No Relaxation At Scotland Yard

by John Creasey

  Gideon pursed his lips.

  “Hardly enough to reopen the case.”

  “I don’t know,” said Honiwell. “I really don’t know. I’ve talked to the Governor at Dartmoor, to several of the warders, the prison visitors as well as the Reverend Wilkinson, who was here on leave from Nigeria for three weeks. They have all come to the conclusion that Entwhistle is innocent. And I’ve had all the records put through a sieve, sir – had three men go through them, all different types of men. They all come up with the same opinion. The fact which weighed so heavily with the jury, the fact on which Golightly built our case, was that Entwhistle was the only man with a motive. There appeared to be no one else. But we now know for certain that there was someone else who might have had a motive, this man Greenwood. It’s at least possible that had Golightly discovered this chap at the time, the whole case might have gone differently.” When Gideon nodded, Honiwell went on: “If the boy Clive Entwhistle could swear he’d seen Greenwood, then we’d be in a much stronger position when we went to talk to Entwhistle.”

  “Yes,” Gideon agreed. “I can see that. Matt, as this case appears to me there are three different aspects. First ours: if we reopen it and submit new evidence and recommend a Queen’s pardon, the Home Office is going to want to test every possible link. They’ll be on our necks like a ton of bricks. The fact that Golightly, the man in charge of prosecution and the investigation, has retired and gone to live in Australia won’t make any difference: in a way the Yard will be on trial.”

  Honiwell countered: “We’d be on trial all right if we thought there was a strong possibility of a miscarriage of justice and we didn’t push as far as we could go.”

  “Matt,” Gideon said, “we mustn’t push until we are absolutely certain in our minds. If we still need evidence on top of such certainty, we might have to take a chance, but we – and that really means I – have to be convinced. And you have to convince me,” he added wryly. “I’ve the Commissioner’s authority to use my own judgment.”

  Honiwell’s eyes lit up.

  “Then we’re nearly home!”

  “Hold on,” protested Gideon. “There are two other aspects I want to talk about. The second is—”

  He broke off as a green light showed at the radiotelephone. The driver leaned forward and flicked on the sound. Immediately, a voice from Information crackled into the car, carrying an unmistakable edge of excitement.

  “. . . calling Commander Gideon . . . Commander Gideon, reply, please . . . over.”

  Gideon stretched over the back of the seat next to the driver and took the receiver.

  “Commander Gideon here,” he said. “What is it?”

  “The whole row of houses in Long Street, Notting Hill, has collapsed,” Information stated clearly. “Among the dozen or so people buried is Chief Superintendent Riddell, sir. They’re digging in the rubble now.”

  For a moment it was as if an icy blast had come into the car; Gideon had never felt such a shock. He had to fight for self-control as he said:

  “I’m nearly there. Over and out.” He rang off, stretched out and replaced the receiver, then turned and looked squarely at Honiwell, still reining in his emotions. “Matt,” he said, “we’ll be on the spot in five minutes. Our business will have to wait.”

  “Yes, I see that,” said Honiwell, returning Gideon’s gaze with equal frankness. “Entwhistle’s been waiting in Dartmoor for three years. He’s used to waiting.”

  7

  Mob

  As Gideon’s car drew up at the approach to Long Street, a policeman approached with an officious manner and stood squarely in front of the bonnet, as if defying the driver to come an inch farther. Sitting with the window open and looking up at a pall of dust which hung over the whole area, Gideon heard him say: “What’s the matter, can’t you read? There’s a diversion.” The driver got out, saying clearly: “What’s the matter, are you blind?” and opened the door for Gideon.

  There was a big square here, where houses had been demolished, a huge board announcing a new block of flats to come. On one side were white ambulances, on the other, fire engines, and behind both, police cars. Two men were carrying a stretcher on which someone lay, obviously unconscious, face pale and wan; his hair was covered with dust and debris. One man, apparently a young doctor, walked alongside him as they approached an ambulance. Chief Superintendent Saxby, the Divisional Chief, came hurrying up, a big man with a heavy paunch, immaculately dressed in brown. He had a big jowl, a thick neck, and sloping shoulders, which made him rather like a huge russet pear standing upside down. His hips were unexpectedly narrow and fell away into long, slim legs.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Found Riddell?” asked Gideon, and he heard a whisper from his chauffeur to the officious policeman; it sounded like “Bloody fool.”

  “No,” Saxby answered. “He’s still missing. Two W.V.S. women are, too. We aren’t sure any others are under the rubble.” He led the way over cables, hoses, and some loose bricks, along a street which had been evacuated, to the end of Long Street.

  Only one half of what had been the row of houses was standing, and firemen and civil defence men with some military were moving about piles of rubble, somehow pushing wood beams and metal girders into position to shore up the walls while the rescue work went on.

  The street itself was choked with rubble.

  At the far end the pile was higher and thicker than anywhere else. Men moved about it, obviously with great care, as if desperately anxious that they should not cause a collapse on any pocket of comparative security beneath. A dozen workers were picking up bricks and huge pieces of brickwork, handing these along a chain of helpers, those in the rear putting the rubble into metal barrows, which were being wheeled away. At least thirty men were on this operation alone.

  “Riddell’s under that,” Saxby announced. “He did an unbelievable job this morning, Commander. There was no need for him to volunteer, but he did like a shot. Helped save the lives of three children.”

  Gideon grunted. Honiwell looked shaken, and could not keep his gaze off the huge pile of bricks.

  “What’s this about the landlord?” Gideon asked.

  Saxby said: “They’ve holed him up at the top of a house he operates from. I was there when I heard about Riddell. We’ve got the mob under control, I think, but—” Saxby shook his head. “If this job gets much bigger I don’t know what will happen.”

  “Where is the mob?” asked Gideon.

  “In Lancelot Crescent,” answered Saxby.

  “Who’s in charge?”

  “My number-two man – Archer.”

  “You stay here and keep an eye on the rescue work,” said Gideon. “I’ll go to Lancelot Crescent.”

  “I’ll give you a guide,” offered Saxby. “The whole area is like a battlefield this morning.” Swinging around, he saw the constable who had blocked their way. “Jeffs! Guide the Commander’s driver to Lancelot Crescent, at once.”

  The man seemed to gulp.

  “Very good, sir.”

  Gideon got in, and Honiwell behind him.

  In the past few minutes Gideon had forced himself to think objectively: to fight back concern for Riddell and the others under the rubble, to think of what would happen if the mob Saxby talked about did break through the police cordon and lynch the landlord. That must be stopped at all costs. If there was one such triumph for mob violence, with the temper of so many people tense on the race or colour problem, it could lead to other attempts to establish mob law; it could be disastrous. It didn’t matter what had brought about the situation; it had to be stopped.

  The constable was sitting next to the driver.

  “First right, first left, then second right,” he guided.

  Soon they were past the ambulances and the fire engines but not beyond the evidences
of “battle.” Throngs of people were in the streets, nearly all of them dark-skinned, although there was a sprinkling of whites. Police were dotted about but if serious trouble developed there simply weren’t enough of them to maintain control. At the corner of the last turning, made under the policeman’s guidance, two or three men in a group were arguing fiercely, and at the next corner a little Pakistani was being pressed against the wall by two big Jamaicans, while a crowd gathered round. Two policemen came hurrying and one man called:

  “Break it up there. Break it up.”

  The police constable ventured: “That’s one of Rataudi’s rent collectors.”

  “Whose?” Gideon demanded, and his voice sounded very loud in the car.

  “Rataudi, sir – Mahommet Rataudi. He owns a lot of the places around here.”

  “Including Long Street?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How well do you know the situation?” asked Gideon.

  “Pretty well, sir. I’ve been on this beat for two years.” The man, whose helmet kept touching the roof of the car, turned his head; he had a very pale face, sharp and rather ugly features. “It’s been going from bad to worse.”

  “Tell me what you can,” ordered Gideon.

  “Well, sir.” The man twisted bodily round in his seat. “The truth is that more and more immigrants come in and more and more babies are born, and there’s just no room for expansion. All the property we’re driving through now is tenanted by families who’ve lived here on and off for years. Mostly white people. This area isn’t overcrowded and there’s a kind of vigilante committee which makes sure there’s no racket here.”

  “Racket?”

  “Overcrowding like in the Long Street area, sir. It’s terrible along there.”

  Gideon thought: I should have come to look for myself. I shouldn’t have left it to Riddell. Self-reproach didn’t help now but he had to exert every possible effort to make sure the situation got no worse; and keeping Rataudi safe from this mob was absolute priority.

  “How long have you known about it?” Gideon asked.

  “Pretty well since it began, sir. The trouble is—” There was a helpless note in the man’s voice. “First left now . . . it kind of grew up on us, sir. We knew there were plenty of people living in Rataudi’s houses but they came from other places overnight. A lot of them were fresh in from Pakistan, couldn’t even speak English; beat me at first how they got in. Then it dawned on me and the rest of us that a lot were being smuggled in. Those few the Sussex police caught coming ashore were just the tip of the iceberg, sir . . . second left and over Bayswater Road . . . what with adults being smuggled in and babies being born and some people coming from the North and the Midlands, it was like squeezing a quart into a pint pot. A gallon, rather . . . now straight on to the end of this street – that’s Lancelot Terrace.”

  For the past ten minutes they had been passing through nearly deserted streets with only a few pedestrians, mothers pushing prams, tradesmen with their vans. Suddenly a crowd of people surged across the road at the end of this street, thirty or forty of them at least; and dozens more followed. Probably one in every three was white, mostly long-haired and young. A roaring sound, of voices, became very loud.

  At last the police car turned into Lancelot Crescent.

  Here the houses were graceful Georgian or neo-Georgian, with big white pillars, tall windows, obviously the homes of prosperous people. But at the far end, a cordon of police was struggling to keep a mob of people away from the entrance to a house which stood in its own grounds.

  As Gideon wound down his window a brick was hurled against the window of the house, and it crashed in. Another brick was hurled, striking the wall and breaking into hundreds of pieces which flew over and onto the heads of the crowd. More people, black and white, Pakistani, West Indian, and English, were streaming into Lancelot Crescent from other roads which debouched into it. Three youths were standing on the roof of a police car, bellowing, and the words came clearly to Gideon.

  “String him up!”

  “Murderer!”

  “Hang him, hang the swine!”

  “Hang him!”

  Now more and more bricks were thrown, more glass smashed. The policeman next to the driver looked apprehensively over his shoulder at Gideon, and ventured:

  “Should you be here, sir?”

  “Yes,” Gideon said in a hard voice. “Larry, send for more help. Talk to Mr. Hobbs, tell him we want a detachment of military.” He placed his fingers on the handle of the car door.

  “George,” said Matt Honiwell, “you shouldn’t go yourself.”

  At that juncture they were behind the thickest part of the crowd, although men, mostly young, were rushing past them. On the other side of the street two youths yanked open the door of a police car, and then pulled the radio telephone out of its socket. Larry was calling Information, and an answer came clearly into the car.

  “More patrol cars and some soldiers are on the way to Lancelot Crescent. Mr. Hobbs is on his way also.”

  Trust Alec!

  “George—” repeated Honiwell. “You shouldn’t go.” He was already getting out on the other side. “Leave it to me.”

  Gideon opened his door. A youth, passing, grabbed the door and tried to slam it back, but that was like trying to bend steel. Gideon got out. The youth, who hardly came up to his shoulder, glared up in defiance, which faded when he saw Gideon’s face. Gideon placed a hand on his shoulder and spun him around.

  “Go back the way you came,” he ordered.

  “Who are you to tell me what—” the youth began.

  Gideon pushed him and he went staggering into another youth who was rushing up to join the crowd. Gideon barred the way between the car and the wall of the garden, while Honiwell, the driver, and the policeman stretched out across the road to block the stream of people still coming to join the mob. The shouting and the screaming, the smashing of glass and the breaking of bricks was bedlam, and the three young men on top of the police car were leading the mob in calling:

  “Hang him!”

  “Hang Rataudi.”

  “String him up, hang him. String him up, hang him. “

  “Hang Rataudi!”

  “Hang him!”

  Now Gideon was facing six or seven youths, all white-skinned, who were obviously going to rush him, but he lunged forward first, and the very sight of him made one stagger back and another stumble. The three policemen in the road had linked arms and were forcing the crowd back. But so many more were streaming toward the spot that they could not be held back for long.

  Suddenly two cars turned into the road; and a moment later, two jeeps. As police sprang out of the cars young troops jumped down from the jeeps, and there was nothing more to worry about from this side.

  Gideon turned around to the refrain of:

  “Hang him, hang him, hang the swine, hang him!”

  Inside the house policemen were at the windows, trying to prevent the mob from climbing in. The porch was unguarded, and the mob was hurling itself against the door. Gideon simply strode into it from behind, grabbing men right and left and thrusting them behind him. They were all taken so much by surprise that none put up serious resistance. Sooner than he had expected, Gideon was at the foot of the steps which led up to the porch; and at the same instant Honiwell appeared on the other side.

  “You take one, I’ll take the next,” Gideon said. He gripped a man by the waist, lifted him off his feet, and pushed him over into the little basement area, and Honiwell did the same, dropping his man over the steps and wall onto the corner pavement. Up on the porch eight or nine youths, white and black and pale brown, were hurling themselves at the door, unaware of what was going on behind them.

  Gideon took another man, Honiwell yet another, but before they could start again the door crash
ed in and everyone on the porch was pitched into the hall.

  Thrust back against the wall inside was a policeman in uniform, and at the foot of the stairs was another. No one could have the slightest doubt that these men were frightened.

  8

  No Pause . . .

  The door stood open. The men who had pushed it – two big Negroes, a Pakistani with powerful shoulders, and a white youth with a massive jaw and huge, clenched hands – all recoiled. A policeman came staggering from the front room, two more assailants hurling themselves at him. All of this was crystal clear to Gideon as he thrust a man behind him.

  He drew in a deep, searing breath, and bellowed: “Stop this. Stop it!” He hurtled forward, pushing two startled Negroes aside, and strode to the stairs, Honiwell close behind him. “The next man who uses violence will be put under arrest now!” He jumped up two stairs and glowered about him, and he looked enormous, towering over everyone, including Honiwell. “Now! Out of the house, all of you!”

  One man shouted: “Get him!” and rushed forward.

  Honiwell, close to the wall, grabbed the man around the waist. One of the policemen who had looked so scared only seconds ago pulled out a pair of handcuffs and, with near sleight of hand, slid them over the wrists of the man Honiwell was holding. There was a sudden, startled pause before Gideon demanded:

  “Any more for arrest?”

  A young soldier appeared on the porch, two more just behind him. The roaring and the chanting stopped. More policemen and more soldiers appeared, and Gideon beckoned Honiwell and turned to go upstairs. On the first landing two uniformed policemen stood on guard.