Roller Coaster

by Michael Gilbert

  He knew that he had spent most of his career as a young man protecting Franco from assassination. Now retired from active policing, he was an accepted authority on the combating of terrorism. There had been a suggestion that he was planning to come to England. If he did, Lovell wondered whether he might be able to divert his son from the dangerous course he seemed set on.

  When he left the DC’s room Petrella made his way down to the basement. In one of the cell-like rooms at the back he found the man he was looking for, an old friend from Highside days, Detective Sergeant Golightly, who said, “Wotcher, Patrick. I mean, hullo, sir.”

  “Stick to Patrick.”

  Golightly grinned and said, “What can the scientific boys do for you?”

  “I just wanted to know something.” He extracted from his pocket the much-creased page of pictures which had caused so much trouble to a harmless newsagent. He pointed to the faint mark on the back. “Assume, as I think you can, that that’s I.P. Would it be difficult for you to identify the publication?”

  “With a little bit of luck,” said Golightly, “it would take me all of sixty seconds.”

  He went across to a filing cabinet in the corner. The files seemed to be arranged alphabetically. He extracted one of them, flipped through it and said, “It looks like an outfit called Intriguing Publications. They publish quite a few magazines. This would be one of them.” He examined the page of pictures. “Looks like something that wouldn’t be a great loss. Are you planning to shut them up?”

  “Ultimately, possibly. For the moment, all I wanted to know was whether it was difficult to identify the mark.”

  “By my watch, forty-five seconds,” said Golightly smugly.

  That evening after both the children were in bed, Jane suspended her evening sewing marathon to say, “You’re worried about something. If it’s confidential don’t tell me, but if it isn’t, it might help you to get it off your chest.”

  “It isn’t confidential. In fact, it’s no more than a rather uncomfortable idea I got after I’d been to that club.”

  “The one you told me about. The Quartermass?”

  “That’s the one. It looked such an obvious set-up. It was the place where photographs had been taken of Hood drinking with known pornographers. And there was one of them, with drinks on the table, one of them all ready to be pushed across in my direction.”

  “But you didn’t pick it up.”

  “Actually, I pushed it back again. But in a photograph taken from one side, it wouldn’t be possible to say that it wasn’t my drink. And I don’t doubt there were other known porno characters, ready to surge up. Maybe a group picture was planned. That’s why I got out so fast. But I couldn’t help reflecting that if it was a trap, it was Charlie Kay who got me into it.”

  “I follow that,” said Jane. “But it’s not conclusive. This porno character could have suggested to Kay that he had a hot tip for you and Kay could have passed the news to you without realising what he might be letting you in for.”

  “That’s what I told myself. I didn’t want to think that Kay was bent. I’ve known him, on and off, for years and always liked him. I was glad to give him the fullest benefit of any doubt there was. Then this afternoon something else happened. I’d asked him to locate a printer’s mark for me. A day or two later he told me that he couldn’t do it. It wasn’t registered. Golightly, who works in that department, found it at once.”

  “Might that simply have been slackness on Kay’s part? He didn’t want to bother about it, so he simply told you it wasn’t on.”

  “Yes, I thought of that, too. And what’s more, all things being equal, it was no part of my job to suggest that one of the bods in Central was playing for both sides. But all things weren’t equal, or not quite. The trouble is I know that Morrissey’s plans to deal with the Farm Boys are coming to the boil.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “His daughter, Lee, guessed he was up to something. She told Hoyland and he told me.”

  “Third-hand.”

  “It may be third-hand, but I’ve worked with the old boy before and I’m as sure as I can be that he’s got something devious in the offing. So far he’s been keeping his cards close to his chest, but when the moment comes, he may need help. Suppose he plans to bring Kay in on it. He did last time.”

  “And last time,” said Jane thoughtfully, “his plans were blown.”

  “Yes. I thought about that, too.”

  “But if you do say anything to Morrissey, and Kay’s innocent, you could be doing him irreparable harm.”

  “All right. Those are the facts. Let’s have the judgment of the court.”

  Jane thought about it whilst she concluded a line of stitching and snapped the cotton. Then, once more, she succeeded in surprising him.

  She said, “It seems to me more an ethical problem than a practical one. Do you accept the responsibility of keeping your mouth shut, or do you risk hurting Kay? I had a phone call from Father Freeling this morning. He told me he has a short service every Thursday morning at eight. If we went along we could be back by nine. Mrs Gamage would keep an eye on the kids.” Mrs Gamage was the widow of a police sergeant who lived in the flat below.

  “You’re not suggesting that I should put the problem to Freeling?”

  “Certainly not. What I thought was that the excursion might clear your mind.”

  “Well, so it might,” said Petrella. “I’m willing to try.”

  When they reached the church next morning and slipped into a seat at the back, the nave was nearly half-full; an astonishing congregation for a London church on a weekday. The congregation consisted mostly of middle-aged and elderly women with a scattering of men and a few children. The service was a shortened form of morning prayer.

  When Father Freeling preached, Petrella decided that he was communing with himself rather than with the congregation. For most of the time he was looking down at the book-rest on the pulpit, as though he was reading his sermon, although clearly he was doing no such thing. On one occasion, when he lifted his eyes to the back of the church, he seemed to be speaking directly to Petrella and his wife.

  “All of us, at one time or another,” he said, “are faced with a problem to which there seems to be no rational solution. In such cases it is best to take the course which may hurt you, but will do as little harm as possible to anyone else.”

  When the service was over he moved to the door, not to speak to people as they went out, but to smile at them and shake an occasional hand. He smiled with particular kindness at the Petrellas.

  As they were walking home Petrella said, “Well, I asked for guidance and I certainly got it. I’m to say nothing about Kay and hope for the best.”

  Jane said, “I wonder. Were you so engrossed with your own problem that you didn’t think about his?”

  “Father Freeling. Has he got a problem?”

  “He’s a deeply troubled man,” said Jane. But said no more until they got home and encountered an apologetic Mrs Gamage on the stairs.

  “I hope I did right to let him in,” she said. “Seeing he was only a boy I diddun think he could do any harm.”

  “That’s all right,” said Jane. “I expect it’s some school friend of Donald’s.”

  “Diddun look like a school friend,” said Mrs Gamage doubtfully.

  They found Donald sitting at one side of the dining-room table. Arnold was on the other side. Donald’s money-box had been up-ended and there was one pile of coins beside him and a smaller one beside Arnold, who was shuffling a greasy pack of cards.

  “I’ve been gammelling,” said Donald.

  “Born lucky, that boy,” said Arnold. “He’s got more of my money than I done of his.”

  “It was a very intresting game,” said Donald. “Lucy squawked once, but I put a pillow over her face to stop her.”

  “You did what?” said his mother, racing from the room.

  Donald winked at his father. “Of course I didn’t do that. I just t
old her to pipe down. She always does what I say.”

  Lucinda, back with her mother and freed from the iron control of her brother, had started to give tongue. Petrella said, coldly, “I imagine that you’ve come here because you’ve got something important to tell me.”

  “That’s right,” said Arnold. He was pocketing his pile of coins and seemed unperturbed. “Better if I told you private, really.”

  “We can talk in the kitchen.”

  When Jane came back with a pacified Lucinda she set about clearing the table of cards and money and laying breakfast. The conversation continued in the kitchen. Most of it was in Arnold’s voice. When it finished and Petrella led the way out, he was feeling for his note-case. After a moment of thought he extracted one ten-pound and two five-pound notes and handed them to Arnold.

  “For the moment,” he said, “that’s all you can have. If what you’ve told me leads to a definite conclusion, then there’ll be more. Another twenty at least.”

  Arnold pocketed the notes. He seemed neither pleased nor sorry. As he went he was followed by a thoughtful look from Donald who seemed to be thinking that, given half a chance, he could win back some of the money his father was dishing out so freely.

  “Now if I might be allowed back into the kitchen,” said Jane, “I could carry on cooking breakfast.” Then she saw the look on Petrella’s face and said, “Was it bad?”

  “If it was true, it could be very bad. I shall have to telephone. I’ll use the one in the bedroom.” First he tried the rectory and got no answer. Even if Martha was in, he supposed that she was too deaf to hear the bell. The church had a number in the book. Presumably a telephone in the vestry. He tried this and after a few rings a woman’s voice said, “Yes?”

  “I was wondering whether I could speak to Father Freeling.”

  “He’s been gone some time. I’m not sure where he’d be. This is Mrs Parks. I’m the vicar’s warden. Can I help?”

  “If you could get a message to him. It’s Superintendent Petrella speaking. I’d like a word with him. Could you suggest tomorrow at nine o’clock, at the rectory?”

  “He’s a very busy man these days. I’m not sure whether—”

  “If you tell him that it’s about Barry, I’m sure he’ll make himself available.”

  “Barry?”

  “That’s right. It’s a boy’s name. He’ll understand.”

  “Do what I can,” said Mrs Parks.

  Petrella did not sleep well that night, but he got more sleep than many of the staff of the Sentinel. The result of their night’s work appeared next morning in the form of a leading article.

  It had been closely scrutinised by the paper’s legal advisers, who had expressed misgivings. A lengthy debate had been closed by the editor who had said, “It’s my responsibility. If it raises a storm, we can weather it. And if the winds blow hard enough they may blow away that bully, Stark, and his bloody superintendent.”

  The article was headed by the single word, ‘Obstruction’.

  From time to time this paper has been critical of the actions of the SAS Regiment in Northern Ireland. It was appreciated that they were faced with a difficult problem. In many ways they were on active service, fighting an enemy as well armed as they were and a lot freer to use those arms. Our comments, therefore, were made, we hope, in a constructive way. On the other hand we did criticise, very strongly, the action of the authorities in electing to bring back a particular member of the SAS, removing him from the restraints and discipline of his regiment and enrolling him as a member of the Metropolitan Police Force. Since his arrival in East London this paper has received a string of complaints of the brutal treatment of West Indians in this area. Many of them may have been exaggerated and it was certainly not our intention to mount a campaign against one man when the complaints were of a type which has, unfortunately, become very general.

  Now our hand has been forced. A representative of the paper was pursuing enquiries in this district. Some days ago his body was recovered from the entrance channel of one of the disused docks. The pathologist, Dr Summerson, whose opinion is widely and rightly respected, reported that he could have been killed or rendered unconscious by a single blow, from a fist or hand, before being tumbled into the river.

  If only in support and protection of its own staff, the Sentinel felt bound to investigate the matter as thoroughly as possible and to offer a substantial reward for information. A curious story came to light. It seems – and for reasons which will become clear we can go no further at the moment than to say it seems – that on the evening of what proved to be the last day of his life, our man was involved in an argument, in a public house in White Horse Road, with the ex-member of the SAS and a number of his colleagues. We fully realised that this did not, of itself, amount to any sort of proof that the SAS man might have continued the argument later that evening, and that it might have been his hand, trained as it was to violence, that had struck the fatal blow. Almost everything depended on what had, in fact, taken place in that public house.

  We wanted only to arrive at the truth. If the argument had been a friendly one, then it was highly unlikely that a member of the Metropolitan Police would have tried to take the law into his own hands. On the other hand, if the argument was violent and acrimonious, the possibility did exist and needed investigation.

  Unfortunately the well-known tactic of the police, to close ranks if one of their members might be in trouble, has hampered our investigation. Is it too much to ask the authorities to order a full disclosure of the facts and to remind the superintendent concerned that he owes a duty to the public, as well as to his own force?

  Since the Sentinel was not his normal morning paper, Petrella had not read this thundering effusion when setting out for the rectory. On his previous visit the front door had stood hospitably open. Now it was shut, and ringing and knocking produced no answer. When he suspended his assault and listened he thought he heard the sound of someone moving about. This worried him enough to send him round to the back of the house, where he found the kitchen door not only unlocked, but half open. He knocked again and now heard, quite clearly, the sound of shuffling footsteps, but no one appeared.

  He went in, and crossed the kitchen. There was a breakfast tray of congealed and uneaten food on the table. The omens were unpleasantly clear.

  Standing in the hall he listened again. The shuffling footsteps on the floor above had now stopped and the only sound he could hear was the ticking of the grandfather clock, keeping time with the beating of his own heart, as he climbed the stairs.

  Martha was crouched outside one of the bedroom doors. She hardly looked up as Petrella approached, but continued muttering and mumbling without producing any words that made sense. Petrella opened the door and went in. He had known for some minutes what he would find.

  The rector was lying on his bed, on his side, covered by a single blanket. His knees were drawn halfway up to his chest as though by some sharp agony which, at the last moment, he had tried to control. He had clearly been dead for some hours. On the table, by the bed, was an envelope which Petrella noted, without surprise, was addressed to him. He opened it. The writing which covered two folded sheets of paper was firm and well spaced.

  I got your message and knew what it meant and what I had to do. There have been boys in the past with whom I have had silly little affairs. None of them went very far. This boy was different. I am not writing his name and hope it may not be necessary to publish it. He was more than willing for me to take such liberties with him as I wished. Also I knew that in this case, unlike the others, he would demand money to keep quiet and if I did not pay him – or did not pay enough – he would talk. I was proved right about this almost at once. He told his story to the reporter, Pirrie, no doubt with every detail, and if he enjoyed doing it I’m sure Pirrie enjoyed it too. Pirrie came straight down from the club to see me. Martha told him I was taking my usual evening stroll down by the river. No time to waste. He came straight down
to tell me, with a horrible feigned regret, that reluctantly he felt it to be his duty – I could see him mouthing the words and savouring them – to report the facts to the police. I hit him, once. The blow was meant for his chin and landed on his throat. I was certain I had killed him and can only say I felt no remorse. I carried him to the end of the jetty and lowered him into the river. As I was doing it a boat was coming up. It was dusk, not dark, and I wondered if they had seen me. Apparently not, since the boat went straight on. That’s all.

  Good night.

  There was much to do.

  The original document, carefully handled, had to be tested for fingerprints. If any were found they could be compared with the rector’s prints, of which there would be plenty in the house. This was a routine precaution in case anyone sought to question the authenticity of the document; unlikely, seeing that it was written throughout in Father Freeling’s distinctive hand. Then several photocopies had to be made, one of which must go, by hand, to the coroner’s officer for transmission to the coroner.

  Petrella accompanied it with a short note, explaining where it had been found. Cracknell would arrange for the moving of the body to the mortuary. Next, to alert Dr Summerson and to preserve, for his examination, the bottle of tablets and the nearly empty half-bottle of whisky which he had found by the bed.

  There being nothing more to be done for the moment, he decided that he would go home for lunch. He could take the opportunity of telling his wife what had happened.

  Jane said, “I knew something was wrong. The advice he gave wasn’t for you. It was for himself. To take things on his own shoulders and try to avoid hurting anyone else. I didn’t know what was behind it, but I could see that much.”

  “Whether it was meant for him or me,” said Petrella, “it was good advice.”

  Jane said, “I nearly forgot. I’ve had three people round this morning and the telephone’s been going non-stop. It’s an article in the Sentinel. One of them left his copy with me.”