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  Copyright & Information

  Gideon's River

  First published in 1968

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1968-2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2010 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755123832 9780755123834 Print

  0755133846 9780755133840 Mobi

  0755134249 9780755134243 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers' Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.

  Chapter One

  BIG SHIPS, LITTLE SHIPS

  They came into the Port of London from every corner of the world, the big ships and the little ships, the tankers and the tugs, the liners and the banana boats, the modern ships and the old. They came by day and by night, hindered only by the tides, or by fog; or on those days when the men who worked the docks withdrew their labour in protest for some cause, probably real and vital to them, but often mysterious and frustrating to the rest of London.

  For London and all Londoners depended on the Port of London for more than they realised; in fact, the Thames was the lifeblood of the nation’s capital. Muddy and grey near the open sea and at its wide, waiting estuary, in the upper reaches it was clear as a mountain stream. Far up, even as far as Hammersmith and Putney, Richmond and Teddington, the laden barges sailed their sluggish way with coal and wood and grain and oil and countless other vital goods which could be taken by water more cheaply than by rail or road. At Tilbury where the great stretch of docks began, no bridge spanned the river; but the Pool of London was made by the Tower and by London Bridge as well as by London’s history.

  But not only was the river the highway for the food which fed the nation, it could also be the highway for those who fed on crime. True, there was much more crime on the land on either side than on the river itself, but much of that crime started on the river, and it was sometimes difficult to understand where responsibility began and ended for the investigation into crimes committed on land or on water, on docks or in warehouses, in pubs or in pleasure boats.

  In fact, four police forces controlled the river, all working closely together.

  On the broad expanse of the water itself the Thames Division of the Metropolitan Police was in control, its ceaseless patrol of small boats and swift launches keeping a constant vigil both day and night. One small stretch of water, from Tower Bridge to the Temple, was however controlled partly by the City of London Police; but the two forces acted as one in the defence of London’s property and people.

  The docks which led off the river, docks with such names as Royal Albert and Victoria, London and Saint Katharine, Surrey and Millwall, were walled and protected like mediaeval cities, with policemen at the gates to check and control the lawful flow of lorries and carts, dockers and lightermen, port authority and Customs officers. These docks were protected by a different force, the police of the Port of London Authority, who had a close and intricate knowledge of the wharves and warehouses, quays and berths, repair shops, storage sheds and transport.

  These police worked in the closest co-operation with the other two forces having the same objectives, rules and grievances, the same sense of dedication too seldom understood by civilians who worked in or on the river, and beyond.

  Finally, there were the Customs men, two groups, each dealing with quite different aspects of the business of London: the Landing Branch who dealt with cargo only, and the Water Guard who dealt with ships’ stores, passengers and crew.

  If, in fact, the Customs force could be regarded as two forces, then the Metropolitan Police should be also, for the Thames Division with their reefer jackets, white shirts and white collars and their caps, were quite distinct in appearance if not in purpose; so, in all, six different forces of police guarded different parts of London’s river.

  Occasionally, very occasionally, each of these became involved in the same crime and the same series of crimes.

  Probably none of the others would ever have admitted it, happy though their relations were with one another, but when all six became involved, the man in over-all command was likely to be the Commander of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police – George Gideon. He would have been the last to claim control and yet, subconsciously, would no doubt have exerted it. And the other branches, knowing and accepting the need for co-ordination as well as co-operation, would almost certainly have accepted his authority without question.

  On the night when a certain series of crimes began on the river, Gideon was at home, with his wife and one of their six children. He was ‘on call’ – he was nearly always on call. He was always instinctively aware that, in the London he so loved, during every minute of the day and night some crime was being planned or committed; and that any one of these crimes might bring a time of great testing for any one of London’s police forces. He was not consciously preoccupied with that at this particular moment, however. An exceptionally pretty girl with an exceptionally nice figure was singing an exceptionally ugly tune on television. Kate, Gideon’s wife, noticed the intentness with which Gideon watched, and smiled affectionately to herself.

  Mary Rose was also an exceptionally pretty girl with an exceptionally nice figure. She should have been light-hearted and gay, as the singer appeared to be. Instead, she was terrified. She had been terrified ever since Tom and Dave had started to quarrel in the pub. Tom had sneaked her away, hoping that Dave wouldn’t notice; but he had. They had cut across a building site,
hearing the engine of Dave’s car start up, knowing he was giving chase. Tom had dashed down the alley leading to the quay steps, but Dave might have seen them from the car, there was no way of being sure.

  She stood at the bottom of the steps, hearing the river water slapping the stone walls and plopping against the sides of a small boat. Tom was standing in the boat, unsteadily, half-drunk. Across the water a few lights showed at warehouses and barges, some distance up river a pub was gay with coloured lamps. Now and again a car or lorry passed along the road behind them, lights ghostly in the gloom, but none stopped. Perhaps one was Dave’s; perhaps they were safe.

  Mary Rose could just make out Tom’s lean figure as he sat down. She heard sounds she could identify, of oars grating on the rowlocks. Another car came along the road, its engine very clear. She turned her head and stared up towards the top of the steps.

  “Come on!’ Tom whispered.

  ‘I—I daren’t!’

  ‘Come on, don’t waste time!’

  ‘I—I can’t, I’m too scared!’ she gasped.

  ‘You’ll be more scared if they catch you.’ he growled hoarsely. ‘They’re so drunk they’ll do anything. We’ve got to get away.’

  ‘Tom, I …’

  ‘Are you coming or aren’t you?’ he demanded, his roughness cloaking his own fear. ‘If Dave catches you while he’s drunk, he’ll slash your face to pieces.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ she gasped. ‘Don’t say it!’

  ‘Come on, then, get a move on.’

  He was right, she knew. Dave would slash her, she would lose her beauty she would be scarred for life. He had slashed other girls. Taking a timid step forward on to the green slime on the step, she nearly fell.

  The car slowed down.

  ‘It’s them!’ cried Tom, in anguish. ‘Are you coming, or aren’t you?’

  A car door slammed, and another. Footsteps sounded, sharp and urgent. Mary Rose leaned against the wall and groped with her right foot for the boat. Now Tom was leaning forward, hand outstretched to help her. She took it.

  ‘Jump!’ he urged.

  She could not make herself jump, but she clambered over, crouching, scraping her legs and knees painfully, ruining her stockings. Footsteps clattered in the narrow cut leading to the steps, hard leather and metal heel-tips on the uneven cobbles. Tom sat back and pushed with one oar against the wall. The boat rocked, and Mary Rose gave a little groan. Tom slid the oar back into the rowlock and started to row. The clatter drew nearer, and drowned another sound on the river itself – the even beat of the engine of a motorboat, some distance away.

  The rowing boat was only ten yards from the steps when a torch shone out, bright beam dazzling. When Mary Rose twisted round she saw behind it only darkness, but the beam shifted and shone on the oily-looking surface of the river. Another torch beam cut the darkness like a knife.

  A man called: ‘There they are!’

  ‘See them?’

  ‘There’s Mary Rose!’

  The light shone on the back of her head then passed either side, losing itself in the mirror of water. Something fell heavily close to the boat; plonk. Tom rowed desperately, but did not seem to draw any nearer to safety. Mary Rose, feeling the boat rocking more and more, held tightly to the sides. One torch went out but the other focused on her, and something thudded into the side of the boat. ‘They’re throwing beer bottles,’ Tom muttered.

  Beer bottles …

  They must have brought beer bottles to smash and jab into her face and Tom’s face. All this, for a kiss and a hug – not knowing Dave had been in the pub. Oh, God!

  ‘Why don’t you get out into the river?’ she gasped. ‘We’re too close.’

  ‘I’m—I’m rowing as hard as I can.’

  ‘We’re closer than we were!’ she muttered in sheer terror; and as if he had heard her a man on the bank said clearly: ‘They’ll never make it, Dave.’

  ‘Never thought they would,’ another man said. He raised his voice. ‘Come and get it, you whore! Come and get it.’

  ‘Tom—Tom, row harder!’

  ‘They’re in an eddy’—it was the first man speaking—’going round in circles, see?’ Both men began to roar with laughter.

  It was true, they were going round in circles, Mary Rose realised in awful fear. That was why they were no further from the steps.

  The man with Dave spoke clearly. ‘I got an idea, Dave.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Sink ’em,’ the man said, simply.

  ‘Sink ’em?’ echoed Dave.

  No, oh no, no!

  ‘There’s these old barrels, right here,’ the man with Dave remarked. ‘Roll ’em down the steps, that would rock the boat all right.’

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ Dave said, with drunken intentness. ‘I’d rather carve them up, but they’ll be better off dead.’

  Oh, God, why had this happened to her?

  ‘Come on!’ the second man said. ‘Let’s get them rolling.’

  The torch light changed direction, pitched on to the steps and showed the dark silhouettes of the men. Dave’s long hair was like a wig – a golliwog’s hair. Tom rowed more desperately than ever but was gasping for breath and could not get the boat away; he never would, now. Mary Rose sat in numbed despair, not even praying. She heard the men on the steps moving about, and suddenly something came crashing down on them and hurtled into the water. There was a great splash, and the boat keeled over very steeply.

  Mary Rose screamed.

  Again Dave’s friend roared with laughter. ‘One more will do it!’ he bellowed. ‘Heave, there, heave!’

  Then without warning, a bright light shone out from the river and a glow of light appeared in the road behind the steps. An engine roared, making a strange echo on the river, and a patrol boat drew close to the steps and the helpless couple. Another clatter of footsteps sounded on the steps.

  ‘It’s the cops,’ Tom gasped. ‘It’s the bloody cops.’

  “Observing lights and unaccustomed activity at Fiddler’s Steps, the Thames Division patrol report read, we called assistance from the land and a car moved on to the source of the trouble from land while we approached by water. Two arrests were made. David Carter and Samuel Cottingham were subsequently charged with attempting to cause grievous bodily harm to Mary Rose Shamley and Thomas Argyle-Morris by attempting to sink the boat they were in and throwing bottles at them. The charges were made at …”

  It was a short report, giving no idea of the skill required by the patrol to approach the steps so cautiously, nor of the almost instinctive way in which the patrol had first noticed that something unusual was happening, and had called for help from land. Scissors operations like this between Thames Division, NE Division and the City of London were so common that no one thought it worth special comment.

  When the first morning daylight patrol of the river between Greenwich and Blackfriars Bridge was about to start off, ‘Old Man River’ Singleton, who was in charge at Divisional H.Q., strolled down the ridged gangway towards the landing stage where three vessels were moored. The three-man crew was already aboard. One was a bearded sergeant, at the helm, the second an elderly constable and the third a youngster who had been in the Thames Division for little more than a year.

  ‘Take a close look at Fiddler’s Steps. Tidy, and examine that dinghy. If there are scratches where the bottles struck, we need to know.’

  ‘Right sir.’

  ‘When will that pair be charged?’ the young man asked.

  ‘Teach him his ABC,’ Singleton said, caustically.

  There was a general laugh; any policeman who forgot that the charge would follow in the morning as day followed night, really did need to go back to school.

  The patrol boat moved off, slowly, into midstream and then up river.

 
Behind it was the magnificence of Tower Bridge and the Pool beyond, seen through the grey stone frame of the two main pillars of the arch. The sun, rising above the roof tops of warehouses and the spidery tops of cranes, brightened the masts and the bridge of a Uruguayan ship of about seven thousand tons which was unloading grain.

  ‘Ships are beginning to use the river a bit more than they did, not going into the docks so much,’ remarked Sergeant Tidy. ‘There was a Frenchie at Hay’s yesterday and a Yank at London.’

  He spoke casually as he scanned the ruffled surface of the river. Fiddler’s Steps were only a few hundred yards down, not far below Wapping Old Stairs, and ‘taking a close look’ would be the first job; they could almost drift towards the spot on this ebb tide. A piece of driftwood clunked against the propeller, but none of the men took any notice when the boat shuddered. Some straw and a cigarette carton drifted past, the carton making a splash of crimson against the yellow straw. They saw this as they saw everything – the still and silent barges moored in the roads, the men working on wharves and in warehouses, here and there a car close to the water’s edge. Everything on the river and on the banks appeared to be normal, the sun was beginning to catch the water, giving it a beauty they did not fully understand. A tanker from Holland, of three or four thousand tons, passed them up river; none of the crew gave it more than a cursory glance.

  The patrol boat drew closer to Fiddler’s Steps, where a floating barrel was bumping gently against the wall of the recess by the side of the steps; another, further away, was trapped in a kind of pontoon of driftwood which had collected in a corner, as a result of an eddy which was always here at high tide. The little row-boat, one of the few still used to reach barges which had become loose in the roads, was moored to a ring in the wall of the steps.