Not Hidden by the Fog Read online

  After a long time, she answered: “Only—friendship. He—he has never returned my feeling for him.”

  “I see. Thank you. Did he give you privileged treatment?”

  “No,” she said. “No, I don’t think so. He—he told me he could not. He did say there were things which he could keep to himself for a while and might never have to disclose – they might prove irrelevant. But I think he would have said as much to any woman in trouble.”

  “What trouble are you in?” Gideon asked gently. “You told me, and you told Alec, that you thought your life was in danger. Do you really think so? Or did you say this simply to win sympathy, and so help ?”

  She spoke very, very quietly: “I think I am in danger.”

  “From whom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “That was what Alec was trying to find out.”

  “Did you tell him all you could?” asked Gideon, and when she didn’t answer at once he went on in a firmer voice: “Did you tell him everything, or only part of what you knew or suspected?”

  Slowly, painfully, she replied: “I did not tell him everything. I—I could not understand why my aunt was involved in this—this vandalism. I’ve known her organisation for some time, and have tried to find out what possible reason there could be. She says someone else in using it for their own ends, but—I’m not really sure that’s right. I’m afraid she might be more deeply involved than she will admit. I—I am frightened in case it is she who is threatening me, in order to stop me making inquiries. I went to her house tonight to face her with this. She denied it, but I am still not sure.”

  Hilda broke off, and Gideon watched her for a few moments before asking: “You didn’t tell Alec of these suspicions?”

  “No. I simply said I would try to find out. But don’t you see what could have happened. If my aunt – if whoever is involved – found out I was seeing Alec they might think I’d told him much more than I had. That might be the reason he was kidnapped. If he is murdered then it could be because I didn’t tell him all I knew.”

  As she spoke, tears sprang to her eyes. Gideon had little doubt of the depth of her love for Alec Hobbs.

  He was glad when there was a tap at the door and a messenger came in with the tea and coffee. Almost at the same time his General Call was brought in. He altered a word here and there and let Bruce read it, then sent it back, signed. It would reach all Divisions within half an hour.

  Twenty minutes afterwards, he said to Hilda: “We can find you a comfortable chair in which to spend the rest of the night, or we can see you home, whichever you prefer. Superintendent Bruce will get you to sign a copy of what you’ve told us in the morning.”

  “I would prefer to go home,” she said.

  “Very well. Will you arrange it, Superintendent? And also arrange for a close watch on Miss Jessop’s flat – for her own protection.”

  “I’ll go with her,” Bruce volunteered, eagerly.

  “Miss Jessop,” Gideon said. “You have nothing to fear from the police provided you have told us the truth.”

  “I have,” she assured him. “Everything.”

  But had she? he wondered.

  It was half-past four. Despite the ache at the back of his eyes he did not feel particularly tired, and his mind was alert. He had one quick decision to make: whether to rouse Scott-Marie and report that short, distressing conversation with Alec, or whether to wait until the morning. But in his own interests, as well of those of the case, he ought to get some sleep. He had done everything that could be done; the yeast would not begin to ferment until the morning, when the Force had time to study and think on his message.

  He gave a wide yawn.

  “I’ll go upstairs,” he decided, and went to the door of Hobbs’s room. It was strange to see a youthful-looking detective sergeant there instead of Alec. “I’m going up to the dormitory,” he said. “Call me if there’s anything urgent.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Gideon nodded, went back to his room, and stared at the reports on the desk, then picked one up: it contained a summary of the messages which had come in during the day from people who claimed to have seen Hobbs. Twenty-one of these came from the Hampstead area and each of these had been closely checked. Eighteen had been discounted; two remained open.

  One said that a woman had reported that a man answering Hobbs’s description had been helped out of a black van by several women and half-carried to a small house which had been for sale for several months.

  The second said that a youth had reported seeing a black van being driven too fast through the fog, half a mile from the spot where Hobbs had been kidnapped. On both was a note: “Statements being checked”.

  “Why wasn’t I told?” Gideon complained. “That house ought to be raided.” He put in a call to Hampstead and was not surprised to find that Sharp was still on duty.

  “My fault,” Sharp said, apologetically. “I should have told you. We checked, and the house is empty. It’s been sold to a couple who are moving in next week.”

  “Any telephone?” asked Gideon.

  “Let me see,” Sharp said, and paper rustled. Then in a tone of surprise, he said: “Yes. A main instrument in the front hall downstairs and an extension in the back room upstairs. It was owned by an accountant who used the upstairs room as an office.”

  “What are the approaches like?” asked Gideon.

  “It’s at the foot of a high railway embankment,” Sharp replied. “No way of approach without being seen. Only two roads lead to it – one links up with a corner of Cricklewood Lane, and there’s a T-junction at the other; one bar of the T leads back to Cricklewood Lane, the other’s a dead end railway embankment.”

  “Looks as if they knew what they were doing,” Gideon said. “Jack, have that place watched every minute of the day and light. Don’t make any move but make sure we know everyone who goes in and out.”

  “You can’t think—” Sharp began, but broke off.

  “Like extra help?” asked Gideon.

  “I can look after it,” Sharp said, and rang off.

  Gideon, still sitting on the corner of his desk, stared at the big, round clock on the wall. All sense of tiredness had left him. The discovery, if it was a discovery, had come out of the blue, almost out of nothing. No lead in, no build-up, almost an anti-climax. My God! Now he had to call Scott-Marie!

  He put out a hand for the telephone, but as he placed his fingers on the instrument it quivered, and then rang. He let it ring for a moment. If Hobbs was in that empty house, what were the odds on getting him out alive?

  The bell kept on ringing.

  The door from Hobbs’s room opened and the sergeant said: “Just checking you’re still there, sir. Would you like me to take the call?”

  “No, I’ll take it.” Gideon lifted the receiver stiffly. “Gideon.”

  “Daddy,” said Penelope, “is there any news ?”

  Her voice seemed far away, and frightened. “Daddy, is there any news?” There was news, what the devil was the matter with him?

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Penny was saying, “and I rang Mummy. She said you might be at the Yard. Daddy, is there any news? I’m on the way back. We’ll be in London in two hours.”

  “I have talked to Alec,” Gideon said. “He’s being held as a hostage, but he’s well and they’re feeding him.”

  “Oh, thank God!” breathed Penelope. “I was afraid—”

  “Penny, they won’t kill Alec unless they’re sure they can’t get what they want,” he said.

  “They mustn’t kill him!” she cried. “You mustn’t let them.”

  “There isn’t a thing I won’t do to save him,” Gideon promised her. At the back of his mind there was a hazy realisation that there were some things he c
ould not do, but all he could think of at that moment was the distress in his daughter’s voice.

  “You mean that ?” she cried. “You really mean that?”

  “Penny—” he began.

  “You’ve got to mean it!”

  “Penny,” Gideon said. “Go straight home. Would you like to be met anywhere by a police car?”

  “No, my friend will take me right to the door—”

  “And I’ll come as soon as I can, with all the news I can,” Gideon promised. “I can’t stay now.”

  “I know,” Penelope said huskily, but she did not ring off and he just caught the words which followed, and he could almost see the tears. “I can’t live without him—” Then she rang off.

  Gideon put the receiver down slowly, painfully. He put his hand against his forehead, and it was burning hot. He had much more than an ache behind the eyes now, he had a headache which was spreading like fire everywhere. He had a sense of disaster. It was probably because he was so emotionally involved in this affair.

  He had intended to call Scott-Marie, but was it really necessary to wake the Commissioner to report that he had talked to Hobbs? He moved from the desk to the window. It was a clear night and the lights on the Embankment, on Westminster Bridge and on the farther side of the river were all very bright. Calm and clear, without confusion.

  He moved, in sudden decision, and picked up the exchange telephone. “A line, please, and leave it through.” He dialled Scott-Marie’s number, and the bell rang four short double rings before the Commissioner’s voice sounded, blurred by sleep.

  “Scott-Marie.”

  “Gideon, sir.” Gideon paused long enough for the sleep to clear from the other’s mind before going on: “I’ve talked to Alec. He’s all right so far. His captor’s first demand is that we withdraw our men from the parks and commons by sunset tomorrow. I was non-committal. I have also talked to Lady Carradine, and there is no doubt that she is partly responsible for what happened – wittingly or not I don’t yet know.”

  “Be sure before you take any action,” Scott-Marie said.

  “I’ll be sure,” answered Gideon, gruffly. “It’s possible that we know where Alec is being held. I’m having the place watched from a distance, but am taking no action yet. I would like to discuss it with you tomorrow.”

  “At whatever time you wish,” the Commissioner agreed. He showed no sign of excitement; he was a master at concealing his feelings. “George, what made you say ‘his captor’s first demand’?” Sleep-heavy or not, his mind was alert enough.

  “I can’t believe that all they want is freedom of the parks,” Gideon answered. “Unless—”

  “Unless we are dealing with a fanatic,” remarked, Scott-Marie.

  “Or more likely, unless there’s some reason why he needs the parks,” Gideon replied. “I simply can’t think of one. I’m still at the Yard, sir. I think I’ll go home for a few hours, but be on call if there is any development.”

  “Try to get some sleep,” urged Scott-Marie, and rang off before Gideon could reply.

  Sleep, thought Gideon. Sleep. But Scott-Marie wasn’t emotionally involved; it was difficult enough to rest and relax, and might well be impossible to sleep. But he must go home; he needed a talk with Kate before Penny arrived, and there was nothing he could usefully do here. Once again he went to the door of Hobbs’s room.

  “Changed my mind,” he said. “I’m going home. Have a car ready for me, will you?”

  Ten minutes later, he was on his way; twenty-five minutes later he let himself into his house. He went upstairs slowly, surprised at the heaviness of his legs. The dining-room clock struck six. Penny would be home by seven, perhaps earlier, it wasn’t worth going to sleep until she came.

  He turned into the big bedroom.

  The light was on, but Kate was asleep, breathing evenly. He couldn’t wake her. When it came to the point all he wanted was to be here when Penny arrived. He was aware of that old, old wound, when he had left Kate with their dying child because of a job to be done. The job he was on now was the biggest he had ever had to do in his life, but he had to be here for a while, to help Penny. He took off his shoes and loosened his collar, then slumped into an armchair.

  He was bodily weary, but mentally so alert that he did not think for a moment that he would go to sleep.

  But he did sleep, through the sound of a car stopping, through the opening and closing of the front door, through Penelope hurrying up the stairs, through Kate waking and Penelope crying and Kate trying to soothe and to quieten her. It was Penny whose voice pierced sleep, made him suddenly, vividly awake.

  “I tell you I don’t care, I don’t care! He must wake up. He must do what these devils want! He must save Alec’s life!”

  When Gideon opened his eyes he saw her standing in front of him, so young, so pretty, so full of fear. Kate was behind her; he knew that she was pleading with him, wordlessly, to help Penelope: to put their daughter above all else.

  Chapter Seventeen

  FATHER AND DAUGHTER

  There was darkness in Gideon’s mind.

  He knew this was Penelope, his beloved child. He knew that behind her, as if in support, was Kate, his beloved wife. He was aware of the anguish in the child’s voice; of the near-impenetrable shadows in his mind as he came slowly, reluctantly, out of sleep.

  Sleep held to him, tightly. It chained and locked his body, and befogged him. He was acutely aware only of one thing: danger. He shifted his position; there was a pain in the back of his neck and an ache in his head.

  “Father! Wake up! Listen to me!”

  “Penny—” Kate began.

  “Mother, be quiet! This is between father and me.” Penelope leaned forward and gripped his hand in both of hers and tugged, trying to get him to sit upright. “You must save Alec!”

  Gideon said: “Hallo, Penny. I must have dropped off—”

  “How you could sleep when Alec’s in this awful danger and I’m beside myself, I don’t know!”

  He struggled to a sitting position at last. She held tightly to his hand, her eyes glassy and deeply shadowed. He remembered all that had happened, her call from the motorway; and the mists of indecision cleared.

  “Yes, my dear,” he said. “You are certainly beside yourself.”

  “Anybody would be in these circumstances!” Her voice was high and overwrought. “Alec might be killed, murdered, and you don’t care, you come home and fall asleep in an armchair. How heartless can you be?”

  Gideon looked at her for a long time, considering half a dozen different phrases, before he replied in a voice which held a core of hardness. What he said had to be right: for himself, for Kate, and above all at this moment and for all the future for Penelope. He phrased his words with great deliberation.

  “If Alec could see and hear you now, he would be ashamed of you. You are no longer a child: you are a young woman of twenty-six, with all an adult’s responsibilities. Accept those responsibilities, Penelope, or the day will come when instead of crying that you can’t live without Alec, you will find that you can’t live with yourself.”

  “George!” Kate breathed.

  He did not look at or respond to her, knowing where her heart lay, not wanting to join issue with her. So, he looked levelly at Penny, longing to draw her to him and to soften his voice, knowing that at the moment he dared not. He had been afraid after the telecast that she would take his attitude badly, had been enormously relieved when she had called him. And so deeply proud of her. What had made her change? Had she simply brooded and brooded, not sleeping for the torment in her mind, and found it grow into a nightmare which rejected all reason?

  Or—

  Suddenly, he believed he knew the reason.

  For a moment he was sick with himself because he had not seen the obvious quickly enough,
but gradually he realised that it was as well that he had not, because he could not have brought himself to talk so, had he even suspected the truth.

  She released his hand, and turned away, burying her face against her mother’s shoulder. Kate looked at him; and he had not seen such coldness in her expression for many years.

  She said firmly: “I’m going to give her a sedative and put her to bed.”

  “Not yet,” said Gideon, “there are one or two things I have to know.”

  “She’s at the point of exhaustion!”

  “Yes,” agreed Gideon, unable to keep the weariness out of his voice, “I know. Penny, did someone telephone you and tell you that if I didn’t do what he wanted Alec would be murdered?”

  Kate said: “No!”

  Penelope’s head rose, sharply. “You knew?”

  “I guessed,” he said. “Sit down, love.” He reached for her hand. “Penny, has Alec talked about this case to you very much?”

  “A little,” she replied.

  “Does he usually talk about investigations going through at the Yard?”

  “No, hardly ever.” When Gideon waited she went on: “This one worried him much more than most.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No, except—” Penelope fumbled at the neck of her dress and drew out a damp-looking and crumpled handkerchief. “Except that he didn’t really think it was simply a ‘clean up our parks’ motive. I think—” She hesitated, and when she spoke again, her voice was much stronger. “I think he was afraid that there were political undertones.”

  Gideon asked sharply: “Did he ever say so?”

  “No, but—well, I couldn’t imagine any kind of crime that would worry him so much,” Penelope answered. “But I’m only guessing.”

  “Did he ever mention a woman named Lady Carradine?”

  “No. The synthetic Women’s Lib Lady C?”

  “You could say that! Or a Hilda Jessop?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone at all by name?” Gideon asked. “Only someone named Elsie,” answered Penelope.