Vigilantes & Biscuits Read online

  Copyright & Information

  Vigilantes & Biscuits

  (Gideon’s Force)

  First published in 1978

  Copyright: John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1978-2012

  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 Creaseyto 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

  0755114108 9780755114108 Print

  0755118774 9780755118779 Pdf

  075512622X 9780755126224 Mobi

  0755126246 9780755126248 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.

  Dedication

  For CAROL

  1

  Estate of Fear

  George Gideon, the Commander of the Criminal Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard, normally breakfasted heartily.

  This morning – a hot, sunny Tuesday morning in early September – every mouthful of bacon was an effort to swallow, and the accompanying coffee too tasteless to drink without a wry grimace.

  It was nothing to do with the cooking. All food and drink is unappetising to a bone-dry tongue and palate; and the feeling inside him was driving every drop of saliva from his mouth.

  It was a complicated feeling. There was anger in it, but also frustration, horror, bewilderment, strangeness, shame.

  The Law – which he, Gideon, had served, represented, fought for all his working life – was breaking down.

  It was happening – of all places – here, virtually on his own doorstep.

  And there wasn’t a man in England, it seemed, who could begin to tell him why.

  About a mile north of Gideon’s home – a solid, Victorian house in Harrington Street, Fulham – there was a new residential area called the Wellesley Estate. This Estate, which was about a mile wide by a mile and a half in length, had been built under the auspices of the Greater London Council, primarily to house families from overcrowded London areas; and for an Estate of its type, it wasn’t at all bad. Gideon wouldn’t have liked to have lived on it himself. There was too much concrete about, too slick a pattern. He would, before long, have yearned for the sight of a single stretch of homely old red brick. But the facilities there were undeniably excellent. The Wellesley Estate was as handsomely equipped as a miniature New Town. It had a complete set of gleaming modern schools – Infants, Middle and High; a splendid shopping precinct with everything from a chiropodist’s to a supermarket, and an air-conditioned community centre where, ordinarily, churches of many denominations held services on Sunday, bingo was played on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and there was a disco every Saturday. The amenities also included three good public houses, a full-size football field and an adventure playground for the under-twelve’s.

  There were, unquestionably, many worse places in England to live in than the Wellesley Estate.

  Why, then, had its inhabitants suddenly gone mad and turned it into a hell of purposeless violence? Why did no day or night go by without its quota of muggings, rapes, assaults – and on two occasions, actual murders? What strange force impelled the orgies of window-smashing and fire-raising that happened there? And above all, why was it that as soon as the police asked questions, they were met by a wall of silence as thick as a slab of Wellesley concrete?

  Violence, as such, wasn’t unusual in these days. Sporadic outbreaks of brutality and vandalism were occurring all over Britain, and there were many areas – even wealthy residential ones – where a lot of the older and lonelier residents lived in constant dread. But on the Wellesley Estate the situation had gone much further than that. Fear – at a level where it could almost be described as terror – had become an ever-present fact of life for every man, woman and child. And the horror of the Yard’s helplessness to alter the situation had become an ever-present fact of life for Gideon, and one liable to intrude on his mind at any moment, and turn that moment into a waking nightmare.

  It wasn’t that the Yard hadn’t acted. It had done so repeatedly. After one night of fire-raising, the Uniform Branch had moved in and virtually lined the main streets of the Estate from end to end. They had stayed on duty, night and day, for a week; the only quiet week the Estate had had in its short history. But there were heavy demands on Uniform’s manpower. “Saturation policing”, as the Commissioner had called that operation, couldn’t be sustained indefinitely, and eventually the Uniformed Force had had to go, to be replaced by patrolling area cars. The cars hadn’t proved effective. That same night, the muggers, fire-raisers, and window-smashers had returned.

  Gideon’s C.I.D. had taken over. Under Chief Detective Superintendent Tom Riddell – one of the most aggressively determined men in the Force – a long series of house-to-house searches had been organised; hundreds of people had been detained for questioning; night after night, watches had been maintained from hidden “stake-outs” in the hope of catching the miscreants red-handed. But there seemed to be some kind of intelligence network operating against the police. Tom Riddell’s efforts had resulted in pitifully few arrests, and he himself was looking more strained, more haggard, with every passing day; a fact which added to Gideon’s worries. He wouldn’t enjoy telling Tom that he would have to replace him; but if things went on like this, it would soon be his duty to do so.

  Or – would it be his duty? Wouldn’t he, perhaps, by giving such an order, be making Riddell a scapegoat? Could it be denied that Tom was doing just about everything that could humanly be done?

  Humanly. That brought up another consideration. Although his massive bulk and belligerent air b
elied it, Riddell was essentially a vulnerable human being. A couple of years before, a difficult case – involving Black Power and Rachmanism – had brought him within a hairsbreadth of having a nervous breakdown. Was there a danger that the Wellesley Estate business was driving him the same way?

  If so –

  “Pass the marmalade, dear.”

  “The what?” Gideon was astonished to find himself starting violently. “Oh – the marmalade. Yes. Yes, of course.”

  He picked up the pot, and dutifully passed it to his wife, Kate. At the same time, he made a supreme effort to pull himself together. At this rate, it would be he who would be going to pieces.

  He sneaked a glance at Kate, hoping that she hadn’t noticed how little he’d eaten of his amply cooked breakfast. It was a forlorn hope, as he well knew. Those calm, blue-grey eyes of hers – calm, but so keenly observant – didn’t miss much where he was concerned. This morning, though, they had a preoccupied look, and Gideon suddenly realised he was in luck. Kate’s thoughts were miles away.

  He knew well enough what was on her mind. In three weeks’ time, after nearly a year of postponement because of the couple’s other commitments, their eldest daughter Penny was going to be married to Deputy Commander Alec Hobbs, Gideon’s right-hand man at the Yard. Penny was insisting on a white wedding, with every imaginable trimming; and Kate was at the centre of all the preparations. The fact that Penny – a leading pianist with the B.B.C. Symphony Orchestra – was herself in the middle of a full programme of appearances at the Promenade Concerts in the Royal Albert Hall didn’t exactly help. She had given an exhausting solo performance at the Proms only the previous night, and at the moment was still in bed, sleeping it off.

  Remembering these family affairs did Gideon a world of good. The Wellesley Estate question vanished temporarily from his mind with the speed of a bursting bubble. He helped himself to more coffee, and drank it less stoically than before.

  “Got a lot on today?” he asked.

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Kate replied, and suddenly stood up, her tall, slim body moving with the languorous grace that never deserted her, no matter how many years went by. “Lord, is that the time? I ought to give Penny a call.”

  “Oh, let her sleep,” Gideon said. “She deserves it after last night. I managed to catch the tail-end of her performance on the car radio-and the applause went on for minutes.”

  “I only wish I could,” Kate said with a sigh, “but Penny’s got a pretty full day. Marjorie Beresford, who’s doing an alteration to her wedding dress, is coming at half past eight.”

  Marjorie Beresford … For a moment, Gideon couldn’t put the name to a face, the face to a name. Then suddenly, he remembered. Marjorie was the widow of Detective Sergeant Sam Beresford, who had died heroically, tackling three armed bank thieves single-handed in Fulham High Street about five years before. Marjorie had a son, Gideon remembered, a boy of eight at the time of the shooting; he’d be thirteen now. No doubt this dressmaking was her way of eking out her police widow’s pension. It was typical of Kate to think of helping someone like that at a time like this.

  Kate read his thoughts, and frowned.

  “Don’t think we’re employing her out of charity, George. Marjorie took a course at one of the big fashion houses. She really is the best dressmaker for miles. And very much in demand.”

  Gideon grinned.

  “She must be, if it’s necessary to knock her customers up at eight thirty a.m. Couldn’t she possibly have fixed an afternoon appointment – or an evening one?”

  “Certainly not an evening one. No one dreams of being out after dark where Marjorie lives.”

  Gideon tensed.

  “Where does she live?”

  “She moved last year to Wellington Avenue. You know. On the Wellesley Estate.”

  Perhaps because she knew what emotive words Wellesley Estate were to him, Kate’s voice had become exceptionally calm and matter-of-fact. She made it sound as though it was the most natural thing in the world that there should be certain areas of their own home town where people stayed indoors after dark. But, to Gideon, it was the most diabolically unnatural thing in the world; a denial, in a sense, of all that Sam Beresford, and dozens of policemen like him, had given their lives for.

  The feeling of fury and frustration came back so strongly that it almost choked him. He got up from the breakfast-table, gave Kate a peck on the cheek and walked quickly out of the dining-room into the hall.

  He turned back at the front door, and managed to force a gruff cheerfulness into his voice.

  “Congratulate Penny for me on last night’s performance. Tell her I’ll be sending out for all the papers to read for myself the praise and adulation. Though I’ve no doubt Alec will be coming in with the whole of Fleet Street under his arm.”

  Half a minute later, he had driven his car – a large, comfortable Rover – out of the garage, and was on his way to the

  Yard. Although it carried two-way police radio equipment, the Rover was Gideon’s private car, not an official Scotland Yard vehicle. Gideon was always glad of that. Had it been official, he would have felt obliged to keep the police radio on all the time. As it was, he felt free to flick on his own private set and listen to the B.B.C., if he so desired; that was how he had heard that snatch of Penny’s concert the night before. This morning, though, he drove in silence, accompanied by nothing but his own thoughts, which became very grim company indeed as he reached the northern end of Fulham, and came within sight of the Wellesley Estate.

  Some impulse compelled him to turn the Rover into the Estate, and the next moment he was driving past the trim rows of new houses, all gleaming with fresh paint and all blandly belying the very thought of lawlessness and terror. Until one looked closer, and noticed how many of the doors and windows had specially fitted locks and fastenings, and how oddly unkempt the front gardens were. (Gardening took courage when at any moment a gang of muggers or hoodlums might come down the street, and attack you for daring to be caught outside your own front door.)

  The farther Gideon drove, the plainer the signs of violence became. He glanced down the once-elegant shopping precinct. The windows of half the shops were now boarded up and not one of the precinct’s lamp-posts had any lamps left in them. A white-coated shop assistant was sweeping up glass. Gideon frowned. There shouldn’t have been trouble at this particular spot. It was only a hundred yards from a small police sub-station, and he and Riddell had agreed that this precinct, the very heart of the Estate, should be kept under police observation at all times.

  How had the vandals managed to slip past the patrol? Hadn’t there been any arrests? The moment he arrived at the Yard, he would get Tom in. and demand a report.

  By the time Gideon had reached this decision he was passing the Wellesley Community Centre, and the three schools: a complex of buildings which had been the planners’ crowning pride and achievement. There wasn’t much to be proud about now. The schools had boarded-up windows everywhere. In the infants’ school playground, swings, see-saw and roundabouts were all useless wrecks. The gymnasium of the High School – an annexe to the main building – was a blackened, burnt out shell.

  The entrance to the Community Centre was also blackened, as if petrol bombs had been lobbed through it. There were signs that the fire brigade had only just stopped the building itself from going up in flames. All of which was reason enough for the Centre being largely deserted by the community. The foyer was flanked by posters announcing bingo and disco events, but there were “Cancelled” notices plastered across them all. The churches seemed to be continuing their services, Sunday morning being perhaps the only relatively safe time during the week.

  Gideon was on the point of calling in at the police substation to get an on-the-spot report, but he decided against it. Just because the Wellesley Estate happened to be on his doorstep he had no business poking his nose in, and overriding Riddell.

  His place was at the Yard, and he had a sudden overw
helming urge to be there.

  There was plenty of room to turn the Rover in the space outside the Community Centre. It was just as he was slowing down, swinging the wheel to begin the turning operation, that Gideon saw an official-looking notice fastened to a stretch of hardboard covering one of the Centre’s two glassless swing doors.

  The notice was typewritten. Gideon had to stop, clamber out, and stride across the pavement before he could make out the wording.

  URGENT

  Considering the manifest incapacity of the Metropolitan Police Force to restore order to the Wellesley Estate, all residents are invited to attend an EMERGENCY MEETING in the Community Centre tonight (Tues. Sept. 10) at 8.30 p.m. for the purpose of setting up a CITIZENS’ VIGILANTE FORCE. Don’t be afraid to come. In unity is our only safety.

  There was no signature, no attempt to identify the organisers of the meeting. Doubtless this could be discovered fast enough as some name must have been given when the hall was booked.

  Gideon walked back to his car with a slow, deliberate tread, and as slowly and deliberately drove away. He felt like a man who has been given a savage slap on the face, but who hesitates to retaliate because he has a suspicion that the blow may be deserved. If he were a resident of the Wellesley Estate, Gideon told himself grimly, by this time he would have a thoroughgoing contempt for the law.

  2

  The Rising Tide

  On countless uncomfortable occasions in the past, George Gideon’s arrival at Scotland Yard had caused storm warnings to be signalled around the departments as soon as he came in sight; but rarely, perhaps never, had his expression betokened trouble so clearly as it did today.