No Relaxation At Scotland Yard

by John Creasey

  “I’ll bring some tea,” she said. “Or would you rather have coffee, Matt?”

  “Coffee, please,” Honiwell opted.

  When Kate had gone out of the room, Gideon looked at the other man with a different kind of appraisal. He had watched him as Kate had talked, and sensed that Honiwell was affected by the story; he also recalled the way he had spoken of Netta’s having taken a liking to Vi Riddell. There was nothing more to discuss over the Entwhistle-Greenwood affair, which could hardly be more unsatisfactory; and until reports came in, nothing else could be done about the standby. As always, Kate had comforted him, and it was Gideon the human being rather than Gideon the detective who now faced Honiwell, whose features were shadowed by the light from under a dark green lampshade.

  “Good occasions, these dinner dances,” Gideon remarked. “Kate hadn’t met Netta before. She took to her as Netta obviously took to Violet Riddell. How long have you known Netta now?”

  Honiwell leaned forward in his chair so that his face caught the light on only one side; his features were not particularly good but he had a generous-looking mouth and his hair, in need of cutting, was more like a child’s than a man’s. He did look rather like a huge, cuddly stuffed toy.

  “Just over two years,” he said. “George, I’d like to talk on a personal matter, if you can bear it.”

  “Fire away,” urged Gideon.

  “It isn’t so easy.”

  “Personal matters seldom are,” said Gideon, and he smiled. “Get it off your chest, Matt. You joined the Force only about two years after me – I was your first sergeant, remember?”

  “My God, so you were!” exclaimed Honiwell. “I made a bloody fool of myself over a prostitute, tackled her on her own, and when you came along she was yelling her head off telling the world I was trying to rape her.”

  “Only I’d seen her before,” Gideon said, laughter in his voice.

  “If you’d been some stuck-up basket God knows where that would have landed me,” said Honiwell. He was smiling broadly, but gradually sobered. “That’s a long time ago. Twenty-seven years.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t say I’ve regretted a day of it,” said Honiwell, “except – George, do you remember the Singleton bother out in Thames Division? Damn fool question. You were there. I doubt if you know that I was.”

  “Do you mean when Singleton nearly killed his wife’s boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “It would be hard to forget,” said Gideon musingly. He knew that the question must indicate what subject was on Honiwell’s mind; for Singleton had been tried and sentenced and was now in jail, and Gideon himself had chosen to give evidence against him, while feeling great compassion. “What are you driving at, Matt?”

  Honiwell gulped.

  “Nothing we’d like to do more, but Netta and I can’t get married for years. Indefinitely.”

  “Oh,” Gideon said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Her husband won’t divorce her, and the new law doesn’t apply to her yet.”

  “Breakdown in her marriage, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “How are you tackling the situation?” asked Gideon.

  “We’re living together.”

  “I certainly can’t say I blame you,” Gideon said, and Honiwell’s eyes lit up.

  “Do you mean that?”

  “Of course I mean it.”

  “George,” said Honiwell. “The police have to give a good example.”

  “You do,” retorted Gideon.

  “George,” repeated Honiwell, obviously with a greater effort, “I’m deeply troubled about this.”

  “Matt,” Gideon said, “I don’t think you need be. You’re not pretending to be married, are you – haven’t been through any ceremony?”

  “Good God, no!”

  “Then if you and Netta think this is right for you, what’s bothering you?” asked Gideon.

  He knew, of course; had not the slightest doubt. But if he allowed Honiwell to realise that, then Gideon would have made it appear glaringly obvious that there was cause for anxiety, which was the very last thing he wanted to do. So he looked blandly at Honiwell, who drew in a deep breath before asking:

  “You really don’t see?”

  “No.”

  “Then it can’t be as bad as I thought it was,” Honiwell said, and when Gideon didn’t comment, he went on: “I could come up against the press, or I could run into a case where the defence knows about me and Netta, or finds out. I can’t keep it secret, George. I’ll bet a dozen little pipsqueaks know about it and it’s all over the place now. If I charge any of the old lags, anyone with a record, they’ll dig it out and sell it to the press. If it was juicy enough, a lot of newspapers would use it. Er—take this case, George.”

  A little more heavily, as if he were just beginning to understand, Gideon said:

  “Entwhistle and Greenwood?”

  “Of course.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Gideon thoughtfully. “If you’re the man who reopens the case and a newspaper gets word of your relationship with Netta, the story would be irresistible; police officer who is living out of wedlock spends months tracking down a man who murdered a woman he had been living with. Or who’d been his mistress, anyhow.” Gideon rubbed his chin, very slowly, and made a rasping noise with his stubble. He hoped Kate wouldn’t come in yet; this was something he wanted to finish with Honiwell alone, and he had now seen more clearly than he had before: in this particular case Honiwell was vulnerable, and it was possible that one or more newspapers would give the angle headlines. There was at least one which lost no opportunity to get in a crack at the Yard.

  He heard cups rattle.

  “George,” said Honiwell huskily, “you’re beginning to see what I mean, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Gideon, and got up and went to the door. “Kate,” he called, seeing her at the end of the passage with a tray in her hands. “Give us another ten minutes, will you?”

  “Of course,” Kate called back.

  Gideon turned back into the room and now stood looking down on this man whom he had known for so long, and who had served the Yard so well. From this angle Honiwell seemed older; not tired, just older – and anxious and perhaps even disillusioned.

  “Yes,” Gideon repeated. “Now that I’ve allied it to the Entwhistle-Greenwood case, I see exactly what you mean. That’s not the problem. The problem is to make you understand exactly what I think.” Now he sat on the arm of his chair, and the chair tilted a little. “I think that whatever sneers or scandal some of the press might use, you would convince a jury absolutely of your integrity – just as you have always convinced me. I think that every man who matters at the Yard, from Scott-Marie downward, would be behind you: you have to live your life in the happiest way you can. You might get some cracks from newspapers and neighbours, but you wouldn’t get any from the Yard. I am absolutely convinced of that.”

  Honiwell’s eyes were glowing, and he was breathing very hard. The house and the street seemed quiet, and the quiet was accentuated when a car flashed past the window and the sound quickly died away.

  “And I’ll tell you something else,” Gideon went on. “Kate would agree with me absolutely. You and Netta will always be welcome here. I’ll give her the gist of the situation afterward.” He stood up and, in a rare gesture, placed a hand on Honiwell’s shoulder. “Matt, you may find neighbours difficult at times, you may run into technical problems such as when you travel, but you won’t have any trouble at the Yard. My goodness,” he exclaimed, “just think of Rollo and his reputation! Compared with him, you’re as white as driven snow!”

  Gideon told Kate the story when they were getting ready for bed, and she reacted as he had expected although warning him that there might be more disapproval
than he expected. But he had the satisfaction of knowing that he had sent Honiwell off very much happier than when he had arrived. The Entwhistle case troubled Gideon, but against this was the silent telephone, and the increasing confidence that all had gone well on this night of standby, when every policeman in London was ready for an emergency call.

  It was half-past seven when he woke. He heard the milk wagon in the street, and a boy whistling, thought he heard Penny on the landing. He got out of bed without disturbing Kate, and put on his camel’s hair dressing gown, which made him look huge around the middle, pushed his feet into wool-lined leather slippers, last year’s Christmas present from Priscilla and her husband; they were trodden down badly at the heels. Outside he found Penny on the landing between her room and the bathroom, looking up toward the loft hatch rather wistfully. She was so pretty in a fluffy pink-and-white dressing gown and her hair tumbling about her shoulders; these days she usually wore it with a bun at the nape of the neck; a Victorian fashion back in favour. She had obviously just come out of the bathroom; her cheeks and nose were shiny.

  “No,” Gideon said, “I haven’t forgotten.”

  She jumped around. “Oh, Daddy! You scared me.”

  “I broke a daydream, didn’t I?” her father asked. “And a slightly reproachful mood about your father, who promised to have the loft soundproofed so that you can practice your piano without disturbing the neighbours, and hasn’t done a thing about it.”

  Penny flushed, but did not avert her gaze.

  “I was wondering when you would be able to get round to it. But I know how busy you are, and there isn’t really any hurry.”

  But there was, of course; all youth was impatient. He saw how she checked an impulse to move closer to him; she wouldn’t want to cosset him to help persuade. So he moved forward himself and gave her a hug with one arm.

  “I’ve had an expert out to look over it,” he told her. “He said it can be done; the biggest problem is going to be to get the piano up there. He’s going to estimate and if we come to terms, the work will be started early in the new year and will take about a month.”

  She didn’t speak, but looked ravishingly radiant; she didn’t fling herself at him, boisterous and childlike, but just huddled against him. He thought of Hobbs as he felt the pressure of her arms and a choky: “Oh, Daddy, thank you.” Then he stood her away from him, disturbingly aware of her, his youngest daughter; and he thought of no one else in the world. How she must have longed for this news; how difficult, despite her full life, the waiting must have been.

  At the time when Gideon was standing on the landing with Penelope, Carol Entwhistle was sitting with her brother and sister, eating corn flakes liberally swamped in milk and sprinkled with brown sugar. Her aunt, so tall and grave and concerned, did not show special concern for her but in fact was much more troubled than for a long time past. Yet Carol ate more heartily than usual, and for once was ready to leave for school before the others. She was by the kitchen door, satchel over her shoulder packed very tightly, school beret on, blue raincoat buttoned.

  “Auntie, may I go on ahead?” she asked. “I’d like to look in the library at school before the crowd comes.”

  “Yes, pet,” her aunt agreed, and moved over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Off you go.”

  So Carol went off.

  Her aunt would not expect to see her again until four o’clock or later, for she lunched at school like the other two. She moved sedately, as always, fifteen minutes ahead of time.

  But instead of going to school she caught a bus; she felt confident that her aunt didn’t know that in her satchel she had some clothes, a toothbrush, and her toilet necessities, together with all her savings, every penny. There was over ten pounds. She felt sure that she had enough money to get to Dartmoor.

  She simply had to see her father.

  14

  Briefing

  Gideon turned into his office at a few minutes after nine that morning, to find a pile of new reports and half a dozen messages under a paper knife which Kate had given him, oh, it must have been twenty years ago. And there were the morning’s newspapers, folded across the middle and placed neatly in front of one another. He put his heavy overcoat on a clothes stand, and just glanced out of the window, at a dull grey Thames and a leaden sky. Brrh! It was cold enough for snow! He crossed to the desk, sat down, and put the paper knife aside.

  The newspapers carried huge photographs of the disaster, of Riddell the police hero, of Rataudi; and the leading articles, which Gideon glanced at, were full of fulmination against “authorities who permitted and landlords who abused the situation.”

  The first message was from Hobbs. “Rollo will be here at ten o’clock, Piluski at half-past ten. Rollo knows what you want him for, Piluski doesn’t.”

  Gideon put that aside.

  The next was from Scott-Marie’s secretary. “The Commissioner would like a report on the Notting Hill incident”—incident! thought Gideon—”at two o’clock, please. As detailed as possible, as it is needed for a conference at three o’clock.”

  Gideon pursed his lips and reflected that such requests usually came through the Assistant Commissioner; it really did look as if Scott-Marie was making him double his own job with the A.C.’s. An issue was going to be forced about that before long; he could see it coming. He pushed the message aside but not out of his mind, and found an envelope, sealed and marked “Personal.” He didn’t recognise the writing, opened it with the paper knife, and unfolded a single sheet of notepaper. There were two words: “Thanks. Matt.” He smiled briefly and picked up the next message and read with deep satisfaction: “Chief Superintendent Riddell had a good night. He is still in the intensive care ward but the post-surgical report is satisfactory.”

  Gideon sat back and stared out of the window, recollection of what Kate had told him about Vi Riddell passing through his mind.

  That was all the messages, but the Post In tray was very full, and he ran through the contents. Letters from divisions and other police forces, most inviting him to special functions; letters requesting co-operation from the Yard with Sydney, Buenos Aires, Cape Town, and Vienna. There were two charity appeals and a variety of mail order offers. Before he finished he dialled the typing pool, and asked:

  “Is Miss Sale there and free?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ask her to come and see Commander Gideon.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Sabrina knew him better than anyone in the pool and could answer most of his letters for him; and he had to get them in hand now or they wouldn’t be done until the afternoon, which meant that they probably wouldn’t get off today. He made pencilled notes for her guidance, then turned to the case reports. The top one was about the murder of young Rosamund Lee, at Ealing. He opened it and read Hobbs’s comments.

  The suspect did not use his bicycle last night so the constable, Oswald, was not able to see him. This suspect, David Wells, is under constant but secret surveillance. No immediate action needed.

  The next report was also from the Ealing area, from EF Division. It confirmed the value of the recovered jewels at sixty thousand pounds and added: “Both accused will appear this morning at the West London Police Court. The antique dealer has not yet been caught.” And again Hobbs recommended: “No immediate action needed.”

  There was a tap at the door and he called, “Come in.” Sabrina Sale entered. She was, as always, neatly dressed and nicely made up, and he noticed that her hair had a faint tint of blue. Her glasses were inconspicuous, her voice pleasant. He thought of her dancing with Rollo, wondering again how well she knew him, as he waved her to a chair and she sat down and crossed her very nice legs; her skirt was just above her knees. There was a minimum of “good mornings” as she handed him the letters typed by the girl who had taken his dictation yesterday; at a glance, these seemed well spaced
and typed. After a word about the ball, he plunged into what he wanted Sabrina to do, and passed over the file.

  “Just run through this lot while I sign these and read my reports, will you?”

  “Of course.” She leaned forward, the lace of her blouse making a little flurry of movement; he was very aware of her figure.

  He picked up the next few reports. There was a full one about the post office robbery, and here Hobbs recommended: “You might be well advised to see Ringall today.” So he put that folder aside. It was ten minutes before he had finished reading all the files, and as far as he could judge he had absorbed the essentials of them all. Sometime during the day he would talk with Hobbs about them. He put the last files aside and looked up, well aware that Sabrina Sale was watching him intently.

  “Any problems?” he asked.

  “Not among these letters, Commander,” she answered.

  “But still problems,” he observed.

  “I think so,” said Sabrina. “Commander – I’ve never made any comment to you about the correspondence or about any case going through the Yard, have I?”

  “No,” he agreed, and wondered what was to come.

  “May I now?”

  “You may if you wish.”

  “Thank you,” she said. The fact that she wasn’t smiling told him she was really serious, and he had never seen her in earnest before. “I think the Notting Hill affair will cause terrible trouble, perhaps a disaster, unless those responsible are brought to book very quickly.”

  He went still; she did not avert her gaze.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “And whereas until now the more level-headed and moderate immigrants have not wanted to take part in demonstrations, after yesterday many of them do. They feel that they have been victimised far too long.”

  “I see,” he said. “Why are you so sure about this?”

  “Because I know a great number of them,” she answered. “I’ve lived as a neighbour for a long time. One of the men who has been working terribly hard to try to assimilate the immigrants into some districts says that nine out of ten members of a committee which met last night have changed their attitudes from non-intervention to immediate intervention.” Sabrina seemed to colour under Gideon’s direct gaze but she went on: “I’m afraid I’m putting this very badly.”