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  “That shouldn’t be difficult. In fact, I think I know of one,” said Matthew.

  By that time, the crowds were leaving Wimbledon in droves, and the pickpockets and the bag-snatchers were skilfully and unobtrusively busy. One of them was young Cyril Jackson, and he had a very good picking: seven wallets and four good watches as well as a couple of fountain pens. When he counted his spoils and assessed the value, he asked himself why he should hand it all over to Aunty Martha. She would never know how much was in the wallets, would she? If he helped himself to a few quid, no one need be any the wiser.

  And that was the time when, twenty minutes late, Gideon reached home.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Husband and Wife

  Kate looked a little drawn, Gideon was quick to notice. Her eyes were a shade too bright; her smile, voice and laughter were off the edge of naturalness. Unless . . . unless he was feeling a greater tension than he realised, was studying her more closely because he was more sensitive.

  There was another quality about her which this increased perception emphasised. She was a strikingly handsome, most would say a beautiful woman. And as she moved – to do the most ordinary things: take a leg of mutton out of the oven, sprinkle flour to thicken the gravy, strain the Brussels sprouts – he was very much aware of her lissomness. There was nothing in her movements tonight to suggest that she was physically under par.

  As they were alone, they ate in the big, old-fashioned kitchen. Gideon, in his shirt-sleeves, carved: the mutton was perfectly done, the outside golden-brown and crisp, and the sharp knife went through it butter-easy. And the potatoes roasted with it had a crispness and tastiness which was exactly right. He had a glass of beer with his meal and Kate had cider; but for his anxiety about her, he would not have felt a care in the world. For there were few times when Gideon’s mind was so choked with the urgency of the Yard’s affairs that, whatever the pressure, he could not push anxiety away for a while and relax. But he could never remember so relaxing, except at home with Kate.

  She had made deep-dish apple pie, the pastry crumbly-short, the way he liked it. And with it, there was double-thick cream. He must force himself to eat it, as he had forced himself to eat the meat; Kate must have no suspicion of how desperately worried he was about her.

  “More, dear?” she asked.

  “I really shouldn’t.”

  “Oh, yes, you should.” Kate smiled. “It’ll do you good.”

  “Well—but what about the children?”

  “Malcolm’s having a fish-and-chip supper with his gang, and Penny will eat before she comes in.”

  “In that case . . . I—” He broke off, forcing a smile, for she was already replenishing his plate.

  He ate more slowly, but still with assumed relish. At last he pushed his plate away and smiled at Kate as she placed a cup of coffee in front of him. She smiled back with complete naturalness, obviously happy.

  “Bless you, Kate!” he said. “I haven’t enjoyed a meal like that for ages.

  “You did enjoy it, didn’t you?”

  “Every mouthful,” he assured her. Then despite himself, could think of nothing to say. A sudden constraint seemed to fall on them both and he could hear the ticking of the frying-pan-shaped wall clock.

  “Kate,” he said, at last.

  “George,” she began, but stopped.

  He wondered whether Alec Hobbs had telephoned to prepare her; there was no way of being sure. As she fell silent, he started again: “Kate, I talked to Alec Hobbs, this morning – or rather, he talked to me.”

  The flare almost of alarm in her eyes told him that she had not been forewarned. And there was heaviness in his heart at this proof that he could alarm her, over this or anything else.

  “About Penny?” she asked huskily.

  “And about you.”

  “George—”

  “Kate,” he interrupted, “there may be a thousand and one reasons why you haven’t told me this or haven’t told me that, but just now I’m only concerned about one thing.” He paused, and her expression pleaded: “What thing?” So he told her quickly: “About your health.”

  Her eyes grew very, very bright; tear-bright. When she closed them, tears forced their way through. He sat, gripping the edge of the table, not wanting to move to comfort her and comfort himself, until he knew the truth. And now she frightened him simply because she was frightened: she would not behave like this if she were not. His knuckles whitened as he watched her trying to speak; saw her lips quivering. Still he sat there, and now his own eyes were stinging as he had not known them sting for years.

  “George,” she managed, at last. “Oh, George, I—I am worried.”

  “About what, love?” he asked gently.

  “I—I keep getting pains. I—I keep thinking of cancer. Oh, George!”

  He thought: Oh, my God, and she couldn’t tell me – she couldn’t tell me! There was both self-reproach and reproach for her in his mind, but it hovered on the surface and did not reveal itself even by implication. He had to sit here until she had finished; he dare not let himself move closer to her.

  “The chances against it are pretty long, love,” he made himself say calmly. “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “Yes. I—I went to the hospital.” She had somehow not trusted or not been able to confide in the family doctor – probably because she knew he would tell, or make her tell, her husband. “I was X-rayed, today.”

  “That’s where you were!” he exclaimed.

  “Yes. George, I—oh, George, I’m sorry. I—I’m sorry, I—”

  Now, she began to cry. And now, at last, he could go to her; stand behind her, hold her as she buried her face in her hands and the sobs shook her body as if she felt her world were coming to an end. He did not speak, or caress, or even move, until after a while he placed his lips against her hair. Soon, she calmed; and he placed his hands on her elbows and in a way he had often done with the children, eased her to her feet. Then he led her through to the sitting-room, and helped her into his own big armchair. As he raised her feet on to a pouffe, he remarked inconsequentially: “Did I ever tell you I first fell for your legs?”

  “Oh, George!” She gave a funny, choking little laugh.

  “Fact.” He turned to a sideboard and took out brandy and glasses, talking all the time: “I’d been out to Milton Park – it was the beginning of the Rugger season and I was pretty active, then. Nothing like so fat! And you were playing tennis – all knee-length white skirt and ankle-socks: what your darling daughter would probably call square, or what goes for square, today. And I was fascinated. Never seen such long and attractive legs. Mind you, my eyes did soon travel to higher things.” He was smiling down on her, now. He gave her the brandy, then perched on the arm of the chair. “So you had an X-ray?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any official comment?”

  “Not really. She said the doctor – a Dr. Phillips – would let me know in a day or two.”

  “Where did you go, lo”South Western.”

  “I’ll have a word with them in the morning.” He smiled, pressed her shoulder, then stood up and crossed to a small chair. Sitting squarely opposite her, he asked: “How do you feel, truly?”

  “I get pains – here.” She placed her hand just above her waist and just below her left breast. “I know it’s the sort of thing—well, I know women always are terrified of cancer, but—”

  “A pain that gets you down is nothing to laugh off,” he told her, equably despite his thumping heart. “How are you at this moment?”

  “I feel better than I have for weeks, George. I suppose it’s psychological – I came back and had a good cry and I felt much brighter! I haven’t enjoyed getting a meal so much for a long time. I knew the children wouldn’t be home.” She closed her eyes, looking thoroughly contented, and Gideon
felt a warmth of contentment creeping over him. Tomorrow he would pull strings to get the result of that X-ray fast. But looking at Kate now, he could not believe there was anything seriously wrong with her.

  He thought, without tension, of what was happening at Hampstead. Hobbs could cope. Thank God for Hobbs!

  That brought him, sharply, to Penelope. Sharply; but to his surprise, without a jolt. Kate opened her eyes and spoke in a quiet voice. There was a degree of telepathy between them: the kind that often grows between husband and wife.

  “Did Alec tell you how he feels about Penelope?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, quietly.

  “How did it—affect you?”

  “I still don’t know,” he told her, frankly. “The main thing is, how does it affect Penny?”

  After a long pause, Kate nodded. “I’m not sure she knows. I really do think she sometimes sees him as an elder brother; or an uncle. At least I think she does. But it’s remarkable how often she has a wild affair with a boy her own age, and then rushes back to Alec. He is ‘family’, to her.”

  Gideon said: “I see.”

  “Whether she ever thinks—” Kate broke off, sat up more, and sipped her brandy. “George, do you realise that she’s twenty-five?”

  “I try to make myself,” he grimaced. “I still see her in a gymslip and pigtails.”

  “I do, too, sometimes. But more often she’s way beyond me, in thinking and in attitudes, and I don’t argue with her too much. I feel that if I argue, I’ll seem to be putting up a sort of barrier. Whereas if I seem to take everything naturally, no matter how outrageous, she won’t hesitate to come to me and talk. In a funny way, she’s the only one I’ve got left, George. The longer the others are married, the more they seem to draw away.”

  “I know,” Gideon said gruffly. “Hurt much?”

  “Not really. The grandchildren help – but that’s a red herring, George. And you know it! We were talking about Penny.”

  “Yes,” Gideon agreed, more heavily. “We were.” He paused, then taking the big pipe from his pocket, got up and went to a Chinese willow-pattern tobacco jar on the mantelshelf, and began to fill the pipe. “I’m not sure I want—” He tamped tobacco down; then glanced up and went on almost exasperatedly: “I’m not sure that I want to think too much about Penny just now. There’s an awful gap between her and Alec. Age gap, generation gap, tradition gap, behaviour gap – I don’t know what to call it, but I know it’s there.” He was looking at Kate with something more than earnestness, and there had seldom been more feeling in his voice: “What do you mean – no matter how outrageous?”

  “Is that what you really want to know?” asked Kate.

  “I suppose it is, yes.” That came almost as a growl. “What do you mean?”

  “George,” Kate said, “I’m not really sure how old-fashioned you are – or I am. I mean—well, I still have doubts about the Pill, even! I’m all for it, in a detached way. For other people. But I don’t know how I would feel about it myself, if I still needed—needed a contraceptive.” When he made no comment, she went on: “Penny knows and takes for granted more about the Pill, about sex, about deviations, about homosexuality, than I’ve ever heard of. Of course, you know, you come across so many examples of perversion and such like through the Yard, but Penny – she takes so much for granted!”

  Gideon finished filling his pipe. He put it between his teeth and pressed it down heavily – and almost bit the stem off. There was a box of matches on the mantelshelf and he picked it up but didn’t take out a match.

  “Are you telling me she uses the Pill?”

  “She tells me that a lot of her friends do. I think it’s her way of telling me that she does. A kind of: ‘Don’t ask questions, Mummy, but I do want you to know’. I’m not sure,” Kate emphasised, “but it does seem—likely.” When he didn’t speak, she went on almost desperately: “It is a new world, George!”

  “And a fine mess it is!” he growled. He was glowering, but he still did not light his pipe. “What do you really feel about it, Kate?”

  She spent a long time looking for a word, then said simply: “Resigned.”

  He was startled into a smile.

  “Good an attitude as any, I suppose,” he conceded. “It’s their world and their life, but . . . I was reading some statistics from the Home Office, the other day. One child in seven is illegitimate; the mothers of three in ten of those can’t name the father, although most can narrow it down to two or three possibilities. There was a sociologist’s report that it is estimated that over ninety per cent of unmarried woman between the ages of seventeen and twenty-five have had carnal knowledge, often with more than three men. As a statistic, I accept this. But when it comes to my own daughter—!”

  At last, he struck a match; savagely. The flame flared and he let the fumes disperse, then began to draw at the pipe. The smoke was pungent but pleasant. He hadn’t smoked a pipe for weeks, and now pulled at it as if he wanted to start a bonfire.

  Kate – relaxed, and still in his big chair – watched the smoke billow about his head, then slowly disperse. At last, she murmured: “I’ve always hated the phrase ‘carnal knowledge’—even more than ‘sexual intercourse’.”

  “Tell me a better,” Gideon growled.

  “Made love to,” Kate suggested, gently.

  “Oh, sentimental tommy-rot—whitewash! I—” He broke off, waving the smoke away; obviously struck by a new, even startling thought. He was silent for a long time before saying: “Do you think Alec knows?”

  “Knows what, George?”

  “Whether she’s ‘made love’ to all or any of these young men she brings home.”

  “George,” Kate looked alarmed. “You can’t ask him!”

  “Of course I’m not going to ask him! But if he does know and if he still feels about her as he says he does—” Gideon broke off, with a bark of a laugh, and moved across to her. “Today,” he said, “I really believe it is us middle-aged people who are the babes and sucklings – the innocents! Youth has the wisdom. I was thinking . . .” He stepped behind her chair and placed his hands on her shoulders: “Penny is probably twisting us all round her little finger. But I’ve never seen her happier – or any of the children happier than she seems to be. Have you?”

  Kate looked up at him, and for a few moments they were silent. Before she could answer, the spell was broken by the sudden shrilling of the telephone. That was the first time his thoughts really switched: to the murderer who was holed-up somewhere in Hampstead. He put Penny out of his mind.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Hero

  For the tenth time, which seemed like the hundredth, a voice boomed out on the loud-speaker. This time it was Henry himself, although sometimes, to rest his voice, he let one of his colleagues call.

  “Roche! You’re only wasting time. You are completely surrounded! Come out with your hands above your head.”

  There was no answer.

  At the end of the street, at attic windows and on rooftops, there were groups of policemen, including some from neighbouring divisions. There were clusters of newspapermen and photographers, and two television crews were stationed in positions of vantage: every time the loud-speaker crackled, the cameras whirred. Already, viewers in their homes had been given a vivid glimpse of the real-life drama: they had seen Charles Henry calling his ultimatum, seen him and his men dodging into doorways and taking cover behind cars near the disused cafe. Now, as several policemen dived in different directions, the cameras took a perfectly timed picture of flying chippings as a bullet struck a wall near the Superintendent’s head.

  There had been three other shots; just three. So far, no one had been hurt; but everyone knew that at any moment one of the policemen could be killed.

  Now, much more help was needed. From the Fire Brigade, for one. And perh
aps an armoured car. Henry knew this; knew that unless he could break through the resistance, he would have to chalk this case up as an utter failure. Normally, that would not have worried him, but this would be failure piled on failure – and he wanted, above all, to avenge Juanita.

  He called the nearest Detective Inspector, who came promptly.

  “Keep hailing him – call every two minutes,” he ordered.

  “Right, sir!” The man took over at the microphone and Henry crossed the street and strode along on the same side as the old café; completely safe, there. Only four doors from the café, the police had taken over a dry-cleaning premises, and he went in past his men and up the stairs, then up a loft ladder until finally he hauled himself through a skylight on to the roof. Four policemen were there and had a rope already firmly secured to a chimney-stack, both ends free to allow for easy manoeuvring by two men at once, using it as a safety line.

  It was a beautiful evening; crisp and cool.

  The disembodied voice came very clearly: “Give yourself up, Roche! You won’t he hurt. Give yourself up!”

  Henry wasn’t even sure that the cornered man could hear. From the roof, he himself seemed to be not only above the crowd but remote from all that was happening. He glanced around him and saw axes, tear-gas pistols: all the paraphernalia of a raid. He picked up one of the lengths of rope and secured it about his waist.

  The youthful Sergeant in charge of the group gaped.

  “Sir—!”

  “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “Are you—er—going down?”

  “Yes,” Henry said. “I’ll want you chaps to take the strain, in a moment.” And as the Sergeant still looked shocked, he added abruptly: “If we let this siege drag on, we’ll be here all night.”