Murder, London--South Africa Read online

  Suddenly, he grinned.

  “Hi, Dad!”

  “Hallo, Scoop. Come down to raid the milk?”

  “Just a sip.”

  “Don’t forget not to drink out of the bottle,” Roger said, and they both laughed on a subdued note. “How’s your mother?”

  “Well, I haven’t seen much of her, really. She had a headache and went to bed early. She’s all right, I think. She left some supper, and said if I was up when you came back I was to tell you you could heat it up, or have it cold, but you must have something if you haven’t had dinner.”

  Roger grinned.

  “She guessed right again! What is it?”

  He moved to the gas stove, and found a plate laden with steak and kidney pie and vegetables, on a saucepan half-filled with water.

  “Cold, I think,” he said. “Funny thing, your mother’s is the only steak pie I can ever enjoy cold. Put the kettle on for a cup of coffee, will you? Then get off to bed, or you’ll be a wreck in the morning.”

  “I’ll be a wreck!” Martin retorted.

  Roger asked sharply, “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well . . .” Martin-called-Scoop was momentarily ill at ease, but soon he answered with a kind of earnest frankness which was all his own, and could be exasperating or commendable according to the parental mood. He took the electric kettle to the sink as he went on, “You have been looking a bit under the weather lately, Dad. Mum says that if you don’t ease off a bit you’ll crack up.”

  He turned the tap and water spurted, but he twisted his head round to look at Roger. “Do you have to work so hard?”

  Roger grunted, and then said urgently, “Mind that kettle!”

  It was already brimming full of water and more was pouring out of the spout. Scoop snatched it from the tap and water splashed on to the tiled floor, and over his own thick, white socks; he wore no shoes.

  “Sorry, Dad!”

  Roger said, “Never be a copper. Your life is not your own. I took your mother out to lunch today, and found the Assistant Commissioner on my back as soon as I reached the office.”

  He put the plate of food on the kitchen table, and pulled up a kitchen-chair. As he began to eat, he reflected that Martin-called-Scoop-and-once-called-Scoopy was nearly twenty-one, that in many ways he was older than his age, more mature, more balanced in judgement than many men five or six years older.

  The cold steak pie had that appetising flavour which Janet managed to give to her cooking; he enjoyed it. Martin brought a cup of coffee to the table, and a mug of milk for himself. He sat down.

  “What kind of a day has it been, Dad?”

  “Tricky and highly confidential,” said Roger.

  “So I shut my big mouth,” Martin said. “Sorry I asked.”

  From another boy, that might have sounded impudent if not insolent, but from him it was a completely honest reaction.

  “Half of it’s a diamond-smuggling job,” Roger said.

  “Diamond smuggling,” Martin echoed, and sipped. “Sounds pretty romantic.”

  “If you’d seen what I’ve seen tonight you would think it was pretty sordid.”

  “Smuggling,” repeated Martin. “There’s always something not quite criminal to me about that – unless the diamonds were stolen first.”

  “They were stolen,” Roger said. “First they were consigned to different diamond merchants and industrial diamond users round the world. You know what fragments of diamonds are used for, don’t you?”

  “Cutting tools – for cutting metal, and drills, and—”

  “Good enough,” Roger interrupted. “Some left South Africa but didn’t reach the consignee – they were stolen en route.”

  That much he could safely say.

  “South African police are sure they all left the country intact. There’s a tight internal control over diamonds there,” added Roger.

  “I know.”

  “Good. Diamonds are sold through one group only, the quantity put on the market in any one year is, strictly restricted, to help keep up the price. Here and there, fresh diamond-fields are discovered, and here and there supplies of diamonds which were lawfully mined are sold to dealers who try to smuggle them out whenever there’s a sellers’ market. So there has to be a tight control.”

  Martin grinned. “It’s certainly a good job I’m not a copper. I’d be inclined to wink at anyone beating the monopoly and if the chaps got away, say good luck to ‘em.”

  “There’s a man in hospital tonight, who might recover or who might die.”

  “Because of the diamond thefts?”

  “Yes.”

  After a pause, Martin said, “Oh, well, I’m glad I’m not a policeman.”

  There was another pause.

  “Were you there when he got hurt?”

  In an unguarded moment, and largely because he was tired, Roger said, “I was damned lucky not to break my own neck.”

  He was startled as well as surprised by his son’s reaction. It wasn’t just surprise in itself, it went much deeper. It conveyed a sense of alarm and of anxiety which reminded Roger of Jameson’s manner. Quite suddenly, Martin became a small boy again, a scared small boy because he had suddenly seen something which frightened him and which he didn’t understand.

  “Oh, forget it, it wasn’t as bad as that,” Roger said. “It’s all in the day’s work.”

  “Yes,” Martin said, soberly. “That’s what Mum realises. She’s afraid, Dad. She told me not to tell you what she said, but – well, I think I ought to. I didn’t actually promise.”

  Twenty-one, fifteen, eleven, he was all three ages in one single moment.

  “She said that she worries enough about you at normal times, but she doesn’t think you’re right on top at the moment. She says she knows that you have to be absolutely on top of yourself if you’re to cope with sudden emergencies. I tell you, she’s afraid, Dad. She’s frightened you might have to investigate some crime against violent criminals, and—and well, that your luck won’t last for ever.”

  Roger sat back, aghast.

  He was silent for so long that Martin began again, miserably, “Oh, I’m a fool. I shouldn’t have told you. I suppose you’ll say that she’s a bit worried because of her time of life, or something; it’s always difficult at this change period, or whatever it is. But honestly, Dad, she’s really nervous in case something happens to you.”

  He looked straight into Roger’s eyes, and then added very slowly and deliberately, so that there could be no doubt that he meant exactly what he said, “I am, too. As a matter of fact I was talking about it to Richard only last week. Of course, he said I was dreaming it up, that you’re right on the ball as always, but – are you, Dad? Do you really feel you are?”

  9

  MOMENT OF TRUTH

  Roger stared into his son’s clear, rounded, apprehensive eyes. Scoop obviously wondered whether he had said too much, and his, Roger’s first reaction was of anger that the boy should talk to him so. He almost held his breath. He must not show anger, must not show his feelings; he must be quite rational and unemotional about this. And Scoop wasn’t a boy, remember. He was an intelligent young man.

  “Dad,” Scoop said, “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Didn’t you mean what you said?” asked Roger, stiffly.

  “Well, yes, but—well, I know I may not know what I’m talking about.”

  A warmth of affection, in fact, of love, crept over Roger and drove all thought and memory of anger away.

  He smiled, obviously much more relaxed, pushed his chair back, and said, “Haven’t we always had an understanding that each can say whatever he thinks, provided he finds a way of saying it nicely?”

  When his son gave a barely perceptible nod, Roger went
on, “So you said what you thought, and I’m glad that you did. Want an honest answer?”

  “Well—well, if you feel like talking about it, yes.”

  “The answer is that I don’t really know,” Roger told him. “I don’t feel right on top of myself all the time. Occasionally I seem to get more tired than I used to, but it’s only now and again, and it soon passes. I have to put a bit more effort into everything I have to do, whereas I used to do it without thinking. Maybe the new way is better. I’ll soon be fifty, you know.”

  When Scoop nodded, Roger spoke more briskly, almost as if he was changing the subject, “Do you think your mother is seriously worried?”

  “Well, yes, sometimes.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, whenever a policeman gets injured, or run down by a car, or attacked by crooks, the newspapers always play it up. When Mum reads the story she’s always more thoughtful than she used to be – preoccupied, I suppose. She doesn’t say much, but now and again she’ll throw the paper aside, and mutter something like ‘I know he’ll overdo it sooner or later.’ That kind of thing, if you know what I mean.” Suddenly, Scoop gave his broad grin, showing fine white teeth with one slightly grey, the nerve of which had been ‘killed’ while boxing. “After all, Dad, you do stick your neck out, don’t you? Fish and I have a whopping great file of press-cuttings about you upstairs, and were going through them the other day. We formed a mutual ‘Admire Handsome West’ Fan Club, and decided you ought to have had the George Medal at least three times.”

  “You must show me this file of cuttings one day,” Roger said drily. “Now it’s time for bed, and I’m tired out. Good Lord! It’s nearly two o’clock.”

  Upstairs, in the front bedroom with the lamplight breaking the darkness, and a glow spreading over Janet’s hair and face, Roger moved very quietly, and Janet did not stir. He was not long getting into bed. She turned over, her back towards him. He lay on his side for a few minutes, physically snug and warm, the tensions and the tiredness oozing out of his body. He believed he would drop off in a few minutes. That was one of the things which he could rely on unless he had some really deep preoccupation, and tonight there should be none – thank God the man hadn’t died. He had done everything he could. He had found Lewis/Van der Lunn, and that would please Hardy as well as South Africa House. Queer business, though – and Jameson was really worried. Pity if he started thinking about Jameson now. It was amazing how subconscious thoughts could keep one awake. No need to worry, though; he was almost asleep, dropping off, dropping off; he would get more sleep than those poor devils at the hotel, more than David Bradshaw, more than his Beth.

  Beth Bradshaw!

  On that instant, Roger was fully awake, all thought of sleep gone. He had promised to ring the Yard and say whether David’s wife need be detained all night. He had decided to let her go if Van der Lunn survived, and had actually talked to the Yard and forgotten the message about Elizabeth Bradshaw. He could picture her sitting on the edge of the bed, her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. Well, it was her husband’s fault, not his; it wasn’t his responsibility.

  But it was.

  He got out of bed, very cautiously, and Janet stirred; he half expected her to speak. He went out of the room, leaving the door ajar, and groped his way down the stairs, not putting on a light until he reached the hall. The telephone was near the kitchen and living room doors. He was able to shut one door before he dialled the Yard. He was answered at once, but it was some time before Sharp, the Superintendent-in-charge, came on the line.

  “Hallo, Handsome, not in bed yet?”

  “Just turning in,” said Roger. “As Lewis is alive, I don’t think we need hold Elizabeth Bradshaw. Tell her we’ll want to question her again in the morning, will you, and let her go. You can send her back to the hotel.”

  “Yes. Glad you called,” Sharp said. “Bradshaw’s pacing up and down in his cell like a madman, because he doesn’t know what’s happening to his wife. I’ll fix it.”

  “Thanks,” said Roger.

  He smiled with relief as he replaced the receiver, went upstairs in the dark again, heard Janet’s deep breathing and was relieved that she hadn’t been disturbed. He slid into bed, turned over, and was asleep in a few minutes.

  It was half past eight when Roger woke. He lay on his own, vaguely realising that Janet was not in bed, uneasily aware that it must be late, staring at the sky which he could see through a corner of the window, ears strained to catch sounds from downstairs. Suddenly he heard Richard’s voice.

  “Bye, Mum. I must be off.”

  “Be careful with that car!”

  “I’ll be careful,” Richard said with a laugh in his voice. “It’s the other chaps you have to worry about. Say goodbye and hallo to Dad, or is it the other way round?”

  He went out the back way, and Roger got out of bed, yawned and stretched, heard the roar of Richard’s small, very old MG, and crossed to the window. Richard was waving to Janet, who was at the front door, as the car moved on to the road. Richard was taller, leaner, and in some ways more alert-looking than Martin.

  Out of the corner of his eye he must have seen Roger at the window, for he waved and shouted, “Hi, Dad!”

  Roger waved back, Richard drove out of sight a little too fast and Roger went to the head of the stairs as Janet turned away from the front door. This morning of all mornings he had to be absolutely himself, to make Janet feel that he was completely self-confident and good-humoured. She was quite tall for a woman. Her thick, dark hair was flecked with grey, her eyes had a clarity that he had always loved; she was a nice-looking woman by any standards.

  “Couldn’t spare a cuppa, could you?” Roger asked. “Shall I come down?”

  “I’ve got a kettle on, I’ll bring a pot of tea up,” Janet said. “What time do you have to leave?”

  “An hour ago.”

  Janet laughed. “Don’t be a fool. Seriously.”

  “Nine-fifteen,” Roger answered, although to reach the Yard by nine-thirty, when he had promised to see Jameson, he should leave by nine o’clock sharp. Some kind of concession was obviously needed, so he made it cheerfully.

  “I suppose it could be worse,” Janet conceded.

  She brought up tea, which he sipped between moments of shaving, washing, and dressing. “He felt much brisker than he had for some time, although whenever he thought of the conversation with Martin he felt rueful. Janet showed no sign that she realised this; in fact, Janet had slept soundly and was looking and feeling at her best. If she had any particular anxieties she hid them well, and Roger found himself wondering whether Martin had exaggerated; but somehow he did not think so. He went downstairs to bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes, and fried bread, and at sight of the piled-up dish, he laughed.

  “Did someone tell you I’m starving myself?”

  “Something tells me that you’re going to be very busy today, and that probably means a sandwich and a cup of coffee for lunch. How did the case go, darling?”

  “Comme ci, comme ça,” Roger replied. “And if the radio or the evening newspapers try to pretend I was a hero last night, don’t believe them.”

  On the instant, alarm flared up in Janet’s eyes, and he knew that Martin had been right, that fear for him was on top of Janet’s mind. He wanted to eat up and be off, but if she showed any sign of wanting to talk, of needing reassurance, he would have to stay. For a few moments she stared at him, and he pretended that he didn’t know what was in her mind.

  Then he gave her a hug and a quick kiss, and said, “With a bit of luck I’ll be home early tonight.”

  Janet made no comment, and seemed to have recovered. He knew that she hadn’t, of course. That she had simply repressed her feelings so as not to delay him. She made coffee, and he tucked into the breakfast, enjoying every mouthful.

  It wa
s half past nine before he left home. He decided to go along the Embankment to Westminster, and at the approach to Albert Bridge, found himself crawling in a long line, mostly of stinking diesel trucks, heading in the same direction. There ought to be a law against diesel fumes. The Embankment seemed to be getting noisier and busier every day. All the traffic lights were against him, and by the time he swung across Parliament Square and then turned on to the Embankment and into the Yard, he was as bad-tempered as at the end of a tough day. He saw no parking place; everyone was parked in the courtyard this morning.

  A man came up. It was ferrety-looking Detective Sergeant Gorlay, still bent on pleasing him.

  “Like me to park it for you, sir?”

  “Er—yes. Yes, thanks.” Roger got out. “Leave the keys at the front desk.”

  He trotted up the stone steps towards the front entrance, mollified by Gorlay’s manner; blow hot, blow cold, that was the truth about his moods. He saw that it was five past ten, and for some reason was particularly sorry that he had kept Jameson waiting. Everyone else would know that it was unavoidable, but would the South African? He was nearly at his office door when another opened, and Klemm appeared, moving in a hurry.

  Klemm pulled up with the suddenness and grace of a Spanish dancer.

  “Oh, here you are.” Before Roger could respond, he went on, “Hardy’s been looking for you all over the place. Will you go straight up the minute you get in?”

  Roger said sharply, “One of these days you’ll be caught saying ‘Hardy’ instead of ‘the Assistant Commissioner,’ and that won’t do you any good.”

  He saw Klemm react almost resentfully.

  “Is Lieutenant Jameson here?”

  “Yes. He’s been waiting for at least half an hour.”

  Roger nodded, and strode along to his own office, heard someone speaking, opened the door and saw Jameson sitting on the arm of an easy-chair, talking into the telephone and obviously concentrating on what he was saying. Roger drew back. He let the door close, and went straight to see Hardy. As he walked down the stairs he warned himself that he must not show any resentment, whatever Hardy said.