by John Creasey
‘Good. Did you find out when Mary Ellen went there?’
‘Yes, sir. This morning.’
‘Who sent her there?’
‘Mrs Mallows refuses to say, sir.’
‘If she thinks she’ll be on a charge, she’ll say,’ said Roger cynically. I want a report on this particular girl tomorrow without fail.’ He was looking hard at Pell, quite sure of the resentment which had built up in the man. ‘I can tell you who I think sent the girl—Danny O’Hara.’
Pell exclaimed: ‘The—television and film star?’
‘Good God!’ gasped Campbell.
‘So we’re on a murder investigation,’ Roger said. ‘What you can find out could be vital evidence, Sergeant.’
‘I can see that, sir.’
Roger nodded, and Campbell spoke with sudden briskness, a man who was still anxious to prove how quick he was in the uptake.
‘All right, Pell. Get cracking. I’ll leave a report for the Superintendent in the morning, if you need assistance, call in—we don’t want to lose hours because we’re cheeseparing on men.’ His glance at Roger implied: ‘Do we, Handsome?’
Pell went out quickly, took a few strides along the passage, turned back and said: ‘Would you like the door closed, sir?’
‘Yes, yes, shut it,’ said Campbell testily, and when the door was closed he grinned at Roger and went on in a very different tone: ‘Put him on his mettle, that’s for sure. The Danny O’Hara murder, eh? I heard that you’d picked up the man.’ He glanced at the plaster on Roger’s forehead, and added: ‘I heard you were at death’s door, too!’
‘Too near it for comfort,’ Roger said. ‘What do you know about this Mrs Mallows?’
‘Rumours, no more.’
‘Have the place watched, will you?’ Roger asked. ‘And have a doctor visit the girls there in the morning. If Mary Ellen Donovan is well enough to move we’ll bring her nearer the West End. Was Danny O’Hara known to visit Mrs Mallows?’
‘That’s something I would have been told, and I’ve never heard it,’ said Campbell. ‘If you didn’t pick up the killer, who did you pickup?’
‘A would be killer,’ Roger answered easily. He stood up. ‘I’ll be getting home, I’ll have to make an early start in the morning.’ As Campbell stood up, he went on: ‘You’re looking younger than ever, Charlie!’
‘Wish I could believe you,’ said Campbell genially. ‘How’s Janet—and for that matter, those two boys of yours?’
‘Janet’s fine, thanks. As for boys—they’re both young men!’
‘With girlfriends, I suppose,’ said Campbell, and added almost wistfully: ‘My two—boy and girl, you know—are both over thirty. I’ve six grandchildren! Ah, well. Regards to Janet, Handsome.’
‘And to Florence,’ Roger said, glad of a suddenly opened door in his memory.
When he reached Bell Street, Chelsea, where he lived, it was nearly one o’clock. It was a pleasant street, tree lined, with a host of well kept gardens, clipped hedges, well tended lawns. His house, like most of the others, was detached and, built over thirty years ago, it was solid if not particularly attractive, and the gap between it and the houses on either side was much wider than in modern estates. The doors of his garage were open, Janet or one of the boys had seen to that. It was nearer the street than the house itself and he closed the double doors and went up to the front porch. The hall light was on but the rest of the house was in darkness.
As he opened the door he heard a sound, an unmistakable sound: of Janet, crying.
Chapter Five
Distress
Roger closed the door softly behind him, and stood listening; it took only a moment to realise that Janet was in the front room, although the light was out. He put his hat on a peg on the hallstand and his coat beneath it, then stepped to the open door of the room where Janet was waiting – waiting up for him, of course.
Why?
She sat in an armchair placed sideways to the door. He could see the back of her head and half profile, her legs, a hand at her forehead. She was stifling her sobs but showed no other sign that she knew he had arrived. He moved slowly towards her, saying: ‘Hallo, Jan, I didn’t expect to find you up,’ and touched her hair gently. He did not sit on the arm of the chair or bend over her, just stood by, and when she went on sobbing, he asked: ‘What’s the trouble, old girl?’
She tried to say something, but at first he did not recognise the words. He concentrated on the sounds, and in a few seconds realised that she had said: ‘I don’t know.’
He moved slowly to the front of the chair, pushed a leather pouffe closer, sat down and covered her left hand, which rested on her knee. The other hand was still at her face. He could see more clearly in the light of the hall and from a street lamp. Light from a street lamp. He had a vivid mental picture of Mary Ellen Donovan, so peaceful in sleep. Janet had on her nightdress and a dressing-gown, and her feet were thrust into old mules, a Christmas present of years ago.
‘Did you stay for the film?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Was it a good ending?’
‘It was—all right.’
‘Did she marry the right man?’ Roger asked, hoping to lighten her mood, but in a moment he knew he had made a mistake, for she raised her voice.
‘Don’t laugh at me!’
‘I’m not laughing, sweet. I—’
‘Yes you were—you never take me seriously.’
‘Oh,’ he said, trying to recall whether she was right or not. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it.’
‘It’s a long time since you realised anything about me.’
‘Is it?’ he asked gently, but for the first time it was difficult to keep his tone down, for the first time his own weariness broke through and he felt a flare of exasperation.
She pulled her hand away and smoothed back her hair, and as he glanced up at her the years seemed to roll back and she looked a young girl, the girl he had brought here as a bride. The light, soft and flattering, showed not only the youth of those days but her beauty.
‘Jan,’ he said. ‘If I’ve hurt you I really am sorry, I’ve been very busy lately—I know I haven’t been able to spend half enough time with you.’
‘And even when you do take me out they have to come chasing after you. Isn’t there anyone else at the Yard who will go out at night?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Why must it always be you?’ she insisted.
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Roger, ‘we all have our share.’
‘That’s not true and I can prove it. Alec Sharp is home a lot more than you—and he’s younger. So is Bill Sloan. So are—oh, dozens of them. For some peculiar reason they always pick on you. Why? That’s what I want to know. Why?’
‘The jobs that come at awkward times are especially right for me, I suppose,’ he said.
‘That’s not the reason.’
‘If you know the reason, why don’t you tell me?’
‘It’s quite simple,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s this. You deliberately volunteer for these late night jobs.’
‘Volunteer?’ he echoed, astonished. ‘Why on earth should I?’
‘So that you can stay away from home, so that you don’t have to spend so much time with me!’ she cried.
He was so startled that he didn’t answer. Yet he knew this was a moment of real crisis. Whatever he did he must not lose his temper, he must try to soothe and reassure her.
‘There you are,’ Janet said forlornly, her voice rising to a wail. ‘You don’t even take the trouble to deny it!’
He thought, almost desperately: what can I do?
It was so late, and he would have to be up early, but she was in such deep distress he could not simply withdraw from her, say he was tired and go upstairs. He could feel her trembling, had a sense that she would burst into tears again, or else burst into a rage which would soon get out of control. What should he do? His mind was a complete blank, all he knew was that he had to calm her, re
assure her, help –
‘Because you can’t!’ she cried. ‘You hate being with me, I don’t know why you keep on with this—this farce of a marriage.’
Suddenly, he realised what he must do; he was quite sure it would be the right thing, thought of it even helped him. He stood up abruptly, stared down, and then said roughly: ‘I don’t know why I keep on with it, either.’
She caught her breath, as if appalled.
‘You—you admit it!’ she gasped.
‘I admit that I’m a damned fool to come home at half past one in the morning and listen to this nonsense.’
He dropped to the arm of her chair, placed his right hand beneath her chin and held her head against the back of the chair. Slowly, he put his face closer to hers, seeing the shine in her eyes and the glint of her teeth. Slowly he touched her lips with his – slowly, softly. After a few seconds he increased the pressure, and he moved his hand from her chin to her breast. He felt the heaving of her body and the quickening of his own heartbeat, the stirring in his loins.
When he drew back, they were both gasping.
‘Utter farce,’ he said. ‘That’s what it is. I don’t want to be with you. I like seeing dead bodies, smashed shop windows, blown safes, dope addicts, drunken drivers. I much prefer that to being in bed with you. What I don’t understand is how you came to realise it. I thought I’d deceived you!’ He kissed her again and this time there was not even a hint of resistance.
As she shifted her position, her raised head brushed sharply against his injured temple. Pain streaked through him, head, eyes, body, arms and legs, and he could not keep back the gasp, could not prevent himself from flopping against her, all the strength knocked out of him.
The pain was so great that he thought that he would faint.
He heard her say something, felt her move, felt her ease away from him, and yet hold him so that he did not collapse face downwards but was half sitting, half crouching in the chair. He saw her move towards the door, and then the light flooded on, almost blinding him, adding to the pain.
‘Roger!’ she exclaimed, and then: ‘Oh, my darling!’ She put a side light on and switched the glare off. ‘What happened? How did—oh, how could I be such a fool!’ She drew nearer, eyes pools of concern. ‘Roger, is it bad—I mean, shouldn’t you see a doctor? Can I bathe it, or—’ She broke off, as if realising that words were spilling out of her almost incoherently, and for a few seconds she did not know what to do or say.
All Roger could do was feel. He did not know why it suddenly caused such pain, why he was in such a state of collapse.
Then, almost unbelievably, the voice of Martin – their elder son – came from the passage.
‘If you ask me,’ he said, ‘the poor old chap needs some rest.’
‘Scoop!’ cried Janet.
‘And a cuppa, to calm his nerves … How about a couple of aspirins, Pop?’ Martin came in, carrying a tea tray, a powerful looking, compact youth with a broad face and broad features, a broken nose which somehow suited him, and overlong fair hair which did not. ‘Good lord!’ he gasped. ‘Look what I’ve done—brought Ovaltine instead of tea, you wouldn’t think I was a copper’s son, would you? Cup for you, Mum?’ He placed the tray on the oval table near an upright grand piano and picked up a cup in each hand. As he looked at Roger squarely for the first time, his expression changed, and the air of tomfoolery dropped away from him. He had a slightly off-beat sense of humour, dry and very funny once one realised that he was not being serious. ‘Gosh,’ he said. ‘Ghosts. Are you all right, Dad?’
Janet took a cup from his hand and carried it to Roger.
‘Yes,’ Roger said, ruefully. ‘I was kicked in the head, and it shook me up. Nothing to worry about, though.’
Janet handed him the Ovaltine.
‘Have you seen a doctor?’ she asked.
‘Ian Peterson fixed me up, I’d rather have him than any police surgeon.’ Roger sipped. ‘Ah, that’s good. Whoever would have thought one of our sons would begin to show signs of intelligence? Thanks, Scoop.’
‘Pleasure, Pop.’
‘And a scene as well—why didn’t you tell me?’ Janet cried incoherently.
‘Wow don’t start crying again,’ Martin said, putting his arm round her shoulder. In spite of the lightness of the words, the note of raillery, there was an anxious look in his clear grey eyes. ‘Dad’s had enough for tonight—eh, Pop?’ He shook his head. ‘Women! Women!’
Although so near to tears, Janet burst out laughing.
‘Now if you old folk think you can spare me, I’ll go back to what modern youth never does,’ said Martin. ‘Work. You okay, Dad?’
‘I’m fine, old chap.’
‘Don’t spare the aspirins!’ Martin turned towards the door.
‘Scoop,’ said Janet in a calmer voice than she had used all the evening, ‘what are you doing up so late?’
‘Painting,’ answered Martin promptly. ‘I went to bed, but inspiration called, and I got up again. When I heard Dad come in I thought I’d better keep out of sight until the crisis was over—oops!’ He ducked a slap from Janet and positively sprang out of the room: yet they did not hear him as he went upstairs, he moved so lightly.
Roger took three aspirins, and drank more of the malted drink. Janet untied the laces of his shoes, then pulled them off.
‘I’ll go and get your bed ready,’ she said, standing up. ‘Will you want to bathe your head again?’
‘Better let the plaster stay put,’ Roger decided. ‘I’ll have another dressing put on at the Yard in the morning.’
‘At the—’ began Janet, and then broke off, turned, and hurried upstairs.
Roger sat back, head still throbbing but no longer agonising. He wriggled his toes, looked at the shoes placed neatly in the fireplace, and gave a half-smile, seeing many things at once. Janet, in such distress – why had she felt so keenly? Had he given her any cause? And Scoop, who must have heard her crying and had doubtless stayed up so that he could be at hand if he were needed. The boy had brought a breath of fresh air into the room, dispersing the tension. It was such a pity his painting wasn’t going right, and he couldn’t get settled at any job. Richard, no doubt sleeping like a log in the room next to his brother, was doing so well.
After a while, Roger stood up. When he reached the foot of the stairs, Janet was at the top.
‘Shall I put out the light?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I won’t go down again.’
She was solicitous but not overly so: the events had certainly shocked her out of her emotional upset. There was something in her manner Roger didn’t quite understand, but he did not allow himself to worry about it, was glad to get into his bed, glad even to find a hot water bottle, glad of the down pillow. Almost at once Janet put out the light and that was a blessed relief. Sleep came over him in waves, and even a sudden realization that he had not told Janet and Scoop about O’Hara’s murder did not disturb him.
He dropped off into a dreamless sleep, without even thinking that he must be up early in the morning; he needed to see Donovan again, and above all to go and talk to Mary Ellen.
Chapter Six
Lapse Of Memory
Roger woke to a grey day, footsteps outside, the passing of cars, the voices of children. He was puzzled for a few moments, then realised that these unfamiliar noises meant that it was late. He turned his head quickly, and hammers began to beat inside it. For a moment the bedside clock seemed to go round and round. When it steadied, he saw that it was nearly half past nine.
Janet had let him sleep on.
But to sleep until nearly mid-morning was – in the eyes of the Yard – almost heinous. He felt a tremor of annoyance because he hadn’t been called, then edged himself up in bed. As he did so the telephone bell rang, both downstairs and at the bedside. Careful not to move too quickly, he took the receiver off.
Janet was speaking.
‘… up yet.’
A man said sharply: ‘Then he should be.
I want him here at once, Mrs West.’
That was Coppell, the Commander CID who had assigned him to the Danny O’Hara affair. Coppell, very much the rough diamond, was a difficult man to get on with. Roger often wondered why he had been given a job which demanded a gift of getting the most out of men who were already severely overworked. He had no love for Coppell but felt a wave of apprehension, lest Janet should lose her temper.
Instead, her voice came sweetly reasonable.
‘If it’s urgent, Mr Coppell, why don’t you come and see him? I’m going to keep him in bed at least until he’s seen a doctor.’
‘Doctor?’ ejaculated Coppell. ‘What’s the matter with him? Summer flu?’
‘He was injured in the course of his duties,’ Janet replied.
‘No one told me,’ Coppell growled.
‘Will you come and see him, Commander?’
‘I’ll let you know,’ said Coppell, abruptly.’ ‘Bye.’
The telephone seemed to go down with a bang, and after a pause Janet spoke in a rather anxious voice.
‘Did I do all right, darling?’
‘He’s needed something like that for a long time,’ Roger assured her, ‘and at least it’s a relief that I needn’t rush to get up. Is there such a thing as tea?’
‘Two minutes,’ promised Janet.
Roger slid back into the bed, head uncomfortable but nothing like as bad as it had been, closed his eyes, and then began to see a series of mind pictures about what had happened last night. Coppell wasn’t the only man who wanted to know how things were going. He edged up to a sitting position again, lifted the telephone and dialled Peterson’s Divisional number.
‘Yes, sir, he’s in,’ a man said. ‘Hold on, please.’ There was only a brief pause before Peterson came on the line.
‘Hallo, Handsome—I was told you weren’t in.’
‘I’m not,’ said Roger, ‘and the Commander wants to know why.’
‘I put it in my report, he should have had that by now,’ said Peterson. ‘Anything in particular you want to know?’
‘How’s Mary Ellen?’ asked Roger.
‘Conscious and comfortable. She’s to stay where she is all day but there’s no reason why she shouldn’t answer questions.’