No Relaxation At Scotland Yard

by John Creasey

  “I know where I am,” the policeman asserted confidently, “but I wouldn’t like to step onto the moor. What’s the matter with your dog?”

  The soldier said: “He smells a rabbit, I daresay.” The dog was pulling very hard now, obviously aware of something ahead, and the policeman changed the beam of his torch, trying to make it pierce further into the fog. All about them was silence, and nothing but mist was in sight.

  The dog pulled harder.

  “Careful,” the policeman said, and he stopped and levelled the shotgun, then challenged: “Welbeck! Give yourself up.”

  There was no reply but the dog’s panting.

  “Welbeck! You haven’t a chance!”

  “Do you really think it’s him?” asked the soldier.

  “I know it might be. Will you take the torch?” The policeman handed the torch over and then called again into the eerie gloom. “Welbeck! Give yourself up!”

  The soldier shone the torch forward, at waist height; they could see for perhaps ten yards, straight ahead, at about the level a man’s waist would be, but they could see neither above that level nor below. The dog was straining forward very hard now; there was no doubt at all that he had made some discovery.

  The soldier said: “Can’t you call for help?”

  “I don’t want to use the whistle unless I’m sure. Welbeck!” The policeman took a short step forward, straining to reach the centre of the haze of light, not even thinking of looking toward the ground.

  He kicked against something.

  “God!” he gasped, and staggered, then straightened up. The soldier shone the torch downward and it shone on the path and gravel and a shoe; a child’s shoe. The dog was pulling harder than ever, and panting louder, but above the sound of the panting was another sound: of crying.

  Next moment the glow of light fell about Carol Entwhistle as she half stood, half crouched, her eyes glistening in fear as the dog strained toward her. The next moment, at a word from the soldier, the animal was sitting and looking up at her, and the policeman was on one knee, putting an arm around Carol’s shoulders, soothing her, and saying: “There, there, it’s all right. There, there.”

  Some two hundred miles away, in King’s Road, Chelsea, where there was no more than a hint of fog, Information was saying to Gideon and Hobbs as they sat in the back of the car:

  “Nothing yet from Mr. Honiwell, sir, but the child has been found. She was on the moor all right. Not hurt, according to the first reports.”

  “Thank God for that,” Gideon breathed, and as he put the receiver down on a hook at the back of the driver’s seat, he went on: “All right, Alec. I’ll go home.”

  As they headed toward Fulham and Harrington Street, only ten minutes’ drive away, the radio was filled with the happenings of the night: calls for help, reports of burglaries and of accidents; such things reached Information in a never-ending stream.

  Eric Greenwood was wide awake. He had been reading and listening to a late night orchestral concert on BBC 3, his head filled with vague thoughts of Jennifer, of what he would have to do, of his coming “holiday,” of the fact that the Orianda was making good progress and would be here a day early unless she ran into trouble in the Bay of Biscay. There was a ring at his flat bell and instantly he thought: Jennifer. He put down the book, a biography of one of the early members of the East India Company, out of which Cox and Shieling had been born, and went to the door, anger beginning to rise.

  Two big men, undoubtedly policemen, stood at the door. The bigger of the two, wearing a huge overcoat, was a stranger. The other man was familiar – a bruiser type with broken nose and flattened lips; he had seen him about the office area, in the pub where he and Bessie went occasionally.

  The bigger man spoke.

  “Mr. Eric Greenwood?”

  “I—yes. Yes.”

  “My name is Honiwell, Chief Superintendent Honiwell of New Scotland Yard,” the speaker announced. From the depths of his clothes he took a card and handed it to Greenwood. “This is Detective Sergeant Benbow.”

  “What—what can I do for you?” Greenwood made himself ask. He stood blocking the doorway, shocked. He had no idea why they had come, did not give a thought to the murder he had committed three years ago.

  “May we come in, sir?” asked Honiwell.

  “I—er—I was just going to bed. I—yes, come in.” He led them into the pleasant room, where the strains of the BBC orchestra sounded gentle and soothing. “What—er—is everything all right?” Suddenly it dawned on him that there must have been a burglary at the warehouse or the showrooms; why else would the police have sent senior officers? “What’s happened?” he demanded.

  “Mr. Greenwood,” Honiwell said in a heavy, doom-laden voice, “we wish to know why, when we were asking in the newspapers for information about a Mrs. Margaret Entwhistle after she had been murdered, you did not come forward with information.” Honiwell turned to Benbow. “What was the name of that restaurant in Fulham Road?”

  “The English Fayre,” Benbow answered flatly.

  “And the guesthouse where Mr. Greenwood and Mrs. Entwhistle stayed from time to time?”

  “Evergreens.”

  Greenwood was staring as if he could not believe this was happening. He had gone chalk white. His hands were clenched by his sides and his breath whistled through his nostrils.

  “Now, sir. Your explanation, please,” Honiwell growled. He looked big and menacing, and Benbow, with a savage expression, had moved to one side, doubling his right fist and bending his arm up and down.

  “I—I—” stammered Greenwood.

  Honiwell dived with his right hand into his coat, the swift movement making Greenwood sway backward. Honiwell brought out two photographs, the top one of Margaret Entwhistle as she had lain on the morgue slab, the other of her laughing with her children. He held them like two cards in a pack and thrust them in front of the frightened man.

  “Perhaps this will help you to remember . . .”

  Greenwood was now slowly turning green. Suddenly he backed away and dropped into his chair, trembling violently. Honiwell and Benbow exchanged a quick, satisfied glance, as Honiwell put the morgue photograph on Greenwood’s knees.

  Gideon was getting into bed when the telephone bell rang. Kate was lying on her side, looking at him. There was light from street lamps as well as from the bedside table and in the glow the pyjamed Gideon looked enormous. He slid into bed before picking up the receiver. Certainly no one would call him at this hour unless it was urgent.

  “Gideon,” he said.

  “We’ve got Greenwood,” Honiwell announced with a lilt in his voice. “We’ve a confession, signed, irretractable, I would say. He killed her because she wanted to tell her husband and get a divorce and he didn’t want to marry her and thought a divorce would upset his employers. They’re a pretty puritanical lot, as far as I can see.” Honiwell was talking a little too much but no one had earned the right to talk more. “We’ve got him at the Yard, sir.

  “Good!” Gideon enthused. “I couldn’t be more glad. Now you’ll have some news to take to Dartmoor tomorrow.” He would have rung off then but sensed that Honiwell still had something to say, and asked: “What else, Matt?”

  “I bumped into Piluski at the Yard,” said Honiwell, “and went into that operations room. They’re doing quite a job, sir!” Hastily Honiwell went on: “But the point is, among the landlords on their list there’s Cox and Shieling, Limited. The same company has a line of cargo vessels which run from the Far East via Bombay and Karachi, Pakistan, and some other port. I just wondered if they traffic in illegal immigrants. Just an idea, sir.”

  “We’ll find out first thing in the morning,” Gideon said grimly.

  Tired as he was, he did not get to sleep quickly. The strange thing was that he was most preoccupied with the thought of Entw
histle and his years under a life sentence as well as the young Church of England priest who had first persuaded him to look into the case despite the fact that it had been officially over and done with.

  On the following day, in the middle of the afternoon, Honiwell arrived at Dartmoor Prison; he had travelled by early train to Exeter and had been met by a police car at the station. He had visited the policeman’s cottage, where Carol was still sleeping, cared for by the man’s wife, and was now taken to the Governor.

  “Well, Superintendent,” the Governor said, “I’m very glad we found the child. We wouldn’t have if the prisoner Welbeck hadn’t escaped, because we wouldn’t have had a search party out.”

  “Have you found Welbeck yet, sir?”

  “No. We keep getting rumours that he’s been seen. Got away on a motorcycle, apparently.” The Governor shrugged that off, and went on: “Commander Gideon tells me you have some remarkably good news for the prisoner Entwhistle.”

  “Very good news, sir,” Honiwell said.

  “And I understand that the Home Secretary has ordered his transfer from Dartmoor to Brixton, where he will stay until the formalities are concluded. Of course the transfer will be arranged at once.” He pressed a bell, and almost immediately the door opened and the chief warder appeared. “Fetch Entwhistle, will you?” said the Governor. “Just tell him that I want to see him.”

  Entwhistle was in the one place where he could get some peace of mind: the library. He was alone, for most of the prisoners were confined to their cells; there was always tension in the air after an escape, always danger that hotheads would start trouble. Entwhistle was surprised he had been allowed to come to the library. When the chief warder came for him in person he assumed it had to do with Welbeck’s escape, and when he was told that he was going to see the Governor he thought the same thing. He would have leaped to the wildest conclusions at any other time.

  There was the Governor, behind his desk; a big man whom Entwhistle didn’t know; and the chief warder, on the other side of the desk. It was at this moment that he realised this was not simply about Welbeck.

  “Entwhistle,” the Governor said, “this is Chief Detective Superintendent Honiwell, of New Scotland Yard. He has been making inquiries over several months into the circumstances surrounding the murder of your wife, and he has good news for you.”

  Entwhistle felt as if every nerve in his body, every muscle too, had gone as stiff as steel. Only two words went through his mind, over and over again. Good news, good news, good news. The chief warder drew closer to him, for he looked as if he were about to faint, and Honiwell came toward him, hand outstretched.

  “We now know that another man killed her,” Honiwell said as he shook hands in an almost casual way. “And we have the man under arrest. There will be a number of formalities, Mr. Entwhistle, but I have Home Office permission to assure you that there will be a minimum of delay until your release.”

  Entwhistle said in a husky voice: “Release. Release.” He felt the chief warder guiding him to a chair. “Release.” His mind was in hopeless confusion, there was now a medley of words. “Good news—another man killed her—release. Release.” He felt his nerves relaxing. He felt a whisky flask pressed to his lips. “My God!” he gasped. “I’m cleared!” Now his eyes blazed. “I’m cleared.” And then he got up slowly and turned to the Governor. “When—when can I see my children, sir?” He was thinking chiefly of Carol.

  Very gently, the Governor told him what Carol had done and where she was; a radiance began to grow in Entwhistle’s gaunt face.

  21

  Long and Short Term

  “I don’t mind admitting I wasn’t far from tears myself,” Honiwell said to Gideon, two days later. He had just come back with Entwhistle and the child. Entwhistle was now in a remand cell at Brixton, with privileges he had not had in years, and Carol was at home with her aunt. The story of her journey and that of Greenwood’s arrest had hit the headlines this morning, the first sensation to drive off the pictures and stories of the immigrants’ plight. “They just stared at each other, sir. They just stared. And it was Entwhistle who broke down. He began to cry. And he went down on his knees to her.” Honiwell gulped. “If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never see anything like that again.”

  Gideon said quietly: “I hope you never have to, Matt. You and Benbow did a remarkable job. Remarkable.” He waited for a few moments and then went on: “Well, you’ll have plenty to do getting this case cleared up, but when you’re not on it give Rollo and Piluski a hand, will you? You’ll be interested to know that the partners in Cox and Shieling Limited as well as the company itself are owners of a great deal of property tenanted by Pakistani immigrants, and all their property is maintained in good order under strict supervision. Three out of four such places we’ve seen are, thank God. But there are far too many bad ones and Rataudi is part owner of most of these. He has an English and a Jamaican and a Chinese partner.”

  “It’s going to take a hell of a long time to get to the bottom of that job,” Honiwell said.

  “Yes,” Gideon agreed. “A very long time. But we’ve now done so much and the government has taken it so seriously that everyone concerned is satisfied that the authorities are trying to make sure that all parties get justice. That should really be enough to calm things down.”

  It was going to take months and possibly years to sort out the criminal from the civil offences where the immigrants’ housing was concerned, as well as the different forms of illegal entry, Gideon knew. But there were clear indications that emergency housing arrangements were rapidly being made. There were other good things, too: the discovery at Pentecost Street as well as the disaster at Long Street had shocked most people, particularly many of the anti-coloured population. There were calls for stricter control of immigration, there was need to put more police onto the investigation of smuggling at airports and seaports. There were calls for a census of the non-white population, for a thorough check throughout the land of the conditions in which they worked and lived.

  But the duty of the police was now well defined.

  It looked to Gideon as if Rollo and Piluski, as well as Archer and, later, Honiwell, would be assigned to all the police aspects of the situation for a long time to come. There might be a case for setting up a department of Home Office, C.I.D., and provincial forces, as well as Customs, Port of London Authority, airport and dockside police forces, but the time wasn’t yet.

  There were other, long-term problems.

  Of the new Assistant Commissioner, for instance. He had persuaded Scott-Marie to continue as they were for a few months, and he knew exactly what he was going to do: have Hobbs stand in for him with increasing frequency so that Scott-Marie not only got to know the other more as a man but came to understand Hobbs’s qualities.

  There was the preparation of the papers for the trial of David Wells; the quicker they went to the Public Prosecutor’s office, the better.

  There was the search for the missing antique dealer, Max, who had not been found, despite a squeal.

  There was the trial of the two men who had been caught burgling Max’s shop.

  There was formal approval to be given, once the insurance companies had been over all the recovered stolen property, for its return to the owners. There would be a lot of satisfaction over that, and he wondered whether one of the national newspapers could be persuaded to feature the story: it was past time attention was focused on the good side of police work instead of the sensational and the sordid.

  And there was the dealing, day by day, with the crime of London, including the big embezzlement case.

  As he stood at his window, after Honiwell had gone, he wondered again what new crimes were being planned, and what new horror and new dread; what grief and dismay was waiting, all unsuspected, for the ordinary people. And he thought, too, of those who were in such trouble now and those who na
rrowly escaped it.

  Jennifer Goodenough was at the quayside when the Orianda docked, and was among the first to go aboard. She seemed to be followed by a shadow – of what might have been had Eric not been arrested and charged. As she went toward the bridge, where she would find Simon, she touched her throat and mouth with her hands.

  Ellen Wells was in a curiously unreal frame of mind; doing everything she had to do for the children, seeing Welfare and other authorities because her income had been cut off, and aware of the kindness and compassion of so many people, including the police. In a strange way, it was a relief. She had always dreaded what would happen if David left her, and now she knew. The chief concern was for the children. She might have to move away from here, but whatever happened, she now knew that she could cope.

  So did Violet Riddel!

  Her Tom was coming home in a day or two, but he would need a great deal of looking after, would be convalescent for weeks, perhaps for months. The wonderful thing was that he had been asked whether he would like to go to one of the police nursing and convalescent homes, or come home to her. And he had chosen to come home. She would have something worthwhile to do at last; look after him, nurse him, do anything he needed. She could mother him!

  And she would never forget that he wanted to come home.

  There was another thing she mustn’t forget, either; he was a hero. Why, there was already talk that he should be recommended for the George Medal, the most important civil award for bravery.

  Violet Riddell had never been so happy in her married life.

  And Netta Jameson, who now called herself Honiwell, had never been so deeply contented. She was even thinking of giving up the salon so as to be at home whenever Matthew had a few hours off. She wasn’t quite sure whether this would be wise, but before long she would have a word with Kate Gideon about it. No one was likely to know more about the needs of a policeman.