of the standing of Mrs. Roundhays. Witnesses in magistrates’ courts were still ranked in order of their rateable value. He said, “I imagine the boys will say it was an unprovoked attack.”

  “That’s what they’ve told Leone.”

  “Does he know who hit the dog?”

  “Yes. It was Saghir Abbas. The one they call Sher.”

  “He’ll admit it?”

  “So I understand. Leone has seen the ironmonger in the High Street – Bates, I think was the name – who sold him the hammer about five minutes before the incident occurred. And he tells me it’s right that there was some carpentry work he had to do.”

  Brace said, “I see.” He approved of Drummer and disliked the boys, but he was experienced enough to discount this. The evidence was now all the other way and Norrie would be bound to throw out any charge that Drummer could bring. In fact, a charge might be brought against him. Though he doubted if it would. He had not been at Reynolds Road long enough to form a firm opinion of Norrie. Other members of the force he had discussed him with had said that he was better than some they’d met; which was fairly high praise. He said, “This man, Leone. Is he reliable?”

  “I’ve found him so. Has there been some difficulty—?”

  “Not what you’d call a difficulty, no. But one of my men happened to spot Bearstead, the Deputy Head of the Special Branch, coming out of his house. When I was talking to Leone I asked him about it. If it was police business, I thought I ought to know about it.”

  “Was it?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me. Sai
d that it was confidential and he’d given his word to Bearstead not to pass it on.”

  “Well, if he’d given his word he was right to keep it. A good mark, not a bad one, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so.”

  But you don’t like Leone for it, thought Norrie, which was a pity. Because if trouble came, things would only go smoothly if all parts of the machine meshed together; the judicial, the executive and the advisory.

  And trouble was coming. He could feel it, as a sailor, without looking at a barometer, could feel a coming storm by the ringing in his ears and the prickling of his skin.

  9

  When the news arrived from Belgium, a meeting was convened with all the speed that a major threat to security warranted. Five departments were concerned.

  The Metropolitan Police were represented by the Assistant Commissioner (Crime) Maurice Haydn-Smith and Commander Salwyn the head of C13, the Anti-terrorist Squad. The Ministry of Defence sent Major General Usher, a retired gunner officer, currently their principal adviser on security matters. Lieutenant Colonel Every drove up from SAS headquarters at Hereford, stopping to pick up Reginald Mowatt of MI5 from his house near Henley. It took him some miles out of his way, but he welcomed the opportunity of a preliminary briefing.

  “I notice we’re meeting at the headquarters of Special Branch,” he said. “Unusual?”

  “A sort of geographical compromise, I imagine,” said Mowatt. “The MOD wouldn’t want to come to Scotland Yard or Petty France and Scotland Yard wouldn’t fancy going to Whitehall, so they agreed on Great Peter Street. Anyway, Elfe will be in charge.”

  “Is a Deputy Assistant Commissioner senior to a Major General?”

  “I doubt whether the matter has ever been tested,” said Mowatt with a smile. “But if Elfe was there he’d run the meeting whether he was sitting at the top of the table or not.”

  Every nodded. He was looking out of the window as the valley of the Thames unrolled past them. It was late autumn and the trees had all turned golden brown and yellow; getting old and tired, like the two of them in the car. The difference was that the trees would be fresh and green again when the winter was past. He had a feeling that it was going to be a difficult winter and wondered which of them would survive it. Mowatt was right about Elfe; a majestic, almost a mystical figure. He had been head of the Special Branch for more than fifteen years. He had twice tried to retire and two very different Prime Ministers had begged him to stay.