John Creasey - Alibi

“Will you fix the watching?” asked Otley, his resistance ebbing.

“Yes,” Roger promised. “Thanks, Sam.” He rang off and then went into Danizon’s room, saying as he opened the door, “I want two men to go over to the Fulham station and to shadow Pearson when they let him out.”

“What’s he done to deserve getting out?” asked Danizon.

“He’s a good sprat to catch a mackerel,” Roger answered.-

Danizon hesitated, then slapped his knee and laughed; and doing so, looked more clown-like than ever.

“And you want the mackerel!” he cried. Then he sobered. “I’ll fix it,” he added. “Oh, before you go, sir, I’ve managed to get a quick line on the man Artemeus. He’s fairly new on the board of Allsafe, been there two years or so, I gather. He was with one of the big banks for several years as Chief Security Officer, and then Allsafe—”

Danizon stopped abruptly, as an idea suddenly struck him, his expression one of utter consternation.

“Good Lord, you’re—you’re not going to join them, sir, are you?” he asked. When Roger didn’t answer, he went on in tones of even greater distress, “You can’t, sir. It would be a disaster!”

“Tom,” said Roger at last, lying not only to soothe this man but also to make as sure as he could that no rumours circulated round the Yard that night or in the next few days; it was often said, and only half in jest, that after the House of Commons Scotland Yard was the biggest talking shop in town. “We are finding out whether some of the work we do overlaps with the security firms wastefully. Better not spread it around, though, or a lot of other people could jump to the wrong conclusion.” Then he chuckled. “But I’m not as important as all that, Tom.”

“Don’t you believe it,” rejoined Tom Danizon, and there was no shadow of doubt that he spoke from the heart. “This place would damn near collapse without you. What you don’t understand, if I may say so, is that the whole Yard’s behind you.”

“In what?” asked Roger, startled.

Tom Danizon winked broadly.

“I know you can’t admit anything or say anything about it, sir, but everyone knows about your little brush with the great white chief yesterday. And they hate his—I mean, they don’t really appreciate a man who comes in from one of the other services and starts laying down the law to us. A question of teaching your grandmother how to suck eggs, really. Anyhow, sir, the whole of the C.I.D. staff and a lot from the other departments are right behind you. And it’s bloody well time someone here had the guts to start leading with their right—like you did in court yesterday. And it’s time we coppers were allowed to do our job instead of being hamstrung by a lot of half-witted regulations. Supposing you did go into the room on your own and found Maisie Dunster, by herself; no one in their right minds would think you’d lay a hand on her. Anyone who says different is a stinker, that’s what I say.”

At last, Danizon stopped; and once stopped, fell into some confusion, as if embarrassed at having talked so freely. His talking had done one thing, however—enabled Roger to recover from his own surprise. And now he was ready with a question.

“Where did you get all this confidential information?”

Danizon looked even more embarrassed. Give him a pair of baggy trousers and he could walk straight into a circus, thought Roger irrelevantly, feeling a sudden warmth of affection for his assistant.

Danizon hesitated. “Well, no names no pack drill, but we’re behind you to a man. Do you know, there’s even talk of a strike if you’re suspended. Wouldn’t surprise me if it came off, either. See what I mean when I say that we’re with you?”

“Yes,” Roger said, very quietly. And he felt as touched and as humble as he sounded.

Danizon turned and fled.

Chapter Eleven

HOME

Roger drove along the Embankment towards Chelsea much more slowly than usual. It was already seven o’clock, and the West family ate at seven-thirty, whether he was home or not. It was a sunny evening with a light breeze, and the slanting sun made golden ripples of the muddy Thames. The south bank of the river seemed to sprout another big building every day, the skyline was forever changing. There was a wide stretch of road near the Albert Bridge, near his turn-off for Bell Street, and for the second night in succession he pulled into the kerb here.

It had really been a day.

The two most important things, in their way, had a delayed action effect. First, the offer from Artemeus, second the bombshell of Danizon’s outburst. He had only been with Roger for a few months and although he had proved sound and reliable, Roger had never suspected him capable of such deep feeling. Not only was this surprising; there was also the astounding fact that what had happened in the commissioner’s office had gone round the Yard so swiftly; who on earth had “leaked” that information?

Coppell? he wondered hazily, then rejected the possibility. Coppell wouldn’t stick his neck out so far. Then who? Roger couldn’t even begin to imagine. He stopped trying, and passed to the other block buster: the

Yard’s support for him, whether he was right or wrong. He hadn’t even know that the story had spread, much less that the rest of the department had been lining up behind him.

Strike action!

“Oh, no!” he said aloud in a strangled voice.

A small foreign car pulled up behind him, and a moment later the door opened and a tall, dark-haired and—although Roger said it himself—good-looking young man uncoiled himself and came striding towards him. Roger opened the nearside door as Richard put his head in the doorway.

“Hi, Dad!” He had not only the deep, pleasing voice and broad, eager smile, but some elusive quality of like- ability, and Roger’s heart rose.

“Hi, Fish!”

“Daydreaming?” asked Richard. “Or working out all your problems? Hey, it’s lovely out here. Give yourself a breather for five minutes.”

“Good idea,” said Roger, and he climbed out.”

He was a little taller and much broader than his son. They made a striking couple as they stood on the parapet, looking at gaily beflagged pleasure craft and a string of five barges, the first one pulling the others. Even the breeze was warm. Richard looked upstream, so that he could see Roger, who asked lightly, “How have things been at the studio today?”

“Pretty lousy,” declared Richard. “Not enough to do, that’s my problem. Got a bit of luck, though. I’m going to Southern Ireland—Eire, you know—to make a film on Cromwell relics. Two other chaps are coming over and we’ll be on a strict budget, but that’s television all over. Pay a fortune for productions that aren’t worth putting out, and mean as muck over films really worth making. I say, Dad.”

Richard broke off, eyeing his father intently, eagerly, a look which Roger had known since the boy had been six or seven. Roger knew perfectly well that some almost preposterous question was about to come forth with an earnestness to make it quite obvious that Richard was wholly serious.

“Yes?” asked Roger invitingly.

“Do you think there are such things as little people?”

Roger looked baffled, pondered—and then suddenly realised what his son meant: the elves and fairies which peopled the lore of most of Ireland and persisted in the minds of men.

“One of our technicians, a man named O’Hara, Paddy O’Hara, says that he’s actually seen them,” Richard went on.

“Presumably at the bottom of his garden,” Roger said drily.

“Well, no, at the bottom of a well, actually, in his girl friend’s garden.”

Roger gave a gust of laughter, while Richard surveyed him, his head on one side, completely detached from his father’s mood and neither perturbed nor amused by the reaction.

“Fish,” Roger said. “I don’t believe there are such things as “little people”.”

“Well, you could be right,” conceded Richard. “And I suppose you could be wrong, too. It would be wonderful to be the first film unit to photograph them, wouldn’t it! What a scoop! Er—” Richard’s face changed its expression of gravity to one of tolerant concern. A year younger than his brother, he often behaved as if he were as old as his father. “Talking about Scoop, what about Scoop? Had you expected anything of the kind? Like emigrating to Australia, I mean. It’s a bit of a shock for poor old mum,” went on Richard, with glorious unconcern at the fact that he had asked a question and given Roger no chance to answer. “She was pretty upset last night, wasn’t she?”

“She could have been much worse,” Roger answered evasively.

“Poor old Pop! Never commit yourself to any side of family trouble.” Richard looked affectionately at his father for a moment, then went on, “We’d better get a move on or she’ll be after our blood for being late for dinner.” He looked at his watch and gave a whistle. “Phew! Only five minutes. We must—” He hesitated, took a step towards his car, then turned to face Roger squarely, drew a deep breath, and asked, “Is it true you were nearly suspended today. Dad?”

Roger felt as if he had been struck, savagely, he was so taken aback. He actually backed a pace, without removing his gaze from Richard, who stood still, a little at a loss, but with a kind of doggedness about him. It wasn’t simply that he behaved as if he were much older than his year; more that in a way he had caught up with his own maturity.

Roger let out a long, slow breath. Two couples, passing, looked at them curiously. A policeman came across the road, obviously because the two cars were parked on a clearway, but neither Richard nor Roger noticed him.

At last, Roger answered, “Yes. How did you hear about that?”

“One of the chaps in our news room told me.”

“You mean it’s going out on television?”

Suddenly, Richard looked young again; quite boyish.

“Oh, no, Dad! It’s off the record. Mind you, it’s all over television headquarters, a lot of people have mentioned it. Say! there’s one thing I’ve noticed, though. Generally they make a lot of cracks, had my leg pulled a hell of a lot this morning over that foul piece in the

Globe—everyone hates that rag, it’s neo-nazi, that’s what it is. But no one’s made any cracks about this. All the remarks are: “Tell him to stick it out, Fish,” and that kind of thing.” Now Richard’s eyes were glowing. “You’ve a hell of a lot of support among the Press and the jolly old public, Dad! Never knew how popular you were until today.” Then, suddenly, Richard’s face clouded and a different tone deepened his voice. “Say, Dad, you haven’t been suspended, have you?”

Roger did not answer at once, he was too busy digesting what Richard had told him. Now he noticed the approaching policeman, but it was not until later that he realised that the man was within earshot.

“No, Fish, I haven’t,” he said. “But it was a close thing.”

•     •     •

“I heard it from his own lips,” Police Constable Ortega said over the telephone to his divisional headquarters. “Handsome West himself. His son asked him if there was any truth in the rumour, and you should have seen Handsome’s face. Like a graven image, it was. Then he said in the hardest voice I’ve ever heard, “No, Richard,” he said, “I have not.” Then he paused and you should have seen the look on his face. “No, my son,” he said, “I have not, but it was a very close thing.”

•     •     •

“Hey, did you hear about Handsome West?” the divisional station sergeant said. “The old basket nearly put him out on his ear.”

•     •     •

“I heard it from the sarge,” a divisional patrol-car driver remarked. “Handsome was practically suspended today. That old so-and-so, Trevillion. Who the hell do they think they are, at the Home Office these days? Lot of dictators. We want a man who knows the Force at the head, not a bloody dictator from the Navy or anyone else.”

•     •     •

“What’s that?” said a man who caught some of this conversation over the radio telephone. “West suspended? That’ll cause it!”

•     •     •

“West suspended. West out on his neck. West forced to resign. West told the commissioner where to get off.”

So the story sped on wings of rumour, from the Yard and divisions out to the sub-divisions and the men on the beat with their walkie-talkies, to the policemen in the ordinary cars and the Flying Squad cars. It spread from policemen everywhere in London to the county police whose areas adjoined the huge sprawl of the Metropolitan Police area, and then to all the county and regional forces. It spread to the railways, the airports, the Port of London Authority Police, and it was picked up by crews of aircraft flying from Heathrow to the ends of the earth.

“West’s out, West’s out, West’s out!”

•     •     •

Three times in the course of that evening, Benjamin Artemeus was telephoned in his luxurious penthouse flat, each time to be told the same rumour. At ten o’clock he telephoned Lord Dean, Chairman of the Allsafe Board, passed on the rumours, and said confidently, “It’s only talk, so far, but it will become stronger and stronger.” He laughed. “I’ll see to that! And if he’s not out on his neck already, he will be very soon. So we’ll have him with us.”

“It’s important—very important—that we do,” said Dean.

“Don’t I know it,” replied Artemeus, and laughed again.

•     •     •

Roger put his car in the garage, Richard parked his outside the house, and they walked together along the crazy-paving path towards the back garden and the rear entrance. Every neighbour seemed to be out in the flower- decked gardens. Lawn mowers were turning, shears snapping, spades were going “suck” into the hosed and soggy soil, hoes were scraping, women were bending over flower borders, taking off the heads of tulips and the blooms of wallflowers which had been spoiled by the rain of the past few days. The blue forget-me-nots had lasted well, the flowers tiny, yet larger than usual.

“Dad,” Richard said, suddenly close to the back door.

“Yes?”

“Are you going to tell mum about the suspension talk?”

“I don’t think so,” said Roger. “I think she has enough on her hands with Scoop at the moment.”