Roller Coaster

by Michael Gilbert

  Petrella read the leading article in silence. Then he said, “Looks as though someone’s going to have to apologise to Sergeant Stark, doesn’t it?”

  More than a simple apology was going to be needed. This was due to the activity of ex-Detective Constable Cracknell. From time to time all coroner’s officers got early news of sensational happenings. Most of them were discreet. Cracknell was an exception. He had a standing arrangement with the news editor of the Messenger. This paper had already been critical of the Sentinel’s anti-SAS stance. Now their leading hatchet man got to work. He avoided any high-flown rhetoric and headed his article ‘Egg on Face’.

  The 184,499 registered readers of the Sentinel (figures confirmed by the Press Bureau) must have been thrilled to the marrow by yesterday’s leading article. Enveloped, like a coy Victorian maiden, in swathes of ‘maybes’ and careful qualifications, the story it told was brutally clear. There was, in East London, a villainous police sergeant. The proof of his villainy? That was simple. Before becoming a policeman he had been a member of the SAS. His latest victim, it seemed, was an employee of the Sentinel, a Mr Pirrie, who had been ferreting round in the sergeant’s manor and was said, on one occasion, to have got into an argument with him. Mr Pirrie’s body was recovered from the Thames. He had been killed (wait for it!) by a karate chop as taught to all members of the SAS. Moreover, and clinching evidence, it seems that he may have gone into the river in the very area in which the sergeant lived (some 5,000 other Londoners lived there too, but don’t let that bother you). The killer of Mr Pirrie has now taken his own life, leaving behind him an unquestionable confession. All details will no doubt be made public when the inquest on Mr Pirrie is re-opened. So what happens next? Does the maligned policeman look to the courts for redress? Even more intriguingly, does the Sentinel publish a most abject apology?

  This journalistic cross-fire was studied by other interested parties.

  Lovell was summoned once more to the Home Secretary’s office. Copies of the two articles were on his desk. He said, “I take it you’ve read these effusions.”

  “I certainly have,” said Lovell. “The first one made me angry. The second one made me laugh.”

  “It’s not your reactions that interest me. It’s your considered opinion on what is going to happen next.”

  “I’m afraid there’s no doubt about that, sir. The Sentinel has loaded what you might call a double-barrelled gun. One barrel was pointed at Sergeant Stark. That having missed – or rather, having blown up in their face – they’ll be particularly anxious to see that the second barrel is effective.”

  “Meaning?”

  “That they’ll make sure it hits the target.”

  “The target being Superintendent Petrella.”

  “I’m afraid so. Our Complaints Department is already studying a sheaf of documentary evidence brought over by hand this morning. I could have copies made for you—”

  “Let me have it in your own words.”

  “The documents – copies of letters, statements, board minutes and things like that – seem to show that Petrella consorts with pornographers and is helpful to them. In consideration for his services he has received 2,000 shares in a company which promotes pornographic magazines.”

  “He got them free?”

  “Yes. A gratuitous allotment.”

  “And you consider the evidence conclusive?”

  “For the most part, no. It is largely composed of statements by people who are evidently hangers-on of the pornographers, ready to give evidence at the drop of a hat—”

  “Or the drop of a ten-pound note.”

  “A suitable number of ten-pound notes would certainly unlock their tongues. On the other hand, there are two items which do require explanation. Some photographs and the share transaction, which is fully documented.”

  The Home Secretary rolled it round in his mind. He had witnessed many assaults on people’s reputations. Had been the subject of more than one himself.

  Lovell said, “It seems to me to be an ideal case for a PDE.”

  “Yes. That would be appropriate. One thing puzzles me. I find it hard to believe that an experienced man like Petrella – incidentally I’ve read his record, a remarkable man in many ways – should have allowed himself to be framed without fighting back.”

  “When I was discussing it with him he said that in a bull fight the matador didn’t attack the bull. He waited for it to attack him.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ve never actually seen a bull fight, but I imagine that he whisks aside the cloak the bull has been charging and sticks his sword into the animal as it goes past.”

  The Home Secretary thought about certain members of the Opposition who had been plaguing him lately.

  “How gratifying it would be,” he said, “if life was as simple as bull fighting.”

  Piggy Soltau was sitting, with his feet up on the table, in the room he occupied above Goat Glibbery’s second-hand clothes and general junk shop. He was smoking his tenth cigarette of the day, and he was thinking.

  He was the best educated and the least pleasant of the Farm Boys. Starting his career as an RAMC orderly he had been discharged for stealing and selling drugs from the medical kits. After which, using some of the morphia syrettes he had brought away with him, he had set up as an abortionist. His last effort, which had resulted in the death of the girl concerned, had landed him in gaol. On getting out he had found work at a garage, where he had performed on the engines of cars the sort of forceful and unskilled surgery he had used on girls. It was here that he had made the acquaintance of Goat Glibbery.

  Soltau was, and he knew it, the only one of the Farm Boys capable, in intellect and character, of standing up to Len Farmer. Buller and Dog Henty were muscle-bound oafs. His present landlord, Glibbery, was a nonentity, used by the others as an odd-job man and errand boy.

  He stubbed out his cigarette, lit the last one in the packet and thought about the situation. If something had to be done, if some definite action was called for, then he would have to initiate it. And it might be called for, sooner rather than later.

  Farmer was becoming dangerously over-confident. If he had not been, he would not have agreed to play a part – even a minor part – in the ELBO cash job next Friday. Apparently he was not worried by Morrissey. Morrissey, said Farmer, was an empty old wind-bag, a bluffer. He said this more than once. He said it so often that Soltau had begun to wonder. For his part, instead of shooting his mouth off, he had kept his eyes open and his ear to the ground. He had noted a number of arrivals in the district, men who seemed to have little to do except hang about on the corners of streets and in the saloon bars of the public houses he used. He had sniffed them with his piggy little snout and they smelled like policemen.

  There might be nothing in it. It was easy to imagine things like that. East London had a shifting population. One had to balance between scaring oneself by shadows and taking sensible precautions.

  When he opened a drawer in the table to get out a fresh packet of cigarettes his eye lighted on something else that was there. It was a plastic bag. Well, that might serve as a precaution of sorts. If the worst came to the worst.

  Keep your wits about you, boyo, and play both sides of the table. That’s the game.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Since no legal proceedings seemed to be involved the weekend papers were able to express themselves about the Freeling case with unusual freedom. They stirred up the bubbling cauldron enthusiastically. The Sentinel did not seem to have many friends in Fleet Street.

  At midday on Saturday, Petrella received the summons from Chief Superintendent Liversedge which he had been expecting. He was driven to Shepherdess Walk by Hoyland, who seemed to have appointed himself his private chauffeur.

  Liversedge said, “You’ve been causing some excitement, young fellow.”

  He said it disapprovingly. Excitement was not catered for in his book of rules.

  Petrella said, “Sever
al people have told me that I should be in for a PDE. It’s a new procedure, isn’t it? Could you explain about it?”

  “It’s a Preliminary Disciplinary Enquiry. It was introduced into Police Orders, by a directive of the Home Secretary, in February of this year. Where there has been what seems to be a serious complaint against a police officer – I said, ‘seems’—”

  “Yes,” said Petrella. “You said ‘seems’.”

  “I didn’t want it to be supposed that I had prejudged the matter. Particularly since I may be concerned in it myself.”

  Petrella waited patiently. He knew better than to try to hurry Liversedge. “The procedure is that a panel of three senior officers is convened to consider the evidence and to see whether it warrants any further action.”

  “Like the old Grand Jury.”

  “I had not considered the point, but yes. It is similar in function to the old Grand Jury. The panel comprises one officer from the area to which the man complained of is attached, one from the Complaints Section and a chairman from Central.”

  “A balanced body.”

  “Certainly. Great care is taken that there shall be no prejudice against the man complained of. The man from the Complaints Section will have the assistance of their legal staff.”

  “A barrister or solicitor?”

  “Something of that sort,” said Liversedge, compressing his lips. He had the serving policeman’s inherent dislike of lawyers whatever shape they came in.

  “And the accused?”

  “He is invited, if he wishes, to bring a best friend with him to speak for him.”

  “Then, if a balance is to be maintained, his best friend should be a barrister or solicitor.”

  “There is nothing in the rules to forbid it.”

  “Do we know who will sit on this particular tribunal?”

  “Chief Superintendent Roper from the Complaints Department. Myself, as your local member. Chief Superintendent Watterson as chairman. I see that you have the right”—Liversedge had the book of rules open in front of him”—which must be exercised, in writing, within seven days, to object to any one or more of the selected persons.”

  “I have no objection to any of them.”

  “Then all that remains is to agree a date. The official view is that the sooner the matter is dealt with, the better.”

  “My view, too,” said Petrella. “Today is Saturday. I should like to have Monday free to—er—consult my best friend. Also to hunt out a few relevant papers.”

  “Then let us say the afternoon of Tuesday. I will give you the exact time and place later. Meanwhile, here are copies of the documents it is intended to rely on.” He pushed a heavy folder of papers across the desk. “If it is sought to introduce any extraneous matters you have the right to object.”

  Petrella weighed the folder thoughtfully in his hand. He said, “It certainly seems enough to be going on with.”

  That afternoon Morrissey spoke to John Anderson. When Morrissey had run the No. 1 Regional Crime Squad, John had been his second-in-command. Now that he headed the squads nationally, John had moved up with him and combined running the four Metropolitan squads with acting as his unofficial number two.

  Morrissey said, “I take it you’re all lined up for the ELBO cash delivery on Friday.”

  “I’m looking after it myself this time,” said Anderson.

  “It’ll be adequately guarded, I hope.”

  “It could hardly have more protection if it was the Royal Family.”

  Morrissey didn’t sound worried. He knew that if Anderson was in charge it would be done properly. He said, “Now tell me about Lampier.”

  “He could give points to the wandering Jew, that boy. Do you know he’s changed his pad three times in the last fortnight? He arranges the moves by telephone and carries them out after dark.”

  “But he hasn’t slipped you?”

  “No chance. I’ve got eight men on the job. His last move ended in a bed-sit in Earlham Street, behind the West India Dock Road, which was a bit of luck for us, because one of my men happened to know the owner of that house. He’s got some form and is suspected of being a fence. Which gave us an opportunity to twist his arm. He’ll let us know when Lampier plans to move again.”

  “Excellent,” said Morrissey.

  He said it absent-mindedly. The map he was examining was not a street map of London. It was a large-scale map of the Essex bank of the Thames between Creekmouth and Cyprus point, an area of marsh and meadowland, with a few scattered buildings. He had circled one of these buildings in red pencil. It seemed to be a farmhouse. Anderson looked at it curiously. He thought that if it was connected with any criminal activity it must surely be smuggling.

  “What I want from you,” said Morrissey, “is a man with some experience of signalling. Someone who had a post office job, or maybe someone who spent a few years in the Royal Corps of Signals.”

  Anderson conducted a mental roll-call of his men and said, “I should be able to find one or two men like that.”

  “There’s another even more important qualification. He’s got to be a man who’s capable of keeping his trap shut. Because I can tell you frankly, Johnnie, that what I’m planning to do is some way outside the book of the rules.”

  Anderson felt a surge of excitement. Morrissey only called him ‘Johnnie’ when he was feeling pleased with himself; when he had everything lined up and was ready to blow the whistle. He said, “How soon do you want this man?”

  “I want him in place by Tuesday evening.”

  On the following day, as Sunday lunch was drawing to its sticky close, Petrella had a telephone call which surprised and pleased him. It was from his father, ex-Colonel of Police Gregorio Petrella. He was speaking from Boulogne.

  He said, “I’ve just missed one boat. If the next one runs to time I should be in Dover by six o’clock. Six o’clock your time, that is. Would it be possible for you to meet me and give me a bed for a few days?”

  “An enthusiastic ‘yes’ to both of those. And I’ve got someone here who’s just as keen to see you again as I am.”

  Donald, who had been listening, grabbed the telephone and shouted down it, “Wait for me. Wait for me. I’m coming to fetch you.”

  “We shall have to ask your mother about that,” said Petrella. “It may mean keeping you up rather late.”

  This seemed to Donald to be a curious objection; an advantage rather than a drawback. In the end Jane said ‘yes’ and after a scrambled tea the two of them set out in the car that Petrella had, at last, managed to buy; an aged, but reliable, Volkswagen.

  Left to herself Jane put Lucy in her day cot by the open window and settled down to her tapestry work. It was the time of day which she liked best, when Grove Road was quiet with occasional interruptions from the traffic in Maplin Road. She knew that her husband was involved in some difficult business, but had not grasped the extent to which his doings were becoming a matter of public interest.

  The immediate effect of a long and imperious ringing on the doorbell was to wake up Lucy, who protested. Jane picked her up, went to the door and opened it. Bearing in mind her husband’s instructions she left it on the chain.

  There was a young man outside, with a camera slung from one shoulder. He said, “Might I come in?”

  “That depends,” said Jane, “on who you are and what you want.”

  “I’m from the Messenger. You’ll have noticed that we are strongly on your husband’s side in his dispute with the Sentinel. I expect you read our article on Saturday. I wondered if you might have some comment for our readers. And perhaps a photograph.”

  Jane was relieved to see that the prolonged ringing of the doorbell and the sound of voices had brought Mrs Gamage out onto the landing below and that she was listening unashamedly.

  Jane said, “My message for you is that you should go away and stop pestering me.”

  “Surely you can do better than that,” said the young man with a smile. “At least let me take
a photograph—”

  Jane said, “Mrs Gamage.”

  “Yes, ducky.”

  “Would you be so good as to nip round to Maplin Road and fetch a policeman? Tell him that this man has been making improper suggestions.”

  “I’ll go right round,” said Mrs Gamage, much gratified. The young man, having concluded that discretion was the better part of valour, followed her down. Lucy saluted his departure with a scream which was a mixture of dislike and triumph.

  The only other interruption was the return of Mrs Gamage with a constable – luckily one that Jane knew. He said, “Don’t you worry, Mrs Petrella. We’ll keep our eyes open. The super wouldn’t want you to be upset, that’s for sure.”

  Mrs Gamage said, “If one of them nasty creatures comes round again just give us a shout. I’ll hear you.”

  Thus doubly guarded Jane returned to her embroidery.

  It was after ten o’clock when the boat party got back. Donald did most of the talking. He said, “And do you know what? We stopped at a place on the way back and had sausages to eat. I had four.”

  “Off to bed,” said Jane.

  “I’m not a bit tired.”

  “We’re not all as tough as you,” said his grandfather. “I’ve driven four hundred miles today and I’m so tired I could sleep on a rockery. I think I’ll take those papers to bed with me.”

  “They’ll lull you to sleep,” said Petrella.

  On the following morning, in the intervals of putting away a large breakfast, his father said, “I leafed through that dossier before I got up. When I was working for General Franco I was threatened no less than three times with fabricated accusations. They were a good deal more carefully rigged than this one. This is a house of cards, resting on two premises. One of them questionable, the other simply wrong.” He explained what he meant and added, “one or two facts are still not quite plain. If I’m to give you the whole picture I shall have to do some telephoning. It’ll be a question of locating one man and seeing if he can put me on to another man.”

  “Do all the telephoning you want,” said Petrella. “I shan’t be here. I’ve got a date with my best friend.”