by John Creasey
Pell had waited until that moment to close his door.
‘What have you got?’ asked Roger.
‘I doubt if it’s the whole story, sir, but it’s pretty comprehensive. Mrs Mallows has been at Berne Court for four years; she was one of the earliest tenants. She moved there after her own house was demolished in a rebuilding scheme. She ran that house as a nursing home after she was struck off the medical register seven and a half years ago.’ Pell paused for the first time, and shot a sideways look at Roger, as if for comment, approval or question.
‘What did she do to be struck off?’ asked Roger.
To his surprise, Pell answered: ‘Prescribed drugs knowing they were for resale and could lead to addiction. She wasn’t charged by the police; the law was very obscure, then.’
Roger negotiated some traffic at a corner and then made his way back towards Aldgate and the City. When he had a smooth run ahead, he remarked: ‘First offence?’
‘First conviction, sir.’
‘All right, go on.’
‘She’s been at the present business about three and a half years. She has a fairly substantial private income, and as far as is known, charges normal nursing home fees, and extra for drugs. She pays standard wages. The average number of girls there is ten or so a week. She’s never lost a patient. Whenever there are complications she calls in Dr Galbraith—she has been known to call in other doctors but only when Galbraith is away.’
‘I see,’ Roger said thoughtfully. ‘On the whole a straight record. All right, Sergeant—I’m going to concentrate on driving, I’m in a hurry to see Raymond Greatorex.’ He explained why and then virtually forgot Pell, who sat both still and silent.
It was twenty minutes before the radio squawked for Roger, and when he flicked on the loudspeaker, he heard Information say: ‘Calling Superintendent West … Message for Superintendent West … Chief Inspector Watts has just reported an attack on Raymond Greatorex. Over.’
Chapter Nine
‘Extra’
Chief Inspector Jeremiah Watts, in his early forties, had not only a great liking for Roger West, but a deep admiration for a man who had a complete grasp of the routine and procedures of investigation, and also that little ‘extra’, a flair – some called it a succession of hunches – for sensing the moment when a special effort had to be made. During the many years in which he had served at Detective Sergeant’s rank, Watts had developed an instinctive trust in this flair.
West had ‘sensed’ there would be danger to Raymond Greatorex, and Watts did not wonder whether it would come, only how and when.
It was early afternoon when he reached Borelee, home of some of the biggest film and television studios in England. He was sitting in the back of a black police Humber, two sergeants in front. On the way, Watts had talked by radio-telephone to the local police – Borelee was now just within the Metropolitan area – and learned the set-up at the studios. Security was maintained there by a private firm, Allsafe Incorporated, staffed mostly by retired detectives and policemen, and Allsafe usually cooperated fully with the Borelee police. Most of the security work was the protection of props – vandals were an especial danger within the walls of the studio – and of film stars, to ensure their privacy.
‘It’s a different world once you go through those gates,’ the Borelee Superintendent had said.
As the police car waited at the entrance Watts could well believe it.
The studio was completely enclosed by a high, plaster covered wall, painted white and dazzling in the sunlight. Within the thirty one acres, were four main studio buildings with stages and every facility for shooting, two big blocks of administrative offices, dozens of smaller buildings, huge storage sheds for scenery, and, in various parts of the studio area, simulated villages, city streets and buildings, covering the whole period of British history and a sizeable proportion of American and European.
‘Believe it nor not,’ the local man had said, ‘they even shoot Westerns here!’ Then more soberly: ‘One piece of advice, Jerry: treat Dave Sandell as if he were still a Superintendent. You’ll get much more out of him if you defer.’
‘Thanks,’ Watts had said, appreciatively.
Dave Sandell was the chief of Allsafe at the studios.
The entrance to the administrative block, which debouched on to the area of the main studios, was past big, iron mesh gates and a small gate house where four men were in attendance. Each car going in and each one coming out had to stop – going in, to receive a vivid green pass which had to be displayed on the windscreen; coming out, to give the card up. Three cars passed while Watts waited, and at least a dozen pedestrians, each of whom had to show his identity card.
One of the gatemen, wearing a cap and a pale grey uniform with the word Allsafe embroidered on the arm and the cap band, came out of his office.
‘All ready, sir—if you’ll take the first on the right behind the building you’ll see a guide ready to take you to Mr Sandell.’
Watts was already beginning to fume, but he knew that once one began to buck against internal security all manner of obstructiveness could result. Now, he pondered the special warning about Sandell. He waited for the self adhesive pass to be stuck on the windscreen and for his driver to start off. Little groups of people were about, in one spot half a dozen caravans were parked, and on the door of one was the name: ‘Mr Raymond Greatorex’. Just beyond these, at the far end of the road behind the main administrative block, stood a security man, who waved them down. Immediately Watts thawed, for this was an ex-sergeant from the Yard.
‘Hallo, Charlie!’
‘Hallo, sir,’ the other said, smiling warmly. ‘Quite like old times. I’ll show you to the chief ’s office.’
‘Do you know where Raymond Greatorex is?’
‘Studio 3,’ the other answered promptly. ‘Worth a thousand quid to get near him today.’
‘Why?’
‘He never likes scenes with extras, and they’ve got a right crowd of them today. Doing a riot scene.’ Charlie was opening the door.
‘Riot,’ echoed Watts.
He got out and walked with the ex-Yard man to a small brick building on one wall of which was a plaque bearing the words: ‘Security—Allsafe’, in white on black. Inside, it was like stepping into a modern police station; there was even a counter and, beyond it, a ‘charge-room’ with two men on duty. On the opposite side was a door marked ‘Chief of Security’. The ex-Yard man tapped.
‘Chief Inspector Watts, sir.’
Watts was ushered forward and the door was closed behind him.
David Sandell, big, blond, striking looking, in a well fitting grey suit, half rose from a chair behind a large desk, in an office the walls of which were covered with relief maps of the studio grounds. Sandell did not offer to shake hands, but smiled pleasantly enough; a gold cap glistened in a row of strong white teeth.
‘Sit down, Chief Inspector.’
Watts hesitated, then began to lower himself, speaking as he did so.
‘We’re worried in case what happened to Danny O’Hara happens to Raymond Greatorex, sir.’
The smile faded from Sandell’s face.
‘“We” is rather a comprehensive word. Can’t you narrow it down?’
‘Well, Mr West is,’ Watts answered.
Sandell seemed to relax.
‘One of his hunches?’
‘He’s worried enough to send me out with two men to keep an eye on Greatorex,’ replied Watts. ‘He was under the heel of the Commander and couldn’t come himself.’
‘Humph,’ grunted Sandell. He lifted a telephone, and almost at once spoke to someone, obviously a subordinate. ‘Double the guard in Studio 3 and keep a special watch on Greatorex.’ He rang down without apparently waiting for a response, and smiled again, but this time he was tight lipped. ‘I suppose you want to go yourself?’
‘May I send my men to see yours, while we discuss the situation?’
‘Certainly.’ This time Sandell pres
sed a bell, and the door opened on the instant, for the ex-Yard man to come in. ‘Go to Studio 3 and take the two police officers with you. Keep Mr Greatorex under special surveillance.’
‘It would be as well if Greatorex doesn’t know—’ Watts began.
‘That’s a normal standing order,’ Sandell said, as the other went out. These men were far more under Sandell’s thumb than they would have been at the Yard. Watts, not liking the atmosphere but at the same time admiring the firm control and efficiency, sat down and relaxed for the first time. Sandell pressed another button, and said: ‘I don’t want to be disturbed.’ Then, sitting squarely behind the desk, he asked briskly: ‘What can you tell me?’
‘Daniel O’Hara may have been killed by a man whose girlfriend he seduced; by the girl’s father; or for some quite different motive. We don’t know. We do know there’s a lead to Raymond Greatorex.’
‘What kind of lead?’
‘I don’t know that, either,’ Watts answered. ‘Mr. West sent word.’
‘Not much use coming here with half a story,’ Sandell complained.
Watts nearly snapped a retort, reminding Sandell that with the police here he and Allsafe had no authority, no right, to complain. It flashed through his mind that if Sandell stayed on his high horse when Roger West arrived, there would be plenty of conflict! Instead of showing his annoyance, he asked:
‘What’s this about a riot scene and a lot of extras?’
‘Greatorex is playing the part of a wealthy employer who’s locked out several thousand factory workers. They storm his offices, and break into the boardroom, where he’s working,’ said Sandell. ‘I—my God!’
Both men got to their feet on the same instant. Sandell did not say a word as he led the way, past another guard, into the open. He made a bee line for a white Jaguar with the now familiar pass on the windscreen, opened the front passenger door, and slammed his own door as he started the engine. In spite of his haste, he did everything smoothly, and without apparent effort. He drove between buildings to a studio, perhaps half a mile away, which looked twice as big as any of the others. Outside was a huge hanging sign: studio 3. Three guards in their pale grey stood about and one sprang forward to open the door.
Sandell led the way inside. There was a passageway and two big doors beyond it; over each, a sign glowed red, and alongside the sign was a notice:
Do not enter when red light is showing.
Sandell ignored this and pushed open one of the doors. Watts followed close on his heels. In a far corner, beyond a mass of cables, screens, chairs, cameras and other equipment, powerful lights were shining on Raymond Greatorex, who stood alone at a tall window. Open to the disenchanted gaze of dozens of technicians and officials, he was in a well furnished office, Victorian in character. Watts’ immediate impression was of a startlingly handsome man of middle age.
Several cameras were moving, there was a hum of talk, a big man was sitting in a chair the canvas back of which was marked ‘Director’. As soon as he could shift his gaze from the stage and the set, Watts looked upwards. The ceiling seemed a vast distance away, and a kind of mezzanine floor was built beneath it consisting of a network of passages and wood and metal structures. Up there a dozen or more men were standing by huge arc lamps; below, a man was talking into a microphone obviously giving instructions to another technician who was wearing earphones, almost at once spoke to someone, obviously a subordinate.
Suddenly, a man called over a public address system:
All noise ceased as if by magic.
Suddenly the cameras starting whirring. A youth went in front of one of the cameras and snapped what looked like a huge pair of oblong wooden scissors, then backed away. Without the slightest warning, bedlam broke loose beyond the set outside the window of the office. Men bellowed and screamed and swore, a heavy thuds sounded, glass smashed, the voices grew louder, a woman screeched:
‘Kill him, that’s what you ought to do—kill the bastard!’
Raymond Greatorex stood motionless through all this, looking at the window. The curious thing was that he managed to convey a sense of distress, of trouble, of anxiety. Once or twice he clenched his hands by his side.
The row grew louder, the temper of the crowd seemed to explode, more glass smashed, another woman screamed. Greatorex raised his hands slowly to his face, and the window close to him shattered. He jumped, and darted back out of range, looking at his hands.
Blood appeared to be on them.
‘For God’s sake—’ muttered Watts.
‘Quiet!’ a man hissed.
‘Part of the take,’ Sandell breathed in Watts’ ear.
Almost at once, a man’s face appeared at the broken window, and banging and thudding began at the office door. Greatorex looked behind him at another door, as if contemplating escape. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, dabbed his hands, and moved so that he was directly opposite the door, his back to the cameras. The hammering became louder and frenzied, the screaming wilder; the face at the window disappeared for a moment and then a brick was hurtled through it, more glass smashed, the brick struck the desk and went ricocheting towards Greatorex. The door crashed in and half a dozen men sprawled into the room. Greatorex stood absolutely still. Cameras facing him were turning now, Watts realised that shots were being taken from all angles.
Silence fell inside the set as the men straightened up and stared at Greatorex. And for the first time he spoke: ‘If you do not leave, at once, I shall close this factory and never open it again.’
One of the men in the doorway sneered: ‘You couldn’t close it if you were dead.’
‘My will leaves instructions to close and dismantle it and sell the goodwill to competitors in the Midlands,’ Greatorex answered in the same steady voice. ‘No good can come of this mob violence. Go to your homes at once.’
An elderly man wearing a muffler and a cloth cap, asked uneasily: ‘Supposing we go back?’
‘Don’t talk daft,’ another man put in. ‘We can’t stop them now. Mr Stern, if you want to save your life, go out by the side door, or—’
There was a sudden burst of shouting from men out of sight, then another rush through the door. A dozen men surged in, and one of them flung a brick at Greatorex, which missed him. Another brick, hurled by a big man at the front of the crowd, caught him on the side of the head, sent him spinning round, sent him crashing down. The brick struck the floor with a heavy thud, and Watts heard Sandell gasp: ‘That’s a real brick!’
Watts leapt forward, scattering the crowd of technicians, pushed aside a youth who tried to stop him, leapt over Greatorex and saw the man who had flung the brick dodge back, beyond the door. Others got in Watts’ way, but he hurled them aside, shouldering a passage through a mob of men, sixty or seventy or more, cameras and crews, technicians and maintenance men beyond.
The man he was after was on the fringe of the crowd.
Watts made a bee-line for him, but the obstructions were too dense, too overwhelming, and suddenly he realised that it would be no use – he couldn’t catch the man, all he could hope for was that the assailant would be caught getting out of the studios. If Allsafe were worth their salt, they would stop him.
One thing was certain: he would never forget the round, red face, blue eyes, full lips and broken nose.
Sandell wasn’t in sight; presumably he had gone back the way they had come, to set off the alarm. Feeling on edge from slackening of tension. Watts groped for cigarettes, lit one, and pushed his way towards the spot where Greatorex had fallen.
A crowd had gathered around the actor, while half a dozen youths linked arms and kept a space in the middle clear. One man and one woman were bending over Greatorex, whose face looked deathly pale but for the blood oozing from a wound in his cheek, beneath the left eye.
‘He can’t be dead,’ the woman gasped. ‘He can’t be dead!’
‘Where the hell is the doctor?’ a man asked roughly. ‘He’s not dead but he’s in a bad way.’
Missing Man
As Roger West turned into the gateway of the studios, two police cars swung out, both from the local division, and a little knot of men, security and police, technicians and actors, were gathered round an ambulance. An Allsafe man leaned out of his window.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘I’m Superintendent West. Where—’
‘Sorry, sir. Jim!’ The man bellowed to another, astride a motorcycle nearby. ‘Take these gentlemen to Studio 3, and be quick about it!’
‘Is Raymond Greatorex in that ambulance?’ Roger demanded.
‘There or in the first-aid room, sir—that’s where the ambulance is.’
‘Take me there first, please,’ Roger said.
The ambulance’s open doors were close to a platform which led into a small building marked First-Aid on one side, Hospital on the other. Roger, hardly aware of Pell by his elbow, wondered why the injured man hadn’t been lifted straight into the ambulance, but wasted little time on speculation. The All safe guard led him through, and one of the first men he saw was Jerry Watts, among a group of men and women.
Watts espied him at the same moment, and hurried forward.
‘How is he?’ demanded Roger.
‘They say he’ll pull through, sir,’ Watts said tautly.
‘Bad as that, is it?’
‘A skull fracture,’ answered Watts. ‘He had a bad spell and needed oxygen. Thank God they’ve facilities here.’
‘Anyone held, yet?’ Roger was eager to know.
‘No,’ Watts answered heavily. ‘The attacker got clear away.’ Bitterness was harsh in his voice and showed in the bleakness of his expression. ‘I saw the devil do it—I actually witnessed the crime, but I couldn’t get to him quickly enough. He disappeared among the extras.’
‘If you saw him as clearly as that—’
‘Until we get him, his face will haunt me,’ interrupted Watts. ‘Sorry, sir.’