So Young to Burn, page 12
Coppell gave one of his rare, considered smiles.
‘Need a different title,’ he observed. ‘Think about it, and see what Pengelly suggests. Don’t make the Yard out to be a kind of Protector of the Public Morals—we’re just protectors of the public property. But—’ he hesitated, then stood up and moved to his window, from which he could see the Houses of Parliament. ‘West,’ he went on in an aloof voice, ‘I can’t possibly approve this—you know that. However, if Pengelly and the Globe want to go along, I can’t stop it. You must use your own judgement.’ Slowly, almost painfully, he added: ‘If you see what I mean.’
Roger saw exactly what he meant.
‘What it amounts to is this,’ he said to Pengelly as they sat in a secluded corner of Danelli’s, a pleasant restaurant on the river not far from the Yard. ‘Coppell won’t give me any backing. If I let you have information ahead of the others and there’s a row, I’ll get the caning.’
‘Mean old so-and-so,’ said Pengelly. He had a schoolmaster’s look, a schoolmaster’s steel-rimmed glasses, a touch of severe benevolence about his face, which was not unlike Josiah Lark’s. ‘We’ll do all we can to make sure no one knows where we got our information from. You know that.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Roger. ‘My problem is to decide whether the help you can give justifies my sticking my neck out.’
‘We’ll pledge full support,’ Pengelly assured him. ‘I saw the editor and the editor saw the Old Man and the Old Man’s a great one for the freedom of the individual and people doing what they do because they think it’s right, not because they’re made to say it is or are under compulsion to do it. Teach ’em, don’t make ’em. That’s his motto, and this fits in with the idea. As if you didn’t know,’ added Pengelly drily.
Roger’s eyes glistened.
‘There’s the heading—the theme,’ he said. ‘Teach Them—Don’t Make Them—Don’t Scare Them. Teach the young the follies of fornication, don’t frighten them away from it or they’ll get mad, and they’ll lust after it. How does that sound?’ His voice and his expression were eager.
Pengelly sat back and took off his glasses; his eyes were like pebbles.
‘You’re wasted at the Yard,’ he declared. ‘Yes, you should have been on the Street. That will be our leading article tonight. A restrained attack on the men behind these attacks without approving the practice of proliferating in the parks.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Anything else, Handsome?’
‘It almost looks as if someone could be playing God,’ Roger said with a deprecating smile.
Pengelly sniffed. ‘I know what you mean. I don’t think we’ll touch that angle yet, though—except to allow it to speak for itself.’
‘Pen,’ Roger said, ‘it could be a very important angle for us.’
‘Meaning you want us to use it?’
‘As soon as you can.’
‘All right, I’ll see what I can do,’ promised Pengelly.
‘And how about a reward for any information leading to the capture of the leader of the acid sprayers?’ asked Roger.
‘I’ve fixed that. One thousand pounds,’ said Pengelly, with an air of great nonchalance.
‘Pen,’ Roger said, ‘Whenever I can do anything for you, believe me I will.’
Pengelly looked up at a waiter who had the face of an Adonis, said: ‘What?’ and then added hastily: ‘Yes, take it away.’ The waiter took the plates and the black pepper they had had for smoked salmon, and Pengelly put his glasses on.
‘I’ll remind you of that,’ he said. ‘So there were an estimated twenty-five to thirty different small parties worked last night,’ he remarked.
‘Yes.’
‘What do you mean—one man playing God and between fifty and a hundred disciples helping him in his s—praying?’ When Roger didn’t answer, Pengelly went on: ‘You can’t seriously believe that as many young louts as that could be organised into an acid-spraying army because they think it’s the right thing to do. They’re paid to do this, or else they do it for sheer devilment. A mixture of the two, I shouldn’t wonder. I’ll run your tirade against a man playing God if you like, but you and I don’t think that’s the man we’re looking for.’
‘I don’t know who I’m looking for,’ confessed Roger.
The young Adonis arrived with boeuf stroganoff for Roger, sole grilled on the bone for Pengelly, and they set to. As they finished Danelli himself, short, plump, smiling his Italian smile, came up with a copy of the Evening News.
‘Your picture on it, Mr West, I think you like to see.’ he said. ‘You forgive me, Mr Pengelly, if it is the wrong paper.’
‘Surprised you have this rag in the place,’ joked Pengelly. ‘I—what’s up, Roger?’
Danelli looked aghast at Roger’s expression.
His photograph was there. So was Jill Hickersley’s appealing, heart-shaped face. So was an Identi-kit picture, beneath which the caption read: An Identi-kit picture by Yard experts of Clive Davidson based on information given by Jill Hickersley (photo inset).
Chapter Fifteen
Rage
White-faced, more angry than he had been for years, Roger strode into the room where Moriarty was working with two Detective Sergeants. The sergeants took one look at Roger, and dived out. Roger banged the door to, slammed the newspaper on Moriarty’s desk, and demanded in a taut voice: ‘Did you release that picture of Davidson?’
‘Yes, I—’
‘And that story?’
‘Yes, I thought—’
‘Moriarty,’ Roger said, savagely, ‘you can’t think. Not yet. You can’t begin to think. And you can’t obey orders. I told you not to release that picture without my express permission—didn’t I?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘There aren’t any buts. You deliberately disobeyed, and I know why you disobeyed.’ Roger leaned forward on the desk, arms spread, hands clutching the edge, looking down at the younger man, whose face had lost all colour, and whose eyes were like dark blue glass. ‘You don’t think I’m handling this case properly. You don’t think I’m quick enough off the mark.’ He paused, to give Moriarty a chance to fling back: ‘No I don’t,’ but the other sat absolutely still, his lips parted just enough to show his teeth; it was almost as if he were snarling. ‘You think you can do the job better than I can. Well, get this into your head. You’ve betrayed a young girl witness who’s had a rotten deal already. You’ve made me out a liar. You’ve destroyed any faith she ever had in the police. She might become a vital witness—why, you bloody young fool, don’t you realise she’s the only person who can identify Clive Davidson? The YMCA staff can’t swear who was with her that night and who ran away. Only she can. Think she’s likely to, now?’ he rasped. ‘Come on, tell me—do you think she’s likely to?’
Moriarty ground out: ‘If we make her.’
‘We aren’t going to make her. We can’t make people do anything. We need witnesses who want to help us. If we have the biggest criminal in London in front of us we can’t make him tell the truth—we never will be able to. But whether this girl’s evidence is important or not, we’ve broken faith—the Yard with her, and you with me. No officer who works for me breaks faith. I tell him what to do and he does it. If there’s ever any need to use his own judgement I tell him his terms of reference in advance. That’s how we work at the Yard—in the Force. Any other way would lead to anarchy. You’ve been in the Force twelve years, haven’t you learned that elementary rule?’
He stopped, partly for breath, partly because his anger was beginning to cool off now that he had vented so much of it. Nothing stirred in the office. The piles of papers on Moriarty’s desk and on a table alongside one wall, the annotated maps and charts showed how much work this man had done, but thought of that did nothing to ease Roger’s tension.
Moriarty shifted his chair back a few inches, and spoke between his teeth.
‘Want my resignation—sir?’
‘When I want you off the job I’ll fire you.’
Moriarty drew in a hissing breath.
Roger said: ‘Why did you do it? Come on, tell me.’
Moriarty moistened his lips but did not speak.
‘Why?’ rasped Roger.
‘I—I used my own judgement.’
‘Any special reason behind it?’
‘No.’ Moriarty drew in another, deeper breath, and said harshly: ‘I thought you were wrong not to use the picture.’
‘Just that?’
‘Yes—sir.’
‘So when I give you instructions you turn them over in your mind and decide whether you approve, and if you don’t, you disobey them.’ There was a pause. ‘Is that right?’
Moriarty remarked: ‘I’ve got a mind, too.’
‘You’re a police officer. You take orders. You take my orders. From now on your duty is to take them without argument—unless I ask you to argue. If I want your opinion I’ll ask for it. If you’ve an opinion you think is worth expressing, you tell me about it—you don’t act on it without authority. Is that clear?’
Moriarty said hoarsely: ‘Yes—sir.’
‘At half past three I’ll be in my office. At half past three I want you there. Then you can tell me whether you understand the position and accept it. If you don’t you can go back to Division. If you accept it and break the rules again I’ll recommend you for retirement forthwith as an officer incapable of submitting to discipline. Is that clear?’
‘Ye—yes.’
For the first time, Roger drew back.
‘Are all up-to-the-minute reports on my desk?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Nothing new is in except what’s there?’
‘No.’
Roger nodded, turned, and strode out. He walked with long, aggressive strides to his office, nodding brusquely to those who acknowledged him on the way. He went in, stared out the clear window at the slow-moving pageant of the river, lips set, chin thrust forward, still angry.
Moriarty’s cheeks were grey, his lips pale, his eyes like molten glass, his hands clenched, his body stiff as steel. He kept muttering: ‘The swine, the bloody swine, the bloody swine, the bloody bloody swine.’
At last Roger’s tension eased out, and a restless calm took its place. He moved to his desk, dropped into the chair and began to go through the accumulation of reports. On top were three from Moriarty, neatly typewritten, lucid, on the ball; everything Roger had ordered last night had been done, the requests were out, a few replies were coming in. For instance:
Two Lark Club match books had been found near the scene of the attacks.
Eleven lots of bicycle tyre prints had been found but none positively associated with the assailants.
Four policemen and seven people who had been in the parks and commons around the time of the crimes had seen cyclists nearby at the time.
So far there were no reports of a substantial number of Amo spray guns having been sold; dozens of carboys and drums of concentrated sulphuric acid had been bought and sold, and over seven hundred factories in the Central and Greater London areas held stocks of the acid. All were being checked, through the Divisions.
Moriarty hadn’t missed a thing.
Roger sat back and lit a cigarette. He felt curiously deflated, and was reminded of his moods when he had torn strips off the boys, often with Janet watching in silent disapproval. Sometimes he had gone too far; that was the danger when one usually held oneself on a leash. Janet had been so much more with the boys than he, he’d usually left their handling to her. Often he’d been over-tired when he had let himself go. He was over-tired now; so was Moriarty, who couldn’t have had much sleep for days.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he adjured himself. ‘Moriarty’s got this know-all streak and it’s got to be knocked out of him.’
It was a little after three o’clock. He wished there were some time to go out to Chelsea and see Jill Hickersley, but he was probably worrying too much about that. He made two or three divisional calls before the Laboratory rang down.
‘All the acid’s from the same batch, Handsome.’
‘Meaning—the same drum or container?’
‘No—meaning the same batch. There are a dozen manufacturers, and every batch each one makes would be exactly the same, whether it was a hundred or a thousand gallons.’
‘Any idea of the manufacturer?’
‘I think it’s Webb, Son, and King, of Wandsworth.’
‘Thanks,’ Roger said. He rang off and was about to make another call when the bell rang. ‘Yes?’
‘Front hall here, sir,’ a man said. ‘There’s a Miss Hickersley asking to see you.’
‘Jill Hickersley?’ Roger had a vivid glimpse of that heart-shaped face.
‘Just a moment, sir … Yes, that’s right.’
‘I’ll send for her,’ Roger said. He rang for a messenger to fetch the girl, wondering whether she had come simply in reproach. Somehow, he didn’t think so. When the messenger ushered her in, Roger was at his desk, noticing how small and neat and wholesome she was and remembering how roughly she had been stripped. He was probably fooling himself; the most virginal and serene-looking young girls could be harridans and termagants; he must not allow himself to be over sympathetic.
He shook hands gravely.
‘I’m afraid I owe you a very sincere apology.’
‘Why did you release that picture?’ she asked, eyeing him steadily.
‘Do you want the simple truth?’ Roger asked.
‘Of course.’
‘It was a mistake by someone here.’
She frowned. ‘You mean you didn’t intend to release it?’
‘Certainly not. There was a misunderstanding among my men.’
‘Oh,’ she said, and seemed to droop. ‘Then I—’ she half-laughed in a rueful way. ‘I felt so sure you wouldn’t have released it unless there was an emergency and I wondered what the emergency was. You see—’ she hesitated.
‘Yes?’
Her eyes were violet.
‘I—can I speak in confidence, Superintendent?’
‘In absolute confidence,’ he assured her.
‘Well, I’ve been thinking a great deal about—about what happened, and why it did, and why Clive should disappear. If it’s connected with this acid-throwing, and I guessed it was because you’re in charge of that investigation, then it’s obviously very important.’
Roger said cautiously: ‘It certainly could be.’
‘You see, I—’ She hesitated, her colour heightened. ‘I feel disloyal, in a way, but I can’t believe that Clive is in any way involved, so he could be in danger, couldn’t he?’
‘When a man runs away in any such emergency he’s usually either ashamed or scared, and they amount to the same thing.’
‘Superintendent, he is an industrial chemist, and he works for a firm called Webb, Son, and King, of Wandsworth. There—there was a case of acid burning a few weeks ago, you may remember, and he said then that his company makes sulphuric acid. He told me quite a lot about it—the fact that the man who uses it must know what he is doing, that most metal sprays or guns would be damaged by the acid, and that a special kind of plastic would have to be used—called polyethyl, or something like that. He—he really seemed interested and concerned and I thought—well, I thought you should know this, and—I thought you would tell me why you’d released his picture if I told you.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘It was silly, wasn’t it?’
‘It was very wise indeed. I’ll check with this firm right away.’ Roger rang Moriarty, and spoke as if nothing had happened. ‘Telephone Webb, Son, and King, of Wandsworth, they’re chemical manufacturers, and find out if Clive Davidson is on their staff, and whether he’s in today.’
‘Er—’ said Moriarty.
Roger thought: He’s not still at it!
‘Yes?’ he asked sharply.
‘I had a call from the firm five minutes ago, sir. They recognised him from the picture in the Evening News.’
Now Moriarty would have every excuse if he wanted to gloat.
‘What else?’ asked Roger.
‘He hasn’t been in for two days, sir. Didn’t say he’d be away and no one’s telephoned. He works in the laboratory.’
‘I see. Send over some samples of the sulphuric acid we have in the lab, and ask them to check if it came from them, and if so can they tell us what batch.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘And make it three-forty-five when you come here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Roger rang off. The girl sat very upright, very prim, facing him. Her eyes looked enormous. She did not stir as he told her what Moriarty had already discovered, and he wondered what was going on behind those nice eyes, whether she had told him everything she could. Make her, Moriarty had said, and would most certainly have tried to.
‘So Clive is involved,’ she said at last.
‘He could be, obviously.’
‘Mr—Mr West.’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you think he has been injured?’
Slowly, Roger asked: ‘Do you mean, do I think he might be dead?’
‘It—it has occurred to me. I—that’s what I’m so desperately anxious to know. You see—’ She bit her lip, and then went on: ‘Until he disappeared and I began to get worried, I didn’t really know what I felt, but I do now. I hope it doesn’t sound silly. I’m in love with him. You don’t think he’s been killed, do you?’
Gently, Roger replied: ‘All I know is that he appears to be missing. We’ll have his address soon, and if we get any information, we will let you know.’
She stood up, accepting the dismissal.
‘Thank you very much,’ she said warmly.
Roger walked along the passage with her and to the top of the high stone steps, watched her graceful going, then turned, to find the duty sergeant doing likewise. Each man smiled. Pretty little thing, they said with their eyes, and with a whiff of nostalgia for their own youth. Roger went back to his office, and hadn’t been there more than half a minute before the telephone bell rang.
