Gideon's River Page 11

  With the photographers were a dozen newspaper men.

  ‘Just a moment, Sir Jeremy.’

  ‘Will you stand in the middle? Thank you, sir.’

  ‘If the blonde will change places with the tall brunette … Thank you.’

  ‘Just one more, sir, please.’

  ‘Will you tell us exactly where the parade is to be, Sir Jeremy?’

  ‘Is it to be on the river?’

  ‘Teddington?’

  ‘Westminster?’

  Sir Jeremy, obviously in his element, slipped his arm delicately round the brunette’s waist.

  ‘You’ll know all about it in the morning,’ he promised. ‘I can tell you now that it will be the most magnificent show of furs, gowns, jewels and beautiful women ever staged in London. The spectacle not only of the year but of the decade.’ He spied his wife, on the fringe of the newspaper men and strode towards her, arms outstretched. ‘Hello, m’dear.’ He kissed her lightly on either cheek. ‘Lovely to see you, you ought to be in the show, not simply organising it.’

  ‘Will you do that again, sir?’

  ‘Could you move a little closer, madam – and you madam. And you.’ The speaker motioned first to Lady Pilkington, then to the models.

  Pilkington laughed. ‘That’s enough now, gentlemen – more tomorrow.’ He inclined his head towards his wife. ‘Hugh here?’

  ‘Yes, just coming.’

  ‘He can look after the models,’ said Pilkington. ‘Aren’t they charming?’

  ‘Most charming.’

  They both laughed.

  A few minutes later Esmeralda was driving her husband out of the airport, while Hugh St. John, manager of the parade and renowned in London fashion circles, shepherded the models, allowed them to pose for a few more photographs, and then climbed after them into a big Chrysler.

  Next to his wife, Pilkington was saying: ‘What is all this about Alec Hobbs and his merry men, darling?’

  ‘He’s very put out because you didn’t tell the police about the parade.’

  ‘But it would have spoiled the whole show if they’d started making preparations!’

  ‘I told him that, but he didn’t seem to think it important. Jeremy.

  ‘Yes, m’dear?’

  ‘I think he thinks there could be a robbery.’

  ‘Oh nonsense! Tosh! Rubbish!’ Suddenly Pilkington seemed almost angry. ‘Alec can’t believe such balderdash. Didn’t say anything to suggest it, did he?’

  ‘Only that he was afraid of it.’

  ‘How did he hear about the parade?’

  ‘Morris, the insurance man, told him.’

  ‘I’ll have to talk to Morris, said Pilkington. ‘Secrecy is secrecy. You’re not worried, are you?’

  Esmeralda half-frowned. ‘I would hate anything to go wrong, darling.’

  ‘My God, so would I!’ Pilkington sat back for a few seconds, then touched her hand – resting lightly on the wheel – as if he had forgotten that she was driving in the thick traffic of the Great West Road. ‘Perhaps it’s as well Alec knows. The police won’t let anything go wrong. As they know all about it, we needn’t worry. Angel, you look absolutely splendid. Whenever I leave you for a few days I always wonder how I could have been such a fool.’

  Esmeralda laughed, but was obviously pleased.

  Gideon, at the end of that day, was in one of his more dissatisfied moods. He felt as if he had been tied by hidden bonds to the desk, and this always irked him. Only now and again, as Commander, could he take any active share in an investigation; for the main part he could only guide the detectives in the field, from his office.

  At the moment, except for the Pierce child, the coming parade, and the industrial diamonds problem, there were no major crimes going through. Summer was often a quiet period, which was just as well; school holidays meant holidays for policemen with their families as well as for criminals with theirs. But this was a quiet period in other ways, too. For years there had been the uncertainty about Lemaitre and his, Gideon’s, deputy; and there had been a strong move to promote him, Gideon, to the post of Assistant Commissioner. All of these things had helped to create pressures and tensions, and Gideon heaved a great sigh of relief when they had passed. Yet the truth was that he missed them.

  Now that he had been on the river there was no excuse to go out into the divisions, and this made him feel restless. He had given all the thought he could to the Pierce case; in fact there was nothing he could do which Hellier couldn’t do at least as well.

  A tap at the door made Gideon look up from his desk, and as he did so the door opened, and Hobbs came in, closing it carefully behind him. In some contradictory way Hobbs’s calm and unquestioned efficiency both took a load off Gideon’s shoulders and, at the same time, added to his restlessness.

  ‘What’s on, Alec?’

  ‘Nothing new of any significance.’ Hobbs said that as if it were routine. ‘I’ve just heard that Pilkington is back from Paris, and has promised the press a statement by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘That’s what we expected, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes …’ Hobbs paused, and then added: ‘George.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Prescott and Roswell worried me.’

  ‘”Big River Robbery”, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Got under my skin, too,’ Gideon admitted. ‘It obviously sprang to everybody’s mind.’ He did not add that it had also drawn attention from the waterproof bag story; no one had been particularly interested in that, although each had examined the bag.

  ‘Is there a way it could be staged?’

  ‘Meaning, is Worby over-confident?’ Gideon pursed his lips. ‘Worby’s always inclined to be, of course. In this case – I don’t know. He’s quite right in his assertion that it’s difficult to start anything quickly on the water.’

  ‘Yes.’ Hobbs frowned. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Or under it.’

  ‘But not above it,’ said Gideon slowly.

  Hobbs stared.

  ‘Above?’

  Gideon frowned. ‘I don’t know what protection those jewels will have, but if they were all in one place, if someone aboard did steal them and get them on to the deck, say, and if …’ he hesitated, feeling that the possibility which had entered his head was too ridiculous to utter, then went on, ‘and if a helicopter was hovering, ostensibly to take photographs, but with someone on board ready to signal when it was worth swooping down and using a grab …’

  Hobbs gave a low-pitched whistle.

  ‘Great River Robbery, Method One!’

  ‘I know it sounds absurd.’ Gideon sounded almost apologetic.

  ‘But it could happen,’ said Hobbs excitedly. ‘One swoop, and a crate could be plucked off the deck, and dropped beside a waiting car or van almost anywhere in London, within a few minutes of the robbery.’

  Gideon began to rub his chin.

  ‘It isn’t absurd,’ Hobbs argued. ‘And I wouldn’t like to take any chances,’ he added.

  ‘Nor would I,’ growled Gideon. ‘We’ve two clear days before the damned thing starts.’

  ‘Nearly three,’ Hobbs corrected. ‘It starts at six-thirty, to miss the worst of the rush-hour. From what I saw of the River Belle they’ll be working right through the night to get the décor finished. Care to look over it yourself?’

  ‘No, I’ll leave that part to you. But I’ll drive home along the Embankment and see what they’re doing on the pier.’

  In fact, there was very little to see, except an army of workmen on the pier and on the river boats, as well as several tradesmen’s vans parked nearby. A Superintendent of the division was talking to a uniformed Inspector, obviously about parking and re-routing traffic. Gideon didn’t stop, but raised a hand to them. Just beyond the pier
the Belle Casino was gay with bunting, but practically no one was aboard; gaming seldom started in earnest until after dark.

  When he turned into the gate of his home in Harrington Street, Gideon heard the first theme of a Beethoven Concerto, being played in his front room. So Penelope was home and practising. Bless the girl, she spent every moment she could at the piano. He let himself in as the majestic notes rolled out, and for some absurd reason almost tiptoed past the half-open door. There was no one in the kitchen or the living-room, and he wondered if Kate were out. There was no note. Suddenly the piano playing stopped and Penelope came hurrying.

  ‘Is that you, Daddy? Oh, there you are!’

  Penelope was twenty-two, and the least attractive of the Gideon daughters, but she had a merry expression in her brown eyes, a snub nose, and nice lips. She was the most vivacious of the family. Giving Gideon a hug, she went on: ‘Mummy’s gone over to Pru’s and is going to stay the night … There’s a casserole in the oven … Neil’s out until midnight, and Priscilla will be late too.’

  ‘So that leaves you and me,’ Gideon said.

  ‘Leaves you,’ said Penelope, briskly. ‘I’ve a rehearsal, and a date afterwards, I just waited to say hello-goodbye.’

  ‘Hello, goodbye,’ Gideon said ruefully.

  He ate the contents of the casserole, and a large slice of apple tart, then went into the living-room and switched on the television. Almost at once there was the sound of shooting, sure herald of a Western. He picked up the evening newspaper and half-watched the screen while skimming the headlines, read a small paragraph about the Pierces, another about the infanticide, an inside page story of the finding of Tom Argyle-Morris’s body. The Yard wasn’t getting anywhere with any of the main inquiries, he thought despondently, that must be why he was feeling so depressed.

  He put the paper down and, despite the figures cavorting across the screen, began to doze. It was pleasant and comfortable. Then, suddenly, the telephone bell disturbed him. He was so near sleep that he wondered, at first, what it was; then how long it had been ringing. If it was the Yard it would go on and on, if it was a family call it would probably stop ringing before he reached it.

  It didn’t stop, and he lifted the receiver.

  ‘Gideon.’

  ‘George, you were quite right to ask me to keep a weather-eye for Micklewright.’ It was Worby speaking. ‘One of his sisters-in-law has just phoned me. She says he’s drunk as a lord and swearing that he’s going to kill his wife. Did you know she’d gone off with another man?’

  Gideon sat in the back of a car which had been sent from the Yard and was being driven along the Embankment. Now that it was dark, the Belle Casino was ablaze with light, and across the river, Battersea Park Pleasure Gardens, lively survivor of the 1951 Exhibition, was gay and gaudy with lights of a dozen colours, reflecting with rare beauty on the dark water. Gideon was aware of these things, but thinking only of Micklewright and his wife.

  Why hadn’t he made Micklewright talk? The man must have been at breaking point for days, if not for weeks. With a little more effort he could have been persuaded to tell the whole story.

  Self-reproach was a waste of time, though.

  Micklewright was believed to be somewhere between his own home in Stepney, and the flat where his wife was known to be living, in Greenwich, and Worby had alerted the division which covered Greenwich.

  ‘According to his sister-in-law, he’s twice been forcibly restrained from attacking his wife,’ Worby had reported.

  ‘Is the wife’s place being protected?’

  ‘He won’t get through, George, don’t worry.’

  ‘I hope not,’ Gideon had said, grimly.

  Now, as the car sped along through London’s night, all the other factors went in and out of his mind. There was Micklewright’s personal problem, which explained so much. There was the fact that tension and too much whisky were stopping him from doing his job well. There was the fact that he had upset Van Hoorn. There was the fact that he would have to be taken off the inquiry, and it was always a bad thing to put a new man in charge halfway through a case. There was another, in some ways the most important, factor of all: if Micklewright did reach his wife and attack her it would be a major sensation, and would do great harm to the public image of the police. That image was better now than it had been for some time, but it needed comparatively little to blur it. There might be no fairness in a situation by which one policeman’s personal tragedy could affect the reputation of the entire Force, but it could and, if this got out, it would.

  ‘Have the press learned about this, yet?’ he had asked Worby.

  ‘Not as far as I know, George.’

  The best way to Greenwich by night was across London Bridge and then along the Old Kent Road through New Cross and Deptford. The Tower Bridge was vivid in floodlights. Gideon had only to turn his head to see the floodlit walls of the Tower itself. The road, which seemed deserted, was poorly lit. Every moment he expected a message by radio, but none came. At last the car drew up alongside another police car at the end of a tree-lined avenue. Two men came forward: first, Joe Mullivan, Superintendent in charge of QR Division, then the last man Gideon had expected, Old Man River Singleton.

  Joe Mullivan, big and massive, one of the few men in the Force who was bigger than Gideon, opened the door.

  ‘Any sign of him?’ Gideon demanded at once.

  ‘Not near here, sir.’

  ‘Anywhere?’ growled Gideon.

  ‘We’ve had a report that an acquaintance of his saw him in a pub in Deptford half-an-hour ago.’

  Gideon frowned. ‘Does his wife know what’s happening?’

  ‘No,’ Mullivan said.

  ‘She ought to be warned,’ put in Singleton gruffly. ‘That’s my opinion, sir.’

  He glared almost defiantly at Gideon.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Gideon.

  ‘They’re both old friends of mine, sir. I could see this marriage was heading for the rocks years ago. I want to go and see Clara but the Superintendent refused to allow me to go up to her place until you arrived. I’d like your permission, sir.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE MURDEROUS POLICEMAN

  In the shadows cast by the street lamps were several detectives, their faces pale shapes, their bodies dark. Beyond Gideon was the driver, in front of him Mullivan and Singleton – and Singleton was obviously fighting to retain his composure. Here was a case where the human, emotional side of a policeman was getting on top of his official side. A couple came round a corner, walking briskly as they turned into the street, slowing down when they saw the cars and the men. All of these things flickered through Gideon’s mind. There was more than enough to worry about without Singleton, but the wrong attitude towards him now could do a lot of harm in several ways. Even in the few seconds while he deliberated, Gideon saw a hardening of defiance in Singleton’s craggy face, in full expectancy of a refusal.

  ‘It’s a long time since I’ve seen Clara Micklewright,’ Gideon said. ‘I think I’ll come along with you.’

  The defiance, the half-formed resentment, vanished into thin air.

  ‘That’s going to make her take it seriously!’ Singleton was almost jubilant.

  ‘I hope so. Superintendent …’ Gideon turned to Mullivan, ‘what’s the position?’

  ‘The house is watched back and front, sir, and we’ve men in the gardens of neighbouring houses, even got two men on the roof opposite.’

  ‘With long-beam lamps?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Gideon turned and walked along the street of tall, terraced houses with Singleton, who suddenly seemed tongue-tied.

  ‘Anything about the Pierce girl, sir?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Hell of a thing to happen.’
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  ‘Yes,’ Gideon said. ‘And this is a hell of a thing to happen to Micklewright. You say you’ve been expecting it?’

  ‘For years,’ answered Singleton. ‘It was one of those misfit marriages from the beginning. God knows what Clara ever saw in Mick. Easy to understand what he sees in her, though.’

  ‘Much younger than he is, isn’t she?’

  ‘Fifteen years. She was too young, I suppose. Hero-worshipped him, in a way – remember when he won that life-saving medal?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gideon, turning his mind back to the time when Micklewright had plunged off Chelsea Bridge to rescue two children who had fallen from a pleasure boat.

  ‘They met about that time. Er – I’m not talking out of place, sir, am I?’

  ‘Not a bit.’

  As Gideon spoke, they reached a gate where a man stood on guard and another was close by. Bushes grew in the small garden beyond, and whitened steps led up to a dark front door. There was a light over the door and a light at a high window. On one side of the porch were several bell pushes, each with a card underneath; Singleton pressed the top button as he went on:

  ‘Everything was all right for a few years. They had one child, a girl – but she died at the age of six. She’d held them together. Mick buried himself in his work but Clara hadn’t anything to bury herself in, so she got a job as a model, and – well, she’s enough to make most men lose their heads.’

  Gideon asked, rather grimly: ‘She lived it up, did she?’

  ‘Yes, sir – but she didn’t let Mick down. Not for years, anyhow. She kept their home clean as a new pin, and she’s one of the best cooks I know. He didn’t seem to mind the rest.’

  ‘Did he know what was going on?’

  ‘Oh, he knew all right.’

  ‘Then what’s this trouble about?’

  Singleton pressed the bell-push again, and said:

  ‘She asked him for a divorce, and that changed things. A year ago, that was. She met this chap she’s living with, Jonathan Wild, and fell in love. They wanted to marry, but Mick wouldn’t go along with divorce. He said he’d shut his eyes to an affair and wouldn’t make any trouble provided she stayed in his house, as his wife. Didn’t make any demands on her – what the hell is happening?’ He rang the bell again. ‘They usually press the button upstairs and the door opens.’