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  Copyright & Information

  No Relaxation at Scotland Yard

  (Gideon's Men)

  First published in 1972

  Copyright: John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1972-2012

  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 2012 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

  0755123409 9780755123407 Print

  0755133927 9780755133925 Mobi

  075513432X 9780755134328 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.

  Creasy 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.

  1

  Great Occasion

  “Good evening, Commander. . . Mrs. Gideon, nice to see you again.”

  “Hallo, Geo—Commander! . . . Hallo, Kate, you look glorious.”

  “Commander, a long time since we met . . . may I present my wife . . . good evening, Mrs. Gideon, this is a truly great occasion . . . darling, I don’t think you’ve met Mrs. Gideon, the Commander’s wife.”

  “Hiya, George! . . . hallo, Kate.”

  “Good evening, sir . . . Mrs. Gideon . . . my wife . . .”

  The line of people approaching the reception party at this Fiftieth Criminal Investigation Department Ball seemed never-ending. The men wore tails, with here and there a black tie and dinner jacket, and all the women were dressed for a great occasion, most of the dresses long, many of them new, a good sprinkling of white, with here and there a black setting off the rainbow colours of the rest.

  Gideon, massive in tails a shade too tight, hardly surprising since they were twenty-five years old, was very content. Kate, next to him, in a black dress brightened with designs embroidered in a dozen colours and holding a bouquet of spring flowers, was a woman to be proud of. And the occasion put life into her blue-grey eyes, predominantly grey in this artificial light. She glowed. Now and again a woman as tall and nearly as striking came up with her husband, their names echoing from the stentorian voice of the Mayor’s toastmaster, who stood at the door, back to a huge bank of flowers in which a motif had been cleverly designed, reading: C.I.D. in a variety of colours, with the badge of London’s Metropolitan police on either side. The line of people stretched along a wide passage which led from the front of the Melham town hall to this ballroom, which was as flamboyantly Victorian as could be, with huge chandeliers and mirrors around the walls above the red plush seats and the brightly gilded framework of the chairs set about round tables where eight could sit in comfort and ten or even twelve if all sat elbow to elbow.

  The reception had been going on for nearly half an hour.

  Here came Tom Riddell, Chief Detective Superintendent, a brown-eyed, brown-haired man, once very massive, somehow a big-business-looking man frequently overconfident and aggressive but beginning to show his age. His little, grey-haired wife was like a gaily decked sparrow with dyed feathers.

  “Hallo, Tom . . . good evening, Mrs. Riddell . . .”

  And here was Matt Honiwell, a big, cuddly man with curly brown hair hardly showing grey, several years older than Riddell although he looked so much the younger. With Honiwell was a woman Gideon hadn’t seen before; tall, severe-looking, striking. Who? Gideon wondered. Honiwell had lost his wife some years ago and appeared to have settled down to a bachelor existence. His handclasp, as always, was firm and quick.

  “Congratulations, Commander . . .” He had a gentle voice, and spoke as if each word was considered. “May I present Mrs. Jameson – Netta Jameson?”

  Netta Jameson had a pleasant, controlled voice; she was a woman of noticeable poise.

  “Good evening, Commander Gideon.”

  They shook hands; hers was colder than Honiwell’s, but her grip was as quick and firm.

  Gideon turned to Kate as Mrs. Riddell moved on.

  “You know Matt Honiwell, of course, but I don’t think you know Mrs. Jameson.”

  If there was a woman here who matched Kate in appearance, it was Honiwell’s guest. Nearly as tall, with a full figure yet surprisingly slender waist, she wore a white gown with gold embroidery, simple yet very elegant. And her smile kindled when she saw Kate, as if recognising a kindred spirit. Kate warmed, too.

  But the line moved on, remorselessly.

  This was the Criminal Investigation Department’s ball, and Gideon knew most of the guests, and became more and more surprised at how many he did know. Hundreds . . . thousands? Man after man, woman after woman. First in the reception line was the Commissioner, Sir Reginald Scott-Marie, and his wife; the words “distinguished” and “elegant” seemed to fit them like their attire. Next to Scott-Marie were the Commissioner of the City Police and the Lord Mayor of London and his lady, resplendent in their historic finery. These were followed by the Assistant Commissioner for Crime, a man named Donaldson, one of the few men Gideon disliked. Donaldson, a bachelor, had his sister with him; they both had the stamp of the military about them, belonged more to the Army than to the police. The Commander of the Women Police was next, a compact, attractive-looking woman, with her husband, whose silver hair made him look very much older than his wife.

  Finally came Gideon and Kate, the last in the line of the reception party, only just inside the ballroom. This was seething with people, among whom was Gideon’s Deputy Commander, Alec Hobbs, with Penelope, Gideon’s youngest daughter, both there to guide the guests to vacant tables, to help organise the function although most of the organising had been finish
ed long in advance. Penelope radiated youth and young womanhood; at twenty-five, she had become a permanent member of the BBC Symphony Orchestra, playing the piano, especially solos, with high competence which might develop into brilliance. Nearly twenty years older than Penelope, Alec Hobbs had made no secret of his love for her. In his immaculate tails, possessing an extra “something” it was hard to define, he looked almost right for her; it was as if they had already grown into complementing each other.

  Gideon had little chance to speculate about them, but he did begin to worry a little about Kate. The Assistant Commissioner met an old friend and held up the line while he chatted – that was somehow characteristic of the man, who was seldom considerate of others. But this gave Gideon a chance to say to Kate:

  “Tired, love?”

  “I have been fresher!” But Kate’s eyes still glowed.

  “You can go and rest, you know. Penny would love to stand in for you.”

  “Could she?”

  “Of course.” The fact that Kate was even prepared to consider this proved how tired she must be feeling. She had been ill with a fatigued heart a few months ago, and still needed to be careful and not overexert herself. Gideon caught Hobbs’s eye quickly, for Hobbs had “fly” eyes which enabled him to see around a wide perimeter. He looked young and his features, regular but often emotionally dull, held an expression of excitement and pleasure, stimulated by Penelope at least as much as the occasion. Gideon remembered him at this very function, several years ago, when his now dead wife had already been showing signs of the disease – leukaemia – which had eventually killed her. At that time Hobbs had looked ten years older than he did now.

  The private lives of the men had a vital bearing on their work in the Force; this was a fact which Gideon realised more and more as the years passed.

  “Yes, George?” Hobbs inquired from his side.

  “Could you find Kate a good spot to sit – not the VI Ps’ table yet – and ask Penny to stand in for her?”

  “Now Penny will be the belle of the ball,” Hobbs rejoiced. “I’ll fetch her. Matt Honiwell is with the Riddells: will their table do?”

  “Just right.” Trust Hobbs!

  In a moment Penny was standing by Gideon’s side, and in some almost uncanny way she became more mature, suiting the occasion with both mood and manner. She also glowed. As a teenager she had been a tomboy and rather gamine in appearance; now her snub nose had become retroussé and her mouth quite beautiful; there wasn’t a better complexion in the ballroom.

  “Mummy’s not ill, is she?” she asked.

  “She just needs to get off her feet . . . hallo, Hugh!”

  The Chief Detective Superintendent who now came up was Hugh Rollo, one of the Yard’s glamour boys, with a well-deserved reputation as a ladies’ man. There was something in the expression on his pleasant face which made his reputation easy to understand, not so much a “come hither” look as one of natural boldness. With him, to Gideon’s astonishment, was one of the senior members of the typing pool at the Yard, Sabrina Sale, a woman in her early fifties, gentle-looking, nicely dressed in powder blue trimmed with silver. Surely she and Rollo—

  “Good evening, Commander.” Sabrina’s grey eyes smiled; she looked younger than he recalled from her many visits to his office to take down letters. “I hope this will be a most memorable evening for you.”

  “In every way,” Gideon said.

  “How very gallant!” Sabrina’s hand lingered in his perhaps a moment longer than was strictly necessary. Rollo was talking gaily with Penelope, whom he obviously fascinated. Gideon did not want to have to tell him to move on, but this was beginning to hold up the line. Then Hobbs appeared and touched Rollo’s arm lightly; Rollo took the hint and crooked his arm for Sabrina. As they went off Gideon saw that she was one of the few wearing a short dress, and noticed not for the first time what very nice legs she had.

  Fifty or sixty more couples filed past, until even Gideon began to feel the strain. Then his eyes widened at sight of a slim Jamaican woman with a scarred lip that did little to detract from her honey-coloured, broad-featured beauty. A few months ago she had helped to trap the ring leaders of an anti-apartheid group who planned to go far beyond peaceful demonstrations; one of them had slashed her lips and she had been lucky not to be disfigured far worse than this; lucky indeed to be alive. She wore a silver lamé dress, very simply cut, and her hairstyle, of plentiful loose curls, suited her.

  She had a beautiful name: Juanita Conception. With her was Charles Henry of Hampstead Division, the man under whose orders she had been at the time of her injuries. During the case Gideon had sensed that there was more in the relationship than that between Divisional Superintendent and a member of the Force.

  Did this prove it?

  Henry was a man of medium height, with gingery fair hair and pleasant but broad features.

  “Commander.”

  “Charles, how are you?. . . good to see you again, Miss Conception . . . my daughter Penelope.”

  “Yes, we’ve met,” said Henry.

  Gideon felt the gaze from honey-brown eyes and remembered this girl saying only a short time before she had been attacked: “You just have to believe in something, sir, and I believe in law and order.” That had been at a time when racism had already been savage and ugly in parts of London. She was quite short, the top of her head coming only just above his shoulder. The wound had healed so that it gave her a hint of a smile even when in repose and revealed the gold cap of a tooth in her lower jaw.

  “You’re very kind to remember me, Commander.” Her voice was gentle and yet noticeably resonant.

  “You aren’t easy to forget,” he answered. “For what you are and for what you’ve done.”

  Her eyes shone with pleasure, and she turned to Penny while Gideon saw more crowding at the door. Now he had held the line up! He was a fine one to blame Donaldson! The toastmaster began to call the names again and the flow started afresh.

  At last the reception was over.

  Now Gideon sat with Kate and Scott-Marie, a tall, spare, aloof-looking man, too thin, his cheeks almost hollow. He was with his young wife, who couldn’t be much more than thirty-five – his second wife, vivacious, looking about her as she sat – but she didn’t sit for long; she loved to dance. Donaldson and his grey-haired sister were formal dancers and they sat at the table more than any of the others. Gideon and Kate danced the opening waltz, and then – by a consent built up over the years – danced with others, mostly old friends but some quite new. Superintendents’ wives, who were eager to call him George; Chief Inspectors’ wives, who lingered over “Commander,” mostly middle-aged women he had known most of his life.

  This whole ballroom was filled with people who were part of his life.

  They came from every one of London’s twenty-four divisions; from Mayfair and from Bethnal Green, from lofty, arty Hampstead and from lowly, arty Fulham. They came from the Thames Division and, as guests, from the City of London Police and from the Port of London Authority Police; from the outer suburbs, where crime was thin, to Soho, where it was the stock in trade of so many who lived and worked there. Every part of London, then, with men and women of every rank; from the Home Office, which controlled the Yard, to the pathological staff. Nearly everyone who had to do with the job of trying to prevent crime in London and in catching criminals was here: in all, over twelve hundred people.

  And he, Gideon, was the man in charge of them all in their daily work.

  It was a good, gratifying feeling.

  Some who would have liked to be present were on duty, of course, but it was easy to forget the absent faces. Easy, amid this mass of crime fighters, to forget that crimes were being carried out all over London at this very moment; to forget that murders were being committed, or at least violent assaults; banks were being burgled, shops robbed, cars being
stolen, pockets being picked, handbags being snatched, confidence tricksters busy with their spiels, young girls lying beneath men who had attacked them out of the darkness, some virgins, knowing what it was like to be brutally possessed for the first time. Deflowered. Every kind of crime in London’s streets, then . . . and here two orchestras playing and the lights so bright and the dancing so gay. Over on one side of this room the huge bar was crowded, the men outnumbering the women by at least two to one.

  Rollo came up to ask Kate to dance, and Gideon went across to Sabrina Sale. She danced a waltz like a feather, and somehow rested in his arms as if this were where she belonged. She looked up at him all the time, with her almost teasing smile. He was content to dance and not talk, never quite sure what he felt about this woman, never quite sure that he ought to feel what perhaps he did.

  “You dance beautifully,” he observed.

  “You danced as I hoped you would,” she retorted. “Commandingly.”

  “And Rollo?”

  Her eyes were very bright.

  “He dances as if he can’t get you off the floor soon enough, Commander. You can imagine the rest.”

  “I don’t think I’d better. Do you often come to functions as his partner?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “He needs a chaperone, as it were, and I love dancing and usually know enough people to be sure of being able to dance with someone.” She seemed to nestle against his chest and arm. “Your wife is the most beautiful woman here.”

  “Yes,” said Gideon, smiling. “Do you think Rollo is dancing with her as if he cannot get her off the floor quickly enough?”

  Sabrina didn’t answer at once; and then, as the orchestra swung into the last beats of the tune, she answered:

  “The one thing I have discovered is that no person knows what any other is thinking. Husband and wife, mother and child, father and son, big boss and worker – even Sabrina Sale and the Commander.”