Gideon's River Page 6

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘I’ll have a look round here and come to your office when I’m through,’ Gideon said to Hellier.

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The answer was almost mechanical. Hellier half-turned, and then added. ‘Thank you, sir. About the frogman team.’

  ‘Fixed,’ Gideon said.

  Singleton came off a telephone.

  ‘They’ll be on the way in five minutes,’ he declared.

  While Gideon was looking over the Barnes substation of the Thames Division and Hellier was going through all the reports which had come in that day from the parks, the river banks, the neighbours and the school friends of the missing child, Geraldine herself was lying on her back and looking into the eyes of the man who sat rocking to and fro. The knife was no longer near him. He had given her some more milk and some biscuits. The scarf with which he had gagged her was in his hands, stretched taut. She managed to smile – a smile which seemed almost trouble-free.

  ‘Please don’t gag me again,’ she said. ‘I won’t shout, I promise.’

  He gave her his slow, rather vacant smile.

  He was thinking: ‘I couldn’t use the knife, I couldn’t stand the blood.’ Almost immediately he thought: ‘If I put this round her neck she couldn’t talk and there wouldn’t be any blood.’

  She wondered what was really passing through his mind, as she said again: ‘Please don’t gag me. I promise I won’t shout.’

  But she would, of course, she would. He had no doubt. He would have to kill her and throw her body into the river, after dark. That was how he had disposed of her satchel, and it hadn’t been traced to him. Her body wouldn’t be, either.

  At that precise moment the woman who had cycled away from the scene when the drag had caught something without knowing that it was a dog, turned into the street where the Pierces lived. She pulled up outside their house, rang the bell, and as Mrs. Edmonds opened the door, she gasped: ‘They’ve found the body! I saw them with my own eyes! They’ve found her!’

  Wanda Pierce, in the kitchen of her neighbour’s house, heard every word.

  Chapter Seven

  CONSPIRACY

  Hellier, obviously determined not to overdo the deference, did not come out of his office to greet Gideon but simply stood up from his desk. It was a larger office than most, with a big pedestal desk looking disproportionately large because it was empty but for four trays, two with a few papers in them, and two telephones. Behind Hellier was a map of his district, on the right-hand wall a map of the Metropolitan Police Area, on the left a map of the Thames Division along its whole length.

  Everything here was so clean it looked new; even the maps.

  ‘Please sit down, Commander.’ Hellier’s manner as well as his movements were stiff.

  Gideon sat down. There was still nothing he liked about the man’s manner, but he had learned from the Thames Divisional substation how completely Hellier was known to be on top of this job, and he was thoughtful about the signs of tension in the man which he had seen at the riverside.

  ‘What makes you so sure the girl’s in the river?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not absolutely sure, sir. I would think it’s a ten-to-one on chance.’

  ‘Any particular reasons?’ asked Gideon.

  ‘Her satchel was found in the mud on the bank. She was seen going towards the river. She was known to walk along the towpath, often alone, as it was only a slight detour on the way between her home and school. I’ve just had confirmation that her footprints have been found on a muddy patch, up to a place called the love nest.’ Hellier was too earnest to say this lightly. ‘That’s a patch of shrubs frequently visited by courting couples.’

  ‘Any sign of her having been in the love nest?’

  ‘No sir. But it’s on a rise in the ground and it’s bone hard there. We wouldn’t see prints.’

  ‘Combed it?’

  ‘Inside out. Would you care to see what I have done, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hellier rose from his seat and crossed to the divisional map. Beneath it was a narrow shelf from which he picked up narrow strips of metal in many colours. He placed one after another on to the map and each stayed put; obviously they were magnetised.

  ‘I’ve four groups working, as you know, sir. The blue strips represent men covering the river area in conjunction with Thames Division.’ He placed the blue strips into position. ‘Red is for my men who have interrogated the neighbours … green is for the men who have been and are searching all the parks, including Richmond Park … yellow is for the men who are working on the schools. If you will watch closely, sir … the areas shaded in pencil have already been covered once … the dead infant was found here.’ He put a black cross above a green strip. ‘The girl was last seen here …’ As he went on Gideon was more and more impressed by his complete grasp and his computer-like mind. ‘I have personally questioned seven men whom I believe to be capable of waylaying and raping the girl.’

  ‘How did you get on to them?’ asked Gideon.

  ‘Three have records of interfering with minors, two are suspect – they’re known to hang about near the river and in the parks when the girls’ schools are playing there, two were seen by all four girls when they were playing tennis. One is the local tuck-barrow man, I’ve had him watched for some time. He does a lot of hand-holding and head-patting – several parents have complained. I don’t know of anyone else who can be considered an obvious suspect. I’ve a fairly complete list of men living alone – there are several in caravans near the river and on waste land, and a great many living alone in one room. One can find this out by studying the electoral register, sir – when there’s only one person of the same name at any address, I have them checked. Comes in useful when co-operating with the Welfare Officer. All these are being visited in turn, sir, and I should have the last one questioned by nightfall. I’ve a hundred men on this operation, thanks to help from the Yard.’

  Gideon thought: all this, although he’s convinced the girl’s in the river. He searched for a way of saying he was impressed without being patronising when he heard a shout from outside, footsteps, a stentorian bellow of: ‘Come back!’

  More footsteps thundered, from stairs to landing, as Hellier moved swiftly towards the door. As he reached it, it burst open and he had to dodge aside to avoid its full weight. A wild-eyed man rushed in, grabbed Hellier by the lapels and began to shake him furiously.

  ‘Where is she? Why didn’t you tell me first? Why, you swine …’

  Hellier could have crushed this man of lean build and medium height, but he backed away under the onslaught, while the man went on shouting and a plainclothes man, and another in uniform hovered unhappily in the doorway.

  Suddenly, Hellier said sharply: ‘We haven’t found your daughter, Pierce. Stop this nonsense.’ The violence seemed to be cut off, and Hellier shrugged himself free. ‘Who told you we had?’ he asked.

  ‘Someone’—Pierce half choked on the words—’someone said you’d pulled her out of the river.’

  ‘Then they were mistaken.’

  Pierce backed away. Hellier waved briskly to the men in the doorway and they closed the door without a word. Gideon moved quickly, thinking that Pierce might collapse; the colour drained from his face and he swayed, his eyes feverishly bright.

  ‘But – she said she was there. She said she saw her.’

  ‘We found something but not your daughter,’ Hellier said. ‘If there had been any other discovery I would have been told by radio-telephone.’ He moved stiffly to his desk, opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of whisky and a glass. He poured out a finger and gave it to Pierce, who stared at it vaguely, then suddenly raised it to his lips and tossed it down.

  ‘For you sir?’ Hellier asked Gideon.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Pierce muttered:
‘I thought my wife would kill herself. I really did. I—I rushed from the office when—when I heard Mrs. Edmonds telephoned me, she said—she said the other woman had seen Geraldine’s body. Why did she lie?’ His voice rose. ‘Why did she lie?’

  Gideon laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘It was a mistake, Mr. Pierce. Something was caught in the grab, and a lot of people thought it was your daughter. I’m very glad it wasn’t.’

  ‘Isn’t there—isn’t there any news?’ Pierce was suddenly terribly pathetic.

  ‘No,’ Hellier said. ‘None at all.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Gideon tried to soften the blow. ‘I’m from Scotland Yard, Mr. Pierce, and in a life-time of experience I have never known a search for a missing person handled so swiftly or so thoroughly. The river is being searched as a precaution; every other possibility is being explored, including the possibility that your daughter has been abducted.’ After a brief pause to allow Pierce to speak if he chose to, Gideon went on: ‘All the Metropolitan Police and all the police of neighbouring counties are co-operating. I assure you truly that everything is being done.’

  Pierce muttered: ‘Oh, Oh, I see. Thank—thank you.’ He closed his eyes and pressed the tips of his fingers against his forehead. ‘Could you—could you say that to my wife? She doesn’t …’

  Hellier said awkwardly: ‘Commander Gideon has to go back to Scotland Yard.’

  Gideon said quickly: ‘I can go via Mr. Pierce’s house, if you think it will help.’

  ‘Oh, if only you will!’ Pierce looked pathetically grateful. ‘My wife seems—seems to think that no one cares. Could you …’ he hesitated, gulped, and went on hurriedly: ‘Could you drop me at my office? I really ought—ought to get back.’

  Startled, Gideon said: ‘Must you go back to the office at a time like this?’

  ‘It’s—it’s stocktaking time,’ said Pierce, miserably, ‘and Mr. Lee has cut up rough already. I’m the chief clerk, you see.’

  Gideon began: ‘Does he know …’ and then he broke off. Obviously Pierce’s employer must know, and there was no point in exacerbating the situation.

  Hellier rang down for a car, and ten minutes later Gideon dropped Pierce off at a small block of offices near the Green, and was then driven round to Mrs. Pierce. It was a strange case for him to become involved in, but when he saw the woman he was glad that he had taken the trouble. She still had neighbours with her, and was nearly prostrate when he arrived; but the knowledge that it had been a false alarm, that her daughter might still be alive, put a thin flicker of fresh hope back into her.

  Gideon was driven back through the summer beauty of Richmond Park, the trees heavy with leaf, here and there the scent of new mown grass. Soon he was back on the river, being taken slowly past the meadows, seeing the sweeping arches of the bridge, feeling an acute sense of nostalgia as he was reminded of the days of his youth when he had courted Kate along these very banks.

  It was so peaceful and quiet … as if fear and violence belonged to a different world.

  Fear and violence made up the world of Thomas Argyle-Morris.

  When Carter and Cottingham had been remanded in custody he had felt at least that he had a breathing space. Now, he did not.

  He was followed everywhere he went.

  He knew the men; he knew their viciousness; he knew there was no cruelty of which they were not capable. He did not really know why they were after him, unless it was that they were friends of Carter.

  Carter was bad enough; there was no doubt that Carter would gladly have drowned him and Mary Rose. He was vicious in his jealousy; when a girl was ‘his’ she was his absolutely until he had finished with her. To this day, Argyle-Morris could not understand what had persuaded him to kiss Mary Rose; but that was over and done with. Dave Carter was the leader of the Cockles, and the Cockles were a small-time gang in the protection racket.

  The men who were following Argyle-Morris belonged to a bigger and more powerful gang – a deadly gang. He knew of their existence, knew that Dave Carter sometimes worked for them, but he could not understand why they were so interested in Dave’s love life.

  Even in his fear, Argyle-Morris knew that this did not make sense.

  But Screw Smith made sense.

  Screw was a nickname which had grown up with Smith since, at the age of nine, he had seen a thumbscrew in a museum and had started to practise with a clamp on smaller or weaker children. By the time he was eleven, he had won his nickname.

  Now, Smith could make anyone talk, simply by showing them the thumbscrew he had himself manufactured out of odd pieces of metal.

  Why was he after him, Tom Argyle-Morris? He didn’t know anything.

  Argyle-Morris was sweating.

  He was a shipping clerk who lived in one of the new blocks of council flats near Wapping High Street, with his mother and three sisters. He had a room of his own and he paid his mother three pounds a week for food and board, whether in a job or out – he preferred temporary posts, and made as much money as he needed by judicious smuggling and the selling of contraband. He spent very little time with the family. Now, in dread, he turned a corner and looked up at the flats. Each had a small balcony. Washing was blowing from some of them, while two women were talking on another. Above his own window, hanging geraniums trailed their vivid scarlet against the yellow brick wall.

  He glanced round.

  Screw Smith was fifty yards away, a little, carroty-haired man with very thin features and a pointed nose; a man whose cruelty showed in the twist of thin lips and the glitter in small, green eyes. Behind him was big, heavy Captain Kenway of the Salvation Army, the man in charge of the Army Canteen and refuge, who made a habit of going to see men whom the hostel had once housed; he was a one-man Auxiliary Probationer Service. He strode past Smith and glanced down.

  Smith pretended not to notice him.

  Argyle-Morris crossed the road, hearing Captain Kenway’s footsteps close behind him, feeling a kind of security in the shadow of the big man, who drew level on the far pavement.

  ‘Hallo, Tom,’ he said. ‘Everything all right with you?’

  ‘Sure. Sure, everything’s fine.’ Argyle-Morris wiped the sweat off his forehead.

  ‘Is your father back yet?’

  ‘No, he won’t be back much before October.’

  ‘That will be five months at sea – that’s a long trip.’

  ‘He likes long trips.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Kenway. He was flabby and pale-faced and his lips as well as his hands were a little moist, but the expression in his eyes was very shrewd. ‘What’s worrying you, Tom?’

  ‘Nothing’s worrying me!’

  ‘If Dave Carter’s boys are after you …’

  ‘They’re not after me, no one’s after me!’ If Smith saw him talking to the Army man it would get round that he was asking the Army for help, and they would skin him for that. He quickened his pace and almost ran into the big building. A lift was standing open. He pressed the fourth-floor button as a girl from a flat beneath his came running. The lift door nearly trapped her. Belatedly, Argyle-Morris held it back.

  ‘Okay?’

  She looked at him thoughtfully as the lift stopped at the third floor. He wiped the sweat off his forehead again and gulped as it went up to his floor. The door opened. The front door of his flat, nearly opposite, was closed. He opened it with a key and slipped inside.

  He heard a quick movement – and Mary Rose appeared by the living-room door.

  ‘You’ve got to save me,’ she gasped. ‘You’ve got to!’

  ‘What—what the hell do you mean?’ he muttered. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘They’re after me.’ She could hardly get the words out.

  ‘Don’t be crazy, they’re in clink.’

  ‘Not—not them, I don’t mean them.’<
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  ‘Then who the hell do you mean?’

  ‘Screw’s lot!’ she gasped. ‘Screw Smith’s!’

  Argyle-Morris clenched his teeth to try to stop them from chattering.

  ‘You’ve got to tell them I don’t know anything!’ she went on fearfully. ‘You’ve got to make them believe you.’

  Feeling physically sick, he said. ‘You’re crazy! No one’s after you.’

  ‘You’re lying to me. Screw’s after you too, I saw him. He’s down in the street now. You’ve got to tell him that I don’t know anything.’ She grabbed his arm and half-dragged him into the living-room which was dominated by a huge television set in one corner. ‘Look down there!’ she cried. ‘Is he there or isn’t he?’

  Tom Argyle-Morris peered down from the window. Screw Smith was crossing the road and looking up, as if he knew they were staring down. Mary Rose clutched Tom’s arm tightly, and was gasping for breath, while he could hardly breathe, he was so frightened.

  Smith reached the near pavement and then disappeared, beneath them.

  ‘He’s coming here,’ Mary Rose gasped. ‘I’ve got to get away – I’ve got to!’

  A man from the doorway said very softly: ‘Not until we want you to, doll.’

  Chapter Eight

  THE WAREHOUSE

  Mary Rose and Tom swung round.

  A stranger to both of them moved forward, tossing a key into the air and letting it fall; it struck the floor sharply, brassily.

  ‘I won’t need that again,’ he said.

  Mary Rose’s fingers bit so deeply into Tom’s arm that they seemed to burn. Her body was tight against his, too, as if she wanted to sink into him and so hide herself from this man with the sneering voice.

  Tom muttered: ‘Where—where’d you get that key?’

  ‘From your kid sister,’ the man answered. ‘I took it out of her handbag in the supermarket – she’s out shopping with her ma.’ The sneer was even more pronounced.