A Sharp Rise in Crime Read online

  Copyright & Information

  A Sharp Rise in Crime

  First published in 1978

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1978-2014

  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 2014 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

  0755136306 9780755136308 Print

  0755139631 9780755139637 Kindle

  0755137981 9780755137985 Epub

  0755155211 9780755155217 Epdf

  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

  The Man Who Looked Like West

  ‘It’s uncanny,’ said Partridge, of South West Division.

  ‘Never seen anything like it,’ remarked Calk, of North East.

  ‘You mean you’ve seen two like it,’ cackled Spettlebury of Central, and he gave a roar of laughter.

  The five men present all joined in; it wasn’t such a good joke but these men, Divisional leaders in the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police in London, were all tense; keyed-up. They were discussing a series of crimes and their own failure to solve them, and they were under pressure from their superior officers at the Yard to get results.

  Partridge, big and bony, with a slippery Adam’s apple, was the first to stop laughing.

  He did not just laugh less heartily; he stopped, abruptly enough for all the others to stare at him; and soon the last murmurs of laughter in the old-fashioned office in Clapham died away.

  The office was in a large Victorian house, taken over recently by the police because the local police stations were bursting at the seams. From four tall windows the trees of Clapham Common could be seen. They, the grass and the shrubs and the hedges were all the pale green of spring; the husks which had confined the seeds dropping and blowing in the soft wind.

  This was mid-morning in early May; most children were at school and only the very young were out there, skipping, running and laughing; or the elderly, moving slowly, while others were to be seen sitting on the freshly-painted benches enjoying the late spring sunshine.

  Spettlebury, large and over-fat, a two-chinned, heavy-paunched man, was the first to ask: ‘What’s on your mind, Birdy?’

  Superintendent James Partridge said: ‘Forget it.’

  ‘We want to know.’ That was Calk, an average-looking man with no special characteristics unless it were the brightness of eyes against a deeply tanned skin. Calk spent every minute he could on the golf course or tennis court.

  ‘Let’s have it,’ urged the fourth man present.

  He was Superintendent Trannion – they were all superintendents, meeting in secret conclave to discuss this particular problem. One of his greatest assets as a policeman was that he looked like an Old Testament patriarch, with his long, silvery hair and his low-pitched melodious voice. In some ways he not only looked, but played, the part. Trannion had never been heard to swear; he did not smoke; he would have a drink on special occasions but was not really a drinker. If he womanised it was one of the Yard’s best-kept secrets, and the Yard was not remarkable for the ease with which members could keep such information from others.

  Those who did not actively like him, respected him.

  ‘You really ought to tell us why you suddenly stopped laughing,’ he urged.

  ‘Seized with a great idea.’ That was O’Malley, the Cockney Irishman, as likely as anyone to bring a quick laugh; he was a man of medium height whose face was so deeply lined one wondered how he could ever shave into those deep crevices. ‘This man’s the spitting image of our Handsome West. I think that’s a joke. What stopped making it funny to you, Birdy?’

  Partridge still hesitated, and it was Trannion who broke the silence. At his first word all of the others turned towards him. A bird flew against the window, but did not seem hurt; every eye turned towards the window and then back to Trannion, who had broken off as if glad of a chance to marshal his words more carefully.

  ‘Jim, are you implying that it is conceivable that there are not two men, but one?’

  ‘My Gawd!’ breathed O’Malley.

  None of the others spoke; not even Partridge.

  ‘Perhaps I should put it more plainly still,’ went on Trannion. ‘Are you implying that Handsome West might be leading a double life?’

  ‘It’s bloody nonsense,’ rasped O’Malley.

  ‘Be quiet, Pat, please.’ Trannion’s rebuke was as gentle as his voice but his face was set and his expression stern. ‘Jim, you owe us a reply, you know. Everything said in this room is confidential, and—’

  ‘Crap!’ exclaimed O’Malley.

  ‘And exactly what do you mean by that?’ demanded Trannion, patiently.

  ‘I mean that if we thought there was a chance in a thousand of West being this other guy we’d have to tell Coppell, pretty damned quick. That’s how confidential it is. And lemme tell you another thing—’

  ‘I’m not sure we need a monologue from you.’

  Trannion’s voice had an edge to it, as if he knew he had been caught in error and resented it.

  ‘Well, you’re going to hear what I think about it, Matt, whether you like it or not.’ The ‘Matt’ was obviously intended as an olive branch, O’Malley did not want the five men to break up in badtempered disagreement. ‘I think if Birdy or you or anyone else has got any evidence that West is a two-timing crook in his spare time, we ought to hear it, and if we agree on its importance, we ought to report it to Coppell or the A.C. today. But if it’s just some bloody silly idea tha
t’s crossed Birdy’s mind, then let’s forget it. I don’t believe West would touch anything crooked with a barge-pole, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t some evidence that ought to be sifted. And I’d be the first to sift it. That’s what I want to say.’ O’Malley settled back in his chair, then took a small cigarette-making machine and a plastic pouch from his pocket, and began to roll a cigarette out of tobacco which looked like curly clips of black hair. It was in fact dark shag.

  ‘That’s how I feel,’ remarked Calk.

  ‘I don’t see how anyone could quarrel with the reasoning,’ Trannion said, grasping O’Malley’s olive branch with both hands. ‘What do you think, Spettlebury?’

  It was a strange fact that only a few intimates called Spettlebury ‘Jack’; his surname was used by nearly all of his fellow superintendents, and it was a measure of the fact that despite his fatness, his outward geniality and his ready mirth he was not on intimate terms with anybody at the Yard. Once, years earlier, there had been a move to call him the ‘Loner’ but Spettlebury he remained.

  ‘I would want some convincing evidence,’ he replied.

  ‘So we are all in agreement on that score,’ declared Trannion, who had become an unofficial chairman. ‘Have you any evidence, Birdy? Or was it just a flash thought?’

  Birdy Partridge still did not reply but his Adam’s apple was moving up and down at startling speed. It emphasised a thin and scraggy neck, while implying that his remark about West was much more than just a flash thought.

  Suddenly, he said: ‘I need to think about this more.’

  ‘Then think aloud,’ urged O’Malley.

  ‘I am not sure that would be wise,’ said Trannion, in his most conciliatory manner. ‘After all, we have to remember that we are discussing a senior officer in the Force, the associate of us all and friend of most, probably the best-known policeman in the country and the man who has, whether we like it or not, done more to improve the image of the police with the general public than anyone else.’

  He paused as if to give the others a chance to disagree, but none did; in fact, O’Malley muttered, ‘I’ll say,’ and Spettlebury said: ‘There’s no doubt about that.’

  ‘So let us carry the present situation a stage further,’ went on Trannion, earnestly. ‘We all of us know that much of the crime in London has been organised extremely well lately and we believe that a single individual, operating a Mafia-like organisation with an extensive knowledge of London and its environs, is mainly responsible. He works of course through night clubs and turf accountants, and it is increasingly apparent that he extorts what is called ‘protection’ money from these establishments, as well as from the legalised gambling clubs and casinos.’ He paused again, before asking: ‘Is that a fair summing up?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Calk said.

  ‘When are you going to start telling us something we don’t know?’ demanded O’Malley.

  ‘Patience, Pat, patience. We have attempted the normal method of dealing with this situation and failed utterly.’ Trannion’s voice held the relish of a religious orator pronouncing doom. He went on: ‘We placed three of our more promising officers, two men and one young woman, in gambling clubs where each might have a chance to learn and perhaps even see this unknown man, and—’ Trannion placed the tips of his fingers together, and closed his eyes before adding in a whisper, ‘all—three—have—been—murdered.’

  There was a moment of silence, then Trannion’s eyes, shut for a moment as if in silent prayer, shot open. They were steel-grey and they flashed in the light, while his voice gathered force until it rang through the room.

  ‘They must be avenged. And we are the avengers!’

  Again, there was silence – before O’Malley put in, as matter-of-fact as only a Cockney could be: ‘Cool it, Matt – we’re cops. We catch the killers, the judge takes the vengeance.’

  It was like a douse of cold water and did a great deal to break the tension which Trannion had managed to create. ‘We don’t know for sure that these three got close to the chap—’

  ‘We do know they were all murdered!’

  ‘And they each had their throat cut,’ stated Spettlebury.

  ‘Ear to ear,’ Calk said easily, making the situation even more macabre than it was already.

  ‘And we also know that Detective Officer Alice Brace posted this photograph to us before she died, and wrote on the back: “99 per cent virtually certain this is the invisible man”.’

  The picture was of a man in bed, naked from the waist up, smiling – as if in invitation to whoever was taking the picture. None of these five police officers could be sure, but there seemed a real possibility that Alice Brace was going beyond – as they might say in the services – beyond the call of duty to get the evidence that this man was Mr Invisible. For his arms were held out, and he was smiling: a very handsome man indeed.

  She had been going ‘beyond the call of duty’.

  She was an attractive young woman in the middle-twenties, and she had known lovers; and she knew that this man was a very great lover.

  She wondered, as she moved slowly, tantalisingly, towards him, whether he would tire of her before she found out all she needed – as a policewoman – to know.

  She also wondered what would happen if he knew that actually inside her bra there was a tiny camera, which took pictures as she unfastened the hooks and eyes at the back.

  Next day, she had the negatives developed; but only the one she had sent to Trannion had been of any use.

  Before he had received it, her body had been found floating in the Thames near Chelsea Bridge; but she had died of a slashed carotid artery, not of drowning.

  The photograph had been enlarged and a hundred copies of it had been made; one was in front of each of the five men round the table at the house in Clapham. The talking had stopped, and now Birdy Partridge was gulping more than ever, as if his thoughts were passing very swiftly through his mind but were still not clear enough to formulate.

  ‘Perhaps we should adjourn for a meal,’ Trannion suggested. ‘It’s getting pretty late—’

  Partridge stated with great deliberation: ‘It could be West.’

  ‘We all know that,’ said Spettlebury.

  ‘I don’t,’ O’Malley said, harshly.

  ‘It could be West because of that scar under his chin,’ said Partridge; his voice squeaked, his Adam’s apple raced.

  ‘Scar?’ cried Calk. ‘Where?’

  ‘Look under the chin on the left-hand side of the picture,’ urged Partridge. ‘It’s a faint, triangular scar. See it?’

  O’Malley muttered: ‘It’s a flaw in the print.’

  ‘I see it!’ exclaimed Calk.

  ‘There is undoubtedly some kind of a mark,’ Trannion agreed.

  ‘Can’t really miss it once your attention’s been drawn to it,’ declared Spettlebury. ‘And has Handsome West got a scar there?’

  ‘I’ve never seen one,’ said O’Malley.

  ‘Nor I,’ said Calk.

  ‘But I have – I was there when he was chasing some men over a junk yard in the East End and fell on a piece of metal. It was damned lucky for him it didn’t puncture his neck. Anyway he had to have two or three stitches in it, and there are dozens of men at the Yard who know it happened. It was seeing that scar which shook me up just now.’

  ‘In these circumstances—’ Trannion began.

  ‘Two people could have a scar in the same place,’ growled O’Malley.

  ‘Indubitably,’ agreed Trannion, ‘but this is sufficient prima facie evidence to present to the Commander. Surely no one can disagree with that.’ He looked around at all four, his gaze lingering longest on O’Malley, who scowled uneasily.

  ‘Then it only remains to be decided who presents the report and whether it should be by word of mouth, or in writing signed by us all,’ went on Trannion, and again he looked from one to the other, obviously expecting to be nominated to convey the report, and as obviously astounded when Spettlebury said:
‘There’s one thing we could do first, Matt, and I’d like to do it.’

  And what is that?’ asked Trannion, sternly.

  ‘Have a talk with West himself and ask what he has to say about it,’ said Spettlebury, flatly.

  Chapter Two

  Majority Report

  As spettlebury’s voice faded there was absolute silence; almost, it might be said, a stunned silence. Another bird flew against the window but this time none of the men took any notice. Into the silence came the harsh ringing of the telephone bell, and Trannion gave a tcha-tcha of annoyance.

  ‘Superintendent Trannion,’ he announced, and after a second of listening he straightened up in his chair. ‘Yes, sir … Yes, we have been discussing the one matter since nine o’clock … I don’t think we can say we have reached any positive conclusion as to the best method of approach, but … I do realise that the matter is urgent. We all do.’ He raised his eyes as if invoking sympathy from heaven. ‘I think we may have a set of proposals by the middle of the afternoon.’

  He stopped; frowning. There was a faint echo of a voice from the other end of the telephone. Trannion’s brows drew together until there was a deep groove between his eyes, and his lips set in a thin line before he said in a very cold voice: ‘That is quite impossible, sir … I am sorry, but it is not practicable to set a deadline on such an issue … I think it possible that by the middle of the afternoon our deliberations will have led us to some positive proposals, but pressure from the Commissioner and from the Home Secretary himself certainly will not help us to reach objective decisions – on the contrary such pressure could easily lead to the wrong actions through over-hasty conclusions.’

  He stopped; and now all the men in the room could hear the voice at the other end of the line, and knew that it was Commander Coppell of the Criminal Investigation Department, and a man before whom most officers, even seniors, often quaked.

  The shouting ceased.