by John Creasey
“Saxby’s coming over.”
“I think I can guess why,” Hobbs said. “Archer, his second in command, is very good, very alert, very much on the ball. He told me a little. Saxby is afraid he has slipped up badly. He is inclined to blame himself for what happened at Long Street.”
Gideon pursed his lips.
“Based on the reasoning that if he’d done more or taken action earlier or even reported to me, this disaster need never have happened?”
“Yes,” Hobbs replied.
“That makes two of us,” Gideon remarked heavily.
“I thought you might feel like that, George,” Hobbs said. “I long since gave up trying to convince you that you shouldn’t try to carry all London’s crime on your shoulders. The responsibility at Notting Hill isn’t and never has been basically ours. It’s a local authority and Ministry of Housing task, as well as one for the Home Office. You didn’t neglect it. Nor did I. Nor did Riddell.”
“I could have done a damned sight more than I did,” Gideon growled, but he sat back, took another sip, and put his pipe away. “Do you know anything more about what’s worrying Saxby?”
“Yes,” answered Hobbs. “He thinks that there will be a lot of trouble after what happened today. He’s only just faced the fact that there is a potentially violent group of Pakistani and Jamaican youths who have sunk their differences and formed a version of Black Power between them. One or two white youths have joined them. So far their activities have been very limited, but he is sure they started the attack on Rataudi’s house and would have lynched him had they got there in time.”
Gideon thrust his lower jaw forward, looking startlingly Churchillian.
“How is it they didn’t?”
“Archer placed a guard outside the house in Lancelot Crescent the moment he heard of the Long Street trouble, so we were one step ahead all the time,” Hobbs explained. “When we did have a job to do, George, we really did it. We really do have a good team!”
Gideon relaxed enough to smile, if grimly.
“Soft soap,” he said. “But good. I like the sound of Archer.”
“He hero-worships you,” Hobbs stated.
“Oh, nonsense!” Gideon waved both hands, never knowing what to say when anyone made such a remark to him, and the more affected because this was from Hobbs. Of course, Hobbs was trying to dispel that feeling of responsibility, almost of guilt, that he knew Gideon felt; nevertheless, Hobbs very seldom used extravagant phrases and always said precisely what he meant in the most dispassionate way possible. “I doubt if he knows me except as a figurehead.”
Hobbs laughed.
“David Archer,” he said. “Micky the Slob.”
On that instant Gideon had an even more vivid flashback to the case that must have been ten – yes, at least ten – years old. A deadly man; a threat to blow up a cargo vessel in London’s docks; a good-looking young detective officer, public school, exceptional physical courage and a man full of ideas and, even when dealing with the Commander, not afraid to put those ideas forward. Just after the Micky the Slob arrest, Archer had been savagely attacked and left for dead.
Now that he recalled this in more detail, Gideon also recalled seeing Archer’s name on the promotion list; but he did not remember seeing him promoted to Chief Inspector at Notting Hill. It could have happened when Gideon had been on leave, for Hobbs now took over a lot of routine jobs. All the same Gideon ought to keep in touch.
“He hasn’t forgotten a thing about you,” Hobbs declared. “He even went so far as to say that you were the deciding factor in his staying in the force when he recovered from the knifing.” Hobbs paused, and then went on: “He didn’t put this into words but the picture as I see it is that he’s been pushing Saxby to take more notice of the Black Power firebrands and Saxby has taken the view that they’re just teen-age hotheads. Now Saxby has changed his mind.”
As Hobbs talked, Gideon felt a growing sense of alarm; of depression also because of the obvious failures, but mostly of alarm. For there had been hatred in many of the youths at Lancelot Crescent, and when the full extent of the Long Street disaster was known that hatred might become much fiercer. The racial problems in Britain, especially in London, had caused a great deal of simmering resentments but apart from occasional conflicts between individuals and small groups it had never really erupted. If ever it did, if ever the simmering sense of bitterness and injustice felt by so many immigrants flared up and at the same time the anti-immigration elements burst their bonds, then one of the ugliest situations imaginable would be created.
Hatred, race hatred, would be let loose in violence.
Of course this had always been his fear; the underlying reason for his disquiet. That was why he found it so inevitable that he should shoulder some of the blame. What he had to deal with now, however, was an impending situation which could lead to disaster. It was a matter of extreme urgency.
He knew that Hobbs had some idea of what was passing through his mind; they worked together so much that often very little needed saying. He was very anxious to see Saxby, and was more than ever anxious to put the right man onto the investigation into the Black Power group.
“Can Archer work with Rollo?” he asked.
“I should think they would make a good pair.”
“What about Piluski?”
Hobbs considered, and then asked: “Why?”
“He faced the same kind of situation as the immigrants much of his life.”
“Being Jewish, you mean?” Hobbs finished his drink and put the glass on a sheet of paper on Gideon’s desk; he placed his hands on the arms of his chair, as if he were about to spring to his feet. But he sat still, staring at Gideon. A long silence followed, and Gideon knew that Hobbs was fighting a kind of battle within himself.
Gideon’s Scotland Yard exchange telephone bell rang. He put out a hand, lifted the receiver, said: “Whoever it is, have them hold on or call me later,” and put the receiver down. Hobbs was still gripping the arms of his chair. He must be on the sharp edge of real dilemma or he would not ponder this so long.
At last he said: “Piluski has the right temperament. He could move among all sides and win a hearing, probably win a lot of confidence. But would he be up to this emotionally, George? Would it hurt him too much to work among the people who are victims of this situation? Would he feel too bitter to be detached?” When Gideon didn’t answer, Hobbs went on as if desperately anxious to make himself absolutely clear. “Would he be pro-immigrant to begin with, just as Riddell was pro-white or at least anti-colour?”
Gideon reflected only for a few moments before saying: “I don’t think so, but you might be right. We’ll put Rollo onto the job at once and talk to Piluski when we’ve thought about him more.” As Hobbs nodded, his tension easing, Gideon picked up the receiver and demanded: “Who wanted me?”
He half expected it to be Saxby; or Honiwell, who must have felt there was no end to waiting.
“It’s Mr. Wilson, of Ealing,” the operator said. “Just one moment, sir.”
In the ensuing pause Gideon had time to remember that he had meant to call about the Ealing murder; had meant to find out whether the men at the antique shop had noticed anything which might possibly help with the investigation into the murder which had taken place nearby. Not having time to call Wilson was not one of those things he could blame himself for. He pushed the murder file over to Hobbs, said: “This is Gideon,” and then heard the Ealing man say: “Commander?”
“Yes. Jack, how are you?”
“I think this is one of my weeks,” answered Wilson, satisfaction resonant in his voice. “The total amount of stolen jewellery recovered is over sixty thousand pounds, and we’ve identified a quarter of it as from burglaries in or near this division.” Small wonder Wilson sounded cock-a-hoop. “But that isn’t the only problem we have
, you know; there’s that poor kid’s murder. And we might have had a break over that.” He could not keep the excitement out of his voice.
Even Gideon’s heart leaped.
“How big a break?”
“I’ve just talked to the constable – Oswald – who caught the two burglars. He saw a man cycling from the direction of Caerphilly Road at about three o’clock this morning,” Wilson reported. “He got a fair look at the chap but didn’t see his face too clearly – there was only the street light, and Oswald had a fit of sneezing. But Oswald’s sure he would recognise him while cycling again, and can give a good description of his general appearance and of the bicycle. It was an old roadster with a rear mudguard which rattled when the bike went over bumps and rough patches. We might be able to pick that bike up before it’s repaired, and it might—” Wilson broke off, as if suddenly undecided what to say, but at last added in a helpless kind of way: “I just feel that it’s my lucky day, George. I think we should put out a general call in the west and northwest area for any information about a cyclist with a loose rear mudguard seen between two-thirty and three- thirty, say – perhaps up to four o’clock this morning. Will you okay it to Information? I’ll do the rest, Commander, if you’ll just say the word.”
“I’ll do it right away,” promised Gideon without hesitation. “I’ll have you put through to Information and I’ll talk to them on the other telephone at the same time.”
“Thanks!” crowed Wilson.
Gideon put the receiver down while Hobbs began to dial on the internal telephone. As he gave the instructions, Gideon was most affected by Wilson’s obvious delight and enthusiasm. There was that to be glad about; as well as the remarkable beginning of the young Police Constable Oswald. And Archer, Hobbs – oh, there was so much to be thankful for!
For a few moments, at least, the shadow of what might happen if racial conflict should erupt over London lifted. He was just a policeman, doing his job.
12
The Bicycle
David Wells took his bicycle from the cement rack provided at a garage close to Ealing Common Station, and began what was usually his most peaceful and quiet fifteen minutes: cycling home. There was something almost remote about riding on a bicycle in the midst of noisy, fussy, smelly motor traffic, and a sense of being absolutely alone. He had enjoyed cycling since his boyhood and it was no sacrifice to him that he could not afford a car. He hired one or borrowed one for the summer holiday, and for an occasional weekend, so as to give all the family a treat. But driving made him irritable, whereas cycling gave him peace.
He always went the long way home, across Ealing Common with its well-kept grass and well-trimmed trees and well-marked roads, with large houses still privately owned as well as some new and exclusive apartment blocks where old houses had been demolished by bombs or the demolitionist’s machines. Tonight was calm; and, perhaps because he was a little late, there was less traffic about. Soon he was in the maze of narrower streets and heading toward home.
He felt a strange and unfamiliar tension, hating the thought of facing Ellen, who was bound to have heard about the murder by now. Yet what he had done, surely, he had done for her. He was unaware of the twisted thinking in this reasoning, saw it simply as a fact: that to save her from anguish, to keep the family together, he had murdered Rosamund.
But oh, God! How he kept on seeing Rosamund’s face.
How he could picture the photograph of her in the Evening News, which was folded and thrust into the canvas saddlebag which touched the loose-fitting rear mudguard.
For weeks he had been meaning to have that mudguard fixed and the saddlebag raised, for weeks. But the one needed soldering and the other should have two extra holes punched in the straps, and each was time-consuming and easy to put off. He had had so little time, what with seeing so much of Rosamund, and spending a reasonable amount at home, and working five and a half days a week. He cycled on and cycled well, very upright on the saddle, shoulders squared and unmoving, his legs from the hips down doing the work.
It did not occur to him, in the anonymous world of the bicycle, that the noise of saddlebag and mudguard was most distinctive and most noticeable once one became aware of it.
A policeman at Ealing Common Station, looking out for a bicycle which made such a noise, was acutely aware of this one when it passed during a lull in motor traffic. He telephoned Divisional Headquarters, who broadcast a general alert throughout the division. Utterly oblivious of this, David Wells put the bicycle in the shed at the back of his house – which had two flats, his being on the ground floor. He hesitated outside the back door, hearing Leonard, the younger boy, whining.
He couldn’t stand that tonight; he simply couldn’t stand it.
But he had to.
Then the door opened and Lennie came hurrying, tear-stained but beaming, wanting only to be lifted shoulder high, and so encouraged to burst out into a giggle of laughter. As he ducked beneath the lintel so as not to knock the child’s head, there was a welcome aroma of frying sausages and bacon, always a favourite of his. And Ellen had obviously washed and curled her hair and brushed gloss into it; she looked younger, less careworn, eager to see him but not overpowering him with hugs and kisses.
Soon he was eating, while she was frying bread in the fat from the bacon.
“Dear,” she said, “something very nice happened to Judy Wallace today.” Judy was the wife of the man who lived in the upper flat. “You know she lost her engagement ring two months ago, when we had that burglary?”
He remembered; there had been nothing worth stealing in here.
“Yes,” he said, wiping off some fat which dribbled down his chin.
“She’s going to get it back! The police had her description of it, and it was found early this morning. A policeman was here early this afternoon—”
At the word “police” he went into a spasm of panic. He couldn’t help it, it simply happened. He sat holding his knife and fork poised, much as he had sat at the office, his heart thumping and the rest of his body cold and still.
But Ellen’s back was toward him, the bread sizzled, Lennie was preoccupied with a toy lion, and no one noticed anything amiss. Wells had not the faintest idea that he broke out of the strange trauma at the very moment that a policeman at the end of Caerphilly Road was reporting to two others in a patrol car.
“There’s a bicycle answering the one described belonging to a David Wells, at Flat 1, number 27 Gill Street. And the back mudguard is loose. I followed him from Broadway . . .”
When P.C. Oswald was told this, an hour or two later, he said with absolute confidence: “If I can see him riding after dark, sir, I’d recognise him.”
“I certainly hope you can,” said Superintendent Wilson. “There’s something else you will be interested to hear, Oswald.”
“What’s that, sir?” Oswald was eager but had emerged from the period of excitement, not far removed from elation, which had possessed him for so much of the day.
“A cyclist was seen by another of our men coming from the direction of the house where Rosamund Lee’s body was found, about three o’clock last night. And the rear mudguard rattled a bit. We shall keep the house and man under observation, and the next time he goes out on his bicycle at night I want you to see him. Be ready to come at a moment’s notice. If you go out anywhere see that the station knows where to find you.”
“I’ll make quite sure I do, sir.” Oswald tried to keep the exaltation out of his voice.
Had ever a raw policeman got off to a better start?
Ellen Wells, forcing herself to be bright and gay, somehow keeping the children quiet, somehow eating a little although food nearly choked her, knew that she was failing, that something was badly wrong. She couldn’t bear it if David left her for another woman, she really couldn’t bear it.
She simply couldn’t stand being
left to cope on her own.
Upstairs, in a newly decorated, newly furnished flat, one of the most contemporary near Caerphilly Road, dark-haired, bright-eyed, full-lipped Judy Wallace was holding her left hand out in front of her face, turning it right and turning it left for an imaginary diamond ring to catch the light and so scintillate. She had never thought she would see the engagement ring again, and could not get over the fact that when all the formalities were over she would actually get it back.
Her husband, son of an Englishman and his Italian wife, was dark-haired and handsome in a Southern European way. He cupped her breasts in his hands, drawing her closer and closer, putting his lips to her ear and nibbling the lobe gently, his eyes following the movements of the hand, his cheek moving until he rubbed it gently against hers. As she leaned back against him, catching his mood, he whispered:
“I think we ought to celebrate, sweetheart. Now.”
“But, Ray, supper—”
“I said now.”
She suddenly spun around and kissed him open-mouthed.
“Don’t blame me if you feel hungry!”
He put his hand to the little tab on the zipper at the back of her dress.
That was the moment when Saxby stepped from Hobbs’s office into Gideon’s, where Hobbs was already standing by the window. Saxby, with his pear-shaped face and pear-shaped body, looked both pale and tired. Dust and tiny pieces of rubble had settled on his hair and on his arms and shoulders. His eyes widened when he saw the whisky and soda, and he looked at it with such longing that Hobbs poured out a two-finger drink as he sat down.
“Well, Mark,” Gideon said. “What’s on your mind?”
“It’s time I retired and made way for younger men,” Saxby growled. “Ah. Cheers.” He actually smacked his lips. “Commander, I’ve goofed. Badly. There is a kind of Black Power organisation in my manor. Archer, my second in command, has kept on nagging me about it and I’ve kept telling him we want more proof. Well, now we’”Because of the Lancelot Place affair?” asked Gideon.