Gideon's River Read online

  ‘Then what is the trouble?’

  ‘Forget it, George.’ Micklewright spoke harshly. ‘I’m getting old and I don’t like Continentals. That’s about the size of it.’

  Even more deliberately Gideon went on: ‘Would you like to be relieved of the job?’

  Micklewright went very still; and for a long time the office was silent. Then he pushed his chair back, and said stiffly: ‘That’s up to you, Commander.’

  ‘If I relieve you of the job, what will Clara say?’ Gideon demanded.

  ‘Clara? She won’t care.’ Micklewright sounded bitter, but the next moment he recovered himself. ‘Nothing to do with Clara, anyway,’ he added hurriedly. ‘Is that all, Commander?’

  So it’s trouble at home, thought Gideon. He saw the misery on the other’s face, and for a few moments could think of nothing to say. Certainly it wouldn’t help to pursue the Clara issue now, this would only drive Micklewright further back into his shell. ‘Well, Van Hoorn’s off your back for a few days,’ he said at last. ‘Keep at it yourself, and if you need help, let me know. It’s beginning to look as if Argyle-Morris was killed by some pretty nasty customers, and it could be tied in with those diamonds. We don’t know that he wasn’t trying to escape with them, do we?’

  ‘He swears—he swore when we talked to him, that he’d never seen the packet. Don’t think I’d overlook a simple possibility like that, do you? I’ll ask Worby to find me a desk down at Wapping for the next few days. That all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gideon.

  Micklewright stood up, moved towards the door, hesitated, then said awkwardly: ‘Thanks, George.’

  He went out.

  ‘Warbler,’ Gideon said to Chief Superintendent Worby, ‘Micklewright’s going to work from your manor for a few days. Keep an eye on him, will you?’

  ‘Still on the bottle, is he?’ Worby asked.

  ‘Something’s eating him,’ said Gideon slowly. ‘And I’d like to know what.’ He rang off and sat back in his chair, wondering whether he should have gone so far. Worby and Micklewright were old friends and Worby would know that he, Gideon, was genuinely concerned for the other man, but it wasn’t good to have one senior officer watching another.

  The truth was that if Micklewright went on as he was going he could no longer be trusted with major assignments. It did not matter how sorry one was for a man, the police had to get results – and results only came from detectives who could give their very best to the job.

  Making a conscious effort, he put Micklewright out of his mind, turning his thoughts towards Sir Jeremy Pilkington’s parade. A show of jewellery and an international ring of diamond thieves. It had to be coincidence. Gideon kept turning it over in his mind, then went over what had been said and planned at the morning conference; at least they’d had some warning.

  Supposing a ring of jewel thieves did use the river for hiding and delivering precious stones … and supposing the same ring decided to try to stage a robbery at the parade … couldn’t the hiding places and the disposal plans for the industrial diamonds be used for the more valuable jewellery?

  Fanciful, he wondered?

  He’d known stranger things happen.

  It was nearly seven o’clock when he left his office and drove back to his home in Fulham. As he opened the front door, he heard Kate coming along the passage; so she had seen him and, he guessed, was excited about something.

  Almost at once, she said: ‘George, you didn’t tell me about the River Parade.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’ Gideon asked in surprise.

  ‘Four invitations were delivered by hand only twenty minutes ago,’ Kate told him, ‘and a brochure! It looks as if it’s going to be magnificent.’

  It was good to see her so pleased, and Gideon made a mental note to tell Hobbs about her pleasure. It was less good to see her expression, at the dining-table, as her thoughts obviously veered to something unpleasant.

  ‘George,’ she said. ‘Do you think there’s any hope for that Pierce child?’

  Chapter Twelve

  TO KILL OR NOT TO KILL

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Geraldine Pierce timidly.

  The man said roughly: ‘Never mind my name!’ He rolled off the bed and stood glaring down at her, his face demoniac in the candlelight. ‘What do you want to know my name for? Go on, tell me!’ He thrust his hands on to her shoulders and shook her violently, banging her head up and down on the hard pillow. His voice rose. ‘What do you want to know my name for?’

  In her terror the child gasped: ‘Don’t shout! People will hear you. Don’t shout!’

  The warning stopped him; people did come down to the quarry, especially children. He drew back, releasing her, and his rasping breath seemed to go in and out in time with her shallow, frightened breathing. It was very quiet. The candle flickered in a faint breeze from the door. After a while he leaned over her again but this time he did not touch her.

  ‘Go on, tell me, why do you want to know my name?’

  ‘I—I want to call you something, that’s all.’

  ‘You don’t have to call me anything.’

  ‘I—I just wanted to.’

  ‘Why did you want to?’

  She was still taking in those quick, shallow breaths as she stared up into his face.

  ‘I—I like you,’ she said. And after a pause, she added: ‘You know my name.’

  ‘Yes, I do. Geraldine. But that doesn’t mean you have to know mine. You can like me without knowing my name.’ He nodded, as if to emphasise the fact that his argument was unassailable.

  Geraldine hesitated before beginning:

  ‘I know, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said wearily.

  ‘It matters to me!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to know. I thought it would be friendlier.’

  ‘You’re not lying to me, are you?’

  ‘Of course I’m not! Why on earth should I?’

  ‘You could want to know my name so as to tell somebody.’

  ‘Who—who is there to tell?’ she asked helplessly.

  He frowned, then lowered himself to the rocking chair and drew it closer to the bed. She watched him uneasily. He was like one of the younger kids at school, it didn’t matter what she said he would find an objection, no matter how silly. He did behave like a child; like her father did, sometimes, when her mother had vexed him. This time he did not answer but placed his hand gently on her leg, just above the knee. He was gentle when he was stroking her, whenever their bodies were close; touching. Except when he was angry about some imagined slight or genuine fear, he was very gentle.

  ‘You can call me Dick,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, that’s lovely!’ She was about to ask if that meant that his name was Richard, but thought better of it. ‘Dick – that’s a very nice name.’

  ‘Do you really like it?’

  ‘Yes, I do. It’s lovely.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it,’ he moved his hand gently upwards. ‘Do you like that?’

  She felt the pressure of his hand. She felt the stirring of strange excitement which she had already felt with him – and sometimes when she had thought about ‘men’, when on her own.

  ‘Do you?’

  She whispered: ‘Yes. Yes, Dick, I do.’

  ‘Do you—mind—what I do?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No. I—I love it.’

  And in a way, she did.

  And in another way, she knew that she must humour him. Because when they were close together she was not tied and helpless.

  And, once, he had nearly dropped asleep.

  If he was asleep and she was free she could creep off the bed and get out of this awful place.
>
  Afterwards …

  Afterwards, exhausted, he lay by her side, breathing very heavily. Soon Geraldine began to think that he was asleep. He was on the outside of the bed but she could slide downwards and climb off the foot. That was the only way. She began to ease herself downwards and he did not stir. She felt her legs go over the foot of the bed. Scarcely breathing, she managed to touch the floor. Then she was on her knees at the foot of the bed. The candlelight shone on the back of his head and his bare shoulders. Slowly, cautiously, she stood up, and turned towards the door. She did not know that this door had been built, in the first place, to keep out draughts; that outside it was concealed by rocks and sand, with only just room to squeeze through.

  She reached the door, glancing fearfully back at the huddled figure on the bed. She saw her own shadow, dark and gigantic against the cave wall; almost frightening her. Then, feeling for the handle, she turned it, slowly, gently, and pulled.

  The door did not move. She pulled again, but still it did not move. Looking up, she saw that it was bolted. Standing on tiptoe she began to slide the bolt back, but this wasn’t easy. Holding her breath she went on, exerting more and more pressure – until suddenly it shot back, and metal struck metal with a noise like a bullet shot.

  She heard Dick move.

  She snatched at the handle but the door still did not open. Terror rose up in her as she heard the bed creak. He sprang from it and swore at her just above his breath, vicious, filthy words. She swung round before he reached her, to try to fend him off, and felt his fingers touch her neck and then slide off.

  ‘No!’ she gasped. ‘No!’

  He seized her by the neck and she felt his thumbs pressing into her windpipe and she knew that she was near to death. She slumped against him, pleading with her body, making no attempt to struggle, sensing that it would be useless to try.

  As she leaned her weight against him, he had to bend his arms at a more difficult angle and there was less strength in his grip. Now she could breathe more freely. She sobbed as if her heart was broken, put her arms round him and pressed against him, looking up into his face, her lips parted in an invitation which was unthinking and wholly natural.

  Gradually his anger began to die away.

  Gradually, his grip on her neck slackened.

  ‘Don’t ever do that again,’ he said. ‘Don’t ever do that again.’

  She felt the change in him as his hands fell gently to her shoulders and he began to caress her. The tumult in her heart quietened and soon she began to doze.

  She was going to tell the police, Jonathan Jones thought.

  She would have told them all about me.

  She’s very lovely, but she won’t be any use to me if they take me away.

  So long as I can keep her here, he thought, everything will be all right.

  The following morning Hellier stood in his big office, studying the progress of the magnetised markers and the reports which had come in from all the groups of officers. There was no sign at all of the missing child.

  If she’s dead and buried it isn’t in my manor, he thought. We’d have found her if it was. I wonder if Gideon talked to the others? He went to his desk and sat down heavily. ‘She isn’t in a boat or a boat shed,’ he said aloud. ‘She isn’t in a caravan. She isn’t in an allotment shed. She isn’t in a disused garage. She isn’t in an empty house or flat.’ As he spoke he laid aside folder after folder with reports of investigations into all these places. ‘She isn’t with any man who is known to be living alone. She isn’t in a hotel or boarding house. So if she’s in this division she’s in a house where other people live. She isn’t hiding for a joke, and she’s no need to run away, so she must have been abducted. We’ve checked all the families with sons who are weak in the head, and whom we know need watching. So it must be someone we don’t know – and most of the ones we don’t know are families who’ve moved into the district in the last six months, say.’

  His face cleared as he lifted a telephone.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ His second-in-command answered promptly.

  ‘I want someone to go round to the Town Clerk’s office, see the Rating Officer and get a comprehensive list of all families known to have moved into the district in the past twelve months. Send others round to all estate agents to get lists of furnished houses or flats rented in the same period.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Get it done quick,’ ordered Hellier.

  He felt better when he rang off; at least he had started another line of inquiry, one it would have been easy to overlook.

  Wanda Pierce was at the kitchen sink, preparing vegetables for lunch. David made a point of coming home to lunch, these days, although Mr. Lee didn’t like it. In a way, it helped her. She knew what she was doing but did it mechanically. There was no relief from the mental agony she felt, no relief from the perpetual cross-examination of herself. She had known Geraldine was too easily flattered by men. She had known that she was extremely attractive and physically very well-developed for her age: she could pass for sixteen or seventeen anywhere.

  ‘I tried to tell her. I tried all I knew,’ Wanda said drearily.

  The words seemed to echo back at her from the empty garden.

  She was alone. Mrs. Edmonds would look in during the afternoon sometime, but she had her own family to look after. And none of the other neighbours came in often.

  It was half-past eleven, and David would soon be back. Poor, useless, helpless David. If only he had some spirit! He should have left Lee years ago. She had always wanted to emigrate, to Australia preferably, but he had never had the necessary drive.

  What would they do now?

  At heart, she knew that only Geraldine had kept them together; left to herself she would have walked out on her husband years before.

  Mr. Lee opened the door of David Pierce’s office and found Pierce staring blankly out of the tiny window. He did not even look round as the door opened. Lee took the one stride needed to reach the desk.

  ‘Pierce!’ he barked.

  Pierce started and looked round, wildly.

  ‘What on earth are you doing? You take enough time off, these days, you should at least be giving your job your full attention when you are here.’

  Pierce didn’t speak.

  ‘Are the July stock-sheets ready yet?’

  Pierce spoke slowly. ‘No. Not quite. They will be by middle afternoon.’

  ‘That won’t be time enough,’ rapped Lee. ‘I want them in my office by two o’clock at the latest. Don’t make any excuses.’

  He went out, closing the door with a snap.

  Pierce turned to the loose-leaf ledger in front of him, with its interminable lists of stationery stocks, all entered in his own small, neat handwriting. He had been doing this ever since he had left school, when he had taken over from an elderly clerk very soon after he had obtained the job.

  The figures swam in front of him.

  He looked at the big, round-faced clock on the opposite wall, and saw that it was nearly twelve o’clock. To get these lists ready by two would mean staying here throughout his lunch hour, and that would mean sending a message to tell Wanda that he wasn’t coming home. He could imagine her expression when Mrs. Edmonds told her. He knew that she almost despised him, and instead of the disaster drawing them closer together it seemed to be tearing them further apart. She couldn’t help him and he couldn’t help her. But he knew that she hated to be alone, and perhaps he did help a little by going home to lunch.

  He stared at the clock.

  He heard Wanda’s voice in his imagination.

  ‘Tom ought to be out looking for her!’

  It was true; he ought to be.

  Very slowly he stood up, put a marker in the ledger, put on his jacket, and went through the small general office, where two girls wer
e typing and another at the little switchboard was making entries in the day-book.

  The girls paused in their typing as Pierce walked towards the outer door. He reached it, and turned round.

  ‘Tell Mr. Lee that I will come back after my daughter is found.’

  He did not wait for an answer but went out, down the narrow stairs, out into the side street which led into the High Street and so to the river. He did not cross the bridge but walked to the police station. It was a quarter-past twelve when he asked for Hellier.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr. Pierce?’ Hellier asked.

  ‘You can give me something to do which may help me to find my daughter,’ Pierce said.

  ‘Mr. Pierce, we are doing everything we possibly can. Amateur help will not …’ Hellier began, and then he broke off, realising that once again he had said the wrong and cruel thing. He simply could not help being clumsy with words.

  ‘But there must be something I can do. There must be,’ Pierce sounded desperate.

  ‘But what about your work?’ Hellier asked, shifting his ground weakly.

  Stonily, Pierce answered: ‘I have left my job until Geraldine is found.’

  Awkwardly, Hellier dissembled. ‘Give me time to consider this, Mr. Pierce, and I will find the best way to use your services. Will you telephone me this afternoon?’

  ‘I’m not on the telephone,’ Pierce replied. ‘Will you please send an officer to me with the message?’ He turned and went out of the office, leaving Hellier staring after him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  PROMISE

  Sir Jeremy Pilkington, tall and handsome, came down the gangway from the BEA aircraft at London Airport with two beautiful young women in front of him and two equally beautiful young women behind. They were slender and exquisitely dressed, and as elegant as anyone presented by Dior and Jean Patou should be. At the entrance to the Customs hall a battery of at least a dozen cameras was turned towards them, several from television and the news reels. Trained to perfection, the young women posed without appearing to, were vivacious and attractively natural.